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Before the Coen Brothers were wrongly robbing prizes from Paul Thomas Anderson (read here), they were winning thoroughly deserved prizes for their best film to date with "Barton Fink." "Barton" made headlines in 1991 after winning an unanswered three top prizes at the Cannes Film Festival: Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor. The Cannes Film Festival has rules of awarding a film a maximum of one prize. Well, "Barton Fink" made quite the impression.

The scene: As our title character Fink (John Turturro) is getting arrested by a couple of detectives, for crimes he is not responsible for, the hotel elevator rings. Charlie is here. Charlie Meadows, of course is played by John Goodman, in a performance that deserves to be studied. Up until this climatic moment, Barton and Charlie have grown very amiable with each other; hotel neighbors who couldn't be anymore dissimilar (both in physical and mental stature). Barton, we know, has serious writer's block. Charlie, that mysterious, large man next door, goes on travels for periods of times, and well--heads start to roll. Literally. The homicidal angle isn't the kicker though. The Coens really weird things out by making the physical and metaphysical world fuck each other silly. As Charlie runs down the hallway, the walls catch fire. "I'll show you the life of the mind!" Charlie yells as he shoots at the detectives. After the first detective is dead, and the second injured, Charlie slows to a steady march to deliver the killing shot to the second detective. This image, is one of the most iconic of the last twenty years. Photographed from the inside of Barton's room, where he is handcuffed to the bedpost, we see a side profile view of Charlie march by the open door, sweaty, rifle in hand, with brilliant colors of the fire from the wall on the other side of him. Charlie lowers the rifle to the second detective's head. "Heil Hitler!" he declares. Boom.

Why we love it: There is tremendous power in this scene. For a film that for many viewers is quite frustrating, comes this wholly organic and visceral few moments that transcend logical explanation or categorization. It goes to a level that no one can label. "I'll show you the life the mind! I'll show you the life of the mind! I WILL SHOW YOU THE LIFE OF THE MIND!!!" Charlie bellows. The rawness of the performance, mixed with the uneasiness from the bluntness of the violence creates this dizzying effect for viewers. The Hitler remark usually throws some viewers off too. That's if you read it off of a page. But listen to Charlie say it. There's a frankness to his voice while delivering that salute. Don't forget that "Barton Fink" takes place in 1930s Hollywood--a locale serene and picture perfect place and one that is far, far away from the eve of the second world war. Though on a timeline America is on the cusp of WWII, the entertainment industry couldn't be more detached in its own absurdness. Still, in a general plot outline of the struggles of writer's block and the search for creativity, to work in this post-modern aesthetic portrayal of madness is quite utterly divine. Here the Coens deserved every award handed to them.

Posted by nelsoncarvajal at 06:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"The modestly named "mumblecore" movement in new American indies is not an earthquake like the French New Wave, more of a trembling in the shrubbery."  So says Roger Ebert.

I walked into the Duplass Brothers ("The Puffy Chair") latest film "Baghead" with some reservations.  The mumblecore movement has to be a blessing in disguise and yet I don't know if I want to embrace it just yet.  "Mumblecore" as defined by Wikipedia is "primarily characterized by ultra-low budget production[s] (often employing digital video cameras), [which] focus on personal relationships between twenty-somethings, improvised scripts, and non-professional actors."  In other words, it's the final ploy for aspiring filmmakers to turn to if they can't get the funding they need for their feature films.  Get your friends together.  Get the video camera rolling.   See what happens.

I myself am an aspiring filmmaker.  I guess I'm scared of turning toward the mumblecore movement for reasons of falling short or just coming off as plain amateurishly narcissistic; oh, look at me and my friends...we're so witty and non-commercial.

Then I watched "Baghead."

I must say that after watching this oddly effective and fresh new feature, I just might have to start having some meetings on possibly turning out my own mumblecore film.   But more about "Baghead": It's hard to place it under one categorical heading.  It's part relationship comedy and part creepy killer in the woods.  How this idea could be pulled off in a big Hollywood-sized movie is beyond me, but something small and personal like this proves it can be done.  At the same time, I thought it was great to look at.  I thought it had less camera jerks and blurs than such big budget productions like "Cloverfield" and the grainy video quality is oddly inviting; if it wasn't for the diabolical developments that unfold in the third act, it just might have passed as another underground battle of the sexes.

And yet again, I find myself being vague with the actual plot (if you could even stretch the term to that) of a film.  Sometimes it's good to know as much as possible, as in cases like "The Dark Knight."  But "Baghead" is a little nugget of a gem.  You really need to walk into this one cold.  Dark woods cold.

Scott Tobias, a writer for the A.V. Club and a friend of mine, cleverly concluded in his review of the film: "Baghead is a slight movie by design—a lark about the making of a lark—but it goes further than expected in exploring the core issues of no-budget independent filmmaking and what can or cannot be accomplished. It's also a good argument for picking up a camera and shooting away—provided you have something worth shooting, of course."

You know, I just might have to do that now. 

Posted by nelsoncarvajal at 07:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Long before "Mulholland Drive" David Lynch was drawing many "WTFs?" from audiences everywhere (well, from places where they actively pursued his work anyway) and his 1977 film "Eraserhead" is a perfect example of Lynch's unusual approach to the medium.

I'm not going to lie; after you watch a film like this, you'll probably want to clench your fists and curse at the screen.  I remember taking one of my younger brothers to go see a 35mm presentation of it and he actually slept for 25 mins of the third act. When he woke up and watched the last scene he turned to me and whispered, "You know, even if I was awake for this last part, I think I'd be just as confused."

But "Eraserhead" is considered art.  Cinematic art.  Lynch hasn't really stepped forward (even though it's been over 30 years since its debut) to orate or explain the film and that's not a problem.  The shot above is how the film opens.  Dark, ominous with imagery that is iconic and heavily unclear.

It wouldn't be inaccurate to call the work a partial silent film, laced with ambient industrial sounds.  If that was the tagline on the poster, it would give viewers a marginal heads up.  Many agree that the film is a twisted biographical examination of Lynch's early adult years when he faced parenthood, marriage and the dry spell of any working hunger artist (though in this film it's referred to as a "vacation").

Jack Nance plays Henry Spencer (the incarnation of Lynch), as a man who is immune to the lifeless world that surrounds him.  There's a frightening indifference in his eyes as he sits in a room, next to a table that is acting as the stubborn crib to his mutant infant son.  Even when he has an adulterous encounter with the lady from across the hall, there's a sort of coldness to his sexual behavior: they literally drown in the center of the bed.

What is Lynch trying to ask or prove in "Eraserhead"?  It's hard to say.  But for me, the film is a scary, Kafkaesque take on the world from the viewpoint of a brilliant Director.  The industrial revolution--at least in the eyes of Henry Spencer--has made the world barren, and ugly.  There is no sunshine, just steam from street sewers.  There are no places of creative employment, just factories for men in "print."  A carnal point is made through a father figure we meet who is very proud to have been a plumber for decades.

And then there's the lady in the radiator (the creepy, puffy-cheeked lady in the pic above).  She creepily sings "In heaven, everything is fine..." at several points.  For me, she was the villain for most of the running time; the face of the industrious, post-modern America with happy logo signs or images (e.g. the Quaker Oats guy) replacing creativity with physical product.

But something strange happens at the end.  I believe Henry is saved by the end.  Many others believe he is destroyed.  I think he is saved due to the bright light that blinds the screen when the lady in the radiator consumes Henry.  The music (or noise) in the film reaches a sort of high point here.

Maybe I was just hoping for a better life for our protagonist.  And if he is destroyed, or "erased" from existence--then maybe that's not a bad thing in Lynch's book either. 

Posted by nelsoncarvajal at 04:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)