TIFF 09 Review: Enter the Void

I don’t think a title has ever been more accurate for defining a film. Nor has a film been as divisive in recent festival memory as to whether it is a work of genius or an exercise in audience torture. This is not necessarily a film to love or hate though. Rather, like his earlier film Irreversible, director Gaspar Noé, Enter the Void is as much an experiment in filmmaking and ways of storytelling through the medium of film as it is entertainment.

Oscar, a young American, makes money dealing drugs to support himself and his sister, Linda (who works as a stripper) in Tokyo. Their parents have been dead since they were children and they have only each other to rely on. Oscar is killed by police in the small toilet of a bar, and the film acts as his spirit flying over the city, recalling how he came to the point of his death, and what happens to his friends and sister after he is gone.

The film remains literally Oscar’s eyes, both before and after death. While he is alive, his blinking serves as a convenient point to cut in takes, as well as a way for the audience to feel as though they are him. After his death, the camera stands right behind his head as though he cannot see his own face, but can now see how other people viewed him in life. The problem was, he is/was an uninteresting person, and I did not really care that he was killed. Nor did I care very much about the other characters.

But I don’t think that was the point. Like Jean-Luc Godard, Noé is experimenting with film itself, and with the viewer’s concept of what film is, and what narrative should be. What if the camera were truly an eye, giving us both objective and subjective experience at the same time? Are we too used to even typical art-house films from Europe to understand the potential of the medium, to reach outside our usual narrative for a more realistic perspective?

That being said, it’s still too long by about thirty minutes, and I admit I dozed off a few times. But I’m glad I saw it, if only because it is a film I will definitely think about for a long, long time.

TIFF 09 Review: A Town Called Panic

One of the few animated films to be shown at the Cannes film festival (not only this year but in the festival’s history), this strange little gem from Belgium starts at a cracking pace that it easily sustains for 75 minutes of roaring fun. It is also the first G-rated film to be shown in the Midnight Madness program at TIFF, and it shows that you don’t need sex, violence or gore to have a subversive, “WTF” kind of film.

Giving a short synopsis of the plot is difficult, as it will probably make little sense. But here goes: Horse, Cowboy and Indian share a house in their village. It is Horse’s birthday, and Cowboy and Indian decide to make him a brick BBQ as a present. Something goes terribly wrong in the ordering of bricks, and chaos for them and the rest of the town ensues. Horse and his companions must search the over and under worlds for bricks, while the animals and people of the town eat their way through giant slices of bread and make Vladimir Horowitzes out of donkeys.

In order to picture this, you must picture the animation. It is stop motion, first of all, using generic plastic toys of varying sizes (for example, the toy Janine is almost twice the size as the toy Steven, her husband). Animals not only graze as per usual, but also take music lessons. And ponds can lead to strange underwater worlds were brick houses are common, only upside-down. Or maybe it is our world that is upside-down.

Knowing that the film came out of episodic television had me a little worried going in that I would get bored; but I can’t remember the last time I was less bored in such a frenetically paced film (which can often become boring despite their pace). I also rarely stopped laughing, and when I did it was only to marvel at the genius of the writer for finding the most inventive plot twists, and the animators for matching it. Bizarre and sophisticated enough for adults and children, A Town Called Panic makes you want to live in an upside-down house occupied by a horse.

TIFF 09 Review: Leslie, My Name is Evil

Only a Canadian could make a campy pseudo-musical film about the Manson Family. While perhaps fading from the memory of those not alive at the time, Charles Manson is still one of the icons of crazed cult leaders and serial killers. Director Reginald Harkema (A Girl is a Girl, Monkey Warfare) creates a visually stunning romp through the late 1960’s that uses fairly standard imagery to ask some interesting questions. Is it really possible to learn from history? And if so, do some people even care to do so?

Leslie is an all-American girl: a good student from a good family, who will probably get married and have a good family. That is, until her father leaves the family and Leslie devastated. She gets pregnant, her mother forces her to have an abortion, and she becomes a flower child. Leslie then finds solace and purpose in the arms of Manson and his followers. Perry is a straight-laced Christian boy who is studying chemistry. He is surrounded by a family who believe the gun is the way to save the world for Jesus, and a girlfriend who won’t let him go below the neck without a ring on her finger. Perry is assigned as a juror to the Manson trial, where he becomes infatuated with Leslie. The clash of these two cultures at this time period is not unexplored territory; rather it is in the execution that Harkema challenges the viewer.

Virtually every shot is thought-out to the last detail, making it a visual feast. Harkema knows how to centre his camera, so the viewer is forced to listen to the words and see the visuals as both complement and contrast. By stripping away subtlety and a certain amount of reality, Harkema exposes the hypocrisy of both extremes. This richness lays bear the arguments put forth by both sides: the blind hypocrisy of Perry’s father and his rants on the “godless commies” as well as Mansions on the “fascist pigs” sound like so much empty posturing.

Ryan Robbins is particularly striking as Charlie; he conveys his strange and powerful seduction through wild and disarming eyes. Complemented by solid performances by the rest of the cast, Harkema creates a campy yet believable society. The end is not surprising, but it isn’t meant to be. Regardless of the facts, most people will take security no matter the lives it might cost, American or otherwise.

TIFF 09 Review: [Rec]2

The past few years have seen Spanish horror burst onto screens around the world thanks to some fairly high-profile Spanish directors making films in Hollywood, and Spanish films being remade for US audiences. [REC] was remade into Quarantine, though there is no news on whether Quarantine 2 will be made (I haven’t seen it, preferring my horror in its original packaging). While perhaps not quite as frightening as the original, [REC] 2 still had the audience jumping out of its seat fairly frequently.

Picking up a mere 15 minutes after the first film left off, a SWAT team goes into the quarantined apartment building with a health official to try and assess the situation. They make their way to the penthouse, the source of the outbreak. And there it turns out that the health official is really a priest, and that the contagion is the devil, and the devil is spreading.

Unlike the original, which used only one camera perspective, directors Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza smartly expand the number of cameras. Each member of the SWAT team has one, allowing for shifts in location, and a few times picture in picture (so you can see the zombies coming from all directions). And since there is less constant violence, it allows the viewer, and the characters to a certain extent, to step back and examine the situation. Whereas in the first film the viewer was in the place of the firemen and news crew, having no idea what was happening, now the audience can think (and often say out loud) ‘No, don’t go in there!’ in traditional horror film fashion. The use of several cameras is an added bonus, as the multiple perspectives allows for the idea of the spread of the virus/devil, and the likelihood of its escape. As well, the additional of the Priest is a great throwback to The Exorcist – and this priest is just as stubborn and self-sacrificing.

As stated, there are fewer frightening moments, but then ones that do come are all the more frightening from the build-up of tension. Throw in a group of stupid teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time, a survivor from the first film, and some pretty frightening and blood-thirsty children, and [REC] 2 is a fine follow up to the original, and hopefully the second in a trilogy.

TIFF 09 Review: White Material

The films of the incomparable Claire Denis are subtle lessons in semiotics. They are like moving photographs, or graphic novels with almost no words: the viewer must (and can) put together the story from the images, like they are a fly hovering with no knowledge of past context.

The third of Denis’ African-centred films, White Material stars Isabelle Huppert as Marie, a French woman running a coffee plantation in an (deliberately) unnamed country with her ex-husband and son. With the government in turmoil and rebels running loose in the countryside, her workers have deserted her right before the harvest. She seems to be the only one determined to stay, even after the army deserts the country and her ex-husband (Christopher Lambert) conspires to leave her behind.

This has probably the most comprehensible narrative of any of Denis’ films, and the most overtly political. Marie is as much a part of the land as those who were born there; but her skin keeps her an outsider. She never stops moving; if she did, she might have to realize that defeat is inevitable and the longer she waits, the less departure alive is assured. Denis creates both sympathy for and anger at Marie. She is not a stereotypical colonial overlord, yet her insistence on remaining borders on madness.

Those around her have their own madness as well. Her teenage son is humiliated by child soldiers who strip him in the wilderness; the citizens of the country are understandably hesitant to leave the confines of their villages, though are forced to for money. Child soldiers run rampant; they are not loyal to any side of this war, only to themselves. They are hungry, dirty, heavily armed children with no sense of right and wrong.

This is a washed-out world; a world where life is slowly dying and efforts to revive it are fruitless. When Marie goes into town, she changes out of work clothes into a sundress and sandals. These only proceed to make her stand out more in the bright colors of the traditional African dress around her. While Denis’ previously films have been experiments in surrealism, this is more impressionistic. It is not tied to a particular place, or time, but remains a snapshot of this world at a standstill, on the edge of a knife.

While perhaps not the masterpiece that Beau Travail was, this film still manages to pack a punch. A slow, haunting punch to the stomach that can see the viewer in the place of Marie, recklessly holding on to something that is not worth her life.

TIFF 09 Review; Air Doll

Japanese director Hirokazu Koreeda has written and directed some of the most sublime, strange and touching films to come out of his home country in recent years, including After Life and Nobody Knows. Unfortunately his most recent film, Air Doll, is not as original or interesting.

A sex doll comes to life while her owner is out of the house. She wanders the streets in her French maid uniform, discovering the world as a child does. She finds a job in a video store, where she begins a sweet romance with a fellow employee, while she must return at night to her owner. Certainly, actor Du-na Bae does her job very well as the doll Nozomi. As she tries to cover the seams on her skin, or bravely stay still while her owner uses her as a physical and emotional receptacle, the viewer cannot help but sympathize. But something is still missing.

This becomes a fairly typical fish-out-of-water story, examining not only the innocent discovering the harshness of the world, but how society treats women. Nozomi is a literal doll for her owner, a woman whose only functions are to keep her master company and help him get off. But he is not necessarily to blame. Like many of the people Nozomi encounters, he finds his life unfulfilling, and seeks solace in a creation that cannot hurt him. Nozomi tries to fill her emptiness the way that those around her do, but like most people, is unsuccessful.

Probably the most touching moment in the film is when Nozomi gets a cut; of course, being an air doll, her body empties, and her co-worker at the video store uses his own breath to restore her. Touching, yes, but a bit too predictable. The film fails to capture the originality of purpose. Even the climactic conclusion, while interesting enough, failed to resonate the way Koreeda’s other films have.

TIFF 09 Review: The Loved Ones

The Loved Ones

People who insist that small towns are better places for raising children than cities always amaze me. The typical arguments are that people are friendlier, there are fewer places for kids to get drugs, wide-open spaces for them to run around in, and that you can always know where your child is. These people need to see The Loved Ones, the fantastic film debut of Australian director Sean Byrne, to know that drugs are just as common in small towns, kids get lost in the wilderness, and that there are really crazy people in the outback.

Brent is having a more difficult time than most teenagers. His father was killed in a car accident while Brent was driving, and his mother will not let him drive or even get in a car — try to survive in a small town without one. He is withdrawn and turns to drugs and taking physical risks in a strange almost-death wish. A girl at school, the seemingly shy Lola, asks him to the prom; but he kindly turns her down, as he is going with his girlfriend Holly. But that might not have been the best response for Lola.

Australian horror films have a knack for going places that their US counterparts would never dare. And they like their murderers crazy without explaining why. You’ll not meet a crazier one than Lola, the hot pink boy-mad teenage murderess of The Loved Ones. You see, it turns out that Lola always gets her man, thanks to Daddy, whom she has wrapped around her finger in one of the greatest pseudo-sexual murderous couples in film. They kidnap young Brent and force him to participate in Lola’s freaky prom at their farm in the outback.

Byrne has an incredible talent for rhythm and pacing. The film begins fairly slowly, as the viewer witnesses Brent disappear into web of darkness whose only way out is his girlfriend. But once the scene opens on Lola’s prom, Byrne cranks the pace and does not let up. He is not afraid to use long takes to build tension, twisting every last minute like a knife twisting through skin. Byrne builds it up and then lets it burst like a gushing wound. Lola seems to have met her match in Brent, who finds a new found desire for life when his is truly threatened. With shades of Carrie and Misery, this film had me cheering.

The young cast is superb, in particular Robin McLeavy as Lola, who will crawl on broken bones before giving up her man. With a fantastic soundtrack, and one of the best long-take endings I’ve seen on film in a while, The Loved Ones is a smart, funny and roller coaster ride entry into the teen horror canon.

The Loved Ones won the TIFF 09 Midnight Madness Audience Choice Award. Well deserved.

TIFF 09 Review: Bright Star

Just because a film is set more than a few decades ago, doesn’t mean it’s a period film. And just because events happened in a particular kind of society 200 years ago, doesn’t mean they are not relevant today. Jane Campion made that clean with her feature The Piano, and she has returned to these roots in her new work, Bright Star.

Set in the last years of the life of Romantic poet John Keats, it follows the story of his love affair with Fanny Brawne, a young woman with a talent for creating clothes as beautiful as Keats’ poems. Both have few options open to them. Keats’ family is poor, and while he is talented, he cannot make a living as a writer and must rely on financial support from friends to stay alive. As a woman, Brawne must marry to survive. However, she is not interested in marriage, and can make a living from her fashion talents.

The early scenes of the budding romance are near perfect: Brawne tries to find a way into Keats’ heart, thinking she has not succeeded when indeed she has. Like so much first love, neither can explain the attraction and yet it seems natural. In one scene, actors Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw perfectly capture the moment of love’s first expression: the inability to look into each other’s eyes when confession affection. Later comes the brief touch of fingers upon wrists, the utter pain of loss of communication and the immediate disappearance of such pain on the arrival of a letter. While these are not untypical experiences of first love, director and actors have us believe they are, or at least believe even the most seemingly maudlin of lines.

This is a film about the struggle of the starving artist, in a world (very similar to today) that tends not to appreciate true artistry until the creator is dead. Keats loves Brawne, but does not wish to marry her for fear of making her a widow, or of not providing a proper income. His friend Brown, also a poet, fears Brawne will drain Keats of his creative drive, when he is really jealous of both Keats and Brawne. Brawne would take the risk where Keats knows he cannot; he is aware of his impending death, and, like his poetry, knows it is best to enjoy the beauty of the moment.

Campion is not afraid to let the camera linger on her actors’ faces, catching every glimpse, gesture and flash of emotion. In a world where only Hollywood cinematic romance is acceptable, it is a risk that pays off. I don’t think it would be a spoiler to say that Wishaw recites a poem of Keats over the closing credits. During the screening I attended, you could have, at this point, heard a pin drop.

TIFF 09 Review: Les Herbes Folles

If Les Herbes Folles were directed by a newcomer, you would call it an extraordinary, quirky, thoroughly French look at the strange happenstance of love, the objects that lead us there, and what would happen if we said out loud the often strange things we were thinking. But the film is directed by the great Alain Resnais, now in his 87th year, who has made some of the strangest and most beautiful films of the 20th century (Hiroshima Mon Amour, Last Year in Marienbad). This film stands out among them, an achievement filmmakers younger than him can learn from.

In a style reminiscent of Jean-Pierre Jeunet (director of Amelie), a voice narrates the actions of a woman the viewer sees at first only from behind. An intimate and fanciful description of her shoe shopping habits. This seemingly mundane activity is described as a strange and sensual ritual, at the end of which the woman’s handbag is stolen. Her wallet (dumped by the thief) is found by a man who becomes obsessed with her; his obsession leads to her obsession.

Narration is provided by voice over, as well as the actors articulating the thoughts of their characters. And at first these characters might seem odd — a middle-aged dentist/aviatrix, a retired man who finds it impossible to articulate his thoughts in a coherent manner, a police officer who has his own slight obsession. Indeed, the inability to communicate what we are really thinking and how we feel is a major obstacle in this film. What if our words reflected the jumble of thoughts in our head? What if we acted on our desires that we barely knew existed?

A glorious mix of comedy and fantasy, Resnais is improving with age, creating characters that probably are a reflection of his view on the world, with his experience and charm. This, perhaps, is how we should all communicate: in a strange, vexing, but somehow effective way.

TIFF 09 Review: The Vintner's Luck

The Vintner’s Luck is Niki Caro’s fourth feature, and it is as mixed as film as the wine and angels on her screen. It is a sumptuous film, one that engages the senses beyond sight and sound. While it is gorgeous to look at, its moments of exchange between story and viewer are too few and far between.

Sobran (Jérémie Renier) is a peasant trying to make his life better. He has a gift for winemaking that no one will support. He wishes to wed fellow peasant, Celeste (Keisha Castle-Hughes), but his father refuses to give his blessing. Sobran can’t seem to catch a break. That is, until one drunken night he meets an angel, Xas (Gaspard Ulliel). Xas is definitely not the stereotype of an angel; although beautiful, his interest in human life is limited to the visceral, and he advises Sobran that wine-making (as life) begins in the earth. Xas gives Sobran his own special vines to plant. That, plus the patronage of a noblewoman allow Sobran to finally realize his dreams.

Wine is a visceral experience. Caro apparently spent a lot of time writing to the various winemakers around New Zealand to get their impression of the winemaking life. They are more than farmers; they create the end product, and are connected to it from the seed to the corking. She compared the winemaking experience to film creation, which might be true to a certain extent. The scenes between Sobran and Xas are a beautiful compliment to the scenes where Sobran discusses his love of wine; God is to be found in both and neither. In one very sensuous scene Sobran blindfolds his patron to allow her to understand that the experience of wine is in its taste — the taste of the winemaker is the taste of the wine.

But ultimately the film, like a vintage bottle, is left too long and turns to vinegar. It tries to be a sweeping life epic, but the script calls for a more intimate approach. While intimacy exists at the beginning, half way through the film it begins to rush through the years. The main actors are not aged properly for the time of the script, leaving Keisha Castle-Hughes (whose talent is almost completely wasted in this film) looking younger than her children by the end of the film. This is perhaps a minor annoyance, but it was one of several that were detrimental to the film. While certain moments were gratifying to the senses, as a whole, the film fails to sweep the viewer off their feet.

TIFF 09 Review: Fish Tank

15 year-old Mia’s life is claustrophobic. The council estate flat that she shares with her mother and sister is tiny. The corridors are tiny, and filled with young people who swear in ways that would make Mickey Rourke blush. Her mother seems to care little for her; in fact, there doesn’t seem to be anyone to care for Mia. She spends her days breaking into an empty flat to practice dancing while looking out over the landscape outside of the estate, but it offers no hope. That is, until Mum gets a new boyfriend who seems too good to be true. Andrea Arnold’s second feature, Fish Tank, bursts out of the gate from the first frame and doesn’t let the viewer have a moment’s rest.

Framed in a 4×3 aspect ratio to keep this idea of claustrophobia, Arnold has created another gut-wrenching story. And she is not one to reveal her secrets easily, like her main character. The title suggests the claustrophobic and exposed world Mia lives in. In such tight quarters there is nowhere to hide. Mia develops a crush on her mother’s new boyfriend Connor (played by the continually amazing Michael Fassbender). He takes the family to a country pub and expresses an interest in Mia’s dancing, which he encourages her pursue. One night Mia spies through the door on her mother and Connor as they are having sex, the look on her face suggesting she is imagining herself in her mother’s place. Mia can turn from angry to vulnerable and back again at the drop of a hat, sometimes resorting to actions that would seem almost too extreme, too violent, too harsh. But Arnold then takes us back to the world Mia occupies: how can she possible find a way out when she is banging her head against a glass wall?

These are not necessarily people who just need some help; some of them are awful. But they are trapped and the only ways out offered to them may be just as hopeless. Michael Fassbender is amazing as always, but the real revelation of this film is Katie Jarvis, who with nary a drama class, conveys Mia as a girl not so street smart as she would like to think, and capable of acts both brave and horrifying. Arnold’s script and camera close in and tear apart ideas of the poor, youth, and what makes a good man.

Space and Time in the Festival City

This article has also been published at Little White Lies and Dork Shelf

It begins around the middle of August, with advertisements in bus shelters and streetcars plastered with logos. September comes, and virtually every store on Bloor Street between Yonge Street and Avenue Road has a movie theme in their window. Mannequins are wrapped in film strips, old televisions play DVDs, and signs welcome attendees of the Toronto International Film Festival. Most of these stores have no direct affiliation with the TIFF, other than being in the neighbourhood where several of the screenings take place. For 10 days though, it would seem, everyone wants to be a part of the city’s (arguably) largest and most important annual cultural event.

Toronto has come a long way in the past 30 years. For decades, it was known as ‘Toronto the Good’, a town of teetotalers and conservatives. Then something changed. The rest of the film world began to notice how hungry Torontonians were for films. And Torontonians were a discerning lot; a movie could be made or broken by the judgment of a TIFF audience. By the 1990s, TIFF was a premiere festival and it brought the world to the city.

Today, the film festival stretches the length of downtown. Several bars stay open until four in the morning to accommodate festival patrons, and most of the downtown movie theatres are taken over by festival films. Almost all media outlets devote themselves to TIFF coverage not only during the festival, but for weeks before and after. All eyes of the city are turned to the festival, while the city brands itself through the festival as host to one and all. A patron from out of town arrives in the city that encompasses the world. The city becomes an extension of the festival: it is international, offering its citizenry, shops and restaurants to its service.

For 10 days, the city seems to exist in festival time. Stepping inside the bubble of downtown, life runs along a schedule of quarter hours. Time is allocated into travel distances between theatres and necessities for food consumption. Spaces become a series of queues, darkened rooms with flickering lights, or darkened rooms with (hopefully) open bars.

But there are two separations of festival space and time in the city. The first is the world of Hollywood celebrities. A determined band of fans that wait outside hotels for the briefest glimpse of their favourite stars and wait for hours on the red carpet outside the gala theatres for a photo opportunity or an autograph.

Then there is the festival of the film lover. The cinephile will spend hours pouring over ‘The Book’ (as the TIFF program guide is called), searching for the buried treasure of films by undiscovered directors that might never be seen in North America again. These fans take their vacations to coincide with TIFF, are willing to wait hours in line, and chat with strangers about films seen and to be seen.

It seems the rest of the city can wait. Toronto serves the festival as it welcomes the international community and accommodates its citizenry in their film adventures. In a city where more than 100 languages are spoken, TIFF (featuring films in dozens of those languages) brings the city together as perhaps no other event can.

TIFF has begun screenings films for free at Yonge-Dundas Square, a major public downtown meeting place. While most of the attention might fall on the movie stars, TIFF is going back to its roots. The festival that stops the city for 10 days makes space for the city to stop and enjoy part of the space it has created.