Tribeca Film Fest: Part the Last

Okay, I went to nine showings this year, of which I've reported on five. Four to go, but I'm running out of steam, so I'm going to wrap it all up in this one post. I do want to say that I was among the volunteer crew for the first time this year, and the rewards of that were well worth the effort. If nothing else, there were 4 screenings that I went to that I wouldn't have been able to otherwise. And there was a party for the volunteers last Tuesday night, but if the party were ever a reason to volunteer, I sure wouldn't do so again. Um. Too many strangers and too loud for my taste. Heh. But I'll probably volunteer again next year too. It's a great way to experience the Festival from another perspective, meet some interesting folks, and have a story or two to tell!

Express Stops Only: A number of shorts, the funniest of which was Super Powers, the story of a couple who find adventure as Wonder Woman and Batman (in boxers), or maybe the funniest was Happiness, in which a worker in a condom factory .... oh but let me not spoil it. Surely you'll see for yourself. The best overall, imho, was A Nick In Time, a tale of morality and caring told in a barber shop. Remember the name Be Garrett. If he doesn't go places, then there's just no justice.

The Gates: A documentary covering the process Jeanne-Claude and Christo went through to get their 2-week installation, The Gates, up and running in Central Park. I'd seen it only from afar while it was there, so I truly appreciated the close-up vistas this film afforded. And the 20+-year work up to the event was well worth seeing and lessons in and of themselves. And, in many cases, a hoot! Although I'm quite sure the artists saw it far more as utter frustration than a hoot.

Portraits of Women: Another series of short films, the most interesting of which were at either end: the first, Manuelle Labor, and the last (and longest), So. Manuelle Labor was an odd piece of absurdity about the birth of a pair of hands. Trust me, you had to be there. So was the long-ish documentary of a solo sojourney through Australia, taken, says just-turned-30 filmmaker Aimee Jennings, as a kind of honeymoon as she realized she would "never" marry. There is a thread of risk-taking throughout ... although, having seen Shame, things like bungee-jumping -- though something I would most assuredly never dare to do -- pale into useless frivolity. And Theresa and I agreed that a little more distance/time and some judicious editing would have improved this film. Even so, well worth seeing, and I'd guess we'll be seeing more of Ms. Jennings.

Tootie's Last Suit: A good film to end on! Tootie Montana, known among the "Indians" of New Orleans for his wonderful Mardi Gras get-ups, makes his last suit. Well, his purported last suit. Which is to say, he's addicted to 'masking' for Mardi Gras and he isn't *really* about to retire, if he can help it. Thing is, in the end, he _can't_ help it. None of us can. Tootie dies, as is noted, on the battlefield. And, in the end, we have another father-son-relationship tale. With as unstintingly honest a camera lens as you can get, which is to say that both Tootie and his son opened up some, which the camera caught and filmmaker Lisa Katzman edited well. A film well worth seeing, and a legacy well worth preserving.

Tribeca Film Fest: Part II.i

There was a film that Theresa told me I must see if I had the chance at all, and I did so I did. When Theresa recommends something, I pay attention. I am so glad that this time I not only paid attention, I obeyed.

SHAME: This documentary follows the last five years in the life of Mukhtaran Mai, a Pakistani woman of remarkable integrity and tenacity. And talk about emotional honesty! Oh, heck, just plain honesty. Raped on the orders of a tribal council, in retaliation for her younger brother's alleged misconduct, this uneducated illiterate woman (who had nonetheless memorized the Quran) raised her voice in protest and, with the help it must be said of at least one man in the village, a cleric who took up her cause, made the government stand up and pay attention and (unwittingly!) fund a school. Which is to say that what Mai decided to do with the decidedly small amount of money the government awarded her in recompense was to use it to start the very first school in her village. The entire story is remarkable. And inspiring. And I cried through the whole thing, the tears just would not stop. Which is not to say that I was saddened; on the contrary, I was cheering her on all the way. You will too. If you have the chance, you must see this film.

CELEBRITY SIGHTING: Mukhtaran Mai herself, who answered audience questions through the filmmaker, who acted as her translator. A male, Pakistani, filmmaker, by the way. And there was one fellow in the audience who stood to proclaim how much she made him *proud* to be Pakistani. Wow. As for me, I am in awe.

Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.iv

I'm a great fan of animation, but somehow John Canemaker was a name unknown to me. Since it sez here his animated short, The Moon and The Son, won an Oscar last year, I figured it was time to get to know him. Little did I know . . .

THE ANIMATED WORLD OF JOHN CANEMAKER: There were several shorts spanning a long career, notably The Wizard's Son, a delightful tale told without words, Bridgehampton, a Fantasia-inspired leafy meditation in celebration of a move he made with his family to said town, and a short interview with/documentary about Otto Mesmer, the unsung animator of the old-time Krazy Kat cartoons. Of these, I particularly enjoyed Bridgehampton and the Mesmer documentary. And I liked the whole series because each of them was vastly different from the others, showing not professional growth so much as a depth of skill.

But nothing prepared me for The Moon and The Son, the story of his father, of his relationship with his father. It is presented as an imagined conversation with his recently deceased dad. In many more ways than one, it is a revelation. For one thing, there were the secret parts of his dad's life, beginning with the matter of his birth. "So, dad, where in Italy were you born?" "Hazelton, Pennsylvania" is the reply. (although I am probably not remembering the exact town correctly) That the story unfolds engagingly, intelligently; that the art, the animation, the presentation is spot on really goes without saying. I expected all that even as I was sitting there admiring the extraordinary craft of the piece. And I expected, too, a resolution to the strained relationship between father and son, a coming-of-age, a coming-to-understanding, a forgiveness ... that is, after all, how such explorations are supposed to conclude. Isn't it?

It disturbed me that things did not wrap up so neatly here. Bothered the bejabbers outta me it did. I thought and thought and thought and couldn't stop thinking about it. How could you look so deeply into a life, how could you live your own --- certainly flawed, isn't everyone's life flawed somehow, don't everyone's expectations not just of others but of themselves fall short in one way or another? -- and come away so ... so ... so unforgiving? I thought about my own relationship with my father. My family's various relationships with him. How was it different with us? Why was it different?

And as I thought and thought and argued with myself I began to understand that I had just seen perhaps the most emotionally honest film I'd ever experienced. Heck, no perhaps about it. And how valuable that is. And it is an animated film ... and perhaps indeed it is because of that that it can be so honest.

An Academy Award. It won an Academy Award. No wonder. And ... very probably ... not a high enough award for so thought-provoking, so honest, a piece of work.

CELEBRITY SIGHTING: John Canemaker himself was present for Q & A. Among other things, we learned that Fantasia is his favorite film. And that his real last name, which he never legally changed, is of course that of his father, Cannazarra. So why Canemaker? Seems he'd aspired to being an actor and when he was signing his first acting contract, he was told that Cannazarra was too "ethnic" and in searching for something more acceptable, someone decided that Cannazarra probably translates into Canemaker. Sure. Whatever. The son took it on profesionally and, as he said, is stuck with it.

Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.iii

I was excited: this was the premiere, the premium-priced showing that I'd tried to avoid, actually, because of the $25 cost. But the $18 tickets for the other two showings were sold out, so I had to "settle" for these ... I was feeling no pain, however, only anticipation. Fair warning: I was a teenage (okay, young adult) flower child / peacenik / countercultural wannabe. Just so you know.

PETE SEEGER: THE POWER OF SONG
The film began with a standing ovation.Um, no, not the film itself . . . the experience began with a standing ovation. Before the film started, Pete Seeger was announced to be in the audience. At once, everyone in the place stood and applauded. And then we sat down, the film cued up, and we were transported waaaay back in time ... before most of us had yet been born, there was Pete, there were the Weavers, there onscreen for us to remember and be reinspired by, was integrity personified, Pete Seeger ... unfolding, as biographies will, with only the occasional, thank the good filmmaker, talking head to get in the way (or in Arlo's case cause a knowing guffaw or two to erupt from the audience). The songs, of course, were wonderful, and it was great to relive those times we (all) shared on the planet with this man who sang his way through good times and bad. Of course, a film about Pete Seeger cannot be just about Pete or even just about song ... there is a clear agenda here ... but, as it's Pete & I'm with him in that agenda, it's okay, I forgive him, & yah I sang along though carrying a tune is hardly my forte. (But, Pete, my love, you're wrong, it's not the song that has such power, it's the people ... oh, but Pete I know you know that. Wish the filmmakers did -- can you tell I am at odds with that awful subtitle? The power of song, indeed. Bah.) ::ahem:: Okay. Another standing ovation was in order after the film. And a resounding ovation it was, too. The audience sat down again ... only to rise a third time, this ovation for the lady who keeps his home fires burning, his wife, Toshi. And well deserved the ovations are, although the smoldering radical countercultural feminist in me winces a bit at the implications of so highly praising Toshi's self-subsuming sacrifices to further her husband's career / mission in life. Um, sufficiently so that I refrained from the third ovation though no doubt that sacrifice was willingly and lovingly made. All in all, it was a *stellar* evening, one that left me with only one word coursing through my overloaded, sleep-deprived brain: WOW. And wow and wow and wow and wow.

CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Pete Seeger, of course, was in the audience. He'd come walking by before the show, by the curb, along the line of those of us waiting for the doors to open. After he'd passed by & entered the theater, the fellow behind me says to his companion, gee do you think Pete will be here? So several people said in unison, Did you not see him just go by??? Poor fellow. And truly exciting for me was to sit in the row behind and four seats to the right of none other than Arlo Guthrie. I just smiled and enjoyed it. No fangirl bow for me. Learned my lesson at the Eisner showing. I'm a jaded New Yorker, after all, yanno.

Tribeca Film Fest: Part I.ii

I am a fan -- from way back -- of comic art. Back in the day, when I was still in my teens, or perhaps just before, I discovered the Chicago Tribune archives on filmstrips at the main branch of the Chicago Public Library. I would sit for hours pouring over all the Moon Mullins, Bringing Up Father, Smokey Stover, Dick Tracey, Blondie, etc. comics I'd missed. I loved comics. And I stuck up for them: they are as much literature, I would declare to any passing adult, as any Tom Sawyer, David Copperfield, Little Women, or Moby Dick around. And the adults would snicker knowingly, pat me on my head and send me on my way. And then at long long last along came Maus. And I have been vindicated. Oh, but before Maus, apparently, there was ...

WILL EISNER: PORTRAIT OF A SEQUENTIAL ARTIST
What I knew about Will Eisner before seeing this film you could, as my father used to say, put in your right ear and have room left over for an extra bowlful of wax. This film, thank you very very much, did a wonderful job of filling me in on this creator of what is arguably the first graphic novel, A Contract With God, certainly the first published graphic novel ... although the first one for *me,* and I suspect many others, was Art Spiegelman's seminal and super-popular Maus. The film, as I say, was a good biography. But I kept waiting -- in vain -- for it to be ... more. More than talking heads (Jules Feiffer, Art Spiegelman, Will himself among them), more than a montage of snips and pieces from his work, more than a PBS offering, however interesting and informative that is. I thought ... wanted it to be ... something deeper, more compelling, something ... I don't know ... dramatic, I guess, something placed more firmly in context perhaps, something to give the bare facts more humanity, more meaning. Something that would bring those not already fans of the medium into the theater and then send them out into the bookstores to explore further. Though it did do that to some extent for me: there I was, later in the week, seeking out A Contract With God, which I found, not at the crowded & lively Forbidden Planet where I expected to find it, but at Barnes & Noble on a bottom shelf in the well-stocked but forlorn graphic novels section. Dear reader, I thumbed through the tome but left without it (I do want to read it, just not at that price).

CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS: Outside the theater, while waiting in line, there by the curb chatting with friends was Samuel R. Delaney, the subject of the previous film at that theater. I recognized him by the photo in the Film Guide. I smiled, remembering my sci-fi-fan-days way back when. Inside the theatre, though, after the film, Art Spiegelman answered one of the Q-and-A questions from his seat just across the aisle from me. Oh, Lawdy, I couldn't help myself: hadda give him my fangirl bow-of-appreciation. Embarassed the heck out of me and I'm sure he thought how tacky but what's a tongue-tied fangirl to do? And he was very gracious.

Film Festival, Part I.i

The Tribeca Film Festival will be in town through this weekend, and I've seen 4 of the 8 films I have tickets for (3 freebies, thanks to some volunteering stints), so figured it was time for a half-time post. Or four, actually, one per film, so if I bore thee, dear reader, you may handily skip over what doesn't interest you.

THE FORTY-FIRST
This restored Russian film from 1956 was introduced live by Martin Scorsese. Seems it had had a powerful influence on him in his youth, and he heartily recommended it to us, along with the cameraman's (Sergei Urusevsky) other work also in the festival, The Letter That Was Never Sent, which, said he, "You must see." The film proved to be, as advertised, a color-cinematographic revelation with not only sweeping water (and sand!) vistas under a glorious "Prussian-blue" sky but a definite sense of the camera as naked-eye-witness to the unfolding drama. The story is of a female Red Army soldier, a sure shot, who handily fells her 39th and 40th enemies, congratulating herself after each one: the 39th! the 40th! She misses when she takes aim at number 41 ... but, dear film-goer, she does get him in the end. She tries not to fall in love with him ... charming her, he wins her over ... and then, alas, circumstances bring on ... an awful deed. A bit of melodrama. A bit of (unfortunately laughable) overacting (Scorsese allowed as how the highly-charged emotional acting was reminiscent of silent film, and he had a point there, he did). Actually, there was sufficient overacting that I might have been upset had I paid the full freight to see this one, but as this was a last-minute freebie for me, I was instead glad to have seen it. The cinematography *was* truly stunning ... the music lovely and understated ... storytelling even in the silences ... all in all a good enough film that it's left me wondering why the choice was made (surely it was a choice) to push the acting / emoting between the two unlikely lovers so far up to and over the edge. Perhaps an antidote to the unblinking eye of the camera? I don't know. I shall ponder further.