In Brightest Day, In Blackest Night, WB Does the Lantern Right.

Joseph Bellamy I have been a comic book fan for literally as long as I can remember. I sport half-sleeve tattoos devoted to the Avengers and the Justice League, if that gives you a sense of the depth of my faith. Between the rising tide (some would say ‘glut’) of comic book based films and the recent opportunity to write about them in these pages, I’ve been a happy camper…mostly.

From the Batman, Iron Man, Hell Boy and X-Men franchises, to smaller scale books with big screen impact, like the Losers, 30 Days of Night, Kick-Ass and the now classic M.I.B., it is fair to say the comic-book-to-film formula has been perfected in Hollywood. Even less auspicious works (not necessarily Bryan Singers’ Superman Returns, Eng Lee’s Incredible Hulk, or the tailspins of the Fantastic Four and Spiderman properties…just less auspicious works), have proven to be the grist necessary to sharpen studios up on what the fans want to see in an adaptation. It is these questions of what fans want, as well as why they want it, and how they get it that shapes my following effort regarding WB’s the Green Lantern.

I saw the film opening night on a double date with friends. To the chagrin of my wife, I had elected to wear my glow in the dark Green Lantern insignia tee shirt and a not-quite matching green sleeveless hoodie, emblazoned on the back with a stencil of same. ‘Why?’ you might ask. I am a fan. I spent the twenty minutes before the film answering questions posed by my wife and our companions about the main character because I am a fan. I wrinkled my nose at the traces of palpable evil left on the screen by Tim Robbins and Peter Sarsgaard. I spoke along in a giddy whisper when Ryan Reynolds (the chief, if not sole reason my wife was attending), recited the oath of the Green Lantern Corps for the first time. I “oooohed” and “ahhhhed,” audibly at the galacti-gasm of digital effects (including the impressively accurate rendering of a number of non-human Lanterns) and cheered out loud when Reynolds applied his trademark ‘wide-eyed innocent’ face to Hal Jordan’s triumphant acceptance of his destiny. Why? Because I am a…well, you get the idea. 

My euphoria at seeing a lifelong favorite character and superhero master classman made real in big screen splendor carried me home and into the next morning. It was not until my daily look-through of favorite online media ports that my mood was destroyed. On page after page, review upon article upon sound bite, the flight into fantasy I had so enjoyed was being panned, pooh-poohed and generally written off as simplistic eye candy that fell short of the money mark demanded by its production cost. Worse were some of the judgments leveled against Reynolds, Robbins, and company.

My knee-jerk response was anger, rage even. Then I was struck by a simple and calming revelation: Most of the people judging this project don’t know what the hell they are talking about. They know studios and budgets and tag lines and demographic studies of responses to Ryan Reynolds’ abs. What they don’t know is what the Green Lantern is and was before getting the Tinsel Town treatment. I now understand that most of what I read or heard was born out of the sadly typical ignorance of the Hollywood media machine to source material. Much was said about ‘problems’ of the effects budget, the pace and complexity of the plot, and the casting of Reynolds’ was misinformed. I would like to take this opportunity to clarify these misconceptions and hopefully shed the light of brightest day before this moment in spandex green history goes quietly into the darkest night of film flop-dom.

Yes, the effects budget and proportion of screen-time devoted to spending it was extensive.  How else can a studio hope to bring to life the first truly cosmic hero of comics’ silver age? Truth be told, the Green Lantern has been left largely un-attempted on film because of the nature of his abilities and the sheer scope of his story. Until the evolution of CGI, the choice for production was to do it well with traditional animation (Cartoon Networks Justice League series) or serve GL up like a plate of nachos, extra cheese (1997 CBS Justice League/America live-action pilot). We are, after all, talking about a man with the ability to create whatever he can conceive of and is charged with using this ability to patrol and protect a territory measured in solar systems, as part of a peacekeeping force composed entirely of nonhumans. When you throw in a villain that is nothing short of planet-devouring evil, the Lantern is the definition of ‘go big or go home’. An approach, which incidentally, might have saved Marvel Entertainment’s treatment of their intergalactic hero in Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer.

If one’s objection is to the look of the energy creations, or the CGI costume, may I point out that in his earliest forms, GL used such ‘cool’ designs as giant boxing gloves, handcuffs, and old fashioned push mowers? The constructs presented in the film: a crude fist, to start, a rollercoaster rail, a big-ass machine gun, and various beams and force fields, are at least reasonable creations of a 20-something adrenaline junkie’s mind.  As to the costume, it is exactly what a Lantern’s uniform should have been all along, a creation of the ring. Who would sweat it in spandex when you can go with a stylish personal force field? Not me, especially not if I had Reynolds’ cut.

I return to the origins of the character in regards to the casting of Ryan Reynolds. It has been suggested that the intent was to update the character, trading Reynolds’ humor and charm for the stoic, conservative space-cop of the comics. It is more likely, or at least preferable to believe, that someone in the studios research department actually earned their pay that week. You see, in the beginning phases of his GL tour, Hal Jordan was an arrogant, thrill-seeking womanizer with a heart of gold, zero ambition, gallons of boyish charm and the body of a classical statue. Imagine, oh, I don’t know, National Lampoon’s Van Wilder in spande…oh, right!

It has only been since Denny O’Neil’s treatment of the character as a foil to the more liberal views of a character called Green Arrow, in comics published by DC in the 70’s, that GL has gone cold fish. Prior to this point, Hal Jordan was just the sort of character Reynolds plays to perfection. While Tim Robbins was doubtless brought in purely to add credibility, this does not diminish his portrayal of the devious Senator Hammond. Besides, am I the only one to see the gag in having a millionaire movie star with an aggressively liberal political bent play a scumbag politician who’s in bed with the defense industry…really? I have no other comments regarding the remainder of the cast save that Michael Clark Duncan was the only reasonable choice for Killowog, and Mark Strong IS Sinestro, period.

I accept that anything I say about the script or plot will be likely dismissed as biased lip service from a devoted geek. Nothing could be closer to the truth. It is in this vein that I urge anyone screening, reviewing, critiquing, or even writing a comic book based film to consider what comics truly are: bright, explosively fantastic pieces of mythology. At its heart, any myth strives to explore a basic truth or significant question of the human experience. In the case of the Green Lantern, we are asked to consider the strength of self-belief. The rules of operating the eponymous ring are the moral of the story; when you believe in yourself, you can do anything. It’s a clear message rendered without over-complication in an exciting, eye-catching adventure. This altruistic formula has worked on the pages of comic books for decades, thrilling and educating the young while reminding the older reader of the wonder and faith they knew in their youth. The same holds for the film as its news print counter part. If the plot is simple and the story moves a bit quickly, I submit it is to maximize the enjoyment of learning a tough lesson, a spoonful of green sugar, if you will. Ultimately, although comic books and their adapted films are not just for kids anymore, they are best enjoyed and understood when we allow for the childlike in ourselves. Also, it can’t be dismissed that the story is the opening chapter to a multi-film epic which may itself be part of a larger enterprise, the much-hoped for Justice League film.

I can’t claim that the Green Lantern was a perfect film.  I can say, with the definitive authority of a lifelong geek and perspective of a critical eye, that it was exactly the fun-filled, action-packed trans-galactic flight of fantasy I was looking for when I slid my credit card at the box office. My only regret is that others in my field seem to have been too busy picking at the bark of the trees to take in the emerald majesty of the forest. Perhaps some day, the popularity of the comic book genre will blossom into a fully realized sense of respect for the art form. Perhaps then, when the entire enterprise has been made a dry, dissected academic footnote to our cultural history, my peers will realize they missed the fun part.

Review written by Joseph James Bellamy
Editor: Deborah Bellamy
Published by Modern Cinema Magazine

Stockbrokers Are People Too, Maybe

You may want a primer on the behaviors and history that lead to the financial collapse of 2008 before going in to Margin Call, the new financial thriller from writer/director J.C Chandor. There are numerous terms and numbers thrown out at the characters and audience, and it’s hard to make sense of it all. But, then, that’s the point. Margin Call tells the story of a 24 hour period in which a few managers and executives at a Lehman Brothers-like firm try to avert an impending disaster, in which even the very highest executives are not entirely sure what the information means. The one character who seems to have the best grasp on the information is a rocket scientist, and even he doesn’t know exactly what is happening, or how to stop it.

It may seem somewhat masochistic to watch a financial thriller about the 2008 financial collapse while we are still experiencing the effects of it, but Margin Call makes for an effective and entertaining thriller, even while keeping the majority of the action contained to various boardrooms and offices. The boardroom scenes are tense, without devolving into shouting matches between veteran actors. And none of the actors come across as outright villains, they are all just people put into the overwhelming situation of trying to avert impending disaster, though Jeremy Irons does come off slightly vampiric. It is a bold move- especially in these times, where stockbrokers are perceived as enemy #1.

The ensemble cast includes Kevin Spacey, Paul Bettany, Demi Moore, Zachary Quinto, Simon Baker, Irons, and Penn Badgley. Stanley Tucci also shows up in scenes that bookend the film, as the risk management director whose work exposes the impending collapse, and whose role also seems to be the guy that just spouts numbers. It’s a role similar to Liam Neeson’s in Gangs of New York, in that he is mentioned constantly throughout the film while only appearing in it for a few minutes, not in the spouting numbers way. As one of the least recognizable names in the ensemble, Quinto does a fine job as Tucci’s rocket scientist protégé, who takes over his work after he is fired early on.

Kevin Spacey and Paul Bettany also deliver fine performances. This is perhaps one of Kevin Spacey’s best performances since Moon (where he played the voice of the robot GERTY), and it’s always good to see Bettany doing more than just glowering while killing CGI monsters. Penn Badgley is passable as a young, cocky stockbroker, though I kept thinking he was Adam Brody. Are we sure they’re not related? It was somewhat sad to hear his character admit that all he ever wanted to do was be a stockbroker. He must have had very little imagination as a kid.

Simon Baker and Demi Moore fare less well, though they aren’t given much to work with. They mostly just stay in the background as Spacey, Bettany, and Irons do the heavy lifting. And the one scene with the two of them sandwiching a cleaning woman in an elevator is a little too on the nose in terms of imagery. Aasif Mandvi can also be glimpsed taking a short break from The Daily Show, though he is given even less to do than Moore.

Margin Call occasionally evokes another one-location thriller, Deterence, though I would say that Margin Call is much more sure-footed and effective. Both deal with people making impossible choices in the face of catastrophe, but Margin Call has the benefit of being a fictional account of real events, and the ensemble is much better. While it may seem strange to find entertainment and excitement in a film about an event from which we are still feeling the fallout, Margin Call is nevertheless a well made, tense thriller, which manages to also be entertaining.

Written by Mark Donovan
Editor: TS Harmon

FILM REVIEW: "Cast Me If You Can," by Mark Donovan

Mark Donovan  FILM REVIEW: "Cast Me If You Can," by Mark Donovan The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is a cinematic figure that has existed for about five decades, though it has never been used as frequently as it has in the past 7 years.

For those that do not know, the MPDG is a bit of cinematic wish fulfillment; a girl/woman who was put on this Earth to selflessly nurture the broken hearts of lonely men. The biggest surprise of Cast Me if You Can, a new romantic comedy from Japan, is finding out that the MPDG exists in other cultures, too.

Ah, but there is a difference. The MPDG in this case is almost an actual person. Her name is Aya, played by Hiromi Nagasaku, and she has problems of her own. She may be a master thespian, and very handy when it comes to disarming a thief using only a mop handle, and she may have an unflappable cheerfulness about her, but her love life isn’t going well. Her boyfriend/husband is seen walking out on her very early on, because he just can’t take her “energy”. She also works a dead end job at a convenience store, and, later in the film, gets evicted because her ex-boyfriend/ex-husband blows all of the rent money at a casino. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be an MPDG.

Then again, Aya is not the focus of the movie. The main story revolves around Hiroshi, the son of a famous playwright and supporting actor extraordinaire, who dreams of becoming a lead actor. Hiroshi is played by Toru Masuoka, essentially the Japanese equivalent of Steve Buscemi, who’s been acting for roughly 30 years, but always in a supporting role. In the film, Masuoka gets his chance to play the lead in “The Woody Allen Remake”- it is never mentioned which of Woody Allen’s films is being remade, but my money is on Curse of the Jade Scorpion- but sees his hopes dashed due to a false report that he is carrying on an affair with a married woman. The obvious real life parallels are not lost on director Atsushi Ogata. It is also one of many times in which Masuoka is mistaken for someone else- a running joke which leads to a few clever gags.

While writer/director Ogata doesn’t stray too far from the Romantic Comedy Playbook, he does add in a few fun set pieces, a couple interesting characters, and a world in which, while there are a few instances of humanity gone wrong, people tend to look after one another. The world may continue to be an imperfect place, but for 90 minutes those instances of imperfection are the exception, not the rule.

Back to the beginning; Masuoka, having just been fired, meets Nagasaku at a train station where a man is accosting her under the impression that she stole his wallet. Masuoka intervenes and somehow inherits a strange, chipper tag-along, who recognizes him as supporting actor then follows him around for an undisclosed period of time. For their “meet-cute”, Masuoka gives the impression that he’d rather be anywhere else but next to this odd girl, while Nagasaku remains cheerful as ever, giving advice about grapes and seeming star struck even though Masuoka is far from a “star”. It is an odd scene, which sets the tone for their romance. It isn’t exactly what would be expected out of a romantic comedy, even though it is clearly a romantic comedy. Cast Me never truly subverts the genre clichés, but it does its best to subtly alter them.

There are certainly Woody Allen-esque touches to the film, including a prolonged, caper-style bit where Masuoka tries to clear his name through stalking the woman whom he was supposedly having an affair, but those bits don’t add up to a whole. Though it may involve a few trapping of other genres or directors, those elements are just pieces of a whole. The film belongs to the singular vision of Ogata and co-writer Akane Shiratori.

It helps that Cast Me is stacked with noted Japanese thespians. Nearly every role in the film is played by a Japanese celebrity, down to even the tiniest of supporting roles. Hell, the father is played by Masahiko Tsugawa, the Cary Grant of Japanese cinema. If this were an American release it would be on par with the average summer blockbuster.

Early screenings of the film prove that it is quite the crowd pleaser. Anyone who is a fan of Japanese cinema, or a romantic comedy fan in general, should seek out this movie. It may not be a game changer, but it still makes for a fun time while it lasts.


Film website http://elevenarts.net

Written by Mark Donovan
Editor: TS Harmon

My America at Reel Fest DC

My America, a cinematic achievement by Rod Webber and Joseph James Bellamy, to play at Reel Fest DC. Check it out. Nov 10th to 14th at CDIA. Reel Fest DC.

‘Applebox’ Stands Tall, ‘Directors Cut’ Is Sharp Filmmaking - by Joseph James Bellamy

I recently had the opportunity to take in two selections at the Boston International Film Festival, at the Lowes Multiplex on Boston Common. It was an evening well spent, to say the least.

The first offering was a short about being, well, short. In Rick Page’s Applebox, starring James Radone, we see just how much of who we are depends on how we are perceived. Radone gives a hilarious, and ultimately touching performance as James Bronson, 5’3” of A-list Leading Man chasing the elusive golden figurine. We soon see the key to Bronson’s success is a 2’X1’ wooden box that allows the sample sized star to rise to any challenge. Page summarizes Bronson’s career in a hysterical stream of riffs on well known, low-rise actors, each ending with him stepping off of the titular box, while staying in frame. Hoffman, Pesci, and Pacino all get the treatment, and Radone brings a genuine humor to each in turn. It made me wish that Tom Cruise had gotten the Academy nod, just to see him get skewered in this top-flight comedy sequence. The off camera Bronson is a pampered, self absorbed egotist, fully immersed in his own larger than life public image.

When the box is stolen, Bronson finds his world falling apart. His trophy wife leaves him, his lucrative book and lecture tour falls through and all seems well and truly lost. It is at this point that Radone steps things up a notch, or two. Where his portrayal of the pompous Bronson is tongue in cheek at the outset, the misery, rage, confusion and desperation of the characters fall are the height of poignancy. We learn how far out of reach not only success, but simple acceptance can be, when you’re ‘Just not the right type, physically’. With the inclusion of misses from Radone’s own audition reel, the phrase ‘Sorry, we’re looking for a leading man.’ becomes a heartbreaking mantra of rejection in a world where he no longer measures up.

Bronson deserves his misfortune, but his situation raises a question. What are we without our self-embellishments? Sure, we’re not all standing on boxes, but how many of us dye our hair, wear specific brands, endure body modifications, or engage some other deliberate affectation in our appearance? Now, how many of us can say we do these things for reasons other than to be taken seriously by those who’s approval we desire? It’s a visual culture, and the clothes (or the box) make the man.

The film closes with a monolog, performed half by a nearly raving Bronson as he wanders the streets of L.A., and completed in what appears to be a turn as Napoleon, sans-box. He cries out for the love, the respect, and the glory he feels he has earned, echoing the sense of frustration shared by so many. It is this deeply moving recitation that ultimately wins Bronson his heart’s desire.

It’s clear that with Applebox, Page has created a short film that stands tall on big laughs and an even bigger heart, with a legitimate leading man, in Radone, who is head and shoulders above the crowd.



The second film, Director’s Cut, the latest feature length effort from Writer/Director/ Producer Elana Mugdan, and Shivnath productions spoke not only to a dear place in my heart, but to the humor centers of my brain.

The film chronicles the tragedies, triumphs, mistakes and miracles that befall Cassie (the sweetly spunky Hallie York) a hapless intern with a heart of digital video tape. Cassie’s life is spinning out of what little control she has had over it since leaving school. Her job sucks, her parents vacillate between oblivion and cold disapproval. She is frustrated by what seems like, “no way to accomplish something before I die,” as she puts it. Worse still, there is no silver lining in sight. It is only when her uber-geek, and coincidentally brilliant friend Eugene (a hysterically spot-on Brian Cheng) puts his latest fantasy opus in her hands, and demands that she make it a film, that she sees a way out of her quarter-life rut.

To any major studio, Eugene’s out there fiction, centering on a teleporting alien vampire pirate queens attempts to take over the world (No, really…) would be a poison apple, with worms. Cassie, however, possesses the trait most needed and common to those committed to independent film: She believes that a good film is about telling a good story, and Eugene’s story is good. Armed with that belief, she recruits her slacker friend, Gary (a preternaturally serene Jonathan Fernandez) as her first crew member and sets out to make a movie. A brush off at the reception desk of a production company sets the bad-to-worse tone of the story early.

In spite of this setback, and fueled by a chance meeting with a famous producer, Cassie’s commitment and tenacity are re-doubled. A little elbow grease and a trip to the print shop later, she has collected a beautifully comic array of cast and crew. And what a crew! There’s Cal, a photographer famous for out of focus images as Director of Photography (Eric J. Eastman, channeling at least one real life DP I’ve known), the hopelessly under-qualified Assistant Director, Ariel (Jessica Coals), who’s laughable ignorance keeps her star-struck on a set without any stars, Tom the air-headed pretty boy leading man (The truly talented Jack Kropac), a homeless boom operator, and Zeke, the videogame junkie turned post production wiz-kid.

From leading-lady walk-outs, to prima-donna technical-experts, to uncooperative weather, the project runs the entire gauntlet of obstacles. They are even mistaken for a porn outfit and nearly arrested. Scenes are dropped, dialog is changed and tempers flair all around. There are sound and lighting issues of all kinds, with all of the solutions being heaped on Zeke, (the hacker,) and his digital manipulations. (It’s a method which is frighteningly popular in the world of big-budget film making-- Just ask James Cameron or Steven Spielberg.) Hell, there are even puppets.

The entire bullet-train-wreck is nearly derailed by the utter destruction of the production’s only camera, complete with a bittersweet funeral for the gadget. If all of this sounds like crossing a bridge too far to tilt at windmills, welcome to independent film making. Not only is this sort of mayhem common to the form, but, as Cassie and company discover, it’s the best part. All movies have problems and adjustments in the course of production. The beauty of the independent effort is the rigors and the rushes of solving these problems are experienced hands-on by all who are involved. It doesn’t matter if you are the director or the person getting coffee, since more often than not these two positions are one and the same. Among the many narrative and stylistic beauties of Director’s Cut, is that it is an independent film about independent film, that manages to avoid most, if not all of the technical gaffes and giveaways that are the less-than-flattering hallmark of the form.

In Directors Cut, Mugdan paints a heart-warming, and hilariously accurate portrait of the artistry, camaraderie, and lunacy that is independent film. The humor and humanity of the film come from the truth of the experience. Having been part of more than a few such projects, I know the real deal when I see it, and this is it. In fact, I felt as though I had known, worked and hung out with the entire cast, and shared their bond.

The character of Cassie reminds me of a certain all-or-nothing director I know quite well. Both are strung tight between the need for creativity that drives them, and the lives they must make fit between and around those goals. Neither will give up on what they are, filmmakers, just because the world around them is slow to share their vision. It is this kind of love, and there is no other word for it, that inspires those around them (my self included) to leap headlong into the seemingly impossible. They, and Mugdan, believe that it is the act of making the film that matters, and the film itself, though permanent, is merely a recorded echo of the fearless roar within creative spirits. We who join the charge, in front of or behind the camera, believe because they do. After seeing this film, you’ll believe too. You may even find yourself re-editing the scenes, characters and plot of your life to make your own Directors Cut.

Written by Joseph James Bellamy
Editor: TS Harmon

What is... "BELLFLOWER"?

S. M. Crowningshield What is Bellflower? The great thing is that the answer to that question doesn’t matter. When discussing a movie, most people usually begin by categorizing: “You’ve Got Mail is a romantic comedy about...” or “Silence of the Lambs is a thriller where...” or “Indiana Jones 4 is a travesty in which...” It’s the film watcher's equivalent of “What do you do?” at a party.

We need a place to start before we can have a chat with someone, and we often need the same before sitting down with a movie. Studios know this and design their trailers accordingly. Watch the trailer to Rio and it shouts “I’m fun for kids!” while the teaser for Scream 4 whispers “You and your friends are gonna get scared.” 

But watch the trailer to Bellflower and it says....well, huh. It doesn’t say much. A strong, electronic twang and heavy beat reverberates over a greenish hellscape of smoke and dirt. A black, rough looking car with block letters that spell out Medusa sits center frame. Soon a man walks to the beast of car, gets in. Fire spews from the 5-foot high tailpipes and Medusa speeds away. If you like fire-breathing cars it may foretell awesomeness, but even still...what sort of awesomeness, exactly? Blurbs flash on the screen from the likes of the Onion’s AV Club and the Austin Chronicle talking about “mayhem,” “bromance” and “nihilist love story / vengeance tale.” Even the experts who’ve seen it can’t quite classify it, but luckily that’s not Bellflower’s gimmick. It’s merely a side note. 

Most think of unclassifiable movies as shock cinema, too out there for casual consumption. Or maybe as too arty fare from the French New Wave, films from Godard and Buñuel that take oblique hits at concepts like bourgeois culture that most of us simply can’t begin to relate to. Most of these movies are art for artists’ sake. 

Bellflower is art for your sake. It’s a movie you can bring friends to -- you should bring your friends to. These friends can love the Romanian New Wave, or they can love Avatar. It won’t really matter. And nobody needs to fear the lack of context. For those who need that place to start, you only have to watch the movie. It starts you right off in comfortable territory: real life. From the first frame Bellflower is instantly relatable. So feel free to hop in that big, crazy fire-breathing car. You’ll have a fun ride even if you can’t quite classify it later.

Trailer to Bellflower  

Website: CoatWolf Productions

Review written by S.M. Crowningshield
Editor: TS Harmon

FILM REVIEW: Ashes by Mark Donovan

Mark Donovan  FILM REVIEW: "Ashes," by Mark Donovan Ajay Naidu has acted in 64 different film and television roles- though he is primarily known for his role as Samir in Office Space- and it is clear that his time in front of the camera has also taught him a good deal about working behind the camera.

In Ashes, Naidu plays a small time drug dealer in New York, nicknamed Ashes, who sells weed, and only weed, in order to support him and his mentally challenged brother (Faran Tahir, Iron Man). His luck starts to turn around when he associates himself with a group of small time drug dealers from India, lead by a man called Pinky (Firdous Bamji). As is the way in films like this, things then start to fall apart.

While the drug deal portion of film takes up a good bit of the run time, it’s the story of the two brothers that seems to be the focus of the film. As Ashes, Naidu plays a man struggling with the responsibility of looking after his older brother and trying to fulfill his own dreams of wealth. Meanwhile, the older, more troubled brother, Kartik, is dealing with Manic Depressive Schizophrenia, and the knowledge that he is no longer in charge of his own brain. As Kartik, Tahir manages to play a deeply troubled man without overplaying his cards. Sometimes all it takes is a slight gleam in his eye, or a minor change in his expression. The bit players are also quite good, from Piper Perabo as Kartik’s love interest, who is also dealing with her own mental illness, to Peter Macon, who gives a very genuine and natural performance as Ashes’ friend and fellow drug dealer.

The idea of a low level drug dealer who deals only weed may lack verisimilitude, but Naidu, as director, makes up for it with subtle realism; from the apartments that the characters live in, to the little details, like when Naidu and Macon share some Nutella straight out of the jar, with their fingers, for lack of spoons or bread. There is a gritty realism to the way these characters live.

Though the movie was made on a shoestring budget, with a cast comprised mostly of his friends, Naidu manages to make every penny count. The cinematography incorporates a great deal of natural light, yet every scene looks professional, if not picturesque. And while the direction may lack flash, it is obvious that Naidu has picked up a few tricks from watching Darren Aronofsky. Had I not known this was his first time directing, I would not have known this was his first time directing.

Ashes is, artistically, a success, overall, but there are a few missteps along the way. Ashes is a primarily male-centric film, leaving the women solely underused. While Piper Perabo does a fine job as a mentally unstable love-interest, she spends most of the film unseen and unheard, mentioned only by the older brother. Reena Shah fares worse as Ashes’ love interest. Her character is rarely seen, and, in the end, we know so little about her that she just seems like an afterthought. Heather Burns is the most egregious, however. While her character is supposed to be mysterious, she is given so little to say or do that the audience doesn’t really care who she is or what she is trying to do. With a few more scenes thrown her way, Burns character could have provided the film with a good deal more mystery or tension.

These problems are minor when considering how well the movie has been constructed, overall. Hopefully Naidu will be given more chances to direct in the future. If this film is any indication, he should have a bright future ahead of him.

Film website: www.ashesfilm.com

Written by Mark Donovan
Editor: TS Harmon

FILM REVIEW: "Beneath Goes Above and Beyond," by Joseph James Bellamy

Joseph Bellamy "Beneath Goes Above and Beyond," by Joseph James Bellamy "Beneath Contempt" screens at Brooklyn Film Festival, June 10th, 6pm Who deserves redemption? Can the pain of a lost loved one be balanced in blood?  Is there a limit to the human soul’s capacity to forgive? These are the questions raised in Beneath Contempt.

Writer/Director Benjamin Brewer’s calmly powerful account of loss, atonement, and family.

The story begins with the events leading up to an automobile crash that proves fatal for all but one of the car’s occupants, Sean Beckett, the driver (an impressively solid and tender showing by Collin Janson.) Beckett is judged at fault for the accident, and is sentenced to a prison term. From here, the story shifts forward to just before Beckett is released and we are re-introduced to the family of one of the victims.

Sarah Newhouse is the picture of a fractured psyche as Juna Barnes, the mother of the deceased. Her expression of the bottomless loss in a child’s death is brilliantly subtle. She runs the gamut between numbly getting through her life and a manic outcry to other survivors for some sense of justice. A justice that cannot come in the form she hopes. Or can it?

In Matthew, the brother of the deceased, (Mike Bash deftly conveying cold vengeance and the warmth of familial love) we encounter an injured soul, incapable of forgetting or forgiving. We see that he has been engaging in an ongoing campaign to prevent Beckett’s release. Simultaneously, Matthew devotes himself to protecting his younger sister from the pain that permeates their family. Where his mother is trying to come to grips with the unfortunate facts of their situation, Matthew believes the law has failed his family, in spite of his commitment to the process. His solution to this frustration drives the plot to a chillingly brutal, if very human, conclusion.

Grounding the family with both their need to preserve her innocence and her own precocious awareness of the tragedy is youngest child, daughter Jamie (newcomer Abby Austin). It is Jamie’s youthful ability to believe in better tomorrows that adds a bittersweet beauty to her interactions with what remains of her family.

From the moment of his release, it is clear that the locals have not forgotten Beckett’s transgression and that he is decidedly unwelcome in his own home town. The feeling is even echoed, if not endorsed, by his mother, Nora (a warmly heart-breaking performance by Melanie May, full of earnest fear and worry,) and Uncle Rob (portrayed with a calm stoicism by Eric R. Eastman). Under a shade of painful regret, lit only by the faint hope that one day his crime will be forgotten, Beckett settles in and attempts to reclaim his life.

The remainder of the film is an impressively elegant and subtle dance of mounting tensions. The pressure is felt on all sides: in Beckett’s mind, within the Beckett and Barns’ families, and between them. The disturbing sense of reflection under pressure envelopes the audience, as the story builds to its dark crescendo. All of this is rendered with a chillingly creepy use of shadow, ambient lighting, and fittingly, the harsh glare of headlights. The overall visual effect is the sense that you are in someone else’s dream of their darkest hour, everything bearing a wholly normal, yet subjectively alien appearance. Brewer succeeds in stimulating, and emotionally capturing the audience, without ever sacrificing or over-selling the measured clarity of his vision.

By the end of the experience (and it is quite an experience…) none of the above questions are answered. The good guy doesn’t get the girl, there is no clear lesson learned. All we learn about loss, redemption, vengeance, and forgiveness is that the capacity for each of these, and a million other states of mind, is within each of us. The values and limits of these things are left to us to define, as we make our own way through life.

In summary, Beneath Contempt is a powerful drama that dissects the family dynamic to strike directly at the heart of the individual. It is a quietly dignified tour de force that brings the audience face to face with the truths we would rather leave unexplored within ourselves. I recommend it for anyone interested in traversing the frontiers and testing the boundaries of humanity in the face of mortality.

Directed by Benjamin Brewer
Film Website : www.beneathcontemptfilm.com   

Review written by Joseph James Bellamy
Editor: TS Harmon

Hollywood: You Pull the Trigger on My Gun Love

Joseph Bellamy Hollywood: You Pull the Trigger on My Gun Love, by Joseph James Bellamy PG-13 is the second newest, next to the nearly unused NC-17 of MPAA ratings. We who are old enough to remember thought of it as “nearly R”, often pushing imagery to just short of the skin barrier. Allowing just enough violence to be fun; without a single F-bomb. It was an innocent creation of a slightly more innocent age, intended to save the already lost innocence of a generation. After all, how many among us hadn’t sneaked a peak at our big brother’s “reading material” or Dad’s beta tape collections by 1984 when the rating was first introduced?

Inevitably, time passes and all things must change. The same holds true of pop-culture, and for the PG-13 film, times have most assuredly changed.

Not long ago, my wife and I double-dated with some friends. In order to keep it light and fun for all concerned, we decided on the tween-actioner Sucker Punch. It was a fun, flashy, popcorn-fest to be sure. If you can imagine constructing a narrative from the frustrated musings of a contemporary 12-year-old boy, then you may have a sense of this film.

 I was settled in to the story, which centers on the disturbing misadventures of a group of teen girls in a shady mental health facility in the 60’s. I began to notice certain elements of the film were setting off bells in my head. The story takes place in three worlds. The first is the institution. The second is an alternate world, some sort of hyper-cabaret gentleman’s club and brothel, where the girls are the main attraction. The third is a non-sequitor pastiche of combat missions into war-torn fantasy landscapes that rival the top gamer favorites. In this world, the girls are presented as a squad of heavily armed and scantily clad super-commandos (including a naughty-as-she-wants-to-be-looking Vanessa Hudgens, who has apparently outgrown mouse-eared musicals) pitted against endless hordes of inhuman villains. It was the second and third worlds and their sequential relation to each other, that gave me pause. I began to pay more attention as a filmmaker, to what I was seeing. The pattern became starkly, worryingly obvious.

 Every time things in “Bordello World” reach the point of explicit exposure, we are moved by way of a MacGuffin device, cleverly disguised as a jailbait lap dance, to a battle sequence, a sort-of bloodless war-gasm, if you will. Interestingly enough, blood, at least as much as would be expected from so much violence, is conspicuously absent. It is made all the more conspicuous when one considers that it was the blood and gore of films such as Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom and Gremlins that gave rise to the rating in the first place. I doubt one would get much argument that both films would be considered tame in today’s Hollywood. 

Needless to say, by the end of the picture (which I did thoroughly enjoy incidentally) my mind was on spin cycle as I tried to remember if the PG-13 films of my youth presented the same aesthetic. I couldn’t think of one, which isn’t to say that it doesn’t exist; I just couldn’t and can’t come up with one. Since that day, I have watched (observed?) a number of more recent offerings that have earned this rating and there seems to be a discernable trend. Take the obviously unstoppable franchise of the Fast and the Furious for example. Nothing against the filmmakers, they’ve just made it work so well, it’s worth referencing. Stars Vin Diesel and Paul Walker, both have highly-flirtatious and highly-sexualized relationships with women. As the underlying tension escalates, not only is the sex avoided by the camera, but it seems the only solution to that tension is a fist-fight, a gun-fight, an explosion, or the franchise signature race/chase. The case is similar across the board and if the gimmicks aren’t for gear heads, they’re for gamers. Ask Mila Jovovich how to make a billion dollars and she’ll say two words, “Resident Evil”, and Peter Jackson is still trying to get a Halo movie made. 

I can understand keeping the sex under wraps. I can just as easily understand sanitizing the violence. What worries me is the thought that the sex = violence connection is being drilled into the minds of a very specific market: boys, age 11-14. Fusing seamlessly into an adolescent lifestyle typified, if not defined, by globe-spanning FPS video games, remote access socializing, and burgeoning sexuality, this kind of kiss-kiss, bang-bang may have further reaching effects than a mere 90 minutes of entertainment.  I won’t go so far, or be so paranoid, as to claim greater plan. That said, we live in a world where wars are fought with laser-guided missiles, drone planes, subs, and robotic weapons platforms. I’m not too comfortable with the next few generations of eligible serviceman having their trigger fingers hardwired to their private parts, a lifetime of simulator hours, and a taste for violence without consequence. Are you?      

Written by Joseph James Bellamy
Editor: TS Harmon
Published by Modern Cinema Magazine
© Modern Cinema Magazine 2011

FILM REVIEW: "DIRTY OLD TOWN", by Ali Bell

Ali Bell FILM REVIEW: Dirty Old Town, by Ali Bell Dirty Old Town has its NYC Premiere at The Quad Cinema as part of NYIIFVF, May 5th, 2011. Co-directors Jenner Furst and Daniel B. Levin who first collaborated on Captured, (the 2008 documentary about New York’s Lower East Side) have come together once again to bring us Dirty Old Town.

Dirty, which shares many of the same themes with the earlier film, is a triumph of cinema verité, comparable to Cassavetes’ Shadows or A Woman Under The Influence. Like Cassavetes, it is the thin line of distinction between real life and art that makes this a truly worthy film-going experience. 


I was admittedly drawn in by my past; a teen fraught with the boredom of a suburban upbringing, as a youth, I was always enticed to wander beyond my culturally bankrupt beginnings and head out in search of culture, and at the very least, adventure. For me, more often than not, that meant the dirty old streets of New York City. 

I often found myself ditching school to witness the City’s nocturnal transformation into a carnivalesque landscape of surreal beauty, cool people and crazy freaks. It was a place full of mysterious characters, and ones which I should have perhaps steered clear of, but it was the New York City that I know and love. Dirty Old Town is a loving portrait of the disappearing landscape of this New York City, giving us a longing glimpse into a magical world that once was. 

Dirty Old Town opens to Billy, (William Leroy) decked out in biker-leather, and a gray-blonde ponytail rumbling down a New York City overpass on a chopper en route to pay his landlord for two months back-rent on his Antiques Tent. The gruff-looking Houston Street antique vendor has got seventy-two hours to pay it all down, or a Starbucks is moving in, or so threatens the landlord. 

The shop is the location on which the film revolves, and Billy the tough, streetwise single dad of a soon-to-be college-going daughter, struggles with financial and moral temptations while managing some great authentic comedic one-liners in the face of adversity. 

At the Antiques Tent, the circus-of-regulars filter in. Billy commiserates with Nicky, (Nicholas De Cegli,) who delivers a compelling performance, as the wisecracking tough-guy with the neurotic, seven-note mutter of “nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu.” 

Nicky is the figurative mayor of their dirty old world who follows dirty old rules, without regard to what anyone thinks or has to say. So, when dirty cop Bobby, (Scott Dillin) approaches Billy’s Antique Tent and informs Billy, “I’m gonna fuck you right where you stand,” Nicky decides to take matters into his own hands. (Not that Billy can’t take care of himself, but because that’s just what Nicky does.) 

Enter gypsy-junky, Rachel (Jannel Shirtcliff) an impish ethereal beauty, who moves seductively through the lens and is strongest when she takes pause to reflect. Shirtcliff’s allegorical muse gracefully drifts through the sideshow freaks and back-alley drug deals while fending off the likes of Clayton Patterson (of Captured) who tauntingly inquires whether she’s  “still hookin’ and crookin’?”  

It is Rachel’s self-serving actions, which unwittingly force the other characters to come to terms with their own questionable morality; a labyrinth of uncertainty, which becomes increasingly difficult to traverse as their collective escapades spiral out of control. 

It is the same sense of boredom or adventure, which lead me to the New York streets as a teen, which leads Rachel around the streets and eventually to Hans, (played by real-life nightlife impresario and Club Guru Paul Sevigny.)  In his hot-red pants, Sevigny plays his character as cavalier, dismissive, and dissonant with an almost American Psycho demeanor. Hans’ haughty personality collides with Rachel’s as she enters Hans’ immaculate, lavish apartment uninvited.  

Behind his fetching blonde-hair, blue-eyes, and a storm of dissociative mannerisms are some deftly-held secrets. These are secrets, which are bound to get Rachel into trouble if she keeps digging. But, Hans is among the elite of Rachel’s men and one she can easily steal from.  So when Rachel shows up at Billy’s with an unusual stolen relic formerly belonging to Hans, Billy is not entirely surprised, yet somewhat freaked out and more than a little apprehensive about taking possession of it. 

But, needing the money, Billy negotiates on a promise that Rachel won’t spend the money on drugs. Of course, this is a promise Rachel has no intention of keeping, and she is off to the pad of the uber-insane deviant creep-show which is Ronnie Sunshine, (who is played by Ronnie Sunshine, himself.) A drug and sex-fest ensues, complete with leather whips swinging, sex-toys bouncing, porn playing on TV, and Ronnie chanting cheerfully incoherent nonsense. Naturally, the festivities conclude when Rachel blinks out like a broken light after attempting to outdo Al Pacino’s level of cocaine consumption in Scarface. 

Meanwhile, Nicky meanders around Little Italy chatting it up with locals and tourists, and pouring on the charm and streetwise folly which he is known for. He’s embraced by the people around him, even strangers want to chat it up. Nicky is fiercely loyal and loves his friends without equivocation. His pathos is palpable and his acting is dead-on natural. 

(Where has this guy been? Oh yes, a ton of award-winning movies like Bad Lieutenant and many others-- as well as actually being a longtime NYC nightlife legend.) 

Soon, Nicky’s attention switches focus to tailing Bobby the cop, at which point he overhears a conversation between Bobby and Vic, (Sergio Valentin) the drug dealer. And, after witnessing some altogether too hairy and particularly illegal street activities, Nicky handles it as only Nicky can. Suffice to say, I can’t say any more without spoiling the plot, but Nicky’s discovery will change everyone’s life if they don’t change it for themselves. 

Dirty Old Town is a loving portrait of the once vibrant and viscerally engaging New York City which now seems to be slowly vanishing under the corporate Disneyfication of this proud city’s rich past. The cast brings a tangible pulse to the characters, which lesser performers may have painted as caricatures. But, this gifted and agile ensemble delivers a rock-solid performance in this compelling film, which was shot over a few sweltering August weeks in Little Italy, and The Bowery. 

What this film gets, which so many New York City films miss is the true pulse of the streets. Its fresh portrayal of this quirky, miscreant gaggle of kooks brings me back to my youth in this tribute to the soul of the neighborhood; a cogitating meditation on the streets. With the help of resourceful producers Marc Levin, Mark Benjamin and Stephanie Porto, Dirty Old Town brings to life an intimate study of peculiar variety, with subtle, well-placed New York style comedic jabs. Not only is the colorful mosaic well-filled by the cast, but the writing team of  Daniel B. Levin, Jenner Furst and Julia Willoughby Nason weave together a narrative structure which will keep the audience on the edge of their sticky New York seats, wishing they had brought some sanitary napkins to wipe themselves clean when the lights turn down. 

Go to the city, walk the streets of the Dirty Old Town and meet these people (don’t let anyone hear you ask for a Starbucks though). Billy, Nicky, Rachel, Bobby, Hans and Vic are all there. If not in the flesh, then embodied by others you’ll run into. Just heed my warning-- do not enter Ronnie Sunshine’s pad… unless you’re into that sort of thing!    

  DIRTY OLD TOWN: OFFICIAL PROMO - SPRING 2011 from Dirty Old Town on Vimeo.

http://dirtyoldtownmovie.com/ Dirty Event Page

Review written by Ali Bell
Editor: TS Harmon

"CONVENTO": The Art of Living, by SM Crowningshield

S. M. Crowningshield Convento refers to the former monastery Convento Sao Francisco which sits on a green, wooded hill on the outskirts of the Portuguese village of Mértola. But its location is perhaps insignificant because the Convento is truly it’s own world. And director Jared Alterman captures that world beautifully, with a deft eye and clear reverence for the people -- and things -- that inhabit it.

As the film’s only textual captions will tell you at the beginning, the Convento itself was built in the 1600s to house Christian relics from The Crucifiction. It was a monastery until the 1830s, and remained abandoned for some 120 years after. It’s a rich history, and Convento shows how that history is continuing today. But rather than Christian monks it’s the Zwanikken family who now walk the corridors and tend the elaborate gardens. They also practice their own form of monkish dedication to their beliefs. Alterman says that the minute he stepped into the Convento and met the Zwanikkens, he knew he’d have to come back. And bring a camera.

Geraldine Zwanikken and her husband decided to move from the Amsterdam art scene decades ago and they bought the overgrown land and decrepit buildings that make up the Convento. They left the Netherlands not to escape anything -- in fact Geraldine was at the height of a ballet career -- but because they felt change was a good thing. It is great to do art for a crowds, but perhaps doing your own art for yourself could be something sublime. The Zwanikkens brought with them their two young sons, Louis and Christiaan, barely older than toddlers at the time.

Together they made the Convento into the world that it is today. They repaired the buildings, brought in electricity, began growing their food -- but more than that they created a world solely for themselves. Like the monks before them who distanced themselves from the rest of the world in order to perfect their reverence for God, the Zwanikkens began perfecting their reverence for life.

Today, some 30 years later, the boys are grown and their father has died (though Geraldine will tell you that death does not exist). She tends the grounds, trundling through the pond to pull the weed-like plants that prevent the turtles from surfacing. Always laughing and casual, she refers to it as the pond’s “haircut.” Louis focuses on the animals, putting so much time and effort into their care that director Alterman has said he could barely keep up. Louis has grown to think of the animals as friends.

They each clearly have reached that sublime status of pure life, living how they want to live. The things they must do are also the things they want to do. But it is the activities of Christiaan that perhaps best exemplifies this notion, and in a tangible way.

Christiaan is a kinetic artist. He blends mechanics and the remains of animals found on the property into otherworldly creatures that move and occasionally speak in awe-inspiring ways. It is his artwork that provides the strange helmeted-rabbit creation used to promote Convento, an image likely disturbing to some but one that is simply assembled from the components of our daily lives. Alterman shows these creations in action, he in fact collaborated with Christiaan to really bring them to life for the camera. The jaw bones that clatter effortlessly, the bird skulls that look left and right as if watching for prey -- they are all truly amazing.

Perhaps the most surprising piece of all is the ancient water well that pulls up water for the entire garden and for centuries was turned by donkey. In today’s Convento, it’s turned by a mechanical animal with tire treads for feet and ears that flit about as if swishing real flies away. It is artwork blended with practicality as much as it is modern mechanics blended with bits of nature’s own machines. 

Convento shows a world dedicated to that blend. The practicality of art, the art of living. It shows this with amazing images, alternating the strange with the familiar. It balances images of death with a casual air and occasional humor. The world that Alterman captures in Convento is a world well worth paying a visit to.

Website: Convento

Review written by S.M. Crowningshield
Editor: Rod Webber
Published by Reel Zine
© Reel Zine 2011

FILM REVIEW: "CATECHISM CATACLYSM" by BillyJack Williams

FILM REVIEW: CATECHISM CATACLYSM: The New Surrealist's Handbook, by BillyJack Williams  Todd Rohal is the new Godfather of surrealist cinema. There. I said it. In case you haven’t heard of him, he’s the guy responsible for The Guatemalan Handshake but his latest, Catechism Cataclysm is on a different plane of existence.

Catechism is a Salvador Dali portrait of the mind of a twelve-year-old boy on acid stuck in the body of a priest, jammed into a canoe, swilling a case of beer and rocking out to the Slayer anthology. Rohal achieves this, all while providing the painful belly laughs provided by an all-night marathon of This is Spinal Tap.

The film starts out on a day like any other, (for those of us trying to make up for a life of sin,) in church. Father Billy (Steve Little of HBO’s Eastbound and Down,) is a bumbling, incompetent, viral-video-obsessed priest who lacks the good sense to hide his foibles and idiosyncrasies from his parish. This… and he provides Kaufman-esque belly laughs by yanking the rug out from under our brains ‘til our funny bones can’t take it any more… and start punching the crap out of our stomachs. Rohal’s objective seems to be to twist our minds into a magic-unicorn pretzel, so it is no surprise that his faux-parable spouting Father Billy is a vehicle for bringing the audience on a what-the-fuck-just-happened ride down the murky waters of the river Absurdia only to arrive at a boy-scout camp run by Old Scratch who is presumably messed up on peyote.

On the day that Billy attempts to draw a moral conclusion with the “parable” of an old woman who pulls out a gun on a pair of would-be-thieves, the elder clergy at the Church decide that they’ve had enough. Billy is ordered to reconsider his vocation and sent on a spiritual vacation. Enter Robbie (Robert Longstreet,) the heavy-metal, head-banging roadie/ former boyfriend of Father Billy’s sister. Billy’s sister, naturally is long since out of the picture, but this seems to matter little to our church-going leading man who, as it turns out, has been keeping tabs on his head-banging buddy since high school, and has always been a big fan of his writing. Of course, this is the furthest thing from Robbie’s mind since he can’t even remember Father Billy, and only agreed to the trip to get Billy to stop sending him emails.

The mismatched duo embark on a fishing trip which starts out ordinarily enough, but takes us from kicking back beers, to places in the mind you wouldn’t expect. The trip takes a bizarre turn when Father Billy and Robbie get lost, only to be “rescued” by two sexy-panda-outfit-wearing Asian women with a limited grasp of English. They are accompanied by a stoic trip-guide who speaks not a word until he decides to confess to Father Billy while Billy is falling-down drunk, and urinating in the dark by a tree.

Admittedly, I had no idea what to expect when I fired up my screener copy of the film, but like any good trip, this film is best viewed without any knowledge of what is coming next. So, to do no further injustice to your viewing experience, I will close in saying that this was the funniest film I’ve seen all year. Catechism Cataclysm was like Easy Rider meets The Holy Grail in a canoe. Two epic journeys of epic proportion with enough silly left-turns to keep you doubled-over with laughter for the film’s 75-minute run time. See this movie. I will kill anyone who says this movie wasn’t the funniest thing they’ve seen all year.

Film: "Catachism Cataclysm"
Director: Todd Rohal
Film's website: http://www.catechismcataclysm.com/

Review written by BillyJack Williams
Editor: Joseph James Bellamy

Deus ex Machina: A FILM REVIEW of "Little Gods" by Robert P. Young

Robert P. Young I recall seeing a post from a Facebook friend regarding the ubiquitous Hitler meme culled from the gripping movie Der Untergang. This scene is in Hitler’s bunker, where all is lost, and Hitler’s generals are reluctantly telling him that the cavalry will not arrive. Hitler characteristically explodes and blames everyone and everything but himself for losing the war.

It is powerfully acted by Bruno Ganz, but when it is subverted for use as a meme, Hitler dutifully rants about everything from losing at Xbox to hating the controversial revamp of Star Trek to expressing disgust at LeBron James’ “decision.”

Technology now allows us to alter what was once sobering into something incongruously mundane.

What if soldiers—and I hope non-Axis ones—had iPhones back in the 1940’s? Despite the politics of the leaders, average soldiers are pretty similar. Young. Full of bravado. Ball-busting constantly. Fearful. Unintentionally poignant.

Gods’ lead character, Private Doss (Matthew Schlichter) is no John Wayne as a soldier. (Doubly so—Doss actually served.) Wide-eyed, youthful, it’s surprising that he’s married, rather than playing the field with girls his age. But then again, he’s in the military, a world in which men take on responsibility earlier than the average man-child Kay Hymowitz writes about.

Where does Doss come from? We see his family about halfway into the film. His wife is pleasant enough. But Doss’s blood relatives have the real spark—dysfunctional even as they send their video messages of love. His mother is overbearing, physically dominating the screen by standing too close to the camera. She casually embarrasses her older son, Danny, by claiming that her late husband would be proud only of the son in Afghanistan. Like a good suburban mother, her suspicions about why her thirty-five year old son “with a good job” still lives with a male “roommate” are only skin-deep. Did Doss join the military to get away from this dynamic, or because there weren’t other good jobs like his brother’s? The film doesn’t answer those questions, but having them in the back of my mind deepened my interest.

Back in Afghanistan, each of the soldiers gets a chance to mug for the camera, and it seems like this will be a spring break video in “camo” gear. Then we are reminded that this is war. Doss’s best friend, a smart-mouthed, resourceful black man nicknamed “Trench,” is ignominiously killed while defecating in the open air.

Immediately after, Doss’s traumatized eye fills the frame, unblinking, almost as if it is as dead as his friend’s. Though overused later, this is a strong choice.

Back in the barracks, the soldiers’ superior officer expresses his regret that not all of his men will return home. Trench’s sleeping bag is rolled up and his effects surround his cot. Seeing the space, for the first time without the man, was striking—it made me feel his death far more powerfully than seeing a corpse. The real pain of death is what you leave behind.

Doss descends into depression and anti-social behavior. The line readings, which previously played out as 100% spontaneous and improvisational, seemed a little less convincing after this turning point, a side-effect of what I suspect was the need to adhere somewhat more closely to the script. Despite this slight lessening of the fly-on-the-wall/ documentary feeling, it is not to the detriment of the film overall. In fact, Schlichter's charisma easily, as well as that of the entire cast overpowers any shortcomings in the shooting technique.

Spear’s unflinching choice to show the unpleasant side of the iPhone, a voyeuristic device at the most inappropriate times--especially when a maimed (and possibly dying) soldier pleads with Doss not to film him in his condition—is quite impressive. True, Doss is capturing a powerful moment, much like a photographer would have captured Pulitzer-prize winning images from 9/11 or Katrina, but it begs the question, where is your humanity, your decency, when you choose to film rather than to help?

The soldiers are fascinatingly vulnerable human beings. This is where I believe the film is most successful, in depicting our soldiers as people we would—and do—have a beer with, rather than as statistics, victims, or killers. Yet these ordinary men have volunteered to put themselves into extraordinary circumstances. They are demigods—little gods—with their courage.

When future generations look back at our generation’s wars, they will not be separated from their ancestors like we were with the barriers of black and white footage and stagecraft from the media and the government. They will have great gifts like Ms. Spear’s Little Gods, which will illustrate the unfiltered horrors of war along with the triumphs of survival. Little Gods will not only reduce you to tears, it will get your blood boiling. Little Gods is a triumph as a film, and doubtlessly it will do more for today's soldiers than any recruiting ad will.

Don’t ignore this iPhone call.

Film: "Little Gods"
Director: Elizabeth Spear
Film's website: www.littlegodsfilm.com
Screening at Reel Fest, March 15th, 2011 www.reelfest.org

Review written by Robert P. Young III
Editor: TS Harmon

FILM REVIEW: MODUS OPERANDI Uno, Dos, Trejo! By Joseph James Bellamy

Joseph Bellamy Born in 1974, I missed the popular explosion of the so called ’Exploitation’ genre, having instead been part of the generation that made huge budget , FX laden action blockbusters the film of choice in Hollywood. Having seen Modus Operandi, I now miss what I didn’t know.

Aiming to capture the romance and allure of these lower-budget, harder-boiled classics, Writer/Director Frankie Latina’s Modus hit’s the mark like a sniper shot, and makes it look as smooth and easy as uno,  dos, Trejo! With a Porn-Star pedigree (Former Porn A-lister, Actress, and Independent Film Maven Sasha Grey touts a ‘Presented by:’ Credit on the film ) , bare bones, 8mm vision, life-is-as-cheap-as-bullets narrative and the casting of Hollywood’s hands-down scariest bad guy, Modus Operandi is an outstanding, cult-ready ready offering for the cerebral film-goer, and the booms-and-boobs audience alike!

Shot in a medium once relegated to the least respectable of film efforts, It’s a feast of vintage cinematic technique, glam-art sex appeal and contemporary indie style. Not the typical Hollywood roller-coaster, but rather a slow cruise through the darkest part of town, In an impossibly slick black sedan. The story, the chronicle of a burned-out hit-man’s quest for vengeance, is played out amidst a world of perverse secrets, professional lies and political murders. The action percolates and simmers, often boiling over with sex and violence, but never cheapens itself with an overtly gratuitous explosion. Instead, the blood and pyrotechnics are applied for impact, not mindless flash-effect.

First, we are inducted into the films world with a sepia-toned smoking advisory and title-card. We then meet our (anti) hero, Stanley Cashay, through flash backs and the voiced-over memories of his deceased wife. Cashay, a retired triggerman for the shadowy ‘Intelligencia’, is brought to a sort of spooky half-life by the gaunt look and smooth mannerisms of Randy Russell ("American Job"). His suit, shades and smokes all invoke to the uber-cool secret agent men of a hipper time. Cue the funky, retro credits, and you can almost hear the door to the slick black sedan click shut behind you. ’Modus’ is rolling, and you’re along for the ride.

In the step with the films deliberate pacing, We then bare witness to a deal gone dirty, and are introduced to our ‘bad-guys‘:. Squire Parks, An altogether too-smooth politician portrayed with oily aplomb by Michael Sottile ("Reservoir Dogs"), the crooked Copper Gore, played by Mark Metcalf, and his long haired associate Dallas Deacon played by noted independent film-maker Mark Borchardt ("American Movie.") Lest we think these miscreants aren‘t carrying enough criminal credentials, enter Danny Trejo as bad-ass boss-man Director Holiday. Trejo’s brand of gravel-voiced menace immediately fills the screen, and your consciousness, like the sight of a venomous snake coiled for the lunge.

The holy-grail of the story is also established, in the form of two much-sought after black briefcases. Cashay must track them down and bring them back to his former handlers in the Intelligencia. The assignment is made irresistible when the ‘good-guys’ offer Cashay the chance to avenge his wife’s murder.

What follows is a tension building skulk through an attractively gritty, sexy underworld of strippers and killers, that spans from the dark alleys of Milwaukee to the bright lights of Tokyo. It is a darkly fantastic landscape, made real with the use of period-appropriate props, and peopled with the genre-essential cast of supporting characters. There is the always cooperative privateer, Casey Thunderbird (Barry Polterman,) the deliciously sexy hit-woman, Black Licorice (Nicole Johnson,) and a whole host of agents, assassins, hit-girls and hotties. A series of hand-offs, coded conversations and doubles crosses move the story along smoothly, without every letting up the pressure that has been steadily re-doubling since the first turn of the projector.

The drama is expertly punctuated with shoot-outs, car chases and even a brief, but impacting homage to Hitchcock’s classic thriller North By North West. All the while, the viewers sense that they have been taken on a ride that is far more than they had bargained for sinks deeper into the psyche, which is cruising more and more comfortably with every passing 8 mm. frame.

Over the course of the film, we are shown several clips of what appears to be beta-cam recorded video of young women seemingly auditioning for porno. As the story progresses, we come to understand the true nature of the footage, how it ties the principals players together, and ultimately, what they, and it, convey to us about the true meaning of power. This last idea, the meaning of power, is driven home for the audience in a climactic encounter between Squire Parks and Director Holiday, where Trejo’s words and deeds can only be described as pure Vato Loco, HOMES!

All in all, Frankie Latina and Milwaukee-based Special Entertainment can be very proud of Modus Operandi. They have not only succeeded in bringing a spot-on homage to the hard-hitting , so-called exploitation genre to a modern audience, but they have managed to remind us that a good film is about transporting the audience.

Modus Operandi is sure winner that takes you through the shadows and into another world. Now that I  know, I can tell you; between the cool tunes of the sound-track, the seemingly endless supply of Hot bodies and the cold, calculated style of Stanley Cashay, it’s a world in which you will be fully engrossed, and won’t ever want to leave.

Film: "Modus Operandi"

Director: Frankie Latina

Film's website: www.frankielatina.com

Screening at Reel Fest, March 14th, 2011 www.reelfest.org

Review written by Joseph James Bellamy

Editor: TS Harmon