Ivar Zeile

The Tower Theatre Prevue was a bi-monthly labor of love and gift to cineastes residing in Salt Lake City, published in newsprint for a number of years upon the venues transition to Art-house fare by the owner, who had previously run Cinema in your Face and The Blue Mouse, two of the most genuine and unusual underground cinemas in the history of any US city. The owner developed a large and exclusive library of VHS tapes which later bridged into DVD. It was a remarkable, ever expanding collection that fed the tastes of those seeking an alternative to Blockbuster. Not only did the collection support the the category of films that was presented at the theatre itself, but went much further in bringing extremely rare titles and comprehensive sections devoted to auteurs. The video library was set up in sections by Director, something that allowed for real immersion and learning for those such as myself, that wanted a deep education in Cinema. The Tower Prevue served as an advanced marketing piece for the venue, with a full DIY ethic including staff contributing articles, proofing copy and laying out the publication, with nobody really getting paid for their efforts outside of the access to the video library and all the benefits attached to working at the hippest place in town. I leveraged my association as a staff writer to receive press passes to festivals outside of Utah such as Toronto and Seattle International, which I took on as both adventures and vacations, often watching upwards of 5 films per day because of the press access. My role within Sundance as a seasonal staff member also allowed me to cover that festival from an insiders perspective. Ever bit of the writing during these times was constructed by hand in yellow ruled pads, such a throwback that it’s almost impossible now to imagine having composed in this manner. The articles are almost but not necessarily in chronological order from most recent to first.

Sexual in Seattle - An overview of the 1996 Seattle International Film Festival

Tower Prevue, July / August 1996

If you want to see firsthand how rapidly our world is changing, I recommend a trip to Seattle, Washington, for the 25 day International Film Festival our northwest neighbor hosts every spring. If driving, you can marvel at the new 75 MPH speed limit that trendsetting states like our own and Idaho are now sporting along vast stretches of road. Along the way, you'll find the assortment of micro-brews in beer-friendly states like Oregon and Washington have multiplied faster than rabbits on a farm, and a major street can easily host five or more Thai-cuisine restaurants! Women look like they're from Venus, and men like they're from Mars, and even the volunteer street police beg for change alongside their otherworld peers.

The most notable changes, however, are only revealed by keeping a keen eye trained on the proceedings of the film festival. If you happen to talk to someone in the press, you might find out that they're really a new species of "web (or webbed) informant." which is something like a film critic, only less easily ignored. You also might notice, after many viewings, that world cinema has become all sex-filled and crazy with love. Global cameras may be panning their lenses from violence to focus again on the number one source of pleasure and pain. Every film seemed to belabor love, either as an underlying theme, prurient interest, or momentary visual motif.There's witch sex, brother/sister sex, sex in the back seat and in the swimming pool; there's priest sex, acid sex, even sex with tyrannical dwarfs! It's no secret that matters of the heart and libido are well suited to narrative testing on screen. And, of course, some of these tests are more capable than others in caressing the rash that one develops from sitting in uncomfortable theater seats for hours on end. After about forty viewings, I determined this year's line -up to be rather flaccid in comparison to years past. Specific films fit simply into categories as naturally as good sex vs. bad sex.

GOOD SEX

One of the festival's better ventures, and certainly the most challenging to ascertain, was Stanley Kwan's reflection on the perils of conformist society in Red Rose White Rose.Stanley is quickly becoming the darling of Hong Kong cinema (however long that may last) and he is doing so on terms quite different from his peers. His latest feature literally dictates an infuriating impression of man's struggle for harmony with the opposite sex. The basis for the story follows that there are two women in a man's life, the mistress and the wife. Neither can be accepted, if a man is true to his nature, or at least the Chinese version of it. 

Kwan's strategy in magnifying the flaws of the handsome lead character is derived from a reverse psychology in which we are made to believe that a separation of female roles is absolutely normal. With bold strokes, the narrative captions single out the "hero" and detail his dilemma. Most people found this to be a bit disturbing, and entirely incorrect for a "PC” society, culminating in two loud vocal attacks from female audience members. I saw it as an amazingly brave statement. It provides the reality of history as a measure to currently question the tradition of marital bonds. 

Besides delivering the most complex film of the festival. Kwan's work held my interest with its profound attention to set and tone. Forbidden love is imposed upon gridded compositions, and cloaked in darkness, while acceptable non-love is dressed in candy-coating and awash in light. The symbolism derived from the art direction managed to diffuse the rigidity of the movie's structure, though its total effect isn't fully realized until you're well into the film. There was a point at which I could have walked out of the proceedings, but with each new frame I came to realize and appreciate the intent of this story. Or maybe it was just the steamy sex flowing from the corners!

Then there's the first five minutes of the Nordic adventure Zero Degrees Kelvin, which makes you wonder if you've stepped into a soft-core film. When the setting instantly changes to the tundra of Greenland, however, you kind of doubt that more sex will figure in the rest of the way. What's then further portrayed is a far-reaching character study that is filmed with technical proficiency and verve, exhibiting the most deft film work of the festival.

The lustful young man of the prologue leaves the woman he loves for a stint as a pelter in an Arctic no-man's land. His motivation to be a writer brings about the temporary separation, but what he doesn't figure into his plan is the psychological betrayal that's to be provoked by the outpost's two original members. City boy Larsen tries to maintain his cultured origins, as well as the thought that his girlfriend will be faithful until he returns. Her last note, however, carries no deep certainty, and once read by the operations manager, Randbek, becomes the pivot point for two opposing views of love and life. The two men almost destroy each other, while the operations scientist looks on indifferently, at least until even he can't take any more.

The scenario is one of the more thoughtful scripts ever to indulge psychological drama, and the tension inherent to the story is dutifully magnified by a setting of harsh and unusual circumstance. Though only director Hans Peter Molland's second feature film, it sports a cast of some of Scandinavia's best actors, including Stellan Skarsgard as the formidable foe Randbek, in a performance that tops just about any I've seen. Molland claims that in this situation, where the elements do not cater to the natural stylings of a film crew and proper actors, the best director's tool becomes a 44 magnum! He sounded quite serious about this too.

This is the sort of work one envisions when the concept of "Norwegian film" extends an invitation. It is fitted with breathtaking cinematography and a set which builds beauty from the absence of technology. Molland tends to push the dramatic side a bit towards the end, with characters that refuse to die, but it all works along with the setting to sharpen, rather than numb, your senses. Zero K disturbs while seeking to enlighten it's audience with challenges of life.

Guimba, the Tyrant seeks a similar challenge, but conveys its message in an entirely different manner, one that is unexpected and fresh. The dialogue here concerns the element of sexual need in relation to diverse manifestations of power, and the many branches this may seed. Its simple story takes place in a colorful, extruded clay village in Mali. Our wonderful narrator, in a rapid, chirpy voice, explains how the chief of the town, the mighty Guimba, has pursued the forces of black magic, and now utilizes his power to place the entire community at his mercy. The irony in the situation is that his only living son is a dwarf, hardly a figure to assume the sword of tyranny that Guimba has embraced. Still, father wants his son to have the best, including the most beautiful woman of the village, who was betrothed to Guimba at birth.

All the townsmen desire the affections of Kani, so relief and a new frenzy spread when Janguine the dwarf refuses to marry her. Guimba always taught his son to take what he wants, and what Janguine wants is a woman with a big rump! Kani may be beautiful, but her mother's got the derriere of desire. In order for him to have Meya, though, her original husband must be banished from the town. That's no problem, when you're a tyrant! But tyranny can be fought in other ways, and through some pretty strange magic, Guimba and his son get it in the end.

The possibility of stumbling upon a movie like 'Guimba' is the joy of attending this festival. The film is so visually enticing and intoxicating to the senses, that it's hard to believe it's from Mali! I mean where the hell is Mali anyway? Its focus on basic notions of life is fully aware of a contemporary audience and is easy to grasp, but its perspective and detailing are an entire world away. I can see this playing as a cult film at midnight in Burkina Fasso, to large, appreciative crowds. Unfortunately, I can't see it playIng anywhere outside of a film festival in our part of the world.

What I can see playing to an American market is something on the order of Celestial Clockwork. This multinational farce from Venezuelan director Fina Torres drew a smile on my face which never left för the entire duration, and obviously played as one of the most crowd-pleasing of the festival. Immediate allusions are drawn to the cult of Almodovar, with its skewering of sexual roles, and hip, colorful visual styling. Such comedy is difficult to pull off, and Torres manages to entertain far better than Pedro has done in recent years, while instantly achieving a level of maturity the Spaniard only recently sought to embrace.

Celestial Clockwork is simply another way to say "Cinderella." Fortunately, Torres hardly pursues a concise retelling of the story; instead she creates an entirely fresh variation on the theme. The film's heroine Ana ditches the marital altar in Venezuela, and rushes headlong into the streets of Paris. The wonders of this town are many for a striking beauty/talent such as Ana, who has no problem guiding herself along, except when it comes to the situation she most longs for and is meant to be in an operatic production of Cinderella produced by an Italian movie magnate. All the elements are cast to redraw the boundaries of this story with immense gusto and wit, including a crew of actors whose potential is brought to their fullest. Though you ultimately know the outcome, the process of getting there is filled with charm and magic, as well as a number of surprises.

What impresses me the most about this film is the way in which it is able to fuse current technical wizardry with a heartfelt, giddy story, without having the former outshine the latter. It's the new wave of magical realism, effectively produced and casually sarcastic. It's a good place to find yourself if you merely want to be entertained.

There are better places to go if you want to be entertained on more cerebral levels, and the best place is in The Garden, certainly the finest movie the festival offered to me Slovakian director Martin Sulik has crafted a film that easily transports the viewer to another dimension without having to leave the confines of our known world. He has truly created a timeless masterpiece from simplicity and deep philosophical understanding.

The entire film is foreshadowed with a single opening frame - we see a gnarled old tree sitting in a field. All of a sudden one of the branches crashes to the ground. From there the story introduces Jakub, a young school teacher whose father has kicked him out of the house (for sexual reasons of course). He is told to sell his grandfather's farm so that he may make his own way in the world. Jakub, however, is charmed by the decrepit plot of land, which appears as a world of lost treasures. He situates himself, and inadvertently discovers many things about life through the combined influence of mystical and natural elements that wind their way through his small zone.

The scenario is playful and bizarre at times, and most intriguing because of the way its narrative flows. Each segment is like a chapter out of a book, with the title being read to the viewer. The portions are of perfect size, and the titles so disarmingly blunt that they make you curious to see how such a course will play itself out. Wonderful characters fill the space, such as the Virgin Miraculous, a pretty young waif who writes backwards in the manner of Jakub's grandfather, and provides Jakub with a new understanding of sexuality and life. Philosophers Rousseau and Wittgenstein briefly invade the territory as well, bearing gifts of thought in pursuit of Jakub's naivete.

The Garden dwells upon the curiosity in man's nature, and plots a course of understanding amongst the subtler, more elusive elements of life. It is a comic gem that stands out from the rest of the crowd because its fresh stylistic tone leaves as lasting an impression as its ensemble of enjoyable characters. The more the film sets in my head, the more I worship its ease in combining all the talents that make a moment in film appear as an inspiring form of art.

BAD SEX

I know people who claim that there's no such thing as bad sex. This may be true, to the extent that it will at least leave something for you to reflect upon further down the road. Such is the case with Turkish Passion, from Spaniard Vicente Aranda. It's hard to believe the same director managed to create a film as gripping as Lovers just a few years ago, because his latest is beyond cinema at its absolute worst. Cheers to the programming staff for realizing the potential this film has in packing the theater - it sure had me and hundreds of others fooled! It was easy to see, though, how disappointed the packed theater was at the end.

Turkish Passion is all about sex, and to that extent it manages to produce a couple of sexual scenes that view as some of the finest ever. Beyond that it is a travesty of the director's global stature. Here's the story: woman marries man. Woman leaves man for a really hot guy she meets in Istanbul, who supposedly is well endowed. Woman leaves new lover because he's not all she imagined. Woman goes back home and treats friends like more dirt than she did before. Woman goes back to lover in Istanbul, because she feels she can put up with all his crap, as long as she gets what's inside his pants. Man pushes the limit. Man loses what's inside his pants.

This description is far more interesting than the actual garbage that continues on and on like a handicapped energizer rabbit. My vision of Aranda is now that of an old man, surrounded by bimbos, giggling to himself, or at least visibly excited, because in this film he will show a man actually masturbating on a woman's face! Bravo! l'Il bet this was his sole reason for making this movie, because there is absolutely nothing else that could warrant such pointless, uninspired ridiculousness. Aranda's ego is inflated all the more by presenting his trash in Cinemascope, a screen ratio usually reserved for works of beauty and visual splendor, neither of which even remotely resemble this product. Further proof is delivered. by the press kit; a fold out card on the highest quality paper stock, with ultra glossy photos and cutting edge.graphic design that is truly a work of art which no other film here has aspired to. Unfortunately it gives little thought about the production, other than to inform us that it's "a film about the fatal logic of desire and what it can lead to: the catastrophic beauty of sexual fulfillment and erotic adventure." Like truly bad sex, it's hard to remove it from your mind.

NO SEX

What happens when a film has no sexual content at all? Well, it probably goes on to become the biggest art house hit of the year. That's my pre- diction anyway for The King of the Masks, the grand return of Wu Tianming to the screen. If you're not familiar with Wu, it's because he dropped out of the business right about the time the Chinese new wave hit these shores. By the looks of his latest film, it would appear he's been spending his time wisely, keeping a keen eye on the medium from a perch on American soil.

The king of the Masks basically panders to all the safe emotions that people want to have yanked in a theater. There cannot possibly be a more dynamic trio on screen than a lovable old Chinese man, a cute-as-muffins little girl  (who's trying to pass as a boy), and their sidekick pet monkey. Old man Wang is the king of masks, a traveling artist whose shtick is to change masks quicker than the eye can blink. His dilemma is that he has no son which he can pass his gift onto, at least until he buys "doggie" one night in a back alley. Wu soon finds out, though, that his little doggie is actually a girl, and girl means bad in Chinese.

With this simple plotline the film takes off in all directions of chaos, with doggie trying to secure her place in the old man's heart. Every step of the way she manages to wreck Wang's life to magnificent degrees, and each new scenario deals with some issue of morality or tradition. Though dense with thought, its even keel allows the viewer to glide right through.

This is the kind of film where you just know it's got to have a happy ending, and you find yourself demanding no less. The finale was enough to even bring a tear from my crusty soul, which is a pretty rare feat. Visually this film is fantastic, without being overdone, and narratively it's as tight as they come. Disney would probably sell their souls a few more times just to make something that's this perfectly constructed and realized, but they'd never be able to pull it off because Americans just aren't this charming, and our end of the world's simply not this unusual.

If there is any one cause for banality in our culture, it's got to be basketball, and while 90% of Seattle was watching the Sonics put the last nails in the Jazz coffin, a few hundred people found something better to do in front of a big screen. They chose to come watch one of the greatest achievements in film history, and easily the single best treat I've ever had in a movie theater. This particular night brought The Man with the Movie Camera back to life, complete with live musical accompaniment by an eclectic trio of musicians known as the Alloy Orchestra.

Most people don't know this, but practically every cinematic device that's ever been employed in the history of film had already been done by the year 1929. That's the year The Man with the Movie Camera debuted in Russia. This film is the very early precursor to contemporary favorites like Baraka and Koyaanisgatsi, in fact those films are just cheap rip-offs of this Russian silent. Every bit as clever, inventive and broad-ranged as these later films, the most important difference is the inclusion of "the man" behind the camera and his methods of achieving such majestic shots of ordinary life. This is truly inspiring filmwork, and a gift that the festival delivered with a brilliant looking print, and musical accompaniment that fit like a glove.

One of the reasons why this film has been revived is because it always lacked a proper soundtrack. Recent events in the Soviet Union have led to discoveries in archives, one of which is director Dziga Vertov's original notes for a score. His notes were certainly not typical, and actually more suited to the experimentation musical groups easily embrace today. The movie is grand in its own right, but the Alloy Orchestra proved how essential flowing music is to moving image. If every other movie in this festival were rotten, this single event would've still made the trip worthwhile.

BACK TO SEX

I guess it's unfortunate to a degree that the older films can manage to outshine most of the new. This year's new directors showcase seemed to be much weaker than last year's, with only one of the eight films that I saw really caring to broaden the structure of the cinematic language. Little Sister is a gem from the Netherlands that utilizes the subjective camera as its viewpoint. It's like watching pieces of life with your own eye at the viewfinder for an hour and a half, which I suppose most would find annoying. I think it would be a huge challenge to pull something like this off, and to my relief, director Robert Jan Westdik more than completes the task.

Such a device opens up all kinds of possibilities concerning editing, framing, depth of field and even acting, all of which are handled in an extremely astute fashion. The closest film as a reference would be Man Bites Dog, though this is not quite as good, and neither is it concerned with violence as it is instead about psychological disturbance and healing, propelled by innocent sibling sexual encounters at an age of first curiosity. Martin shows up at his sister's place one day, and begins filming her every move with his video camera. His obsession grows, and bit by bit it's revealed why he is compelled and why Daantje submits. In the end the tables are turned as everyone seems to understand the power of confrontation by camera. Though the scenario is dramatic, and even tense at times, it is buffered by a humor which naturally accompanies much of real life. It also includes a secret gag, which can only be caught by sitting through the entire credit sequence, and it's well worth it to do so. Overall. I'd have to give this film the most applause simply for its determination and willingness to experiment.

The only other film to really grip me in this category was an Irish venture called Guiltrip, which is wholly unflattering to its origins and about as creepy as a film can be. It's almost like a theatrical study, with one day in the life of an unhappily married couple, both of whom have committed crimes that day, one severely worse than the other. All I want to say about this film is that it has crafted the most disturbing male character I have ever seen, and the voice of a little boy saying "gimme money" (in an Irish slur) will forever be embedded in my head.

There are numerous other films that deserve mention but will be spared the ink from my pen. That's what a film festival is really all about - seeing films that no one else will ever see, or probably hear about. I will, however, return next issue with some thoughts on the most recent crop of American films that have been showing up at the Seattle and Sundance Festivals, which are very much worth a look. And believe it or not. some of them aren't even obsessed with sex!

Investigating the Sundance Film Festival

Tower Prevue January / February 1995

What a strange sensation roaming through the headquarters of the Sundance Film Festival on this sunny day In late November. Things don't appear quite the way I remember them to be. Members of the staff are casually poised with smiles on their faces and a freshness in their movements. Some of the long-term personnel are joking about how they are going to have fun this year, and you almost believe what they are saying. Nicole Guillemet, the general manager for the festival, still seems to have the telephone permanently affixed to her ear, but it only takes three eye-rolls for her to end the latest conversation. Many new faces abound in the striking aesthetic of their wonderful new location, the third in as many years, which has a feel one would expect for an organization concerned with artistic pursuits, and a refinement which matches their stature as a solidly built organization. If they appear to be at home here, it is deservedly so they should.

The Sundance Institute has been a blessing for the State of Utah since its inception thirteen years ago. Their commitment to progress and level of success stand as a monument to be looked up to, or a model to be followed. Their very existence in our state often fills me with wonder, serving as one of the roots that keep me here and my life fulfilled.

Okay, maybe I'm being overly dramatic about the whole thing. You'll just have to trust my good intentions when I spout general accolades, and certainly don't believe that the warmth and cheer will be retained in Sundance's administrative sector by the time you read this, because December is upon us and the frenzy associated with producing the festival will be reaching peak proportions.

Of course right now I feel like some kind of double agent. I'm on assignment for the Tower Prevue, conducting a fact finding mission on my other part-time employer, in a move that will hopefully progress the ongoing relationship between the two and provide the public with marvelous insight. I willfully disclose this dichotomous relationship because I feel I can truly attest to the complexities involved, having inadvertently been exposed to all sorts of rumors, queries, and sordid tales that circulate through various sectors of the film community over the years There are even things that I've longed to have answers for, and so facts are what I am after.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL

The endeavor of holding a film festival is certainly the current rage around our country, if not the entire world. Guillamet asserts that at least one phone call a week is from someone seeking input for creating their own smorgasbord of film. Surprisingly, she's not protective of the secrets of the trade, and gives advice that is straightforward and, frankly, quite simple. More than anything, a festival requires an artistic mission. Beyond that, all that is needed are people with enough dedication to carry out that mission, adequate funding and an attractive environment to carry forth in.

Back in 1978 when Utah begot its first film festival, the idea was still fairly radical. It was Sterling Van Wagoner and John Earl who employed the enticing monicker of the Utah U.S. Film Festival, creating the state's first forum of elevated cinema. The idea of artistic mission was a bit subdued at the time, however, with most of the program dedicated to revival of the legends - basically a forerunner to the burgeoning video market. The independant angle was first introduced by Lawrence Smith and quickly became the major focus of the program. It was this concept of progressing the future of American cinema that attracted the attention of Robert Redford's Sundance Institute, and by 1984 they had stepped in to run a program that was in dire need of an ongoing administrative base.

According to the Utah Film Commission's Marketing Director Saundra Saperstein, who has been with the festival since the formative years, it was a daunting task to find recognition and an audience for the festival. Even the local Salt Lake Tribune and Deseret News were hard pressed to give solace to the event adorned by the Redford name. 1989, however, clearly stands as the turning point for the festival, when the advent of the Audience Award discovered a certain film (who's name I will not mention), turning a few heads here as well as at another little festival somewhere off the coast of France. Since then the program has been expanding at a healthy rate achieving not only a national but worldwide status for quality and excellence. Past junkets to round up the national press almost seem comical in light of the quantity of media now trying to access the festival.

HERE'S THE CATCH

The appearance of a gap between national interest and local access has steadily crept up as a major concern in recent years. Utahns often feel as if the festival has outgrown its surroundings and shunned its community in order to achieve the glamor and attention of the elite. Saundra admits that it's a rousing concern when complete strangers she meets traveling out of State have experienced more of the festival than acquaintances back home.

However, appearances can often be deceiving, and frustrations avoided with a little bit of planning. The rise in popularity of the festival has taken most everyone off guard, but time is seeing it properly groomed. It was only three years ago that the Tower Theatre emerged as an independent showplace, and festival events spilled forth back into Salt Lake City, with a docket of films that the Institute felt would be most attractive to the local population.

Call me biased but I sincerely believe that there is not another theater in town which would serve the purposes of the festival as well as the Tower or be able to thoughtfully reach as large a crowd, Because the relationship has proven to work, the 1995 program will be expanded so that films will be screened every day of the festival.

Guillemet offers two major reasons why the Salt Lake screenings are important: they serve as an easy introduction for those not familiar with the festival who find it hard to justify the drive up to Park City, as well as providing better access to those who are already familiar with the festival. To rephrase that, what could be better than getting off work, zipping over to the Tower and catching a couple of screenings in the largest venue available to the festival, withthe least amount of hassle? With only one film actually selling out at the Tower last year, it's simply an enticing alternative that eases the burden for both the local patrons and for the Park City theaters. A second line of thought, and one that must be dealt with in clear terms, hinges on the notion that the festival really is an industry concern. The events in Park City are geared towards the industry because it has grown into a marketplace and testing ground for new creative talent, who rely on the Festival for their livelihood. How does one balance the needs of the film industry, which now galvanizes the festival, with the needs of the local film buffs who begat and host it? The clear choice is to contain the industry events in Park City, and expand the Salt Lake City screenings.

Not only have the quantities been expanded in Salt Lake City, but in Park City as well. The Carl Winters Theater, copiously furnished with seats, has recently been opened as the newest theater to the festival, complete with a full film schedule and greasy popcorn too! This year will also see the festival being introduced to the Provo community with a world premiere screening at the Academy Theater followed by a reception at the County Courthouse, and an additional children's matinee the next day. Folks down in Provo who are interested must also note that screenings occur at the Sundance resort throughout the Festival, which is a wonderful place to catch a film. If the response from this area continues, then perhaps that outlet may expand with the demand in coming years.

Of course everyone enjoys a little time away from the confines of Salt Lake, and a splash of life from our upbeat neighbor over yonder canyon can prove lo be the ultimate breath of fresh air. The truth of the matter is that no matter how daunting the festival headquarters may appear, they’re still pretty manageable. The first tip is to venture to screenings in the morning and afternoon, when the theaters are on average at 75% capacity. If you simply must see a film that is being screened in the evening, don't stress because tickets are sold out. The sold out sign is a common occurance al festivals throughout the world, but what does "sold out" really mean? In the case of Sundance it means there is a possibility that seats will be available, sometimes upwards of 50 to 100, only you have to stand in line for a while with no guarantee that you will get in. Ever been to Vegas? Is a lot like that only your odds are better, and, if you don't get in, at least you get the satisfaction of standing in line. Don't look at standing in line as a burden; sometimes it can be the most enlightening experience of the festival, a chance to become engulfed in the festival environment, meet new people, swap stones and perhaps come to the conclusion that there may be an even better film to see the next morning. What it really boils down to is a realization that first come first served and if you're not willing to make an effort, then don’t expect to be blessed with privilege and certainly don't complain to me because I have to wait in line just like everyone else!

BUT WAIT A MINUTE

Yes Virginia, there is a way to get tickets before the show. and this year it will be better than ever. No one will deny the flaws in the past system for purchase of individual tickets, the problem always being compounded by the chilly winter climate - ahh Utah,  love it or leave it!  If you do decide to put up with the quirky nature of our state, then be advised to remember the date of January 9th. On this special day, tickets will go on sale for all the films of the 1995 Sundance Festival. They will not be on sale at Eclectic, nor at the bookstore that specialized in the arts but has since gone out of business, nor in the little cart down in the basement of Crossroads.

This year tickets may be purchased at, and only at, the top floor of the Crossroads shopping mall, in a store that is operated by the Sundance Institute’s crack team of ticket sales experts. They will provide clipboards for calculating your ticket purchases, if you haven't been wise enough to do so beforehand, and will sport the big board so that you can see the stocks fall before your very eyes. Yes, you still have to wait in line and yes you still have to get there early, but the consolidation of all ticket sales will definitely increase your chances of getting into the shows vou want without the chaos of running all over town. Park City residents can still purchase tickets from this same date forth at the Kimball Art Center, and Provo-ites will be wise to saddle up to the Sundance outlet. if you can't walk, drive, or somehow materialize in one of these locations, you still have options. You may purchase tickets over the phone, just like the rest of the world, starting on January 11th. Or, you may invest a little bit of money in one of the many package deals which tend to go on sale way in advance of individual tickets, and are probably on sale now. There’s the “A” package, the “B” package, all the way through the alphabet, and leading up to the fast pass. If you plan on attending a lot of films, these would be your best investment. They are all structured to give you specifically what you are after, in quantities that you desire. Find the Sundance brochure or call the festival headquarters and ask for detailed information, because they can explain it best.

My advice would be to check into the newly constructed locals only package that provides the most movie for your dollar, but be prepared to show current proof of residency! There are two options here, one for the film buff, and one for the party enthusiast. A locals only package will be valid for events wherever they occur; take note, however, that all regular screening tickets may also be used for premieres, but only at the Tower or Sundance resort. Locals only packages make terrific Christmas gifts (as do Tower 10-film passes), and remember, you can buy these gifts RIGHT NOW!

If you had your heart set on a fast pass, but can neither understand, nor justify the extraordinary expense, don't worry about it. It is not for you. Il is designed strictly for the industry, and is limited to a quantity of 100. If you think you are the industry, or would like to limelight with the industry, then by all means get a fast pass. It will get you into any movie you want lo see, but remember, this pass is only guaranteed until ten minutes before a show starts. If you do find yourself getting into a package deal, pay specific attention to its restrictions. Ask questions now and avoid frustration later! Also be sure to make the extra effort to register early. The day the festival begins is NOT the day to register, because that is the day that everyone and their dogs from out of town will be registering. The registration center is open beginning Thursday the 19th al 8:00a.m., and this day is certainly the best for you, the local.

ALSO NOTEWORTHY

If you were to look at the Sundance Film Festival program today, and compare it to the days of yore, you'd be amazed at the changes and vast expansion that has taken place.

Film as a medium has exploded more so than any of the other arts, and that increases the difficulty for different films to be recognized. The greatest burden a young director shoulders is trying to find an audience for his film. They can't just pay a company to distribute their movie, since they're most likely broke from making it. The distributor is the one who, for better or worse, generally dictates what is available when you go to the theater and unfortunately many films with great merit are overlooked. The audience they may appeal to is deemed to be too small, too poor, too black, too white; there simply is no formula other than the one at the moment. Because the Sundance Festival features films that are entirely unknown, it's nearly impossible to decide which will be good, let alone released in the future. Occasionally you will hear that a film was picked for distribution during the festival, but even that is no guarantee that you will

see it come back to Utah theaters. If you stick to what sounds interesting and keep your ear to the ground, you'll rarely go wrong. I tend to avoid the premieres because they are the most likely to be released, but there are always a few that sound too juicy to pass up at the time. Often the best programs to catch are in the Sidebars. These are groupings of a certain theme, and figure into the program because they also capture the spirit of independent filmmaking and generally have few outlets in which to be screened. Besides the European, Asian, and Latin American Sidebars, the Festival also promotes an excellent selection of short films and, most recently, Native American features. This year's festival will also introduce a new section of Personal Documentaries, as well as a jury award to recognize talent in the Latin American, and shorts categories.

Beside the fact that some of the best films are contained within the sidebars, it is also worthwhile to frequent these films because they are least likely to have a packed house. The same may be said for the midnight films, although I must admit there have been a number of duds in the past, and the crowds tend to border on obnoxious. But if you remember `Delicatessen' from a few years back, you'll know to stay alert to the late nights. The retrospectives are also a nice staple, often utilizing rare archived 35 mm prints. If you ever witness one breaking, you're likely to hear the reverberation from the technical director for days on end throughout the canyons!

ALSO NEWSWORTHY

If you're trying to find the festival headquarters, and end up surrounded by a bunch of crafts, don't be surprised! The zoo that usually resides at Z-place has now moved to the Kimball Arts Center, just a hop, skip and a slide down Main Street. Corresponding to this move is the relocation of the Hospitality Suite, now at the höspitable Claimjumper a few paces from the Art Center. So where does that leave the closing night ceremony? Why in the gymnasium at the Racket Club, which to everyone’s delight will allow plenty of seating and instant access to the party afterwards. And if you're looking for me, don't bother because I tend to not stay in one place for very long. Page me and I might get back to you.

WHERE DOES THAT LEAVE ME?

Back to the smiles on peoples faces and general excitement about the events that dominate our lives in January. It's only ten days out of the year, but for some they are the best ten days in Utah. Get from it what you can, keeping in mind that a lot of thought goes into producing those ten days, and only a little thought on your part is required to make it go smoothly. If you have a gripe, you can let the world know, but a well placed call to the festival office sometime after the festival (or even a few months before the next) may have a more lasting effect. Go easy on the Park City natives, they are a strange lot, but perhaps the most generous you'll ever find, and don't hassle the volunteers because they actually work like dogs (look for a badge that says staff). And most of all, support the screenings at the Tower, you'll be glad you did!

Second Guessing the Sundance Film Festival

Tower Prevue January/February 1995

The date is February 1st. You find yourself at a bar horfing down some beers, or maybe a coffee shop if that's more your style, looking for some member of the human race win whom vou might be able to bond drains. All around you the usual suspects pay homage to the mighty Jazz, or slander acquaintances who don't appear to be in the general vicinity. You feel lost, hopelessly maligned to the banter that penetrates like rust; that is until a beautiful member of your sexual preference approaches and blurts out "Do you think Betore Sunrise finds Linklater deviating from his natural bent on the mire of society’s youth?" or "Is Exotica really the paean of Egoyan's psychosexual oeuvre?" In a panic your mind races to decipher the gibberish set before you. You excuse yourself to the bathroom and slip quietly out the back door.

Well, this could happen to you, and if it does you'lI want to be prepared. Yes, you've heard about the Sundance Film Festival, but every time you pick up the guide you face a mountain of words describing films you've never heard of by people with funny names and no visual preview to lure you into the chambers. What do you do? How do you know what films will be on the lips of your peers for the new year? Is it worth the trouble and the money and the time?

The unfortunate reality is that nobody knows what films will provide optimum pleasure and you won't be able to see everything, no matter how hard you try. There is an option, however, one designed specifically for those in this particular situation. That option is the Tower Theatre. The Tower serves as an outlet for the festival because there is a demand for screenings within the confines of Salt Lake City. While the portion of films scheduled here is small compared to the larger picture, they have been selected on the notion that they may appeal to the largest percentage or the discriminating filmgoing public and not by the flip of the coin.  In my opinion, the entire program is worth investigating, but let's take a closer look and see what subtleties might catch your attention.

Kicking off the Tower schedule is a Dramatic Competition entry called Fall Time. It’s a safe bet that the filmmaker has been around the block, since the program descriptions usually note if it's the director's debut. Big cast will give the same indication and in this case it's no less than Mickey Rourke. My intuition says that Mickey Rourke is hit or miss, but his type tend to stretch a bit when it's an independent film. Chalk up a few points for period piece, bank robbery and Sheryl Lee, who hasn’t seen nearly enough screen time.

Next up is the New Zealand production titled Once Were Warriors. Certain films find a position here because they have caught major attention at other festivals, and this movie comes to Sundance by way of hype at the grand Toronto Festival, where it proudly put the “G” back into grit. The plight of the modern Maori may be a continent away, but it’s bound to stir emotions that hit home.

Nick Gomez made a film a couple of years back that somehow sidestepped the Sundance Festival. Too bad because it perfectly captured the essence of low budget, independent filmmaking, with a  lot more panache than El Mariachi. His second feature New Jersey Drive would be my odds-on favorite for a prize in the dramatic competition for this fact alone, although his realist grip on society’s underbelly may not be everyone’s cup of tea. 

Linklater? Now where have I heard that name before? Oh yeah, he made Slacker, the groundbreaking film that defined a miserable generation, and followed up with Dazed and Confused, which you either loved or you were educated at a boarding school. While his films tend to gather wildly mixed reactions, I find that his essence defines what this festival is about. Before Sunrise sounds like a departure towards a larger audience, but that often happens to the best of them. You can bet that money was laid down for the emerging talent of Ethan Hawke, and the soon to be everywhere Julie Delpy, whose films are always worth seeing at least twice. 

The Billy Nayer Chronicles move into the realm of the midnight experience. If you happen to be up at midnight, this may be your only form of entertainment outside of personal deviance. The word punk is associated here, along with live cabaret, so go see it, and remember Rocky Horror was scoffed at when it first emerged.

The only Latin American film to screen at the Tower Is none other than Gatica the Monkey. What can I say, the description is about as vague as they get, but the indefinable film may be the most rewarding. Argentinians love the pop singer turned director, and a nation that large can't be completely wrong. 

Sheryl Lee emerges once more in the dramatic entry Homage. The film plays with the dichotomy between human desire and rationality, which I find to be the most engaging topic in human relationships, if not the most frustrating: Last year's actress of the moment, Karen Sillas appeared in two competition films, so maybe Sheryl Lee is this year's Sillas. Only by watching can you find out.

The first working week of the festival begins with Ermo, a Chinese film. The Chinese cinema tends to either explore sweeping bouts of history or engages in simple subtle drama that affects an extraordinary universal illusion. I suspect Ermo to hopefully reach toward the latter. A plot in which the film's heroine sacrifices everything to secure the family television is just wry with comic tragedy , and strangely reminiscent of Mihklakov's brilliant film Close to Eden.

Cold Blooded contains a couple names that I won't mention, and delves into the arena of American comedy. Comedy is a tough customer unless you're Chinese, but this is supposedly black humor, and that's all it would take to get me into this screening.

A sure fire hit is bound to emerge in Strawberry and Chocolate, a largely Cuban production that also stormed the Toronto Festival. There's a buzz about the air with this film that concerns a relationship between a straight and homosexual male The new gay wave is no stranger to the Sundance screens, but it's about time that il expanded Into topics relevant to a greater stratosphere. One critic even described it as a film “waiting to be Miramaxed."

How can you resist a flick that is likened to Woody Allen's "Manhattan", complete with Mia Farrow in a supporting role? Allen has proved that he's still a force to be reckoned with, but at the same time screams for someone to take his mantle Into the contemporary realm. Miami Rhapsody may just do that with the interweaving of a family's sexual escapades.

Murder Is in the all when Tne Young Poisoner's Handbook hits the screen. The premise of a science junkie's obsession with testing poison sounds like pretty twisted material. Maybe the filmmakers will be handing out little ampules to promote this one.

Six Days, Six Nights is an awfully long amount of time to capture on film, but when it's with Beatrice Dale and Anne Parillaud, it’s bound to be worth it. Both of these French actresses have sizzled on screen far too rarely for American audiences. So this would be a good opportunity to indulge in both.

American youth’s predilection for uselessness has been touted in many recent films. The problem is that a lot of us already witness this phenomenon on a daily basis. Those who don't may want to discover its charm with the dramatic entry The Four Corners of Nowhere, immediately followed by a tour of Bandaloops coffeehouse.

The Usual Suspects would place at the top of my list of films to see. Why? Because it remarks on various levels of what the festival can do for a filmmaker. Two years ago Bryan Singer’s film Public Access shared the grand jury prize for best dramatic feature.Reaction was strongly mixed among the public and the film never did emerge into a widespread distribution deal, yet the director obviously gained the attention of certain qualitv actors, such as Gabriel Byrne and Suzy Amis, as well as other hot talents who might not have been at the festival. Singer's second feature may be moving in a direction of stylistic auteurism that's rarely seen in today's American market.

Nadja. Midnight. Hal Hartley regulars Martin Donovan and Elina Lownsohn. Peter Fonda? Vampires by PixelVision. Suzy Amis as the private nurse.introducing Galaxy Craze! Produced by David Lynch. If you don't see this you're insane.

A powerhouse weekend at the Tower kicks off with Todd Haynes' latest called Safe. You can bet there nothing safe about this film, as Haynes has exhibited with previous festival grand prize winner Poison and a thoroughly demented expose on the legend of Karen Carpenter. Haynes is an awfully talented filmmaker, one who strikes beyond the ordinary narrative. I would expect the visual aesthetic of this film to be the most compelling of the festival.

Get your tickets early for A Pure Formality, one film which I would expect to sell out quicker than a Rolling Stones concert. Italian director Tornatore has won an Academy Award and deservedly so for Cinema Paradiso. His dramatic touches will undoubtedly spill forth into this mystery. Gerard Depardieu adds a little weight to the cast. but it is the presence of Roman Polanski that fondles my curiosity; it has been far too long since screen has borne the face of this funny little Polish man.

What could be better than watching a Grateful Dead show? How about watching it again, and again and again and again, I suppose that's how most Deadheads would respond, and maybe they will in Tie-Died: Rock and Roll's Most Dedicated Fans. If the phenomenon of this band's following has perplexed your mind, as it has mine, you will certainly want to attain the inside scoop with this film. Expect a huge crowd.

The Secret of Roan Inish is apparently so wholesome,  they're even premiering it down in Provo. Don't let that fool you, however, because this is a film by John Sayles, the master of drama and quintessential American Independent filmmaker who kick.started his career at this festival many years ago. Remember when Agnieska Holland pulled a fast one by stunning the commercial market with The Secret Garden? Well I wouldn't expect this Celtic fairytale to be any less inspired.

Canadian filmmaker Atom Egoyan is celebrated throughout the world as a master of filmcraft, an opinion which I heartily share. The beauty of Egoyan's work, and equally his problem, is that he has developed quality through four feature films and a handful of shorts that is highly stylized yet limited in scope. His paralysis further entrenched by featuring his wife in every single film, filling the other slots with largely unlikeable characters, and dwelling on material that most psychologists would be hard pressed to explain. I’d recommend watching earlier works, like "Next of Kin" or "The Adjuster" to help orient you to the undoubtedly disturbing world of Exotica.

In case your thirst for dark comedy has yet to be slaked, there appears to be one more chance with Shallow Grave. More death, dismemberment, and running from the law - this time with Scottish accents. If the Brits are starting to wisen to the talents of directors like Leigh and Loach, then thIs may be the next one to discover.

Greg Araki is no stranger to the film festival circuit, having emerged at Sundance a few years back and since spread his seed all over the world. Some people claim that his films are terrible, but in a John Waters kind of way. The Doom Generation is probably a few steps beyond slackerdom and bound to be far more entertaining. Careful though as the director admits to the film appealing most to those who don't normally find themselves at movie theaters (except maybe to rob them). See it and weep for the future.

Kids - Film Review

Tower Prevue Aug/Sept. 1995

The term "kids" is one that photographer-cum director Larry Clarke wields loosely, in anything but a disparaging way. In viewing his photographic oeuvre, a cleancut obsession is realized which depicts the raw dramatic activity of youth in all its crude splendor. His vision is focused on kids shooting up drugs in seedy apartments, in having sex in the backseat or automobiles,  posing naked in in indiscriminate ways, or lying dead in the aftermath of a tragic fit of discontent. To Clark, this depiction of youth is real and he's gone to great lengths in his picture books to make it apparent that this is no lie.

My first exposure to the work and mind of Larry Clarke came a few years ago with an interview in a European art publication. The article exposed an aesthetic of pure realism that reflected not only the strength in such material, but equally so the gestation of inner fantasy within the artist's life, To most such endeavors come across as vile depictions of a sick mind, referencing a world that is better left to a tiny pilot-light of the subconscious. The honesty and passion in which Clarke describes his work tells a different story, however, one that fully justifies the material and the artistic grounds from which it springs.

My second exposure to Clarke occurred earlier this year, with the surprise showing of a movie called Kids, as a midweek midnight screening at the Sundance Film Festival. The title alone brought doubts as to the worth of the film, yet it was vague enough to promote curiosity. Fortunately making the effort to see it was the best choice I made at this years festival and I’ve been reeling from it ever since. 

It is not often you see a film that smacks you in the head so thoroughly that you question what really happened and why. The screening itself was unlike any other I have attended. Picture yourself entering a room that is nearly filled with bodies dressed in black, a restless current of energy floating around the air. As the lights go down a gentleman is introduced, one who looks like anything but a movie director, yet resonates with indifference towards the spotlight of the situation. The opening credits reveal Gus van san as the producer of the work coaxing a bit of excitement and certain confusion as to the nature of the project. All of a sudden the first scene slaps at you with an image of a man and woman having sex on a bed. only you've never seen a woman so tender and supple, nor a man so hairless and spry. As you realize that the couple could not be older than 14 or 15 years of age, you begin to understand the direction of the work, but hardly its ultimate objective. 

What follows is a simple narrative with an uncut diamond at its core, a vision so scary that it can't help but promote controversy. It follows something like this: the boy in the opening scene has just scored his first virgin….not of his lie as one would expect, but of the day. He spends the rest of the day as he would any other, bragging about his conquest, joking around with pals, getting drunk and getting high. Today is unique, however, because the young lass he’s just deflowered is only a morning treat, which leaves him plenty of time to bag the Unimaginable: Two virgins in one day!

The rash of male youth may be a nasty one to scratch, but we soon find out that they're not the only sex to be obsessed with hedonistic aspects of life We are soon privy to the unfettered graces of the female point of view, from a perspective resoundingly known as the girls. Oh they are a nasty lot, these girls, striking with verbs straight from the gutter and as proud as can be. It becomes quite apparent that it takes two to tango, and both sexes seem to understand the dance. 

An early visit to the health clinic reveals a new plot twist that the story will build, one that is straightforward, yet far from offering guarantees. An understatedly punk girl is delivered a crushing blow, as she learns of her HIV positive status. Since she's only had sex with one guy, she is thrust into the uncanny position of having to tell her partner. That partner is none other than our hero from the efforts scene, who is completely unaware, uncaring an on a mission of ultimate personal importance.

The rest of the film is a frightening race against the clock, testing the axiom that the quickest path between two points may be a straight line, only you have to know where that other point is. It's an abjectly bracing ride that can offer no real happy ending. The opportunity to save a life becomes the compelling factor, an unforeseen exponent of the debased wisdom revealed by a simple test.

What appears to be a brutal scenario is merely a depiction of what Clarke believes to be the contemporary reality of growing up. He manages to craft the narrative in a way that is not only fresh and realistic, but seemingly unadulterated by cinematic conventions. The action progresses with a style that is uncomfortable because of the content as well as the blunt manner in which it is exhibited, yet puts forth a grip that is ever tightening until you are completely lost in its grasp. The experience is one that leaves an indelible mark of singularity that is both draining and stimulating at the same time. Most importantly, there is an undeniable honesty that must be reckoned with, one that challenges the hypocrisy within life and particularly within the arena of film. The fact is that people want to shy away from real ssues, particularly when they are centered around youth.

Kids should stand as a platform for generational progression and understanding and play the role of a learning tool. To reject the plausibility of the scenario is an act of denial, averting one's eyes from life's most important stage: where one transforms into an adult yet remains within a juvenile border. Clarke purposely demotes the visibility of parental influence, forcing the viewer to deal with a subculture which may be impregnable to established rules.

Other films that deal with similar interests tend to overanalyze, or produce a cause for the effect, forcing a result that's conditioned by erroneous human influences. Divulging the "bad element" allows the audience to approach from the escapist viewpoint, as safe as reading a comic book. Clarke's point of view has no desire for such a stance, exhibiting instead the endless possibility of nature and the randomness in which it can strike. What he is telling the audience is that this may be your child, and that you have no clue what their life is all about. It's a warning of extreme magnitude because it offers no solution, perhaps because there is no easy solution.

If this film will be condemned for any single element, and believe me it has and will, it will be for the uninhibited graphical depictions of intercourse amongst teenagers. One should note that all actors involved in these scenes are of legal age, only appearing quite a bit younger than they really are. This may cause many viewers some discomfort, but it is justified by the nature of the discourse, particularly given that the eroticism displayed is little more than your typical R-rated fare. However, Kids has received an NC-17 rating from the MPAA, and it will unfortunately serve as a barrier to this intelligent treatise.

As far as production values go, Kids may be praised on many levels. Unlike a slew of artists who have recently taken the director's helm, Clarke had the good sense to combine his vision with the right people for such a project. Gus Van Sant comfortably joins the proceedings because of his unrequited respect for the material. As a result, Clarke utilizes Gus' director of photography, Eric Edwards, creating the perfect combination of thought and method of visual capture. The script itself was apparently written by a young man named Harmony Korine at the ripe age of eighteen, lending the film even more credibility. Korine's presence in the film,along with a slew of bright young faces you've never seen before, equally helps to promote the integrity of the project. As if that weren't enough, Kids is dosed with an unbelievable soundtrack constructed by Lou Barlow, a major independent talent who has seemingly based his whole career upon redemption of the growing experience with his band Sebadoh. The entire package is one that will endure as a masterpiece of creativity and challenge.

But don't take my word for it; instead look at the impact the film had at the Sundance Film Festival, where it was never officially scheduled to screen. After only one showing, at midnight no less, it became the most talked about film of the festival, whether praised as a god-send or spurned as the devil's spawn. Such occurrences are indeed rare during a year at the movies. "I never explained why I was interested in those kids, which I'm trying to do now. My wish would be to go back and be that age and be one of those normal kids." - Larry Clarke, excerpt 1992.

21st Annual Seattle International Film Festival

Tower Prevue August / September 1995

Those who venture beyond the multiplex mentality of film viewing understand that the medium is not just a box of Cheerios (i.e., a dry crust with hole in the center, requiring alternative liquids to bring it alive, yet still going soggy after a few bites). Yes, to the more adventurous film viewer, the field can be much more like a box of Lucky Charms, filled with magical yellow moons, pink stars, and green clovers, elements so good you can eat them dry if you want and they will still bring a smile to your face!

Just as the marshmallow is the joie de vivre of the cereal bowl, so is the film festival the icing on the proverbial sponge-film cake. Nowhere is this more apparent than at the Seattle International Film Festival, the grandest of American film festivals. Once a year, the good town of Seattle hosts a 25-day cinematic orgy featuring over 170 films and 100 shorts from no less than 42 countries, screened in five distinct, charming theaters. While the programming is focused mainly on international cinema (complete with those pesky subtitles), the feast rounds itself off nicely with a centennial celebration featuring famous and lesser-known films (many of them free of charge), a showcase of up-and-coming directors, selected films from regional auteurs, a smattering of films for the kiddies as well as midnight films for more grown kiddies, a filmmakers forum, and a wonderful poster auction. As if that weren't enough, Mel Gibson showed up to watch himself in action for the opening night premiere of Braveheart.

I arrived at this spectacle about a week after Mel, having successfully negotiated the Ephedrine-ridden drive with my traveling companion, a budding screenwriter and the only person I know that's looped enough to sustain the relentless pace of film I had in mind for the coming ten days. Without skipping a beat, we thrust ourselves upon the screens with the attitude that every film we missed just might be the masterpiece we awaited. Amazingly enough, the strategy seemed to work: just as the heavens revealed nothing but sunshine, about ten films into the festival we realized that each successive picture was better than the last, with nary a dud in the lot!

We knew this would have to end eventually, and with a bad omen, it finally did. Midway through the supple, humane Iranian film Under the Olive Trees, a bomb threat was called into the theater, leaving us stranded on the street, with no chance to see the olive trees, and the following two films cancelled. After the smoke cleared we continued forth, only to sit through one of the most disappointing films I've ever endured It seems like a bad joke, but I kept hoping for a bomb threat during the tedious Irish film Ailsa.

From that point on, the sun kept miraculously shining in Seattle, yet peaks and valleys started forming through our remaining 19 screenings. Still, a healthy pattern formed, with a full climax during Half Spirit - Voice of the Spider and delightful strolls through the bulk of the other fare. Our solemn exit followed immediately after the poster auction, having lost a bid on the French edition of Bitter Moon to someone with far more money. The pilgrimage was over and our eyes found tears as rain finally crashed down all the way to Portland.

The Seattle International Film Festival, like most other festivals, serves as more than a great opportunity to view films hidden from the general market. For those who are interested in the progress of film niches, it can be a great way to analyze the trends and track the future of the medium, and to unearth the influences of the past. Queries may be pitched such as why are there 46 American films in the current schedule, while three years ago there were only 18? And why were there 9 ventures from Russia and its neighbors in 1990, but only two this year, one of which was made over 30 years ago? Or, how is it that the two most beautiful films at this year's festival come from Norway and Guinea-Bissau? It may hardly matter to most folks, but it's sure good smack to a film junkie.

Perhaps the most obvious trend I managed to recognize this year is the arrival of the transamerican Holly-wave. By this I refer to films from outside the U.S. that appear to be infiltrating the palace of the Queen Bee, either in order to capture their own home markets or possibly to compete here on American soil. It's hard to imagine a subtitled film taking on Bruce Willis in the states, but global accord is quite the American concept, and stranger things have happened. It is far more likely that other countries are vying for a greater share of their own markets, what with the top ten films in any given location consisting mainly of Hollywood rubble.

The theory seems a bit reprehensible to me, having believed for all these years that the intelligence exhibited in foreign films results from the overriding dignity of those people. It certainly makes sense that such a progression would occur, and rightfully so. Most big-budget foreign films still retain a high level of culture, even if the formats seem rather standard. Films such as India's The Bandit Queen and the French Six Days Six Nights are engrossing respectable movies with narratives that push the right buttons; they do not, however, fall into the category of challenging cinema. Lesser attempts, such as Sweden's The Last Dance, Austria's Poet's Princess, and the Czech wonder Accumulator 1 bear an uncanny resemblance to all things American and fail for much the same reasons that Hollywood films do - lack of interest, excessive reliance on technology, and gratuitous sex.

Such elements can certainly be forgiven, if they are meaningfully constructed. The film that represents the best in this class is the dynamic Japanese melodrama The Mystery of Rampo from director Kazuhoshi Okuyama. Based on the censored works of Rampo Edogawa, literally “the Japanese Edgar Allen Poe,” Mystery explores the thin barrier between imagination and reality. When Rampo's latest novel (which focuses on a beautiful woman who has suffocated her husband in a chest) is banned by the Japanese government, his life begins to interweave with elements of the book. One of the interesting things about this narrative is the way it mirrors The Poet's Princess, and the screenings serve as a great juncture in which to test the merits of two directors. Rampo works because it recognizes the element of imagination and uses it as a means for questioning reality. Dazzling special effects promote this concept, utilizing animation that puts the rest of the market to shame, stylish visual techniques that are playful and fresh, and a color field of amazing splendor.

Only at the end does Rampo go slightly overboard, with a computer-generated acid-trip straight out of 2001. Fortunately, by that point you don't really care, because the rest of the experience has been basted with humor that mocks the film industry, emotional struggle that could only be Japanese, and an existentialist theme of giant proportions. It's the sort of film one would expect to emerge from Japan and invigorate their market. Niki List's Poet's Princess attempts to achieve about the same effect, but doesn't know how. It proceeds on the assumption that dressing can reign over story. Any promise that begins to show quickly dries up in a static montage.

Czech director Jan Sverak goes for the mass market jugular in much the same way with Accumulator 1. It's rather amusing script tells of a condition people fall prey to which nondoctor seems able to diagnose, the symptoms being total loss of energy and ambition. There are slight parallels here with Todd Haynes' stringently cerebral outing Safe, but in Accumulator 1 the perpetrator is known-or at least gradually revealed to be television, which exists as a sort of fifth dimension where victims reside in a cornucopia of sex and cheesy sets.

The endeavor begins to show extreme cult potential, but then slips away with the introduction of a blasé love scenario and almost complete loss of focus. The special effects (showing large-scale views of the inner anatomical structure a la The Fantastic Voyage) begin delightfully, but grind to an early halt, moving into tired sight gags that are merely slight variations on a theme. As clever as he tries to be in Accumulator 1, Sverak ultimately comes across as someone who has learned to wield a lot of tits and ass.

Fortunately, all hope is not lost for the celebrated Czech director, as he proves himself with a second film in this festival, a grand little opus called Ride. This low-budget feature actually comes on the heels of Accumulator 1 and portrays its director's natural talents and love or the medium. Ride is little more than a light-paced road movie covering issues of youthful freedom, denial, and sexual beguilement - kind of the Czech version of Generation X, but much more down to earth and likable. Sverak experiments with his camera, adds a nice mix of original music, and presents a trio of endearing characters whose lives briefly intersect. The difference between Accumulator 1 and Ride is like the difference between dining at expensive strip mall restaurants as opposed to small-town homestyle cafes. 

Sverak isn't the only European questioning the fate of youth and pondering the current state of affairs. In The Secret Life of Belgians, first-time Belgian director Jan Bucquoy delvers a philosophically astute and comic tour-de-force transforming a typical coming-of-age story into a joyous bohemian rhapsody, with hardly any dramatic babble to yank a viewer's chain. The autobiographical character or the film narrates his life as a writer who ultimately finds himself scrawling pages of porn in order to continue his existence. His ater-ego isn't so troubled with finding sex, but rather with finding a realistic balance between sex and life's other issues. This may sound fairly cliched, but the final truth is resounding, as we realize how akin life is to pornograph, in the best and worst of ways.

The real power of The Secret Life of Belgians lies in its personalities and the manipulation of stereotypes. Bucquoy shows the world as a flourishing vegetable garden in which beauty is hardly the controlling factor for instilling passion. With a subtle grain and delicate flow, Bucquoy crafts a sexual work that transcends its genre, and becomes one of the real finds of the festval. It is even more convincing when compared to its American brethren. such as George Hickenlooper’s The Low Life, which I was eager to view (despite its Gen- X label) because of the credibility of the director's past work. Unfortunately The Low Life turned out to be a limpid piece shit Betcha can guess which one will be released in America!

While some countries have the luxury of viewing contemporary life as a struggle with the perils of freedom, others must examine a harsher reality. Two of the festival's best films show how religion and politics can inhibit freedom and crush the essence of life. In the Algerian film Bab El O'ued Citv a late-night baker's assistant pulls a loudspeaker off the tower of the town mosque because its incessant calls to prayer are feeding his insomnia. The resulting search for the perpetrator of this crime reveals the extent of hypocrisy among the self-righteous. 

In tackling the restructuring of modern religious states, City’s director Merzak Allouche constructs a relevant and absorbing scenario, presenting complex issues in a simple narrative that leads to a perfect crescendo in tension. He layers the impact by sporadically focusing the camera on a man who leads his blind mother through the city she once knew, all the while assuring her that nothing has changed, though her blindness cannot prevent her from sensing the truth. This is the kind of film that takes you to another place and shows the frame of mind its inhabitants bear; any signs of Western materialism only prove how confined that mindset really is. Allouache is also to be commended for extracting impressive imagery from a seemingly lackluster environment, while retaining the realist integrity of his format.

In a similar but more immediate vein. Serbian director Boro DraskovIc brings you to your knees with the devastating impact of Vukovar, a simple tail of love that unfolds in prewar Yugoslavia with the marriage of Anna and Toma. He’s a Serb, she's a Croat, and it's not hard to guess the rest of the narrative as the country shatters in Civil War. Nothing, however, can really prepare you for the complete and absolute breakdown of humanity that is presented in this story.

Draskovic is keen on showing how people bend, then fold beneath pressure, and now the situation exacerbates to the point at which the thought of death becomes far more comforting than life under the existing circumstances. Somehow the couple make it through to the end of the film, though you re never sure they will: Toma as a soldier with no contempt for the enemy, his pregnant wife a helpless victim of rape and brutality. By the end of the film you realize there is no hope for the couple’s future, or humanity for that matter. Toma's reflection especially rings true: "If only this were a different world." The closing image is a lengthy overhead view of a decimated town, once built upon the same ground that we all walk on. The impact is extraordinary both as a contemporary image of savagery, and as a tribute to the filmmaker’s desire, tenacity and desperation to work within such a landscape.

As If Vukovar weren’t powerful enough on its own, certain events transpired which deepened its impact. The festival program guide listed the films origin as Croatia, while in reality it's a Serbian venture. While the film does not take sides, other than as a lens on human absurdity, there were those in audience who walked away after a disclaimer was given prior to viewing. The visage of hatred emanating from an elderly couple who chose to leave will forever be burned in my memory along with this tragic film. 

I returned the next day to the same theater in which Vukovar had screened to see an Iranian film that promised to be an elegant discourse through moviemaking: Under the Olive Trees. Abbas Kiarostami's seventh feature film was a breath of fresh air, coaxing along a peculiarly fun narrative that presents the gentle, humanistic side of this distant people. The story-within-a-story progressed as an evenly tempered, beautiful work of cinematic majesty - at least up to the point at which the bomb threat was delivered, eliminating the last half of the film.

A bomb threat during a film festival didn't seem so implausible; what seemed perplexing was the timing and motivation. It seemed unlikely that the Iranian origins of the film could have provoked such a threat, considering the neutrality of its narrative; in fact, what appeared to be a more disarming and sadder answer was the possibility that it was retribution for the screening of Vukovar. The staff seemed to think so and were forced to clear the area for the rest of the afternoon. 

Fortunately, nobody was harmed in any way. The only ones to take a hit were the four oblivious filmmakers whose features were canceled that day and their audience, which had to find better things to do in Seattle that afternoon. If only this were a different world, indeed!

While reality is the backseat driver to suspense in some of the festival's better films, beauty is the ingredient which causes others to flourish. I was completely mesmerized by the flawless technique and visual crafting presented in the Norwegian outing Second Sight, a taciturn depiction of the bubonic plague in the Middle Ages. After being fed the dewdrops her mother has collected off the hillside foliage, a young girl survives the mysterious disease that has wiped out her tiny village, thrusting her into a lonely world in which she must grapple with her thoughts and visions. The villagers who finally draw her out of her stupor believe that her visions show the future, and seek to know what may be in store for them.

There's little more to the story than that, other than a wide array of interpretive pitches delivered as part of this scenario. Little more is needed, as the film glides along from one magnificent frame to the next, each shot portraying an artistic grace all its own. The majesty of the Norwegian landscape is truly out of this world, particularly the scenes among the glaciers, as is the film's attention to detail in creating a creepy yet believable stage for this period in time. With naked bodies rolling down a weedy green hill, and a little cherub haunting the proceedings, you can't help but think of Jane Campion's work. Second Sight, however, reaches heights of visual beauty unparalleled on screen.

The African Xime has a more complex beauty, crafted by characters and camera rather than the natural exuberance of the environment. This is a multilayered story about a father losing his authority over his sons, one of whom is in love with the father's young bride-to-be, the other an up-and-coming revolutionary who slips in and out of the village under religious pretenses. The overall impact derives from the story's concern with the occupation and oppression of the people of Guinea Bissau by the Portuguese.

In this setting, director Sana Na N'hada examines the differences that spur people to action, and contrasts that with larger collectives, such as villages and nations. This film is not a view of outright terror, dealing instead with all issues that capture the intelligence and forward thinking of what most consider a primitive culture. Even the villainy of the colonial regime is presented with a degree of uncertainty and wistfulness. For a first feature, Xime exhibits an uncommon confidence and mastery of technique; it is one of the freshest new products on the market.

Viewing films that create a vibrant tone while presenting an intelligent view of the world is glorious. The ultimate celluloid ecstasy, however, comes with the kinetic maximization of all potential that moving image may promise, delving into the realm of creative brilliance. If ever such a state existed, it would no doubt be found at a film festival, somewhere on the outskirts, where few may venture and which liner notes would hardly betray. Fortunately, I found such a state in the debut of Frenchman Henri Barges' Half Spirit-Voice of the Spider.

To pronounce a film a work of genius is risky enough, recalling the time I dragged six mates to a late-night screening of the Japanese masterpiece Tetsuo, none of whom returned to a theater at my bidding till many moons later. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to urge you towards this vision, even at the risk of acknowledging the distortion of my taste.

Half Spirit is what I would call the contemporary rendering of a Grimm fairytale. I've tried to describe it to a number of people, with little luck….l'm just unable to stay within a single tangent for more than a brief moment without extrapolating on some derivative detail. The press notes given at the screening equate it to a "rusty nail going through the viewer's head," a derogation which incites one of the finer moments of the film's seductive horror. Ultimately, it moves avant-bizzare cinema in the right direction that few try to create in this day and age, and even fewer succeed.

A brief synopsis goes like this: A naked woman sits in an isolation chamber of vivid yellow, transposing her story to a higher being on the flesh of her body. She relates her year of exile chained to the radiator of her boyfriend’s apartment, the result of a romantic interlude involving his police gun and testicles splattered on the bed. An alternate reality overtakes that which has gradually slipped away from her, one in which a spider named Jiminy has crept into her head. coaxing her on to escape her oppressor and reveal the beauty which must lie beyond the confines of her cell. 

She tells of gaining her freedom, and of a confrontation with Badfly, a likable-enough chap who pushes her off a bridge, in order to satisfy his urge to see women fly through the air (a re-creation of his wife's tragic death). Fortunately, the bridge is low, and she walks away merely shaken, only to be run over by Spider-Man, the dashing courier of illegal substances. He's sorry that he's run Half Spirit over, and briefly tries to calm her, until he realizes that the rest is on his tail. He hurries on nis delinquent way, followed by Half Spirit, who has now fallen in love with him, by Badfly, who senses the need to protect half Spirit, and finally the narcissistic priest, whose job it is to make sure Spider-Man doesn’t screw up.

The resulting cat-and-mouse chase reveals the complexity of the situation, including the reason why Half SpIrit is relating her tale from a radiation victim holding tank, a direct result of Spider-Man's latest illicit exchange effort. The scenario is not just whacked-out, Its whacked way out, but somehow all make's sense in the end. At the very heart of the tale lies a stable platform, questioning theology, rationalizing deviant human action, and perhaps pronouncing why some people seem to attract the trouble they find. Regardless, It delivers a heaping plate of food for thought. 

Beyond the intensity of the script lies a visual acuity and master or technique which hardly seem possible for a debut proiect. I call this contemporary cinema because it works at a level of experimentation and progression that encompasses the entire spectrum of the medium.

Many of the films that delve into this arena merely end up extolling their various influences while content slips into cliche. Barges manages to avoid this trap by pushing the envelope wherever he goes. His brilliant duotone images alternate between bIue-gray and yellow black, with snippets of color at just the right moments. The occasional manic bout with editIng reads not so much as a way to show off, out more as a method to deal with the passage of time. Shots are framed as though viewed through a 4x5 camera, perfectly capturing the essence or set and detail. Even the sound mix is dynamic in range, exhibiting a complete understanding of tone, volume and proper placement. Each moment feels wonderfully in context, never clumsy or tired

I'll cry if this film is not released, but who knows what fate it will meet. A handful of people walked out during the screening, and at least a couple of the local critics deemed it horrible. I know, however, that I am not alone In my praise, my loyal festival companion feeling exactly as I do.

The American film Nadja exhibits a similar vibe as Half Spirit, though in a much lighter vein. You may have already heard of Michael Almereyda’s directorial debut from its appearance al this vear’s Sundance Festival. It was there I discovered this treatment that few others seemed to relish as much as I. Fortunately Seattle provided the opportunity for a second viewing, and the chance to test its staying power. What I found in this vampire sojourn was a simple tribute, an exercise if you will, playful as the wind. and fine focused.

Almereyda's take on Dracula is thoroughly absurd, as it should be. There's little cohesion as the story sallies forth from one Dracula convention to the next with a bit of wry social commentary thrown in for good measure.  I consider Nadja a cinematic delight because of its homage to Cocteau and Dreyer. as well as a host of more recent filmmakers. such as Maddin and Lynch (who just so happens to produce and appear in this film). Almereyda even one-ups his closest nemesis. Hal Hartley, bv drawing far better performances out of Elina Lowensonn and Martin Donovan and by mixing alternative musIc into the action as if it were really meant to be there. He experiments with pixel vision as a way to present his vampire’s point of view, much like the fantastic Simpson's episode in which the world Is seen through the eyes of the dog. He even brings Peter Fonda back into the fold, with a performance that actualizes the results of Easy Rider days. providing the perfect answer to where the hell he's been all these years. If you can't find joy in Nadja, you simply don't like movies.

At this point it's obvious that I could go on forever. so I’ll close with a smattering of notes from a few honorable mentions. 

71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance: Somewhere along the way through this Austrian film, after most who were going to walk out had actually left the theater, the thought occurred to me...if you want to fail in releasing your movie in America, make one just like this. It's the kind of movie that offers no joy in watching, yet strangely compels you. The title says it all, and the punch comes with how the various life segments connect in the end, a final moment of violence that plays as if based on a true Incident. More like semi-static video art currently being pawned off in art gallery installations, and not something to recommend to everyone. As challenging as film gets, considering the quality and quantity of lively discourse occuring afterwards.

The Convert: A delightfully bizarre effort from Polish television, with Zbigniew Zamachowski, the lovable lead from White, in a Chaplinesque role that parodies the state of the nation during the upswing of solidarity. Simple though not completely intelligible to Western minds. It's repetitive in a good way, and challenging, particularly as a made for television feature. Great technique is developed for making you actually feel the pain of the stooge, and the most excellent tidbits of dialogue are presented, such as "I’ll drive my boot into the car-barn of your ass”

Dallas Doll: In the tradition of much recent Aussie cinema comes an even slighter film of little consequence. defect for Sandra Bernhard fans, though hard pressed to claim any more. Even if Sandra could act, it's doubtful that this film would propose any toasts. Its saving grace comes in the form of sight gags, such as a peculiarly surreal candy-house dream sequence and a doll-theme golf course, where the christening bottle of champagne is smashed on an archway of doll faces. 

I Am Cuba: A hallucinatory, desperate film that should stand as one of cinema’s ultimate achievements. The filmwork is so breathtaking and the scale so grand that it's hard to believe it ever got made let alone 31 vears ago. Four segments chronicle various aspects of the Cuban revolution with the idealist narrative holding strong until the fourth, in which the propaganda spills its glorious load. It's fairly challenging to endure the whole procedure, but worth It for anyone interested in the power or film.

Grosse Fatigue: Michel Blanc writes, directs, and stars twofold in the ultimate paranoist fantasy. Blanc sams every aspect of the French film industry as he discovers his double taking on roles that he would never dream of. The imposter goes so far as to take Blanc's real place in life, leaving him a hopeless, washed up wreck. The film packs in plenty of star appearances as it exaggerates the status of French actors to that or demi-gods. Incredibly funny if you get the multitude of jokes. and clever enough to work on its own if you don’t. Besides, who in this day and age can resist barbs directed at Gerard Depardieu?

Theremin: How did I manage to miss this documentary when it premiered at Sundance two years ago, and why is It still on the festival circuit? This is a fascinating, almost perfect documentary that chronicles the life of Leon Theremin, inventor of the instrument that graced many a B-class science fiction film, not to mention the Beach Boys ever popular Good Vibrations. Director Steven Martin is meticulous in nis approach to the fascinating life and times of someone whose music and genius would otherwise have been lost to the world. In passing through his exploration, you can sense the excitement involved In capturing such diversely brilliant footage. A post-screening interview revealed Steve to be a rather passionate and astute disciple of his subject, as well as the kind of guy you could comfortably have beers with for hours in a dank, smoke-filled bar.

The Kingdom: Imagine sitting through a 279-minute epic, supposedly made for Danish television, and subtitled in English. Imagine not wanting to leave, even to go to the bathroom. Imagine that the time is so good that it wins the Golden Space Needle award for best picture! Unfortunately that's all you or I can do, as I was unable to attend what had to be my most desired film of the festival. Oh well, turn back a few years to Lars Von Trier's previous masterpieces, such as The Element of Crime and Zentropa, and start those glands salivating as we wait for The Kingdom’s imminent release.

Toronto Film Festival 1992

I thought my brain would explode - Notes from the '92 Toronto International Film Festival of Festivals

Tower Prevue, October/November 1992

So I'm sitting in this hotel suite in downtown Toronto, sipping a complimentary bottle of Carlsburg Light and attempting to focus my vision through the thick layer of smoke which has engulfed the room, when this guy across from me exclaims "UTAH! YOU COULD MAKE A FORTUNE WITH THAT NAME AS A DESIGNER LABEL IN EUROPE!* At that point I realized that fate had delivered me into one of the largest vats of creative posturing that I may ever lay witness to, and I liked it.

At the Toronto International Film Festival of Festivals there are many fine moments that engage the senses as everything seems to leap from a celluloid landscape. Having just performed in its seventeenth year, North America's grandest film festival has grown to a size that positively mangles the unsuspecting mind. Well over three hundred features and short films are screened in a period of ten days, representing forty-three countries and some of the finest directors this world has to offer. The film guide alone is about the size of the Salt Lake Valley white pages, and is infinitely more interesting! It has been rumored that local film enthusiasts undergo months of Olympic caliber training prior to the festivities, in order to endure the lines, the conversation, and the heavy footwork necessary to track down their favorite filmic talents. Of course my preparation of discovering real beer and napping a lot the week prior to the fest left me with my own unique impression of this fine event.

I found Toronto to be the city that's "just the right size.' It is certainly large, but user friendly with its proper sense of spacing and grid layout that the city forefathers so brazenly devised. And while I spent almost two hours each day just getting to festival central from my beautiful country haven, access to all theaters and points of interest thereafter was swift. In fact some of the film lineups were so long, you could find yourself in line for the screening up the block as you step out from your prior show!

People sure like to complain about lines, but they are a necessary evil that derive from one of the fairest admittance systems I've witnessed at a festival (if you turn your head to corporate sponsor privileges). Besides, the lines are excellent conversation pits for people who undoubtedly share similar interests, and can even result in more localized accommodations for the out of towner.

Certainly the most difficult task of the FOF is devising and keeping a taut agenda, considering the twelve vast groupings the program is split into. Once you realize that it is largely impossible to see all that you might want to see, when you want to see it, it becomes far easier to embrace randomness. The luck of the draw system also guarantees the opportunity to run your mind through the breadth of the emotional grinder in one day, and collapse a sloppy mess each night. For my week I was fortunate to attend my seven top must-sees, and discover at least four highly pleasing films that would have passed to ignorance.

Now, If I were an influential writer, I would make sure that the masses flock to see my personal favorite of the festival, the Russian film Luna Park. This second feature from Pavel Longuine, director of the highly acclaimed yet remotely viewed masterpiece Taxi Blues, proved to be the quintessential roller coaster ride In a theater seat, and In more ways than one. The story of an anti-semltic youths gradual transformation into a semite matches sensible black comedy with corrosively dramatic realities of human difference, and literally had me pulling at my teeth towards the end. Longuine's ability to compel and envelope the viewer from start to finish is a skill unmatched by any other director. I can only hope that it gains a wider release than his previous, so that you won't think I'm full of shit.

The most clever film to casually mess with my head was a Belgian work called Man BitesDog. Relentlessly brilliant in its execution, this fake documentary finds a film crew chronicling the life of freelance serial killer Benoit. Forget Henry, this guy Benny is up front with and proud of his profession, even eager to reveal the tricks of the trade. The catch In watching him perform (done with a rare comic brilliance by Benoit Poelvoorde) is in witnessing the transformation of the filmmakers into participants in Ben's work and thus their own film.

While at times as disturbing and realistic as a snuff film, the wealth of humorous material inherent in the concept is like a keg that these Belgian guys have tapped and sucked dry to the only predictable moment. which is the last frame of the film. Man Bites Dog is an instant landmark, destined to be the most talked about film in the foreign/cult circuit next year.

Two of films leading stylists unveiled their latest works here, with surprisingly pleasing results. Hal Harley's Simple Men and Aki Kaurismaki's Bohemian Life nail the stride that each director has been developing through previous features and shorts. The crucial modern scripting wrought in the unstoppable dialogue of Simple Men produced a spasm in my brain that nearly caused it to explode by film's end. The title reflects a merciless irony that is the story of two brothers wading through life's bullshit just to find meaning and truth. This is typical Hartley territory, though much more refined. Hal pokes his head into every comer of the modern intellectual stratosphere, and even has a little fun at the sacrifice of his early flicks. Some day books will be written as interpretive companions to his work, and the world will be ashamed that his talent wasn't more highly regarded during his lifetime. Or so I suspect.

Bohemian Life is Finnish contemporary Kaurismaki's labor of love, shrewdly produced to glorify the lost works of Henri Murger. I think Aki is starting to shed his Jarmuschian shadow in this rather giddy and thoroughly likable film. The story is much what you'd expect from the title: three immigrant Parisian losers strive to live while keeping their often absurd artistic and moral integrity intact. By working in black and white to create a feeling of the twenty's, and maintaining his minimalist atmosphere Aki sets a grand stage in which to finely detail the quirks of human nature. Like Hartley, Kaurismaki uses the same actors to mesh his style, and both films prove that the combinations are no fluke. The two also exhibit a vehicle of humor that can only work through perfect timing, which both are finally grasping to the fullest effect. I would expect major breakthroughs for these modern eccentrics.

Two Canadian films also created a remarkable niche in my skull, festival opener Leolo and Guy Maddin's Careful. To kick off one of the world's premier festivals with a film as disturbing as Leolo shows real character by the festival staff. The press seemed to have a heyday trying to condemn Jean Claude-Lauzon and his coming of age story that probes the dark world of Leolo Lauzone, a kid who believes he is not part of his family because the family are all utterly insane. While this movie is hardly uplifting, it's about as harmful as listening to your friends tell their ugliest childhood memories. I guess people don't like to be shown cold bitter reality, but the moment that the high society gal next to me clutched my arm and begged me not to watch the kitty-rape scene, I knew it was all worthwhile.

The incestuous undertones of Careful are probably more disturbing than Lauzon's film, but a lot easier to swallow because of its hilarious, fairy tale nature. Each frame of this movie is right out of a budget set-designers wet dream, looking more like the Silent era than the silent era ever did. I can't even begin to describe the delicious plot, as it took me three full pages just to detail it, but genius bits of writing include sequences like lead man Johann dreaming that he is awakening from a dream, or brother Grigor's vowing to wash one man's blood off his hands with the blood of another. This tale of the twisted town of Tolzbad is a hoot and a half, and one of the most pleasant surprises of the fest.

Another surprise was Monika Treut's collection of shorts entitled Female Misbehavior. Treut's material has always gone against socially acceptable grain, but can really engage the open mind. In these four documentaries, Monika covers topics of bondage, exhibitionist art, anti-feminist feminism (with Camille Paglia), and female to male sex change. The people who walked out after bondage master Carol clips her microphone to her nipple just don't get the point of Miss Treut's work. It was their loss, however, as the interview with Paglia proved to be an incredibly insightful view into this woman's mind. She has you believing in her "crushing intellect", as she passes comments like "If people could look inside my brain, I'd be arrested."

Monika's daring style works well in the documentary arena, as she is able to extract the most from her material. She also comes up with some of the most delightfully obscure old film clips, as well as devices like technical illustrations of how Max might go about obtaining a penis. Unfortunately the segment with Annie Sprinkle will guarantee that this collection does not get released, at least in Utah. But feel free to ask me about it sometime.

A couple of other products proved to be engaging as well. Alan Rudolph's Equinox is about the most enjoyably confusing film I've witnessed in a good long time. I'm anticipating its release more than any other just so I can give my head another go at figuring it out. Rudolph manages to draw the best two performances out of Mathew Modine's career, and even utilizes the useless talents of Lori Singer to effective results. Any director who can do that should be given a prize. Alan is also the master of detail, as he once again proves with devices like televisions that cross stock market reports with soft core pornography. Every director should strive to have this much fun!

Up and coming French director Leos Carax almost delivers the best film of the festival with Lovers on the Bridge, but just falls short with an overdone, and utterly Hollywood ending. Still, the rest of his depiction of homeless lovers contains some of the most stylized, heart pounding, cutting edge work I've seen in a long time. His name will be everywhere soon enough.

Of course not all was well at the festival as some films left me rather blank. I went out of my way for new films by Jean Jacques Beinex and Elisio Subiela, only to find incredibly mediocre product. A couple other films had my mind concocting legal penalties for their director's crimes against society. Aleksandr Sokhurov's The Stone was so bad that I came to welcome the sound of the passing subway every two minutes because it added texture to the film. And Britain's David Attwood proved no better, as his monstrous Wild West continues a new tradition of Stephen Frears wanna-be's who would probably make better gas station attendants than directors. 

Averaging three films a day, I couldn't even begin to make a dent in what is available at this forum. And since I actually chose to view films at the Toronto FOF, I had to miss out on a lot of the socializing and masterful panhandling among the film elite, who attend this festival in hordes. But that's alright, as I certainly got my fill of entertainment. Besides, I did get to meet Monika Treut in the hospitality suite, as well as a beautiful woman who gave me her occupation as a dominatrix. She showed me her pierced belly button, discoursed on the salt flats of Ulah, and gave me her phone number and address. Now I can look forward to a place to stay at next year's festival!

Delightful, Delicious, Delicatessen

Tower Prevue Aug/Sept 1992

Society is collapsing. You've still got your health, your job, and perhaps twenty percent of your sanity intact. What you don't have is a decent meal, like a big juicy steak, blood red and dripping with pleasure. Don't worry though; save your grain for a rainy day and visit the delicatessen downstairs, where you just might be lucky enough to persuade the gargantuan, ill-mannered butcher cum-landlord to slice you out a hunk of meat. Only a fool or vegetarian would choose not to.

Welcome to DELICATESSEN, the most excitingly sinister, visually daring film to pass this way in years. By now you've all seen the preview/excerpt from the film and probably want to know just what the hell it's about. Well, I will gladly tell you.

DELICATESSEN is a bonafide creative treasure that borrows all the right assets from the book-of-film knowhow, wielding and weaving them into a vigorous masterpiece. The opening credit sequence alone has more detail, wit and style than some entire films. The larger proceedings take off from there, within a set that is so shamelessly dire that it aspires to beauty, filled with characters that cannot be ignored.

At the center is little, lovable. Louison, who's packed his bags and left the circus life following the untimely death of his sidekick monkey.  Louison is a damn nice guy who wants to work hard and make people as happy as a disillusioned clown can. With his arrival at the delicatessen, he sets out to prove himself worthy to the menacing butcher, as well as the oddball tenants.

The butcher, however, is an artist. He relishes his carving skills and subsequent wealth more than anything else in this world. To him, Louison is simply next week's inventory, for all who suck up to him to enjoy. The only problem is that Louison is just loaded with balls, and an endearing persona, enough to snag the affections of the butcher's homely daughter. Julie, fully aware of daddy's intentions, gets help from the incorrigible band of troglodists, marauding vegetarians who dwell beneath the ground and would love nothing more than to stick it to the butcher. From here, things get seriously, strangely intense.

Within this framework are many characters to be relished. a luminous assortment of deviants like Monsieur Potin, breeder extraordinaire of amphibious appetizers; the Cube brothers, makers of toys that go BAAAAAA (like sheep, and only God knows why they make em); and Madame Interligator, who runs through a series of provocative yet failed suicide attempts. You'd never want to meet these people in this world. but you'll thrive on them in the distance of the Delicatessen.

You see, none of these people can trust each other. The grim apartment building is a labyrinth of pipes and ducts, making it very difficult for one to be alone, as the synchronized love scene in the preview indicates. All they want to do is live their miserable little lives, and avoid the wrath of the Butcher.

The colorful personalities of the script are presented in a maelstrom of crafty techniques by the new French team of Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro. Inspired by both comic book imagery and animated films, the two found their way into studios, working with experimental formats that obviously found their way into Delicatessen. It's their inspired imaginations that create the captivating mood within the apartment building. The film wants to look as if a gallop towards the future, yet the decoration of the rooms certainly negate any futuristic feel, coming across more as an industrial outtake from the fifties.

The abundance of texture present in the setting is made all the more valuable by the lighting and framing of the shots. A mix of funky angles and extreme closeups, like the camera looking through the bedsprings, create a rousing pace that glides the film along. building to some particularly searing imagery towards the end: somehow Louison and Julie manage to escape their cruel fate by flooding the building in a sequence that is truly amazing to behold.

My first impression in the midst of such genius pointed towards a huge budget funded by some pathetically rich, French madman, so the shocker of the whole event is in knowing that the whole creation was performed with a scant two-million bucks. It's a slap in the face to more established productions that rely on money for creativity. Jeunet and Caro deliver an artistic farce that's certainly heads and tales above anything you'll find in the bat cave. It's not often that one comes across a delicatessen this good.

Returning Japanese
Tower Prevue (date unknown)

Please help me someone, I've lost the Japanese cinema and can't find it anywhere!

Yes it's true, the Japanese have pulled one heck of a disappearing act, virtually wiping their name off the world's movie playlist. If you don't believe me. just name one prominent Japanese director who’s created so much as a spark in the press lately (and I won't take Kurosawa for an answer). 

Are the Japanese too advanced to enjoy films anymore or are they so disparate that the rest of the world can't comprehend their films? Sure they're just cranking out the animated flicks, and even financing a lot of outside directors projects. But whatever happened to the Japanese actor? Where the hell is the next Toshiro Mifune?

If this question perplexes you and like me you need to satisfy that urge for something Japanese, I would suggest getting your fix from some older Japanese films only now being released on video. 

I would start with BLACK LIZARD, a rabid love story set amongst the detective thriller genre. Akechi is the enigmatic detective with a "deep and romantic attachment to crime.” His target is the Black Lizard, a sumptuous and subversive dominatrix who collects people as her dolls, In a war museum kind of way. Although her crimes are quite grotesque, she's filled with overwhelming passion and an ultimate lust for life.

As Akechi chases down the lizard, love blossoms between the two, leading to a tragic climax where the “true jewel is taken by death.” You can't help but laugh at this outrageous and implausible slice of Japanese camp. It's so over the top absurd, never daring to explain itself yet never breaking from its serious tone. Start watching and you'll find yourself coasting along on dialogue that's as luscious as the lizard herself and relentlessly clever.

Of course, you'll find lines like “You're attractive, but you're also a swindler and a kidnapper" more funny when you find out that the beautiful Lizard with the treacherous smile is really a man in drag. Yes, Akihiro Maruyama may not be the next Mifune but he certainly carves some kind of niche in the history of the cinema. Set all this on top of some crazy and colorful sets with a dose of creative directing, and you get an enjoyable evenings viewing.

You'll want to save Nagis Oshima's VIOLENCE AT NOON for another night, as it is a little bit on the dark side. This is one of Oshima's earliest works, pre REALM OF THE SENSES, pre-full-on sexual contact on screen, so if you're a dirty old man out to get your jollies, don't bother. If, on the other hand, you've wondered just what the big deal is with all the praise heaped on this Oshima guy, then this film is likely to drop more than a few clues.

VIOLENCE AT NOON is complex scouring of the human psyche, with three characters at the fore: a man who sexually assaults and kills women, his distant wife, and his true love, both of whom have their reasons for protecting his crimes.

The mystery unravels in a backtracking, reflective mode. In a small town a woman joins the recently elected mayor in a double suicide. Having been tipped off to the scheme, a man follows up and frees the woman from the hanging tree, then violates her while she’s still unconscious. She learns of his deed, rejects his love, thus sending him out on a sexual murder spree. 

Once the woman learns that he is the killer, she protects him from the police, but clues in the man's wife to his treacherous behavior. The resultant discourse between the two women leads to a second double-suicide pact between them, after they reveal the man to the police.

It sure sounds pretty horrifying, and I guess it really is, but Oshima presents his material in a fashion that tends to eliminate the outright horror of the deeds, seeking more a compassion for and understanding of the perpetrators. The man is obviously a bad seed, so the camera explores the role of the two women, and the perceptions of their own guilt in creating the "phantom killer.' As difficult as it is to comprehend this view of Japanese morality, it's still an absorbing tale.

What really sets the film apart as a piece of the "Japanese New wave" is the camera work and editing techniques. Oshima literally goes gonzo with the jump cuts, the picture constantly changing with an intensely broad range of view. The extreme close-ups of the faces and surreal layering effects strive to create a signature that was probably cutting edge at the time it was made.

If this film doesn't satisfy your curiosity in the Japanese articulation of suicide, you'll probably want to move on to Mitsuo Yanagimachi’s HIMATSURI. Definitely among the most polished and artistic of the Japanese fare, this film is also one of the more challenging to sit through.

The pretext is very simple: a lumberjack in a small fishing village refuses to give up his land for the creation of a marine park, regardless of the benefit to the town. After several introspective occurrences, climaxing with an all male fire festival, the man decides to wipe out his family and then  himself, leaving his property to the whims of the community.

What makes the film so challenging is the way the story strangely meanders around certain people and events. Most of the images and action appear as gritty realism, but are quite open to interpretation. It's fascinating to realize the respect accorded the man and his family as he makes his ultimate decision, particularly considering his perplexing and disturbing solution. Yanagimachi's roving camera and complex imagery serve to develop a current context in which the film operates, one that is dynamically opposed to the spiritual essence of the main character and the study into his struggle with Japanese ritual. There is obviously a lot of deep meaning within the film, which can't really be fully obtained with just one viewing.

Himatsuri is a much more recent product than BLACK LIZARD and VIOLENCE AT NOON. Considering the mature direction of the film, and the acclaim it opened to at the time of its release, I am all the more curious as to what happened to this Japanese art.

Film Heaven: The Sundance Film Festival

Tower Prevue Feb/March 1992

Being a film enthusiast in Salt Lake City is comparable to being a junkie in the local drug store; you know the merchandise exists, you just have to be cunning to obtain It. But for one week of the year, the counter clerks turn their backs and let you sample some goodies you only dreamed of. This moment of bliss is the Sundance Film Festival, and as with any compulsion, it's a mixture of highs and lows.

Friday, Jan 17, my first screening of the festival, is also the first local screening ever at the Tower Theater, the only logical place for in-town screenings (and I hope I need not explain why). The film is called Proof, an Australian gem that's listed as a special screening. The film proves to be the start of a wonderful evening, bringing together a poignant story with moments of outrageous comedy. The picture focuses on a blind man with a penchant for photography as a way to find out if people are telling him the truth. In dealing with two very different relationships, the film reveals the delusions in this exercise and the plight that all humans undergo, whether blind or not. It's a fresh story that plays differently because all characters really preclude outright sympathy, particularly Martin, the blind man!

Later on this evening I get a wild hair and find myself in Park City for the midnight screening of Delicatessen. Feeling in store for a wild ride, what I got blew my best expectations away. It's like a friend of mine stated as he exited, zombie eyed, from the film: “There's a lot of depressed, wanna-be filmmakers in there.” The movie is downright sinister and merry, and makes me think the French aren't all that bad. Expect to see it everywhere soon enough.

Moving onward, I ventured once again to the Tower Theater for Saturdays highly anticipated feature film by Bill Plympton, the king of delightfully disturbing animation. His film The Tune is pretty much what I expected; a fine debut, but far from realizing its potential. Set as a musical, the introduction of words and plot to Plymptons style just doesn't throw in enough drive. The style and artistry of the film are to be highly commended, but l'd rather see his short films, which have more impact. Still, Bill’s magic found the audience participating in a sing-along, obviously meant as a joke. Even Bill himself was caught off guard!

On Sunday I was allowed entrance to the latest outing by Zhang Yimou, the Chinese Wondermaker. With Raise the Red Lantern, Yimou achieves status as a Maverick director comparable to Kurosawa, with only three films! The Red Lantern shows development in all aspects of his art, particularly in the ability to disguise an ordinary Chinese tale as political allegory. Following the fourth mistress of a Chinese lord, the film expresses the conflict of people in the face of oppression. The setting of the film is as inessential as the face of the master; what's important are the events that drive the fourth mistress to madness from overwhelming guilt. The film is not as lush as Yimou's previous films, but much more finely honed. This event was a great way to top off the directors celebration, as his earlier films were given a much needed retrospective.

After a couple of days break, Wednesday ushered in a weekend of bliss. I feasted on Derek Jarman's thoughtfully conspired introduction to the festival with his premiere of Edward II. While the film is devoutly homosexual, its major impact is in the sparse visual style and wit of the modern day costuming. Jarman leaves nothing to distract from his message, and succeeds in burning images into one's memory. His blunt sexual expression will probably infuriate most of society, but Derek's style is among the best in the business.

Friday, January 24. My brother joins me for my final bout with the festival. He's from L.A. I'm scared.

We start the day with Jim Jarmusch's latest glorious feast, Night on Earth. I can't tell you how much I love this man's films, and this one proves to be the cream on the cake. As with his other films, simplicity rules, and complexity underlies. There are five stories here, all with themes of human perception, all equally good. Roberto Begnini makes a grand return that had me laughing until I cried while he extrapolated on Italian males sexual practices (with pumpkins and sheep). It's a true joy, with more thought put in than probably any director alive.

We followed up with Hanif Kureishi's film about the drug culture. London Kills Me was the only real failure of the premiere screenings that I attended. Kureishi should stay a writer, because he just doesn't know how to charge the screen with energy. His structure was quite good, playing on a youth who must find a pair of shoes before he starts a real job, but it never compels. 

Come Saturday, we got to enjoy the feast of the fest. Upon entering the Egyptian for In The Soup, it was obvious that something special was to happen. It's sold out, huge waiting list, full cast in attendance, dancing girls... The film proved the hype to be true as it delighted us and our crowd and went on to capture the jury prize of the festival. This deftly controlled buddy film features an absurd plot that just happens to be based on reality, and some of the greatest screen interaction ever between the homoerotic gangster Seymour Cassel and the bereaved filmmaker Steve Buscemi. It’s good to see a film like this take the prize and bring the award back to a more playful level of acceptance.

STALKER

Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky

My brother phoned unexpectedly the other day. He was all kinds of pissed off. "Ivar." he said, with special emphasis on the V. "What the hell is the zone supposed to be!?" I was blank. It was too early in the morning for vagaries. "Ah, how's that again?" "The zone, damnit! That Russian film you told me to watch. The zone was a sham. Nothing happened, comprende!? I waited and waited and nothing happened!"

"OHOHOHohohohoho. So you finally watched "Stalker, huh. And made it all the wa ythrough?"

"Of course I made it all the way through. I thought something was going to happen. NOTHING HAPPENED!"

As my mind played fill in the blanks, I began to spout. "Don't you get it! You FOOL! There is no zone, and that's the whole point of the film. The stalker has it in his head that there is a place with all these powerful forces at work, but only because he and his family are naturally tweaked. Maybe il's true, maybe it's not. The two gentlemen who hire him to take them there want to discover the supposed powers of the zone, for various reasons, scientific or personal. They don't know what to expect, you don't know what to expect, and the search reveals the viewer to himself, in both cases, or makes the witness question the idea of searching for the mystery in the first place. The whole point is that nothing happens because nothing is supposed to happen, and we should be happy as human beings and earnest film watchers that NOTHING EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENS!"

Click.

MY NAME IS IVAN

Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky

Better late than never, the first film by Russian wonder Andrei Tarkovsky finally hits our shelves. While originally titled "Ivan's Childhood." later thoughtfully changed to please us silly Americans. "My Name Is Ivan' aspires to study the effects of war, and more importantly the duality between boy and man.

Ivan's childhood has taken a turn as both parents are killed by Nazi scum. After running away from a boarding school, Ivan finds himself as a pigeon for the other side. The film picks up at a point where Ivan has realized his usefulness in the war and desires to continue doing so. His seniors, however grateful, would like to send Ivan to a military academy as an expression of their gratitude towards his bravery.

Ivan sees himself already doing the work of men, maybe even playing the game of war better than some of his superiors, and so nails drive into him as his superiors admonish "Your just a kid." Fortunately for Ivan, there is one more mission in store, and the result is tragedy in view of the officers intent to have Ivan adopted.

The characterizations in the film are that of human awareness, with war as the means for which it is interpreted. Ivan's whole persona has been resolved by his environment, and even in death he has been justified by the opportunity for revenge. Only through wonderful, hallucinatory dream images do we get to view the alternative existence the lad may have had otherwise. The officers around him must look at themselves with the addition of the seemingly rational lvan. During talk of who will adopt the boy after the war, one senior officer thoughtfully negates his own desire by claiming "The chief says I need upbringing myself.”

The film certainly lacks the traditional Tarkovsky wit, but it is a much more accessible film for general audiences because of its simplicity, brevity, the sheer exploration of film technique, and images that can only be described as beautiful. As a new director using a cast of amateurs, Tarkovsky fabulously captures expressions that create characters far more than dialogue ever could. Ivan in particular is perhaps the most advanced acting by a child ever on screen, not just another kid playing "pretty boy."

Either this is the most overlooked gem in film history, or my name isn't Ivar. If you've vowed to never again witness the monotony that is Tarkovsky, give yourself just one more chance

TOTO LE HEROS

Directed by Jaco Van Dormael

What happens when foreign film is so good that it gets released in a big commercial theater that wants 3 bucks for a small popcorn and features electric hand-dryers in the bathroom? No one sees it until it's out on video! Such is the case with "Toto the Hero", winner of the Cannes door prize and one of the finest films to hit the screens since that one a couple of years ago. Geez if life ain't fair!

Well. life isn't fair. If it was, I'd be getting paid to write this, and the hero of this film wouldn't have to suffer through a lifetime of misery and woe. It's one thing to suffer without knowing, but what if you know, just absolutely know that someone, maybe the guy up there, just happened to allow your life to slip out the ass instead of the proper place, and everything you do, based upon the rules as well as the randomness of society, goes against what you absolutely know to be true? And there's nothing you can do! And you have to live with this for a long, long, long time! You aren' even allowed a quick, painful death at an early age. Dante had no idea, because HELL IS ON EARTH!

Excuse me, this is actually quite a lighthearted film, that perfect mix of humor and pathos, and it never really even mentions the concept of hell, except as an afterthought. Great story. Exquisite film-work. Children. Toy soldiers. Just a bit of sexual innuendo. Tragedy. If you can't enjoy this film, go back to bed, or to Idaho. Crafting is not the word for it. There is no word for what this film is. Maybe it's a bunch of words.

PEPI, LUCI, BOM

Directed by Pedro Almodovar

Meet Pepi, Luci, and Bom, three fun loving senoritas with a different style of life! Pepi decides to take up creative marketing after her plan to sell her virginity backfires. Fortunately the public hasn't yet been introduced to her concept of dolls that menstruate. 

Her mentor in knitting is Luci, pronounced Luthi, the quintessential portrait of the unfulfilled housewife. All she wants is for her cop husband to beat her, but he's all talk and no fun. Fortunately for her, Pepi has a friend, Bom, who sweeps Luci off her feet only moments after pissing on her.

That Bom! At the ripe age of 16 she's the leader of the hottest punk cross-dressing band in Spain. Unfortunately for her, pop is dead and her girlfriends keep getting younger and younger.

If you thought you'd seen all the screws that've fallen from Pedro Almodovar's head, think again. Better yet, don't think at all, because the Spanish flame's first feature (yes, there's an echo in the room) is simply a sinful exercise in camp, akin to his other first feature Labyrinth of Passion in its scope of dementia and gentle disregard for authority.

Not a masterpiece by any means, but certainly a lot of fun to be had. Pedro's films have always been concerned with turning conventions upside down and making them seem normal. With this film, most of the gags are pushed straight into your face, but they still mandate a hearty chuckle because of their sheer audacity. And the well trained eye will certainly recognize the origins of Pedro's more subtle humor. Stylistically, Pedro tries too hard, but there is much joy in understanding the development of his artistry, and "Pepi, Luci, Bom" gives a full dose of just that. Next time you look at someone and think. "That cat's weird!" just picture them in Pedro's next first film and think of all the fun they're having.

SIFF (Short for Seattle International Film Festival)

Tower Prevue June / July 1992

Finding the perfect cup of espresso, eating Thai food, collecting other people's spare change, driving the speed limit, creating the next big sound, traversing water on floating concrete, searching for the perfect latte, exuding atmosphere, learning about things, and watching movies. 

The fine citizens of Seattle, Washington have been commonly noted to hold such obsessions dear to their hearts, and many more. Uninhibited obsession can often produce excellent results, and while one may never find that perfect cup of Jo, the folk up north will strike it rich in at least one arena: exposure to film variety.

For the eighteenth year in a row, the premiere city by the ocean has been host to perhaps the largest international film festival available in this nation. At the SIFF no less than 150 films are screened in a three and a half week period representing at least 46 countries of this earth, all in four movie theaters within a two mile radius.

Sound tasty? I certainly thought so, lapping at the prospect of being a part of this event at whatever the cost. Fortunately the good people in charge of the festival allowed a small town boy like me to visit for a week and view as much as I wanted to. This is what I noted and saw.

At the SIF, if you are truly obsessed by film, you have the option of getting a festival pass for $225, which taken to the limit will get you into almost 100 films. The less tenacious will opt for either a weekly pass, or single films strewn throughout the festival at either $4.50 or $6.50 a pop. It figured to be a good deal in my mind, considering most pitchers of beer cost at least that much and are gone in minutes.

The people in charge of the festival are very cordial, and after attending just a couple of screenings I felt that the festival is more of a public affair, pandering to the community and in turn being supported by the community. Everywhere you turn there is either coffee cups or posters advertising the SIFF. The festival district doesn't necessarily exude a festival personality, but it is obviously the premiere event among many events. Access to individual screenings is not difficult, yet each film seems to draw enough of a crowd to warrant its existence.

Beyond the regular schedule of films, there are a few events that I found to be particularly unique, such as the Secret Festival in which a highly touted film is to be premiered, only no one knows what it is until it starts rolling, and the poster auction at the end of the festival, which I would have bit into like a rabid dog if only I had more money and time. There is also a children's program, a couple of seminars, and the threat that a prominent actor or director might show up. All in all I found it to be a well rounded program with many delights, not the least being the location in an excessively vibrant town.

Of course such a broad line up of films is not without its problems. Cancellations happen occasionally, with new films, often straight from the Cannes festival, slipped into their place. And there are basic technical difficulties, like the Lithuanian film getting partially combined with the epic Latvian film, or the original version of Betty Blue missing a crucial sex scene. Yes, some people got upset in such instances, but most were complaisant, as they should be in the spirit of human uncertainty.

So how does one go about selecting an itinerary from such an immense agenda? I decided to select a few films that I just had to see, attended all the press screenings I was awake enough for, and left the rest up to chance or intuition. In the process, I felt my experience to be rather successful, with only a couple of pitfalls.

Two films really hit the top for me, the Spanish film Lovers, and Canadien Atom Egoyan's latest feature The Adjuster. 

Lovers is a film that I'm still coming to grips with, because the promotional aspects don't really jibe with the movie as I saw it. It's a true story/love triangle that churned my emotions to no end, yet I had this impression that it was to be some erotic fantasy.It is a love story with some pretty intoxicating moments but more so a psychological drama that delves heavily into the worst of human nature.

Victoria Abril, the acclaimed actress and Spanish beauty, won an award at the Berlin Film Festival for her contribution to this love triangle, but Jorge Sanz and Maribel Verdu provide the most depth and intrigue. The final two scenes are particularly devastating and masterful. If you want to get the ultimate effect of this film, don't read anything else about it, just go see it.

Egoyan's Adjuster is either more surprising, or less so if you've seen his previous features. Atom has this penchant for unusual people and how lives cross with no real understanding. This latest, arena concems an insurance adjuster who services his clients beyond the call of duty, a wealthy couple who have nothing left but to invent a good time, and the notorious Canadian censorship board.

Somehow the three borders cross and you realize how intertwined they really are and how people's perceptions are based on extremely limited knowledge. After watching the film you can really get into some heavy existential discussions, but the material is presented in an oddly humorous fashion which makes it all the more enjoyable. Egoyan spoke after the screening and really gave me a fresh perspective on the interpretation of his films and films being perceived in the same fashion as a piece of art or thought. 

The two most unexpected delights of the week were a Belgian film called On Earth as in Heaven, and a quilty pleasure from Jamaica, The Lunatic. On Earth…features Carmen Maura, showing off her obvious talent, as an unmarried, pregnant journalist in a role that would send Dan Quayle reeling. The catch is that the fetus decides it does not want to be born into this downwardly spiraling world we live in. The premise is so out there, yet handled so well that it makes a better enviro-psycho statement than most films of this nature, and even has you wanting to believe it. The film is very light at times and poignant when least expected, which makes it easy to accept.

The Lunatic is more of an all out moralistic rebel assault that is based in silly yet unique humor. It captures the same charm as The Gods Must be Crazy did, though in a far more deviant fashion. The hero of the film is considered insane because he talks to trees, cows, and other various creatures of the earth. Since these beings do talk back, we realize that he's not crazy, just misunderstood. He romps through the film with a smile on his face and a heart of gold, doing what is right in his own mind. At times the plot becomes a bit routine, but you can't help but laugh, recognizing that the crazy man is a true hero in this world.

Among other films, the Hong Kong cinema seems to be progressing in strange ways. Days of Being Wild came across as an oriental interpretation of Jarmusch, with intensely moody minimalist sets progressing along a broad reality byway. At the opposite end is Hardboiled, the follow up to The Killer, Hong Kong's mocking alternative to films like Die Hard. This treat features characters, action, and sheer human drama that is so overdone that it is hilarious. Of course it is meant to be and makes for good escapist entertainment with choreography to rival more finer arts.

The European fare did not seem to be breaking any barriers, but did prove to be as enjoyable as ever. Patrice Leconte's latest taste of obsession, The Hairdressers Husband, is so demented it provoked a man sitting next to me to exclaim "Fuck the French" towards the end. Needless to say, I liked it a lot. The Station, an Italian film and winner of the critics prize in Venice is the perennial gear shifter. One minute you're floating on some ethereal cloud, the next minute Jack's beating on the door with an axe. Quite amusing these two films and just different enough to be enjoyable

Even though the SIFF is an international festival, the largest representative is still the United States. Of the four American films I witnessed, Where the Day Takes You was the only one to be thoroughly enjoyable. It's a riveting portrait of youth living on the streets in L.A., with believable performances from established and up and-coming stars. What a surprise!

The rest of the American films suffered from either bad acting and crappy writing, like in Who Killed the Baby Jesus, or got bogged down in their own attempts to be hip and/or make a statement, as seen in Galaxies are Colliding and Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me. Actually this last one did have a few fine moments, a couple of damn likable characters, and even a bitchin soundtrack, but I'd feel pretty evil in really recommending it to anyone

Every good festival holds at least a few films that absolutely cannot be resisted. I found my two treats, and reveled in being a part of them. The first was a new half hour short from Peter Greenaway, included in the eclectic tribute to Mozart entitled Not Mozart. This collection of six films gave an interestingly diverse depiction of the great composer's influence, with Greenaway's film heading off the bunch. While the other shorts were adequate, some even very good, it was Peter's film that provided an enthralling revelation not only into the spirit of the program but equally into this filmmaker as an artistic visionary exploring the bounds of his medium. There is nothing out there quite like it.

The other delectable deliciousness was the screening of the uncut version of Betty Blue. This new edition, entitled Betty Blue L’Integral, does not really take the viewer into a broader understanding of this film; instead, with almost an hour of additional footage, most of it fairly obvious, the movie actually seems much lighter, and less penetrating. Still, it’s the ultimate thrill just to view this film on a big screen, regardless of the intent.

The SIFF provided me with a week of great film and much joy. I would highly recommend planning a vacation up over yonder hills and valleys to this interesting town next year if you are so inclined, or obsessed!

My writing for the Tower Prevue and position working for Sundance led to a commission from Utah Holiday Magazine in 1993 to profile the Sundance Film Festival, which had only just started to develop a higher center of gravity in the US as well as internationally as the place to discover groundbreaking cinema and American Independents. I’ve included it here as a one-off that relates primarily to my writing with TP at the time.

Lies and Charm - The Sundance Film Festival
Utah Holiday / January 1993

Three years ago I was officially decked out with a press pass at the Sundance Film Festival, ready to feast and indulge in the various festivities. I was thrilled by the vast array of films on hand. but it was the free hors d'oeuvres and flowing stream of Wasatch brew that captured my attention. I learned that my little badge could yield invitations to parties where up-and-coming directors bragged about their films, and various would-be actors tested their social graces. I was an unknown to the film world. but for one week the pearls of stardom were at my fingertips. Since that time I've come to enjoy the festival as most other locals do. I attend the screenings that pique my curiosity, based on the colorful descriptions in the film guide, and relish the task of bouncing insight among friends or strangers. Instead of beer, I find a nice espresso at the various cafes better suited to enduring the next four hours of films and line-ups. The uniqueness of the festival and the exhilarating climate of Park City in the wintertime tum the event into the climax of a movie buff's life in Salt Lake City. 

What seems to be a casual affair for the local can be a week of anxiety for many of the festival's participants. As the festival has grown by leaps and bounds since its inception so many years ago in Salt Lake City proper, so has it changed and taken on a greater duality in purpose. With the common market for cinema becoming increasingly ambivalent to the viewer, the stature or the regional film festival seems to be increasingly more in vogue. Sundance in particular is now one of the most highly regarded and publicized festivals in the nation, an event distinguished by its direct impact on the next generation of film. Critics, distributors, industry moguls, and their plebeian cohorts all flock to our resort town to take part in this curious affair so that they may attain their very lifeblood. 

And so, they party.

Everyone loves a party, but not everyone parties in the same way at the festival as one insider so adequately put it, "There are fools and there is power." Of course a fool and his movie are soon parted, so the wise auteur will spend time finding out where the action is on the streets and not on the screen. The festival essentially becomes a circuit of meetings, receptions, and full blown extravaganzas where a good time can be had or a connection can be made, depending on what you've paid for or whom you know.

The festival offers a series of passes, ranging from the all-inclusive fast pass to the single over-the-counter ticket. The fast pass goes for nearly a thousand dollars, more than half of which is allocated for privileges other than access to any screening. This is virtually the only way to gain entry to all the festival-sponsored receptions and special events, as well as the hospitality suite, which is of course where the action occurs. 

It is at these various gatherings that conversations are struck and the stepping stones begin. What starts out at the hospitality suite in the morning moves onto the dance floor in the evening and ends up at a condo in Deer Valley by the middle of the night. What it takes to get there might be a good film in the bag, or else a dose of charm, money, or competence on the sleeve. Only the fools overindulge while the power-seekers keep their wits about them.

Now that the festival is so important, the social scene is tighter than ever, and little if any interference is tolerated. Gone are the days when you might be able to sneak into the hospitality suite and pocket the whole table of mini-bottles while Roger Ebert devours the buffet behind you. 

That's not to say, however, that it's not worth trying.

The way people idolize the movie industry and is many appendages makes it pretty fair game to anyone wanting to be a part of it, and there's no reason why it should require a lot of money to do so. I’ve seen people talk their way into Fort Knox, so there's no telling what you might be capable of at this festival, given the proper ambition and unrelenting technique. Whether it's the hospitality suite, a reception, or a private party, the only factor in gaining access is how much you really want it, and the best way to get in is by meeting the right people.

One of the nice things about the stature of the festival is that a lot of directors and actors show up to speak with the audience after their films have been screened. On numerous occasions I've witnessed people approaching these talents and confessing their ambition to become an actor or the next master key grip. Unfortunately their approach is all wrong because it's too sincere. No one cares what your aspirations are, only what you have done and what you can possibly do for them. Above all else, influential people want nothing to do with the student or the puppy-dog inquiries of what it takes to fill their shoes.

The best way to meet these people and gain their interest is to lie and charm. Admitting interest in risking your newfound inheritance on a daring film production will find you more popularity than admitting you're the kitchen manager at Wendy's. Of course this can be dangerous ground to tread, so a better approach may be playing the part of the up-and-coming genius artist. If you are lucky enough to start a conversation, try to keep the attention focused on you. If the people you meet happen to divulge anything about themselves, just nod your head a few times and dive back into your latest adventures in the Congo or elsewhere.

If you are clever, you'll be carrying a bundle of papers, like an old school essay, and start talking about the script you'll be discussing with some producer from California that very evening. Make sure to claim that it's only a small part of the larger picture that you’re writing at your country bungalow in Germany. Certain details may also work in your favor for breaking the ice with someone who's in the know. How you dress might be the single most important factor, as the people you are trying to seduce are often on the cutting edge of fashion. Almost any fashion magazine will clue you into what's hot these days, but industry-specific journals give working samples. Remember what was in vogue yesterday might not be today, so keeping current is very important. If youn dare, try to wear something so radically unique they think you are the offspring of a famous director.

Creating a fancy facade will almost always help your cause, but having the personality to back it is certainly the key.People with that certain "air au debonair" will strike up many more conversations than the person with the vacant stare. It is also entirely possible that smoking is still a sign of creative potential, but you can discern this with whatever particular situation you find yourself in. It won't hurt to drop a few big names either, or even invent people who sound like they might be important. If you somehow manage actually get invited to a private party, you will have to proceed with caution. People will want something that you absolutely cannot give, so changing your story might be a good idea. At this point, neutrality is the key. You can become the companion of some actor. Preferably one who is not there, but that is highly respected, or else be a critic from some strange magaziné or paper that no one's heard of. If you find that it's too difficult to bluff your way through, just come out and admit that you are a party crasher and maybe you'll at least get some respect for your clever tactics and wonderful charm. And if you actually have some ideas worth discussing, it won't hurt to bring them up as they move you toward the door.

If you think that you have what it takes to successfully thrust your presence into the film world at the Sundance Festival, then why not give it a try? The festival is a ground for talent to be discovered, and it might as well be yours. And if it doesn't work, you can always enjoy the talent that is being displayed on screen. 

When not crashing parties, Ivar Zeile can be found at home counting his large inheritance.