Something silly to share. I tend to play this when the stress gets too hot, and all I want is a simple smile.
The clip is from one of Buster Keaton's 1930s Educational Films shorts, called Grand Slam Opera. In retrospect, that random dance, with Buster switching styles whenever the unseen orchestra changes, means much more than just a gag.
When the silent film era suddenly ended in 1928, Keaton signed a contract with MGM, his first real studio. Until that point, Buster had worked as an independent, creating such classic silent comedies as The General, Sherlock Jr., and The Navigator. But The General--today considered one of the greatest films of all time--was a financial and critical flop when released in theaters. When Steamboat Bill Jr. also lost money, Keaton's producer Joseph Schenck convinced him to retreat to the security of MGM. The looming talkies worried many silent stars, and Keaton was in no position to take a risk.
Although the partnership initially produced another silent classic in The Cameraman, Buster soon discovered that MGM saw him as nothing but an employee. Buster never directed a feature again, nor did he have much input in the films in which he starred. By the time Keaton made his first sound film--the abysmal Free and Easy--he had become nothing but a square peg, forced into the round holes of "snappy" dialog-driven comedies, always portraying the dimwitted fool "Elmer," while the heroes of his silent classics had redeemed themselves with their ingenuity and tenacity. The complete loss of creativity, combined with his already-deteriorating home life, took away whatever joy he had left. He had already lost his wife's affection; now he lost his art. Buster essentially lived on the studio lot in a bungalow supplied by MGM, away from his beloved sons. His drinking escalated dangerously, to the point where he was finishing off a bottle of booze daily. In his last MGM film--What, No Beer?, the last of a trilogy of pairings with up-and-comer Jimmy Durante--Buster is embarrassingly inebriated, his eyes glazed and hollow, his words slurred, his once-sharp timing muddled. His wife had divorced him by then, taking everything but his paycheck. Soon he didn't even have that. Although Buster's sound films, in spite of their low quality, made more money than his landmark silents ever did, studio head Louis B. Mayer fired him on the final day of shooting.
That was January of 1933. Exactly five years after he had signed with one of the most successful Hollywood studios as one of the great comedians of film, Buster Keaton had nothing left.
The next couple of years probably should have killed Keaton. No major producing firm would hire him, and he bumbled into a second marriage to a nurse who probably did more harm than good. Several of his close friends died suddenly, including his mentor Roscoe Arbuckle, punching another hole in Keaton's life. In his last days, however, Arbuckle had worked with Educational Films, the cheapest studio in town, and now they offered Buster work. With the vaudeville stage fading and no where else to turn, Keaton took the job and began churning out extremely low-budget, sound two-reelers. But his alcoholism got worse.
In the middle of October 1935, with his second marriage sliding toward divorce, Keaton began drinking heavily and wouldn't stop. An old family friend, Dr. John Shuman, took him to a hospital while Buster was unconscious. The next morning, Keaton's alcoholic withdrawal was so great that he was restrained in a straitjacket. He stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Shuman and other doctors explained to Buster how the drinking was killing him, and if he continued, he wouldn't live much longer.
According to Tom Dardis's Keaton: The Man Who Wouldn't Lie Down, "Buster listened calmly and did not drink for the next five years."
Keaton returned to Educational Films sober and anew. Grand Slam Opera was the second short he made after his hospital stay, and it's the only one in which Buster has a writing credit. His timing, his energy, his creativity...in a bargain basement short, mostly lost to time and memory, Keaton's joy in creation is completely alive on screen.
Educational Films would go bankrupt the following year, but Keaton would find more work back at MGM, as an anonymous gag writer. He gave away his famous routines to the likes of the Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, and Red Skelton, who remade Keaton's two MGM silents as sound films, but did them Buster's way. Most importantly, Buster Keaton would meet Eleanor Norris, a young dancer at the studio. Despite the differences in their ages, the two would marry in May 1940, and would live happily together until the end of Buster's life 25 years later. By then, audiences had rediscovered Keaton's silent features and shorts, and Keaton lived the last years of his life recognized as one of the giants of comedy.
Buster's Educational Films work mostly has been forgotten, and those who have seen the shorts call them "shoddy," "beneath Keaton," and "embarrassingly bad." But the 16 two-reelers Keaton made over those three years perhaps are among the most important of his life--they gave him work when he needed it, and when he was ready, allowed him to unearth the talent he nearly destroyed with the bottle. Few of us have traveled the road that Buster Keaton did, and for a time, that road was hopelessly perilous. Like the heroes he conjured for his silents, Keaton never gave in, despite the despair and melancholy that wrapped his existance. Even when hope left him, he continued on. When I watch that clip, made so soon after the darkest time of his life, I remember Keaton's dance lesson.
Swinging on the devil's dance floor? Buster did, and survived. And he's still dancing.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Maryland Film Festival '07, Day 2: Trippy Temp
Just got back, so this is a placeholder post until I have time and alertness to write something more substantial.
Man in the Dark--This year's traditional 3-D film actually beat House of Wax as the first studio, two-projector movie...by a day or two. A potboiler with some nice depth of field and 3-D effects, wonky movie science, and "snappy" one-liners that provided more entertainment than the film itself. Just a fun time.
Syndromes and a Century--Storytelling without a story. A highly visual film that follows a number of characters in a rural army base, and then suddenly switches to an urban, sterile hospital setting with the same characters going through the same plot swings, but from different perspectives. Still not sure what it was all about, but genuinely affect still.
Animation Shorts--11 short films of varying styles, tone, and techniques. The first was the funniest: "Ujbaz Izbeneki Has Lost His Soul" is a claymation work about a young man showing up in hell after losing his soul because, well, he loses things. Much to the devil's distress, Ujbaz is still losing things....The worst was "The Ballad of Mary Slade," a generally well-done short about the tragic downfall of a young woman as retold by the insects who have come to, um, consume her. Too gruesome for my taste. Overall, a solid selection with one very powerful work ("Everything Will Be OK") and only one music video to be found (a problem that has developed from past festivals).
Golden Days--A behind-the-scenes documentary about the experience of The Damnwells, a self-made indie band who signs a major record deal with Epic, spends a year waiting for the recorded album to come out, and then gets dropped without a release. Far from a VH-1 Behind the Music special, Golden Days features no cataclysmic climax featuring tragedic or excess; instead, the film shows a band still discovering who they are and how they've grown stronger from the experience rather than unravel from it. The final scene shows The Damnwells performing on stage, opening for and then performing with The Fray, another indie act Epic kept and promoted to two million dollar sales. The Fray insisted on keeping The Damnwells as their opening act; "we're fans." It's refreshing to see a music documentary where the music does pull the band through.
That's all for now. More detail later.
Man in the Dark--This year's traditional 3-D film actually beat House of Wax as the first studio, two-projector movie...by a day or two. A potboiler with some nice depth of field and 3-D effects, wonky movie science, and "snappy" one-liners that provided more entertainment than the film itself. Just a fun time.
Syndromes and a Century--Storytelling without a story. A highly visual film that follows a number of characters in a rural army base, and then suddenly switches to an urban, sterile hospital setting with the same characters going through the same plot swings, but from different perspectives. Still not sure what it was all about, but genuinely affect still.
Animation Shorts--11 short films of varying styles, tone, and techniques. The first was the funniest: "Ujbaz Izbeneki Has Lost His Soul" is a claymation work about a young man showing up in hell after losing his soul because, well, he loses things. Much to the devil's distress, Ujbaz is still losing things....The worst was "The Ballad of Mary Slade," a generally well-done short about the tragic downfall of a young woman as retold by the insects who have come to, um, consume her. Too gruesome for my taste. Overall, a solid selection with one very powerful work ("Everything Will Be OK") and only one music video to be found (a problem that has developed from past festivals).
Golden Days--A behind-the-scenes documentary about the experience of The Damnwells, a self-made indie band who signs a major record deal with Epic, spends a year waiting for the recorded album to come out, and then gets dropped without a release. Far from a VH-1 Behind the Music special, Golden Days features no cataclysmic climax featuring tragedic or excess; instead, the film shows a band still discovering who they are and how they've grown stronger from the experience rather than unravel from it. The final scene shows The Damnwells performing on stage, opening for and then performing with The Fray, another indie act Epic kept and promoted to two million dollar sales. The Fray insisted on keeping The Damnwells as their opening act; "we're fans." It's refreshing to see a music documentary where the music does pull the band through.
That's all for now. More detail later.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Maryland Film Festival '07, Day 1: Of Changes, Wanted or Not
Prelude
On this morning, a workday morning, I awoke at my normal 6 a.m., stumbled down the hallway, fed the finches, shuffled into the bath, and got as far as turning the hot water knob before realizing that the first screening at the Maryland Film Festival didn’t start until the early afternoon. I suddenly had time.
So, I commenced to lose track of it.
I ran some errands. I puttered around the house. I paid my mortgage, restocked my CDs and DVDs, and e-mailed a very special welder of the latest cattle prods. Then, while reading some online news sites, I looked down at my computer clock: 11:15 a.m. No problem; the first movie didn’t start until 1:30, and although it takes me at least an hour to get to the Charles Theatre, I still could leave at noon and be there in plenty of time. I just needed to clean up first....
And as I stepped back into the bath, my phone rang; a freelancer for a major project had an urgent question. I quickly answered, and because she’s a former coworker, we gabbed some more, catching up. Feelin’ good, I hung up, cleaned up, and finally got to the car.
It’s 12:15, and I still have to pick up some cash. By the time I finally get on the road, I’ve got one hour to make the movies.
This happens every year. Every. Year.
American Fork
With independent filmmaking, projects are connected, and one success can birth lesser-known but worthy siblings. Producer Jeremy Coon helped writer/director/star Jared Hess create the cult fave Napoleon Dynamite three years ago. Coon and much of that film’s crew then helped make Napoleon first assistant director Tim Skousen’s own work, The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang, which features a cameo by Hess and showed at the MFF last year. One of the main actors of that effort, Hubbel Palmer, then wrote and starred in another Coon production--American Fork.
Like Napoleon Dynamite, American Fork centers on the travails of a gentle lost soul. In this case, Tracey Orbison is an overweight grocery clerk who writes (good) poetry in his notebook while irking out a life in a dead-end town. Living at home with his depressed mother and stuffed-animal-loving sister, Tracey is stuck in a cycle of trying to loose weight and failing at passing the driver’s license exam. Then, one day, he attends a play at the urging of his well-meaning boss (Bruce McGill). There, overbaked actor Truman Hope (William Baldwin, in a delicious turn) dazzles Tracey with his bad acting, and Tracey quickly signs up for Hope’s class. But when Hope eventually lets Tracey down, our hero decides to become a mentor for the teenaged hooligan friends of new coworker Kendis. Bad decision, but before it ends, Tracey finds redemption, accomplishment, and, most importantly, a sense of peace, told wonderfully in a poem.
Although American Fork shares Napoleon Dynamite’s themes and character-based humor, it avoids the episodic nature and greater absurdist minimalism of its predecessor. Instead, as written by Palmer and directed by Chris Bowman, American Folk remains a very human film, despite some goofy sequences and outlandish jokes. Palmer’s performance, propelled by his melodious voice, anchors the picture, creating a believable axis around which the story orbits. The result is a compelling little comedy where the humor accents the characters, allowing the more saccharine touches to become genuine and smoothing over some predictable plot points. Some bits, especially in the middle where Tracey hooks up with Kendis’s crew, stretch the balance between the off-the-wall humor and human fable, but Tracey’s climatic poem makes all forgivable.
Just the perfect kind of little picture to start the festival.
After the film, Palmer and Bowman answered questions from the audience, revealing that American Fork was shot in the town in Utah where Palmer grew up and based the story. Many of the basic situations that Tracey found himself in were inspired by Palmer’s life, which probably is how the story discovered its more affecting traits.
Intermission
After the screening, I had an hour to kill. I found out two things.
One: Don’t buy a S’mores Crepe unless they give you a plate. Two handi-wipes and countless napkins still didn’t clean up the mess (and wound up with a sticky spot on my nose). In sucking down the tasty concoction before it wound up in a puddle in my lap, I felt like Tracey during one of his stress-fueled gorges. Next time, I'll stick (groan) with my butterscotch crepe.
The crepe place has been next to the Charles Theater for a few years now, but it's expanded a bit to include a small eating and waiting area. No tables, but a nice shelf-style bar along the window, with a cushioned bench seat running along back wall just behind it. I'm off in the corner, frantically wiping off the marshmallow and chocolate into the trash can, when I happen to glance at the side wall next to me. There's a door, which I assume leads to the playhouse next door, but surrounding it and covering the wall are keys--dozens and dozens of keys hanging each on their own hook, running from floor to ceiling. Behind me, a customer discovers that the keys are the idea of the owner's art student son. I'm too busy staring at it, smiling at its simplicity.
Two: The Maryland Film Festival has grown even from last year. Usually, the majority of the films are screened at the Charles Theatre’s five screens, with an odd showing at another theater nearby. This year, they have three additional screens--one at the MICA center and two just across the bridge at the University of Baltimore, where my next film was showing. 'Course, I didn't notice that until I actually looked at the ticket 20 minutes before the movie started.
Every. Year.
I wander a bit, meeting a statue of Edgar Allen Poe--looking for all the world like an inebriated Lincoln holding a ciggie--when I finally notice the UB Student Center across the street and climb the glass-enclosed stairwell to its fifth floor theater. Where the main screening room at the Charles was nearly pitch dark, the center’s theater is completely white and modern, except for a pure parquet floor and a low wood stage below the small hanging screen. From a cavern to an art gallery, only this one has one picture....
Time and Tide
In 2002, two filmmakers joined a group of 60 New Zealanders returning to their homeland of Tuvalu, a small Pacific Island nation that achieved notoriety for selling their international Internet domain of “.tv” to a start-up dotcom company for $50 million. Many have never seen the island, and even the oldest have not returned since leaving 15 years before.
What they find is a communal culture struggling with its newfound Western capitalism. The capital town is overwhelmed with people and trash, and the rising sea is rapidly overwhelming what little land the island holds.
Despite its themes of globalization and global warming, Time and Tide is a humanistic documentary about cultures as well. The film interviews both the visitors and residents, discovering how Tuvalu has experienced firsthand the effects of change. Some of the visitors ride to one’s childhood home, only to find that it’s become a massive trash heap because Tuvalu has no other place to put it. Residents talk about losing Tuvalu’s tradition of sharing while establishing an economy to raise money to send their children elsewhere for schooling. Two weeks before they leave, the visitors take a trip to an inlet island, where they find happiness in a more traditional settlement. Until some realize that the lagoon used to be their own village, on dry land less than two decades before.
Without a pulpit, Time and Tide instead preaches with the people living through the experience. Humor and joy is mixed with an undercurrent of dread about Tuvalu’s future, and the message is obvious that this little country’s future could be ours as well. The message is quiet, but sent with more finality and honesty than anything Al Gore could deliver.
Fortunately, the film will not be restricted to festivals. The directors Julie Bayer and Josh Salzman said that Time and Tide will be shown on PBS this month. Needless to say, I recommend it.
Missed Today: Bobcat Goldthwait’s raunchy comedy and third film Sleeping Dogs Lie, presented by John Waters.
On this morning, a workday morning, I awoke at my normal 6 a.m., stumbled down the hallway, fed the finches, shuffled into the bath, and got as far as turning the hot water knob before realizing that the first screening at the Maryland Film Festival didn’t start until the early afternoon. I suddenly had time.
So, I commenced to lose track of it.
I ran some errands. I puttered around the house. I paid my mortgage, restocked my CDs and DVDs, and e-mailed a very special welder of the latest cattle prods. Then, while reading some online news sites, I looked down at my computer clock: 11:15 a.m. No problem; the first movie didn’t start until 1:30, and although it takes me at least an hour to get to the Charles Theatre, I still could leave at noon and be there in plenty of time. I just needed to clean up first....
And as I stepped back into the bath, my phone rang; a freelancer for a major project had an urgent question. I quickly answered, and because she’s a former coworker, we gabbed some more, catching up. Feelin’ good, I hung up, cleaned up, and finally got to the car.
It’s 12:15, and I still have to pick up some cash. By the time I finally get on the road, I’ve got one hour to make the movies.
This happens every year. Every. Year.
American Fork
With independent filmmaking, projects are connected, and one success can birth lesser-known but worthy siblings. Producer Jeremy Coon helped writer/director/star Jared Hess create the cult fave Napoleon Dynamite three years ago. Coon and much of that film’s crew then helped make Napoleon first assistant director Tim Skousen’s own work, The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang, which features a cameo by Hess and showed at the MFF last year. One of the main actors of that effort, Hubbel Palmer, then wrote and starred in another Coon production--American Fork.
Like Napoleon Dynamite, American Fork centers on the travails of a gentle lost soul. In this case, Tracey Orbison is an overweight grocery clerk who writes (good) poetry in his notebook while irking out a life in a dead-end town. Living at home with his depressed mother and stuffed-animal-loving sister, Tracey is stuck in a cycle of trying to loose weight and failing at passing the driver’s license exam. Then, one day, he attends a play at the urging of his well-meaning boss (Bruce McGill). There, overbaked actor Truman Hope (William Baldwin, in a delicious turn) dazzles Tracey with his bad acting, and Tracey quickly signs up for Hope’s class. But when Hope eventually lets Tracey down, our hero decides to become a mentor for the teenaged hooligan friends of new coworker Kendis. Bad decision, but before it ends, Tracey finds redemption, accomplishment, and, most importantly, a sense of peace, told wonderfully in a poem.
Although American Fork shares Napoleon Dynamite’s themes and character-based humor, it avoids the episodic nature and greater absurdist minimalism of its predecessor. Instead, as written by Palmer and directed by Chris Bowman, American Folk remains a very human film, despite some goofy sequences and outlandish jokes. Palmer’s performance, propelled by his melodious voice, anchors the picture, creating a believable axis around which the story orbits. The result is a compelling little comedy where the humor accents the characters, allowing the more saccharine touches to become genuine and smoothing over some predictable plot points. Some bits, especially in the middle where Tracey hooks up with Kendis’s crew, stretch the balance between the off-the-wall humor and human fable, but Tracey’s climatic poem makes all forgivable.
Just the perfect kind of little picture to start the festival.
After the film, Palmer and Bowman answered questions from the audience, revealing that American Fork was shot in the town in Utah where Palmer grew up and based the story. Many of the basic situations that Tracey found himself in were inspired by Palmer’s life, which probably is how the story discovered its more affecting traits.
Intermission
After the screening, I had an hour to kill. I found out two things.
One: Don’t buy a S’mores Crepe unless they give you a plate. Two handi-wipes and countless napkins still didn’t clean up the mess (and wound up with a sticky spot on my nose). In sucking down the tasty concoction before it wound up in a puddle in my lap, I felt like Tracey during one of his stress-fueled gorges. Next time, I'll stick (groan) with my butterscotch crepe.
The crepe place has been next to the Charles Theater for a few years now, but it's expanded a bit to include a small eating and waiting area. No tables, but a nice shelf-style bar along the window, with a cushioned bench seat running along back wall just behind it. I'm off in the corner, frantically wiping off the marshmallow and chocolate into the trash can, when I happen to glance at the side wall next to me. There's a door, which I assume leads to the playhouse next door, but surrounding it and covering the wall are keys--dozens and dozens of keys hanging each on their own hook, running from floor to ceiling. Behind me, a customer discovers that the keys are the idea of the owner's art student son. I'm too busy staring at it, smiling at its simplicity.
Two: The Maryland Film Festival has grown even from last year. Usually, the majority of the films are screened at the Charles Theatre’s five screens, with an odd showing at another theater nearby. This year, they have three additional screens--one at the MICA center and two just across the bridge at the University of Baltimore, where my next film was showing. 'Course, I didn't notice that until I actually looked at the ticket 20 minutes before the movie started.
Every. Year.
I wander a bit, meeting a statue of Edgar Allen Poe--looking for all the world like an inebriated Lincoln holding a ciggie--when I finally notice the UB Student Center across the street and climb the glass-enclosed stairwell to its fifth floor theater. Where the main screening room at the Charles was nearly pitch dark, the center’s theater is completely white and modern, except for a pure parquet floor and a low wood stage below the small hanging screen. From a cavern to an art gallery, only this one has one picture....
Time and Tide
In 2002, two filmmakers joined a group of 60 New Zealanders returning to their homeland of Tuvalu, a small Pacific Island nation that achieved notoriety for selling their international Internet domain of “.tv” to a start-up dotcom company for $50 million. Many have never seen the island, and even the oldest have not returned since leaving 15 years before.
What they find is a communal culture struggling with its newfound Western capitalism. The capital town is overwhelmed with people and trash, and the rising sea is rapidly overwhelming what little land the island holds.
Despite its themes of globalization and global warming, Time and Tide is a humanistic documentary about cultures as well. The film interviews both the visitors and residents, discovering how Tuvalu has experienced firsthand the effects of change. Some of the visitors ride to one’s childhood home, only to find that it’s become a massive trash heap because Tuvalu has no other place to put it. Residents talk about losing Tuvalu’s tradition of sharing while establishing an economy to raise money to send their children elsewhere for schooling. Two weeks before they leave, the visitors take a trip to an inlet island, where they find happiness in a more traditional settlement. Until some realize that the lagoon used to be their own village, on dry land less than two decades before.
Without a pulpit, Time and Tide instead preaches with the people living through the experience. Humor and joy is mixed with an undercurrent of dread about Tuvalu’s future, and the message is obvious that this little country’s future could be ours as well. The message is quiet, but sent with more finality and honesty than anything Al Gore could deliver.
Fortunately, the film will not be restricted to festivals. The directors Julie Bayer and Josh Salzman said that Time and Tide will be shown on PBS this month. Needless to say, I recommend it.
Missed Today: Bobcat Goldthwait’s raunchy comedy and third film Sleeping Dogs Lie, presented by John Waters.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Maryland Film Festival '07: Preview
This Friday, a personal, annual tradition will be reprised: For three days, I’ll attend the Maryland Film Festival in Baltimore, seeing a hodgepodge of little-seen independent features, off-the-wall short films, cult cinema, and the occasional documentary. As a self-proclaimed film nut, my yearly pilgrimage (well, driving back and forth on I-70 each morning) is something I probably should have done sooner.
Back in 2001, I first learned of the existence of the "MFF," which, like me, was nearly new to the festival circuit. Begun in 1999, the festival was housed entirely at the Charles Theatre, a restored movie house in the revitalizing art district across the railroad gridwork of Penn Station. Originally a cable car barn and later a ballroom, the 108-year-old, brown-brick building with two-story arched glass windows was gutted and expanded to five movie screens plus a little lobby. The festival was small, giving special emphasis to Baltimore filmmakers and the city’s reputation as a purveyor of strange cinema.
In other words, just my size.
By a month, I missed the 2001 festival--which featured such works as The American Astronaut, Four Dogs Playing Poker, Bill Plympton’s latest feature Mutant Aliens, the documentary Mr. Smithereen Goes to Washington, and the cult horror gore classic 2000 Maniacs (shown at the Bengies Drive-In and featuring a panel discussion with its director Herschell Gordon Lewis)--but I made plans for the following year, even though my life and work had completely changed by that point. On the early afternoon of May 3, I stepped into the Charles to see my first truly independent film, a movie with no distributor or bright financial future, made only because its creators coerced its existence against all common sense. The film was Body Drop Asphalt, a South Korean Jekyll-and-Hyde of a romantic comedy that first tried my patience and then propelled me on a visual, pop musical feast. I’ve been hooked ever since.
The Maryland Film Festival and its relatives around the country give a special gift to audiences: They provide an outlet for the real artistic film, one ill-made for profit. No where else can you see short films in vibrant abundance, nor will you see many of these features on the big screen anytime soon. To me, the festival is the chance to see something unusual, unexpected, and individualistic, and then meet the people behind the creation. Every year, Baltimorean cult giant John Waters presents a fringe film of his liking, while actors, directors, and producers attend others’ showings over the weekend in addition to their own presentations. They, too, are film fans.
This year’s festival is an odd one: Short of some truly standout features, I originally thought it was going to be an off year. The now-traditional Saturday 3-D and Sunday silent with the Alloy Orchestra still are intact, but the Comedy Shorts program--guaranteed worthwhile entertainment--is weirdly absent. Yet, my own schedule still boosts nine planned viewings, with a couple of others possibly in the offing given budget and ambition. My choices:
Friday
American Fork (2007). A gentle and naive grocery store clerk enrolls in an acting class, which in turn inspires him to mentor his dead-end friends. Things, however, take an unexpected, dark turn. A black comedy co-starring William Baldwin as the overdone acting class instructor and produced by Jeremy Coon of Napoleon Dynamite and The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang.
Time and Tide (2006). A somewhat short documentary about two friends who return to their indigenous homeland of the Pacific Ocean island nation of Tuvalu.
Saturday
Man in the Dark (1953). This year’s 3-D film was the first to use processed-projected background plates, creating an unusual depth-of-field. The film is best known for its roller coaster climax, finishing off a noir story of a former gangster who agrees to undergo experimental brain surgery to erase his criminal tendencies. Unfortunately, his former colleagues want one very important piece of information from him that he no longer knows, and they’ll stop at nothing to get it....
Syndromes and a Century (2006). A highly-acclaimed Thai film featuring two stories of courtship and love in two different time-periods, one inspired by the story of the director’s parents. The film, however, apparently an emotionally visual experience in addition to gentle, quiet storytelling. Can’t wait.
Animated Shorts. One of the two short programs I see every festival. This year’s feature 12 shorts, none of which I’ve read about, because I enjoy seeing these things unscathed by preparation. Usually, an eclectic mix of style, technique, and tone.
Golden Days (2006). A fly-on-the-wall documentary about a self-made indie band nearly torn apart by the major record label deal they somehow manage to land.
Sunday
Nosferatu (1922). The Alloy Orchestra, a three-man musical ensemble using an “outrageous assemblage of peculiar objects,” has created new scores for more than 20 silent films. Since the 2003 festival, the Alloy Orchestra performs one of their pieces with the film in question every Sunday morning. This year, the silent classic is F.W. Murnau’s classic vampire film. I’m normally not a fan of horror, but I adore the silent German Impressionistic filmmaking, and Murnau’s Sunrise (shown at the Charles before with the Alloy) and The Last Laugh are part of my home collection. Some films you just have to see, regardless of personal taste.
Domino Effect Shorts. With the absence of the Comedy Shorts program, I’m left with parsing out what I might like from the creatively-titled, but telling little program descriptions. This one features “a dark yet playful ensemble of highly visual shorts.” Really, that’s all they tell us outside of the basic plot descriptions.
Sound and Vision Shorts. Nearly music video more than film, these five shorts should be a fun and exhilarating way to end the festival, especially with a musical tribute to the Atari 2600. (!)
Despite my previous stillborn attempts, I hope to drop in each evening with a report of the day’s films and other activities. Unheralded, unpredictable, and otherwise, the Maryland Film Festival is a once-a-year chance to see once-in-a-lifetime cinema, and it’s long past time I shared it.
Back in 2001, I first learned of the existence of the "MFF," which, like me, was nearly new to the festival circuit. Begun in 1999, the festival was housed entirely at the Charles Theatre, a restored movie house in the revitalizing art district across the railroad gridwork of Penn Station. Originally a cable car barn and later a ballroom, the 108-year-old, brown-brick building with two-story arched glass windows was gutted and expanded to five movie screens plus a little lobby. The festival was small, giving special emphasis to Baltimore filmmakers and the city’s reputation as a purveyor of strange cinema.
In other words, just my size.
By a month, I missed the 2001 festival--which featured such works as The American Astronaut, Four Dogs Playing Poker, Bill Plympton’s latest feature Mutant Aliens, the documentary Mr. Smithereen Goes to Washington, and the cult horror gore classic 2000 Maniacs (shown at the Bengies Drive-In and featuring a panel discussion with its director Herschell Gordon Lewis)--but I made plans for the following year, even though my life and work had completely changed by that point. On the early afternoon of May 3, I stepped into the Charles to see my first truly independent film, a movie with no distributor or bright financial future, made only because its creators coerced its existence against all common sense. The film was Body Drop Asphalt, a South Korean Jekyll-and-Hyde of a romantic comedy that first tried my patience and then propelled me on a visual, pop musical feast. I’ve been hooked ever since.
The Maryland Film Festival and its relatives around the country give a special gift to audiences: They provide an outlet for the real artistic film, one ill-made for profit. No where else can you see short films in vibrant abundance, nor will you see many of these features on the big screen anytime soon. To me, the festival is the chance to see something unusual, unexpected, and individualistic, and then meet the people behind the creation. Every year, Baltimorean cult giant John Waters presents a fringe film of his liking, while actors, directors, and producers attend others’ showings over the weekend in addition to their own presentations. They, too, are film fans.
This year’s festival is an odd one: Short of some truly standout features, I originally thought it was going to be an off year. The now-traditional Saturday 3-D and Sunday silent with the Alloy Orchestra still are intact, but the Comedy Shorts program--guaranteed worthwhile entertainment--is weirdly absent. Yet, my own schedule still boosts nine planned viewings, with a couple of others possibly in the offing given budget and ambition. My choices:
Friday
American Fork (2007). A gentle and naive grocery store clerk enrolls in an acting class, which in turn inspires him to mentor his dead-end friends. Things, however, take an unexpected, dark turn. A black comedy co-starring William Baldwin as the overdone acting class instructor and produced by Jeremy Coon of Napoleon Dynamite and The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang.
Time and Tide (2006). A somewhat short documentary about two friends who return to their indigenous homeland of the Pacific Ocean island nation of Tuvalu.
Saturday
Man in the Dark (1953). This year’s 3-D film was the first to use processed-projected background plates, creating an unusual depth-of-field. The film is best known for its roller coaster climax, finishing off a noir story of a former gangster who agrees to undergo experimental brain surgery to erase his criminal tendencies. Unfortunately, his former colleagues want one very important piece of information from him that he no longer knows, and they’ll stop at nothing to get it....
Syndromes and a Century (2006). A highly-acclaimed Thai film featuring two stories of courtship and love in two different time-periods, one inspired by the story of the director’s parents. The film, however, apparently an emotionally visual experience in addition to gentle, quiet storytelling. Can’t wait.
Animated Shorts. One of the two short programs I see every festival. This year’s feature 12 shorts, none of which I’ve read about, because I enjoy seeing these things unscathed by preparation. Usually, an eclectic mix of style, technique, and tone.
Golden Days (2006). A fly-on-the-wall documentary about a self-made indie band nearly torn apart by the major record label deal they somehow manage to land.
Sunday
Nosferatu (1922). The Alloy Orchestra, a three-man musical ensemble using an “outrageous assemblage of peculiar objects,” has created new scores for more than 20 silent films. Since the 2003 festival, the Alloy Orchestra performs one of their pieces with the film in question every Sunday morning. This year, the silent classic is F.W. Murnau’s classic vampire film. I’m normally not a fan of horror, but I adore the silent German Impressionistic filmmaking, and Murnau’s Sunrise (shown at the Charles before with the Alloy) and The Last Laugh are part of my home collection. Some films you just have to see, regardless of personal taste.
Domino Effect Shorts. With the absence of the Comedy Shorts program, I’m left with parsing out what I might like from the creatively-titled, but telling little program descriptions. This one features “a dark yet playful ensemble of highly visual shorts.” Really, that’s all they tell us outside of the basic plot descriptions.
Sound and Vision Shorts. Nearly music video more than film, these five shorts should be a fun and exhilarating way to end the festival, especially with a musical tribute to the Atari 2600. (!)
Despite my previous stillborn attempts, I hope to drop in each evening with a report of the day’s films and other activities. Unheralded, unpredictable, and otherwise, the Maryland Film Festival is a once-a-year chance to see once-in-a-lifetime cinema, and it’s long past time I shared it.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The Distant Shore
As the plane taxis to the runway, an innocent voice asks, “Are we going to the clouds?”
“Yes, we’re going to the clouds,” answers her father. I never knew.
In my childhood, my parents preferred to drive wherever our holidays resided, seeing all the tourist traps and historical landmarks along the way. I’ve only flown a few times in my life, and in my first real business trip, it was a necessity. After a long and busy weekend, I was heading home.
As St. Louis rapidly shrinks behind us, its sliver of an arch looking more and more like a wicket by the riverside, what appears as mist gently wraps around the plane. The ride suddenly buckles and bounces, not a lot but enough to grip the armrests just a little bit harder. The little girl in front of me giggles. I look out the window again. The mists are still swirling, but open air surrounds the wing. Past that probably by miles, the billowing surface of a cloud is slipping by, with sunlight softly breaking through. So, this is what it feels like to be a bird.
Suddenly, we’re free.
I look back to see a towering wall of a single cloud, Moher standing guard on an airy ocean. At its foot, more clouds peel away, streaming out to blanket the earth far below. The cirrus is stripped, pulled cotton forming ghostly fjords. The setting sun is hidden but tints the sky with dusk. And all I can think of is a song.
Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You have come to journey's end
Sleep now
And dream of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across a distant shore
In Hollywood, from the early silents to today’s blockbusters, heaven often is depicted simply as lost loved ones hanging out above the clouds. They can watch us, the living, continue on; all they have to do is part the mist to see. When Annie Lennox wrote her song for Peter Jackson’s film, she didn’t write about the glory of battle or the triumph of humanity over ultimate evil. She wrote about the quiet end to the struggle, not of any war, but of life’s weary walk. As I gaze out the airplane porthole, no angels or spirits wander along this shore, but I understand why movie producers of yesteryear would want to believe so.
I think of Virginia Tech, of the road rage incident that claimed a couple’s life just down the road from where I live. I think of a local family found dead in their homes and the mother still missing, her urgent police poster still adorning the doors of coffee shops and stores. I think of a little girl with cancer, for whom another coffee shop is gathering anxious donations to pay for the medical treatment her parents can’t afford. I think of a lonely man, barricading himself in a liquor store at midday, and then burning everything down around him rather than surrendering. I think of the employees and shop owners watching everything they’ve worked to build become ash in moments. I think of a hundred horses wasting away in a field, because their owner loves them but doesn’t know how. I think of all that and more that has happened in the past two months, and I wonder where the madness ends.
When we’re born, we depend on our parents and friends. When we leave home, we muddle our way through, using the lessons we’ve learned and learning even more. Some people never close their eyes, but some people simply live to exist, never wanting to think of the meaning, much less the end. The prospect is too frightening.
The movies show us a fantasy, one where life has a clear rhyme, where injustices are repaid, crimes solved, evil vanquished in kind. Small wonder that their heaven is even cleaner. But our lives don’t have a screenwriter arranging for the fated romance, a director calling for the sunrise. We write our own script, character-driven and epic all at once. Maybe there is fate, but the choices still are ours.
Sometimes, the easy way is to shut the door, lock the deadbolt, and go to bed. The world carries on, though, with all its pain, hurt, and enmity. People make it so, as do those too frightened for nothing more than well-intentioned words.
Nobody is looking down from the clouds. I’ve seen their emptiness. Everyone we need to see is right here, souls both lonely and alive.
Night is beginning to fall. Far below on the patchwork earth, houses and towns switch on their street lamps. The lights are orange, like a hundred small fires together against the night.
“Yes, we’re going to the clouds,” answers her father. I never knew.
In my childhood, my parents preferred to drive wherever our holidays resided, seeing all the tourist traps and historical landmarks along the way. I’ve only flown a few times in my life, and in my first real business trip, it was a necessity. After a long and busy weekend, I was heading home.
As St. Louis rapidly shrinks behind us, its sliver of an arch looking more and more like a wicket by the riverside, what appears as mist gently wraps around the plane. The ride suddenly buckles and bounces, not a lot but enough to grip the armrests just a little bit harder. The little girl in front of me giggles. I look out the window again. The mists are still swirling, but open air surrounds the wing. Past that probably by miles, the billowing surface of a cloud is slipping by, with sunlight softly breaking through. So, this is what it feels like to be a bird.
Suddenly, we’re free.
I look back to see a towering wall of a single cloud, Moher standing guard on an airy ocean. At its foot, more clouds peel away, streaming out to blanket the earth far below. The cirrus is stripped, pulled cotton forming ghostly fjords. The setting sun is hidden but tints the sky with dusk. And all I can think of is a song.
Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You have come to journey's end
Sleep now
And dream of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across a distant shore
In Hollywood, from the early silents to today’s blockbusters, heaven often is depicted simply as lost loved ones hanging out above the clouds. They can watch us, the living, continue on; all they have to do is part the mist to see. When Annie Lennox wrote her song for Peter Jackson’s film, she didn’t write about the glory of battle or the triumph of humanity over ultimate evil. She wrote about the quiet end to the struggle, not of any war, but of life’s weary walk. As I gaze out the airplane porthole, no angels or spirits wander along this shore, but I understand why movie producers of yesteryear would want to believe so.
I think of Virginia Tech, of the road rage incident that claimed a couple’s life just down the road from where I live. I think of a local family found dead in their homes and the mother still missing, her urgent police poster still adorning the doors of coffee shops and stores. I think of a little girl with cancer, for whom another coffee shop is gathering anxious donations to pay for the medical treatment her parents can’t afford. I think of a lonely man, barricading himself in a liquor store at midday, and then burning everything down around him rather than surrendering. I think of the employees and shop owners watching everything they’ve worked to build become ash in moments. I think of a hundred horses wasting away in a field, because their owner loves them but doesn’t know how. I think of all that and more that has happened in the past two months, and I wonder where the madness ends.
When we’re born, we depend on our parents and friends. When we leave home, we muddle our way through, using the lessons we’ve learned and learning even more. Some people never close their eyes, but some people simply live to exist, never wanting to think of the meaning, much less the end. The prospect is too frightening.
The movies show us a fantasy, one where life has a clear rhyme, where injustices are repaid, crimes solved, evil vanquished in kind. Small wonder that their heaven is even cleaner. But our lives don’t have a screenwriter arranging for the fated romance, a director calling for the sunrise. We write our own script, character-driven and epic all at once. Maybe there is fate, but the choices still are ours.
Sometimes, the easy way is to shut the door, lock the deadbolt, and go to bed. The world carries on, though, with all its pain, hurt, and enmity. People make it so, as do those too frightened for nothing more than well-intentioned words.
Nobody is looking down from the clouds. I’ve seen their emptiness. Everyone we need to see is right here, souls both lonely and alive.
Night is beginning to fall. Far below on the patchwork earth, houses and towns switch on their street lamps. The lights are orange, like a hundred small fires together against the night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
