Launderette is a short film that takes place in a laundromat — a place that can feel stale and depressing, yet always seems to capture a strange charm when viewed through a lens. UK director Bertie Telezynski’s short film, with cinematography by Alex Nevill, is a personal look at the lives of those who visit the laundromat. By asking laundromat patrons personal questions that skip past inane “small talk” and delve directly into the innermost thoughts of strangers, Launderette manages to capture opinions about beautiful things and memorable childhoods. Many of these questions are fraught with discomfort due to their personal nature, and it’s remarkable that the strangers generally complied with answering. One can’t help but respect the filmmakers for partaking in what must have been an unpredictable and uncomfortable situation.
In the end, my only problem is with the short’s post-production. It may have been purposely dreary, but overall, it feels too unprocessed. Not that overprocessing is a must for every film, but in the low-light conditions in which this short was shot, the colors feel muddled. Nonetheless, if human reactions and social interactions are up your alley, this short will interest you.
Just wanted to share with you this really amazing animated short about a man who is struck by a meteorite and then forced to live “91 centimeters away from himself.” Before I watched it, I had no idea what that tagline could possibly mean, but now it makes sense, and it’s one of the best animated pieces of work I’ve seen in a while… because of both the animation and the concept.
The result of of ten film students from Ontario, Canada, Life Of Charlie is a strangely charming low-budget flick. Perhaps what is most appealing about the film is how much it captures the spirit of young adults in this day and age, when it seems like many 20-somethings are discontent, wondering where they are headed in life and how they are getting there.
Life Of Charlie starts off detailing moments in small town life where everyone seems to know everyone else. From horse races to ramshackle house parties, the filmmakers truly give the audience a taste of a lifestyle where no one seems to have any real aspirations beyond surviving the day-to-day and having fun. The main character, Charlie, is in a dead-end band that “has talent” but is still going nowhere, and it becomes quite obvious early on that he has nothing in common with his bandmates, who ridicule him for his indie folk songwriting and “gay” musings on being in love. Charlie’s eyes are only opened to his true feelings on life when a city girl transplant shows him what he’s missing in life, and even then, the movie is surprisingly careful not to delve into overly cheesy territory.
The acting is not exactly top-notch, but because of the entertaining dialogue and convincing screenwriting, Life Of Charlie is a student film that is actually very enjoyable. There are some really captivating moments in this film, and an introspective folk rock soundtrack to boot.
Noise: a genre that is difficult for the average person to appreciate. However, when one sees its creation firsthand or creates it oneself, noise becomes a type of musical art that takes on its own appeal and meaning. In People Who Do Noise, noise becomes associated with faces, through interviews with dozens of Portland noise musicians. The documentary gives viewers who might be unfamiliar with the controversial genre a deeper look.
At its basest, noise is a genre that comes about through the manipulation of various instruments — often homemade — with sounds that range from dirty squeals and ambient drones to robotic pulses, and everything in-between. It can be carefully controlled, or it can be a form that takes on its own life, with very little human input, through the use of electronics.
When discussed, noise can be hard to quantify with words. But listening to noise musicians discuss the creation of their art actually yields surprisingly deep discussions. Some compare the act of creating noise like working within an electronic circuit or closed environment. Others create noise because it is a reminder of an impending apocalypse to come. Still others enjoy it because it’s a type of music that’s easily accessible to all who are curious. The reasons and inspirations for creating noise are vast, but always interesting; for while some pop musicians might say, “I really like to write fun songs that make people dance,” noise musicians talk about noise music in a way that’s similar to physicists talking about physics.
All of the Portland noise musicians in People Who Do Noise — from Smegma to Yellow Swans to god to Argumentix — approach their craft with a seriousness and earnestness that one can’t help but appreciate, even if one doesn’t necessarily appreciate the music itself. Nonetheless, noise musicians can also see the ridiculousness in their craft, when viewed from the outside.
Musician Sisprum Vish gave an anecdote about his childhood which serves as a pretty solid example as to why people become interested in noise. He recalled being a young child who would record cartoons and slow them down because the resulting sound was appealing, and it is this kind of curiosity that is necessary for creating noise. It’s a genre for those who like to tinker endlessly — for who like to build and invent and experiment.
“I think my work is fueled almost completely by what happens when you do something wrong,” reveals musician Redglaer. “Feedback is the wrong thing, but that’s almost at the heart of my work and of a lot of people’s work.”
Utilizing amazing sound mixing and a strong balance of interviews and performances, People Who Do Noise is a good introduction for those who know nothing about noise, as well as an appropriate portrait of noise musicians for those who are already interested.
Like any other self-respecting genre, noise isn’t for everyone. However, it is created by people who find amusement in their craft. And although the amusement to be found in creating noise might come from engineering strange instruments or going against the musical grain as opposed to gaining fans and touring extensively, it doesn’t make the genre any less important.
Set in contemporary Jordan, Captain Abu Raed is a tale of friendship spreading generations. When Abu Raed, an airport janitor, finds a discarded pilot’s hat in the trash, he wears it and is soon spotted by a neighborhood boy who’s convinced Abu Raed is a pilot. Although reluctant at first, Abu Raed soon finds himself playing along with the neighborhood children in this fantasy, regaling them with stories from his “travels.” Soon, the children meet with Abu Raed on a daily basis to hear his stories.
One day, however, it is revealed by one of the boys, Murad, that Abu Raed is in fact a janitor and not a pilot. One might think that the tale begins and ends there, but in fact, that is just the beginning. The film goes on to show how a forgiving Abu Raed impacts the lives of these children even after he is discovered by them to be a liar.
The first Jordanian film to be exported for international cinemas, Captain Abu Raed is at times slightly cheesy, but it’s mostly heartwarming. Abu Raed might be a strange individual, but it becomes obvious very quickly that his heart is absolutely in the right place. Essentially, the film serves to paint a character portrait of him, the sweet, elderly next-door neighbor.
Captain Abu Raed is a well-paced film with characters that are easy to relate to. Although largely light-hearted, the film delves into uncomfortable territory at points with domestic violence and child abuse situations, but it is during these parts that Abu Raed’s character really shines through. Nonetheless, a good number of the other characters who are introduced in the film seem extraneous, and at some points in the film, it seems that there are a million directions in which the story can be taken. In fact, however, the film heads into surprising territory. The end result is a bit unpredictable and, to some, might feel inappropriate.
But what is most notable about this film is the lighting. From frame to frame, the lighting is inconsistent, but each shot in isolation is fantastic. It almost seems as though the director, Amin Matalqa, prefers shooting photographs to films, and the quality of the shots only improve as the film goes on. Generally minimalistic in nature, the cinematography captures the understated architecture of a poor town in Jordan. Neon colors manage to appear in the most unlikely of places, with blue-hued lighting inside Murad’s home and yellow-hued lighting in narrow alleyways of the neighborhood.
A tale of what happens when social classes collide and morals take precedence over self, Captain Abu Raed is a story from which dreams are made. In it, love and caring prevail over evil and anger, and one is reminded that human beings can sometimes be kinder than cruel.
If you like zombie movies, read only the bolded parts of this review.
Dead Snow is a smart, funny, and overall impressive addition to the campy Zomedy subgenre. It doesn’t deviate from the formula, and throws hundreds and hundreds of zombies at our heroes, who range from valiant to imbecilic. All the classic zombie tropes can be found here, from grunting growling zombie communication, the continued movement of dismembered undead limbs, and gruesome disemboweling/dismemberments.
Four medical students travel to the mountains to vacation. While out there, they run into an old man who tells them the tale of Nazis, and their cruel actions against the local people. The local people rebelled, driving the Nazi zombies along with their stash of Nazi gold into the cold Swiss Alps. Of course, the campers laugh the old m,an off and proceed to get wasted and have outhouse sex. Pretty much immediately they are besieged by the nazi zombies. Hilarity and gore ensue.
Obviously, the filmmakers behind Dead Snow wanted to make the most gruesome, campiest and fun zombie movie they could. The film straight up steals scenes from other horror neo-classics such as Shawn of the Dead and The Descent. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as movie geeks will undoubtedly get a kick out of recognizing tribute after tribute. It all adds to the fun of watching the film.
Dead Snow’s comedic timing is on point as well. The main characters are constantly bounding between surprisingly cunning and hilariously incompetent. Their profiles may be unfortunately shallow, but honestly, what were you expecting from such a gore-happy slashfest? It’s best that you don’t get too attached to these characters anyways, since Nazi Zombies are about to get very intimate with the contents of their abdomens.
As far as zombie movies go, Dead Snow isn’t a revolutionary film, but rather, a tribute to how far the genre has come in the last few years. It’s a modern, slick, funny, and memorable affair, and a must-see for zombie fans young and old. It is a movie made for midnight showings and large audiences, and should remain a cult hit for years to come.
In Your Absence, or En Tu Ausencia, is a surprising first-time effort by director Iván Noel that emanates beauty in more ways than one. Set in a pristine stretch of Spanish countryside, In Your Absence is filmed amidst a breath-taking setting full of enveloping blue skies, abundant sunflowers, flowering fields, and rolling hills. The film’s backdrop defines “summer” in its absolute perfection, and the pairing of fine-tuned imagery and diverse, mood-setting music makes the film both an aural and visual delight.
Young actor Gonzalo Sánchez Salas fills a heavy role with ease. He plays an emotionally-enclosed 13-year-old named Pablo whose father has recently passed away. Naive and vulnerable, Pablo has become a bit of an outsider in his own town since the tragedy, and he has only his mother and one friend. So, when a foreigner’s car unexpectedly breaks down, Pablo befriends him, despite the numerous warnings from the villagers telling him to do otherwise.
In Your Absence is a film that is powered by unpredictable human interactions. Noel manages to keep viewers captivated by dropping hints about, rather than flatly stating, definitive characteristics of the film’s three main characters, and this slow reveal keeps a rather slow-paced film brimming with tension. One constantly wonders what each character will do next, and often wonders wrong. A million possibilities are hinted at for every subtle action, making In Your Absence suspenseful in an unpredictable way.
With so many possibilities looming on the horizon, the most crucial point of In Your Absence lies in its conclusion, and it doesn’t disappoint. Everything makes perfect sense at the end — a comfortable resting place for a film with a plethora of acceptable endings.
An artist’s dream is that work he/she leaves behind will outlast their lifetime — that he/she will make a permanent mark on the annals of human history. Ultimately, the result is much more important than the person behind it, but in many cases, the artist becomes larger than the art itself, obscuring their legacy and leaving them forgotten, lost in a wind of ego and fame.
Ondi Timoner’s documentary, We Live In Public, is, ostensibly, about Josh Harris, the tragic and misunderstood dot-com multi-millionaire with an uncanny eye for the future. His ideas about technology, the flow of information, and the basic human need for exposure made him millions of dollars at the dawn of the World Wide Web. But his underlying psychosis, his fame-whorish attitude, and his penchant for throwing millions of dollars at his eccentric “artistic projects” led to his bankruptcy at the end of the ‘90s.
His largest and most successful artistic endeavor was the titular project – Quiet: We Live In Public, in which more than 100 of New York’s bohemia were picked to live in a bunker-style capsule hotel where the rights of privacy did not exist. Josh Harris plays the deity figure, providing everything: free food, bathing areas, a church, uniforms, and much more. At first, the people involved are excited to be there, living in an artist’s utopia and relishing the ability to enter into their neighbors’ private worlds with the touch of a remote. But as things go on, as Mr. Harris starts to add grueling psychological torture to the experiment, and as the inhabitants fight for every shred of dignity and privacy they believe they deserve, things break down quickly and the commune is ultimately dissolved by the police.
Ms. Timoner experienced this astounding experiment firsthand as a resident of Quiet, and was right to document what ended up being one of the most eerily foreshadowing ideas ever crafted during the dotcom era. With the rise of reality television and the advent of YouTube, we all live in an extended version of Quiet, only now the relinquishing of our privacy is not forced upon us, but rather, we readily give it away in exchange for so-called fame (granted, the destruction of Quiet may have been more of a result from Mr. Harris’s fascist tactics and torture than anything having to do with round-the-clock exposure).
And that is where the message is somewhat muddled. Josh Harris’ own eccentricities are his own undoing, and the movie makes great effort to point that out. It is his boredom with his own creations that causes him to sabotage his projects, sometimes deliberately. After the end of Quiet, Mr. Harris’ next endeavor was the first proto-YouTube channel, in which he and his girlfriend lived together in an apartment televised 24/7. No fascist overtones, no space church — just living happily and being broadcasted over the internet with a chatroom for interactions. Rather than being revelatory, though, this project ends up being a depressing window into a man who is transparent in most of his actions… a man who has great ideas on paper, but cannot overcome his own shortcomings to actually execute anything worthwhile.
About a year ago, I was working for a start-up in an old building in Seattle’s SoDo District. It was complete with rickity floorboards and unusual decorations crafted from salvaged parts. The overwhelming scent could’ve been described as “dusty.” The upstairs housed uniquely-decorated office spaces, and the downstairs had a large, spacious room with no functional use. It was being fitted to house a club and a bar (and has since been successfully deemed Club Motor).
Imagine our curiosity and surprise, then, when it was announced to us that a film crew would be shooting a feature-length movie in our building. We had no idea what to expect, but peering into a set revealed a strange-looking set with a lot of toilet seats and a pyramid of toilets stacked almost entirely to the ceiling. What kind of film could this possibly be?!! The film crew soon revealed that the film would be something like a surreal comedy, and that it was titled, “The Immaculate Conception Of Little Dizzle.” I wrote down the name of the film, but had completely forgotten about it until this year, when I attended a press screening of it, completely randomly. The connection didn’t dawn on me until more than halfway through the film, when the toilet pyramid appeared and I was able to put two and two together. It was a miraculous moment.
Well, if surrealism, toilet pyramids, and a playful title aren’t enough to spark your interest, “Little Dizzle” may not be your ideal kind of film. Nonetheless, let me expound.
“Little Dizzle” is a comedic tale about the adventures of four after-hours office building janitors who unknowingly become the test subjects for a self-heating cookie, that warms itself when being consumed. The characters are easily lovable, and include an individual blindingly confused about his religious faith, an artist temporarily working as a janitor, an extremely impulsive couple, and a cross-dressing employer. Much to their dismay, the trial cookies have unanticipated and otherworldly side-effects that slowly emerge. While the film starts off fairly normal, as a straight-forward comedy with clever dialogue, it soon plunges into a surreal adventure. And here, the forte of director David Russo truly shines, in his ability to set a playful mood from the very beginning that makes the sudden shift into the implausible to be surprising, but not at all disconnected.
“Little Dizzle” is a clever film which culminates into a comedy unlike any I have ever seen, which is a remarkable in this day and age. Despite the aforementioned prevalence of toilets, this film’s brand of toilet humor is intelligent, and it allows the film to stand out as a gem in the budding local film industry.
School Days With A Pig is a film that begins initially with a delightfully cute premise yet veers into the territory of issues such as morality and death. Teacher Mr. Hoshi, played by Satoshi Tsumabuki, introduces to his class of sixth graders a young pig, and then asks them if they would be interested in raising the pig for their school term and then eating it afterwards. The children emphatically agree, living only in the present and considering little about the potential end result.
The director, Tetsu Maeda, weaves the audience through the lives of the children, who take care of the pig from when it is still a piglet to when it is larger than they are. Slight scuffles with faculty and parents emerge, but the tone of the movie is light-hearted for the most part, showing the children’s day-to-day hardships and joys in taking care of a pig.
While movies about food and humanity’s impact on the food system are being made at an increasing rate, School Days With A Pig never comes even remotely close to preachy. In fact, the film actually strays so far away from preachy that despite Mr. Hoshi’s attempt to craft a project that will make his children think critically about the food they eat, his reasoning is never truly clear, and stops short of a vague desire to “want the kids to learn.” One gets the sense that Mr. Hoshi never truly anticipated the potential results himself, and he firmly sits on middle ground in an area of indecision, at least with regards to the fate of the pig.
The film remains strong while staying in positive territory, but sadly, the weakest part of the film actually lies in its most serious and crucial part: the class discussion on what to do with the pig after their school term has ended. Despite agreeing initially to eating the pig after the project, the students become attached, and disagree on the fate of the pig. They begin to discuss critically “adult” issues of life, death, adoption, faith, and friendship. This particular part of the film gives viewers a chance look into the thoughts that children — and maybe even adults — might have in such an emotional scenario, where logic sometimes takes a back seat. And although this part is absolutely vital to the film, it becomes long-winded and poorly argued, and simply makes the film seem much longer than it needs to be.
School Days With A Pig is rather successful in highlighting a hard-to-believe premise, but just a little editing could have made it a nearly perfect, considerate tale.
Set in contemporary Jordan, Captain Abu Raed is a tale of friendship spreading generations. When Abu Raed, an airport janitor, finds a discarded pilot’s hat in the trash, he wears it and is soon spotted by a neighborhood boy who’s convinced Abu Raed is a pilot. Although reluctant at first, Abu Raed soon finds himself playing along with the neighborhood children in this fantasy, regaling them with stories from his “travels.” Soon, the children meet with Abu Raed on a daily basis to hear his stories.
If you like zombie movies, read only the bolded parts of this review.
In Your Absence, or En Tu Ausencia, is a surprising first-time effort by director Iván Noel that emanates beauty in more ways than one. Set in a pristine stretch of Spanish countryside, In Your Absence is filmed amidst a breath-taking setting full of enveloping blue skies, abundant sunflowers, flowering fields, and rolling hills. The film’s backdrop defines “summer” in its absolute perfection, and the pairing of fine-tuned imagery and diverse, mood-setting music makes the film both an aural and visual delight.
An artist’s dream is that work he/she leaves behind will outlast their lifetime — that he/she will make a permanent mark on the annals of human history. Ultimately, the result is much more important than the person behind it, but in many cases, the artist becomes larger than the art itself, obscuring their legacy and leaving them forgotten, lost in a wind of ego and fame.
About a year ago, I was working for a start-up in an old building in Seattle’s SoDo District. It was complete with rickity floorboards and unusual decorations crafted from salvaged parts. The overwhelming scent could’ve been described as “dusty.” The upstairs housed uniquely-decorated office spaces, and the downstairs had a large, spacious room with no functional use. It was being fitted to house a club and a bar (and has since been successfully deemed Club Motor).