Hell House
US, 2001
Directed by George Ratliff
The strangest thing about Hell House, a documentary about a Texas church's annual Halloween tradition of creating a haunted house/come-to-Jesus morality play, is a neutrality of tone that turns the film into a sort of cinematic Rorschach test. If you come into the picture ready to condemn the fundamentalism of a sideshow that stigmatizes rape victims, role playing games, and homosexuality in archly patronizing, violent, bloody ways, then you'll find plenty of ammunition. Director George Ratliff doesn't shy away from depicting the cognitive dissonance of the clash between the Hell House's conservative morality and the shocking lack of taste of the over-the-top horrors enacted there. If you're more interested in feeling bad for, or horrified by, those indoctrinated into a worldview blinded by fear, guilt, and religious over-sensitivity, Ratliff captures that, too. Or if, by chance, you appreciate the participants' personal stories of faith and redemption, or even if you agree with the church's perspective and methods, odds are you won't come away upset by Ratliff's take. Everyone takes away what they bring in.
Whether or not that's the best way to handle the material is another question. For me, this detachment is what makes Hell House stand out above something with a more argumentative tone like Religulous. Rather than hectoring or bullying his subjects, Ratliff gives them the time and space to explain their viewpoints—or, if you prefer, enough rope with which to hang themselves. Even as his camera roves around, a fly on the wall for planning meetings, family moments, church services, speaking in tongues, and (of course) the various scenes in the Hell House itself, Ratliff rarely (if ever) comments directly. These sequences are punctuated by talking heads and strange to-camera interviews (set in a bright white room), where Ratliff appears to allow his subjects to talk without questioning or pushing. This all combines to let us, rather than the film, be the judge. Even now, I'm not sure of Ratliff's opinion of the events he filmed. I suspect a certain amount of ironic befuddlement, but that's just an educated guess; he certainly never condescends to the people on screen.
So if, as I said, the audience brings its own baggage to their interpretations of Hell House's neutrality, what does that mean with regard to whether or not they will like it? Well, I guess that also depends on what viewers want from the film. People expecting an argument or a take-down might be disappointed, as would anyone expecting hagiography. But for audiences in the middle, there's more than enough calmly-observed detail to let you come away satisfied. One unfortunate side effect of this is a certain lack of heft, which might lead to the film being tossed aside or forgotten. This wasn't an issue for me, personally, as I found myself too depressed and chilled by the film's calm observation of the madness that is, to some, a normal way of life, for me to let it go.
Showing posts with label documentaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label documentaries. Show all posts
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
FI: Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God
Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God
US, 2012
Written and directed by Alex Gibney
There are some stories that, frankly, will captivate you regardless of the quality of their telling. This isn't a slight against Alex Gibney's work on Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God. It's just that the sickening, awful story of deaf children being taken advantage of and abused by a predatory priest would make for gut-wrenching stuff, even if he had filmed it with a camcorder. That Gibney makes some fantastic choices in writing and directing his documentary of this harrowing ordeal really feels like a bonus. The story in question is about four men (Gary Smith, Terry Kohut, Arthur Budzinksi and Pat Kuehn) who attended St. John's School for the Deaf in the '50s and '60s, where they were sexually abused by Father Lawrence Murphy. The film documents their decades-long struggle to get their case (described as the first public accusation of priest sex abuse) heard and receive some form of justice, as well as the resistance put up by the church at almost every step of the way.
Gibney chooses to let the men speak for themselves via ASL, shooting their interviews with lighting and staging that highlights the men's hands and expressive faces. Then, he uses an actor's voice (Jamey Sheridan, Chris Cooper, John Slattery, and Ethan Hawke) to speak each man's words as translated into English. This allows us to see the men, feel their emotions, and hear their plight—something their condition and the machinations of Father Murphy had denied them for so many years. Gibney also makes use of recreations that show some of the situations these men and their fellow students faced, a tactic that some have found over-the-top, but which didn't bother me. And, as ever in documentaries, Gibney and editor Sloane Kevin combine extant footage, photographs, and even a video journal from Bob Bolger, a late classmate, to create a compelling, thoroughly damning narrative. This all works as intended; even if there's nothing groundbreaking in the way all of this information is conveyed, it is conveyed effectively and with the appropriate tone.
But where Mea Maxima Culpa really stands out is by employing some of the more damning proof out there about the Vatican's complicity in these crimes. Gibney connects this to the church's self-regard, its power structure, and its status as a world (and, indeed, a sovereign state) apart. He covers stories from Ireland, Italy, and more in painting a thorough picture of the willingness of the Holy See—and our previous two popes, John Paul II and Benedict XVI, the latter of whom was directly in charge of all evidence regarding clerical sex crimes—to ignore, cover up, and blame the victim in almost all cases. Even when the effectiveness of the specific people involved isn't black and white—for all his faults, Benedict XVI comes across as a conflicted figure, while the beloved John Paul II seems both out of the loop and fatally compromised—Gibney's research shows a more systematic failure that's beyond any one man's control. And, ultimately, what makes this film special is its ability to give a voice to the voiceless and ground an overwhelming crisis in a specific, exceedingly atrocious case study. If the purpose of a film is to create an emotional response in its audience, Mea Maxima Culpa does that in spades.
US, 2012
Written and directed by Alex Gibney
There are some stories that, frankly, will captivate you regardless of the quality of their telling. This isn't a slight against Alex Gibney's work on Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God. It's just that the sickening, awful story of deaf children being taken advantage of and abused by a predatory priest would make for gut-wrenching stuff, even if he had filmed it with a camcorder. That Gibney makes some fantastic choices in writing and directing his documentary of this harrowing ordeal really feels like a bonus. The story in question is about four men (Gary Smith, Terry Kohut, Arthur Budzinksi and Pat Kuehn) who attended St. John's School for the Deaf in the '50s and '60s, where they were sexually abused by Father Lawrence Murphy. The film documents their decades-long struggle to get their case (described as the first public accusation of priest sex abuse) heard and receive some form of justice, as well as the resistance put up by the church at almost every step of the way.
Gibney chooses to let the men speak for themselves via ASL, shooting their interviews with lighting and staging that highlights the men's hands and expressive faces. Then, he uses an actor's voice (Jamey Sheridan, Chris Cooper, John Slattery, and Ethan Hawke) to speak each man's words as translated into English. This allows us to see the men, feel their emotions, and hear their plight—something their condition and the machinations of Father Murphy had denied them for so many years. Gibney also makes use of recreations that show some of the situations these men and their fellow students faced, a tactic that some have found over-the-top, but which didn't bother me. And, as ever in documentaries, Gibney and editor Sloane Kevin combine extant footage, photographs, and even a video journal from Bob Bolger, a late classmate, to create a compelling, thoroughly damning narrative. This all works as intended; even if there's nothing groundbreaking in the way all of this information is conveyed, it is conveyed effectively and with the appropriate tone.
But where Mea Maxima Culpa really stands out is by employing some of the more damning proof out there about the Vatican's complicity in these crimes. Gibney connects this to the church's self-regard, its power structure, and its status as a world (and, indeed, a sovereign state) apart. He covers stories from Ireland, Italy, and more in painting a thorough picture of the willingness of the Holy See—and our previous two popes, John Paul II and Benedict XVI, the latter of whom was directly in charge of all evidence regarding clerical sex crimes—to ignore, cover up, and blame the victim in almost all cases. Even when the effectiveness of the specific people involved isn't black and white—for all his faults, Benedict XVI comes across as a conflicted figure, while the beloved John Paul II seems both out of the loop and fatally compromised—Gibney's research shows a more systematic failure that's beyond any one man's control. And, ultimately, what makes this film special is its ability to give a voice to the voiceless and ground an overwhelming crisis in a specific, exceedingly atrocious case study. If the purpose of a film is to create an emotional response in its audience, Mea Maxima Culpa does that in spades.
Friday, September 6, 2013
FI: Stories We Tell
Stories We Tell
Canada, 2012
Written and directed by Sarah Polley
How can you document an absence, or relate a truth that is only known to the one person who can't be there to talk about it? Actor/director Sarah Polley attempts to do this by turning her family's history into an intensely personal documentary in Stories We Tell. Polley's mother Diane passed away some years ago, and here Sarah examines her legacy and relationship with Sarah's father through interviews with family members and friends. To go into any greater detail about the plot would be to do the film a disservice. Suffice to say, the family's history is perhaps not as straightforward as one might assume.
Polley's stated goal is to examine the differences in the stories people tell about her mother, where these discrepancies come from and what they say about how we construct our personal histories and identities—and those of the people who are no longer here to speak for themselves. She looks at how these tiny variations are propagated through selective memory, limited perception, and the biases of the person telling the tale. It's a story of refraction, of the many colors that blend together to approximate the white light of truth. In this case, the primary shades are her father's (actor Michael Polley, of Slings and Arrows fame) memoirs—here read aloud by Michael in a voice-over session we watch Sarah direct—and a wealth of home movies, letters, and photos. But, as ever, even these are only one avenue through which to perceive the story, and all perceptions can be misleading.
One of the film's best traits is this sort of self-awareness. At one point, Michael calls his daughter on this, pointing out that her edited footage is simply one more story being told. Polley is a sharp enough filmmaker to have seen this coming, and the ways she plays with the telling of her own story are unexpected, yet fitting. In that way, Stories We Tell is surprisingly engaging for a film about a woman of whom most of us will never have heard. The enigma of Diane Polley's contradictions makes for a fascinating story, and all of the interview subjects are self-effacing and hesitant enough to key us in to the mystery that is afoot. But the nature of that mystery, and the ways the film reveals it, leave us wondering about the secrets our own families may have buried within the stories we tell, as well. That sense of universality through specificity is what saves Stories We Tell from seeming too insular or self-regarding, and makes it a film to which anyone can relate.
Canada, 2012
Written and directed by Sarah Polley
How can you document an absence, or relate a truth that is only known to the one person who can't be there to talk about it? Actor/director Sarah Polley attempts to do this by turning her family's history into an intensely personal documentary in Stories We Tell. Polley's mother Diane passed away some years ago, and here Sarah examines her legacy and relationship with Sarah's father through interviews with family members and friends. To go into any greater detail about the plot would be to do the film a disservice. Suffice to say, the family's history is perhaps not as straightforward as one might assume.
Polley's stated goal is to examine the differences in the stories people tell about her mother, where these discrepancies come from and what they say about how we construct our personal histories and identities—and those of the people who are no longer here to speak for themselves. She looks at how these tiny variations are propagated through selective memory, limited perception, and the biases of the person telling the tale. It's a story of refraction, of the many colors that blend together to approximate the white light of truth. In this case, the primary shades are her father's (actor Michael Polley, of Slings and Arrows fame) memoirs—here read aloud by Michael in a voice-over session we watch Sarah direct—and a wealth of home movies, letters, and photos. But, as ever, even these are only one avenue through which to perceive the story, and all perceptions can be misleading.
One of the film's best traits is this sort of self-awareness. At one point, Michael calls his daughter on this, pointing out that her edited footage is simply one more story being told. Polley is a sharp enough filmmaker to have seen this coming, and the ways she plays with the telling of her own story are unexpected, yet fitting. In that way, Stories We Tell is surprisingly engaging for a film about a woman of whom most of us will never have heard. The enigma of Diane Polley's contradictions makes for a fascinating story, and all of the interview subjects are self-effacing and hesitant enough to key us in to the mystery that is afoot. But the nature of that mystery, and the ways the film reveals it, leave us wondering about the secrets our own families may have buried within the stories we tell, as well. That sense of universality through specificity is what saves Stories We Tell from seeming too insular or self-regarding, and makes it a film to which anyone can relate.
Monday, August 5, 2013
FI: Capturing the Friedmans
Capturing the Friedmans
US, 2003
Directed by Andrew Jarecki
One of the best things about documentary films is how reality makes its presence felt, how directorial intentions and the story the director ultimately documents can change significantly more over the course of production than is possible with feature films. I think about how Werner Herzog narrowed the scope of Into the Abyss, or the way the tragic events of Kurt Kuenne's Dear Zachary turn it from a missive about a lost friend into a quest for justice. In Andrew Jarecki's Capturing the Friedmans, what was originally going to be a film about clown/magician David Kaye (né Friedman) and other popular NYC birthday entertainers, ended up focusing solely on the skeletons in David's family's closet.
In the 1980s, David's father Arnold (a retired teacher) and youngest brother Jesse were arrested in a child pornography and molestation sting. Jarecki uses the family's extensive home video footage from before, during, and after the arrest and trial, along with present-day interviews with the family, investigators, victims, and others, to document the toll these events had on the family. In the process, he discovers something about the impact of mass hysteria on a close-knit community, and the ways in which the stories we choose to believe can alter our perception of reality and our relationships with one another.
Though he tries to hide it, Jarecki clearly has his own opinions about Jesse Friedman's guilt or innocence (Arnold, who died in prior to the film, gets slightly less sympathetic treatment). But even so, Jarecki's choices and those of editor Richard Hankin do a great job demonstrating the fogginess of truth, making excellent use of the available footage for maximum emotional power. And, by and large, Capturing the Friedmans is less concerned with guilt than it is with the family's complicated dynamics and the web of deceit and self-deception the crime exposes. There's an intimacy, a sense of reality rarely seen in films, here, that underscores the Friedmans' pain without mitigating the horrors that Arnold and Jesse may have perpetrated. The film stands as a document of darkness, both the darkness that can hide within a "normal" family, and the darkness that can emerge from small-town America when faced with a perceived threat. Quite a philosophical place to wind up, considering the film's birthday entertainment origins, but I doubt we'd still be talking about this movie if it were about a clown.
US, 2003
Directed by Andrew Jarecki
One of the best things about documentary films is how reality makes its presence felt, how directorial intentions and the story the director ultimately documents can change significantly more over the course of production than is possible with feature films. I think about how Werner Herzog narrowed the scope of Into the Abyss, or the way the tragic events of Kurt Kuenne's Dear Zachary turn it from a missive about a lost friend into a quest for justice. In Andrew Jarecki's Capturing the Friedmans, what was originally going to be a film about clown/magician David Kaye (né Friedman) and other popular NYC birthday entertainers, ended up focusing solely on the skeletons in David's family's closet.
In the 1980s, David's father Arnold (a retired teacher) and youngest brother Jesse were arrested in a child pornography and molestation sting. Jarecki uses the family's extensive home video footage from before, during, and after the arrest and trial, along with present-day interviews with the family, investigators, victims, and others, to document the toll these events had on the family. In the process, he discovers something about the impact of mass hysteria on a close-knit community, and the ways in which the stories we choose to believe can alter our perception of reality and our relationships with one another.
Though he tries to hide it, Jarecki clearly has his own opinions about Jesse Friedman's guilt or innocence (Arnold, who died in prior to the film, gets slightly less sympathetic treatment). But even so, Jarecki's choices and those of editor Richard Hankin do a great job demonstrating the fogginess of truth, making excellent use of the available footage for maximum emotional power. And, by and large, Capturing the Friedmans is less concerned with guilt than it is with the family's complicated dynamics and the web of deceit and self-deception the crime exposes. There's an intimacy, a sense of reality rarely seen in films, here, that underscores the Friedmans' pain without mitigating the horrors that Arnold and Jesse may have perpetrated. The film stands as a document of darkness, both the darkness that can hide within a "normal" family, and the darkness that can emerge from small-town America when faced with a perceived threat. Quite a philosophical place to wind up, considering the film's birthday entertainment origins, but I doubt we'd still be talking about this movie if it were about a clown.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
FI: Into the Abyss
Into the Abyss: A Tale of Death, a Tale of Life
US/UK/Germany, 2011
Written and Directed by Werner Herzog
Werner Herzog's philosophical narration style is so iconic, it has spawned viral videos and inspired a regular character in comedian Paul F. Tompkins's arsenal. But in Into the Abyss, Herzog's examination of the death penalty through the prism of a Conroe, Texas murder case, his voice takes a back seat, mostly appearing when Herzog questions one of his subjects. That doesn't mean the film isn't shaped by Herzog's authorial voice, as his interest in the dark spots on humanity's soul and his compassionate humanism are both evident throughout the film. He makes his anti–death penalty sentiments clear early on, but the film itself is not polemical or hectoring. It simply spells out the details of a single case—one of hundreds of capital cases tried every year—using crime scene footage, evidence, and interviews with police, the criminals, the victims' family members, and various people who work in the death house.
The case at the heart of the film involves two men, Michael Perry and Jason Burkett, each convicted for separate incidents within the same series of crimes: The two broke into the home of Sandra Stotler (an acquaintance's mother) and murdered her in order to steal her car. Later, they killed Stotler's son and his friend in a failed attempt to cover their tracks. They were eventually captured in a shoot-out, tried, and convicted, with Perry receiving a death sentence for Stotler's murder and Burkett getting life for the other two. Neither the heinous nature of their actions, nor their guilt or innocence—despite Perry's protestations—are ever really in question. Herzog is more interested in their stories, the feelings of the victims' families, and what their experiences say about one of the thorniest issues in American politics. Ultimately, the film is not so much about crime and punishment as concepts as it is about the trauma both have on actual people in the real world.
Into the Abyss was originally intended to cover several cases, but Herzog increasingly focused on Perry as his time grew short—Perry was scheduled to die only eight days after his interview. The other footage became a series of short films—eventually airing on Channel 4 in the UK and on Investigation Discovery as Werner Herzog's On Death Row—and, at a screening of Aguirre, The Wrath of God that I attended in June, Herzog indicated another set of films would be forthcoming. Even without having watched the shorts, it's easy to see why this topic fascinates him so much. He seems to be seeking for a deeper truth, one about American society, poverty, violence, justice, and the sanctity of each individual life. I'm not sure he's found it, here, but that doesn't detract from the experience of watching the Into the Abyss. It's not a film about answers, only questions of the most profound, troubling sort.
Edited to add: If you're interested, Into the Abyss is available for streaming via Netflix in the US.
US/UK/Germany, 2011
Written and Directed by Werner Herzog
Werner Herzog's philosophical narration style is so iconic, it has spawned viral videos and inspired a regular character in comedian Paul F. Tompkins's arsenal. But in Into the Abyss, Herzog's examination of the death penalty through the prism of a Conroe, Texas murder case, his voice takes a back seat, mostly appearing when Herzog questions one of his subjects. That doesn't mean the film isn't shaped by Herzog's authorial voice, as his interest in the dark spots on humanity's soul and his compassionate humanism are both evident throughout the film. He makes his anti–death penalty sentiments clear early on, but the film itself is not polemical or hectoring. It simply spells out the details of a single case—one of hundreds of capital cases tried every year—using crime scene footage, evidence, and interviews with police, the criminals, the victims' family members, and various people who work in the death house.
The case at the heart of the film involves two men, Michael Perry and Jason Burkett, each convicted for separate incidents within the same series of crimes: The two broke into the home of Sandra Stotler (an acquaintance's mother) and murdered her in order to steal her car. Later, they killed Stotler's son and his friend in a failed attempt to cover their tracks. They were eventually captured in a shoot-out, tried, and convicted, with Perry receiving a death sentence for Stotler's murder and Burkett getting life for the other two. Neither the heinous nature of their actions, nor their guilt or innocence—despite Perry's protestations—are ever really in question. Herzog is more interested in their stories, the feelings of the victims' families, and what their experiences say about one of the thorniest issues in American politics. Ultimately, the film is not so much about crime and punishment as concepts as it is about the trauma both have on actual people in the real world.
Into the Abyss was originally intended to cover several cases, but Herzog increasingly focused on Perry as his time grew short—Perry was scheduled to die only eight days after his interview. The other footage became a series of short films—eventually airing on Channel 4 in the UK and on Investigation Discovery as Werner Herzog's On Death Row—and, at a screening of Aguirre, The Wrath of God that I attended in June, Herzog indicated another set of films would be forthcoming. Even without having watched the shorts, it's easy to see why this topic fascinates him so much. He seems to be seeking for a deeper truth, one about American society, poverty, violence, justice, and the sanctity of each individual life. I'm not sure he's found it, here, but that doesn't detract from the experience of watching the Into the Abyss. It's not a film about answers, only questions of the most profound, troubling sort.
Edited to add: If you're interested, Into the Abyss is available for streaming via Netflix in the US.
Friday, July 12, 2013
FI: The Gatekeepers
The Gatekeepers
Israel/France/Belgium/Germany, 2012
Directed by Dror Moreh
The thing about secret intelligence services is that they usually wish to remain secretive, so that the public they ostensibly protect, and the enemies they fight, know as little about their operations as possible. That's why The Gatekeepers is so fascinating; its director, Dror Moreh, has managed to get six former directors of the Israeli internal secret service agency, Shin Bet, to candidly discuss the nature of their work, their views on the Palestinian situation, and their opinions on Israel's successes and failures in dealing with life as an occupying power. The result is, at turns, riveting, disturbing, and frustrating.
The most intriguing thing about the film is its morality. None of the men comes across as wholly benevolent or malevolent. Neither do the Israelis or the Palestinians; there are shades of grey throughout. Similarly, the film presents no clear "correct" answer to the region's woes. Instead, it depicts the conditions and history that shape a process that simultaneously paves the way to peace and undermines that peace at every turn. Photos and news/documentary footage are combined with hyper-realistic CGI recreations of events and locations, placing the audience on the ground for several of the events discussed. This heightens our emotional engagement, bringing tinges of immediate horror and disgust where photos alone might leave room for detachment.
There are no talking heads or "experts," here, and no-one from the Palestinian side to provide context. There are only these six men with clear knowledge but varying degrees of moral compromise. Moreh's questioning only occasionally makes the final cut, which allows the men to speak at length without interruption or hectoring, leaving them free to contradict themselves or reveal their feelings through looks and tone of voice. These aren't "gotcha" interviews, like those in Michael Moore's work or even Inside Job; Moreh's intent is not to skewer, but to elucidate. And the picture his film reveals is one of a solvable problem where trust and respect have been so eroded by both sides' choices, the solution will always remain just out of sight.
Israel/France/Belgium/Germany, 2012
Directed by Dror Moreh
The thing about secret intelligence services is that they usually wish to remain secretive, so that the public they ostensibly protect, and the enemies they fight, know as little about their operations as possible. That's why The Gatekeepers is so fascinating; its director, Dror Moreh, has managed to get six former directors of the Israeli internal secret service agency, Shin Bet, to candidly discuss the nature of their work, their views on the Palestinian situation, and their opinions on Israel's successes and failures in dealing with life as an occupying power. The result is, at turns, riveting, disturbing, and frustrating.
The most intriguing thing about the film is its morality. None of the men comes across as wholly benevolent or malevolent. Neither do the Israelis or the Palestinians; there are shades of grey throughout. Similarly, the film presents no clear "correct" answer to the region's woes. Instead, it depicts the conditions and history that shape a process that simultaneously paves the way to peace and undermines that peace at every turn. Photos and news/documentary footage are combined with hyper-realistic CGI recreations of events and locations, placing the audience on the ground for several of the events discussed. This heightens our emotional engagement, bringing tinges of immediate horror and disgust where photos alone might leave room for detachment.
There are no talking heads or "experts," here, and no-one from the Palestinian side to provide context. There are only these six men with clear knowledge but varying degrees of moral compromise. Moreh's questioning only occasionally makes the final cut, which allows the men to speak at length without interruption or hectoring, leaving them free to contradict themselves or reveal their feelings through looks and tone of voice. These aren't "gotcha" interviews, like those in Michael Moore's work or even Inside Job; Moreh's intent is not to skewer, but to elucidate. And the picture his film reveals is one of a solvable problem where trust and respect have been so eroded by both sides' choices, the solution will always remain just out of sight.
Friday, April 22, 2011
FI: The Aristocrats
The Aristocrats
US, 2005
Directed by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette
The Aristocrats is a documentary about a single joke and the infinite jazz-like interpretations comedians have given that joke over the decades. The joke begins with a man walking into a talent agency to pitch a family act, and it ends with the agent asking what the act is called, prompting the two-word punchline "The Aristocrats!" In the middle, we find a depth and breadth of hilarious, transgressive smut unlikely to be matched by any joke, running the gamut from bestiality to coprophagia.
Jillette and Provenza's documentary is obviously a labor of love. The footage was collected from hundreds of on-the-fly interviews over the course of years, it seems, and has been edited together into a semi-cohesive whole, though there are a few mildly-irritating stylistic choices. Sometimes the film cuts away from an interview in the middle of a funny bit, or covers too much of the same ground from multiple interviewees. Constraints on the amount of time some subjects could give to the filmmakers mean that we get too little of some interviewees and too much of others. And, although I recognized the majority of the people in the film, there's no identifying text for each subject—as the filmmakers chose to do a video credit sequence at the end—which means that sometimes you're left to ponder who someone is or how to contextualize their thoughts.
Still, for what could easily have felt like beating a dead horse—which, incidentally, would not be at all out of place in The Aristocrats' act—the film works because the filmmakers were smart enough to let the performers' enthusiasm and energy carry the show. It provides a perspective on comedy writing that the audience isn't generally privy to seeing, peeling back the "process" of humor just enough to generate insight without "explaining" the joke into submission. It's worth seeing, whether you're interested in the craft of comedy, or just in need of a good laugh.
US, 2005
Directed by Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette
The Aristocrats is a documentary about a single joke and the infinite jazz-like interpretations comedians have given that joke over the decades. The joke begins with a man walking into a talent agency to pitch a family act, and it ends with the agent asking what the act is called, prompting the two-word punchline "The Aristocrats!" In the middle, we find a depth and breadth of hilarious, transgressive smut unlikely to be matched by any joke, running the gamut from bestiality to coprophagia.
Jillette and Provenza's documentary is obviously a labor of love. The footage was collected from hundreds of on-the-fly interviews over the course of years, it seems, and has been edited together into a semi-cohesive whole, though there are a few mildly-irritating stylistic choices. Sometimes the film cuts away from an interview in the middle of a funny bit, or covers too much of the same ground from multiple interviewees. Constraints on the amount of time some subjects could give to the filmmakers mean that we get too little of some interviewees and too much of others. And, although I recognized the majority of the people in the film, there's no identifying text for each subject—as the filmmakers chose to do a video credit sequence at the end—which means that sometimes you're left to ponder who someone is or how to contextualize their thoughts.
Still, for what could easily have felt like beating a dead horse—which, incidentally, would not be at all out of place in The Aristocrats' act—the film works because the filmmakers were smart enough to let the performers' enthusiasm and energy carry the show. It provides a perspective on comedy writing that the audience isn't generally privy to seeing, peeling back the "process" of humor just enough to generate insight without "explaining" the joke into submission. It's worth seeing, whether you're interested in the craft of comedy, or just in need of a good laugh.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Marwencol: Trauma in Miniature
Marwencol
US, 2010
Directed by Jeff Malmberg
When I was in grad school, one en vogue topic in the film studies academy was "traumatic memory." This is an interdisciplinary research area that uses elements of psychology, history, and film to examine the holes trauma can leave in a person's memory, and the ways people process and make sense out of trauma. Academics interested in this topic would have a field day with Marwencol.
US, 2010
Directed by Jeff Malmberg
When I was in grad school, one en vogue topic in the film studies academy was "traumatic memory." This is an interdisciplinary research area that uses elements of psychology, history, and film to examine the holes trauma can leave in a person's memory, and the ways people process and make sense out of trauma. Academics interested in this topic would have a field day with Marwencol.
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