Man on a Wire (2008)

From Less Than Great Heights

I think I’m just disappointed. The image of a man balancing precariously between the towers of the World Trade Center seemed pregnant with such promise. I dreamed of a documentary focused on what drives a man to such daring, deathly lengths. I imagined something akin to The Great Ecstasy of Woodcarver Steiner or even The Devil at Your Heels. Instead, Man on Wire plays like a deflated heist film.

Philippe Petit’s tightrope walk between the towers of the World Trade Center may have been the ‘artistic crime of the century’, but there is not enough filmed or photographed evidence. Man On Wire is constructed like a heist film, but there is no tension, we know the outcome and are now forced to hear a rotating cast of individuals share less than rivoting, technical details. Too much of the film balances on overly manufactured interviews and poorly conceived re-enactments. As a whole the film, expresses its story in about six different styles, most of which do not gel with one another. For a story about a man so focused and so determined, the look of Man on Wire is scattershot.

James Marsh tried this mixture of archival and re-enactments in Wisconsin Death Trip . That too was less than successful. So, I should not have really been surprised at these results. I guess I’m more shocked at how many people like this film. Its seems that of those I know, the ones who like it watch documentaries and the ones who don’t like it make them.

Grey Gardens (1975)

Your subject's style may become your own.

Find an interesting subject. Find a camera. Make a documentary. It seems so simple. Then reality sets in.

There is a vast difference between finding something that is fascination and communicating something that hold fascination. One struggle documentary filmmakers quickly realize is that a film must start and stop. Even if a documentary carries no goal driven narrative, the filmmakers must decide how and when to present information, what information need not be shown, and when you’ve satisfied or exhausted our audience.

When the Maysles brothers began filming the lives of the eccentric Beales they encountered a second difficulty of documentary filmmaking. Sometimes your subject dictates your style. From the onset of the film, the Beales invite the Maysles into their home. Even if Albert and David Maysles wanted to make an observational documentary, Edith and Little Edie Beale would not let them. The Beales play for the camera. They refuse to forget about its prescence and they continually address the Maysles.

What I appreciate about Grey Gardens, even if I find it an enchantingly ragged documentary, is how the Maysles negotiate these two issues. The Beales force the Maysles away from the observational mode of filmmaking more prevalent in Salesman. The need for newspaper clippings, still photographs, and self-reflexive moments seem disjointed from the observational mode of filmmaking, but they also express the struggles of documentary filmmakers forced to adapt their style to best suit their subject.

Into Great Silence (2005)

Just as not everyone should or could be able to take on the monastic lifestyle, Into Great Silence may not be a documentary for those seeking answers. Questions of why, how, even what are eschewed in favor or immersion. The life of the Carthusian monk is either a peaceful and spiritual or solitary and hellish. It really depends on the attitude of the viewer. The quiet, ritual-heavy life of these monks has been distilled down to a manageable two-and-a-half hours. Philip Gröning’s camera documents their daily routines with great patience, the kind that comes from not only observing a subject, but living with the subject.

I greatly appreciate the watchful, calm, and touchingly poetic eye that Gröning employs. The film literally transforms itself from a documentation to a practice, one that evokes a meditative and spiritual transformation in the viewer, if that is what they are seeking. Personally, this is just the type of film I seek and adore. It captures the ineffable.

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call – New Orleans (2009)

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call – New Orleans was the best film I didn’t see in 2009. It sat on my desk for a month, a treat for a calm day. Sadly, that day did not come until 2010.

Additionally, I was fearful that the film and my expectations would not equal one another. I haven’t enjoyed Nicolas Cage in a film since Wild at Heart. Herzog is always a favorite, but this project raised red flags. Werner doing a remake, one that seemingly had no connection to the original. It felt like a quick cash grab.

It turns out The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call – New Orleans, is a genre defying picture. It brings to mind The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. Both Nicholas Cage and Ben Gazarra, portray characters rules by their compulsions. While Cage’s character is driven by physical pain and chemical addiction to explosive outbursts and Gazarra’s character is cool to the point of aloofness, chosing not to think about his problems. Each character understands what habits they must break to free themselves from the hell they have created, but it is easier for them to focus on the immediate rather than take the steps to help themselves. The majority of their time is spent attending to one minor crisis or another, desperately trying to make ends meet, but all the while creating more problems. There is something very honest in this behavior, it speaks to many people I know, even if they are not in debt to bookies or addicted to hard narcotics. This behavior speaks to something very American, be it risking our health with horrible eating habits or running up credit card debit.

Herzog, like Cassavetes, is smart enough to never let their characters catch a moment of rest.. When things slow down, Herzog provides an ending that is so potentially saccharine that I almost wanted to stop the film short and enjoy what I had seen of it. Yet, by some miracle, Herzog takes the potentially a hackneyed finale and deflate all sentimentality from the scene. He’s done this before. Whether in you look at the madness of Aguirre, the Wrath of God or the surrealism of  Stroszek Herzog has often found a way to make a powerful and memorable ending from a rather laughable premise.

Riders of the Storm (1986)

A plane wreck of a film

By 1986, most of America was putting away their rabbit ears and plugging in their cable boxes. While paltry by today’s standards, the an increased number of cable channels carried with them a promise that their might be a channel for everyone. Of course, even today, in our on demand, 500 plus channel future, we still have a hard time finding something to suit our most personal desires. We still feel beholden to our content providers. Wouldn’t it be great if there was someone operating outside the confines of cable, some rebels broadcasting cutting edge programming?

Herein lies the fantasy that is Riders of the Storm, aka The American Way, a braindead satire for the MTV generation. War-fried Vietnam vets circle the skies in an outdated bomber broadcasting pirate television signals, bringing red-blooded American’s just what they want – music videos filled with titillation and powerful imagery.

Payloads full of exposition inform us that the warbirds may land their station in the sky and go legit, that is until a war-hungry Presidential candidate gives them resolve to keep flying. Why the feel a need to bring down this darkhorse, female candidate is just uncertain. The vets and their political motives are both rather under-developed. The filmmakers take more interest in linking the war-mongering, Reaganesque candidate to born-again televanglists. These two villians give writer Scott Roberts and director Maurice Phillips broad targets  to aim their humor at, but sadly they have little of interest to say about these subjects. Instead, what comes out is a stew of jibberish sequences laced together with videos and music. To some degree, I am certain that the references to particular songs and images are meant to further serve as political and cultural commentary, but they feel so ephemeral that everything is awash.

While Dennis Hopper and Michael J. Pollard provide the smallest dose of interest, the rest of the film, from story to execution is painfully scatterbrained and dreadfully hard to get through. When the DVD started to crap out in the final minutes of the film I felt both cheated and relieved. Perhaps in more competent hands this could have reached the level of Americathon or even Repo Man. Instead we get a film channeling Dr. Strangelove, Videodrome, a slew of other, better films, not to mention the television show Night Flight. Even with such great influences the whole film fizzles resulting in a real dud.

I can’t even think of one scene worth saving from this turkey.

Downhill Racer (1969)

Pretty Poster, Pretty Film

I’ll take any mediocre film from the late 60’s or early 70’s over and better than average film from subsequent eras.

This is not to say that Downhill Racer is not mediocre. It simply has its fingers in too many pots and more style than substance. Part character study, part sports film, and part romance, the film often sets aside one aspect to devote itself to another. The picture is wonderfully shot, with a mixture of amazing action photography and graphically minded framing that looks exotic and lush. The entire picture inhabits the world of advertisements plucked right from a Playboy magazine of that era. Soft, warm lighting indoors, rich colors outdoors, the world of Downhill Racer looks like one big advert for European sport cars, hard liquor, and sporty attire. While the images are rich, the film should be championed, most of all, for its restraint, especially in dialogue and sound design.

The narrative to Downhill Racer is nothing new. Yet, it feels weighty, thoughtful, maybe even philosophical. For all its stylistic trappings, Downhill Racer is a pretty shallow, by-the-numbers film, but it does a great job of making you believe it has a lot more to offer. Part of the reason I compare it to old Playboy magazines and why it reminds me of those materials is because both strive to elevate their audience culturally, if only superficially.

I have always admired and questioned the articles and advertisements in dated men’s magazines. Cluing reader’s into the latest works by Mailer or the latest must have jazz albums, these enriching suggestions make the consumer both more cultured as well as more appealing to the opposite sex. Compared to today’s more brazen advertisements, like the Axe body spray commercials, the ads in 60’s and 70’s Playboy magazines promise a higher society to a middle ground consumer, not the other way around. It appears that today we’ve traded the illusion of elegance for in-your-face attitude.

Downhill Racer is the same; a smooth, sleek, and well-tempered film from a bygone era, one that does not seem as bombastic or clamorous as today’s sports films. At the same time, it is more style than substance, but it has enough style to seduce you.

When We Were Kings (1997)

Fighting for better narrative conventions

When We Were Kings is a sloppy documentary. It relies to heavily on the authority of George Plimpton and Norman Mailer to add drama and significance to the Ali / Forman fight. Other times, the film leans heavily on concert footage and musical montages to pad the film. While the original footage, shot in Zaire in 1974 is the most compelling aspect of the picture, the filmmakers stare at Africa with the eyes of tourists.

I recall watching this one in the theaters when it was first released where I was more enamoured with it then I am today. I wish we were allowed to just witness the fight, to hear from those in the footage how important this match was to both men, to Zaire, and to race relations back in the U.S.. Instead, a series of talking heads is constantly popping in to stress these points.

Pink Angels (1971)

Its gay in that eighth grade way

That Pink Angels provoked me to rekindle this dormant journal is about the best thing I can say for this film.

The impetus behind a making a low-budget, drive-in minded, transvestite-biker film is what I find most perplexing. By 1971, biker films were a dime a dozen, but there was no precedent for transvestite films; Rocky Horror Picture Show was 4 years away, To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar was almost a quart of a century away. So, what inspired these filmmakers to make Pink Angels?

A) Did they really think there was a market for this sort of film and that they’d re-coop costs, maybe even make a buck or two?

B) Could this have been a near and dear personal project?

C) Were they expecting to make people laugh?

The answer must be C, but really this is not a funny film. It is a one note joke that feels as beaten to death as a bad Saturday Night Live skit, only here the pain and suffering is dragged out for 80 minutes. The production quality is sub-par and just below that is the script. The film’s ineptitude is about the only laughable aspect of the production. A series of dual plot lines never develop and only collide in the waning minutes of the film. An out-of-left-field ending provides the slimmest of excuses to stick with the picture, but the juvenile jokes one must endure to reach the shocking conclusion are hardly worth the effort.

In better, more competent hands Pink Angels could play as camp. Perhaps, even better hands are not needed. Repeatedly, I thought of Warhol’s filmic endeavours, particularly Lonesome Cowboys, only to wonder if Warhol’s reputation distorts the perception held towards his films.  Larry G. Brown doesn’t have the luxury or the notoriety of Andy Warhol and he’s probably not as daring nor as trashy, but he did go on to direct The Psychopath, a film with a wonderfully twisted premise about a children’s television show host who kills child abuser . I can only hope Larry G. Brown tackles the issue with more sensitivity than he does toward transvestites…or biker gangs, for that matter.

Beer League (2006)

They must have hid the funny in those additional 145 minutes.

For all the hype and self-promotion this film received on The Howard Stern show, there is really nothing here worth talking about. What feels more like a self-indulgent venture amongst friends, fails to be a comedy or a sports film. Perhaps, Beer League should be filed under Mystery. The big question being, what exactly is so wrong with this film?

Artie Lange is no leading man. His quips and interjections make good banter on a radio show, but here all of his dialogue sounds like non sequiturs mixed with exposition. While a few lines produced chuckles, i might as well have just read the script and saved myself from suffering through a roster of retched performances. Everyone’s timing is off the mark, no one is reacting to one another, and the direction is scattered. Frank Sebastiano has a ton of writing and producing credits to his name, but both his resume and this film express a severe lack of inability to think visually. The montages of baseball and physical comedy eclipse the excruciating verbal humor in this film. Still, most painful of all is watching Seymour Cassel deliver some of the most vulgar lines in a manner that leaves me wondering if he even knows what he’s saying.

The Unholy Three (1925)

Watching The Unholy Three reminds me of Bad Santa. It also leaves me wanting more films that have the audience rooting for less than likeable characters.