lisa levy on the new york film festival
20 October 2002

first, what I did not see. I turned down a friend's tickets to a trilogy of depressing movies which did have good press: the magdelene sisters, the son and the man without a past. I heard bad things about friday night (the new claire denis), and very good ones about a documentary called blind spot: hitler's secretary. in years past I have attended the festival so often that I recognize people, but this year because of time/money constraints I saw a smattering of soon-to-be released american films and one silent with accompaniment (murneau's faust: wonderful film, so-so score).

about about schmidt
alexander payne gave a charming speech about omaha, and trying to capture its spirit in films. payne captures not only the spirit of omaha but the spirit of nowhere: the neglected territory after retirement and before death (what's the last movie you saw with a 60-plus protagonist that's not a titanic-style flashback?

nicholson told the audience before the film: "don't forget while you're watching the movie what a handsome bastard I am." it's a testament to his performance as warren schmidt, which is startlingly free of vanity and schtick, that the warning was not merely a joke. from an early scene of him hunched over a vodka gimlet in the bar as a break from his own retirement party to his speech near the end at his daughter jeanie's (the fabulous hope davis) wedding, he feels like a real old man in every sense of every word. the narrative is punctuated by schmidt's letters to a save-the-children kid he's impulsively decided to sponsor. udugu is device for revealing his inner life, which is pretty pathetic.

there are adventures in his winnebego: an awkward pass at a friendly neighbor at the trailer park, kathy bates's pass at him in hot tub, his rage at a friend and his inability to understand his daughter are all refreshing and true. schmidt is a man whose life has passed him by admitting it's partly his fault. the quiet scenes of him toasting bread, the disarray of his house, his wandering through historical sites, and a sequence with hummels on the roof of his winnebego, are all testimonials to a kind of inevitable decay. payne's attitude is one of gentle reproach, though contempt could be argued too.

auto focus
last february I saw a paul schrader movie that was never released called forever mine (it plays on starz sometimes if you have cable). it is certainly no worse than 10 movies I saw last year so I don't know why he had such a hard time getting distribution, aside from the fact that he certainly must be a colossal asshole. mine stars never-quite-it girl gretchen mol, who isn't up to the acting level that joseph fiennes is, but he's terrific, as is ray liotta and the supporting cast. the scenes in key biscaine are gorgeous, and the sirkian touches, though obvious, are nicely done. schrader works through his religious upbringing once again by giving moll's character a kind of blind faith that makes her relinquish--or sacrifice--love for duty, a compelling move but not one that's wholly believable in the scheme of melodrama (sirk would never resort to something so {thorn bird}-sy and hollow).

auto focus, schrader's next film, is otherwise known as the bob crane movie, who is otherwise known as that guy from hogan's heroes who turned out to be a pervert. greg kinnear is great as crane, willem defoe is creepy (surprise) as crane's partner in sex, lies and videotape (they're into beta before beta was big). crane's wives, played by real-life uberwife rita wilson and maria bello, who had a similar thankless role opposite ben stiller in permanent midnight, don't do much but whine about how he's never home. well, sorry, honey, but sportfucking is a serious and time-consuming business.

the arc is similar to boogie nights or any other star is made and unmade type movies. the story, as it is told here, is one of success and a failure to handle it. the movie has the same problem that the people vs larry flynt had--no, not courtney love acting--it's self-righteous about sex in a way that's excessive given the caliber of case at hand. if the point is, as crane says, that everyone likes sex, he just likes it more, then that would be fine. the truth is he pursues sex with the same passion that longtime junkies have for dope: not so he can get high, but just so he can fix. you finally don't care enough about crane to make his downward spiral anything more than tedious. there is a breast montage and a gorgeous, saul bass-inspired opening credit sequence: the former did make me laugh, and the latter was the best part of the film.

punch-drunk love
there are amazing colors in punch-drunk love, from the royal blue suit adam sandler wears nearly the entire movie to the yellow-blonde of emily watson's hair. p.t. anderson has managed the unlikely feat of replicating many of the same strengths and weaknesses of his last film, magnolia, in a movie nearly half its length: its as if he painted guernica on a grain of rice. my screening was somewhat scarred by an unexplained emergency just when the film was getting engrossing--the lights went up, people looked around, someone muttered pulp fiction, referring to the urban legend (it may be true) that someone had a heart attack in the theater during its nyff premiere.

once it got going again, I really did find it compelling and even touching at moments. the pacing is weird, the perspective sometimes jars, and the subplot with a bunch of mormon brothers chasing sandler is ridiculous. so is the dialogue between sandler and watson when they do get together, but no more so than many things true lovers say to each other in the initial rush of the, well, hookup: "I want to crush your face." though we're never sure why they are in love, I believed that they could be, which is all a movie this whimsical really requires of you. it's a mess, but I enjoyed it, especially jon brion's swoony score.

talk to her
pedro almodovar also gave a charming speech before his film, the closing night feature. he said he cried a lot while making the movie, and I cried while watching it. the general consensus runs along the it's not one of his best line, and I begrudgingly agree though it seems perverse to me to punish someone so talented for trying to do something different. the different thing he's doing is men: though it's not quite all about my father, it's the only film of his with two male protagonists: a nurse, benigno, who is in love with his comatose charge, alicia, and a travel writer, marco. we first see them as strangers sitting next to each other at a dance performance. they meet at the hospital where benigno works when marco's newish girlfriend, a matador injured in the ring, is taken after she slips into a coma. girlfriends in comas everywhere! I know it's serious.

the plot has a few surprises, but it's less important than the issues almodovar is trying to explore here, though his treatment is more about pretty surfaces than real excavation. there are a few gorgeous scenes: the matador getting dressed, a dance class, and especially one with the great brazilian singer caetano veloso. a silent film in the middle is, to me, absolutely stunning, on par with the dali sequence in spellbound and a similar freudian playground. by introducing us to two men essentially without women, almodovar is onto something about dependency and masculinity, about how the rescue fantasy knows no boundaries: male/female, conscious/comatose, it's all of a piece. perhaps talk to her is a transitional movie on the way to something even more unsettling and beautiful.