artflickchick.com

Fellow NYU alum and good friend, William, works for an awesome non-profit called Asian Cinevision which, in addition to presenting a film series at certain lucky arthouse theaters (the local movie palace in my little town of Montclair included) over the course of the year, also rounds up a diverse selection of some of the best cinematic offerings from Asian/Asian-American filmmakers at the annual Asian American International Film Festival every summer in NYC (which runs this year from July 15 – 31). Check out their recently kicked-off blog, which just announced one of my favorite actresses, Maggie Cheung (Centre Stage, Green Snake, Irma Vep, In the Mood For Love, Hero), as this year’s special guest.

- km

Oops, imbibed a bit too much at the Cinecultist’s birthday gathering last Saturday night and, struggling as I was the next day to emerge from the haze of the second-worst hangover of my life, could barely compose an e-mail thanking the friend who held my hair back as I vomited into the toilet (too much information? I apologize, but this is a blog after all), much less be bothered to write an entry here.

At any rate, I finally got around to seeing what has been, in the niche world of New York cinephiles, much-hyped as the little indie that could. As Liz Penn of The High Sign so rightly observes, part of loving some movies has to do with the way you discover them on your own, like a secret, with no preconceptions to taint your judgment and zero fanfare to accompany their viewing. I’m sure that if I had stumbled upon Andrew Bujalski’s Funny Ha Ha by chance, as many others seem to have done, via cable or some mysteriously-circulating tape, rather than by way of a special trip out to the lone theater currently playing it in the tri-state area, I would’ve adored it as much. It has many elements to which I’m typically drawn, what with its naturalistically-shot, quotidian description of aimless twentysomethings grappling with the vagaries of post-collegiate employment and near-hook-ups (I wonder if my susceptibility to such stories has something to do with the fact that, as a twentysomething whom some might term aimless, I overly identify with the protagonists? Nah). Alas, having been so raved about, I left the darkened room moved by its wafting, disarming charm though far less blown away than I expected to be.

Then, immediately post-viewing and still in a malleable state-of-mind, I made my way down to the basement bathroom of the Cinema Village theater (after sitting through the entirety of the endearingly DIY pencil-on-paper end credits), where a woman (in her 60’s I’d guess) approached me as I washed my hands. She asked if I’d just seen the film and, when I answered in the affirmative, proceeded to inundate me in a rapid-fire series of questions.

Her : So, what was that? I mean, what was it about?

Me: Um . . .

(and beginning with this non-descriptive word to which the Funny Ha Ha crew are so predisposed, I feel myself backed into a corner, automatically aligned with the represented twentysomethings – as the woman clearly sees me - whether I want to be or not)

It’s about the small details of daily life, and the mundane, everyday ways people relate to one another.

Her: Is that how you young people talk these days?

Me: (as soon as she says, “you young people,” I feel myself get defensive)

Not all young people; I don’t think you can generalize that way - definitely some young people. But the director’s trying to capture natural speaking rhythms and awkward silences between people, and I think that’s universal.

Her: Because I never talked like that when I was younger. Not at all.

Me: (her voice drips with such condescension that from here on out, I have no qualms about being firmly pro-Funny Ha Ha)

I think that everyone, at some point or another, finds themselves in embarrassingly uncomfortable situations like that, that everyone experiences the same fumbling for the right words.

Her: But weren’t all the characters so obnoxious?

Me: They’re not meant to be completely likeable

(and here I want to insert, “Aren’t you being a bit obnoxious?,” but I bite my tongue)

That’s the point - they’re not movie characters; they’re real people, with quirks and flaws.

Her: But wasn’t that Alex guy really obnoxiously annoying?

Me: (again, I quash my kindergarten-instinct to reverse-retort, “You’re being really obnoxiously annoying”)

I think he’s meant to be obnoxious. It’s part of the charm he holds for Marnie.

Her: And what about the other one, the one who likes her . . . what’s his name?

Me: Mitchell? I don’t think he’s obnoxious at all . . . just socially-awkward and kind of sweet.

Her: I didn’t like that movie at all.

Me: Well, I did.

(at this point, I say something to excuse myself, and get out of there as quickly as I can)

So it was that I found myself vigorously defending a film about which, just moments before, I’d felt dispassionately. This is the problem with seeing a movie once it’s been over-hyped (a friend had warned me: No! Don’t let it be hyped! Stop reading about it! Just see it!), particularly for an offering as self-effacing as Funny Ha Ha, dealing as it does in such minutiae; the acclaim blows it out of proportion, from which it can never recover (and this is why, unless I’m on the line about whether to see a particular flick, I don’t read reviews until afterwards – but what can I say? Sometimes I get caught up in the excitement).

I may not converse in the halting manner so prevalent to Marnie’s circle of friends, but I identify with them terribly well. The continuous stream of “I don’t know”s and “um”s remind me of the eloquent inarticulateness of My So-Called Life (still one of the best TV shows ever), and that Bujalski’s graduates communicate in this way externalizes the sense that, though we may grow out of our awkward adolescences, somewhere inside, that insecure teenager still hangs. I’m grateful for that stranger’s complete misunderstanding of Funny Ha Ha because, forced to verbalize its positives by dint of some generational allegiance I didn’t know I possessed, I came to a better appreciation of its hemming and hawing.

Seeing it, I remembered an accidental encounter of my own with a film of modest means and goals (though in comparison to Funny Ha Ha’s low production values and non-actors/neophytes, it comes off as positively lavish, its ensemble cast of semi-knowns like huge stars). I went through a phase where, too cheap and principled to rent at the local Blockbuster (pretty much the only option back home in Hawaii), I took to taping chosen cable channels overnight, the random programming post-midnight most appealing to my haphazard tastes. I’d later skim through in search of gold, and though most of the movies I viewed as a result were throwaways, it’s in this roundabout fashion that I happened upon Kicking and Screaming. No, not the Will Ferrell movie, and that’s why I bring it up now. The recent release is sure to push Noah Baumbach’s decade-older movie even further into an obscurity it doesn’t deserve (sadly, it’s not available on DVD yet, which may be part of the problem).

Also a tale of twentysomethings, commencing on the eve of their college graduation, Kicking and Screaming has a lovely simplicity to it that belies its emotional punch. It’s not perfect by any means, but offers up individual moments of such delightfulness - thisclose-to-graduation campus bartender Chet (Eric Stoltz) enumerating his many delayed degrees and expounding upon the joys of perpetual student-hood, riotous Parker Posey commanding her boyfriend (Jason Wiles) to leave the room only to dissolve into laughter when, knowing her well, he spot-on lip-syncs her irate words back to her - that an overall lack of cohesion can be overlooked. Baumbach’s pretty little poem to carefree college days, the “kicking and screaming” of the title a reference to the difficulties most of us have leaving the pleasantries of pre-responsibility independence behind, is immensely relatable. Most affecting are the snippets, interspersed episodically throughout, of main character Grover’s (Josh Hamilton) first conversation with his now-ex, Jane (Olivia d’Abo), in the coffeehouse in which she works. Knowing of the relationship’s eventual demise from the start casts the unfolding scenes with a pervading sense of slowly-accumulating disenchantment (the relationship is over) coupled with hopefulness (the end is the beginning) which peaks poignantly during the film’s final sequence as the flashback narrative arrives at the early inklings of impending love between the pair. The movie’s slightness only heightens the keen sense of loss, as it portrays the hackneyed but startling recognition that dawns post-college like an epiphany, that nothing lasts forever and life is not so simple, a fitting elegy for the heady idealism of those dreamy days.

- km

(Beware: it’s a spoiler minefield in here)

What’s Right with Crash:

The everyday occurrence of car crashes as micro-cosmic entry point into race relations is the thematic starting point for Paul Haggis’ feature debut. And it’s not a bad one at that, despite a confusing moniker which may have some scratching their heads in vague recognition. But this Crash’s concerns are far removed from David Cronenberg’s intriguingly freaky fetish film’s by the same name. Capturing his drama in a series of tight, precise frames, and getting uncomfortably close to his characters at times, Haggis’ visualization attempts to rein in the sprawling chaos of an unwieldy subject; to boot, it gives the movie a fitting in-your-face quality.

The L.A. of Haggis’ hyperbolic envisioning asserts racism as an equal-opportunity affliction plaguing every class and color with a virulence that knows no bounds. A “cracker” here, a “nigger” there, everywhere a “Chinaman”: no exchange exists without derogatory racial epithets being batted back-and-forth in a one-upmanship that could rival the escalation of “your mama” jokes. This startlingly full-frontal illustration of an issue so seldom dealt with in American cinema at first feels rousingly gutsy because - sad but true - other than Spike Lee, few directors get down-and-dirty with the explosively touchy topic.

An exhilarating benefit to Crash’s exploration is the rare opportunity to witness a cast composed of such wide-ranging diversity. Its multiracialism imparts a textured dynamism, breathing new life into the typically-insular all-white affair of the ensemble epic (Nashville, Short Cuts, Magnolia, I Heart Huckabees, Don Roos’ soon-to-be-released Happy Endings). It makes you wonder why Hollywood can’t get over its segregationist hang-ups and play host to more inclusive endeavors. I’m not sure what the box-office has been like, but my theater was packed and more mixed audience-wise than I’ve ever seen in this particular venue. It goes to show how eager people are to see themselves reflected, to feel the necessity of their presence as part of the cultural dialogue; in a media-obsessed America, the only true validation lies by way of this kind of address (and while the studio heads may not care about the higher social importance of leaving room for minorities in their projects and projections, they should care that there’s a huge market of untapped potential out there; every race wants to see itself represented, and will pay for the privilege).

The ethnic-slur throw-downs eventually give way to subtler moments of more lasting value, as Haggis details the insidious, subtle negotiations and humiliations that go hand-in-hand with bigotry. One scene, in particular, brilliantly encapsulates the shadowy internal adjustments made by even the most diligently fair-minded of us when confronted with racial difference. The director pointedly positions two of the film’s least-prejudiced characters within the close confines of a car - an off-duty Officer Hanson (Ryan Phillippe, the embodiment of lily-whiteness, who so abhors his partner’s venomous racism that he proffers a phony story of embarrassing flatulence so he can ride on his own) picks up a hitchhiking African-American youth (Larenz Tate, a low-level hood, depicted contrastingly with his buddy as unimpressed by propositions of oppression) - and what begins as small-talking chit-chat between two strangers soon spirals into apprehensive assessment as the gap between meaning and understanding widens with each spoken word, carried adrift along the lurking undercurrent of stereotypical fears of one by the other. Thinking – and we don’t fully blame him – that he’s being mocked when Peter mentions a penchant for country music (and here, Haggis perfectly captures white paranoid fear), Hanson grows increasingly discombobulated, culminating finally in the pointless, tragic shooting of the former by the latter, bespeaking how scarily close to the surface the seeds of suspicion lie.

What’s Wrong with Crash:

But despite its potential, Crash’s enunciation is troublingly problematic, bogged down by rhetorical flourishes. Unlike Lee, who, to the infuriation of many critics, refuses to offer clear or concise answers to the problems he presents, Haggis resolves them too easily. I’m willing to give Lee the benefit of the doubt, that his niggling contradictions are intentional provocations prompting the spectator to think about race in complicated, dimensional ways (as in Do the Right Thing where he, from the instructive title to the final placard quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. side-by-side with Malcolm X, confuses notions of what the “right” thing is); the introduction of competing ideologies meaningfully muddles and underlines the complexities of race. Even the intellectual messiness of Bamboozled I can forgive, because its disturbances reverberate long after the conclusion, which eschews stable closure in recognition of the fact that providing such lends a measure of consolation no matter what the outcome. Lee’s maneuvers are productive, his refusal to place a balm over what’s wrong, to neutralize, firm if frenzied.

Haggis does just the opposite, smoothing the thorniness of racism via comforting platitudes and melodramatic storylines revolving around reductive comeuppances and redemptions. This is made blatantly evident in the narrative strand involving Officer Ryan, Matt Dillon’s heinous prick of a cop, who pulls over a vehicle for no reason other than that the occupants are black. No matter that Cameron (Terrence Howard) and Christine (the incandescently-beautiful Thandie Newton) look more like a King and Queen than criminals on-the-lam, Ryan takes sadistic pleasure in demeaning them. Though the couple initially laughs, takes it in stride, used to this kind of racist bullshit, the policeman then takes it way too far. Commanding them out of the car, under the thin guise of searching for weapons, he threateningly gropes Christine in full view of her husband. With the camera capturing her furious tears, it’s all you can do not to howl in frustrated, commiserative rage. But the withering degradation of this scene gets eradicated when later, in a crazy coincidence, Ryan drives by the site of an accident and manages to rescue this same woman from a burning car wreck; hence, he redeems himself. Haggis even allots him the triumphal last look: he watches Christine, aided by paramedics, walk away, his reaction caught in hero-izing slow-mo, no less. Any fury you feel towards him is meant to be mitigated by this act, which is difficult to digest if you’re still seething from his former despicable behavior.

I suppose, for me, the gist of it is this: when a movie that purports to examine racism ends on a warm, fuzzy note, imbued with a magical aura by a highly-improbable, literal white-washing by way of snow flurries (in Los Angeles!), it has, to my mind, failed; when a line like “Stupid, fuckin’ Chinaman,” announced by out-for-himself Ludacris, after he (yeah, right) saves a bunch of illegal Asian immigrants from being sold into slavery rather than taking the $500 cash he’s offered for each, is played for laughs, something is off; when the little old ladies who like to frequent my local theater in pairs during weekend matinees endearingly coo as Loretta Devine steps out of her fender-bendered car, sighing expletives and stomping her feet, as Haggis pulls back in a crane shot signaling The End, I can’t help but be disappointed that the promisingly provocative beginning portending such resonant social critique ultimately boils down to inconsequential fluff.

- km