The Bang Bang Club (2010)

An Apartheid-era film based on true events, part newsroom and part war-torn nation—how could Steven Silver’s “The Bang Bang Club” go wrong?

Somehow, and sadly, it does.

Allegedly, “The Bang Bang Club” is a story based on the memoir by photographer Greg Marinovich about four South African photojournalists who braved the violent township streets during Apartheid. The men became increasingly close-knit as civil war and governmental corruption unraveled before them and damaged their collective psyche. They also became increasingly famous when, much to the South African government’s chagrin, their photos hit front pages of publications around the globe. The South African publication Living gave them their name, referring to the sound of gunshots in the areas the men photographed.

These men’s lives were made for the silver screen, and deservedly so. Their experiences on the forefront of violence, capturing moments that changed history, made them instant stars with stories perfect for public consumption. A documentary entitled “The Life of Kevin Carter: Casualty of the Bang Bang Club,” based on the tragic suicide of one member, was even nominated for an Academy Award. The film focused on the real life of an honorable but troubled man and found success.

“The Bang Bang Club,” however, has received a heinous Hollywood makeover. The film opens with a radio interview of Kevin Carter (Taylor Kitsch), who seems like he will be the character in focus, as in the documentary. Those expectations are soon thwarted, though, when the film inexplicably and quickly shifts its perspective to that of the newcomer photographer Greg Marinovich (Ryan Phillippe). He faces the hazing process essential to any form of male camaraderie as he bonds with his fellow photographers. And with time, he begins to show them up with his work.

Phillippe gives “The Bang Bang Club” instant and underwhelming starpower which it could easily do without. His shoddy South African accent lends nothing to the credibility of his character, and he holds a camera as awkwardly as if he has never seen one in his life. In scenes of utmost violence, like when he captures a Pulitzer Prizewinning shot of one man stabbing another in the head, Phillippe clutches his camera and shoots frenetically—the camera looks like a menace rather than a comfortable appendage of his. While “The Bang Bang Club” sets Phillippe up to be its hero, then, his lackluster presence fails to meet that goal.

Worse than Phillippe and even more unnecessary to the film is Malin Ackerman as Robin, Greg’s love interest. Robin follows Greg like a lost and doting puppy, completely devoid of an independent or interesting screen presence. While she meets Greg because she works as a photo editor at the newspaper he works for, her sole purpose in the film is adding sex appeal. She and Greg first consummate their “love” in a clichéd secret office sex scene that surprises the audience no more than it does the fellow Bang Bang Club members. That is to say—the climax is, in a nutshell, anticlimactic.

The same motif of casual, irrelevant, unmotivated sex continues throughout the film, and not just between Greg and Robin. Kevin is made out to be the rockstar of the group, binging on drugs and alcohol, unsatisfied by the adrenaline of photography. He kisses women in bars that approach him like fan girls, receives oral sex while smoking marijuana during a part-time job as a radio deejay, and has the wandering eye of any typical Hollywood bad boy. He simply lacks the depth that would make his character an anomaly.

One of the photographers, Ken (Frank Rautenbach) is married, so Silver evidently felt it necessary to include a scene of him and his wife half-naked in bed, too. While the scene seems like an attempt to create a tender moment between the two that sets the audience up to be sympathetic heartbroken when Ken later dies, it achieves little to that effect. Since the film focuses on Marinovich, I found Ken’s character too underdeveloped to have much of a stake in.

As the men of the Bang Bang Club spend almost as much time banging women and high-fiving each other in bars as they do in their fields of expertise, the film wanders to a place it should never have gone. It loses its integrity as a recreation of true events. It becomes an exploitation of the themes that are known to sell films: violence, sex, and male camaraderie.

Indeed, “The Bang Bang Club” could have been something great. It could have used Greg Marinovich’s memoir to its fullest benefit by focusing on the real and uninhibited version of the story that earned the Bang Bang Club its accolades in the first place. Instead, it let the big hand of Hollywood take its toll. It betrayed itself.

The Bang Bang Club (2010): Directed by Steven Silver; written by Steven Silver; produced by Foundry Films, The Harold Greenberg Fund, Instinctive Film, and Out of Africa Entertainment; director of photography, Miroslaw Baszak; edited by Ronald Sanders and Tad Seaborn; music by Phillip Miller; run time 120 minutes

Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010)

No one seems to know exactly what to call “Exit through the Gift Shop.” The film, attributed to the trickster and graffiti artist Banksy, might be a documentary. It might be an elaborate hoax. It might be a strange and fanciful combination of the two.

But regardless of label, “Exit through the Gift Shop” plays with you—your perceptions, your opinions of the people in the film, and your expectations of what will come from them. The documentary begins as an endearing character study of a modest and quirky man, but as the man’s character morphs, so do the overall feel and the believability of the film.

Thierry Guetta, a mustachioed French émigré to Los Angeles, ran an upscale clothing boutique as a profession. Documentation, though, encompassed a greater deal of his time and attention, as he filmed everything around him. Tragedy in his childhood led him to realize that the most precious and ephemeral moments in life would not last unless he kept note of them in some way, so he filmed every moment he could.

When Guetta filmed his cousin one day, the French graffiti artist Space Invader, his inspiration and the focus of his lens traveled to new lengths. Guetta honed his obsession on the worldwide and highly secretive street art movement, and using his connection to Space Invader, found trust from the artists of the Los Angeles area. While Guetta simply enjoyed the thrill of following these artists, he told them he planned to make a documentary of his own in order to let his obsession come to full fruition. The group of artists included Shepard Fairey, of iconic Obama “Change” poster fame, who connected Guetta with the main figure of his obsession, Banksy.

Shot in large by Guetta with a digital handheld camera, the first half of “Exit through the Gift Shop” has an amateur aesthetic. Still, it is pleasing to watch, and in a way it adds some authenticity and a great deal of charm to Guetta’s accidental journey from behind to before the camera. Rhys Ifans’ narration also invigorates the story, as his deep-voiced British accent complements Guetta’s eccentric Franglish and Banksy’s muzzled disguise commentary.

The anonymous and enigmatic street artist known publicly as Banksy affects “Exit through the Gift Shop” with the greatest presence nonetheless. Banksy hails from Britain, but his works circle the globe. They often symbolize themes of political controversy and overconsumption, and whether ironic or absurd, they provoke thought. For these reasons, Guetta aimed highest in the street art industry; he would not consider his work satisfied unless it featured Banksy at work.

As a result of a few fortuitous events, Banksy and Guetta came in contact. Guetta follows Banksy from behind during the film, never revealing his face, but crosscutting the man of mystery behind the scenes with photo montages of his brilliant works. In one part of “Exit through the Gift Shop,” Guetta shows Banksy in his studio preparing a dead telephone booth—crushed and bleeding under a pickaxe—which he later reveals in a London street. Still, “Exit through the Gift Shop” revolves more around Guetta, especially when Banksy passes the torch to him.

Previously a shadow and eventually a sidekick, Guetta goes under Banksy’s tutelage in his final stage of the film. Banksy tells Guetta it’s his turn to become an artist, and he does to an unexpected extent. Seemingly an overnight sensation, Mr. Brainwash, the Thierry Guetta alter-ego, explodes. He hinges a massive PR campaign, hires a team of artists, and launches an expansive Los Angeles art show filled with hundreds of pieces his team has created using his pop-artistic ideas. The formerly shy and humble cameraman transforms before the audience into a cocky, dictatorial, cigarette-wielding artiste extraordinaire.

After it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, “Exit trough the Gift Shop” received a blend of praise and confused philosophizing from critics and audiences alike. The film begs such a variety of questions, and possesses a fascinating uniqueness of form. The professionalism of the second half, which focuses on the new Guetta, opposes its previous part so much that it seems it must be fabricated. Who is Mr. Brainwash, and how could he possibly have succeeded so quickly? How could he have changed so much? Is what he makes legitimate art, or has he fooled all the thousands of people who paid to see his work? Has he fooled us too?

Even Guetta’s Mr. Brainwash persona seems all too apropos. With Banksy behind the wheel of this film, whose cerebral works of art have provoked such excessive debate, it would come as no surprise to find him the true artist of the Guetta experiment too. The documentary as a whole could be a massive, ironic play on the audience’s gullibility for all we know.

As much as Banksy and his fellow street artists express regret in encouraging Guetta to pursue a form of art which they see as a pale imitation of their own, they appear as responsible for “Exit through the Gift Shop” as Guetta. Banksy remarks, “I guess the joke’s on us,” but we cannot tell what collective group Banksy refers to. As viewers of “Exit through the Gift Shop,” we might be the ones truly satirized and duped.

Edited by Tom Fulford and Chris King; starring Banksy, Shepard Fairey, Thierry Guetta and Invader; produced by Holly Cushing, Jaimie D’Cruz and James Gay-Rees; music by Geoff Barrow and Roni Size; released by Paranoid Pictures; running time 87 minutes

A Screaming Man (2010)

“A Screaming Man,” Mahamat Saleh Haroun’s Cannes Jury Prize winner, does some things right, but the remainder of the film lags behind.

Set in Chad and made by a Chadian director, “A Screaming Man” is an accomplishment within itself. Films of the nation had never before found a spot in Cannes’ official competition, so a victory in the top three marked a historic moment for the history of Chadian cinema. Haroun brings understated dignity to the aesthetic of his homeland, juxtaposing grainy shots of barren desert locales and simple but carefully staged river scenes. He creates some artful and neorealistic moments in the film, and he makes it look less modest than the $2 million budget with which it was executed.

Adam (Youssouf Djaoro), a former swimming champion, has spent most of his adulthood at a hotel as Chad’s first pool attendant, a profession to which he has also introduced his son Abdel (Diouc Koma). The film opens with a shot of the two alone in the pool, swimming and playing in careless euphoria. The sense of peace fades when the water does, though, to reveal tensions between the two that arise when news of job cuts within the hotel threatens Adam’s future. His desperation to save his fate in the only world he knows and the only world in which he finds solace lead him to take desperate measures that force his son out of his way. These measures, in turn, begin to destroy the structure of Adam’s family and his life as a corrupt and war-torn government simultaneously decays Chadian society.

The moments shared between Adam and his family outweigh other parts of the film in visual and thematic terms. A collection of close-ups in a scene of Adam and his wife feeding each other watermelon, messy but sensual, focuses on the deep-set love between husband and wife. Their fingers tear out the pulp of the melon, and Haroun closes in on those fingers leading to the couple’s mouths. Haroun injects some of his most thorough editing into this sequence of shots, whose duration runs shorter than the majority of those throughout the film. His choice of edits adds an artful flair to a simple moment.

In a scene of greater suspense, Abdel and Adam ride a motorcycle as a shot using a telephoto lens follows them into the distance of the dark and the slow-fading light of the motorcycle’s front. Haroun parallels this fade with the increasing dimness of the relationship between the two and the questionable fate of both in their respective involuntary life changes. Later, Abdel’s girlfriend Djeneba (Djénéba Koné), who has become Adam’s surrogate daughter in Abdel’s absence, sings a mellifluous dirge as she lies alone in bed. Her solitude and sorrow run through the screen, especially when the camera shows Adam listening in from the next room.

With the exception of those special moments, however, “A Screaming Man” is a movie that centers on water but runs far too dry. Haroun exploits silence to a degree so high that I found it hard not to nap rather than watch “A Screaming Man.” The film fills the silent void in some night scenes with the sound of crickets, but the insects seem induced by the bore and lack of emotional attachment that the film provokes in the audience. Perhaps that explains the power of Djeneba’s song; it diverges from the otherwise distanced tone of the film, but not in a way that redeems it.

The moments of dialogue between Adam and his family widen the gap between the artful and meaningless components of “A Screaming Man.” When the family sits at dinner and Adam and Abdel refuse to acknowledge one another after a fight at work, Adam’s wife becomes frustrated. Her words suggest that she can’t stand or comprehend the silence, but her monotonous tone does not. As a foil to Adam, his wife adds no emotion to the oversimplified equation of the family.

Adam, whom everyone around him calls Champion, possesses a nickname that ironically contrasts his pathetic persona. The film implies that Adam’s worry motivates a slew of irrational and betraying decisions, but Youssouf Djaoro does not convey this emotion with strength. He appears lost and distracted rather than guilt- and regret-ridden, and his tacit patience often comes off as lazy acting on Djaoro’s part. He rarely shows those promising flourishes that would have made for a well-rounded and interesting character.

Haroun’s directing emphasizes this conflict, too. A shot of Adam sitting quietly at his new job and struggling not to fall asleep zooms in at snail speed. The shot would have lasting power were it not for its frustrating and drawn out length, which instead left me feeling Adam’s pain in the sense that I also couldn’t stay awake. The shot, albeit slow, creates a sense of immediacy in generating the desire just to see it end. Occasions like this one permeate the film, emphasizing the least intriguing parts of Adam’s days instead of the value of what good remains in his life, although the latter, I feel, is what Haroun intended.

While “A Screaming Man” glorifies the Chadian landscape and proves an honorable accomplishment on Haroun’s behalf, it has little redeeming value otherwise. The prettiest scenes do not save the film, as the empty silence and mediocre performances that also consume it are too big of a distraction. “A Screaming Man,” simply put, isn’t loud enough.

Directed by Mahamat Saleh Haroun; written by Mahamat Saleh Haroun; starring Youssouf Djaoro; director of photography, Laurent Brunet; edited by Marie-Hélène Dozo; produced by Florence Stern; released by Pili Films; running time 92 minutes

Biutiful

Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu’s “Biutiful” is just that—slightly imperfect but, more significantly, stunning to intake.

The first shot of the film, a close-up of the intertwined hands of a father and daughter, already guarantees that “Biutiful” will please. The simple but carefully framed scene implies a sense of intertwined and equally profound emotions. The father grips his daughter’s hand as if afraid to lose her, and he whispers to her about the ring he places on her tiny finger. Tradition, honor and paternal love transfer from the father to his daughter, like the ring, and they endure. Without revealing their faces, bodies or identities, Iñarritu created a shot so lovely in the first seconds of his film that I wondered if he could possibly outdo it later on.

And I was pleased to see that he did. “Biutiful” runs with a smooth and almost subconscious parallelism that uses motifs of life, death and the surreal to question the unknown realm of the afterlife and to emphasize the value of the present. The film centers on the father character, Uxbal (Javier Bardem), who struggles to find a redeeming value in his life as a criminal and a man in a broken home after he finds that he is terminally ill. He has lived a life so vile, just beginning to improve in light of his young children, that he finds trouble in coping with his situation. At times he overcompensates for his sins and the most upsetting and ugly occasions result, but these particular moments show the most harrowing and multifaceted reactions from Bardem.

Uxbal also makes money on the side by communicating with the dead as a medium between them and their living loved ones. He has a relationship with death and the in-between thereafter evident quickly on that seems especially apropos when the news of his own imminent death arises. Still even he fears what he faces, so much that he cannot bring himself to deliver the news to those closest to him, and his own troubles provoke a sense of sorrow and sympathy in the viewer.

Iñarritu excels in the communication scenes, placing morbid but not gruesome images of the dead in mirrors, on ceilings, or in the room from Bardem. The first time this occurs, a young child with whom Uxbal communicates faces him across the room in a church basement as he simultaneously lies in a coffin. The scene, haunting and tacit, evokes a sense of understanding between Uxbal and the dead. It also reinforces Uxbal’s value of his earthly existence.
As Uxbal, Bardem gives a powerful and solemn performance. He lends the character a sense of stoicism similar to his role as Anton Chigurh in “No Country for Old Men,” but one far less violent and much more poised. He makes a grave and depressing story believable and intriguing to watch, balancing the happiest moments which Uxbal shares with his children with the solitary torture of dealing alone with death. Moreover, he brings a humanistic element to the film so powerful that I would have bawled for the entire final perhaps 30 minutes were it not for a few slow, deep breaths.

In one scene close to the end, Uxbal arrives home from an alcohol and drug binge at a stingy nightclub, beside himself, and the mixture of pain and confusion in Bardem’s face reads well through his half-closed eyes. He stoops over in his kitchen, and immediately beside him on the refrigerator hangs a picture his daughter colored. It reads, “la vida es biutiful,” or “life is beautiful,” and the misspelled word adds to the understated poignancy of the shot. While Uxbal does not notice the picture, the audience does, and it seems that Uxbal never can truly locate the beauty of his own life before it comes to a close.

Some might consider the unrelenting depression of “Biutiful” excessive and exploitative, though I see it as real. Somehow the depression runs deeper than Iñárritu’s previous heavy material in “Amores Perros” and “21 Grams,” but it still resonates in intense form. Iñárritu creates an inexplicable web of emotion with “Biutiful” whose ends don’t tie as neatly together as his other films, but the emotion provokes thought, discussion, and re-viewing of the film. The feeling is unique, as Iñárritu’s conscious blurring of reality and fiction instigates a variety of opinion subjective to the viewer, but it lasts nonetheless.

Iñárritu’s choice to follow Uxbal alone rather than weaving a web of lives, as in “Amores Perros,” “21 Grams” and “Babel,” ultimately works in his favor. Bardem’s performance stands alone; it doesn’t require support, although the minor actors in the film, especially Blanca Portillo as Uxbal’s bipolar wife, enliven it. While the film initially appears slightly unclean and underdeveloped, the marvelous visual subtleties of “Biutiful” as well as its imperfections create a vivid portrayal of one man’s tragic near-end. Visually captivating, intense, and laden with feeling throughout, “Biutiful” hits home hard and with great and lasting strength.

Biutiful (2010)—Directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu; written by Alejandro González Iñárritu, Armando Bo and Nicholas Giacobone; starring Javier Bardem; director of photography, Rodrigo Pietro; edited by Stephen Mirrione; produced by Alejandro González Iñárritu, Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro; released by Cha Cha Cha Films and Focus Features; running time 140 minutes

Blue Valentine

Some love stories endear, some pull heartstrings—others, like “Blue Valentine,” do both. Derek Cianfrance’s Cannes Un Certain Regard film, twelve years in the making, tells a story of two lovers very much imperfect and in that sense real, rather than embellished or affected. And he succeeds incredibly.

Dean (Ryan Gosling) and Cindy (Michelle Williams), a middle-aged married couple, live in a modest Pennsylvania home. They have a daughter, Frankie, and a dog, Megan, but Megan is missing from the start. Dean and Cindy endure a typical but cataclysmic “lost dog” struggle to find her. Their very normal activities of printing out posters, searching and ultimately finding Megan dead beside the road reveal the tension and stress that already exist between the couple. It also provokes the question of what and what not to tell their daughter when she asks what has happened. Dean’s answer, that Megan has moved to Hollywood to become a movie dog, comically and optimistically diverges from reality in the same sense that the couple’s relationship before their daughter does.

Grieving Megan’s death and conscious of the seemingly grave future of their marriage, Cindy and Dean drop their daughter with her grandfather and travel to a cheesy hotel for a night of intimacy to try and save what love they still have for one another. Cindy runs into an ex-lover at a gas station on the way there, and the news of the encounter angers Dean enough to provoke a flashback that partially explains why.

Crosscut with images of the present, these flashbacks to Cindy and Dean’s young adulthood, meeting in Brooklyn and eventual romantic bliss contrast the crisis which they presently face. In a sense, they save the film—without them, the marital bleakness would be so upsetting to endure that the film couldn’t possibly end in a hopeful tone. Cianfrance also places these flashbacks in such a gorgeous temporal structure that, despite the somewhat tried theme of failed marriage, gives “Blue Valentine” an air of novelty truly enjoyable to watch and discover throughout.

The sticky summer romance of youth flashes forward, somewhat regrettably, to the appropriately windowless “future room.” Bathed in blue tones and fluorescent lighting, the themed sex suite in which the couple stays appears as artificial as their attempted escape from their own lives. They dance with one another to their song in perhaps the tenderest moment of the film, but the snippet of optimism soon fades. The two drink to forget about the problems they face outside the room’s metal-plated encasing, but instead of booze-induced attraction, Cindy reacts with a loveless violence that progresses until a climactic moment the next day.

And as the flashbacks continue, the dynamism of the couple’s feelings for one another and their familial relationships develops. The viewer realizes that love does exist between Cindy and Dean, but it is so buried beneath the complexities of their opinions about love and the examples of marriage set before them that it just may be too deep to redeem. It’s not something fun to witness, but it’s so genuinely heart-wrenching that the viewer can only root for the couple’s uncertain future to work itself out. Therein lie the beauty and the thematic integrity of the film.

In one flashback scene, a handheld shot chases Cindy and Dean as they hold up a sign that asks the viewer, “Is this you?” This blatant structural leave would seem clichéd rather than poignant if it weren’t for Willams’ and Gosling’s raw and relatable performances that build within the film. Gosling shows nuances of which even he seems unaware in his acting. His fingers shake in a fit of frustration as he lights his cigarette at one point—he acts with his entire body, and Cianfrance’s documentary feel enhances the realism of the moment. Gosling’s subtle humor with which he treats his adorable daughter as well as the issues in his marriage that he wishes to ignore adds significantly to the film. It also lights up the especially stressful moments to watch and helps to enforce the sense of hope, albeit brief, which the film accomplishes nonetheless.

Cindy’s helplessness and frustration that Williams brings to life complement Gosling’s casual humor in a foreboding but natural sense. The two actors show very palpable chemistry onscreen, especially in the flashback scenes, and the intense method acting style they used in preparation for “Blue Valentine” is evident throughout. Cianfrance captures those moments past and present, high and low, between the couple that encapsulate the nature and the questionable future of their relationship.

Ultimately, “Blue Valentine” is as fun a film to watch as it is painful, but it is a sensory and thought-provoking cinematic experience to witness. Even the end credits, an artwork within themselves, entertain. As a profound love and hate story, “Blue Valentine” has both lasting power and tangible realism.

Directed by Derek Cianfrance; written by Derek Cianfrance, Joey Curtis and Cami Delavigne; starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams; director of photography, Andrij Parekh; edited by Jim Helton and Ron Patane; produced by Doug Dey, Carrie Fix, Lynette Howell; released by Hunting Lane Films; running time 120 minutes

Howl

Howl (2010)-Directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffery Friedman; written by Rob Epstein and Jeffery Friedman; starring James Franco, David Strathairn, John Hamm, Bob Balaban, Mary Louise Parker; director of photography, Edward Lachman; animated by Eric Drooker; edited by Jake Pushinsky; music by Carter Burwell; produced by Rob Epstein and Jeffery Friedman; released by Werc Werk Works; running time 90 minutes

Allen Ginsberg, the prolific poet of the Beat Generation, made a landmark contribution to American cultural history with the publishing of “Howl.” The obscenities and homoerotic diction the poem contained caused a controversy so large that a court case that molded the legal outlook on censorship and an entire new genre of literature resulted. In the film of the same name based on real events, Allen Ginsberg and “Howl” transcend history—they, along with Ginsberg’s troubled journey, intertwine in a visually and emotionally captivating narrative.

The first feature film by lauded documentarians Rob Epstein and Jeffery Friedman, “Howl” doesn’t depart completely from the filmmakers’ area of expertise. Much like their documentaries “The Celluloid Closet” and “Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt,” “Howl” deals primarily with the plight and treatment of homosexuals in American society. As an openly gay author during the 1950s, a period of history when society frowned upon such a preference, Ginsberg used his poetry as an outlet for his emotions as an oppressed and confused man who believed he did nothing wrong.

The most informative parts of the film come in the form of an interview between Ginsberg (James Franco) and an off-screen director whose camera and sound recorder roll as Ginsberg tells his story. The eccentric, saturated images enhance the distinct documentary feel. In the interview, set in 1957, Ginsberg recalls his time as an undergrad at Columbia University, when he fell in love with the later-famous author Jack Kerouac and took to poetry as a means of gaining Kerouac’s respect and attention. What started as an instinctual display of affection became an impulsive and subconscious purge of emotions for Ginsberg, and he began to devote his time to writing.

Poetry consumed Ginsberg then, but it did not sustain him. After college, he struggled to maintain a job at the Associated Press while living in a small apartment filled with junkies and thieves. In order to avoid being implicated in the crime of one thief, Ginsberg escaped to a nearby mental institution where he spent eight months in the company of another writer, Carl Solomon. In the institution, Ginsberg struggled with his identity as a homosexual and his opinions of reality but found solace and companionship in Solomon. He notes in the interview that Solomon’s seemingly unnecessary shock treatments reminded him of his mother’s psychological decay, lobotomy, and ultimate death.

The film implies that these experiences affected Ginsberg and “Howl” in the most powerful way. Epstein and Friedman juxtapose Ginsberg’s retrospective interview with black and white scenes that reenact Ginsberg’s memories. And while the lack of color in some scenes does little for the film, it adds emotional resonance to others. A starchy yet particularly poignant shot of Solomon receiving shock treatments seems to verify the raw sadness which Franco, as Ginsberg, aptly expresses in his narration. Cross-country voyages, lovers found and unrequited and bleak self-examination make sizeable contributions to the portrayal of Ginsberg and his subsequent authorship as well.

Without a convincing embodiment of the real-life figure by James Franco, “Howl” would not succeed as a biopic or a championing of Ginsberg’s poetry. For the most part, Franco does justice to Ginsberg—he does best in the interview and the flashback scenes, especially the tender moments between Ginsberg and his life partner. His least effective scenes, some of the most crucial to the film, come during the readings and voiceovers of “Howl.” His drawn out tones detract from the poetry and make it occasionally difficult to endure.

Ginsberg’s black and white flashbacks to a 1955 poetry reading of “Howl” suddenly transform into colorful, abstract and sensual animation that tracks Ginsberg’s lanky and geometric alter-ego through the New York streets. The images appear awkwardly edited initially, but their repetition and conscious placement later on create an alternative sphere in which poetry appropriately exists. An enigma which even Ginsberg at times cannot understand, “Howl” fits best into these scenes. The poem and the film depart from reality in the same way that captivating literature allows the reader’s mind to stray.

The animation, often overtly sexual, also reflects why the poem offended some readers. Blatant genitalia and phallic images arise in unison with Ginsberg’s explicit wording that describes them and the casual sexual activity of many of the people he encountered in his youth. When Ginsberg’s visage replaces these abstractions and flashbacks, the interviewer asks him about the court case that the people of California waged against the publisher of “Howl” for this content. He simply thanks them for his poem’s fame, though, while separate courtroom scenes explain the rest.

Vivid, intense and at times frustrating, the courtroom scenes compose some of the most effective parts of “Howl.” The prosecutor Ralph McIntosh (David Strathairn) and the defense attorney Jake Ehrlich (John Hamm) call to the stand various intellectuals and critics who comment on the literary merit of “Howl.” While seemingly typecast given his role in “Mad Men” set in the same era, Hamm performs with poise and fervor that help us root for Ginsberg and his work even when it seems questionable or pointless to do so. Similarly, Hamm’s performance complements the awe-inspiring ignorance with which McIntosh and other figures, including Gail Potter (a comical and brief Mary-Louise Parker), approach the poem.

And while even the audience might liken themselves to those readers opposed to the publication or content of “Howl,” McIntosh’s defense and Ginsberg’s reflections appeal to the viewer as strongly as they do to the judge, who ultimately decides in Ginsberg’s favor. We, like the judge, are led to conclude that censorship conflicts with the right to speech. We are also led to conclude that, while a work of literature may not follow a specific form or set of standards, it may still break artistic ground.

In "The White Ribbon," even the youngest are guilty

Hello all! I decided to write my first review on last year's Palm D'or winner at Cannes, "The White Ribbon." A bit ballsy, perhaps, but I hope I've done the film justice. Here's a trailer for those of you who haven't seen it:

In the opening shot of Michael Haneke’s “The White Ribbon,” the quaint silence of a country road is suddenly broken when a horse trips over a taut wire strung between two trees. The man atop the horse is thrown from it, and afterward he writhes in pain on the ground. The injuries he sustains require him to be carried off to a nearby town, and as the sole doctor for his village, he leaves his patients equally helpless. As a widower, he leaves his two children helpless, too. Set in a small German town shortly before World War I, “The White Ribbon” presents an increasingly dystopian web of various residents’ lives as even more strange events occur. A woman dies in a freak work accident, a building is torched, a man hangs himself, and children are beaten and mocked in a Whodunit devoid of the glamour of a period piece and the causality of a classical Hollywood film.

Indeed, like the near-invisible wire that brings chaos into an otherwise quiet world, a sense of tension pervades “The White Ribbon.” The action is always out of our grasp, one step ahead of us and always off-screen, but that’s what makes the film so intriguing and engaging. After Klara (Maria-Victoria Dragus) and Martin (Leonard Proxauf) confess to their pastor father that they strung the wire, they are led to be beaten before their siblings, but the door shuts before the viewer. As if it were an unwelcome visitor, Haneke’s lens lingers in an empty hallway in a long take. The children’s muted wails serve as the only reminder of what goes on in the next room.

Like Haneke’s 2005 film “Caché,” this one doesn’t allow the children’s youth to protect their innocence. The teenage daughter of the doctor (Rainer Brock), Anna (Roxane Duran), must raise her younger brother Rudolf (Miljan Chatelain) during the absence of her father and explain in one scene the concept of death when Rudolf asks. She does so with a stoic maturity beyond her years that is justified when the doctor and his gross sexual abuses against Anna return to the home. In a similar sense, the white ribbons signifying purity which the pastor forces Klara and Martin to wear are rendered ineffective —Martin attempts suicide and Klara leads a pack of young minions who seem guilty of quite a bit of the havoc wreaked about town.

Although “The White Ribbon” is in black and white, the aesthetic of the film is no less resonant, and cinematographer Christian Berger showed me that his Academy Award was well-deserved. He filmed in color and drained it away to create sun-drenched pastoral scenes and perfectly lit interiors that complement Haneke's shot composition like a Vermeer painting. The prevalence of gray does more justice to the shroud of mystery that covers the town, in my opinion, than any amount of color could. It echoes the eerie silence of the film’s soundtrack that lasts until the final scene.

Macabre content aside, "The White Ribbon" is a refreshing and encapsulating piece of work. Michael Haneke reminds us that, despite the flashy excess of the “Avatar” generation, some of the best cinematic moments are those which force the viewer to imagine, and that some of the most chilling and enigmatic moments in film can be achieved with no color at all.