The Face Knife

My review of the zombie satire Fido (2007) has been posted on The Movie Binge. Do check it out. I’ve referenced American Beauty and Tim Burton as signposts for the mediocrity of this film (which is not to unequivocably praise either of those two entities, particularly the former, which I despise).

Due to a technical hiccup, you’ll have to wait til tomorrow for The Summer Movie Comparison Chart 2007 update featuring Michael Moore’s Sicko. Do come back!

Night Watch plays like an entire season of Angel condensed into less than two hours and minus all the great characters of Joss Whedon’s series, or maybe a grim retelling of Ghostbusters. Even still, it’s pretty entertaining, although a bit lacking in hot vampire on vampire action for my taste. It’s a bit far-fetched to compare it to Bulgakov, as Hoberman does in the the Voice, or to Stalker, as I’ve seen somewhere (there’s one scene reminiscent of the deserted buildings of the Zone, but then the Vampire with the terrifying alias “The Hairdresser” and his girlfriend pop up).

Probably the most interesting thing about the film is the way it pre-empts the inevitable cross-over with the video game world by offering a scene in which the head baddie (whose power is apparently to remove his spine and use it as a sword. FATALITY.) hones his reflexes for the final conflict by gaming it out on a PS2. Maybe the whole film was story-boarded as a Machinima, which might explain the odd use of props (flashlights?). Hopefully, the remaining episodes in the series will take a bit more advantage of the Moscow location, particularly the “Stalin Gothic” skyscrapers that would look great being destroyed by the Sta-Puffed marshmallow man.

Maybe it’s just because as of late my business card happens to read both “Whitey” and “The Man” , but I’m finding it harder and harder to get properly exercised about the supposedly criminal lifestyle choices of the international Bourgeoisie. The effort of filmmakers like Lars Von Trier and Michael Haneke to expose the plush, tasteful underbelly of mainstream Liberals may actually be a decent and essential goal in the service of international liberation, and sometimes they come close to convincing me (like, I really hated that Paul Bettany character in Dogville) but I’m far too out of shape to become a street-fighting man without spending a fortune on pilates lessons, which requires a decent paying job, you know?

Georges (Daniel Auteuil) and Anne (Juliette Binoche) are a prosperous middle class couple who begin receiving anonymous, affectless (though as beautifully composed as a Mondrian painting, though that may be the result of the eminently tasteful architecture of their flat) surveillance videotapes of their house, seemingly taken at all hours from the alley directly facing it. Sometimes, the tapes are accompanied by a sanguineous crayon drawing. Naturally, this state of affairs leads to escalating paranoia and the facade of the life they’ve built for themselves begins to crumble as events from the past surface and frayed nerves are rubbed.

While it’s tempting to add Caché (Hidden) to my long list of films from 2005 that concern the ultimately futile attempt of a solipsist to come to a communion with the “Other”, what’s really been hidden about the film is the total lack of critical comparison to another formally daring expos? on the French Bourgeoisie, Godard’s Week-end. The big difference, aside from the fact that one of these films is far better than the other, is the static set-up of the “surveillance” shots of Caché as compared to Godard’s berzerk and breathtaking use of tracking shots. I would almost say that Caché has to be an ‘answer’ film to Week-end, if one that totally dispenses with the savage humor of the 60s film.

The difference between the “despicable” protagonists of the films is that the couple on the run in Godard’s film has nothing in the way of self-reflection or self-consciousness, whereas the “hunted” couple of Caché has nothing but that. Both films are the wish fulfillment fantasies of their protagonists. Caché is the ultimate Liberal guilt-trip fantasy film. It is the dark fantasy of the politically “responsible” (though not actually engage? ) that they will somehow, sometime, be taken to account for their failings, even if their deepest, darkest, evilest acts occurred when they were perhaps six years old, or more to the point, what they would consider their evilest acts.

Indeed, the narcissism -the infantilism- of Georges’s persecution fantasy is made clear in the drawings that accompany the videotapes. The most pathetic scene occurs when Georges watches the videotape that apparently was filmed right after his initial confrontation with Majid - the extended tape of the old Algerian crying. Naturally, Georges feels awful. Poor Frenchman! He made the sub-altern weep! Look how evil and powerful he must be, even in his most unconsidered moments!

Georges’s construction of the Other becomes even more absurd in the fantasy of Majid slicing his own throat as some sort of penance. (and I maintain it was probably a fantasy, given the lack of police response, etc. ) Only a true narcissist would think that his actions could cause another to take his own life in such a way.

The attribution of the tapes is a total act of projection - Georges tries to generalize from his own experience and from pieces of media he consumes (it’s not for nothing that his job is on TV, or that his home is virtually filled with media) the inner lives of the Other, what their motivations and drives might be, and succeeds only in exposing the loathing he feels for himself and his lifestyle, and a metaphysical need to somehow be held responsible for his situation.

Ultimately, there is no one attempting to hold Georges responsible for anything - just as there is no one who will hold us responsible for our failings. Georges wishes there were someone who would either punish him or reassure him for leading an okay life, like the power he has over his child, Pierrot. When Pierrot starts to rebel, Georges is faced with an uncomfortable mirror that does not reflect, a reminder of his own place as a radically free and radically alone agent in a world without a hidden order.

Looking for a low cost way to entertain a short-attention spanned out-of-town guest on Saturday, I stumbled across the blessedly $5 Coney Island Saturday Night Film Series, at, where else, The Coney Island Museum. Although most of the other films in the series seem outside of the scope of my interests, the one on Saturday, Svengali (1931) seemed like it could be good. Pre-code, horror, purportedly expressionist, directed by Archie Mayo (whose The Petrified Forest (1936) is part of the Warner Gangsters boxset and is a pretty interesting film) , and John Barrymore looked like Rasputin in the still advertising the movie.

Well, although I didn’t end up staying for all of Svengali because the sound was for shit and the movie was a little less than interesting in those circumstances, (though the sets were quite nice in a mersh expressionist way, the close-ups of Barrymore verged on Camp, and some of the main characters were fin-de-siecle Parisian painters - maybe I will watch the rest when it’s released on video) it was a pretty interesting evening, dipping into a subculture a venn diagram of which would comprise the overlapping of the Horror, Surf, Burlesque and Vaudeville spheres. In addition to limitless popcorn and water, our $5 bought us a half hour of ventrioloquism by Philadelphia’s Mr. Deadguy, though I wonder how difficult it is to ventriloquize with your head encased in a Latex skull mask. He was no Great Gabbo, that is for certain, though his dead baby puppet, Baby Cheesewhiz, had a certain cute charm to it. Half an hour was a little too much to bear, but he had a kind audience.

The next presentation was an episode of a public access TV show called Ghoul-a-Go-Go, which started off promisingly enough with a Kidz Boppy opening number featuring children dancing to the surf music theme, accompanied by the hosts, a vampire, a Quasimodo and the Invisible Man. In addition to the kids doing the “Swim,” the half-hour episode featured clips from vintage surf movies, commercials (including one for a “barbecue log” *shudder*), a burlesque performance by the “World Famous Pontani Sisters” and the most inept surf band of all time, The Dead Elvii (one of whom looked more like ZZ Top than Elvis - make sure the whole band commits to the gimmick, guys).

The last performance before the movie (and you can see why my attention span was shot by the time the feature started) was a guy who called himself Dr. Reverend Steven Strange, and began by swallowing razor blades (and cutting his tongue) and then retrieving them on a strand of dental floss. He had a lot more charisma than the ventriloquism guy - that kind of wiry energy that comes from a hard-living freak.

I have to say I had fun, and it was interesting to check out Suicide Girls and their admirers in their natural habitat. There were some civilians like myself in attendance, so non-Goths wouldn’t feel like “norms”, if you’re concerned about that. $5 well spent.