The Brown Bunny

"i've never been a popular person, but it doesn't matter. i have everything in my life that i want. i'm not a walking publicity stunt. i'm not an anarchist, or bitter. i'm not trying to be subversive. i just try to remain unguarded, unprotected by fear, and agents and publicists, and i feel comfortable that way." vincent gallo

there's the story in the bell jar about the poet esther eats with at a fancy restaurant, where everyone but the poet is dressed a certain way, and the poet uses his hands to eat his salad, "one piece of lettuce at a time." and no one whispers or stares at him rudely. esther uses this story to communicate her belief that it's not one's knowledge of a table fork's intended use that's essential, but that the fork handler has confidence.

basically, i'm comparing vincent gallo with that poet in the restaurant. that's how i see him -- eating lettuce with his hands in a fancy restaurant.

a single restaurant couldn't be analogous to all of cinema, there'd have to be multiple restaurants, because it seems clear that not everyone wants the same cinematic food.

it's difficult to imagine a theater full of random people all liking and feeling positive about the brown bunny, based on people i know and movies that are popular. but because it doesn't appeal to everyone doesn't mean it wasn't made for everyone. this is important. gallo made his movie in a very specific way, but by all accounts (and i feel when watching the movie that) his intention was to make the movie for everyone. brown bunny doesn't operate on and isn't enriched by exclusionary cultural references or extraneous background knowledge.

the brown bunny exists as an unmappable curiosity, fine-tuned liked a person. its weight comes not from cinema, but from cinematic realness.

it wasn't a popular movie, with the audience or with critics. in the recent sight and sound poll, brown bunny received one vote: american moviemaker josh safdie (pleasure of being robbed), who also voted milestones, korine's julien donkey-boy, and a maurice pialat movie.

i feel deep and meaningful connections to the brown bunny, more than i do with the majority of movies i see (and i see so many movies) and i guess that means things that don't appeal to everyone have the same capacity for personal meaning as movies that appeal to a greater number of people.

two weeks ago or thereabouts, over a shared bottle of sake, i told my roommate a problem i had was i wanted to see a movie in the theater but there wasn't a movie in the theater i wanted to see. and again he became mad at me for not wanting to see the dark knight rises. it's his favorite routine. it's either the dark night rises or fincher's girl with the dragon tattoo or slumdog millionare or some other movie. i sense that he wants me to see these movies not because i might like them, but because he likes them so much.

amid my explanations for not wanting to see the dark knight rises, he accused me of not wanting to see the movie because it's popular. he was so off it startled me. we weren't having the same conversation. it took me a day and a half to figure out where the assumption came from. i realized there's this perception that the popularity of a movie has meaning -- that the numbers themselves have a meaning. this doesn't occur to me, not because i'm anti-numbers, but simply because numbers don't have the same meaning for me.

i like community, and i want it from cinema, but there are other things i want.

there are other things i want more.

based on my familiarity with the type of movie the dark knight rises is, and its maker, and based on its trailers, the movie isn't my bag. my specific bag. it's not the thing i die for. and i might like the movie, when and if i see it, i might be totally wrong. but nothing about it immediately sings to me, and don't we all follow the things that sing to us?

when a movie plays in the theater that sings to me, like solondz's dark horse, or hansen-løve's goodbye first love, the value isn't related to b.o. receipts or attendance. that stuff doesn't matter in an ultimate sense. and a lot of people talk about how it's the business end and a lot of people talk about how it does matter, but the truth comes to people when they sit alone in the theater and experience the movie.

only the movie matters.

while having domestic squabbles with the local multiplex i can sometimes forget there are these really wonderful american movies, and i think that's because some of the most wonderful don't play in multiplexes. many american movies i think are really wonderful aren't popular, for one reason or another, and by popular i mean they don't get mentioned in glossy magazines or chatted about too much on television and people don't go to see them and things like that.

i don't at all think the pure fact of them being underseen or unappreciated makes them important or unimportant, culturally or otherwise. that's like thinking the person who's talking the loudest or whispering the quietest has the most valid opinion by virtue of their speaking volume.

this doesn't apply strictly to independents either. when five-year engagement and the avengers were in the theater at the same time i asked my friend, who's a big alison brie fan, if the friend had seen five-year engagement, in which the supporting actors alison brie and chris pratt outperform the movie's leads, in my opinion. my friend told me he hadn't seen five-year engagement, that he doesn't go to the theater often, and that he chose to see the avengers because it was the more "culturally important" movie. well, i remember alison brier's wedding speech in five-year engagement better than i remember anything from the avengers. i took more from five-year engagement than the avengers. facts. but i don't blame my friend, i think the summer's first blockbuster, by a talented moviemaker with an exciting and huge cast of people, has many reasons for being seen, and i think a lot of blockbusters offer tremendous riches. prometheus was a pot of gold. abe lincoln vamp hunter had a lengthy action sequence that took place within, and used as weapons, stampeding horses, in 3d. snow white and the huntsman doesn't just have a magical godlike white unicorn that reigns over a lushly fantastical forest specialworld, the movie also uses this unicorn creature for a major dramatic beat. you can't not make this stuff up. skipping the dark knight rises i take the risk of missing riches. but you can't see everything, right, so we each make these little judgments about how we're going to spend our time based on the information we have about the thing and about ourselves.

we follow what sings to us. the voice that sings to me is weird and not the same voice everyone else hears, and sometimes i hate it for that, tell you the truth. and then in stronger moments i know and believe that if others aren't hearing it, i have more personal responsibility about remembering its song.

i'm arguing with imaginary people.

gallo, right, the brown bunny, right. right right right.

gallo does despair, as he does all things, without the traditional accompaniment of self-pity and self-consciousness. he doesn't apologize for having emotions.

the twisted confidence of his misery makes it a mini-miracle. if you've ever been around a person or people and had a bad feeling, and apologized to the person or people for having that bad feeling, there's a strength to be acquired through gallo and his art.

the brown bunny is about bud clay (vincent gallo) feeling miserable while driving across america to los angeles. and i think the movie, by its patience and focus, captures many shades of misery that are important.

both this movie and buffalo 66 have a lead collapsing inward on a very specific feeling.

until the movie's end one might not identify the brown bunny's central feeling as a specific emotion, (a large number of people would describe the movie through their own emotion, boredom,) but the attentive viewer senses an emotion hovering outside frame.

and car trips in general and the specific shots of this trip engender complex feelings about traveling -- the literal experience of traveling, reasons for traveling, feelings stirred by traveling, memories of travel, etc.

over backstreets, passing white-shingled two-stories in the middle of bug-splatters and gas stations and highways and days turned to nights, one senses a feeling chases bud, and one senses a feeling bud chases.

the first spoken word, "hi," comes at 6:27. bud to the country girl.

whom he ditches, promoting a feeling other than misery, or at least a compound misery. something like anger, disapproval, objection.

bud's misery takes the shape of its environment.

sometimes the movie doesn't feel miserable.

things other than misery take place.

i think the movie is actually a quiet war against misery.

or at least an investigation into misery.

its despair has a confessional tone that lends it a sense of earnestness. bud, a victim of tragedy, victimizes others, creating new tragedies. he's stuck in the cycle of humanness that pains him. he buzzes with pure and innocent fear. one notices his downcast eyes. his short replies. (his conversational goal seems to be to speak as little as possible without appearing rude.)

the divergent emotional textures have roughly each the same value in an eventless and drifting narrative. gallo doesn't emphasize emotions, doesn't suggest one is more important or greater than the other. this indifference is the indifference of a reality beyond the camera.

the movie makes me feel tender. i want to take care of buddy. didn't i begin this piece by defending buddy, by rooting for him? the movie draws it out of me, triggers my instincts to protect the weak. and that's because buddy's imperfections are as clear as his humanness and his frailty.

and i feel for him. for 93 beautiful minutes.

Chilly Scenes of Winter

"Why would you choose someone who loves you too little over someone who loves you too much?"

CHILLY SCENES OF WINTER

a fizzling romance drama from 1979

directed by Joan Micklin Silver

 Suspect I would've preferred the 1976 novel Chilly Scenes of Winter by Ann Beattie to this 1979 movie directed by Joan Micklin Silver. This story of a man who becomes frantically and neurotically obsessed with a woman suffers from a kind of gloomy, sticky intensity; the result of neurotic excretions and a tendency to emphasize, tonally and thematically, the neuroses. Realworld neurotics orbit their fears around dramatically rich specifics that appeal to creative types as enhanceable details.

The match-up is corny, tedious, obvious. The method is common to movie narratives because movies tend to limit their tonal palettes, while novels tend to have more textures and perspectives. Not all movies do this and not all novels do that, but in my opinion, the first step toward making a boring movie is limiting your tonal palette. I believe a movie narrative should be like knocked over beer dripping from the edge of a table. I can think of at least a handful of neurotic, obsessive, male-centered romance movies from the 70s and 80s, and they're all damaged by a sweaty-palm nervousness.

So we're all on the same page, this is my personal definition of neurosis:

neurosis |n(y)oŏˈrōsis|

noun ( pl. -ses |-ˌsēz|)

mental incapacity to be mellow, for more than

like two seconds

Charles (John Heard) romances co-worker Laura (Mary Beth Hurt), his affection for her as immediate as his attraction. She's six weeks into a marriage separation

"If I make you feel terrific will you marry me?"

Charles swiftly angles for Laura to move in with him, which she does. He adores her. She's everything he wants. She's unsure. While living together, Charles begins to worry there's a problem with the relationship, and hounds Laura with needy insecure questions, and by worrying creates a problem.

The love Charles has isn't the same kind of love Laura seems to be looking for, or rather, Laura isn't sure what she's looking for and wants space to decide, but Charles crowds her because he's so sure.

The relationship lasted two months and occurred before the movie's narrative.

Laura returned to her husband.

The relationship is told through flashbacks, and the narrative takes place a year after the break up, when Charles begins to act on his longing for Laura.

He breaks a long radio silence, by calling Laura and asking to see her. Before the call, he promises himself not to beg.

She agrees to see him.

Seeing her makes him desperate to have her again.

The movie excels when it handles character emotions with tender earnestness. One can sense the flames of desire between Charles and Laura, and sense his fevered passion, and her earnest confusion. My fav thing about the narrative is how it renders a compassionate portrait of romantic despair.

The melodramatically suicidal mother of Charles is probs my fav character.

"I think one day she just decided to go nuts because it's easier that way. That way she can lie around in the bathtub, and say whatever she wants, and hit the scotch whenever she feels like it, and just not do anything. Sort of tempting, isn't it?"

I like the mother's excessive mania, which though it instigates drama, doesn't seem to seek or mean to create drama. Charles is an emotional tornado, his mother is the storm in the clouds.

"Susan. Susan always appears to be happy and normal. She must know something."

(this next section discusses the movie's ending)

According to Matthew 1: 6-11,

"The movie was first released under the title Head Over Heels to avoid the dreary connotations of 'chilly' and 'winter.' Director Joan Micklin Silver, with the studio's encouragement, also opted for an upbeat, optimistic ending that was faithful in spirit to the fadeout of Beattie's novel. But none of this helped the film find an audience and the reviewers who compared it unfavorably to Annie Hall (1977), Woody Allen's equally quirky comedy-romance, didn't help either. So Head Over Heels was shelved until UA's Classic division came along and decided to give it another chance in 1982."

in '82 the movie was rereleased with the Chilly Scenes of Winter title, and according to Matthew 2:2 

"The distributor also removed the original happy ending and substituted an alternate one which was more downbeat but true to the film's melancholy tone and wintry look."

The version I saw was the '82 version. I'd like to see the original.

Aching Souls: Love Songs, Declaration of War, Tomboy

Christophe Honore's Love Songs is a dreamy light-kissed romantic musical tragic romance. Because it's French, you know the double-up on romance isn't an accident: when the movie begins Ismaël Bénoliel (Louis Garrel) is in a threesome relationship with two girls, Julie Pommeraye (Ludivine Sagnier) and Alice (Clotilde Hesme). Julie is his girlfriend, the threeway is their mutual desire.

I can't tell you what other French movie's middle-moment is similar to Love Song's without spoiling both movies, but I'll say this movie shares a desire with other movies to explore the emotional trajectory of a single character as the character's life passes through multiple events that could just as well be two or more separate movies.

Love Songs investigates, for example, the role of one's partner's family in one's life when one's no longer partnered with the family, i.e. one's ex's family. When in a relationship, one's partner's family may come close to feeling like one's own, but if one wants to put distance between oneself and an ex, it may be necessary to distance oneself from the family, which might hurt the feelings of the family. In Love Songs, Julie 's family thinks of Ismaël as family, but as his life extends beyond his relationship with Julie, he comes to think of them less. "I already have a mother and father," he tells Julie's sister.

Love Songs showcases emotional details with a graceful elegance that enriches feelings of romance.The narrative isn't flattened in order to untangle emotional complexities. Honoré is faithful to his characters, honors their complexities, and doesn't "fix" them, but simply follows and observes, with a dazzling and intelligent camera that helps sharpen their emotional experiences.

This narrative technique has always been a favorite of mine for the reason that I've never truly felt like I'm the leader of all my own life's circumstances, sometimes I feel the inflluence of forces like fate, chance, chaos, catastrophe, etc. The fact is, things occur in my life outside my ideal script.

Tell you the truth, before watching it, I thought Valérie Donzelli's Declaration of War was a romance movie. It isn't. But it kind of is. It's a romance with realworld intrusions, and it's fair to say their story isn't the romance Romeo (Jérémie Elkaïm) and Juliet (Valérie Donzelli) anticipated upon meeting each other. Even those names, of course, refer to a terrific romance, but after the movie swiftly establishes their love affair, a child is born, and the child and his brain tumor are almost the center of the rest of the movie.

I say "almost the center" because the movie is still so much about the love affair between Romeo and Juliet, and one can often sense their love, behind a curtain of pain, even when many later scenes are set in the hospital (this makes the outdoors romance more romantic and lovely).


Donzelli depicts realities of existence and being human, and how one's quest for love and happiness is sometimes sabotaged by outside forces. She suggests dedicated love has an immense power (Romeo and Juliet's love for their son is something brave and big), and says part of our happiness comes from a choice made about one's interpretation of circumstances. 

Funny to think a lot of family movies are about kids struggling to like their parents or parents struggling to like their kids or otherwise many variations on unhealthy, damaged, dysfunctional, or broken families. But fatal sickness and hovering death can make these problems vanish, in life as in the movie. Or rather, the problems don't vanish, but there's no greater human problem than death.

Donzelli sneaks her trysts with cinema. As a smile can break a spell of sadness, so too the movie occasionally sparkles; because if the characters are not, cannot always be, sad and dull, it follows that sometimes the voice of cinema has to sing.

I'd seen and liked Céline Sciamma's previous movie Water Lilies, but I'd never seen or read about Sciamma herself. I was delighted to discover a person whom I felt I could relate to, by her age, a curious detail in her IMDb profile, and her no-bullshit and badass IMDb photo.

The underlined portion reads: "She is  totally afraid of dogs no matter their size," and she was born November 12, 1980.

It's interesting that, before I started this entry, I wouldn't have guessed Tomboy was the movie I'd have the hardest time selecting four choice screencaps to use (out of fairness to the other two movies that were given four). I don't think the camera does a great job of moving or breathing, and I don't think the aesthetics are eye-licking, but there's an intelligence to all of Sciamma's cinematic choices, sometimes subtle or subtextual.

The first photo seems important because it portrays Laure's ability to blend with boys (as Mickäel) at her age. The second photo express physical limitations, and the third captures her physical self-questioning.

It makes sense that visuals would be important to a movie about gender identity. Sciamma tends to compose a shot to frame the human elements, and this emphasis over the purely aesthetic grants her movie a lens of empathy.

I felt like Laure and her experience and private feelings were of paramount importance. She's in most shots, and when she's not in the shot she's being talked about.

During the movie I thought a lot about what looking at people means; it was interesting to see Laure observe boys to learn their mannerisms in order to imitate them. She had a special eye, different from everyone else. I thought about how one watches other people in order to learn how to be a person.

Common to each of these three French movies is the idea that characters as the center of movies creates opportunity for anything to happen, and then anything that happens is meaningful and important and relevant. If the story is the focus, character details can be off-topic and irrelevant, but if the movie is stories happening to a person, with an emphasis on the person, it seems like really and truly anything can count. It feels like the freedom of existence, rather than the rules of storytelling.

Party Girl ('95)

"We still have to hang that piñata, and make the hash brownies."

PARTY GIRL

an independent party comedy drama from 1995

directed by Daisy von Scherler Mayer

This is the first shot of a person in Party Girl, from a tracking shot up a staircase during credits. And the first joke Mary (Parker Posey) makes is calling dollars "pesos." To say I liked this movie right away is an understatement.

Party Girl has lots of personality, style, and verve, lots of great superficiality, and executes these characteristics in a way I think reflects realworld surfaces (the inventorying of which modern literature and movies continue). The glossy, shiny parts of Mary's world stand out, but because she's human and possesses a soul and all that, it's important to explore the nourishment of her external existence. The movie suggests her impulsive party personality is rewarded with chill adventures, good times, sweet parties, mad hookups, crazy drugs, etc, but it doesn't say why she needs these things in her life. I submit that their usefulness is obvious, and that she needs them 'cause the qualities are demanded by the social sphere in which she thrives.

 And, I don't know, who can't relate to that. Who doesn't perform a thing or two for the sake of advancement in the world in which they are immersed, whether it be family life or careerism or hobbies or whatever.

If anything, what's outdated is the way the movie almost attempts to redeem Mary with her burgeoning interest in library science. I say "almost" because how seriously can you take a narrative about a party girl discovering a submerged desire to become a librarian -- the movie has its cake and puts its piece of cake in its pants and sits down. The movie suggests a party lifestyle is one of diminishing returns, and one without meaning, but I submit this describes life in general, and that the substance of life and existence is completely valid itself. Mary's problem is twofold: she lacks money, and she isn't all the way committed to her lifestyle. Perhaps it's better she discovered a formative interest, in order that she may soon confront the strict and patterned formulas of thought inherent to the library sciences. If you don't think that's a reality of library science, don't be silly -- I ask you, where don't these things exist?

I'm being so serious! Do you think I'm partially compelled to seriousness because I want to impart on you my serious feelings about enjoying the hell out of this movie?! It's a great NYC movie: all these eccentric personalities collide for explosively hilarious anecdotes. During this movie I thought about how all the supposedly airhead party characters are interested in books and music and culture, and I thought about how those things could become important to someone living a fast and urban lifestyle. It's funny because in one way the things seem to add to their lives, and in another way the things seem to substitute for an inner life. Like, they hope figuring out music or books or movies or whatever is as good as figuring out themselves.

Probs one of my fav sequences was Mary revisiting her falafel-street-vendor crush (who won't date her because he doesn't want to be her cheap fantasy "vacation") in a series of different awesome fuckme outfits.

It's like, obviously each outfit has a different meaning, why else would she keep trying different ones?? The outfit the dude falls for is her librarian one -- they hook up in the romantic poetry section of the library, when he visits to find some books to learn how to become a teacher in America, which is what he was (a teacher) in the place he's from which is Lebanon.

There's a party freakout scene that's pretty damn good. The party's theme seems to be general Asia. While dancing with a gem bindi but in a Middle Eastern way, Mary starts falling down and people have to hold her up and I think say things to calm her, I don't really remember. Seems like I broke the law of movies, which is to observe, and obeyed the law of parties, which is to let each person party how they see fit.

Party Girl was directed by Daisy von Scherler Mayer. It seems like fucked up shit that Mayer made this movie yet doesn't have a badass movie career. She's directing tv now, are you kidding me? Look, I'm not knocking tv, I haven't seen the tv stuff she's made, except maybe the Mad Men episode I didn't really look into it, but the point is Mayer, based on this movie alone, has a voice, a vision, and talent. And all of these things are rare and valuable, and if a person has them they're worth developing. Maybe it's some gender inequality, I don't know, I keep thinking about Noah Baumbach's Highball, which is a movie that's inferior to Party Girl in every way of which I can conceive. To elaborate, Baumach's first three movies, including the Criterion-released Kicking and Screaming, and Mr. Jealousy, are inferior to Party Girl. I say that as a fan of those movies and Baumbach in general. To be fair, there were a lot of other contemporary NYC moviemakers, and not all of them did as well as Baumach, regardless of gender, he shouldn't have been singled out by me, oops, he probably has a special quality, his movies are special, etc. But to stick to my point: Daisy von Scherler Mayer!

I feel insane right now. Am I being insane? I wrote this review stream-of-conscious. The movie deserved it. (Tell you the truth, I consulted and paraphrased the Paul Bowles novel The Sheltering Sky for an earlier sentence, because it felt relevant, and he was such a good writer :)