Portrait of the Artist as a Bad Father

Architect Glen Small, feeling unappreciated, with no books or significant critical studies of his work in print, drafted his will and testament with a special request: He bequeathed to his middle daughter Lucia the task of writing his biography. His hope was that she would document his achievements and thus firmly establish his professional reputation once and for all. He wasn’t near death; he was just bitter, and wanted the story to be finally told.

The assignment was strange for other reasons as well. Glen Small was closer to his oldest daughter, and his youngest daughter was a writer. So why had he chosen Lucia?

Despite having no answer to the question, she took him up on the offer with the hope that the project might bring the two of them closer together. But she had two caveats: that she make a film rather than a book, and that it cover the man as well as the work. With some hesitation, her father agreed.

The result, My Father the Genius, is amateurish, but in the best sense of the word: It’s a very personal film, with the feel of a home movie. With the exception of a few animations, there is little flourish or flare. Instead it presents a simple, eye-level portrait of a man and how his obsession with his work has affected his personal relationships. 

Glen Small was, by most accounts, a visionary architect in his younger years. He was a founder and faculty member of the Southern California Institute of Architecture and one of the principal proponents of ecologically sound design. His fantastically futuristic Biometric Biosphere combined eco-architecture with science fiction to create an arresting vision of the city of the future, a structure that would touch the ground in only a few places but could house 100,000 people. 

His more modest designs—the ones that actually got built—include houses, museums and commercial buildings that usually feature dramatic sweeping lines. “Sensuality,” as Small puts it, is his intent. 

But despite his talents, Small was brash, arrogant, rude, and at times downright stupid. He alienated his colleagues, jeopardized his career, undermined his own financial stability, and all but abandoned his wife and daughters. And, as we see in the film, he has apparently learned little from his mistakes.

Small is presented as an aptly named man, one so self-centered and tunnel-visioned that he repeatedly fails as father, as friend, as husband and as lover. His world view allows for little that does not center on himself and confirm his self-image. Granted, when a camera is in your face you’re inclined to behave as though you’re the center of attention, but we get the feeling that Small believes there should always be a camera in his face, that he is just that interesting and important. And the irony is that this is precisely what makes him compelling, if not personable, as a subject.

It is surprising and a bit disappointing that Lucia Small was unable to get better access to some of the buildings her father designed, and that there is little discussion of the merits of each structure, other than from Glen Small’s own perspective, which we at times suspect is an inflated view. But if you go into this film with only architecture in mind, or with the hope of finding an in-depth portrait of an artist, you’re bound to be disappointed, for My Father the Genius is only superficially concerned with these matters. Ultimately the film is not about whether Small is great or what he is like as a man; it is really Lucia’s story, the story of a daughter given a strange assignment, her willingness to take on that assignment, and the effects that assignment has on her relationships with her sisters and with her father. 

My Father the Genius (2005). Written, directed and produced by Lucia Small. Featuring Glen Small. 84 minutes. $29.95. www.myfatherthegenius.com.

Finding Poetry Amid the Horrors of World War II: The Burmese Harp and Fires on the Plain

Kon Ichikawa directed nearly 30 films in his native Japan before anyone took much notice of him. He was a studio director, taking assignments and completing them dutifully if not artfully. It was only when he and his wife/co-scenarist Natto Wada began developing their own projects that Ichikawa received his due recognition.

Two of his most renowned works, The Burmese Harp (1956) and Fires on the Plain (1959), have recently been released on DVD by Criterion. 

The Burmese Harp is often hailed as one of the masterpieces of Japanese humanist cinema. Based on a novel by Michio Takeyama, it is a thoughtful and compassionate view of Japanese soldiers fighting in Burma during World War II. A regiment, led by a captain who was a musician before the war, surrenders to British forces after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The captain has trained his men to sing as a choir and one member of the company has learned to play the Burmese harp, accompanying his comrades in cathartic folk songs during their imprisonment at the hands of the British. (If the oft-repeated theme seems familiar, it’s for good reason; it’s a Japanese derivation of “Home Sweet Home.”)

These men are patriotic and rue the fall of the Imperial Army, yet they are only human and thus weary of battle, eager to return home not only to surviving friends and family, but to do to their part in reconstructing their decimated nation. When the captain, who eloquently gives voice to this sentiment, learns that another Japanese regiment is entrenched on a mountain, refusing to surrender even though the war is over, he dispatches one of his men, Mizushima, the harp player, to ascend the mountain and persuade the stubborn company to surrender. When the company’s captain refuses, Mizushima’s company believes that he has perished on the mountain in the ensuing round of bombing.

As Mizushima’s company mourns the loss of their comrade, the captain is especially distraught, guilt-ridden for having sent the soldier needlessly to his death after the war’s conclusion. At one point his men ask him to let go of the notion that Mizushima may have survived, for although the company has come across a Buddhist monk who resembles him, they cannot confirm his identity. It would be easier, they say, to simply believe that the resemblance is coincidence. 

Meanwhile Ichikawa catches us up on Mizushima’s story. Wounded by the bombing, he is nursed back to health by a Buddhist monk. When he is able to walk again, Mizushima steals the monk’s robes to use as a disguise while trying to make his way back to his regiment. But he is waylaid by the grief and trauma he discovers along the way in the form of Japanese corpses, strewn across the landscape and abandoned to the elements. Mizushima is compelled to give proper burials to all he comes upon, and in the process he undergoes a transformation, the impostor monk becoming a true monk. And it is here that Ichikawa is at his best, seamlessly blending Mizushima’s physical and spiritual journeys with beautifully expressive technique. The director keeps the horizon always high in the frame, allowing his shots to be dominated by the rocky foreground, rough terrain that must be traversed en route to that horizon. Thus we see Mizushima struggling across the blood-stained landscape, his feet cut and bleeding, his soul tormented by the plight of his fallen countrymen.

Fires on the Plain, based on the 1952 novel by Shohei Ooka, is starker in its vision of warfare; it is a more harrowing version of a similar tale—more graphic, more comic, more disturbing.

Again, a Japanese soldier is left to fend for himself in a foreign land, this time the Philippines. Private Tamura makes his way across another rough landscape, encountering fellow soldiers along the way who, like him, have descended to varying degrees of depravity under horrific conditions. If The Burmese Harp focused on what was best in the soldiers of Japan’s Imperial Army, Fires on the Plain casts a merciless gaze on the worst. Soldiers are reduced to primitive survivalists, using, abusing and defrauding each other of the necessities of survival. It’s like an adult version of Lord of the Flies. 

But Ichikawa again manages to find the poetry in the turmoil, this time with a lovely metaphor of insects unable to see the greater world and context of their struggle, but concerned only with immediate obstacles. Our first glimpse of this device comes when Private Tamura takes a minute to marvel at an ant, placing it in his hand and watching it scramble madly across his palm. The metaphor comes more clearly into focus a bit later, when a group of Japanese soldiers attempts to cross a road and field under cover of darkness, right under the noses of Allied forces. One particularly artful shot shows the soldiers descending from the top of the frame, clinging to roots and vines as they scamper down an embankment, like so many insects filtering down the screen. They then writhe through tall grass toward the road, where they slowly crawl on all fours en masse like an infestation set on destroying the crops across the way.

Another memorable sequence presents a more light-hearted view of the conditions of survival. A pair of abandoned shoes lay on a path in the forest. The camera stays fixed on them as a soldier comes along, inspects them, and exchanges them for his own, followed by another soldier who does the same and so on down the line, until Tamura approaches and looks balefully through the soleless shoes before opting to go without shoes altogether. In the DVD’s liner notes critic Chuck Stephens points out the scene’s debt to Chaplin. While the scene obviously owes much to the famous boiled boot sequence from The Gold Rush (1925), it also calls to mind Chaplin’s short film Shoulder Arms (1918), which humorously and poignantly depicted the trials and tribulations of the little Tramp character while serving in the trenches of World War I.

More broadly though, Ichikawa has adopted the overall aesthetic of Chaplin, that genre-defying blend of pathos and humor that seeks to find truth and humanity amid deprivation and tragedy. With The Burmese Harp he finds dignity among the rank-and-file of the aggressive Imperial Army, and in Fires on the Plain he finds humanity and visual poetry amid the most gruesome of conditions.

The Burmese Harp (1956). 116 minutes. $29.95.

Fires on the Plain (1959). 104 minutes. $29.95.

Criterion Collection.  www.criterion.com.

Existential Despair in Antonioni's The Passenger

When I was 5 years old my kindergarten class, for whatever reason, took a field trip to the home of one of my classmates. Too young to have any notion of the local geography, I had no idea where the house was located. It was only when I stepped out the back door of the boy’s house into his backyard that I recognized the yellow playhouse and battered metal slide and realized that this was the house directly behind my own. I peeked through a hole in the fence and saw my own backyard: the lawn, the patio, the rusted swingset, the family dog sniffing about in the tall grass, the soccer ball under a tree where I had left it the day before.

It was a disconcerting experience to look back in on my life from another vantage point. For the first time I realized that to the boy who lived behind me, I was the boy who lived behind him. Thus I had to face the uncomfortable truth that I was not the center of the universe, but just one little boy from one family in one house in one neighborhood in a world of other little boys and families and houses and neighborhoods.

It was a revelation for which I was not quite ready. But, being 5, I soldiered on.

This notion of moving outward in order to look back in is the central theme of Michelangelo Antonioni’s The Passenger, in both content and form, though the protagonist’s epiphanies are hardly as simple or as benign. The film screens at 8:50 p.m. Friday as part of Pacific Film Archive’s ongoing retrospective of the modernist director’s career.

The Passenger stars Jack Nicholson, in one of his finest performances, as David Locke, an American journalist abroad who seizes an unforeseen opportunity to shed his life and identity in exchange for the life of Robertson, an acquaintance who has just died. Locke leaves behind a wife, a reputation, a home, everything, to take on the life of a man he barely knows. Using the man’s datebook to meet his appointments, Locke gradually unravels clues as to the life and identity of the man he has become, finding himself in more than a bit of trouble along the way.

We get a hint as to the catalyst of this adventure in the form of documentary footage of the journalist at work. In the clip, Locke, during an interview, hands over his camera at the request of his subject, who then casts the camera’s gaze back at Locke and begins to question the questioner. The tables are turned, and Locke, squirming before the lens, has nothing to say. He has unexpectedly been given a glimpse of himself—his first, it seems, and just for a moment—and has no answer for what he sees. He grimaces in discomfort, looks about nervously, then reaches forward to take the camera back, suggesting that he is fundamentally ill-equipped to deal with the truth with which he has been presented.

How much more resilient the 5-year-old who faces such a revelation, for he is unencumbered by the lifetime of assumptions and psychic inertia built up by the 35-year-old—a series of elaborate constructions each of which must be re-examined. The child’s epiphany is at least rooted in a sense of place; he sees a yard and a house, a family within the house and the house within a neighborhood—while Locke looks inward and finds nothing at all, or at least nothing he recognizes.

Thus he takes the opportunity to adopt a new identity, to shed the dead skin of a life through which he has been sleepwalking and to usurp the life and identity of a dead man, to become a passenger on the road of another man’s narrative. The journey is both alluring and dangerous; Locke, as Roberston, picks up a young lover, negotiates with underworld thugs, and cruises scenic byways as he works his away across Europe.

The closing sequence is a tour de force, a demonstration of bravura filmmaking for which the groundwork has been carefully laid over the preceding two hours. In a single, unbroken shot, Antonioni again employs the out-and-in motif, with Locke lying down on a hotel bed and turning away as the camera begins an extremely slow tracking movement toward the window. The movement and ambient sounds of the street draw our attention outside: Locke’s lover walks away, then returns; a boy throws stones; a trumpet sounds; cars pass by, stop, and move on; the two thugs arrive, and one walks toward the girl. All the while the camera steadily pushes forward until, just before it passes through the window, it pans slightly to the right to catch the faint reflection of the second thug entering the room, drawing his gun and using the rumbling of a passing car to mask the shot that kills Locke.

The camera continues outward and into the street, following the arrival of the police and Locke’s estranged wife. And as she enters the hotel, the camera, still in one unbroken shot, turns back toward the building and pushes again toward the window, looking back in as she and the girl and the police enter the room. “I never knew him,” she says, when asked if she recognizes the man on the bed. “Yes,” says the girl, when the question is put to her. And Antonioni has left us with something of a metaphysical quandary.

Who is this man? Is it Locke? Is it Robertson? Is it either, or is it anyone at all? Antonioni has forced us to look back in on our assumptions and re-examine the man we have come to know over the course of the film. Yet by the time the camera has made its journey outward, wheeled around and turned back in on itself, reality has shifted; Locke has ceased to exist. For that very act of introspection and the self-consciousness it requires permanently alters the man, the child or the moviegoer who experiences it, and in that long, lingering single shot, the film itself takes on the slow-motion processing of that self-awareness, stretching to contain not just action, but the mental processing of that action—the self-conscious preview, experience, re-play and analysis of its every facet.

The Passenger is perhaps the Antonioni's most successful merging of his patient, contemplative style and his somewhat grim world view, coalescing in the most tantalizingly inconclusive of conclusions. It is the dark side of rationalism: It is not “I think, therefore I am,” but “I think too much, therefore I cease to exist.”

Black Book Beyond Repair

Dutch director Paul Verhoeven made his mark in 1977 with Soldier of Orange, a film about the German occupation of the Netherlands during World War II. Now, after a 20-year-stint in Hollywood making films such as RoboCop, Total Recall, Basic Instinct and Showgirls, Verhoeven has returned to Holland to make another World War II epic, Black Book. But unfortunately the director took home with him every unpalatable and hackneyed trick he’d picked up in his travels.

Is there not enough drama, enough tragedy, enough evil and nobility and pain and sorrow in the story of the Holocaust? Apparently not, as Verhoeven and fellow screenwriter Gerard Soeteman have fashioned the raw material of history into a trite melodrama, attempting to merge the all-too-real horrors of the Nazi march across Europe and persecution of the Jews with the twists and turns of a swashbuckling thriller.

Every overwrought and cliched B-movie device is in use. It’s a veritable glossary of cheap and simplistic filmmaking: The suffering but enduring heroine, who has seen so much, suffered so much, that she cannot even cry...until she can; the milquetoast resistance-fighter sideman for whom the firing of a gun into a dirty Nazi Jew-killer would mean going against every Christian moral fiber in his body...unless that Nazi Jew-killer should heap insult upon crime against humanity by taking the Lord’s name in vain. Every symbol is underlined and in bold, used, overused and repeated in close-up: Witness the prized locket containing portraits of martyred Jewish parents, employed once as a key to gain admittance to the office of a sympathetic gentile, and later used, in dramatic close-up, as a tool to quite literally seal the fate of a traitor and—once again all-too-literally—for the beset-upon heroine to find closure...by locking the traitor in a coffin where he will suffocate along with the jewels and cash he looted from his victims.

The score too adds to the mess, descending more often than not into camp Hollywood edge-of-your-seat spectacle. Villainous acts are underscored with ominous, Darth Vader-esque chords; suspense is heightened with blasts of the horn section and the staccato thrusts of plaintive violins. Every five minutes you get the feeling Indiana Jones himself is about to burst into the room, and what a welcome relief if he did.

The villains of Black Book would be worthy of him. They dish out a wealth of sexualized cruelty in graphic scenes that have become a Verhoeven trademark. The head of the Dutch Gestapo doesn’t merely hold our heroine at gunpoint, but waits until she’s topless and points the gun at her exposed breast. And when an unruly mob assails her in a prison camp, they again make sure she’s half-naked before dumping a steaming cauldron of excrement over her head.

There may be talent and skill at work in Black Book, but unfortunately it has been applied toward unworthy material. For no amount of directorial talent or photographic competence can make this film work; no cast of polished, handsome actors—no matter how lovely their period costumes—can rescue the turgid dialogue. Nothing can save Black Book from itself. Not even Indiana Jones.

Black Book (2007). Directed by Paul Verhoeven. Written by Verhoeven and Gerard Soeteman. Starring Carice van Houten, Sebastian Kock, Thom Hoffman, Halina Reijn. 145 minutes. In Dutch, German and Hebrew with English subtitles. Rated R for strong violence, graphic nudity, sexuality and language.

Brother vs. Brother in The Wind That Shakes the Barley

Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley is the story of the nascent Irish Republican Army and its struggle against British occupation in the early 1920s.

“If they bring their savagery over here, we will meet it with savagery of our own!” the group’s leader calls to his guerilla troops after a successful ambush of British forces on a remote country lane. He angrily declares that their actions will send a message “that will echo and reverberate throughout the world.”

Thus develops a seemingly endless cycle of escalating violence that does in fact reverberate throughout Ireland, Britain and eventually the world, and indeed finds echoes of late in America’s exploits in the Middle East. Loach and screenwriter Paul Laverty do an excellent job of capturing the essence of the conflict from multiple vantage points: from that of the die-hards, who believe in the nobility of the cause; from the contingent of pragmatists that eventually accepts a compromise with the British; and from the long view, in which the eye-for-an-eye violence and retribution becomes a weary demonstration of futility and human frailty. In this film nothing is black or white or good or evil; politics and motivations are all as gray as the fog-shrouded landscape.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 2006, as well as a number of other European awards, and it is not difficult to understand why. Almost everything about the film is well done; it is beautifully photographed, features strong performances by compelling actors, and it is directed and edited with competence and grace. Quiet scenes are handled with restraint, while the more dramatic and violent episodes are forceful without ever being excessively graphic or gratuitous.

However, the film has one significant flaw which threatens to undermine its artistry and impact. Loach and Laverty have unfortunately fallen prey to one of the more tedious and ham-fisted of devices: In order to amplify the already clear theme of brother pitted against brother, they have found it necessary to dramatize the conflict all too literally, with two familial brothers finding themselves divided over the issue of the compromise treaty.

It’s a bit insulting. Do we need the story reduced to melodrama in order to comprehend the enormity of it all? Did the filmmakers not trust the audience to grasp the tragedy of the conflict? Or was it merely a clumsy attempt to elevate the tale to Biblical proportions, with Cain rising up to slay Abel in service to the twin causes of acquiescence and moderation?

It’s a structural flaw, and thus it infects the entire production. But if you can get past that and accept the contrivance, Loach and Laverty and a talented cast manage to bring the story to life in spite of it.

Forbidden Hollywood: Pre-Code Classics

The Pre-Code era, running roughly between 1930 and 1934, saw American filmmaking venture into frank and sometimes scurrilous examinations of the shadier side of life. They pushed the envelope, a bit too far in fact, causing the Hays Office to finally begin enforcing the Code Hollywood had thus far managed to evade.

Turner Classic Movies sheds light on this fascinating era of film history with 'Forbidden Hollywood," a series of DVD sets collecting some of the best films of the period.

Forbidden Hollywood 1

Red-Headed Woman (1932) is a fairly wild tale, featuring Jean Harlow as a ruthless gold digger and home-wrecker who will stop at nothing to get what she wants. The film would likely go over well today in a theater with a live audience, but on video it seems to lack what many films of the early 1930s lack: a sophisticated use of sound. Without effective music and rhythmic editing, long silences between lines of dialogue appear awkward and strained.

Also included on the set is director James Whale’s version of Waterloo Bridge (1931), the story of a down-and-out showgirl in war-torn France who is forced to turn to prostitution to make ends meet. It’s a sympathetic portrayal of a prostitute, a plotline the Code would later render impossible on the screen, even if she does come to a tragic end.

The film features Mae Clark and Douglass Montgomery as star-crossed lovers who find each other amid the air raids and destruction of World War I. The performances are strong and the special effects, though rudimentary, manage to lend an element of stirring if surreal tragedy to the proceedings despite the transparency of the techniques.

But the real value of this set is the inclusion of not one but two versions of Baby Face (1933), probably the most notorious and best of the Pre-Code classics. The film was released just as the Code came into full effect, and thus it was heavily edited, and for 70 years the original, uncensored version was thought lost. However, a print was finally discovered a few years ago and toured the country in theatrical release (see review, Daily Planet, May 26, 2006).

The film is one of the most gleefully salacious of the era, following Barbara Stanwyck as Lilly Powers as she sleeps her way to the top, literally floor by floor up the ranks of a New York bank.

The Turner release allows viewers to see both versions side by side, revealing that the attempts to tone down the film were more varied, more numerous and more hilariously inept than previously thought. The print that circulated last year was accompanied by a few additional scenes after the closing credits to give a sense of some of the changes made to the film, but the DVD release reveals much more. There must be more than a dozen edits in the first 20 minutes alone: excised words and lines, trimmed shots that jump awkwardly from one to the next, clumsy inserts covering other deletions. It’s like trimming every other word from a Lenny Bruce monologue, or removing all the innuendo from a Groucho Marx routine—take out a few pieces and the whole structure falls apart.

The cover labels this as the just the first volume in a series of Pre-Code releases from Turner, though no word yet as to what lies in store. The project promises to shed much-needed light on one the most fascinating eras of American filmmaking, when an industry found that its morals and mores were greatly at odds with a puritan government.

Forbidden Hollywood 2

Volume 2 starts off with two Shearer vehicles. The first, The Divorceé (1930), tells the story of a woman who responds to her husband’s infidelity with a pledge to live as a man lives, and thus begins a string of extramarital dalliances that the enforcement of the Code would crack down on in just a few years. Not for decades would women on screen be able to live and love as freely. Also featured is Shearer’s follow-up, A Free Soul (1931).

Ruth Chatterton runs an automobile factory in Female (1933), taking and casting aside lovers from her stable of employees at will and transferring them to a Canadian subsidiary if they get too attached. Eventually she meets her match, and from there things go down hill a bit in the feminism department until finally crashlanding in the end with a severe cop-out in which she transfers control of the firm to her husband while setting out on her new goal of producing as many as nine children. 

Three on a Match (1933) shows Bette Davis, Joan Blondell and Ann Dvorak as they grow from children to adults, Dvorak along the way slipping into a life of drug addiction. Humphrey Bogart plays a small role as a gangster thug. 

Last is Night Nurse (1931), a strange story in which Barbara Stanwyck and Blondell do battle with an evil chauffeur (Clark Gable) in an effort to prevent a case of child abuse. The film is a mix of brash comedy, torrid melodrama and frolicking cheesecake as numerous pretenses are found for Stanwyck and Blondell to repeatedly strip off their clothing. 

Also included is a documentary, Thou Shalt Not: Sex, Sin and Censorship in Pre-Code Hollywood, that puts these films in historical context, sketching out the scandals that led to Hollywood’s first tepid and later strident efforts at self-censorship. 

Forbidden Hollywood 1

Red-Headed Woman (1932).

Waterloo Bridge (1931).

Baby Face (1933).

Forbidden Hollywood 2

The Divorceé (1930).

A Free Soul (1931).

Female (1933).

Three on a Match (1933).

Night Nurse (1931)

Truth and Past Collide in Grbavica: Land of My Dreams

With Grbavica: Land of My Dreams, director Jasmila Zbanic has fashioned a thoughtful and moving film about characters defined by the past while yearning to break free from it.

Esma, a single mother, works two jobs while struggling to raise her 13-year-old daughter Sara amid the ruins and wreckage of Sarajevo’s Grbavica neighborhood, an area that functioned as a death camp during the Yugoslav wars of the 1990s. The understated photography and camerawork emphasize the battered and worn buildings and streets. Like the people who inhabit it, Grbavica is a work in progress, a neighborhood in ruins awaiting reconstruction.

Mass graves are unearthed on a seemingly regular basis, and Esma is among the survivors who venture each week to the coroner’s office in an effort to identify the remains of lost loved ones in hopes of finding closure. This is a community of survivors still stunned by the enormity of the tragedy they have suffered; they cling to the past yet are eager to move on, to make sense of what remains.

Actress Mirjana Karanovic, as Esma, has the ability to convey a wealth of emotions with just a glance. Her face is haunted and weary, struggling in vain to mask the pain and anxiety that shape her daily life. She’s not sure she can trust people, and she has even less faith in her own ability to judge them. In every interaction Esma seems to be running through myriad interpretations of every word and gesture; she is not able to simply have a conversation, but instead weighs and measures the significance of every nuance before embarking on a reaction, a reaction which isn’t natural or instinctive but rather an only partially convincing re-creation of a natural reaction.

Esma is defined by her experiences during the war, yet she keeps her painful memories bottled up, as though with the hope that by denying them she may one day come to believe they never happened. She is not in therapy; she’s not ready for that yet. She only turns up for support group meetings once a month, when government checks are doled out.

Her daughter Sara, meanwhile, has problems of her own. Luna Mijovic portrays the budding teenager as a tomboy, aggressive, moody and mean. The absence of a father and the increasing strain on her mother and thus their home life only compound her troubles. She too looks to the past to shape her identity, taking great pride in her status as the daughter of a shaheed, a war martyr, using this knowledge as both a badge of honor as well as a convenient excuse for bad behavior when she finds herself facing discipline at school. Sara’s identity depends on a past that precedes her birth, and when, eventually, doubt is cast on that narrative, she reacts swiftly and angrily.

But this very revelation, the exposure of lies devised as protection for both daughter and mother, brings with it a new and perhaps more powerful narrative of the past, one that grants the mother the overdue credit of a survivor—credit she has long denied herself—and that grants the daughter perhaps, in a curious way, an even more exalted status. For she can now take pride not in the vague tales of a long-lost heroic father, but in the everyday reality of being the strong, blossoming, fierce daughter of a living, breathing—and ultimately heroic—mother, a survivor of war and its depravities, a woman whose strength is all the more admirable and dignified for the fact that it endures.

Both women have seen their lives turned inside out not so much by tragedy as by the deceptions used to conceal that tragedy. And when a bit of truth manages to break through those barriers, they find themselves at long last on the road to recovery.

Grbavica: Land of My Dreams (2005). Written and directed by Jasmila Zbanic. Starring Mirjana Karanovic and Luna Mijovic. 90 minutes. Not Rated. 

Color Me Kubrick and the Cult of Malkovich

After more than 25 years in the movie business, John Malkovich has carved out a unique niche for himself, a cinematic netherworld equal parts post-modernism and cult of personality.

His charisma has always been apparent, whether adding a dash of suave cruelty to Dangerous Liasons (1988) or mercurial menace to In the Line of Fire (1993). But it has been his more recent, more adventurous work in smaller, independent films that has firmly established his reputation as something of a maverick.

Malkovich plays the lead role in Color Me Kubrick, a small, quirky film based on true events that opens this weekend at Shattuck Cinemas in downtown Berkeley. He plays Peter Conway, a con man who passed himself off for months as legendary film director Stanley Kubrick, swindling a string of star-struck victims along the way. He took money from them, slept with them, promised them roles in his films, even offered them financial backing for their own endeavors.

Director Brian Cook and screenwriter Anthony Frewin were there as the real-life drama unfolded, the former as Kubrick’s assistant director, the latter as his personal assistant. Frewin in fact was responsible for screening the calls that started coming in from irate strangers who would have Kubrick’s head for having fleeced them in the days and weeks previous, in ramshackle bars and nightclubs and taxicabs all over London.

There are many paths that could be taken in adapting such material for the screen. The story could easily lend itself to a psychological drama about a man who seeks escape from his dreary existence by adopting the identity of a famous recluse; or a noirish melodrama of a con artist operating in seedy bars, with plenty of narrow escapes and shady intrigue; or a journalistic mystery perhaps, with reporters unraveling the sordid tale of a smooth-talking seducer taking money and favors from down-and-out would-be stars all over London.

Instead the filmmakers have opted for another approach, one that contains elements of all of the above while playing up the absurdist aspects of the story in the creation of a film that poses more questions than it answers. They have chosen to emphasize the humor and depravity of Conway’s ruse without attempting to divine the motivations behind the charade, electing to make a piece of light entertainment rather than a probing drama. They’ve taken more than a few liberties with the tale, embellishing here and there and working with Malkovich in fashioning the already eccentric Conway into a character even more flamboyant and inscrutable.

The film doesn’t present Conway as a master con artist; he’s clumsy, he gets caught now and then, and when he does escape it’s more often the result of luck rather than cunning. In fact, the character, like the real-life man, doesn’t even know much about Kubrick or his films and doesn’t bother to do much research. Instead he relies on instinct, improvising the character anew with each new situation. An interesting study could have been built upon the various incarnations of Kubrick that Conway creates: For some victims, he portrays the director as a suave sophisticate, sometimes with a British accent, sometimes with Malkovich’s own jaded purr; for others he presents Kubrick as a brash New Yorker, or an arrogant Las Vegas lounge lizard; for still others, a mild-mannered upper-crust American, weary of recognition and thus traveling under an assumed name. On a whim he decides which incarnation best suits his victim and then proceeds to soften him up, flattering him with the attention of one of the world’s best-known but least-visible film directors.

The movie is episodic and slightly discursive, never dull but often rambling. Cook and Frewin never quite manage to find the thread which could pull the whole thing together. Instead the film merely revels in Conway’s deceptions, true and otherwise, taking pleasure in the eccentricity of the man and his brazen scams and infusing them with wry comic touches. For instance, iconic musical themes from classic Kubrick films appear throughout, often providing ironic counterpoint to the action. A particularly effective example shows Conway, after a night of Kubrick-fueled deception and debauchery, stumbling downstairs from his low-rent hovel, crossing the street past the “Bleu Danube” adult shop, and tossing his dirty clothes into an open machine at the laundromat—all choreographed to the delicate strains of Johann Strauss’ On the Beautiful Blue Danube, the piece used to such great effect in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The inspired decision to cast Malkovich is the film’s saving grace, adding a whole new dimension to the proceedings. Since Being John Malkovich (1999), the actor’s image—eccentric, bemused, arrogant, slightly bored but always enigmatic and vaguely dangerous—has in a way become the subject of many of his films. Thus Cook and Frewin are able to employ the actor’s self-relexive persona as a hook on which to hang the film’s increasingly surreal episodes, bringing layers of complexity to an already strange tale. For it isn’t merely Malkovich playing Conway, but rather it is Malkovich playing “John Malkovich” playing Peter Conway playing Stanley Kubrick. And the kaleidoscopic tone becomes even more mind boggling in a scene where Malkovich-as-Malkovich-as-Conway-as-Kubrick regales dinner companions with tales of conflicts with studio management over the casting of John Malkovich in the lead for his next film.

Color Me Kubrick could have benefited from a more direct narrative, a more conventional through-line to tie together its absurdist humor and flights of eccentric fancy. Instead it relies on the cult of Malkovich, showcasing the actor’s strange mystique. It may not be a great film, but if you count yourself among the cult, it’s quite a ride.

Color Me Kubrick (2007). Directed by Brian Cook. Written by Anthony Frewin. Starring John Malkovich. 89 minutes. Not rated. 

Ralph Nader: An Unreasonable Man

When, in her final column, Molly Ivins called for the people to get out in the streets, bang pots and pans and raise hell, lefties all over the country responded with tributes and clarion calls to heed her message. Meanwhile, for more than six years, many of these same self-described liberals have excoriated the most accomplished and tenacious hell-raiser of them all, Public Pot-and-Pan-Banger Number One, Ralph Nader.

An Unreasonable Man, a new documentary opening this weekend at Shattuck Cinemas in downtown Berkeley, examines the career of the controversial consumer advocate-turned-presidential candidate, giving much needed context and perspective to a lifetime of public service.

The film argues that it has almost become axiomatic, despite much evidence to the contrary, that Nader cost Al Gore the 2000 election, his 19,000 votes in Florida spanning the 537-vote differential between Gore and Bush many times over. The inconvenient truth of the matter, however, is that there were 10 third-party candidates on the Florida ballot and every one of them received more than 537 votes. And nationwide, more than 10 million registered Democrats forsook Gore in favor of Bush. Meanwhile Nader, once a left-wing hero, became a pariah almost overnight, trashed by progressives for defending the very same values and truths for which they claimed to stand. Finally, Democrats could speak with one voice.

An Unreasonable Man documents the efforts, from both the right and the left, to undermine Nader and his causes, from General Motors’ blundering attempts to smear him in the 1960s as well as the more concerted and successful maneuvers by the Republican and Democratic parties to keep him from even attending, much less participating in, the presidential debates. For the most part it’s a simple and straightforward film, presenting the views of Nader’s supporters as well as his opponents, including many who once counted themselves among the former but have since joined the latter. But, even though directors Henriette Mantel and Steve Skrovan have ostensibly attempted to present a balanced portrait of Nader’s career with the intent of letting the viewer make his own evaluations of the man and his record, at times they tip their hand, revealing their own sympathetic views. For instance, towards the end of the film, as Nader, in an interview, gives voice to the principles that drive him, the directors find it impossible to resist the urge to back his words with a soaring, patriotic score.

But for the most part the filmmakers are able to stay in the background and simply let their subjects do the talking. And they do plenty. Journalist Eric Alterman says it’s time Nader left the country; he’s done enough damage here. Phil Donahue takes issue with those who criticized Nader for claiming in 2000 that there wasn’t a dime’s bit of difference between the two political parties; the Democrats then spent the next six years proving him right, Donahue says, caving in to the Bush administration’s every whim. Some former Nader’s Raiders say their erstwhile leader has lost his way; others consider the man an American hero.

Among the more humorous moments are the appearances of Michael Moore, a man who has made a name for himself with films in which he juxtaposes bits of footage to reveal the hypocrisy of those he targets. Here the tables are turned as we see Moore campaigning for Nader in 2000, asking his audience “If you don’t vote your conscience now, when will you start?”, then spinning 180 degrees around by 2004 to chastise those who took his advice, equating a vote for Nader as a transitory moment of pleasure that can only lead to a lifetime of pain.

One of the more fascinating dynamics that have arisen from Nader’s clash with his one-time loyalists is the pressure that has been brought to bear on the many public interest organizations he has founded. Some of these groups have found it more difficult to do their work; fundraising and outreach efforts have suffered due to the diminished reputation of their figurehead, who, in many cases, is no longer even involved with these groups. It’s ironic that former President Jimmy Carter should count himself among Nader’s critics, as a similar effect was repeated recently with the publication of Carter’s book, Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid. Just as some of Nader’s colleagues feel their work has been hindered by his political campaigns, the backlash against Carter’s book led to the resignation of several Carter Center staffers who felt Carter’s decision to speak his mind on the Israel-Palestine conflict undermined the efforts of the center to continue its role as a mediator and non-partisan monitor of elections in the Middle East.

It’s an interesting question: Should one pursue one’s long-term goals even when that strategy jeopardizes one’s own short-term tactics? Both men are acting on the principle that truth always wins out, no matter the immediate consequences, and that ultimately history will rule in their favor. And both seem secure in the knowledge that their legacies, far from being tarnished by these actions, will one day be defined by them.

An Unreasonable Man (2007). Directed by Henriette Mantel and Steve Skrovan. 122 minutes. Not rated. 

Vittorio De Sica's Bicycle Thieves

Some films carry with them the burden of their own achievements, their reputations so ingrained in the public consciousness that often those who have never seem them convince themselves they have. And when they finally do see those films the expectations can be almost insurmountable, rendering the experience underwhelming. Try explaining to the uninitiated the allure of Michael Curtiz's Casablanca, or the innovation and genius of Orson Welles' Citizen Kane. For many younger viewers these films are merely overhyped relics from a pitiful, technologically challenged era.

Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves (1948) is one of those films. Those seeing it for the first time, stripped of its historical and political context, may be slightly baffled, and not by its slice-of-life documentary approach, its focus on the everyday lives of common people and ultimate lack of closure. Instead, the problem stems from the fact that these techniques have become commonplace and too often employed in lesser films that only aspire to the humanity and depth of a film like Bicycle Thieves, one of the classics of Italy’s vaunted neo-realist movement.

Criterion has released the film in a new DVD edition that features a pristine transfer as well as extra features that help locate this enduring masterpiece in the cinematic pantheon.

The plot is simple: In Rome, during the aftermath of World War II, when out-of-work men roam the city like dogs, Antonio Ricci gets hired to put up posters around the city. The only requirement is that he own a bicycle. Things are looking up for him and his family for about a day or so, until his bicycle is stolen. The rest of the film largely consists of Antonio and his young son desperately scouring the city for the stolen bike.

De Sica did not embrace the neo-realist label, though this and several other of his works have come to define it. The movement began as a reaction to the rather staid environment in Italian filmmaking at the time. It was a complacent industry, modeled to an extant after the American film industry, manufacturing light escapist fantasy for the masses. The Italian film industry had been built up in the years before World War II by Mussolini as a method of shoring up the fascist narrative, but the machinery he put in place would, once the war was over, serve as a powerful means of documenting the tragic effects of that narrative.

The neo-realists’ idea was to take this unique medium and turn its gaze on the real world, to eschew manufactured sets, tidy plotlines, ornate photography and camera movements and instead simply confront everyday life. The conceit even extended to the casting, as it did in Bicycle Thieves, with De Sica hiring non-professional actors for the lead roles.

Simple touches are sprinkled throughout the film, details which may not seem especially subtle today but certainly were by the standards of most Hollywood fare of the time: The posters Antonio must plaster along the backalleys of Rome feature glamorous images of Rita Hayworth in luxuriant repose, in stark contrast to the run-down environs and egos of the main characters; and when Antonio lifts his wife to a window to peer into the headquarters of his new employer and admire the building’s relative opulence, the window is abruptly closed from within. Thus the message is clearly and effectively conveyed that the finer things in life are not to be had by these down-and-out folks, though optimism and ambition still glitter in their eyes.

Bicycle Thieves presents a moving and compassionate portrait of the working class struggling in the face of deprivation and poverty, and though the film’s reputation may precede it, at times to the point of distraction, the film’s techniques are ultimately as poignant and as timeless as its content.

Bicycle Thieves (1948). Directed by Vittorio De Sica. 89 minutes. In Italian with English subtitles. Criterion Collection. $39.95. www.criterion.com.