SCREENING LOG - 6/03--6/09, 2002

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I watched YELEEN (BRIGHTNESS), THE MAD SONGS OF FERNANDA HUSSEIN, THE FAMILY MAN and PLAYTIME. In no order:

Yeelen (Brightness) (1987, Souleymane Cisse)

I hate it when a movie reminds me of my limitations as a viewer, which seems to be happening more frequently lately, perhaps because I've become more self-conscious in my act of viewing and what assumptions and expectations I bring to it. In any event, this filmed retelling of an ancient myth involving a young man who must battle his powerful father in order to reclaim the mysteries of nature (komo) for the benefit of the world. In that regard it can be seen as the African equivalent to STAR WARS, though drawing such a comparison seems insulting to the depth and thoughtfulness of Cisse's achievement. Unfortunately I could only grasp this film's greatness largely on the level of spectacle (and there are several shots, esp. in the beginning and climax, of breathtaking visual intensity); sometimes I found myself second-guessing the director's intent, whether he was indulging in exotic cultural packaging like an Ang Lee or Zhang Yimou. But for the most part this was surface-scratching; in the end, the film answers only to itself, and it will take at least another screening for me to unpack all that's going on. I know this film set Rigor off on a personal journey of cultural discovery, and I thank him for recommending it to me. In turn I highly recommend it to anyone who is willing to be tested by this dense but alluring masterpiece, which really feels like it comes from another world.

The Mad Songs of Fernanda Hussein (2001, Peter Gianvito)

The most important new film I've seen so far this year, this blistering examination of American life during and after the Persian Gulf War is one of the most vital experiences I've had with American independent cinema. The story follows the downward trajectory of three New Mexico residents: a woman whose children are the victims of a vicious hate crime because their last name is the same as that of Saddam Hussein; a high school student whose increasing interest in peace activism leads him to run away from his sheltered home; and a returning soldier who indulges in an empty existence while trying to shake off the horrors he's witnessed. The film is not perfect, with some badly acted scenes, and the politics are unquestionably partisan, though nothing less than compellingly heartfelt. Made over 6 years and 13 credit cards, this film taps into a raw live-wire energy that means everything to today's sorry state of independent filmmaking. Both the characters and the film brandish a fierce, wounded innocence that gives way to inconsolable rage at their own ineffectuality under the shadow of war, modulated by some vivid musical and visual digressions, and culminating in a finale of apocalyptic spectacle of fascination and horror. Not everyone will like this, but everyone should see this.

The Family Man (2001, Brett Ratner)

An updated IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE for the yuppie generation, with Nick Cage actually imitating Jimmy Stewart at times in his mannerisms. He plays a Wall St. high-flyer who is magically transported to the life he could have had if he had stuck with his college sweetheart and moved to Jersey. Stereotypes fly hard and fast in contrasting his wine-sniffing Manhattan lifestyle with his alternate suburban existence measured by tires sold and bowling pins struck. With occasional moments of charm, it's not as bad as it could have been, though the have-your-cake-and-eat-it conclusion undermines any integrity or insight the film had claimed.

Playtime (1967, Jacques Tati)

I had a most baffling response to this film. On the one hand, it's the summation of so many things I have dreamed cinema of being: the sheer joy of watching people busily being themselves, and a narrative that follows these people with nothing more or less than an active interest in them, disregarding conventions of storyline and plot points (and yet a discernible arc does emerge, miraculously it seems). A camera that captures each scene from multiple angles, expanding one's sense of space to unprecedented dimensions. This is a marvelous technical achievement that informs the work of at least two of my favorite contemporary filmmakers, Tsai Ming-liang and Abbas Kiarostami. And yet, it may be Tsai and Kiarostami that have spoiled Tati for me; while the former artists feature characters whose mannerisms are low-key in their naturalism, Tati's seem to ham it up plenty, each gesticulation drawing attention to its own cuteness. Of course, the idea of life as a performance is key to Tati's work, and so the stylization of behavior is a conceit one may very well have to accept, but it still bugged me. It also didn't help that in saving myself for a theatrical screening of this film (I've heard that a video screening doesn't do justice to the density of the compositions), I still got stuck watching a cut-up 35mm print that seemed largely out of focus. (something like watching ATTACK OF THE CLONES off film projection.) I hope the restored 70mm version that played in Cannes this spring will make it's way to a BIG movie house near me.

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