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.

CHOPPER

CHOPPER
Written and Directed by Andrew Dominik

I never killed anyone that didn't deserve it."
- Mark "Chopper" Read

There's justifiably been a lot of discussion about the nature of violence this week. We try to postulate the many causes of erratic and sociopath behaviour, and more times than not we come to a nebulous notion of hatred and fear. There is some inner demon that haunts these men and women who commit such violent crimes- the religious right would call it possession or sin, the scientists would call it the ego, the metaphysicians would call it a dark negative energy. I think there's an element to all of this that is universal, however, and that is the call for attention, which in turn is a function of loneliness.

In lieu of the Virginia Tech shootings- particularly the public release of videos, photos, and written screenplays by the gunman, I decided to revisit an old film that I thought might give me more clarity on the mindset of crime and publicity. I turned to Andrew Dominik's CHOPPER, a little-seen Australian film starring Eric Bana.

Bana (in one of the best performances you'll ever see, seriously) plays the real-life Mark "Chopper" Read, a hardened criminal serving seventeen years in the slammer for a variety of crimes from drug dealing, extortion, and attempted murder. An endlessly charismatic man, Chopper is also a man prone to violence stemming from a deep distrust of his fellow human being. He is a short fuse, an otherwise intelligent man whose literacy is shunned in the face of jealously and mistrust.

The film opens in a maximum security prison in Tasmania, and the clear divide between cliques of prisoners is established from the outset. Blurring the lines sits Chopper, shit-eating grin on his face, a man who defies categorization and doesn't care for it. To be given an archetype would be to meld in, and Chopper's thirst for attention drives him to acts of insane violence within the prison walls (including a scene involving self-mutilation that makes "Reservoir Dog" seem tame). He is determined to make sure that in whatever space he occupies, his name will be the one in the spotlight. Even when other inmates assault him, he is the one who gets more press then the assailant. From the moment we meet him, we know that Chopper has one goal in mind: to be the most notorious man in all of Australia.

But as bizarrely magnanimous as Chopper is, he is also the most hated man in Australia. Every other bloke has a contract out on him, and once released from prison, Chopper's life is one consumed by looking over his shoulder. Self-preservation becomes paramount, although the drive for attention follows close behind.

But it's not like the cops would let a nutcase like Chopper out on the streets and simply let him roam free. A relationship is established between Chopper and the fuzz, and we're never truly clear as to who in this relationship has the upper hand. Because of his history, the police know that Chopper will have the top criminals after his head, and that he is the bait they so desperately need. Conversely, Chopper uses the relationship with the police to carry out his dual plan to eliminate his enemies, and to make sure he gets some good press out of it. It is the most unholy of unions, to say the least.

Armed to the neck, Chopper traverses across Sydney and proceeds to harass, instigate and eventually murder those who seek him harm. These are not simple acts of vengeance, however, as they are coolly calculated- Chopper knows who should be maimed, and who should die. While Chopper himself comes off as a ranting, raving bulldog, we never lose sight of the fact that this is an intelligent man, one who has lucid vision in terms of the (literal) execution of his goals. Chopper's actions take him to the front page of media, when he is accused of killing a man in cold blood. He is acquitted of the murder, but is sent to serve time for a previous attempt of murder. With his face on the front page of papers all over Australia, Chopper couldn't be more happy with the verdict. He even proceeds to write a book in prison, and riding the notoriety of his reputation, the book becomes a bestseller and makes Chopper a very wealthy, and more importantly, very popular man.

Bu it's the final scene in the film that delivers the most poignant message, and its relevance to the recent events at Virginia Tech is revealing and bone-chilling. The film ends with Chopper in his cell, watching television with a pair of prison guards. The program is a news interview with Chopper, a tell-all about his new book. On television, Chopper is in fine form, cracking jokes, flirting with the newswoman, and exuding panache and cool. Watching the program, Chopper is in awe of himself, paying more attention however to the reactions of the prison guards, who treat him with the kindness and privilege of a celebrity client. The program ends, and the guards inform Chopper that it's time to lock up. They leave the cell, and shut the heavy metal door. We see Chopper alone in his cell, quiet. All he can do is stare at the wall. He no longer has an audience. He's back to being a loner. And for the first time in the film, we see some hint of sadness. The film ends.

It's one of the most poignant scenes I've ever seen, and the message it implies about the quest for attention rings true in every facet. Chopper got his fifteen minutes of fame, he rebuked his naysayers, and he was, for that moment, the ruler of his domain. But in one moment- the shutting of a door- he was alone again, back to where he started. Nothing gained, but much irreversible damage done. I see the same in Cho Seung-hui, the shooter at Virgina Tech. Why make a video? Why mail it to the local news media? It's a bitter indicative of a man seeking an audience, and like Mark "Chopper" Read, he was willing to do it at the maximum expense of others. Cho Seung-hui has successfully grabbed our attention, and he will be written in the history books, but his legacy as a man is already forgotten. He died a sad, lonely death. Like Chopper, I feel little sympathy for him, if anything I feel great pity for them. I feel like all that a normal person- a friend and not a doctor- could have done for people like Cho Seung-hui or Chopper was to simply ask them "how's your life going" and just listen to what they had to say.

And maybe that's the problem. A person who seeks attention never has an audience, because the audience has already judged them as not worthy their time. Cho Seung-hui probably wanted to be seen as a normal Joe. But he wasn't a normal Joe, he was a troubled man, who refused the help of others. He denied his audience by himself insisting that his behaviour was normal. He denied he needed help when a doctor told him he was a danger to himself. He saw himself as someone the world didn't understand, a tortured soul who stood for something true in a world full of falsities. But his truth was demented and flawed- he just could not accept that. It reminds me of a dialogue from the film, when Chopper makes the odd declaration:

"I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture."

So sad is the denial of truth, and the embracing of the absurd.

GRINDHOUSE

Every once in a while I feel plucky and venture onto IMDB.com, and make occasional postings on the infinite number of message boards that the site has to offer. I was feeling particularly frisky after seeing '300', and posted a message of how I found the film hollow, specifically how it's violence had no meaning and served no other purpose but to quell the bloodlust of 14-year old boys.

I took quite a beating at the hands of fanboys, who berated me for 'not getting it' and 'forcing family values' down their throats. Water off a duck's back, but it did reveal one thing to me: I do love a good violent movie, but it's been a while since I've seen one that put its violence within context, that had violence with purpose, impact, and ramification. '300' left me feeling upset and disgusted, and when I see the ads for the new film PATHFINDER bookended with the announcement that the film is 'Rated R for strong brutal violence throughout,' well, let's just say I'm left with the idea that we're peddling violence for the simple sake of violence. I miss seeing a violent film with some semblance of a motive, or at least an internal logic for the violence that is designed to tell a story. I just haven't seen that type of film for a long, long time, and I really wanted to see a good, throwback, violent-ass movie.

After seeing Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's double feature GRINDHOUSE, I left theater satisfied, my thirst for violence quenched, and I didn't have a single guilty bone in my body for enjoying it. Infact this wasn't even a guilty pleasure, it was a pleasure through and through. It's an excellent film and a a brilliant example of genre filmmaking, and we're witnessing two of cinema's great talents on their way to reaching the height of their creative powers.

A bold statement for a film that pays loving tribute to some of the most ludicrous movies ever produced in cinematic history. Across America in the 70s and 80s, independent cinema halls would cram two, sometimes three of these Z-grade features into one program, a 'grind' of films that had no reason to exist other than to waste away an afternoon during summer break. These films, as ridiculous and over the top as they were, were pure escapism, and the fact that the filmmakers behind them actually 'went there' made them as bold statements of cinematic freedom as their more serious counterparts that were winning Oscars and Palme D'Ors. I remember my favourite grindhouse films were shown at the Cinderella City Drive-In Cinema in Denver, where we spent hot summer evenings watching implausible classics such as GRIZZLY, DAY OF THE ANIMALS, EL TOPO and GYMKATA. So when I heard that Rodriguez and Tarantino were making a tribute to the Grindhouse, I waited with baited breath.

And Hollywood's enfants terribles didn't disappoint. After a trailer for a Mexican renegade revenge drama MACHETE (with a scene-stealing cameo from Cheech Marin), we're greeted with a slinky, oversexed pole dance courtesy of Rose McGowan, who oozes sex bomb appeal in full Bettie Page/ Bardot pinup glory. At the end of the dance routine the dancer, known affectionately as Cherry, sheds a tear, saddened by the potential of her life wasted, her dreams of becoming a doctor washed away. The tear is an incomplete thought, and in classic grindhouse fashion, it's a good idea soon to be left to the wayside when the writer/ director finds a much more visceral subject to dig his teeth into, primarily flesh eating zombies. Welcome to PLANET TERROR.

Robert Rodriguez's contribution to GRINDHOUSE is a balls-to-the-walls splattercore zombie classic, a pitch-black headtrip that never relents in its desire to both shock and entertain the viewer. The film is as funny as it is grotesque, replete with exploding pustules, gory dismemberment, cheesy lines, and character archetypes so thinly devised that to call them transparent would be to call Paris Hilton vapid.

The plot is simple: a deadly biochemical gas has spilled into the atmosphere, turning ordinary people (in the backwater hick sense of ordinary) into flesh eating zombies. A small motley group of people are inexplicably immune to the gas, and it is up to them to ensure that the human race will survive. Rodriguez derives great pleasure from gazing over his victims' bodies (Black-Eyed Peas singer Fergie makes two notable contributions to the film, from the front and back) and destroying them in the most imaginative, sick ways. Every conception of logic is obliterated in glorious fashion, and the sinful pleasure is that as an audience, we are aware of the silliness, but it is the characters in the film who remain deadly serious about their predicament. Our enigmatic hero El Wray spews off heroic and purposeful one-liners from bad horror films as if its the only form of English he knows. Besides, he shouldn't waste time talking- he has a lot of ass to kick and tap. And lord knows he does, if only interrupted mid-coitus by a suspicious 'reel missing' slide placed by 'the management.'

PLANET TERROR is one of those films that makes you want to cringe, laugh, vomit, eat red meat, have wild sex and drive around like a maniac. It implores every basal element of our hedonistic desires (both male and female), and even manages to throw in a spot of forced patriotism (a name check of Osama Bin Laden is tossed in for good measure). It's what we call a plain ol' good time at the movies, but one that still requires our attention- there's no 'shutting off' one's brain when watching a movie like this because there's just so many parts, plots, subplots, and elements thrown at us. Rodriguez weaves it all together in a seamless, cognizant fashion, and in lesser hands the film would be rendered an incomprehensible mess.

PLANET TERROR is followed by a trio of trailers for never-made horror classics, including Rob Zombie's WEREWOLF WOMEN OF THE SS and Eli Roth's THANKSGIVING. Credit goes to Roth for creating the best of the trailers, a truly tasteless slice of 70s horror exploitation that is both nauseating and hilarious.

Coming off the adrenaline rush that was PLANET TERROR, Quentin Tarantino's half of the double feature, DEATH PROOF, does not start off with a bang but rather a mouthful of gab. In true Tarantino fashion, emphasis is placed upon witty dialogue between a host of characters that discuss everything from bar pickup etiquette to esoteric discussions of rarely-seen cinema. The dialogue is long winded and, while not uninteresting, manages to unfortunately kill off any thrills that were built up in the first half of the double feature.

It's only until halfway through the feature that Tarantino hits his stride. After four girls (including stunning headturner Sidney Poitier) roam about Austin, Texas talking, drinking, and talking some more, they come across a stranger who goes by the name Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russel in a superb performance, perhaps one of his best). The girls do not fear Stuntman Mike, rather they fear his car, an ominous black muscle machine with a skull painted across its hood. Common sense tells us to stay leery of such symbols, and Tarantino plays it like a fiddle in a gruesome turn of events.

Cut to the second half of the film, and Tarantino once again drowns the momentum in dialogue with a new quartet of women, including Rosario Dawson and Zoe Bell.

A quick word about Zoe Bell. She is a physical specimen unlike any other human being ever put on film, save for maybe Sebastien Foucan, co-founder of the sport Parkour, who showed unheralded dexterity in the opening sequence of 2006's CASINO ROYALE. But Zoe is as tough and skilled as Foucan, and maybe more so, demonstrated by her amazing stunt work in DEATH PROOF. Actually, amazing doesn't do her sequences justice- jaw dropping is perhaps more suitable. Bell is an action superstar in the making, and it almost seems Tarantino concieved the entire script for DEATH PROOF to showcase her talents. And who can blame him, she's simply incredible.

The second half of DEATH PROOF shows us that Quentin Tarantino rightfully belongs among the ranks of James Cameron, John Woo, Steven Spielberg, William Freidkin and Buster Keaton as one of the great directors of action, even though he's known more for his pop-culture dialogue and fractured storytelling techniques. DEATH PROOF contains one of the most memorable car chase sequences since THE FRENCH CONNECTION, and is lent all the more punch by the fact that it is done without the benefit of CGI. Tarantino's highway sequence has more impact than the multimillion dollar videogame spectacle that was THE MATRIX RELOADED, and it gleefully rewrites the cat-and-mouse dynamics of the chase with a delightful and unexpected twist that is unprecedented in classic chase films like DEATH VAN and the seminal Spielberg classic, DUEL.

There's enough blood spilled in GRINDHOUSE to make a vampire blush, and the violence is both excessive and over-the-top. But unlike '300' and PATHFINDER, it is completely justified, defined, and rationalized. I didn't leave GRINDHOUSE worried about what kind of world we live in, a world populated with nihilists and sociopaths who applaud in the theater when humans are brutally slaughtered in the vague name of "freedom" or some other rose-tinted myopic cause. Rather, I found GRINDHOUSE to be a celebration of what makes art enjoyable, of why we truly go to the movies. It's by and far one of the best movies of 2007, and earns my highest possible recommendation.

Note: GRINDHOUSE has not performed well at the box office, which has come as a shock to industry analysts. This despite excellent reviews, an aggressive marketing campaign and above everything else, Rose McGowan in hot pants with machine gun for a leg. GRINDHOUSE has managed to be beat out by cinematic tripe such as ARE WE DONE YET?, BLADES OF GLORY and MEET THE ROBINSONS. It remains as one of the true mysteries of the year, and one can only hope that strong word of mouth will bring the film the success it so richly deserves. I may just have to bring it up on IMDB.

THE PLAGUE DOGS

I have a soft spot for animals. At times I think they are more noble than men, as they live an existence that is very clear and basic. Their affections are true, they can sense despair, and they are, in the end, loyal. Domesticated animals have put an implicit level of trust in us to take care of them, as we've robbed them of their ability to survive in the wild. Understanding this, I am puzzled and terrified by those who abuse animals, those who exert an unfair balance of power upon creatures that place their faith in men.

If an abused animal ever had a voice, it was best heard in Martin Rosen's long forgotten animated classic, THE PLAGUE DOGS. Made in 1982 on a low budget, the film is an adaptation of Richard Adams' novel of the same title, and features the voice talents of John Hurt, Patrick Stewart, Nigel Hawethorn and Christopher Benjamin.

The story begins with an odd scene of a black Labrador Retriever paddling in a large water tank. The dog collapses with exhaustion, and sinks to the bottom of the tank. We hear the voices of men in the background, crunching scientific data and mentioning something about endurance tests. The dog is fished out of the tank with a long hook and resuscitated, and thrown back into his pen where there are hundreds of other dogs.

The dog is Rawf (voiced by Christopher Benjamin), and he mumbles to his neighbor, Snitter (John Hurt), a skittery terrier who has a bandage that covers the top of his scalp. Rawf talks of "Whitecoats", the men who subject the cruel and punishing tests to these animals, and in his exhaustion he talks of killing them.

And this is our welcome to the world of THE PLAGUE DOGS, one where noble creatures are subject to the mores and depravities of mankind. The tone of this film and story is established from the outset- this is a dark film, a grim story, and one where we know our two protagonists will be tested (both literally and figuratively) to their breaking points. This is not THE LION KING, and viewers beware: the film pulls no punches.

Snitter and Rawf are lab test animals, and they are imprisoned, along with monkeys, rats, and rabbits, in a secret laboratory located within a government sanctioned park in the Lake District in the UK. The two dogs, through sheer determination and delusion, manage to escape from the lab. Snitter, a dog who once had a master, seeks the memories of comfort and joy that he knew before a tragedy landed him in the testing facility. Rawf, a dog who knows little of the outside world, carries a chip upon his shoulder and a deathly fear of water. The dogs escape to the open, and realize that because of the efforts of men, they are ill equipped to live in the wild. They make the ultimate decision- they must revert to their wild nature and kill, or else they shall starve.

The transition is not easy, and the pair enlist the help of a clever fox, known simply as The Tod. With the assistance of The Tod the trio manage to kill several sheep. Unknown to the animals however is that these sheep belong to local farmers, who become distressed over the loss of several sheep. They organize a hunt to capture and kill the predators of their livelihood.

Meanwhile another crisis brews in the government, as they fear that the release of two dogs from the test facility would bring a wave of negative awareness to the treatment of the animals. The media investigation into the matter goes from base curiosity to panic, and the game of telephone result in the start of a nasty rumor: the dogs may carry fleas that carry the plague. The remainder of the film is a thrilling chase with two goals: the dogs to find their freedom, and the humans to cover up their crimes.

I won't divulge which goal sees fruition, but I can disclose that THE PLAGUE DOGS has one of the most emotional and moving endings I've ever seen, live or animated. In the end I was reaffirmed of the cruelty of man, but also the blessings of friendship and kindness, and the ebullience of freedom and independence. It is the culmination of a relationship that is based upon pure kindness and compassion, one of survival and fraternity. It damn near made me cry.

THE PLAGUE DOGS avoids the traps of other films that anthropomorphize animals. Films like BABE and the countless Disney films make us empathize with the animals as people, with human emotions and human desires. Rawf and Snitter do not share the desires of humans, rather they share the desires of animals- to be fed, to be loved, and to be free. They never stray from these desires, as it is their unalienable right. The dogs do not serve as a metaphor for human behaviour, rather they are the recipients of it, and their reactions seem authentic and true. Credit goes to the masterful voice work and the naturalistic animation. Rosen and his band of animators manage to capture small details that are true to dogs, and they create characters that are natural, effortless, and ultimately believable.

THE PLAGUE DOGS was little seen, probably because it was too intense for children, and contained far too much veracity for adults. It is an odd film with no real home, much like its protagonists. But it belongs in our lives. We see in this film good dogs that want- and need- a good home, and the love that they shall bestow in return is limitless. We see that when man tampers with nature, the ramifications can be cruel and unbecoming, and they expose us as monsters. If you previously were ambivalent about animal testing by cosmetics and commercial entities, then after seeing THE PLAGUE DOGS your mind will truly change. This is a shattering, poignant piece of work, and the most powerful work of animation that I'd seen since the masterpiece GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES.

The film is not an easy watch, nor will children be able to comprehend the complexities of the emotions on display. But it is an important work nonetheless, and worthy of time and discussion. You may not be happy after watching THE PLAGUE DOGS, but you will feel more complete and enlightened for having experienced it. I can't say that about too many films.

Now if you excuse me, I'm going to go hug my cat.

BRING IT ON: ALL OR NOTHING

I just realized that in my film reviews, I'm not being fair. I'm only reviewing films that I think are good. So I need to invoke the spirit of Fox News and bring a "fair and balanced" approach to reviewing movies.

Which brings me to BRING IT ON: ALL OR NOTHING, the third part of the cheerleading magnum opus trilogy. I must admit, the original BRING IT ON is a guilty pleasure, a well executed piece of pop confection that always holds my attention. I really really enjoy it. The DVD sits next to my copy of THE DOUBLE LIFE OF VERONIQUE on my bookshelf.

Then there was a second installment which nobody saw, and we are blessed with the third (and presumably final) installment. In fairness to the target audience, I shall now divulge the plot, in character:

So, like, there's this totally hot chick named Brittany who's all like perfect and stuff, like she's dating the high school quarterback and is the captain of her cheerleading squad. She kinda is a total bitch to some of the girls on her squad, but like, she's dedicated to being the best, so she sees it more as like, what do they call it? Destructive criticism?

Anyway so her dad has to like to move for his job and whatever, and Brittany has to transfer to this totally ghetto Crenshaw High School which is full of like, gang bangers and black people. Brittany tries to, like, join the cheerleading squad but the black and hispanic kids are totally mean to her, and they like call her "white girl" and are totally bitchy with her. But Brittany gets on the squad, and she's introduced to this totally new way of dancing that's done in the hood- I think they call it Krumping. And so,like....


OK I have to stop here because if I vomit on my computer then it will short circuit.

This movie was on ABC Family last night and I have to say it was the most racist film I'd seen since BIRTH OF A NATION. I shit you not. Every possible racial stereotype was played out to just below blatant levels, and it made me wonder why the filmmakers just didn't go the extra step. Why didn't they just have the Puerto Rican girl pull a razorblade out from under her tongue and punctuate every one of her lines with "mi vida loca" and "pendejo" and have all of her friends dressed up like cholos? And why not just have the white kids call the black kids niggers- they said every other term, including "gang bangers," "hood rats" and ghetto kids." An Asian girl, who by the way knows martial arts, is even referred to as "Crouching Tiger." Just go ahead and call her a chink with her "Ancient Chinese Secret."

There's even a scene where lead "actress" Hayden Panettiere (god will someone please stop giving this insufferable girl work), having been blessed with the humility of minority life, steps up to her former white friends and declares "You better watch yourself, white girl!" A white girl berating another white girl for being a white girl? What the hell is going on here? Having denounced her white-devil heritage and embraced the simple life of humble working minorities, Hayden then turns to her Latino boy crush and Krumps with him.

And that's just the racism bit. The film lovingly embraces and focuses on jailbait buttcheeks, midriffs and boobs, and features more crotch shots than a Jenna Jameson double feature. The clearly underage nymphets don't just suggest sex, they even have it, with the bitchy antagonist declaring in front of her entire high school that she too had sex with the high school quarterback, and goddammit he loved every minute of it. We all know it happens, but on ABC Family? Whose parent company is Disney?

And then there's the running gag about eating disorders. A girl who is skinny is constantly told that she is fat, and once she passes out she's happy to eat a Snickers bar. She realizes, in a moment of intellectual clarity, that "I come from a family of fat asses." I'm not joking with you, that's what she really says.

The movie tries to moralize its racist and prejudiced undertones as "don't judge a book by its cover" but it fails miserably because it doesn't make an example of them, it makes jokes out of them. Bad jokes. Tasteless jokes. Mean-spirited jokes.

If CRASH was a dissection of race relations in America, then BRING IT ON:ALL OR NOTHING is the cancerous tumor of racism in America that continues to grow and fester. The scriptwriters use the ideology of "I was only joking" to cover up their core belief that "stereotypes exist for a reason," which is absolutely reprehensible. It's like if I were to go to a random black man on the street here in Chicago and tell him "You look like a cotton-pickin' nigger," and then follow that with a pat on the back and telling him " I'm just joking with ya." I might say I'm joking, but the fact of the matter is that I still fucking said the joke, and I probably wouldn't have said it if I didn't believe in it, even fractionally.

Don Imus is rightfully getting his ass kicked for saying racist remarks about the Rutgers women's basketball team, and he's trying to defend himself saying it was just a joke. You don't call someone a "nappy head ho" and later tell them you're just joking. And people around this country are defending him using the rhetoric "it's ok for a black man to call a black woman a ho, why can't a white man do it?" Because the black man who calls a black woman a ho or another black man a nigger is as much of an ingrate as a white man who does it. Don't judge assholes against other assholes, judge them against standards of universal decency.

This movie is an utter abomination, a primitive piece of hate posing as compassionate conservatism, and a disgrace. And the fact that its being marketed to kids is a crime punishable by solitary for life. Shame on the people who make this crap.