Movie City Indie Archive for January, 2013

2012 FYC Screenplay: ZERO DARK THIRTY

The last of the year’s PDF downloads here.

Picturing THE RAID 2 In Production

These stills come from a single, non-action scene of The Raid 2, but Gareth Evans is generous with small bits of information at his Twitter account. “Amazing steadicam work earlier. Huge shot. Got it and wrapped. Tonight reunites me with Prakoso in something of a tender scene for him.” “19 scenes out of 103 done so far. Close to a fifth of the way through in terms of content, but only 15% of the way through the schedule.”
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Rodriego Prieto on shooting ARGO (56’06”)

Yo La Tengo’s “I’ll Be Around” (4’49”), as seen in Bon Appetit

Video by Phil Morrison.
From Bon Appetit:
Why did you decide to put the recipe, and the rest of the text, over the video?
Ira Kaplan: It was the director’s idea, and we liked it. I think the first thought was that we liked the idea of information–there’s lyrics, there’s lyrics that aren’t part of the song, and there’s the recipe onscreen. I think it’s at a point where the text provides information, but it also obfuscates as well. I don’t think anyone knew until they saw it if it was going to work, but conceptually, it had the capacity of touching on a couple of bases that would otherwise be hard to show visually.
Why the eating scene?
IK: I’m not dying to talk about the meaning of the song, but we felt that it was appropriate to the spirit of the song, and I don’t think in particularly obscure ways… [Bass player] James McNew has made the tortilla before, but we hadn’t made the tortilla soup. So the tortilla was the first part of the menu, then we needed a complete meal.
And were you actually cooking it on-screen?
IK: Oh yeah. We’re not actors.

Disney’s PAPERMAN (8’33”)

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Google’s Eric Schmidt on “The Next Five Billion” (44’07”)

“The Next 5 Billion – Life in Our New Connected Age,” a speech at the University of Cambridge predicting what technology will bring in crime as well as good.

A Master Class With Douglas Trumbull (1″37’43”)

From TIFF’s “Higher Learning” series.

John Landis on ROAD TO MOROCCO (2’37”)

PRINCE AVALANCHE: The Morning After with David Gordon Green (3’31”)

“I’m always surprised at what people laugh at.”

Trailering Michel Gondry’s L’ECUME DES JOURS (2’27”)

Teasing INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS (2’11”)

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Gibney on WE STEAL SECRETS (23’53”)

Sundance Review: Upstream Color

“Love, love Amy Seimetz’s pixie cut. Love,” I wrote on Twitter directly after the press and industry screening of Shane Carruth’s Upstream Color as a couple of colleagues disagreed loudly nearby. I meant those words as highest praise: the remarkable Seimetz is as central to the film as women in Kieślowski’s late films, like Irène Jacob in Three Colors: Red and The Double Life of Véronique, or Juliette Binoche in Three Colors: Blue. The Pole’s project was always to make the indelible prompt the ineffable. Carruth’s ambition, after a decade in the weeds unable to make his epic “A Topiary” script, rises to Kieślowskian ambition in the insistence on sensations of the body and eruptions of memory and the tactile artifacts of the material world: consciousness is broken apart for the viewer to reconstruct. (“Enjoy your trip back to Philistinea!” the first colleague said banging the Holiday Village door open onto the bracing chill.) Openly, literally filleting and repurposing Thoreau’s “Walden”—among its several manifestations is a manuscript copied out page for page by hand and then joined link-by-link into a paper chain like a second-grade teacher might encourage her students to make—Upstream Color likely is embedded with myriad allusions to other literature as well as deeply-impacted personal concerns. Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake” came to mind in some of its choppy bursts of language that resound like music but then refuse to yield as sense, only beginning with the all-encompassing opening lines of “Wake,” “riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay.” (The inscribed paper chain also reminded me of poet John Ashbery’s comment that poetry runs in his head all the time, he just sits down once in a while to cut off a length.) At only one glance, attempting synopsis is the wrong work to try, especially of its opening passages that suggest a science fiction mysterium of physical dread and sonic paranoia (See: under: Philip Kaufman’s 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers) that observes a character called the Sampler in search of sounds in a muddy pig-lot filled with domesticated piglets as well as abductions that lead to samplings of bodies (and presumably souls). Resistant symbols recur and bloom, as blood and parasite and flora. The largely plein air cinematography (by Carruth) is specific and contemporary and near peerless. But above all it is a sensational accumulation of the resoundingly concrete and gorgeous and specific: that bob of hair above Seimetz’s keenly lost features once her character has given herself over to simple paranoiac reactivity; basins of ice cubes; sheets of inscribed stave paper or of corporate hoo-ha cascading from a bridge down to a river and from a elevated walkway to an emptied lobby; multiple occurrences of the drape of lank fabrics on Seimetz’s form (like each physical detail, the costume design is simple yet exemplary); flexing hands or flexing feet; a woman’s black tights shredded at the toes as toes worry, worry; a plump pale grub sluggish yet undulant against a tan palm, its lines as prominent as the veins on the back of leaf; a hand pocketing a phial of hotel shampoo at waist height; a fearful couple retracting into a cluttered bathroom, embracing, clothed, in the bathtub with an oversize wood axe at hand. In a city, on a train, a man pursues a woman. He is Jeff (Carruth), she is Kris (Seimetz). He is forward and assertive even as she shoulders on her damaged tremulousness. Kris smiles, truly smiles, but once, in the middle of this relationship that could be a week or take place across several years, her gleaming dimply grin in the foreground [see photo above] as in the background grackles black the sky. Several montages compress, repeat, redesign man-woman exchanges: there’s one of “I love you” and “those are just words”; another of the get-to-know-you “I like you”s and there is another of a liar and thief or a man who is lying about being a liar and thief confessing forward and backward repeatedly in patterns of cubist-style editing (co-cut by Carruth and David Lowery). They flurry like regret distantly recalled but never truly dismissed, the math of the mind that calculates quietly over what we’ve lost or what we’re losing right in front of ourselves: the editing is like the self-editing of the memories that will not let us go. Is it a succession of clues or a crazy quilt of occurrence that resists ready discernment? In some ways, it’s like a pulping of the phenomena of the oddities case-studied by Dr. Oliver Sacks. And the dialogue is necessary banality itself: “I like your scarf.” “I like you so much.” “We should take a trip.” And Carruth’s throb and thrum of a score ennobles the proceedings: it is a warm and stately gloom. Upstream Color is daunting tapestry, the sort that unfurls only in memory or in heated contestation and conversation. To turn to the nether end of Joyce’s dream salad of an epic novel and its closing line, “A way a lone a last a loved a long the,” Mr. Carruth acts, wrote, operated, shot, directed, co-produced, co-edited, composed the music and is self-distributing. A way a lone a last a loved, indeed.

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This is probably going to sound petty, but Martin Scorsese insisting that critics see his film in theaters even though it’s going straight to Netflix and then not screening it in most American cities was a watershed moment for me in this theatrical versus streaming debate.

I completely respect when a filmmaker insists that their movie is meant to be seen in the theater, but the thing is, you got to actually make it possible to see it in the theater. Some movies may be too small for that, and that’s totally OK.

When your movie is largely financed by a streaming service and is going to appear on that streaming service instantly, I don’t really see the point of pretending that it’s a theatrical film. It just seems like we are needlessly indulging some kind of personal fantasy.

I don’t think that making a feature film length production that is going to go straight to a video platform is some sort of “step down.“ I really don’t. Theatrical exhibition as we know it is dying off anyway, for a variety of reasons.

I should clarify myself because this thread is already being misconstrued — I’m talking about how the movie is screened in advance. If it’s going straight to Netflix, why the ritual of demanding people see it in the theater?

There used to be a category that everyone recognized called “TV movie” or “made for television movie” and even though a lot of filmmakers considered that déclassé, it seems to me that probably 90% of feature films fit that description now.

Atlantis has mostly sunk into the ocean, only a few tower spires remain above the waterline, and I’m increasingly at peace with that, because it seems to be what the industry and much of the audience wants. We live in an age of convenience and information control.

Only a very elite group of filmmakers is still allowed to make movies “for theaters“ and actually have them seen and judged that way on a wide scale. Even platform releasing seems to be somewhat endangered. It can’t be fought. It has to be accepted.

9. Addendum: I’ve been informed that it wasn’t Scorsese who requested that the Bob Dylan documentary only be screened for critics in theaters, but a Netflix representative indicated the opposite to me, so I just don’t know what to believe.

It’s actually OK if your film is not eligible for an Oscar — we have a thing called the Emmys. A lot of this anxiety is just a holdover from the days when television was considered culturally inferior to theatrical feature films. Everybody needs to just get over it.

In another 10 to 20 years they’re probably going to merge the Emmys in the Oscars into one program anyway, maybe they’ll call it the Contentys.

“One of the fun things about seeing the new Quentin Tarantino film three months early in Cannes (did I mention this?) is that I know exactly why it’s going to make some people furious, and thus I have time to steel myself for the takes.

Back in July 2017, when it was revealed that Tarantino’s next project was connected to the Manson Family murders, it was condemned in some quarters as an insulting and exploitative stunt. We usually require at least a fig-leaf of compassion for the victims in true-crime adaptations, and even Tarantino partisans like myself – I don’t think he’s made a bad film yet – found ourselves wondering how he might square his more outré stylistic impulses with the depiction of a real mass murder in which five people and one unborn child lost their lives.

After all, it’s one thing to slice off with gusto a fictional policeman’s ear; it’s quite another to linger over the gory details of a massacre that took place within living memory, and which still carries a dread historical significance.

In her essay The White Album, Joan Didion wrote: “Many people I know in Los Angeles believe that the Sixties ended abruptly on August 9, 1969, ended at the exact moment when word of the murders on Cielo Drive traveled like brushfire through the community, and in a sense this is true.”

Early in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, as Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt’s characters drive up the hill towards Leo’s bachelor pad, the camera cranes up gently to reveal a street sign: Cielo Drive. Tarantino understands how charged that name is; he can hear the Molotov cocktails clinking as he shoulders the crate.

As you may have read in the reviews from Cannes, much of the film is taken up with following DiCaprio and Pitt’s characters – a fading TV actor and his long-serving stunt double – as they amusingly go about their lives in Los Angeles, while Margot Robbie’s Sharon Tate is a relatively minor presence. But the spectre of the murders is just over the horizon, and when the night of the 9th finally arrives, you feel the mood in the cinema shift.

No spoilers whatsoever about what transpires on screen. But in the audience, as it became clear how Tarantino was going to handle this extraordinarily loaded moment, the room soured and split, like a pan of cream left too long on the hob. I craned in, amazed, but felt the person beside me recoil in either dismay or disgust.

Two weeks on, I’m convinced that the scene is the boldest and most graphically violent of Tarantino’s career – I had to shield my eyes at one point, found myself involuntarily groaning “oh no” at another – and a dead cert for the most controversial. People will be outraged by it, and with good reason. But in a strange and brilliant way, it takes Didion’s death-of-the-Sixties observation and pushes it through a hellfire-hot catharsis.

Hollywood summoned up this horror, the film seems to be saying, and now it’s Hollywood’s turn to exorcise it. I can’t wait until the release in August, when we can finally talk about why.

~ Robbie Collin