I must admit, when an email pops up in my inbox these days from an indie director asking me to review his film, I instinctively cringe. The current craze appears to be coming-of-age: the story of troubled youths—often a gaggle of them—fighting through hardships and coming out okayor, if the filmmaker’s feeling frisky, winding up right back where they started. Many of these pictures are set in my hometown, New York City, a place that lends itself to adverse situations quite nicely. The mediocre Cross Bronx (seen at the Las Vegas Film Festival) had its moments, but was predominantly clichéd, and several other recent films were unbearable in their recycled treatment of the genre. How refreshing, then, that Baby Fat, a low-budget indie shot in Manhattan, takes a different approach. Instead of attempting to evoke serious emotion, it goes the comedic route, and it’s extremely entertaining as a result. Focusing on a young Italian couple from Staten Island, Baby Fat is the story of a high-maintenance, beautiful young wife (Gina, played by the lovely Martene Fallacaro) who’s desperate to have a child, but petrified of the weight-gain that tends to accompany child-bearing. The solution? Clearly for her husband Joey to impregnate another woman and have her act as surrogate mother. That way, Gina can become a mommy without any of those blasted side-effects of carrying a baby in her womb. To do so, they just hold open calls for actresses, who must fit certain requirements, such as being less attractive and having smaller tits than Gina (she can’t trust Joey with someone who rivals her!). It’s so simple, really! Why don’t more families think of it?
Of course, the entire premise of Baby Fat is absurd (though I’m sure there are a few drama queens out there who’ve considered the scenario), but it’s so comfortable with its tone that it’s never a problem. Oh, there are some themes of a serious nature—overbearing family and its impact on the children’s upbringing, superficiality and the extremes it can lead one to, the desperation of those trying to make it in today’s entertainment industry, particularly as an actor or actress—but they’re all secondary to the humor, and the enjoyment of seeing a shallow Italian jock (played by screenwriter Joshua Nelson , who so kindly sent me a screener) whipped into submission by his whiny and hypocritical—but gorgeous!—wife. That all this takes place in the basement of Joey’s parents’ home only adds to the laughter—all this melodrama and they’re not even independent! The dialogue has some very snappy lines, the acting is fairly strong, and while a few characters are a bit too pat—particularly Uncle Bobby—Baby Fat is a tasty addition to the genre and it slides down the palate easily. Whether distribution will follow remains to be seen—so many pictures of the kind are being made these days, as mentioned earlier, that it’s a real uphill battle—but if any of the ones I’ve scoped so far deserve a theatrical release, it’s this one. The film may not be exceptional cinema, but it understands how to avoid the pitfalls that generally plague the genre. These days, that’s worth quite a bit.
Maybe it’s just me. After all, Claire Denis’ Friday Night (2002) was a tremendous hit amongst the art-theatre crowds, with its defenders claiming its emotional transcendence matches that of Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love. And her Beau Travail (1999) also garnered great acclaim for its portrayal of an ex-Foreign Legion officer’s recollections of a jealous, turbulent-yet-exuberant, youth. In both cases, I found myself extremely underwhelmed: Friday Night had its moments of loveliness, but the closed compositions and detached editing failed to draw me into its net. Beau Travail fled my memory about five days after I’d finished it. While a slight urge to revisit Friday Night tugs at my brain—and netflix queue—Denis never struck me as anything close to the auteur that some claim her to be. Now, recently released on DVD, comes an earlier Denis effort; I Can’t Sleep (1994). Telling the story of three semi-intertwined lives—the beautiful Lithuanian immigrant Daiga, the careworn musician Theo (who also happens to be a single father), and Theo’s transvestite dancer brother, Camille—in Paris, with the backdrop (which eventually becomes the forefront) of the infamous “Granny murders” (based on a true story), I Can’t Sleep is more intriguing than Denis’ later efforts, but no less frustrating, and ultimately unrewarding.
I Can’t Sleep kicks off inside a car interior, also the home of a crucial moment in Friday Night, as Daiga smokes a cigarette, soon after her arrival in Paris. There’s a jazzy, carefree feel early on—much different than the dreamy atmosphere of Friday Night—but it quickly dissipates into Denis’ normal, bleak outlook. The narrative structure is interesting, introducing us to the three leads without spilling the beans as to whom is involved with the ‘Granny Killer’ (and in what way), but for all its slickness, I Can’t Sleep is oddly devoid of a soul for such a unique topic matter. The dialogue, frequently shaky, doesn’t help, and neither does the detached aura that Daiga, Theo, and Camille all project: theoretically, they’re sharply designed, but realistically, they’re well-tuned like robots, not human beings. This isn’t the actor’s fault here—I place the blame squarely on Denis’ shoulders for I Can’t Sleep‘s shortcomings.
Denis appears adamant about promoting feminine power, at times implanting her ideals into Daiga’s character: for instance, an extended sequence showcasing a self-defense class takes about three minutes. Later, Daiga runs from a Frenchman’s evening advances, bolting into the nearest movie theatre, where she proceeds to laugh herself silly at the film’s most dramatic moment—a sexual advance by the female lead. While Denis’ attempts to endorse female & sexual assertiveness (I.E., not simply succumbing to some man’s dreamy eyes) are just dandy in and of themselves, they come across as awkward when viewed as part of the film’s puzzle. What is I Can’t Sleep trying to be? A character study? A murder mystery? A statement on femininity (also including the transvestite character)? While none of these angles exactly fall flat, none distinguish themselves either, and often seem to pop up at a time when a different one appears to be reaching a climax.
Technically, I Can’t Sleep is quite accomplished—the dark color schemes, patient camera movements, and vivid performances contribute to an efficient, somber mood. Unfortunately, it lacks the heart to match it, making it more of a rare zoo animal: the audience can admire from afar, but has no desire to really approach it. Epitomizing this mindset is the final encounter between the granny killer and their mother—it’s beautifully filmed, and might have landed a haymaker to our senses if Denis had allowed us to approach her characters, without guarding them fiercely. Perhaps some will get more out of I Can’t Sleep then I, but while I certainly can’t wholly recommend avoiding it, it’s not complete enough to recommend seeing, either.
Though I remain partial to the wrenching melodrama All About my Mother, Pedro Almodóvar’s Bad Education may be his best film yet, a dazzling autobiographical blend of his career, childhood, and adoration & admiration for the cinema. Bursting with passion, Bad Education details the life of two children, Ignacio and Enrique, and their growth through religious school in the 60’s to conflicted adulthood. Their relationship is fascinating yet cryptic—deception reigns supreme throughout much of Bad Education, but is just one of numerous emotional whirlwinds that the film puts us through. The repulsive Father Manolo—who, in love with Ignacio during their time together at school, expelled the rebellious Enrique out of spite—lurks throughout Bad Education (the movie spans three time periods), his presence nothing short of uneasy, and often downright creepy. It’s a great testament to Almodóvar’s direction that Father Manolo never seems like your clichéd, molesting Priest—he has his own complicated identity that reveals itself as the film progresses. While Talk to Her (2002) wasn’t particularly easy to follow, Bad Education is definitely Almodóvar’s most ambitious and complex picture—its fractured narrative and various eras make it challenging to keep straight…but boy, is the payoff rewarding.
Substituting darker shading for his usual bright colored compositions, Almodóvar shifts genres to film noir without losing his classic quirkiness and sense of comic timing. There’s still humor (Javier Cámara of Talk to Her plays a light-hearted transvestite), but it’s complementary—conversely, his earlier screwball flicks like Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988) and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (1990) are flighty above all else (their themes of feminine power would remain prevalent through his later work, slowly growing in importance). Few cinematic achievements impress me more than a director seamlessly changing tones successfully—that Almodóvar’s actually improved his work with age and experience while veering off from his earlier styles is nothing less than astounding. Bad Education is, above all, the culmination of Almodóvar’s career and life; as he himself says: “I had to make Bad Education. I had to get it out of my system before it became an obsession. I’d worked repeatedly on the script for over ten years, and I could have gone on like that for another decade. Because of the amount of possible combinations, the story of Bad Education was only finished once the film had been shot, edited, and mixed.”
Such true words, words that should be abundantly clear to any admirer of Almodóvar’s work. Bad Education aches with the triumphant realization that Almodóvar’s career has withstood adversity, matured, and become that of a true master of cinema. The emotional power of the epilogue is nothing less than thunderous—as we see & read what’s happened to each character, we tip our cap to Almodóvar more and more…but the direction is never the least bit self-effacing. He treats film as a portal directly into humanity’s core—after a murder has occurred, the culprits go into a nearby theatre to kill time. As twilight turns to dark night, the sky turns black (threatening a storm), and the assassins treat themselves to two staples of French film noir—Renoir’s La Bête Humaine and Carné’s Thérèse Raquin, movies that contain situations similar to those of the men watching them. As they exit, one of the men exclaims, “It’s as if all the films were talking about us.” Indeed, good sir…indeed.
In typical Almodóvar fashion, the femme fatale (a noir staple) isn’t a smoldering lady at all, but a fiery Gael García Bernal, dressed in drag, a lipstick, and multiple identities. Without Bernal’s versatile, astonishing performance as Ignacio/Angél/etc (you’ll see!), Bad Education wouldn’t be nearly as convincing or powerful—his steady yet simple work in Y Tu Mamá También pales in comparison. Next to Bernal, it’s simple to overlook Fele Martínez’ self-control and composure as Enrique, or Daniel Giménez Cacho’s unsettling turn as Father Manolo. If not for the presence of the life-affirming Before Sunset and the dazzling Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I’d have no trouble placing this fantastic film right at the top of my 2004 list.
Despite glimpses of promise, Larry Golin’s Cross Bronx is an unconvincing coming-of-age picture that never separates itself from most genre clichés. Its biggest problem is the overly ambitious script—aside from the dialogue (a few gems and funny moments, but fairly stale), Golin’s decision to focus on four youths proves to be the film’s downfall. At just 84 minutes, there’s simply not enough time to explore four lives in any kind of depth. As such, only one of the storylines feels full—that of Jimmy Schiek, a strapping, handsome black youth with a penchant for womanizing who dreams of playing for the Brooklyn Cyclones (the Mets rookie-ball affiliate), and eventually ending up on the mound at Shea Stadium. Informed after final cuts that he’d fallen just short, Schiek finds it impossible to overcome his despair, spirits away his Cyclones jersey, and informs family & friends that he’s to report to St. Lucie…he’s made the team. That we’re taken along for the same ride as his compatriots serves Golin well; the reality of Schiek’s broken dreams and inability to face his now-uncertain future resonate with any of us who’ve been fired or turned away from potential work…or even suffered as small an indignity as being picked last for the schoolyard softball game.