Nothing just moves in Trey Edward Shults’ disorienting debut Krisha; it sloshes, slips, tackles, and caws. A dizzying symphony of brain-clattering sound, feverishly unhinged camerawork, and a tightknit, ink-blotter ensemble led by the ferocious Krisha Fairchild, Shults’ get the family together for Thanksgiving drama shoots you right off your seat and holds you hostage over the darkest edge of the human id. Red onions notoriously make you weep but under Shults’ rack-focus eye, they make you want to hurl too. Such portent may lead one to expect a draining, inhumane slog through the mud.
But that alone would be far too easy. This is an exhilarating hostage situation, not just by witnessing a filmmaker’s virtuosic warp over cinematic language but also by the hot cohesion of its richly observed and highly specific setting, and the barbed black comedy that comes along with it. It feels like home, which is to say, Krisha is the waking nightmare of reckoning yourself against the eyes and ears that know you best, a big hug from your aunt that just may choke you from the inside out.
It's been a banner year for female directors. Two female directors have continually been in the Best Director Oscar discussion, they continue to make inroads in indie cinema (see the Spirit Award first feature and first screenplay citations!) and in many countries outside of the US. And that's not all. The year's most impressive debut stint behind the camera arguably belongs to Jennifer Kent (pictured left) whose controlled, creepy, beautifully designed and acted Australian horror film The Babadook has been winning raves. After a stint on Direct TV it's just hit US theaters, albeit only three of them. May it expand swiftly to unsettle every city.
When I spoke with Ms. Kent over the phone we were experiencing and ungainly time-lag and accidentally talking over one another. A time-lag also happened when I watched her movie the first time; its unique slow build had me more frightened after the movie finished than while I was watching it. It sticks. The tag line is true
You can't get rid of the Babadook.
I mention that I'm pre-ordering the Babadook book as I'm telling this story about how the movie continues to haunt me. "Then you'd better not," she says laughing as we begin our conversation about debut filmmaking, snobber towards horror films, what she learned from Lars von Trier, and the miracles of Essie Davis' lead performance.
NATHANIEL: Have you had a lot of weird reactions to the film?
JENNIFER KENT: Yeah, I have. I’ve had the gamut of reactions from people seeking a roller coaster ride with jolts and scares. They've been like 'Ripped off. This isn’t a horror film!' to people like yourself. What’s most surprising to me is -- more than a couple of people have said ‘I really didn’t like but I saw it again.' Why wouldyou see it again? And then changing their minds about it. [More...]
It's Tim. September marks the centennial of famed director Robert Wise, winner of Oscars for the musicals West Side Story and The Sound of Music among several other classic films, and the members of Team Experience are going to spend the next several days revisiting work from the entire range of his career. And what better place to start than at the very beginning: 1944's The Curse of the Cat People, which was Wise's directorial debut, taking over from Gunther V. Fritsch, when the project fell behind schedule. It's part of the legendary run of movies produced by Val Lewton's horror-oriented B-unit at RKO, a studio where Wise had already logged time as an editor (cutting both Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons, no less). But it's not, itself, a horror movie, despite being the sequel to Cat People, one of the canonically great horror films in history. And despite Wise having a terrific hand for horror, as he'd first prove with his third feature, the Lewton-produced The Body Snatcher.
The Curse of the Cat People is, rather, a sort of psychologically realist fairy tale, taking its title (which RKO forced upon Lewton, though giving him the freedom to make any plot he wanted to under that name) to the most symbolic, abstract extreme possible. It involves Oliver Reed (Kent Smith) and his wife Alice (Jane Randolph), the heroes of the earlier film, moved to the New York suburbs with their six-year-old daughter Amy (Ann Carter), who's having a problem separating fantasy from reality lately. And the audience is forced into having much the same problem, when Amy wishes for a friend and gets one in the form of Irena (Simone Simon), whom devotees of Cat People might recall was Oliver's first wife. The one who transformed into a panther when she got sexually aroused, and is dead now.
A girlish debutante in a white gown floats down the stairs and into her waiting beau's arms. Gracefully, they glide around the dance floor sharing quips and quiet smiles. Thus is the world introduced to Katharine Hepburn in A Bill of Divorcement in 1932. It's a pretty enough entrance, but somehow inauspicious for Kate the Great. It is just so entirely Movie Ingénue Ordinary. The girl floating down the stairs could just as easily be Jeanette McDonald or Joan Bennett. Considering who Katharine Hepburn was and who she became, one would expect her to come striding into the room like a Greek goddess. Katharine Hepburn would make many more striking and characteristic entrances later, so for now we'll settle for this beautiful-if-ephemeral debut of the ingénue, and proceed with my own introduction.
My name is Anne Marie, and Katharine Hepburn is my idol. The first movie I ever saw her in was The Philadelphia Story. Kate was powerful and witty. She wore pants and still looked glamorous. To an awkward tomboy in middle school, she was everything. This idolatry only intensified as I grew. But recently, while perusing IMDb, I discovered two shocking things:
I have only seen a third of Katharine Hepburn's movies
Bless the Walter Reade theater and The Film Society of Lincoln Center. This summer has been so trying in so many ways, but the Judy Garland retrospective is bliss. It helps that the Walter Reade is such a great place to see older films what with great air conditioning, comfortable seats and a big screen. The same can't (unfortunately) be said for the other prime NYC HQ for cinephiles (Film Forum). Anyway, people often think of Judy as an icon of tragic catharsis: heartbreak voice, trembling gesture, short life... but then you see the movies and she's just got charm for miles, a full range from light touch to direct hit, and she's funny and dazzling. Watching her proves far more joyous than tearful though sometimes the two come together.
I caught two consecutive features earlier this week from the brief moment between her ascendance (Dorothy Gale + allthose Mickey Rooney pictures) and adult superstardom (Meet Me In St. Louis). Both pictures were made around her 20th year, as she left teen stardom behind.
For Me and My Gal (1942) This was the first of Judy Garland's three pairings with Gene Kelly (and his film debut!) and the first picture where she alone was billed above the title, indicating Hollywood's new confidence in her bankability. It's a period piece with Gene & Judy playing low rent vaudeville act "Palmer & Hayden". They're attempting to up their game and become headliners at the Palace (New York) just as Judy's brother and all able bodied young men are being shipped off to World War I. Palmer (Kelly) doesn't want to go when the draft hits him and this relentless career drive looks like cowardice and lack of patriotism to everyone including Hayden (Garland).
Two of the movie musical's greatest bond over song and dance. It's a little bit like that famous scene in ONCE (2007) actually, a kindred spirit discovered at the piano.
The film peaks quite early with the title song, a thrilling example of what modern musicals are always forgetting: songs are supposed to move the story along! "For Me and My Gal" was an old standard at the time -- this is essentially a jukebox musical like Singin' in the Rain -- but it's used as a plot device, the performance of which, falsely casual over coffee, is a sneaky ploy by loveable cad Palmer (Kelly) to win innocent Hayden (Kelly) away from her current act.
As anyone who's ever seen Kelly & Garland perform together knows, they're a match. The ploy will work. That swoony soft tenor of Kelly's, the aural equivalent of a randy comfortable blanket for vocal partners to take to their beds, just nuzzles right up to her more powerful alto, and let's it do the heavier breathing while he moves. And oh how he moves. John Fricke, noted Garland historian, was on hand to introduce the film and he shared that Kelly credited Judy with teaching him how to act for the camera. He didn't yet know how subtly you can play for the camera as opposed to the stage (Before this film he'd become a Broadway sensation in "Pal Joey" and Garland lobbied to hand him this debut.). You can see Kelly's learning curve in this film but as a song and dance man, he just can't be beat.
I amend. The film peaks a little later than that, when Judy sings "After You're Gone" which would become a concert staple for her (see below).
You can chalk up the song's staying power to the weird combo of its fickle tempo changes and Garland's unfaltering emotional control of its content. The film version of this number (I couldn't find a good video), takes place in a improvisational hurry because Kelly has been seeing another woman (Márta Eggerth -- more on her in the next post) and is late to their performance. Garland is essentially selling the song AND three separate character and plot points within its ebbs and crescendos: Hayden's ascendance into a confident entertainer who is able to leave her personal drama offstage, a young girl's immediate and unruly love for a man who is clearly trouble, and a maturing woman's worry about their future as partners. The song is prophecy, future tense, but Garland manages to sell her character's past, immediate present and future depending on the note.
Amazing.
The film's second half -- once we arrive at draft dodging and war bond selling patriotism and even an actual grenade throwing war sequence, is weirdly ungainly and choppy. But the film is definitely worth seeing as a milestone in three of the greatest careers within cinema's musical genre: Garland's, Kelly's, and director Busby Berkeley who considered For Me and My Gal his best film. (People aren't always the best judges of their own work but that's still something.
For Me and My Gal (first half: B+; second half: B-)
As exit music, why not Gene Kelly dueting with wee Liza on the title track years and years after her mama's movie hit it big?
Isn't that sweet?
Next up... the other film from this time period, with some interesting similarities Presenting Lily Mars (1943)
Saturday, March 19, 2016 at 3:04PM 
Nothing just moves in Trey Edward Shults’ disorienting debut Krisha; it sloshes, slips, tackles, and caws. A dizzying symphony of brain-clattering sound, feverishly unhinged camerawork, and a tightknit, ink-blotter ensemble led by the ferocious Krisha Fairchild, Shults’ get the family together for Thanksgiving drama shoots you right off your seat and holds you hostage over the darkest edge of the human id. Red onions notoriously make you weep but under Shults’ rack-focus eye, they make you want to hurl too. Such portent may lead one to expect a draining, inhumane slog through the mud.
