TOTAL RADICAL.

(An experimental article as published in The Scene, Jan. 2014)

 

 

Within the confines of the film Bullet Collector, teen angst is a strange and violently crooked world unto itself. A curious, ultra indie effort bred in Mother Russia (native title 'Sobiratel pul'), this film marks a flawed yet highly noteworthy feature bow for Alexander Vartanov, following stints toiling in and around television and stage productions . This director has openly cited the cinematic legacy of long beloved French new waver François Truffaut (in great particular, The 400 Blows, a work that receives rather explicit homage here) as a primary source of influence on his yarn spinning approach. One may be hard pressed to overlook the shades of fellow countrymen filmmakers embedded in the texture and rhythm of Bullet Collector as well (i.e. Andrei Tarkovsky, Grigory Chukhray).

Bullet Collector gives the adventurous viewer bold (and often quite brutal) insight into the passing everyday turmoil that is the waking life of a perpetually put upon youth, never officially named in the film and played by Ruslan Nazarenko, and the unique process he develops in order to soldier on. Between a cold, defeatist vibe at home care an emotionally bankrupt mother and conflict prone stepfather and an arguably worse environment at school and in the city streets, this poor soul must stick to the markedly fairer comforts of his imagination which at least provides him with a sense of purpose in the role of budding 'bullet collector' (yes, that odd title has a tangible meaning). You see, inside the framework of this anonymous child's mind, there is an abstract war of wills between collectives suggested to be heroic (the 'Bullet Collectors') and villainous (the 'Wood Borers') who trade bloody stand offs in strict juxtaposition to the harsh truths unfolding around him.

 

 

The potency that fuels this odd slice of monochromatic cinematic experimentation comes far more from the director's method of image composing and the corralling together of some remarkable ideas than just sticking to a convenient 'woe is me' type of t.v. movie level character study. Bullet Collector feels more accurate when it chooses to unfold its given saga in more of a brooding, even horrific light.

Vartanov divides the overall body of his unusual domestic dilemma into two distinct halves (like a kind of avaunt guarde 'Full Metal Jacket', albeit focusing on a rather scaled down form of combat) the first hour being fractured into drifting, largely unpredictable fragments that attempt to flesh out themes and shades of the protagonist's problematic existence. In said segmentations (ten in total, bearing titles like 'Father', 'Dagger', 'Debt, 'The Road' etc...) the viewer is fitted with the duty of properly assembling a coherent take on the main lad's background and upbringing coupled with sketches that work to detail this kid's none too smooth interaction with a pretty lass (who actually is permitted a name 'Vika', a blatant anomaly in the film for some reason) and a heady variety of violent altercations with local gangs of mechanically vicious delinquents. Finally, following a succession of these increasingly chaotic situations this lithe, blond ne'er do well finds himself smack in the nucleus of, the choice is made to have him shifted away to a reform school hell pit and the film reconfigures itself to become a far more linear, though no less aggressive and troubling, prison escape attempt melodrama. The kid aligns himself with a fitful company of other misfit types, mostly the kind that are repeatedly singled out for predictable abuse, and sets forth to hatch an effective scheme in which they are able to burst from the draining, oppressive walls of this 'establishment' and make their ways to brighter pastures. The film refuses to play out its final beats en route to a chipper denouement, preferring instead to play witness to their free fall away from one another and, especially in the case of the central youth so besotted with evacuating his given reality, a complete decent into a vast open body of water that may (or may not) spell the literal end of a much troubled mortal role.

 

 

 

Bullet Collector works as a mostly dead on depiction of extensive mental improvisation and (eventually) clear cut delirium as a means to survive a truly desolate end. The picture is rendered through stark cinematography that reveals its collection of potentially mundane daily life set pieces more as an engrossing Grand Guignol of painful challenges that the story's chief hero (to use the term with a bit of abstraction) must endure, overcome and ultimately escape in an improved form, or not. To be sure, the pace of Bullet Collector may lag some at times, the film runs a tad overlong, but that does precious little to diffuse its' genuine level of power. The plight of this boy is never reduced to cheap, simple to digest sentiment as the film favors a wholly gory series of visual visitations (i.e. one downtrodden specter who strangles himself with his own intestines) to help or hinder (the purpose is never completely sharp here) his progress through each passing day.

 

Bullet Collector is a strong piece of film for the sake of pure art and should satiate the needs of those who crave the brave and apart from conventional in their cinematic diet. Available on DVD from an interesting company named Artsploitation Films whose aim is to transcend safe boundaries in cinema and one glane at their budding catalog of releases (check artsploitationfilms.com to see for your own damn self) and one can easily believe in them. Bullet Collector is accompanied by a 25 minute making of piece (in color for a nice bit of alternate perspective), a short deleted scene, audition footage and a somewhat helpful booklet with ample insights from director Vartanov who does his darndest to clarify his intentions. Give it a chance, won't you?

 

 

 

 

 

Also along the path of different things for 'different' people is the spare yet informative documentary that goes by the name of Free Radicals, A History of Experimental Film. Here, we are presented with a bit of a crash course on the basics and key participants of the underground film movement that sought to separate itself from the confines of strict, commercial narrative storytelling in order to lay emphasis on the value and power of the image itself. The film seems to be a labor of love for its' heavily enthusiastic creator, director Pip Chodorov, and with obvious reason as the film makes blatant early on. Chodorov's pop, Stephan, was a would be avaunt gaurde filmmaker and documentarian and it seems Pip was raised in the embrace of a natural, creativity driven household that involved copious group screenings and related discussions. Pip does well within his tightly kept 82 minute running time to provide the uninitiated with many key points of interest (both historic and current) in relation to the founding and continued nurturing of the world of expressive celluloid manipulation.

 

Free Radicals works between clips of various works and interviews detailing by direct example the way established voices in this strange variant of the cinema found fulfillment by scratching, looping, spitting, spastically editing and painting on strips of film to craft dense and hitherto unforeseen realms to be projected before any (usually limited) gathering they could wrangle together. Some of the major names in this so-called movement, living and not, are given time to share insight, theory and asides into what first lured them and what maintained their drive to continue making these rebellious and consistently under loved little contributions to the motion picture universe. Stan Brakhage, Jonas Mekas, Hans Richter, Robert Breer and Ken Jacobs are all granted a fair share in this micro-epic and yes, even ol' Andy Warhol finds himself slotted into the mix.

 

 

 

The film holds a majority focus on many of the current and more recent facets of this sub-genre and never fully conveys the impression that it ever intends to be a end all, beat all historical chronicle of said subject matter (after all, there is no mention of turn of the century trail blazers like Georges Méliès and his ilk) and that hardly matters. What Free Radicals achieves is the worthy status as a sort of engaging primer on the matter, it could work wonders to pique interest and lead certain odd duck tastes to seek out the sprawling body of works that the mentioned individuals have given forth thus far. The Criterion Collection (forever a valued source for moi) itself has two fat collections of Stan Brakhage's mammoth output as well as a package of stuff from related artist Hollis Frampton (a name not mentioned in this film) that more than do the trick. I found each of the aforementioned films at the Appleton Public Library (bless 'em), so it doesn't even have to cost you to make the effort. Dig into it, pronto.

Free Radicals : A History of Experimental Film can also be tracked down at kinolorber.com

50 States/50 Films. Part 1

(originally published in The Scene-January 2011)

So, this month kicks off a yearlong experiment in cinematic analysis that this column will undertake in hopes of gaining a deeper appreciation of the relationship between a motion picture and its chosen environment. Every film has to be set somewhere, and for the express purposes of this monthly, poor-man’s attempt at journalism, I choose to pinpoint a film set in each of the 50 sections of this, our so beloved, red-blooded behemoth, the United States of America.

That settles it, 50 states=50 films. One per state, and the rules for each are simple: each film must bare a genuine attempt to embrace and convey some substantial measure of legitimate representation of whichever state it happens to be planted in. The movie has to dip beneath the surface and get a feel for its setting and the kinds of personas that inform it.

Some cases can prove appealing, others appalling; either way, an impact must be made for a picture to join the club. This first edition will sort through four fitting examples, some more current than others (as will be the case on through to December), and each from distinctly colorful spots in this here America.

Down By Law jumps off first in the far, dirty southern reaches of Louisiana. Entry number three in director Jim Jarmusch’s indie-chic canon, the film puts Jarmusch’s relaxed, minimalist character study routine square in the midst of swampland after a meander through depressing, early ’80s New York (Permanent Vacation) and a sprawling trek from NYC to Cleveland and on to somewhere in Florida (Stranger Than Paradise).


The initial linking thread here is musician/thespian John Lurie, who has a role in each picture, here playing a small-scale mack daddy who falls for a police sting and finds himself sharing a ruddy jail cell with an aimless disc jockey (Tom Waits) and an endlessly babbling Italian fellow (Roberto Benigni) with a limitless enthusiasm for, well, “being.”

Their shared (mis)adventures entail a jailbreak followed swiftly by a whole lotta stumbling through the bayou woodlands and later a run in with a small, off-to-the-side eatery peopled by one lonely Italian woman (Nicoletta Braschi), who provides the men with a temporary safe haven and blossoming romantic potential for Benigni’s character.
What qualifies this particular film as a worthy representation of Louisiana (as opposed to some more obvious, up front choices; i.e. Angel Heart, Streetcar Named Desire, maybe even one of the many Katrina documentaries, whatever) is that it understands that little extra something that I find myself often looking for and, thus, have applied toward the meat of this experiment, the relation between the human characters in the story and the unique specifics of their surroundings.

Via careful, richly detailed monochrome cinematography by esteemed Dutch cameraman Robby Müller, the viewer is able to glean copious visual subtleties within the frame. His imagery breathes with a depth and weight that can almost be called a character in and of itself. From establishing shot passages of New Orleans’ architecture (French Quarter ironwork, inner city housing projects, jail cells and shotgun abodes all in the mix) and street-bound wandering souls, to moss-laden swamp waters and long, winding roads, Müller’s bold black and white bayou holds its own and plays fruitful accompaniment to the picture’s misfit trio.

This is a smooth and satisfying little neo-noir slice of life with top shelf, deadpan turns by both Waits and Lurie bounced to max effect off the pure mania of Bengini. Down By Law has been a member of the Criterion Collection (spine #166 on a two-disc set) since 2002 and that would be the only edition one ever need bother with. criterion.com




Moving one state straight north, Arkansas, brings us to a film which probably most readers have at least seen or heard of once. Sling Blade is both Bill Bob Thornton’s tour de force embodiment of a “mentally challenged” feller named Karl Childers and rich homage to his home state.

The resulting film was, of course, a genuine sleeper hit with award show adulation and of the moment pop culture referencing following suit as expected. What makes this film fit with the program here is its adherence to the rural culture of the small town that the endearing Karl must learn to get by in.

To recap the basic premise for anyone who may have forgotten or never bothered with the film in the first place, Karl has just been released from the “Nervous Hospital” (as he terms it), where he’d been placed for a homicidal outburst he had as a young lad (he offed his mom and her lover). With only a handful of books to his name, Karl re-enters society and quickly makes friends with a young boy (Lucas Black), his mother (Nataline Canerday), her homosexual buddy (John Ritter) and later finds an adversary in said mother’s drunken, abusive beau Doyle (Dwight Yoakam), who likes to yell and throw shit, y’all know the type.

Billy Bob expanded this story from a previously realized short (Some Folks Call it a Sling Blade) and he won an Oscar off the resulting script. The strengths in this picture, apart from the more obvious points of acting and direction, come from small, taken-for-granted details that inform the traits and behaviors of those who thrive within the storyline. The natural affinity Karl has for repairing and maintaining small engines is just an easy example; the quaint particulars of the dialog is another.

Sling Blade shares its residence in this month’s group of cinematic choices by way of building up some epic storytelling prowess off of a convincing small town foundation (it even manages to borrow that Down By Law brain trust-Jim Jarmusch-for a clever cameo).

Composer Daniel Lanois and cameraman Barry Markowitz blend the Gothic and the romantic vibes at a level that serves to equally complement the work as a whole, the end product looks especially masterful considering the less than $1 million in production costs. This film, too, has been double disc’d, this time by the Miramax goons, and even if you’ve already gone through it, it bares revisiting. miramax.com

Over to the east a spell, in that thing they call North Carolina, another filmmaker with leanings to rural folks and their day-to-day methods of gettin’ by named David Gordon Green, has set down roots for his debut film George Washington.




Carrying the heavy influence of the elegant human poetry of early era Terrence Malick (see Days of Heaven) and the bygone days of big studio, auteur-driven cinema, Green and his partners have sought to craft a proud, authentic, widescreen meditation on time and place.

The film centers on a fairly compact network of friends and acquaintances who live, love, meander, banter on about trivia on top of trivia with asides to things broken and tangential, and ultimately have to face a sudden interjection of tragedy.

Green and his cinematographer Tim Orr have taken extensive pains to give the film a class-A look to tell the interlocking life lessons earned and learned by the bottom of the economic food chain characters (black and white skinned alike) the film is based around.
Again, the lasting value of this piece, and what sells its depiction of back roads North Carolina, is the natural essence of people and place (with maybe just a few shades of something like Harmony Korine’s Gummo bleeding through). This is yet another strong presentation of an area without the convenient devices of formula and pricey effects dressing.

Gordon Green has gone on to further his reputation as a director that needs to keep making movies and telling stories, with such solid films as Snow Angels and Undertow under his belt (and yes, he’s the same guy who called the shots on the demented pot-head extravaganza Pineapple Express). What George Washington does is, for myself at least, serve as a primer of sorts on the human mechanics of a place slightly less familiar, of people not so much like me yet ever the more intriguing because of it. Props once more to Criterion for helping get this thing out into the world (spine # 152).

Ok, enough with the fictional shit, time to get real...maybe a little bit too real.

The fourth and final state to fall under the microscope this month would be the one mentioned in the title, The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. This is a documentary centered around a year spent in the company of many, many members of the very sprawling White family tree.

This is a clan at once immortalized in a key track (“D Ray White”) on arguably Hank Williams III’s most accomplished album Straight To Hell and demoralized in the eyes of many of the non-kin types living in their immediate vicinity of Boone County, WV.

We are provided with insight into the ramblings and excesses of Jesco, Mousie, Maime, Poney (who has managed to escape to Minnesota, of all places) Sue Bob and so on, all giving not close to one good goddamn as they party out the rest of their highly dysfunctional days on earth, often under the clearly fed up watch of clan matriarch Bertie Mae.

Within this thing, you get it all -- alcohol abuse, pill abuse, firearm abuse, physical abuse, English abuse and abuse abuse. At one point, a woman is shown snorting drugs off a table during her stay in a hospital immediately post-childbirth.

One of many branch stories involves an imprisoned young man (that would be Sue Mae’s son, Brandon) relating how he wound up shooting his uncle, while another charts one of the White girl’s actually having a go of the rehab thing. The film (sporting several key members of Jackass as executive producers, as if that should surprise anyone) starts out as sheer train wreck genius but eventually just grows numbing. It all leaps around the clan White and even steps out into the sane world to lend screen space to several of the more upstanding Boone County citizens, one of whom makes the pivotal connection between such live in the moment, devil may care behavior and the undeniably harsh conditions of the major (legal) method in which people in this region (and of this lack of any stable education) can carve out a living, the coal mines.

So what does this nasty, redneck ass business have to do with the ongoing theme established here in this article? Well, if almost 90 minutes of watching some severely ugly bastards such as these drink, snort, fight and debase their way through waking life ain’t enough to stain one’s desire to pay a visit to the Western portion of them Virginias, then I’m afraid nothing will.

Here’s the website: wildandwonderfulwhites.com. Now, go git!

That should suffice for this first installment,
46 states/46 films to go...

Any suggestions? killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

NEW YAWK IN THAT 2010 THANG.

BEEN DOIN' THIS METROPOLIS PHOTOGRAPHICALLY SINCE JUST BEFORE THEM BIG, BAD BUILDINGS WENT 'BOOM'....SO MANY FACES, SO MANY PLACES, SUCH PRECIOUS LITTLE TIME IN WHICH TO EXPLORE AND EXPLOIT THE TOTAL OF THEIR WORTH....NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING, MIND YOU.

SKIN (1)

A SIMPLE, PASSING FASCINATION WITH THINGS RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.