I would love to see “Life in Loops,” but I find “Trains of Thought” kinda relentless, kinda slick, with a too-propulsive score by Sofa Surfers, an Austrian band that’s new to me but not, it seems, to a lot of fans in the audience. Although Novotny says afterwards that he wanted to emphasize the differences among the subway systems he chose to explore, I think he’s shot them in too uniform a style. And I would have liked more of an emphasis on the history of the various subways than the impressions of its riders.
But the more that I think about it, the more I realize that, as critics often do, I’m complaining because Novotny made HIS subway film rather than the one that I would have. I would actually happily see it again. I would actually happily see “Trains of Thought 2” (a suggestion I shout out during the Q and A afterwards, when people ask why Novotny didn’t include this or that subway system).
In theory, I have time to squeeze in another screening (or, hey, a real meal or a shower or a nap) before I see Leos Carax’s “Holy Motors” at 10:30 p.m. in the main Festival theater. But I am so psyched to see Carax’s first feature film since 1999 that I choose to get into the rush line almost immediately after seeing “Trains of Thought.” I’m so eager to see it on the big, big screen in the Grand Hall that I have even already attempted to buy a hard ticket, to ensure my entrance, but it’s sold out.
Its second screening, scheduled three days from now, is going to be in the aptly-named Small Hall, which seats 241, as opposed to the 1145 – and more, if you count the standees and stair sittees – that would be breathing alongside me in the big room. I am definitely a size queen when it comes to screen (and audience) size: I have long lamented the state of art house exhibition in the Bay Area.
I am quite overwhelmed by “Holy Motors,” a mad but gorgeous fairy tale in which Carax’s film double, the astonishing and repellent Denis Lavant, changes character (literally, in the back of a limousine driven by the iconic Edith Scob, and figuratively) in a number of amazingly imagined vignettes. The Festival program blurb rather artlessly states (right there in black and white!) that “according to many [“Holy Motors”] should have won the Palme d’Or this year at Cannes…” Having not seen most of its competition (but having been underwhelmed by Haneke’s Palme d’Or-winning “L’amour,” a couple of nights ago), I can’t agree for sure, but it’s certainly the most visually stunning and formally inventive film I’ve seen in a long time. I kind of love it, even though I think Carax has a nasty imagination and a cruel streak. (I can’t stand the way he has chosen to depict Paris, in a deliberately ugly, deformed, although admittedly non-cliched way.)
Afterwards I run into Mimi Brody (no relation, although we like to pretend we are sisters, or maybe I like to pretend we are sisters), who left the UCLA Film Archive for Chicago to program the Block Museum film program at Northwestern University. Apparently our friend Gabe Klinger has assembled a motley crew to celebrate his last night in Karlovy Vary. Director/critic Dan Sallitt, Mimi, Gabe, me, and four or five others (several of whom I recognize from the Toronto International Film Festival) stand around aimlessly in the carnival atmosphere outside the Thermal hotel, trying to figure out where to drink or eat or eat and drink.
Splinter groups break off and eventually most of us meander along the river towards Aeroport, one of those enormous noisy nightclubs that I might have been tempted to enter in my youth. Tonight I hang out outside, chatting with the impossibly charming Karel Och, artistic director of Karlovy Vary, whose second festival this is. As only the best festival directors can, he appears to be everywhere during the Festival: introducing films, hosting dinners, standing outside this vibrating club in the wee hours, available to all.
He’s made of stronger stuff than I am. I turn towards my hotel and, hopefully, sleep (although the raucous sounds of celebrating from the Festival’s open-air Jameson Festival Lounge, conveniently located just up the hill, will continue until 6 a.m. Like some alky bars in NY and SF, the Festival Lounge closes for THREE WHOLE HOURS between 6 a.m. and 9 a.m. Its Facebook page [!] claims that it closes at 4 a.m., but I am proof to the contrary. Although I am intrigued by its signature Jameson ginger cocktail, I will not, in fact, enter it once during its Festival lifespan.)
As I said above: this is the most festive Festival I’ve ever been to. I admire Gabe for being able to leave without a backward glance – although, of course, to borrow a line from Brecht/Weill, he’s only en route to the next whisky bar, i.e. another intriguing film festival in another seductive town. (I have known Festival gypsies that skip from one to another, some for work, some for play. It can become an addiction.) But I seek REM sleep.
Tomorrow, after all, I’m starting with a Polish drama at 10 a.m., with four or five other movies to follow. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.