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đœïž CRUCIAL VIEWING
Tsui Harkâs SHANGHAI BLUES (Hong Kong)
Chicago Film Society at Northeastern Illinois University (The Auditorium, Building E, 3701 W. Bryn Mawr Ave.) â Wednesday, 7:30pm
When he was about 10 years old and still known as Tsui Man-kong, future filmmaker Tsui Hark started telling stories by drawing his own comic books. There seems to be a direct connection between this formative experience and Tsuiâs work as a director and producerâmost of his films feel like moving comic books in their cluttered mise-en-scĂšne, emphatic emotions, and forceful sense of movement between shots. They also reflect childlike enthusiasm for the medium, trading in action and slapstick set pieces that can be appreciated by kids of all ages. The characteristically joyful SHANGHAI BLUES features all this and musical numbers too, confirming Tsui as the heir to Stanley Donen as well as King Hu. Indeed, the film tells the kind of charmingly silly story that motored many MGM musicals in the 1940s and â50s, following a neâer-do-well musician and sometimes clown named Gwok-man (Kenny Bee) as he seeks fortune as well as his true love in the bustle of postwar Shanghai. In his pursuits, he gets entangled with a wacky woman known as Stool (Sally Yeh) and her roommate Shu (Sylvia Chang), a nightclub performer who dreams of becoming a famous entertainer herself. Most scenes in SHANGHAI BLUES start with one amusing idea, then snowball into sweet chaos, as more characters enter into the proceedings and the trajectories of various objects and wills inevitably intersect. Often the results are grin-inducing, such as during Shuâs hilarious botched song-and-dance numbers, but Tsui occasionally steers the action into hair-raising suspense, as when a convergence of characters at a homeless encampment unexpectedly turns violent. The first feature Tsui produced for his company Film Workshop, SHANGHAI BLUES was clearly a labor of loveâevery shot exhibits such hardworking showmanship that itâs easy to lose track of the story and get wrapped up the invigorating cutting and camera movements, which suggest, as usual with Tsui, the aesthetic equivalent of a sugar rush. Preceded by the 1932 Fleischer Studios cartoon STOPPING THE SHOW (8 min, 16mm). (1984, 99 min, 35mm) [Ben Sachs]
Gillo Pontecorvoâs ÂĄQUEIMADA! (BURN!) (Italy)
Block Cinema (at Northwestern University) â Thursday, 7pm
Following his landmark docudrama THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS (1966), set during the Algerian War of the mid-50s, Italian director Gillo Pontecorvo decided to peer even further backward, this time to a fictional country experiencing various stretches of colonial requisition in the 19th century. In doing so he made a more allegorical text about colonialism that extends past a specific historical incident; ÂĄQUEIMADA! (BURN!) is both an extant document applicable to any number of factual scenarios and a figurative admonition of colonialismâs insidious stratagems. The titular (and fictional) Lesser Antilles island was originally supposed to have been under Spanish rule, but due to pressure from the Franco government, Pontecorvo switched the colonizer to Portugal (though Spanish, rather than Portuguese, is still spoken in the film). The island is called Queimada because the Portuguese had previously set fire to it in order to quash a revolt by its indigenous people, a tactic utilized in real-life imperial conquests. Indeed, though the film is a fictional account, it nevertheless borrows from a variety of historical figures and events. One of its two main characters, British agent provocateur William Walker (Marlon Brando), is named after the American âfilibusterâ who invaded Nicaragua in 1856 and made himself the countryâs president; the character was also inspired in part by American spy Edward Lansdale, who a decade before the film was made had gone to North Vietnam to sow dissent, generally having fashioned a career out of promoting psychological warfare. Brandoâs Walker is sent to Queimada by the British Admiralty in the interest of his countryâs sugar trade. There he meets an enslaved African man, JosĂ© Dolores (named after the Nicaraguan general who defeated the real Walker and played by Evaristo MĂĄrquez), whom he convinces to start a slave revolt. Walkerâs aim is to set the stage for a political coup that finds a puppet government installed under the auspices of the royal sugar company. Dolores, however, at first compelled by the the pursuit of freedom and riches, becomes a genuine revolutionary leader; he reluctantly stops fighting only when heâs promised that the new government will abolish slavery if he and his guerilla forces recognize its rule. Ten years pass, and Walker is summoned back to Queimada to help control Dolores, whoâs started another revolt, having gone from a useful tool to an exceedingly dangerous weapon against colonial interests. The relationship between the two men is among the most interesting facets of the film: at first the two appear to get along, even perhaps to be friends. The trope of begrudging white savior is subverted, with Walkerâs glib displays of respect aptly representing the more barbarous actions undertaken by white people and the ways in which we appear harmless while masking insidious motives. Brando and MĂĄrquez, a non-professional actor who met Pontecorvo while working as a herdsman, give astounding performances; Brando considered it among his best roles, and MĂĄrquez matches him beat for beat. Ennio Morriconeâs score for the film is appropriately uncanny, complementing the tonal juxtapositions beautifully. Scottish anarchist writer Stuart Christie wrote about ÂĄQUEIMADA! that heâd ânever seen a film as uncompromising about the corrupting nature of power and the workings of imperialismâ as this one; by looking back at a too-vast history of colonialism and at the contemporaneous moment with the war in Vietnam, itâs a tremendous cautionary tale of the forthcoming tribulations in South America. The film echoes even more widely beyond that, an open-ended forewarning of colonialismâs regretful fortitude. (1969, 132 min, 35mm) [Kat Sachs]
Aki KaurismÀki's LE HAVRE (Finland/France/Germany)
Gene Siskel Film Center â Monday, 6pm
A miracle made to seem ordinary: That's what happens in LE HAVRE, an Aki KaurismĂ€ki film that's both steeped in film history (look out for Pierre Ătaix and Jean-Pierre LĂ©aud) and pressingly contemporary (J. Hoberman's review was titled "Dream Act"), conservative in its storytelling (it's comparable to a silent film) and radical in its politics (which are anti-authoritarian). As similar in style and tone as it is to his other films, LE HAVRE is something new for KaurismĂ€ki: a kind of fairy tale not just for adults, but for anyone politically aware. At a time of much political unrest and transnational government protest, LE HAVRE strikes a chord with its pro-immigration, proletariat story that finds hope in the small decisions of common people. Our hero is Marcel Max (Andre Wilms, revising his role from KaurismĂ€ki's LA VIE DE BOHEME), a shoe-shiner whose wife, Arletty (Kati Outinen), has stomach cancer. The police of the French town Le Havre discover a shipping container full of African refugees (given importance through a series of affecting close-ups) that was supposed to have let them out in London. One of them, a boy named Idrissa (Blondin Miguel), escapes and with the help of Marcel and his fellow townspeople, including the police inspector, Monet (Jean-Pierre Darroussin), Idrissa is smuggled back out of the country, his life saved, and, as if it were karma, Marcel's wife is healed of cancer. Helping Idrissa out of the country: an extraordinary act of kindness and political defiance. A woman healed of cancer: a prayer answered. LE HAVRE treats these miracles as if they were ordinary occurrencesâMarcel's bravery and Arletty's unlikely survival possible of any decent person. With this film, KaurismĂ€ki sets an example for real-world imitation as much as he drifts towards the pie in the sky. Screening as part of 50/50, the Siskelâs year-long series including a film from each year the theater has been open. (2011, 93 mins, 35mm) [Kalvin Henley]
Joe Dante's GREMLINS 2: THE NEW BATCH (US)
Music Box Theatre â Saturday, 10pm
The etymologically mysterious "gremlin" is one of the most modern of myths, with its origin in WWII airmen's tales of technological sabotage; and while the 1984 film GREMLINSâset in a backlot-simulated small townâlimited the mischievous animatronic-puppet destruction to consumerist sites of household goods and department stores, its sequel appropriately centers on a symbolic temple of managerial capital, a hyper-automated midtown office tower inspired simultaneously by Trump and Tati. As with the 21st-century horror film CABIN IN THE WOODS, an antiseptic and efficient surveillance bureaucracy is portrayed as a form of social organization whose continued survival is undeserved, and which must be duly and gleefully demolished by monsters of its own creation. This destruction is enacted through scene after scene of diverse genre parodies of camp cinema. Screening as part of the Music Box of Horrors: Scared Stupid series. (1990, 106 min, 35mm) [Michael Castelle]
Home Movie Day 2022
Chicago Film Archives and Chicago Film Society at the Chicago History Museum â Saturday, 11am â 3pm (Free Admission)
This yearly, worldwide celebration of home movies is absolutely essential viewing for anyone who cares a whit about motion picture art, history, sociology, ethnography, science, or technology. Anyone who loves the sound of a projector. Anyone who loves deep, luscious Kodachrome II stock that is as gorgeous as the day it was shot. Anyone who loves dated, faded, scratched, and bruised filmâevery emulsion scar a sacred glyph created by your grandfather's careless handling 60 years ago. Anyone who wants to revel in the performance of the primping and strutting families readying for their close up. Anyone who wants to see what the neighborhood looked like before you got there. So, find your 100-foot reels of 16mm you just had processed from your sister's Quinceañera or your grandfather's thousands of feet of Super 8mm from your uncle's Bar Mitzvah in 1976 or that 8mm your great aunt shot from Daley Plaza in 1963 and come out for Home Movie Day. Just walk in with your films (16mm, 8mm and/or Super 8mm) and staff and volunteers from Chicago Film Archives and the Chicago Film Society will inspect your home movies that day! A selection of those works will be screened; organizers will also offer tips on storage, preservation, and digitization, all for free. Home Movie Day has been happening around the world since 2003. For more information about its history, visit the Center for Home Movies website. With live accompaniment by pianist Dave Drazin. [Josh B. Mabe]
Pier Palo Pasolini's SALĂ, OR THE 120 DAYS OF SODOM (Italy/France)
Gene Siskel Film Center â Wednesday, 7:30pm
The final days of Mussoliniâs reign and the Marquis de Sadeâs The 120 Days of Sodom function as the backdrops for SALO, but they only serve as settings and jumping-off points for something much more ethereal and sinister, far from any straightforward adaptation or period-specific war-based story. The film begins with the actions of four persons of power: the Duke, the President, the Bishop, and the Magistrate. Each of them signs an agreement that starts a series of sexually perverse atrocities, including murder, meant to serve their own amusement and stimulation. They begin by marrying each otherâs daughters, right after having them humiliated by soldiers. Then they set out with the soldiers to the surrounding war-torn island and begin abducting teenage boys and girls. Structured like Danteâs Inferno, stitched together by rules and laws, the four libertines carry out their behavior in business-like staccato, clinically and methodically, voting into motion each and every crime. Once they huddle their victims behind the doors of a magnificently large estate, thereâs no hope of return. What follows is anything but pornographic, undermining the very expectations about what is erotic. David Cronenbergâs masterpiece CRASH (1996) and Claire Denisâ BASTARDS (2013) exhibit a similar attitude toward the notion of impotence requiring extreme means in which to stimulate release, resulting in near irreversible infections of the mind and body. SALĂ is so hotly revered and reviled that some have considered it to be the catalyst for its directorâs demise. It premiered three weeks after Pier Paolo Pasolini had been murdered by a young prostitute, who later admitted he did not act alone, strongly suggesting his murder was politically motivated from within the Italian government. It wasnât like Pasolini hadn't courted controversy with powerful figures before. To say nothing of all of his texts that sparked outrage from members of the left and right of his countryâs politics, his first film, ACCATONE (1961), caused a massive outcry from the governmentâs right wing. He was also a Marxist who made a film about Jesus, THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. MATTHEW (1964). His 1968 film TEOREMA was banned for obscenity and caused the Pope to weigh in on its âblasphemyâ. The 1970s shocked audiences with his adaptations of THE DECAMERON, THE CANTERBURY TALES, and ARABIAN NIGHTS, representing a bygone past where Pasolini felt sex was still innocent and earthbound. Following this so-called âTrilogy of Lifeâ, his next source of adaptation was the Marquis De Sade, a direct response to the previous three, which had inadvertently spawned an enormous amount of cheap porn during that decade, lifeless imitations intended to mimic the originals, but entirely lacking the qualities that made the originals so impactful and erotic. With SALĂ, sex isnât the same anymoreâit is no longer innocent or erotic. It is rancid and backwards but captured with a mystical amount of distancing, with possibly a little satirical humor coming through. It certainly wasnât in the subject matter, but it arrived during filming; Pasolini and his cast/crew would play football with the cast and crew of Bernardo Bertolucciâs 1900, whose set was close to SALĂ's. Most of the actors from the film claimed the shooting of the movie was a tender and jovial experience, and you can see that at times on the faces of the actors. Rather than it being an overlooked error, it adds a grounding element that is surely welcome and necessary. Nevertheless, humor is likely the last emotion one will experience in SALĂ. Pasolini dared to show unfilmable images, scenes never meant to be shown. In doing so, he reached the height of his cinematic style, achieving a sort of perfection. Formal beauty, a contrast conceived in Hell, allows the film to become masterfully detached; admittedly, this is probably the only way to be able to capture the filmâs purpose and still grant it the ability to be seen. That isnât to say anything is downplayed or immorally rendered. It is a testament to the directorâs natural skill and moral intelligence to render the mechanisms of power in such infinite scope, from the past (Italy in the 1940s under Mussolini), the present (Italy during the 1970s), and the futureâwhere the allegory will find its resonance with modern audiences. For Pasolini, power didnât just stop at fascism, it extended to all forms, such as neoliberalism or what he called âthe New Fascism," the advent of consumerism. Fascist iconography, despite being slightly visible at the beginning of the movie, is never present once the viewer and victims go inside the villa. When the four libertines gather their victims around in the âOrgy Roomâ to listen to stories meant to provoke sexual responses in the listeners, the positioning and attentiveness of bodies seem to resemble those watching and listening to a nearby TV, an invention Pasolini saw as a monstrosity. When the libertines are not abusing their victims, they retire to rooms decorated with art meant to resemble cubist artists like LĂ©ger, and they quote Rimbaud, Nietzsche, and Proust, while also discussing Dadaism. The commodification of ideas turned horrifically into objects used to serve other diseased interests, much like the bodies of the boys and girls outside the libertinesâ private quarters. The malformed reification of human sexuality, contorted and twisted into shapes of frozen cruelty, render SALĂ an intense film, no questionâit sends some people into fits of fear when faced with the opportunity to witness it. The film's distance allows viewers the only way inside cinemaâs most haunted house. The villa, initially displayed in natural splendor, is shown to be the most hair-raising sexual palace, where love is replaced with force, impotence, brutality, and the disposal of the body entirely; a spatial extension of nature at its most corrosive, rooms dripping with blood and excrement. Fantasies normally suited for sexual liberation become metaphors for all-powerful repression, levels of depravity finding their natural reflection in the giants of political power, literally and figuratively. Mirrors play a prominent role in SALĂ, serving as proof that these wielders of the âanarchy of powerâ, do indeed reflect on themselves. All of this flows to Ennio Morriconeâs concrĂšte-like score, often represented through the diegesis onscreen, such as a character on a piano, the outside droning of planes near the islandâs estate, the falling of rain, or the whistling of characters awaiting their fates. Music also serves as a diversion for the characters, who find it easier to move to the music and discuss their girlfriends, suggesting that some of these people could actually return to normal life completely unaltered. Yet the boys and girls who enter the villa will either never leave (i.e., those who will not submit), or they will come out completely changed (i.e., those who submit); and still, some could choose to forget, which is the most haunting aspect of the movie. If you choose to observe what Pasolini capturedâfilm of epic proportions conjured inside a demonic dreamworld, a ânon-existence of historyââyou will also be altered for the better. Its complexity is fathomless; both men and women, victims and abusers, can be equally guilty in the crimes on display and their proliferation. No one but those paying witness will know what has happened to the victims on the island of SalĂČ or even how long ago these crimes took place. The allegory and bloody poetry of Pasoliniâs film may signify our current reality, but actual representative reality does not reign in the realm of SALĂ; this would have been too painful for Pasolini to create. He did not want to re-create the material world he disdained, so far as it was from the realities he had captured with his âTrilogy of Life." Pasolini had to go somewhere else to evoke the horrors of the present day. Screening as part of the Pier Paolo Pasolini series. (1975, 117 min, 35mm) [John Dickson]
Lu Chuanâs CITY OF LIFE AND DEATH (China)
Doc Films (at the University of Chicago) â Tuesday, 7pm
The response to CITY OF LIFE AND DEATH (aka NANJING! NANJING!) is almost as informative as the film itself, which recounts the Nanjing Massacre of 1937-38 in horrifying detail. Writer-director Lu Chuan waited six months for his script to be approved by Chinese censors, then another six months for approval of the finished film. When Chinese audiences learned that the film contained a sympathetic portrait of one Japanese soldier, the backlash was so strong (despite the filmâs inarguably negative depiction of almost every other Japanese soldier who appears) that Lu received death threats and the filmâs nominations for the annual Huabiao awards were rescinded. These reactions reflect the contention surrounding not only the Nanjing Massacre, but the historicization of atrocities generally. That contention might be summed up with the question: What comprises a respectful account of an episode in which hundreds of thousands of people were killed and tens of thousands more were tortured and raped? Luâs answer is to depict the episode as a prolonged nightmare. Shooting almost entirely handheld and frequently shifting narrative focus between characters, Lu denies the audience any sense of orientation or downtime. (The films of Aleksei German seem an appropriate point of reference.) The black-and-white cinematography is purposeful too: rather than shoot the film in this format (which cinematographer Cao Yu considered too grainy), Lu shot in color, then desaturated the film in post-production. CITY OF LIFE AND DEATH literally presents a world drained of color, as if the pall of atrocity had tainted our view of the past. The sound design is no less purposeful, with more action conveyed through sound than images; in fact, you hear so much happening offscreen that you often feel overwhelmed by the soundtrack alone. The aesthetic reaches its apotheosis during a depiction of a makeshift brothel where Japanese âcomfort womenâ and enslaved Chinese refugees are forced to service Japanese soldiersâthe onscreen conversation between Sgt. Kadokawa and the Japanese sex worker heâs fallen in love with is practically drowned out by offscreen screams, slaps, and mattress thumping. Kadokawa, incidentally, is the Japanese soldier that Lu dares to present with some sympathy, though he comes off less as a hero than an idiotic naif. His characterization seals the filmâs damnation of the Imperial Japanese Army; Kadokawa represents the last breath of human feeling that the Japanese squashed out in order to commit their crimes against humanity. Screening as part of Docâs Tuesday series, âAfter the 5th: China and the 21st Century.â (2009, 135 min, 35mm) [Ben Sachs]
Rob Christopher's ROY'S WORLD: BARRY GIFFORD'S CHICAGO (US/Documentary)
Film Studies Center (at the Logan Center of the Arts, 915 E. 60th St.) â Friday, 7pm
If the name Barry Gifford rings a bell to Cine-File readers, itâs likely for his contributions to what you might call âDavidâs worldâ: David Lynch, that is. Lynchâs WILD AT HEART (1990) was an adaptation of a Gifford novel, and they co-wrote LOST HIGHWAY (1997) together. Until I saw ROY'S WORLD: BARRY GIFFORD'S CHICAGO, a dreamy, immersive documentary by Cine-File contributor Rob Christopher, I was unfamiliar with his Roy stories, myself. Roy is the character Gifford invented as an alter-ego for himself as a boy/young man, a movie-loving street kid whose coming-of-age adventures Gifford has been chronicling in works of autobiographical fiction for nearly 40 years now. âRoyâs worldâ is a specific time and placeâChicago, mostly, in the 1950s and early â60s. This documentary celebrates these writings by adhering to a strict no-talking-heads policy. Christopher eschews entirely the standard on-screen interviews in favor of voice-over narratives: reminiscences from Gifford himself provide context for readings from the work. For these, Christopher and producer Michael Glover Smith (also a Cine-File contributor) scored a coup: they got Willem Dafoe, Matt Dillon, and Lili Taylor to read, and their distinctive timbres and tough-but-tender personas embody the texts. Gifford/Royâs Chicago is a wintry, working-class world. His father ran an operation called Lake Shore Pharmacy, across from the old Water Tower. It was a 24-hour kind of joint, ostensibly a drug store; showgirls would drop by on their breaks and repair to the basement, where heâd administer some kind of pep shot. The people who hung around the store, including Giffordâs own family, were ânot people to mess around withâ; some had been gangsters during Prohibition. The film pulses with the seamy romance of the townâs jazzy nightlife, enhanced by a cool, atmospheric score by jazz vibraphonist Jason Adasiewicz. Still, a young boy experienced the corruption of organized crime, and the intertwined iron fist of Richard J. Daleyâs machine, as just a part of the atmosphere. Hard-boiled as it was in attitude, the town nevertheless seems like it must have been a hell of a place to grow up. Giffordâs mom was from Texas, a former beauty queen, 20 years younger than his dad. The marriage didnât stick, and her strugglesâduring an era when being a âdivorceeâ was still rather a scandalâare poignant. In fact, Gifford confides in us that one of his chief motivations for creating Roy was to remember the time he had with his mother. The story âChicago, Illinois, 1953â recalls a humiliating incident when a shopkeeper mistook his mom, bronzed from a season under the tropical sun, for a Black woman, and refused to serve her. It is illustrated by shimmering black-and-white animated drawings. When young Roy later asks his shaking mom why she didnât simply tell the man she was white, she replies, âIt shouldnât matter, Roy.â The story âBad Girls,â set during the early â60s and illustrated by rotoscoped footage from Graceland Cemetery, nicely evokes the feeling of teenage discovery, as Roy and a new female friend roam our fabled âcity of neighborhoods.â Christopherâs design also includes found footage in striking black-and-white and eye-popping saturated color, and archival materials ranging from Giffordâs home movies to neighborhood newspapers. Zooming carefully into photographs from a bygone world, patiently waiting for them to reveal their secrets, Christopher encourages us to imagine the individual lives and stories spilling outside the frame. For locals, the film transforms Chicago into a fascinating palimpsest, allowing us to trace the former lives of buildings and neighborhoods behind our everyday cityscape. While the film is deliberately unhurried, its open-all-night vibe will cast a spell on anyone open to its urban jazz-noir mood. Giffordâs Roy stories work as history and as autobiography, but above all theyâre a form of make-believe. It required almost an equivalent act of imagination for Christopher to conjure up a world that opens up as richly as his inspiration, but thatâs what heâs done with ROYâS WORLD. I emerged from this sensory experience as if from a waking dream, blinking and momentarily disoriented, though with a heightened alertness. It was as if Iâd visited a land of phantomsâbut of course, these were really only the shades of men and women just like us. ROYâS WORLD made me feel as if the past never really went anywhere, if only we look closely enough. Followed by a Q&A with the director. (2019, 75 min, DCP Digital) [Scott Pfeiffer]
đœïž ALSO RECOMMENDED
Stanley Kwanâs CENTER STAGE (Hong Kong)
Doc Films (at the University of Chicago) â Wednesday, 7pm
It was only this year that I got a chance to see one of the rare surviving films starring legendary Chinese actor Ruan Lingyu. The film, THE GODDESS (1934), featured Shanghai-born Ruan as a self-sacrificing mother in the STELLA DALLAS mode. As with that American film, THE GODDESS leans into its melodrama; however, Ruanâs realistic and deeply felt characterization of her nameless prostitute marks her as an exceptionally sensitive and dedicated artist. Stanley Kwanâs tribute to her, CENTER STAGE, is an unusually constructed biopic that seeks the truth of Ruanâs short life by combining narrative and documentary film techniques. A luminous Maggie Cheung plays Ruan during the early 1930s, when she was becoming a major star in Chinaâs silent film industry. She is the sole support of her widowed mother and adopted daughter, but she gives much of her earnings to her feckless lover, Chang Ta-Min (Lawrence Ng). The actors, directors, and technicians at the film studio where she works share close working relationships, and many of them frequent a ballroom where Latin music scores the rampant flirting and gossip, and even pending war with Japan hardly ruffles their insular existence. At the ballroom, Ruan catches the eye of wealthy businessman Tang Chi-Shan (Han Chin), and she eventually leaves Chang to move into Tangâs luxurious home. When Chang sues Ruan for support, the ensuing scandal and unfavorable press leave her feeling trapped. Shortly before her 25th birthday, she ends her life with an overdose of barbiturates, thus cementing her image as a beautiful actor who went out at the height of her powers. Kwan interviews Cheung and Carina Lau, who plays actor Lily Li, about whether they would like to be remembered. Cheung says the work is more important than the legacy, whereas Lau definitely wants to be known past her death. Other present-day scenesâall of which are in black-and-white, perhaps to accord with clips from Ruanâs filmsâinclude interviews with the real Lily Li and director Sun Yu, as well as still images of the derelict Lianhua Studio where Ruan worked. Despite this meta presentation, the narrative film comprises the vast majority of CENTER STAGE. Its deliberate pacing, lush atmosphere (bonus points for the crazy quilt of geometric patterns rife throughout the film), and speculation about the working methods of Ruan and her directors offer an unusually intimate look at how Ruan might have been able to achieve such emotional truth in her performances; of course, it is Maggie Cheung who is giving the performance of a lifetime. Screening as part of Docâs Wednesday series, âCenter Stage: The Films of Maggie Cheung.â (1991, 126 min, DCP Digital) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
Marcell Jankovics' SON OF THE WHITE MARE (Hungary/Animation)
Doc Films (at the University of Chicago) â Thursday, 9:30pm
SON OF THE WHITE MARE, the landmark 1981 feature by Hungarian animation prodigy Marcell Jankovics, belongs to an elite echelon of films that includes Lotte Reinigerâs THE ADVENTURES OF PRINCE ACHMED, Walt Disneyâs FANTASIA, and Hayao Miyazakiâs SPIRITED AWAY: personal, utterly singular works by visionary artists, which nonetheless tap into something axiomatic about the life-bestowing art of film animation. Though Jankovics is venerated in Hungary with the same intensity as Disney and Miyazaki, SON OF THE WHITE MARE has never been distributed in the United States, until the Los Angeles-based distributor Arbelos Films partnered this year with the Hungarian National Film Institute to present this 4K restoration from the original camera negative. Itâs a cause for celebration and an invitation to awestruck contemplation. SON OF THE WHITE MARE is a Modernist fairy tale, a horny Hungarian creation myth, but first and foremost, it is high-calorie eye candy, a showcase for sublime orchestrations of sound, color, and movement. So great are the filmâs sensory rewards that, in the first ten minutes, I found myself completely absorbed in the abstract drama of light and shadow, scarcely conscious of the mythological groundwork being laid. (Iâd probably love the movie just as much if I watched it upside down by mistake.) A supreme colorist, Jankovics sends pools of bold monochrome around the frame with unlikely elegance, favoring symmetrical compositions that sometimes resemble pop-art altarpieces. His figures are big, flat masses of blue, yellow, red, and green whose contours throb with activity even while at rest. Shading and texture are reserved mostly for the backgrounds, built up with layers of supple watercolors, washes, and aerosols; pause on almost any frame, and youâll encounter an image whose beauty, ingenuity, and material economy are harmoniously unified. Jankovics claims to have animated a third of the film himself, and his wit and sensibility are stamped unmistakably throughout. But the distinctive aesthetics of SON OF THE WHITE MARE are not quite sui generis: beyond the immediate influences from the world of animation (Disney, the Hubleys, and, yes, THE YELLOW SUBMARINE), Jankovics draws deeply on decorative and folk-art traditions, as well as on the 20th-century geometric and chromatic innovations of the Bauhaus. This lively tug-of-war between folk and modernist styles extends to the brilliant soundtrack, where dialogues drawn from 19th-century narrative poems of LĂĄszlĂł Arany are treated electronically, accompanied by sound design and a score composed entirely with synthesized sound by IstvĂĄn Vajda. While other animated films with electronic soundtracks (like RenĂ© Lalouxâs FANTASTIC PLANET and Piotr Kamlerâs CHRONOPOLIS) can feel dated today, thereâs something incredibly fresh about the juxtaposition of traditional fairy-tale forms and abstract sound here. Less contemporary-feeling is the narrative itselfâa masculinist fable about three dragon-slaying human sons of a divine horse, bound together in a quest to liberate a captive princess and restore order to the world. Jankovicsâ treatment of the material distills the cosmological essence of the source material, but regular flashes of phallic symbolism prove that his interest isnât strictly spiritual per se. Playing on the proximity of the sacred and profane, SON OF THE WHITE MARE reaches back to Hungaryâs pagan roots, pointedly braiding its narrative around symbols and totems such as animals, trees, and personifications of natural phenomena. While outwardly nationalistic, this animist appeal also unites Jankovics with Disney and Miyazaki, natural philosophers whose gift for bringing still frames to life has the aura of magic. Sergei Eisenstein observed, in regards to the work of Disney, âthe very idea, if you will, of the animated cartoon is like a direct embodiment of the method of animism.â (More colorfully, art critic Dave Hickey called Disney âa freaking pagan cult... promoting a primitive, animist religion dedicated to investing everything with life, to animating everything from teacups to trees, from carpets to houses, from ducks to mice, with the pulse of human aspiration.â) If Jankovics is a great animator, it is not only because he is a peerless stylist and technician; it is because his gift brings him, and us, closer to this Promethean essence of the animated form. Hungaryâs pagan history seems like an unlikely subject for a state-sponsored film from a Soviet Bloc country. SON OF THE WHITE MARE was produced under the auspices of the Pannonia Film Studio, the state-run animation studio where Jankovics began working as a teenager in the early 1960s. (Pannonia produced Jankovicsâ debut feature, 1973âs delightful JĂNOS VITĂSZ, which was the first feature-length Hungarian animated film, and which is also newly available from Arbelos). Like Poland and the Czech Republic, Hungary was a major exporter of prize-winning animated films to festivals around the world at this time. These works offered an appealing image of state socialismâs creative fertility, suggesting possibilities of form freed from the commercial demands that hindered many artists in the West; they also frequently belied the repressive conditions faced by artists working under Communism. Such is the case with SON OF THE WHITE MARE. As the director explained, his original concept for the film âexplored the concept of the recurring nature of time and space. But the studio manager wouldnât allow [him] to make it because of its anti-Marxist interpretation of time! According to Marxism, time is irreversible.â Yet this instance of censorship simply goes to prove how provocative, or even revolutionary, Jankovicsâ pagan symbolism might have felt at the time. Astonishingly experimental and perceptually disorienting, SON OF THE WHITE MARE has frequently been described as âpsychedelic,â but I believe the term âshamanicâ is more apt. After all, the practice of âtaltosism,â or native shamanism, began to reemerge in Hungary in the 1980s not long after its release, significantly gaining in momentum after the collapse of Communism by the decadeâs end. Might it be that Jankovics summoned an incipient pagan spirit building up in the Hungarian soul at the time? Perhaps itâs an outlandish thought, but to see SON OF THE WHITE MARE is to be reminded that great works of film art donât just animate characters on screenâthey also animate us. Screening as part of Docâs Thursday II series, âMyths, Legends, and Folk Tales: A Brief History of Animation. (1981, 86 min, DCP Digital) [Michael Metzger]
Nobuhiko Obayashi's HOUSE (HAUSU) (Japan)
Music Box Theatre â Friday, 10pm
It's a film like HOUSE, a film so manic, so bewildering and so singular, that makes one become obsessed with its genesis. The film's abrupt stylistic shifts and bizarre visual effects fill one's mind with but one question: "Who the hell made this movie?" It would surprise no one then to learn that Nobuhiko Obayashi was an experimental filmmakerânor would it surprise anyone that he made TV adsâprevious to HOUSE. What is surprising is that his forays into experimental films were that of the lyrical psychodrama, more akin to Gregory Markopoulos than, say, Pat O'Neill. CONFESSION (1968) is Obayashi's most visually complex experimental work, and even that only uses creative editing between shots and the occasional unorthodox camera angle. HOUSE's genius lies in its veritable catalogue of optical effects, displaying a virtuosity previously unseen from its maker. And yet, the film is more than just a sum of its traveling matte parts. True, its paper-thin plot does serve only to move from one novel death to the next, but this is the essence of many horror films. Like some giddy, crazed, superior version of THE ABOMINABLE DR PHIBES (1971), HOUSE provides a fat-trimmed index of inventive ways to die, all with tongue placed firmly in cheek. Screening as part of the Music Box of Horrors: Scared Stupid series. (1977, 88 min, 35mm) [Doug McLaren]
Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly's SINGIN' IN THE RAIN (US)
Music Box Theatre â Saturday and Sunday, 11:30am
Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly's self-reflexive musical about the introduction of sound and, soon thereafter, singing, in Hollywood feature films is, hands down, one of the most inventive Hollywood musicals ever made. Sure, it's brash and brightly colored but, as far as mainstream Hollywood studio musicals go, it's not simply a rote number. To begin with, it pre-empts the popularity of post-modern strategies in Hollywood cinema even before Jean-Francois Lyotard had diagnosed the condition and it was also heavily inspired by Powell and Pressburger's THE RED SHOES (1948); the surreal and fantastical dream sequence for the song "Gotta Dance" undoubtedly borrows from the 15-minute long production of the Red Shoes ballet. Although SINGIN' IN THE RAIN is in many ways inferior, Donen and Kelly's desire to bring some of Powell and Pressburger's inventiveness to Hollywood was a courageous move. Comparisons aside, SINGIN' boasts its own impressive repertoire of brilliant performances, particularly Donald O'Connor's, with his incredible physical comedy routines, sure to make even the most griping curmudgeon crack a smile. Although the most widely remembered scene in the film is Gene Kelly splashing around in the puddles and singing the title song, Debbie Reynolds' steals the show from him on more than one occasionâparticularly her performance of "Good Mornin'" (which, contrary to popular rumor, she did sing herself). Throw in the fact that the Technicolor is stunning and the jokes still pack a punch more than 50 years later, and you have a clever, comic masterpiece. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN is a theater-going experience not to be missedâwatching it on TV just doesn't do it justice. Screening as part of the Music Box Staff Picks! (1952, 102 min, 35mm) [Beth Capper]
Guillermo del Toro's NIGHTMARE ALLEY (US/Mexico/Canada)
Gene Siskel Film Center â Sunday, 6:15pm and Monday, 8pm
This noir epic came at a unique point in Guillermo del Toro's career. From the opening shot, itâs clear there will be no snarky demons or imaginary labyrinths. In this meticulously sculptured world, thereâs no escape from the demons of the mind, born of mistakes, regrets, and trauma. Itâs the real-world possibility of these events that make this picture del Toroâs most frightening and disturbing. John Lindsay Gresham (who wrote the novel on which this is based) experienced the horrors of battle, having fought for the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. While in Spain, a carnival barker explained the method used to turn drug addicts into circus monsters known as geeks. In the years between the war and the beginning of his writing career, Gresham got involved in Freudian psychoanalysis in an attempt to escape the horrors of his past. He turned to writing as a form of therapy. When the process began, he switched his focus from psychoanalytic theories to tarot and the occult. In Gresham's dark novel Nightmare Alley, Stanton Carlyle encounters both systems and, ultimately, they destroy him. He uses the occult to exploit others and gain fame and wealth to the point of self-delusion. Behavioral science is used to exploit him when he falls victim to his psychotherapist, Lilith Ritter. Del Toro is open about the process that went into the construction of Greshamâs world. The director has said multiple times that he didnât want to make a film that looked like an artifact. In production meetings, one of his collaborators suggested they take a similar approach to Robert Eggers' THE LIGHTHOUSE (2019), which was shot on film stock using camera lenses from the period to lend to the aesthetic of the time; the auteur immediately rejected this idea. Del Toro instead made a conscious choice to shoot on digital cameras and have them move freely throughout the scene. This approach makes the audience feel like time travelers, observing the events through a literal modern lens. NIGHTMARE ALLEY (2021) is full of recognizable faces, but the actors disappear into their characters and their place in the story. Lilith Ritter is a tough character to love, as she plays a key part in the fall of our hero, yet Cate Blanchett gives a sensitive performance that fills in the gaps of a mysteriously troubled psychotherapist. Through Blanchettâs performance, the audience falls for Lilithâs tricks along with Stanton and feels just as betrayed. There have been countless films that follow the structure of the Icarus story, the one who starts at the bottom, makes his way to the top, and then messes it all up. As executive producer and star, Bradley Cooper captivates with his performances as a tortured con artist. His portrayal of Stanton Carlyle is one of those performances that burns into your memory for months, maybe even years after youâve left the theater. Both our leading actors give human qualities to these characters, making you root for them despite their abhorrent actions. Their vulnerability makes the audience want to forgive their sins and end on a happy note, yet the film, like the novel before it, comes to a bleak conclusion. (Incidentally, Gresham took his own life less than two decades after the success of his novel.) Del Toro usually provides a political context for his period pieces, and NIGHTMARE ALLEY does this explicitly. The film functions as a parable for our own age, when social media influencers, mental health gurus, and celebrities claim to have the answers and their followers believe all their blatant lies despite the consequences. Cine Latine, a program of the Film Center, celebrates the filmography of the acclaimed Mexican filmmaker Guillermo del Toro. Each screening in this series is preceded by a short film made by a locally connected, Latine-identifying filmmaker. The full program of short films will also be presented on Thursday at 8:15pm. (2021, 150 min, 35mm) [Ray Ebarb]
Guillermo del Toro's CRIMSON PEAK (US/Mexico)
Gene Siskel Film Center â Saturday, 6pm and Thursday, 8:30pm
Guillermo del Toro's CRIMSON PEAK was released in theaters just before Halloween and on DVD just before Valentine's Day. The day of horror and the day of loveâall things considered, very appropriate for del Toro's Gothic romance. Or is it Gothic horror? Perhaps a date between those holidays would have been better, as the film similarly toes the line between the two subgenres of Gothic fiction. (Jessica Kiang astutely pointed out in a piece for the Playlist that the distinction "ultimately means less than you might think: it's more a difference of degree than of actual type.") It was a hot-as-hell topic, however, in the weeks leading up to the film's release, as del Toro gave interview after interview asserting that it is indeed a Gothic romance in spite of its marketing, which many critics felt was misleading. Or was it? Set in the late nineteenth century, the film is about the virginal daughter of a wealthy American businessman who marries a dashing English baronet and goes to live with him and his sister in their decaying mansion. She's an aspiring writer and he's a failed inventor, while the sister is something of a career lunatic. The plot itself surrenders to atmosphere; there isn't a single set, costume, or special effect that doesn't move the story along better than any line of dialogue. The trailersâand, to a lesser extent, the postersâcertainly highlight the artistry of the film's production design. In fact, the official trailer on Legendary's YouTube channel begins with almost 30 seconds of shots of the macabre mansion. In most every other trailer, Mia Wasikowska can be heard breathlessly exclaiming in a voiceover that "ghosts are real." The romantic bits weren't minimized, either; a rather provocative waltz is featured in several versions of the trailer, and I think one or two even hint at the steamy sex scene. Gothic architecture plays a central role in Gothic texts (both romance and horror), as do supernatural elements like ghosts and spirits, and while the trailer doesn't give away the twist in regards to the bizarre love triangle, it definitely hints at the sexy stuff. So was CRIMSON PEAK misleadingly marketed as a horror filmâGothic or notâor simply misunderstood as a work of Gothic romance, which contains many of the same elements of its scary counterpart? Perhaps both, but neither is a reason not to see it. And even though many critics and filmgoers alike claim it isn't that scary, this critic begs to differ. Certainly nothing terrifies me more than watching two people engaged in a protracted knife fight... in the snow... while wearing white! Cine Latine, a program of the Film Center, celebrates the filmography of the acclaimed Mexican filmmaker Guillermo del Toro. Each screening in this series is preceded by a short film made by a locally connected, Latine-identifying filmmaker. The full program of short films will also be presented on Thursday at 8:15pm. (2015, 119 min, 35mm) [Kat Sachs]
Jacques Rivette's CĂLINE AND JULIE GO BOATING (France)
Doc Films (at the University of Chicago) â Sunday, 5pm
In 2012, the critic Miriam Bale coined the phrase âpersona-swap filmâ to describe a previously unacknowledged genre, one that stretches from Howard Hawksâ GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES in 1953 through David Lynchâs MULHOLLAND DRIVE half a century later. She cites Jacques Rivetteâs 1974 masterpiece CELINE AND JULIE GO BOATING as an essential entry in this unique cycle of movies that focuses on the female experience by examining how two friends with contrasting personalitiesâone eccentric, the other more conventionalâeither swap or magically merge identities. The publication of Baleâs essay coincided with the rehabilitation of Rivetteâs reputation when a number of his major films that were previously difficult to see started to become more widely available in the wake of his 2009 retirement. CELINE AND JULIE GO BOATING, the most accessible film from Rivetteâs greatest period (1969-1976), is only now receiving its long-awaited streaming debut in America, having never been released on DVD or Blu-ray in this country. (This, by itself, is a good reason to subscribe to the Criterion Channel.) Based on a 2017 restoration of the original 16mm elements by Franceâs Centre National du CinĂ©ma, the movieâs colors are now tighter than ever, while the plentiful grain within its Academy aspect ratio is beautifully preservedâat times giving the image the quality of a pointillist painting. But the irresistible central performancesâby two actresses with pointedly contrasting styles (the theatrically trained Dominique Labourier as Celine and the natural-born movie star Juliet Berto as Julie)âhave always been and still are the main draw. Berto and Labourier, who also co-wrote, have admitted to consciously drawing on Bergmanâs PERSONA for inspiration (while Rivette, more typically, was thinking of Hawks) as they created the scenario of a magician befriending a librarian and, with the aid of a psychotropic hard candy, entering into a âhouse of fiction.â This location is a literal Parisian mansion inside of which the same 19th-century mystery story (involving a love triangle and the murder of a young girl) plays out each time the women pay it a visit. Eduardo de Gregorio, Rivetteâs regular co-writer during this period, apparently scripted these âfilm-within-a-filmâ scenes based on two stories by Henry James. The way Celine and Julie start out as passive spectators of the Jamesian mystery but gradually become active participants in its plot underscores the most intellectually provocative aspect of this otherwise supremely playful opus: A lot of filmmakers have made great movies about the process of making moviesâbut only Rivette made a great one about the process of watching them. The result is one rabbit hole I am happy to go down again and again. Screening as part of Docâs Sunday series, âJacques Rivette, New Wave Master.â (1974, 194 min, Digital Projection) [Michael Glover Smith]
Gus Van Santâs MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO (US)
Doc Films (at the University of Chicago) â Thursday, 7pm
In a mystical turn about a half-hour into MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO, a Falstaffian character (William Richert) appears onscreen and suddenly the film becomes a full-on Shakespeare adaptation. Itâs one of many notable qualities of the film that combine to create a dreamlike atmosphere. Characters wander in and out and poetically remark to themselves while the colorful illusions weave into one another, all set to a wistful pedal steel guitar score; itâs a reflection of the transformative power of character and cinematic storytelling. MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO is nevertheless grounded in the reality of its main characters, the dreamscapes emphasizing a wide world of harsh boundaries and possibilities. The film follows two young hustlers, Mike Waters and Scott Favor (River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, in transcendent performances), living in Portland, Oregon. Mike, a narcoleptic constantly forced in and out of dreams, seems to be hustling out of necessity, while Scott, the son of the mayor (and the Prince Hal of this Shakespearean tale), is biding time until his inheritance kicks in. Amongst a noteworthy supporting castâwhich includes Grace Zabriskie, Udo Kier, and Fleaâthe two find themselves traveling the country and even to Europe in search of Mikeâs mother. A story of unrequited love and subsequent heartbreak, MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO is a significant film of the New Queer Cinema movement of the early 1990s. Early on, the film features a few of Mikeâs experiences with clients and interviews with side characters about their experiences hustling and their dreams of the future; it gives the proceedings an almost documentary style, drawing empathy from both the dreamy narrative and real-world experiences. This is found wholly in Phoenix, whose performance as Mike is as compassionate as it is powerful. Itâs stuck with me so much over the years that I still find myself wondering and worried about sweet Mikeâs ambiguous fate, hoping he makes his way home. Screening as part of Docâs Thursday I series, âShakespeare Remixed.â (1991, 102 min, DCP Digital) [Megan Fariello]
Alfred Hitchcock's STRANGERS ON A TRAIN (American Revival)
Music Box Theatre â Saturday and Sunday, 11:45am
Hitchcock was rarely, if ever, judgmental of his characters, but it seems the judgment he spared them was instead reserved for his audience. It's evident in many of his films as he forces the audience, along with the "innocents" of the stories, to identify with the criminal or the accused while likewise punishing them for doing so. This dynamic is particularly pronounced in STRANGERS ON A TRAIN, a film in which one character, Guy, is harassed by another, Bruno, after he kills Guy's estranged wife in hopes that he'll return the favor and murder his domineering father. An element of condescension plays into both the plot and Hitchcock's assessment of those watching; at the beginning, Guy patronizingly tells Bruno that his idea of a "you-do-mine-I'll-do-yours" murder plot is okay, that all his ideas are okay. Guy is obviously dismissive of the idea, but Bruno takes his patronizing agreement as confirmation that Guy is on board with his plan. In that scene, Hitchcock shows us just how gray the area is between good and evil, and how something as simple as a throwaway platitude can have such disastrous implications. Despite Hitchcock's sympathy for the killer, he allots sympathy to the victim as well, but only so far as he can use it to further indict the audience. In a telling scene, Barbara, the sister of Guy's love interest, remarks that his deceased ex-wife was a tramp, thus implying that her status as a "lesser person" justified her brutal murder. Barbara's father, the senator whom Guy hopes to emulate, tells her that the dead woman was also a human being. Considerably less wordy than Jimmy Stewart's impassioned epiphany at the end of ROPE, the scene is like a swift smack in the face from Hitchcock. Bruno's easygoing and almost infectious attitude toward murder is brought from the dark into the lightâit's all fun and games until humanity becomes a factor. Another key motif that Hitchcock uses in several of his films is that of the rhetorical "perfect murder," scenes in which innocent characters participate with the real criminals in surmising how to commit a foolproof crime. During a party at the senator's house, Bruno convinces two elderly aristocratic ladies to indulge in fantasies of committing murder while Barbara looks on. The scene serves dual functions: it reveals the sinisterness that lurks beneath the genteel surface and, as Barbara notices Bruno staring at her, transfixed by her resemblance to Guy's wife, punishes her and therefore us for previously being so quick to dismiss the victim. That's Hitchcock reminding us that we could so easily be the murderer or the one being murdered, exposing both our hubris and our fragility along with that of his characters. (1951, 101 min, DCP Digital) [Kat Sachs]
Rubén Galindo Jr.'s DON'T PANIC (Mexico)
Facets Cinema â Friday, 7pm
Inspired by supernatural slashers like A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, director RubĂ©n Galindo Jr.âs DONâT PANIC is equal parts amusing and bewildering. Michael (Jon Michael Bischof) and his mother have just moved to Mexico City from Beverly Hills. After hosting his birthday party, Michaelâs friends inexplicably stay behind in his house to throw him a second party that same night. His surprise gift is a Ouija board, though heâs less than thrilled, especially when one friend contacts someone named Virgil. Between struggling with his complicated home life and romancing the new girl in school in a classic 80s montage, Michael also has to deal with this released supernatural spirit whoâs possessing and murdering his friends. Part slasher, part after-school special, DONâT PANIC begins with Michaelâs hammy voiceoverâwith hilariously clichĂ© lines like, âI knew it definitely was going to be a different birthdayââsetting up a film filled with a cavalcade of enthusiastic overacting. The most iconic part of DONâT PANIC is unquestionably the brightly colored and too-small dinosaur pajamas Bischof spends the film running around in, though his performance of the filmâs aggressively synth theme song over the credits is also pretty wild. Though certainly more ridiculous than scary, Screaming Mad George notably provides some impressive visual effects; he also has credits on two A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET sequels, as well as effects-heavy films like PREDATOR and SOCIETY. (1988, 90 min, DCP Digital) [Megan Fariello]
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Screening as part of a double feature with Galindo's CEMETERY OF TERROR (1985, 88 min, DCP Digital); the latter film starts at 9pm. Single admission and double-feature tickets are available.
Michael Morrisâ TO LESLIE (US)
Music Box Theatre â See Venue website for showtimes
Winning $190,000 in a lottery might seem like the luckiest break most people could have. When combined with a serious addiction, however, heartache and ruin are likely to follow. This is the premise of director Michael Morrisâ affecting film TO LESLIE. Andrea Riseborough gives a stunning and complex performance as a West Texas single mom whose sudden windfall evaporates in six short years in a haze of booze and drugs. Her fed-up and deeply hurt son and relatives refuse to take her in off the streets, and her return to the hometown where she bought her winning lottery ticket is greeted with vengeful cruelty. The characters created by screenwriter Ryan Binaco are brought believably fleshed out by the talents of Allison Janney, Marc Maron, Andre Royo, Stephen Root, and a raft of skillful supporting actors who create an entire world that is so specific yet so relatable. Morris favors Riseborough with several close-ups during moments when Leslie is faced with confusing decisions, and you can practically hear the thoughts in her head, so completely does Riseborough breathe life into her. There is a bit too much short-handing and tidying up at the end, but I canât say I was sorry to experience some much-needed uplift. Leslie didnât start out having a plan for the money she won, but in the end, losing everything helped her forge a life worth living. (2022, 119 min, DCP Digital) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
Karyn Kusamaâs JENNIFERâS BODY (US)
Music Box Theatre â Thursday, 9:45pm
Much has been written about the unfairly harsh criticism JENNIFERâS BODY received on its original release; it's been considered a failing of studio marketing executives, who couldnât figure out who exactly the filmâs target audience was. Reassessments have deemed it a feminist, queer, late-aughties cult classic. The film cleverly combines the horror genre with the dark teen comedy. Director Karyn Kusama and writer Diablo Cody create a self-contained world; the visual aesthetic, the characters, and their relationships feel completely lived-in, so that itâs easy to want to go along for the wild ride. Self-proclaimed dork Needy (Amanda Seyfried) has always been best friends with popular cheerleader Jennifer (a fantastic Megan Fox)âtheir close bond is at times mystically uncanny. A catastrophic night in their small town of Devilâs Kettle results in a conspicuous change in Jennifer; sheâs suddenly hungry for flesh, namely the high school boy variety. As more guys from school end up dead, Needy must decide whether to stay loyal to her friend or stop her. At its core, the film is a sincere portrayal of the intensity and angst of female friendships. Itâs also been noted that Jenniferâs transformation is a timely and powerful portrayal of sexual violence against women and the aftermath of abuse. The film shrewdly packages these themes into the teen horror comedy. Its imagery, especially of the demon-possessed Jennifer has become iconic. I could discuss the aught fashions on display here for daysâso many layers and low rise. Also, very 2009, JENNIFERâS BODY features a relentless pop punk soundtrack, which plays a notably twisted role in the filmâs plot. Screening as part of the Music Box of Horrors: Scared Stupid series. (2009, 102 min, DCP Digital) [Megan Fariello]
Jacques Tourneur's CAT PEOPLE (US)
Facets Cinema â Sunday, 3pm
Jacques Tourneurâs CAT PEOPLE was the first release from Val Lewton's legendary B unit at RKO Picturesâwhich, through nine films made over five years (1942-46), more or less created psychological horror as we know it today. Making the most of low budgets, Lewton turned screen horror inward, focusing on the lives of frail men and women who end up the victims in horror-movie plots. He found his greatest collaborator in Tourneur, a gifted director of actors capable of drawing rare psychological nuance from his players. CAT PEOPLE stars Simone Simon as a timid young Serbian Ă©migrĂ© who fears she will become a predatory cat if she consummates her marriage. For Martin Scorsese, who featured it prominently in his PERSONAL JOURNEY THROUGH AMERICAN MOVIES (and paid muted tribute to it in his recent SHUTTER ISLAND), the film was a breakthrough for its integration of subtext into genre storytelling. In this regard, it's "as influential a movie as CITIZEN KANE." Even though this is quite clearly "about a woman's fear of her own sexuality" (Scorsese again), it remains evocative as horrorâin part because Simone is so believably vulnerable that we fear for her no matter what happens. (1942, 73 min, DCP Digital) [Ben Sachs]
Sierra Pettengill's RIOTSVILLE, USA (US/Documentary)
Gene Siskel Film Center â See Venue website for showtimes
Sierra Pettengillâs newest feat of archival filmmaking, RIOTSVILLE, USA, details the small fake towns set up by the American military in the 1960s in the response to growing civil unrest. Using soldiers to pose as rioters, the military would model demonstrations after real examples of recent major conflicts (the Watts riots are mentioned specifically) to prepare local police units for the assumed upcoming protests against racial injustice and the War. Understandably, this direct militarization of police did not keep anyone safe. As seen in the film, the riots during the 1968 Republican National Convention were largely instigated by militarized cops, who killed multiple civilians due to a bogus presumed threat of sniper fire. The film uses all archival materials, warping and obscuring some but leaving most tricks to the montage, juxtaposing footage of real demonstrations with the fake exercises. The clips of news coverage keep their beginnings and ends too, with punditsâ disfluencies and smirks allowing their rehearsals of popular narrative to line up nicely with the policeâs. Pettengill has made a film thatâs as bleak as it is rigorous and stimulating, and its relevance in our current year is without question. RIOTSVILLE inspires comparison to numerous critiques of state violence, but it also bears a certain resemblance to Nathan Fielderâs TV series The Rehearsal. Itâs an inverse of sorts to Fielderâs aspirational coaching, showing how rehearsing for something like riot policing is a great way to isolate peopleâs worst and most unfounded fears, running enough simulations until they metastasize into real-life violence. Similar to contemporary cops whoâve gone through Warrior Mindset training, RIOTSVILLE's police are under the impression that what theyâre doing is 100% necessary to maintain public safety. Over-training is impossible when the threat is always that bad. Since the âthreatsâ that Pettengill shows are often nonviolent protesters or people in their homes, she highlights that racist violence continues in part because of fantasies of existing violence. You probably wonât see a more politically vital film this year. (2022, 91 min, DCP Digital) [Maxwell Courtright]
Lewis Klahrâs FALSE AGING (US/Experimental Short)
Corbett vs. Dempsey (2156 W. Fulton St.) â Friday and Saturday, 10am â 5pm
Combining whimsy and wistfulness, prolific experimental filmmaker Lewis Klahr tackles the experience of aging in FALSE AGING, a short film in three parts that combines animation and collage. Artist/filmmaker Joseph Cornell could have been an inspiration for Klahr, but the latter skews much more pessimistic than the sunny Cornell. Part one focuses on leaving the nest, exemplified by homey wallpaper and the recurring images of migratory birds as Dionne Warwick sings â(Theme From) VALLEY OF THE DOLLS.â The theme, hailing from a tragic film about young women assuming adult responsibilities and finding all is not as they dreamed it would be, might as well be screaming âgo back!â Another sad entry into adulthood is narrated by Grace Slickâs intense rendering of âLather,â a case of arrested development imagined by Klahr as the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. The final part takes place in the Big City, as John Cale recites Andy Warholâs aggrieved diary entry âA Dreamâ from his and Lou Reedâs album Songs for Drella. Klahr uses an alarm clock on which a round object rotates like a second hand to segue between the filmâs segments. Amusingly, when Slick sings that Lather draws mountains that look like bumps, a tiny, plastic woman with well-formed breasts emerges from a slit in the background paper. Klahr reclaims the past with the recurring image of an obsolete points programâa redemption book filled with stamps earned from purchases. Warholâs final lament from his diary that no one invites him out or comes to see him anymore is a warning that old age and infirmity know no friends. The naĂŻvetĂ© and immaturity of each of the sung and spoken narratives suggest that the concept of aging truly is false to our understanding of ourselves. (2008, 15 min, Digital Projection) [Marilyn Ferdinand]
đïž PHYSICAL SCREENINGS/EVENTS â
ALSO SCREENING
â« Asian Pop-Up Cinema
The extensive Asian Pop-Up Cinema series continues its fifteenth season. Their in-person and virtual offerings are too many to list. Visit here for more information.
â« Chicago International Film Festival
The Chicago International Film Festival kicks off Wednesday with two screenings at the Music Box Theatre: Steve Jamesâ 2022 documentary THE COMPASSIONATE SPY (101 min, DCP Digital) at 7pm and John Hyamsâ 2022 horror film SICK (83 min, DCP Digital) at 9:45pm. Screenings continue Thursday at the AMC River East 21, including new films by Mia Hansen-LĂžve (ONE FINE MORNING) and Cristian Mungiu (R.M.N.), among others. The festival continues through Sunday, October 23. Check back next week for additional coverage of select festival titles. More info here.
â« Comfort Film at Comfort Station
Aristotelis Maragkosâ 2021 film THE TIMEKEEPERS OF ETERNITY (64 min, Digital Projection) screens on Wednesday at 8pm. Programmed by Paul Freitag-Fey, and hosted by Jason Coffman. Free admission. More info here.
â« Doc Films (at the University of Chicago)
Yeon Sang-hoâs 2016 zombie-action film TRAIN TO BUSAN (118 min, DCP Digital) screens on Friday, 7pm, as part of the âProgrammersâ Picksâ series.
Baz Luhrmannâs 2022 film ELVIS (159 min, DCP Digital) screens on Saturday, 7pm, as part of the âTop Doc: MaverdockâNew Releasesâ series.
Howard Hawksâ 1938 film BRINGING UP BABY (102 min, DCP Digital) screens on Monday, 7pm, as part of the âWonderfully Loathsome: Screwball Romance Through the Agesâ series. More info on all screenings here.
â« DuSable Black History Museum and Education Center
In celebration of comedian Dick Gregoryâs 90th birthday, the release and discussion of The Essential Dick Gregory during the DuSable's Drum Talk Annual Book and Literary Fair on Saturday will be preceded by a screening of Andre Gainesâ 2021 documentary THE ONE AND ONLY DICK GREGORY (117 min, Digital Projection), on Friday at 6pm. More info here.
â« Gene Siskel Film Center
Patricio GuzmĂĄnâs 2022 Chilean documentary MY IMAGINARY COUNTRY (83 min, DCP Digital) opens, and Martine Symsâ 2022 film THE AFRICAN DESPERATE (100 min, DCP Digital) continues. See Venue website for showtimes.
Also screening as part of the Guillermo del Toro series are THE SHAPE OF WATER (2017, 123 min, DCP Digital) on Friday at 6pm and Sunday at 3pm; THE DEVILâS BACKBONE (2001, 106 min, 35mm) on Friday at 8:30pm and Saturday at 3:30pm; and PANâS LABYRINTH (2006, 118 min, 35mm) on Saturday at 8:30pm and Tuesday at 6pm. Each screening in this series is preceded by a short film made by a locally connected, Latine-identifying filmmaker. The full program of short films (âCine Latine: Local Short Film Showcaseâ) will also screen on Thursday at 8:15pm.More info on all screenings here.
â« Media Burn Archive
Media Burn hosts a 20th anniversary Video Ball on Saturday, 5pm, at Fairlie Chicago (339 N. Bell Ave.). Per the event description, âthere will be DJ sets from Sam McAllister of CHIRP Radio, complimentary food and drink from the onsite food truck, video installations, and an interactive Chicago-style election.â More info here.
â« Music Box Theatre
Eva Vitijaâs 2022 documentary LOVING HIGHSMITH (83 min, DCP Digital) opens, and Ti Westâs 2022 horror film PEARL (102 min, DCP Digital) and Brett Morgenâs 2022 documentary about David Bowie, MOONAGE DAYDREAM (135 min, DCP Digital), both continue this week. See Venue website for showtimes.
Bob Kelljanâs 1973 blaxploitation film SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM (96 min, 35mm) screens on Sunday at 7:30pm; Shozin Fukuiâs 1991 Japanese horror film 964 PINOCCHIO (97 min, DCP Digital) screens on Monday at 9:30pm; William Fruetâs 1986 film KILLER PARTY (91 min, 35mm) screens on Tuesday at 9:30pm; and John Hyamsâ 2022 film SICK (83 min, DCP Digital) screens on Thursday at 9:45pm, co-presented by the Chicago International Film Festival. All films screen as part of the Music Box of Horrors: Scared Stupid series
Francesco Bertolini, Adolfo Padovan, and Giuseppe de Liguoroâs 1911 silent film L'INFERNO (65 min, DCP Digital) screens on Sunday at 5pm. Co-presented by the Italian Cultural Institute of Chicago and the Chicago International Film Festival and featuring a live musical score composed by Maestro Maccagno and performed by Stefano Maccagno (piano) and Furio Di Castri (double bass). Free admission with RSVP. More info on all screenings here.
â« South Asia Institute (1925 S. Michigan Ave.)
Nandita Dasâ 2018 biopic MANTO screens on Saturday at 2pm. Followed by a conversation with Rini Bhattacharya Mehta, author of Unruly Cinema: History, Politics, and Bollywood. More info here.
đïž LOCAL ONLINE SCREENINGS â
ALSO SCREENING/STREAMING
â« Video Data Bank
ââMake Believe, Itâs Just like the Truth Clings to Itâ: In Conversation with the Work of Cecilia Dougherty,â curated by Amanda Mendelsohn, is available to stream for free on VDB TV. The program includes Doughertyâs THE DRAMA OF THE GIFTED CHILD (1992, 6 min); MY FAILURE TO ASSIMILATE (1995, 20 min); THE DREAM AND THE WAKING (1997, 15 min); and GONE (2001, 36 min). More info here.
đïž ADDITIONAL ONLINE SCREENINGS
Rob Zombieâs THE MUNSTERS (US)
Available to stream on Netflix (subscription required)
When a family-friendly adaptation of THE MUNSTERS was announced as Rob Zombieâs latest project, it was as startling as the news in 2007 that he would be remaking HALLOWEEN. Until now, his films have adopted a neo-grindhouse aesthetic geared for maximum abrasiveness. But while THE DEVILâS REJECTS, HALLOWEEN 2, and THE LORDS OF SALEM rank with the 21st centuryâs greatest horror films, he reached a point of diminishing returnsâand budgetsâafter the latter film. THE MUNSTERS is a prequel to the â60s TV series, beginning with Dr. Wolfgangâs (Richard Brake) Frankenstein-like creation of Herman Munster (Jeff Daniel Philipps) in Transylvania. The Count (Daniel Roebuck) and his lonely vampire daughter Lily (Sheri Moon Zombie) watch a TV talk show one day and see Munsterâs appearance on it. She attends a concert by his band the Punk Rods, meets him backstage, and falls in love. They get married and take a honeymoon in Paris, eventually moving to L.A. Universal produced THE MUNSTERS but shipped it off to Netflix; neither company knows what to do with it. While perfectly suitable for children, itâs a strange, personal film thatâs out of place in 2022 Hollywood, even if it recycles an old IP. For one thing, Netflix tends to favor dark, desaturated cinematography, down to telling filmmakers who work for them what camera to use. THE MUNSTERS is gloriously colorful, with every frame combining several dazzlingly bright shades. For a film whose budget likely extended to eight figures, it simulates cheap, garish sets in an animated manner. Zombie references the whole history of horror movies, going back to James Whale, but THE MUNSTERSâ cinematography suggests a â90s childrenâs show made by a Mario Bava aficionado. Itâs a live-action cartoon, delightfully free from the constraints of realism. Even Zombieâs grimmest films suggest a warmth that keeps actors coming back; Philipps, Roebuck, and his wife Moon Zombie are all repeated players. Munsterâs background as a musician suggests that this is a fanciful origin story for Zombieâs marriage. The style definitely takes precedence over storytelling; while the film never gets tedious, it could have used a little tightening. But THE MUNSTERS is delightfully free from the constraints of realism, opting for a heightened level of fantasy resembling nothing else out there. Termite cinema lives! (2022, 110 min) [Steve Erickson]
CINE-LIST: October 7 - October 13, 2022
MANAGING EDITORS // Ben and Kat Sachs
CONTRIBUTORS // Beth Capper, Michael Castelle, Maxwell Courtright, John Dickson, Ray Ebarb, Steve Erickson, Megan Fariello, Marilyn Ferdinand, Kalvin Henley, Josh B. Mabe, Doug McLaren, Michael Metzger, Scott Pfeiffer, Michael Glover Smith