HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX<

Directed by David Yates

There's a scene in HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, where Harry is looking into a mirror and he sees a portrait of himself as a young boy with his murdered parents. It was probably the most shocking image in the film, not for its narrative or visuals, but for the fact that Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who plays Harry, was just a wee kid when the first HP film came out, and he's now a young man. It was both alarming and revealing to see that so much time has passed since the Harry Potter books and films have come out, and it was a reminder that we as an audience have grown up with this boy, this school, this wonderful world that J.K. Rowling has so lovingly concocted.

Given this, in the latest installment of the Harry Potter films, there's a decided lack of wonderment with Hogwarts. Many critics have pointed this out as a flaw, that they no longer had the sense of enchantment, that the world of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic seemed flat and rather ordinary. But the fact of the matter is that we have been with these books since 1997 and the films since 2000, and so therefore we are familiar with Hogwarts, we comprehend the magic, we know these characters well. There is little sense of discovery about this world, because there is little left to discover. Both the film and the book acknowledge this, and they both make the correct move in delving entirely into character and plot development. The magic is over, and now life in this world can truly begin.

As is tradition, we begin the film with Harry in the world of non-magical humans, the Muggles. He is surly and moody- a typical teenager no less- and he is jolted from his dreary summer when he is attacked by Dementors, the wraith-like specters that guard the prisons at Azkaban. The very tone of this impressive and taut opening sequence tells us that the dream life has ended- rules of children and legislation are no longer applying here, and we're going into dark, murky territory.

Harry is whisked off to a magic safe house owned by his godfather Sirius Black (the always-reliable Gary Oldman), and Harry learns that corruption and fear mongering has beset the governance of the world of magic, and that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, aka Lord Voldemort, is actively recruiting an army of dark wizards, whose ultimate intent is to push the world into ruin.

Harry heads off to Hogwarts with much on his mind, and he increasingly isolates himself, buckling under the burdens that have been placed upon him. He is greeted by a new Defense of the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge (an amazing Imelda Staunton), who is also a representative of the Ministry of Magic. Umbridge bgins a cold and calculated overhaul of Hogwarts, turning it into a place of draconian rule, governed by fear, and controlled by torture and punishment.

It's quite clear what Rowling and Yates are aiming for, as this is a thinly-veiled allegory to the governance of the United States and United Kingdom, where the press is a tool of a corrupted government, and information is the most powerful weapon of change. Throughout the film there are allusions to underground insurgencies, social upheaval, and revolution. There is talk of people's armies, of Orwellian law, and abused authority. All of which has very little to do with magic, but it remains intriguing because these are issues of the human psyche, and to place it within a world where magic and mysterious creature are an afterthought serves to hammer down the point with great force and effect.

For a children's / young adult film, HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX is a refreshingly political film, one that can be digested without feeling like they've been pandered to. Yates has proven to be a capable director of actors, but admittedly, his grasp of visuals are not up to the gargantuan standards that the series has set. The film is entrenched in darkness, which is appropriate for the subject matter- Dolores Umbridge has turned Hogwarts into a prison, a dungeon where no fun or exploration can exist. The only scene of joy is a scene of rebellion, marked with impressive fireworks and the laughter of children.

Truth be told, it's lack of visual punch aside, I felt this was the best of the Harry Potter films, and should I venture down this route, I regarded it as the EMPIRE STRIKES BACK of the series. This is because of the human element of the film, the realization that the evil of the dark side is prevalent and very, very real, that sometimes the enemy may very well be our neighbours, and worse yet, ourselves. I have bought into this world of magic completely, and for the first time I could relate, on a very personal level, to the trials and tribulations of the characters within.

Credit for this goes to the actors, who have all matured from pantomime to real dramatic thespians. Particularly strong is the work of Radcliffe, who by now must be so familiar with Harry Potter that he is reacting instinctively as the character. I'm sure these kids have also benefit from working with some of the finest actors in the world in Oldman, Staunton, and the truly remarkable talents of Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson and Ralph Fiennes. Collectively, the cast has successfully populated Hogwarts with real people, and not sketches of characters from a book.

I simply adore this series, its characters, its creatures, and its settings. Even at its darkest, Rowling's sprawling masterpiece of a boy wizard learning to deal with responsibilities of power is something that always lights a fire within my heart. She and her collaborators have managed to capture the true moments of wonderment, joy and pain that growing up entails. Perhaps it is this universal appeal that has made Harry Potter such an icon of the young and the old. Generations from now we will look back upon this body of work and it will have stood the test of time, because its sentiments and heart are timeless.

We can only strive to create such work, and in the meantime we stand in its awe and take from it pleasures and joys that have indescribable value.

ONCE

Written and Directed by John Carney

Art has the unique ability of transport- a glance, a note, a shot, they all have the power to navigate our memories and bring us back to a specific point in our lives. For me it is the power of music that is most effective in this endeavour, as my life has a very distinct and clear soundtrack, each song dog-tagged with an emotional moment that always seems to revolve around the notion of love lost or gained.

Perhaps the movies have given us this overtly romanticized notion of "our song," but I think it is not too far from reality- there is a song for every moment of our lives. Not in the sense that a particular song was playing in the background when a specific moment happened, rather there are songs that express what we're feeling better than any words can do. That is the true magic of music, of art.

It's hard for me to express, so how fortunate am I that the tiny no-budget Irish independent film ONCE has done a far better job explaining the phenomenon of the power of song. The film is a capsule of a moment, with a soundtrack crafted to embrace these memories in our minds and hearts forever.

ONCE is a musical romance in the most traditional sense. As in every romantic film, the guy and the girl meet cute, exchange witty banter, sing songs together, and away we go. But what is so remarkable about ONCE is that it is firmly set in reality, the songs are meaningful beyond words, and the people involved are real flesh and blood, and not caricatures of people in love.

The guy and the girl (who do not have names, so as to imply the universality of the relationship) are two people on the fringes of society. He is a vacuum cleaner repairman by day and a busker by night, singing songs of his own invention on the sidewalks of Dublin for the pennies of the occasional passersby. She is a Czech immigrant, doing odd jobs and living in a flat shared with her mother and daughter, and a host of other immigrants.

The girl hears boy sing one evening, and she loves what she hears. Herself a musician, she offers an opportunity to sing one of his songs together in a musical instrument shop, he on his guitar and she on piano. He accepts, and the first inkling of a common bond is established.

The girl is, as in most romantic films of this nature, a quirky, attractive, free spirit, but as the guy and the audience learns in an awkward scene, she is not the stereotypical muse who serves to only inspire beautiful songs of longing. She is, rather, just another wounded soul, just like him, in need of a companion and some comfort. Music is the bridge over this gap, and it is used to brilliant effect to convey the inner turmoil and common desires of two people who could be no more different.

It's not until later that we understand who these songs are really about, and it is a far more romantic gesture than I can describe. Through these songs we understand that we have a different love for different people. It reminds me, fittingly, of an old Irish proverb that my grandfather (who is Indian, not Irish) told me some time ago:

"A man has three loves in his life; his mother, whom he loves the longest, his wife, whom he loves the most, and his sweetheart, whom he loves the best."

ONCE encapsulates this proverb perfectly, and the final shot of the film is the ultimate affirmation of this belief. The romance of this film is so apt because it does not decry that there is an ultimate love, rather, love is diverse and it creates the most beautiful, complex, painful, and rich tapestries out of our lives.

The performances are top notch with Glen Hansard, real-life lead singer of the brilliant Irish band The Frames, playing the boy with a wounded innocence and awkward charm. He is a good lad, raised well by his parents, and, as with most artists, is relatively modest about the power of his art. The girl, played by Marketa Irglova, transcends the otherworldly intelligence of her character, a woman who has been hurt but has a lot to give- but only to the right person, someone whom she can trust, someone who can share her pain and joy with.

Director John Carney, a musician himself, made the bold choice of choosing musicians over actors who could sing, and his treatment of the actors and the material remains true to the struggles and joys of musicians, who create within their own unique idiom. Shot largely using a telephoto lenses from a distance, Carney allows his actors to roam about Dublin and play their roles true to real life. We don't get the cliché close ups showing love and longing on the faces of the protagonists, rather, it is the music that is the window into these people's hearts and souls.

Like any fond memory, my recollection of ONCE doesn't really pay the film justice. As I listen to the soundtrack I'm taken back to the lives of these two complete strangers, and I recall my time spent with them, and through their music, I feel like they've shared a very special moment in their lives with me. I wish I could reciprocate, sharing my stories of love lost and found. But alas, they're just characters in a film, and I shall reserve my tales for my friends and family, told over coffee or dinner on lazy summer evenings, in both strange and comfortable places, with a song for every moment. And I'm sure I'll bring up this film when I do.

ONCE is one of the best films of the year, if not the best. Seek it out.

THE FOUNTAIN

THE FOUNTAIN
Written and Directed by Darren Aronofsky

There's something to be said about artistic hubris. On one end of the spectrum, it is a driving force to better one's craft, to keep pushing boundaries, to advance the mediums in which we work. The other end of the spectrum drives the artist to levels of erudite arrogance, leading the artist to believe that they see something beyond the mere mortal.

I felt both ends of the spectrum watching Darren Aronofsky's THE FOUNTAIN. Aronofsky is an artist I greatly admire, and I was both impressed and shocked with the direction he has taken his art. Ultimately, I have to view the film as an artistic success, but an intellectual misfire.

Set over a period of 1000 years, THE FOUNTAIN is the story of one couple, spread over three incarnations. In each incarnation, one of the lovers faces the threat of death, and the other is charged with the responsibility of saving their life. The responsibility is not out of obligation, but rather eternal love and the avoidance of the inevitable pains of separation.

The first of the stories is set during the Spanish Inquisition, wherein the Queen of Spain (Rachel Weisz) charges her young conquistador Tomas (Hugh Jackman) with the task of finding the Tree of Life, which has been uprooted from the Garden of Eden to an undisclosed location within the Mayan forests. The tree is the key to the defeat of the Inquisition, and the lock that will seal the love of the Queen and the conquistador forever.

The second story is set in modern times in an undisclosed location, where neurological scientist Thomas (Jackman, again) is fighting time to discover a cure for brain cancer, which his beloved wife Izzy (Weisz) is terminally stricken with. A mysterious substance lends promise to Izzy, but in case the cure is not found, she charges Thomas with the task of completing her novel, which is completed save for the last chapter.

The third story is set in the 26th century, again in an undisclosed location. We see Tom (Jackman, lastly), head shaven and practicing tai chi, floating in a transparent orb that contains a small island and a singular tree. Tom speaks to the baobob and chews on its bark, promising it that everything will be fine. The orb hurtles through space, heading toward a golden light in the distant ether.

The constant theme here is the personal agony of loss, and Aronofsky is relentless in his assault of tears, groans, and frustration. This is a immensely sad picture, one that touches upon the universal fear of losing those we love most. As a theme it is relevant, but the constructs surrounding it are so intellectually overwrought, despite the fact that they are achingly beautiful to look at.

The design of this film is immaculate. Cinematographer Matty Libatique envelopes the film in darkness, punctuating form with sharp blades of incandescent light. The art direction is inspired, reconstructing the past and the present in monolithic shapes and dead tones, and pulling futurescapes seemingly inspired by one half Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's illustrations, and the other half from the liner notes of a Tool album. That's a good thing.

After taking in the aesthetics of the picture, including its handsome leads, we're then unfortunately bludgeoned with the preening pseudo-intellectualism of Aronofsky's bulky script. The principles and logic, while played as sophistication, are in actuality rather elementary. Behind the impressive quoting of Mayan mythology, historical references, and metaphysical posturing lies the base theme that everything must die. Oh, and love lives forever. Well, okay.

I guess watching THE FOUNTAIN gave me the feeling of reading a Wikepedia article on something I vaguely knew about, and after reading the article I know I should be smarter, but in some way I feel I've been had. I've learned nothing new, and there's something hollow about the summarization. It's kind of like saying the Cliff Notes version of Macbeth is better and more accurate than the actual book. And the real turnoff is that Aronofsky and his cast and crew are so committed to believing in the greater, deeper meaning of the film that they come off as silly. It's like a kid watching a puppy being born, and then making the assumption that he knows all there is to know about sex. The filmmakers take intellectual molehills and turn them into preening, foolish mountains, and they read into the perceived complexity of their subject way too much.

I have no doubts that Aronofsky is a brilliant man- his films PI and REQUIEM FOR A DREAM are some of the smartest works I've seen, and the praise for his intelligence has been universal. But perhaps he's bought a bit too much into the praise, and forgotten the one tenant that constitutes a great artist or scientist: curiosity. It's the acceptance of not knowing anything at all, of wanting to discover. THE FOUNTAIN postures to know it all, and thinks that it's our privilege to see it for the first time and stand in its awe.

Alas, I don't think my hubris would allow that.

BRICK

BRICK
Written and Directed by Rian Johnson

To call Rian Johnson's debut feature BRICK overslick is an understatement. The film bursts at the seams with coded, almost indecipherable dialogue and performances that dangerously veer to the realms of pantomime, invoking the spirits of WEST SIDE STORY and CASABLANCA. While BRICK has disparate elements of those aforementioned films, it is perhaps most true to the single most maligned genre in film history: the film noir.

Hollywood's idea of what they consider noir cinema is rooted in the myopic base translation of the word: black film. Films that are shot in the dark, covered in shadows and decrepitude, and dealing with grisly subjects blindly get slapped with the term noir. While it can be verified that film noir does contain a lot of those elements, there is something much deeper to the genre, something which hasn't been tapped since the 60s and 70s.

Watch noir films like LE SAMOURAI (which I personally consider to be the greatest noir film ever made), RIFIFI, TOUCH OF EVIL, THE MALTESE FALCON and THE THIRD MAN and you'll see something else is at play. Much like the cowboy western, the protagonists of film noir run their lives according to a strict set of laws, or credo. The difference is that with cowboys, the credo is based in altruism, and the credo of hard boiled detective in film noir is based in something far more troubling: obsession. This is the heart of noir cinema.

Rian Johnson gets this, and to demonstrate his understanding of the genre, he sets BRICK within sunny Southern California, with nary a shadow in sight. Rather than plumbing the depths of sewers, seedy alleys and warehouses, Johnson's atmosphere is an affluent suburban high school. These choices establish that the darkness of noir comes from within the characters, and not the surroundings. Whether deliberate or not, it is a master stroke by Johnson, whose focus on character is marvelous. He really, really knows what he's doing.

We start the film with the living hell that is the life of the gumshoe, the hard boiled detective embodied within loner and perpetual outsider Brendan Frye, played with ferocious precision by Joseph Gordon Levitt. Brendan Frye is too smart for his own good, and when the girl he loved shows up dead, his obsession to consummate a love he never had takes over him and he will not relent in his pursuit of the girl's killer.

Frye investigates the entire social strata of the American high school set, from the privileged rich kids to the low life stoners. His approach is tough and direct- he knows that to ascertain the truth from fake people, he must bring out their real persona. Frye does this by irritation, by dogged persistence, by clever rebuttal, and he pays the price for such tenacity. He is beaten, broken, and shattered, and he wears his bloodstains and scars as a reminder of his obsession. Like the true hard boiled detective, he won't let a few bruises stand in his way- he will get his man, and if he has to he will die trying.

Frye's journey takes him to the realm of seedy characters who all have ulterior motives. Their names are equally ambiguous- Dode, Tug, Tangles, Biff and The Pin. The only person Frye can trust is his sidekick, the school genius known only as The Brain, who helps him decipher clues and give him the low down. Frye shows little appreciation for anyone, and he knows investing too much in someone could cost him dearly, that is, until he meets a dame named Laura...

I love this stuff. BRICK is a throwback to classic pulp, it lives within a universe populated by scumbags, whores and bastards. It takes itself seriously and laughs at itself at the same time, occasionally reminding us that we are still watching high school kids doing nothing but fucking around. It is a taught yarn, and the dramatic conclusion is one that hits you like...well, hits you like a brick. The brilliant script is aided by Johnson's keen eye for visuals and his inventiveness with the camera and the soundtrack. Cinematographer Steve Yedlin and composer Larry Seymour help create a world of shadows without using overtly harsh light- the atmosphere of BRICK is one thick with miasma, and not literal shadows. The film may not have the stereotypical look of noir but it sure as hell feels like it, and then some.

And a few words about Joseph Gordon Levitt. He is, in my opinion, one of the finest actor of his generation. He is intelligent, he lives in his part, and most importantly, he is fearless. His performance in BRICK is flawless and terrifying, and we are witnessing a performer who is nowhere near the height of his powers. With BRICK and his previous film, the amazing MYSTERIOUS SKIN (one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time), Gordon Levitt is on his way to building an impressive body of work. He deserves to be recognized, and I stated it before and I'll state it again: he is the next Sean Penn, the next Robert DeNiro. High praise for a guy who was the least appreciated element of 3RD ROCK FROM THE SUN.

BRICK is one of those films that has divided audiences. You either love it or you hate it, and there is little to no middle ground. But that is what classic noir is- straightforward, a descent into madness, a one way ticket to a personal hell. There is no other direction but down, and those looking for redemption need not apply. This is the stuff of nightmares, and when executed properly and with respect, it's one of the most beautiful things in the world to witness. BRICK is no exception.

Filmcraft: ACTING LESSON WITH NICOLE KIDMAN

As a director it is my responsibility to give my actors the best tools and information I can for them to make informed choices about their characters. There are several components to this- back story, spine, allegory, and relativity among others. A skilled actor has the intellectual and observational capacity to draw on their life experiences or the experiences of others to extract the truth of the moment from said information. It is a skill that requires courage and panache- the actor is baring her emotions and inner demons to the public, which is terrifying, and she must also deliver the truth in a way that is compelling. It's too easy to act through histrionics and hand gesticulation- the best actors make choices that are subtle, choices that don't involve dialogue, screaming or tears. They use the only instrument they have- their bodies- and they use it masterfully.

Now I've seen many great performances by many great actors who employ this art, but over and over again I return to this particular performance by Nicole Kidman in the film BIRTH as the paramount example of the actor's craft.

BIRTH, directed by Jonathan Glazer, was an uneven film and based on a wobbly script, but it is worth a watch for Kidman's performance. Hers is an exercise in subtlety, of demonstrating the small physical choices that an actor must make to tell a story in the most compelling and affecting way possible. It is an amazing performance, and worthy of our time and study.

Before you view this clip of the film, here's a little back story. Kidman plays Anna, a New York socialite who has been struck with a tremendous tragedy- her young husband, Sean, has died. Time passes, and Anna attempts to move on in a new life and love, when suddenly a mysterious young boy shows up and wishes to speak to Anna. He tells her that he is Sean. Naturally, Anna dismisses the boy, but the boy begins to reveal truths of her relationship with Sean that only she and her deceased husband would know. She still refuses to believe the boy, as she cannot accept whatever supernatural logic that may be at play.

In this scene Anna goes to the opera with her lover. She is still contemplating the boy, as to whether or not he is really her dead husband. Watch:



Quite an unusual shot, no?

If you have come this far, try watching the clip again, this time placing yourself within the mindset of the character. Look at the small, subtle choices that Kidman makes, and be aware that we are privy to the transition of her thoughts.

We begin with Anna's complete distraught and disbelief that her husband may very well be alive in the body of a child. She is confused, maligned, torn between reality and possibility.

We then see her move to reasoning, forcing logic to conform to what she wants most- for her beloved husband to be alive again. She is in the process of convincing herself, of rewriting science and philosophy.

Finally, we see acceptance- she is willing to believe her new logic. There is relief and anticipation- she wants to see Sean again. She looks off to the side, no longer interested in the opera or the company of her lover. She has found love again, and she wants to be there.

Imagine the complexity of piecing this performance together, of what Kidman had to draw upon to expose herself to such raw emotion with a camera right in her face, recording every tic and gesture. If you don't think this is difficult, stand in front of a mirror and try acting out the progression I've just described, without saying a word. It's frustrating as hell to pull it off successfully.

Kidman puts equity in small nuances because she understands the format. She is in extreme close-up with a wide lens, so she knows that even the smallest movement will translate huge on the screen. She shows remarkable restraint, limiting her movement to her mouth and eyes, conveying confusion and discovery with instinctual reactions.

And that's the key word here- reaction. Kidman is not acting out the process of information, she's reacting to it, just as you or I would were we to be in such a predicament in real life. She allows herself to be emotionally available to the information presented to her by the director and the script- she's not judging the information, rather she's allowing it to attack her. This requires tremendous vulnerability and trust, and is indicative of the bond between actor and director, and the actor and the material.

The lesson imparted here for both actors and directors is the faith in instincts, or the ability to react to information truthfully and honestly. One cannot argue with the truth, and when it is parlayed so convincingly and so naked, it speaks to all of us in a universal fashion. We cannot help but be moved by it. Once mastered and understood, it is an art whose power is rivaled by few.

Nicole Kidman won Oscar praise for her myriad other performances, but it is this performance that shows her skill. As a director I am humbled to see acting like this, and it gives me something to strive for. To me, there is no greater joy than seeing actors execute at the height of their powers. It is a rush unlike any other, both for the performer and we the audience. We need more of it.

OLD JOY

OLD JOY
Directed by Kelly Reichardt

What is Americana? We tend to associate it with things that are unique to our own culture- baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolets, etc.. But what these things are in fact are elements of nostalgia, of a period of American life that was perceived to be better, more pure, more altruistic. more principled. Americana is, in actuality, a representation of what constitutes us as people, and while this includes the aforementioned nostalgic items, it also includes our despairs, our desires, and those things which have become marginalized and deemed as unimportant to the fabric of our existence. Perhaps then the best description of Americana is the segment of life that the American Dream has either passed by or forgot. It is those people and cultural tenants that live amongst us, but never really with us.

Kelly Reichardt's OLD JOY is the proverbial slice of Americana, a quiet but never lazy account of marginalized Americans who seek something outside of the base provisions that our country has to offer. It puts forth the assertion that when all has been provided, is that where true happiness lies? Or is there more we must seek out?

Set in Portland, Oregon, the story begins with Mark (Daniel London), a early thirtysomething who sits in his yard meditating while his very pregnant wife blends up a green shake that is probably a lot more healthy than it looks appetizing. Mark receives a phone call from Kurt, an old friend whom he hasn't seen in ages. Kurt offers Mark a trip to relax before the birth of his child, and proposes a hike to the Cascade Mountains, where a natural spring can be found. Mark accepts, and despite the apprehensions of his wife, sets out with his dog Lucy to join Kurt in an overnight excursion into Oregon's wilderness.

Kurt (brilliantly played by folk musician Will Oldham of Palace Music and Bonnie "Prince" Billie fame) is a bit of a mess when we meet him. Disheveled, carefree and devoid of direction, his life could not be more different from that of his friend. Mark has a roof over his head, a Volvo, a job and a pregnant wife at home. He is the archetype of the American lifestyle, one based in comfort and surroundings of things that add value to life. In the initial conversations between Kurt and Mark, we see hints of a past that was genuinely fun and carefree, of regaling in the spontaneity of youth and youthful exuberance. While it is never said, it is implied that Mark has moved on to adulthood, and Kurt remains in limbo, wandering the boundaries of maturity.

Kurt and Mark pack up the Volvo and drive out to the woods. In the background we hear the chatter of talk radio, of questions of the state of the nation, elections, and bipartisan politics. The radio fades as the men reach the woods, replaced by the aimless guitar pickings on the soundtrack by Yo La Tengo. The music, coupled with the stunning surroundings of the Pacific Northwest, create a dream landscape that is beautiful beyond words. Cinematographer Peter Sillen's camera drinks up the colours of the forest, spilling multitudes of shades of green, yellows and browns across the screen, offset by a crystalline blue sky. This film contains some of the most striking visuals I've seen since Thomas Riedelsheimer's RIVERS AND TIDES and Ron Fricke's BARAKA.

Kurt smokes a lot of weed and talks of contentment, of commitment, of times past and regrets for having lost touch with Mark. Mark is reserved, still feeling out what his friend has become, and he is still tied via cell phone to a busy life back home. Mark's wife periodically calls and makes sure everything is ok, and she is a constant reminder of Mark's domestic bliss and imprisonment. This is a quietly surprising element, especially considering the director of OLD JOY is a woman.

Kurt and Mark amble and talk, they get lost and they learn more about one another. Ultimately the spring is found, and Kurt reveals a truth that is both subtle and devastating. The men return home, changed, but still with some sense of purpose, for better or worse.

There have been many critics of this film, calling it listless and droning, but I would contend that they are stuck in their definitions of Americana. This is an America that they would prefer not to see, populated with people who want to get away and who seek something other than the nice car, the big house, the 2.5 kids and a garage. The men in OLD JOY do not, in the eyes of classical Americana, represent success. But they are smart people, and they are kind people, and what they seek is that which no amount of material or marital success can buy: a sense of self worth.

I simply loved this movie. It reminded me of my friends that I have lost and lost touch with, and made me think about how I remember those fond memories with these people. It made me think of a meeting I had with an old friend whom I had grown up with since I was a toddler. We went to college together, and while on campus we started to grow distant. After graduation we rarely saw each other again. He got married early and had kids, and I recently saw him again at my wedding.

It was awkward talking to him. We spent almost an hour rekindling fond memories of when we were kids- the stupid games we played, the first time we saw a naked woman on television, the basketball tournaments we entered, etc.. Those were good times. We tried desperately to rebuild that level of fun and communication that we once had, but it was proving quite difficult. He had changed. I had changed. Our world views had changed. He was a father. He'd become conservative, myself quite liberal. I thought to myself that if I were to meet him as a stranger today, I probably wouldn't be his friend, he probably would think the same of me. But we still loved each other. He was still my childhood friend, and I know I could still trust him, and he could trust me. But it just wasn't there. It felt hollow and empty.

Some time after the wedding I thought about my meeting with my friend. I called him and was honest with him, and said maybe we shouldn't try to rekindle what we had in the past. Maybe we should celebrate instead what we've become. My friend, always intelligent, always thoughtful, said it was a great idea. We still didn't have anything to talk about, but a tremendous weight was lifted off our shoulders. We could go on with our lives.

Watching OLD JOY was a revelation of that particular moment, encapsulated within lyrical and visual poetry so profound and subtle that it seeped into every facet of my mind and body. Do not listen to the detractors who call this film slow or hardly engaging- on the contrary, the film is constantly with us, beside us, inside us, pulling and pushing us for answers. We see in these two men the naked truth, the interactions with our friends and loved ones we want and ought to have.

The film's genius is in its ability to say so much with so little. The best example of this comes in a poetic allegory told by Kurt. He recalls a meeting with an old East Indian woman, who leaves him with one poignant line, a line that defines our love-hate relationship with our past:

"Sorrow is nothing but old joy."

We want things to be the way they used to be. In the comfort of our mother's arms. When someone always was there to take care of you. When you cried, there was a shoulder to lean upon. Somewhere along the line, we lost that. Everyone does. But many few of us have actually moved on. We pine for something that had a time and a place, and live with the frustration and hope that we will feel those comforts again. We can, but only in a different incarnation. It will never be the same, but cherish those memories for what they were.

In the final shots of OLD JOY we see Kurt wandering aimlessly about Portland. We don't know what he's up to, but it doesn't matter. One look at his actions and you know he is making a transition- for the better or worse, that is for us to decide. But it will never be like it used to be. Nothing in our lives ever is.

OLD JOY is available on DVD.

P.S. It is worthy to note that OLD JOY was made on a budget of $30,000. Thus proving that cinema can achieve stunning visuals and compelling stories by sheer virtuosity and practical application of intelligence and eye. In the age when the average Hollywood film costs in excess of $65 million to make, OLD JOY is a reminder of where the true equity in cinema is to be found.