Blogcritics Author: Christopher Soden

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Howie Mandell: Lord of the Maggots?

Christopher Soden — Sun, 1 Apr 2007 06:33:14 EDT

I returned home after class Monday night and mother caught me up on the latest broadcast of Deal or No Deal. There were twins playing, and though they hadn’t gone home with the million dollars (we have yet to witness this), at least they came out of it with six figures.It feels odd to turn a critical eye to Deal or No Deal, a popular game show, as no one is forcing the contestants to participate. After all, you’d have to be pretty naïve to go on any game show thinking the accountants (or producers?) are just aching to part with network money, but somehow DOND seems different - more orchestrated, more calculated, and more cynical.For those of you who watch and enjoy the show on a regular basis, that last one may seem like a stretch. For the rest of you, let me bring you up to speed. It begins with 26 briefcases filled with set amounts of money, leading up to $1,000,000. The player picks one case at the outset and must decide how long they want to hold onto it. As other cases are opened, the amounts are ticked off and the odds shift either in or out of their favor.There are ceremonious pauses (all the lights go red) during which The Banker makes an offer based on the aforementioned odds. The Banker is deliberately depicted as a phantom villain, making cutting remarks (albeit second-hand) and provoking the ire of the contestant. As the cases are opened and the pressure escalates, it gets harder and harder to ignore these offers on the chance that your original case holds the largest amount still in play.My mother is a big game show fan (and I have to say, an MFA as well) and we’ve watched more than a few of them together - The Price is Right, Jeopardy, Hollywood Squares, Wheel of Fortune, Pyramid. Right away I started noticing differences about DOND: family and friends brought to the audience and stage to support and unwittingly confuse the player, as well as ratchet up the tension, and the impish Howie Mandell with his head shave and goatee mischievously cut to look like old Scratch himself.DOND uses personal touches to convince us they have a lot of heart: the schoolteacher struggling to get by gets serenaded by her home school band and the veteran’s wife in tears as her husband greets her live from Iraq. These are beautiful, sweet gestures and they all serve to humanize the plight of the contestants who send in their five-minute videotaped auditions, hoping to appear on DOND. None of them are destitute, but it’s clear that many of them are in sore need of some financial help. That makes for better television and that’s the secret of Deal or No Deal: convince someone to defy the universe on national television and wait for the inevitable smack down.The sinister side to any sort of gambling is the highly suggestive state of the human spirit. I’m no cold-water Baptist and I’m not about to preach to you about the evils of some recreational time spent playing poker or the ponies or buying lotto tickets. Gambling is harmless enough as long as you bear in mind that it’s only a game. However, when you’re struggling in your life and having trouble with the bills and other impediments that come your (and everyone’s) way - well, that’s when games of chance can really do a number on you.You buy a scratch off. You score $500.00. Suddenly everything looks brighter. Maybe God loves you after all or at least He’s willing to give you a break. Like poor Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, you’re just looking for a sign you’re not born to only suffer. You’re looking for some cosmic validation.So now back to DOND. Josh Campbell from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, has just opened his 12th briefcase and eliminated $500,000 from the possible winnings. Josh has been sleeping on the couch at his married sister’s house now for a few years. His family is behind him. The Evil Banker has phoned with a ridiculously low offer to buy Josh’s briefcase, contents unrevealed.By doing this, DOND creates a focal point for the anger of the audience. It’s not the show or Howie or the producers, no, it’s the anonymous banker sitting up in his office, lording it over the proceedings. The Banker tells Josh, “Guess you’ll be sleeping on that sofa for awhile yet.”Suddenly none of this is about a game or gambling or light-hearted fun. It’s an allegory. It’s a titanic wrestling match for Josh’s dignity and value as a human being. Remember when Romeo said, “Then I defy you, stars?” Remember the punch line? This may be too obvious to mention, but nobody enters a game believing they’re going to lose. Josh digs his feet in. He’ll show the banker. He’ll show Howie. He’ll show the audience. He’ll show everyone who ever dismissed him as a nebbish. You can actually see the rage and torment in his face as he slams down the lid on the big red button. “No deal, Howie!” He shouts with ferocity.You can probably guess the rest. I have changed the name and a few details but the case held less than $100.00. The camera actually followed this guy as he wandered, distraught, around the studio afterwards with a glazed look in his eyes. What a coupe. Why bother to pay actors, directors, and writers when you can create pathos by formula, when you can distract the audience, contestants, and their loved ones from the true nature of your proposition? Under the best of conditions it’s very difficult to hold out until the last case is opened, even with encouragement and sheer nerve.I think I might feel less cynical were it not for the pains DOND takes to convince us just how much they love, love, LOVE their players - and God knows they should. They bring in the videotapes of spouses and lost siblings, and the choirs and celebrity appearances, all to persuade us that they’re not just a bunch of manipulative bastards who are plundering the fragile hopes of decent people for the sake of entertainment - decent people just looking heavenward and pleading for some kind of reassurance.What a disgraceful way to turn a buck. No Deal, Howie.

Christopher Soden holds Vermont College's MFA in Poetry. He writes film & literary critique, essay, performance pieces and dramaturgy. Honors and positions: Poetry Editor: Espejo. President Emeritus: The Dallas Poets Community, The Poetry Society of America's Poetry in Motion Series, Fourth Unity's Annual Unity Fest and The Dallas Public Library's Distinguished Poets of Dallas. Publication: Gertrude, Windy City Times, The Chiron Review, Sentence, Borderlands, New Texas 2002, The James White Review and Best of Texas Writing 2.

Pirate Jenny: Confessions of a Former Bookstore Employee

Christopher Soden — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 06:57:37 EST

I came across a website called The Customer Service Army, a group that exists to ultimately foment the proliferation of better Customer Service. In response, I thought of a group that could be called Pirate Jenny, to encourage better management and customers. Confessions of a Former Bookstore Employee For those of you unacquainted with the reference, "Pirate Jenny" is a song from Brecht and Weill's Threepenny Opera, in which a young woman, working as a maid in a hotel, suffered bad pay and treatment while concealing her true identity. It could make for some very illuminating reading if you have never worked the clerk's side of the counter. I will grant you the resolution of the song is grisly, but ask yourself if any reasonable person working under degrading conditions might gradually, even unwittingly succumb to animosity over time. Would the individuals who mistreat employees do so if they honestly believed their victims had viable recourse? The lynchpin of "Pirate Jenny" is the fact that those who abuse her do so because they assume they can do so with impunity. For a very long time I worked at a couple of chain bookstores, most recently the first Borders Books to open in Texas. At the outset I loved my job and loved helping people. After Borders Books went public, all of that changed. They cut the staff back to a skeleton crew and summarily stripped us of everything that made us a quality business. There was simply no time to spend extra energy or attention with each customer because we were understaffed. The customers were enraged and they took the brunt of their anger out on us. There was reason to believe that management was trying to sandbag the most experienced and efficient among us because they wanted to cut our salaries. Even the smallest oversight was magnified into a hanging offense so they could sack us. A once relatively pleasant job had become a nightmare. We were subjected to the wrath of customers who couldn't be bothered to complain to management. Management was treating us abominably despite the fact that we had once operated like a very fine efficient machine, giving 120% daily. The only way to manage a modicum of sanity was to take each customer one at a time and try to resist the temptation to "juggle," because then you really are sunk. Management did not care that we were being degraded, diminished, and exploited. They were relieved we were the ones who had to deal with aggressive verbal and psychological treatment.I was in retail for 14 years, more or less. It was the rare day when I was not subjected to customers who were rude, condescending, pushy, overbearing, presumptuous, arrogant, demanding, ill-bred, childish, vindictive, dishonest - the list is endless. I'm not going to tell you there is no such thing as inadequate customer service. Of course there is; but imagine five days out of every week of your life dealing with people who consider you fair game because in their minds you belong at the bottom of the food chain. You might have a college degree, but if you can't find their book, it must be because you're a) too lazy to really try to find it b) too stupid to understand checking inventory on a computer or c) too uncooperative to look for an item you ran out of yesterday. Imagine working someplace for years and dealing with someone, anyone off the street who assumes they know your job better than you because you're just a shop clerk performing unskilled labor. Imagine having to act polite to people who have no respect for you whatsoever. Imagine someone going through the roof because you had the temerity to defend yourself when they were rude to you. Imagine people assuming they have the right to treat you like garbage because you can't afford to lose your job. If a miracle occurred and everyone became millionaires overnight, none of these customer service jobs would be occupied because no one would choose to endure this disgraceful treatment from their fellow man. Whatever happened to "Love thy neighbor" and "Do unto others"? Whatever happened to decency and respect? A large part of the population believes we are the new serving class. Those who can't afford housekeepers or valets can at least afford to buy a magazine or a hamburger and pretend they own us.As I said at the start of this, I used to love my job. I used to love helping people and using my skills to help people find what they wanted. There were good folks too - customers who treated me with value and esteem as a professional who was there to help them, even if I couldn't always get to them as fast as I would have liked. As the monsters and jerks started to overwhelmingly outnumber the good folks, I had no recourse. I wasn't even afforded the luxury of standing up for myself because the managers were desperate for every nickel and didn't care if their employees were gradually worn down to nothing. That's when the good ones just didn't get through anymore. That's when you have to leave (so management can replace you with someone cheaper) or completely lose your sanity, self-respect, dignity, and self-worth. Would I ever work in retail or any kind of customer service position again? Why would anyone? If you are interested in forming an advocacy group for employees asked to provide appropriate customer service at the cost of their dignity, please leave a comment.

Theater Review: Bernard Pomerance's The Elephant Man at Woodrow Wilson High School, Dallas

Christopher Soden — Mon, 30 Oct 2006 05:26:23 EST

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a poster for Woodrow Wilson High School's production of Bernard Pomerance's The Elephant Man here in Dallas, Texas. For those of you unacquainted, Pomerance's play won a Tony back in the 80's and was very different in treatment and tone from David Lynch's film of the same name. It's pretty much like comparing potatoes and eggs. I am very fond of Pomerance's play -- its lyrical poignance and plainspoken, yet masterful dialogue touches us without being lurid or manipulative. I've been doing this long enough to expect very little from a high school production, or sadly, any local production of a play that is "deceptively simple." Call me a snob (and you'd be right) if you will, but it's easy to find a play in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex of Texas that is overproduced, undercooked, and overpriced. Still, The Elephant Man is a piece you rarely see performed in "these here parts," so off I went, ready to pony up a sawbuck for a dodgy promise of rapture in the theatre. Understand I was not attending in my "professional capacity." As if I could leave that behind. The girls singing in the "pinhead choir” were celestial. The lead was inspired. Here was a teenage boy who could cry with sincerity and depth. I’m not being sarcastic here. The problem many guys in high school have with drama is their inability to make themselves vulnerable. I shook the hand of Matthew George, who played John Merrick. He seemed genuinely moved by my enthusiasm, which was also genuine. This young man understood that you have to convey the sensibility of the text.Your enjoyment in borrowing and inhabiting a life for a few hours, and responding authentically to other characters, is a big part of making the process work. The girl who played Mrs. Kendall, the famous British actress, was competent if not inspired, but the rest of the performers (even the good ones) rushed lines and you couldn't understand what they were saying. The director, Jim Baird, made some odd choices. He cast two teenage women in leading male roles -- one as Gomm and the other as Dr. Frederick Treves. I'm guessing he felt none of the other males had the chops to make these roles work. Whenever I've seen a production where they claimed the role was "gender neutral," or in this case when the actress was capable of playing a male, it never seems to work out. Mr. Baird may have decided if she actually tried to pass for male, it would be too distracting and he probably would have been right. Something kind of odd about seeing two sweet female ingénues in three piece suits with cravats. They were nearly genderless; still, the nature of charity (in the biblical sense) and attachment behind one man rescuing and redeeming another is very different from that of a woman. In some ways, the gender substitution seemed like the least of their problems.The kids at Woodrow Wilson seemed to get the play at a certain level, but the layers of meaning and melancholy beauty was beyond their reach. We could speculate that many of the actors simply hadn’t lived long enough for the text to resonate in a way they could share. Most of them hadn’t learned to interact or take pleasure in their craft. More experienced companies bite off more than they can chew.You may be asking yourself at this point, “What is he doing?” Why am I going on about an amateur production (a high school cast, for God’s sake) most of you will probably never see? It’s nearly impossible, I believe, to attend a play (or a film) and not want it to be superbly realized. To not be disappointed when opportunities are missed. When the players seem eclipsed by their costumes or lines. It was closing night and there were many tears and gifts exchanged at the curtain call. The actress who played Mrs. Kendall (Cece Looney) thanked somebody's mother for sewing the (incredibly sumptuous) costumes. They called Jim Baird to the stage and he hugged as many as he could. You could tell he'd had an impact on their lives. You could tell which members were friends offstage by the way they held each other. For all its flaws, they were thrilled, no, exhilarated by this communal effort. My critic’s voice kept insisting, “What a bunch of yahoos.” But it didn’t matter. I may be a hypocrite, but I was crying right along with them.

The Practice and Boston Legal: A Miscarriage of Justice

Christopher Soden — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 22:14:17 EDT

Every so often the promos for Boston Legal air and I wonder who dreads it more. I hate it because for me it is almost pure torment, like being held prisoner in a room decorated with emaciated, melancholy waifs and velvet Elvises. My friends hate it because they must again listen to me clamor and kvetch about the passing of David E. Kelley's brilliant long-running television series, The Practice. It would not rile me so (I suspect) had it not been replaced by the ghastly Boston Legal. I say 'replaced' because Boston Legal was a calculated spin-off of The Practice, devised to exploit TP's success while providing a bandage to its betrayed participants. BL may be high-end kitsch. It may be reasonably intelligent, facile, airy, breezy, "Did they really say that?" kitsch. But it is kitsch, nonetheless. For those of you unacquainted with the perceived politics leading to the Boston Legal debacle, I'll try to give you the short version. Some of this may not be germane, but on the very plausible chance that it is, I'll proceed. Please bear in mind that most of this is gloss and speculation. After a remarkably successful run, The Practice was, for one reason or another, on shaky ground. Whether his cast, whose stock had skyrocketed since the show's inception had become too costly, I could not say for sure. I only know that from all journalistic sources I tapped that Kelley blindsided his formidable troupe of players by cancelling the series abruptly and promptly making himself unavailable to them. They found out from the media. The Practice began as a Sunday evening legal drama that showed little promise. It seemed muddled and uninspired and yes, it took a while to hit its stride. But oh, when that miraculous moment arrived... I know this next bit is going to sound melodramatic but there you go. When I watch reruns of The Practice in syndication my heart just aches. I never cease to be astonished at the punchy, poignant writing, the raucous plots that ranged from deadpan hilarity to intense, topical debate that cut to the heart of the human struggle. Often in the same case. Often they would cover several cases in an episode, cutting back and forth to keep the tension (and comic relief) going. Yes, it was an ongoing structure, but the virtuosity of the content, the brilliant, intuitive acting, and Kelley's ability to fuse the horrific, the wrenching, with subtle, sardonic humor saved it from being trite. The Practice was never afraid to show its principals in a less than favorable light. Bobby (Dylan McDermott), the founder of the small firm, was ingenious in the courtroom but his personal life was a trainwreck. Helen Gamble (Lara Flynn Boyle) the beautiful, poised, prosecuting attorney struggled with ethical issues but was no more afraid of bending the law in her own way than were the attorneys of Donnell and Associates. Most of the characters were inspired in their professional lives but otherwise lacked balance and clarity. Just like most of us. Instead of pretending that the legal system was a sure path to justice, Kelley had the moxie to show us that the truth often works out to be something messier. Very often the humor in The Practice was raunchy and audacious. Over the top. But it never felt inconsistent in a tabloid universe such as the one Kelley created in the series and has some moorings in the world in which we live and strive. And then came Boston Legal. Kelley introduced the the character of Alan Shore as a friend of Ellenor Frutt (the amazing Camryn Manheim) in The Practice and made him the lynchpin of Boston Legal. Alan Shore is played by James Spader, a wonderfully sinister actor with reptillian eyelids, an understated, canny libido and moral equivocation that generally cuts to the practical. You would think he would be the perfect fit in a show that never cops to easy solutions. One of the pleasures of watching Spader in his many films was that even when he was playing someone who was quite wicked, the character never seemed wicked. In fact, he had a gift for making the heroes look disingenuous or just plain stupid. All this would have worked handily for BL were it not for the tone and execution (among other problems) which are ridiculously, almost unbelievably wrong. Spader has been turned into a sweet michievous tiger whose teeth and claws have been removed. Yes, he can still go after the bad guys, but his demeanor is an all too accurate example of how Kelley has gone wrong. He's promiscuous but not heartless. He's cavalier but not irresponsible. Another example is William Shatner's character, Denny Crane. I don't know if Shatner is a boyhood hero of Kelley's or not, but Crane is a pompous, vapid, intolerant egomaniac that is a key character in BL, and he's just not that funny. Kelley has milked every last drop of the cluster of running gags attached to Crane, down to the poor parched teat, and to what end? We're clearly supposed to grasp Crane's idiocy (in the mode of say, Peter Griffin or Archie Bunker) and find it contemptible and amusing. Perhaps Shatner's legendary love affair with himself is being spoofed. Yet then, Kelley will kick in another aspect of Crane's identity that will (I guess) salvage his humanity. I will grant you this is delicate chemistry. I'm not saying it couldn't work, but it doesn't. It's embarassing and miscalculated. I suppose I would not continue to rant about the vacuous disappointment that goes by the name Boston Legal . It lacks the raw energy and spontaneity of The Practice but it's not just that. It's listening to the endless self-congratulation of the cast for a show that is pretty much phoned in from the word "go." That's famished at the core. I actually like the cast, but it's all such a travesty. The forced, glib jokes that are so lame they make you cringe, punctuated with the musical equivalent of rim shots. (It really is better to know that it's supposed to be funny, don't you think?) The sophomoric sexual humor that makes Howard Stern sound like Noel Coward. The melodrama with all the bite of a box of stale cornflakes. David Kelley has confused expediency with finesse, floodlights with illumination, innuenendo with subtlety. Who would have thought the progenitor of The Practice could have spawned such a turgid mess? The first season is now available on DVD and (as I understand it) the new season of Boston Legal is just around the corner. At last. A chance to catch up on your laundry. I dedicate this column to the excellent cast of The Practice: Michael Badalucco - Jimmy BerlutiCamryn Manheim -Ellenor Frutt Steve Harris - Eugene Young Dylan McDermott - Bobby Donnell Kelli Williams - Lindsay DoleLisa Gay Hamilton - Rebecca WashingtonMarla Sokoloff - Lucy HatcherLara Flynn Boyle - Helen Gamble Ray Abruzzo - Detective Michael McGuire Jessica Capshaw - Jamie Stringer Holland Taylor - Judge Roberta KittlesonJason Kravits - A.D.A. Richard Bay Linda Hunt - Judge Zoey Hiller Bill Smitrovich - A.D.A. Kenneth Walsh

Movie Review: Born into Brothels

Christopher Soden — Sat, 1 Jul 2006 14:26:40 EDT

Zana Briski and Ross Kauffman’s Born into Brothels is, in my reckoning, a quiet miracle, a feature-length documentary that follows and transforms the lives of seven children growing up in the squalid red light district of Sonagchi, Calcutta. Carefully avoiding bathos and melodrama, Briski and Kauffman pull us deeply into the everyday existence of these kids - the verbal abuse and beatings, the drug addiction and atrocities,the desperation and impoverishment, the rage and apathy that perpetuate their misery. And, strangely enough, interwoven throughout are the childish games, silent ordinary beauty, and bubbling enthusiasm they share with other children. Corny as it sounds (and Born into Brothels is anything but corny), one of the film’s most powerful revelations is that for all their earthy wisdom, these kids retain their youthful energy despite harrowing circumstances. They toil and suffer; steadfast and philosophical when they must be, inured to their surroundings to a large degree (how else would they subsist?), but when given the chance, they revel in their capacity to love the world. One of the film’s most haunting images, a photograph of one of the girls posed provocatively in front of a car, is so unnerving, because, of course, it functions as a ghost of what the future may hold. We’ve all seen little girls playing dress-up, but even in comparison to the creepy creepy shots we’ve seen from infant beauty pageants, this picture is disturbing, although not in a garish, lurid way. Zana Briski is far too professional and respectful for that.The documentary is predicated upon the loving relationship between Briski and her seven photographer proteges: Avigit, Gour, Puja, Shanti, Kochi, Suchitra, and Manik. In a moment of serendipitous inspiration, Briski decides to invite the children to a photography class, handing out cameras to each and training them. She realises the kids will have access she cannot begin to tap, and, being young, have a certain amount of chutzpah that enables them to just walk up and photograph someone, not caring if it angers or offends them. Like so many aspects of the film, their nerve is a double-edged sword, facilitated by their low tier in the notorious caste system. We are horrified by so many details of their environment, but they persevere, cameras at the ready. And how astonishing they are! Even if we take into account that some photos were probably sifted out, the radiance and audacity and clear-eyed authenticity of the shots they take are mind-boggling. The film is jammed with distinctive, poignant imagery - a boy flying a kite from the roof of a tenement, a girl gazing quietly out the window of a bus, the children egging on the driver in a spontaneous taxi race, grown men ogling a young girl. It’s very touching that a professional photographer would move to India for two years and be willing to share her task, in the process opening up the world for her subjects. Not only do thy love what they’re doing but they take it very seriously, although it’s hard not to get a kick when she chides one of the boys - they all call her “Auntie Zana” - for wasting two rolls of film by shooting at night without a flash. He makes one of those faces only a youngster can and says something like, “I was so absolutely confused.” These moments of opulent humanity are a grace. Despite differing levels of resignation, the children know they must get an education and away from their homes if they are to escape a demeaning future. One of the older girls is already getting nagged by her aunt to “join the line,” an image all too easily attached to street-walkers in America, and probably everywhere else. Briski makes it her mission to get them into boarding schools, fighting the convoluted documentation system, ignorance, intolerance, and the blasé attitude of parents, relatives, teachers, clerks, government officials, and nuns(!?). You’d think the Brides of Christ capable of more altruism. One of Briski’s great strengths was her willingness (if I’m reading it right) to improvise and follow the path on which this project must have lead her. Eventually the photographs they took became part of an exhibition in which the children participated,traveling to New York and earning money to facilitate their own emancipation. It’s a privilege to witness the unfolding of this journey and watch them savoring the excitement and engaging vistas as only children can. And Born into Brothels isn’t one of those pitches for children as cosmic shamans in small. We understand the devastation of their predicament but Briski doesn’t milk it. She embraces her subjects with sober, practical optimism, the kind that heals even if it doesn’t necessarily fix everything.

Movie Review: Young Adam

Christopher Soden — Wed, 21 Jun 2006 09:25:17 EDT

Roughly two-thirds of the way into Young Adam we see the antihero, Joe, thrash, degrade and rape his girlfriend, Cathie, with revved up jazz playing in the background. Afterwards, he clearly regrets this sickening outburst: the most emotion his character has shown till that moment; most likely an outpouring of unconscious rage. Sadly, and consider for a moment the implications of this, it is the most engaging scene in the film. Like Carnal Knowledge’sJonathan Fuerst and Damage’s Stephen Fleming, Joe is driven to compulsive, joyless sex. He skulks about, scowling, dressed like a thief or scavenger, usually clad in varying degrees of black. Early in the film we see him smeared in it from head to toe. The press kit describes Young Adam as a thriller, based, I suppose, on the discovery of a corpse at the outset of the film. It’s inevitable that publicists will find an angle to promote their product, but why settle for such a reductive gloss? It’s like calling To Kill a Mockingbird a “courtroom drama.” Young Adam is neither paced nor structured like a thriller. Dramatic tension does not emerge from the death in question, or its resolution. It is a nasty, chilly, solemn piece of work: intriguing but not compelling. Depraved but not provocative. Dense, but oddly unsatisfying. Sony Classics Pictures protested the MPAA’s NC-17 rating of the film, when they should have been pouring the champagne. For good or ill (and despite evidence to the contrary) it still implies a wicked, dirty rush and will probably do more to reap audience turnout than word-of-mouth. The sex in Young Adam is dirty, and yes, wicked, but it’s also squalid and empty. The only danger I can detect to our nation’s youth is that it could quite possibly put them off sex forever. Slow, ruminant and often lit like Van Gogh’s The Potato Eaters, Young Adam holds our attention because the characters are murky, ambiguous, and obtuse. Director David Mackenzie doles out information with extreme care, parsing out just enough to tantalize and keep us involved in Joe’s “journey.” Joe cohabitates with a couple (Ella and Les) who live and work on a barge, and has an affair with the wife. Before finding them he lives as a writer with his lover Cathie. The action jumps forward and backward in time, distinctions between past and present are blurred, gradually we are given clues to his enigmatic psyche. He saves a boy from drowning but not his lover. He watches as a black fly malingers at Ella’s breast, without shooing or killing it. At the supper table, a thin swath of milk drizzles slowly down his face. It may always be a matter of debate whether a film needs sympathetic characters to involve us. I’m guessing they chose Ewan MacGregor to play Joe, hoping he could play the character without losing the audience. MacGregor probably did as well as anyone could. You could argue that Young Adam feels hollow at the center because it reflects the spiritual bankruptcy of its protagonist. But is this the best way to convey content? Does re-created experience yield sensibility? Joe is probably meant to seem amoral. He’s not sinister, really, but promiscuous and robotic. As if he were acting out. When he climbs into bed next to Cathie after the previously mentioned episode of spontaneous abuse, we can see the remorse on his face, but our sympathy is for her. Perhaps the title suggests the first man, before he understood the difference between right and wrong. I don’t think it takes a lot of extrapolation to detect an Oedipal dynamic, either. Among other things Oedipus was an interloper, an opportunist. Ella gives Joe preferential treatment. He spies on Ella and Les while they’re having sex (an act repeated by their son) and eventually supplants Les in bed. He has sex with Ellas’s sister, whose husband was killed in a traffic accident. He explodes when his girlfriend objects to supporting him. Amorality and turpitude are not exactly unexplored cinematic territory. But when the lights come up after Young Adam, we don’t feel the revulsion or taint or despair we do after a film like River’s Edge or Crash or Dead Ringers. We feel nothing. The trial does beg the question of Joe’s conscience, we can see he’s unnerved about the plumber’s fate. But even the ending is irresolvable, we can’t tell if he’s discarding his narcissism or his attachment to Cathie. Joe struggles, in his way, but has no epiphanies. No consequences. Mackenzie makes it impossible to identify with Joe or pass judgment on him. Young Adam is too detached for it’s own good.

Movie Review: Prey for Rock and Roll

Christopher Soden — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 16:34:26 EDT

There's a lot to like about Prey for Rock and Roll and a lot to set your teeth on edge. I guess I could never completely pan a film featuring out-and-proud dykes in an all-woman punk band called Clamdandy.That's one of the reasons why I feel conflicted reviewing queer-themed films. When I start to shift into critical mode, another part of me says, "Remember how it used to be? Remember when movies like this were unimaginable? When film lesbians were cartoony and used for a cheap laugh? Remember Open City and Notorious?"I'm thrilled that a movie like Prey for Rock and Roll comes along with a reasonably intelligent (though overly glib) script and positive role models. It never hints that Jacki or the other band members need men to fix or complete them, quite the reverse in fact. It doesn't shrink from exposing our heroines at less than flattering moments. Yet there seems to be some ambivalence, a discrepancy between the film's ideology and its plot. For all its enlightenment it still panders to breeder preconceptions, tries to put a sympathetic spin on queer attraction so they can "relate."Prey for Rock and Roll is narrated by Jacki (Gina Gershon), lead singer and manager of Clamdandy. Ever since she was 12 years old and saw Tina Turner at the Hollywood Bowl, she's dreamed of being a rock and roll star. Jacki seems loosely based on Patti Smith; she certainly sings like her and does so with panache. The songs are energetic but the lyrics feel generic. They lack a lot of the invention and intense imagery that make for great rock and roll.We watch as the four rehearse, chill, bitch, piss, vomit, and suffer the ordeals that men throw their way. We learn that Sally (Shelly Cole) and Jacki have both been the victims of male sex-abuse. Animal (Marc Blucas), Sally's older brother, is a sweet, caring, non-confrontational guy. Jacki keeps him at a safe distance because clearly, males are bad news. It's easy to understand why they take exception to men. They've been repeatedly subjected to degrading treatment by troglodytes.Many guys think that testicles entitle them to be domineering, aggressive, toxic pricks. Now, of course, you don't have to be raped to understand this. You don't even have to be female. What bothers me is this very old and still prevalent presumption that queer folks must be damaged goods, that our sexuality must be an expression of rage, despair, or trauma. None of the women in Prey for Rock and Roll could have possibly been born gay. No. They must have been fondled or groped or attacked. Their orientation must be an act of anarchy against the male power structure.The women of Clamdandy play to appropriate male power. They are not alienated because they are dykes; they are dykes because they're alienated. They call each other "dude," "man," and "guys," consistently dealing in masculine pronouns. "Faith is a bass playing god by night." Their comportment is intentionally male and they express no worries about their femininity. When Jacki's girlfriend chides her for negligence, Jacki waits until she leaves before ironically commenting, "Chicks."In a scene designed to telegraph catastrophe, Nick suggestively twirls a bowling pin at Tracy, chanting that it is "all about the one-eyed snake" or some such observation. Clearly, in this movie it is not all about the penis (and you can make a damn good case for that) but if sex doesn't need to be cock-centered and if women don't need male intervention to thrive and excel, then what are Jacki and her girlfriend doing with a penis-shaped vibrator? And after Sally's attack, why does Jacki seek Animal's help? Why not get Tracy and Faith (Lori Petty) or go to a bar and enlist confederates?Animal was imprisoned for killing his stepfather when he found him molesting Sally. She is not ungrateful for this, exactly, though she disapproves of his hyper-masculine zeal. Never mind that there are plenty of women, too, who would have grabbed a baseball bat. It is this contradiction in the women's attitude that I find so troubling. In some ways, Prey for Rock and Roll lacks the courage of its convictions. If machismo is so repugnant, why do the women cleave to it so fiercely? And if they don't need men to sustain masculine energy, why do they still resort to male physicality? To phallic superiority? This may be an intrinsic flaw with stories shaped to didactic imperative. They can feel over-simplified or disingenuous. Prey for Rock and Roll will probably remind you how far the cinema has come in its depiction of queer women - or just maybe how far it still has to go.

Interview with Jonathan Caouette, Director of Tarnation

Christopher Soden — Fri, 16 Jun 2006 11:58:26 EDT

I was privileged to interview Jonathan Caouette while he was doing his publicity junket in October of 2004, in conjunction with the release of his documentary, Tarnation. There had been a lot of advance notice about the film because it was a done on a ridiculously small budget using a variety of mediums (home movies, audio tapes, slides, videos, photographs, answering machines, TV and movie clips) successfully. It was my first and (so far) only interview. I was very nervous and brought my cigarettes to provide some stimulation and finesse. Turned out he was a smoker, too. He'd just come from the airport, so his rhythms were a bit skewed. We sat down outside and smoked, while he drank triple sugar, triple espressos. He was sweet, charming, endearing, and surprisingly modest, considering the fact that he was knocking them out of the ballpark at film festivals everywhere he went (including, I believe, Cannes and Sundance). Among the many things that impressed me was the variety of images, how distinct they were, stylistically, and yet how seamlessly they fit together. Can you talk about how Tarnation evolved as you edited it, and how closely you worked with [producers] Winter, Mitchell and Kates? Did you feel most of your choices were intellectual or intuitive?It was all pure instinct. I had absolutely no pre-conceived notion of this film becoming anything except something that I was working on every night and would end up showing to my boyfriend and buddies. I didn't think, "Oh, I'm making a documentary," or "I'm making this experimental film about my life," or "Look out, Sundance. Here I come!" I was just utilizing this footage that I had right under my nose, to tell the story that was sort of burning inside me. I edited for three weeks without sleep and came up with this two-hour epic, Tarnation, that had everything I could put into it. Then John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Winter came into my life and signed on as Executive Producer and Producer, respectively, and together with Brian A. Kates, we started seeing exactly what the film was telling us it was, a portrait of my mother and me. It certainly was an unorthodox way to make a movie. And what has happened since has exceeded all my dreams. I've noticed that a lot of times, say like in music videos or even more ambitious projects, the special stylistic effects have less to do with content than with distracting or intriguing the audience, while in Tarnation the connection between the (for lack of better words) jittery, trippy, surreal effects and content seems very strong. Any comments? You know, in the last few weeks I've done literally hundreds of interviews and many times I think some of these questions I won't really be able to answer with any true clarity until five or six years from now, when I can have some perspective on what really happened here. Essentially, I was trying to recreate on film my thought process and what my experience of growing up was like, emotionally and aesthetically. Some things were glorious. Some things were horrifying. But all the way through it there was a tremendous love between me and my family. I noticed how genuine and spontaneous the opening and closing sequences felt. Your anguish when hearing about your mother's lithium overdose, your scenes with David, and really, I think, throughout the film. Were any parts of the film shot specifically for the sake of narrative? Do you think your bout with depersonalization made it easier for you to shoot some of these scenes, i.e. less self-conscious?Yes, those scenes you refer to are re-creations for the sake of narrative clarity. I like to think of them as elaborate documentary B-roll footage. I think the reason the emotional thrust of those scenes comes across so clearly is not so much because of depersonalization, but because it's just not hard for me to access those situations and emotions. I love my mother and my boyfriend so much sometimes it actually hurts me as much as it gives me the energy to keep going forward. So it's not a problem for me to put together scenes that express that. I was greatly intrigued by the short monologue you did as an 11-year-old, in which you played the woman who was abused by her husband. In some ways the moment felt really authentic. I had mixed feelings because it seemed strangely sophisticated and jaundiced for an 11-year-old. Am I right in my perception that some of the intent was darkly satirical? Do you remember your intentions at the time?My original intention? At age 11? It's so hard to say! That night I had watched an episode of The Bionic Woman where Lindsay Wagner was going through this "Stepford Wives" type situation. And on PBS I had seen For Colored Girls Who've Considered Suicide When the Rainbow was Enuf with Alfre Woodard and that moved me a great deal. So I just sort of set the camera up, meshed those two characters with something to do with my mother, and out popped Hilary Laura Lou. I remember definitelty feeling committed to the character and her pain, but I also was having great fun with it. At age 11, I certainly didn't have a developed sense of camp, but I did have a sense of humor. I guess I just always liked operating on many different levels of understanding all at the same time. I've noticed that often times artists are immune to the effects of their own creations, or at least the full impact. Did you find that to be true with Tarnation? Is it easier for you to infer the effect from the response of other people?Oh no, I feel it every time I watch it. But I feel lots of different things. I just love watching Tarnation with audiences and look at it as a "Rocky Horror", "Pink Floyd"-type acid-trip rock show as much as a, you know, "powerful and harrowing" documentary. So when I'm doing a Q&A somewhere I always sit in the back row and tap along to the music and such, but there are some scenes I just can't watch. What was the re-discovery process like as you uncovered and watched so many hours of tapes, film, audio, visual, that I assume you hadn't seen in a very long time?Actually, I did watch things pretty regularly, so although my tapes weren't logged in any real way, I sort of had an instinct as to what stuff was on what tape when I started putting things together. The three weeks where I edited nonstop for the two-hour cut were like this fiery, completely cathartic experience. I don't really remember what it was like. It seems like I've always had to get this story out of me, and I definitely feel lighter and more centered in myself now that it's out there. It was thrilling, hilarious, devastating and very hard work. I noticed that you mentioned David Lynch as one of your directorial (cinematic?) influences. It seems to me one of his specialties is creating movies that have the effect of a sustained, prolonged dream, for instance: Elephant Man, Eraserhead, Lost Highway, Blue Velvet and most recently, Mulholland Drive. Care to comment?David Lynch is one of my favorite directors ever and Mullholland Drive is one of my favorite movies ever. My biggest dream is to one day create films on that virtuoso level. Lynch's influence is all over Tarnation, absolutely. I was impressed by the way Tarnation got us to embrace material that was so painful, sad, and disturbing. Was this intentional or accidental, or maybe somewhere in-between?If I ever had an original intention on making this film, then empathy for the complexity of people with mental issues was definitely it. People with mental health concerns are so often treated like pariahs in our society and Hollywood films most often sugercoat these issues and make bullshit borderline-offensive films. I wanted to show how it really was, and how it really is, without any bullshit, but also so people could deal with it, understand it, and walk away with a little more clarity of understanding. Hopefully, that's working. What sparked the revelation as a boy that you wanted to become a film director?It's so hard to say. From the very first film I ever saw, I wanted to be a filmmaker and an actor and an artist. Even before I could put it into words. It was my core destiny. What was the first movie to profoundly connect with you?The Wizard of Oz. I really wanted Dorothy to get home, but I also wanted her to stay in Oz. I would get so excited watching that movie, I'd just about burst. Has your partner David been key in your healing process?There are no words to describe how David saved my life and continues to save my life every single day. David is like this beautiful, serene prince with an infinite capacity for patience, understanding and love.

Movie Review: Tarnation

Christopher Soden — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 21:14:23 EDT

Upon release, Jonathan Caouette’s autobiographical documentary Tarnation caused quite a stir, and deservedly so. Using software that just happened to come with his partner’s new computer, and plundering home movies, photographs, video and audiotapes going back to when he was 11, Caouette has sculpted a stunning, powerful, excruciating film, playing beat the clock (to get it to the Sundance Festival) and bringing it in for an amount that gives new meaning to the term “shoestring budget” ($218.32). Could we call it a “toothpick budget”? To my mind, Tarnation breaks many rules. It may be the ultimate “Hail Mary” film, taking incredible risks, using them as a springboard to intensity and transcendence. The content is often extremely, impossibly personal. Wrenching. But none of it feels self-indulgent or remotely self-pitying. Caouette himself spends a lot of time in front of the camera, but manages to avoid self-consciousness. A great deal of crucial (and harrowing) information is divulged in on-screen text, which, when you think about it, seems outré. Yet it has just the right touch. It buffers the jolt, keeps the material from overwhelming you. Tarnation (a euphemistic term for damnation) charts the overlapping lives of three generations: Jonathan Caouette himself, his mother Renée, and his grandparents, Adolph and Rosemary. We learn about the key events that have shaped them and sent them careening into oblivion or despair, the ill-advised choices and random, traumatic incidents that have forever changed the course of their momentum. Tarnation divulges painful, unnerving material without repulsing us. Without prompting us to turn away, Caouette makes it clear that tragedies can (and do) happen randomly, that well-meaning families can mistakenly make decisions that will have horrific, grotesque consequences. And if anyone can be “punished” for their fallibility then none of us are safe. Tarnation suggests that it’s not about deserving the life we get, but surviving it. There is a tenderness in Tarnation that tempers the unblinking footage of Caouette, his mother, his grandparents. We partake of their everyday lives, their quips, their friction, their meltdowns. We see Caouette’s parents and grandparents when they were young, attractive and successful, but also after time, abuse, and neglect have diminished them. Curiously, Caouette seems hardly changed at the age of 32. The adult seems childlike and the boy precocious and jaded. Pretty early in the film, we see Jonathan perform a bizarre monologue, dressed in spare but convincing drag. "Hilary Laura Lou" talks about her husband’s abuse: pregnant and kicked in the stomach. Tied to the bed and beaten. Despite the trashy, cartoony vibe, it also has a dark, satirical side. We know this kind of thing goes on, but it’s obvious he’s not playing it straight. And when it hits us an 11-year-old boy is doing a viable read on this acrimonious spoof, it’s appalling, heartbreaking. Fascinating.This is one of the glorious aspects of Tarnation . It’s a mistake, I believe, to take any particular sequence in just one way. His mother’s “pumpkin dance,” for instance. At first it just seems playful and jokey. But as it continues way past the point of joviality, we start to gather something’s wrong. And it’s not just Renée’s eccentricities or failure to respond to certain questions. Often it’s what she divulges when she cracks out of turn. I think Caouette gives most of this an off-hand, casual feel that enhances the plausibility, that makes it less far removed from our own experience, and therefore harder to dismiss. It’s difficult to find the words to describe the visual style of Tarnation. When you consider the distinct, disparate elements, and how seamlessly, intuitively they hang together, it’s what? Cinematic collage of the highest order? But it goes so far beyond that. Montage may be the technique, but it’s all about motion and vibrance. It’s all about illumination and epiphany. We see Caouette’s early experiments in filmmaking, monologues and trashy-satirical slasher movies. Some of it reminded me of Kenneth Anger and Christopher Rage. Into this was spliced photographs of his grandparents, his mother, himself, Desiderata in voiceover (!) videotapes from the present, television shows, and movies from the '70s and '80s; on and on it goes. Filmmakers have been dabbling with this technique for years. In music videos, television, feature-length films we see the dazzling special effects, the jittery, frantic, hand-held camera that distracts and intrigues but only intermittently connects to content. But Jonathan Caouette makes it all coalesce, with astonishing results. His devices, his jumps from raw to slick to grainy to trippy, bolster and deepen the subject matter. Tarnation could have been just another pastiche. Instead, by diligence, dedication and flying by the seat of his pants, he’s taken a quantum leap into mastery. Into brilliance.

Movie Review: Broadway: The Golden Age

Christopher Soden — Tue, 6 Jun 2006 18:08:26 EDT

“For me to think I would be nominated for a Tony when the nominations came on my 25th day on Broadway would have been totally unrealistic. “ P. DiddyReading a quote like this in Entertainment Weekly, one can only sigh, or in my case, go into apoplexy. While Mr. Diddy was as gracious as the situation demanded, perhaps it’s never occurred to him that maybe he wasn’t delivering a noteworthy performance. Or that the well-publicized incident (when he had trouble relating to his character's financial problems) might have tipped his hand. Co-stars, media, friends, even some critics were deferential, I suppose, because they didn’t want to seem arrogant or deprecating. Why would young people need Diddy’s inclusion to see a play written by Lorraine Hansberry, an African American who was a genius, a prodigy, and years ahead of her time?Assuming Diddy believes the message of Raisin in the Sun, why did he deprive a capable, talented actor who could have used the break? Why didn’t he donate tickets so kids could see it for free? Isn’t success and distinction in his chosen field enough? And if serious, why didn’t he get the training and pay his dues first, instead of walking into a role he clearly didn’t deserve? Even in a time when Broadway has become a candy factory with empty whiz-bang special effects and canned music, this is a new low. It no longer matters if they are creating memorable theatre, they just want to recoup their investment.At the beginning of Broadway: The Golden Age, Ann Miller observes that they never thought of those days (1940’s-70’s) as a golden age, but looking back, she supposed it was. And like a savvy attorney, Director Rick McKay makes his case almost exclusively on the basis of testimony. You can tell the actors he asks the crucial question are trying to be polite, which makes the sad conclusion just seem all the more unmistakable. An institution that used to be a Mecca for the most brilliant creative minds of its time is fast becoming just another investment opportunity for moguls to exploit. Philistines who would produce a cock fight if they thought it would net them some serious bucks. You’d have to be naive to think any documentary doesn’t have a viewpoint to sell, but I was leery because this one already sounds like a valentine to yesteryear: Broadway: The Golden Age By The Legends Who Were There. I should explain that I have been a devoted drama queen since attending a local production of Carousel at the age of ten. And McKay’s Broadway is indeed a valentine to a time when Broadway thrived on talent, zeal, dedication and boundless energy. A time when directors, producers, actors, choreographers, wardrobe, lighting and set designers, cared about creating dramas and musicals that were challenging, intelligent, witty, controversial and stirring. As one of the actors interviewed explained the difference between Theatre and Film, in a play, “you’re all breathing the same air.” One of the glories of attending a live performance is sharing a spontaneous, unrepeatable moment in time. When the actor makes the character real for you then and there.The structure of Broadway is not unique. McKay intersperses anecdotes with stills and footage to illustrate the narrative. What’s intriguing is how captivating and affecting the film is, considering the apparent sum of its parts. Its strength comes from the passion and avid interest of the “witnesses” McKay has lined up: Carol Channing, Ben Gazzara, Uta Hagen, Julie Harris, Elaine Stritch, Stephen Sondheim, Elizabeth Ashley, Harold Prince, Martin Landau, Jerry Orbach, and countless others. There is something about the actors. Something in their voices and eyes, as if seized upon by some urgent truth when describing a performance by Laurette Taylor as the quintessential Amanda Wingfield, or Gazzara remembers Tennessee Williams in the front row, opening night of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Forty, fifty years later you can still feel their primal joy in performing. How they loved the hard work and precision and raw electricity of theatre at its most remarkable. These were the days when actors forged careers every night in the crucible of New York Theatre. When they struggled and drank and lived and cadged meals together. When four actresses bought one dress to use for auditions. When you might take a musical on the road till you hammered out all the problems. When, as McKay explains, Hollywood came to New York for material instead of the other way around.