We will highlight physical screenings at the top of the list for theaters and venues that have reopened, and list streaming/online screenings below.
Remember to check the venues’ websites for information on safety protocols and other procedures put in place. More and more venues are now requiring proof of vaccination or a negative PCR test. We recommend verifying those protocols before every trip to the theater. And, of course, always wear a mask.
📽️ PHYSICAL SCREENINGS
James Benning’s RR (US)
Chicago Film Society at the Chicago Film Society Office (2950 W. Chicago Ave.) – Sunday, 7pm
The landscape work of James Benning is arresting in its contemplative manner and focus. What has defined his films up till now has been their stillness—through long, static shots and deliberately slow pacing—drawing attention to the act of spending time with a subject. With RR, Benning breaks from work like TEN SKIES and 13 LAKES (both 2004) by conspicuously drawing attention to the framing of his shots in a way that earlier films didn’t. Each shot is constructed much like his previous landscape films—one continuous take, framed just so, lasting a set duration of time. For RR, that set duration is the length of time it takes for a freight train to move from one end of the frame to the other. Benning, the masterful photographer that he is, uses this opportunity to create, then subvert, an otherwise clear pattern. What starts out as an observation of trains from across the country rolling past the screen, slowly and surprisingly turns into an adventure involving the creation collapsing of filmic space. One can never be sure where the next train will appear—or reappear. This careful consideration and execution of filmic space is made all the more significant by the fact that RR is apparently Benning’s “last” film—he plans to stop filming on 16mm and instead make the switch to digital video. (2007, 111 min, 16mm) [Doug McLaren]
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Per CFS, for maximal effect, they will be screening the film beside an active Metra line (outside the Chicago Film Society office). Bring your own chair—they will have some extra on site for those who cannot bring their own.
Music Box Theatre
Check Venue website for all showtimes
Julia Ducournau’s TITANE (France)
Check Venue website for showtimes
Julia Ducournau’s TITANE is difficult to summarize without revealing too much of the wild and twisted plot. It centers on Alexia (Agatha Rousselle), a woman with a deep predilection for cars and violence and who's had a titanium plate in her skull since a vehicular accident in childhood. Did the accident awaken her perversions? Or did the piece of metal implanted in her head do it? The film cares not to say. One thing that is certain is that many of Alexia's motivations seem to come from someplace deep within herself. She expresses them in an animalistic fashion, focusing on her baser urges and her will to survive. Much like Ducournau's first film, RAW (2016), TITANE takes body horror to a shocking extreme, and the brutalities it depicts again tie into the animal side of human nature. Body horror isn't relegated to violence; it also explores the ideas of the body as status symbol and personal prison. There comes a point in the film where Alexia finds herself living with fire captain Vincent (Vincent Lindon), and their relationship takes on a father-daughter dynamic. The interactions between these two are surprisingly touching, offsetting the film’s more gnarly moments. Like the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys, Alexia and Vincent find solidarity and comfort from a lonely world in each other’s presence. Visceral and thought-provoking, TITANE demonstrates Ducournau’s ability to weave a story that is batshit crazy yet grounded in fully realized characters. (2021, 104 min, 35mm) [Kyle Cubr]
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John Carpenter’s IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (US)
Friday and Saturday, Midnight
GHOSTS OF MARS (2001), CIGARETTE BURNS (2005), and THE WARD (2010) all have their defenders (and rightfully so), but IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS is the last John Carpenter film to win a cult following on par with that of THE THING (1982) or THEY LIVE (1988). Like those earlier Carpenter masterpieces, MADNESS didn’t make a splash on first release, opening in early 1995 to mixed reviews and middling box office returns. Maybe after a year of such grandstanding, elephantine American movies as FORREST GUMP, NATURAL BORN KILLERS, THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION, and PULP FICTION, Carpenter’s tribute to H.P. Lovecraft (another quirky American genre storyteller) seemed too modest in its themes and too goofy in its execution for most people to take it seriously. (Leave it to Jonathan Rosenbaum and the staff of Cahiers du cinéma to buck the trend: the former wrote a thoughtful essay on the film for the Chicago Reader, and the latter named it one of the ten best of the year.) Over time, MADNESS has revealed itself to be a multilayered work that rewards repeat viewings, presenting ideas about the power of storytelling and employing clever meta-cinematic formal jokes—it’s got to be Carpenter’s most self-reflexive movie. Projecting the right mix of charisma and snark, Sam Neill stars as an insurance investigator hired to track down a popular horror writer who’s gone missing. His search takes him to New Hampshire and, ultimately, into the setting of many of the writer’s books—a creepy small town that’s a composite of recurring locales in the work of Lovecraft and Stephen King. This transition from the real world to the fictional world isn’t the first or last time in MADNESS when reality gets shaken by storytelling. Soon after the movie starts, Neill’s character learns that the writer’s latest book is literally driving people insane; near the end, the writer appears and literally unleashes unholy beasts on the world. The story may sound silly on the page, but under Carpenter’s inspired direction, it’s exciting and often quite scary. (1994, 95 min, 35mm) [Ben Sachs]
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Fritz Lang’s RANCHO NOTORIOUS (US)
Saturday and Sunday, 11:30am
“HATE! MURDER! REVENGE!” A folk ballad, haunting and surreal, with moments of lyrical narration as sardonic as anything in THE BALLAD OF BUSTER SCRUGGS, the words as artificial as the painted backdrops standing in for the outdoor sky; lyrics and atmosphere so hyperreal their artificiality becomes a sort-of poetry, a space made up of Cubist planes and shapes forming a world outside of reality. This surface-level nature informs Fritz Lang’s love-sick characters: Vern, Frenchy, and Altar, who operate less as characters drawn from psychological realism’s worn couch, and more from Lang’s own symbolic concepts of humanity. Lang had dabbled in the western genre before with WESTERN UNION (1941) and THE RETURN OF FRANK JAMES (1940), but he had never depicted a Western such as this. Marrying the romantic fatalism last seen in YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE (1937), the director finds within RANCHO NOTORIOUS the perfect union of the classic western film and his totemic approaches to star-crossed lovers, out of sync with time and the universe around them. No less nightmare-ish than his previous excursion into similar oil-dark waters, the pitch-black HOUSE BY THE RIVER (1950), RANCHO NOTORIOUS takes on a hypnotic energy all its own, aglow in stained glass claustrophobia. The film’s opening shot of two lovers framed in a mirage of movie romance, almost too idyllic to last, signals the film’s intense preoccupation with the circular nature of time, allowing the two-shot of the couple to resemble more a typical Hollywood-style ending, rather than beginning. When Vern, one of the paradisal lovers, leaves his fiancé Beth after their picture-perfect embrace, Beth is accosted by a robber, who proceeds to rape and murder her. Upon returning to her lifeless body, her hand hideously clenched into a bloody claw, Vern sets out across landscapes of studio backlot hillsides at dusk, into a realm of lost souls wandering in circles in and out of time. “Time is what binds us, time is stronger than a rope,” are the words Frenchy, another unfortunate spirit lost between the propelled winds, tells Altar Keane, played by Marlene Dietrich. Altar is the owner of an outlaw hideout called Chuck-a-Luck, the location where she and Frenchy have played out their love affair for years. Frenchy, though, senses Altar’s affections drifting elsewhere, towards the newest outlaw to join the gang, Vern, who is there for an entirely different purpose. Far from the reverie he was experiencing in the film’s opening, Vern is trying to gain the trust of Altar and Frenchy’s band of thieves, in order to find the fiancé’s killer. He works his way into Altar’s affections. “I wish you’d go away and leave me alone. I wish you could come back ten years ago,” Altar tells Vern in the wake of a deliriously artificial setting sun, the fear of time gone and lost inside a prism she cannot leave. Time, and the men that surround her, cruelly play with Altar’s hopes and fears like the spinning fortune wheel that put her in Frenchy’s orbit in the first place. Every character talks of the past, even when they are simply just relaying information; hardly any one of them can resist a moment to revel in prior halcyon days. When Vern arrives at the Chuck-a-Luck, we are treated to a major inverse of the western genre, one that typically favors strangers coming together to form a sort of community. In RANCHO NOTORIOUS, where every perceived moment of bonds being formed is underlined by the inherent necessity of deception, the audience’s awareness of Vern’s real intentions become blurred. Vern has been eaten away by so much hate that he almost risks his entire mission at one point, and his own life. His insular feelings contrast so intensely with the faces of those around him that the film feels dizzyingly complex at times; Lang emphasizes the surrounding faces with so much humanity, yet cloaked in his own modernist approach toward people only as real as symbols in dreams. The stares emitting from these faces can also be the most horrifying moments in the film. The eyes of his fiancé’s murderer, contorted into a look of pure terror that Lang captured so menacingly many times before, pierces straight through to the heart as if directly from the eyes of Mabuse himself. Lang’s world is a nightmare, always, and these haunting images of madness linger so long that you begin to notice how every time a man tries to touch Altar, she pulls away. This is a Western only Lang could tell. He upends many of the genre’s steadfast rules about its characters and even though our “hero” Vern goes undercover to infiltrate the gang that killed his lover (not unlike previous Lang antiheroes such as Glenn Ford’s detective in THE BIG HEAT), his moral compass shifts well beyond the act of infiltration and deception, to the point where you almost forget where his story began. He becomes a stranger as much to the audience as he is to Marlene Dietrich and her gang of outlaws. Lang allows you to see past the myth of the West and into a morally confused galaxy of lives fatefully intertwined. RANCHO NOTORIOUS is over before you realize it; very fitting for a movie so obsessed with the complex and narrow pathways of time. (1952, 89 min, 35mm) [John Dickson]
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Sion Sono’s PRISONERS OF THE GHOSTLAND (US/Japan)
Check Venue website for showtimes
The films of Japanese provocateur Sion Sono tend to fall into one of two categories: formally ambitious puzzles that interweave lots of small, thematically connected narratives (NORIKO’S DINNER TABLE [2005], LOVE EXPOSURE [2008], RED POST ON ESCHER STREET [2020]) and free-for-all splatter comedies that exude the sort of unabashed crassness one associates with adolescent punk bands (SUICIDE CLUB [2001], WHY DON’T YOU PLAY IN HELL [2013], TAG [2015]). Sono has made good and bad movies in both modes, but he’s yet to make one that doesn’t flaunt its contempt for social taboos. This unwavering spirit of defiance grants Sono a certain underground credibility; even when his movies are artistic failures, they remain energizing in their anti-establishment sentiment. Such is the case with Sono’s English-language debut, PRISONERS OF THE GHOSTLAND. The film is sloppy, sophomoric, and generally lazy, but it’s also undeniably sincere in its appeals to schlock aficionados. Nicolas Cage stars as a bank robber who’s recruited by the reigning warlord of a place called Samurai Town to rescue his missing granddaughter. To ensure that the bandit won’t renege on his task, the warlord affixes nuclear warheads to the bandit’s body (including one on each testicle) and sets them to detonate in five days if he doesn’t deliver his bounty. Just about everything is loud in PRISONERS OF THE GHOSTLAND: the colors, the violence, many of Cage’s line readings. Likewise, the mix of western-movie and samurai-movie tropes comes off as the cinematic equivalent of an auto collision. But as far as mindless entertainment goes, this is preferable to most Hollywood superhero movies in that it openly acknowledges how immature it is; further, the cheap effects (particularly the sprays of viscera) exhibit more imagination than the soulless CGI of GHOSTLAND’s blockbuster counterparts. If you see this, try to go with an inebriated, late-night crowd, as that’s likely the intended audience. (2021, 103 min, DCP Digital) [Ben Sachs]
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Also showing at the Music Box Theatre is Sébastien Lifshitz’s 2021 documentary LITTLE GIRL (88 min, DCP Digital), which starts this week. Check Venue website for more information and showtimes.
Gentle Giants Series at the Gene Siskel Film Center
Now through October 14 – Check Venue website for all showtimes
Wim Wenders’ PARIS, TEXAS (Germany/France/US)
Friday, 7:45pm
One of the most revealing pieces of dialogue in PARIS, TEXAS occurs when, following a screening of an old family movie, the eight-year-old Hunter is getting ready for bed. Hunter had noticed the way his father Travis (Harry Dean Stanton), who’s just returned from an unexplained four-year estrangement, watched the footage of his wife Jane (Nastassja Kinski), who’s been absent for the same length of time. The boy explains to his adopted mother that he believes Travis still loves Jane. “But that’s not her,” he pointedly adds. “That’s only her in a movie.” A beat, as a cheeky smile forms across his face. “A long time ago. In a galaxy far, far away.” What begins as a remarkably lucid insight about the illusion of the cinematic image, and about the fantasies on which it hinges, can’t help but be capped off by a quote that then reinforces those very illusions. This is PARIS, TEXAS in a nutshell: a world of willful, even blithe mirages and images, in which all understanding of other people is mediated by the idealized myths of mass culture. Wenders is not above speaking the language of these myths, even as he meticulously dismantles them. Written by the all-American Sam Shepard and L. M. Kit Carson, the film radiates a love for the aesthetic and narrative iconography of the American West, from the wide-open tableaux of towering mesas and endless road to Travis’ rugged, archetypal masculine loner, whose quest to rescue a woman and tenuous attempts to reintegrate into society remix that of Ethan Edwards in THE SEARCHERS. Like so many other émigré artists ensorcelled and perturbed by the U.S., including compatriots like Douglas Sirk, Wenders doesn’t merely indulge in the grammar of Americana but defamiliarizes it to reveal, from an outsider’s critical distance, how truly melancholy, strange, and even menacing it can be. From Wenders’ vantage (and from the extraordinary camera of Robby Müller, who really hits the patriotic reds and blues copiously supplied by art director Kate Altman and costume designer Birgitta Bjerke), the West is no longer a grand frontier of imperialist expansion but a desiccated strip of roadside advertisements, diners, and motels. Not only is our would-be hero Travis a Man With No Name, he’s practically a Man With No Self, an icon emptied of past and presence and purpose, set to roam perpetually in the desert to which he’s withdrawn himself. He clings desperately to the idée-fixe of a measly plot of land he’s bought in Paris, which he and his parents wished was in France. Unfortunately, it’s really just in this godforsaken Southwestern dust bowl, and like Jane in that family movie, it’s nothing but an image. Travis’ illusions, and his dawning understanding of his need to atone for all the damage they’ve caused, finally lead to PARIS, TEXAS’ famous peep-show scenes, where mirrors and screens—those quintessential analogs of the cinema apparatus—give way, ironically, to piercing disillusions. In Wenders’ ambivalent but heartfelt ode to American lives dreamed and (uncertainly) lived, such revelations are a bittersweet matter of course. It’s what you do with them that counts. (1984, 145 min, DCP Digital) [Jonathan Leithold-Patt]
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Jem Cohen’s MUSEUM HOURS (Austria/US)
Saturday, 1pm, and Thursday, 8:15pm
Vienna and its Kunsthistorisches Museum’s Picture Gallery form the settings for director Jem Cohen’s philosophical ruminations on art and the connections we make with other people—whether fleeting or long-lasting—that help give shape and meaning to our lives. Cohen introduces us to his two main characters in different ways. Johann (Bobby Sommer), a guard at the museum, comes to us first in voiceover, as he talks about his work and the pleasures he finds in looking at the paintings and the museum patrons. By contrast, our first words from Anne (Mary Margaret O’Hara) are her side of a phone call in which she is asking to borrow money for an emergency. When next we encounter her, she is deplaning in Vienna, where her cousin is hospitalized in a coma. Johann and Anne come together when he finds her in the museum trying to read a public transit map. He helps her find the best route to the hospital and offers his services in translating anything the doctors might want to say to her. From this kind act to a stranger in a strange land, a short-lived, but sincere relationship springs. Johann plays the tour guide, but only to places Anne can afford, and enjoys her company for meals and excursions to a local tavern. However, the film spends the largest share of its time comparing images in the real world with those on the walls of the museum, finding interesting objects and scenes to frame, and generally urging us to pay attention to the world around us. In this regard, the filmmaker has taken inspiration from the museum’s star artist, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, who fashioned paintings teeming with everyday life, even when the ostensible subject is religious. A very interesting dialogue takes place in the Bruegel Room between a guide (Ela Piplits) and two patrons who seem positively hostile to the idea that “The Conversion of Saul” might not have the newly converted St. Paul at its center. Their inability to look beyond the superficial is handled in a rather didactic way by Cohen, who co-wrote the screenplay, but really gets to the heart of what MUSEUM HOURS is trying to interrogate. Some experimental and somewhat absurd moments enliven the proceedings, particularly a section in which three patrons conduct their visit in the nude). In general, the film’s careful construction (pay attention to the final scenes for clues to the cousin’s fate) and generous view of humanity, encourage slow-paced exploration and contemplation. (2012, 107 min, DCP Digital) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
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Kelly Reichardt’s FIRST COW (US)
Saturday, 8:15pm
Kelly Reichardt’s FIRST COW begins with a poignant quote from William Blake: “The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.” Based on a novel by Reichardt’s frequent writing collaborator, Jonathan Raymond, FIRST COW is a gorgeously crafted masterpiece about the importance of friendship to the human condition. In early 19th century Oregon Country, Otis “Cookie” Figowitz (John Magaro), a survivalist and chef, meets King-Lu (Orion Lee), a Chinese immigrant on the run; they begin to reside together at King-Lu’s shack on the outskirts of a settlement. Conversations about Cookie’s baking leads them to steal milk from the region’s first cow, owned by a wealthy Englishman (Toby Jones). The biscuits they make with the milk become quite popular at the local market, gaining them a bit of cash, but their growing reliance on–and fondness for–the cow ends in tragedy. It’s an unassuming story but meticulously told and with beautifully achieved, overarching themes. Stunning cinematography of nature and heartbreaking performances drive the film; Magaro and Lee are both excellent, especially in scenes that feature Cookie and King-Lu’s thoughtful conversations about their pasts and ambitions. Likewise, even characters that only appear for a scene feel completely realized. At times exceedingly slow paced, FIRST COW is itself about time, both its passage and what remains when we’re gone. Widely released around the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, it’s difficult not to feel particularly moved by a story of two people supporting each other with such kindness when they need it most. It’s also an interesting commentary on U.S. history, quietly yet firmly critiquing American ideals of ownership, capitalism, and manifest destiny; like many of Reichardt’s films, it’s a sweet, small tale with profound implications. (Notably, FIRST COW was consistently the highest ranked film amongst Cine-File contributors’ best of 2020 lists.) (2020, 122 min, DCP Digital) [Megan Fariello]
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Abbas Kiarostami’s TASTE OF CHERRY (Iran)
Sunday, 1pm
This is one of the great big-screen experiences, comparable in its effect to L'ECLISSE or 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY. Like those films, Abbas Kiarostami's Palme d'Or winner confronts some of the essential questions of existence; while Kiarostami's approach may be more modest than Antonioni's or Kubrick's, the poetic simplicity of TASTE OF CHERRY assumes a monumental quality when projected. The plot is structured like a fable: A calm middle-aged man of apparently good economic standing drives around the outskirts of Tehran. Over the course of a day, he gives a ride to three separate hitchhikers; after engaging each in conversation, he asks if the stranger will assist him in committing suicide. That the succession of hitchhikers (young, older, oldest) suggests the course of the life cycle is the only schematic aspect of the film. Each encounter contains enough digressions to illuminate the magic unpredictability of life itself—not only in the conversation, but also in the formal playfulness of Kiarostami's direction. The film is rife with the two shots that, paradoxically, form Kiarostami's artistic signature: the screen-commanding close-up of a face in conversation, eerily separated in space from the person he's talking to; and the cosmic long-shot of a single car driving quixotically across a landscape. Here, both images evoke feelings of isolation that are inextricable from human consciousness, yet the overall tone of the film is light, even bemused. The final sequence, one of the finest games conjured by a movie, sparked countless philosophical bull-sessions when TASTE OF CHERRY was first released, and it remains plenty mind-blowing today. (1997, 95 min, DCP Digital) [Ben Sachs]
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Apichatpong Weerasethakul's CEMETERY OF SPLENDOR (Thai)
Sunday, 6pm
It's a fitting choice for a director whose films feel like reveries to set his latest in a clinic for soldiers who are unable to wake up. Likewise, the hallucinatory gradient glow of lamps placed beside the patients' beds to calm their dreams are analogous to the particular narrative and stylistic approach that makes Weerasethakul's work so unique and immediately recognizable. The protagonist, Jenjira (played by Jenjira Pongpas), is a volunteer at the hospital who "adopts" one of the soldiers as her own son. Outside the few hours he is awake, her main channel of communication is a medium whose skill allegedly once garnered a job offer from the FBI. The agents of the soldiers' malady are dead kings—disturbed by a government project to lay a fibre optic cable near their graveyard—enlisting their spirits to wage otherworldly wars. The loose narrative structure that propels the film forward is just as concerned with detailing Jen's life experiences as it is with resolving the soldiers' situation, unspooling in leisurely sequences that can feel both casual and monumental. By the end, you realize how much personal and temporal ground you've covered without even noticing as it was happening. The elements of the story certainly encourage metaphorical readings, engaging Thai history up to the present day. For all the enigmas of Weerasethakul's cinema, in the context of the 2014 coup and continued military control of the country, the final five minutes of CEMETERY OF SPLENDOR feel remarkably explicit. What is political cinema? Let us hope that, as opposed to the myriad Sundance-anointed "issue films" coming soon to a theater near you, it's something like this. (2015, 122 min, DCP Digital) [Alex Kopecky]
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Jim Jarmusch’s PATERSON (US)
Monday and Wednesday, 5:45pm
Popular discourse would lead one to believe that the so-called “everyman,” a phrase used either pejoratively or with disconcerting sincerity, is as artless as he is virile, better versed in the doggerel of sports and manual labor than the nuances of literature. Hailing from Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio (he later moved to New York City for college, where he’s lived ever since), Jim Jarmusch is likely familiar with this malcontent figure, though his work has largely dealt with subjects more interested in the esoteric and erudite. Poetry, for example, has always been integral to his films: Robert Frost and DOWN BY LAW, William Blake and DEAD MAN (literally and figuratively), Arthur Rimbaud and LIMITS OF CONTROL, a variety of poets and ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE (this time even more literally—John Hurt plays Christopher Marlowe)—the connection grows even stronger when taking into account his frenetic love of music. Jarmusch’s 2016 film PATERSON is more conspicuous than the others in this regard, but it’s also the most subversive in its use of the beloved form. Similarly to DEAD MAN, the title character’s name is poetry adjacent: Paterson (Adam Driver), as in the Paterson of William Carlos Williams’ book-length poem, is a bus driver who lives in Paterson, New Jersey, with his wife, Laura (Golshifteh Farahani), and their adorable dog Marvin. The consummate everyman, Paterson appreciates all that which the GOP claims to value: hard work, steadfast routine, a charming housewife, cheap beer—he’s even served in the armed forces. Moreover, he’s also a poet, writing before and after work, as well as on his lunch break. The poems, written by New York School poet Ron Padgett, appear on screen as they’re read aloud in voiceover; they are ingenuous and winsome much like Jarmusch’s films. As Jonathan Rosenbaum observed in a write-up of the movie following its screening at the 65th Melbourne International Film Festival: “Jarmusch once said to me in an interview, ‘You go out to fucking Wyoming and go in a bar and mention the word poetry, and you’ll get a gun stuck up your ass. That’s the way America is. Whereas even guys who work in the street collecting garbage in Paris love nineteenth-century painting.’ This is what makes the central tenet of Paterson so provocative: the notion that everyday American life is not only imbued with poetry, but enhanced by the fact that all Americans are artists of different sorts, whether they know it or not.” Jarmusch doesn’t meditate on art’s transformative or restorative abilities, but rather a person’s ability to simply be an artist without even recognizing that fact. Rosenbaum also observes that as many of Jarmusch’s older films are dialectical to other films in his oeuvre—for example, BROKEN FLOWERS and THE LIMITS OF CONTROL, and possibly the reason why twins figure heavily into this one—PATERSON might be read as a dialectic to his 2014 film ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE, which, unfortunately, many consider to be pretentious. Indeed, PATERSON may be his most refreshing contradiction, a self-edit that puts not only his ethos into perspective, but also the whole concept of what it means to be an artist. Perhaps this version of the everyman is too hopeful, divorced from both current events and contemporary reality, but it’s mightily preferable. (2016, 118 min, DCP Digital) [Kathleen Sachs]
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Also playing as part of the Gentle Giants series is Yasujiro Ozu’s 1962 film AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON (113 min, 35mm), his final, on Sunday at 3:15pm and Chantal Akerman’s 1976 masterpiece NEWS FROM HOME (85 min, DCP Digital) on Friday at 5:30pm and Wednesday at 8pm. Read more about NEWS FROM HOME and its relationship to Akerman’s HOTEL MONTEREY in a past combination capsule here.
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Also playing at the Gene Siskel Film Center, though not part of the Gentle Giants series, are TITANE (see review above and Venue website for showtimes); Federico Fellini’s 1973 film AMARCORD (123 min, DCP Digital) on Saturday at 3pm and Tuesday at 6pm; Maria Finitzo’s 2020 documentary THE DILEMMA OF DESIRE (108 min, DCP Digital) on Saturday at 6pm, as part of the ongoing Midwest Film Festival; and “Lynda Benglis: Works in Video,” as part of Conversations at the Edge and featuring six of Benglis’ video works, on Thursday at 6pm. Check Venue website for more information and all showtimes.
Facets Cinema
Check Venue website for showtimes
Rodrigo Reyes’ 499 (Mexico)
The title of this Mexican art film refers to the 499th anniversary of Spain’s conquest of the Aztec empire; the drama reflects on the legacy of violence in Mexico, both historical and contemporary. Director Rodrigo Reyes employs a boldly fictional device to consider the weight of history, following a 16th-century conquistador who gets shipwrecked, magically, in the 21st century. Landing on the northern Mexican coast, the unnamed conquistador returns to the regions he once visited with Hernán Cortez and comments on how they no longer resemble the places he once knew. His narration also touches on the large-scale atrocities the Mexicans committed against the Aztecs; like Alain Resnais’ NIGHT AND FOG and the numerous films it inspired, the film asks viewers whether they can see traces of historical atrocities in modern landscapes. Reyes confronts present-day atrocities through documentary segments about men and women who have lost loved ones to pandemic violence in northern Mexico. Heightened by the historical meditation, these passages create the feeling that this area of the world will always be plagued by widespread murder. 499 is upsetting viewing to be sure, but it’s not always despairing; Reyes mines the scenario of the unstuck-in-time conquistador for subtle humor, and the widescreen cinematography is consistently good-looking. (2020, 88 min, DCP Digital) [Ben Sachs]
Julia Ducournau’s RAW (French)
Thursday, 8pm
In Julia Ducournau’s RAW, sixteen year old Justine (Garance Marillier) is the last of her vegetarian family of four to enroll in veterinarian school. This particular school has a rite of passage wherein the older students (including Justine’s sister, Alexia) haze the incoming students by dumping buckets of blood on them and forcing them to consume a raw rabbit kidney while taking a shot of liquor. This latter rite awakens a deep and primal hunger within Justine that not only acts as a catalyst in her coming of age but also triggers more predatory instincts. RAW is as visceral as they come. It takes bold chances with its script and subject matter that pay dividends to the viewer, but be warned this is not a film for those with a weak constitution. Much of the action centers on the sisterhood of Justine and Alexia. Their dynamic plays out as rebellious thanks to their implied strict upbringing, and the two share increasingly shocking moments as the film progresses. Ducournau draws influence from older body-focused horror films such as EYES WITHOUT A FACE as well as more modern stylized features including the works of Nicolas Winding Refn and Jeremy Saulnier. The driving, Europop score adds a frantic layer that attempts to simultaneously sharpen the horror and dull the viewer’s empathy. Haunting and unforgettable, RAW provokes strong reactions, mental, and for some, physical. Like a pack of lions on the prowl, it strikes at the most vulnerable of our senses. (2016, 99 min, Digital Projection) KC
Block Cinema -- Reopening This Week!
Block Cinema (Northwestern University) — Saturday, 1pm (Free Admission)
Ephraim Asili’s THE INHERITANCE (US)
Based on writer and director Ephraim Asili’s own experiences, THE INHERITANCE combines a scripted narrative about a group of Black artists and activists starting a collective in a West Philadelphia home with a documentary-style exploration of Black political and artistic movements; the film focuses particularly on Philadelphia’s MOVE organization and the infamous 1985 police bombing of their row house. THE INHERITANCE is an impressive amalgamation of cinematic forms with direct and profound audience engagement through musical performance, dance, and readings of theory and poetry; integrated, too, are segments of the collective’s workshops with real-life MOVE members and poets, including spoken word artist Ursula Rucker. With a subplot revolving around the creation of a house library, Asili emphases the significance of text within the collective, featuring numerous shots of book piles, photographs, vinyl records, and ever-changing quotes largely written in chalk on the walls. The cast at times reads directly to the audience from important 20th century works of the African diaspora, looking straight into camera, encouraging the audience to engage in the experience of exploration and education in the collective; this is particularly felt in a scene where poet Sonia Sanchez reads from her work, glancing up frequently into the camera, acknowledging the viewer as part of her audience. Asili uses bright, bold colors within the collective house itself, which mirror shots of West Philadelphia and its vibrant outdoor spaces. Sound, too, is distinctive throughout: the whirring of the camera provides background noise, there are moments of persistent silence, and the recurring tuning of an obstinate radio. Asili also weaves in levity, with the scripted scenes of the collective members working through the everyday logistics of sharing space with others providing genuinely funny and sincere moments. THE INHERITANCE is a spectacular and unique first feature—a jubilant and commanding expression of Black culture, art, and politics. (2020, 100 min, DCP Digital) [Megan Fariello]
Doc Films (Ida Noyes Hall, 1212 E. 59th St.)
Check venue website for all showtimes
Emma Seligman’s SHIVA BABY (US)
Doc Films at the University of Chicago – Friday, 7pm and Sunday, 4pm
In her feature directorial debut, 25-year-old filmmaker Emma Seligman sets a trap for her heroine in her single-space, comedy-horror SHIVA BABY. Following Danielle (Rachel Sennott), a college senior without a clear path forward, to the events at a funeral service for someone she doesn’t know, filled with family, friends, and the random people you only see every few years at events like these, Seligman’s film is composed of situations that make you, and Danielle, squirm. It pushes your mind into a specific time and place in your own childhood, high school and college years, and post-grad aimlessness. After missing the service itself, Danielle arrives at a home congested by people she’d rather not interact with: her ex-girlfriend, her sugar daddy with his wife and baby, and distant acquaintances that pester her about her future. The result becomes a showcase for Sennott and the rest of Seligman’s cast, including Molly Gordon, Polly Draper, Dianna Agron, and Fred Melamed—a mix of staples and newcomers in the darkly comedic space. Comparisons are sure to be made to the Coen brothers’ A SERIOUS MAN, in terms of a familial Jewish story where everything that can go wrong certainly will, and the more recent UNCUT GEMS, the Safdie brothers’ tense, hilarious thriller, but SHIVA BABY remains wholly original, leaning on its condensed runtime, confined setting, and willingness to let awkwardness turn into terror. Seligman’s first film announces her and Sennott as a duo to watch, capable of creating a singular viewing experience, one that both reminds you of terrible times and causes you to laugh hysterically at surreal line readings. SHIVA BABY taps into tension with a clever touch, turning what sounds like a well-worn general idea into something overtly specific. It’ll raise your heart rate yet put on a smile on your face, one that’s forced and then warmly genuine. Seligman is a star. Sennott is a star. SHIVA BABY is a film full of stars in the making and those that deserve a little more spotlight. (2020, 77 min, Digital Projection) [Michael Frank]
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David Lynch’s MULHOLLAND DRIVE (US)
Doc Films at the University of Chicago – Thursday, 7pm
Part mind-bending mystery, part hair-raising thriller, part tear-jerking break-up soapfest, David Lynch’s MULHOLLAND DRIVE evokes an aura of nocturnal wonder and dread, a realm caught between the parameters of waking life and dreams, achingly poignant in its emotional core, absolutely hypnotizing in it’s formal ambiance, and sometimes-frustratingly labyrinthine in its thorny construction. Addressing the cult of personality that is David Lynch’s public persona, it’s hard to look past the hovering cloud that is his semi-comical presence as a cult figure. His fan base certainly gives the impression that Lynch has been, and will always be, the only director who can tap into the idea of dreamworlds and existential cinematic strangeness. Even though this is severely not the case, it isn’t enough to diminish an artist who frequently operates at the height of his powers behind the camera. MULHOLLAND DRIVE contains many elements of his previous work and re-contextualizes them into a concise, epic investigation into the landscape of a shifting personality, that moves with the weight of a person waking and falling into a series of dreams, contrasted with possible realities imagined and lived in. Naomi Watts plays “Betty,” who comes to Hollywood hoping to achieve stardom as an actress in the movies. She catches the attention of a young director played by Justin Theroux, who has been told by a shady, ultra-powerful group (led by Twin Peaks’ “The Arm”) to cast a different actress in his movie. This actress, first glimpsed being driven along the spiraling and ink-black road of the film’s title, suffers a near-assassination attempt, and is left an amnesiac. When she wakes, she believes her name is “Rita”, eventually running into “Betty,” where together they try to solve the mystery regarding “Rita” and her true identity, falling into a romantic obsession in the process. Over the course of the movie, the characters’ identities begin to shift, leading to possible alternate realities in the film’s story and timeline, where Lynch plays with the illusion of the cinema as a false construction that occasionally evokes deep emotional responses from those witnessing it. This idea is fleshed out in the “Silencio” scene, where the two women stumble upon a nightclub with a singer, Rebecca Del Rio, performing a Spanish version of a famous Roy Orbison song. As she sings, the two women begin to cry uncontrollably at the performance, which is eventually revealed to be false, as the singer isn’t even singing and the music is pre-recorded. When the music stops, so does the singer, as she collapses on stage and is dragged off. Lynch pulls a cinematic magic trick on his viewers, engulfing them in the emotions of these two women, who are witnessing something that is a construct and not real, while simultaneously being emotionally swept up in its power and beauty, crying to an illusion that is revealed to be false. One of the most powerful scenes of the last several decades, the rest of the film is a testament to a director operating at peak levels of his matured artistry. Twin Peaks: The Return has much in common with this bewitching work, even in its production history. MULHOLLAND DRIVE started originally as a TV pilot, later to become a series, but never actually materialized into one, so it was changed to a feature film, while Twin Peaks: The Return is a television show that feels more like a long movie in the spirit of Jacques Rivette (who once remarked that the feature film TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME, very much the origin to MULHOLLAND, left the French filmmaker “floating” when he left the theater). Much like his recent work with Peaks, characters tend to appear and vanish without trace, while identities twist and morph into sometimes wholly different characters. Like the devastating, yet cathartic ending of his recent 18-hour masterwork, digging deeper into an obsessive mystery can sometimes bring you further and further from the reality of what it is you began searching for in the first place. (2001, 147 min, Digital Projection) [John Dickson]
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Also playing at Doc Films are Rob Reiner’s 1987 film THE PRINCESS BRIDE (98 min, 35mm) on Saturday at 7pm and Wes Anderson’s 1996 film BOTTLE ROCKET (91 min, 35mm) on Thursday at 9:30pm. Check Venue website and social media for more information and updates on screenings.
Asian Pop-Up Cinema
Check program website for more information
There are three Asian Pop-Up Cinema screenings this week: Ricky Ko’s 2020 Hong Kong film TIME (99 min, Digital Projection) at the ChiTown Movies Drive-In (2343 S. Throop St.) on Tuesday at sunset; Chan Kin-Long’s 2020 Hong Kong film HAND ROLLED CIGARETTE (110 min, Digital Projection), also at the ChiTown Movies Drive-In, on Wednesday at sunset; and Koji Maeda’s 2021 Japanese romance YOU ARE NOT NORMAL, EITHER (98 min, Digital Projection) at AMC River East (322 E. Illinois St.) on Thursday at 7pm. More info and tickets available here.
ICYMI (In Case You Missed It)
The Davis Theater (4614 N. Lincoln Ave.) – Monday, 7pm
Joe Swanberg presents Mystery Monday #2 – Taiwanese Horror
Per the event website, “Joe Swanberg presents Mystery Monday #2 - Taiwanese Horror. This adaptation of a popular horror video game, set in Taiwan in 1962 during the White Terror period, will be released soon to theaters and virtual cinemas. Be the first audience in Chicago to see it on the big screen!”
📽️ MUSIC BOX OF HORRORS: DAWN OF THE DRIVE-IN
The Music Box of Horrors: Dawn of the Drive-In series takes place from October 1 through October 31 at the Chi-Town Movies Drive-In, with films playing every night of the week. In addition to the films below, Ronny Yu’s 1998 film BRIDE OF CHUCKY (89 min, Digital Projection) screens on Monday at 9:30pm as part of the series’ Nü-Metal Mondays. Check Venue website for more information.
Alex de la Iglesia’s PERDITA DURANGO (Mexico/Spain)
Friday, 9:30pm
Unfairly maligned when it came out as another cheap PULP FICTION knockoff, PERDITA DURANGO has become a bit of lost 90s exploitation fare that has only gotten better with age. Based off the book 59 Degrees and Raining, the third book in author Barry Gifford’s Sailor and Luna series, PERDITA DURANGO exists in the same universe as David Lynch’s WILD AT HEART—the obvious difference between the two is that the title character is played by Rosie Perez in this one, while Lynch cast Isabella Rossellini to play the role in his. Directed by Spanish filmmaker Alex de la Iglesia, DURANGO was his first (mostly) English-language feature. Titled DANCE WITH THE DEVIL in the US, the film never really stood a chance on its initial release. Here, we have a director known for making overtly anti-Christian and anti-fascist genre films in Europe basically given a Mexican-set NATURAL BORN KILLERS about a Santeria priest who grifts American tourists when he isn’t illegally border-running dead fetuses for Big Cosmetics. Ready to bust out the popcorn yet? People like to throw around the cliché that certain films “couldn’t be made today.” Usually those people are thick-skulled, knuckle-dragging right-wingers who wish that the weird racist/sexist/(blank)phobic movies of their past have become sacrosanct texts that modern-day youths could never handle. That’s boring, lazy, and usually completely idiotic. But, well... even a broken clock is right twice a day. This is definitely a film that you wouldn’t see made now. Maybe, and I mean maybe, the closest thing we’ve seen is MACHETE (2010), but MACHETE didn’t have full-on Santeria-sploitation replete with corpse dismemberment, blood cauldrons, giant bags of cocaine, multi-gender rape scenes, and direct references to Robert Aldritch’s 1954 western VERA CRUZ. Not to mention the stacked cast of Rosie Perez, James Gandolfini, REPO MAN director Alex Cox, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, and Javier Bardem in his second-best role as Insane Murderer at the US/Mexican Border With an Equally Insane Haircut. Not to mention MACHETE was trying to play with the known signifiers and tropes of classic grindhouse exploitation. Here is a movie that actually is grindhouse exploitation. Recently restored and released by Severin Films (along with Iglesia’s DAY OF THE BEAST), PERDITA DURANGO now has the extra 10 minutes cut from the US version returned—giving us even more violence and depravity. If you’re still reading this, then you’re just as sick in the head as I am. And you should probably see this film. Screening with Robert Rodriguez's FROM DUSK TILL DAWN (1996, 108 min, Digital Projection) as part of the series’ Friday Night Double Features. (1997, 126 mins, Digital Projection) [Raphael Jose Martinez]
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Dario Argento's SUSPIRIA (Italy)
Sunday, 10pm
Dario Argento is one of Italy's greatest living artists, and his 1977 SUSPIRIA is one of his greatest achievements in both storytelling and visual design. Jessica Harper plays Suzy, a dance student who becomes embroiled in a plot by her ballet school's faculty (revealed to be witches) to unleash the forces of hell onto the world. The first in Argento's "Three Mothers" trilogy (the subsequent features are 1980's INFERNO and 2008's MOTHER OF TEARS), SUSPIRIA may not be the director's most complex or visually stunning work, but it's perhaps the crux of Argento's canon, the film that firmly established him as an auteur worthy of international discussion and analysis. Loved by genre fans for its excessive violence and pulsating score by the rock group Goblin, SUSPIRIA is as much a testament to Argento's love for classical art, which can also be seen in 1987's OPERA and 1995's THE STENDHAL SYNDROME. Argento's genius is to set these films, all of them bloody and relatively sleazy, in the world of "high" art. By doing so, he not only satirizes the pompous nature of "connoisseurs" who dismiss cinema—particular genre films—as a "lower" form, but also recontextualize these "higher" forms to fit in the realm of "commercial" work. Screening with Norman J. Warren's TERROR (1978, 84 min, Digital Projection) as part of the series’ Rip-Off Saturdays. (1977, 92 min, Digital Projection) [Joe Rubin]
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Mary Harron’s AMERICAN PSYCHO (US)
Sunday, 9:30pm
Just like that fine chardonnay you’re not drinking, AMERICAN PSYCHO has only aged into a more perfect specimen since its release. An unfathomably black satire about the greed and narcissism of moneyed America in the 1980s, the film marks an elevation (by director Mary Harron and screenwriting partner Guinevere Turner) of Bret Easton Ellis’s eponymous novel into something that cuts even closer to the bone than the main character. While it’s always a cheap shot to compare a film to the book it was made from, I think it’s important to delineate the two here and draw attention to the fact that having violent psychopathy of AMERICAN PSYCHO’s protagonist Patrick Bateman framed through the perspective of two women, one a lesbian, makes the film hit much harder than its source material. This is how women view these kinds of men—a very large distinction than how men view other men. In the film, we follow yuppie banker Bateman as he navigates the world knowing he’s putting on the airs of humanity. A wholly unsympathetic and unrelatable character, Bateman exists only to fit into and dominate any social situation he enters—and, as we quickly see, this extends to Bateman's other career as a serial killer. There is a terrifying prescience in this film that only becomes more chilling as time goes by, insomuch that the “red pilled,” “alpha/sigma male” tropes that churn in the recessed cesspools of the internet have leaked out into the mainstream, leaving an aura of sociopathy in the shape of a business suit. What was once a darkly humorous horror film about a serial killer now seems like a fractured mirror in which one sees the reflection of Donald Trump. It’s astounding how much scarier AMERICAN PSYCHO is in the cultural context than it was in the economically freewheeling, pre-9/11 era when it was originally released. It’s now nearly impossible to not see the character of Patrick Bateman as some kind of simulacrum of our violently narcissistic former president. If you haven’t revisited AMERICAN PSYCHO since its initial release, I highly recommend that you do. If you’re a weirdo like me that likes to check in on the film every now and again, seeing it presented on the big screen, with Trump writ small projected large, will be every bit the white-knuckle terror ride that you want out of a horror film. (2000, 101 mins, Digital Projection) [Raphael Jose Martinez]
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Wes Craven’s THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS (US)
Tuesday, 9:45pm
Horror is a particularly fascinating genre in that while it is constantly borrowing and taking from outside styles, the genre itself has its own internal milestones that create seismic shifts in the landscape. You have before DRACULA (1931) and after. You have the same demarcation with such films as PSYCHO (1960), THE EXORCIST (1973), THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974), and HALLOWEEN (1978). These types of lines, like rings of a tree, show the past and future of horror more than anything else going on in the filmmaking ecosystem of the time. The most recent film to have this type of impact was Jordan Peele’s GET OUT. Since its release, there has been an explosion of socially (read: racially) conscious horror films. Which has been wonderful. But it's not as if there wasn't this kind of horror before. Horror has always had its finger on the pulse of the public. If you want to scare an audience, you have to be acutely attuned to the zeitgeist. But for some reason, the world at large saw GET OUT as some sort of bolt from the blue suggesting that all of a sudden horror had become “woke.” Nothing provides a stronger argument against that ahistorical reading than Wes Craven’s 1991 masterpiece THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS. Somehow this film, centered around a Black teenage boy, has been memory-holed by the public at large. Here we see Craven laying the groundwork, brick by brick, for Peele. Already considered a master of the genre with such films as THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT, and A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, 1991 found Craven in a mid-career slump. After a few middling high-concept movies that didn’t quite land, he went back to basics. Basing the plot around a news story he read where two burglars entered a home only to find that the children had been kept locked in the basement by the adults, Craven weaves a tapestry of quiet depravity with threads of gentrification, capitalism, and racial tension. When our grade-school-aged protagonist Fool and his partners hear a rumor that the oddball white couple, who are the most prominent slumlords of the neighborhood and last non-Black residents, have been keeping all the money they've accrued in their home, they set out to break in and steal it. What unfolds is an absolute nightmare. Not only do they find a daughter kept in isolation her whole life, they find that the couple have been kidnapping people and leaving them to rot in their basement, with only each other as food. The film becomes, not unlike GET OUT, a haunted house story in which our Black hero has to escape from his alien, white surroundings. This is a horror movie about the systemic racism in Los Angeles that was, coincidentally (presciently?), released only months after the footage of Rodney King being assaulted by the LAPD was made public. The through line from PEOPLE to GET OUT is as straight as can be, and it's confusing why it has been only diehard horror fans carrying a torch for this film. On its release PEOPLE was widely praised by critics for seamlessly melding horror with social commentary and dark satire. It was an unquestionable success at the box office and single-handedly saved Craven’s then-dying career. It’s a masterfully crafted film that never gets in its own way and never lets any single conceptual element overpower another. Plus, it's flat out a great scare. In a decade that was plagued by the diminishing returns of endless franchise sequels, it stands out as a truly original piece of genre filmmaking. This is a film that should be put alongside the best works of George A. Romero or John Carpenter. It’s got the gore, it’s got the scares, it's got the laughs, but it also has a mindfulness that you see only in the truly great entries into the horror genre. This is a film that is not often screened, even in the October glut of repertory horror programming, so if given the chance to see this on the big screen, don't squander that opportunity. (1991, 102 mins, Digital Projection) [Raphael Jose Martinez]
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Stephanie Rothman’s THE VELVET VAMPIRE (US)
Thursday, 9:30pm
“It’s not a traditional horror film nor a hard-core exploitation movie,” Stephanie Rothman said of THE VELVET VAMPIRE in an interview conducted about a decade after its release. “In some places it was booked into art theaters. In others it had one week saturation release in drive-ins and hard-top theaters. There was no consistent distribution pattern for it because people responded differently to it. And I think that may be part of the problem.” VAMPIRE can be described as a “problem” for a few reasons. For one, it was a commercial disappointment for Roger Corman’s New World Pictures, who at one time released the film on a double bill with an Italian horror film called SCREAM OF THE DEMON LOVER. For another, it poses problems to viewers in how it upends the sexual politics of the vampire genre. The central female character is a vampire, not a victim, and as Dave Kehr noted in his Chicago Reader capsule, her victims desire her and not the other way around. Rothman has cited THE SEVENTH SEAL, Jean Cocteau, and Georges Franju as influences, and VAMPIRE, more than any other of her major features, often works in the concertedly poetic vein one associates with those models. A sterling example of how much liberty could be found in the realm of exploitation cinema in the early 1970s—personal, impassioned, and artful. (1971, 80 min, Digital Projection) [Ben Sachs]
🎞️ LOCAL ONLINE SCREENINGS
– New Reviews
Notes on Black Video: 1987–2001
Available to stream for free on VDB TV until 10/20
Something struck me as I watched and rewatched the five videos in this program, a gripping survey of Black video art curated by Emily Martin: In addition to being made by Black artists, each of the works contains multitude forms of divergence, forswearing symbolism and revelling instead in almost punishing ambiguity. Why should you get the answers so easily? each seems to ask—and they’re right to do so, as theirs is a truth I cannot possibly understand. Upon reading Martin’s illuminating essay on her program, it became clear that this loaded obscurity is the essence of these works’ brilliance, which embrace a concept known as black space. Martin quotes poet and video artist Anaïs Duplan, who asserts that “[t]his approach, a kind of ‘communication after refusal’ decentralizes a white socio-racial meaning-making framework by naturalizing the idea of opposition, rather than marginalization. This opens up for black [sic] artists a new, local margin in which to propagate what has yet to be seen.” The first video in the program, Lawrence Andrews’ AN I FOR AN I (1987, 18 min), is a formidable visual reckoning, transposing meaning in every edit. Using a variety of techniques, including piquing sound design, discursive on-screen text, and evocative split-screen machinations, Andrews confronts mass media as a tool of dehumanization, specifically in how they portray Black people. This isn’t conveyed straightforwardly—scenes from RAMBO and random hardcore pornography subliminally transmit the notion that violence has become sexualized and vice-versa; the gaze is a vicious spectator here. Throughout, Andrews includes footage of himself being punched in the stomach over and over, saying “again” each time. These actions reveal how violence can become learned (and even desired) by way of repetition and eventually directed toward one’s self; at the end we see Andrews hitting his hand with his own fist. Learned paradoxes are further explored in Thomas Allen Harris’ BLACK BODY (1992, 5 min), a compact work that nevertheless embodies a strong message. Various strong messages, actually, during which the image of Harris’ naked body, entangled in wire, is shown writhing against its constraints. (Harris originally performed this during the 1992 Los Angeles uprising.) Over this visual are myriad, conflicting phrases beginning with the prompt “Black body is…” Beaten, beautiful, feared, living. These are some of the contradictory qualifiers that express the indefinable quality of being, especially of being a marginalized person whose identity is constantly in question by society and who in turn may begin to incarnate that sentiment. A disembodied monologue, delivered by an unidentified woman, mentions random body parts not respective to the speaker’s gender but inclusive of all. This emulates the piece’s subject of projection, as each descriptor featured on screen is one of many unduly cast upon those with Black bodies. Cannily referred to as a “video noir” by Martin in her essay, Leah Gilliam’s SAPPHIRE AND THE SLAVE GIRL (1995, 18 min) references Basil Dearden’s 1959 crime drama SAPPHIRE, about the murder of a young bi-racial woman who passed for white. Several women portray the titular Sapphire in Gilliam’s rendering, though they’re not really characters so much as they’re embodiments, all of these enigmatic figures inexplicably fleeing from authority. Gilliam examines the qualifiers of identity that often serve to depersonalize someone versus empowering or even just describing them. She also explores urban locales, using on-screen titles like networks, buildings, and open spaces to draw a connection between the vastness of space and the smallness of self. Tony Cokes’ FADE TO BLACK (1990, 32 min) has an extraordinary introduction, in which, via a cropped image with text below it on screen, the artist—or at least a ghostly, unidentified stand-in for him—assesses their relationship to Hitchcock’s VERTIGO. “What does this film have to do with me?” reads a snippet of the text. Then, later: “Why didn’t I just go to sleep in this master-piece, [t]his other world where I am not imagined, [w]here no one looks like me.” There’s more to it, including further excoriations of various films; like the rest of the works in the program, it’s a collage of considerations, utilizing “found” sound and footage. Cokes also includes a dialogue between two men about interpellation (hailing), a Marxist philosophy originated by Louis Althusser that connects the formation of ideology to the material world. Additionally, the onscreen text includes titles of films that depict Black people in a stereotypical light. The epilogue comes from a speech by Malcolm X, offering, in a way, a solution to the problem at hand. Art Jones’ LOVE SONGS #1 plays like a distillation of the videos before it; each of the three quasi-music videos in it is its own vibrant contradiction. The first, “Blow #2,” juxtaposes lethargic, pixelated images of beautiful women with machine guns against the melodic tones of The Delfonics’ “Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time),” the disparity—but also the uncanny symbiosis—between violence and beauty blatantly obvious. Ironically, Jones takes a a subtler approach with the second segment, “Nurture,” which features Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Brooklyn Zoo” against quivering imagery from the Bronx Zoo over which animated animal characters perform their requisite movements. The connection between the song and the images, both relating to the zoo, is obvious. More transgressive, however, are the Franz Fanon quotes that periodically appear without context, like subliminal messages. The most subdued of the three, “Over Above,” appears as if shot from a plane window looking down upon a chaotic event. What’s seen is footage of a real-life event, the 2000 beating by police of a Black man, Thomas Jones, as it was filmed from a window above. The ethereal song to which it’s set, “Sunday Part II” by Cibo Matto, is a foil to the events being depicted. Where “Blow #2” trades in a humorous dichotomy, the dichotomy of the final segment is more disconcerting. The viewer assumes the vantage of a passive onlooker, helpless, and even maybe unwilling, to intervene. This last video puts the onus back on the viewer, after all they have seen, to examine their role as a quiescent witness. [Kathleen Sachs]
🎞️REELING: THE CHICAGO LGBTQ+ INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL
The following films and programs are available to stream digitally through the specified timeframe. More info on the festival here.
Mehdi and Mohammad Torab-Beigi’s AT THE END OF EVIN (Iran)
Available to stream through Monday here
The directorial debut of Mehdi and Mohammad Torab-Beigi, AT THE END OF EVIN, is a creepy, atmospheric drama in which Amen (Mehri Kazemi), a trans woman before transition, agrees to impersonate the daughter of a wealthy man (Mahdi Pakdel) if he will pick up the tab for her surgery. Lies and betrayal fill her endless days in a characterless, white-on-white mansion as the reasons for this impersonation continue to change. Even after the film is over, it’s hard to know what “really” happened to Amen—or whether she existed at all—in part because we never see more than her hands. Like Robert Montgomery’s failed experiment, LADY IN THE LAKE (1946), all of the action is seen from the main character’s point of view. While this device gaslights us along with Amen, it distances us from the horror of the abyss she is facing. The film, while somewhat intriguing, feels schematic and obvious. For a first effort, however, AT THE END OF EVIN signals the positive potential of its writer-directors. As they gain more experience, the Torab-Beigis may come through with stronger, more fully realized work. (2021, 78 min) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
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Jeffrey Schwarz’s BOULEVARD! A HOLLYWOOD STORY (US/Documentary)
Available to stream through Tuesday here
In an early moment of BOULEVARD! A HOLLYWOOD STORY, one interviewee—having been told of the existence of an early attempt at a SUNSET BLVD. musical—inundates documentarian Jeffrey Schwarz with excited questions. What Schwarz’s latest film does best is convey the exhilaration of discovering little known film histories: there are always new, fascinating stories to be told, even about films that seem so thoroughly discussed. BOULEVARD! tells the story of songwriting and romantic partners Dickson Hughes and Richard Stapley, who worked directly with Gloria Swanson on a musical adaptation of Billy Wilder's SUNSET BLVD in the 1950s. When Swanson falls for former Hollywood heartthrob Stapley, their working relationship begins to mirror the story they’re adapting. Video calls with archivists and film experts mark the era in which this film is made, but these lend themselves well to Schwarz’s focus on legwork. BOULEVARD! brings attention to the research process, the importance of archives, and the people behind the archives, who keep histories from being forgotten. The film at times hesitates to leave behind Swanson, distracting from the more interesting story of the musical itself. BOULEVARD! finds its stride, however, when it shifts focus to Hughes (and his indignation of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s lauded 1993 musical version of SUNSET BLVD.) and especially to Stapley, who has a fascinating story of continual reinvention. Their individual experiences in Hollywood and their relationship with each other are the most striking aspects of BOULEVARD! Also noteworthy is the welcome appearance of the late Turner Classic Movies host Robert Osborne as one of the interviewees. (2021, 85 min) [Megan Fariello]
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Deal with the Real: Nonfiction Shorts Program
Available to stream through Monday here
In this series of shorts, themes of creativity, space, and building community abound. These six films also illuminate the ways in which subjects utilize different technological mediums to connect and create. The joyful FOUR FRUITBITES (2021, 8 min) features interviews with subjects from director Dave Quantic’s podcast Fruitbowl. Focusing on the power of voice and being able to tell your own story in your own space, each interviewee describes their unique experiences with sex and sexuality as queer, trans, and genderqueer individuals. In the heartbreaking BEYOND THE VOID (2021, 10 min), director Rafaël Beauchamp follows Charles, whose partner, Martin, passed away from AIDS in 2001. Mixing haunting video footage of Martin with interviews of Charles in the present, the short is an unflinchingly and beautifully shot look at grief and perseverance. Yanyi Xie’s sweet SILVER LINING (2021, 9 min) features Brian Perrotti, better known as his drag persona Alexis Hex, “Chicago’s premier knitting witch drag queen.” The short examines Brian’s shift during the COVID-19 pandemic from live performance to creating online content, including a knitting tutorial YouTube channel. In DANCING ON MY OWN (2019, 13 min), director Alexandra Cuerdo uses her personal story as a jumping off point to explore the importance of having a queer Asian community. The film highlights Bubble_T, a radical dance party based in NYC. Jyoti Mistry’s CAUSE OF DEATH (2020, 20 min) is the standout short here, an experimental film using black and white archival footage, animation, and spoken word poetry to address systemic violence against women. An autopsy report describes the physical effects on women’s bodies, but the images and words reveal the larger structural violence that leads to femicide. Its powerful message is embedded in its stunning use of montage and sound. Finally, Monica Manganelli’s BUTTERFLIES IN BERLIN: DIARY OF A SOUL SPLIT IN TWO (2019, 30 min) tells the story of a post-op transgender woman in Weimar-era Berlin, Alexandra, who makes her transition after meeting with sexologist and sexual minorities activist Magnus Hirschfeld. The short uses an art deco-style animation to depict Alexandra’s journey and the great risk she takes to be her authentic self and to help others as the Nazis rise to power. While these shorts use a myriad of styles and approaches, they together reflect the diverse ways film can bring to life these true stories. [Megan Fariello]
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Getting Familiar: Gay Shorts Program
Available to stream through Tuesday here
To know someone deeply—particularly at the level necessary to sustain a romantic relationship—is to suspend many of one’s inhibitions. Partners must be willing to open themselves up, embrace their vulnerabilities, and be receptive to one another’s needs. As the shorts in this program remind us, the greatest intimacy is more than mere physical closeness. This is gradually learned by the two men in Christian Jacob Ramon’s aptly named HARD (2021, 11 min); a double entendre, the title primarily refers to what one of the men has trouble getting while in bed with his first-time partner. In lieu of sex, they end up engaging in a warm, meandering conversation, which leads to the realization that the biggest turn-on for them is emotional connection. Ethan Roberts’ stylish, black-and-white GETTING CLOSER (2021, 6 min) posits dialogue as a path to literal climax, as a couple’s pot-influenced repartee becomes powerful foreplay fuel. Mostly alternating between two camera setups, one for each man, Roberts creates an appealing staccato rhythm that builds to satisfying release. Sometimes it’s the first blush of romance that’s the most tantalizing. In Tavo Ruiz’s pastel-colored EDEN (2021, 15 min), a young twink wistfully recounts falling for his best male friend; this sensuous, elliptical film suggests both the pleasures and limits of desiring. Rejecting the allure of the ripe Edenic apple, Jake Kolton’s BRUISED FRUIT TASTES SWEETER (2020, 10 min) locates value in weathered produce—namely, a couple whose rocky relationship is rejuvenated by a minor accident on the road. It’s no CRASH, but it is a tersely macabre reminder that we sometimes need to be jolted out of our doldrums to see ourselves (and each other) anew. Miguel Melo’s VALIENTE (2020, 8 min) is also concerned with bodily revelations, as a man trepidatiously prepares to reveal his HIV diagnosis to his partner. The program’s three remaining shorts consider hook-up culture, spanning the promiscuous days of pre-Internet cruising to the surreal terrain of virtual connections. In Dave Quantic’s STEPHEN & JAMES: BEST GIRLFRIENDS (2021, 4 min), an adaptation of a podcast interview, the titular men narrate their halcyon days in '90s New York City; their escapades range from backroom dalliances to surprising, donut-themed threesomes. With palpable frustration and earnestly, hopelessly foolish optimism, Cam Owen’s IN[APP]LICABLE (2020, 11 min) takes a cockeyed look at the digital meat market that is the modern dating app. Finally, in Sasha Argirov’s PERSONALS (2021, 12 min), a neurotic young man ends up at a glory hole after answering a Craigslist ad, only to discover that sex is not what he or his solicitor most craves. Unfolding in hushed tones that are alternately unsettling, funny, and melancholic, the film uses a simple setup—two figures on either side of an opaque tarp—to highlight our tendency to deny ourselves the closeness we so desperately seek. [Jonathan Leithold-Patt]
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Global Trans Stories (Shorts Program)
Available to stream through Thursday here
These four short films showcase the complexities of gender transition around the world, while also showing that we still have shared experiences even across different cultures. Tsuyoshi Shoji’s THE FISH WITH ONE SLEEVE (Japan, 2021, 34 min) is a clear visual standout, even with it being filmed on a smartphone with a scaled-down COVID-19 crew. Based on a poem by Yumi Fuzuki, the short utilizes the setting of a boutiquey fish store to explore themes of a young woman’s isolating transition and her journey to confront her past. Arantza Ibarra Basañez’s harrowing documentary EKAI (2021, 20 min) shines a light on a young trans man’s suicide—bolstered by the painful and tenuous process of getting prescribed gender affirming hormones—and where we go from here. A student of Asghar Farhadi, Mahtab Pishghadam’s OUR PAIN (2021, 9 min) depicts the violence and tension between a trans man and his unsupportive father as he and his partner try to seek asylum and get gender affirming surgery. DUSTIN (2021, 20 min), the first short film from French DJ Naïla Guiguet, starts as a drug and sex-filled club outing among trans and queer friends. But when they step out of the club and into another environment, the film morphs into a thorny but honest conversation about misgendering, desire, and chasing the fundamental desire of being seen. [Cody Corrall]
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Thomas Wilson-White’s THE GREENHOUSE (Australia)
Available to stream through Wednesday here
Like Christophe Honoré’s ON A MAGICAL NIGHT (2019) but in a more serious register, THE GREENHOUSE employs a time-traveling premise to consider how we perceive intimate relationships at different stages of our lives. The heroine, Beth, is a twenty-something single woman who’s never left the small town where she was raised. She and her siblings were social outcasts growing up, since they were raised by two mothers and their community didn’t look kindly on same-sex couples. But while Beth’s family was ostracized in public, they were often blissfully happy at home, cherishing each other’s company and emotional support. Writer-director Thomas Wilson-White reveals this backstory gradually, focusing instead on a reunion of the siblings in adulthood (all of whom, save Beth, have moved away from home) on the occasion of one mother’s 60th birthday. The celebration prompts Beth to reflect on her life thus far; so too does the unexpected return of her true love from childhood, the proverbial one who got away. As if these events weren’t enough to make Beth look to the past, one night she finds that entering the family greenhouse grants her the power to go literally back in time. Beth quickly grows obsessed with spying on her childhood, becoming increasingly nostalgic for bygone times; eventually, however, she realizes she has to learn to live in the present. Wilson-White makes the most of his low budget by keeping the action almost entirely on the family estate, which he makes into different locations based on when in time Beth visits them. He also works well with his ensemble cast, generating sympathy for every character, not just the heroine. One recognizes early on why Beth is so attached to her family—they come across as lovely, idiosyncratic people. Because Wilson-White doesn’t show any scenes of homophobic bullying, Beth’s trauma and emotional stagnation never seem as vivid as her compassion or longing, and as a result, the dramatic stakes feel relatively low. Yet THE GREENHOUSE makes up for any shortcomings through its warmth and earnest philosophizing. (2021, 90 min) [Ben Sachs]
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Intensities (Shorts program)
Available to stream through Tuesday here
More than a means of scaring our socks off, the horror genre is particularly powerful at illuminating the anxieties we often bury deep within ourselves. In ways both eerie and darkly humorous, the shorts in this program utilize conventions of the genre to examine everything from oppressive families to the unknowability of romantic partners. In Sam McConnell’s THE HUNTER (2020, 14 min), a shy man in mid-80s New York City gets thrown for a loop when his date, a black performance artist named Rose, pulls a revolver on their cab driver for no apparent reason. What ensues is a disarmingly tender, hard-nosed conversation about claiming agency in a world hostile to your identity. The film’s two leads are exceptional, as is THE LIGHTHOUSE cinematographer Jarin Blaschke’s nocturnal lensing. Unlike THE HUNTER, there’s no productive bonding or consciousness-raising taking place in C.J. Arellano’s sardonic GRIFFICA (2021, 11 min). The only mode of thought depicted here is deranged speculation, as a diffident man starts to believe his new, too-perfect boyfriend is a literal demon trying to harvest his brain. With its increasingly feverish, unreliable first-person narration, the film shrewdly points up both the absurdity and real emotional weight of the distorted images we often create of others. Another, less dangerous obsession is the focus of Hayley Bensmiller’s FEMME FOLLE (2020, 15 min), about a young woman who becomes enamored of an enigmatic female photographer, only to be confronted with her own feelings of inadequacy. Personal vulnerability carries over to the protagonist of Safi Jafri’s 75 CENTS (2021, 9 min), who’s struggling to escape the shadow of his estranged, homophobic family. Parents take on especially monstrous appearances in the program’s final two films, Mark J. Parker’s FAMILY HISTORY (2020, 16 min) and Derek August Elliott’s MEMENTO MORI (2020, 15 min). In the former, a man nervously brings home his boyfriend to meet his conservative father; all the while, the specter of his mysteriously deceased mother looms as a supernatural threat. The death of the maternal superego is also the subject of the latter film, which sees variously LGBTQ family members waiting with bated breath for their bigoted, abusive matriarch to croak. Awash in garish pinks, yellows, and pearls, it’s a knowingly grotesque, deadpan vignette that thumbs its nose at the heteronormativity of the nuclear family while lamenting the damage it often leaves in its wake. [Jonathan Leithold-Patt]
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T.J. Parsell’s INVISIBLE: GAY WOMEN IN SOUTHERN MUSIC (US/Documentary)
Available to stream through Thursday here
If ever there was a case to be made against allowing Ken Burns to be the premiere chronicler of the American Experience, it’s T.J. Parsell’s look at the dark underbelly of the Nashville music industry, INVISIBLE: GAY WOMEN IN SOUTHERN MUSIC. Just as Burns erased the lesbian singer/songwriters from his facile documentary series, Country Music, so, too, did the country music establishment disappear the careers of gifted lesbian performers, many of whom made their living as back-up singers and writing songs for other people to perform. Bonnie Baker was always more comfortable writing megahit songs for other singers, like Reba McEntire and Hunter Hayes, because it was safer; coming to terms with her own physical and psychological abuse growing up in a deeply religious family and her shame about her lesbianism was many years delayed. Kye Fleming, a member of the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, was not out and proud; it simply was not done in the 1970s and ’80s. The biggest waste of potential was Dianne Davidson, a singer/songwriter with a miraculous voice and presence who quit the music business at the tender age of 21 because she was unwilling and unable to hide her sexual identity. It is dizzying how many untold stories Parsell delves into, and, as such, the film has a tendency to wander. However, once Parsell reaches the story of Chely Wright, a pretty Nashville creation who was named Top New Female Vocalist at the 1995 Academy of Country Music Awards, the film clicks into high gear. On the edge of suicide, Wright decided instead to come out on NBC’s The Today Show and in People magazine in 2010. The attacks on her by the all-powerful country music radio stations ended her career. INVISIBLE honors both the pain and the triumphs of a group of women (and one trans man) who may not have cracked country music’s homophobic barrier, but who made a large dent in its thinning armor by working outside the mainstream of its rigid code of conduct. (2021, 107 min, DCP Digital) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
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Angelo Madsen Minax’s NORTH BY CURRENT (US/Documentary)
Available to stream through Monday, October here
“If I loved you less,” begins the quotation cited after the end credits of Angelo Madsen Minax’s staggering essay film NORTH BY CURRENT, “I might be able to talk about it more.” Seeing as the filmmaker’s own mother refers to his work as vile—a statement with which I disagree but which summarizes the potential for others to view Minax’s subversive output as such—it’s ironic to see a quote from Jane Austen’s Emma; the author and her body of culturally revered opuses, though undoubtedly more radical than given credit for, are often considered the height of respectable, genteel artistry. Nevertheless, it’s a sublime epitomization of what came before this quote appears onscreen: a raw, transcendent depiction of a family, for whom communication is already an issue, tormented by immense grief. The source of that grief, at least as it’s first presented, is the sudden death of Minax’s infant niece, Kalla; a subsequent investigation looks into whether or not her parents, Minax’s younger sister Jesse and her ex-convict husband, had anything to do with it. (I’ll note here that it seems very, very unlikely that they did; if anything, Minax’s sister and brother-in-law are potentially victims of a—surprise, surprise—corrupt legal system that took the easy way out in assuming that an ex-addict and her convicted felon husband were somehow at fault. I say this to distinguish that the film is not a true-crime documentary or anything of the sort, and that the tragedy in question is more a jumping-off point from which to examine larger, more dysfunctional family dynamics.) Shot over several years starting in 2015 (two years after Kalla’s death), with interstitials delineating years 2016 through 2020, the film establishes a loose narrative arc from the aftermath of that tragedy to its conclusion in the present, over which time Minax and his family lament and evolve in equal measure. It would seem that the source of their collective anguish isn’t just the tragedy of a child’s death, but rather the collective hardship born of their individual struggles. Jesse has contended with addiction, domestic abuse, and mental health issues, all while having three kids in as many years following her first child’s death. Minax continues to deal with the reaction of his family to his coming out as a trans man. Their parents, devout Mormons who reside in rural Michigan, are inherently at odds with their kids’ respective journeys, though they appear to be supportive overall. The relationship between Minax and his sister is also complicated: the former acknowledges that he terrorized his younger sibling as a kid, and Jesse confesses she believes that to be the impetus behind her drug problem. Minax’s depiction of his family is radically empathetic; he puts forth his own shortcomings and graciously contextualizes those of others rather than use broad strokes such as good versus bad. Scenes in which Minax and his parents discuss his gender transition are among the most affecting: his parents’ feelings on the matter evolve over the course of the film, and real, honest healing is done before our very eyes. Having primarily worked in experimental film and video, Minax imbues what he considers his most accessible work to date with boundary-pushing motifs that metamorphosize the form. He mines day-to-day life for visual and sonic metaphors—a certain song ironically starts playing on the jukebox, a tree bends toward the light—that hint at a larger meaning to it all; an unidentified child narrator, who’s often in conversation with Minax’s own voice over, helps translate what’s not being said, the ways that this distressed family connects with and loves one another amid all the turmoil. This omnipresent child is the love that resonates between and through them and which they have trouble putting into words. If they loved one another less, maybe they’d be able to talk about it more. (2021, 86 min) [Kathleen Sachs]
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Vivian Kleiman’s NO STRAIGHT LINES (US/Documentary)
Available to stream through Monday here
The documentation of queer people throughout history, especially the unsung weirdos in the margins, is crucial to maintaining an exhaustive and ever-changing picture of ourselves. Vivian Kleiman’s delightful deep-dive into the gay comic book scene is necessary because it canonizes the heroes who have documented queer rage and joy for decades. Inspired by an all-queer comic anthology of the same name, NO STRAIGHT LINES chronicles the lives and careers of five legendary cartoonists—Alison Bechdel, Jennifer Camper, Howard Cruse, Rupert Kinnard, and Mary Wings—as they navigate queer identity and the stark divide between the freedom allowed by zines and the more rigid expectations of the publishing industry. longtime collaborator with filmmaker Marlon Riggs, Kleiman takes a less experimental approach than that of TONGUES UNTIED, but this serves a comprehensive look at the intersection of art and queerness from the 1970s onward. The particularly illuminating interviews are with Wings, whose groundbreaking Come Out Comix is largely responsible for the scene’s meteoric rise, and Bechdel, easily the most mainstream figure here with the success of Fun Home and Dykes to Watch Out For. Kleiman's use of comic book panel-style backgrounds sometimes feels overly stylized, but the movie finds its footing when it gets real with its subject matter, providing welcome moments of rage and sadness that can’t be ignored. There’s a striking scene where Camper, who's raunchy and unapologetic in both her art and her onscreen interviews, breaks down while talking about people she lost during the AIDS crisis. NO STRAIGHT LINES provides a history of this artistic revolution, and it makes a point to feature interviews from the newer generation of queer comics authors to show the impact of those paved the way. (2021, 78 min) [Cody Corrall]
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Bruce LaBruce’s SAINT-NARCISSE (Canada)
Available to stream through Sunday here
The mythological figure of Narcissus has long been associated with homosexuality, his love of his own reflection translated as a love of others whose bodies match his own. As the film's title lets on, SAINT-NARCISSE is not only preoccupied with this notion, but with how its queer possibilities might intersect with and subvert the sexually repressive institution of the Church. This being a film by cult queercore director Bruce LaBruce, one knows that blasphemous irreverence is in store. The setting is Quebec in 1972. Twenty-something Dominic (Félix-Antoine Duval) has never known his parents; living with his ailing grandmother, he passes the time by getting drunk and habitually taking pictures of himself. One day, he comes across a box in his grandmother’s closet containing a cache of letters addressed to him by a woman who claims to be his estranged mother. Despite foreboding warnings and premonitions (LaBruce uses a heavy hand in his smash cuts to ominous figures), Dominic sets off to the small town of Saint-Narcisse to track down a woman named Beatrice, an alleged lesbian witch living with her immortal girlfriend. If that weren’t enough, Dominic is soon drawn to an abused Trappist monk who bears his exact likeness. Things get more bewildering and knottier from there, as SAINT-NARCISSE transitions into a religious sexploitation thriller featuring autoerotic flagellation, twincest, and all manner of affronts to Catholic dogma. Somehow, none of this feels quite as outrageous as it probably should, especially coming from someone as renowned for taboo-busting as LaBruce; perhaps after all these years we’ve simply grown inured to the wonton perversion of religious iconography. SAINT-NARCISSE still has its campy fun, though, and it’s nothing if not queer in its defiance of the orthodoxies of family, love, and faith. (2020, 101 min) [Jonathan Leithold-Patt]
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Mari Walker’s SEE YOU THEN (US)
Available to stream through Tuesday here
It’s been a decade since Kris and Naomi last saw each other, and a lot has changed. Since their sudden breakup, Naomi (Lynn Chen) has traded her life as a provocative performance artist for a stable job and the more comforting role of a wife and mother. Kris (Pooya Mohseni), on the other hand, has undergone medical transition and is now adjusting to life as a trans woman. Mari Walker’s thoughtful debut feature explores what happens when two souls reconnect and, for better or worse, find a greater understanding of one another. SEE YOU THEN uses the laissez faire sensibility of the “walk and talk” film to present conversations about past heartbreak, what the characters missed in each other's lives, and who they are 10 years removed from their romance. A trans filmmaker herself, Walker writes Kris with refreshing authenticity, showing how she navigates the intricacies of social and medical transition and the less glamorous nuts and bolts of the trans experience. Things have clearly changed for the both of them, but there’s a warm familiarity between the two that propels them through the night, even when the conversation isn’t always the most inviting for either party. As more things are revealed throughout the evening, there is a looming sense that a significant secret will be exposed, but the most compelling parts of SEE YOU THEN are not the explosive moments, but rather the quiet breaths when things are left unsaid. SEE YOU THEN is a cathartic showcase of unresolved emotions, buoyed by strong dialogue and heartbreaking performances from the leads. (2021, 74 min) [Cody Corrall]
🎞️ LOCAL ONLINE SCREENINGS –
Held Over/Still Screening/Return Engagements (Selected)
Tsai Ming-liang's DAYS (Taiwan)
Available to rent through the Music Box Theatre here
DAYS, Taiwanese master Tsai Ming-liang’s latest ode to urban loneliness, begins with a middle-aged man, Kang (Lee Kang-sheng), simply sitting in a room and staring out the window on a rainy afternoon. Tsai’s patient camera eye observes the man’s expressionless face for a full five minutes before cutting. It's an astonishing scene in which nothing seems to happen while also suggesting, on an interior level, that perhaps a lot is happening, thus setting the tone for the two hour audio-visual experience that follows. As viewers, we are invited to not only observe Kang as the shot’s subject but also allow our eyes to wander around the beautifully composed frame, noticing the details of what is reflected in the window out of which Kang stares (since the shot is framed from outside) as well as listen to the sound of the gently falling rain. From there, an almost entirely wordless narrative proceeds, in fits and starts, as the daily life of this man, who is suffering from and being treated for an unspecified illness, is juxtaposed with that of a younger man, a Laotian immigrant masseur named Non (Anong Houngheuangsya). Eventually, the lives of both protagonists come together in an erotic hotel-room encounter before breaking apart again, presumably for good. The way these two minimalist character arcs briefly intersect reveals a surprisingly elegant and classical structure lurking beneath the movie's avant-garde surface and also serves to function as a potent metaphor for nothing less than life itself: We may be born alone and we may die alone but, if we're lucky, we can make meaningful connections with other people along the way. DAYS is a formally extreme film, even for Tsai, and probably not the best place to start for those unfamiliar with the director's previous work. But I emerged from it feeling as refreshed and energized as I would if I had visited a spa. (2020, 127 min) [Michael Glover Smith]
🎞️ LOCAL ONLINE SCREENINGS –
Also Screening/Streaming
⚫ Facets Cinema
Jeanette Nordahl’s 2020 Danish film WILDLAND (88 min) is available to rent through October 21. More info here.
⚫ Gene Siskel Film Center
Charles Officer’s 2021 film AKILLA’S ESCAPE (90 min) is available to rent through Thursday.
Connie Hochman’s 2021 dance documentary IN BALANCHINE’S CLASSROOM (88 min) and Ted Bogosian’s 2021 documentary LIVE AT MISTER KELLY’S (83 min) are available to rent beginning this week through November 4. More info on all films here.
⚫ Music Box Theatre
Check here for hold-over titles and theMusic Box Garden Series line-up.
CINE-LIST: October 1 - October 7, 2021
MANAGING EDITOR // Patrick Friel
ASSOCIATE EDITORS // Ben Sachs, Kathleen Sachs
CONTRIBUTORS // Cody Corrall, Kyle Cubr, John Dickson, Megan Fariello, Marilyn Ferdinand, Michael Frank, Alex Kopecky, Jonathan Leithold-Patt, Raphael Jose Martinez, Doug McLaren, Joe Rubin, Michael Glover Smith, Drew Van Weelden