Hello, Cine-File Readers:
This week we continue to spotlight more films available for viewing online, recommended by our contributors. Among these are a new film by a Romanian master; a new restoration of a film by an Italian master; a little-known pre-code pirate film; WWII docs and dramas; U.S. indie and international narrative features; experimental video art, animation, and celluloid decay; and an innovative and artful documentary about laundromats.
Be Well and Stay Inside
NEW REVIEWS
Roland West’s CORSAIR (US)
Streams free on OK.RU here and in a less crisp-looking version on YouTube
Like most people, when I think pre-Code, I think scantily clad women, suggestive situations, raw violence, and piracy on the high seas. That is, I think of piracy now that I’ve seen Roland West’s final film, CORSAIR, which boasts a singular story with some truly shocking violence. The story revolves around college football star John Hawks (Chester Morris), who is recruited by flirty socialite Alison Corning (Thelma Todd) to join the brokerage firm headed by her father, Stephen Corning (Emmett Corrigan). Unhappy with the firm’s unscrupulous sales tactics, Hawks decides to teach his boss a lesson by quitting the firm to make his fortune as a pirate dedicated to busting up Corning’s bootlegging operation. Recruiting an insider (Ned Sparks) to provide the shipping manifest of the smugglers’ boat, Hawks hijacks the cargo Corning has already paid for and sells the goods back to him at what looks like a bargain price. Chester Morris, who starred in West’s 1929 crime picture ALIBI, reteamed with him for CORSAIR. Both men reveal a more sophisticated understanding of sound production in the latter film, with Morris emerging as a full-fledged movie star. Burly Fred Kohler is vicious as the head of the bootlegging operation, and Ned Sparks has a rare opportunity to play a genuine romance that is as touching as it is tragic. Although Thelma Todd is very good as a seductive vamp, there’s nothing particularly titillating about CORSAIR. Nonetheless, this brisk, unusual pre-Coder is well worth your time. (1931, 75 min) MF
Jack Lieb’s D-DAY TO GERMANY, 1944 (US Documentary)
Streams free on YouTube here
Jack Lieb was a newsreel cameraman for Hearst Movietone News who was sent to Europe to film the D-Day invasion of Normandy. In addition to the 35mm camera loaded with black-and-white film he used for his newsreel footage, he took a 16mm camera loaded with color film to record his experiences for his family back home. That film is perhaps the most important home movie of all time. Lieb’s film starts with the kind of shots any tourist to London might take—Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral. But Lieb’s narration, which was recorded during a showing of the film, provides a much more sober context. St. Paul was bombed several times, he says, but fortunately, not much serious damage was done. The guardsman in front of Buckingham Palace is wearing not a high bearskin and redcoat, but a helmet and battledress. The cute kids he films drinking water from a public fountain were not lucky enough to be evacuated to the countryside. He films the massive machinery of war and troops boarding ships that will take them to the other side of the English Channel, and says a report of a U-boat in the Channel prompted the drop of some depth charges. Footage of the invasion, some from his newsreel footage and some from the automatic cameras officials put on the landing craft to record what happened for future reference, is stark and commonplace at the same time. Lieb spent a lot of time with other correspondents, and we see plenty of footage of Charles Collingwood, Larry LeSueur, Helen Kirkpatrick, Bill Stoneman, Jack Thompson, and others. He has footage of Robert Capa and Ernie Pyle, both of whom would be killed. In fact, he informs us of the circumstances of a number of deaths among the people he filmed. Awestruck on his first visit to Paris, he films its beauty, the reawakening of its citizens following liberation, and the revenge Parisians took on some captured Germans. The massive destruction that Lieb captures in London, Cherbourg, and Aachen—and the sadness over the deaths of his comrades—leads him to ruminate on the senselessness of war at the end of the film. D-DAY TO GERMANY, 1944 is a riveting record of a seminal moment in world history that should not be missed. (1944, 46 min) MF
Bill Morrison’s DECASIA: THE STATE OF DECAY (US Experimental)
Available on Amazon Prime Video and OVID (get one month free with code 1MONTH)
From the very first image, DECASIA envelops you in its haunting embrace. Experimental in the truest sense, this hour-long film was pieced together from physically decaying and disintegrating bits of silent films long cast aside due to their damage. DECASIA has no dialogue, no narration, no diegetic sound—only stark black and white imagery and the pulsing, dissonant, orchestral score by Michael Gordon. By opening and closing the film with the grainy images of dervishes, filmmaker Bill Morrison makes it quite clear that he wants you to achieve a trance-like state, and that his relentless, dancing montage of cinematic detritus will be the way. Through Morrison’s deliberate and meticulous editing, weathered and withered strips of film are used to paint gorgeous, textured explosions of visual poetry. Often the film itself becomes the image: bubbled, jagged, deformed; turning and twisting. It dances across the screen, leaving shadows. Becoming shadows. With so many on-screen images reduced to pure abstraction, DECASIA is one of the greatest celebrations of the physical format that is celluloid film. It remembers that the physical film is the truly magical element of cinema, that without it we would be left with only white light against a wall. That stories are ephemeral, but celluloid is real. Made in 2002, when the turn towards the standard of digital cinema loomed inevitable, Morrison faced the death of celluloid film and made it into art. Unlike Stan Brakhage or Hollis Frampton (though heavily indebted to both of them) Morrison doesn’t manipulate or alter the film itself, nor does he turn his premise into a kind of stiff, formalist, structuralist exercise. There are no artistic attacks on the celluloid, no quantized rhythms in the editing. Here we have a fluid wave of imagery continuously washing over us. Rightfully praised by Morrison’s contemporaries and peers, such as Kenneth Anger and Errol Morris (the latter referring to it as, “A documentary documenting the decay of itself”), DECASIA has the distinction of being the first film made in the 21st century added to the National Film Registry. In our current times of uncertainty, with so many of us relegated to our homes, we are constantly looking towards film as escape and hope. DECASIA will serve well as both pure, hypnotic diversion and reminder of the ability to create beauty from that which is falling apart. (2002, 67 min) RJM
The Electric Mirror: Reflecting on Video Art in the 1970s (US Experimental)
Available for free on VBD TV until 4/10
Chicago’s own Video Data Bank is making their 2017 series VDB TV: Decades, organized in conjunction with their 40th anniversary, available to view for free on their website. Over the course of ten weeks, VDB will be releasing one program from this series every two weeks; it begins this week with “The Electric Mirror: Reflecting on Video Art in the 1970s,” curated by Robyn Farrell, Assistant Curator in the Department of Modern and Contemporary Art at the Art Institute of Chicago. The program takes its title from Lynn Hershman Leeson’s 1978 essay, “Reflections on the Electric Mirror,” referencing the television, and, in the accompanying essay (available to read here), Farrell writes that the artists in the program “[r]epresent…the first generation that grew up with television, [who] were keenly aware of a viewer’s social and psychological experience while watching TV. Their collective works encompass the interests of this ‘TV generation,’ and at the same time, the post-war, post-pop proclivities of a changing art landscape that ranged from minimal representation and captured action, to technophilic inquiry and appropriation. Together these videos represent artistic efforts that rechanneled a medium and its vapid promise of normative reality or neutral viewing.” Each work in the program achieves this in its own way, and the sheer range of techniques indicates the medium’s malleability. It would seem that many of the artists whose work is featured predominantly worked in other mediums, either in general or before transitioning to video, a through-line that speaks to the opportunities presented by the form, as well as their ingenuity in handling it. Lynda Benglis, whose video ON SCREEN (1972, 7 min) opens the program, was “[f]irst recognized for her work in poured latex and foam, cinched metal, and dripped wax.” In the video, Benglis appears on screen, making funny faces and noises. She then appears again, in front of a screen on which the previous actions, apparently having been recorded, are occurring again, with Benglis repeating the actions. This happens, in some variation, several times, a playful repetition that causes one to question their perception of what’s really on screen. Benglis has said that her work is an “expression of space,” and here she explores it both on the screen and, seemingly, outside it. Susan Mogul’s DRESSING UP (1973, 7 min) is my favorite, a diaristic work in which Mogul initially appears nude, then begins to put on clothes piece by piece while explaining the bargain she got when purchasing each item and eating corn nuts. Farrell notes that the work “upends the typical talk show format, mocking the norms of female conversation”; I’d say it’s also ahead of its time in how it anticipates reality television and the concept of influencers, people who often perform for their followers by detailing the mundanity of day-to-day life. One might say it’s mocking, but Mogul is so genuinely entertaining that I rather think it shows the value—and, in this case, the artistry—to be found in benign chatter. Nancy Holt’s GOING AROUND IN CIRCLES (1973, 15 min) and John Baldessari’s INVENTORY (1972, 24 min) both play with perspective. In the former, a board with five holes is placed in front of the camera; through these holes, people can be seen moving within and between them. In voiceover, the group watches it and discusses what they’re seeing in comparison to what they were experiencing on the ground. The latter employs a deliberately meandering tone, as Baldessari puts numerous objects in the front of the camera, ever increasing in size, and describes them in a deadpan tone, occasionally pulling back the camera to better frame the growing objects. David Antin, cited in the program notes, posited wryly in response to the video, “Who can forget Adlai Stevenson’s solemn television demonstration of the ‘conclusive photographic evidence’ of the Cuban missile sites, discernible over the TV screen as only gray blurs?” The films consider, respectively, perspective as a philosophical and political concern. Lastly, Barbara Aronofky Latham’s ARBITRARY FRAGMENTS (1978, 12 min) explores the implicit fragmentation of the video-making process, specifically as it applies to self-perception and how she and her work are perceived by others. Like Keith Sonnier’s TV IN AND TV OUT (1972, 10 min), Latham’s video is more deliberately processed; colorful and glitchy, it looks appropriate for what’s effectively a self-assessment and self-effacement, two modes embodied by the medium. Also included in the program are William Wegman’s MASSAGE CHAIR (1973, 1 min); Simon Forti’s THREE GRIZZLIES (1974, 17 min); and Paul and Marlene Kos’ LIGHTNING (1976, 12 min). KS
Ursula Meier’s HOME (Switzerland/France/Belgium)
Streams free on Kanopy through participating libraries with your library card
Is there a better time than in a quarantine to watch this film about a family literally suffocating in self-imposed isolation? Don’t worry, it’s not quite as grim as it sounds. Marthe (Isabelle Huppert) and Michel (Olivier Gourmet) are raising their three kids in an isolated house by an unused highway route. Life has been good for them: exhibiting the kind of close-knit bonhomie any family aspires to, they live out a peaceful, unselfconscious existence, with the road in their front yard serving as an ideal recreational area. But disruption looms. Their youngest, Julien (Kacey Mottet Klein, exuding the feral naturalism he hones in Meier’s terrific follow-up, SISTER), returns with news that he’s seen construction trucks on the road. It’s true: fluorescent orange worker suits portend the reopening of the highway, and the end of bucolic domestic harmony. The first problem is the noise. As the traffic picks up, the family’s quietude is replaced by a cacophony of whooshes and horns. Then there’s the issue of crossing the road, a once simple task that now takes on the form of a real-life game of Frogger. Meier and DP Agnès Godard depict this rude intrusion of modernity with a Tati-esque sensibility, striking a deft balance between absurdity and genuine urban terror. Gradually, the terror takes over. Middle child Marion (Madeleine Budd) becomes increasingly paranoid about the adverse health effects of the cars’ CO2 emissions, and the relationship between mom and dad frays from disagreements over staying put or packing up (a reminder that few people are better at chilly psychic unraveling than Huppert). The remainder of the film concerns the family’s obsessive-compulsive attempts to regain their lost idyll. I won’t say much more, only that HOME resists a full transition into the Haneke-style domestic debasement it seems to be heading toward, and that Meier avoids such nastiness and cynicism by showing, all too relatably, how easily we succumb to anxieties we fear to rationally address. The film is acute in how it captures the resulting effects/affects of these anxieties, the shrinking of focus, the seeming foreclosure of movement and possibility. Yet Meier urges us to hold onto our sanities, even when the cars won’t stop honking. (2008, 98 min) JL
Luchino Visconti’s L’INNOCENTE (Italy)
Available for rent through Gene Siskel/Film Movement here
A vivid and stinging adaptation of Gabriele D’Annunzio’s 1893 novel, Luchino Visconti’s final film feels like it transpires inside a tomb. The detailed set design—a reliable constant of Visconti’s period films—doesn’t seem to adorn the widescreen frames, but rather suffocate them; one often feels as though the characters, virtually overtaken by their possessions, don’t have enough air to breathe. As usual with the Italian master, the mise-en-scene serves partly to reinforce the film’s psychosexual class analysis. Here, the director argues that the upper-class characters’ adherence to social codes (reflected in the just-so arrangement of every room they inhabit) ultimately destroys their ability to forge healthy intimate relationships. The film is a lament not only for the characters, but also for the high society to which they—and the director—belong. Giancarlo Giannini (best known for his collaborations with director Lina Wertmüller) stars as a Tullio Hermil, a count (like Visconti himself) who prides himself in his modern attitudes. A bon vivant and avowed atheist, he believes he can do anything he wants without fear of divine punishment. When L’INNOCENTE begins, Tullio is enjoying an extramarital affair with Teresa (Jennifer O’Neill); he tells his wife Giuliana (Laura Antonelli) about it, announcing he intends to continue the affair regardless of how she feels. Later, Giuliana takes a lover herself, and this drives Tullio first to rage, then to a newfound (if not new) appreciation of his wife. The story takes a romantic turn when the spouses fall passionately in love with each other, but it dashes hopes for a happy ending when Tullio’s jealousy returns in full force. All this transpires slowly and purposefully; not a gesture is wasted in this exquisitely crafted film. Visconti’s use of zooms is purposeful as well, frequently guiding viewers to inspect the characters and environments more closely while reminding us that we remain fixed in our perspective. All of Visconti’s period films communicate a simultaneous respect for and eerie distance from the past, but this push-pull dynamic feels most powerful in L’INNOCENTE. (1976, 129 min) BS
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It costs $12 to rent the film for three days, with half the proceeds supporting the Gene Siskel Film Center.
Animations of Annapurna Kumar & Kevin Eskew (US Experimental Animation)
Available for free at the artists’ Vimeo pages (links in the text)
I am only aware of the extraordinary and immensely pleasurable animations of Annapurna Kumar and Kevin Eskew from the invaluable work of Alexander Stewart and Lilli Carré and their Eyeworks Festival of Experimental Animation. The touring festival usually reaches Chicago very late in the year, so we can hope that we still will be graced by a 2020 edition. In the meantime, here are some selections of my favorite artists that I've been exposed to by the festival over the past couple years. Annapurna Kumar and Kevin Eskew are both recent graduates of CalArts and their works are geysers of motley inspiration and fervid phrasings of image and form. Kumar's MOUNTAIN CASTLE MOUNTAIN FLOWER PLASTIC (2017) is a Robert Breer-esque, flickering, squirming, poetic trip through suggestive mountains, an 8-bit castle, gif-y flowers, and a shifting floating plastic debris island. It's a jolting and gorgeous tottering tumble of suggestive colors and shapes. Her SOMETHING TO TREASURE (2019) features suggestively crackling bits of pop graphics, which she seamlessly integrates with hand-processed 16mm imperfections. Eskew's DUMB DAY (2012) is scratchy black and white suburban/domestic slurry of lumpy-round (think a touch of Philip Guston) shoes and flowers that stretch and penetrate with a peaceful smoosh. And butts. The people and the hills and flowers and the books all kinda have butts. His STILL LIFE (2016) sharpens his black and white lines to create an ominous poetic farce with a strict rhyme structure where, of course, the inevitable connection is made between spiderwebs, chemtrails, and a dog expressing its anal glands. (2012-18, 20 min total) JBM
Thomas Southerland’s PROUD CITIZEN & Thomas Southerland and S. Cagney Gentry’s FORT MARIA (US)
Available to stream free at The Public Cinema through 4/8
These two delightful black-and-white microbudget features, each reportedly made for less than $10,000, prove that regional independent filmmaking is alive and well in America. They both star Bulgarian-born poet Katerina Stoykova-Klemer, who probably deserves to be considered a “co-auteur” alongside directors Thomas Southerland and S. Cagney Gentry by virtue of the fact that her dialogue in the films was largely improvised and due to the sheer force of her quirky and quietly remarkable screen persona. PROUD CITIZEN (2014, 90 min) details a week in the life of Krasimira, a Bulgarian writer who travels to Lexington, Kentucky to attend the World Premiere of an autobiographical play she wrote about her Communist-era childhood after winning second place in an international playwriting contest. The fish-out-of-water premise allows Southerland to examine his home state through a foreigner’s eyes as Krasimira interacts with members of the regional theater troupe who are staging the play and attends a patriotic Fourth of July parade; the rich vein of deadpan humor that this scenario opens up is reminiscent of early Jim Jarmusch but Southerland makes the material his own by coaxing impressively naturalistic performances from his mostly non-professional cast so that the film at times feels more like documentary than fiction. FORT MARIA (2018, 85 min) involves many of the same elements as PROUD CITIZEN but improves upon the earlier movie by applying a more elegant visual style and a more ambitious narrative structure to its subject matter: Maria (Stoykova-Klemer) is an agoraphobic Bulgarian woman living in Kentucky who attempts to assuage the homesickness she feels for the old country by using Google Street View to visit it virtually. The narrative alternates between scenes of Maria talking to her younger neighbor, Clara (Jamie Hickman), who frequently drops in to check on her, and scenes involving Maria’s adopted African-American daughter, Meredith (Meredith Crutcher), who goes to visit her biological aunt, Violet (Joan Brannon), in North Carolina. The expertly musical way that Southerland and Gentry cross-cut between conversations involving all four of these women (two white and two black, at home and at work, in two different states) yields dividends that are sometimes poignant, sometimes humorous and, in the case of one digressive episode about Maria’s ill-fated romance with a co-worker, uproariously funny. MGS
William A. Wellman’s THE STORY OF G.I. JOE (US)
Streaming free on YouTube here
During World War II, movie audiences got dispatches from the fronts through newsreel footage that spared no one the horrors of war. With the immediacy of the war touching so many Americans, feature filmmakers felt both a freedom and an obligation to present their war stories with the same unflinching reality. In that spirit, THE STORY OF G.I. JOE premiered in June 1945, a mere two months after the death of its central character, Ernie Pyle, a war correspondent who was mowed down by machine gun fire on an island near Okinawa. Like illustrator Bill Mauldin, who concentrated on the ordinary “dogfaces” fighting the war in his cartoon “Willie and Joe” and whose drawings ace cinematographer Russell Metty practically plagiarizes, Pyle attached himself to the infantry and wrote in plain style about the lives and deaths of the various G.I. Joes he met. THE STORY OF G.I. JOE, can be looked on as a public display of grief for a man who dignified the pain and loss of so many Americans. The film focuses on C Company, 18th Battalion, a small outfit stationed in North Africa that is led by Lt. Walker (Robert Mitchum). Pyle (Burgess Meredith) becomes an unofficial member of the company after he asks to ride with the company to the front. As with a real company, men are killed and new ones rotate in. As the soldiers’ identities get obscured by quick succession, beards, mud, and rain, it’s hard to tell one from another. It is Pyle who centers the action. Wellman manages to keep him at the forefront, giving audiences familiar with his written dispatches a sense that they are still seeing the war through his eyes. Wellman doesn’t offer a strong chronology or an orderly passage of time. True to the experience of the G.I.s, the war just keeps going and they keep going with it, though the grim conditions are occasionally lightened, even during battle. Meredith carries the gravity of those years, the quiet patience and unembarrassed emotion of a person secure in himself. Mitchum has always seemed grizzled beyond his years to me, but in this film, he not only looks his age (28), but also acts as a man barely old enough to lead a command of men not much younger than he is. Although relieved by actual war footage, the soundstage shooting threatens to undermine the reality of the unfolding story. Fortunately, Wellman had such a good grasp on the rhythms of ground warfare and paid such close attention to detail that the film never loses its grip. For example, ensuring bodies retrieved from a battlefield show signs of rigor mortis not only adds veracity to a scene, but also defies those heroic final speeches dying soldiers always seem to have time to spit out before their eyes flutter and their heads drop abruptly to the side. There is no final victory to end the film on a high note either, as Ernie Pyle gets the last word: “For those beneath the wooden crosses, there is nothing we can do, except perhaps to pause and murmur, ‘Thanks pal, thanks.’” (1945, 108 min) MF
Lynne Sachs and Lizzie Olesker’s THE WASHING SOCIETY (US Documentary)
Available for free on the artist’s Vimeo page
Much like filmmaker Lynne Sachs’ acclaimed 2013 documentary hybrid YOUR DAY IS MY NIGHT, THE WASHING SOCIETY, a medium-length quasi-documentary she co-directed with performer-playwright Lizzie Olesker, penetrates the hidden worlds that exist adjacent to us. Just as in YOUR DAY Sachs explored the circumstances of immigrants living in “shift-bed” apartments in New York City’s Chinatown, she and Olesker here probe the mysterious world of urban laundromats, where workers—often immigrants or those from similarly disenfranchised groups—take on a task that’s historically been outsourced, at least in some capacity—that of washing and folding peoples’ laundry. The historical evocation is literal; the film’s title and one of its recurring motifs refer to a real organization from the 1880s called the Washing Society, which started in Atlanta and was comprised of washerwomen (most of them Black) who came together to demand higher pay and opportunities for self-regulation. A young actor, Jasmine Holloway, plays one such laundress, reading from texts written by the organization and whose presence haunts the modern-day laundromats. Soon other ‘characters,’ both real and fictitious, take their places in this mysterious realm, hidden away in plain sight. Ching Valdes-Aran and Veraalba Santa (actors who, along with Holloway, impressed me tremendously) appear as contemporary laundromat workers, representing ethnicities that tend to dominate the profession. It’s unclear at first that Valdes-Aran and Santa are performing, especially as real laundromat workers begin to appear in documentary vignettes, detailing the trials and tribulations of their physically demanding job. The stories are different, yet similar, personal to the individuals but representative of a society in which workers suffer en masse, still, from the very injustices against which the Washing Society were fighting. The actors’ scenes soon veer into more performative territory, a tactic which Sachs deployed, albeit differently, in YOUR DAY IS MY NIGHT. Much like that film, the evolution of THE WASHING SOCIETY included live performances in real laundromats around New York City, some scenes of which, it would seem, are included in the film. There’s a bit of voiceover from Sachs, explaining the directors’ mission to go into many different laundromats, and from voice actors who read monologues that are tenuously connected to Valdes-Aran and Santa’s ‘characters.’ There are also visceral interludes involving accumulated lint that add another layer to the experimentation; there’s a bluntness to the filmmakers’ artistic ambitions, as with much of Sachs’ work, that makes the intentions discernible but no less effective. Sachs has previously employed egalitarian methods, such as considering the people she works with to be collaborators rather than subjects, cast, and crew. In a film about unseen labor, seeing that labor—notably in a self-referential scene toward the end in which a group of said collaborators prepare to exit a laundromat after shooting—is important. In light of what’s happening now, when so much essential labor is either coyly unseen or brazenly unacknowledged (or both), it’s crucial. Like the 1880s’ washerwoman, the victims (and, likewise, the combatants) of capitalism are ghosts that haunt us. (2018, 44 min) KS
Corneliu Porumboiu’s THE WHISTLERS (Romania)
Available for rent through Music Box/Magnolia Pictures here
In the opening scene of director/screenwriter Corneliu Porumboiu’s crime feature THE WHISTLERS, we see a bland, craggy man onboard a boat traveling to beautiful, craggy La Gomera, a part of Spain’s Canary Islands. Why he’s there will unfold slowly as gangsters, drug money, crooked cops, and a beautiful femme fatale who happens to be named Gilda fill out a complicated story loaded with flashbacks, double-crosses, and murder. In his first film to expand beyond Romania’s borders, Porumboiu is like a kid in a candy store. He has pulled influences as far-flung as Howard Hawks’ THE BIG SLEEP (1946) and John Ford’s THE SEARCHERS (1956)—the former for its convoluted plot, the latter (clips of which appear in the film) for its scene of whistling communication. I even see a bit of Curtis Hanson’s neo-noir, L.A. CONFIDENTIAL (1997), in the character of Porumboiu’s cops and Michael Mann’s BLACKHAT (2015) in the film’s denouement. Normally, a film as derivative as this would lose me, but Porumboiu is clearly having a ball making a film in which filmmaking is a vital part of its spine. Porumboiu has said that he envisioned his cop, Cristi, from POLICE, ADJECTIVE (2009) ten years later in creating the similarly named Cristi (Vlad Ivanov) for this film. The older Cristi is inscrutable throughout, never revealing whose side he’s on. The same can be said for the gorgeous Gilda (Catrinel Marlon). Nobody in this film behaves exactly as we might expect them to, as everyone plays their cards very close to the vest. This attitude is a holdover from the Soviet years, and doesn’t mix easily with the genre norms Porumboiu is activating. Nonetheless, THE WHISTLERS manages to string us along with enough intrigue and dashes of humor that we’re glad we took the ride. It will be interesting to see what Porumboiu, finally free to explore life beyond the Soviet era in any part of the world he wishes, will come up with next. (2019, 97 min) MF
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It costs $12 to rent the film for three days, with half the proceeds supporting the Music Box Theatre.
SUPPORT LOCAL THEATERS AND SERIES
As we wait for conditions to improve to allow theaters to reopen, consider various ways that you can help support independent film exhibitors in Chicago weather this difficult time. Memberships, gift cards, and/or merchandise are available from the Gene Siskel Film Center, the Music Box Theatre, and Facets. Donations can be made to non-profit venues and organizations like Chicago Filmmakers, the Chicago Film Society, South Side Projections, and many of the film festivals. Online streaming partnerships with distributors are making films available via the Gene Siskel Film Center and the Music Box Theatre, and Facets has its own streaming service (see below).
The Gene Siskel Film Center is one of a number of theaters around the country partnering with film distributors to offer new and recently restored films via streaming, with part of the rental cost going to the theaters. The Film Center from Your Sofa: Stay Connected and Stream with Us series features new titles each week through the end of April.
The Music Box Theatre also has partnered with several distributors to offer streaming of films, with part of the rental cost supporting the theater. Check their website for details.
Facets has a subscription-based streaming service, FacetsEdge, that includes many exclusive titles.
COVID-19 UPDATES
All independent, alternative, arthouse, grassroots, DIY, and university-based venues and several festivals have suspended operations, closed, or cancelled/postponed events through the end of March at least. Here is the most recent information we have, which we will update as new information becomes available:
Asian Pop-Up Cinema – Spring series postponed till the fall
Beverly Arts Center – Closed through the end of March (tentative)
Block Cinema (Northwestern University) – Spring calendar on hold with no definitive start date
Chicago Film Archives – the CFA’s annual “Media Mixer” event, previously scheduled for May, is postponed until late summer (date TBA)
Chicago Film Society – Remaining March and April screenings on their current calendar are postponed, with intentions to reschedule at future dates
Chicago Filmmakers – All screenings postponed until further notice, with the intention of rescheduling at future dates
Comfort Film (at Comfort Station) – Programming cancelled with no set start date
Conversations at the Edge (at the Gene Siskel Film Center) – Remaining programs cancelled, with plans to reschedule at future times
Doc Films (University of Chicago) – Spring programming cancelled
Facets Cinémathèque – Closed through April 17 (tentative date)
Film Studies Center (University of Chicago) – No April screenings/events; May programming is wait and see
filmfront – Events postponed until further notice
Gene Siskel Film Center – Closed through April 10 (tentative date)
Music Box Theatre – Closed through April 3 (tentative date)
The Nightingale – March and April programs postponed
The Park Ridge Classic Film Series (at the Park Ridge Public Library) – Screenings cancelled through the end of March at least
Festivals:
The Onion City Experimental Film + Video Festival (March 12-15) - Postponed with plans to reschedule at a future time
The Chicago Latino Film Festival (April 16-30) – Postponed with plans to reschedule at a future time
The Windy City Horrorama festival (April 24-26) – Cancelled; will possibly be rescheduled or reconfigured at a future date
The Chicago Critics Film Festival (May 1-7) – Postponed until further notice
The Chicago Underground Film Festival (June 10-14) – Postponed (tentatively in September)
CINE-LIST: April 3 - April 9, 2020
MANAGING EDITOR // Patrick Friel
ASSOCIATE EDITORS // Ben Sachs, Kathleen Sachs, Kyle A. Westphal
CONTRIBUTORS // Marilyn Ferdinand, Jonathan Leithold-Patt, JB Mabe, Raphael Martinez, Michael Glover Smith