THOROUGHLY MIFFED - PART III: THE NQR BRIGADE

Just before we hook into the countdown: I'd like to share a few thoughts with the viewing public since the last blog:

- Go see THE BANK JOB. It's slick, charming, unpredictable and terrific fun.

- After canning DONKEY PUNCH, I checked out its IMDB page and saw that the first review was merely titled "Donkey Pish", which cracked me up. If I were a Scot, that totally would've been my review.

- Are there any more horror films of the 1970s and 80s to remake? I really think they got everybody. Even clunkers like MY BLOODY VALENTINE and MOTHER'S DAY are getting a re-run. Are there really that few new ideas out there? Studios can't claim "brand recognition" on this stuff with a straight face, can they? Wait a minute: I haven't heard anything about a HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME remake...*

*Expect an announcement from Fox Atomic in the coming weeks.

Now, back to the MIFF Madness: these are the noble failures, or the straight sixes -- films which achieved small goals and nothing more -- or the Ritalin-popping ADHD cases, which couldn't quite keep focused enough to deliver on their intentions 100%... starting with:

40th - IDIOTS AND ANGELS (& short HOT DOG)

I've never seen any of Bill Plympton's stuff before, but I'm aware of his status as a big name in animation, and know enough about his work to spot it at ten paces. The synopsis of IDIOTS AND ANGELS -- a horrible, deeply misanthropic man who suddenly sprouts angel wings, which work against his base nature by forcing him to do good deeds -- struck me as intriguing, so I thought it might make an ideal introduction. I'm still not sure if this proved correct, as the program was something of a mixed bag.

Before the feature was a funny Plympton short called HOT DOG, about a puppy whose obsession with joining the Fire Department often gets the better of him. While it may sounds like a fun idea for a Pixar short, it's got a little more of an adult tinge to it. Not heart-stopping brilliance by any stretch, but it is quite entertaining.

By contrast, IDIOTS AND ANGELS contains some fantastic ideas and truly inspired visuals, but shows an unfortunate tendency toward going around in circles. It's got a lot to say about the world we live in today, about man's inhumanity to man, commercial opportunism, taking the low way out even when the high way is the easier option and so forth; even flirting with being a superhero tale at times. It wanders off the reservation somewhere between the second and third acts, however, making all sorts of weird digressions that subtract from the film's narrative thrust and creating a bit of cinematic dead air. There's enough good stuff here to be engaging, and I'm sure Plympton's fans will eat it up, but -- even though it's only 80 minutes long -- it could do with some trimming.

39th - DEAD ON: THE LIFE AND CINEMA OF GEORGE A. ROMERO

I've always been a big fan of Romero's work, so I was looking forward to this documentary in a big way. Now, to be fair, we were warned that this was a "work in progress" -- and, boy, they weren't kidding. Director Rusty Nails rounds up a startling array of Romero's friends and collaborators, as well as seemingly unlimited access to Romero himself, to shed fascinating insight into (and shower much affection upon) the big man and his methods, and thankfully looks at his entire career, not only focusing on his DEAD movies, but giving decent air time to lesser-known flicks like THE CRAZIES, JACK'S WIFE and KNIGHTRIDERS. So what's the problem? It's staggeringly badly shot and lit (the guy can't learn how to compose a damn frame?), ineptly edited (an opening credits montage, which should be no more than a minute long, goes on for four minutes!) and, at 127 minutes, goes on forever. Let's hope Nails hires a decent editor to hammer (oh ZING!) his labour of love into shape, at which point I'd love nothing more than to see it again and be forced to eat this rating.

38th - REVERSE SHOT: REBELLION OF THE FILMMAKERS

In the early 1970s, a seemingly never-ending cabal of German filmmakers -- among them, Werner Herzog, Wim Wenders and the iconoclastic Rainer Werner Fassbinder -- formed their own socialist-style film production and distribution company, Filmverlag Der Autoren, to make movies which reflected modern Germany warts and all, then pump any profit into achieving total independence. A noble goal, inevitably doomed by the standard personality clashes, money issues and conflicting visions of direction which plague such ventures. It's a fairly standard rise-fall-fragmentation story, and the extremely dry treatment it's given here does it few favours. What's more, there are so many names being thrown around, and even less anyone but the most fervent German film buffs would recognise, that it's tough to remember who's who. Jolts of energy are provided by interviews with the always amusing Herzog, jovial filmmaker Laurens Straub (the docu's co-director, with Domenik Wessely), and archival footage of the magnetic, hilariously egomaniacal Fassbinder. A potential motivational tool for filmmakers, otherwise recommended for film historians only.

37th - ACCELERATOR PROGRAM 1

The Melbourne International Film Festival introduced the Accelerator program to support emerging Australian and New Zealand -- now joined by Irish and Singaporean -- short filmmakers, giving them a platform to be seen at a major festival and preparing them for feature filmmaking. The fruits of this year's program, however, suggests the current nature of Australian films may not change in a hurry: highly technically accomplished films with incredibly dull content -- or, at least, relatively dull treatment of interesting themes (or even the other way round) -- at their core. Anthony Chen's thunderously dull, one-note observational piece HAZE looks at a pair of Singaporean teenagers losing their virginity while playing hooky; Aaron Wilson's AHMAD'S GARDEN is a lush, spare, yet strangely unfulfilling tale of a man doing what he can to make life in a detention centre bearable (cute ending though); THIS IS HER, from NZ director Katie Wolfe, is a cuckolded woman's quirky look at her failed marriage and the bitch who stole her husband away, with amusing flashbacks and juxtapositions; John Alsop's HE. SHE. IT. is a lighter-than-air Aussie short about the efforts of a jaded, soon-to-retire schoolteacher (Steve Abbott, otherwise known to fans of Good News Week as "The Sandman") to bring an outcast teenage boy and girl together; THE SKY IS ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL, from Jeremy Cumpston, is a limp and ultimately pointless exercise concerning a bitter taxi driver, a depressed prostitute and a concerned young girl; Dustin Feneley's HAWKER, another mood piece of little consequence about the relentlessly crap life of a door-to-door salesman, boosted only by an excellent central performance from Melbourne actor Syd Brisbane; and my favourite, the shortest, sharpest and funniest of the bunch, Kiwi director Jason Stutter's CAREFUL WITH THAT AXE, a 2 minute gaspfest about a very small boy's fascination with his dad's axe and woodchopping, with a killer climax -- the least self-important here and, therefore, the most fun!

36th - SURVEILLANCE

After a hiatus of 15 years, Jennifer Lynch, daughter of David you-know-who, returns to the director's chair with a fairly standard psychological thriller enlivened by some odd and over-the-top touches -- although, it must be said, not as balls-out weird as one may expect. Namely, the performances of Bill Pullman and Julia Ormond investigating a roadside bloodbath, which may or may not have been initiated by two very creepy redneck cops (Kent Harper and Third Rock From The Sun's French Stewart!), and some wild twists you'll probably see coming from some distance away. If taken too seriously, this will really rub you the wrong way, but have fun with it, enjoy the scenery chewing and you'll have some fun. A fairly minor work which suggests Lynch is slowly dipping her toe back into the pool after the unmitigated disaster of her debut, BOXING HELENA.

35th - IN SEARCH OF A MIDNIGHT KISS

In a nutshell? This is your bog-standard, next-to-no-budget, snappily sardonic, independent black-and-white New York rom-com... except, it's set in Los Angeles. This minor wrinkle doesn't make much of a difference, if any, but I get the feeling this flick isn't out to redefine its genre, rather it's just looking to make for a nice, fun night out... and on that level, it works. For the most part. Once our hero gets caught masturbating over internet porn -- upon which he's photoshopped the head of his housemate's girlfriend -- he thinks it might be time to hook up, so, with New Year's Eve approaching, he places a "misanthrope seeks misanthrope" ad on an internet dating site. Meeting with said misanthrope goes strangely, but well, and soon they're wandering around LA on NYE falling in and out of various stages of apathy/like/dislike/love/hate, until midnight falls and... well, you know. You've been here before, but I'm a big lover of black & white, there are some genuinely funny quips and asides, and writer-director Alex Holdridge has a good sense of what kind of film he's making and to keep it moving. Forgettable? Sure. Fun? You bet.

34th - ASHES OF TIME REDUX

I was frankly shocked to hear that Wong Kar-Wai, Hong Kong's chronicler of too-cool-for-school tortured lovers, had written and directed an historical martial arts film in the early 1990s. So, being familiar with his work, I tried to imagine how it would play out: it'd probably substitute his usual blasts of urban neon for vibrant feudal cloths, and ultimately focus upon ancient warriors more obsessed with lost or unrequited loves than slaying scores of bandits. Turns out I wasn't far from the truth: the story concerns a killer-for-hire living a reclusive life (nursing the pain of a lost love, natch) in the middle of the desert, as a jaded, self-proclaimed "solver of problems". As various characters cross his path, he proves rubbish at this, solving nothing and often trying to convince each of them to solve the others' for him. It's a visually beautiful film, pregnant with sorrow and mourning, but it's just as often confusing and the battle scenes are shot and cut with little care for coherence. Naturally, the film succeeds best when Kar-Wai plays to his forehand; namely, sad-eyed jilted lovers wandering a wasteland, searching to fill an unquenchable vacuum of the soul.

33rd - NIGHTWATCHING

Peter Greenaway lends his lush, eccentric eye to Rembrandt and, specifically, the creation of his work The Night Watch. Very theatrical in tone, with every scene shot in the idiom of a Rembrandt painting, it's visually spectacular to behold. Equally eye-catching is his casting of Martin Freeman (Tim from Gervais' The Office, or Arthur Dent from HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE) as Rembrandt -- what seems monumentally unlikely is possibly the most successful aspect of the picture, as Freeman is fantastic, imbuing Rembrandt with an everyman charm and, dare I say it, lust for life which immediately puts us in his corner. However, the film is way too leisurely paced for its own good, and tacks on a terribly extraneous, largely insignificant plotline onto the end of the film, padding an already lengthy film by another 20 minutes. The picture works best when it's focused on the artwork; Greenaway works like a detective, drawing historical theory and artistic instinct to analyse what the Dutch Master poured into his masterwork from every angle, and it's dazzling to watch him lay it all out. Overall, while it may have lost me from time to time, it's a mostly intriguing, and always attractive, film.

32nd - SUKIYAKI WESTERN DJANGO

Anyone familiar with the work of Japanese cult auteur Takashi Miike won't need me to tell them he's insane, and this spaghetti western mash-up does nothing to prove otherwise. Opening with the first scene in an extended cameo from another certain American cult auteur (surname starts with T, ends with "arantino"), speaking near-gibberish against a deliberately fake-looking painted matte background, before bursting into an improbable gunfight, you know you've booked a two hour ticket to whackjob country... The plot, such as it is, kicks off like A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS, with a crack gunman wandering into town between two warring gangs, and finding them both vying for his services. The legends of how these gangs came to be, how they conduct themselves, and the shenanigans which occur henceforth are pure Miike, meaning it's a total paradox: visually spectacular yet often (intentionally) ramshackle, stunningly original yet rather derivative, and philosophical yet utterly, deeply, profoundly nonsensical. Awful and brilliant in equal measure -- often in the same scene! -- SUKIYAKI WESTERN DJANGO is, without a doubt, like no other spaghetti western you'll ever see. Yet, like every spaghetti western you've ever seen. Hell, it's Miike! Got it? Good.

31st - ACCELERATED FICTION SHORTS

The Accelerator program strikes back, with shorts directed by former Accelerator alumni, who obviously didn't grasp the whole "prepare them for feature filmmaking" part of the brief. I only saw the first three of the six shorts on offer, but I think I saw the best of the bunch. The first, DIRECTIONS, was not it. The story of a childlike man who befriends a wonky shopping trolley and takes it (or does it take him?) on an adventure attempts to be Keatonesque in its feats of near-silent physical comedy whimsy, but somebody needed to tell director Kasimir Burgess that hiring an actor who just looks funny ain't a done deal: they need to actually be able to, y'know, do physical comedy. One can only imagine how cool this could've been in the hands of, say, a Frank Woodley. The second short, Erin White's FOUR, is a colourful comedy of swinging neighbours in 1970s Australia and the unlikely union they form. It has an awesome 70s look -- where did they find all those wallpapers and fittings??? If nothing else, the film is a marvel of production design -- and the story, initially a parade of cliches, really deepens and grows on you; it's a cool little film. Thirdly, and most triumphantly (as Bill and Ted would say), is THE FUNK, a black-and-white, semi-animated (with digital live-action stills) visual stunner about a man who wakes up in the titular mood and just can't shake it, and can only watch from within as it begins to dominate his life. It's a beautiful, weird, sad story told with stunning economy and unique vision and, to top it all off, is narrated by the ever-excellent Jacek Koman. THE FUNK is one of those rare shorts which demands to be seen, early and often.

Next: more imperfect gems (of sorts) and we get closer to the good stuff... seeya soon!

TSIK

THOROUGHLY MIFFED - PART II: THE DREGS DON'T WORK

Okay, so it's been firmly established that the Melbourne International Film Festival is my favourite time of year, in fact, it's my -- and many Melburnian film buff's and fan's -- idea of Christmas.

Now, let's take that metaphor a step further.

You remember when, as a kid, you waited for Christmas to come since, like, I don't know, April. All those months of anticipation, and every time there's a sign that the season-to-be-jolly is getting closer, you mentally ticked it off in your head -- major department stores start stocking Christmas trees and props, tree-shaped signs and displays start popping up around the city, your favourite TV shows start winding up for the year, your parents become more strangely circumspect about what they've been buying on shopping trips, and so on -- and have started making your lists of what you want, hoping at least one or two of the items makes an appearance under that new addition to your living room: the hulking sap-dripping pine tree that barely fits beneath your living room ceiling...

Cut to: the night before Christmas: the time of joy is almost upon you, and you try to sit up all night, waiting for Santa to come grab those cookies and milk you left out there for him 'cause, after all, he's such a rotund bastard, he has to scoff them all, right? But, inevitably, you fall asleep, and when you wake up the next morning, there are now PRESENTS where there were none before, under the tree! You're so incredibly pumped, there are some sweet looking boxes under there, your carefully prepared Christmas list is at the forefront of your mind, there were 20 or so items on there, this has GOT TO be one of them, although the box doesn't quite look big enough to fit an Action Man Army Helicopter/Barbie Dollhouse and Corvette Combo but, even so, you pick it up with both hands and with unmitigated glee, you tear it open, your huge eyes bulging happily out of your small head as you see...

...undies and socks. Or next year's school books. Or (as I once received from a beloved relative), a can of deodorant.

See, MIFF has those too, even amongst all the brilliance and coolness. The cinematic equivalents of your box-'o-socks: they look good in the box, but when you open 'em up, it's full of rubbish, or just stuff you didn't want.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the crappy clothes I got for Christmas:

(Don't worry, the cool toys will come later. I promise.)

MY WORST FILMS OF MIFF 2008

50th (Dead Last) - WORDS OF ADVICE: WILLIAM S BURROUGHS ON THE ROAD
WOW. I've seen some woeful, cack-handed dreck in my time, and WORDS OF ADVICE is as deserving of the title as any. Without doubt one of the worst documentaries I've ever seen, managing to make a highly interesting subject utterly uninteresting, by focusing on the most inactive period of his life, rounding up the least interesting people he knew and a "who-cares?" of random academics, then shooting it like your parents fumbling around with their old crapped-out handicam. Amateurish from top to toe, the whole enterprise apparently spring-boarded from an interview the filmmakers (Danes Lars Movin and Steen Moller Rasmussen) saw, between Burroughs and a Danish writer named Dan Turell, a Richard O'Brien lookalike who allegedly idolised Burroughs, yet acted like a pompous jerk the entire time and completely rubbed his idol up the wrong way. Upon seeing this, the filmmakers thought, "Wow, William S. was in Denmark during the 80s! I wonder what he got up to…?" To which anyone -- and I'm happy to speak on behalf of even the most ardent of Burroughs fans here -- would've answered, "WHO CARES?!??" Why talk about all his Beat-heyday shenanigans with Ginsberg and co., his accidental manslaughter of his wife or, hell, even his work in any detail, when you can burn film on crap poetry readings, book signings by a man well into his autumn years and doomed confrontations with second-string Danish poets... 'cause that's what everyone's breaking shit down to see. It’s hideously shot, moronically edited (at one point, some poet Burroughs knew is describing him as "The Greatest Performing Artist in the World"... and this is followed by footage of Burroughs stumbling over his lines at a poetry reading -- without a hint of irony) and, while just 74 minutes long, manages to feel padded and interminable. The documentary form has come a long way in the last two decades -- via Morris, Moore, Herzog, et al – but these chumps futz about like it never happened, turning out a shambles that would struggle to get an airing on community TV, let alone slip into a major film festival. Disgraceful.

49th - ETOILE VIOLETTE (short)
Shown as a short, but as it clocks in at (seemingly endless) 45 minutes and screened with a 59 minute "feature", it's fair game. Shown as the first in a double feature to showcase the, umm, talents of French actor/auteur Serge Bozon -- the second being his slightly less turgid mini-feature MODS -- the pairing succeeds only as a warning. Written and directed by frequent Bozon collaborator Axelle Ropert, what could've been a potentially sweet 15 minute short about an introverted, not-terribly-gifted tailor (Bozon) who takes night classes in French literature to boost his education and meet people, becomes a grossly overlong, masturbatory exercise in a thoroughly French style of mind-numbing pretension. To wit: the tailor slips into a dream sequence where he meets the 17th century writer he's studying, where they walk aimlessly through the forest, trading utterly pointless philosophical questions, before deciding to walk backwards, in slow-motion, for about, oh, three or four minutes. The closest thing to a bright spot is the class' lecturer, whose gung-ho devotion to his curriculum is intermittently amusing, but it's crushed beneath the weight of this dreadful, elongated bore. And where does a "short" get off being 45 minutes long?!?!?

48th - INSIDE
Speaking of terrible French films, I give you INSIDE. I'd heard this was boundary-pushing horror, promising extreme savagery, white-knuckle suspense and some intelligence, but -- aside from the film's one signature moment towards the end -- it delivers nothing bar the savagery. Well, it may have, if we could see any of it: the entire film is appallingly underlit, often taking place in pitch darkness. (Setting the tone for Greater Union fiascos to come, we were shown a muddy DVD copy of INSIDE, rather than a 35mm print. While I'm sure this didn't help the colour woes, I'm still convinced the picture could've used a Kinoflo or three.) Beatrice Dalle plays a psycho (for a change) who craves the unborn baby of an emotionally isolated young woman, who is still recovering from a car accident which claimed her husband's life. Spurning her family, the girl insists on being alone on Christmas Eve, where she's visited by Dalle instead of Santa. We know that Dalle can do nuts, and if you've seen anything from HAUTE TENSION to FRONTIERES, you know the French can do gore, but apparently all directors Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury can add to the equation is to shoot it in pitch darkness. It's so incredibly annoying, as once you can't see anything, all suspense vanishes, and one's involvement along with it. What promised to be a fun blast of shock value turns out to be a highly disappointing gorefest.

47th - DONKEY PUNCH
This film has copped some rapturous reviews from horror buffs in the know, but after watching it, I'm baffled, and can only speculate that they're high on the same gear the film's characters are ingesting. A paranoid slasher thriller for the Ibiza generation, the film admirably takes the time to set up its characters... well, it would be admirable, if any of these characters were remotely likeable or interesting. Instead, we're stuck on a yacht with seven of the most despicable people you're ever likely to meet trying to get into a beach dance party, and then we're supposed to feel something as they turn on each other. Why can't a modern horror film ever have decent characters we can give a shit about?? The suspense is surprisingly ineffective; the scene leading up to the titular event works the best, but from then on the film grows increasingly banal. The death scenes are badly shot and uninspired; we are constantly treated to lingering close-ups of weapons tearing into skin, yet poor camera geography and a limited makeup FX budget conspire to confuse just what part of the body we're slashing now. Very standard, well-below-average fare.

46th - GOMORRAH
The scourge of organised crime, specifically the damage it does to and influence it has over the wider Italian community, is probed here with a SYRIANA-style structure, with four or so vignettes interwoven to create a large socioeconomic canvas. Unfortunately, this is not nearly as interesting as it sounds, as it is so dry, bland and lifeless that it's really tough to get involved, piling boring or annoying characters atop pale, uninteresting tableaus, rushing about an urban battleground with no foundation to keep the audience grounded and engaged. Yes, it's a real-life tragedy, and I admire director Matteo Garrone's intention to tackle the subject realistically, but it has to succeed as an arresting piece of cinema, and he misses that mark by a wide margin. And what did the plotline about the tailor surreptitiously working with the Chinese have to do with anything?? What should've been engrossing ends up being yawn-inducing.

45th - MODS

Written, directed and starring French actor/auteur Serge Bozon in 2002, MODS kicks off seeming like a film from the Wes Anderson universe, or possibly a throwback to the kinds of 1960s French films which influence Anderson so much, but, like Anderson's films, you quickly realise the film is being quirky for quirky's sake, and begins to get on your nerves. However, unlike Anderson's films, which have a sharp sense of humour and crack actors to save them, this is more dead than deadpan. The performances are just serviceable, the story -- concerning two impassionate soldiers who visit their brother at University, who's bedridden with a serious case of ennui, which seems to affect the entire campus -- goes nowhere at a rate of knots and, despite frequently breaking into odd dance sequences (scored to '60s-sounding songs you've never heard of), the film is devoid of any kind of energy, which is key to a picture of this type working. More French pretension without substance.

44th - 40 X 15: 40 YEARS OF THE DIRECTORS' FORTNIGHT
For me, MIFF 2008 was not good for the French. This year's films seem to be falling into all the bad old habits: rampant pretension, quirk overload, emotional detachment, a lack of focus. The latter is especially applicable to this lifeless documentary, which refuses to inject any sort of verve or energy into the format, which is ironic considering its raison d'etre is to celebrate 40 years of boundary-smashing filmmaking. Detailing the inception and history of the Cannes Film Festival's non-competitive sidebar for innovative directors, the film meanders between talking heads (an uneven split between lengthy anecdotes by former Cannes programmers and all-too-brief vox pops from filmmakers like Werner Herzog, Spike Lee and Jim Jarmusch), and is bafflingly split into "Part 1" (the retrospective) and "Part 2" (an insider's look at last year's selection process), even though Part 1 seems to comprise the first 70% of the film. It's like they suddenly got the insider access at the last minute and felt obligated to use it. They needn't have bothered; the "fly on the wall" novelty lasts about ten minutes, after that it's like watching paint dry. As for the historical section, the film makes a real point to describe the turbulent political state which gave birth to the Fortnight, but does absolutely nothing to set the scene or create a palpable sense of time and place. Anathema for your average person, this is for rabid art film buffs only.

43rd - MIFF FOOTY SHORTS
A collection of 12 short films celebrating the role of Australian Rules Football in various communities. The program kicked off with a sour taste, when MIFF Director Richard Moore announced that a longtime MIFF employee had made a film for the competition and, despite it not being selected in the final 11, he was going to show it anyway. Talk about "who you know"... and true to form, the film (about two brothers who played over 500 games with Ormond FC) was rubbish, by far the worst of the bunch. I didn't see the last film, but most of the first 11 were all very nice, inoffensive handicam/DV-shot documentaries ticking off all the heart-tugging subjects: a women's football team, the 60 year old guy pulling on the boots, the little kid playing Auskick, the club with an Autistic statistician, the country footy team keeping the town afloat, the country town keeping the footy team afloat, the team who hadn't won for three years, and so on. (I was surprised at the absence of the Indiginous experience, actually. It was about the only football minority not represented, and arguably one of the most important.) Diverting from this formula were CLEM, a mockumentary about 3 generations of footy supporters, notable only for its unintentionally creepy Photoshop work, and ALONE, TOGETHER, the only fiction film of the bunch, featuring comedian Lawrence Mooney as a coach -- oddly obsessed with fabric metaphors(!) -- trying to rev up his team of losers, who all have something else on their minds (revealed by inner voiceovers). While cute and mildly amusing, it didn't rock my world. The only film I really responded to was Sky Davies' and Paul Green's CHILD REARING FOR RICHMOND SUPPORTERS, a genuinely funny mockumentary about the not-immediately-apparent benefits of making your child barrack for Richmond -- builds strength in character, makes them ask the big philosophical questions of life, etc. It's rough and amateurish, but has plenty of wit and spunk, and will appeal to anyone who's devoted their lives to a pack of battlers. Overall, a pretty middle-of-the-road program.

42nd - LITTLE DEATHS

A fairly middling collection of short ruminations upon love and relationships, from emerging Australian filmmakers, tied together by the conceit of a lonely tollbooth cashier's (Abe Forsythe) speculation upon his customers' lovelives. It's a wraparound story that feels much too cute by the end, an affliction which plagues most of the shorts, too. Two or three are funny (my favourites were segments featuring a pickup artist, and a peeping tom and his all-too-willing object of voyeurism, and the adventures of Caroline Craig and her dildo -- man, the more I go on, this is starting to sound like '70s Oz Sexploitation film FANTASM, but I assure you it's not), one or two are genuinely sweet, about three almost-but-not-quite deliver on good concepts and the rest are merely misconceived. I was expecting an anthology film and got exactly what it sounds like: a Australian short film program. It's not a bad film -- well, some of it is -- it's mostly cute and harmless, yet very little of it sticks in the memory, and something tells me that will be a fairly common reaction amongst filmgoers -- if it gets a cinema release at all.

41st - THE PLEASURE OF BEING ROBBED
I have to confess something here: this is one of two films that your intrepid reviewer was massively late for, missing the first 20 minutes. Which, for a film that's only 71 minutes long, I'm sure is a handicap. However, so little occurs in the 51 minutes I did see that I felt almost vindicated; surely not too much could've happened in the first section? The premise of the film is this: we follow a young woman, Eleonore, around for a day. Eleonore approaches every situation with childlike wonder, and likes to steal objects -- bags, cars, bikes, whatever -- to enjoy them, then gives them back. Thing is, that -- to me -- is the pleasure of robbing, but I saw no evidence of the pleasure of being robbed. Maybe it was all in the first 20 minutes, but I sincerely doubt it. Sure, the film is mildly diverting and more than a little French New Wave-y, but it forces you to ask questions about what you believe a film is. Should a film require a plot? If a film consists of watching someone, no matter how sweet, go through their day, does that constitute a real film? I have to say, I did find this mildly diverting to watch, but felt next to nothing when it was done. In soccer (or "football", for our British readers) parlance, a 1-1 draw.

That's the ten worst down, we're getting ever closer to the good stuff, only... 40 to go!

Yikes.

Till the next installment (I'll try to get them out quicker, I promise!),
TSIK

THOROUGHLY MIFFED - PROLOGUE: THERE AND BACK AGAIN...

Guten tag, konichiwa, bonjour, aloha, ciao and g'day...  

...so I'm pushing the international flavour a little hard. Sue me. I got Monty Burns' team of lawyers waiting behind the moving wall. Push me and see...

It's been a compact eternity since my last blog, and there's no damned excuse for the first part of it. All those blogs I've promised, both publicly and privately, from "TSIK's Most Underrated Filmmakers/Actors", to "TSIK's Favourite Guilty Pleasures", to "TSIK's Blueprint For Peace In The Middle East" (clue: it has everything to do with ROCKY IV) have all remained unfulfilled. The good news is, you may see them pop up in the future. But, for now, their absence is the bad news. 

The good news for you, constant reader, is that the obstacle between the Bloggesphere and I during the last 3 weeks is also the source of my material hencewith: I've been ensconced, enmeshed and embedded in the Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF) -- or, as we South-East Coastal Antipodean Film Nuts like to call it, Christmas in July.  Oh yeah... I am filled with the holy spirit of celluloid, for shizz.

MIFF always constitutes a veritable religious experience for me every year, one made positively miraculous by the divine intervention (sorry... I'm on a roll) of my fabulous partner, who, in her infinite wisdom and unparalleled loveliness, bought me a MIFF Passport for my birthday. A Passport, for the uninitiated, is the card which, once purchased for one sweet price, gets you into every session of MIFF bar Opening and Closing Nights. I've only been blessed with such a privilege once before -- although, that time, I had to pay for it myself... and ultimately pissed it away, seeing only 16 flicks that year, barely justifying the purchase. An offence for which I duly administered myself 40 lashes. 

No such tomfuckery this year. 

Oh, no. Your prosally (not a word, but I wanted a adjective of Prose and made it happen -- you should be so motivated) craptastic correspondent spent 17 days pinballing between Melbourne picture palaces The Forum (ahh, my favourite Melbourne landmark), The Capitol Theatre, The Kino-Dendy, ACMI and... uh, Greater Union... seeing no less than 58 sessions (54 feature films and 4 short film programs)!  

I'm here to do my now-yearly tradition of reviewing all the flicks I saw at MIFF, as well as my general MIFF experience for 2008.  Admittedly, this has been a much less daunting prospect in the past -- the last two years at MIFF, I saw 21 and 27 films, which then comprised a record... but are now, combined, still 10 short of what I saw this year alone -- but I'm gonna give it a bash anyway. 

Ready Mr Music?

1. THE EXPERIENCE

As always, beautiful overall. In the thick of it, I phased through many emotions: firstly, an almost unbearable excitement, followed by the thrill of MIFF actually happening, as you slip into all the old faithful habits -- waiting in serpentine queues whilst freezing one's kiester off, dashing as fast and gracefully as a heavy overcoat and small backpack will allow between sessions, meeting up with friends at sessions, stealing quick coffees and kisses with partner in between sessions, quickly debriefing with same friends before rushing to the next session, packing anywhere between one and five sessions in a single day, remaining steadfastly optimistic throughout projection issues (thankfully, these were predominantly brief), quickly shooting out to grab a popcorn combo -- likely the closest thing you'll get to a main meal all day -- before the flick starts, being devoured by the often broken seats at Greater Union, seeing the same "coming soon, to the small screen" ad for the same cruddy Aussie cop show so many damned times you begin to learn it word for word against your will, and, most sublimely, savouring the moment when the lights go down and your transport capsule is about to take flight to another cinematic world -- man, I love MIFF. To quote Jack from LOST: "WE HAVE TO GO BACK!!!" 

2. THE ONCE-BUT-NO-LONGER-GREATER UNION

Remember that song from SESAME STREET you heard as a kid? "One of these things is not like the other one, one of these things is not the same..." Nothing brings that to mind, for me, like the MIFF cinemas... The Forum, a true old-school picture palace which I couldn't love more if it had feminine genitalia, and holds much nostalgia for me (I saw E.T. there in 1982); The Capitol, a beautifully restored old-time cinema with a roof you could stare at for hours; ACMI, proudly flying the flag for arthouse, retrospective and revival cinema on this side of The Astor like a lone gunslinger of inexhaustible powers; Kino-Dendy, the new kid in the MIFF town, which is a sweet little arthouse venue on the "Paris end" of town... and, at the end of the line, we have the Greater Union. Once the biggest cinema in town, a stand-alone multiplex before such places were even a glint in a shopping mall's eye, now a fallen giant, an increasingly sad old pug who continues to pull on the gloves and throw down despite sagging skin, a decided lack of pace and now devoid of former grace. (Okay, GU was never particularly graceful, but go with me here...)

Since the Village Centre -- not a bad venue in itself, save for its rather rigid seats and horrifically close front rows -- closed it doors pour de bon after the 2005 festival, the only in-proximity commercial cinema venue with enough space to shoulder the extra MIFF load was the Greater Union Russell St theatre (which already had its hands full). The glorious Regent Theatre helped out in '06 and '07, but with something WICKED happening there this year, poor old Greater Union has copped the overflow. Never an attractive building -- at best, wacky in a 1970s way, at worst, downright creepy (once, as a session of HANNIBAL was about to begin, my friend Frank and I heard crickets in the theatre. Seriously.) -- what it lacked in aesthetic delights, it, too, made up in nostalgia... for me, anyway. This is where I saw GREMLINS in '84, and many, many other flicks. When we'd come into the city on school excursions to see flicks, this is where we'd often end up. And don't forget those pesky crickets. So I had no problem with it. 

Then you sit in the seats. Black vinyl moveable cushions, which threaten to swallow you anyway, even if the straps holding them in place weren't broken, which one in every 20 or so were. So it isn't Gold Class -- feh. I'm hardcore, I can roll economy class. It was kicking it somewhat old school, and I wouldn't dream to bitch about it.  

Cut to: three years later, and now one in 5 seats sport broken straps. One in 10 has a wonky armrest, and to call the projection facilities antiquated would be an insult to fine antiques everywhere. What was once charming is now just shonky... and, while I would be one of the first to suggest shonkiness has its own inherent charm, that time passed about five years ago. For what is arguably Australia's finest film festival to be sporting this as one of their flagship venues is just, well, embarrassing. What's more, no less than THREE screens at Greater Union were being utilised for this festival, so there was a 3 in 7 chance (3 in 6 on weekends, which equates to a terrifying 1 in 2 chance) your session will be there. Finer commentators than I have expounded upon the folly of this, and I shall do nothing more than add my tones to their chorus. Surely it requires a rethink in 2009. 

And now... the reviews. Turn the page to Part I when you hear this sound: ***RRRING!*** 

(You know, like those Golden Books on Tape you had as a kid?  You-- oh come on, it's theatre of the mind! Ah, to hell with ya...) 

TSIK

THOROUGHLY MIFFED - PART I: RETROTRACTIVE

Hi, and welcome back. Glad you rocked up!


So, you've read the prologue and now, I can absolutely hear you asking, "So what did you think of the films, man???" I appreciate your patience, and now begin, without further ado:


Well, okay, I lied right there. There shall be one last item of, uh, ado...


MIFF hosted four excellent retrospectives of films past, celebrating, respectively:
- George A. Romero
- Edward Yang
- the 40th anniversary of the Cannes Film Fest's Directors' Fortnight
and
- "Ozploitation", the golden-to-bronze age of rough-&-tumble genre films made in Australia in the 1970s & 80s, as brilliantly spotlighted in MIFF's Opening Night doco, NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD.


As they're older flicks, and in a class of their own, I'm going to seperate my views on the retrospective screenings from the new films and documentaries... as if I were seeing them "out of competition", to adopt festival-speak.



As always, I'm ranking the films from Least Favourite/Most Despised to Favourite.


So, as the guy with the big smile says: "And heerrre weeee... GO."


THE RETROSPECTIVE SCREENINGS


9th - WR: MYSTERIES OF THE ORGANISM (1971)
My god. A more useful title for this early seventies counter-culture brainfart may be: "WTF: MYSTERIES OF THE ORGANISM". Basically this film purports to point out that the glorious ideal and promise of Communism has been ultimately defeated, over and over again, because it has been implemented and steered by repressed men who refuse to embrace the ideals of free love, thus denying them and their comrades the true liberation a Communist philosophy promises -- a worker should be free of body as well as free of mind and employer -- not to mention the mind-altering rush that the act of orgasm provides. Watching filmmaker/professional nutcase Dusan Makavejev stretch this premise out to 85 minutes is a hideous spectacle akin to a car crash, or a season with Richmond Football Club. It's a truly bizarre, vomitous melange of archive footage from sex therapist Wilhelm Reich's therapies, scratchy late-60s porn, and a stream-of-consciousness Stalinist propaganda rant/narrative from then-modern-day Yugoslavia, focusing on a woman falling in love with someone who she believes represents the ultimate Communist ideal... with ridiculously ghastly circumstances. I feel like I'm making it sound much, MUCH more interesting than it actually is -- need I add it's completely, utterly incoherent? I only had tremendous fun watching it because I had my great friend Latauro there to trade quips with, and completely surrendered to its inanity. I'll say nothing else, other than this:
I propose that more films should end with a shot of a smiling severed head singing communist hymns.


8th - DEAD END DRIVE-IN (1986)
The (relative) low point of a hugely enjoyable Ozploitation season (at least, the ones I saw), this 1986 actioner brings us yet another future-gone-south, with your bog-standard rampant unemployment and roving gangs of unruly, Punk-meets-New-Romantic youths. But this one throws up a genuinely interesting wrinkle: all unemployed youths are sequestered into sealed-off, fortified Drive-Ins, keeping this undesirable element entertained and appeased all day and all night long in these makeshift ghettos, from which there is no escape. Unfortunately, director Brian Trenchard-Smith (he of Aussie action opuses THE MAN FROM HONG KONG, BMX BANDITS and TURKEY SHOOT) casts a terrible, near-mincing lead whom it's impossible to really get behind, and overplays his hand with the social commentary, which is not nearly meaty, interesting, or well-acted enough to sustain us through the 73 minutes we spend waiting for some decent action, which he uncharacteristically delays before hurriedly stuffing it into the last 15 minutes of the picture. During this retrospective, I've discovered that Trenchard-Smith is actually a quite gifted director of action set pieces, and these final 15 minutes almost make the picture worth seeking out. As does Natalie (CHANCES) McCurry's topless scene, but I shan't dwell. One senses a much more raw, visceral picture was waiting to get out here and something -- a lack of budget, time, script rewrites, or all three -- got in the way. Disappointing.


7th - SPIDERBABY: DIRECTOR'S CUT (1968)
Hugely enjoyable, if extremely silly, horror comedy from Jack Hill, who would go on to be Pam Grier's pre-eminent director on such exploitation classics as THE BIG BIRD CAGE, COFFY and FOXY BROWN. The premise concerns a family of cannibal inbreds -- afflicted with a degenerative brain disease which ultimately devolves them to a primitive state -- who are forced to defend the family home against distant (non-inbred) relatives who want to take it over and reap the proceeds. From the cartoonish opening credits, the picture makes it clear it's here to play, and is constantly winking at the viewer, from hilarious reaction shots to smashingly unsubtle innuendo, even calling a character "Mr Schlocker". (I haven't even mentioned the two occasions we accidentally see a crew member reflected in shot.) It's an absolute scream, but therein lies my main beef with the film: with that concept and a vastly different treatment, it could've been a hideously frightening, TEXAS CHAINSAW-style horror picture, pregnant with social commentary. While the final product is undeniably fun, it did feel like a bit of a cop-out. But who can complain when you see a lanky bald inbred man (a young Sid Haig) getting around in Donald Duck-style sailor gear? Not me, that's for damn sure.


6th - JACK'S WIFE (aka SEASON OF THE WITCH) (1972)
After hitting it huge with his seismic, genre-defining debut NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, then bottoming out just as quickly with the misconcieved rom-com/advertising satire THERE'S ALWAYS VANILLA, writer-director George A Romero returned to the horror genre (of sorts) with this, a Women's Liberation parable disguised as a flick about a witch-in-development. The titular woman, Joan, feeling increasingly marginalised by her husband, hears about a local witches' coven and decides to check it out, firstly out of curiosity, then becoming increasingly seduced by the occult as a way to reclaim her life and slay her demons, as the rites of witchcraft actually unleashes her own dormant strength, leading to a horrifying, if ultimately liberating, conclusion. Romero shot this for about $90,000 and it looks it, but there's some brilliant ideas here, as well as some genuinely creepy and/or interesting scenes, and the performances aren't nearly as shoddy as one has been led to believe. Romero himself wasn't rapt in it and has publicly stated a desire to remake it, but I feel it's such a product of its time that this would be a mistake... and, you know what: considering the circumstances, it's really quite good.


5th - TURKEY SHOOT (1982)
Arguably the trashiest multimillion dollar (well, $2.8 million) picture ever produced in this country, it promises action, blood, gore, car chases, explosions, nuttiness, nudity and even a hint of social comment... and actually delivers on all scores! Bizarre in the utmost, chock-a-block with wacked-out digressions, crass innuendo and senseless mayhem, this is one of those glorious exploitation films which sets up its premise, leads us in with some measure of intrigue, then just gets on with the business of blasting the screen to bits with all the good stuff until a spectacular conclusion... okay, we don't quite get the spectacular conclusion -- the money fell through at the last minute, and you can tell -- but after half an hour of fun plot shenanigans, we get a solid hour of pure action, which, under the auspices of Ozploitation recidivist Brian Trenchard-Smith, is thrillingly shot and brilliantly paced (even if the makeup effects are somewhat dodgy). You get the big bald dude from MAD MAX belting anyone who gets in his way -- men, women, children, the dude don't care -- to a pulp, a bizarro ape-wolf-man who fights like a pro-wrestler and repeated shots of a wet-jumpsuited Lynda Stoner running... what more do ya want???


4th - FOX AND HIS FRIENDS (1975)
A scathing portrayal of then-modern-day Germany, featuring iconoclastic writer-director Rainer Werner Fassbinder also assaying the lead role as Franz "Fox" Biberkopf, a sweet but none-too-bright gay man whose living as a carny/carnival attraction -- a talking disembodied head (fake, of course) -- is interrupted from the opening scene, as the carnival he's with is broken up by police, leaving Fox at a loose end, prostituting himself to rich men for cash. But, as he does every week, Fox buys a lottery ticket, with his usual confidence that this time he'll win for sure... which is vindicated when he actually does, and is the proud owner of half a million marks. All his dreams should come true from here, but instead we follow him as everyone he comes into contact with takes advantage of him, not least a rich young factory heir he falls for, only to be subjected and dominated by all manner of the heir's passive-aggressive behaviour. Fassbinder is extremely engaging as the nice-guy naif Fox, and you really feel for the guy while wishing he would wake up to himself and leave this nest of condescending parasites behind. The director's flair for melodrama is on display, for sure, the picture's narrative meanders and it's at least 20 minutes too long, but there's some beautifully subtle scenes which blend in seamlessly and don't lack for power. This film says a lot about mid-70s Germany's exploitation and lack of respect for those on society's fringes, probably much more than my extremely limited knowledge of the period can attest to, but the points I could pick up come through powerfully.


3rd (Bronze) - KNIGHTRIDERS (1981)
Emerging from the 1970s and having come off his biggest hit to date, DAWN OF THE DEAD, George A. Romero set about moving away from horror briefly, to make this. A self-proclaimed "passion project", it's a tale about a travelling medieval-themed commune of armour-clad knights on motorcycles who hold jousting tournaments to make a living... but, as with all of Romero's pictures, there is a bigger theme at work, and this nomadic band of Knightriders -- an idealistic shot at a modern-day Camelot -- is a way for the writer-director to address some of his pet issues: rampant capitalism swamping all other values, society's descent into fast-food culture, people's willingness to sell out to the almighty dollar and the everyday struggle of decent people to maintain their core values. This last point is embodied by Bill Davis (an early Ed Harris, who's customarily fabulous and gives the film a rock-solid centre), the self-styled King of this particular round table, who throws his heart and soul into setting the tone for this idealistic kingdom, and so rigidly adheres to the Arthurian code that he lashes himself every morning. His philosophical opposite number is Morgan (makeup maestro and occasional actor Tom Savini, who's terrific), an opportunist who feels the group could be bigger, better and more sustainable with backing from managers and promoters. As Morgan says, he was always "more into the bikes" than the code. Watching these two forces collide and ultimately threaten to split the tight-knit community down the middle is the spine of the picture, but the characters are what really surprise. Generally, Romero has been known to value Big Ideas, social commentary and set pieces over character development or performance, but, refreshingly, the characters in this film are quite well-drawn -- wonderful, fallible and refreshingly human. Oh, and don't worry, all the other stuff's in there, too, in spades. The armoured-up knights on motorbikes make for an amazing visual, and the jousting sequences feature some of the most amazing stuntwork you'll ever see. Weighing in at a hefty 145 minutes, the film does feel somewhat overlong, but with such a large cast of characters, most of whom are treated with genuine respect, there is quite a bit of world-building going on here. Sure, some of it has dated and it's all very sincere and peace-love-and-mungbeans, but that's part of its charm, and, with the terrific action scenes and frequently bang-on humour, that charm proves to be massive. A real surprise packet.


2nd (Silver) - ROADGAMES (1981)
And while we're on about surprises... we come to one of the biggest of the festival. The Ozploitation retrospective (and NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD) promised lots of rough-and-ready, crass and trashy flicks about blokes, ockers, sheilas, punch-ups and norgs... which is cool by me, but when an Ozploitation film comes along that isn't any of those at all... a viewer has a right to feel surprised. Not to mention thrilled, particularly when that movie is more intelligent, visceral, suspenseful and thoroughly entertaining than all the others on display. ROADGAMES comes from two of the pre-eminent minds of 70s-80s Aussie genre cinema -- crack US ex-pat screenwriter Everett De Roche and Oz-born-&-bred director/Hitchcock protege Richard Franklin -- and proves to be a near-perfect melding of their sensibilities. In fact, Franklin's Hitchcock influence is all over it, in the best possible way. Tight, constantly engaging, gloriously suspenseful and featuring magnetically charming performances from its American leads, Stacy Keach (where the hell did this guy's career go? He's flat-out awesome in this) and Jamie Lee Curtis. I've heard it described as "REAR WINDOW in a truck" and, while that's not far wrong, it sells this flick short a bit, because ROADGAMES is definitely its own film. It's a hell of a lot of fun, and not once do you feel compelled to apologise for it.


1st (Gold) - MAD MAX 2: THE ROAD WARRIOR (1981)
Well, it's MAD MAX 2, isn't it? Is there anything more to say? Okay, here's one thing I have to confess: I actually enjoyed ROADGAMES as much as this. However, for the sheer invention, brilliant ideas and building the genre-defining world on display, you have to give Max the points. Gibson is iconic, Bruce Spence as the opportunistic Gyro is brilliant and those fetish-clad bad guys... The Humongous and crazy-arse Vernon Wells (who would later entertain us as Bennett, the similarly campy nemesis to Schwarzenegger in COMMANDO) as Wez... hilarious and badass, all at once. The car chases and stunts are beyond compare (matched only by the first MAD MAX), particularly with the budget on offer. But what really put this session over the top for me, was the terrific Q&A bookends with big-time movie star and MAD MAX superfan Eric Bana. He was so into the film, it was positively infectious. What's more, he didn't slavishly prize this film above the first like so many fans and critics, admitting he couldn't split them, which gave him a tick in my book (I like the first one a little more, truth be told... it feels more visceral and personal, more immediate... but only just). His answers were so charming, self-effacing and down-to-earth, he was a pleasure to listen to. Not to mention the fact that, despite having seen the film somewhere between 50-100 times on video over the years, he'd never seen it on the big screen in 35mm, and his inability to hide his utter glee at doing so after the flick was done, just made it feel like a real communal experience. Eric Bana, several hundred people, two of my closest friends and I all rediscovered this classic film, together, at the same time. We had a collective moment and dug the living hell out of it... and isn't that what film festivals are all about?


Whew! And that's only part one! Tune in soon, when I get started ranking the 49 new features, docus and short programs, from the 10 worst... You know you want to.


MIFF Tragics unite!!!


TSIK

GOT SHIT RUNNIN' THROUGH MY BRAIN...

So here's the thing.  I haven't written in a while. 

I haven't been in the blogging headspace of late, as I've been off producing and directing a short film, which is a surreal experience in itself. Critical blogger goes off and makes a film, determined to show all the overrated hacks out there how it should be done, it's all very French New Wave/Peter Bogdanovich/Quentin Tarantino, right?  Ah... actually, no. It's much more like: Frustrated filmmaker who's been too pissweak to make a film so resorts to blogging critically to work out these frustrations until urged and inspired by wonderfully talented girlfriend and friends to finally get out there and do it himself. Or something like that. Mostly I'm just trying to make something that a) makes narrative sense, b) people can follow without detailed explanation and c) looks halfway competent. So, naturally, I surrounded myself with awesome actors and crew to mask my personal shortcomings and make me succeed in meeting these three objectives. So thanks to all who were involved, from the bottom of my cold, shriveled heart. I loved every minute of it, and I hope you did too. 

But enough about me and my endeavours, and back to me and my reviews and wild opinions. Ahh, the interwebs. Where an ego can ride far, wide and unchecked across open plains, and a person can spout whatever nonsense they like about whomever for fun and even profit. 

Firstly, like much of the Western World this week, I saw IRON MAN. And it's damn fine. Sure, it's held up by pretty much the same framework as every other comic book superhero flick, but Tony Stark's redemption story diverts slightly from the standard affable-everyman-gets-powers-and-wants-to-help-innocents playbook. This is a privileged, hugely arrogant (if hugely charming) Arms Manufacturer who goes through a traumatic situation, realises the error of his ways, and transforms himself into a superhero, which provides a nice point of difference. After that point, it's pretty stock standard for the genre, but a lot of fun, mostly due to some sharp dialogue, stunning visual effects (I WANT THAT SUIT!!!), extremely effective casting (Downey is perfect, Bridges is badass, Paltrow is more charming than she's been in years and Howard makes a ingratiating James Rhodes) and just solid, succinct storytelling.  (Oh, and that scene post-credits. Marvel comic book geeks, stick around, it'll be worth your while.)  The really surprising thing to emerge from this is how much Jon Favreau has really advanced as a director, how well he keeps this massive enterprise tight, punchy and humming.  When the next batch of blockbuster adaptations goes round, and all the usual directorial names (Spielberg, Raimi, Jackson, Del Toro, et al) are thrown up, Favreau has absolutely got to be on that list... and not at all near the bottom. He absolutely belongs.  Or, as his SWINGERS creation Trent might say, "He's all growns up..." 

Secondly, I've finally discovered Francois Truffaut and the joys of the French New Wave. For such a crazy, self-avowed film nerd, it has taken me far too long to get here (I could've rented some Godard and Chabrol instead of the latest Steven Seagal flick, but I've no regrets: how would I have ever experienced the peculiar pleasures of ON DEADLY GROUND?), but I'm glad I finally did. The lovely folks at ACMI screened a Truffaut retrospective containing six of his films, all of which were highly engrossing and always watchable, and while some were wrapped up in their own psyches (MISSISSIPPI MERMAID, TWO ENGLISH GIRLS) and others just plain frustrating (JULES AND JIM), there were some real joys. 

THE BRIDE WORE BLACK is an oddly cute, entertainingly even-handed revenge saga which follows a woman hunting down and dispatching the five men responsible for shooting her husband on her wedding day (yes, it's a massive influence on a certain two-part "Eastern Western" Uma Thurman blockbuster of recent years). THE 400 BLOWS is a classic for a very good reason: it's an irresistible (and highly autobiographical) tale of a love-starved and neglected boy who acts out in desperate rebellion and seeks the freedom the strictures of school cannot provide. It's beautiful stuff, with some brilliant scenes and a perfect lead performance from then 14-year-old Jean-Pierre Leaud, who would go on to star in three more films (and a segment of another) playing the same character for Truffaut, following his life. Leaud also plays a major role in DAY FOR NIGHT, a breathlessly entertaining, sharply eccentric and endlessly wonderful behind-the-scenes look at the madness of filmmaking which proved far and away my favourite film of the bunch. Anyone who's ever worked on a film set will laugh along knowingly, and I happened to see it the Wednesday before my shoot weekend... and it couldn't have been more perfect. It put my nervousness in perspective, reminded me how fun and rewarding directing could be amidst all the chaos, and literally inspired me to go on. I loved DAY FOR NIGHT tremendously, as much for its intent, content and execution, as this highly fortuitous serendipity. And while I didn't love everything I saw, I've been sufficiently impressed to add myself to the legion of Truffaut fans. 

Thirdly, if any of you have seen Woody Allen's classic MANHATTAN, do you recall the scene where Diane Keaton and Michael Murphy are pompously regaling Woody and Mariel Hemingway with their "academy of the overrated" list (which included F. Scott Fitzgerald, Norman Mailer and Vincent Van Gogh, among others)?  Well, I've been putting together of my own of late. A lot of good filmmakers and actors have been slammed over and over again in the media or on the internet for being overpraised and overrated, while some -- to me anyway -- seem to get away with murder. My first list is dedicated purely to the film world's underachievers, those who have displayed prodigious talent in the past, but since seem far too content to swan in, grab their cheque, phone another effort in, and go home. People who are much more talented than the stuff they're turning in, and are knocked far too infrequently for their efforts.  Yes, folks, I'm compiling my "Academy of Underachievers" and plan to pompously regale you with it... 

...but not here, not right now, as I'm putting the finishing touches on it. But soon. 

All right, I'll give you a taste: 

RIDLEY SCOTT. 

There, I said it, and I already feel better. 

See you on the other side.

TSIK

I SAW HER TODAY AT THE RECEPTION...

First things first: I promised an Oscar blog, and didn't deliver. So, y'know, sorry about that.

Secondly: Now the Oscars are over and done, I still don't think I could conjure one. See, I'm still a little bitter. 

Not in a major way, because NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN is a perfectly fine film and as deserving a winner as any. It's dark with an underlying sadness, it's beautifully made in all areas from cinematography to editing to sound, finely crafted by master filmmakers, and has an enigmatic ending which has gotten people talking. And no-one would really begrudge the Coen Brothers -- two of the finest 10 (or less) filmmakers to emerge from America since the 1970s -- a long-overdue Academy Award.

But the film just didn't hit me the way I wanted it to, the way it had connected with so many other people. I had my own issues with it: Something in the last act ate at me, and it wasn't anything that's been mentioned in the endless discourses about this film (none I've read anyway), and I can't work out why it hasn't. Everyone's so damned obsessed with why we didn't see a certain confrontation -- which, to me, was irrelevant, just like it was to the Coens -- when all I could ask was why another certain confrontation just didn't happen. Because I felt that one was so, so much more relevant. The world we knew colliding with the world that is. It builds up all this tension and then... poof! One second, two characters are there, and the next, one isn't, and there's no explanation or apparent reasoning why. A very good friend of mine has posited a massively intriguing and awfully metaphysical reason for this scene, but I haven't heard similar sentiments brought up anywhere else, which makes me think it may be one very brilliant man's interpretation and not necessarily the filmmakers' intention. Or maybe it was, and my learned friend is the only one who can see it; the proverbial one-eyed king, if you will. 

The reason I'm a little bitter at Oscar this year is because I saw a pair of flicks in the weeks leading up to the ceremony, that were as great as any films released this decade. Genuine, 100%, no excuses, perfectly formed, pound-for-pound heavyweight champions. 

And they were both nominated for Best Picture. 

Yet, when the dust settled, they each came out with just one major award... and an indent to the forehead courtesy of Anton Chigurh. 

(* To be fair, the second of the two also won a big technical Oscar but, for the purpose of this article, when I say "major awards" I mean Picture, Director, Acting and Writing awards, as opposed to Technical and Musical. If this sounds disrespectful, it's not, it's mainly a media-driven distinction. Carry on.)

Firstly... 

JUNO just blew my head clean off, in a way I never could have anticipated. 

Granted, my expectations were not high. I'd braced for a too-cool-for-school, this-year's-LITTLE-MISS-SUNSHINE quirkfest... and got what might just be the most perfectly well-rounded film I've seen since who knows when. The performances were note-perfect. Diablo Cody's script set the scene, introduced its characters, then their dilemmas and worked through them in a way that was natural, organic, graceful -- and rare. Not for a second did this picture feel false. The direction was beautifully measured, Jason Reitman made the right visual choices, crafted the right mood and paced the thing perfectly. When it was funny, it was laugh-out-loud hilarious. When it was sad, it made me cry like a small child, like I haven't done at a new movie in years. (It took me about three or four minutes to stop. I'm serious. As a card-carrying adult male, I'm not necessarily proud of this becoming public knowledge, but caved in to illustrate the absolute spell this story had me in.) 

It's quotable, relatable and repeat-watchable. What really amazed me was, unlike most movies these days, it wasn't too anything. It wasn't too quirky, too sentimental, too smart, too fractured, too long, too short, too cold, too emotional, too cerebral, too anything. It was just right. And that, if you'll check your dictionaries and thesauruses (thesaurii?), is just another way of saying Perfect. 

Then...

There was THERE WILL BE BLOOD. Which couldn't be any more different, but equally effective. 

An epic as harsh, remote and tough as the turn-of-the-century Californian landscape it depicts, this is beautiful, powerful cinema, a towering work representing Paul Thomas Anderson -- in my opinion, the best American filmmaker under 40 -- approaching the peak of his powers. 

Much has been gushed about Daniel Day-Lewis's supercharged, thoroughly deserving Oscar-winning performance as misanthropic oilman Daniel Plainview, or the amazing twelve-minute dialogue-free opening... but much less has been said about Paul Dano's searing turn as the fiery, manipulative preacher Eli Sunday, or the quietly beautiful work from Dillon Freasier (who had never acted professionally before this film!) as Day-Lewis' son H.W., or Jonny Greenwood's pounding, driving, haunting score, or the sheer mania which drives this flick -- from the characters' fervour for power/riches/influence/control/you name it to PTA's own love for cinema -- and the writer/director's wicked sense of humour which pops its head up, ever so subtly, every once in a while, particularly in the film's stunning final scene, capped by one of the greatest closing lines in cinema history. Not to mention, one scene in particular flat-out broke my heart. In two. 

Like all the best epics, Anderson's film works equally well at the physical and emotional ends of the scale: it's as attractive a film as you will ever see, but not in an artificial, glossy way, instead as a force of pure cinema, with a full appreciation for the sublime abilities of the movie camera and the dangerous beauty of the landscape. What's more, Plainview's relationships with everyone around him, particularly his son, are brought into sad, bruised, chilling life with Anderson's beautiful penchant for observation and human behaviour. Damn, this is a great picture. 

Why did we have to wait till 2008 to see the best films of 2007? These pictures would've owned my 2007 Top 10 List. What's more, there's been Joe Wright's excellent, surprisingly sly ATONEMENT and Todd Haynes' inspired, innovative, if overly cerebral, Bob Dylan biopic I'M NOT THERE... With all that in mind, 2008's list has gotten off to a flier... and a much better start than last year, I might add! (There ya go... some of that positivity I keep threatening you with!)

Why is it that Oscar Season continues to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat of so many movie years?  And in what other year could I possibly imagine being ever-so-slightly aggrieved that the Coen Brothers swept the awards?!?  (Okay, what I REAAALLLY wanted, was for the Coens to win Best Director and THERE WILL BE BLOOD Best Pic. Just to make it abundantly clear I'm not being anti-Coen. Which would be akin to being anti-Film Buff, I would think.)  Just after I had written off 2007, two of the best gems in years, both 2007 holdovers, come my way... 

Proving yet again, as dark as it may seem, there is always hope. Like Axl says, all we need is a little patience...

TSIK