Another year, another Cannes not seen. I am in my apartment in Brooklyn, sipping from my cup, typing away with casual abandon on my laptop and clicking away on link after link from writers, bloggers, photographers, and critics. I am working on other things as well; a film series and budget for Sarasota, wedding plans for me and the Mrs. To Be, getting ready for the upcoming World Cup by compulsively watching every friendly soccer match available--England's B team vs Belarus in three hours, USA's terrible loss to Morocco on Tuesday night (boy did we look BAD, better get that team in shape), but for some reason, I haven't been to the movies or watched a DVD in forever. I take that back; I did go two weeks ago to see Friends WIth Money which I enjoyed and finally saw Army of Shadows at the Film Forum. I loved it. I thought the film was really quite funny insomuch as it portrayed the entire French Resistance as a group of people who spent their time punishing snitches and getting caught and rescuing one another from prison. There wasn't really any resistence going on per se; a few radios being transported, some black market goods being bandied about, and lots of capture and rescue, shadows and light. It felt more like Mean Streets than The Sorrow and The Pity and maybe that is what I liked so much about it. There are some images and moments I will not ever get out of my head; the murder by stragulation of a traitor in a beret which trumps the strangulation sequence in The Godfather as an empathetic crisis of conscience, and the machine gun sprint down a prison corridor by condemned prisoners as rescuers use smoke as cover for their timely arrival. Good stuff.

But this was all weeks ago. In the meantime, I have been attending to a lot of family and personal matters and taking a much needed break from the film scene. I plan on getting back in the swing and the habit very soon, and I will also be passionately following the World Cup in the coming weeks. But for now, I am reading about film from afar, tracking Cannes and its pleasures (I can't wait for Marie Antoinette, critics be damned; just reading about the film's gilded-cage naievté makes me think of American youth itself. How many people voted in the American Idol finale last night? 64 million? Ah, the pleasures of courtly living...), and looking forward to summer.

Let Them Eat Cake: Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette

More posts soon, and sorry for the dearth of writing, but life has been beckoning me, pulling me away from the blog. Back in the habit asap.

In 1997, after a fortuitous meeting at a Philadelphia restaurant (long story), I went to work for the Independent Film Channel as a Manager in their New Media Department. Rewind your mind to the booming internet world of 1997; cable providers were starting to offer broadband internet service to high end customers and had built all of these fascinating portals that were seeking content from cable TV providers for their on-line services (the AOL model was the dominant thinking of the time). Tech companies were marketing the first "On Demand" set top boxes and companies like IFC were working hard to assemble on-demand film packages* for the cable companies, but without standardization and always trying to please dozens of companies with different versions of how the system might work. Content was the most important commodity, especially on-line; companies like Atom Films, iFilm, and little ol' IFC were making films available on-line in embedded, branded media players. As an example, in 1998 we streamed the Blair Witch precursor The Last Broadcast on our IFC Broadband portal on various cable-modem systems before helping the filmmakers set up a Hi Definition screening out of market at Cannes in 1999. We were also doing on-line chats during screenings on air on IFC, the pre-cursor of the scrolling, text message based TV shows on MTV today.

And we were also covering festivals. My first week on the job in 1997, I set up an online content package for the Atlanta Film Festival (oh, Dill Scallion, whatever happened to you?). At festivals, we were streaming on-line video coverage, packaging film clips, video interviews, on-line web chats, moderated panels. It was an interesting era in online film history, but also a funny time in thinking about the internet.

By 1999, I had the privilege of lugging a then-new old Sony VX-1000 to a balcony across the street from the Palais in Cannes and, working with some of the slowest, busiest French technicians in history, setting up a web cam for the first time, a device which affectionately became known as The Cannes Cam**. The Cannes Cam was the bane of my existence, as at the time, all we could use was a French language telephone based internet service to deliver the image. If it went down, and it always went down, I had to run to the balcony and re-set the system. If we had big troubles with the phone lines, and that happened sometimes, it was virtually impossible to get a local phone technician to work on the lines. In fact, until very recently, I was convinced that the infrastructure for the internet in France was made up of tin foil and chewing gum, run by a misunderstood hunchback with an eye-patch in a bell tower, madly pulling levers and screaming random obscenities at anyone who would listen. It was not a pretty picture. I was also responsible for writing online content, taking digital stills, writing film reviews, transcripts of panels, etc. In 1999, there were no blogs; we had to design a "dynamic publishing system" whereby I was sending reports via email back to NYC and they would be posted by our tech team to the website. Good times! Whew...

In 2000, aka 'The Summer of The Thong Song'***, I returned and set up the Cannes Cam again, but this time, I had a much better time of it as we lived in the apartment across from the Palais and were able to manipulate the camera and system with much greater ease. That said, we still had a lot of problems. But who am I to complain?; Better to have problems in Cannes than anywhere else. By 2001, I had moved on to another job in technology****, but I loved my time at IFC. I have only been to Cannes twice, and both times, it was to set up the damned Cannes Cam, help entertain clients, and create online content. Not a bad job, all in all, but certainly the beginning of the end of my fascination with technology realted work. I learned that what I really loved was the content, and after two more years in the technology sector, I was able to begin work on the film festival circuit, where I happily remain.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I followed a link to IFCTV.com today and found, voila!, The 2006 Cannes Cam! It is nice to see my little baby alive and, after all these years, still showing an EMPTY BLACK SCREEN on my Mac laptop. My first thought was that the internal timer on the video camera turned the camera off, which used to happen all the time. Then, I thought, maybe the lens cap was still on. But there is no sound, so, no. However, I don't think a feed is coming in at all right now. Or maybe its one of many of the little glitches that make up the great Mac and Windows divide. Who knows...

Just Like I Remember It: The IFC Cannes Cam

And then, as I was writing this, entry, I hear the sounds of Le Croisette. A quick look back, and once again, and only momentarily, the Cannes Cam is up and running, showing me that view I know oh so well...

Up and At 'Em: The Cannes Cam In Action

And as I finish typing, back to black....

Time is a funny thing... How quickly the feelings flood back! I feel like Proust or something. I imagine that as I type this, some member of the IFC team is scrambling back to an empty apartment across from the greatest cinema in the world, running up a spiraling marble staircase and resetting the web cam in time for tonight's Red Carpet walk. I'm sure the issue is something else entirely. In all honesty, I think the lesson of the Cannes Cam might be a simple one; some images are simply not meant to be seen by everyone. When the Cannes Cam is down, perhaps is it keeping some wondrous little detail a secret, unavailable to those not perched on a balcony on the Croisette. Either way, I am finding the black screen to be oddly comforting, surrounded by images of palm fronds and blue sky on the page. If I can't be in Cannes, which I am not (next year!), this is, for me, very much the next best thing. Like being there all over again.

At the end of one of the best Cup finals I have seen in my life, a virtual replay of our famous win in Istanbul last year, Liverpool are once again Champions, this time winning the FA Cup in an amazing victory over West Ham United. I can hardly speak as my voice is destroyed from singing, but I can't help feeling that this is one of the most magical clubs in the history of sport. No team has given me so much to cheer, so many heartbreaks and thrills, and the connection between this supporter and this club is absolute. I will follow Liverpool FC to the ends of the earth.

Steven Gerrard and manager Rafa Benitez lift the FA Cup (AP Photo/Matt Dunham)

Today was special. It was a hard fought match, with Liverpool going down 2-0 to West Ham when Jamie Carragher scored an own goal, and Dean Ashton poked a bobbled rebound past keeper Jose Reina. I have to admit, my head sunk down a bit at this point. 2-0 down is never a pretty feeling, but we all had belief, belief that was rewarded when Djibril Cisse (of whom I have been critical, but who bravely fought on today despite an injury and exhaustion) got on the end of a pin-point ball from Liverpool Captain Steve Gerrard (more on him later) just moments after Peter Crouch was unjustly ruled offside on what should have been a goal. Suddenly, it was 2-1 to the Hammers going into the half. A lifeline...

After the half, the game ebbed and flowed with the Hammers playing attractive football and out-hustling Liverpool all day. But after the ball fell to Gerrard at the top of the West Ham penalty area, he latched onto it and scored a mighty goal, pulling us level, 2-2. Liverpool were revitalized, and our supporters were in full voice, all of us singing our hearts out, when suddenly, from nowhere, West Ham went up 3-2 on a brilliant (and lucky) shot from Paul Konchesky. One of the best goals I've seen (was it a cross? a shot?), Konchesky came up the left wing and fired the ball toward the goal, and it swerved and dipped past Reina and into the Liverpool net. At this point, with plenty of time to fight back, Liverpool dominated posession and West Ham bravely soaked it up for 27 minutes (with a great set piece of their own, almost scoring!) until the fourth official held up the sign, indicating 4 minutes of extra time. And that's when magic happened again.

Captain Fantastic Saves The Day (AP Photo/Matt Dunham)

In the 91st minute, with just seconds remaining in the match and some 30 yards away from goal, Gerrard latched onto a failed clearance and thrashed the ball into the back of the West Ham net. I was thunderstruck; the man had once again put our side on his shoulders and carried us to dizzying heights almist single handedly. 30 minutes of extra time came and went, with both sides exhausted (and West Ham having an incredible chance for the terrific Nigel Reo-Coker denied by a now focused Reina), and in the time honored tradition, the game went to penalty kicks. After three goals from Liverpool (Hamman, Riise, and Gerrard), Reina saved his third penalty, this one from Anton Ferdinand, and the Cup was ours.

Pepe Reina Saves from Anton Ferdinand and Seals a Famous Win (AP Photo/Matt Dunham)

Liverpool played their hearts out today, but it was our captain, Steven Gerrard, who was the true hero today. I am often prone to superlatives on this site, but there are no words to describe him. He is, quite simply, the one football player whose will to win consistently produces miracles. There are more technically gifted players (Henry and Ronaldinho certainly), but no one has the will to win that Gerrard posseses and it is precisely that drive, that will, that abiility to grab an entire team and drag it to victory, that makes him the best.

Poets have written eloquently about the allure of football/soccer, but not even the most rhapsodic words can do it it justice. With the 2006 FIFA World Cup in Germany coming in 26 days, my interest shifts homeward, to the United States and our team's chances with a truly arduous draw (Czech Republic, Italy, and Ghana), so expect plenty of football/soccer writing in the weeks to come. But today, at the end of a long, wonderful season, I just can't help but be a proud supporter of the greatest club in the world. Liverpool FC, the 2006 FA Cup Champions!

You'll Never Walk Alone! (AP Photo/Toby Melville/Pool)

Tomorrow, some friends and I will be gathering at our favorite football pub, Nevada Smith's at about 8:30am to take in the spledor of the Football Association Cup Final between my Liverpool Reds and London's West Ham United. The FA Cup, basically the Superbowl of English football, is a year long tournament that is open to every football team in England registered with the Football Association*, and this year, both Liverpool and West Ham have earned a trip to the final, to be played in Cardiff, Wales at the Millenium Stadium.

One Nil Down, Two One Up! Michael Owen Won The Cup: The 2001 FA Cup Final at the Millenium Stadium. Liverpool's last gasp win against Arsenal on a Michael Owen double is the second greatest game I've ever seen. Last year's Champion's League Final being, of course, the greatest.

It's hard for me not to like West Ham as a club; the pride of working class London, a team that was just promoted to the top flight of football after a few years in the Championship, and loaded with young, exciting players, and a great batch of supporters (about whom, you'll remember, a film was made**). West Ham are a team that, were they playing any other side, I would be hoping would win the Cup.

Marlon Harewood makes a bid for a yellow

But they aren't playing any other side, they are playing Liverpool FC. My team. We have had an amazing season, winning the Super Cup at the start of the season (beating UEFA Cup winners CSKA Moscow 3-1 in extra time***), an amazing number of clean sheet victories, and a 3rd place finish in the league. It has been the FA Cup competition, however, that has been the source of our greatest success this year. Not only did we knock Man United**** out of the tournament with a great 1-0 win at home , we then went to Old Trafford and beat league title winners Chelsea, 2-1 on a great, doubt-free goal from Chelsea-killer Luis Garcia, and an amazing free kick from John Arne Riise.

John Arne Riise, how did you score that goal?

So, the final is tommorrow, and Liverpool must get it done to be named champions. I expect an entertaining, hard-fought match, but in the end, I think my Reds prevail. Of course, the FA Cup final is the place where dreams are made, and many underdog sides have risen to the occassion and won the Cup. All I know is, I'll be at Nevada's, among friends and foes, enjoying the final game of the season, and singing my side to victory!

Come on You Reds!
YNWA!

Fans (like me) of Andrew Bujalski's films take note: In two weeks (May 26), Justin Rice, who starred as Alan in Bujalski's Mutual Appreciation, and his excellent band Bishop Allen (mp3's available) will be performing at Piano's in NYC.

Really? Beer is Usually The First Thing To Go...: Andrew Bujalski's Mutual Appreciation

I'll confess, I wasn't familiar with the band until I saw the film, but I count myself as a fan now. The band play elegantly simple pop songs that I haven't been able to get out of my head, and I am looking forward to seeing them perform for the first time. It wont be the last. The band have embarked on a monthly EP series for 2006, releasing a new record every month for the entire year. Looking forward to all of it. Come to Piano's, see the show, and by all means get your hands on the movie. Just another way to use your consumer dollars for the forces of good...

I’ve been back from Florida for almost two weeks, and so far, most of my time has been spent in anticipation of being settled into my apartment. Boxes, bags, moving things in and moving things out. I have had a lot of things to do, lots of running around to do, and so my time at this year’s TriBeCa Film Festival has been somewhat limited. I have been able to grab some screenings here and there, and I have been engaged by what I have seen, but when you have a program of over 300 films playing all over town, the onus is on the viewer to make sure you’re planning carefully and seeing what interests you. For me, this is a difficult festival at which to take a lot of chances; unlike many fests, if you don’t like something, your next screening might be 35 minutes away by subway and on foot. That is not unlike Sundance, and I understand that the growth of the TriBeCa FF has made the geographical shift central to the festival’s ambitious program, but this scope comes with a cost, and for me, the cost is the inability to spend long days running from film to film, having a festival-like experience. Manhattan has so much going on, and I am so closely tied to the ins and outs of my own life here in the city, there is no sense of escape involved, no unique sense of place. Somehow, the festival feels like simply going to the movies. Nothing wrong with that. That said, I’ve seen some interesting films at the festival.

Backstage by Emmanuelle Bercot

This was the first film I saw at the festival, and I think it will leave audiences and critics deeply divided. On the one hand, those who appreciate an over the top melodrama devoid of realism where emotions are always on full boil will be dazzled by the story of Lucie (Islid Le Besco), a young fan who falls into the inner circle of her idol, a French pop singer named Lauren (Emmanuelle Seigner). Others will find the meandering story, whereby Lucie slowly earns the trust of the deeply flawed, vain Lauren, to be pretty boring. Count me among the latter; while the initial scenes of Lauren performing and Lucie’s quivering, wild-eyed devotion to her might thrill the Pimp My Ride set, I think my personal bias against the cult of celebrity made the film seem ridiculous to me, and this sense of the absurd was not assuaged by the film’s ending, which tries to bring a moral to the tale and instead validates the star structure all over again. That said, there is plenty to recommend the movie for those interested in old school melodrama hung onto the frame of today’s pop idolatry. Again, I have nothing against melodrama as a form, and this is a fine example, but with Strand picking the film up, the melodramatic (read: Camp) appeal of the film will probably be the locus of the marketing campaign, instead of trying to get teenagers who might relate to the story to actually watch a film with subtitles and listen to pop music in a foreign language (gasp!) Agnes Godard shot the film, and while I’ve read others praising her work here, I couldn’t say; the press screening I attended was shown on what looked like a VHS screener bumped to DVD. No shame in a screener, but the low-res quality of the print prevents me offering any commentary on the visual power of the movie. The more I write, the more divided I feel and wonder how much of this is my own shit, and how much is in the film. Ah, perspective.

The Case of The Grinning Cat by Chris Marker

I believe it to be impossible for Chris Marker to make a bad movie. In his latest essay on the relationship between domestic French politics in the post-9/11 world and the sudden proliferation of a charming graffiti tag featuring a grinning cat, the master of the cinematic essay comes to terms with his personal sense of whimsy. Is it old age that brings about this charming, bemused perspective from Marker? There is no cynicism to be found in the film and despite the titular relationship to a film like A Grin Without A Cat, Marker’s latest features none of that film’s sense of outrage. Instead, Marker has penned a bemused love letter to the energy found in activism; as interest groups and political activists take to the streets of Paris in response to the hard-right shift in the political landscape (symbolized by classic French baddie Jean Marie LePen), Marker shows his admiration for the energetic activists while documenting the spread of the grinning cat, which he sees as a symbol of traditional French optimism and a simpler, happier time. The film’s wry, smart take on France’s national character may be somewhat confusing to those not quite familiar with the ins and outs of domestic French politics, but the film is a delight. Congrats to First Run Icarus for bringing this film to the US with a wonderful English narration; I can't wait to see it again.

Mr. Chat, in happier times...

Freedom’s Fury by The Sibs

In 1956, the Red Army of the Soviet Union was driven from Hungary by way of a popular uprising. A few days of freedom bloomed, but the Red Army rolled back into Budapest and crushed the revolution, re-instating a hard-line communist regime that lasted until the fall of the Iron Curtain in 1989 (More on the Hungarian Revolution here.) A month after the violent suppression, Hungary and the USSR met in semi-finals of the Olympic water polo tournament in what was described as “the bloodiest game in Olympic history.” The Sibs (a half brother/sister directing team) have created a compelling documentary about the revolution and the way in which athletic competition can be a source of hope and inspiration for both athletes and supporters. The film seems to be ready made for television (with transitions screaming ‘commercial break’ built in to the film’s structure), but the story and the storytelling (the film is expertly narrated by Olympic medalist Mark Spitz) are both worthy of theatrical distribution. Of course, the limited domestic appeal of water polo as a sport and the historical setting of the competition will limit the reach of the movie, but Freedom’s Fury is a compelling movie with a lot to say about the importance of sport and the power of time to heal. As the film ended, I couldn’t help but think how it might feel to watch the USA’s soccer team play against Iraq in the upcoming World Cup (won’t happen, since Iraq was clearly in no shape to qualify). Here’s to hoping that one day, it can be so.

Hungarian Freedom Fighters were Time's Person of The Year for 1956