Nashville Awards: Andrew Haigh's "Weekend" and More...

Jury Deliberations. Most festivals have separate jurors for each of the major sections. Cannes is the one people are most familiar with it being the festival of festivals. The competition slate is the main focus but they don't actually decide each of the awards you hear about. There are other juries gathered to decide things like the Camera D'Or (best first film) and the short film prizes. Nashville has five juries and they're also an AMPAS qualifying festival so if, for instance, a short film wins "best" in category here it becomes eligible for Oscar consideration. I was on the Narrative Competition jury this year. The running joke at the table became "this doesn't leave the table..." so...end of story!

Let it suffice to say that it's always usually enjoyable to discuss movies with other creative types and in this case it was extra enjoyable as my fellow jurors Dan Butler (previous discussed) and Joe Leydon (a Texas based film critic who also writes for Variety) were both fun passionate movie-loving guys.

After we decided our prizes, I scampered over to the Music Film jury when I saw them wrapping up to thank the gorgeous Kimberly Reed for her Prodigal Sons film the one I kept raving about to y'all a couple of years back. She told me about a new percolating project of hers but she's actually still trekking around the country with her breakthrough film years later. Oprah's interest in her story really made a huge impact -- Oprah really does control the world, doesn't she? -- but that kind of sustained interest couldn't have happened to a better documentary or to a more articulate champion for the transgendered community.

BEST OF THE 2011 NASHVILLE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL

Read on to find out which films each jury loved as well as a few notes on the films.

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Distant Relatives: The Toy Story Trilogy and The Films of Ingmar Bergman

Robert here, closing out the first season of my series Distant Relatives, (where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through theme and ask what their similarities/differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema) with the second part of this two part special.

Last week in PART ONE we discussed how the great sorrow or rejection by God or a loved one in Bergman’s universe is equvalent to rejection by the child owners (god/loved one amalgams that they are) of the Toy Story films. And when those owners have put their childish things aside, what do the toys do? Where do they find meaning in their lives? Now... PART TWO.

Hooray, you're old!

In Ingmar Bergman’s film Wild Strawberries, Professor Isak Borg is being recognized with an honorary degree. As he approaches this honor he is forced to look back on his life and wonder what it all means. Similarly in Toy Story 2, Woody is on the brink of recognition of his own, a place in a museum as the valuable toy he is. This is the opposite of what Woody fears will happen when Buzz arrives or what happens to so many spouses in Ingmar Bergman scripts. Instead of being discarded for their antiquity they’re being celebrated for it. And yet this alone does not give them great joy and purpose.

In Bergman films, losing a sense of meaning usually results in considerable tragedy. Max von Sydow’s villager Jonas in Winter Light meets a tragic end after his doubt in God is confirmed by the local parish preist. Liv Ullman’s actress in Persona goes mute, and while the reasons are a mystery, the sense is that she’s somehow come out of place in the world. Perhaps the most dramatic example of this is Von Sydow again,. His father figure Tore from The Virgin Spring reacts at the death of his daughter, his light, his legacy, his reason for being, with such an outburst of violence it continues to inspire tales of cinematic vengance to this day.

So it is with Stinky Pete. The prospector has never been taken out of his box. He’s never been played with by a child. His entire life has been leading up to recognition as an artifact, not a play thing. When it becomes apparent that he won’t achieve this recognition he reacts with violence. Buzz Lightyear himself goes through a similar trial. When, in the original Toy Story he finally learns that he is not a space man, he goes a bit bonkers. While his conflict is more internal, it is still evidence that the absence of purpose equals the presence of sorrow. So what brings Buzz back? To be sure, Woody’s insistence that the love of a child is a noble cause plays a part. But more actively, his ability to help his fellow toys is the true catalyst to his new self actualization.

I get by with a little help...

Buzz learns what Antonius Bloc of The Seventh Seal learns when he allows his new friends to escape the clutches of death, that in the absence of spiritual meaning, friendship and love are still present and still the noblest goals by which we can aspire to. It seems like too Capra-esque a message for a Bergman film (although keep in mind the reason why most Bergman’s are heavy is because his characters spend most of their time, denying or rejecting this fact). Whatever ache you feel at the loss of your god’s or partner’s love, fulfillment comes from knowing that love is an endless resource. This is what finally brings Professor Isak Borg peace as he recalls the absence of love in his life. It’s not his upcoming honor, it’s the realization that he has affected old friends, can still make new ones, and can reunite the marriage of his son an daughter-in-law. This is the realization that Woody has and that which he is able to bring to Jessie and Bullseye.

Togetherness and family is the running theme of the Toy Story films for this reason. It is what gives the toys their sense of purpose. It is what keeps them always chasing after each other. And it is the comfort where they turn when finally faced with certain death. It is also family that saves them from this death (utilizing the trilogy’s most memorable false god, The Claw and turning it from a force for indifferent chance into one of salvation). Consider that the happily ever after coda of the Toy Story trilogy finds the toys playing not with any owner, but with each other. And so all is well right? Except, this revelation that love conquers all isn’t always so easily realized. Sometimes our heroes have to go to hell and back to see it.

The flames of Sunnyside

For a filmmaker whose films deal in death, Ingmar Bergman has never gone over to the other side of existence, not literally at least. But the juxtaposing worlds of Fanny and Alexander, the loving home life and unforgiving realm of the evil minister are as close as you can come to the heaven and hell. The Toy Story 3 parallels are obvious. Bishop Vergerus and Lotso’ Huggin Bear are cut of the same cloth. Supposedly kind leaders of peace filled worlds, they are in fact dark lords who rule over their minion-filled empires with an iron (or plush) fist. These are the hells of eternal torture and damnation where our characters are supposedly doomed forever due to their own lapses of loneliness. But family comes to save them and heaven awaits in the form of a loving, playful, existence that affords them all the joy, with none of the oppressiveness of life’s endless excesses. Interestingly both “heavens” are theater environments, declarations by filmmakers of the joy apparent in the art of the pretend.

As for the differences between the Toy Story films and the oeuvre of Bergman, well they’re so obviously they almost need not be mentioned. Although they share similar themes and ideas, the endpoints often diverge. Toy Story endings are happy, Bergman ones can tend to be more complex, sometimes hopeless. But, as is often noted, even Bergman’s films are filed with more comedy than history gives him credit for. I’m also (according to myself) supposed to be observing what the similarities of these two kinds of films tell us about cinema's evolution. What I see here is what I’ve seen so many times in this series. The smart, deep, intellectual themes that many people consider relics of a civilized cinema past are still present today, and still selling tickets because of, not in spite of, their presence (whether the audience admits it or not). Not all children who love Toy Story will find their way to Bergman. But I wonder now if those who do will see the struggle for meaning, the fear of chaos, the sorrow and the love and think: I remember when Woody and Buzz felt the same way.

That does it for season 1 of Distant Relatives.
Here’s a list of all entries, for your revisiting or first time pleasure:

Citizen Kane & There Will Be Blood  |  The Deer Hunter & The Hurt Locker |   Taxi Driver & One Hour Photo  | The Spirit of the Beehive & Pan’s Labyrinth  |  The Entertainer & The Wrestler |   Metropolis & District 9  |  Repulsion & Black Swan  |   Blazing Saddles & Hot Fuzz |   F For Fake & Exit Through the Gift Shop  |  Solaris & Inception |   Annie Hall & (500) Days of Summer  |  Midnight Cowboy & The Fighter  |  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner & The Kids Are All Right  |  Raging Bull & The Social Network |   Jaws & True Grit  |  My Fair Lady & The King’s Speech  |   Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom & Dogtooth  |  Hamlet & The Dark Knight  |  The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari & Shutter Island |   Dr. Strangelove & In The Loop  |  The Toy Story Trilogy & the films of Ingmar Bergman pt 1

Mix Tape: "Porque Te Vas" in Cría Cuervos

Andreas from Pussy Goes Grrr here, to talk about one of my absolute favorite uses of popular music in film.

It's from Carlos Saura's Cría Cuervos, an underseen but beautiful film about three orphaned sisters being raised by their aunt in the twilight years of Franco's Spain. The whole film is seen from the (often distorted) perspective of the sensitive 8-year-old Ana, played by Spirit of the Beehive's precocious Ana Torrent, as she reckons with the loss of her adultering Fascist father and her sick, emotionally fragile mother, whose ghost is played by Geraldine Chaplin.

As she retreats into her inner world of memory and fantasy, away from the mundane realities of school and her strait-laced aunt, Ana has one major ally: the song "Porque Te Vas" ("Because You're Leaving") recorded by the British-Spanish musician Jeanette in 1974. It's a surprisingly downbeat pop song, but still fairly generic, and that suits Saura's purposes perfectly. After all, a song doesn't need to be perfect to be the cultural centerpiece of a small child's world.

For Ana, "Porque Te Vas" is special. It speaks to her. It's not profound, but it boasts a catchy beat and unapologetically emotive lyrics, including a refrain that roughly translates to, "All the promises of my love will go with you...", and that's more than enough.

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Distant Relatives: The Toy Story Trilogy and The Films of Ingmar Bergman

Robert here, closing out the first season of my series Distant Relatives, (where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through theme and ask what their similarities/differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema) with a two part special.

The meaning of life

It may seem like a cheat to compare a trilogy of films to a director’s entire collected works. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find elements in anyone’s filmography that happen to match up to the Toy Story films which cover a wide array of human (er, toy) emotion. But it’s not just random or occasional moments or themes that we’re talking about. When I see the Toy Story films, I see a primary emphasis on the two concepts that Ingmar Bergman explored though his entire career: the quest for meaning in life and the sorrow of being parted from those we love (one might also say the silence of God is in there but I find it to me more of an offshoot of those two motifs, more on that later). Indeed if Ingmar Bergman were a modern animator the Toy Story films may very well be what his output would look like.

But let’s talk about quests for meaning and the importance of relationships in today’s animated films. These are ubiquitous themes. The heroes of films like WALL-E, Shrek, The Incredibles, Ratatouille, How to Train Your Dragon, Up all find themselves on a quest that will bring a new sense of purpose to their rather humdrum lives. In the process they make a new connection or rekindle an old connection with a friend, spouse, family member, etc. The relationship helps them complete their quest, and the quest reinforces the relationship, all together bringing a new sense of meaning to all involved.

So what makes Toy Story special? Two things. First, in the Toy Story films, all three, the quest isn’t reinforced by coming together, the quest is coming together. No one is trying to save the world, rescue a princess, defeat a villian, cook a meal, quell a dragon, or protect a giant bird. No one is trying to assign new meaning to their lives. They’re simply trying to hold on to their current meaning by coming together (consider the quest of the characters in The Seventh Seal to simply return home, or the children in Fanny and Alexander to rejoin their family). Secondly, without grand designs, the characters of Toy Story tend to ask heavier questions. The kind you’d find in an Ingmar Bergman film, like “what is my purpose here?” “am I fulfilling it?” “what would it become if the being whose love gives me meaning ceased loving me?”

When somebody loves you, everything is beautiful...

In Bergman’s films this “being whose love gives meaning” takes on two forms. The first is God whose presence characters like The Seventh Seal’s Antonius Block or Tomas, the preacher from Winter Light search desperately for, hoping that it will lead them to some sense of light. The second is a spouse or partner. Bergman, who was married five times, made several films including Scene From a Marriage and Shame (as well as writing the great Liv Ullman film Faithless) about the dissolution of a marriage and the meaninglessness into which both parties are subsequently thrown.

The role of god/partner is filled in the Toy Story films by the toys’ owners. No, Andy is not a god, but he is a higher being. he owns the toys. They live in a world of his creation. While the toys don’t exactly worship Andy, they do occasionally suggest that they should accept his will for their being, such as Woody’s insistence that they resign themselves to the fate of the attic. But Andy and the other kids don’t require any faith in their existence. They’re flesh and blood. And in this way they fulfill a somewhat spousal role, not in a romantic sense, but in that they encompass the great love that the toys hope to find in life, and once found, they consider themselves fulfilled (or at least should be). But there is another dynamic going on here. As quasi-owner, playmate, and provider of love, kids will see a very parental relationship between Andy and his toys. However, although the toys get autonomy between playtimes, there is no eventual emancipation. Quite the contrary, it’s the owners who eventually move on leaving the toys as empty nesters. Imagine that, all the love you desire from parent, partner, and god pent up in the impulsiveness of a child.

Parting is such unendurable sorrow

Which is why the characters of Toy Story live in constant fear that it could all end tomorrow. And if it does, what does that say about the meaningfulness of the entire experience? There is, in the world of Ingmar Bergman and in the world of Toy Story, no greater sorrow than the separation from a loved one. When Jessie the Cowgirl is discarded by Emily or Lotso by Daisy it’s enough to throw someone into a state of perpetual sadness or evil, like the unfeeling sisters of Cries and Whispers. When Woody sees the newer better looking Buzz Lightyear arrive, he fears for the outcome experienced by Scenes from a Marriage’s Marianne (played by Liv Ullman). Replaced by a younger model. Through no fault of your own. You just aged. You just were. And it was not good enough.

Even worse is the possibility that what you always perceived as love was in fact ambivalence. That the presence of chaos and meaninglessness is your fate. In Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, Harriet Andersson’s Karin has a mad vision of a spider god, a Deity not of love but baseness, staring at her with if not uncaring, utter contempt. There is no god to provide you with love. God is a spider. God is Sid. The presence of a character like Sid in Toy Story is the (shocking for a child’s movie) recognition that chaos and darkness exist. That just as easily, yoy could have been Sid’s toy. Like the mysterious perpetrator who goes around mutilating animals in Bergman's (underseen but great) The Passion of Anna, Sid mutilates his toys with no real purpose but his perverse pleasure. And to witness those mutant toys is like Max von Sydow witnessing his “mutant” neighbors in Hour of the Wolf. It’s the realization that you are in the presence of a truly evil creator. Life loses meaning. Chaos reigns.

CONTINUE TO PART TWO How does one regain meaning in a world like this: By assuming power? By taking a place of honor in a museum? By defeating the evil Emperor Zurg? Travel to heaven and hell and back.

Distant Relatives: Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom and Dogtooth

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.

After weeks of Oscar movies I thought we'd get a little esoteric. But don't worry, you don't have to have seen either of these films, you just have to enjoy sex and violence like the rest of us.

There's lots of sex in your violence

Who doesn’t love violence and sex? We go to the movies and cheer at every explosion and gunned down bad guy. Our heart races at the excitement of the fight. And vanquished villains are best celebrated by beautiful men and women, the actors we idolize, stripping down for a love scene, strategically filmed. We watch fantasy up on the big screens where blood is often minimal, skin is plentiful, and the world makes sense. And what happens when when the fantasy ends? When we’re presented reality the fun ends pretty quickly.

Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom is notorious as possibly the most disturbing cinematic experience ever put on celluloid. The film follows a group of Facists who kidnap about twenty youths and take them to a beautiful villa for several months of sadism, abuse, mental and sexual torture, and eventually death (that’s not really a spoiler, you’ll not be expecting a happy ending). The film has resulted in censorship, bans and arrests throughout America, Euorpe and Austriala yet has been championed as a work of art by the likes of Martin Scorsese, Michael Haneke and Catherine Breillat.

Dogtooth doesn’t quite have this reputation yet but it’s working on it. While being banned isn’t likely, its Academy screenings have already developed a delightful place in Oscar history with viewers booing, walking out and in at least once case, threatening resignation. The film is a view into the world of a Greek family, where the parents have isolated their children (to the point where they make up new meanings for common words) into a surreal existence. As the children, now adults, become increasingly sexual and increasingly aggravated at the fear of their own reality, events spiral out of control.

Horror films

So we have two films about the older generation secluding and abusing the younger that expect us not to look away. And to what purpose we ask. Is Pasolini presenting us with Facists who do the most horrible things imaginable to convince us that Facism is bad? Is there a purpose at all to the family in Dogtooth whose existence we can’t begin to believe ever possible? Furthermore, how can two films repel us by presenting sex and violence as reality and yet be so unreal?

Consider the modern horror movie where the difference is split. The violence is presented in gruesome realistic detail as part of the adrenaline rush of the genre. These films dare us to keep watching even though they promise to show us unpleasantness simply for the scare of it. But the sex is still strictly fantasy; developmentally arrested men and blonde bimbos tussle beneath the sheets unaware that their only purpose in the film is to be exposed and then executed. But it’s okay since they’re not real people with real feeling and lives. They’re just window dressing.  Films like this are routinely criticized for their dehumanizing and objectifying of human beings.

Real People

Perhaps by non more than Salo and Dogtooth, films that strip sex of all seduction, romance, or anything sexy and present people as nothing more than commodities to buy, sell, trade or kidnap as utilitarian means to the end of appeasing the all-powerful sex drive. As a comparison of Facism with Capitalism so extreme it deals in the sale of human objectification or as a comment on isolation from corruption to the extent it turns basic human sexuality into natural perversity and eventually self-destruction, Salo and Dogtooth suddenly seem like they’re saying something very real in their unreality.

Then again perhaps that’s not what either are about. These two films particularly have had critics and scholars puzzling over various interpretations. But if they are, what are we to take from them? If we’ve ever lusted after an objectified body (and who hasn’t?) are we as guilty as them as the maniacs in Salo? Do we they suppress ourselves into unhealthy resistance like the family in Dogtooth? When it comes to sex and violence we are always victims of and participants in the society that births us. So we retreat back into the Hollywood fantasy where the glistening perfect bodies tangle among each other like bullets forming a crossfire where our heroes never get hit. Sex and violence are fun again, we can enjoy unreality presented as reality and eschew the reality of Salo and Dogtooth presented as unreality