Home now after an exhilarating 10 days in Park City. I saw movies I loved, some I liked and many that didn't move me, but isn't that what a film festival is supposed to be about? The idea that Sundance should be some homogeneous, quality-controlled monolith is more than a little unfair, I think. I wouldn't trade it for the world; It really is a privilege to spend your days in the dark of the movie theater, and even more so to walk out into the cold, sobering air surrounded by conversations, ideas, debates and passionate discussion of the work on display. For all of the superficiality that burdens Sundance's reputation, the reality of the festival is, like anything else in life, precisely what you make of it. It is easy to simply ignore the swag suites and the celebrity worship and instead spend all of your time in thrall to the movies and the living, breathing community of people who are passionate about them. For me, it is the only way to judge the festival; To look to the screen and leave the bullshit to others.

If anything, I'll always think of 2008 as a line in the sand; This was the year that independent, personal cinema surpassed celebrity-driven genre films, hands down and no debate about it. Forget the Little Miss Sunshine effect; The low-budget, regional independent films were actually much more ambitious, thoughtful and entertaining than most of their big-name toting brethren, and once again, the overall range on display in the non-fiction program dwarfed the more conservative, constrained stories found in the quirky, downbeat fiction program. Sundance faces a bit of introspection now; Having given ground on programming low-budget independent films to festivals like SXSW while courting an almost schizophrenic relationship to celebrity (choosing to feature several celebrity-driven films while constantly decrying the impact of celebrity culture on the festival itself), the festival's programming strategy continues to bring in the money while harboring contradictory impulses. After ten days of distribution deal announcements, each marked by dollar signs and self-congratulatory statements of faith in shopping well done, it's no surprise that the arrival of the festival juries feels a bit like a cavalry charging, trumpets blaring, in order to restore credibility to the proceedings. For one night, the films aren't measured in terms of the number of zeros in their deal memos but instead rewarded for their formal ambition and artistry.

Speaking of which, the awards have just been doled out, and I am happy to see Ballast (my thoughts here) and Man On Wire (my thoughts here) win in multiple categories; Very much deserved, although in my opinion Ballast was easily the best film in entire festival. But hey, maybe that's why I never get jury invitations...

As for me, well, no rest for the weary; I arrived home tonight to find a huge stack of screeners on my desk, all of them needing to be viewed in the next few days. But first, other demands; Time to catch up on some sleep, visions of frozen breath dancing in my head.

It has been a long ten days for me in Park City. With two or three films left on the docket (including Hamlet 2 and Nerakhoon (The Betrayal) in a couple of hours), I have taken in around 37 films, but as with any festival, I am harboring some deep regrets about films I missed; The Order Of Myths and Momma's Man top the list, but thankfully Holly was able to get to those. It's all about the team covering as much as we can, and sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. I hope to catch up with these movies when the invitations go out for Sarasota. In the meantime, I did brave the ever-diminishing industry lines to see some excellent films yesterday; A great way to begin the wind down here at Sundance.

Anvil: The Story Of Anvil

Before we begin, let me introduce you to the band. This is, without question, the anthem of Sundance 2008...

One of the most condescending ideas in the whole of Western Mythology is the idea that if you work hard enough, think positive thoughts and try try try, you will eventually succeed. This idea, that the will to power is some physical force in the universe, that there is such a thing as justice for working hard, serves the as the premise of Sascha Gervasi's terrifically funny and heartbreaking documentary Anvil: The Story Of Anvil. Of course, Anvil also serves as a corrective to the fame and fortune myth; This is a story that will resonate with most of us who, for whatever reason, have modified our dreams over time to adjust to the expectations of real life.

Formed in the late 1970's by high school friends Robb Reiner (drums) and Lips (guitar/vocals), Anvil was a heavy (and I mean heavy) metal band just slightly ahead of their time. Early on in the film, Lars Ulrich (Metallica), Slash (Guns N' Roses) and a slew of other metal superstars recount the influence of Anvil's seminal album Metal on Metal on their own youthful dreams of becoming rock gods. The film opens with a sequence of bands playing an outdoor festival in early 1980's Japan and all of the big names are there; Metallica, Bon Jovi, Megadeath and, of course, Anvil, who certainly seem to hold their own as monsters of loud, fast rock and roll. But a funny thing happened on the road to the heavy metal pantheon; For whatever reason (most likely, Lars Ulrich suggests, it's something about "being Canadian"), Anvil never achieved the popularity of their peers. Of course, that didn't stop them; Recording 12 albums in the ensuing twenty five years, the band ground on, playing to diminishing crowds and equally declining economic success. The music business changed, metal moved to the margins, but Anvil hammered on in obscurity, becoming a part-time outlet for the founding members who have to hold various day jobs to help pay for the needs of their families.

The majority of Gervasi's film takes place between 2005 and today, as Anvil undertake two risky attempts to claim a modicum of the economic success and popular recognition that they richly deserve and have worked so very hard to attain; First, an ill-organized and poorly promoted 6 week tour of Europe that would have made Spinal Tap blanch and then a subsequent recording session for their new album, which costs tens of thousands of dollars that the band doesn't have. The album is crucial, the document they believe will finally be an adequate testament to the power of their thunderous sound. Nothing comes easy for the now 50-year-old rockers, and a series of conflicts and arguments between Robb and Lips brings us to the heart of the matter; Both men are so close to one another, so in need of the other's love. that their investment in the shared dream that is Anvil becomes apocalyptic; Each threat and intention to dissolve the band serves as an act of self-negation. The men are too close to one another to exist without the other, and their relationship through decades of shitty gigs and under-sold albums is really a love story between two artists and collaborators who struggle with the costs inherent in never realizing the fullness of their dreams.

But for all of their goofy proclamations, these guys aren't stupid. After shopping the record around to a slew of disinterested labels, Anvil finally get with the times; Self-distribution over the internet leads to a phone call from Japan, bringing Anvil back for a metal festival and allowing Gervasi's story to come full-circle. Will the Japanese audience help Anvil live the dream? Will Lips and Robb ever find the success they so desperately crave? A must-see for dreamers everywhere.

Man On Wire

On August 7, 1974, a French tightrope walker named Philippe Petit and a team of sympathetic raconteurs constructed a cable between the rooftops of the two towers of the World Trade Center. In the early morning hours, Petit grabbed his balancing pole and stepped out onto the wire. For 45 illegal minutes, Petit performed without the safety of a net, walking the wire, laying down on it and dazzling the crowds below. When he finally returned to the rooftop, he was immediately arrested, but his place was already firmly cemented in New York City legend.

Petit On The Wire

In James Marsh's beautiful new documentary Man On Wire, Petit's walk, known among his collaborators as Le Coup, is examined in detail. Through in-depth interviews with the charismatic Petit and his collaborators, the entire planning for and execution of the daring walk is shown. The movie is both a celebration of the beauty of art (and the film leaves no doubt that Petit is an artist) and also a heist movie on par with, say, Rififi. March's generous use of gorgeous archival footage shows us the glorious amateurism of the plan in great detail; Petit's hand drawn models and maps of the Towers and their rooftops, his low-budget stake out of the Trade Cente, and his insider scheme to gain access to the building is something you'd expect to see in a Bottle Rocket-era Wes Anderson film. But while the Petit crew may not have been the most able of planners, when the plan is finally executed and the high wire is assembled and (somewhat) secured, it is Petit's artistry and concentration that literally takes your breath away.

Practicing for this great moment, Petit and his crew worked with playful abandon in the pastoral French countryside and their whimsical approach to the incredibly dangerous high wire walk in New York City is a testament to Petit's process; Walking the wire is pure joy, an expression of something ineffable and so very simple, you stand in awe of the achievement. Marsh does an amazing job of cutting between the "heist" portion of the film and Petit's artistic philosophy and action; Just when we're about to get bogged down in the story of the team breaking into and hiding out in the upper reaches of the World Trade Center, we return to the French countryside, to Petit horsing around with his friends, to the look of rapture on his face when, with the deepest concentration, he practices his craft.

Of course, the specter of September 11 looms over this film like an ethereal ghost, and while Marsh leaves the correlation between Petit's beautiful, creative crime and the horrible destruction of September 11 unspoken, there are a few moments that get stuck in the throat; A photo of Petit, balancing masterfully on the middle of his wire, perfectly placed between the Towers, with an passenger jet soaring just over his head is an absolutely unforgettable image. Marsh's understanding of the natural juxtaposition in the viewer's mind between Petit's walk and the tragic history that followed allows for even more resonance and feeling. After all of the planning, all of the anticipation, and with the real possibility of death or failure looming over the proceedings, Petit simply took a step onto his narrow wire, and with only the sky above and the concrete below, moved me to tears.

Baghead

Jay and Mark Duplass' genre-hopping romantic horror comedy Baghead is the story of four people, heart-sick Chad (Steve Zissis), studly Matt (Ross Partiridge), jilted Katherine (Elise Muller) and flirty Michelle (Greta Gerwig) who decide, after seeing a shitty independent film at a film festival screening, that they should make their own movie. On the spur of the moment, the team decides to head to a rustic cabin for the weekend in order to collaborate on their own script, and suddenly, something like Woody Allen's A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy ensues; Attractions are declared and rejected, romantic intrigue abounds and plenty of alcohol is consumed. But when Michelle has a dream about a stalker with a paper bag covering his face, the plot quite literally thickens; The group decides that a horror film about a man with a Baghead would make the perfect script and, before too long, all hell breaks loose.

Baghead is a complete blast, a meta-exploration of the creative process, genre and relationships that gets just about everything right. Most excitingly, the film's tonal shifts between comedy, romance, horror and drama all feel completely natural and earned, which is no small feat. The film's visual style, with Jay Duplass' signature zooms and pans between closeups, works wonders with these actors, all of whom turn in winning performances; Greta Gerwig's work here, shifting between flirtation, fear, anger and compassion, cements her status as a rising star, and Steve Zissis' winning performance as Chad is a riff on the lovable, put-upon mensch he played in the Duplass' terrific short The Intervention. The film's shifting tone really works in concert with the performances, and because the story and the acting are so light and nimble, the film never bogs down in any one style. I was excited to see that the film sold and will be receiving distribution; I think, with the proper marketing and a good run of festival dates, the film could be a real hit with younger audiences who are looking for new stories that take chances and deliver the fun. The film is a true independent and while it won't be for everyone, it is comforting to know that there are filmmakers like the Duplass Brothers out there making us laugh, giving us the willies, breaking our hearts and telling stories that can't be categorized in a single sound bite. Or can they?

A relatively calm couple of days. Tuesday night's big event was the world premiere screening of The Deal, Steven Schachter's comedy about a suicidal film producer (William H Macy) who decides to work the Hollywood system and make a shoot-'em-up action film out of a seemingly impossible script; Bill & Ben, the story of the first Jewish Prime Minister of England, Benjamin Disraeli. The film was warmly received by the audience, which was a nice omen and important to me; Macy and Schachter scored a good deal of financing from the good people of Sarasota, many of them intimately involved with the Sarasota Film Festival (including a Co-Producing credit for our Executive Director Jody Kielbasa). This is the first project that the festival has been involved with on this level, and I am very hopeful we can bring it home in April for a big screening during our event. After a very brief pit stop at the after party (and a quick hello to Sarasota alums Sarah Baker and the always kind Jason Ritter), it was late to bed, late to rise.

But when I did wake up, it was beautiful day...

...the perfect afternoon to take in Michael Haneke's new English-language version of Funny Games.

First, a note about the programming of the film at the festival; Instead of assuming its rightful place in the festival's Premieres section, Funny Games is playing Sundance's Midnight section, a decision so deeply ironic that I can only assume the choice to put the film there was done as a historical corrective to the whole idea of Midnight movies. Maybe it makes sense, though; A film about the voyeuristic guilt implicit in our spectatorship of violence and sexual humiliation in cinema, it might be that the Midnight audiences will be one ones most, well, deserving of Haneke's smirking middle-finger of a movie. After sitting through films like Diary of The Dead and Donkey Punch, maybe Funny Games will function as intended and make us all feel like assholes for enjoying the bloodshed.

Eggs, Anyone?: Naomi Watts and Brady Corbet in Michael Haneke's Funny Games

I've never written about Funny Games at length before, but I have thought about the movie in the context of Haneke's work as a whole. To be honest, the film's story is so close to the original that a re-telling of the plot seems a bit of a waste of time, but there were some significant differences that struck me about the new version; Most interesting is how, some eleven years later, the film's arguments about on-screen violence and audience complicity are more relevant than ever which, when you think about it, is deeply depressing. In the age of Eli Roth and the Saw franchise, Haneke's winking manipulations and his rebuke of narrative catharsis hurts even more. This time around, Haneke gets typically powerful performances from Naomi Watts and Tim Roth as the victims of the titular games, but the major difference between the two films are the characterizations of the murderers, here played by Michael Pitt as the alpha Paul and Brady Corbet as the nastily submissive Peter/Tom. In Haneke's original German language version, these roles are played by the ice-cold Arno Frisch in Pitt's role and the sad but menacing Frank Giering in the Corbet role and the differences are worth noting; While both sets of actors are clearly portraying the home invasion and murder of the family as some sort of comedy of manners (funny only to them), for me, the Frisch and Giering's performances gave off something of the stench of the nihilistic in a way that only a European film can. Those actors, and Frisch in particular, are haunting because they seem morally bankrupt yet carry a firm sense of rebellion against the entitled bourgeoisie, despite the fact that they probably come from the same class as their victims. The Austrian version works both on the level of cinematic and social critique; The unswayable menace, running wild and without the anchor of reason or social constraint seems, like most of Haneke's films, to be the stuff of perfect bourgeoisie nightmare. How could young people who look like us, raised in our culture, speaking our language, be so cruel? What have we created?

Bad Boys: Michael Pitt and Brady Corbet in Michael Haneke's Funny Games

In the US version of the film, and probably much to Haneke's chagrin, I think the implications of this dread is lost, much of it due to how we understand and feel about class in this country, but also because of the way in which we see the horror in the world as being an unknowable spiritual force, almost not human. Obviously, while I personally agree with this sort of superstitious reaction to a clearly knowable violence, what Haneke's film never touches is the populist, religious understanding of the incomprehensibility of random violence. Whereas Frisch's sober smirk and pontifications seemed, in the original, like something one could reasonably expect from a graduate of an Austrian university who took too much 20th Century philosophy and missed all of his ethics classes, the same words coming from Michael Pitt's mouth seem foreign, words you would never expect to hear from a young American. Our culture is steeped in a whole different set of callous gestures and our national indifference is on a whole different plane of responsibility now, which makes our pair of happy murderers in the film less vital in a way. This country is morally exhausted by our nonchalant relationship with senseless tragedy, and so, while the time seems right for Funny Games to come along again and rap us on the collective knuckles with its giddy sneer, at this point in our history, we've become silent and masochistic to the point that the sting has lost some of its bite. Without a sense of the spiritually ridiculous, and I don't mean the moment when Paul makes Anne (Naomi Watts) pray a little prayer, but a true indictment of the superstitious understanding of the randomness of suffering, Funny Games misses a crucial component in its goal of implicating American spectators.

There are some cultural details that might have made a difference, most of them missing because of Haneke's wholesale import of the original film's narrative. Instead of nailing American privilege, Haneke imports his European bourgeoisie milieu and in doing so, paints an off-kilter picture of our culture; Like a crooked portrait hanging above a fireplace, something is just not right here. Whereas a more intimate knowledge of this society, a knowledge of Americana, might have lent more authenticity to the story, the film instead feels just slightly askew; A wealthy couple headed to the Hamptons with their child is probably more likely to be playing rock and roll in the car than opera, the formal politesse of neighborly relations is much more likely to be casual than in the world Haneke's portrays; The film doesn't seem to know American casualness. Instead of recasting the small details (the music*, the informal attitudes of the characters) to the proper cultural context of modern America, the film's relationships feel frozen in amber, something more foreign than domestic, which is why when Haneke gets things right, the critique seems all the more stinging; The murder of a child against the non-stop gibberish of a pair of TV announcers calling a NASCAR race (re-set from the Formula One race in the original) actually adds a layer of interesting conflict. This is a family that would never in a million years watch NASCAR, and this shift underscores their privilege but also detaches them from the culture at large (whereas we could easily imagine Ulrich Mühe watching a Formula One race).

At its heart, Funny Games was always an act of intellectual terror, the story of a culture (and a cinema) reaping what it sowed. But in a post-9/11 world, in a nation whose daily obsession with the sensationalist press constantly keeps the most grotesque and cruel acts front and center in our minds, acts for which we as a nation harbor so much responsibility, well, at this point, Haneke seems to be piling on. Fine and ha-ha, yes yes. But whereas European elites would eagerly go and take their medicine on a night out to see one of Haneke's films, the fate and impact of the new Funny Games is more cloudy; This is just the type of movie American elites will avoid. Movies about violence featuring young murderers and semi-nude movie stars are far more likely to be seen by younger audiences, and while young people may get the film's points about the cinema, they will probably see themselves as outside of Haneke's bourgeoisie bullseye. To be honest, while the film is uniformly excellent and certainly holds up as a movie about movie violence, the social critique will be a very hard sell. Which only makes me wish the Director had considered instead a remake of Code Unknown, a film with deep convictions about the national responsibility surrounding issues of immigration and collective social welfare; Now that's a movie America needs to see. Here's hoping...

* I should say, the use of John Zorn's Naked City, both here and in the original, is still one of the best uses of music in a film, hands down. Decades later, that music still scares the living shit out of me.

It's just about the midway point at the 2008 Sundance Film Festival, and I have to be honest; There is an grumpy little malaise that has settled over this place like a deep, dirty puddle of polluted snow. The entire town seems to be overwhelmingly bitchy, with gripes about everything from the frequency of buses ("not enough!") to complaints about the size of the press screening rooms ("not enough seats!") to the films themselves ("not good enough!"), all of it audible in loud-mouthed conversations and manifest in the body language of many of the industry delegates I have seen trudging, shoulders slumped, across the slush-soaked parking lot between the Yarrow Hotel and the Holiday Village Cinemas. No one has been knocked out yet, no one has had that elusive, transformative experience in the theater when a movie grabs the entire town by its downy ski jacket collar and stirs things up. There is no consensus, true, but there is also no feeling that a missed screening will be an unforgivable mistake. Instead, there are hundreds of individuals championing a film here and there, most of them in the Documentary program, and while some seem to be making an impression (The Order Of Myths, Trouble The Water and my own favorites Ballast, American Teen [more on this one soon] and Roman Polanski: Wanted And Desired seem to be the films about which I have heard the most positive discussion), many others seem not to have inspired too much conversation so far.

My own schedule (twenty films in four days) has been a bit of a up and down affair, but last night's screening of Alex Gibney's Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson was a much-needed shot in the arm and a reminder of how passionate artists can re-imagine the world and provide a desperately important insight into our times. While his subject matter is, on the surface, outside of Gibney's traditional concerns as a Director of films like Taxi To The Dark Side and Enron: The Smartest Guys In The Room, Gonzo immediately erases any doubts about Gibney's intention to place Hunter S. Thompson's life and work in anything less than a deeply political context; Over the still profoundly moving images of those planes smashing into the World Trade Center Towers on September 11, 2001, Thompson's analysis of George W. Bush's "war on terror" is intoned, announcing the end of an era in American democracy and stating with frightening prescience the grim reality of our times that was then yet to come.

Gibney then rockets us back in time to provide a chronological look at Thompson's life and his development as a writer and personality. Beginning with the writing of his debut book Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, Thompson's life and work merged into a complicated blend of empathy, morality and excess; After spending a year with the notorious gang and raising hell with them, Thompson's intervention in a domestic dispute between a pissed off biker and his abused wife earned him a terrible beating. This moment, coupled with Thompson's observation of a rough gang bang at a party the Angels crashed, shook him up and drove him away from the California scene and into the relative isolation of pre-billionaire Aspen, Colorado. There, Thompson found a way to blend his anti-authoritarian faith in individualism with his belief in the power of the people into a campaign for County Sheriff (he lost) before setting out on the 1968 campaign trail and delivering some of the most original, insightful journalism of our time.

Have Gun, Will Travel: Hunter S. Thompson

And here, another life-changing moment in Chicago during the battle at the Democratic National Convention; Watching the leaders of the Democratic Party back Richard Daly and his strong-armed police force as they battered the young people protesting at the convention shattered Thompson's faith in the country and proved to him that no political party was to be trusted; Everything was personal now. It is here, covering Thompson's heyday from 1968 through the writing of Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas (represented here by Thompson's own audio recordings and Terry Gilliam's film of the book) to his incredible coverage of the McGovern Campaign in 1972 and his career writing for Rolling Stone magazine (and his discovery of Jimmy Carter), that Gibney's film settles in and takes flight; Gibney does an outstanding job of weaving Thompson's drug use and his addiction to using firearms with his powerful, resonant work as a journalist and writer. Fortunately, Gibney was able to procure the services of Johnny Depp (who played Thompson's alter-ego Raoul Duke in Gilliam's film of Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas) to provide the voice of Thompson's written words, and Depp's readings (and Gibney's generous use of Thompson's incredible writing) provide a very moving reminder of Thompson's genius and insight; There is hardly a passage in the film that doesn't somehow feel like an elegy for today's America. Gibney restores Thompson to his rightful place as one of our culture's greatest critical voices, a voice that, despite some difficult times negotiating between living the "gonzo" lifestyle and providing the depth of creative feeling so crucial to his writing, carried at its heart the search for the ever-elusive American Dream.

In retrospect, I think Thompson found what he was looking for in the outsized life he created for himself, but Gibney also clearly conveys Thompson's despondency that the dream was never shared by his fellow citizens. While Thompson embraced the fullness of experience and followed his interests with an unrivaled passion, he saw our America as a land of "used car salesmen who... don't give a damn " about the suffering they inflict on others. Gibney clarifies Thompson's moral stance as being a true extension of the uncompromising life he lived, and as Thompson's suicide comes into focus, the film somehow manages to transform itself into a celebration not only of the maverick, but a longing to forge a society that embraces him. Gonzo restored Thompson to me and reminded me of how his words could tear you two when you read them. Heading home, alone on the bus against the darkness of the mountains, I couldn't help smiling. A model life? No, but suddenly, late at night, a deep empathy and the need to live up to those words, to find them in myself, in this time.

A full slate of films in my first two days has me dizzy and unfocused; So many friendly faces, so many movies... It has been a very productive start for us since the Press and Industry screenings began, but not all of the good news has been coming from the Sundance films themselves; While one of the best films I've seen in Park City was a special screening in our condo (a film we're very excited to bring to Sarasota... more when we announce the program), we've also been fortunate to run into colleagues and finish up some other programming business in between screenings. So far, so good.

I've been to eleven films in the first two days, and while I haven't yet seen a dud, there are two movies that stand out from the crowd; Marina Zenovich's Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired, a tremendously engaging look at Polanski's trial for illegal sexual activity with a 13-year old girl, and Lance Hammer's beautifully realized Ballast, which puts Bressonian techniques to use in the rural, impoverished Mississippi Delta. The films couldn't have been further apart in their tone, techniques and concerns, but they provided the perfect bookends to a decent day at the movies, with some electric moments that affected me deeply.

First up was Polanski and I couldn't have started the day on a better note; I was regretting skipping the Magnolia karaoke party, but my absence was in good faith; This was a movie I had to see. I rolled out of bed at 7:15 am to be sure I made it to the 8:30 screening; No regrets. I have been dropping hints here and there that one of my ideal film making projects* would be to create a Roman Polanski biopic with Matthieu Amalric in the role of the director, so I came to Zenovich's film with a good deal of understanding about Polanski's life and career. None of my own internal curiosity and expectations mattered when the lights went down and the screen lit up; Using archival footage, modern day interviews with most of the surviving players (the subject himself is only seen in archival interviews) and clips from Polanski's films as visual punctuation to the real-life events unfolding on the screen, Zenovich deftly tells the story of Polanski's notorious crime and his subsequent punishment. Polanski's story is really two stories; The story of a brilliant artist whose life is shattered by a series of tragedies (the death of his mother in a Polish Concentration Camp, the brutal murder of his wife Sharon Tate by the Manson family) and the story of a manipulative playboy whose outrageous desires run him afoul of American law. Polanski is both men at once, and Zenovich understands the fractured relationship between Polanski's dark, creative impulses, the horrors that he endured in his personal life, the charming smile he wore for the cameras and his seductive qualities as a brilliant artist living in hard-partying Hollywood. As Zenovich paints him, you'd think Polanski is capable of doing something terrible while also sensing he couldn't hurt a fly.

Which, unfortunately, wasn't the case in real life; One night in 1977, Polanski gave drugs and alcohol to a 13 year old model and, let's talk plainly, raped her. The girl, now a woman, is named and interviewed in the film, and despite her magnanimous presence, there is a tension in this film which, on the surface, appears to downplay the severity of the victim's charges. But on closer examination, Zenovich follows the facts and the record in coming to her conclusions; Polanski was never formally tried for rape, instead pleading guilty to a reduced charge of "unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor." This discrepancy, between what I believe are the conditions of rape (the victim repeatedly saying no, the fact that no law will allow for sexual consent from a 13 year old) and the court's ultimate compromise, allowing Polanski to plea bargain, are not tackled as political issues in the film, and that decision ultimately presented a conflict in my mind in terms of the film's portrayal of Polanski as the victim of Judge Laurence Rittenband, who never saw a news camera whose lens he didn't covet. Clearly, Rittenbrand's own ego and refusal to allow the conditions of a fairly negotiated plea bargain to stand put Polanski in an untenable position, but the judge's refusal to consider the best interests of the victim in the case was even more infuriating. I wouldn't say that Zenovich has made some sort of omission, but her recognition of the humanity of both Polanski and his victim, her understanding that, despite his guilt, Polanski deserved to be treated fairly by the criminal justice system (as did the young woman he victimized), presented a complex dilemma for me; I couldn't help drawing some sort of parallel in my mind between the two of them when, in fact, what Polanski's victim endured is far worse than what Polanski, who put himself in the situation to begin with, has had to bear. But this is what makes Zenovich's choice so important; Without clearly expressing the humanity of everyone involved, the story would be a cliché crime story. Zenovich's film is something else entirely.

Putting the issue of equivocating the victims to the side, the film itself is a gorgeously assembled record of the era and it features some incredible footage put to brilliant use; The stand out for me was an amazing archival tracking shot of Polanski leaving the courthouse, mobbed by the press, set to Led Zeppelin's thundering Immigrant Song. There are grainy interviews with Polanski himself, from 60 Minutes and the BBC, which allow the eloquent Director to argue for the totality of his life's work against the darkness of a single indiscretion, but the heart of the film is Polanski's devastation when confronted with the loss of his wife at the hands of the Manson Family (who, surprisingly, only get a passing mention... another film, perhaps.) Zenovich recounts how, in the immediate aftermath of Sharon Tate's murder, the press drew parallels between Polanski's films and the crime, some going as far as to implicate Polanski himself (drawing ridiculous parallels between the satanic cult in Rosemary's Baby and the Manson cult's bloody messages.) In the film's most moving moment, one I have never seen before, Polanski addresses the press in the immediate aftermath of the murder, fighting to hold back tears as he expresses both his own personal loss and the pain of being somehow implicated in the death of the woman he loved. In moments like these, which are plentiful and beautifully constructed, Zenovich paints a complex portrait of a very complicated artist whose troubled life lead him to a crucial, painful mistake.

At the opposite end of the cinematic spectrum, Lance Hammer's debut feature film Ballast is a slow-burning revelation. Lawrence (Micheal J. Smith Sr.) discovers his brother's suicide and is so shattered by the experience, he attempts to take his own life while a concerned neighbor looks on. James (JimMyron Ross) is a latch-key kid who owes money to some local thugs; Instead of asking his mother Marlee (Tarra Riggs) for help, James decides to take matters into his own hands. That ill-advised decision sets off a series of misadventures for he and Marlee which lands them in an abandoned house right next door to Lawrence and into a new set of complicated relationships. It would be a shame to give away too many plot points in the film, because one of the true pleasures of watching Ballast is allowing the Hammer's story to unfold in its own unique way. Visually, the film is a stunningly photographed series of cramped, impoverished interiors, tight tracking shots and close ups which bring to mind Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne's Rosetta and L'Enfant or, say, the empty fields and silences of Bruno Dumont's L'Humanité but which feel absolutely American in their tone and texture. The use of first-time actors also lends a feeling of down and dirty realism to the film, especially because of Hammer's choices in both framing and editing; His camera often observes these characters from a doorway or over a shoulder, collapsed in exhausted sleep, or silently grieving in an empty room. The film's copious silences and perfectly timed cuts bring a truly haunted sensibility to the film and especially to Lawrence's character, who Hammer shoots in a series of brief, silent moments, his dead brother an almost physical presence that can do nothing to alleviate Lawrence's inarticulate, physically tangible suffering.

As with the Dardennes, Hammer's film ultimately focuses on an emerging, makeshift family born of tragedy, but the film never feels derivative because of its regional sensibility and outstanding performances; The dilapidated trailer homes, the frozen fields where crops never seem to grow, the piles of detritus that line the sparsely populated roads, the small town ambition to have some modicum of control over one's own life all feel like timely reminders of the reality in 21st century America. And while Hammer's film gradually builds toward forgiveness and redemption on a personal level, the tragic circumstances that set the story in motion provide a constant sense of tension throughout the film. Will the thugs finally catch up with James? And what of the gun that Lawrence hides under his couch after he fails at his own suicide attempt? Hammer brilliantly uses sound and the margins of the frame to keep things simmering; The pop of every tire against the shallow gravel could bring trouble, the reflection of oncoming headlights on a dark and stormy road might mean the end. And yet, Ballast is nothing if not hopeful, and in a perfectly executed (if unexpected) final sequence, Hammer delivers enough possibility to satisfy our best wishes for his characters. What a relief to find an American filmmaker telling a compelling story, telling it so assuredly and in such a way as to invite comparison to greatness. In a festival that promised us more than its fair share of quirky families in crisis, Ballast feels like a genuine discovery; A film with the courage and ambition to treat its audience like adults and to bring American cinema the serious, compelling voice of a fully developed artist.

Off to bed. More soon.

* All of my "film making projects" are ideals, since I have no plans to ever make a film and no experience at all... but I digress.

The inevitable first blog post from a film festival is one of my least favorite writing rituals; I, like everyone else, flew into Salt Lake City. I was indeed on an airplane. I landed. I caught a shuttle. I checked into our condo (it's fancy pants). It's cold here. I went and got my badge and catalogue. My schedule is set. I had a wonderful dinner last night with some new friends and some old. Tonight, another dinner with my co-workers, another cozy get together, and sleep. Tomorrow, screenings begin in earnest (I have 6 scheduled). Who gives a shit? Same as it ever was.

But this year, with all of the talk once again focused on the acquisitions business and the lofty commercial expectations many of the films at festival enjoy, I feel almost completely detached from everyone else's festival. I come here every year in search of films that we can share with audiences back in Sarasota, and ever since we've started coming, we've always found some terrific movies. The Press and Industry Office staff, the Programming staff, the festival volunteers, everyone is working hard to celebrate the art of film; They all do a great job. That said, it's hard not to grow tired of the double life of Sundance, the way in which the festival nurtures and cultivates this frenzied industry activity while maintaining an aloof distance from what they've sown. After a few visits, it all starts to feel like déja vu. Every year, we're celebrating the annual "best ever line-up" of "diverse films." At this point, every time I read a quote from a festival staffer standing back from the sales activity as if they were victimized by it, my eyes automatically roll. How do you quote a $45 million dollar sales figure after prefacing it with "The industry is exhausted?" Focus On Film? Sure, but you can't have it both ways.

That said, who am I to argue? I really do love it here, love seeing friends and colleagues, talking about the films, making connections with new and interesting people of all stripes and hopefully bringing some films that we like back to our own festival. Sundance is a great film festival, maybe because of all of its contradictions. I'll be writing plenty of posts from the festival and taking in a ton of movies... plenty more coming soon. Off to dry my socks and put my feet up for a few minutes. Not that anyone would possibly care about that. Sigh.

This blog has only been around for four years or so, and in that time, I have rarely had the occasion to voice one of the great cinephilic obsessions of my life; Whatever happened to Erick Zonca? There is probably no movie from the great 1990's that meant as much to me as his feature-length debut, The Dreamlife Of Angels; It is, in my mind, the perfect film about female friendship, the need to be loved, and the way in which the alienation of labor strikes at the heart of interpersonal relations. I think the movie is a masterpiece and it stands alongside My Sex Life....(or how I got into an argument) as the seminal movie of my 20's. It also opened me up to films like Laurent Cantet's amazing Humans Resources and Timeout; Dreamlife is one of the most important films in my life for its ability to address working class concerns and great human drama with equal dexterity.

After seeing Dreamlife countless times in the theater in 1998, I was thrilled to discover Zonca's short films Seule (Alone) and the absolutely amazing Le Petit Voleur (The Little Thief) when New Yorker Films gave them a theatrical run at Film Forum back in 1999. The three films still stand as absolute revelations; Their humanism and gritty, unflinching look at economic desperation heralded the work of a major artist. Zonca's three films exist for me as near-perfect cinematic experiences; All three carry brilliant performances, compelling stories and each has its own haunting final shot that any artist in his or her right mind would die for.

2 Gems!

Which is why, when I stumbled upon David Hudson's post about Zonca's new film Julia playing in competition in Berlin, I just about fell out of my chair. I have been tracking Zonca's projects online for years, but in recent months, I have to admit that I stopped looking. I just assumed that, like many great artists whose work I admire, perhaps he only had one film in him. I am so happy to be wrong! I am also hopeful that Zonca isn't one of those Victor Erica types, making a movie every decade and leaving his fans drooling for more. Or maybe he is. Either way, I am head over heels with excitement to see the new film. The description makes it sound like the perfect vehicle for Zonca's poetic realism;

"A woman (Tilda Swinton) tries to extort money, using a young boy as bait."

That seems a terrific scenario for Zonca's traditional concerns, but I remembered reading that the film is a remake (sort-of) of John Cassavetes Gloria. I hadn't heard anything since, but now it looks like the real deal. Cassavetes meets Zonca? That's doubly amazing. With this film marking the Director's English language debut, I probably shouldn't be surprised, but I have to ask; How does Tilda Swinton do it? The woman has the best taste in directors of anyone I have ever seen and she constantly takes risks, working with amazing people. Thinking of her work in Tim Roth's bleak The War Zone, I can totally see her knocking a role like this out of the park. It's all just too exciting; I'm off to add Julia to the top of my must-see list for 2008.

Update: Another summary which hints at some serious differences between this film and Gloria... still sounds terrific...

I loved 2007 for a variety of reasons; I got married, the film festival continues to grow by leaps and bounds and I finally got to see Paris (and fell in love with the city). On a personal level, it was a great year. Maybe my optimism made an impact, but my time seeing, thinking and writing about movies felt completely sympathetic with my own experiences; Lots to enjoy, plenty to be excited about.

But it was the world outside of the shelter of the movie theater that was so troubling; Politics continued to haunt me, and despite some powerful movies about the ongoing military occupation of Iraq, the crisis in Darfur, U.S. torture policy, the abuses of the U.S. Health Care industry, no single film could possibly encapsulate the overwhelming sense of deep regret that hung like a cloud above American public life this year. Taken collectively, the response of the cinema to the sour, divisive times in which we live seemed incoherent, wavering between shrieking generalization and stories so deeply committed to the facts, their scope and impact remained fixed like a single beam of light against a sea of bullshit. Most upsetting to me is that, somehow, fiction appears to have been neutered; Narrative films in particular proved to be absolutely flaccid in their attempts to depict the outrageous disconnect between day-to-day American life and the nightmare of our nation’s global responsibility. Something has silenced us, and art seemed incapable of encapsulating the depth and breadth of our schizophrenic days; Who will give voice to this deep need?

In my experience, 2007 was a year when the movies provided a one-sided escapism, validating the changes in my life as being connected to a larger world while simultaneously distancing me from the larger realities of public life. I am not so sure that is a good thing at all; I have always imagined the movie theater as a public space where people gather to collectively engage in new stories and ideas about the world. That said, the pleasures of escapism are legion; More than ever, it felt good to have the weight of the world taken off my shoulders by stories that touched upon a wide variety of human experience. At the same time, it wasn’t difficult to remember that, as the house lights came up and the crowds spilled out into the streets, scattering in a million different directions at once, we were all headed back to the specter of real life, the place where our responsibilities as citizens cannot justly be ignored.

With these competing feelings bouncing around in my head, the moments that shaped my 2007…

10. The Landlord and The French Connection at Film Forum and Straight Time at The Brooklyn Academy Of Music

Sometimes, a trip to the movies is as much about the company you keep as it is the stories on the screen; This year, no movie-going friend was as engaging and fun as Ry Russo-Young, who met up with me a few times for some late-afternoon screenings at Film Forum. Ry's passion for the stories and cinematic representations of 1970's New York really made an impression on me. Always so enthusiastic, looking for things to love in a movie instead of things to criticize, Ry was 2007's kindred spirit at the movie theater; An artist who thinks like a programmer, a person so passionate and alive with the possibility of cinema, you couldn't help but want to see movies with her. This is such a rare gift, to find a friend that sees the movies like you do, it was a real treat to spend some time with her. The same goes for my friends Paul and Jessica, good friends who treated the Mrs. and me to a screening of Ulu Grosbard's Straight Time at BAM. It was a great movie, but more importantly, it was nice to spend time with friends and simply enjoy the conversation over a post-screening meal. Too often, going to the movies becomes such an introspective experience, especially when you see as many as I do. These evenings with friends stand out as being a memorable way to engage in community and the love of movies. I look forward to many more nights like these in 2008.

9. Munyurangabo at The Toronto Film Festival

After a week of stomping past the crush of press and industry delegates that flooded so many of the industry screenings at Toronto, I have to admit that I took real pleasure walking into Lee Issac Chung's Munyurangabo amidst a sea of unconscionably empty seats. At the same time, it was a real disgrace; One of the best movies I saw in 2007, Munyurangabo was a devastatingly powerful story of hope and redemption, and I truly believe it is a towering achievement for American independent cinema. Where was everybody? It seems almost unbelievable that a movie like this could be made, let alone be this good, but the state of the business being what it is, I probably shouldn't be surprised that the press screening was almost empty. The word on the street is that the film is looking for distribution and may show up at a few more festivals this year; I'm hopeful that Sarasota will end up on the schedule. In the meantime, if Munyurangabo ends up at a theater near you, do whatever you have to do to go see it. This was the one movie that changed my year and filled me with a renewed faith in American independent film.

8. The New York Film Festival Press Conferences

As a festival programmer, part of my job is to moderate Q&A's with attending talent after film screenings. This is always a dicey proposition; You never know what type of question is going to be asked and what type of tap-dancing you'll have to undertake to keep things respectable. I have, however, never had the luxury of moderating a Q&A for an industry-only audience. You would assume that when fielding questions from a room full of professionals, the level of discourse would increase. You would be wrong. Each and every year, the post-screening Press Conferences at the New York Film Festival dazzle and inspire, sometimes in a great way (John Landis' hilarious press conference for Mr. Warmth this year, the incredibly verbose Warren Beatty fielding two questions in 45 minutes after last year's Reds screening) and sometimes, for all of the wrong reasons.

This year's batch of NYFF Press Conferences featured a couple of golden moments that literally made my skin crawl. I have to admit, I secretly love the pain of these moments; They hurt so good. First, it is important to remember that most of the people who attend the Press Screenings at the NYFF are actually paid to be there; These are primarily media professionals who use these screenings to get an advance look at the films they will be writing about in the coming weeks. There are also some major donors to the Film Society who get to escape the crowds and lines at the public screenings and attend the Press screenings. Fair enough; You give enough money, you can operate the projector for all I care. I can't vouch for the identity of the following two questioners, but it's exchanges like these that keep me coming back year after year. Brilliant.

I should say, the following moments are inexact summaries of actual exchanges, but they're very close to verbtim. I wish I were kidding.

Moment #1: The Diving Bell and The Butterfly Press Conference, Walter Reade Theater

The ever-prickly Julian Schnabel ascends the stage in his pajamas. As Richard Peña dives in with an opening question, Schnabel tells Peña to "relax" and to let him have a glass of water first. The audience sits in silence as Schnabel unscrews the cap on his water bottle, pours the water into a glass, mutters something into the mic, takes a big drink of water and graciously (cough) allows the Press Conference to begin.

Peña: You sir, in the back.

Man: Yes, I had a question for the Director. Why did you keep showing the women reading the alphabet to Jean-Dominique? I don't understand why he kept blinking and then they would start over reading the alphabet every time. That didn't seem to make much sense.

Schnabel: Ummmm... That is how he communicated. When they arrived at the letter he wanted, he would blink to indicate the letter of his choice. Did you not get that?

Man: Wait a minute, then how did he write the book?

Schnabel: I think I must have failed in some way if it wasn't clear to you that he was communicating by blinking--

Man: Hold on... You're telling me that this guy wrote a whole book by blinking his eye? While they read him the alphabet?

Schnabel : Yes.

(Stunned silence for a good 30 seconds as the implications of the fact that somehow, somewhere, this man was cashing some sort of paycheck slowly became manifest in the room.)

Moment #2: Before the Devil Knows You're Dead Press Conference, Walter Reade Theater

Woman: A question, Mr. Lumet.

Sidney Lumet: Yes...

Woman: I noticed that when Phil Hoffman was trashing his apartment after his wife left him, he took the bowl of rocks on his coffee table and dumped it out. When he did that, the camera clearly focuses in on two crystals, a purple crystal and a white crystal. Were you trying to make some point about Mr. Hoffman's character's spirituality with these crystals?

Lumet: No, the Production Designer put a bowl of rocks on the coffee table and I asked Philip to turn over the bowl, which he did.

We could go on for hours... you get the idea. Whew. Amazing.

7. No End In Sight At Sundance and Film Forum

One of the most powerful cinematic experiences I had all year, the moment that really brought the U.S. Occupation of Iraq home for me, was at my second screening of Charles Ferguson's No End In Sight in early August at Film Forum. I had seen the film at Sundance back in January and was completely blown away and outraged by the precision of Ferguson's (as I said at the time) "point by point disemboweling of the Bush Administration’s handling of the war in Iraq." When I took my sister to see the film some eight months later, nothing at all had changed. The movie was, if anything, more relevant than it was eight months prior. Nothing outlines the stasis of our times for me like the realization that in eight months, one of the most timely and pressing movies I saw in January had become more timely and more pressing. A whole year later, now, and I know that the stories and lessons on display in No End In Sight are still relevant to our current policies and decisions overseas; I find this terribly depressing and so outrageous, it almost paralyzes me.

6. My Own Private Idaho at the Cinematheque Francaise

On our first night in Paris, the Mrs. humored me and we sprinted off to the Cinematheque Francaise for a screening of Gus Van Sant's My Own Private Idaho. Needless to say, the movie itself mattered less than being in the hallowed halls of the Cinematheque. It was an amazing experience; the first and only time I've been to Paris after so many years of seeing the city on film. Obviously, Henri Langlois is a hero to every film programmer in the world (or he should be), and so to see a film in the institution he worked so hard to build was a true honor. Curiously, I also found a small relic of his past, buried under some graffiti; The entrance to the now-destroyed Musée du Cinema, a ghostly reminder of Langlois' genius.

What Is

What Was

5. Silent Light at the New York Film Festival

I loved this movie. What I loved most about it, and this screening in particular, is the way in which slowly, one by one, all of my preconceptions were turned on their heads; Maybe I was expecting Reygadas to echo Japón or Battle In Heaven (which I have always liked), but Silent Light was the only movie I saw all year which felt literally other-worldly. Much has been made of the film's Macintosh Screensaver opening and closing sequences which, whatever their origins, provided an absolutely perfect set of bookends for the existential sexual crisis at the film's heart. I also saw the film having been married for about one month, so maybe I took some perverse pleasure in my empathetic response to the characters and their situation. No matter; Here was a movie about magic, love and resurrection that struck a chord in my atheist's heart.

"The film, which is in the medieval German Plautdietsch dialect, has been discussed in spiritual terms, probably because it features a faithful family at its core, but I didn't find anything remotely spiritual about it; The movie is absolutely carnal, deeply connected to the majesty and beauty of the knowable, physical world."

No small feat. This one is destined to be a favorite for a long time to come.

4. Killer of Sheep at The IFC Center

Somehow, some way, my summer screening of Charles Burnett's amazing Killer Of Sheep was my first-ever visit to the IFC Center. Yes, the facility was terrific, but even after all of anticipation I felt prior to this screening, nothing could prepare me for the film itself; I have no doubt that Killer of Sheep is an absolute masterpiece, as phenomenal and dynamic a movie as I have ever seen. As I wrote when I saw it:

"When Stan and his wife, wrapped in the shadow of a dirty window, slowly dance to Dinah Washington's performance of The Bitter Earth, her hands digging into his shirtless back, her sexual desire unfulfilled and her knowledge of the unbending reality of her situation as a wife and woman; This moment was transformative for me. As cinematic a definition of longing and regret as you are likely to ever see."

I still haven't been able to shake this movie, one that will probably stand alongside Killing Of A Chinese Bookie and Manhattan as my favorite films of the 1970's. Sometimes the order in which you discover things makes a huge difference; Something about finding Killer of Sheep in 2007 seemed like perfect timing for me. I was ready for it, and it still knocked me out.

3. The Echo Chamber

2007 was the year that I finally established a deep connection to the internet as my primary source of cinematic community. I spent some time every day, literally every day, checking blogs, clicking links and reading what my fellow writers think about movies. I left comments (sometimes to my own detriment) and read comment sections (which often provided the most entertaining reading of all), I set up RSS Feeds, e-mailed some writers I liked and finally realized that there are a few people other than my mom who actually read this blog. For the first time ever, I felt like I was a part of an actual living, breathing community of people who give a damn about cinema, people who write about their cinematic passions and engage one another in a lively, never-ending discussion of movies.

For a guy who spent his teenage years in near-isolation while renting movies from a video store and his college years haunting half-empty art house theaters, this is no small thing at all. Couple it with the fact that I live in one of three or four places in America that provides safe harbor to people like me, people who love the diversity of cinema, and I feel very lucky to be alive in this time and even more lucky to have the opportunity afforded by this blog to plug into the world around me.

Which is why I get so annoyed reading so many criticisms of the blogs I admire as "insular echo chambers", of film criticism as "irrelevant", and of people who blow off cinephiles as being out of touch and "elitist". If anything, the opposite is true; All of the bloggers I admire discuss a wide range of film, and the films many of them get passionate about are the films that no one else is talking about at all. Bloggers are engaged in a new, unique critical function-- a living, breathing dialogue that unfolds in real time, where opinions bend and are clarified, movies are championed and re-examined, and people form communities around the larger conversation.

I read a lot of on-line film writing, but I also invariably make up my own mind about every single film I see. To accuse bloggers and writers of participating in "group think" is a gross oversimplification; This is an active community of individuals who go to films and write about them in order to participate in a conversation that matters to us. We write and discuss not because we want to agree and be included, but because the community will tolerate all different types of thinking; Even our biggest naysayers are included in the discussion, whether they like it or not. So, I would like to declare 2008 the end of the echo chamber. Instead, may the new year continue to foster conversation among any who care to join in the discussion.

2. Generation D.I.Y. And The Backlash

This year, I was proud to host a large, diverse group of young filmmakers at The Sarasota Film Festival; Joe Swanberg and Greta Gerwig (Hannah Takes The Stairs), Ry Russo-Young (Orphans), Craig Zobel (Great World Of Sound), Zack Godshall and Barlow Jacobs (Low And Behold), Nate Meyer (Pretty In The Face) and Aaron Katz (Quiet City) all made the trip to the festival to share their work with an appreciative audience. It felt special having them (and everyone else) here and as someone who enjoyed all of their films, I was proud and excited to have been able to showcase the work of these filmmakers. Obviously, we weren't alone; After premiering at SXSW, IFC Films acquired Hannah and the good folks at the IFC Center built a two-week program around many of these films (among others) called The New Talkies: Generation D.I.Y. Suddenly, the internet was ablaze with a critical examination of the films, the moment and what it all meant. And then, all hell broke loose.

Exhibit A: Amy Taubin, who took each filmmaker on his own terms and, in her cruel, personal attack on Joe Swanberg, galvanized the debate about the movies and the people that make them. I don't agree with Amy Taubin, but I certainly defend her right to say whatever the fuck she wants about any movie she wants. I also think her defensiveness about the reaction to her brutal piece is a bit disingenuous. Take, for example, her attack on Jeff Reichert 's and Eugene Hernandez's professionalism regarding the row over indieWIRE's Southland Tales review:

"Given that the editor of Indiewire recently questioned my "Film Comment" article on "mumblecore" for being too "personal," by which I can only imagine that he meant he felt "personally" attacked for his involvement in hyping a non-existent movement, I now must wonder if he also misunderstands the meaning of professionalism. For the record, I think "Southland Tales" is a terrific movie, and there's nothing personal about this critical assessment except that it is written by a thinking, feeling human being, who also has no professional conflict of interest in the matter. Yrs., amy taubin"

See, that's kind of bullshit: You can call Joe Swanberg a "lout", a "loud mouth" who "deep throat(s) his own foot," a man whose world view is "reason enough to bring back the draft" and whose films are "smug" and "blatantly lazy" , whose "greatest talent is for getting attractive, seemingly intelligent women to drop their clothes and evince sexual interest", but to then pretend it isn't personal, and on top of it to feign victimization at the hands of those who call bullshit on the attack, well, get serious. Like I said, I defend Amy Taubin's right to say whatever the fuck she wants to say, but she should at least have the courage to stand by her statements without pretending she's been misunderstood. Anyway. I have never been one to categorize films into movements or groups; Every movie stands on its own merits in my mind. But it was hard not to get roped into the discussion about these films once the conversation got started. My post about the films, written on the eve of the IFC Center's series, is the one post I wrote this year of which I am the most proud. Whatever you feel about the hype or the publicity, here's hoping that people took the time to see the films and make up their own minds.

1. 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days at The New York Film Festival

The best film I saw in a movie theater all year long was Cristi Mungiu's 4 Months, 3 weeks and 2 Days. I wrote about the film back in October, but the film has really stayed with me, probably because I am thinking of starting my own family, thinking of the deeply personal decisions involved in the choice to become a parent. This movie is pure terror, absolute anxiety. As I wrote when I saw it:

"As the right to choose an abortion is continually evaluated in the political context of a world where feminism's hard-won victories seem commonplace, the film provides a painful reminder of the indignities suffered when politics and morality are imposed on the private decisions of individuals. Gabita's decision to not become a mother, as late as it arrives in the process, is as difficult and painful a choice as could be made, but it is Otilia's experience, that of a woman forced into the role of a criminal for facilitating that choice, that allows the film to escape the clichés of a cautionary tale and transcend as great drama."

No sequence in a film this year has haunted me like Otilla's search for a dumpster on the mean streets of Bucharest, a galvanizing moment that perfectly locates the social responsibility inherent in the freedom of choice. As a man who is thinking of starting a family of his own, the fundamental necessity of that choice is more resonant to me than ever.

***

The Best In Theatrical Distribution (as submitted to indieWIRE)

(Note: I haven't yet seen There Will Be Blood and I didn’t count 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days' one week black-boxing in Los Angeles as its theatrical run; That film will certainly be on my Best of 2008 list).

The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford
Away From Her
Dans Paris
The Diving Bell And The Butterfly
I'm Not There
Into Great Silence
Killer Of Sheep
Lake Of Fire
Rescue Dawn
No Country For Old Men
No End In Sight
Zodiac
Zoo

Previous Lists

2006

2005

2004