Showing posts with label Documentary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Documentary. Show all posts
Weird Nightmare
Directed by Raymond Douglas Davies in 1993, Weird Nightmare documents the making of the Hal Willner's 1992 Mingus tribute record Weird Nightmare: Meditations on Mingus.
In multiple parts, just follow the numbers …
8: The Mormon Proposition
Directed by Reed Cowan
Red Flag Releasing
Following the passage of California’s Proposition 8, a bill that constitutionally outlaws gay couples from legally marrying, rage and frustration was concentrated towards the Mormon Church for their supposed role in passing the legislation. Many suspected that church leadership in Salt Lake City had played a large role in financing and coordinating the campaign, yet until 8: The Mormon Proposition, the exact involvement and intention of the Mormon Church in passing the bill has remained ambiguous at best.
8: The Mormon Proposition exposes the deep seeded anti-gay bias within the Mormon Church and provides answers to questions about the church’s actual political involvement, something that has raised suspicion for decades. The film reveals a well-oiled and infinitely wealthy political action force operating largely under anyone’s radar, until now.
What surprised me most about the Mormon involvement with the campaign was discovering that church officials actually required church members in California to attend a special satellite broadcast from Salt Lake City regarding the ballot initiative.
Aware of its negative public image, leaders instructed church members to maintain secrecy about the broadcast. M. Russell Ballard, a top church authority, told followers to consider the broadcast “to be as though we were sitting in my living room having a confidential talk about a serious concern.”
Despite this sentiment, full audio of the broadcast was leaked, and shows leaders commanding members to give as much time and money as possible to help pass the legislation.
8: The Mormon Proposition has many heroes: current and former Mormons who risked social banishment to take a stand against their religion’s involvement with Proposition 8 and the potent anti-gay attitude of the church.
Shining among such heroes is Linda Stay, an active Utah Mormon and mother to Tyler Barrick, a gay California man in a long-term relationship. Stay’s own “coming out,” as she refers to it, was publicly taking a stand against Proposition 8 in order to support her son’s happiness and right to marry.
As an example of parents who uphold the church’s position the film introduces Marilyn and Fred Matis, authors of the book In Quiet Desperation: Understanding The Challenge Of Same-Gender Attraction. The description of the book states it is written for those who have loved ones suffering in “quiet desperation” with “same-gender attraction,” and how to “reach out with love” to such people.
The parents wrote the book shortly after the death of their son Stuart, who had spent his entire life trying to overcome homosexual feelings. Stuart’s “quiet desperation” led him to shoot himself in the head inside a Mormon Church house at age thirty-two.
In their book the parents write: “Each of us had an indescribable sense of peace after Stuart’s death.” When asked about their position on Proposition 8, the couple stated their only position was the position of the church.
The film does an excellent job portraying the many consequences that such widespread bigotry has on a community. Utah leads the nation in teen suicide, and studies show that a large proportion of victims are gay Mormons. Thousands of homeless teens occupy Utah streets, most fleeing intolerance by their families. The film even exposes the former use of frontal lobotomies in Utah to attempt to treat men “charged” with homosexuality
While the documentary paints a bleak picture of shocking faith-based bigotry, it ends with images of passionate masses, refusing to give up on the battle for equality.
Similar passion was exhibited in the civil rights struggles of the last century. Then, too, the Mormon Church lagged behind the rest of the country, not allowing members of color receive full privileges until 1978. The passionate masses will convince all viewers that the fight for gay rights will eventually be won, and that history will record the Mormon Church once again being on the wrong side of this civil rights battle.
Review by Janice Formichella
Red Flag Releasing
Following the passage of California’s Proposition 8, a bill that constitutionally outlaws gay couples from legally marrying, rage and frustration was concentrated towards the Mormon Church for their supposed role in passing the legislation. Many suspected that church leadership in Salt Lake City had played a large role in financing and coordinating the campaign, yet until 8: The Mormon Proposition, the exact involvement and intention of the Mormon Church in passing the bill has remained ambiguous at best.
8: The Mormon Proposition exposes the deep seeded anti-gay bias within the Mormon Church and provides answers to questions about the church’s actual political involvement, something that has raised suspicion for decades. The film reveals a well-oiled and infinitely wealthy political action force operating largely under anyone’s radar, until now.
What surprised me most about the Mormon involvement with the campaign was discovering that church officials actually required church members in California to attend a special satellite broadcast from Salt Lake City regarding the ballot initiative.
Aware of its negative public image, leaders instructed church members to maintain secrecy about the broadcast. M. Russell Ballard, a top church authority, told followers to consider the broadcast “to be as though we were sitting in my living room having a confidential talk about a serious concern.”
Despite this sentiment, full audio of the broadcast was leaked, and shows leaders commanding members to give as much time and money as possible to help pass the legislation.
8: The Mormon Proposition has many heroes: current and former Mormons who risked social banishment to take a stand against their religion’s involvement with Proposition 8 and the potent anti-gay attitude of the church.
Shining among such heroes is Linda Stay, an active Utah Mormon and mother to Tyler Barrick, a gay California man in a long-term relationship. Stay’s own “coming out,” as she refers to it, was publicly taking a stand against Proposition 8 in order to support her son’s happiness and right to marry.
As an example of parents who uphold the church’s position the film introduces Marilyn and Fred Matis, authors of the book In Quiet Desperation: Understanding The Challenge Of Same-Gender Attraction. The description of the book states it is written for those who have loved ones suffering in “quiet desperation” with “same-gender attraction,” and how to “reach out with love” to such people.
The parents wrote the book shortly after the death of their son Stuart, who had spent his entire life trying to overcome homosexual feelings. Stuart’s “quiet desperation” led him to shoot himself in the head inside a Mormon Church house at age thirty-two.
In their book the parents write: “Each of us had an indescribable sense of peace after Stuart’s death.” When asked about their position on Proposition 8, the couple stated their only position was the position of the church.
The film does an excellent job portraying the many consequences that such widespread bigotry has on a community. Utah leads the nation in teen suicide, and studies show that a large proportion of victims are gay Mormons. Thousands of homeless teens occupy Utah streets, most fleeing intolerance by their families. The film even exposes the former use of frontal lobotomies in Utah to attempt to treat men “charged” with homosexuality
While the documentary paints a bleak picture of shocking faith-based bigotry, it ends with images of passionate masses, refusing to give up on the battle for equality.
Similar passion was exhibited in the civil rights struggles of the last century. Then, too, the Mormon Church lagged behind the rest of the country, not allowing members of color receive full privileges until 1978. The passionate masses will convince all viewers that the fight for gay rights will eventually be won, and that history will record the Mormon Church once again being on the wrong side of this civil rights battle.
Review by Janice Formichella
A l’Est avec Sonia Wieder-Atherton
Directed by Chantal AckermanAMIP
Chantal Ackerman’s projects over the past forty years have secured her place in the international vanguard of film directors both male and female. Her films are widely known for experimenting with time and images while questioning their relationship to a film’s narrative. It’s no surprise that her film A l’Est avec Sonia Wieder-Atherton showed at the Barcelona International Woman’s Film Festival in June. In fifty-one minutes Ackerman attempts to show the power of music and the passion of the musician through images. It is her second film with world renowned cellist Sonia Wieder-Atherton as her subject, and weather or not Ackerman achieves her goal is up to you.
Wieder-Atherton is Ackerman’s go-to musician and has been the music director in many of her previous films including D’Eest, which is where the repertoire of music for this documentary originates. Viewers expecting the typical dialogue-heavy documentary film of a musician will be disappointed, as Wieder-Atherton speaks for only a brief moment after the opening scene of her playing in what appears to be a concert hall. She describes only how her passion for the cello and violin cello began developing from a very early age and how inspiring her maestro was. The remainder of the film is Wieder-Atherton using her instrument to explain her passion.
Ackerman chose to shoot Wieder-Atherton playing the eastern European compositions accompanied by only a piano or sometimes two other cellists. Ackerman uses various visual tactics so as not to distract from her true subject: the music. For example, the full color film never extends beyond a softly illuminated neutral gray, black, and white color palate. Wieder-Atherton herself alternates between two black and white silk blouses with grand billowing sleeves that appear to oscillate like wings as she pulls, teases, and coaxes the notes from her cello’s strings. Alternating shots between close ups of Wieder-Atherton’s hands and the whole ensemble paired with scenes that begin and end with fades creates a fluidity to the images that reflects the melody of the music. Composition titles as well as composers are provided for a short time at the bottom of the screen to indicate the beginning of another piece.
It is clear that Ackerman wants to distance herself and her images as far from the music as possible in order to create a truly musical experience. The audience at the Barcelona festival was, indeed, lulled into this entranced state of visual listening; however, Ackerman’s objective became lost as eyelids grew heavy and heads began to bob. Toward the end, awake once again, people began to shift impatiently in their seats.
It should be noted that although this film is reflective of Ackerman’s style it is not the more evocative of her influential talent. Audiences familiar with Ackerman’s previous work might expect a more challenging film, and novel viewers might find it a bit tedious and trying in the end. Without a doubt, the power of the music interpreted by Wieder-Atherton is transmitted, but it’s the viewer’s responsibility to be an active receiver.
Review by Sara Custer
Speaking in Tongues
Directed by Marcia Jarmel and Ken Schneider
PatchWorks Films
The award-winning documentary Speaking in Tongues spells out an intriguing paradox of America’s identity: Although we’re a nation that prides itself on diversity, we also militantly cling to monolingual education at the expense of culture, communication, and even academic achievement.
Speaking in Tongues follows four San Francisco children, all of whom attend either a Spanish or Chinese immersion public school: a young African-American boy who lives in public housing but is gaining fluency at his Chinese school; a Chinese-American girl who is one of the only people in her family who can communicate with her grandmother; a Caucasian boy who tests out his Mandarin on a trip to China; and a Mexican-American boy who is the first in his family to learn to read and write Spanish, in addition to English.
The naysayers of immersion programs—at least the ones quoted in this film—warn about the United States becoming a Tower of Babel, or that learning other languages is a waste of tax dollars when children should be learning English. But what this film shows, mostly with statistics and interviews with experts, is that kids who continue academic learning of their mother tongue learn better English, perform better academically overall, and are much less likely to drop out of school. There’s also a huge distinction between speaking another language at home and learning that language academically. Students who have oral bilingual skills are doubling their proficiency if they learn their native language academically instead of just informally. And children whose mother tongue is English benefit academically from early bilingual education, too. They’ve acquired language skills early in life that will be sought-after when they enter the workforce.
The film makes great arguments—illustrated by lovable kids and their earnest families—for why bilingual education should be a priority in the United States as it is in other countries. The film uses interesting quotes about immigration, English-only legislation, and education against eye-catching graphics. A segment of educators talking about the languages spoken in their school systems, animated onto a map of the United States, was an especially interesting visual.
From a feminist viewpoint, it’s impossible to know why the filmmakers chose to follow three boys and only one girl. Surely they had their reasons, but it would have been nice to see the experience of a Latina or African American girl, especially since the education achievement gap is currently skewed for both ethnic groups, on top of the achievement gap between girls and boys.
Regardless, Speaking in Tongues is a great film that focuses on the benefits of being bilingual without delving into other, potentially more sensitive political issues like immigration, racism and xenophobia, all of which intersect with English-only politics.
Review by Hannah Moulton Belec
PatchWorks Films
The award-winning documentary Speaking in Tongues spells out an intriguing paradox of America’s identity: Although we’re a nation that prides itself on diversity, we also militantly cling to monolingual education at the expense of culture, communication, and even academic achievement.
Speaking in Tongues follows four San Francisco children, all of whom attend either a Spanish or Chinese immersion public school: a young African-American boy who lives in public housing but is gaining fluency at his Chinese school; a Chinese-American girl who is one of the only people in her family who can communicate with her grandmother; a Caucasian boy who tests out his Mandarin on a trip to China; and a Mexican-American boy who is the first in his family to learn to read and write Spanish, in addition to English.
The naysayers of immersion programs—at least the ones quoted in this film—warn about the United States becoming a Tower of Babel, or that learning other languages is a waste of tax dollars when children should be learning English. But what this film shows, mostly with statistics and interviews with experts, is that kids who continue academic learning of their mother tongue learn better English, perform better academically overall, and are much less likely to drop out of school. There’s also a huge distinction between speaking another language at home and learning that language academically. Students who have oral bilingual skills are doubling their proficiency if they learn their native language academically instead of just informally. And children whose mother tongue is English benefit academically from early bilingual education, too. They’ve acquired language skills early in life that will be sought-after when they enter the workforce.
The film makes great arguments—illustrated by lovable kids and their earnest families—for why bilingual education should be a priority in the United States as it is in other countries. The film uses interesting quotes about immigration, English-only legislation, and education against eye-catching graphics. A segment of educators talking about the languages spoken in their school systems, animated onto a map of the United States, was an especially interesting visual.
From a feminist viewpoint, it’s impossible to know why the filmmakers chose to follow three boys and only one girl. Surely they had their reasons, but it would have been nice to see the experience of a Latina or African American girl, especially since the education achievement gap is currently skewed for both ethnic groups, on top of the achievement gap between girls and boys.
Regardless, Speaking in Tongues is a great film that focuses on the benefits of being bilingual without delving into other, potentially more sensitive political issues like immigration, racism and xenophobia, all of which intersect with English-only politics.
Review by Hannah Moulton Belec
Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work
Directed by Ricki Stern and Anne Sundberg
Break Thru Films
In the previous millennium when I was an idealistic young thing attending Barnard College, the women’s college affiliated with Columbia University, there was a lot of talk about who before us had walked the hallowed halls: anthropologist Margaret Mead; writers Edna St. Vincent Millay, Zora Neale Thurston, Francine du Plessix Gray, Patricia Highsmith and Ntozake Shange; recent United States ambassador to the U.N. Jeanne Kirkpatrick; musicians Laurie Anderson and Suzanne Vega (whose song “Luka” was then on all the airwaves); NPR’s Susan Stamberg; nationally syndicated columnist Anna Quindlen; choreographer Twyla Tharp; and a pre-Omnimedia Martha Stewart, whose daughter had also recently attended.
We students looked up to these women, our heroes. No trivia about them was too slight to swap and discuss. But I can only remember a couple of times when the name Joan Rivers was mentioned, and then only with a smirk. It seemed unbelievable that someone like her—brash, crass, undignified, disfigured by plastic surgery even then—could have once been part of our very serious undertakings in academia and feminism. Above all, we were earnest, and serious, and she was not.
The truth is that we failed to recognize Rivers for the pioneer she was. Those were the early days of Seinfeld. The backstage world of stand up comedy was still a mystery. There was no Comedy Central. We had no idea how brutal the world was in which she had risen. What a boy’s club. We were feminists, but we still thought we had to be ladies, or at least decorous. We disapproved of Joan Rivers.
Well, what did we know? Martha would go on to rule over all things female: weddings, entertaining, flowers, crafts, cooking. But the surprise is that Joan Rivers, now seventy-five years old, who seemed even then to be on the wane, continues. And the entertaining new documentary, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work shows the incredible scrappiness and determination it has taken her to survive.
Born in 1933, Joan Rivers grew up Joan Molinsky in affluent Larchmont, NY, a dark-haired girl with a big nose. Her mother, as she relates, continually assured her that “looks don’t matter.” Meaning that she was ugly and they all knew it. “No man,” Joan says, at one particularly poignant moment, “has ever told me I looked beautiful. Oh, they say, ‘You look great!’ But never beautiful.” And so the plastic surgeries began—very early, from all appearances. By the time of her first TV appearances, in the mid-1960s, her nose had been transformed into a ski slope, although not yet the snub it is today.
Part of the fascination of the film is the grotesque state of her present face, with eyes slanted to cat-like angles from numerous lifts and lips and cheeks so swollen she can sometimes barely speak. But despite her obsession with her looks, Joan is, in an interesting way, completely without vanity. The film opens with her bare face, shot closer-up than any of us would allow for ourselves. One can see the veins in her eyelids and hints of scar tissue around her eyes and nose. She looks old, unhealthy, fragile, almost dead. Gradually, thick stage makeup is slapped on, in a healthy golden shade that gives no hint of the ashen, ruddy skin beneath. Heavy eye shadows and liners, lip liners and lipstick, until the Joan we know from photos finally emerges. It is a complete transformation. Joan has really let us see the real her underneath.
She even allows the camera to run right after she returns from a session at the dermatologist, where she’s been all “shot up.” Her face is splotchy from the needle, her cheeks puffed up so high it looks as though she’s suffering a horrible allergic reaction. But what Joan needs more than anything, far more than dignity, is attention. If the camera wants to roll, she’s game.
In the same way she is completely open about the ups and downs of her career, her relationships with her husband and daughter, the humiliations, anger, fears and needs that drive her. She even agrees, for the money, to a celebrity roast she finds mean and hurtful. She needs the money to fund her unbelievably lavish lifestyle. She has ridden in only limousines “since 1986.” And she lives in insane palatial comfort. Her manager says it’s like “the Queen of England.” Joan says it’s like “Maria (sic) Antoinette.” Let’s just say poor Bernie Madoff lived like a pauper compared to Joan. But she is also generous to her numerous staff. They are paid well, and Joan takes care of their children’s private school tuitions too. No wonder they are devoted. Good thing. It looks as though her staff are the only ones celebrating her 75th birthday. And one of the saddest moments in the film is when she says she has probably only three friends whom she can call to share a piece of good news.
And so it’s work, work and more work for Joan, who is perhaps just as driven as the legendary Martha. From Florida to Connecticut to the backwoods of Wisconsin, from plane to plane, convention hall to casino to QVC to shill the jewelry that makes her millions, despite the indignities, humiliation and exhaustion, Joan soldiers on.
Joan is all the things we young Barnard women abhorred back in the day: rude, obnoxious, offensive, freakish. But she is also a woman who recognized what she needed and went out to get it. Self-made, self-perpetuating, hard-working and indefatigable, Joan Rivers is a force to be reckoned with, indeed a piece of work.
Review by Grace @ Frothygirlz.com
Break Thru Films
In the previous millennium when I was an idealistic young thing attending Barnard College, the women’s college affiliated with Columbia University, there was a lot of talk about who before us had walked the hallowed halls: anthropologist Margaret Mead; writers Edna St. Vincent Millay, Zora Neale Thurston, Francine du Plessix Gray, Patricia Highsmith and Ntozake Shange; recent United States ambassador to the U.N. Jeanne Kirkpatrick; musicians Laurie Anderson and Suzanne Vega (whose song “Luka” was then on all the airwaves); NPR’s Susan Stamberg; nationally syndicated columnist Anna Quindlen; choreographer Twyla Tharp; and a pre-Omnimedia Martha Stewart, whose daughter had also recently attended.
We students looked up to these women, our heroes. No trivia about them was too slight to swap and discuss. But I can only remember a couple of times when the name Joan Rivers was mentioned, and then only with a smirk. It seemed unbelievable that someone like her—brash, crass, undignified, disfigured by plastic surgery even then—could have once been part of our very serious undertakings in academia and feminism. Above all, we were earnest, and serious, and she was not.
The truth is that we failed to recognize Rivers for the pioneer she was. Those were the early days of Seinfeld. The backstage world of stand up comedy was still a mystery. There was no Comedy Central. We had no idea how brutal the world was in which she had risen. What a boy’s club. We were feminists, but we still thought we had to be ladies, or at least decorous. We disapproved of Joan Rivers.
Well, what did we know? Martha would go on to rule over all things female: weddings, entertaining, flowers, crafts, cooking. But the surprise is that Joan Rivers, now seventy-five years old, who seemed even then to be on the wane, continues. And the entertaining new documentary, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work shows the incredible scrappiness and determination it has taken her to survive.
Born in 1933, Joan Rivers grew up Joan Molinsky in affluent Larchmont, NY, a dark-haired girl with a big nose. Her mother, as she relates, continually assured her that “looks don’t matter.” Meaning that she was ugly and they all knew it. “No man,” Joan says, at one particularly poignant moment, “has ever told me I looked beautiful. Oh, they say, ‘You look great!’ But never beautiful.” And so the plastic surgeries began—very early, from all appearances. By the time of her first TV appearances, in the mid-1960s, her nose had been transformed into a ski slope, although not yet the snub it is today.
Part of the fascination of the film is the grotesque state of her present face, with eyes slanted to cat-like angles from numerous lifts and lips and cheeks so swollen she can sometimes barely speak. But despite her obsession with her looks, Joan is, in an interesting way, completely without vanity. The film opens with her bare face, shot closer-up than any of us would allow for ourselves. One can see the veins in her eyelids and hints of scar tissue around her eyes and nose. She looks old, unhealthy, fragile, almost dead. Gradually, thick stage makeup is slapped on, in a healthy golden shade that gives no hint of the ashen, ruddy skin beneath. Heavy eye shadows and liners, lip liners and lipstick, until the Joan we know from photos finally emerges. It is a complete transformation. Joan has really let us see the real her underneath.
She even allows the camera to run right after she returns from a session at the dermatologist, where she’s been all “shot up.” Her face is splotchy from the needle, her cheeks puffed up so high it looks as though she’s suffering a horrible allergic reaction. But what Joan needs more than anything, far more than dignity, is attention. If the camera wants to roll, she’s game.
In the same way she is completely open about the ups and downs of her career, her relationships with her husband and daughter, the humiliations, anger, fears and needs that drive her. She even agrees, for the money, to a celebrity roast she finds mean and hurtful. She needs the money to fund her unbelievably lavish lifestyle. She has ridden in only limousines “since 1986.” And she lives in insane palatial comfort. Her manager says it’s like “the Queen of England.” Joan says it’s like “Maria (sic) Antoinette.” Let’s just say poor Bernie Madoff lived like a pauper compared to Joan. But she is also generous to her numerous staff. They are paid well, and Joan takes care of their children’s private school tuitions too. No wonder they are devoted. Good thing. It looks as though her staff are the only ones celebrating her 75th birthday. And one of the saddest moments in the film is when she says she has probably only three friends whom she can call to share a piece of good news.
And so it’s work, work and more work for Joan, who is perhaps just as driven as the legendary Martha. From Florida to Connecticut to the backwoods of Wisconsin, from plane to plane, convention hall to casino to QVC to shill the jewelry that makes her millions, despite the indignities, humiliation and exhaustion, Joan soldiers on.
Joan is all the things we young Barnard women abhorred back in the day: rude, obnoxious, offensive, freakish. But she is also a woman who recognized what she needed and went out to get it. Self-made, self-perpetuating, hard-working and indefatigable, Joan Rivers is a force to be reckoned with, indeed a piece of work.
Review by Grace @ Frothygirlz.com
Maria's Story: Twenty Years Later
By Maria Guzman
Earlier this month, I saw a twentieth anniversary screening at The Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts in San Francisco. Before attending, I had an abbreviated understanding El Salvadorian politics, and the subject of the documentary, Maria Serrano. Filmed in 1989 by two young American women, Maria's Story: A Documentary Portrait Of Love And Survival In El Salvador's Civil War reveals the daily struggles and heartbreaking memories that lay in the wake of the political unrest that ravaged her town in El Salvador. The film chronicled a two-month journey for all involved. Ultimately, the film unfolds into a narrative about Maria’s role as a leader of a Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN) guerrilla camp, which was about being a mother, wife, and a community member.
Feminist Review recently spoke with the directors of the film, longtime friends Pamela Cohen and Monona Wali.
Were there moments during the filming of Maria's Story in which you felt that there were advantages to your position as women directors?
Pamela Cohen: I don’t know if a male director would have been drawn to Maria in the same way we were. We chose to put a female face on this war; we wanted to address the Che Guevara guerrilla image, because that’s not who was on the front lines.
Monona Wali: Because we are women, we were sensitive and committed to the human side of the story. There were times when we were drawn to the bigger side of the war, but beyond knowing the statistics, the instinct to stay close to Maria and stay close to her came from being women and cementing the relationship with her, which was affectionate, playful, and serious. I don’t know that a man would have been able to get that close.
Emeteria and Maria, two members of the community, discussed losing their daughters in the war. Hearing the details of how young women were victims in violent attacks in El Salvadorian towns effected me greatly. What were those moments like for you as directors?
Monona: With Emeteria, we had gone first to be with her in ’88 and lived in a repopulated community named Guarjila that we were going to use as a base camp. We had equipment, and it turned out that there was a huge military offensive, and we were stuck in a village. Emeteria was taking care of us; she was our mother during that time. It was the day of remembering the dead. She had come to San Jose Las Flores to be a part of that and knew us. We asked her, “How do you feel about this day?”
For Maria, it started in the bathing scene, and it came up spontaneously. We just wanted to get a scene. Every time Jose showed up, we turned the camera on because we didn’t know when they were going to be together again.
Pamela: But then we asked about it, and we knew we had to sit down with her to talk about it—that was separate. She was out of the country when Ceci was killed in ’87. That may be why she wouldn’t let go of Mijita (her youngest daughter) and made her a personal radio operator for the rest of the war.
How did your awareness about some of the issues raised in the film affect your work?
Pamela: It was six or eight months before we started editing. We thought, “After what we’ve been through… how can people not care?” We just felt like everyone had to know and were determined to finish it.
Cross posted at Gender Across Borders
Earlier this month, I saw a twentieth anniversary screening at The Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts in San Francisco. Before attending, I had an abbreviated understanding El Salvadorian politics, and the subject of the documentary, Maria Serrano. Filmed in 1989 by two young American women, Maria's Story: A Documentary Portrait Of Love And Survival In El Salvador's Civil War reveals the daily struggles and heartbreaking memories that lay in the wake of the political unrest that ravaged her town in El Salvador. The film chronicled a two-month journey for all involved. Ultimately, the film unfolds into a narrative about Maria’s role as a leader of a Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN) guerrilla camp, which was about being a mother, wife, and a community member.
Feminist Review recently spoke with the directors of the film, longtime friends Pamela Cohen and Monona Wali.
Were there moments during the filming of Maria's Story in which you felt that there were advantages to your position as women directors?
Pamela Cohen: I don’t know if a male director would have been drawn to Maria in the same way we were. We chose to put a female face on this war; we wanted to address the Che Guevara guerrilla image, because that’s not who was on the front lines.
Monona Wali: Because we are women, we were sensitive and committed to the human side of the story. There were times when we were drawn to the bigger side of the war, but beyond knowing the statistics, the instinct to stay close to Maria and stay close to her came from being women and cementing the relationship with her, which was affectionate, playful, and serious. I don’t know that a man would have been able to get that close.
Emeteria and Maria, two members of the community, discussed losing their daughters in the war. Hearing the details of how young women were victims in violent attacks in El Salvadorian towns effected me greatly. What were those moments like for you as directors?
Monona: With Emeteria, we had gone first to be with her in ’88 and lived in a repopulated community named Guarjila that we were going to use as a base camp. We had equipment, and it turned out that there was a huge military offensive, and we were stuck in a village. Emeteria was taking care of us; she was our mother during that time. It was the day of remembering the dead. She had come to San Jose Las Flores to be a part of that and knew us. We asked her, “How do you feel about this day?”
For Maria, it started in the bathing scene, and it came up spontaneously. We just wanted to get a scene. Every time Jose showed up, we turned the camera on because we didn’t know when they were going to be together again.
Pamela: But then we asked about it, and we knew we had to sit down with her to talk about it—that was separate. She was out of the country when Ceci was killed in ’87. That may be why she wouldn’t let go of Mijita (her youngest daughter) and made her a personal radio operator for the rest of the war.
How did your awareness about some of the issues raised in the film affect your work?
Pamela: It was six or eight months before we started editing. We thought, “After what we’ve been through… how can people not care?” We just felt like everyone had to know and were determined to finish it.
Cross posted at Gender Across Borders
No One Dies in Lily Dale
Directed by Steven Cantor
Stick Figure Productions
Spiritualism as a religion began in the 1840s in the "Burned-Over District" of Upstate New York. Taking elements of Christianity and shamanism, the religion is focused around mediums speaking to spirits that spiritualists believe continue to exist after one's physical death. The religion became a trend in the United States and Europe after thousands of young soldiers died in World War I. Looking for closure, families turned to mediums. Readings became entertainment and fraudulent mediums sprung up, as did debunkers like Harry Houdini, who used his knowledge of stage magic to reveal their tricks. After attempts by psychologists to prove mediumistic abilities authentic failed, the trend died down, and spiritualism faded from popular imagination.
As a religion, spiritualism has continued, with its stronghold back in the Burned-Over District in a small town called Lily Dale, which is thirty miles outside of Buffalo. Most people know nothing about spiritualism beyond seances and the turn of the century images of mediums, making it the perfect subject for an insightful documentary. The town of Lily Dale and its inhabitants seem like the perfect subjects: sincere, passionate, and eccentric. It’s too bad Stick Figure Productions didn’t make that documentary.
No One Dies in Lily Dale is a mess, with no salient points to make and no strong storyline. Too many characters to follow are introduced, including Greta Gehman, a Polish medium; Ronald Holt, a police officer grieving the loss of his teenage son; and Rebecca Frabricius, a young woman mourning the death of her fiance. Ronald Holt is the closest full story we get, as he begins to release some of the guilt he feels over not protecting his son and show signs of healing. No one else gets anywhere near a storyline at all.
The spiritualists are portrayed as warm, happy, new age-y people who see dead family members walking down the street, and the people coming for readings are, overall, seen as seen logical, normal people who are driven by their grief to readings. The readings follow a traditional script; only one is inaccurate, no one is told anything negative, and no one questions the mediums or their abilities.
No one except Susan Heinrichs, the born-again, evangelical Christian who lost her son eight months before coming to Lily Dale. Setting up an evangelical Christian, a group not known for their open mindedness, as the voice of reason would have been provocative, but that didn’t happen. Even the attempt to draw comparisons between both groups as providing answers for people’s grief is ignored. Instead, Susan is shown as a boorish, small-minded woman who wants to convert the town. Her actions invalidate her important question of one medium, telling him that answering whether he is correct or not is “not testing the spirit” or the medium. It’s an important point that is never raised again.
The community of Lily Dale, and the persistent popularity of Spiritualism, are wonderful topics for a serious documentary that focuses on the need for humanity to understand death and grief. No One Dies at Lily Dale is not that documentary, unfortunately.
Review by Taylor Rhodes
Premieres on HBO July 5th at 9p.m. EST
Stick Figure Productions
Spiritualism as a religion began in the 1840s in the "Burned-Over District" of Upstate New York. Taking elements of Christianity and shamanism, the religion is focused around mediums speaking to spirits that spiritualists believe continue to exist after one's physical death. The religion became a trend in the United States and Europe after thousands of young soldiers died in World War I. Looking for closure, families turned to mediums. Readings became entertainment and fraudulent mediums sprung up, as did debunkers like Harry Houdini, who used his knowledge of stage magic to reveal their tricks. After attempts by psychologists to prove mediumistic abilities authentic failed, the trend died down, and spiritualism faded from popular imagination.
As a religion, spiritualism has continued, with its stronghold back in the Burned-Over District in a small town called Lily Dale, which is thirty miles outside of Buffalo. Most people know nothing about spiritualism beyond seances and the turn of the century images of mediums, making it the perfect subject for an insightful documentary. The town of Lily Dale and its inhabitants seem like the perfect subjects: sincere, passionate, and eccentric. It’s too bad Stick Figure Productions didn’t make that documentary.
No One Dies in Lily Dale is a mess, with no salient points to make and no strong storyline. Too many characters to follow are introduced, including Greta Gehman, a Polish medium; Ronald Holt, a police officer grieving the loss of his teenage son; and Rebecca Frabricius, a young woman mourning the death of her fiance. Ronald Holt is the closest full story we get, as he begins to release some of the guilt he feels over not protecting his son and show signs of healing. No one else gets anywhere near a storyline at all.
The spiritualists are portrayed as warm, happy, new age-y people who see dead family members walking down the street, and the people coming for readings are, overall, seen as seen logical, normal people who are driven by their grief to readings. The readings follow a traditional script; only one is inaccurate, no one is told anything negative, and no one questions the mediums or their abilities.
No one except Susan Heinrichs, the born-again, evangelical Christian who lost her son eight months before coming to Lily Dale. Setting up an evangelical Christian, a group not known for their open mindedness, as the voice of reason would have been provocative, but that didn’t happen. Even the attempt to draw comparisons between both groups as providing answers for people’s grief is ignored. Instead, Susan is shown as a boorish, small-minded woman who wants to convert the town. Her actions invalidate her important question of one medium, telling him that answering whether he is correct or not is “not testing the spirit” or the medium. It’s an important point that is never raised again.
The community of Lily Dale, and the persistent popularity of Spiritualism, are wonderful topics for a serious documentary that focuses on the need for humanity to understand death and grief. No One Dies at Lily Dale is not that documentary, unfortunately.
Review by Taylor Rhodes
Premieres on HBO July 5th at 9p.m. EST
Tea on the Axis of Evil
Directed by Jean Marie Offenbacher
Reorient Films
After two years of providing security intelligence about the activities of Al Qaeda to the United States government in the wake of 9/11, the Bush Administration publicly dubbed Syria a threat to democracy by including it in the so-called Axis of Evil. Knowing very little about the secular republic, filmmaker Jean Marie Offenbacher decided to spend a year in Damascus in order to offer a look at everyday citizens of Syria and combat stereotypical depictions put forth in the mainstream media.
Though the U.S. Embassy warned the director that Syrian folks would be too afraid to talk to her, Offenbacher found enough subjects to fill the hour-long film. She highlights the stories of a few Bedouin people, the family of a taxi driver, and a couple of impressively quintilingual teenage boys who sell rugs at a souq in Aleppo, but the film focuses on people most Americans will find quite palatable: liberal, middle-class, educated Syrians who speak English and whose lifestyles mimic those in the Western world. There are several students of literature, sociology, and journalism, as well as a fashion designer, an actress, a weaver, a painter, and a businesswoman. In an interview with New America Media, Offenbacher explains this choice by saying she chose people she believed Americans could identify with; unfortunately, tactic undercuts her claim of and desire for authenticity, as the film’s characters are hardly representative of the general population (Syria’s lower classes, political conservatives, and the religiously dogmatic are conspicuously absent from the interviews) and simply become a counter-stereotype themselves.
This bumble heightens the well-intended, if naïve, thesis of the film: Syrians are just like us! They dance to 50 Cent in pubs. They swoon over movie stars like Antonio Banderas. The women struggle with feeling beautiful, and with sexist double standards regarding female sexuality. They worry about how to balance the need for childcare with their demanding careers. They learn to reconcile their religious practices and beliefs with newly emerging desires. The version of Syria presented in Tea on the Axis of Evil is, indeed, very much like urban America, but just as one should not forget that urban America comprises more than latte-sipping, New York Times readers, it is equally necessary to understand that Syria is not America—nor should it be—and, in a film about countering false depictions, present the complex diversity of Syrians’ lived reality.
Review by Mandy Van Deven
Originally published in Bitch Magazine
Reorient Films
After two years of providing security intelligence about the activities of Al Qaeda to the United States government in the wake of 9/11, the Bush Administration publicly dubbed Syria a threat to democracy by including it in the so-called Axis of Evil. Knowing very little about the secular republic, filmmaker Jean Marie Offenbacher decided to spend a year in Damascus in order to offer a look at everyday citizens of Syria and combat stereotypical depictions put forth in the mainstream media.
Though the U.S. Embassy warned the director that Syrian folks would be too afraid to talk to her, Offenbacher found enough subjects to fill the hour-long film. She highlights the stories of a few Bedouin people, the family of a taxi driver, and a couple of impressively quintilingual teenage boys who sell rugs at a souq in Aleppo, but the film focuses on people most Americans will find quite palatable: liberal, middle-class, educated Syrians who speak English and whose lifestyles mimic those in the Western world. There are several students of literature, sociology, and journalism, as well as a fashion designer, an actress, a weaver, a painter, and a businesswoman. In an interview with New America Media, Offenbacher explains this choice by saying she chose people she believed Americans could identify with; unfortunately, tactic undercuts her claim of and desire for authenticity, as the film’s characters are hardly representative of the general population (Syria’s lower classes, political conservatives, and the religiously dogmatic are conspicuously absent from the interviews) and simply become a counter-stereotype themselves.
This bumble heightens the well-intended, if naïve, thesis of the film: Syrians are just like us! They dance to 50 Cent in pubs. They swoon over movie stars like Antonio Banderas. The women struggle with feeling beautiful, and with sexist double standards regarding female sexuality. They worry about how to balance the need for childcare with their demanding careers. They learn to reconcile their religious practices and beliefs with newly emerging desires. The version of Syria presented in Tea on the Axis of Evil is, indeed, very much like urban America, but just as one should not forget that urban America comprises more than latte-sipping, New York Times readers, it is equally necessary to understand that Syria is not America—nor should it be—and, in a film about countering false depictions, present the complex diversity of Syrians’ lived reality.
Review by Mandy Van Deven
Originally published in Bitch Magazine
Le Tigre: On Tour
Directed by Kerthy Fix“What’s the status of Le Tigre?” an eager—albeit slightly angst-ridden—fan asks Kathleen Hanna during the Q&A session after the screening of Le Tigre: On Tour. I, too, had been wondering the same question—because this band, who has proven so formative to women young and old everywhere, seems to exist only in our collective lesbo-feminist consciousness at the moment. For myself, in particular, I was introduced to Le Tigre’s music a year before they performed their final show in NYC, on 18 September 2005, so I never had the opportunity to witness their awesomeness in concert. Their existence to me, in other words, was always to me like a memory, an extant pastness that is real but not actual in that particular moment. I think their existence, for me, is kind of like how people understand Jesus or Santa Claus: he’s touched their hearts, and therefore he’s real… at least they think he’s real, but they’ve never actually seen him.
Which is why this documentary is so utterly amazing: the film, comprised of compiled concert and backstage footage from their final tour for the album This Island in 2004, and including more recent interviews with the trio—Johanna Fateman and JD Samson, in addition to Kathleen Hanna—is essential to the band’s continued existence in our collective lesbo-feminist consciousness. Seeing footage of live performances made me dance in my seat, and it brought tears to my eyes, particularly during the scene in which Hanna turns to Samson and gives her an acknowledging look—the “this is it” moment—of it being the last performance (“Deceptacon”) of their final show.
Director Kerthy Fix did a brilliant job creating this documentary in a way that proves attractive to all audiences: her attention to the trio of characters, and their feminist, queer ethics that embody the desire that each person be her “own lost hero,” as Hanna professes, speaks to everyone who wants to cultivate themselves as strong, powerful, and unique individuals. The documentary-as-archive is so crucial not only to preserving the band’s music, but also Le Tigre as a seminal part of the riot grrl movement, which has been built by the enterprising musical endeavors of the band collectively and separately, as each has her own individual pursuits.
Here we can think, of course, of Kathleen Hanna’s previous band, Bikini Kill, as the foundational component of this movement. And, as we Bikini Kill fans know so well, there is a scarcity of Bikini Kill footage out there—they existed before the explosion of the Interwebs, of the social media sites and blogs—so having this documentary is a welcomed addition to the steadily growing archive of the feminist and riot grrl movements.
Kudos to Fix for providing feminists young and old with this filmic insight into the iconic band—from Hanna’s deadpan explication of dressing room snack items (i.e., a bowl of fruit fit for the pope) to Fateman’s detailed vitamin regiment and Samson’s coming to terms with her Casanova status—and their raw lyrics and hot dance moves (“West Side Story meets Jazzercise,” to be precise).
Le Tigre: On Tour does not yet have a distributor; indeed, it’s still in the processing stages, pre-color correx and sound fix. Hopefully, by the end of the year, this film will be picked up and shown in theatres across the world for all the Le Tigre fans who, like me, long to connect with the band that filled their hearts and heads with sweetness and light.
Review by Marcie Bianco
See What I'm Saying: The Deaf Entertainers Documentary
Directed by Hilari Scarl
Worldplay
See What I'm Saying is an irreverent yet important introduction between Deaf performers and a mainstream hearing audience. The film, which is open captioned, follows a year in the lives of four performers who make up a cross-section of the Deaf community in terms of art form, race, gender, and sexuality. One performer identifies as hard of hearing rather than deaf, but wishes to be accepted as a part of Deaf culture.
Before I go on, a few definitions:
Deaf Culture: Deaf with a capital “D” means a specific reference to the largely American Sign Language (ASL) using community, and the media, theatre, comedy, music, history, and other aspects of any culture transmitted through language. Deaf with a lowercase “d” means the generic description for someone who can’t hear, whether they are a part of the Deaf community or not. The film goes a long way toward making this clearer, as well as succinctly demonstrating various different ways of communicating using speech and sign.
Open Captions: See What I'm Saying has the captions burned into the film itself, and there is no way to turn them off. Every print of the film in every cinema is captioned. The captions also include descriptions of incidental sounds and music, but are otherwise like watching a subtitled foreign film. This is a huge deal for a film on release at major cinemas. The film is also voice-interpreted where necessary, so there is a continuous signed, spoken, and captioned narrative.
Now, back to the review. The four performers featured are really engaging people. Bob Hilterman is an old school rocker who, Blues Brothers style, decides to get his former band back together for one last show. Everyone in the band is Deaf and all the guys are really funny, as is their repartee when they finally get together and start rehearsing again.
CJ Jones is a comedian with a level of success on the scale of, perhaps, Robin Williams, going by reactions of his fans when they spot him at Deaf events. His humour is a mix of storytelling, improvisation and observation, and he’s a comic actor as well. The film follows his well-deserved but not always fruitful attempts to break into mainstream comedy and television.
Robert DeMayo is an admirably centered person who can talk about his difficult past with honesty and understanding for people who’ve let him down. He’s an amazingly gifted storyteller and comic mime artist, and it’s a shame there wasn’t time to feature more of his work in the film. I could watch his stuff all day.
TL Forsberg is the youngest performer, the only woman, and also the only artist whose journey specifically relates to being accepted by the Deaf community, while the others are followed trying to achieve success with hearing audiences. This juxtaposition adds further depth to the audience’s understanding of the difficulties of "crossing over." In fact, any minority artist or from any underground art form could relate to the difficulties portrayed in See What I'm Saying.
Hilari Scarl, a hearing performer and director who worked as a voicing actor with the National Theatre of the Deaf (NTD), decided to make the film after noticing that once the tour was finished, she was getting work and her deaf colleagues just... weren’t. Scarl became passionate about this issue and used her considerable skills as a producer to make this happen. She does not come across as an outsider but, to this hearing reviewer in any case, as part of the scene. Her drive as a filmmaker was evident when I spoke to her, and she had a dedicated team of performers, promoters, volunteers and friends, as well as the financial backing of a few major corporations. It is her hope that these and other Deaf performers will receive the attention they clearly deserve.
See What I'm Saying is on limited release at several major cinemas throughout this year. It is also taking bookings for festivals, so check the film's website for details.
Review by Chella Quint
Worldplay
See What I'm Saying is an irreverent yet important introduction between Deaf performers and a mainstream hearing audience. The film, which is open captioned, follows a year in the lives of four performers who make up a cross-section of the Deaf community in terms of art form, race, gender, and sexuality. One performer identifies as hard of hearing rather than deaf, but wishes to be accepted as a part of Deaf culture.
Before I go on, a few definitions:
Deaf Culture: Deaf with a capital “D” means a specific reference to the largely American Sign Language (ASL) using community, and the media, theatre, comedy, music, history, and other aspects of any culture transmitted through language. Deaf with a lowercase “d” means the generic description for someone who can’t hear, whether they are a part of the Deaf community or not. The film goes a long way toward making this clearer, as well as succinctly demonstrating various different ways of communicating using speech and sign.
Open Captions: See What I'm Saying has the captions burned into the film itself, and there is no way to turn them off. Every print of the film in every cinema is captioned. The captions also include descriptions of incidental sounds and music, but are otherwise like watching a subtitled foreign film. This is a huge deal for a film on release at major cinemas. The film is also voice-interpreted where necessary, so there is a continuous signed, spoken, and captioned narrative.
Now, back to the review. The four performers featured are really engaging people. Bob Hilterman is an old school rocker who, Blues Brothers style, decides to get his former band back together for one last show. Everyone in the band is Deaf and all the guys are really funny, as is their repartee when they finally get together and start rehearsing again.
CJ Jones is a comedian with a level of success on the scale of, perhaps, Robin Williams, going by reactions of his fans when they spot him at Deaf events. His humour is a mix of storytelling, improvisation and observation, and he’s a comic actor as well. The film follows his well-deserved but not always fruitful attempts to break into mainstream comedy and television.
Robert DeMayo is an admirably centered person who can talk about his difficult past with honesty and understanding for people who’ve let him down. He’s an amazingly gifted storyteller and comic mime artist, and it’s a shame there wasn’t time to feature more of his work in the film. I could watch his stuff all day.
TL Forsberg is the youngest performer, the only woman, and also the only artist whose journey specifically relates to being accepted by the Deaf community, while the others are followed trying to achieve success with hearing audiences. This juxtaposition adds further depth to the audience’s understanding of the difficulties of "crossing over." In fact, any minority artist or from any underground art form could relate to the difficulties portrayed in See What I'm Saying.
Hilari Scarl, a hearing performer and director who worked as a voicing actor with the National Theatre of the Deaf (NTD), decided to make the film after noticing that once the tour was finished, she was getting work and her deaf colleagues just... weren’t. Scarl became passionate about this issue and used her considerable skills as a producer to make this happen. She does not come across as an outsider but, to this hearing reviewer in any case, as part of the scene. Her drive as a filmmaker was evident when I spoke to her, and she had a dedicated team of performers, promoters, volunteers and friends, as well as the financial backing of a few major corporations. It is her hope that these and other Deaf performers will receive the attention they clearly deserve.
See What I'm Saying is on limited release at several major cinemas throughout this year. It is also taking bookings for festivals, so check the film's website for details.
Review by Chella Quint
Made in Pakistan
Directed by Nasir Khan
Talking Filmain
These days, political analysts on both sides of the aisle are calling Pakistan a failed state. While the “most dangerous place in the world” does face profound political and social turmoil, such sweeping commentary fails to capture the more personal intricacies of the lives of ordinary people living inside the country’s borders. Pakistan is more than the Taliban fighters implementing Sharia law in the Swat Valley, and it’s more than the frequent bombings of embassies and hotels from Islamabad to Karachi. As a way of countering the predominant fundamentalist image of Pakistanis constructed by the global media, filmmaker Nasir Khan recently released a poignant documentary that defies stereotypes and sheds light on some of the common challenges faced by citizens with lofty and patriotic ambitions.
Made in Pakistan presents the way a new generation of young leaders negotiates the conflicting pulls of consumerism, family, politics, gender, religion, and traditionalism. The film follows four educated, upper middle class, young Pakistanis in Lahore—a working mother, a lawyer, an event/PR manager, and a politician—from General Pervez Musharraf’s declaration of a state of emergency and military takeover in November 2007 to former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto’s assassination in January 2008. Waleed Khalid is a lawyer and professor at the Pakistan College of Law. He is a devout, but not uncritical, Muslim who has joined others employed in the judicial system to protest government corruption, in part fueled by American aid. In addition to raising her son, Rabia Aamir is the editor of The Fourth Article, a newly established magazine by and for politically savvy Pakistani youth. Aamir is a cultural activist who wants to find solutions to the political, social, and spiritual upheaval in the country. These two characters were the ones with whom I felt most sympathetic.
On the other hand, we have Tara Mahmood, a girl for whom the whole world is one big party waiting to happen, and she’s the one organizing it. Tara provides a lot of comic relief to an otherwise weighty film (at one point she says, "Alcohol is not banned here; it is just not legally sold."), and I was particularly moved when finally given the chance to see beyond her bubbly veneer. By contrast, duplicitous politician Mohsin Warraich provides an ominous, slimy representation of modern Pakistan: The film doesn’t have an outright villain, but if it did he’s be the one. Made in Pakistan is a compelling view of the immense contradictions of modern Pakistani society.
Review by Mandy Van Deven
Originally published in Bitch Magazine
Talking Filmain
These days, political analysts on both sides of the aisle are calling Pakistan a failed state. While the “most dangerous place in the world” does face profound political and social turmoil, such sweeping commentary fails to capture the more personal intricacies of the lives of ordinary people living inside the country’s borders. Pakistan is more than the Taliban fighters implementing Sharia law in the Swat Valley, and it’s more than the frequent bombings of embassies and hotels from Islamabad to Karachi. As a way of countering the predominant fundamentalist image of Pakistanis constructed by the global media, filmmaker Nasir Khan recently released a poignant documentary that defies stereotypes and sheds light on some of the common challenges faced by citizens with lofty and patriotic ambitions.
Made in Pakistan presents the way a new generation of young leaders negotiates the conflicting pulls of consumerism, family, politics, gender, religion, and traditionalism. The film follows four educated, upper middle class, young Pakistanis in Lahore—a working mother, a lawyer, an event/PR manager, and a politician—from General Pervez Musharraf’s declaration of a state of emergency and military takeover in November 2007 to former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto’s assassination in January 2008. Waleed Khalid is a lawyer and professor at the Pakistan College of Law. He is a devout, but not uncritical, Muslim who has joined others employed in the judicial system to protest government corruption, in part fueled by American aid. In addition to raising her son, Rabia Aamir is the editor of The Fourth Article, a newly established magazine by and for politically savvy Pakistani youth. Aamir is a cultural activist who wants to find solutions to the political, social, and spiritual upheaval in the country. These two characters were the ones with whom I felt most sympathetic.
On the other hand, we have Tara Mahmood, a girl for whom the whole world is one big party waiting to happen, and she’s the one organizing it. Tara provides a lot of comic relief to an otherwise weighty film (at one point she says, "Alcohol is not banned here; it is just not legally sold."), and I was particularly moved when finally given the chance to see beyond her bubbly veneer. By contrast, duplicitous politician Mohsin Warraich provides an ominous, slimy representation of modern Pakistan: The film doesn’t have an outright villain, but if it did he’s be the one. Made in Pakistan is a compelling view of the immense contradictions of modern Pakistani society.
Review by Mandy Van Deven
Originally published in Bitch Magazine
The Horse Boy
Directed by Michel O. Scott
Zeitgeist Films
The Horse Boy is an emotionally stirring, thought-provoking examination of autism and its effects on familial life. Based on the autobiographical book of the same name, this powerful documentary examines the life of Rowan, the autistic child of journalist and horse trainer Rupert Isaacson and his wife, psychology professor Kristin Neff. The film documents Isaacson and Neff’s struggle to understand autism and bring comfort to their son.
Rowan suffers from severe tantrums, but his anxieties seem to disappear when he approaches horses. After countless Western treatments fail to ease Rowan’s symptoms, Isaacson decides to seek Eastern therapies. Isaacson and his wife travel with Rowan into the heart of Mongolia on horseback, seeking the spiritual aid of shamans. The film is, as Isaacson himself says, “a story about how, as a family, we did something crazy…in search of a miracle.”
The Horse Boy follows the family’s journey through the steppes of Mongolia. Their hope is that shaman’s can help heal Rowan—not to ‘cure’ his autism, but to ease his painful and dysfunctional behaviors. At its most basic level, The Horse Boy is about understanding autism, but the film is really about the bond between parent and child. The success of the film (and the power of the couples love for their son) is that the spectator understands why Isaacson and Neff are willing to be whipped by a shaman during a ceremony merely for the hope of bringing comfort to their son. The love they have for their child is evident in every frame of this film.
The Horse Boy offers no solutions or answers, but it does offer hope. Rowan’s transformation during this trip is powerful and real—he returns to the States a happier, calmer child. Whatever the cause of Rowan’s healing, it is clear that he has found some element of peace during the trip. The Horse Boy suggests there is hope of understanding autism and providing healing to autistic children.
Review by Joanna Chlebus
Zeitgeist Films
The Horse Boy is an emotionally stirring, thought-provoking examination of autism and its effects on familial life. Based on the autobiographical book of the same name, this powerful documentary examines the life of Rowan, the autistic child of journalist and horse trainer Rupert Isaacson and his wife, psychology professor Kristin Neff. The film documents Isaacson and Neff’s struggle to understand autism and bring comfort to their son.
Rowan suffers from severe tantrums, but his anxieties seem to disappear when he approaches horses. After countless Western treatments fail to ease Rowan’s symptoms, Isaacson decides to seek Eastern therapies. Isaacson and his wife travel with Rowan into the heart of Mongolia on horseback, seeking the spiritual aid of shamans. The film is, as Isaacson himself says, “a story about how, as a family, we did something crazy…in search of a miracle.”
The Horse Boy follows the family’s journey through the steppes of Mongolia. Their hope is that shaman’s can help heal Rowan—not to ‘cure’ his autism, but to ease his painful and dysfunctional behaviors. At its most basic level, The Horse Boy is about understanding autism, but the film is really about the bond between parent and child. The success of the film (and the power of the couples love for their son) is that the spectator understands why Isaacson and Neff are willing to be whipped by a shaman during a ceremony merely for the hope of bringing comfort to their son. The love they have for their child is evident in every frame of this film.
The Horse Boy offers no solutions or answers, but it does offer hope. Rowan’s transformation during this trip is powerful and real—he returns to the States a happier, calmer child. Whatever the cause of Rowan’s healing, it is clear that he has found some element of peace during the trip. The Horse Boy suggests there is hope of understanding autism and providing healing to autistic children.
Review by Joanna Chlebus
Afghan Star
Directed by Havana Marking
Zeitgeist Films
One of my favorite bands, The Avett Brothers, have a lyric in one of their songs claiming, “May you never be embarrassed to sing.” Since viewing Havana Marking’s documentary, Afghan Star, this lyric has been on repeat in my brain, reminding me, as Afghan Star aptly illustrates, if embarrassment is all that we have to risk, then we are risking very little. In her feature length directorial debut, Marking journeys into recently independent Afghanistan to explore the newly created television program Afghan Star. Following four contestants as they compete for the $5,000 prize, Marking exposes the inspiring and passionate citizens of a country shrouded by war, violence, and tyranny.
The film opens with a close-up of two little boys. One, whose face and eyes appear to have been violently damaged, sings sweetly into the camera and when he finishes the other states simply “If there was no singing the world would be silent.” From this point on Afghan Star weaves a complicated narrative that instigates dialogue about the power of having a voice, and the ideologies that determine what voices are heard and by who.
In 1996, the Taliban rule in Afghanistan created a ban on music, dancing, and singing. The ban was lifted in 2004, but as history has taught us all too well, a change in politics doesn’t always result in changing people. Most of those interviewed in the film, from the show’s producers to townspeople, equate singing with freedom; however, the concept of freedom is abstract and intangible. It is defined within the boundaries of Afghan politics and Islamic religion, leaving little room for the inclusion of Western liberties and autonomous behavior.
This is most evident in the subtle, yet disturbing, fulfillment of traditional gender roles. Both of the male contestants whom Marking chooses to focus on are met with great hope and respect by their communities. But when interviewing the families and supporters of the female contestants the responses are overwhelmingly concerned and fearful, or rife with ulterior motives. As the male contestants campaign openly in public and receive adoration from fans, the women are hidden by their burqas, unable to be recognized.
The contradiction is striking, yet the women are complicit and seemingly unaware of their alienation. However, the most drastic display of sexism occurs when Setara, one of the two female finalists and by far the most dynamic of all the contestants, is eliminated. While performing her final song, Setara “dances” on stage while also allowing her head scarf to fall revealing her hair. The result is scorn from her fellow competitors, eviction from her apartment and death threats so fierce and overwhelming, she fears returning to her hometown.
For those of us in the West, Afghan Star presents a thoughtful exploration of the life we so often take for granted: freedom of speech, the privilege of choice, and the unnecessary luxury of television and its star-making programs. But, above all, this film is a riveting reminder of the power, freedom and endless possibilities we hold in our voice and that no matter how we may use it, we must never be embarrassed to sing.
Review by Alicia Sowisdral
Zeitgeist Films
One of my favorite bands, The Avett Brothers, have a lyric in one of their songs claiming, “May you never be embarrassed to sing.” Since viewing Havana Marking’s documentary, Afghan Star, this lyric has been on repeat in my brain, reminding me, as Afghan Star aptly illustrates, if embarrassment is all that we have to risk, then we are risking very little. In her feature length directorial debut, Marking journeys into recently independent Afghanistan to explore the newly created television program Afghan Star. Following four contestants as they compete for the $5,000 prize, Marking exposes the inspiring and passionate citizens of a country shrouded by war, violence, and tyranny.
The film opens with a close-up of two little boys. One, whose face and eyes appear to have been violently damaged, sings sweetly into the camera and when he finishes the other states simply “If there was no singing the world would be silent.” From this point on Afghan Star weaves a complicated narrative that instigates dialogue about the power of having a voice, and the ideologies that determine what voices are heard and by who.
In 1996, the Taliban rule in Afghanistan created a ban on music, dancing, and singing. The ban was lifted in 2004, but as history has taught us all too well, a change in politics doesn’t always result in changing people. Most of those interviewed in the film, from the show’s producers to townspeople, equate singing with freedom; however, the concept of freedom is abstract and intangible. It is defined within the boundaries of Afghan politics and Islamic religion, leaving little room for the inclusion of Western liberties and autonomous behavior.
This is most evident in the subtle, yet disturbing, fulfillment of traditional gender roles. Both of the male contestants whom Marking chooses to focus on are met with great hope and respect by their communities. But when interviewing the families and supporters of the female contestants the responses are overwhelmingly concerned and fearful, or rife with ulterior motives. As the male contestants campaign openly in public and receive adoration from fans, the women are hidden by their burqas, unable to be recognized.
The contradiction is striking, yet the women are complicit and seemingly unaware of their alienation. However, the most drastic display of sexism occurs when Setara, one of the two female finalists and by far the most dynamic of all the contestants, is eliminated. While performing her final song, Setara “dances” on stage while also allowing her head scarf to fall revealing her hair. The result is scorn from her fellow competitors, eviction from her apartment and death threats so fierce and overwhelming, she fears returning to her hometown.
For those of us in the West, Afghan Star presents a thoughtful exploration of the life we so often take for granted: freedom of speech, the privilege of choice, and the unnecessary luxury of television and its star-making programs. But, above all, this film is a riveting reminder of the power, freedom and endless possibilities we hold in our voice and that no matter how we may use it, we must never be embarrassed to sing.
Review by Alicia Sowisdral
The Woodmans
Directed by C. Scott Willis
C. Scott Films
The prize-winning documentary The Woodmans chronicles the histories of a family of artists through conversations, monologues, journals, and both fine art photographs and family snapshots. The film’s narrative, from its start with the marriage of George and Betty Woodman to its finish with their lives today, is marked by their daughter, photographer Francesca Woodman, whose reputation has skyrocketed in the decades after her suicide in 1981 at twenty-three years of age.
After the Tribeca Film Festival screening, director C. Scott Willis, unfamiliar with the art world before the project, told how he met the Woodmans socially. They told him they were the parents of the famous photographer, and Willis made the embarrassing error of asking if their daughter would mind talking to his daughter, who was studying photography. Out of that situation and the Woodmans’ account of what had happened, Willis was inspired to make The Woodmans.
“Why did Francesca jump off a building?” while never voiced, and positioned as one question among many, is addressed in the pained, incomplete way suicide is usually discussed. There is no “interviewer” or even unifying message or theme, just unobtrusive aesthetic shaping of the movement forward of lives.
Francesca’s precocity—many of her photographs were made in her teens—is attributed in the film to her immersion in art as she was growing up. However, the film underplays the centrality of sexuality to her and most women’s lives (Francesca experienced a romantic break-up before her death) and ignores the sexual politics of the declining women’s movement, which coincided with Francesca’s adolescence.
Since both George and Betty have been artists all their lives, there is necessarily much about their making of art. The parental Woodmans speak loftily of exhibiting to a wider public, but there’s material here for an indictment of the art world: the winner-take-all reward system, the commodification of artistic product (Francesca’s photographs financed tuition for a collector’s children), and the competition among artist friends and, yes, family. Yet, the background of well-appointed studios and a house with a pool in Italy could fuel enough lifestyle lust to gentrify numerous bohemias.
Francesca, who with little success tried commercial fashion photography and worked as a photographic assistant, does “talk” about money through a chorus of friends and her fashion photographs. Indeed, her parents bicker about whether being rejected for a National Endowment of the Arts grant contributed to her suicide. (George does mention that his father “helped the couple financially” but disapproved of his son’s marriage to a Jewish woman.) In a film about questions, some fall away in the family drama.
Yes, artists will find much to like in this film—sumptuous art, the quotidian discipline and physicality of art-making, a compelling score by David Lang—but the film also has much for feminists to ponder about the choice to parent.
The mother, Betty, emerges as the hero, directly addressing the responsibilities of mothering as they intersect with the self. She wanted to “experience” childbirth and mothering, but was terror struck when presented with her infant son, Charlie, Francesca’s older brother, who became a videographer; Betty says baldly, “Maybe I’ve been an absolutely horrible mother.”
She made her pots, used in the household but not to be broken, behind the family house while mothering young children. (Avoiding interruptions presents a challenge for any parent, or anyone, working at home.) Visiting art museums, the Woodmans habitually set the children loose with pads for copying art, while they looked at art uninterrupted. When Betty talks about her daughter, she seems more mother than artist. In contrast, George admits that his daughter’s intensity was what made her interesting to him. Originally an abstract painter, he is now working in photography. Near the end, Betty becomes the triumphant artist, when a commission is installed in the American embassy in Beijing.
The Woodmans started with a faux pas and records a generous baring of lives and scars. Finding answers is left for the audience—like life, or art.
Review by Frances Chapman
C. Scott Films
The prize-winning documentary The Woodmans chronicles the histories of a family of artists through conversations, monologues, journals, and both fine art photographs and family snapshots. The film’s narrative, from its start with the marriage of George and Betty Woodman to its finish with their lives today, is marked by their daughter, photographer Francesca Woodman, whose reputation has skyrocketed in the decades after her suicide in 1981 at twenty-three years of age.
After the Tribeca Film Festival screening, director C. Scott Willis, unfamiliar with the art world before the project, told how he met the Woodmans socially. They told him they were the parents of the famous photographer, and Willis made the embarrassing error of asking if their daughter would mind talking to his daughter, who was studying photography. Out of that situation and the Woodmans’ account of what had happened, Willis was inspired to make The Woodmans.
“Why did Francesca jump off a building?” while never voiced, and positioned as one question among many, is addressed in the pained, incomplete way suicide is usually discussed. There is no “interviewer” or even unifying message or theme, just unobtrusive aesthetic shaping of the movement forward of lives.
Francesca’s precocity—many of her photographs were made in her teens—is attributed in the film to her immersion in art as she was growing up. However, the film underplays the centrality of sexuality to her and most women’s lives (Francesca experienced a romantic break-up before her death) and ignores the sexual politics of the declining women’s movement, which coincided with Francesca’s adolescence.
Since both George and Betty have been artists all their lives, there is necessarily much about their making of art. The parental Woodmans speak loftily of exhibiting to a wider public, but there’s material here for an indictment of the art world: the winner-take-all reward system, the commodification of artistic product (Francesca’s photographs financed tuition for a collector’s children), and the competition among artist friends and, yes, family. Yet, the background of well-appointed studios and a house with a pool in Italy could fuel enough lifestyle lust to gentrify numerous bohemias.
Francesca, who with little success tried commercial fashion photography and worked as a photographic assistant, does “talk” about money through a chorus of friends and her fashion photographs. Indeed, her parents bicker about whether being rejected for a National Endowment of the Arts grant contributed to her suicide. (George does mention that his father “helped the couple financially” but disapproved of his son’s marriage to a Jewish woman.) In a film about questions, some fall away in the family drama.
Yes, artists will find much to like in this film—sumptuous art, the quotidian discipline and physicality of art-making, a compelling score by David Lang—but the film also has much for feminists to ponder about the choice to parent.
The mother, Betty, emerges as the hero, directly addressing the responsibilities of mothering as they intersect with the self. She wanted to “experience” childbirth and mothering, but was terror struck when presented with her infant son, Charlie, Francesca’s older brother, who became a videographer; Betty says baldly, “Maybe I’ve been an absolutely horrible mother.”
She made her pots, used in the household but not to be broken, behind the family house while mothering young children. (Avoiding interruptions presents a challenge for any parent, or anyone, working at home.) Visiting art museums, the Woodmans habitually set the children loose with pads for copying art, while they looked at art uninterrupted. When Betty talks about her daughter, she seems more mother than artist. In contrast, George admits that his daughter’s intensity was what made her interesting to him. Originally an abstract painter, he is now working in photography. Near the end, Betty becomes the triumphant artist, when a commission is installed in the American embassy in Beijing.
The Woodmans started with a faux pas and records a generous baring of lives and scars. Finding answers is left for the audience—like life, or art.
Review by Frances Chapman
Babies
Directed by Thomas Balmès
Focus Features
I just got back from seeing the documentary Babies. I have to say that it was great! Director Thomas Balmès followed four babies from four countries for a little over a year each. The movie is mostly without dialogue, except for the little bit of the parents' talking. It is mostly shot from the baby's level, and is organized by the developmental stages of babies' lives. This choice was a great way to highlight each culture and keep the movie flowing.
I really enjoyed seeing the differences in parenting and lifestyles. I found Ponijao, the baby from Namibia, to be the most interesting. The parenting style there was extremely community oriented, though men seemed to have no place in parenting there. This collective parenting made it hard to tell who the baby's mother was through much of the movie.
Bayar, from Mongolia, lives on a family farm. It's amazing to see how closely he grows up with the animals and how he is given a lot of freedom. It's also interesting that his parents seem to take a very removed roll. Although the mother is an active parent at times, Bayar tends to be left to his own devices or with a slightly older sibling.
Japanese Mari was raised in a very Western manner, with her mother taking her to prearranged play dates and having her interact with toys produced by the baby industry. In California, Hattie grows up with a ton of toys and books. She goes to organized baby-centered activities, but otherwise is very solitary. Out of all the babies' fathers, Hattie's seems to be the most involved in his child's life.
Babies does a great job of staying silent; there is no voice-over commentary or focus on the parents apart from when they are interacting with their child. That said, I think the filmmaker intended to create a discussion about parenting, but Babies could easily act as a way to create an Other by creating a divide between Western and non-Western worlds. Although it shows how babies are similar overall, cultural and economic divisions and not providing context and commentary makes it too easy to view those from non-Western cultures as outsiders.
When watching the film, it's hard to remember that these are sample sizes of one, which makes it easy to critique the parenting style of, say, the Japanese parents because there are more than a few scenes of Mari being crabby. But she could easily have colic or be teething or it could just be a result of her parents' individual style, not a reflection of Japanese society as a whole. Similarly, Babies makes it seem as though this Mongolian family is completely removed from parenting, when it could be the economic pressures they face that creates a need for both of Bayar's parents to work.
I noticed some negative reactions in the theater. The film shows breastfeeding, which elicited a small gasp from another patron, and there were also some inappropriate reactions to the children in two of the cultures who were regularly without pants. I think these reactions tell a lot about Americans biases, and how these negative views make natural choices difficult for many mothers.
Other than these few things, Babies was amazing. I'd definitely suggest it to anyone who has an interest in children or parenting. I would just make sure the person understands that these are glimpses into the lives of individuals, and while the people featured may represent a part of their culture, they are not necessarily representative of the culture as a whole.
Review by Cheryl Friedman
Cross-posted at Squirrely Mama
Focus Features
I just got back from seeing the documentary Babies. I have to say that it was great! Director Thomas Balmès followed four babies from four countries for a little over a year each. The movie is mostly without dialogue, except for the little bit of the parents' talking. It is mostly shot from the baby's level, and is organized by the developmental stages of babies' lives. This choice was a great way to highlight each culture and keep the movie flowing.
I really enjoyed seeing the differences in parenting and lifestyles. I found Ponijao, the baby from Namibia, to be the most interesting. The parenting style there was extremely community oriented, though men seemed to have no place in parenting there. This collective parenting made it hard to tell who the baby's mother was through much of the movie.
Bayar, from Mongolia, lives on a family farm. It's amazing to see how closely he grows up with the animals and how he is given a lot of freedom. It's also interesting that his parents seem to take a very removed roll. Although the mother is an active parent at times, Bayar tends to be left to his own devices or with a slightly older sibling.
Japanese Mari was raised in a very Western manner, with her mother taking her to prearranged play dates and having her interact with toys produced by the baby industry. In California, Hattie grows up with a ton of toys and books. She goes to organized baby-centered activities, but otherwise is very solitary. Out of all the babies' fathers, Hattie's seems to be the most involved in his child's life.
Babies does a great job of staying silent; there is no voice-over commentary or focus on the parents apart from when they are interacting with their child. That said, I think the filmmaker intended to create a discussion about parenting, but Babies could easily act as a way to create an Other by creating a divide between Western and non-Western worlds. Although it shows how babies are similar overall, cultural and economic divisions and not providing context and commentary makes it too easy to view those from non-Western cultures as outsiders.
When watching the film, it's hard to remember that these are sample sizes of one, which makes it easy to critique the parenting style of, say, the Japanese parents because there are more than a few scenes of Mari being crabby. But she could easily have colic or be teething or it could just be a result of her parents' individual style, not a reflection of Japanese society as a whole. Similarly, Babies makes it seem as though this Mongolian family is completely removed from parenting, when it could be the economic pressures they face that creates a need for both of Bayar's parents to work.
I noticed some negative reactions in the theater. The film shows breastfeeding, which elicited a small gasp from another patron, and there were also some inappropriate reactions to the children in two of the cultures who were regularly without pants. I think these reactions tell a lot about Americans biases, and how these negative views make natural choices difficult for many mothers.
Other than these few things, Babies was amazing. I'd definitely suggest it to anyone who has an interest in children or parenting. I would just make sure the person understands that these are glimpses into the lives of individuals, and while the people featured may represent a part of their culture, they are not necessarily representative of the culture as a whole.
Review by Cheryl Friedman
Cross-posted at Squirrely Mama
The Codes of Gender: Identity and Performance in Pop Culture
Directed by Sut Jhally
Media Education Foundation
The main theme of The Codes of Gender is “commercial realism.” As explained by the narrator of this film, Sut Jhally, Professor of Communication at the University of Massachusetts, a code of gender has to be understood as a shorthand language, a set of rules and behaviors. This is how Jhally analyzes the ways in which both women and men are portrayed in advertisements and on the covers of glossy magazines.
The film is based on the works of the Canadian social anthropologist Erving Goffman, who was born in Alberta in 1922. His greatest contribution to social theory and to gender representation was the analysis of visual communication between spectators, the subjects of their attention and how attitudes about gender are shaped by culture and society.
The film starts with an explanation of the difference between biological sex identity and constructed gender identity, which leads to the process of contrasting these identities in magazine advertising for commercial films. Gender expressions on magazine covers are skillfully manipulated to reflect the identity of women and men– not as they are, but how they should be, according to a societal norm. The women in the advertisements are posed in awkward positions. They lie down with their heads tilted off balance, stand on one leg, or kneel to suggest powerlessness, submission and dependence. Women become sexualized and accepting of their helplessness, embodying both men’s desire and subordination to them. In contrast, men are portrayed as active. Their poses suggest power, strength, and control.
As an example, Professor Jhally uses a clip from the Seinfield TV series that shows the lead character dating an attractive woman with hands that are big, rough, and strong, like the ‘normal’ hands of a man. Jerry Seinfield is put off by the image and loses interest in the woman.
A second example is Danica Patrick, an American auto racing driver, who is also an athlete and therefore does not fit with the stereotypical image of ‘natural’ femininity. But Patrick is portrayed on the magazine covers in the same way as other women. She lies down, ready to be gazed at–weak and submissive. Paul Marciano, founder of Guess, is portrayed as selecting images of passive women for Guess advertisements, as if he was making a statement that ‘women should know their place.’
Another striking feature of the visual images is the association of women with childhood. As though they never left this part of their lives behind, in commercials women are frequently portrayed as childlike, with fingers in their mouths. Women's posture with men is that of father and daughter: constantly hiding behind men, snuggling with men for protection, or resting their heads on men’s arms in sweet and helpless positions. Men, on the contrary, are shown in straight posture, muscular and strong, and project a hyper-masculine image of ‘accepted normality’.
The Codes of Gender will be of interest to all who question the visual images of what is deemed natural and normal. The film is well-made and presented, and it serves as a fitting tribute to Goffman (who died in Philadelphia in 1982). His work was underestimated when he was alive, but his contributions to ‘the codes of gender’ are as equally valid today as they were thirty years ago.
Review by Anna Hamling
Media Education Foundation
The main theme of The Codes of Gender is “commercial realism.” As explained by the narrator of this film, Sut Jhally, Professor of Communication at the University of Massachusetts, a code of gender has to be understood as a shorthand language, a set of rules and behaviors. This is how Jhally analyzes the ways in which both women and men are portrayed in advertisements and on the covers of glossy magazines.
The film is based on the works of the Canadian social anthropologist Erving Goffman, who was born in Alberta in 1922. His greatest contribution to social theory and to gender representation was the analysis of visual communication between spectators, the subjects of their attention and how attitudes about gender are shaped by culture and society.
The film starts with an explanation of the difference between biological sex identity and constructed gender identity, which leads to the process of contrasting these identities in magazine advertising for commercial films. Gender expressions on magazine covers are skillfully manipulated to reflect the identity of women and men– not as they are, but how they should be, according to a societal norm. The women in the advertisements are posed in awkward positions. They lie down with their heads tilted off balance, stand on one leg, or kneel to suggest powerlessness, submission and dependence. Women become sexualized and accepting of their helplessness, embodying both men’s desire and subordination to them. In contrast, men are portrayed as active. Their poses suggest power, strength, and control.
As an example, Professor Jhally uses a clip from the Seinfield TV series that shows the lead character dating an attractive woman with hands that are big, rough, and strong, like the ‘normal’ hands of a man. Jerry Seinfield is put off by the image and loses interest in the woman.
A second example is Danica Patrick, an American auto racing driver, who is also an athlete and therefore does not fit with the stereotypical image of ‘natural’ femininity. But Patrick is portrayed on the magazine covers in the same way as other women. She lies down, ready to be gazed at–weak and submissive. Paul Marciano, founder of Guess, is portrayed as selecting images of passive women for Guess advertisements, as if he was making a statement that ‘women should know their place.’
Another striking feature of the visual images is the association of women with childhood. As though they never left this part of their lives behind, in commercials women are frequently portrayed as childlike, with fingers in their mouths. Women's posture with men is that of father and daughter: constantly hiding behind men, snuggling with men for protection, or resting their heads on men’s arms in sweet and helpless positions. Men, on the contrary, are shown in straight posture, muscular and strong, and project a hyper-masculine image of ‘accepted normality’.
The Codes of Gender will be of interest to all who question the visual images of what is deemed natural and normal. The film is well-made and presented, and it serves as a fitting tribute to Goffman (who died in Philadelphia in 1982). His work was underestimated when he was alive, but his contributions to ‘the codes of gender’ are as equally valid today as they were thirty years ago.
Review by Anna Hamling
Black Wave: The Legacy of the Exxon Valdez
Directed by Robert Cornellier
Macumba International
In light of the recent devastating oil spills along the southern U.S. coast, it seems unfortunate but appropriate to revisit the Exxon Valdez spill of 1989. Black Wave is a documentary that looks at both the environmental and personal economic impact of the disaster on the small fishing village of Cordova, Alaska, twenty years after the spill.
The story of the Exxon Valdez is as convoluted as you want it to be. Some maintain that the vessel’s captains were drunk and/or overworked when they ran the tanker aground in Prince William Sound. Others say that a faulty sonar system was to blame. In any event, the crude oil spill is cited as the most ruinous human-caused environmental disaster to ever occur.
Black Wave features interviews from the people who have lived to tell the tale. While the O’Toole family—whose personal story is highlighted through several conversations with the filmmakers—have suffered markedly less than some families, their willingness to speak on-camera was largely due to their relative pain. Sam O’Toole had invested his savings in expensive fishing permits less than two months before the spill, effectively leaving the family bankrupt when the local fishing industry subsequently collapsed. In the aftermath of the disaster, his wife Linden was able to shoulder the economic burden by working as a real estate agent, keeping the family afloat. The O’Tooles explained that because they lost less than many Cordova residents—many of whom find it too painful to discuss how their lives were ruined by the spill—they were willing to once again dredge up their memories to share in the hopes of educating a wider audience.
The film also prominently features Riki Ott, a renowned marine biologist and toxicologist, activist, and author of several books about the disaster including Not One Drop: Betrayal and Courage in the Wake of the Exxon Valdez Oil Spill. At the time of the spill, Ott—like many others in her community—had been working in commercial fishing. Skeptical of the oil ships all along, she had long predicted a spill by saying “not if; when.”
Following the spill, it was apparent that the oil industry was completely caught off guard. Containment and cleanup crews were promised within six hours; but they simply did not materialize. The film includes old footage from locals, who began cleaning up oil faster than the corporation could dispatch emergency teams, which didn’t arrive until days later. To complicate matters further, a storm four days later moved nearly half of the sludge 1,200 miles west of impact, trapping the glistening goo in the sound.
The immediate effects were disastrous. Three hundred thousand sea birds were killed; over 3,500 otters died, as did 300 harbor seals, 250 eagles, and up to twenty-two killer whales. Two hundred thirteen salmon streams were contaminated, and billions of eggs were destroyed.
The human cost is also shown to be immeasurable. While local Cordova fisherman like the O’Toole family suffered losses, cleanup crew workers continue to live with myriad chronic problems such as bronchitis. One cleanup worker in the film, Merle Savage, originally believed he had the flu after he worked to contain the mess. Today, he’s been diagnosed with chronic bronchitis and takes a daily cocktail of medication for pain. He’s one of many affected by the “poisoning epidemic.”
The spill can also be blamed for the city’s unusually high stress levels among residents and resulting problems such as high rates of domestic violence, substance abuse, and a higher-than-normal suicide rate. Ross Mullins, a fisherman interviewed for the film, lost his marriage to divorce after the spill, and his sons, once thought to take over the family business, moved far away. At least twelve suicides since the spill have been attributed to Exxon litigation and the related legal matters, including a former Cordova mayor who killed himself due to the immense pressure of the situation and hopelessness that plagued the community.
Alaska’s vastness is difficult to capture on film, as is the vast impact of this horrific disaster; but the documentary effectively showcases the gorgeous wilderness and its inhabitants. Mixed with archive footage of old town meetings and spill cleanup efforts, Black Wave comes at just the right time: to remind us why oil drilling won’t solve any of our problems, and to incite anger and action in response to the impending devastation along the Gulf Coast.
Review by Brittany Shoot
Macumba International
In light of the recent devastating oil spills along the southern U.S. coast, it seems unfortunate but appropriate to revisit the Exxon Valdez spill of 1989. Black Wave is a documentary that looks at both the environmental and personal economic impact of the disaster on the small fishing village of Cordova, Alaska, twenty years after the spill.
The story of the Exxon Valdez is as convoluted as you want it to be. Some maintain that the vessel’s captains were drunk and/or overworked when they ran the tanker aground in Prince William Sound. Others say that a faulty sonar system was to blame. In any event, the crude oil spill is cited as the most ruinous human-caused environmental disaster to ever occur.
Black Wave features interviews from the people who have lived to tell the tale. While the O’Toole family—whose personal story is highlighted through several conversations with the filmmakers—have suffered markedly less than some families, their willingness to speak on-camera was largely due to their relative pain. Sam O’Toole had invested his savings in expensive fishing permits less than two months before the spill, effectively leaving the family bankrupt when the local fishing industry subsequently collapsed. In the aftermath of the disaster, his wife Linden was able to shoulder the economic burden by working as a real estate agent, keeping the family afloat. The O’Tooles explained that because they lost less than many Cordova residents—many of whom find it too painful to discuss how their lives were ruined by the spill—they were willing to once again dredge up their memories to share in the hopes of educating a wider audience.
The film also prominently features Riki Ott, a renowned marine biologist and toxicologist, activist, and author of several books about the disaster including Not One Drop: Betrayal and Courage in the Wake of the Exxon Valdez Oil Spill. At the time of the spill, Ott—like many others in her community—had been working in commercial fishing. Skeptical of the oil ships all along, she had long predicted a spill by saying “not if; when.”
Following the spill, it was apparent that the oil industry was completely caught off guard. Containment and cleanup crews were promised within six hours; but they simply did not materialize. The film includes old footage from locals, who began cleaning up oil faster than the corporation could dispatch emergency teams, which didn’t arrive until days later. To complicate matters further, a storm four days later moved nearly half of the sludge 1,200 miles west of impact, trapping the glistening goo in the sound.
The immediate effects were disastrous. Three hundred thousand sea birds were killed; over 3,500 otters died, as did 300 harbor seals, 250 eagles, and up to twenty-two killer whales. Two hundred thirteen salmon streams were contaminated, and billions of eggs were destroyed.
The human cost is also shown to be immeasurable. While local Cordova fisherman like the O’Toole family suffered losses, cleanup crew workers continue to live with myriad chronic problems such as bronchitis. One cleanup worker in the film, Merle Savage, originally believed he had the flu after he worked to contain the mess. Today, he’s been diagnosed with chronic bronchitis and takes a daily cocktail of medication for pain. He’s one of many affected by the “poisoning epidemic.”
The spill can also be blamed for the city’s unusually high stress levels among residents and resulting problems such as high rates of domestic violence, substance abuse, and a higher-than-normal suicide rate. Ross Mullins, a fisherman interviewed for the film, lost his marriage to divorce after the spill, and his sons, once thought to take over the family business, moved far away. At least twelve suicides since the spill have been attributed to Exxon litigation and the related legal matters, including a former Cordova mayor who killed himself due to the immense pressure of the situation and hopelessness that plagued the community.
Alaska’s vastness is difficult to capture on film, as is the vast impact of this horrific disaster; but the documentary effectively showcases the gorgeous wilderness and its inhabitants. Mixed with archive footage of old town meetings and spill cleanup efforts, Black Wave comes at just the right time: to remind us why oil drilling won’t solve any of our problems, and to incite anger and action in response to the impending devastation along the Gulf Coast.
Review by Brittany Shoot
Behind the Burly Q
Directed by Leslie Zemeckis
First Run Features
We can't deny that we're in the midst of a Burlesque Renaissance, at least in New York City—go to any club downtown and see for yourself. But there's also no denying that the art form has undergone a drastic change since its heyday, if not in the style of performance then in how its performers are received. Today there's something kitschy about women stripping down to pasties and shaking it 'til their tassels twirl. What was once our version of pole dancing has developed an innocent gloss with time. Nostalgia has helped us to appreciate burlesque for both its titillation and its humor, and to consider its performers not only strippers but also gifted comediennes.
In Behind the Burly Q, countless dancers from burlesque's "golden age" remind us that, even then, humor was always key, but that we shouldn't forget what the art form's really about. One former dancer recalls a remark made by her husband long after she'd stopped: "You weren't a stripper; you were in burlesque." She replied, "Well honey, what do you think I was doing in burlesque? I wasn't playing the piano."
This tongue-in-cheek attitude must have rubbed off on director Leslie Zemeckis, as she does her best to keep the film light even when approaching the darkest of subjects. Like many of those working the strip club circuit today, burlesque dancers of the thirties typically grew up underprivileged and often abused, with little hope for advancement. Some of the most famous performers, like Lili St. Cyr, carried their demons well into celebrity, falling into depression and drug use. Still, all of Zemeckis' interviewees look back on the era fondly, even when discussing their own struggles, and Zemeckis underscores their resilience with jaunty vaudevillian music throughout.
It's impossible to estimate how arousing burlesque was for audiences contemporary to its prime, but according to Behind the Burly Q, its performers were admired and courted by movie stars and politicians alike (including a young JFK). Burlesque brought them money and adoration, more than they could have garnered in any other profession available to them, and many of them truly enjoyed what they did. In fact, some dancers performed well into middle age, Ann Corio into her 80's. The film retains that same bawdy, shameless joy, while still managing to give proper reverence to its subject—and its originators.
Review by Caitlin Graham
First Run Features
We can't deny that we're in the midst of a Burlesque Renaissance, at least in New York City—go to any club downtown and see for yourself. But there's also no denying that the art form has undergone a drastic change since its heyday, if not in the style of performance then in how its performers are received. Today there's something kitschy about women stripping down to pasties and shaking it 'til their tassels twirl. What was once our version of pole dancing has developed an innocent gloss with time. Nostalgia has helped us to appreciate burlesque for both its titillation and its humor, and to consider its performers not only strippers but also gifted comediennes.
In Behind the Burly Q, countless dancers from burlesque's "golden age" remind us that, even then, humor was always key, but that we shouldn't forget what the art form's really about. One former dancer recalls a remark made by her husband long after she'd stopped: "You weren't a stripper; you were in burlesque." She replied, "Well honey, what do you think I was doing in burlesque? I wasn't playing the piano."
This tongue-in-cheek attitude must have rubbed off on director Leslie Zemeckis, as she does her best to keep the film light even when approaching the darkest of subjects. Like many of those working the strip club circuit today, burlesque dancers of the thirties typically grew up underprivileged and often abused, with little hope for advancement. Some of the most famous performers, like Lili St. Cyr, carried their demons well into celebrity, falling into depression and drug use. Still, all of Zemeckis' interviewees look back on the era fondly, even when discussing their own struggles, and Zemeckis underscores their resilience with jaunty vaudevillian music throughout.
It's impossible to estimate how arousing burlesque was for audiences contemporary to its prime, but according to Behind the Burly Q, its performers were admired and courted by movie stars and politicians alike (including a young JFK). Burlesque brought them money and adoration, more than they could have garnered in any other profession available to them, and many of them truly enjoyed what they did. In fact, some dancers performed well into middle age, Ann Corio into her 80's. The film retains that same bawdy, shameless joy, while still managing to give proper reverence to its subject—and its originators.
Review by Caitlin Graham
Waking Sleeping Beauty
Directed by Don Hahn
Red Shoes Productions
We all know the Disney Renaissance well. From the late '80s to early '90s, we were blessed with a group of films that rejuvenated and redefined the animated feature: The Little Mermaid, Beauty & the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King. These stories forever bonded those of us who grew up during that time, especially young women who looked up to their wide-eyed but still fiery princesses as our ideals. (I remember gathering with friends in the back of the bus to sing "Part of That World" in unison on our way to school trips.)
Long-time Disney producer Don Hahn's documentary provides a nostalgic trip for my generation, as well as an unprecedented behind-the-scenes look at the special set of circumstances, or "the perfect storm of people," that led to the creation of these classic films. As hard as it is to believe now, Disney's animated division was in serious trouble in the early '80s, the company relying prominently on its live-action features like Splash for its profits. Disney even went so far as to evict its stable of artists from the animation building, which eventually led to the management turnover that brought in Michael Eisner, Frank Wells, and Jeffrey Katzenberg, who made it his personal mission to "wake up Sleeping Beauty."
In the following years, upper management brought in a slew of new artists, many from the musical theatre world, and put animators to work round the clock on what would become their most successful feature in decades, The Little Mermaid. Collaborators like composer Howard Ashman injected that epic sensibility into Disney's developing tales, but Hahn's treatment of the creative process in his documentary is anything but epic. Hahn takes great joy in poking fun at the clash of personalities behind the scenes, with caricatures of execs and animators alike sprinkled throughout. He makes the tensest of decisions playful, earning laughs even when (or especially when) things turn ugly.
Hahn's approach is fitting for Disney's animators during this era, a group of people who played just as hard as they worked. At one point early in the film, when they're all still fearing for their jobs, Hahn shows them keeping their spirits up by reenacting Apocalypse Now in the office. It's not all fun and games, though; Hahn also gives us an interesting albeit brief look at their difficult working conditions. Huge prices were paid by the artists for such a prolific period, mainly personal, many animators working too many hours to spend time with family and friends.
Waking Sleeping Beauty does a commendable job of exposing the dark underbelly of such an innocent source of joy in my own life. Still, the film's most interesting scenes are the ones that are more creative, like Ashman pitching "Under the Sea" to a room full of animators or he and Alan Menken working out the kinks of "Be Our Guest." But these moments of epiphany are few and far between, at least in Hahn's film, and thus its title is a bit misleading. As I suspect many of Disney's animators felt about this period, I wish it'd been less about ego and more about the creative process.
Review by Caitlin Graham
Red Shoes Productions
We all know the Disney Renaissance well. From the late '80s to early '90s, we were blessed with a group of films that rejuvenated and redefined the animated feature: The Little Mermaid, Beauty & the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King. These stories forever bonded those of us who grew up during that time, especially young women who looked up to their wide-eyed but still fiery princesses as our ideals. (I remember gathering with friends in the back of the bus to sing "Part of That World" in unison on our way to school trips.)
Long-time Disney producer Don Hahn's documentary provides a nostalgic trip for my generation, as well as an unprecedented behind-the-scenes look at the special set of circumstances, or "the perfect storm of people," that led to the creation of these classic films. As hard as it is to believe now, Disney's animated division was in serious trouble in the early '80s, the company relying prominently on its live-action features like Splash for its profits. Disney even went so far as to evict its stable of artists from the animation building, which eventually led to the management turnover that brought in Michael Eisner, Frank Wells, and Jeffrey Katzenberg, who made it his personal mission to "wake up Sleeping Beauty."
In the following years, upper management brought in a slew of new artists, many from the musical theatre world, and put animators to work round the clock on what would become their most successful feature in decades, The Little Mermaid. Collaborators like composer Howard Ashman injected that epic sensibility into Disney's developing tales, but Hahn's treatment of the creative process in his documentary is anything but epic. Hahn takes great joy in poking fun at the clash of personalities behind the scenes, with caricatures of execs and animators alike sprinkled throughout. He makes the tensest of decisions playful, earning laughs even when (or especially when) things turn ugly.
Hahn's approach is fitting for Disney's animators during this era, a group of people who played just as hard as they worked. At one point early in the film, when they're all still fearing for their jobs, Hahn shows them keeping their spirits up by reenacting Apocalypse Now in the office. It's not all fun and games, though; Hahn also gives us an interesting albeit brief look at their difficult working conditions. Huge prices were paid by the artists for such a prolific period, mainly personal, many animators working too many hours to spend time with family and friends.
Waking Sleeping Beauty does a commendable job of exposing the dark underbelly of such an innocent source of joy in my own life. Still, the film's most interesting scenes are the ones that are more creative, like Ashman pitching "Under the Sea" to a room full of animators or he and Alan Menken working out the kinks of "Be Our Guest." But these moments of epiphany are few and far between, at least in Hahn's film, and thus its title is a bit misleading. As I suspect many of Disney's animators felt about this period, I wish it'd been less about ego and more about the creative process.
Review by Caitlin Graham
When You're Strange: A Film About The Doors
Directed by Tom DiCillo
Wolf Films/Strange Pictures
When You’re Strange is director Tom DiCillo’s loving yet flawed homage to The Doors. The film is comprised almost entirely of original footage of the band, shot between 1966 and 1971. It follows members John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, and Jim Morrison from their first performance to heated recording sessions, and ultimately, to Morrison’s tragic death at the age of 27. When You’re Strange survives on the momentum of the bands’ energetic presence and explosive sound. Footage of live performances prove entrancing, with Morrison’s unpredictable behavior and chaotic energy filling the stage.
The film portrays the band as the voice of a generation—musical innovators voicing the anxiety and hope of the 1960s youth movement. DiCillo places the personal narrative of The Doors against the national narrative of the United States, illustrating how The Doors’ music fed off of the violence of Vietnam, the hope of the Civil Rights movement, and the anxiety of a nation at war. DiCillo is perhaps too enamored with the idea of Morrison as a tragic hero, as the narration refers to Morrison as a “shaman” with a poet’s soul “trapped between heaven and hell.”
Unfortunately, the frenetic pace of the original footage is undercut by the stilted narration, provided by Johnny Depp. Even Depp’s thoughtful reading cannot surmount the series of bland factual statements and flowery metaphors that comprise the script. Throughout the film, the band (particularly Morrison himself) is visually and aurally described in relation to fire and flames—an obvious and groan-inducing reference to The Doors hit “Light My Fire.” These aural metaphors are reinforced by the image of an extinguishing flame.
Ultimately, When You’re Strange is an enjoyable and reverential examination of The Doors that accurately presents the zeitgeist of the time. The film sustains itself on the vibrancy and charisma of the original footage, which keeps the film from sinking under the weight of its fragmented narration. Doors fans will enjoy it for its rare glimpses into the band’s history, but the film itself lacks the verve of its subject.
Review by Joanna Chlebus
Wolf Films/Strange Pictures
When You’re Strange is director Tom DiCillo’s loving yet flawed homage to The Doors. The film is comprised almost entirely of original footage of the band, shot between 1966 and 1971. It follows members John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, and Jim Morrison from their first performance to heated recording sessions, and ultimately, to Morrison’s tragic death at the age of 27. When You’re Strange survives on the momentum of the bands’ energetic presence and explosive sound. Footage of live performances prove entrancing, with Morrison’s unpredictable behavior and chaotic energy filling the stage.
The film portrays the band as the voice of a generation—musical innovators voicing the anxiety and hope of the 1960s youth movement. DiCillo places the personal narrative of The Doors against the national narrative of the United States, illustrating how The Doors’ music fed off of the violence of Vietnam, the hope of the Civil Rights movement, and the anxiety of a nation at war. DiCillo is perhaps too enamored with the idea of Morrison as a tragic hero, as the narration refers to Morrison as a “shaman” with a poet’s soul “trapped between heaven and hell.”
Unfortunately, the frenetic pace of the original footage is undercut by the stilted narration, provided by Johnny Depp. Even Depp’s thoughtful reading cannot surmount the series of bland factual statements and flowery metaphors that comprise the script. Throughout the film, the band (particularly Morrison himself) is visually and aurally described in relation to fire and flames—an obvious and groan-inducing reference to The Doors hit “Light My Fire.” These aural metaphors are reinforced by the image of an extinguishing flame.
Ultimately, When You’re Strange is an enjoyable and reverential examination of The Doors that accurately presents the zeitgeist of the time. The film sustains itself on the vibrancy and charisma of the original footage, which keeps the film from sinking under the weight of its fragmented narration. Doors fans will enjoy it for its rare glimpses into the band’s history, but the film itself lacks the verve of its subject.
Review by Joanna Chlebus
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