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Apr 30, 2014

Actress

 

*This review was originally published at The Film Experience as part of my coverage of the 2014 Hot Docs Film Festival.

Where does an act end for a performer? What happens if the persona seeps in so deep that the performer can never shake it off? Can an actress adopt the traits of the characters she once embodied so deeply that she permanently remains in their skin? How far can passion for the craft take an artist? These are all questions that Robert Greene’s intelligent, artfully constructed documentary, Actress, poses to the audience in the first few minutes.

The subject, Brandy Burre, played the part of Theresa D’Agostino, a recurring character over a 15-episode arc in the third and fourth seasons of The Wire. She was never a star, but her future seemed bright, having taken a prominent role in one of television’s best reviewed series. Yet, her life took a different turn when she decided to move to the small town of Beacon, New York, with her partner Tim after she fell pregnant in the third month of their relationship. Motherhood and the suburban existence was a lifestyle she seemingly welcomed at the time but a few years later, with two young children and ever-shrinking intimacy in her relationship, Burre yearns for a return to the stage. She performs small singing gigs at The Duplex piano bar in New York, but faces the usual, unfortunate obstacles that most women in the entertainment industry face.

Burre has reached the age where roles for women become harder to come by every day. Her years away from the spotlight haven’t helped her either. Actress charts the process of Burre's coming to terms with these difficulties. Yet, there is something more to the film than generalized, however legitimate, grievances about the industry’s treatment of women at large. Actress is an incredibly personal film, one that closes in on its central character and externalizes her inner complexities with grace. It offers a nuanced portrayal of the actress, neither as a vessel through whom simplified ideas about women in film can be deduced, nor as merely a victim of her circumstance. Burre lends the film such complexity, offering a “performance” that teeters back and forth between refined artistry and selfless emotional honesty. The boundaries between the two are intriguingly blurred.

From the opening scene, a slow motion shot of the actress from behind, clad in an incongruously gorgeous red dress, washing dishes as she narrates her experience of being unable to leave her character, “I break things” she says, before proceeding to let a glass slip from her grasp to the floor. This is a sequence that introduces Brandy not just as a natural performer, elegantly embodying a role even in such a mundane setting, but also a woman who’s deeply aware of her ambitions and limitations.

It is quite startling that Actress shifts immediately to a jittery camera after this sequence, and the handheld approach is used throughout most of the rest of the film, with the exception of multiple other slow motion inserts that follow the actress intently and serve to highlight her innate expressiveness. Gradually the director’s visual choices come into focus and gain thematic importance. Intercutting the film’s nervous aesthetic with grand, hauntingly scored, slow motion sequences isn’t just a formal game; it cathects the film intellectual and emotional depth and reflects Brandy’s evolving, perturbed personality. She is a performer whose every gesture suggests a search for a stage that deserves her, but is shackled by her troubled personal life all the same; these shifting tides are carefully aestheticized. Consequently, Actress is, above all else, a film about the line at which presented and represented realities meet, the point where performance becomes truth. That the film tackles these intricate concepts with vigorous formal inventiveness and a unique and fluid visual style makes it an exceptional treat. It belongs to that rare breed of documentary film that doesn’t content itself with merely observing its fascinating subject, but engages with it on a textual level. It's a film we will certainly be hearing about a lot in the next few months; one can only hope the critical attention to Greene and Burre's work transceneds beyond their collaboration here.

Apr 20, 2014

The Father

*This review was originally posted at Hello Cinema.


Majid Majidi started his film career as an actor in the 1980s, with secondary roles in a range of films including Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s Boycott (Baykot, 1985). Because of his limited roles, it was hard to envision then that he would go on to become one of Iran’s most renowned filmmakers. Yet, Majidi established himself as a vital voice when his second feature, The Father, won the top prize at the Fajr Film Festival.

The Father centres on Mehrollah (Hassan Sadeghi), a fourteen-year-old boy who has recently been involved in a motorcycle accident which killed his father. Majidi communicates the details of the death in the opening sequence with an affecting shot-reverse-shot that shows Mehrollah longingly looking at a picture of himself and his father on the road. This scene is the first example of Majidi’s visual approach to storytelling in The Father, a film in which dialogue is used minimally for the purpose of exposition. Gestures, gazes and the mood that the mise-en-scène evokes convey plot points. Assisted by the percussive regional music, the rough, sunburnt setting of the barren Iranian South creates an aggressive atmosphere and externalizes the internal turmoil of the film’s young hero after his traumatic experience.

Mehrollah works in a city near his village to provide for his mother (Parivash Nazarieh) and three sisters. He is audacious and wise beyond his years but only shows his limitless rage and stubbornness upon returning home, when he learns of his mother’s remarriage. His stepfather (Mohammad Kasebi) is a gendarme in the local police force, a respected lawman who, despite his imposing figure, shows immense compassion toward Mehrollah’s sisters.

Mehrollah is incensed at the “replacement” of his father and confronts his mother. Majidi exaggerates Mehrollah’s response to the marriage through his choice of profession for the stepfather: the young boy appears all the more rebellious since standing tall against the gendarme constitutes his disregard for the law itself. Mehrollah’s hostility toward his stepfather manifests itself in different ways and eventually leads him to escape the village. His stepfather tracks him down, but the two men are stranded and hit by a sandstorm on their way back home. Their journey together forms the entirety of The Father’s final act.

Apr 6, 2014

Introducing Hello Cinema

Roohangiz Saminejad in The Lor Girl (1933)

Long time readers of this space are aware of my passion for Iranian cinema. When I started this blog, one of my main goals was to cover this national cinema in a way that had not been done in the English language blogosphere before. Although there has been plenty of writing on Iranian cinema in the academia since the 90s, mainstream criticism has largely ignored the Iranian film industry and I wanted to change that. Hence, it's with immense that I announce my newest venture, Hello Cinema.

Named after Mohsen Makhmalbaf's seminal film, Hello Cinema is a website entirely dedicated to Iranian cinema, co-published by myself and Toronto critic and author, Tina Hassannia. Our website hosts a podcast broadcast on the last Thursday of every month and features plenty of reviews, essays and news items throughout the month.

For more information about this project, please check out the 'About Page' here. You can also subscribe to our podcast on iTunes, like our page on Facebook and follow our account on Twitter.

Apr 5, 2014

Baduk


*This review was originally published at Hello Cinema.

When Majid Majidi’s Baduk (1992) begins, we meet Jafar (Mehrolah Mazazehi) and Jamal (Maryam Tahan), a young brother and sister waiting for their father to return from the depths of a water well in the dry desert of Southeast Iran. Following their short conversation with a group of elderly men which conveys the recent death of the children’s mother, they watch as the soil begins to fall inward on the well, and their father, trapped beneath heaps of sand, loses his short, helpless battle with nature. Left without parental and financial support, Jafar and Jamal leave their small village in search of a better future. In a matter of hours, they’re lured by a man whose ulterior motive is to sell them for profit. Jafar is sold into slavery and trained to become a drug smuggler at the Iran-Pakistan border. Jamal is sold into an underage prostitution ring operated by Saudis in Pakistan. Jafar begins to learn the tricks of the trade, but all he has on his mind is finding his way across the border to rescue his sister.

The opening of Majid Majidi’s debut feature is perhaps the most definitive scene in his career, from a director who would go on to nab Iran’s first ever Oscar nomination with Children of Heaven (Bache-haye Asemaan, 1997). The scene serves as a reference point to which many of the director’s favorite motifs can be connected. In Majidi’s next feature, The Father (Pedar, 1996), the plot is again initiated by the premature death of the protagonist’s father. The intimate relationship between siblings is the thematic fulcrum in Children of Heaven. Humanist explorations of poverty continued to be Majidi’s focus in his work, as did multiethnic tensions and examinations of life in rural Iran. On the surface and the basis of their plots, Children of Heaven is the film with the closest parallels to Baduk. One could even argue that the former tells an innocent, milder version of the same story, in which the stakes have been significantly lowered. Both narratives follow a young boy and the lengths to which he must go to save his sister. Jafar is thrown into the adult world and must sneak across national borders to liberate Jamal from her captors. The burden on Ali’s shoulders in Children of Heaven doesn’t weigh quite as much—he is given the financial responsibility to find Zahra a new pair of shoes—but the thematic foundation is the same. Both films tell stories of young boys who have to punch above their weight in order to provide for their family, yet Baduk is the bolder, more politically daring film.

Baduk navigates, literally and figuratively, the dangerous waters of child slavery, prostitution and the tumultuous politics of Iran’s most underrepresented province in cinema, Sistan and Baluchestan, with poise and subtlety. Very few Iranian films have tackled these issues since. Was it the trouble Majidi faced with censors over Baduk that pushed him into more conservative territory in his later works? Is that why the brutal murder of a young child so openly depicted in this film gave way to the portrayal of death in Color of Paradise, in which “the boy’s soul departed like a fading light” so gracefully?* This is no slight on Majidi’s later films; his oeuvre exhibits remarkable consistency in quality. Plus, provocation alone does not make for a good film and its absence not for a bad one. However, it is intriguing in retrospect that the flag-bearer of humanist cinema in Iran started his directorial career by holding a knife to his audience’s throats. Would Majidi’s career have turned out differently if his first film was celebrated, rather than slashed, by authorities for its critical but compassionate look at Iran’s neglected southeast?

There is no romanticization in Baduk. Majidi plunges so deep into the Baluch milieu, with its long history of social troubles, that the realities of Jafar’s severe circumstances speak volumes without any need for melodrama. The young man’s acts of valor are not consequences of a need for dramatic beats; they are rugged, thorny truths from a part of the country that has barely been recognized for its destitution. The depiction of a child sold into slavery and taught to smuggle drugs from one country to another, climbing across barbed wire in search of his sister is Majidi’s indictment of a reality close to home yet almost seemingly foreign in a national cinema centered in Tehran and populated by films about the city and its residents. Though Majidi’s later works took him on a journey to other distant reaches of rural Iran, none expressed as much ideological audacity as Baduk.

* Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema, Vol. 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984-2010, pg. 221.

Apr 4, 2014

Hellboy


*This review was originally published at The Film Experience

Writing a piece for the anniversary of a superhero film is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the rate at which we get new entries to the pantheon of the genre seems ever increasing to the point of complete satiation – this year alone, we have Captain America, Spider-man and X-Men films awaiting release. These films have become narrower in variety than films of any other genre, perhaps as a result of the culture and industry that cultivates them. Each film gets multiple sequels and reboots, with streamlined, thematically “universal” narratives that maximize profitability across the globe and minimize cinematic character. Hence, a mere ten-year distance from the release date doesn’t appear to warrant any sense of nostalgia.

On the other hand, the frequency of these superhero treats means that their place in the cultural landscape has dramatically changed since 2004. The range of filmmakers and actors who have tackled the superhero universe has expanded, so novelties like the involvement of a lesser known Del Toro and Ron Perlman, Hollywood’s unlikeliest superhero are rarities.

The rapid advance in visual effects technology also means that certain blockbusters from the aughts already have an outdated charm to them. Most importantly, Hollywood has undergone an unfortunate process that a friend succinctly called “epic-ification.” Superhero films – despite borrowing the basic elements of their plots from their original source – are among the biggest culprits. The bar has been significantly raised and shows no sign of becoming touchable any time soon. A superhero can’t save a person, or a group of people; the fate of the universe must rest in his hands. Notice how Christopher Nolan upped the ante from The Dark Knight to The Dark Knight Rises, or what was at stake in The Avengers, or worse yet, the abhorrent Man of Steel.

Apr 3, 2014

March Screening Log

Tahereh Ladanian and Hossein Rezaei in Through the Olive Trees


Through the Olive Trees (Kiarostami, 1994, A+)
A testament to the sheer emotional force of cinema and a reflection of Kiarostami's keen eye for the humanity in tragedy. Through the Olive Trees tells two parallel stories — the film within the film, and the making of the film within the film — that accentuate the boundaries between form and content, and simultaneously stake a claim to their cinematic inseparability. A masterpiece.

Finding Vivian Maier (Siskel/Maloof, 2014, B-) (review)
The story of Maier’s life is so fascinating that it overcomes the film’s shortcomings. Maloof’s vibrancy and wide-eyed curiosity for Vivian’s work is incredibly affecting and pierces through the screen.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (Anderson, 2014, A-)
As delicious a treat as Mendl's bakery. Anderson's eccentric humor and bright, dioramic aesthetics feel more at home in his construction of a world than they ever did in his recreations of the world. Funny, poetic, soulful and thoroughly enjoyable.

The White Balloon (Panahi, 1995, A)

A remnant of Kiarostami's pre-90s concerns with socially conscious children's stories, The White Balloon is rich and delightful. A beautiful combination of Kiarostami sparse, observational writing and Panahi's verve in his first try behind the camera; and one of the most memorable films about the Iranian Nowruz celebration, too.

The Philadelphia Story (Cukor, 1940, B+) (review)
"This being one of the crowning achievements of slapstick comedies of the Classic Hollywood period, the text is all humor and wit with no fat to trim, but the fulcrum of The Philadelphia Story's screenplay is the meticulously rendered characterization of its ensemble."

Arabian Nights (Pasolini, 1974, B+)
Daring to go where Middle Eastern cinema never does, Pasolini embraces the famous folklore in all its anachronistic glory, accentuating both the brilliant and the ridiculous in equal measure.

Baduk (Majidi, 1992, B) (review)
A bold picture; Majidi's astonishingly assured debut feature explores taboo subjects such as child slavery and underage prostitution with a frank, compassionate voice.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Gondry, 2004, A+) (favorite shot)
Multiple screenings have only enriched my experience with this film. A genuine treasure.

The Missing Picture (Panh, 2013, A-) (review)
A modest but meticulously produced gem, The Missing Picture carries the weight of so much personal pain and national suffering across the screen, gently inviting the audience into a world of melancholic wonder.

Salaam Cinema (Makhmalbaf, 1995, B+) (review)
"A timeless rumination on the process of filmmaking and, paradoxically, a time capsule for the director himself, a bewilderingly unique persona caught at his artistic peak, immediately following the end of his religiopolitical sermons and a short while before beginning a process of rebellious emancipation."

Showgirls (Verhoeven, 1995, B+)
Written, acted, directed, designed, scored and, crucially, edited for maximum camp factor. This is the ultimate B-movie, but so incredibly enjoyable that an additional + is a must.

The Gospel According to St. Matthew (Pasolini, 1964, A-)
The unaltered complexity of the text and the rugged atmosphere are captured fluidly and married to an operatic sound scape. Only the tactile touch of a poet can concoct such magic from history's most oft-repeated tale. 

A Moment of Innocence (Makhmalbaf, 1996, A)
Almost an 180 degree turn from his politically motivated films of the 1980s, A Moment of Innocence is possibly Makhmalbaf's pinnacle, at which he beautifully, subtly and poetically revisits his earlier self and the sociopolitical ideologies that thrust him into public life.

The Shop Around the Corner (Lubitsch, 1940, A+)
One of Lubitsch's very best comedies, and that's saying quite a lot. The characterization is complex and the social context is subtly worked in despite the simplicity of the narrative. An elegantly composed, superbly performed gem.

Selected Images from the Qajar Dynasty (Makhmalbaf, 1993, C)
Makhmalbaf's collection of archival images and videos look enchanting, but his editing and soundtrack expose him as an ideologue and obscure the film into irrelevance.

Once Upon a Time, Cinema (Makhmalbaf, 1991, B+)
Though the gimmick begins to run out of steam before the end of the film, Makhmalbaf's love letter to cinema and Iranian film history through the perspective of the Qajar shahs who became obsessed with the cinematograph machine is inventive, entertaining, illuminating, nostalgic and absolutely hilarious.

Marriage of the Blessed (Makhmalbaf, 1989, D-)
Overwrought, overdirected, overcooked and overstuffed with ideas that never coalesce, this film is emblematic of Makhmalbaf's worst tendencies as a director. Marriage never achieves any form of coherence or dramatic gravitas, instead suffocating the audience with sociopolitical messages and black and white, archetypal, grand-scale characterizations.

Croesus's Treasure (Yasami, 1965, D-)
Mildly amusing since, as the most popular B-movie in Iranian film history, it provides insight into the interests of the movie-going public at the time, but otherwise atrocious on every single level: illogical absence of any causality, inconsistent pacing, offensive politics and a botched amalgam of imitated Hollywood and Bollywood styles. 

The Night It Rained (Shirdel, 1967, A+)
Shirdel's most experimental work taps into the Iranian psyche, the nature of truth and the shortcomings of the Iranian regime by examining from multiple perspectives the story of a village boy who tried to save a train from an accident. Hypnotic, perceptive and complex in both construction and reach.