Suburban malaise is well-worn territory in just about every realm of artistic expression, but Sam Mendes has breathed new life into what appear to be his pet themes: alienation and disappointment in middle-class America. Based on Richard Yates’ 1961 novel of the same title, Revolutionary Road follows the relationship between April (Kate Winslet) and Frank Wheeler (Leonardo DiCaprio), a self-purportedly “special” couple marooned in suburbia by what April deems an accidental pregnancy. This may seem a shallow excuse for the domestication of the couple’s beatnik dreams, but it in no way undermines the rather morbid allure of these characters. Their relationship with each other as well as with the dull group of neighbors and colleagues that surround them makes for an intriguing, if not entirely novel, portrait of middle-class resistance and resignation.
We are introduced to the couple as they dangle on the precipice of a major turning point. April forces her husband to confront his vague, but nagging, professional ambition by suggesting that the family move to Paris, a city she has never seen, but in which she invests all hope of realizing a fulfilling marriage.
In a rather provocative twist, the couple’s audacity is entirely bound up with their investment in traditional gender roles. More specifically, both partners share an acute fear of emasculating the resident head of household. April does not pitch Paris as Frank’s opportunity for self-discovery without reminding him, “It's what you are that's being denied and denied in this kind of life…You're the most beautiful and wonderful thing in the world. You're a man.” The only character that seems to appreciate this irony is John Givings (Michael Shannon), a troubled mathematician whose piercing insight into the Wheeler’s self-deception penetrates the smooth narrative of daring individualism that has fooled the rest of the neighborhood.
Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance relies heavily on desperate shrieks and squeals that lend him a petulant air of adolescent fervor. While unattractive, this technique appropriately highlights his character’s juvenile sense of entitlement to a life he is unwilling to pursue. Kate Winslet delivers a stronger performance as April, mainly because of her ability to transition so jarringly from rigid outlaw to appeasing housewife and back again. Her face consistently reveals a degree of bravery and defiance that contrast starkly with Mr. DiCaprio’s puffy punum.
While it never quite accomplishes sublime heights of aesthetic insight, the value of this film lies in its unflinching exploration of disappointment in its many shapes and forms. From the mundane jealousies of the housewife next door to more violent acts of suburban frustration, Mr. Mendes exposes the consequences of our thwarted desire for something inexplicably better than the life we’ve got. His style is chilly and more observational than it is probing, but Mr. Mendes is able to transform what would be nonthreatening, beige interiors into battlegrounds that produce extreme tension and occasionally even suspense.
By the end of the film, it becomes clear that April’s performance as a happy housewife is far more appealing to Frank than her restless ambition for a more exceptional way of life—an ambition that initially ties the couple together. Ultimately, Revolutionary Road can be read as a cautionary tale, but it warns less against the stifling sameness of suburban life than against submission to the circumstances of the lives we’ve created for ourselves.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
DVD review: One Love: Words Sounds & Powah (1988/2009; MVD)
In the late 1980s, documentary filmmaker Howard Johnson was given unprecedented access to the Rastafarian community in Britain, resulting in a 10 part series, Rockers Roadshow. Some of his wealth of material, shot in London and Nottingham, also was also collected in the One Love series, three short films that even today are riveting in their peek into the rich (and ritualistic) world of a religion mostly known through their music, Reggae, their sacrament, weed, and by hip caricatures of both.
The late Jah Bones, Rasta priest and historian, is the common guide throughout the series. His fiery preaching and righteous denunciation of Babylon show him to be a fiery and eloquent spokesman for the faith. In all three films, appearances by other devotees such as Jah Shepherd, Ras Anum Iyapo and Cosmo Ben Imhotep add color and depth to the running oral history presented.
The most fascinating of the three short films is the first, which gives us a rare front row seat at a Rasta prayer service. Nyabinghi Blood & Fire. Nyaginhi is a sacred drumming ritual that evokes the powers of nature, including blood and fire, to come and destroy the infidels of Babylon, and to raise up the faithful. Jah Bones’ chanting, rhythmic sermon, calling out the agents of evil by name (at the time, Reagan and Thatcher) and being elevated in his passion by the African percussion, is a hypnotic, visceral experience. This rare peek into a sacred ceremony was filmed at the Rastafari Universal Zion church in the Tottenham section of London.
More didactic and thus less gripping is Blues for Rastafari. Through historical photos, oral history and vintage footage of Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie’s mid-60s arrival in Jamaica, this film traces the lineage of Rastafari, from African’s exposure to Christianity during the slave trade, through the efforts at liberation by The Universal Negro Improvement Association of Marcus Garvey, to the more recently articulated vision of Rasta as the true faith, with Selassie as God in the flesh and Rastas as an ark in an evil sea. Here those who may be uncomfortable when trying to rationally wrap their head around some of the beliefs and cosmology may find rough going. Yet the same would happen with an overview of any other faith. In that sense, and for those whose interest in Rasta stems merely from music and dope, this short is an eye-opener into the grander meaning and claims of the religion.
Finally, Words Sounds Powah is a celebration of “Livity” the Rasta concept of humility and fearlessness, of harmony with the earth and rebellion against the powers of Babylon. Here that spirit is expressed in a concert by The Naturalites, whose smooth, optimistic reggae is s fitting end to the series. The music is the public face of a enigmatic and misunderstood religion that, like all faiths, of offers both gifts and curses to the world.
One Love: Words Sounds & Powah is a fascinating, riveting and vital look at a subculture that seems ubiquitous in pop culture, but remains oddly impenetrable. Howard Johnson spent a lot of his creative life trying to uncover some of that mystery, and his respectful but objective films entertain as much as they instruct.
The late Jah Bones, Rasta priest and historian, is the common guide throughout the series. His fiery preaching and righteous denunciation of Babylon show him to be a fiery and eloquent spokesman for the faith. In all three films, appearances by other devotees such as Jah Shepherd, Ras Anum Iyapo and Cosmo Ben Imhotep add color and depth to the running oral history presented.
The most fascinating of the three short films is the first, which gives us a rare front row seat at a Rasta prayer service. Nyabinghi Blood & Fire. Nyaginhi is a sacred drumming ritual that evokes the powers of nature, including blood and fire, to come and destroy the infidels of Babylon, and to raise up the faithful. Jah Bones’ chanting, rhythmic sermon, calling out the agents of evil by name (at the time, Reagan and Thatcher) and being elevated in his passion by the African percussion, is a hypnotic, visceral experience. This rare peek into a sacred ceremony was filmed at the Rastafari Universal Zion church in the Tottenham section of London.
More didactic and thus less gripping is Blues for Rastafari. Through historical photos, oral history and vintage footage of Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie’s mid-60s arrival in Jamaica, this film traces the lineage of Rastafari, from African’s exposure to Christianity during the slave trade, through the efforts at liberation by The Universal Negro Improvement Association of Marcus Garvey, to the more recently articulated vision of Rasta as the true faith, with Selassie as God in the flesh and Rastas as an ark in an evil sea. Here those who may be uncomfortable when trying to rationally wrap their head around some of the beliefs and cosmology may find rough going. Yet the same would happen with an overview of any other faith. In that sense, and for those whose interest in Rasta stems merely from music and dope, this short is an eye-opener into the grander meaning and claims of the religion.
Finally, Words Sounds Powah is a celebration of “Livity” the Rasta concept of humility and fearlessness, of harmony with the earth and rebellion against the powers of Babylon. Here that spirit is expressed in a concert by The Naturalites, whose smooth, optimistic reggae is s fitting end to the series. The music is the public face of a enigmatic and misunderstood religion that, like all faiths, of offers both gifts and curses to the world.
One Love: Words Sounds & Powah is a fascinating, riveting and vital look at a subculture that seems ubiquitous in pop culture, but remains oddly impenetrable. Howard Johnson spent a lot of his creative life trying to uncover some of that mystery, and his respectful but objective films entertain as much as they instruct.
DVD Review: Black Hollywood: Blaxploitation and Advancing an Independent Black Cinema
This 1984 documentary manages to be both history lesson and an opportunity to revisit your assumptions of that history. While Black Hollywood covers much familiar ground, it also opens one’s eyes to some of the pivotal figures in the often exploited, but nevertheless defiant role of African-Americans in Hollywood.
A thumbnail sketch of that role is presented: from the early days of Blacks as buffoons or servants, or as sexually out of control beasts (a sobering and scathing parsing of Birth of a Nation is included) down through the Blaxploitation films of the late 60s, early 70s, a time when it seemed like Blacks were finally taking control of and generating their own cinema, when, in reality, white producers were again making a killing off of the crudest stereotypes. Time is also given over to African-American artists who were able to break the mold, appealing to white audiences and earning dignified roles. Sidney Poitier, Dorothy Dandridge, and Lorenzo Tucker (“The Black Valentino”) are given their due.
Lesser known history is just as frustrating and filled with false starts. Within Our Gates was a 1919 film directed by Oscar Micheaux, and was an immediate and contemporary rebuttal to D.W. Griffith’s ode to the Klan. Micheaux, one of the first Black filmmakers, certainly took a risk in using his opportunity to make such a bold racial and cultural statement. Birth of a Nation was still a blockbuster, but word was served that Black artists could create their own art, portray dignified roles for themselves if the larger white culture wouldn’t; Richard Pryor, Spike Lee and Russell Simmons can trace their fearlessness back to Oscar Micheaux.
Director Howard Johnson interviews then current stars such a comedian Paul Mooney, Rosalind Cash, who both talk of how Hollywood even in the 80s struggled, in many ways obscenely, to try and find vehicles for Blacks that did not involve drugs or prostitution. There are also generous clips, both of powerful and infuriating portrayals of Blacks through the years.
NFL legend and community activist Jim Brown is interviewed at length, discussing how Black filmmakers could take a cue from Blacks in the music industry, which got the word out through their own labels and radio stations, through word of mouth.
Today there are thousands of African-American owned film and record companies, and the opportunities to relate in art the true richness and creativity of Black culture have never been greater. But obviously some of the same old same old still exists. While Hip-Hop dominates as the most creative force of the past 30 years, what sells most are the same tired images: gangsta rap, big ass divas throwing tantrums, head-bobbers competing with idiot white meth-heads on talk shows and divorce courts. But all those images proliferate in Big Media. And who, yet again, is making a killing off of lowest common denominator images of Blacks?
Black Hollywood (MVD) isn’t so much a call to arms as a quiet, feisty wake-up call. Hollywood needs a sharper kick in the ass, though even when they have come, quick profits usually soften the blow.
A thumbnail sketch of that role is presented: from the early days of Blacks as buffoons or servants, or as sexually out of control beasts (a sobering and scathing parsing of Birth of a Nation is included) down through the Blaxploitation films of the late 60s, early 70s, a time when it seemed like Blacks were finally taking control of and generating their own cinema, when, in reality, white producers were again making a killing off of the crudest stereotypes. Time is also given over to African-American artists who were able to break the mold, appealing to white audiences and earning dignified roles. Sidney Poitier, Dorothy Dandridge, and Lorenzo Tucker (“The Black Valentino”) are given their due.
Lesser known history is just as frustrating and filled with false starts. Within Our Gates was a 1919 film directed by Oscar Micheaux, and was an immediate and contemporary rebuttal to D.W. Griffith’s ode to the Klan. Micheaux, one of the first Black filmmakers, certainly took a risk in using his opportunity to make such a bold racial and cultural statement. Birth of a Nation was still a blockbuster, but word was served that Black artists could create their own art, portray dignified roles for themselves if the larger white culture wouldn’t; Richard Pryor, Spike Lee and Russell Simmons can trace their fearlessness back to Oscar Micheaux.
Director Howard Johnson interviews then current stars such a comedian Paul Mooney, Rosalind Cash, who both talk of how Hollywood even in the 80s struggled, in many ways obscenely, to try and find vehicles for Blacks that did not involve drugs or prostitution. There are also generous clips, both of powerful and infuriating portrayals of Blacks through the years.
NFL legend and community activist Jim Brown is interviewed at length, discussing how Black filmmakers could take a cue from Blacks in the music industry, which got the word out through their own labels and radio stations, through word of mouth.
Today there are thousands of African-American owned film and record companies, and the opportunities to relate in art the true richness and creativity of Black culture have never been greater. But obviously some of the same old same old still exists. While Hip-Hop dominates as the most creative force of the past 30 years, what sells most are the same tired images: gangsta rap, big ass divas throwing tantrums, head-bobbers competing with idiot white meth-heads on talk shows and divorce courts. But all those images proliferate in Big Media. And who, yet again, is making a killing off of lowest common denominator images of Blacks?
Black Hollywood (MVD) isn’t so much a call to arms as a quiet, feisty wake-up call. Hollywood needs a sharper kick in the ass, though even when they have come, quick profits usually soften the blow.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Review: Renaissance Village (NTI Upstream; 85 minutes)
The individual stories of those who lived through Hurricane Katrina get lost in the story of the event that has taken on a life of its own. Both sides of the political seesaw have used the tragic flooding of one of America’s great cities, and the subsequent displacement of its poorest residents, whether it be the Left’s seeing “Katrina” or “The People of New Orleans” as the prime example of Government indifference to the poor, or the Right’s blanket dismissal of the victims of the storm as those who were too lazy and stupid to seek higher ground.Renaissance Village restores focus on the victims themselves - not as symbols, but as flawed, complex individuals, each trying to recover in their own fashion. The title refers to the name of one of the FEMA resettlement camps. FEMA had set up several areas where RV’s were supplied to residents, who would remain there, in theory, for a specific time until they got back on their feet. Renaissance Village was built in rural Baker, LA, just outside Baton Rouge, 91 miles from New Orleans. Federal guidelines in the Stafford Act mandate that groups must close after 18 months. Yet by 2007, 1700 of the original 3000 people still lived there. Most were African-American and from poorest wards of the damaged city.
Narrated by NO native Wendell Pierce and directed by Gabe Chasnoff, the film focuses on the frustrations and hopes of the residents, each in their own way trying to make sense of what was lost and to figure out how to rebuild from nothing. We meet the mechanic Paul, who is both disgusted by the government’s actions and by residents who feel sorry for themselves. Herbert sells candy and soda out of his trailer, since the nearest convenience store is miles away and few residents drive. He is later evicted from the Village for this activity.
There are also Thelma and Gwendolyn, who share with the film crew their common histories of food and racism. We watch as they cook and drink beer, each musing about plans to move out, plans that fall through. It is painful to see the women slowly lose some of their defiant hope as their options dwindle.
The star of the film, and the most powerful voice in the Village (aside from a foul-mouthed pre-teen who delivers some devastating lines at various points in the film) is Wilbert Ross, the de facto “President” of the Village Council. In addition to being the spiritual leader of the residents, exhorting them to stay strong and to unite against the increasing federal neglect, he also is a vibrant member of the card playing, drinking, dancing to Al Green heart of the small community.
Local lawyers and Catholic Charities do their best to help secure services, extensions of residency, job search and relocation. Even FEMA, rightly vilified as they are for their ineptitude during this whole crisis, tries to help, though it is obvious their representatives prefer the distance of trying to “help the people,” rather than hear the real needs of those people.
The film takes an unexpected turn when a resident dies from formaldehyde poisoning. Apparently the RV’s procured by FEMA had high levels of the poison, and since they weren’t meant to be lived in for so long, residents began getting sick. Also not helping was the fact that the heat and humidity was so oppressive in the summer months, many residents remained inside the trailers all day long, often with the doors and windows closed. Vain attempts at community organizing and public meetings produce only official grandstanding. Eventually each resident drifts away toward the next stage of their fate. The film leaves that fate open.
Shot over 13 months beginning in May 2007, Renaissance Village is a warts and all portrait of vulnerable but resilient folks, angered and traumatized by tragedy, who fight to rebound and reclaim a space they can call their own. This is as much a story of pride as it is about betrayal; in its light shed on the true lives of the victims of Hurricane Katrina (and its aftermath) it makes the invisible visible.
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