Sundance ’08: Choke
*½/****
starring Sam Rockwell, Anjelica Huston, Kelly Macdonald, Brad Henke
screenplay by Clark Gregg, based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk
directed by Clark Gregg
by Alex Jackson Choke lost me in the very first scene. The hero, Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell), is at a support group for sex addicts and describing all the regulars for us. There’s the housewife who put mayonnaise on her crotch for her dog to lick off. There’s the guy who had to have a gerbil removed from his anus. And then there’s the cheerleader who needed a stomach pump after swallowing too much semen. I want to talk about the cheerleader. I think Victor said that doctors pumped two quarts out of her stomach. Considering the amount of semen in a typical human ejaculation is about 1.5 to 5 millilitres, that’s a lot of blowjobs! Two quarts is around two litres, right? So she would’ve had to service at least 400 men. Assuming this would take about three minutes apiece, she’d have to have been at it for twenty hours straight, without vomiting up or digesting any of the semen–which, by the way, is completely non-toxic and would not require the use of a stomach pump–in the meantime. What kind of dipshit expects me to buy this? I admit I haven’t read Chuck Palahniuk’s source novel. I might very well be alone on this–the critics at my press screening were buzzing with anticipation, and the gang over at my message board instantly recognized the title.
Sundance ’08: Reversion

***/****
starring Leslie Silva, Jason Olive, Tom Maden, Jennifer Jalene
written and directed by Mia Trachinger
by Alex Jackson The key image of Mia Trachinger’s Reversion, her follow-up to the eight-year-old, still-undistributed Bunny, is star Leslie Silva’s outrageously unkempt Afro and supermodel physique. Trachinger betrays nostalgia for the early-’90s nostalgia for the 1970s. Her cool is a grungy slacker cool, all heroin-chic and deadpan nihilism. She’s delightfully fifteen years behind the loop, making a hipster film for an audience that no longer exists. Almost everybody in Reversion looks and acts fashionably homeless. In an early scene, Silva’s character Eva even goes into a supermarket with her peers and eats the food right off the shelves! It turns out these people are mutants born without the “time gene.” The past, present, and future all co-exist for them in a nonlinear fashion. So you would think them philosophically deterministic like the space aliens in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, right? Well, sort of, but not quite. Trachinger focuses instead on their amorality. Having never learned to associate a cause with its resulting effect, they steal cars at gunpoint and of course eat out of grocery stores without paying.
Sundance ’08: American Teen

*/****
directed by Nanette Burstein
by Alex Jackson Real life is just like the movies, according to Nanette Burstein’s American Teen. The film follows the adventures of The Brain, The Athlete, The Princess, and The Basket Case as they finish their last year of high school. By the end, we learn that each one of them is a brain, an athlete, a princess, and a basket case. In other words, they’re all individuals while being pretty much the same. Burstein seems to have turned complete control of the film over to her subjects and resisted refining anything through her own perspective. The results are predictably excruciating to watch. Via the resources of the cinema (slick photography and editing, animated sequences), the teens are transformed into gods, a needlessly flattering notion to the adolescent ego. You’re worried about getting into college? Your boyfriend broke up with you, and you’re depressed? These problems really are as monumental as they seem; it’s substance enough for a feature-length film! Some reviews have complained that the fantasies that inspired the animated sequences are tired clichés: the jock dreams of winning the big game, the geeky kid dreams of getting a girlfriend, etc.. If the fantasy sequences don’t have a whole lot of depth, that’s because their originators don’t have a whole lot of depth, either. What do you expect? They’re only 17.
Sundance ’08: Towelhead
*½/****
starring Summer Bishil, Peter Macdissi, Maria Bello, Aaron Eckhart
screenplay by Alan Ball, based on the novel by Alicia Erian
directed by Alan Ball
by Alex Jackson Based on the available evidence, it’s clear that American Beauty worked because Sam Mendes’s aesthetic provided a spiritual component that elevated writer Alan Ball’s reductive and rather misanthropic satire. If opinion on the film gets worse as time goes by, it may be because Ball’s screenplay comes to the fore. Ball’s feature directorial debut Towelhead is, to state the obvious, all Ball and no Mendes; it manages to be bad the very first time you see it. Jasira (Summer Bishil) is a half-Lebanese 13-year-old struggling to come to terms with her blossoming womanhood. Her mother (Maria Bello) kicks her out of the house after Jasira lets her would-be stepfather shave her pubic area. She relocates to Texas (the asshole of the United States in the Alan Ball universe), where she moves in with her Lebanese immigrant father Rifat (Peter Macdissi), who slaps her when she comes down for breakfast with her navel exposed and forbids her to use tampons when she has her period. Rifat gets her a job babysitting for next-door neighbour Mr. Vuoso (Aaron Eckhart), a military reservist restlessly awaiting deployment to Iraq on the eve of the first Gulf War. Courtesy of the Vuoso son, Jasira inherits a stack of dirty magazines and discovers how to masturbate to orgasm. Once Mr. Vuoso learns of this, he begins to see her as some potential sexual relief from a loveless marriage.
Sundance ’08: The Order of Myths
Sundance ’08: The Recruiter
Sundance ’08: Yasukuni
TIFF ’07: Lust, Caution
TIFF ’07: The Tracey Fragments
TIFF ’07: George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead
***/****
written and directed by George A. Romero
by Bill Chambers The problem with 2005’s Land of the Dead is that it could’ve been made by virtually anybody at virtually any time. While I imagine that George A. Romero, stalwart hippie that he is, has an anticapitalist streak a mile wide, that picture’s “eat the rich” trajectory ultimately felt like a rather flimsy pretext for Romero to resume chronicling social change through the prism of his precious undead. Given that the “Dead” films have typically had long incubation periods, it’s surprising to see Romero return to the well so soon, but then it was probably best to hit the reset button post-haste. George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead does just that in more ways than one: Here, Romero disentangles himself from the cul-de-sac of a zombie-human détente by starting from scratch in the present tense, making this the Casino Royale of the series.
TIFF ’07: Mother of Tears: The Third Mother
La terza madre
***/****
directed by Dario Argento
by Bill Chambers Sanity and fatigue are ineluctable corrupting influences on an aging filmmaker, but it brings me great pleasure and no small relief to be able to report that while Mother of Tears: The Third Mother–Dario Argento’s long-gestating conclusion to his “Three Sisters” trilogy–is neither as artful as Suspiria nor as dreamlike as Inferno, it nevertheless surpasses expectations fostered by Argento’s recent work to emerge as his best movie in decades. Fitting that Argento should choose to tell the Rome-set story of Mater Lacrimarum last, marking this as a homecoming in more ways than one.
Why I’m Not Formally Reviewing ‘Control’
Control is an authentic-feeling biopic about the late Ian Curtis, the epileptic front man for Joy Division who committed suicide–though a revisionist theory absurdly contends that he “accidentally” hung himself from the clothesline in his Manchester flat–in 1979 at the age of 23. Spoiler. Directed by music-video auteur Anton Corbijn and lensed in black-and-white and ‘scope by Martin Ruhe, the film overcomes the central miscasting of Samantha Morton as Ian’s wife Deborah (though she would’ve nailed this role in her Morvern Callar days, she’s far too long in the tooth for it now) with the near-perfect casting of Sam Riley as Curtis, Craig Parkinson as Tony Wilson, and Alexandra Maria Lara as Annik Honoré, a.k.a. The Other Woman. (Morton’s incongruous star-power is easily explained by the basis for Control‘s screenplay: Deborah Curtis’s own memoir, Touching from a Distance.) The film is admirably not a hagiography while engendering empathy for a gifted asshole more successfully than, say, Man on the Moon, and the song recreations are surprisingly persuasive, although I was a bit disappointed with how literalmindedly the music is applied at times.