The movie opens with Llewyn Davis singing soulfully into a mike. Melodramatically, he closes his eyes and nods his head. He's feeling it, and the audience in the cafe he's serenading does too. At least until someone asks him outside and beats him up, allegedly for something he said the night before. It feels like the movie should be called "Folk Jesus."
But then you see that no one is asking Llewyn to be a martyr. He turns up his nose at commercial material, like a jingle called "Please Mr. Kennedy" that he serves as a session musician on. He refuses an opportunity to be part of a trio; tellingly, he says he doesn't do harmonies. His ex-girlfriend is none too pleased with him because he may have knocked her up. He has no plans, no organization, no discipline.
Still, the world does him no favors. His label insists there are no royalties from his record. His songwriting partner killed himself. Another ex-girlfriend had his child without telling him. It's hard to draw the line between Davis' bad decisions and bad luck.
All this would make for a nice little (bleak) character study. But "Davis" is more than that. It's also a journey of sorts. There's a cat that pops up several times named Ulysses. Of course, "Ulysses" was based loosely on the "Odyssey." Also based on the "Odyssey" was another Coen brothers film, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" And this movie has a similar feel to "O Brother," with colorful characters popping up all over as our "hero" drifts along. There's a shit-talking jazz singer played by John Goodman, a cheery Army private who serves as Davis' antithesis, a foulmouthed bar owner, and more. These characters all stay long enough to make an impression without wearing out their welcome.
The other Coen brothers movie "Davis" calls to mind is "A Very Serious Man," since both feature heroes who seem to have nothing but terrible luck. But while the latter film seemed to be a seriocomic lament at the cruelty of the universe, "Davis" feels almost like a plea of thanks. It's the path the Coens could have found themselves on, if one of them had lost their partner, as Davis does, or if they weren't discovered, as Davis clearly won't be. A Bob Dylan song plays over the closing credits. This movie shows how aware the Coens are that for every Dylan, there are many more like Davis.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
American Movie
We all have attributes where our dreams and our talents don't line up. Woody Allen has frequently said that his movies never turn out as good as he imagines them. These blog posts always sound better in my head; when I go to actually write them, I come out with awkward phrases that I don't know how to correct. Probably most of us experience this with singing: in our heads, we're all Freddie Mercury, but feedback from others likely suggests otherwise.
This gap between aspirations and skills is the most heartbreaking aspect of "American Movie," a documentary about filmmaker Mark Borchardt. Borchardt cut his teeth making short horror films, but his dream is to make "Northwestern," which sounds like the movie version of a Replacements album: an indie film about heavy-drinking young men in the Midwest with dead end lives.
Films cost money, though, and Borchardt is hopeless with finances. He hopes to raise money for "Northwestern" by finishing another short horror film, "Coven." (Which he hilariously insists must be pronounced "coh-ven." Otherwise it would sound too much like "oven.") It's during the making of "Coven" that we see that Borchardt is probably never going to make "Northwestern." If he does, it won't be anything close to what he's hoping for.
Borchardt has the right idea; from his bookshelf we see that he's studied "Do the Right Thing," "2001," and other classics. Parts of his film seem like they're going in the right direction: he loves creating atmosphere with stark black-and-white shots of Midwestern tundra, and he's trying to tuck a story about an alcoholic writer into his loopy horror film. But it somehow takes him three years to make a half-hour horror film which looks like it was banged out in a week.
For me, the saddest moment of "American Movie" is when Borchardt discusses his plans to shoot in a haunted house. The location looks dull, and he's surely shooting there because he could do it for free, but he compares the footage he wants to shots from "The Seventh Seal" and "Manhattan." The man's talents and resources just can't measure up to his imagination. In a way, that's what a lot of pop culture consumption is for the public: watching others do what we can only dream we could.
This gap between aspirations and skills is the most heartbreaking aspect of "American Movie," a documentary about filmmaker Mark Borchardt. Borchardt cut his teeth making short horror films, but his dream is to make "Northwestern," which sounds like the movie version of a Replacements album: an indie film about heavy-drinking young men in the Midwest with dead end lives.
Films cost money, though, and Borchardt is hopeless with finances. He hopes to raise money for "Northwestern" by finishing another short horror film, "Coven." (Which he hilariously insists must be pronounced "coh-ven." Otherwise it would sound too much like "oven.") It's during the making of "Coven" that we see that Borchardt is probably never going to make "Northwestern." If he does, it won't be anything close to what he's hoping for.
Borchardt has the right idea; from his bookshelf we see that he's studied "Do the Right Thing," "2001," and other classics. Parts of his film seem like they're going in the right direction: he loves creating atmosphere with stark black-and-white shots of Midwestern tundra, and he's trying to tuck a story about an alcoholic writer into his loopy horror film. But it somehow takes him three years to make a half-hour horror film which looks like it was banged out in a week.
For me, the saddest moment of "American Movie" is when Borchardt discusses his plans to shoot in a haunted house. The location looks dull, and he's surely shooting there because he could do it for free, but he compares the footage he wants to shots from "The Seventh Seal" and "Manhattan." The man's talents and resources just can't measure up to his imagination. In a way, that's what a lot of pop culture consumption is for the public: watching others do what we can only dream we could.
Wadjda
One of cinema's landmarks, "The Bicycle Thief," is about an impoverished man looking for his bike so that he can provide for his family. "Wadjda" is about a young girl who's also facing poverty and looking for a bike. But Wadjda's is a poverty of rights, not possessions.
Saudi Arabian women were only recently allowed to ride bikes, and the film makes clear that there's still a significant stigma for those who wish to do so. Indeed, "Wadjda" is all about the things women can't or aren't supposed to do. Since women can't drive, Wadjda's mother has to hire a cantankerous man to take her to her job. She'd like to work closer to home at a hospital, but that job would require her to interact with men; her husband would not approve. (Even being in view of men is frowned upon for Wadjda.) Despite their bowing to his wishes, Wadjda and her mother are forced to endure the shame and humiliation of her father taking a second wife. Women aren't even treated as second-class citizens; it's more like they're property.
And that's what becomes clear from watching "Wadjda": so much of an emphasis is placed on women's sexuality in Saudi Arabia that they're reduced to nothing but their sexuality. That mindset leads to terrible harassment and abuse, as we see when a man leers at Wadjda and asks to grope her "apples."
But while "Wadjda" does not shy away from the plight of Saudi women, it does offer hope. Wadjda is cunning and determined, and while those are basically the opposite of the traits Saudi men would like her to have, they enable her to carve out some small freedoms for herself. The very existence of "Wadjda," the first feature film made in Saudi Arabia, let alone the first film by a woman, offers hope. Director Haifaa Al Mansour has said, "It's better to make the things that you have work. If you have a small thing, make it work and capitalize on it." We can all agree that Al Mansour shouldn't be forced to settle for "a small thing." But we should also be inspired by her achievement in spite of her limitations.
Saudi Arabian women were only recently allowed to ride bikes, and the film makes clear that there's still a significant stigma for those who wish to do so. Indeed, "Wadjda" is all about the things women can't or aren't supposed to do. Since women can't drive, Wadjda's mother has to hire a cantankerous man to take her to her job. She'd like to work closer to home at a hospital, but that job would require her to interact with men; her husband would not approve. (Even being in view of men is frowned upon for Wadjda.) Despite their bowing to his wishes, Wadjda and her mother are forced to endure the shame and humiliation of her father taking a second wife. Women aren't even treated as second-class citizens; it's more like they're property.
And that's what becomes clear from watching "Wadjda": so much of an emphasis is placed on women's sexuality in Saudi Arabia that they're reduced to nothing but their sexuality. That mindset leads to terrible harassment and abuse, as we see when a man leers at Wadjda and asks to grope her "apples."
But while "Wadjda" does not shy away from the plight of Saudi women, it does offer hope. Wadjda is cunning and determined, and while those are basically the opposite of the traits Saudi men would like her to have, they enable her to carve out some small freedoms for herself. The very existence of "Wadjda," the first feature film made in Saudi Arabia, let alone the first film by a woman, offers hope. Director Haifaa Al Mansour has said, "It's better to make the things that you have work. If you have a small thing, make it work and capitalize on it." We can all agree that Al Mansour shouldn't be forced to settle for "a small thing." But we should also be inspired by her achievement in spite of her limitations.
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