“Trumbo,” Peter Askin’s poignant, mind-stirring documentary about the defiantly prolific screenwriter Dalton Trumbo, one of the Hollywood Ten blacklisted during the McCarthy era, based on a play written by his son Christopher (from letters Trumbo wrote during that tumultuous period) is essential viewing for all film critics—any professional writer really—recently affected by the economic recession. To call Trumbo tenacious, awe-inspiring, a courageous hero doesn’t do the man justice. How many writers working today would accept poverty and prison, shame and exile to stand by their convictions—and do it for ten long years? How many writers in 2008 would have prefaced that with nearly another decade stoically working as a night bread wrapper for an L.A. bakery while studying at USC, repossessing motorcycles, reviewing films for a trade magazine—and churning out six novels and eighty-eight short stories (all of which would be rejected for publication)? To all those laid off writers I say, if you can’t write without a paycheck being involved then you’ve no business considering yourself in the same profession as Mr. Trumbo (thus you probably didn’t deserve that paycheck in the first place. Ah, isn’t karma sweet?
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
(And for an equally enlightening take on the other side, read - "Trumbo” talking head - Victor Navasky’s Naming Names. It never hurts to be reminded that guys like Kazan and Budd Schulberg had enormous, personal artistic axes to grind with the Communist Party and its leaders in Hollywood.)
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2008: Letter to Anna
In “Letter to Anna,” Swiss director Eric Bergkraut juxtaposes interviews he shot with the crusading Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya—before her still unsolved murder in the lobby of her apartment building on Vladimir Putin’s 54th birthday in October 2006—with interviews with family and colleagues to create a personal video diary of a woman fueled by an obsession with justice, more a tribute than a “letter” or film. Though dry and straightforward, even clunky in spots (especially when narrated in the English language version by Susan Sarandon, standing in for the filmmakers), the doc is a low-key, respectful summation of a life that resembled a tabloid-ready espionage thriller.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Top Hot Pride Pics
Originally published at SpoutBlog:
Lauren Wissot recommends five films for celebrating Stonewall in sexual style.
Top Hot Pride Pics
Are you a supporter of gay marriage?
“I know nothing about it. I don’t follow that.”
Why doesn’t it interest you?
“The same reason heterosexual marriage doesn’t seem to interest me.”
–From “Questions for Gore Vidal” in “The New York Times Magazine,” 6/15/08.
Amen, sister. One of the perks of being queer is that you’re not expected to engage in unnatural acts like high school proms and monogamy. So in honor of the hedonistic right to our own guilt-free, queer Mardi Gras, here are some subversive suggestions that will get you in the mood and take you back to that more innocent, less commercial “Over The Rainbow” time.
For vintage gay porn nothing beats George Butler’s “Pumping Iron” (1977) – and not just because the governor of California unapologetically indulges in a big fat phallic joint straight to the camera. Ostensibly a smackdown between pre-Governator Schwarzenegger and pre-Incredible Hulk Lou Ferrigno, captured in a pre-reality show documentary about the pro-bodybuilding path to Mr. Olympia (with a less compelling side storyline involving amateurs like white hat Mike Katz and bad dude Ken Waller on the road to Mr. Universe), the rivalry suffers at the huge mitts of Arnie who’s just too damn good-naturedly charismatic to play Butler’s baddie. (Nice guy The Rock, a more versatile actor than The Gov, was way more convincing playing the sexy sadist in the ring during his WWF days.) No matter. For muscle pigs “Pumping Iron” is a must – the ultimate in bulging gluttony. Like massively inflated tits, these juiced up bods are so disgusting as to be perversely erotic. (Note to The Gov: whenever you tire of that little plaything Maria I’m here for the rubdown.)
Boys, boys, boys – name your western. “The Wild Bunch,” “Red River”…as many critics of the hype surrounding “Brokeback Mountain” rightly pointed out, that film was merely stating the obvious. I’m going to go with Howard Hawks’ “Red River” (1948) just because Monty Clift is hotter than Ernest Borgnine (okay, so William Holden is in Peckinpah’s outlaw-bonding flick, too, but still, who wants to jack off to Bill Holden with Ernest Borgnine in the room?) That Clift was gay in real life is almost beside the point. He’s a fantastically feral embodiment of longing, of unquenched desire so palpable as to transcend the screen, his inevitable showdown with The Duke – who put the “man” in Marlboro Man – a substitute for orgasmic release.
For all my dyke sisters, genderqueer and bi in-betweeners there’s delicious dish “Myra Breckinridge” (1970). Raquel Welch’s ambitious Miss Myra is the precursor to Tim Curry’s Frankenfurter, with both actors playing gender and sexuality ambiguous characters seducing naïve young lovers with equal panache. Pin-up queen Welch, who would be sexy slinking around in a brown paper bag, especially sizzles in that notorious, star-spangled superhero costume, strapping on a dildo to go at dumb stud Rusty (a tasty Roger Herron). Plus she gets to seduce ingénue Farrah Fawcett’s Mary Ann while (my personal transgender heroine!) Mae West – who can make an audience blush just with her swagger – playing the predatory talent agent Leticia Van Allen, trains her lusty eye on a chorus line of beefcake, including a young Tom Selleck. How much more sex appeal can one movie pack? No rainbow butt plug required.
William Friedkin’s “Cruising” (1980). You really thought spotlight addict Pacino would pass up the chance to shake his ass in tight leather pants? Post-“Serpico” Pacino plays undercover cop Steve Burns pursuing a serial killer stalking players in NYC’s gay S&M scene (where, of course, officers with handcuffs are hot!) Who needs great art when you’ve got a camp fest like this?
But if you are craving great art after a long, hot sweaty parade there’s always John Schlesinger’s “Midnight Cowboy” (1969). Sultry all-American boy Jon Voight plays the original gay-for-pay hustler back when Times Square trannies weren’t confined to the musical version of “Hairspray.” Dustin Hoffman’s viciously needy Ratso Rizzo is now cinematic legend, plus the film was released the same year as the Stonewall Riots. We’re here! We’re queer! We’re walking here!
Lauren Wissot recommends five films for celebrating Stonewall in sexual style.
Top Hot Pride Pics
Are you a supporter of gay marriage?
“I know nothing about it. I don’t follow that.”
Why doesn’t it interest you?
“The same reason heterosexual marriage doesn’t seem to interest me.”
–From “Questions for Gore Vidal” in “The New York Times Magazine,” 6/15/08.
Amen, sister. One of the perks of being queer is that you’re not expected to engage in unnatural acts like high school proms and monogamy. So in honor of the hedonistic right to our own guilt-free, queer Mardi Gras, here are some subversive suggestions that will get you in the mood and take you back to that more innocent, less commercial “Over The Rainbow” time.
For vintage gay porn nothing beats George Butler’s “Pumping Iron” (1977) – and not just because the governor of California unapologetically indulges in a big fat phallic joint straight to the camera. Ostensibly a smackdown between pre-Governator Schwarzenegger and pre-Incredible Hulk Lou Ferrigno, captured in a pre-reality show documentary about the pro-bodybuilding path to Mr. Olympia (with a less compelling side storyline involving amateurs like white hat Mike Katz and bad dude Ken Waller on the road to Mr. Universe), the rivalry suffers at the huge mitts of Arnie who’s just too damn good-naturedly charismatic to play Butler’s baddie. (Nice guy The Rock, a more versatile actor than The Gov, was way more convincing playing the sexy sadist in the ring during his WWF days.) No matter. For muscle pigs “Pumping Iron” is a must – the ultimate in bulging gluttony. Like massively inflated tits, these juiced up bods are so disgusting as to be perversely erotic. (Note to The Gov: whenever you tire of that little plaything Maria I’m here for the rubdown.)
Boys, boys, boys – name your western. “The Wild Bunch,” “Red River”…as many critics of the hype surrounding “Brokeback Mountain” rightly pointed out, that film was merely stating the obvious. I’m going to go with Howard Hawks’ “Red River” (1948) just because Monty Clift is hotter than Ernest Borgnine (okay, so William Holden is in Peckinpah’s outlaw-bonding flick, too, but still, who wants to jack off to Bill Holden with Ernest Borgnine in the room?) That Clift was gay in real life is almost beside the point. He’s a fantastically feral embodiment of longing, of unquenched desire so palpable as to transcend the screen, his inevitable showdown with The Duke – who put the “man” in Marlboro Man – a substitute for orgasmic release.
For all my dyke sisters, genderqueer and bi in-betweeners there’s delicious dish “Myra Breckinridge” (1970). Raquel Welch’s ambitious Miss Myra is the precursor to Tim Curry’s Frankenfurter, with both actors playing gender and sexuality ambiguous characters seducing naïve young lovers with equal panache. Pin-up queen Welch, who would be sexy slinking around in a brown paper bag, especially sizzles in that notorious, star-spangled superhero costume, strapping on a dildo to go at dumb stud Rusty (a tasty Roger Herron). Plus she gets to seduce ingénue Farrah Fawcett’s Mary Ann while (my personal transgender heroine!) Mae West – who can make an audience blush just with her swagger – playing the predatory talent agent Leticia Van Allen, trains her lusty eye on a chorus line of beefcake, including a young Tom Selleck. How much more sex appeal can one movie pack? No rainbow butt plug required.
William Friedkin’s “Cruising” (1980). You really thought spotlight addict Pacino would pass up the chance to shake his ass in tight leather pants? Post-“Serpico” Pacino plays undercover cop Steve Burns pursuing a serial killer stalking players in NYC’s gay S&M scene (where, of course, officers with handcuffs are hot!) Who needs great art when you’ve got a camp fest like this?
But if you are craving great art after a long, hot sweaty parade there’s always John Schlesinger’s “Midnight Cowboy” (1969). Sultry all-American boy Jon Voight plays the original gay-for-pay hustler back when Times Square trannies weren’t confined to the musical version of “Hairspray.” Dustin Hoffman’s viciously needy Ratso Rizzo is now cinematic legend, plus the film was released the same year as the Stonewall Riots. We’re here! We’re queer! We’re walking here!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2008: USA vs. Al-Arian
Sami Al-Arian, the subject of Line Halvorsen’s real-life, Kafkaesque nightmare doc “USA vs. Al-Arian,” is a highly regarded professor with a loving wife named Nahla, three daughters, and two sons, who happens to be an outspoken advocate of Palestinian rights (unsurprisingly since he and Nahla were raised refugees, displaced when Israel came into being). He’s also one of the many residents of the United States who found himself on the wrong side of the Patriot Act after 9/11, held for two and half years in maximum security, awaiting trial on flimsy, terrorism related charges.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2008: Traces of the Trade: A Story from the Deep North
Beginning with home movie footage of an Independence Day parade in Bristol, Rhode Island—the longest running in the U.S., so director Katrina Browne explains in voiceover—“Traces of the Trade: A Story from the Deep North” explores, through a very personal lens, the sordid tale of the slave trade in the pious American north. In addition to being a first-time filmmaker, Browne is also a descendant of the prominent, revered DeWolf clan: New England royalty who amassed a fortune through the blood, sweat and tears of the estimated 10,000 Africans they tore from their homeland, the biggest traders in American history. After sending letters to 200 relatives with an invitation to join her on her quest to retrace the steps of the “triangle trade” from Rhode Island to Ghana to Cuba, Browne and nine of her kin (including active church members and an Episcopal priest) set off on their own truth and reconciliation journey.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Human Rights Watch International Film Festival 2008: Juizo (Behave)
Wiseman-like in its patient stillness and no frills style, lacking in overbearing soundtrack or any other potentially distracting enhancements, Maria Ramos’ “Juizo (Behave)” is a study of the Brazilian juvenile judicial system illuminated through both “fact” (all the adults, from judges to lawyers to prison guards to parents, are the real thing, filmed during court hearings and on visits to the correctional facility in Rio de Janeiro) and “fiction” (the accused involved in the cases are minors and cannot be filmed, thus Ramos ingeniously substitutes other children from the favelas to play their roles).
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
To read the rest of my review visit The House Next Door.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Five Unsexiest Movies About Sex: The Breillat Awards
Originally published at SpoutBlog:
I can think of no better poster child for celibacy than Parisian “provocateur” Catherine Breillat, the director of such erotic misfires as "Fat Girl," "Romance," and more recently, "The Last Mistress," which stars another over-hyped “hottie” Asia Argento. Exiting the theater after a Breillat flick, I never want to have sex again. Ostensibly concerned with digging deep into the beating heart of female sexuality, Breillat creates characters that are writhing bundles of drama and pain, anger and confusion. There is no laughter, never any levity nor celebrations of desire at all – just academic intellectualization in lieu of visceral heat, cardboard cutout chemistry between actors, dire emotional consequences hidden in every fuck. The Breillat canon would make for a wonderful addition to those abstinence-only programs George W. loves so much.
Take for example this Breillat quote from the press notes for "The Last Mistress" (which the director adapted from the Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly19th-century novel): “But romance is dark, which was another reason for wanting to make this film; for the romanticism, the burning passion, the terrible suffering, but without perverting the sentiments. The heart of the story portrays an ideal that topples into disaster as soon as it is reached.” Sexy, huh?
It’s in this inevitable disaster that Asia Argento, chewing up scenery like the ice cream cone she furiously devours from her horse-drawn carriage, plays Vellini, a costumed Moorish version of the Ally Sheedy character in "The Breakfast Club." Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t find needy, mentally deranged people the least bit sexy. I can say with utmost certainty that if I was shot in a duel like Vellini’s lover Ryno was, and my lover thrust the surgeon out of the way in order to drink the blood from my wound, it would not turn me on in the least. (But then I also don’t find pout-lipped, A&F model types like lead actor Fu-ad Aît Aattou sexy either – so maybe it is just me.)
For even in the most candied costume dramas there has to be some emotional truth. It’s not that I can’t relate to the trials and tribulations of love. Like Vellini I’ve been a long-term mistress, romantically involved to the point of “terrible suffering,” experienced that unbearable pain that Anais Nin likens to walking over hot coals; she wondered if this were possible without getting burned. I also know that we’re all hedonists at heart – not unrepentant masochists like Breillat’s characters would have us believe – wouldn’t go through the torture, the living hell of love, if it weren’t for the overwhelming growth, the endorphin high of desire. The worst times with someone you deeply love are better than the best times with someone you are merely fond of.
But you wouldn’t know this from any Breillat film. Which is why I’m using "The Last Mistress" to inaugurate my own Breillat Awards – given to the top five un-sexy, sexy indie flicks. Consider "The Last Mistress" the grand prize winner; here are four runners-up, in no particular order:
"Romance": In celebration of celibacy – and probably the only filmmaker on the planet who can literally philosophize the fuck out of an internationally famous porn star – Breillat gets two films honored! Sex reduced to a cerebral exercise even Viagra couldn’t cure.
"Lust, Caution": Ang Lee attempts to neuter smoldering Tony Leung in the same way Breillat tries to cinematically castrate the great Rocco Siffredi in "Romance." The highly stylized, coldly choreographed, S&M sex scenes between Wong Chia Chi (Tang Wei) and Tony Leung’s Mr. Yee are clean and precise rather than primal, sweat-soaked. Sex between the covers of "Vogue."
"Shortbus": In all fairness to John Cameron Mitchell, his intention was to make a sex film that wouldn’t make you come. And he succeeded in spades! Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I could ever be bored watching a man-on-man three-way. (Where’s transgender bombshell Hedwig when you need her?)
"The Notorious Bettie Page": The director Mary Harron has a terrific knack for choosing the most interesting, sexy subjects and just draining the life out of them. Watching both "I Shot Andy Warhol" and "The Notorious Bettie Page," I found myself thinking “the book would have been better” – except there’s never any book. Having brainy, intellectually astute women like Breillat and Harron at a flick’s helm is a grand idea in theory, but all this thinking cock-blocks the libido. (“If we cut out all sex scenes we can make Bettie the ultimate virgin/whore!”) Note: someone needs to cast porn star/frequent Breillat accomplice Rocco Siffredi and "Bettie Page's" Gretchen Mol together in a romantic comedy as compensation for all their fruitless effort.
I can think of no better poster child for celibacy than Parisian “provocateur” Catherine Breillat, the director of such erotic misfires as "Fat Girl," "Romance," and more recently, "The Last Mistress," which stars another over-hyped “hottie” Asia Argento. Exiting the theater after a Breillat flick, I never want to have sex again. Ostensibly concerned with digging deep into the beating heart of female sexuality, Breillat creates characters that are writhing bundles of drama and pain, anger and confusion. There is no laughter, never any levity nor celebrations of desire at all – just academic intellectualization in lieu of visceral heat, cardboard cutout chemistry between actors, dire emotional consequences hidden in every fuck. The Breillat canon would make for a wonderful addition to those abstinence-only programs George W. loves so much.
Take for example this Breillat quote from the press notes for "The Last Mistress" (which the director adapted from the Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly19th-century novel): “But romance is dark, which was another reason for wanting to make this film; for the romanticism, the burning passion, the terrible suffering, but without perverting the sentiments. The heart of the story portrays an ideal that topples into disaster as soon as it is reached.” Sexy, huh?
It’s in this inevitable disaster that Asia Argento, chewing up scenery like the ice cream cone she furiously devours from her horse-drawn carriage, plays Vellini, a costumed Moorish version of the Ally Sheedy character in "The Breakfast Club." Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t find needy, mentally deranged people the least bit sexy. I can say with utmost certainty that if I was shot in a duel like Vellini’s lover Ryno was, and my lover thrust the surgeon out of the way in order to drink the blood from my wound, it would not turn me on in the least. (But then I also don’t find pout-lipped, A&F model types like lead actor Fu-ad Aît Aattou sexy either – so maybe it is just me.)
For even in the most candied costume dramas there has to be some emotional truth. It’s not that I can’t relate to the trials and tribulations of love. Like Vellini I’ve been a long-term mistress, romantically involved to the point of “terrible suffering,” experienced that unbearable pain that Anais Nin likens to walking over hot coals; she wondered if this were possible without getting burned. I also know that we’re all hedonists at heart – not unrepentant masochists like Breillat’s characters would have us believe – wouldn’t go through the torture, the living hell of love, if it weren’t for the overwhelming growth, the endorphin high of desire. The worst times with someone you deeply love are better than the best times with someone you are merely fond of.
But you wouldn’t know this from any Breillat film. Which is why I’m using "The Last Mistress" to inaugurate my own Breillat Awards – given to the top five un-sexy, sexy indie flicks. Consider "The Last Mistress" the grand prize winner; here are four runners-up, in no particular order:
"Romance": In celebration of celibacy – and probably the only filmmaker on the planet who can literally philosophize the fuck out of an internationally famous porn star – Breillat gets two films honored! Sex reduced to a cerebral exercise even Viagra couldn’t cure.
"Lust, Caution": Ang Lee attempts to neuter smoldering Tony Leung in the same way Breillat tries to cinematically castrate the great Rocco Siffredi in "Romance." The highly stylized, coldly choreographed, S&M sex scenes between Wong Chia Chi (Tang Wei) and Tony Leung’s Mr. Yee are clean and precise rather than primal, sweat-soaked. Sex between the covers of "Vogue."
"Shortbus": In all fairness to John Cameron Mitchell, his intention was to make a sex film that wouldn’t make you come. And he succeeded in spades! Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I could ever be bored watching a man-on-man three-way. (Where’s transgender bombshell Hedwig when you need her?)
"The Notorious Bettie Page": The director Mary Harron has a terrific knack for choosing the most interesting, sexy subjects and just draining the life out of them. Watching both "I Shot Andy Warhol" and "The Notorious Bettie Page," I found myself thinking “the book would have been better” – except there’s never any book. Having brainy, intellectually astute women like Breillat and Harron at a flick’s helm is a grand idea in theory, but all this thinking cock-blocks the libido. (“If we cut out all sex scenes we can make Bettie the ultimate virgin/whore!”) Note: someone needs to cast porn star/frequent Breillat accomplice Rocco Siffredi and "Bettie Page's" Gretchen Mol together in a romantic comedy as compensation for all their fruitless effort.
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