This is the first movie I've seen where the budget probably had a line for "coke spoons". Everyone here seems to have one, and people even lounge about wearing nothing but them. While I've probably seen some blaxploitation before, in college and with an ironic attitude, I tried to take "Superfly" seriously on its own terms and found a surprisingly well-assembled movie whose main strength is its strong yet subtle performances.
The plot is tired and barely worth recapping (stop me when this sounds familiar): A coke dealer decides to make one last big score and then use the profits to go straight. His underworld friends have other ideas and attempt to defeat this plan. The filmmaking and performances quickly elevate the material, however, as "Requiem for a Dream" has done more recently. Priest, the coke dealer, is played by Ron O'Neal as a clear-eyed, realistic man who is more honest than most others in his line of work. O'Neal allows us to see a desire for security and a fear of winding up shot to death on a sidewalk, both of which motivate Priest to try for one last score. In addition to this strong lead performance, the film boasts a well-tailored, jazzy Curtis Mayfield score and an filmmaking style that stops the action temporarily for an experimental montage of stills showing the various users of Priest's big score. The use of split-screen can be tricky by itself; so can stopping your action at a fairly pivotal point to show a series of stills. The fact that both techniques are combined here to make a scene that is one of the more memorable in the film speaks to the skill of the filmmakers.
I haven't yet seen the other blaxploitation classic that casts a long shadow over the genre (I refer of course to "Shaft".) However, I couldn't help feeling that in this case there was very little exploitation going on, and instead there was a piece of solid filmmaking and acting with an ending where the only exploitation is of the white establishment.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Gunner Palace, 3 stars
Sheepishly I admit to being among the majority of the American public who have shown little tolerance for films, fictional or documentary, dealing with the second Gulf War. I skipped "In the Valley of Elah", "No End in Sight", "Taxi to the Dark Side", and many of the other media portrayals of this conflict. The only other Iraq documentary I had seen was "Voices of Iraq", which has risen in my estimation since I saw "Gunner Palace." "Voices of Iraq" was made by editing footage taken by Iraqis who had been given digital video cameras and told to record their experiences. This resulted in a level of access and candor that would almost certainly not have been given to a white/American/British cameraperson.
In contrast, "Gunner Palace" seems to have been made by a cameraman embedded with a particular company of soldiers who have their base in a run-down pleasure palace that once belonged to Uday Hussein. This interesting change of use is not particularly well-addressed, despite the movie being named after the place. Some context or history, or perhaps records of events that had happened there under Hussein, would have provided contrast. Instead we come in after the American forces have already repurposed the palace. We tag along on raids and daily patrols, and here the film actually does a serviceable job of conveying the monotony of these tasks. Soldiers are asked to alternate instantly between boredom and taut alertness when suspicious packages show up on the road, and the stress of this lifestyle expresses itself in impromptu music and rap from the soldiers. Besides conveying this state of mind, however, the film seems to have little reason for being. No new information is conveyed and the territory seems familiar. The subtitling is irregular, sometimes accompanying spoken English for no reason, and the camerawork (as might be expected in such a hostile environment) is workmanlike. I'm sure there are better documentaries out there; "Voices of Iraq" is one, and if I had not joined the American public in avoiding this topic in film, I would probably have futher recommendations.
In contrast, "Gunner Palace" seems to have been made by a cameraman embedded with a particular company of soldiers who have their base in a run-down pleasure palace that once belonged to Uday Hussein. This interesting change of use is not particularly well-addressed, despite the movie being named after the place. Some context or history, or perhaps records of events that had happened there under Hussein, would have provided contrast. Instead we come in after the American forces have already repurposed the palace. We tag along on raids and daily patrols, and here the film actually does a serviceable job of conveying the monotony of these tasks. Soldiers are asked to alternate instantly between boredom and taut alertness when suspicious packages show up on the road, and the stress of this lifestyle expresses itself in impromptu music and rap from the soldiers. Besides conveying this state of mind, however, the film seems to have little reason for being. No new information is conveyed and the territory seems familiar. The subtitling is irregular, sometimes accompanying spoken English for no reason, and the camerawork (as might be expected in such a hostile environment) is workmanlike. I'm sure there are better documentaries out there; "Voices of Iraq" is one, and if I had not joined the American public in avoiding this topic in film, I would probably have futher recommendations.
Friday, June 26, 2009
A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy, 3.5 stars
Within the space of one week I watched two of Woody Allen's early attempts to depart from what would soon become his signature style. I found his attempt at light period comedy slightly more successful than his sci-fi effort, despite having heard much more about "Sleeper" than I did about "AMNSC". Here Allen has taken bits and pieces from a few Shakespeare plays as well as Renoir's "Rules of the Game" and shaken them all together to make a "sex comedy" that is mostly comedy and has next to no sex.
The basic plot is that three couples come together for a weekend in the country, and each man winds up lusting after another man's woman. Allen is an inventor who has a sweet but frigid wife and lusts after Mia Farrow, whom he could have had an affair with years ago but for his own timidity. This is much more of an ensemble piece than I am accustomed to seeing from Woody, at least among films where he is also an actor. The rest of the cast is given equal screen time, and the diversions and deceptions are easy enough on the eyes that the film seems to float by like one of the ghosts it becomes obsessed with toward the end. Perhaps this is also the film's flaw; Allen's humor is biting and cynical by nature and when toned down to early 1900's standards it lacks a certain verve. It's an above-average effort by Woody and is, in a change from many of his early films, photographed gorgeously. Perhaps the fact that I watched it so near the title summer solstice evening made me unfairly generous. For evenings like that, however, when one desires a light confection that will bring the hint of a smile to your face and allow it to linger for 90 minutes, this is just what the doctor ordered.
The basic plot is that three couples come together for a weekend in the country, and each man winds up lusting after another man's woman. Allen is an inventor who has a sweet but frigid wife and lusts after Mia Farrow, whom he could have had an affair with years ago but for his own timidity. This is much more of an ensemble piece than I am accustomed to seeing from Woody, at least among films where he is also an actor. The rest of the cast is given equal screen time, and the diversions and deceptions are easy enough on the eyes that the film seems to float by like one of the ghosts it becomes obsessed with toward the end. Perhaps this is also the film's flaw; Allen's humor is biting and cynical by nature and when toned down to early 1900's standards it lacks a certain verve. It's an above-average effort by Woody and is, in a change from many of his early films, photographed gorgeously. Perhaps the fact that I watched it so near the title summer solstice evening made me unfairly generous. For evenings like that, however, when one desires a light confection that will bring the hint of a smile to your face and allow it to linger for 90 minutes, this is just what the doctor ordered.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, 3 stars
I was spoiled by the website io9.com about the ideal way to watch this movie, and it's really the only way of viewing which allows the movie to make any sense. The film is so bereft of plot that the only possible explanation is that plot has been intentionally disregarded in an attempt to deconstruct the summer action blockbuster. Making a film any bigger, louder, or stupider would take such large sums of money and such dearths of talent as to be practically impossible. If we regard this as the film's goal, instead of assuming the traditional aims of entertaining the audience or dramatizing the human condition, the film is a resounding success.
About that "plot": leaving subplots aside, the basic plot is that our hero Sam finds a shard of the Transformers' life-giving artifact, thought destroyed at the beginning of the first film, and spends the rest of the film trying to keep it away from the nefarious Decepticons who wish to destroy the sun (and with it, all life on earth). Whew. This bare-bones structure is nonspecific enough to allow director Michael Bay to hang all of the action-movie cliches he can on it. These include but are not limited to: the hero's hot girlfriend who in reality would have nothing to do with such a nebbish; racist jive-talking sidekicks; battles royales at an ancient site (the Pyramids, playing themselves) and in the streets of an Asian city (Shanghai, which may have been played by Vancouver for all we can tell about what happens there); pot brownies; a deadly female robot assassin; a visit by our hero to a strange dimension where he is given sage advice from the dead; a rogue ex-government agent; a Christ allegory; a tech-head sleazeball roommate; submarine battles; aliens who visited the ancient Egyptians; and the always-humorous spectacle of a tiny robot humping a pretty girl's leg.
Make no mistake: this movie is long (2.5 hours) and not exactly entertaining for long stretches. Regarding the film episodically, taking each new cliche as a self-contained unit, breaks up the monotony somewhat. If we are not expecting anything to actually occur, it is mildy amusing to wonder which new trope will be trotted out next. The explosions are many, they are well-staged, and they build nicely in intensity as the film progresses. While some of the action scenes toward the end tend toward the "indistiguishable mass of metal" look, most of the film is coherent, and Bay has taken care to cover his beloved explosions from all angles. You probably already know if you are the target audience for this film, but if (like me) you're not squarely in that demographic, playing "spot-the-cliche" can be quite a rewarding way to pass the movie's running time.
About that "plot": leaving subplots aside, the basic plot is that our hero Sam finds a shard of the Transformers' life-giving artifact, thought destroyed at the beginning of the first film, and spends the rest of the film trying to keep it away from the nefarious Decepticons who wish to destroy the sun (and with it, all life on earth). Whew. This bare-bones structure is nonspecific enough to allow director Michael Bay to hang all of the action-movie cliches he can on it. These include but are not limited to: the hero's hot girlfriend who in reality would have nothing to do with such a nebbish; racist jive-talking sidekicks; battles royales at an ancient site (the Pyramids, playing themselves) and in the streets of an Asian city (Shanghai, which may have been played by Vancouver for all we can tell about what happens there); pot brownies; a deadly female robot assassin; a visit by our hero to a strange dimension where he is given sage advice from the dead; a rogue ex-government agent; a Christ allegory; a tech-head sleazeball roommate; submarine battles; aliens who visited the ancient Egyptians; and the always-humorous spectacle of a tiny robot humping a pretty girl's leg.
Make no mistake: this movie is long (2.5 hours) and not exactly entertaining for long stretches. Regarding the film episodically, taking each new cliche as a self-contained unit, breaks up the monotony somewhat. If we are not expecting anything to actually occur, it is mildy amusing to wonder which new trope will be trotted out next. The explosions are many, they are well-staged, and they build nicely in intensity as the film progresses. While some of the action scenes toward the end tend toward the "indistiguishable mass of metal" look, most of the film is coherent, and Bay has taken care to cover his beloved explosions from all angles. You probably already know if you are the target audience for this film, but if (like me) you're not squarely in that demographic, playing "spot-the-cliche" can be quite a rewarding way to pass the movie's running time.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Phantom of the Paradise, 1 star
Here is a movie that was either going to get one star or five. By what I refer to as the Ebert standard, judging a film by whether it succeeds at what it attempts to do, this movie is a resounding and unequivocal success. Unfortunately, what it attempts to do is show us Brian de Palma's take on a musical horror-parody incorporating elements of Faust, Dorian Gray, Phantom of the Opera and Queen. Why anyone would think such a venture was worth undertaking in the first place is beyond me.
The plot concerns a songwriter who has his face mangled in a record-pressing machine (don't ask. no, really, don't) and succumbs to an offer from an evil music producer to sell his soul in exchange for a successful songwriting career. Somehow this manages to be both too much and too little plot for the film to handle. De Palma's technique here seems to be to throw as much as possible onscreen, and so we are confronted with insanely lavish and decorated sets, men wearing belts covered in antlers, blatant references to Psycho, a man having his teeth replaced with steel ones for no apparent reason other than their interesting appearance on camera, and bombastic and slightly catchy music by Paul Williams. Williams also plays the Faust/Dorian Gray character and seems to have reserved all his energy for the songwriting. The pacing of the film is all over the map. For a while it will seem as if events are happening at breakneck speed and the viewer struggles to remember them all. (Relief sets in when it becomes apparent that we will not need to remember 3/4 of what we have just seen.) Then suddenly the film will become deathly slow while a character spells out in agonizing detail everything that has just happened in the entire film.
Phantom of the Paradise reminded me of nothing so much as The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It is a relic of a time when cult classics were made, not born, and when filmmakers were not so overcome with self-consciousness that camp was still possible. The bad acting, overbearing music and threadbare plot are all hallmarks of a very particular kind of 1970's cinema that seems impossible to resurrect. In its own mind it is an utter success; I just hope I never have to see anything quite like it again.
The plot concerns a songwriter who has his face mangled in a record-pressing machine (don't ask. no, really, don't) and succumbs to an offer from an evil music producer to sell his soul in exchange for a successful songwriting career. Somehow this manages to be both too much and too little plot for the film to handle. De Palma's technique here seems to be to throw as much as possible onscreen, and so we are confronted with insanely lavish and decorated sets, men wearing belts covered in antlers, blatant references to Psycho, a man having his teeth replaced with steel ones for no apparent reason other than their interesting appearance on camera, and bombastic and slightly catchy music by Paul Williams. Williams also plays the Faust/Dorian Gray character and seems to have reserved all his energy for the songwriting. The pacing of the film is all over the map. For a while it will seem as if events are happening at breakneck speed and the viewer struggles to remember them all. (Relief sets in when it becomes apparent that we will not need to remember 3/4 of what we have just seen.) Then suddenly the film will become deathly slow while a character spells out in agonizing detail everything that has just happened in the entire film.
Phantom of the Paradise reminded me of nothing so much as The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It is a relic of a time when cult classics were made, not born, and when filmmakers were not so overcome with self-consciousness that camp was still possible. The bad acting, overbearing music and threadbare plot are all hallmarks of a very particular kind of 1970's cinema that seems impossible to resurrect. In its own mind it is an utter success; I just hope I never have to see anything quite like it again.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sleeper, 3 stars
What an odd duck of a movie this is! We have the normally cerebral Woody Allen attempting a sci-fi slapstick farce that appears to have a total budget of $731. And the kicker is, it kind of works.
I had the privilege of falling asleep on this movie at a party in college (I don't know what kind of parties you attended in college, but mine had lots of Woody and Fritz Lang) and had always longed to revisit it, only slightly because I aspire to be a Woody Allen completist. Upon a more energetic viewing, it holds up pretty well. Woody plays a clarinetist and health food store proprietor who is cryogenically frozen for 200 years and awakens in a sterilized future where he is recruited to help overthrow a paternal dictator who has made the public complacent in their anesthetization. Rarely is the entire plot of a film the MacGuffin, but that is the case here. The plot is merely a setup for some terrifically brave physical comedy by Allen. He wrangles a giant pudding, is hypnotized into thinking he is a Miss America contestant, and (in a scene whose symbolism I haven't yet parsed fully) rappels down the side of a building in a harness made of celluloid. At times he resembles Chaplin, with his small physique and deceptively careless use of his limbs. Diane Keaton gamely plays his love interest; a scene in which she plays Stanley Kowalski to Woody's Blanche DuBois got the biggest laughs from me. Some of the jokes haven't aged so well, like an Xavier Cugat reference or some jibes at Howard Cosell. The pace of the film seems a bit slack in places, which is troubling for a movie that's not quite 90 minutes. Perhaps this is splitting hairs, but the sound editing was a touch dissatisfying. Swing and ragtime music accompany several comedy scenes, probably to evoke the Keystone Kops, but at times it seemed that the music was cut in too early, giving away the fact that a joke was coming.
Overall this is a solid effort by Allen, falling squarely in the middle of his prolific filmography. I would recommend it mostly to fans of Allen or Keaton, or those looking to see what a more modern director can do with an old-fashioned slapstick sensibility. Most others would probably be more entertained elsewhere.
I had the privilege of falling asleep on this movie at a party in college (I don't know what kind of parties you attended in college, but mine had lots of Woody and Fritz Lang) and had always longed to revisit it, only slightly because I aspire to be a Woody Allen completist. Upon a more energetic viewing, it holds up pretty well. Woody plays a clarinetist and health food store proprietor who is cryogenically frozen for 200 years and awakens in a sterilized future where he is recruited to help overthrow a paternal dictator who has made the public complacent in their anesthetization. Rarely is the entire plot of a film the MacGuffin, but that is the case here. The plot is merely a setup for some terrifically brave physical comedy by Allen. He wrangles a giant pudding, is hypnotized into thinking he is a Miss America contestant, and (in a scene whose symbolism I haven't yet parsed fully) rappels down the side of a building in a harness made of celluloid. At times he resembles Chaplin, with his small physique and deceptively careless use of his limbs. Diane Keaton gamely plays his love interest; a scene in which she plays Stanley Kowalski to Woody's Blanche DuBois got the biggest laughs from me. Some of the jokes haven't aged so well, like an Xavier Cugat reference or some jibes at Howard Cosell. The pace of the film seems a bit slack in places, which is troubling for a movie that's not quite 90 minutes. Perhaps this is splitting hairs, but the sound editing was a touch dissatisfying. Swing and ragtime music accompany several comedy scenes, probably to evoke the Keystone Kops, but at times it seemed that the music was cut in too early, giving away the fact that a joke was coming.
Overall this is a solid effort by Allen, falling squarely in the middle of his prolific filmography. I would recommend it mostly to fans of Allen or Keaton, or those looking to see what a more modern director can do with an old-fashioned slapstick sensibility. Most others would probably be more entertained elsewhere.
Gunnin' For That #1 Spot, 2 stars
Either I am old or this movie has an attention deficit problem. (I refuse to entertain the notion that both might be true.) Here we have a documentary about the crème de le crème of high school basketball players and an exhibition game they play in Harlem. This is all well and good, the boys are talented and the game itself is fluid and hypnotic. At least, it is so when the editor of the film has not stepped all over the footage. My chief gripe with the film's style is twofold. First, the editing of the actual game is choppy and showy, and from the score progressions we see it is clear that some pivotal shots have been cut out. Occasionally we see the shot that ties the score or causes a lead change, but at other times that shot has clearly been left on the editing floor. A more comprehensive, flowing editing style would have served the material better. Secondly, when we are introcuced to each player we are shown a mock Googling of the player, with multiple windows opening and showing us an overview of media coverage of this or that young man. I am by no means a Luddite. All told, I probably spend five hours or more online each day. That being said, I do not go to a film to see the browsing experience recreated onscreen. Have we learned nothing from "The Net"? It is still not exciting to watch people use cmputers onscreen, despite the advances in Internet technology since then. When these montages begin, you can almost hear the worries of the filmmakers that skillful sportsmanship alone will not be enough to hold the attention of younger viewers.
Those of you who know me well may think this an odd choice of material for me. I admit that this was watched on one of the nights when it was not my turn to pick the movie. However, I was interested in Adam Yauch's filmmaking technique, as I am generally intrigued when artists from other disciplines decide to dabble in film. The topic seemed to have potential. Unfortunately, clearly visible pandering took the film down several notches and left me wishing someone had just turned on a camera from the bleachers of Rucker Park and let these kids play.
Those of you who know me well may think this an odd choice of material for me. I admit that this was watched on one of the nights when it was not my turn to pick the movie. However, I was interested in Adam Yauch's filmmaking technique, as I am generally intrigued when artists from other disciplines decide to dabble in film. The topic seemed to have potential. Unfortunately, clearly visible pandering took the film down several notches and left me wishing someone had just turned on a camera from the bleachers of Rucker Park and let these kids play.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Bent, 3.5 stars
And here I thought every permutation of Holocaust movie had been done...until I watched "Bent" last night. Here is a film which tries many things and succeeds at several; I would have given it higher points for originality had it not been based on a play from which many of the best ideas seem to have come.
The film addresses the little-discussed effects of the Holocaust on the gay community of Germany. Max, played fearlessly by Clive Owen, is a dashing member of the gay community in Berlin; he lives with an immature yet sensual dancer who is given to fits of jealousy over Max's roving eye. The opening scene of the movie is set in an outdoor cabaret where girls with syringes for arms dance topless and boys in sparkling gloves vogue to the music of a drag queen played by Mick Jagger. (That scene inspired a list to come soon of the film scenes I would most like to drop in on.) After Max brings home a gay Nazi who is tracked down and murdered by his superiors, Max and his lover go on the run. They are caught, and Max is forced to kill his lover on a train to Dachau to prove that he is not gay. For this Max wears a yellow star instead of a pink triangle, having successfully convinced the Nazis that he is a Jew. Once at Dachau, he strikes up a hesitant friendship with an openly gay campmate and they begin to fall in love, in the worst place and the worst circumstances in the world. I don't think I need spoiler tags to tell you that this doesn't end well, but I will refrain from telling you exactly how.
The movie has many things going for it, but in the end is taken down a notch by some fairly glaring flaws. The performances are one of the film's many strengths; all the actors seem completely committed and manage to convey intense emotion without going over the top (which can be a problem with lesser-known Holocaust films). The script, written by the writer of the play on which the film was based, is of course of fairly high quality. The signature device of the play (which has been transplanted whole to the film) is a scene in which Max and his new love stand side by side, describing a sexual encounter with each other but never touching. As well as having obvious relevance to places such as Nazi Germany, Saudi Arabia and Texas, where gay men live in fear of touching each other openly, it echoes the early days of the AIDS epidemic. Many who feared catching this new and fatal disease had to be creative about their intimacy, which was what this extreme example brought to mind. The dialogue overlaps and caresses itself, and the actors handle this flawlessly. However, I couldn't help thinking that in film, many dialogue scenes are shot this way, with each actor doing close-up separately and the scene spliced together in editing as if it were a dialogue. The fragmented nature of film takes away from the intensity of this scene, which surely would have worked much better on the stage. Regardless, it is a moving scene and, as far as I know, the only one which has earned a film an NC-17 rating for sexual (but not profane) language.
Chief among the film's problems is the way in which its symbolism translates to a realistic environment. Apparently the play is to be done in a bare, Beckettian setting, which would make the events more allegorical in nature. Plopping the play into the real world makes some of the more dramatic moments feel histrionic, through no fault of the actors. It simply seems unlikely that the plot would fall into place quite so neatly and obediently in a world of real train cars, threadbare bunks, and dusty labor. Still, this is a movie quite unlike any other, and worth seeing for its attempt to illuminate what must be one of the last unexplored corners of Holocaust atrocities.
The film addresses the little-discussed effects of the Holocaust on the gay community of Germany. Max, played fearlessly by Clive Owen, is a dashing member of the gay community in Berlin; he lives with an immature yet sensual dancer who is given to fits of jealousy over Max's roving eye. The opening scene of the movie is set in an outdoor cabaret where girls with syringes for arms dance topless and boys in sparkling gloves vogue to the music of a drag queen played by Mick Jagger. (That scene inspired a list to come soon of the film scenes I would most like to drop in on.) After Max brings home a gay Nazi who is tracked down and murdered by his superiors, Max and his lover go on the run. They are caught, and Max is forced to kill his lover on a train to Dachau to prove that he is not gay. For this Max wears a yellow star instead of a pink triangle, having successfully convinced the Nazis that he is a Jew. Once at Dachau, he strikes up a hesitant friendship with an openly gay campmate and they begin to fall in love, in the worst place and the worst circumstances in the world. I don't think I need spoiler tags to tell you that this doesn't end well, but I will refrain from telling you exactly how.
The movie has many things going for it, but in the end is taken down a notch by some fairly glaring flaws. The performances are one of the film's many strengths; all the actors seem completely committed and manage to convey intense emotion without going over the top (which can be a problem with lesser-known Holocaust films). The script, written by the writer of the play on which the film was based, is of course of fairly high quality. The signature device of the play (which has been transplanted whole to the film) is a scene in which Max and his new love stand side by side, describing a sexual encounter with each other but never touching. As well as having obvious relevance to places such as Nazi Germany, Saudi Arabia and Texas, where gay men live in fear of touching each other openly, it echoes the early days of the AIDS epidemic. Many who feared catching this new and fatal disease had to be creative about their intimacy, which was what this extreme example brought to mind. The dialogue overlaps and caresses itself, and the actors handle this flawlessly. However, I couldn't help thinking that in film, many dialogue scenes are shot this way, with each actor doing close-up separately and the scene spliced together in editing as if it were a dialogue. The fragmented nature of film takes away from the intensity of this scene, which surely would have worked much better on the stage. Regardless, it is a moving scene and, as far as I know, the only one which has earned a film an NC-17 rating for sexual (but not profane) language.
Chief among the film's problems is the way in which its symbolism translates to a realistic environment. Apparently the play is to be done in a bare, Beckettian setting, which would make the events more allegorical in nature. Plopping the play into the real world makes some of the more dramatic moments feel histrionic, through no fault of the actors. It simply seems unlikely that the plot would fall into place quite so neatly and obediently in a world of real train cars, threadbare bunks, and dusty labor. Still, this is a movie quite unlike any other, and worth seeing for its attempt to illuminate what must be one of the last unexplored corners of Holocaust atrocities.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Shakespeare Behind Bars (3.5 stars)
I feel a bit ashamed for never having heard of the prison Shakespeare program detailed in this small, thoughtful documentary; after all, the prison where it takes place was a 2-hour drive from my birthplace, and as a theater obsessive I probably should have been aware of such an affecting, unusual use of theater happening in my own backyard. My own shame aside, however, this is a documentary worth viewing. As with many documentaries of its size and scope, this is more due to the subject matter than the filmmaking, but both are parts of a worthwhile whole.
The Luther Luckett correctional complex in La Grange, KY apparently allows its inmates to perform a selected Shakespeare play every year, once for inmates and once for friends and family. The documentary follows a season in which "The Tempest", with its appropriate themes of forgiveness and redemption, has been chosen. It is unusual to watch this production unfold, since we see almost none of the trappings of a traditional backstage documentary about theater. There are no costume fittings, prop selections, or demands for pay raises. Instead, the company confronts entirely different and unique problems, such as what happens when a role must be recast because an actor is sent to "the hole" for obtaining illicit tattoos. The men filmed are open with their feelings in that mediated, slightly psycho-babbling way indicative of learning how to talk about themselves by listening to therapists. Let's just say they are all eager to tell us about their issues with their parents. Many of them choke up when describing their crimes; surprising no one, these are the men who have parole chances arising in the near future. The 2-term lifer we see is a bit more matter-of-fact when describing his crime. The revelations come in the scenes where these hardened men, practicing in a prison cafeteria, create geniune moments of thrilling emotion from the words of Shakespeare. Even the man pressed against his will into playing 15-year-old Miranda eventually begins altering his walk and carriage, and enjoys contemplating the body language changes he will employ to portray an adolescent girl. The inmates seem incredibly grateful for the imaginary journey this program allows them to take, and we learn at the end that it may be the only journey of any kind that they will undertake for some time.
I admit that as well as being biased toward this film as a former theater geek, I was also quite interested to see the countryside around La Grange. I was probably favorable toward the film as well because it reminded me of dating and hanging out in that area, where it was popular to stroll around the prison boundary on dates. (It was probably the most isolated place imaginable, which appeals to high-school couples.) It appears that the area has not changed much since I was there last, much like the words of Shakespeare that are probably still being practiced inside.
The Luther Luckett correctional complex in La Grange, KY apparently allows its inmates to perform a selected Shakespeare play every year, once for inmates and once for friends and family. The documentary follows a season in which "The Tempest", with its appropriate themes of forgiveness and redemption, has been chosen. It is unusual to watch this production unfold, since we see almost none of the trappings of a traditional backstage documentary about theater. There are no costume fittings, prop selections, or demands for pay raises. Instead, the company confronts entirely different and unique problems, such as what happens when a role must be recast because an actor is sent to "the hole" for obtaining illicit tattoos. The men filmed are open with their feelings in that mediated, slightly psycho-babbling way indicative of learning how to talk about themselves by listening to therapists. Let's just say they are all eager to tell us about their issues with their parents. Many of them choke up when describing their crimes; surprising no one, these are the men who have parole chances arising in the near future. The 2-term lifer we see is a bit more matter-of-fact when describing his crime. The revelations come in the scenes where these hardened men, practicing in a prison cafeteria, create geniune moments of thrilling emotion from the words of Shakespeare. Even the man pressed against his will into playing 15-year-old Miranda eventually begins altering his walk and carriage, and enjoys contemplating the body language changes he will employ to portray an adolescent girl. The inmates seem incredibly grateful for the imaginary journey this program allows them to take, and we learn at the end that it may be the only journey of any kind that they will undertake for some time.
I admit that as well as being biased toward this film as a former theater geek, I was also quite interested to see the countryside around La Grange. I was probably favorable toward the film as well because it reminded me of dating and hanging out in that area, where it was popular to stroll around the prison boundary on dates. (It was probably the most isolated place imaginable, which appeals to high-school couples.) It appears that the area has not changed much since I was there last, much like the words of Shakespeare that are probably still being practiced inside.
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