I can hear you, can you hear me?—R.E.M., Sitting Still
R.E.M. is the absolute seminal band for me; their albums are the soundtrack of my life. I was a thriteen year-old heavy metal-loving dork living in working class Michigan in 1984 when, on Easter vacation in Toronto, I stumbled upon Chronic Town in a cutout bin at Sam The Record Man on Yonge St. From the moment the needle hit the vinyl on my shitty, department store turntable, I was literally tranformed into another person. It is hard to remember the fabric of a pre-internet, pre-iPod, pre-video on demand world, but I clearly had a sentimental attachment to the sensation of having a secret, of loving something and finding almost no connection among members of my community, my friends, my peers; is that even possible anymore? I have a very young son, and I often wonder if he will ever feel what it is like to not know a single person who shares his passion for an artist, an idea, a song. Today, we connect online, we find a universe of articles and fans sites and links and history and community among like-minded people around the world. For me, cracking open Chronic Town in Flint, Michigan as a thirteen year-old kid felt like a secret, private revolt. I would literally spend days listening to R.E.M. records, singing along in jibberish, blissfully alone, disconnected, changing into what I now consider “me.” Is that possible anymore?
Smitten with Chronic Town, I immediately dove into the R.E.M. catalogue, picking up Murmur, already a year old, and Reckoning, which had just come out. I was inseparable from those records during Middle School, literally wearing out my vinyl copy of Murmur within a few months. The following spring, 1985, I picked up Fables of The Reconstruction and my step-dad took me to see the band in concert at the Fox Theater in Detroit, which blew my 14 year old mind. I can remember almost every detail of that show to this day, from the expressionistic lighting to the huge sound to the cover of Aerosmith’s Toys In The Attic that came out of nowhere. The band was always mysterious; who wrote which song? What was Michael Stipe hiding from behind his curly hair? What was he singing about? Every once in a while, an interview would appear in a magazine, a clip on MTV, and I would gobble all of it up, trying to understand the band and the reasons I felt so connected to their music. It was and is a mystery to me; Stipe’s voice is in my own vocal range, so I could sing along, the abstract imagery of the songs hit me, the jangly guitar connected to classic songs that I loved, there was an outsider’s perspective that the band conveyed that felt true, a million reasons.
But most of all, they were singing songs that felt like being young and feeling eternal, about the impossibile reality of death and growing old, mixed with a deeply curious attachment to passing ways of life, regional, local experience, to just living and not giving a fuck. I felt like I could live a million years, secluded and all along the ruins and on and on.
Most of all, though, R.E.M. felt like something in stark opposition to the conservative literalism of Regan’s America, something much smarter and bigger than Middle and High School, connected to an almost impossibly vibrant scene (Athens GA, a place I dreamt of for years), an ideal of creative work, of personal possibility for me. There are infinite numbers of stories of kids claiming that bands saved their lives; my life didn’t need saving, I was a happy, confident kid. R.E.M. didn’t save my life or give it purpose, they simply offered me a portal into the possibilities of living, of a larger world. I listen to those records today and more than the music and the words, they convey the texture of memory and experience for me; they make me feel the same feelings, but through a new, changing perspective about who I am.
For no reason other than my own inability to appreciate the grand scale of the stadium concert, I stopped going to R.E.M. shows after the Green tour. And in truth, after Bill Berry left in 1997 to recover from a brain aneurysm, I felt like the band and I both had changed, which, fucking right and fair play. There was nothing revoked between the music and me, but all of doors that R.E.M. had opened for me had been populated by a million other moments, experiences, songs, shows, loves. I grew up, got older, and they did the same. I haven’t felt a deep connection to the band’s new work in the same way I did their 1980’s work, but who feels the same deep connection as a thirty something that they did as a teenager?
I am going to die someday. I have a son to whom I want to give the entirety of the world and all of myself. I have a wife that I love in ways I thought impossible. So many things I dreamed of doing will never get done. And I feel completely content.
That said, whatever connected inside of me, it is still very much alive. Today, I picked up a copy of R.E.M.‘s new album, Live At The Olympia which has essentailly forced me curl up in a ball in my bedroom with my headphones on, a irrevocable grin plastered on my face, emotions and feelings I haven’t had in years flooding through me. It is an absolutely amazing retrospective of everything that made the band vital, crucial, meaningful to me. The song selection is unreal (they play so many of my favorites) but it is the muscular, urgent sound of the performances on this record that prove just how important and powerful a band R.E.M. are. All of that is well and good and yes yes yes, but the real gift here is the way Michael Stipe just CRUSHES these songs—I just can’t believe how good and clear he sounds on this record; the performances of Sitting Still, Carnival Of Sorts and especially 1,000,000 as they are performed here are achingly, jawdroppingly great. I had forgotten what they mean to me and this album feels like a reclamation of everything I loved about discovering their music, everything I was and wanted to be. I can’t believe it. It’s still there and I forgot how much I missed it.
For the second year in a row, and, I fear, the last (since I know the Gothams try to mix up their nominating committees), I was asked and honored to serve as a Nominating Committee member for the Documentary Feature category for the 2009 Gotham Awards. Yesterday, I watched with some interest (and a little horror) as the nominees in all categories were announced and feedback began rolling in from all over the internet. While many reactions targeted omissions (Lee Daniels’ Precious: Based On The Novel “Push” By Sapphire seems to be drawing the most curiosity in its absence), other reactions* weighed the relative value of the Gothams as an awards season bellwether and so on. So much analysis, so little relationship to my own reality. Having served for two years now, and say what you will, the Gotham Awards process is about the nominating committee coming to consensus on a list of nominees and, honestly and truly, that is all there is to it. If that offends or is not “serious” enough (which is to say, it does not conform to the values of a good, obedient awards program, meaning it has its own stand-alone relevance outside of Hollywood and box office and the Academy—see previous reactions to Cannes awards, etc etc.), well, so be it, I guess.
This year, we watched 50 eligible documentaries; One of the reasons film programmers and critics tend to make good committee members is that many of us have seen most of the films by the time the list of eligible titles is available. I ended up only needing to see 10 or so films of the 50; not bad. Unlike other awards, say, the Academy process, where thousands of screeners are sent out and screenings set up in order to have enough people see a film to help secure a nomination—you literally do need a ton of money to run a nomination campaign—there is no “For Your Consideration” campaign with these awards; if it was eligible under the IFP’s rules, we watched it. None of the committe members talked during the screening process; we met for the first time during the nominating meeting. Once we got together to nominate, we were given our guidelines for nomination; choose whatever films you like for whatever reasons you like but come to a consensus on each film and the final list. I did ask specifically about the role of New York films in the process and we were told that the Gotham Awards had no specific New York City mandate; we were simply asked to choose what we believed were the best films. Each member champions their own titles and, over the course of a few hours, a consensus is reached and a final list emerges. That is all there was to it for my committee.
While the deliberations are secret, I can tell you that the committee never talked about “box office” or “what other award bodies may do”; we just weighed the artistic merits (as we saw them) of dozens of films and simply made our list by talking to one another and trying to find consensus on the films we thought were the best of the year. Now, how that plays into what other committees and organizations do and why and when; I have no idea. I play the Oscar pool at work like everyone else, I watch the Spirit Awards and feel pride when films I admire get recognized, I read the prognostications of the industry “insiders” as to who will win what. It’s a fun diversion, sort of like fantasy football; it has no impact on the actual value of a film or performance, but its fun to win a little money from your friends by beating them at guessing who will win. I know that award recognition can help people make money and get their film seen, which, more power to them (and to the audiences who care about awards in making their film-going decisions—I don’t begrudge anyone going to the movies—just go and enjoy!) But for me, none of that was ever a factor; I just wanted to do right by the eligible filmmakers by taking the process seriously and by applying my own critical thinking to the group’s decision making. Do I think the final list is one of multiple possible lists, had dynamics and reactions been different among my colleagues? Obviously. But I am very proud of the list we put forth, stand by it 100% and look forward to seeing who the voting members choose as a winner. I hope to be back one day and to serve again, as I love this process and feel a strong affinity to these awards and the values they represent; subjectivity, collaboration, critical thinking and artistic merit. That and a cocktail? Good enough for me.
* A quick note about this; What the fuck is going on in film writing land? Did someone spike the blogger Kool-Aid with virulent strains of pettiness, ego and manic self-righteousness? From the namecalling and ridiculous navel-gazing deluge of “who got the scoop/ whose analysis is best” to the boring Hollywood-as-business blogging (ITEM! Suit lunches with other suit! Suit fires other suit! Suit denies it’s “personal”! Other suit to start stand-alone production business! Suit now 31st Most Powerful Suit in Hollywood!) to the relentless bombardment of reality TV show and video game sales analysis that clogs the indieWire blog feed these days, the contrast in tone and focus between writing about “the community” and “the business” seems stark. The difference? The community folks hold an independent film summit. The business bloggers spend time attacking each other and sniping about the accuracy and meaning of the studios’ Human Resources departments. I mean, good for you that you guys love power and numbers and the business side of film—rah rah, that’s where the action is, hooray for Hollywood, indie film is irrelevant, guys with money love seeing their names in print and blah blah blah. Your ad sales and traffic and “professionalism” are all more meaningful than mine; I leave you to your passions. But any chance you’ll tone down the personal attacks? Or maybe, indieWIRE can stop honoring this stuff with real estate and analysis on its own site? Just sayin’.
We’ve just opened up the 2010 Sarasota Film Festival’s Call For Entries on Withoutabox. If you’re interested in submitting a film to us, we’d be honored to take a look. I have compressed the submission timeline this year and all of the deadlines are set, so let’s get to it, shall we?
This year’s event is already coming together and I have a lot of interest for some exciting projects; I’m convinced this will be a special festival. Let’s be honest; at this point in the economic meltdown, that fact that so many regional festivals are still taking place, despite so many obstacles, it’s a minor miracle. All credit to the community of Sarasota for maintaining a passion for this festival after all of the ups and downs; I really want to deliver a great event for the community, for our friends and guests from the film industry and especially for our filmmakers. I hope that you’ll all consider joining us April 9-18, 2010. Fun will be had, films will be enjoyed, the sun will shine on the beaches. What could be better?
There are moments at the movies when, watching one film or another, for whatever reason, everything seems to come together. And then there is every other waking minute of my life. I have spent the better part of the last five years attempting to sift through piles and piles of the low-budget relationship drama with a comic touch or the low-budget relationship comedy with a dramatic hook, all of them made on the cheap and each of them featuring unique problems that, with a little more craft or artistic concern, might have been overcome. You know what I’m talking about; anonymous, black-walled bars with no ambient sound, no music and no patrons, lit with Christmas lights. Single camera shoots with single takes that offer none of the dramatic momentum that can be created in editing and post-production. No establishing shots, no wide shots, no reaction shots, no actors. Whip pans between faces in a conversation. Nothing contemplative, nothing that transcends the moment, no big ideas to tie moments together. No real recognition that cinema is a visual and auditory form, no real attempt to say much of anything with the form at all. The overwhelming majority of these films represent the absolute death of my hope for the “democratization of cinema” through more inexpensive technologies. So, it is hard for me to express the depth of the pleasure I took watching Maren Ade’s beautiful Everyone Else at the New York Film Festival this year; let’s just say Maren Ade has redeemed a thousand MiniDV sins with a film that is as cinematic as it is moving.
Everyone Else tracks the decline, death and possible resurrection of a romantic relationship between Gitte (the phenomenal Birgit Minichmayr, who first caught my eye with her performance in Barbara Albert’s 2006 filmFalling) and Chris (Lars Eidinger); she’s a free-spirited woman who can’t help but speak her mind and he is a sullen and sensitive architect waiting for his big break. Ade shows us the pair on vacation at Chris’ family home on Sardinia, and the languid pace of sunlit days is offset by the growing tension between the pair; Chris awaits word of the outcome of an architectural competition he entered while Gitte grows more and more restless with the pleasantries of bourgeois living. Slowly and surely, Chris’ sensitivity gives way under the strain of Gitte’s balls-out honesty, and Ade brings tension to each scene like a series of stones thrown into an otherwise tranquil pool of water; each word and emotion impacts the surface of Gitte and Chris’ relationship only to ripple out into bigger and stronger problems. By the time Chris humiliates Gitte in order to “fit in” with the boorish behavior of a friendly rival, everything in the film is up for grabs and Ade and her pair of excellent actors have somehow, slowly and surely, created a real sense of hurt and collapse that only an openhearted forgiveness might overcome.
Of course, the story of young lovers in crisis is the stuff of so many small and insignificant films, but what they lack in dramatic structure, pacing, tone and performance, Ade makes up for in spades. Even more impressively, the film feels natural without feeling improvised, which is an important distinction. It has become almost a cliché to forsake rehearsal and writing in the name of a story outline and improvisational performance; inspired by the temporally exotic naturalism of Cassavetes, maybe, or any number of independent films of the late 20th century, these films seem to confuse improvisation and realism. There is nothing more “actory” and alienating than watching unrehearsed actors improvising their parts in the hope of collectively finding a story; this technique usually carries all of the naturalism of watching a graduate (on a good day) acting class exercise which is, you know, the last thing on earth anyone should ever be doing in a cinema. There is nothing natural about self-aware performance, particularly performance that has to carry the weight of believability and the entire narrative on its usually inexperienced shoulders. Everyone Else absolutely crushes this idea by using the tools of cinema to create space for performance and by allowing the story, as intimate as it may be, to lay underneath the actors; Ade uses performance as a palimpsest instead of a showy pillar, allowing the actors to convey real feeling and move their way through believable, emotionally complex moments that have multiple beats, that develop, that breathe and feel very much alive.
Everyone Else
Ade has a beautiful way with the camera; very still, medium shots of the couple or a single actor with very few close ups at all, always with a sense that the frame is patiently mediating the distance between her characters. In most films, a break-up scene would alternate between a close-up of someone confessing their true feelings, and a reverse shot of, say, a confused partner, not understanding how he arrived at this moment of truth, trying to hold things together. Big feelings, writ large on the screen. Ade understands that to give primacy to any one of the emotions on the screen would be to undermine the truth of every other moment in the movie, and so she keeps the close up out of it, underscoring her evenhanded approach to all of the feelings her actors give her. Which is not to say the film seems “one note” or flat in visual terms; Ade uses the rooms of the home, the contrast between blazing sunlight and the dark of night, and exotic exterior locations to reframe her actors. This lends the film a gentle pace (again, room to breathe) and instead of visual, “directory” tricks or cinematic bells and whistles that would draw lines under and around the film’s moments, Ade uses a delicate touch that allows the performances to fill up the film with meaning. Sure, the film has a few flaws; I think that the movie is relatively uneven in its attempts to balance our sympathies for both characters and I couldn’t help but favor one of them over the other. But that is a minor complaint, if only because I was so compelled by the character that I couldn’t wait to see what happened next. I was heartened to read that younger film lovers were flocking to The New York Film Festival for screenings of Antichrist and Trash Humpers last week, but I never heard tell of what became of Everyone Else. In a perfect world, cinephiles would embrace something this lovely with the same interest and curiosity they bring to controversy, but I clearly don’t live in a perfect world. Here’s hoping that Everyone Else finds a home anyway.
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