September 13 (aka English Language Film Day)
The Cider House Rules
Directed by Lasse Hallström
Cast: Tobey Maguire, Charlize Theron, Delroy Lindo, Paul Rudd, Michael Caine
U.S. Distribution: Miramax
*** ½ / A-Bracingly old-fashioned in its sensibilities -- I was reminded of Gillian Armstrong's Little Women in many patches -- The Cider House Rules is filled with a sweetness that's engaging and frequently touching. It's a thoroughly sentimental picture, aided immeasurably by Tobey Maguire's vulnerable charisma and Michael Caine's poignant performance; lines which could play as hokey succeed due to the prevailing sincerity in John Irving's storytelling. I was most satisfied by the affecting orphanage scenes, rather than the love story or the Delroy Lindo subplot (though not due to any deficiency in the actor's performance.) Rachel Portman's score is especially good.
More comments forthcoming.
[U.S.A. / 129 minutes / Gala / Uptown 1]
The Five Senses
Directed by Jeremy Podeswa
Cast: Mary-Louise Parker, Pascale Bussières, Brendan Fletcher, Marco Leonardi, Nadia Litz, Daniel MacIvor, Molly Parker, Gabrielle Rose, Philippe Volter
U.S. Distribution: none as of this writing
*** / BNot a prequel to The Sixth Sense, obviously (although given that film's success, some misleading promotion may be in order). Etheral, haunting, and very well acted (Gabrielle Rose, in particular, is splendid). Very impressive work by a clearly-gifted director who lives up to his hype as Canada's hottest emerging filmmaking talent; Podeswa also helps his cause by underplaying the theme of lost senses on an obvious level, burying it instead within a series of acutely-tuned subplots.
(It occured to me during the screening that among the major trends in American filmmaking during the 1990s were: Quentin Tarantino, for the stream of Reservoir Dogs- and Pulp Fiction-like fare that hit the market in his wake; Scream, for the revival of the teen slasher genre over the past five years; and Christina Ricci -- it seems like every dour, sullen teenage girl depicted onscreen is now a dark-haired, pasty cherub: Thora Birch fits the description for the upcoming American Beauty, and in The Five Senses, Nadia Litz (who's very solid here) qualifies as well.)
More comments forthcoming.
In attendance: director/screenwriter Jeremy Podeswa, producer Camelia Frieberg
[Canada / 106 minutes / Perspective Canada / Cumberland 2]
All The Rage
Directed by James D. Stern
Cast: Joan Allen, Jeff Daniels, Andre Braugher, Robert Forster, Gary Sinise, Bokeem Woodbine, Josh Brolin, Anna Paquin, David Schwimmer, Giovanni Ribisi
U.S. Distribution: none as of this writing
* / D-I can't possibly think of a reason why the accomplished actors in the ensemble cast of All The Rage were drawn to this bizarre disaster of a film -- was the original stageplay this loopy? It ostensibly appears to position itself as a polemic decrying the proliferation of guns in society, though it's unconvincing in that respect and all so scattershot that my interest quickly veered away from the film's Altman-esque narrative and towards incredulity at the sheer wackiness of it all. (The Gary Sinise thread alone moves the story completely out of the realm of reality.) The instructions to the cast appear to have been to overact as much as possible, resulting in a picture which is shrill and consistently unfunny -- it even shoots itself in the foot with its opening credit sequences, which initially appear to be innocous and clever but are later revealed as veritable plot spoilers. For what it's worth, Giovanni Ribisi has one very funny bit acting up at a shooting rage, but Anna Paquin continues to confound when it comes with playing characters her own age, and I can't express my shock that the splendid Joan Allen is involved in this debacle.
More comments forthcoming.
In attendance: director James D. Stern
[U.S.A. / 97 minutes / Special Presentation / Uptown 1]
Just One Time
Directed by Lane Janger
Cast: Joelle Carter, Guillermo Diaz, Jennifer Esposito, Lane Janger, David Lee Russek, Vincent Laresca, Domenick Lombardozzi
U.S. Distribution: none as of this writing
* ½ / DIt wasn't until director Lane Janger's opening comments during the introduction of his feature film Just One Time that I realized I'd previously seen the original short film from which his latest work had been derived. I disliked it then, too.
At least the short was bitingly ironic, illustrating the hypocracy of lesbian chic in the protagonist's comeuppance -- in the feature film, the message is sickeningly obvious schmaltz: the importance of trust between partners, tolerance and acceptance of gays, the damage which unfulfillable sexual fantasies can inflict on relationships, etc. Janger, who wrote, produced, and directed this film, doesn't help matters by casting himself as the leading man.
More comments forthcoming.
In attendance: director/writer/actor Lane Janger, actors Joelle Carter, Guillermo Diaz, Jennifer Esposito, screenwriter Jennifer Vandever, much of the crew
[U.S.A. / 93 minutes / Discovery / Uptown 2]
Boys Don't Cry
Directed by Kimberly Peirce
Cast: Hilary Swank, Chloë Sevigny, Peter Sarsgaard, Brendan Sexton III, Alison Folland, Alicia Goranson, Matt McGrath, Rob Campbell, Jeanetta Arnette
U.S. Distribution: Fox Searchlight
*** ½ / A-Even at its most benign, there's always a disquieting aura of unease running throughout Kimberly Pierce's remarkably assured feature directorial debut, Boys Don't Cry. The opening sequence of the film has our exhilirated protagonist successfully evading a vicious group of youths in Lincoln, Nebraska; the closing segment is also structured as a hunt, but the respective tones of these two points in the movie couldn't make for a greater contrast. In the Lincoln-set introduction, Brandon Teena seems almost reinvigorated by the pursuit, bursting into the sanctuary of his cousin's trailer with a wide grin and a gleam in his eye as his stalkers hurl obscenities and refuse in his direction. It's immediately clear that his targetting isn't a momentary aberration in an otherwise peaceful existence; Brandon's life is established as one of perpetually keeping a step ahead of his attackers -- it plays almost as routine, like a distasteful yet thrilling episode in an adventure. This differs markedly from the final chase, whose tone is as far from jovial as imaginable. Set in nearby Falls City, the scene is shot with long, foreboding shadows and finds a terrorized Brandon confronted by a new, more fearsome set of tormentors. The shift in his demeanour emphatically underlines the gravity of his perilous situation -- he may have learned how to be a survivor, but he's in far over his head now.
Though suffused with a magical optimism, Boys Don't Cry is permeated with an aura of tragic inevitability. As harrowing and heartbreaking as the film often is, what's even more troubling is that its basis is firmly grounded in grim reality. Based on the shocking real-life story of Teena Brandon, a 20-year-old young woman who disguised and passed herself off as a boy called Brandon Teena (and whose tale was brought to the big screen in the 1998 documentary The Brandon Teena Story), Peirce's film follows this unforgettable protagonist as he journeys to the small rural town of Falls City, Nebraska in 1993, quickly ingratiating himself in the local youth scene and establishing a reputation as a charismatic heartbreaker.
As embodied by Hilary Swank in a revelatory performance, Brandon's a slight young man with a boyish haircut, an aw-shucks toothy grin and a gentle confidence with the ladies, and it's not hard to figure out why so many of the lonely local girls succumb to his sensitive charms after taking in a steady dose of the brutish rednecks representative of the town's young male population. Eager to fit in, Brandon adopts a sheepish rough-n-tumble attitude which wins his acceptance with the guys, too -- he engages (none too effectively) in bar fights, and in a defining sequence, cheerily accepts a challenge from the de facto leaders of his newfound clique to ride the back of a pickup in the vehicular version of a rodeo. I've no idea if this sort of makeshift sporting event is a commonplace diversion for bored youth in the heartland, but as we watch young men thrown from the backs of trucks into the mud to the hoots and hollers of onlookers, the sheer absurdity of this beer-drenched Friday night festivity is telling; it quite succinctly illustrates everything you need to know about the climate in this blue-collar town, and underlines Brandon's craving for friendship.
The dare is issued by John Lotter and Tom Nissen, the two local toughs portrayed by Peter Sarsgaard and Brendan Sexton III that rule the town. (Even the authorities are cowed by these ex-cons.) While friendly with Brandon -- well, insofar as their unenlightened macho sensibilities allow -- they maintain an air of intimidatation. Both actors are excellent, particularly Sarsgaard's authentic, nuanced performance of a character which could've easily been reduced to a cartoonish villain. When Brandon's biological gender is eventually uncovered, John and Tom explode in a frighteningly intense rage. Their anger is born from a source that extends well beyond betrayal, from more than ire at being duped by Brandon's deception; it's the sudden realization that it's a woman who's been seducing a string of beauties and has become intimate with John's ex, who's been behaving more quintessentially manly than they could ever manage. For these low-bred punks, this indignity is the ultimate form of emasculation.
The discovery of Brandon's secret is a particularly claustrophobic moment in the film. Occuring during a cramped evening get-together amongst Brandon's new circle of friends, the forced revelation is a bombshell which turns the mood of the gathering on a dime. As Brandon's illusion begins to fray and unravel, shock, revulsion and disbelief quickly give way to seething intolerance and hatred; one of the picture's most unsettling shots depicts the emerging lynch mob mentality in the pack of youths as they menace the retreating Brandon through the narrow hallways of the house. The hostility of Lana's trashy mom (Jennetta Arnette) -- who initially was the most kindly and virtually treated him as a beloved adopted son -- is the most palpable of all; she becomes perhaps the most bloodthirsty in the group, screaming at "it" in a crazed frenzy of anger and fear.
The sequence which leads to Brandon's vicious and horrific rape is an exquisite piece of filmmaking, eliciting a remarkable degree of tension both due to and in spite of its inevitability. As Brandon climbs into the car to be driven to an isolated location, it feels utterly preordained -- we know the likely outcome of this trek, the goons (obviously) know, and even Brandon probably knows, and yet the mock civility of the scenario -- the casual tone of the chit-chat during the drive -- makes it supremely uncomfortable to watch. As the prelude deliberately draws itself out, the sense of dread escalates to an intolerably squirmish level, finally exploding in a punishing outburst of sadism. It's much more powerful than the similarly-wrenching rape scene of Elisabeth Shue's character in Leaving Las Vegas (and, like Shue, Swank's performance in the film will certainly redefine her career) due to the fact that we've become familiar with Brandon's attackers as people; our intimacy with these characters only increases the sense of sickening helplessness as we know of the extent of their capability for cruelty.
The film culminates in a violent finalé that's literally breathtaking in its power, played out with such visceral intensity that you almost want to avert your eyes. Peirce shrewdly provides no easy escape from the devastating conclusion -- to softpedal Brandon's brutalization would be to diminish his experience. A lesser director would have toned down the most horrific moments, thereby making it more palatable; Peirce's raw, unblinking, and painfully honest perspective (which earned the film an NC-17 rating upon intiial submission to the Motion Picture Association of America) is like a kick in the gut. The emotional wallop of Boys Don't Cry's dénouement left me reeling in a way no final act has since Uli Edel's Last Exit To Brooklyn.
If I've made this film sound like a perpetual downer, fear not. Amidst all of the ugliness and anguish, at the core of the picture is an oasis of poignancy -- a dreamy love story between Brandon and a local girl named Lana Tidsell. Portrayed by the gifted actress Chloë Sevigny in a nuanced, emotional performance -- her finest to date -- she seraphically stands out amongst Brandon's boorish new comrades, unmatched (indeed, virtually alone) in her tenderness and compassion towards him. Theirs is a torrid yet delicate affair, quickly evolving from bashful smiles and stolen glances to moments of blissful unity.
Of course, it strains credibility to believe that Lana doesn't quickly realize that there's more to Brandon that meets the eye. The fresh-faced boyish look he employs may successfully mislead from afar, but it takes a grand level of self-delusion for Lana to genuinely believe otherwise when placed in more intimate settings, particularly during their sensitively-photographed lovemaking sessions. This, far from being problematic or distracting, actually lends the transcendent affair a strange sense of beauty, blurring the boundaries between the sexes and prompting a reexamination of what it is that defines a man. (Despite their shared gender, their relationship was not lesbian -- it was decidedly that between a man and a woman.) Lana's complicity in Brandon's disguise, her understanding and acceptance of him as he is adds a layer of beguiling complexity to their relationship and makes their deepfelt romance even more affecting.
It couldn't be as moving or poignant as it is without Chloë Sevigny's terrific work. Hitting just the right note of innocent naiveté -- at one point, Lana muses about a future career as a professional karaoke singer -- Sevigny's utterly convincing as the lovestruck girl and plays her role with a guileless naturalism that's entrancing. To watch her portray Lana's determination at maintaining her illusions of Brandon's masculinity is to watch a fine young actress at the top of her game.
Director Kimberly Peirce has made an auspicious debut with this haunting, emotionally resonant picture. It's not flawless -- the midsection seems to drag a bit, and the hopeful final shot feels forced (albeit probably necessary in order to counteract the despair of the preceding fifteen minutes) -- but it's thoroughly mesmerizing. The film builds so insidiously that I was startled by how wrapped up I became with these people, and I was particularly impressed by the lean, economical screenplay co-written by Peirce and Andy Bienen. It refuses to condescend to the viewer by clumsily laying out huge volumes of exposition and instead drops us right into Brandon's world from the outset; Boys Don't Cry flatteringly hits the ground running. It avoids becoming a polemic about gender politics and instead focuses on its troupe of intriguing and complicated characters.
The entire film hangs on the courageous performance of Hilary Swank, whose portrayal of Brandon is surprisingly credible. My extent of my faniliarity with her previous work was limited to, err, The Next Karate Kid (coincidentally, the aforementioned career U-turn actress Elisabeth Shue also rose from that franchise), so I was completely unprepared for the level of complexity in her performance and the amount of empathy she succeeds in eliciting. It's a marvellous turn which plays even better upon reflection than it does on initial viewing. Perhaps the highest compliment that can be paid to Swank is that she brings an invaluable humanity to her portrayal of Brandon. After a few minutes, she registers onscreen not simply as a woman disguised as a man, but as a person yearning for a better life. Brandon would've liked that.
Initial Take:
Thoroughly riveting -- although being fully aware of the events in the case, my pulse was racing as they unfolded onscreen. Peirce wildly succeeds in the first hour at evoking a specific place and atmosphere, and flatters the audience by keeping exposition to a minimum. The final half of the film is devastating, with the most startling rape scene in an American movie since Last Exit To Brooklyn and Bad Lieutenant. (This picture has been rated NC-17 by the MPAA but will likely be cut down to qualify for an R -- I'm unsure if I screened the original NC-17 cut.) A thoroughly accomplished feature film debut by Peirce, with an arresting performance by Hilary Swank (a surprisingly affecting turn which will completely re-invent her image, à la Elisabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas) as the doomed protagonist, and splendid work by Chloë Sevigny -- it's her best performance to date.
In attendance: director/writer Kimberly Peirce, actors Hilary Swank, Chloë Sevigny, Peter Sarsgaard
[U.S.A. / 114 minutes / Contemporary World Cinema / Uptown 1]
Random Notes: I'm delighted and relieved to have finally run across some films for which I can feel actual enthusiasm as opposed to respect -- still, to date this feels like the most undewhelming festival I've attended ... to be fair, I duly note that the reception to Just One Time in the screening I attended was wildly positive -- the guy next to me told Janger during the Q&A that his film would "win an Academy Award, if they had categories for comedy". I bit my lip to stop from laughing hysterically ... Stern introduced his black(?) comedy All The Rage with a mini-stand-up routine, which ironically proved to be more humorous than his actual film ... rain marred today's festival ...
Alex Fung (aw220@freenet.carleton.ca)
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