March Episode Now Available!

Just in the nick of time, the March episode of Chas’ Crusty Old Wave is available for download either via the website or directly from iTunes. This episode features a focus on Elvis Costello’s “Brutal Youth” album, some rants against the then-new teen curfew in downtown Orlando, and best of all, Liz Langley's hi-larious Horror-scopes.

Not to mention a ton of good old-fashioned alterna-rock back when the term meant something.

Those of you who check it out via iTunes, could you take a moment and rate/comment on the podcast? It will help get the word out. Thanks!

Back on iTunes!

After a short fubar-esque delay caused by a bug in iWeb 09, I'm pleased to report that Chas' Crusty Old Wave - The Podcast! is now available again on iTunes. Subscribers should finally be getting February's episode (#63).

If you are not already a listener, and think you would enjoy a rather smart-alecky tour of the best in obscure New Wave Music as only college radio can provide, you can easily subscribe through iTunes by clicking here, or if you do not have iTunes (what?!) you can always visit the website directly here.

Enjoy!

The Islands Project (2008)

Running Time: 102 Min.

Canada 2008

Director/Writer/Star: Michael Stadtländer

One of the world’s top chefs decides to take a unique summer vacation  -- driving from Ontario to the obscure islands of British Columbia in a biodiesel bus-cum-mobile-kitchen, preparing exquisite outdoor dinners using local ingredients, local themes and local farmers. He calls it “The Islands Project.”

From the start, we can see that chef Michael Stadtländer is a happy -- but quirky -- guy. He lives on Eigensinn Farm where he grows almost all of the ingredients (from livestock to plants) that will go into his occasional, but $300-or-so-per-person, eight-course plein-air dinners for select gourmands. The farm has earned a rep as one of the top dining spots in the entire world thanks to this approach, but Stadtländer (who also wrote and directed this documentary) seems happiest when he is able to share this experience beyond the farm. Once “The Liberator” (his hippie kitchen-on-wheels) arrives in Canada’s west coast, he wastes no time finding and visiting farms and farmer’s markets scattered across Vancouver, Quadra and Cortes Islands, meeting artists and farmers, picking berries, discovering new foods and local delicacies, and consulting with locals (and the occasional celebrity-chef pal) to get ideas for his haute cuisine dinners, which are usually outdoors and always use unusual themes (a “table” made of stacked deadwood, plates made out of wooden starfish, or a dinner on a floating platform in the middle of a lake) that present challenges to him and his assistants.

The meals are, of course, extraordinary, creative and delicious-sounding, and are run not unlike a field military exercise. Stadtländer commands totally, directing not just the cooking but the furniture (helping make it if need be!), lighting, atmosphere and decor as required. The only rules for the variety of fare at these meals is that it must be ecological, sustainable and edible. If the film has a flaw, it’s that there isn’t enough footage of the dinner conversations themselves, or reactions to specific dishes. Also omitted is almost any mention of any “failed experiments” or unexpected surprises. The chef prefers to teach us all (including the locals) what might be called “food respect”; how to cook these incredibly fresh, home-grown items and how best to enjoy them within their natural setting, the outdoors.

Oddly enough, the highlight of the film are actually cutaway interviews Stadtländer does with farmers, fellow chefs and the occasional oddball. At the beginning of the film, we see him buying a disused console TV (one of those big honking 70s jobs), whereupon he hollows it out leaving just the front face, creating his own “TV show” on the road. These funny bits keep the mood light and break up the “go to an island, gather foods, prepare them, wow the natives” cycle of the dinners.

The final dinner takes place on an uninhabited island, so the entire “set” for the dinner must be constructed from found elements, a perfect complement to the dinner of found ingredients and visiting guests. This “vacation” looks like a hell of a lot of work to us, but Stadtländer seems content when it’s all done and time to go back to his farm. If you’re a “foodie,” you will enjoy this (even vegetarians, though there are scenes of meat being made if you catch my drift); if you’re an environmentalist you will love this; if you are both, this movie is one prolonged orgasm of sheer sensual pleasure.

This review originally appeared on Film Threat.

Crusty Post!

Those of you who are subscribed to my podcast -- Chas’ Crusty Old Wave -- via iTunes will have to wait a bit for the February episode to show up.

Apple made some changes in how iWeb interacts with the iTunes store, so while all the old episodes are still available, the new one (#63 from 30-Oct-92) is not yet there. They are aware of the problem, and presumably will take a break from working on iOwnEverything to fix it in due course.

Those who do not subscribe via iTunes, the new episode is up on the web site. Enjoy.

Squeezebox! (2008)

Running time: 92 Min.

Directors: Zach Shaffer, Steve Saporito

Stars: Michael Schmidt, Mistress Formika, Debbie Harry, Rudy Giuliani

There was this really great party, it went on every Friday for seven years throughout the 90s, it was very rock-n-roll and very ambi-sexual (with an accent on the sexual), and if you missed it you really missed out.

That’s the premise (strongly supported by the evidence) behind Squeezebox!, a gay event held at an otherwise unassuming bar in a overlooked corner of downtown Manhattan back when Mayor Guiliani was more concerned with shaming graffiti artists and cleaning up Times Square than fixing the really big problems NYC had at the time. Every Friday night for seven years in the middle of the 90s, a mini-revolution was brewing -- gay performers (in drag or not) who actually sang (not lip-synched) punk, New Wave and plain ol’ rock-and-roll songs to an audience of hip people of various persuasions who weren’t bothered by misfits and united through their love of really good times. Led by promoter Michael Schmidt and hosted/championed by drag queen Mistress Formika and transsexual punk legend Jayne County, Don Hill’s bar was transformed into a pure, sexy, loud, in-your-face Republican nightmare, like a real live Rocky Horror Picture Show happening in your own basement.

Thanks to hours and hours of videotape from the club’s heyday and interviews with patrons, celebrities and employees, the energy, excitement and love poured into Squeezebox is messily recaptured. It’s not just men in dresses singing “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” it’s people, given permission to be totally free and totally themselves, living those songs. This is where the Toilet Boys and Hedwig and the Angry Inch were born; this was where high fashion designers came to be schooled on what really looked good; this was a club where “normal” was one of the few things never allowed in.

The performances are generally very good, the interviews are usually hilarious and candid, and the filmmakers do a particularly good job at setting the context for this rebellion against the Guiliani adminstration of the 90s (with a surprising amount of help from Guiliani himself, being quite the douchebag we all found out he was later). By the time I got the Duelling (Tallulah) Bankheads performing A Flock of Seagulls’ “Telecommunication,” I was wishing for a time machine so I could be amongst the squalor and decay of the kool kids too.

There are few flecks of flaws amongst the gold of this documentary: the curious omission of any mention of an earlier gay bar that had attempted the same idea, and an overlong rehashing of the Stonewall Rebellion (the target audience for this film is more than passing familiar with this, guys), but don’t let these nitpicks stop you from having a raucous, raunchy, occasionally gross but always delightful time in the now-immortalized world of Squeezebox!. With this movie, you really can do the Time Warp again.

It’s just a jump to the left ...

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

Before Tomorrow (2008)

Running Time: 93 Min.

Directors: Marie-Hélène Cousineau, Madeline Piujuq Ivalu

Stars: Madeline Ivalu, Paul-Dylan Ivalu

As the tall man behind the desk at the BBC might say, “and now for something completely different.” Before Tomorrow is not the sort of film you routinely run across, even amongst the cognoscenti of the film-fest circuit. It’s an all-Inuit (“Eskimo” in American) cast, shot in Nunavut, using native language (subtitled in English or French) and a full-on tragedy (which is distressingly rare these days). It’s a historical slice of life that even most Canadians rarely get to see, never mind the rest of the world, yet the tale is told more with emotion than words, and the language barrier melts away like the snow in spring.

The story is set in 1840, when the Inuit were still extremely limited in their contact with the white settlers further south. Their world was incredibly small, from a tiny village off to nearby islands to hunt. The small society works well thanks to the values of shared work and reward; everyone, even the kids, have jobs to do. We join the tribe in summer, at the end of a hunt. They are in a celebratory mood, having recently acquired some needles and cups from white traders they encountered (in exchange for allowing the women to sleep with them) as well as having abundant food for the winter. They decide to dry their catches on a remote island, away from predatory animals. Ningiuq, an old woman in the village, volunteers for the duty, which means being alone for several months. Her dying friend Kutuguk wishes to come along as a last request, knowing she will die there, and her young grandson Maniq also insists on going, hoping to learn from his beloved grandmother more of the skills to become a man, as well as to look out for the two women.

Shortly after their isolation begins, Kutuguk dies, foretelling the tragedies to come. The months pass and Maniq is learning much, but Ningiuq cannot help but wonder on their seriously overdue reunion with the tribe. As the first snows threaten, she decides to make the trip back herself, and discovers a horrible scene: the entire village has been wiped out by disease, brought to them by the white traders. Ningiuq and her grandson are alone in their world. From there, the story turns to the struggle to survive, overcoming the adversity of winter and Ningiuq’s struggle with her own dark thoughts. She can protect the boy for now, but what future is there for them without the support of their community?

When she senses her own death approaching, she knows she must act boldly to save them in a world where help is never coming. She calls out to her (long dead) husband to guide her in an impossible situation.

The slow pace of the film, reflective of the speed of life in that era, may bore the more cynical in the audience, but if you can get into their world and their mindset, every movement, every facial expression, every story Ningiuq relates to her grandson takes on deep meaning. The acting is so effortlessly authentic, in perfect harmony with the remote locations and passing seasons, that putting yourself in their mukluks is easy if you wish it. If you’ve ever wondered on the survival of people in such remote and inhospitable locations as these, Before Tomorrow brings their struggle to life and reveals the strength in such a fragile society. It’s a remarkable bit of First Nations filmmaking that should be seen far more widely in the world than the mostly-Canadian distribution it will get.

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

Hotel Gramercy Park (2008)

Running Time: 80 Min.

USA 2008

Director: James Westby

Stars: Ian Schrager, Debbie Harry, Paris Hilton, Julian Schnabel

Hotel Gramercy Park is about the passing of one era and the starting of another in the life of a lesser-known New York institution. Death-and-rebirth is a common theme in films, but less so in documentaries, and with this one’s fixation mostly on the “death” part, it delivers as a historical document of the last vestiges of a particular time and place, and the “passing parade” that carries on after we’ve moved along.

Like the city itself, the hotel (built in 1925 and managed by generations of the same family from 1958 to today) started off grand, kept it up for a long time and slowly rested on its laurels until, truth be told, it was only a satire of its former self. Home to the only private park (!) in the city and favored by rock stars and other celebrities for decades (complete with the requisite introduction of drugs into the culture of the hotel), the place slowly fell apart under the benign neglect of its owners, long-term tenants and celebrity visitors, who as you might expect are all a bunch of wonderfully colourful Noo Yoik-type characters.

We pick up the story of the hotel at the tail end of it’s “first life.” The family who owns it (and lived there, recognising only much later what a mistake it was to raise a family in a hotel) is forced to sell due to tax issues arising from the drift of management and the death of the Weissberg patriarch. Former Studio 54 owner Ian Schrager swoops in and plans a major makeover, disgruntling the long-term tenants (who don’t have to leave, and some refuse to), worrying the neighbors and forcing the remaining Weissbergs to (at least temporarily) give up the only home they’ve ever known. Director Douglas Keeve spends the first half mostly documenting the fascinating but tragedy-filled history of the Weissbergs, the hotel and some its more famous moments through the eyes of the youngest members of the now-forlorn clan, before changing focus to the inadvertently comedic tenants and the renovation. Finally gaining Schrager’s full cooperation in the last act, his delicate balancing act of trying to appease the old guard while reinventing the place finally takes front-and-center in the film.

What emerges is a metaphor for New York City itself, and a lot of what makes it special; the constant reinvention conflicting with the stubborn, uniquely American war-generation brand of moxie you thought only existed in old movies. Two 90-plus twin sisters sipping martinis in the hotel bar bemoaning the new generation and mourning the way of life they knew, a songwriter who’s been holed up in the hotel for 30 years writes “Everything I Need is in Manhattan” (which is damn catchy!) as his world is literally torn apart around him, Karl Lagerfeld looking back wistfully but facing the future – it’s an obituary to a generation of New Yorkers that are giving way to a new breed. The main disappointment is that the film ends just as the “next chapter” is beginning -- opening day of the “new” Gramercy Park (the makeover has generally met with critical and traveller raves since then).

The footage comes from various sources and as such it’s of variable quality, but capturing these un-self-conscious characters in a period of transition reveals a lot about them, the city, the hotel and, ultimately, the audience. Even thousands of miles away from New York, through Hotel Gramercy Park we get a glimpse at just what makes NYC so special; it’s our own stories, but writ larger.

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

Delta Rising (2007)

Running Time: 79 Min.
Directors: Michael Afendakis, Laura Bernieri
Stars: Morgan Freeman, Willie Nelson, James Johnson

There are almost as many “birth of the blues” documentaries as Holocaust movies. By now, I’m beginning to suspect that each and every black man in Mississippi has been interviewed at least once on this topic. That said, “Delta Rising” takes a reasonably fresh approach to this overworked subgenre by making the film as much about the town where it all began (Clarksdale) as the music legends that were born in and around there.

Morgan Freeman (yes, that Morgan Freeman) lives in Clarksdale and owns a club, one of around 10 in this itty-bitty town, which apart from the commercialism of the blues venues doesn’t look much different than the last time Muddy Waters played it. This helps the film’s explanation of how the blues got started here; crushing poverty (working cotton plantations was the main industry until the mid-1950s) and local ingenuity allowed talented performers to escape the hot sun of field work and make a relatively better living in the “juke joints” in the small “circuit” of nearby Mississippi towns. Quite a number of the town’s sons made it to New Orleans, to Memphis and to recording studios, making the blues into a national art form, but you can feel the ghosts of this town and understand better where the blues comes from because the place is still so stuck back in time.

Given the interesting subject matter, colorful local characters, big-name interviews (Willie Nelson, Freeman and Charlie Musselwhite among others), little-seen archival footage (Pinetop Perkins, Ike Turner, John Lee Hooker, Sonny Boy Williamson and many more) and copious live performance footage, you want to like the movie and expect it would come together far better than it does.

The biggest problem is that the interviews are simply terrible. Poorly shot, with horrible sound, most look like the subject was thrown into a photobooth and interviewed with a VHS camcorder. The only time this works to anyone’s advantage is the amusingly intoxicated harmonica whiz James Montgomery, who starts by saying “I don’t normally give drunken interviews ...”

The editing is also rather slapshot, breaking “grammar” a few times and sometimes jumping without clear explanation. The filmmakers also overindulge in the amount of local performance footage, “tour stories” and -- mainly -- Morgan Freeman. It’s great that he agreed to help out this little indie doc, it’s understandable that he dominates the club scene because he’s a big celebrity, but he’s not the star of this particular story, and thus shouldn’t get the bulk of the screen time. More time spent with James “Super Chikan” Johnson (yes, “Chikan”), Squirrel Nut Zippers refugee Chris Cotton, incredible talent Ruby Wilson (what a voice!), and “King Biscuit Time” host Sonny Payne would have painted a better picture of the history and development of the blues in Clarksdale.

If you love the blues, you will appreciate this documentary’s strengths and overlook most of the flaws. If you love documentaries, the technical fubars and missed opportunities will start annoying you before five minutes has passed -- but grit your teeth and bear it, because the history and the music make it all worthwhile. What’s a blues movie without a little suffering, anyway?

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

The Auteur (2008)

Running time: 80 Min.
USA 2008
Director/Writer: James Westby
Stars: Melik Malkasian, John Breen

Comedy and porn can actually work very well together, provided that the emphasis is on the comedy. Writer/Director James Westby has re-worked a short film he did in 2002 into a full-length feature, and The Auteur has been reborn as a sublime satire on sex and cinema, a Spinal Tap-esque documentary, a love letter to Portland no anthology movie could ever match, and comedy gold for (the adults in) the whole family.

This “mockumentary” finds its subject, the fiercely Italian artisan smut-meister Arturo Domingo, watching his career begin its death spiral. In Portland to appear at a screening of his popular “early” works, Domingo (Melik Malkasian) endures battering reviews of his new stuff, fans demanding he return to his previous style (and partner-in-poon Frank E. Normous) and a personal life still in shambles after the love of his life left him because of his hot-tempered jealousy on the set of his most ambitious work, Full Metal Jackoff.

He is determined to continue tilting at his artistic windmills alone, however, which results in art-house-cum-skin-flick satires like Five Easy Nieces and Children of a Lesser Wad (groaners -- and boners -- are all over the place in this movie!), but Domingo just can’t reconnect with his muse. As fate would have it, however, Portland is ground zero for the people and attitude adjustments he must bring together to heal his soul and restore his mojo.

The story goes off on occasional tangents that could have been more tightly edited (an all-night hippie-freak-out adventure and a side-trip to a Cyrano-esque sub-plot need to zip along a lot more than they do), but the distractions add flavour, and their indulgence is more than offset by the glue holding the picture together, Malkasian’s masterful performance -- which starts off Belushi-esque but quickly rises to effortless perfection. The supporting cast are all excellent, particularly John Breen as the quintessential middle-aged stud, but as in Westby’s last feature (FilmGeek), Malkasian commands the screen just as his alter-ego commands the set. Even scores of nude people and Ron Jeremy’s cameo cannot move the spotlight off Arturo Domingo.

The laughs are frequent, the story unfolds as it should, the location is lovingly adorned with a mostly-Portland-bands soundtrack, and the flashbacks in particular are works of genius (Malkasian gained 40 pounds to play the “current” Domingo, making his “younger years” look startingly convincing) seamlessly blended in. The supporting characters are funny and memorable, the fans are charming and the naughty bits are ... well, adorable. As for the climax -- well, let’s just leave that one lying there, shall we? Suffice to say it was climaximum!

The Auteur is hands-down the funniest “nudie” movie since Orgazmo, a Fellini-and-Waters-make-Stardust Memories romp that is nothing short of skin-sational.

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

Inside Hana’s Suitcase (2009)

Running Time: 90 Min.
Ontario, Canada 2009
Director: Larry Weinstein
Writer: Thomas Wallner, based on the book by Karen Levine

Once in a great while, a film comes along that is so moving and soul-stirring, so emotionally powerful, so filled with the magic of what makes cinema a living art, that you want to run from the theatre, grab the first stranger you meet by the lapels and yell at them like a deranged Christopher Lloyd “MARTY! You have to come and see this movie with me right now!”

This is one of those movies.

Inside Hana’s Suitcase -- based on the CBC radio documentary, then book, then stage play -- is about the Holocaust, and yes you will tear up if not outright sob at some point. Yet it is neither Schindler’s List nor The Diary of Anne Frank, neither relentlessly educational nor depressingly triumphant, and a film that charts its own way in a manner that is both historical and modern. For example, how many Holocaust movies have much of their action set in Japan?

Hana Brady, a Czechoslovakian Jew living in a small village, was 13 when she died in Auschwitz, but her suitcase found its way to a Holocaust Resource Center in Toyko, a place where engaging children to learn the lessons of the past is much harder than it is in the West (the Japanese, as a culture, do not like to dwell on the war years and their role in them). A group of curious students and their teacher, Fumiko Ishioka, research the life of Hana and her family, and through them (and children of various nationalities who serve as narrators, an extremely clever idea) we learn a great deal about the family as identifiable, real people. Weinstein’s visual storytelling and the children’s narration cross the 70-year divide and unite the generations superbly.

Eventually Ishioka discovers that Hana’s brother George survived the war and now lives in Canada. He and some of Hana’s surviving friends and relations take up the story, filling in the heartbreaking details of the slow loss of their entire family and the isolation from their friends. George Brady draws considerable strength from the interest of the Japanese children, and opens up his scrapbooks and his heart to them to complete Hana’s remarkable story. By this time, Hana is both a real person and a metaphor for the many less-sung who died at those camps.

The filmmaking achieves stunningly high quality on a very modest budget ($1.4M), seamlessly blending expertly-directed recreations, special effects, beautiful model photography, family photos, stirring music and small but judiciously-applied amounts of stock footage from WWII to augment the remarkable interviews and visits to the locations where it all took place. The performances of the re-creators and the attention to period detail adds a vividly visual dimension rarely achieved in historical documentaries, most of which are content to rely mainly on oral history and panned photographs.

Inside Hana’s Suitcase travels the world (literally as well as metaphorically) and achieves its aim of imprinting her tragic story and the horrors of war and hatred in our memories. This is -- truly -- a film you will never forget.

This article originally appeared on Film Threat .

Toronto Stories (2008)

Running Time: 89 Min.
Ontario, Canada 2008
Directors/Writers: Sook-Yin Lee, Sudz Sutherland, David Weaver, Aaron Woodley

The Victoria Film Festival’s program book description for Toronto Stories ends with this line: Even Toronto-haters are going to have a hard time getting their knives out for this one.

Wanna bet?

I don’t hate Toronto; I’ve never been there. But considering that this anthology film (four stories very loosely linked, yes just like Paris J’taime, New York Stories et al) is intended as a “love letter” to Canada’s largest city, it didn’t exactly inspire me to come visit. Toronto looks great from afar, as the many location shots will attest; but up close it seems a lot like New York in the 80s, when even Woody Allen was having a hard time loving it.

We start with the film-schoolish setup, a lost (African?) boy with no papers or parents who shows up at Pearson Airport. He escapes the clutches of the authorities (again and again and again) and begins a trek that takes him to random places. He doesn’t speak, yet everyone who encounters him befriends him just long enough to launch their own segment, whereupon he is gone like the feeble plot device he is. This makes it incredibly hard to care about him when his “backstory” is finally fleshed out in the movie’s denouement, the final short “Lost Boys.”

The first piece is called “Shoelaces” and starts promisingly, exploring the relationship of two pre-teens who have a strong friendship, dark secrets and perhaps a budding romance. A promising and atmospheric adventure involving a “monster” who lives in the sewers of Cabbagetown is prematurely terminated for no clear reason (time’s up?), leaving us emotionally unsatisfied despite the strong cinematography and good performances of the child actors.

From there we move into “The Brazillian,” helmed by riot grrl and Canadian media darling Sook-Yin Lee (Shortbus) who also stars as a befuddled woman trying (and failing) to coax some romance out of a zombie of a man who appears to have Asberger’s Syndrome. Though the piece is funny and Lee gives an authentic performance, we are again left (this time physically) unsatisfied. Lee’s character encounters the African boy at the library, tries to get him help and then just ... forgets about him mere moments later.

Sudz Sutherland’s “Windows,” my favorite short, again features a very interesting storyline: an ex-con who’s gone straight and has what he needs in life (a fun job and a pregnant wife) until he runs into a former jailmate, and a slip of the tongue breaks all hell loose, endangering everyone. This one has action, drama, tension and violence, along with several good laughs. Sutherland could have done with a bigger budget, but it’s still a stylish attention grabber.

“Lost Boys” by David Weaver (Century Hotel) tries to wrap up the linking story by dragging the mute kid into the rough world of Toronto’s homeless, where his only angel is a man almost too busy wrestling with his own demons to help. Gil Bellows’ “wittiest, smartest homeless guy ever” portrayal is often in danger of suspending our disbelief, rescued by his frequent returns to a more convincing dark side and internal struggle to break free. It’s these moments that provide the most compelling performance among the four films. When we finally turn to the poor kid -- who hasn’t said a word so far -- to wrap things up, they miraculously find a translator and he gives us ... well nothing really. The big “reveal” is a complete wet blanket -- which, along with the constant presence of crime, police and/or homeless people in every single segment, adds to the general dissatisfaction and despair that seem to snake through this pretty metropolis like the sewers. Aren’t there any happy, well-adjusted people in Toronto?

Toronto Stories isn’t going to be adopted by the tourism board, with its apparent message that it’s not the city that’s the problem, but (apparently) Torontonians. I can’t help but wonder if the filmmakers intended this anthology to be a truthful mirror, or a warning to others.

(this article originally appeared on Film Threat )

Jump! (2007)

Running time: 87 Min.

USA

Director/Writer: Helen Hood Scheer

From 2002’s Spellbound, a documentary that followed eight kids from around the US as they worked their way to the ultimate sudden-death playoff of the National Spelling Bee, through 2004’s Word Wars (Scrabble’s dry-witted champions), 2006’s Air Guitar Nation (extreme!) and 2007’s The King of Kong (Donkey Kong players in a life-or-death struggle with perspective), there has been a spate of documentaries profiling oddball and non-traditional “sports,” all of whom dream of becoming an Olympic event someday. The latest is Jump!, showing off the skill, heart and sweat that goes into being the best jump-ropers on the planet.

Director Scheer has caught this world at just the right point in its development: with a history to look back on and real championships (national and world) to look forward to, but before it goes all mainstream and sell-out. Kids of all races, places and economic backgrounds work out relentlessly to perfect not just jumping in place, but bringing dance and gymnastic moves often seen in other sports like tumbling and ice skating into a frenetic routine that requires you leave the ground several times per second. Though the competition is intense and emotional for the youngsters, they’re all still friendly and curious about other teams, other countries and other styles, and interact with their competition quite freely.

The tension builds as we follow five US teams through the regionals, nationals and finally the world competition in Toronto. There’s moments of breathtaking physicality and more moments of heartstopping tension -- you’re sure one of these kids is going to spontaneously combust from the sheer intensity of their jumping. We learn a little about the kids, including the pain and stress they deal with (coupled with strong devotion and seemingly boundless joy), the coaches (who are considered family), the “stars” (complete with their egos, but they do in fact “bring it”) and the up-and-comers. This is not a movie edited to only show off only the highlights or to glamourize the sport -- we see the stumbles, the blank-outs, the pressure and failures, but the film is tempered throughout with genuine humour and a refreshing lack of pretentiousness or precociousness.

After watching this documentary you’ll be digging around in your closet for your old jump-rope as soon as you get home. Jump! is heartwarming, all-American fun.

(this article originally appeared in Film Threat )

Otto, or Up With Dead People (2008)

Running time: 95 Min.
Canada/Germany
Director/Writer: Bruce La Bruce

Imagine a young John Waters, only with no sense of urgency, more militantly queer, and tone-deaf to the subtleties of satire. There you have Bruce La Bruce, writer/director of Otto, or Up With Dead People. You would think a “gay zombie political porno movie” would be a lot of laughs, or at least creepily arousing (if you’re into that sort of thing). Wrong on both counts.

In interviews, La Bruce has explained his thinking behind this angst-ridden opus, which runs along the lines of “homosexuals are outsiders, zombies are outsiders, thus ‘gay zombie.’” Somebody explain to this guy that 2 + 2 doesn’t equal more two, it equals four, as in “four times too long.”

The story (such as there is) runs like this: Otto the gay zombie may or may not even be a zombie, nobody’s really sure, but he shambles around and eats road kill like one. He falls into the clutches of a Grand Guignol-type director named Medea Yarn and her posse, who has been struggling to make the aforementioned “political gay zombie porno movie” Up With Dead People (her “magnum corpus”) and decides Otto is perfect for it. So we get a lot of arty “film within a film” cliches and a sound mix that sounds like road construction going on outside a disco. Eventually Otto abandons Medea’s film (at its climax, no less) to go find his former boyfriend, who still isn’t interested. Otto decides to leave town, leaving a lot of blood and pointlessness behind.

There are some good points: Jey Crisfar as Otto does a great job as the disaffected youth, the characters in general are intriguing enough, Medea’s ridiculously hammy Ayn Rand-meets-Greta-Garbo speeches occasionally provide a good laugh, and there’s a few smatterings of physical comedy that are cute and/or successful. The nude bodies are generally attractive (at least, at first) and, as the fellow who introduced the film put it in his disclaimer to the audience, “there’s some hardcore gay necrophiliac sex, but it’s done tastefully.”

La Bruce probably intended Otto to be a reaction to the misogynistic, homophobic horror movies we normally get, and that’s certainly a noble idea: the problem is that he fails to provide us with either a good zombie movie, a good pro-gay/pro-feminist political movie or a good porno movie (even a non-zombie orgy at the end fails to interest). The film just lurches from one unfocused concept to the next, ultimately going nowhere in a unsteady shamble, just like the film’s namesake.

(this article originally appeared in Film Threat )

The 15th Annual Victoria Film Festival - Introduction

Victoria is the historic “Little Britain” capital of the province of British Columbia, even though it’s actually located on an island off the coast – so close to the United States that Washington’s Olympic Mountains loom large across its southern skyline. Yet America has less of an influence here than the Commonwealth – the member countries of what once was the British Empire. When you notice that the Curling championship being held up-island is getting as much press as the Super Bowl, you know you really are in a different country.

Victoria lies in the shadow of the States and the metropolises (metropoli?) of the Pacific Northwest, but refuses to be defined by them; likewise, their film festival doggedly ignores its larger and more “important” cousins to the south and east – Portland, Seattle, Whistler and of course Vancouver, all of whom get more films, bigger films, more guests, more press.

Like the queen it is named for, Victoria is cowed by no-one, and its festival reflects that sort of quiet pride. For the last 15 years, the Victoria Film Festival has carried on regardless, and has evolved (under the leadership of longtime director Kathy Kay) into a popular but unpretentious champion for Canadian cinema, indie filmmakers from around the world, and “small” films looking for a big boost.

The fest is spread across four cinemas (and one lounge-cum-screening-room) in both downtown Victoria and the nearby suburb of Langford, and utilizes a host of alternative spots (the usual mix of pubs and restaurants, open stages and auditoriums) for non-screening events, mostly centred on conversations with filmmakers, support industry and officials about the state of play in local and indie cinema.

This year, the organizers added a series of adventurous oddball videos shown in oddball places – the tops of roofs, back alleys in Chinatown, inside parked cars, on the back wall of a tattoo parlour – to get patrons out of their comfort zones and focused on the shared ambience as an essential part of the magic of the movies – something you don’t get from a Blu-Ray player and a 52” plasma no matter how nice the surround sound is.

Some 160 films of various lengths will be screened between the opening gala (which features One Week, Michael McGowan’s rite-of-passage feature about a dying young man who commits a kind of life-affirming suicide by riding from Toronto to Tofino instead of getting treatment) and the final flick, the appropriately-named South Korean horrorshow Epitaph. In between are a heck of a lot of documentaries, English (and a few French, Chinese and other language) features, a smattering of shorts and a great huge helping of Canadian celluloid.

The VFF sees the promotion of indie and mainstream Canadian content as not just an obligation, but a passion: up until Juno made a splash, many markets (particularly the US) were stubbornly indifferent to the stories of the Great White North. Like the Northwest Passage, that ice has thawed a bit and the locals are scrambling to take advantage.

The festival is strongly supported by the local population, and attracts more than its fair share of filmmakers, drawn mostly by the less-competitive atmosphere and relaxed but appreciative audiences. This is a fest that likes works-in-progress, indulges in over-running interviews, remembers you from last year, isn’t afraid of a bit of outrage, and generally offers a supportive reception to those just getting started or far from perfect. As a result, the Victoria Film Festival often gets “scoops,” premieres and sneak-peeks that rival it’s better-funded brethren back east.

The caffeinated obstacle courses of the larger fests is replaced with a spot of tea and a comfy chair beside the fire in Victoria’s vision of a meaty but mild blend of business and pleasure; a cinematic Shepard’s Pie.

(this article originally appeared on Film Threat) 

Please Note

I am pleased to announce that I have been engaged once again by my friends at Film Threat to cover the Victoria Film Festival .

Articles I write for them will also appear here in due course. This may, however, cause interruptions of service on my other blogs .

Your patience and support is, as always, appreciated.

Schneer Genius - RIP Charles H. Schneer, 1920-2009

A toast to Charles H. Schneer, who died on January 21st at the approximate age of 88 (nobody seems to know his precise birthday) in Boca Raton, Florida.

Born in Norfolk, Virginia, Schneer seems to have always been a film producer -- or at least that’s the only role listed for him in the movie business. He’s the fellow in the dark suit in the middle of the photo to your left, standing next to Dr. Werner Von Braun as they discuss the finer points of his biopic, I Aim at the Stars (1960).

"Fantastic films" (a meta-genre name covering all manner of monster, special effect, space and/or sci-fi driven movies) dominate the career of Schneer, who is best known for being the producer of most of Ray Harryhausen’s amazing body of work, and thus what merits his mention here. Among Schneer’s output are some of my favourite (as well as some of the best) films of imagination, and Schneer managed to keep himself at the forefront of such films even as they moved from cheesy low-budget shockers (like his second feature, 1955’s It Came From Beneath the Sea ) to big-budget international epics like his final movie, 1981’s Clash of the Titans.

Schneer’s first picture, the 1953  McCarthy-era thriller The 49th Man , has become strangely re-relevant in light of the paranoia about foreigners, border security and portable “dirty” nuclear bombs. It was on his second picture, the aforementioned It Came From Beneath the Sea, that Schneer entered the “monster movie” trade and met up with Harryhausen, and the two forged a career-spanning bond.

The relationship was cemented with the stunning visual impact of their work on 1957’s Earth Versus the Flying Saucers  (a nostalgic favourite of mine), and from then on it was more common to see both men’s names together than not, though it should be mentioned that Schneer did produce some non-cult pictures such as Hellcats of the Navy  with Ronald and Nancy Reagan (1957) and a bunch of other war pictures, the film version of the musical Half a Sixpence  (1967) with good ol’ Tommy Steele, the Telly Savalas-George Maharis western Land Raiders  (1969) and the unfairly overlooked George Peppard spy thriller The Executioner  (1970).

All of the rest of the years between 1958 and 1977 were pretty much filled with Harryhausen films, including my (and Schneer’s) favourite of their collaborations and one of my all-time absolute favourite movies ever, 1963’s Jason and the Argonauts . To this day a magnificent picture that still holds the imagination of those who watch it. I was lucky enough to see it on a cinema screen a few years back and the memories of that still thrill me. It’s the perfect cross between the kind of (often biblical) sword-and-sandals type epic and a special-effects driven b-movie, and even features Hercules in a minor role -- which just goes to show you how interesting the picture is, that they don’t need one of the cinema’s most legendary heroes to carry the film!

Along with another of my all-time “will watch it every time it’s on” picks, 1974’s The Golden Voyage of Sinbad , Schneer wisely lets Harryhausen indulge his own rich imagination, resulting in iconic visual sequences such as the fighting skeletons of Jason and the thrilling Kali sequence in Golden Voyage, ideas stolen or paid homage to by many films since.

Schneer was also the money man behind such well-regarded movies as The Three Worlds of Gulliver  (1960), Jules Verne’s Mysterious Island (1961), HG Wells’ First Men in the Moon (1964) -- a strangely overlooked part of Harryhausen’s canon -- and 1969’s Valley of Gwangi , the best stop-motion-dinosaurs flick every made and featuring arguably Harryhausen’s highest-quality animation.

He also produced all the Sinbad movies, including the final one (and his penultimate picture), 1977’s Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger . Perhaps someday when the US’s image of Persia improves, another good Sinbad movie can be made (this Sinbad didn't do any, that’s for sure!).

The same year Eye of the Tiger came out, a pair of movies called Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Star Wars ushered in the era of high-quality, high-budget effects pictures, and men like Schneer and Harryhausen must have seen the writing on the wall. It must have been a bit like being a clerk in a Dickensian money-changer’s office as the Industrial Revolution began to unfold. True to their craft, Schneer and Harryhausen decided to die with the old ways.

Schneer’s final bow was one last (and probably most successful) collaboration with Harryhausen, 1981’s Clash of the Titans . With a decent budget and big-name actors, this re-telling of the myth of Perseus and Andromeda stayed faithful to the Harryhausen style and still managed to do very respectable business. Even the owl character of Bubo (an acknowledgement of creations like R2-D2) was lovingly hand-filmed rather than lazily computer-enhanced. In retrospect, Clash of the Titans seems more like Harryhausen reminding his students that although technology had passed him by, he was still the master who had made a lot of it possible.

Following Titans, Schneer retired from the movie business after almost 40 years and a record of mostly profitable and well-remembered pictures. Apart from a couple of appearances on Harryhausen retrospective specials, little is seen or remembered about the man, and yet he was part of a team that gave the world so much. Film Moi wishes Charles Schneer safe passage on his most fantastic voyage, and reminds him to watch out for the Harpies. :)

Other Stuff News

Another episode of my award-winnable podcast, Chas’ Crusty Old Wave, is now available for download either via iTunes or straight from my website . To make up for the fact that I have, for the second time, failed to produce one of these for the month of December, I’m pursuing the notion of a special episode to appear later in the year.

In the meantime, enjoy this new one, which features a little arts chat as well as our usual mix of popular and obscure 80s tunes. It’s all free and easy to subscribe to so you never miss an episode.

Back From Hiatus

Two questions I know you are dying to ask:

1. Why did this blog suddenly stop in February 2005?

2. Why are you bringing it back almost four years later?

The answer to #1 is simple: I became a paid film reviewer for various publications back in Dec of 2004, and was contractually obligated to only write film reviews for my employers for a period of about three years. Then, in October of 2007, I left Florida to move to Canada. I’ve spent the last year getting adjusted to the change, writing other blogs on other subjects, and (to be blunt) not seeing quite as many new movies as I did during that period. During this decade, I have averaged some 200+ films of various lengths per year, but during this last year I doubt I saw even 40. A shocking decline, though I doubt I’ll get back up to my averages again anytime soon.

As for #2, I feel that the time is right to resurrect this blog until such time as I’m doing paid reviews full-time again, I’ve seen some good movies (old and new) that I want to write about, and I’ve got the time. So keep an eye out for my Best of 2008 list, coming soon.

After all, Hollywood loves comebacks ...

The 10 Best Films of 2004 (and Five of the Worst)

Let's start off by being honest: I haven't seen every movie that's come out this year, so I can't possibly tell you exactly which were the ten best. Moreover, many of the films being hailed by critics in LA, NY and overseas as "the year's best" haven't even gotten around to Orlando yet. But even if I had somehow seen them all, it would still only be my opinion, which is by no means assured to be the general view of a particular film. Thus, all you're getting here is the best of what I saw, which is most of the major films. It has to be said that some local critics disagreed with me on some choices (notably Dogville), but I stand my ground.

Even though critics sometimes disagree, as they sit down to write up their 10-best lists each year, a consensus forms among the "name" movie critics because once a film has picked up some honest buzz (as opposed to film-industry hype), they make a point of seeing it.

It should also explain why some films the critics hate do pretty well, or films the critics love do poorly: film reviewers are desperate for films that show them something they haven't seen a thousand times. Unlike the public, who don't see 100 or more movies a year, film critics see the predictable and mundane, the poorly-cast or deeply flawed with much greater frequency, and thus are a lot less forgiving of hackery than the general public.

By contrast, when a unique film comes along, critics can often champion them, overlooking minor defects that nonetheless fail to win over the public at large. Last year's Girl With A Pearl Earring is a perfect example: critics saw a gorgeous, beautifully-cast whimsical invention that fleshed out a historical mystery; audiences saw a beautiful -- but empty and slow-moving -- snoozefest.

Unlike some other critics, I never rank films in terms of preference. Here's ten movies I saw that I thought were really wonderful -- a few you probably saw, most you didn't, in no particular order.

• The Incredibles -- the clear winner in the animation category, people tend to overlook that this (along with the rest of Pixar's body of work) is also a terrific movie on every level. Edna Mode, the superhero costume designer, is by far the most original (and hilarious) character of the year. Yes, the computer animation continues to dazzle, but the real secret of Pixar's success is pushing some heart and soul into those pixels. Again and again and again.

• Ray -- it's always heartening to see a biopic get some mainstream attention, and few deserve it more than this picture, which benefits both from the rich life of its subject and the superb performance of Jamie Foxx in the lead role. Director Taylor Hackford makes the wise decision to depict Ray Charles' good and bad sides, a risk given his beloved public persona, but a move that gives the film a depth and feeling that reflects Charles' music.

• A Very Long Engagement -- rather unusually this year, there's not a lot of foreign films in the top 10. This, however, is a lovely exception: a lovely French film (with subtitles) that tales a tale of two lovers since childhood, separated by war, and the one who seeks the other. The phrase "swept away" comes to mind, combining breathtaking photography with heartbreaking (and heart-stopping) moments from a fine cast. It's tough to be bloody and lyrical, but this one manages somehow.

• Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow -- Imagine trying to make Raiders of the Lost Ark in your garage, with only bluescreens. For that alone, this film is a remarkable achievement. I've got a weak spot for movies that take me somewhere I've almost, but never quite, been. This one did the trick, transporting the audience back to a 1940s that only existed in art noir comic books and futuristic pulp novels. Visually stunning, it's plot was kind of predictable, but that was hardly the point. I absolutely love this movie, despite the fact that I loathe every single one of its marquee stars.

• Fahrenheit 9/11 -- Some people are almost violently alienated by Michael Moore's films, mostly because he reminds people of uncomfortable truths they'd rather sweep under the rug, but also in part because they are wildly (and often willfully) misunderstood, particularly by those who haven't seen them (don't believe me? Wait till you hear some Rethuglican call Moore "a fat slob" or something similar, and then check out the size of their gut). Just as Bowling for Columbine was emphatically not an attack on gun owners, neither is Fahrenheit 9/11 a mean-spirited attack on President Bush. What both films actually are is an exploration of how our media outlets increasingly ignore the real issues, conspire with those in power to hide the truth, and shamelessly manipulate the public with disinformation. But of course, the media either don't recognise that, or do recognise it and exact their revenge by mischaracterising the attacker. It will be interesting to see if Moore's next film -- said to be an exposé of the health care industry -- receives the same vitriolic venom from his current critics.

• Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban -- there are inherent and insurmountable problems in attempting to film a Harry Potter book: after the first one, the books became too long and intricate to boil down into a single film without cutting out huge chunks of plot, the effects department sometimes lets the audience down, and the leads -- wonderful as they are -- are rapidly aging themselves out of a job. All that said, new director Alfonso Cuaron has a deft touch with visuals and with the teen actors, really bringing out the best in them. The ending -- heck, the whole movie -- feels rushed, but most of it is the best stuff we've seen from this franchise since the first film.

• House of Flying Daggers and Hero -- I'm cheating a little here, combining two films into one entry, but it's the ultimate double feature: flying kung-fu dreamscapes deluxe. If you thought Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was good, these two films go way beyond that one. The stories strangely underserve the visuals, but if you're looking for an eye-popping good time, skip the awful Alexander or the terrible Troy and go for these epics instead.

• Monster and Aileen: Life and Death of a Serial Killer -- again with the double feature, but these two are linked to the point of being joined at the sprockets. Aileen Wournos' life, murders and death are all examined, in Monster by the incredible in-her-skin performance of Charlize Theron and in Life and Death by a director who can claim a sort of friendship with the serial killer. Both are riveting, like a road accident you can't look away from.

• End of the Century: the Story of the Ramones -- even if you've never heard of the Ramones, this is an invaluable slice of music history that until recently was under-chronicled. The film could easily have been subtitled How We Invented Punk Rock and Changed Music Forever, their influence was really that large on the last hurrahs of modern rock. A rare peek inside the minds of the band that was "Too Tough to Die."

• Festival Express -- I'll end this list with a film I personally didn't care for, but which I appreciate for the impact it has on people from "back in the day" and which has incredible value both for its backstory and its historical significance. Festival Express is a documentary made in 1970 and trapped in litigation ever since, featuring interviews, candid moments and performances never seen before from some of the biggest names of the just-post-Beatles era. The big draw for American hippies is the heretofore unscreened moments with Jerry Garcia, The Band, and Janis Joplin, but there's plenty more for fans of that era. In some ways this is the ultimate "stoner movie," since both the audience and the stars of the film have a definite familiarity with the excesses of the era.

There are of course many, many great films that didn't make the cut here, including The Dreamers, Napoleon Dynamite, Sideways, Supersize Me and Finding Neverland, among others. Overall, I'd have to say it was a fair year for movies -- as opposed to 2003, which was a really fantastic year.

And now, as they say, for something completely different:

Five Truly Terrible 2004 Movies

Gothika - More funny than scary. If you're a horror movie, that's a bad thing. Worse, it was Halle Berry's return to the screen after winning an Oscar for Monster's Ball. This and Catwoman might just put an end to her movie career.

Johnson Family Vacation -- Whoever thought an all-black ripoff of National Lampoon's Family Vacation was a good idea should be slapped. Repeatedly. With a frying pan. Manages to demean and insult both whites and blacks, to say nothing of Missouri (which may never recover).

Dogville -- My lord, this was awful. Nicole Kidman plays Jesus, I mean Everyman, in this Biblical morality play a la "Our Town." The sparse, theatrical staging may seem novel (unless you've seen any plays in your life), but the film is unrelentingly unpleasant, excessively cruel, and patently obvious in its "twists."

White Chicks -- Amazing makeup. That's all, though.

Catch That Kid -- Even though one has to accept a certain amount of ridiculousness in a film aimed at children, this one crossed way over the line of stupidity, mediocrity and inanity. The plot machinations are absurd, the kids themselves are studiously over-directed, the implications of the film are horrific ... everything about this is just awful. Frankie Muinz's Agent Cody Banks 2 looks like Citizen Kane by comparison.

FFF 2004 Diary - Days One and Two, Part 1

For what is I believe the 10th year running, I am attending and covering the Florida Film Festival for a variety of publications. This year I am primarily doing reviews for OrlandoCityBeat.com and FilmThreat.com, though I may also be contributing to other publications. As always, I maintain that the FFF is in the first rank of great film festivals of the southeast US and one of the best indie showcases in the whole of the country.

As I did last year on my other blog, Anarchy in the AM, I'll provide a quick rundown of the films I saw this year in not-quite-real-time (usually about 48 hours after the fact). This year I was again able to get a huge jump on the 135 films being shown at the festival by attending press screenings as well as the festival proper. As of Monday, I had seen a total of 46 films (of various lengths), and thus I'm well on my way to topping my record last year of 70 films seen in just over three weeks.

The festival kicked off Friday night with a fete for actor-director Campbell Scott and his new film Off The Map. I'd seen Scott two years ago with a likable production of Hamlet and felt then as I do now that he's even better behind the camera than he is in front of it. The party afterwards was a smash, with good food and a chocolate fountain one could dip things in -- and free wine(!). Having already gone to many films in the days leading up to it, Friday is kind of a big blur (made more so, no doubt, by the free wine), so let's move on to Saturday.

Saturday was a good Portrait of a Typical Festival Day in the Life of a Film Critic. I arrived at the Enzian around noon (having already screened another non-festival movie earlier that morning) and left at 2am the following morning. The first program was the surprisingly-strong Family Shorts, nine short films and not a single dud in the entire bunch.

They started off playing it safe with Creature Comforts: Cats or Dogs?, an animated interview with the creatures of the title pontificating about which is better. This comes from Aardman Studios, they of Wallace and Gromit, Chicken Run and the Angry Kid series, so of course the working-class accents of east-end London and points north make for extra hilarity (along with the occasional moment of difficult-to-understand dialect).

Seven's Eleven was nothing more than a kid version of Ocean's 11, with a group of kids plotting an elaborate scheme to relieve a local convenience store of its excess candy. This romp, though cheap and shot on garish video, was a hundred times better than the commercial stinker Catch That Kid, which is similar in premise.

Tim Tom was the first of two stunning pieces of animation that blew the audience away. A cunning and incredibly stylish mix of computer animation and live action, the soundtrack (by Django Rheinhart!) blended perfectly with the piece in a polished, B&W homage to the Merrie Melodies style of slapstick.

Jumping back to traditional animation but with a delicious twist on the "women behind bars" genre was Penguins Behind Bars. Fish jokes abound, and the plot is played perfectly straight, but by making the characters all penguins, you get high comedy.

I almost cried during I Want A Dog, a small animated musical about a girl who keeps fighting for her right to have a pet in increasingly imaginative ways. Beautifully done, sensitively realised and touching.

Showa Shinzan tries to slap a delicate feel on computer animation, using Renderman software that is highly reminiscent of early Pixar shorts to tell an interesting tale of the birth of a mountain and the growing up of a little girl. The deliberately slow pacing is probably too slow for the youthful audience it's aimed at, but it's an excellent effort.

Trust the Scots to bounce things back to modern speeds with the whimsical Inside An Uncle, in which a young man discovers that adults are actually powered by ... kids! Imaginative and fun.

Colorforms is a wonderful little delight starring Dora the Explorer herself, Kristin Di Pietra, as a messy little girl who meets her match. I don't want to say more than that about it, but it's just a perfect piece of cinematic confectionary.

The Family Shorts finale'd with Lorenzo, the first new piece of strictly-traditional Disney animation in ages and quite possibly the best piece of cartooning they've done in-house in the last forty years. Yes, it's that good -- a stunning tour-de-force of music, animation and whimsy that recalls everything that used to be good and magical about Disney's unique brand of animation. Look for Lorenzo as the opener to a future Disney feature, but don't miss it if you'd like to see what Disney (even without Pixar) is really capable of when they try hard enough.

There's a lot more celluloid to cover on Saturday alone, so stay tuned for Part Two!