HOT DOCS 2015: MISSING PEOPLE Review By Greg Klymkiw ****

Missing People (2015)
Dir. David Shapiro

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The art of Roy Ferdinand is bathed in the blood, sweat, pain and fears of the New Orleans mean streets. It pulsates with life (and yes, death). His rich, crazily skewed work is so vital, vibrant and unique that he'd be a natural for any obsessive to get obsessed over. Martina Batan is just such a person. She has a huge collection of Ferdinand's art in addition to a few of his personal effects; nothing too odd, but the smelly socks balled up in a pair of boots might not be everyone's first choice to tingle the olfactory nerves.

On one hand, her obsession makes sense. She is, after all, the director of one of the coolest galleries in Manhattan. Ronald Feldman Fine Arts has hosted more than its fair share of astonishingly original work, so her taste in all things artistic is top of the line.

Martina, does have other obsessions, though. She doesn't sleep much and most nights she's up past the witching hour constructing a massive Lego sculpture in her living room, a project she's been working on for years and which, she admits, seemingly has no end in sight.

I can accept that.

However, she has one other obsession. Well, perhaps not so much an obsession, but rather, a mystery which has haunted her for over 35 years. Her little brother Jeffrey was brutally murdered and the case has remained unsolved all these years. There's been no closure on this horrific loss and if anything, her sleeplessness, Lego construction and almost mad love for Roy Ferdinand's brutal depictions of the New Orleans underbelly might well be tied to the tragedy which plagues her.

She's reached a breaking point and hires a private detective to investigate her brother's murder.

As the amiable gumshoe goes about his business, Martina heads down to the Big Easy to track down a number of Ferdinand artworks she's yet to lay eyes upon herself. She's also determined to meet with Ferdinand's surviving family members to get more insight into what made him tick.

Yes, Ferdinand is dead and somehow, these are all pieces of a deeply disturbing and ever-complex puzzle which director David Shapiro follows as closely and obsessively with his lens as Martina now delves even deeper into the world of an artist whose unflinching eye for violence on the filthy, grim pavement of New Orleans mysteriously parallels her own baby brother's brutal end on the equally mean streets of Queens.

Violence has touched Martina and followed her her whole life. The artist she loves more than any other was also irrevocably tainted with the ruthless, vicious barbarity of a world where life is as cheap as it is precious. Somehow, this must all converge. The journey she allows us to take with her is both harrowing and moving. It's an odyssey to find answers, and in so doing, we are faced with terrible truths which also betray the deepest depths of humanity.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4 Stars

Missing People has its World Premiere at Hot Docs 2015. For info click HERE

MR. TURNER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Opens TIFF BellLightbox via MongrelMedia

TIMOTHY SPALL:
JMW TURNER

Mr. Turner
Dir. Mike Leigh
Starring: Timothy Spall, Dorothy Atkinson, Marion Bailey, Paul Jesson, Lesley Manville

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It seems fitting that the first film biography of the great Romantic landscape painter JMW Turner, oft-referred to as "the painter of light", is the product of one of the world's greatest living directors, Mike Leigh (Life is Sweet, Naked, Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake, Topsy-Turvy). The exquisite properties of light in cinema, the glorious dance of film through a projector, the astonishing grace, promise and amalgamation of so many mediums into one, all driven by exposing and rendering the luminosity which, Turner proclaimed on his deathbed as God itself, is what yields this astonishing, moving celebration of a supremely important visual artist.


In a sense, Turner captured the qualities of light and motion on canvas in ways I always felt are what led to those same properties finding their way to be emblazoned forever upon celluloid to capture the heart, soul and visual radiance of illumination, of nature, of life itself. Not unlike insects drawn to amber to be sealed and preserved for all time, Turner's brilliance was creating work that could live forever and inform all visual arts. In his own way, he might well have had the soul of a filmmaker if technology had somehow moved its way up to meet him halfway. Thankfully, we have Turner's legacy of genius, and now we have Mike Leigh's glorious film.




Mr. Turner is perfection incarnate. It is so magnificent that one cannot imagine a greater testament to an artist and his art. Leigh captures a man, an aesthetic movement, a time of ideas and exploration and ultimately, he creates the means by which we can transport ourselves to an era where the sky was the limit with a simple, but deeply felt brush stroke.

Beginning with Turner (Timothy Spall) in middle age and continuing to his death, Mike Leigh pulls off the near-impossible in capturing what being a great artist is. Making use of a myriad of sumptuously-composed tableaux through the lens of cinematographer Dick Pope, Leigh gives us a glimpse into the process that defines artistry, but also allows us a fly on the wall perspective of what indeed might have made this great man thrive. Most wondrously, Leigh achieves this by cinematically recreating and/or imagining both Turner's work and what precisely the great artist could well have seen with his own eyes to inspire his breathtaking visions on canvas.

We delight in numerous scenes of Turner creating, socializing amongst the rich and famous, sparring with other artists and various intelligentsia of England's literary, critical, academic and artistic elite and most of all, Leigh provides us with a deeply felt and meticulously researched film that allows us to experience, at least from Leigh's considered eye, what made Turner tick as a human being. On one hand, he valued a Bohemian lifestyle, while on the other, was able to traverse with considerable freedom due to his wealth and fame. And much as we might crave a wholly sentimental portrait, Leigh fleshes Turner out, warts and all.

Turner eschews his duties as a father to the daughters born from an affair earlier in life and furthermore treats his long-toiling maid servant as a sexual receptacle for his gropings and loin-thrusts, in spite of the mounting ravages of psoriasis which wrack her body. Conversely, hs eals shown to be a man infused with great romance and tenderness, especially in his relations with a widow who at first provides him with seaside lodgings and eventually, a bed to share. Even more passionately, Turner is revealed to bear congenial familiarity and the deepest love for his father, a former barber and now his personal assistant and manager. Turner's connection to his father seems to know no earthly bounds and we both feel and believe it with the same conviction that leads our jaws to drop when he displays utter disregard and contempt for the mother of his illegitimate daughters.

This whole tale unravels in an unconventional manner which makes us think we're on board a solid narrative engine, thrusting ever forward, but in reality, we're cascading on a near-poetic series of vignettes, an episodic odyssey of an artist during one of his richest periods. It is Turner's discoveries as an artist that really carry us along, but the creative vessel, in spite of the occasional pock marks of selfishness and self-graitification in Turner, is also replete with humanity and we experience the man's ever-increasing love for life just as he's also at a point where he begins to sense his own mortality.

The pace of Leigh's film is leisurely, but never less than fascinating. He creates a world of so far away, so long ago, yet there is no fairy tale quality at play here, but rather an acute sense of time and place, so much so that we feel like the proceedings are rooted in a strict adherence to reality and historical accuracy. This, of course, is not to suggest there is no magic since Leigh conjures scene after scene which dazzles us with the sheer magic inherent in the way in which people must have lived. The dialogue and conversations, the drawing room and parlour discussions, the gorgeous, heart-achingly beautiful slowness of life, all unfold in a manner to allow both audience and characters to take in every moment and breath along the way. It is a pace perfectly in keeping with a world we'll never experience, but that we can participate in as viewers and get an overall sense of the pieces of Turner's time which Leigh captures so indelibly for our benefit.

There isn't a single false note in any of the exquisite performances. Even background extras live and breathe with the stuff of both humanity and fully-fleshed character. Though the pleasures from all principal and supporting players are almost incalculable, the film finally belongs to the astonishing Timothy Spall as Turner. Delightfully gruff, curmudgeonly, jowly and turtle-paced in everything, lest he spies a natural beauty of the world which ramps up his facial and physical gestures well beyond his normal demeanour, are just a few of the extraordinary feats of acting Spall offers. But Leigh has made a film of the deepest humanity and so too does Spall render his performance. There are moments in Spall's performance which will never, ever leave you. One of the greatest of these sequences is a look of despair Spall creates for Turner as his father dies before him. It's a look that blends sobs and laughs, tears and a crazed toothy smile and a sense that we are witnessing a man who becomes all too aware of life's dichotomous properties.

And yet, there is always the light, the glorious light. How appropriate then that Leigh begins and ends his film with the Sun in all its splendour. How, in a film that's all about light, could it ever be anything else?

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars
Mr. Turner opened theatrically on Christmas Day at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Mongrel Media and will be released to the rest of Canada over the coming weeks.

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER.

AMAZON.CA

AMAZON.COM

AMAZON.UK

MR. TURNER (TIFF 2014 - TIFF SPECIAL PRESENTATION) - Review By Greg Klymkiw

Mr. Turner
Dir. Mike Leigh
Starring: Timothy Spall, Dorothy Atkinson, Marion Bailey, Paul Jesson, Lesley Manville, Martin Savage, Joshua McGuire, Ruth Sheen, David Horovitch, Karl Johnson

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It seems fitting that the first film biography of the great Romantic landscape painter JMW Turner, oft-referred to as "the painter of light", is the product of one of the world's greatest living directors, Mike Leigh (Life is Sweet, Naked, Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake, Topsy-Turvy).

The exquisite properties of light in cinema, the glorious dance of film through a projector, the astonishing grace, promise and amalgamation of so many mediums into one, all driven by exposing and rendering the luminosity which, Turner proclaimed on his deathbed as God itself, is what yields this astonishing, moving celebration of a supremely important visual artist.

In a sense, Turner captured the qualities of light and motion on canvas in ways I always felt are what led to those same properties finding their way to be emblazoned forever upon celluloid to capture the heart, soul and visual radiance of illumination, of nature, of life itself. Not unlike insects drawn to amber to be sealed and preserved for all time, Turner's brilliance was creating work that could live forever and inform all visual arts. In his own way, he might well have had the soul of a filmmaker if technology had somehow moved its way up to meet him halfway. Thankfully, we have Turner's legacy of genius, and now we have Mike Leigh's glorious film.

Mr. Turner is perfection incarnate. It is so magnificent that one cannot imagine a greater testament to an artist and his art. Leigh captures a man, an aesthetic movement, a time of ideas and exploration and ultimately, he creates the means by which we can transport ourselves to an era where the sky was the limit with a simple, but deeply felt brush stroke.

Beginning with Turner (Timothy Spall) in middle age and continuing to his death, Mike Leigh pulls off the near-impossible in capturing what being a great artist is. Making use of a myriad of sumptuously-composed tableaux through the lens of cinematographer Dick Pope, Leigh gives us a glimpse into the process that defines artistry, but also allows us a fly on the wall perspective of what indeed might have made this great man thrive. Most wondrously, Leigh achieves this by cinematically recreating and/or imagining both Turner's work and what precisely the great artist could well have seen with his own eyes to inspire his breathtaking visions on canvas.

We delight in numerous scenes of Turner creating, socializing amongst the rich and famous, sparring with other artists and various intelligentsia of England's literary, critical, academic and artistic elite and most of all, Leigh provides us with a deeply felt and meticulously researched film that allows us to experience, at least from Leigh's considered eye, what made Turner tick as a human being. On one hand, he valued a Bohemian lifestyle, while on the other, was able to traverse with considerable freedom due to his wealth and fame. And much as we might crave a wholly sentimental portrait, Leigh fleshes Turner out, warts and all.

Turner eschews his duties as a father to the daughters born from an affair earlier in life and furthermore treats his long-toiling maid servant as a sexual receptacle for his gropings and loin-thrusts, in spite of the mounting ravages of psoriasis which wrack her body. Conversely, hs eals shown to be a man infused with great romance and tenderness, especially in his relations with a widow who at first provides him with seaside lodgings and eventually, a bed to share. Even more passionately, Turner is revealed to bear congenial familiarity and the deepest love for his father, a former barber and now his personal assistant and manager. Turner's connection to his father seems to know no earthly bounds and we both feel and believe it with the same conviction that leads our jaws to drop when he displays utter disregard and contempt for the mother of his illegitimate daughters.

This whole tale unravels in an unconventional manner which makes us think we're on board a solid narrative engine, thrusting ever forward, but in reality, we're cascading on a near-poetic series of vignettes, an episodic odyssey of an artist during one of his richest periods. It is Turner's discoveries as an artist that really carry us along, but the creative vessel, in spite of the occasional pock marks of selfishness and self-graitification in Turner, is also replete with humanity and we experience the man's ever-increasing love for life just as he's also at a point where he begins to sense his own mortality.

The pace of Leigh's film is leisurely, but never less than fascinating. He creates a world of so far away, so long ago, yet there is no fairy tale quality at play here, but rather an acute sense of time and place, so much so that we feel like the proceedings are rooted in a strict adherence to reality and historical accuracy. This, of course, is not to suggest there is no magic since Leigh conjures scene after scene which dazzles us with the sheer magic inherent in the way in which people must have lived. The dialogue and conversations, the drawing room and parlour discussions, the gorgeous, heart-achingly beautiful slowness of life, all unfold in a manner to allow both audience and characters to take in every moment and breath along the way. It is a pace perfectly in keeping with a world we'll never experience, but that we can participate in as viewers and get an overall sense of the pieces of Turner's time which Leigh captures so indelibly for our benefit.

There isn't a single false note in any of the exquisite performances. Even background extras live and breathe with the stuff of both humanity and fully-fleshed character. Though the pleasures from all principal and supporting players are almost incalculable, the film finally belongs to the astonishing Timothy Spall as Turner. Delightfully gruff, curmudgeonly, jowly and turtle-paced in everything, lest he spies a natural beauty of the world which ramps up his facial and physical gestures well beyond his normal demeanour, are just a few of the extraordinary feats of acting Spall offers. But Leigh has made a film of the deepest humanity and so too does Spall render his performance. There are moments in Spall's performance which will never, ever leave you. One of the greatest of these sequences is a look of despair Spall creates for Turner as his father dies before him. It's a look that blends sobs and laughs, tears and a crazed toothy smile and a sense that we are witnessing a man who becomes all too aware of life's dichotomous properties.

And yet, there is always the light, the glorious light. How appropriate then that Leigh begins and ends his film with the Sun in all its splendour. How, in a film that's all about light, could it ever be anything else?

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

Mr. Turner plays as a Special Presentation at TIFF 2014 and will be released in Canada via Mongrel Media.

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER.

AMAZON.CA

AMAZON.COM

AMAZON.UK

ART AND CRAFT - Review By Greg Klymkiw - HOT DOCS 2014 - Philanthropic Art Forgeries yield a HOT DOCS MUST-SEE

Is this Willy Loman?
Nope. It's art philanthropist Mark Landis.
In the parlance of The Blues Brothers,
he's "on a mission from God." 

Art and Craft (2014) ****
Dir. Sam Cullman, Jennifer Grausman
Co-Dir/Editor: Mark Becker

Review By Greg Klymkiw

For thirty years, Mark Landis travelled the highways and byways of the United States of America in his big, old red cadillac, donating priceless works of art to innumerable prestigious galleries. In return, he asked for nothing. He wanted neither recognition nor money. Hell, he didn't even want tax breaks. All Landis wanted was to give. And damn, he gave! He gave, in the Red Cross parlance, ever-so generously. Curators, administrators and various art mavens were happy to accept his donations and mount the works of art in their galleries. Everything from Picasso to Matisse to Charles Courtney Curran graced their walls. The list, it seems, goes on and on.

And on. And on. And on. But here's the rub.

The Good Father prepares...

Mark Landis never donated the work as Mark Landis. He used a variety of aliases, replete with elaborate backstories and costumes. His most dynamic pseudonym was that of a solemn, black-robed Father Arthur Scott (replete with a pin of the Jesuit Order).

And if it's a rub, you're looking for, here's the MEGA-rub: Every single work of art he donated was a forgery of the highest order.

And if that's not rub-a-dub-dub-rub-enough for you, Mark Landis was the forger.

So, here's the question:

If you forge great works of art to the point where even the experts are bamboozled and you donate the works pseudonymously with no financial remuneration or even credit, does this make you a criminal? Or better yet, are you any less an artist because of it? Well, let's just say the movie doesn't go out of its way to answer these queries directly, but I suspect most viewers will have no problem drawing their own conclusions.

American Impressionist makes for fine forgery.

Art and Craft is the stuff movies (and by extension, dreams) are made of. Filmmakers Cullman, Grausman and Becker have fashioned a thoroughly engaging portrait of an artist as an old man, but not just any garden variety artist. Landis is a sweet, committed, meticulous and gentle craftsman of the highest order. In fact, he's no mere copy cat, he is an artist - reproducing with astonishing detail work that touches and moves, not only himself, but millions. Furthermore, he might well be the ultimate performance artist insofar as his entire life seems like a veritable work of art and certainly, his "cons" in costume are also art of the highest order.

Like any great story, though, there is always an antagonist and much of the film details the cat and mouse game between Landis and Matthew Leininger, a former Cincinnati art registrar who caught on to the wily, old forger. He became so obsessed with tracking him down and exposing the fraud that he eventually lost his job and continued his dogged detective work as a stay-at-home Dad. This was, for me, one of the more interesting elements of the tale - not just for its dramatic conflict, but because it presents a portrait of the two sides of that coin known as the art world.

Landis always comes across as a genuinely brilliant and creative force. Leininger, on the other hand, seems typical of the administrative side of the art world: a petty stickler who plays strictly by the rules and in so doing, displays the kind of frustrating, unimaginative Kafkaesque paper pushing that makes the art world a much lesser place than it could be. That said, Leininger scores a few points for being such a persnickety schlub that his compulsion comes close to destroying his own career via this dogged pursuit.

Landis, of course, is nothing less than a delight - a kind of Willy Loman of art forgery and philanthropy. Wisely, the film fleshes out his life and provides ample information about his strange, lonely childhood, his complicated but loving relationships with his parents and his struggles with mental illness. No fascinating stone is left unturned in the film and the whole experience is never less than enthralling.

Art and Craft proves once again that truth is stranger than fiction, but that a good story is never enough to make a good film, but that it must be a story well told. The filmmakers acquit themselves to this pursuit more than admirably. The movie is as compelling as it is inspiring and happily, it offers some genuine surprises along the way which go straight for the heart and deliver moments as deeply moving as a lot of the art that clearly touches the soul of its protagonist, artist Mark Landis.

Art and Craft is playing at Toronto's Hot Docs 2014. For ticket info, visit the festival website HERE.

"THE GHOSTS IN OUR MACHINE" + "CHIMERAS" + "FELIX AUSTRIA!" - Reviews By Greg Klymkiw - Klymkiw's Bases-are-loaded HOT DOCS 2013 HOT PICKS

The Ghosts in Our Machine (2013) ****
Dir. Liz Marshall

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Okay, so something funny happened on the way to my home in the country. My wife and child, both being inveterate tree-huggers, got the craziest idea. What they wanted to do sounded like one hell of a lot of work. They promised I would not have to avail my services upon any aspect of their venture. Well, good intentions and all that, but now I find I'm not only a gentleman farmer, but involved in the rescue of animals living in horrid conditions and headed for inevitable slaughter. Now, it's not that I'm some kind of anti-environmental redneck or something, but what I love about living in the country is sitting in my dark office, smoking cigarettes, watching movies and writing. I occasionally step over to the window, part the curtains briefly and look outside to acknowledge - Ah yes, nature! I then happily return to my prodigious activities.

You see, prior to becoming a gentleman farmer, I liked the IDEA of nature, the IDEA of being in deep bush, the IDEA of living off-grid on solar energy. Well, more than the ideas, really, since I did enjoy all of the above in practice, but in my own way.

Now, I have animals. Shitloads of them that my wife, daughter and eventually I rescued from misery with the assistance of a super-cool Amish dude.

Needless to say, when watching Liz Marshall's film, I was completely blown away. You see, having experienced the joy of coming to know a variety of animals, I eventually realized that all of God's creatures I mistook for being little more than blobs of meat with nothing resembling character, spirit or intelligence was just downright stupid. I've always had dogs and THEY certainly have character, spirit and intelligence - so why NOT chickens? Or donkeys? Or hell, even bees.

Marshall's film, you see, focuses upon someone I'd have to classify as a saint. Photographer Jo-Anne McArthur is not only an astounding artist of the highest order, but by restricting her activities to mostly photographing animals in the most horrendous captivity, she's risked both her life and mental health. Given my recently-acquired predilection for animal rights, I watched Marshall's film three times. Yes, on a first viewing I was far too emotionally wound up to keep my cap of critical detachment on, but now I'm perfectly convinced of the film's importance in terms of both subject AND cinema. It's a finely wrought piece of work that takes huge risks on so many levels in order to present a stunningly etched portrait of the heroic McArthur and HER subjects - all those animals being tortured to fill the bellies of ignoramuses and line the pockets of corporate criminals. (Not that I'm planning to go Vegan anytime soon, but I do believe that ANYONE who consumes any animal product derived from cruel meat factories as opposed to natural free-range is no better than a torturer and murderer.)

Not kidding about that, either.

What you see in this film will shock you. There is no denying what both Marshall and McArthur see and capture with their respective cameras. Creatures with individual souls and personalities are being hunted, incarcerated in conditions akin to concentration camps and/or bred in captivity and tortured until they are slaughtered. Equally frustrating are the corporate boneheads in a variety of publishing industries devoted to generating purported journalism - the difficulty with which McArthur must suffer to get her work published and to bring attention to these atrocities gets me so magma-headed I need to almost be physically restrained from going "postal".

You must see this movie.

If you're a coward, loser and/or asshole and don't want to see the truth, then fuck you!

Chimeras (2013) ***
Dir. Mika Mattila

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Two artists. One rich and famous. The other - well, not so much. Both are on opposite ends of the art world spectrum. One does commercial art, the other - well, not so much. Is our tale situated then, in the two different NYC worlds of Madison Avenue and the Village respectively? Nope. We're talking China - the nation poised to be the ultimate superpower. And artists, no matter who they are grapple with common issues. They both want to pursue a purely Asian style, which is all well and good until one has to grapple with the intricacies of Communism vs. traditional Eastern philosophy and religion vs. the strange contemporary cusp period China is in which blends the tenets of a free market with Totalitarianism. Add to this heady brew the increasing and almost overwhelming influence of North American culture and artists young and old, rich and poor, seasoned and neophyte - who are grappling with a conundrum of overwhelming proportions. Director Mika Mattila steadies his gaze upon these two poles of experience through two artists and delivers are nicely made exploratory rumination upon these complex ideas. The picture is a tiny bit precious in its approach, but patience will yield rewards for discriminating viewers.

Felix Austria (2013) **1/2
Dir. Christine Beebe

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The dandy, well-dressed fellow is Felix Pfeifle from Modesto, California and director Christine Beebe offers up this scattershot, though often mind-blowingly imaginative documentary film which, being the adventures of a young man whose principal interests are Viennese high culture, ultra-Austro-Hungarian-aristocracy and Archduke Otto von Habsburg, makes for a mostly intriguing mix of personal journey, obsession and history. Felix has dreams about his obsessions and this is where the film shines. Like some perverse coupling of Guy Maddin and Jan Svankmajer (with dollops of the Brothers Quay), we're treated to the sort of dazzlingly sumptuous cinema magic one would want from a film that focuses upon the aforementioned individual. Less interesting to me is Felix's real life which keeps getting in the way of the glorious dream sequences, his Austro-monarchical fetishes and finally, the astonishing moments where we lays eyes upon the last living descendant of the empire Felix so desperately adores. There is also the interesting exploration of a mysterious, huge box that arrives from the estate of one Herbert Hinckle (which, for some reason forces me to imagine some ancient, wizened version of Travis Bickle in his dotage). The package contains a wealth of materials to keep Felix in a state of perpetual orgasm for the rest of his life and it is elements such as these which make the film ultimately a worthwhile experience.

"THE GHOSTS IN OUR MACHINE", "CHIMERAS" and "FELIX AUSTRIA!" are all playing at the Hot Docs 2013 Filom Festival. For tickets and showtimes visit the Hot Docs website HERE.

AI WEIWEI: NEVER SORRY - DVD/Blu-Ray Review By Greg Klymkiw - Artist as Activist - One of last year's biggest hits at Hot Docs International Festival of Documentary Cinema is now available on DVD via Mongrel Media.

Ai WeiWei: Never Sorry (2012) ***1/2
Dir. Alison Klayman
Starring Ai WeiWei

Review By Greg Klymkiw

To have four days, four weeks or even four months of someone's life to capture personal and public moments for a documentary film can seem an imposition of slight to major proportions, no matter who the person is and however they might benefit from it. Then again, the more time a filmmaker spends with their subject, this surely demonstrates a considerable degree of faith, commitment and genuine interest in said subject and within that context, imposition of any sort usually takes a backseat.

Director Alison Klayman spent a period of four years to generate this intelligently structured portrait of Chinese artist Ai WeiWei and thanks to this commitment from both filmmaker and subject, the film is a fine window into the life of an artist celebrated worldwide.

And here's the good news - it's not earnest.

Documentaries on artists - more often than not - are plagued with a formal "quality" that renders them as little more than informational (or educational) tools, yet fraught with a fake enthusiasm and often dull narration in a British accent. (How's that for a generalization?)

Happily, Klayman's film gives us information, education, storytelling with a real filmmaking voice, one HELL of a story and a subject the camera absolutely loves. We see Ai WeiWei's method of working, creating, preparing, collaborating and mounting some of the most stunning works of art that one might never have a chance to see - save for on film.

Ai WeiWei himself is a delight - brilliant, funny and an impish rascal. "Charm" is his middle name and it's all genuine. He works it on everyone who populates the film (save for some idiot bureaucrats and cops) and he clearly is working it on the filmmaker and us.

Klayman provides public and private moments - the latter are especially revealing, poignant and often funny.

Most importantly, what happens to Ai WeiWei over the four years is the stuff that all artists in repressive regimes face and we get a first-hand account of how frustrating, paranoia-stricken and even dangerous it can be. The struggle is the story's engine - Ai WeiWei as a human being and his art are the layers. One of the more astounding activities he engages in is the utilization of social media to document his plight with the authorities all over the world. Capturing computer and iPhone action is never any easy feat, but Klayman wends it so seamlessly into the narrative that it's always a vital part of the tale.

Ai WeiWei: Never Sorry is a document for our time and will remain so until the sort of repression people suffer all over the world is wiped out. In this sense, the picture's universal.

"Ai WeiWei: Never Sorry" is available on Blu-Ray/DVD via Mongrel Media.

THE TREE OF LIFE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Terrence Malick's new picture, "To The Wonder", will premiere at the Venice and Toronto (TIFF2012) Film Festivals, so now's as good a time as any to take a look at this idiotically overrated pile of sludge.

The Tree of Life (2011) *
dir. Terrence Malick
Starring: Brad Pitt,
Jessica Chastain, Sean Penn
Review By Greg Klymkiw

I like trees. Sometimes I talk to them. When I forget to take my meds, the trees talk back. It's okay, though. Clint Eastwood talked to trees in Paint Your Wagon while Harve Presnell called the wind "Maria". It's all good. One can be manly and still commune with nature. You need not bag game with automatic assault rifles, or use dynamite to float stunned fish into a net or careen down backroads in a half-ton with jars of open liquor sloshing down one's throat.

Those things are manly, to be sure, but so is talking to trees.

I was, it seems, a happy child. I loved dinosaurs, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and inhaling the misty aroma of DDT as it wafted gently through my suburban paradise, keeping it bereft of mosquitoes, numerous birds and other small animals. I attended church regularly – cherishing the solace, architecture and magical dapplings of light piercing the stained glass.

Dearest Dad, being an ex-cop was (understandably) of the authoritarian persuasion – strict to be sure, but a hard-working fellow who wished only to provide for his family. And Mom? She was a saint, not unlike Mother Teresa.

Winnipeg, where I grew up during the 60s and 70s always seemed a couple of decades behind the rest of the world – very post-war if you will. ’Twas, I might add, a leafy city – thus rendering the aforementioned tree worship.

It was like any small town or sleepy burg - anywhere. Hell, for all anyone knows, it might as well have been . . . Texas.

Now hold on! Hold on just a goldurn' second! I thought this was my life I was talking about, but the more I ruminate on those halcyon days of yore, it's all starting to sound suspiciously similar to Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life.

What gives?

Has Malick captured a universal truth or was my life that pathetic?

No!

A resounding NO!

My relatively uneventful childhood was, finally, much more interesting and poetic than Malick's lugubrious Battle of Ypres upon my gluteal muscles.

Granted, Malick is a filmmaker whose work I otherwise adore, but The Tree of Life stinks like an un-wiped asshole. Worse yet, way too many critics (and audiences of the "pseud" variety) pretended to find merit in this precious nonsense – extolling the virtues of Malick’s ambition and praising him for taking a bold risk.

For me, the only thing Malick took was a bold dump. I can only hope he found it satisfying and didn't forget to wipe.

What happens with pictures like these is that big stars like Brad Pitt take non-roles and desperately try to make something of them - finally giving up and giving in to the grand maestro who is "directing" them. After all, this is supposed to be art - not the usual crap they do that people might actually enjoy.

Basically, Pitt does little more than sleepwalk through the role of the taciturn Dad who beats one or all of his boys (however many there are - we never know for sure) and eventually weeps at the death of one of the aforementioned sons - whichever one it is. I’m not sure if Dad even knows which one of his sons died, but that's probably okay, because I certainly didn’t know, nor do I think anyone else in the audience knew either.

At the end of the day, Pitt varies his three expressions from adoring to mean to sad - that is, when he's not sleepwalking (which, I suppose counts as a fourth expression). This gives those who should know better an opportunity to heap accolades upon a performance that's really anything but.

Sean ("Fuck, look at me, I'm so intense") Penn shows up every so often in what appear to be flash forwards to a time long after Dad has died. He is, apparently, one of the sons, however many there are of the little buggers. Penn is clearly not the son who died. He might as well have kicked the bucket though, because it's clear his soul is bereft of life. He is in pain. Deep pain. Which is fine, I suppose, because so are we, the audience.

Have I mentioned the dinosaurs yet? No? Well, I'm not kidding. At one point, during the non-story of this family in post-war Texas, Malick takes a break from the regularly scheduled programming and delivers a long sequence involving the birth of the universe and, by extension, that of the planet Earth which, of course, involves dinosaurs generated by CGI and many trees - all teeming, no doubt, with life.

Jessica Chastain is the wife and mother of this family that we spend an awful lot of time with, but never really get to know because they ultimately do not exist as characters and as such, only resemble people because they are clearly not dinosaurs.

Nor are they trees.

Chastain has proven - in films in which she has something to do other than bake pies, look at a tree and do laundry - that she is an exquisite actress. Here, she at least appears to perform her chores as wife and mother very well. This is, I trust, acting.

Most of all, Chastain thankfully provides scenery equal to the tree Malick keeps forcing us to look at.

And yes, I talk to the trees and they, in turn, talk to me.

The Tree of Life is rich and bountiful.

Unless you’re talking about the movie.

This is a longer version of a piece that originally appeared in Electric Sheep Magazine. The movie is available for those who really feel they want to buy it on Blu-Ray from eOne.

DIY ART & LIFE: A DAY WITH JOE SWANBERG ("ART HISTORY", "THE ZONE", "SILVER BULLETS") Review By Greg Klymkiw - Mumblecore Madness Invades Toronto on May 13, 2012, the Christian Sabbath (or, for those so inclined, The Day of Simon, a day of rejoicing, happiness, feasting, remembrance and contemplation of both the challenges and triumphs of Simon, who during his reign, kept Israel pure from the filthy paws of the Heathen.)

DIY Art & Life: A Day with Joe Swanberg - Art History, The Zone, Silver Bullets dir. Joe Swanberg ***

Review By Greg Klymkiw

This is not a slag or a backhanded compliment, but seeing three recent works by the mumblecore pioneer Joe Swanberg (Art History, The Zone and Silver Bullets) is, at least for me, a day of rejoicing in discovering samples of the early work of a young filmmaker who displays the sort of artistry that's best contemplated within the context of what's to come.

In other words, I admired these pictures, but I didn't really like them all that much. They're pretentious, full of themselves and focus, somewhat annoyingly, on the (seemingly) weighty relationship between the medium of cinema, the act of filmmaking and the contemporary lives of a new generation of twenty-somethings.

But you've gotta see them. Kind of like medicine, but the kind we all enjoy - Gummie Kids Tylenol laced with acid. It's cinematic medicine that goes down like the bastard progeny quim-popped by a union of Mary Poppins and Timothy Leary (but perhaps spliced with the seed of Henry Miller).

The trio of short features (think novella for a literary comparison) comprise Swanberg's Full Moon trilogy. They are - ugh - improvised. This, is not necessarily a dirty word for me, but as naturalistic as the performances and dialogue are within the clearly manipulated mise en scène, I always felt distant from the characters - which, I'll admit, might even be the point - but in so doing, Swanberg seems to be clearly drawing a line and daring us to cross over or "go home".

This strange "take it or leave it" attitude (whether intentional or not) will, for many audiences - even those of us who are inclined to appreciate new forms of storytelling on film - provide a barrier from investing in the lives of those on-screen.

Though each of the movies (and collectively, the trilogy) are endowed with a series of solid narrative arcs, Swanberg's very approach continually subverts and obfuscates story to a point where the thing that drives our interest forward are not the traditional beats of character or constructive format, but his very gifted visual panache (that borders deliciously on the fetishistic) and, perhaps most importantly, the astounding ability to create tension through tone and atmosphere.

Swanberg is clearly the real thing.

That said, watching this trilogy is more exciting when one imagines a time when Swanberg will invest his voice and style in work that adheres far more closely to traditional rules of cinematic storytelling - creating a solid construct with which he can pull us into the lives of the characters, their journey and, at the same time, snap bits and pieces off the architecture - not just because he can, but because it will contribute to telling a story that sucks us in so deep that his subversion of the medium acts as a genuine story beat - jolting us, yet always moving us forward.

Watching these films is, aside from their considerable visual and tonal virtues, a total blast. It's one of the few times I've experienced early works of a filmmaker, whom I'm convinced is on the road to making movies that are going to completely knock us on our collective asses. Experiencing said works before he joins the pantheon of visionary directors who collectively respect the history of the medium, subvert the shit out of it and still make movies that will preach beyond the confines of the "converted" is a roller coaster ride very much worth taking.

Usually, one watches early works of directors we admire in retrospect. For me, this is probably best exemplified in the shorts of Martin Scorsese (It's Not Just You, Murray!, The Big Shave and the wildly contrasting post-Mean Streets documentary Italianamerican), David Cronenberg (Stereo and Crimes of the Future) and David Lynch (The Grandmother). Seeing those movies in retrospect provided a fascinating glimpse at what followed, but seeing Swanberg's stuff NOW is the complete opposite of this experience. Here we have a chance, to see - in this day and age - a whole mess of cool shit that's going to transform into something even cooler and, perchance, be infused with a greater lasting value than what's currently on display.

With that, I briefly give you the narratives to all three pictures. They're worth recounting.

In Art History, we follow a low budget director during the making of a micro-budgeted sex-drenched independent art film. The filmmaker's jealousy intensifies as the leading lady falls for her leading man - resulting in disastrous aesthetic consequences. In The Zone a couple and their female roommate are seduced by a mysterious visitor whose charms prove ephemeral and result in a major upsetting of the idyll of the twenty-somethings' apple cart. Silver Bullets, the third film in Swanberg's trilogy charts a young actress' attraction to her director (of a werewolf picture, no less) as her live-in boyfriend expresses dismay over her acceptance of work in the film and gradually descends into a pit of depressive paranoia.

There's not a darn thing wrong with any of these narratives, though Swanberg's pseudo-Cassavettes-influenced improvisations blended with the meta-film approach to story are played up in extremis and always keep us at arms' length from appreciating the journeys fully. In spite of this, there is a bounty of pure, glorious cinema to feast upon - lighting and compositions of exquisite taste and a dazzling bravery in holding many of the shots longer than most films do in this age of ADD-inspired shooting and cutting.

The tone of all three films is extremely creepy and though it seems like narrative and character are the casualties, Swanberg delivers the goods in providing his strong original voice and it is his style that ultimately rules the day.

My favourite of the three is The Zone. I found it delectably unpleasant to the max and even vaguely enjoyed how it intentionally ran out of steam.

Swanberg is also quite comfortable indulging himself in the kind of fetishistic behind-the-camera impulses that have always made for great work (but in the works of most young filmmakers often falls flat).

Within the mainstream, Alfred Hitchcock and, to a certain extent, David Lynch, explored their particular penchants to a point where the act of both filmmaking and viewing the films are endowed with unique fetishistic qualities for makers, viewers and participants alike. Jan Svankmajer in his decidedly non-mainstream Conspirators of Pleasure broke all sorts of barriers and plunged us into a delightfully strange miasma of kink. And lest we forget the perverse Austrian Ulrich Seidl who, in both documentary and drama plunged us into all manner of fetishistic depravity to expose the humanity in the extremities of human behaviour. (Anyone who's seen Seidl's Dog Days and Jesus, You Know might find similar, though muted comparison points in Swanberg's trilogy.)

The aforementioned filmmakers all crossed my mind while watching Swanberg's work.

This is a good thing.

For me, the thrill of seeing the birth of a new voice, the anticipation of what this voice will add to the future of cinema whilst taking its own unique place in the pantheon of cinematic immortality is worth its weight in gold.

Toronto audiences are blessed with the opportunity to spend several hours with Swanberg and his films as Ultra 8 Pictures, CINSSU and Refocus present DIY Art & Life: A Day with Joe Swanberg at Innis Town Hall (University of Toronto campus) on Sunday May 13th beginning at 4:00pm and lasting into the deep, dark night. Tickets are available HERE or by emailing katarina@ultra8.ca

PUSHWAGNER - Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw - HOT DOCS 2012 MUST-SEE #15

Pushwagner (2012) dir. August B. Hanssen, Even Benestad ****
Review by Greg Klymkiw

"But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'" - Jack Kerouac

Pushwagner rocks! It rocks hard! This has easily got to be one of the best documentaries I've ever seen about a contemporary living artist. And WHAT an artist! What a movie! On the surface, we learn very little about Norway's septuagenarian bad boy beat-punk maniac artist and yet we learn EVERYTHING we need to know. What's fabulous about the picture - among so many things - is that it never slips into the horrid doc-cliches of so many profile biography portraits. We meet who we need to meet. We hear who we need to hear from. We learn what we need to know. No endless parade of ex-friends-lovers-family-pundits. No endless, boring details about his life (just the good stuff, thanks). No annoying insert shots. No twee solo guitar strumming or piano tinkles in the background (just a stunning, vibrant musical score from composer Gisle Martens Meyer). Even the central conflict of the film, his court battle to regain control of all his artwork that he mistakenly signed over to a former associate, is handled in a compact manner evocative of Pushwagner himself. Mostly, all we need to know is what we get in spades - Pushwagner is clearly some kind of genius, an astounding artist and totally fucking cooler than cool!

The art. WOW! First of all, Pushwagner as a human being is a work of art. The movie opens with a great image of one of his paintings and words of his mad wisdom that pretty much summarize the film, Pushwagner, art, life and (at least for me) the central question of the universe and why we're even here.

Pushwagner Declaration: "You have to press on like a bulldozer to reveal the man behind the mask for future generations."

Tell me about it! Rock on, man. Give me more.

We see the mad genius directing the directors. They know what they're doing. They get what they need and then some. Ah, but what movies I'd have loved to see Pushwagner direct. At least I can imagine them. At least my imaginings can, after seeing this astounding motion picture, permeate my dreams. I can let the pieces of Pushwagner time float about my cerebellum in those deepest points of slumber.

Pushwagner Declaration: "Control has nothing to do with fantasy. Art is fiction. It's about telling a good lie. It doesn't matter as long as it's entertaining. The fun thing about it, is not whether it's true or false, it's the story itself."

The central question that presses on like a bulldozer to reveal the man behind the mask for future generations is this: In a documentary portrait of anyone or anything: Who has upper hand? The subject or the director?

Or both?

Pushwagner demands the filmmakers ask him what he is reading. He demands they compose the shot to his liking. He demands to reveal what he IS reading. He tells them what their next question SHOULD have been.

A stirring series of shots as Pushwagner marches through the streets on his way to court. He will do battle with his former collaborator/assistant Morten Dreyer. He gave 2000 artworks to Dreyer. He wants them back. I know nothing about Dreyer. For all I know, he is a lost bastard child of my favourite director of all time, Carl Dreyer and has assumed this surname, abandoning that of his birth mother. This is not true, of course. It doesn't have to be. I'm more than happy to imagine it. To let it permeate my brain cells. It's a lie, of course. A good lie, I think. Would Pushwagner think so? Probably not. In the meantime, he wants his art back from Dreyer - not much else matters.

Pushwagner Declaration: "If you don't fight you won't survive. You need opposition."

And the art. Creepy, haunting, funny. Hordes of suited suits in dead cities of glass. Magritte by way of Jack Kirby. Bureaucrats. Dead, Empty. So alive.

Pushwagner Declaration: "Art means life or death. In the last 40 years I've lived a vagrant life. Between different social strata but also in different rooms."

Axel Jensen - writer extraordinaire. Pushwagner's chief influence. Collaborator on several great books. And an astounding montage that sucks us into the Pushwagner-Jensen world of Soft City, an artistic collaboration seldom paralleled.

And the vodka. Endless vodka. Mother's milk down Pushwagner's gullet.

Pushwagner Declaration: "To listen to rock and roll you must live it."

What we wonder is when Pushwagner will keel over? Will it happen on film?

Pushwagner Declaration: "Only a catastrophe can change the human heart."

And there he lay in a hospital bed. Kidney failure. Dehydrated. Undernourished. For weeks, Pushwagner has ingested nothing but vodka. He looks to the homeless for guidance. He too was once homeless and like them, he seeks to "neutralize negative psychological circumstances by drinking."

His mantra is "so little time, so much to do".

Will he do it?

A mad dance with a Bloody Mary clutched in his hand. Crazed brilliant sketches during the court case. Refusing to speak at his own art show, then taking over from a mouth-piece to toast Mother Norway.

Pushwagner the artist. Pushwagner the man.

The man who "goes to loo and wipes his arse."

Billowing smoke.

A cigarette stubbed into an ashtray.

See this movie.

Now!

"Pushwagner" is playing Thu, May 3 9:15 PM at Cumberland 2 and Fri, May 4 11:30 PM at Bloor Hot Docs Cinema during the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Festival 2012. To get tickets, visit the Hot Docs website HERE.