Author: Kristofer Jenson

Contributing writer to C-Ville Weekly. Associate Film Editor of DigBoston. Host of Spoilerpiece Theatre.

Categories
Arts Culture

Free form: Zappa embraces the brilliance and complexity of a non-conformist

The long overdue documentary Zappa details the life of musician Frank Zappa, known for his innovation, virtuosity, and political advocacy. Magnolia pictures

A documentary about the life and work of Frank Zappa is so obvious that it seems like there should already have been four or five of them. Watching Alex Winter’s Zappa, it becomes clear why no one attempted it before, and why Winter is the right filmmaker for the job. How can any one film capture the spirit of a perfectionist who delighted in deconstruction? Zappa was a prolific, genre-hopping creative force with a staggeringly large catalog who was indifferent to recognition. Where do you begin with a life so varied that even his most conventional output defies categorization?

He sounds like an enigma, but he didn’t live like one. Mining the Zappa family vaults, Winter tells Zappa’s story largely in his own words, using archival footage and interviews, most of which had never been seen or heard since they were recorded. Part of Zappa’s genius was the ability to see the way our society places value on the valueless while rejecting anything of substance, and makes idols of one-trick ponies. He lived and reveled among rock stars but was not one of them, detesting drugs, and involving himself as much in the business side of his enterprise as the creative. Their goal was sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. His was to make music.

Many of the stories in Zappa will be familiar to viewers who have read The Real Frank Zappa Book, his almost-memoir, from his small-town upbringing, finding beauty in things rejected by white suburbia (especially R&B and avant-garde noise music), his arrest for “conspiracy to commit pornography” (yes, really), all the way through his many musical projects and showdown with the Parents Music Resource Center. Winter’s Zappa could be viewed as a companion piece to that book, telling the rest of his story from after the book was published in 1989 to his death from prostate cancer in 1993. Zappa’s goal in life, as he explains several times in the film, was to make music so that he could take it home and listen to it, and if anyone else wanted to listen too, he would make it available to them. Much of his worldview appears to have been shaped by obstacles put in his way, from censorship to businessmen to hollow rock stardom.

Nobody explains Zappa better than Zappa himself, and while The Real Frank Zappa Book lays out his point of view, Zappa explores his wider impact. Interviews conducted with musicians who worked with him, all the way from the earliest incarnation of the Mothers of Invention to his on-and-off-again collaborators throughout the 1980s, reveal a side of the man not often discussed. He was certainly a perfectionist, and the accurate rendering of what he’d written was a high priority for musicians. Though most of his performers were hired hands, the amount of returning collaborators throughout his work speaks to his relationships with creative people. He wasn’t outwardly compassionate during rehearsal, but the ingenuity of his work and the precision it required was magnetic for those who wanted to devote themselves to it. Comments made by percussionist Ruth Underwood are especially moving; his music broke her out of Juilliard, where she was learning what music should be, while joining the Mothers showed her what it could be, freeing her from playing the triangle in huge orchestras. Near the end of the film, she plays one of the most notoriously difficult Zappa pieces, “The Black Page,” revealing the human dimension of one of his most monstrously technical works.

There would be no Frank Zappa as we know him without his wife Gail, who operated the many dimensions of the family business. Some of the most revealing interviews of the film were conducted with Gail prior to her death in 2015, most notably how she categorizes him. “I married a composer,” she says with a half-proud, half-exhausted grin. “Composer” is telling. Not “musician,” not “perfectionist.” The context in which she used it referred specifically to the less romantic side of being a creative professional and the distance it created. (Both she and Frank are stunningly blunt about his infidelity, neither laughing it off nor dwelling on it.) A rock star’s life is full of passion, explosions of emotion, good and bad, burning out and leaving a compelling (but false) legacy. A composer’s life, meanwhile, is obsessive and never finished. In popular imagination, composers belong to another era and continent, they don’t grow up in 1950s California. Yet that is Frank Zappa, treating even his most rock-infused work with a composer’s sensibility.

The Onion once published a devastating article titled “Frank Zappa Fan Thinks You Just Haven’t Heard The Right Album.” It was painful because it was true. Before this film, there was no entry point. You knew right away whether you were an instant fan, begrudgingly appreciative, or wholly repulsed. Zappa fills an enormous need by effectively condensing the life of a prolific and verbose man without sacrificing an ounce of his complexity.

Categories
Arts Culture

Sugar coated: Cambodian refugees chase the American dream in The Donut King

Streaming (Violet Crown Cinema)

Every chapter of American history, every aspect of American culture, and every American industry has been shaped by immigration. This is more than a political talking point. It’s a concrete reality, and nowhere is it clearer than in the story of the Cambodian influence in the donut industry. Alice Gu’s new documentary The Donut King chronicles the rise of unlikely mogul Ted Ngoy, and his lasting effect on the community he built and the confections we consume.

Ngoy came to the United States in 1975 with his wife and children, as refugees from the Cambodian civil war. He wandered over to a donut shop while on break from his job pumping gas, and fell in love. He immediately began training at the nearby chain, putting in long hours and eventually opening his own shop. Taking little money for himself and employing his family, he kept costs low and profits high, allowing him to open other stores. As the Cambodian civil war gave way to genocide by the Khmer Rouge, Ngoy used his success to allow more refugees to land on their feet in an unfamiliar country, leasing new shops to them and using his business as a template. Before long, the Cambodian presence in the California donut industry was so powerful that even Dunkin’ Donuts saw no inroads in the 1980s.

The Donut King is Gu’s first feature as a director, and she is keenly aware of the challenges of telling a story with such fluctuations in tone. This is a tale worth telling, but it’s not easy to balance images of a cute family-owned donut shop beloved by a community with one of the most horrendous events of the 20th century.

Gu is aided by her experience as a camera operator and cinematographer, capturing her subjects in their respective elements without judgment or affectation. She takes a light approach to the topic of donuts, employing colorful imagery and silly songs. But when it comes to the immigrant experience, business ownership, war refugees, or familial bonds, the subjects tell their own stories.

Gu’s light touch gives her interviews a human touch that escapes many documentaries, but it also makes one aspect of the story a little uneven. Without revealing too much, it’s helpful to think of achieving the American dream as the first chapter in a story, rather than the story itself. It’s a long fall if you leave yourself unprotected and don’t watch your step, and those who climb the highest and fastest can be victims of their own success. One of the most important events in the Ngoy family history is explored in less depth, raising questions in the audience’s mind when the documentary ends. We can wonder why Gu left it this way: sensitivity for the family’s privacy, fear of giving the film too many story arcs with not enough focus, or preferring to emphasize the role of community over the achievements of an individual.

Aside from the fascinating details of the story, The Donut King is always aware of the wider historical, political, and philosophical implications of its tale. Watching shots of Gerald Ford emphasizing the importance of immigrants in America, we’re reminded that political decisions made decades ago affect our reality today in tangible ways. Gu never specifically mentions immigration bans or modern day xenophobia, but it is a small leap for us to consider how those events are analogous to today.

There is an eternal question at the heart of The Donut King, which is not for Ngoy, Gu, or anyone involved in the narrative to answer. It’s up to us as a society. Who owns the achievements of an individual? Who then suffers for his failings? Is it that person alone, or representative of the community at large? Ngoy cleared the path for others to succeed, but without their hard work, he would not have profited as he did, and the innovations of his successors are far removed from his initial business model. Similarly, can America as a country claim credit for the accomplishments of the Cambodian community when immigrants today are so often met with xenophobia and skepticism? How can we accept one and vilify the other?

The Donut King tells the story of Ted Ngoy and his extended family, but it is primarily about ripple effects and the interconnectedness of our planet. The grandchildren of war refugees are defining what it means to be American decades later, using a food they did not invent but would not have been the same without them. As one interview subject observes: How many times do most Americans actually eat apple pie in a year versus donuts? The events of a half century ago directly impact the modern day. We should have the same consideration for future generations in our actions today.

Categories
Arts Culture

Films to rally around at the 2020 VAFF

Many of us have found safe, socially distant ways to do the things we considered normal before the pandemic, such as drive-by birthday parties or outdoor, masked haircuts. When and how we might go to the movies like we once did is a tougher issue to resolve, because there’s no getting around the problem of a group of strangers sharing circulated air in a closed room for two hours.

Until we can breathe easy again, audiences have rallied around the previously undervalued drive-in experience, and virtual cinemas have allowed independent theaters and filmmakers to connect in innovative ways. You may have to experience the Virginia Film Festival in isolation this year, but rest assured, you are not alone.

One Night in Miami & Shiva Baby

As of the moment this preview was written, two drive-in highlights have already sold out: One Night in Miami on opening night, and Shiva Baby on closing night. The films are very different in tone and content, yet both are deeply personal to their respective filmmakers—industry veteran Regina King in her directorial debut, and newcomer Emma Seligman—and are essential examples of why the festival experience, however diminished at the moment, is worth saving. (One Night in Miami, October 21, at 7:30pm at Morven Farm, and 8pm at Dairy Market; Shiva Baby, October 25, at 8pm at Dairy Market)

Jumbo

Here’s a useful festival tip: Whenever you see anything labeled a “hidden gem,” give it a chance, no matter how odd it may seem. These movies rely on your word of mouth, and you may find a new favorite in an unlikely package. This is certainly true of Jumbo, from French writer-director Zoé Wittock in her feature debut. The most shocking thing about Wittock’s film isn’t its premise, about a woman (Noémie Merlant, Portrait of a Lady on Fire) who falls madly in love with a carnival ride. It’s that she makes you believe it. With each new romantic escalation, Jumbo challenges you to remember when you were judged for feelings you couldn’t explain, or loved someone you shouldn’t. Wittock directs the story like this the only way one could, with total earnestness and respect for the character’s point of view. The ride, communicating only through spinning, flashing lights, and—ahem—leaking, is as expressive as any human actor. Jumbo will make you stand up and cheer as you rethink your definition of “wholesome.” (October 21, streaming)

Feels Good Man

Moving to documentaries, Feels Good Man is the single most clarifying political film I’ve seen in years. Director Arthur Jones explores the long journey of Pepe the Frog, the ubiquitous meme that once captured the anarchic spirit of the internet before becoming a mascot for its darkest underbelly. We follow Pepe creator Matt Furie, a positive-minded artist, as he attempts to understand how his easygoing character, originally part of the harmless Boy’s Club comic series, was absorbed and reappropriated without his knowledge or permission. Feels Good Man is the first documentary I’ve seen that understands how to navigate the hive mind of the internet, and how to comprehend the alt-right’s irony-drenched iconography. It is an essential film for understanding the current moment, how this toxic movement formed the way it did, and why it congealed around an innocent figure like Pepe. (October 21, streaming)

Coded Bias

Where Feels Good Man focuses on the lawlessness of digital culture, Coded Bias looks at how the norms of technology are written, by whom, and who gets left behind. For example, MIT researcher Joy Buolamwini discovers that her facial recognition software only acknowledges her when she wears a totally white mask. As the documentary shows, that’s far more than a glitch. Algorithms are not objective, they are as we create them, and those creators come from a very slim, very white, extremely wealthy, and overwhelmingly male segment of the population. Not only is the technology’s failure to recognize people of color an insult, it is omnipresent in our smartphones, our surveillance cameras, and our law enforcement, with virtually no oversight or accountability. Is technology improving our lives and lifting all boats, or is it another means of enforcing the same social order? Director Shalini Kantayya’s documentary comes to VFF after a huge impact at Sundance, where some called it the most important documentary of the year. (October 21, streaming)

Boys State

The third documentary recommendation is Boys State. I cannot decide whether this film is exciting, charming, or harrowing, but I am certain that it is vital. We are a nation in desperate search of a metaphor for our current situation, and I can think of no better microcosm of our fractured state than a gathering of 1,000 young men who all want different things, attempting to build a model of representative democracy from the ground up at a Texas summer program. Some are participating to rule according to their own values, some are treating it like a game, and some want to ensure that all voices are heard in a room of 1,000 primarily white and conservative boys. The very purpose of power and democracy come into question, as many of the participants have already cemented their views along the current divides that dominate national politics. Are we giving the next generation a chance to build a better world, or are we training them to continue fighting our proxy wars? (October 24, streaming)

Categories
Arts Culture

Worth the struggle: The Glorias takes a long look at Steinem’s stalwart activism

The Glorias tells the life story of activist, journalist, and Ms. magazine co-founder Gloria Steinem through four periods of her life, during which she is portrayed by Julianne Moore (above), Ryan Kira Armstrong, Lulu Wilson, and Alicia Vikander. Image: Roadside Attractions

Like the movement it depicts, The Glorias cares so deeply for its subject that it persists through all obstacles and missteps, because where it’s going is worth the struggle. It’s overlong but it’s passionate. It’s uneven but it’s determined. It ultimately ties itself too neatly to a specific moment in recent history, but it’s a moment worth remembering. And like its protagonist, The Glorias is less interested in being admired than it is in being right.

The Glorias, directed by Julie Taymor from a script by Taymor and Sarah Ruhl, tells the story of activist, journalist, and Ms. magazine co-founder Gloria Steinem. The film credits Steinem’s memoir My Life on the Road, and is structured as a dialogue between Steinem at four periods of her life: childhood (Ryan Kira Armstrong), adolescence (Lulu Wilson), young adulthood (Alicia Vikander), and today (Julianne Moore). It is very much a collaboration between the three, with Taymor’s heightened yet emotionally rooted reality, Ruhl’s skillful weaving of how one’s immediate actions impact the bigger picture, and Steinem’s fundamental belief in listening to the unheard.

Steinem’s story is inseparable from the story of the political movements most closely associated with her. It’s in many of these sequences that the The Glorias truly shines, whether as fantastical vignettes or stirring historical procedurals. One of the greatest moments comes when a talk show host piggishly calls her a “sex object” on live television, and the film becomes a fever dream of sometimes humorous, always confrontational imagery before Steinem decides not to tear him a new one. On a realistic side, the events leading up to the failure of the Equal Rights Amendment are exhilarating. Most films tell the collapse of hopeful momentum as a tragedy, but that’s not how it feels to be in that room, believing that history was being written in real time.

Between moments like these, there is an uneasy relationship between layered political biography and hagiography. The first 30 minutes of the film—it must be said, even by someone who enjoyed it quite a bit—felt interminable, a mishmash of too-familiar biographic tropes and thin characterizations. For too long, The Glorias seems like it might veer into the slick yet hollow mold of musical biographies propelled only by good performances (Ray, Bohemian Rhapsody). We spend a great deal of time with young Gloria and her parents (Timothy Hutton, Enid Graham), and it’s not clear until nearly an hour later why. Younger viewers, who may know Steinem’s name but not her achievements, will start to wonder who this person is and why we need to know all of this. Older viewers who know Steinem better will worry that such an iconic individual who led an exciting and varied life is getting such a conventional movie.

Though The Glorias occasionally relies on familiar biopic moments with pat conclusions, once the concept of the bus containing the four Steinems congeals, so does the rest of film. We know her as one thing, but her life has been one of constant movement and reflection. She is fiercely intelligent, but the film credits her wisdom to her willingness to listen to those who have suffered—and unwillingness to grant injustice any leeway. She will put herself on the frontlines to draw attention to the issues, but places the interests of the movement before herself. One could argue that she is fulfilling the destiny of her mother, a talented journalist who never got the credit she deserved, with the tenacity of her wheeling-and-dealing father who never stayed in one place very long—but the film doesn’t reduce her to such a two-dimensional figure. Even when it is formulaic in structure, the biopic is in service to condensing complicated issues and making them accessible, a cause that the famously straightforward Steinem herself advocates.

There is a lot to love in The Glorias: terrific performances, much of the visuals, and the filmmakers’ understanding that no part of Steinem’s life is apolitical. There is no facade to deconstruct, no underlying reason for her beliefs to unpack. We are challenged to accept that she is who she is, not because of any outside force that molded her. Though sometimes similar in form to other biopics, The Glorias stands apart for respecting the independence of Steinem’s character.

Many influential figures like Dorothy Pitman Hughes (Janelle Monáe), Bella Abzug (Bette Midler), and Dolores Huerta (Monica Sanchez) make appearances, which is a great addition for those who may be less familiar with their legacies. The famous image of Steinem and Hughes with fists raised has been reproduced by Vikander and Monáe for the promotional art, though when these characters’ narrative role is finished, we do not see them again. There may be no better way to involve these individuals from marginalized groups, particularly in a film based on an individual’s memoir, but their political contributions are respected on their own terms, not just how they affected the white protagonist. Steinem’s politics are intersectional, and so are the film’s.

The Glorias / R, 139 minutes

Streaming (Amazon Prime)

Categories
Arts Culture

Fresh take: Get Duked! confirms the genius of director Ninian Doff

About halfway through Get Duked!, there comes a moment when you realize this silly little comedy about a group of city-dwelling teenagers in the Scottish Highlands became a bold experiment in instinctive filmmaking. Right when it seems like things are about to fly off the rails, it’s clear that it was slowly evolving into a lawless social satire the whole time. The film hasn’t betrayed our trust by breaking its own rules, as many madcap comedies often do. It rewards our investment by proving it never needed rules in the first place.

This is British music video director Ninian Doff’s feature debut, produced from his own screenplay. Doff has a lot to say in Get Duked!, managing to fit more into 87 minutes than many filmmakers do in movies twice as long. It’s so dense that Doff needed at least four endings, Lord of the Rings style—narrative, political, emotional, and tonal—and each one of them is earned. With a film that covers so much terrain, it’s hard to imagine how he could possibly follow it up, but Get Duked! leaves little doubt that this is an artist with no shortage of fresh ideas.

The story concerns a series of disasters that befall participants in the Duke of Edinburgh Award, a fictionalized version of a real program. Three delinquents—Dean (Rian Gordon), Duncan (Lewis Gribben), and DJ Beatroot (Viraj Juneja)—are sent to the Scottish Highlands on a hiking trip as penance for blowing up a public restroom. They’re joined by Ian (Samuel Bottomley), a naive, homeschooled boy who volunteers for the program to make new friends. As they make their way to camp, they’re pursued by a possible serial killer disguised as the Duke of Edinburgh (Eddie Izzard). The local police, already ill-equipped to deal with the case of a bread thief, misconstrue events until their suspect description is little more than a string of scary adjectives, all while never actually accomplishing anything.

Get Duked! made the rounds at last year’s festival under the name Boyz in the Wood. The new, less jokey title is better suited to the final film, but the original captures its spirit and its place in the history of British satire, with the likes of the sitcom “Spaced”—created by and starring Simon Pegg and Jessica Stevenson, directed by Edgar Wright, and co-starring Nick Frost—about 20-something Londoners mired in American pop culture, and the juxtaposition of their mundane lives with their Hollywood obsessions. (It propelled the team to films like Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, which are built on similar sensibilities.)

Setting Get Duked! in the Scottish Highlands taps into some of the same absurdity that makes “Spaced” so much fun. Nothing is supposed to happen here, yet it becomes the scene for drug-fueled underground raves with Scottish farmers, bored officers too eager to assume the role of supercops, bored hunters who pretend to be murderous aristocrats to act out a generational grudge, and commentary on how trying to help “troubled” youth has no basis in what they actually need. Along the way, the filmmaking joyously borrows from a number of genres, including action, horror, musical, even zombie. Changing the name to Get Duked! was a good decision, but Boyz in the Wood says a lot about its intentions.

Many films like this fail in treating the depth of their characters as secondary to the loudness of their antics, and it’s in getting this right that Doff truly sets himself apart as a writer-director. He knows that we’re used to thinly sketched characters being reaction machines, screaming at scary things, laughing at funny things, while the selfish one says selfish stuff, the stupid one says stupid stuff, etc. In Get Duked!, not only do all four boys see real growth throughout the film, but even the most insane action is convincing. Doff is fully invested in the characters as people, and for a minute you may find yourself genuinely anxious about their fate. They are not simply the vehicle by which an opinionated artist conveys a snarky opinion, or a skilled technician shows off. These characters are strong enough to carry a film twice as long.

Get Duked! is a wickedly clever commentary on class and the state of Britain in a deceptively funny package, anchored by stylistic boldness and propelled by memorable performances and shockingly blunt anti-aristocratic commentary for a country that still has a monarch. Some have found Doff’s lengthy flights of fancy to be frustrating. I find them invigorating, like he knew he was breaking the rules, but believed in the material too much to care.

Categories
Arts

Returning to class: I Used To Go Here is full of smarts and self-reflection

I Used to Go Here features Gillian Jacobs as an author who returns to her alma mater and gets caught up in college life. yale productions

Kris Rey’s I Used To Go Here examines the many trials and tribulations familiar to any creative person who goes professional, but the film itself is about more than artistic drive or finding inspiration. Our lead character, Kate Conklin (Gillian Jacobs), has pursued a very specific template of success all her life. When she finally achieves it, it brings her neither happiness nor reward. An opportunity to relive past adventures is fun but empty, revealing truths that should have been self-evident much earlier. Her journey is at times embarrassing, but never shaming. She must learn to live with the consequences of her actions, but is not defined only by her mistakes. Recognition of these patterns does not free her from their influence, and though her fate is even more uncertain than before, she no longer requires the validation she previously sought. If you’ve ever realized that something that brought you comfort was holding you back, you will certainly identify with I Used To Go Here.

Kate was once the star of her university’s English department. She created a legacy by establishing an off-campus residence as a writers’ retreat, a character it retained well after she left, even containing some of her original interior decoration. Under the tutelage of professor David Kirkpatrick (Jemaine Clement), she was destined for great things as a creative writer in the real world. Fifteen years later, her first published novel is a commercial and critical flop, and her promotional book tour is canceled. Her friends are all pregnant, while her wedding has just been called off. When David invites her to read at her alma mater and offers a teaching job, Kate has her chance to revisit the place that shaped her, while examining if that shape is worth passing along to others.

With no job, no relationship, and a canceled book tour, Kate’s calendar is wide open, and she becomes involved in the lives of David’s current students and the occupants of her old residence. She parties with Animal (Forrest Goodluck) and Tall Brandon (Brandon Daley), flirts with Hugo (Josh Wiggins), and sits in on David’s classes. (That she has lost the key to her bed and breakfast makes it simpler to spend all her time with them.) It would be easy to make Kate a fish out of water as she reaches mutual respect with initially dismissive hipsters, but Rey is not interested in obvious gimmicks or staid twists. Some aspects of the story are familiar, but the film dissects the ways we live as a projection of who we think we’re supposed to be.

Rey and those she collaborated with early in her career have evolved beyond the mumblecore label, but they all share the same seed of unflinching emotional honesty in their work as they grow older, even in a film like I Used To Go Here. It’s a lighthearted comedy-drama, but contains a great deal of wisdom and insight from someone with a decade and a half of terrific work. Even the most successful artist will want to evolve, and many of the obstacles blocking that evolution are self-imposed. In one scene, Kate is swimming with her new friends, at ease in what was once her element. In the next, a meeting with a student named April (Hannah Marks) turns adversarial. Kate’s tone with the up-and-comer, like she once was, comes from a position of authority, not advice. Whether out of personal resentment or creative jealousy, Kate is unable to support April, and it is the first indication that her mentor David’s influence might have been an impediment. Every artistic person knows this feeling, when another person’s opinion finds its way into your creation, and it is devastating to view from the outside.

What’s most memorable about I Used To Go Here is the way it packs these themes into such a short and sweet story, and that even the most absurd shenanigans are always motivated either thematically or narratively. Kate’s new friends are a bit naive but they’re not stupid; they’re sexually charged, but they’re not maniacs. The only cartoon characters are Jorma Taccone and Kate Micucci as a wildly inappropriate couple attempting to make small talk, a glimpse of what might have happened to Kate if she’d never left her college town. Even when the gang plans an improbable heist, it feels natural.

The biggest surprise might be seeing Lonely Island in the credits for what isn’t an anarchic, raucous laughfest, though the Lonely Island Classics production credit is a stroke of genius. While most of the film world’s focus is on what might happen with the big studio tent poles and theater chains, lockdown is a great opportunity to level the cinematic playing field. Kris Rey’s I Used To Go Here is a reminder that films can be deeply personal without being autobiographical; funny without setting a joke-per-page quota; and ambitious with a tiny budget.

I Used to Go Here / R, 86 minutes

Streaming (Amazon Prime)

Categories
Arts Culture

Honest to God: Karen Maine delivers a sharp coming-of-age comedy

Natalia Dyer is getting lots of kudos for her portrayal of Alice, a teen who defies Catholic guilt in Yes, God, Yes, a comedy about sexual awakening. Image: Maiden Voyage

For those of us who were teenagers in the 1990s and early 2000s, the “walled garden” of America Online was how many of us connected with the world on a then-unprecedented scale. One could surf the World Wide Web using an early browser like Netscape, but the security of a closed platform made this enormous new concept of the internet seem a little more orderly, manageable, and custom-made for the individual. It was also an introduction to how quickly digital anonymity can spiral out of control, where entering an innocuous chatroom can quickly turn into a solicitation for cybersex.

This is the inciting event in Yes, God, Yes, a coming-of-age dramatic comedy from writer-director Karen Maine. The story follows Catholic high school student Alice (Natalia Dyer) on her journey to self-discovery. During an eye-opening exchange on AOL, Alice discovers masturbation (thus the cheeky title) with no prior knowledge of what to do or how. At school, she’s taught that sex is only between a married man and woman for the purposes of procreation, and that anything outside of that is against God’s will, including solo sex. Meanwhile, religious schools are just as susceptible to cliques and popularity contests, and a weekend retreat called Kirkos is all the rage. Alice, wanting to fit in (and get close to the boy she actually likes), decides to join.

The retreat itself projects positivity, but in practice it’s little more than a vehicle for soft yet unrelenting peer pressure to confess feelings that aren’t sins, and to redirect young people’s adolescent confusion and need for role models into enthusiasm for the church. Everything seems clean and holy on the surface, but behind the scenes, raging hormones will not be denied, and the adult supervision is less chaste than it appears.

It would have been easy for Maine to sensationalize the antics on the retreat, and lesser films might focus on pent-up shenanigans or naively insist that sexual release is all these characters need. Yes, God, Yes is smarter, sharper, and funnier because it avoids those traps, remaining focused on what it wants to say, and avoiding clichés that would muddle the message. Alice is not any more enlightened or base than those around her. She’s no more honest or dishonest, no more empathetic or selfish. The only difference is that she carries no shame for her newfound feelings. She is every bit as capable of bad decisions, fudging the truth, and concealing her true intentions as those around her, but she cannot reconcile the positivity of what she experienced with the guilt she is supposed to feel. She forgoes the self-deception of trying to live both ways, and forgives herself when she realizes nobody actually lives up to their outward personality. Dyer’s performance excellently captures the difficult emotional space of knowing that there should be conflict but feeling that there doesn’t have to be.

Maine co-wrote Obvious Child, a film in which the character’s journey never once involves an apology for her decision to have an abortion, and the humor comes from a similar place of honesty. Yes, God, Yes is a comedy about a sexual awakening, but it is not a “sex comedy.” It’s about the unnaturalness of denying the totality of who you are. The most dishonest thing people can do is claim they are not hiding something, whether it’s the priest viewing pornography when he thinks no one is looking, or student leaders on the retreat sneaking into the woods to fool around. Neither of these activities on their own are moral or immoral, but the more they are denied, the more their public-facing persona becomes a deception, and their private life becomes an obsession.

On the first day of the retreat, the students are given a list of words and told to circle the ones they’ve felt. Alice circles “turned-on” (then tries to erase it in horror), and is later confronted about it, despite being told there were “no wrong answers.” Many students likely considered circling that word but didn’t to maintain their facade. Alice’s life is made more difficult because she was honest. This is an unfair trap: Reward self-denial, and punish self-acceptance.

While avoiding spoilers as much as possible, the film ends with a meditation on the true meaning of confession, forgiveness, and honesty. We are used to a film climaxing with a grand statement of sincerity, the misunderstood hero piercing the fog of cynicism to show everyone a better way. When Alice’s moment comes, she doesn’t spill everyone’s secrets to combat rumors that others have spread about her, because that would just create another quagmire, and no one would believe her anyway. Nor does she apologize for things she has done, because that would only give ammunition to those intent on using her to spread lies. Instead, she uses the moment to tell the truth, not facts: The most honest thing we can do is stop pretending that we don’t have anything to hide.

Yes, God, Yes

R, 78 minutes

Streaming (Amazon Prime)

 

Categories
Arts Culture

Screens: First Cow is a deftly crafted story of virtue and friendship

A Chinese immigrant running from the law and a loner with cooking skills form a unique connection as they navigate early 19th-century life in the Pacific Northwest. A24

As our country struggles with its foundational mythology, we are faced with the question of how the story would be framed if it were written by those whose names are lost to history yet participated in its creation. Though First Cow is not made with a didactic tone, it asks us to consider vital questions as we reconcile with our national identity. How many dreams have gone unrealized due to a lack of capital or luck? How many successful people built empires on awful crimes that went undiscovered or unpunished? How many paid the ultimate price for small infractions? There is no healing in First Cow, it is a plea for us to reorient our empathy, and to meditate on historical wrongs that appear buried yet remain very much with us.

First Cow was co-written, directed, and edited by Kelly Reichardt with (her frequent writing partner) Jonathan Raymond, on whose novel it was based. The story follows “Cookie” Figowitz (John Magaro) and King Lu (Orion Lee) as two unlikely friends attempting to break free from their station in the Oregon Territory. It’s an inhospitable and lawless setting, where people take as much as they want from the land and seem to get ahead, so the pair steal milk from the cow of a wealthy landowner (Toby Jones), and with Cookie’s exceptional baking skills, they create a small sensation with baked goods.

People have used the term “slow cinema” to describe Reichardt’s film and that’s not a slight, it’s mostly due to her naturalistic pacing. Yet, every moment of First Cow is filled with emotions, often contrasting ones. As Cookie milks the cow, we know this could cost him and his friend their lives, yet Reichardt focuses on his bond with the cow. This transgression allows us to fill the moment with our feelings: We hope he will succeed, dreading that he won’t, all while he makes the cow feel like it’s the most important being on earth. He milks with love, he bakes with love, he shares his gift and dreams of a better future, and the film carries the same tone throughout. Meanwhile, we are the ones who see the proverbial time bomb. Reichardt trusts the audience’s intellect as much as King Lu trusts Cookie and as much as Cookie trusts the cow.

First Cow is also the story of friendship between Cookie and King Lu. They meet on the way to Oregon as Cookie travels with fur trappers and King Lu flees for his life after killing a man. Neither attempts to game the other, and acts of kindness with no expectation of reward are reciprocated. Cookie can’t seem to harm anything; he can’t bring himself to hunt, even recoiling when handed trapped squirrels to eat. King Lu’s circumstances have been different, but he does not define himself by past actions that were committed out of necessity. It’s a true partnership, with no leverage, no schemes, and no deception between two men who want the same thing.

The film has a brief prologue set in the present day, where a young woman (Alia Shawkat) and her dog discover two complete skeletons just below the surface, meaning the bodies were probably left in the open air, never fully buried. They appear intact and neatly placed, but there is no marker. Who are they, and why did they die? This question lingers throughout the film, as we wait for the story to reveal the series of events that lead to that discovery two centuries later.

The politics of First Cow are inherent in its filmmaking. The prologue brings our attention to forgotten history, and the narrative imagines unrealized greatness that was intentionally quashed, either because it overstepped artificial boundaries created by powerful men, or because the friends were not ruthless enough in pursuing it. Cookie and King Lu rely on nature, and want to help people they don’t know. Chief Factor (Jones) tries to own nature, measuring the worth of a beaver population against its fashion value in Paris and China. He owns the cow, but he does not respect the animal. Though he enjoys Cookie’s use of her milk (of which he is unaware), he has no idea how to use it. These are the two paths America could take, and instead of a foundation of helping people and relying on nature, we chose to depopulate wildlife for fashion and food, and flatten forests to farm too much livestock. Shawkat’s character may not realize it, but that is the history she’s discovered.

First Cow/ PG-13, 122 minutes/ Streaming (Amazon Prime)

Categories
Arts Culture

Missed opportunity: Jon Stewart makes a disappointing return to political satire

Despite an all-star cast that includes Chris Cooper and Steve Carell, Jon Stewart’s Irresistible doesn’t land the quick-witted political jabs he so deftly dished out on “The Daily Show.”

This review contains mild spoilers, so if you prefer to avoid them, let your main takeaway be that Irresistible is an unfunny comedy, an uneven production, and a toothless satire with a message about as clarifying in the current political climate as a Check Engine light in a demolition derby.

The second film from writer-director Jon Stewart, Irresistible follows Democratic strategist Gary Zimmer (Steve Carell), who’s attempting to reconnect his party with the voters it lost in 2016. Battered by that defeat, he finds hope in Deerlaken, Wisconsin, the source of a viral video showing Marine Colonel Jack Hastings (Chris Cooper) standing up for the immigrant population of his hometown. Seeing an opportunity, Zimmer flies to Wisconsin, and convinces Colonel Hastings, aided by his daughter Diana (Mackenzie Davis), to run as a Democrat against Republican Mayor Braun (Brent Sexton). That campaign catches the eye of Zimmer’s nemesis, Republican strategist Faith Brewster (Rose Byrne). Soon, the town becomes a battleground for the soul of America, gaining national attention, and outside money.

The premise isn’t terribly original, but there’s room enough for a savvy storyteller to fill it with good characters, witty repartee, and a few choice jabs at worthy targets. Though the entire cast is talented, there’s precisely one notable character—Byrne’s Brewster—and almost no jokes worth remembering. Much of this stems from the film never figuring out how it wants to treat the audience. Are we in on the joke? Are we supposed to find it mind blowing that our political system is corrupt? There’s a broad tone that never gels with the inside baseball shenanigans, and the amount of effort Stewart exerts to avoid pandering is itself patronizing.

Even when satire doesn’t land, there’s always the possibility that the narrative might make things worthwhile. Sadly, it doesn’t. Zimmer is wholly unsympathetic, and the film isn’t mean enough to make him an antihero. Natasha Lyonne and Topher Grace appear as analysts who do mostly the same thing, but have contempt for the other’s methods. This ought to be a terrific pairing, and the two have excellent chemistry, but the material gives them little to work with. The funniest moments in Irresistible barely rise to a chuckle, and when they’re over, it’s back to the pointless stuff. The bigger gags are often years too late to be of worth anything, like CNN’s grid of far too many pundits at once, or Fox juxtaposing the Hastings campaign with Al Qaeda training footage. Might as well throw a Bill-Clinton-likes-McDonald’s reference in there while we’re at it.

Stewart’s tenure on “The Daily Show” is one of the greatest combinations of the right host with the right platform at the right time. He helped cut through the noise of the Bush years, emboldening those who felt disconnected and hopeless, pinpointing exactly how our institutions were failing us and how our discourse became fractured. He did it by being funny, and by being right. Over time, though Stewart remained as funny and intelligent as ever, a negative trend found its way into more episodes. Too often, he favored individual targets over broad analysis. As the topics became murkier, like the financial crisis, the show became less bully pulpit and more soapbox, less call to action and more preaching to the choir.

The post-credits sequence of Irresistible indicates that this film might have sprung from the latter sensibility. Stewart interviews Trevor Potter, former chairman of the Federal Election Commission, and the two discuss a key plot point of the film. Potter explains a legal loophole, Stewart explains it back to him, and the two laugh at its absurdity. That’s it. No strategy, no next steps. People watching this movie will either already know what a PAC is or be lost about what they’re supposed to do about it. Folks who do engage in these practices won’t be shamed out of doing so. It is no revelation that there’s money in politics, political strategists lie, and partisanship blinds us to the bigger picture.

It’s certainly not Stewart’s fault that American discourse devolved the way it did, and he could not have anticipated releasing the film during a global pandemic and nationwide rebellion. But his decision to return to political satire with Irresistible is disappointing. He’s funnier than this, he’s smarter than this. He’s affected real change, especially with his fierce advocacy for 9/11 first responders. For many years, he was the face of bold political comedy. So why is this project such a dud?

Stewart’s previous film, Rosewater, had a sense of purpose that carried it through any problems it might have had. He felt an obligation to the film’s subject—journalist Maziar Bahari, who was arrested and tortured in Iran after appearing on “The Daily Show”—and to the viewers. It appealed to our empathy, raising real questions about unintended consequences of our actions, and keeping hope alive no matter what. It’s hard to imagine why he felt the need to reemerge five years later to tell us what we already know. It’s a bit like the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. You can see the talent and respect the intentions, but why so much pageantry to say so little?

Irresistible

R, 102 minutes/Streaming (Amazon Prime)

Categories
Arts Culture

Spike Lee goes deep into the emotion of conflict in Da 5 Bloods

Spike Lee’s Da 5 Bloods follows the reunion of Vietnam veterans trying to locate gold they buried in the jungle during the war. Netflix

To say that Spike Lee’s Da 5 Bloods is ripped from the headlines is to give those headlines too much credit. Filming wrapped last summer, but the movie is more rooted in this moment than the latest breaking stories. Even its flashbacks have more to say about the present than the 24-hour news networks.

Like in his previous two works, Chi-Raq and BlacKkKlansman, Lee tears apart any notion that fiction should be separate from the world around us. He’s as much a political tactician as he is a cinematic technician. Lee isn’t just asking important questions. He’s demanding immediate action.

Fifty years after serving together in Vietnam as part of the 1st Infantry Division (the Big Red One), four African American veterans reunite in Ho Chi Minh City to fulfill a promise to their fallen commander, “Stormin’” Norman (Chadwick Boseman). The survivors are Paul (Delroy Lindo), Otis (Clarke Peters), Eddie (Norm Lewis), and Melvin (Isiah Whitlock, Jr.).

The promise is more than just symbolic: While on duty, the Bloods, as they call themselves, buried gold deep in the jungle to be retrieved after the war. At the time, Norman framed it as part of the struggle for reparations and black liberation, but back home, the years have not been equally kind to the Bloods. The love was never lost, particularly for Norman, and the bonds of shared war experience cannot be erased, but circumstances beyond their control force them to decide if they’re in this for each other or for themselves.

Everything you’ve heard about Lindo’s bravura performance as Paul is true. For decades, Lindo has been a familiar face portraying memorable characters in excellent films, but we’ve never seen him like this. We meet Paul as the MAGA hat-wearing Trump supporter who is the least comfortable returning. He is the quickest to anger and paranoia, whether aimed at the Vietnamese people they encounter or his fellow Bloods. His rage is free-floating, looking for somewhere to attach itself. He is certain that he is not getting his fair share in life.

Lee has always been eager to have villains espouse the political beliefs of people he hates, as when David Duke (Topher Grace) all but quotes Trump directly in BlacKkKlansman, but Lee loves Paul and wants us to do the same. He believes that this man has been robbed of his chance at happiness. Though Lee does go for Trump, Paul is not a punching bag to attack his supporters. He can’t stand Paul’s candidate, but he feels Paul’s pain.

Lindo steals the show, but the entire ensemble is excellent. The flashbacks of the five Bloods before Norman’s death show all the actors at their current age; we’re not seeing what happened, but how the events live on in their minds. The lighting, emotional music, and narrowing aspect ratio in these scenes show how Norman is a legend in their minds—Boseman, who made his name depicting historical figures and superheroes, is a perfect choice.

Bolstering the emotional, sociological, and artistic achievements of Da 5 Bloods is the way it contextualizes things we may already know but fail to understand. This can be minor, such as using “We don’t need no stinking…” from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre as more than homage, signaling the true narrative and political sentiment of foreign invaders having the gall to demand identification from the local population. This can be major, as when we hear the conversations between Viet Cong soldiers before they’re ambushed. They’re humans with their own story, not just obstacles for the heroes. Context also factors into radio broadcasts from Hanoi Hannah, the famous radio propagandist, portrayed here by Veronica Ngo during the flashbacks. She is the enemy, but the things she says about the state of black Americans to demoralize U.S. troops are accurate. Her intentions are not honest, but if what she says is true, does that make her wrong?

Da 5 Bloods began as a script by Danny Bilson and Paul De Meo, the pair most famous for The Rocketeer, and was to be directed by Oliver Stone before Lee and co-writer Kevin Willmott took over. It was then that the perspective shifted to that of the black veterans. One can imagine the story as a straightforward adventure/thriller, with four men who never fully left the war behind them. That sounds like a fine film, but if it had been produced as written, we never would have had the immediacy of Da 5 Bloods. The film opens with archival footage of Muhammad Ali questioning why he should fight when the Vietnamese are not the ones subjecting him to racism. When a Blood, who fought for rights that he did not have at home, comes into conflict with a Vietnamese person who lost family in the war, there is no resolution. Both have a shared history of colonization, yet were pushed into conflict by forces that did not treat either as human beings. Everyone’s lives were deeply affected by the war, but no one’s was improved. The memories remain, sometimes as PTSD, sometimes as landmines. The war does not end when the last shot is fired. It remains with everyone it touched. Da 5 Bloods is not just a war film or a story about these particular men. This is America put under a microscope in the sun, and we need to understand what we’re looking at before it all catches fire.

Da 5 Bloods / R, 155 minutes/ Streaming (Netflix)