Things have been weird, sort of. I've been keeping busy (not voluntarily though), and I've still got a pile of work to muck through for the next couple of weeks. It just feels like I'm circling around something, though I can't say what. Like I'm floating in this shallow stream of events and circumstances, the current pushing gently, relentlessly, dreamily on. My toes just brushing the river bed, mossy and soft, but never enough for me to get my footing.
But, what.
Watched a bit of the VIFF, just a sliver, really. A shaving. Caught four movies (schedule wouldn't permit more, what a ho): Todo Todo Terros (Philippines), Heaven's Doors (Morocco), A New Day in Old Sana'a (Yemen), and The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros (Philippines).
I didn't like Todo too much. On some level, I thought it tried too hard to be poetic, tried too hard to be relevant. It seemed so promising, too. The story was too erratic, and while some people might appreciate the aesthetic of a deliberately ambiguous storyline, it got old really fast. Some shots seemed a tad too indulgent, as if they were there just to fulfill some art-film, moony-faced quota. There were like twenty people at the most in the theatre (understandable, really, since it was a weekday matinee—I skipped my last class). And as the film wore on, I could just feel them getting restless, impatient, like shifting in their seats and sighing was an insidiously creeping epidemic (especially during the "terrorist" spy parts). I liked it for what it is though: a film on the bleeding edge of the fringe, its brilliance somewhat mitigated by its diaphanous pretensions and the expectations of others.
Heaven's Doors felt like a substandard derivative of Amores Perros and City of God. Set in a gritty and sweltering Casablanca, the film was principally about three people: a young man weaned on poverty and family dysfunction who starts working for the local mob, a middle-aged American woman—lonely, emotionally battered and starved—who suddenly becomes the guardian of a young boy and his comatose mother, and an ex-con just sprung from prison who’s consumed with revenge and love for his dying mother. In short-form: the young man, Ney, dies, Lisa (the middle-aged woman) gets an emotional awakening and goes back to the U.S. to fix things with her bitchy mother, and Smail the ex-con kills the guy who betrayed him and caused his incarceration, Mansour, the local mobster Ney worked for before meeting his tragic death. It's a beautiful film, beautiful shots (the ones leading to Mansour’s death stand out, as well as the panning shots of the city), and Casablanca is brilliant. But the story is ridiculous. Ok, not really. Ney’s story was probably the most interesting, clichéd as it is. It should’ve been more violent, I felt. And I’m not even particularly fond of violent movies (no, really).
Now, A New Day in Old Sana’a was ridiculous. Like, seriously. It reminded me of this one episode of Beverly Hills 90210 (already, not the best thing one can say about a movie) where a black family moves into the neighbourhood (and racial tensions arise!!!). Their son, Robbie, is supposed to be a talented photographer (and Andrea forces Brandon to woo him into working for the Blaze), and we know this because he goes around campus taking the most random shots of the most mundane things. Like, Dylan will be lying on a patch of grass and Brenda will be flirtatiously leaning over him and the screen goes still and all grayscale, and you hear this ominous click like someone just took a picture. And then Kelly and Donna will be laughing about some unsounded inane thing, all blonde and sparkly and so, so 90’s with their shoulder pads and matte lipstick, and the same deal with the grayscale and the click. And this goes on for a while, like the lamest joke ever. Anyway, Sana’a. There’s a narrator (a narrator!), an Italian stud-photographer named Federico who’s living in Sana’a, mentoring a young scion of a rich family, Tariq. Tariq is about to get married to Bilquis, a girl from a similarly prominent family. She’s a total bitch, but endearingly so. He’s been mooning over this girl who dances in the streets just before dawn, and one morning he sees her whirling about in a white dress he gave to his fiancée. So he naturally assumes it’s been Bilquis all along, and he pronounces himself in love with her (it’s an arranged marriage, see). But, as all formulaic fairy tales go, it’s really Ines, a poor orphan caring for her sort-of mute brother (he hasn’t spoken since their parents’ death), who thinks herself desperately in love with him. Anyway, you have Federico who’s waxing poetic about Sana’a (understandable, it’s absolutely gorgeous) every chance he gets. He even does the whole Robbie-thing, taking mostly uninspired shots with that annoying little telltale click. And you have Tariq, who’s a total douchebag (he stands Ines up when they were supposed to run away together), and Ines who’s a whiny little doormat. The only remotely likeable characters are Bilquis, her sister Mona, and Ravi, the Indian teacher who gets run out of Sana’a by Mona. It just could’ve been so much more. I mean, Sana’a’s this city shrouded in global anonymity, gilded myth and this brilliant, complex culture, and all they manage to secrete from all that is some contrived little tale based on ethnocentric Western stereotypes about Middle-Eastern love and duty.
I found Maximo the most affable out of the four. It’s such an endearing film, colourful, riotous, simple and enormously satisfying. There were a couple of snags though, like Maximo sometimes being all robotic faggot-queen, and Victor sometimes being all robotic alpha-male. But I loved it. That’s Philippine humour for you: when it’s good, it’s really good, and when it’s bad, it either makes you want to cry or move to another country (I’m kidding). There were a lot of Filipinos in the theatre; you could tell that we were the ones laughing the loudest. The friend who I went with was a little nonplussed about it (though she agrees that it was, indeed, funny), and the white guy who sat next to me was totally stoic all throughout. My friend did say that had Maximo been a young girl, the film would have been just slightly offensive (in a Humbert-Humbert kind of way) and utterly banal. And I grudgingly agreed. But, whatev, it was a fun movie. I'd buy the DVD if I could.
(Can I?)
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