SEARCHING FOR SUGAR MAN - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Compelling Documentary details the mystery behind Rodriguez, the musical genius who in South Africa became the voice for anti-authoritarian youth and white liberals who opposed the evils of apartheid.

Searching For Sugar Man (2012)

dir. Malik Bendjelloul

****

Review By Greg Klymkiw

For over 50 years the virulently racist National Party policy of Apartheid in South Africa subjected its indigenous peoples to forced segregation. The resulting horrors must never be forgotten; nor should the struggle of the colonized nation's Black majority to free themselves from the brutal and degrading lifestyle imposed by the minority White rulers.

In the 70s and 80s, there existed an unlikely (and unwitting) hero of the anti-Apartheid movement - a man of almost insurmountable artistic gifts who came to represent a ray of hope and inspiration to the youth of South Africa's "ruling class" - those White Liberal Afrikaners who steadfastly opposed Apartheid and, in fact, rejected the entire atmosphere of fascism, repression and paranoia imposed upon ALL South Africans - white and black.

It is the backdrop of Apartheid that Malik Bendjelloul's glorious feature documentary Searching For Sugar Man uses to present a biographical portrait of the film's primary subject. Bendjelloul, a storyteller par excellence, structures the remarkable movie as a mystery and blends a variety of tools including animation, news reel footage and a multitude of gorgeously lit and composed interview segments to investigate one of the great show business head-scratchers.

'Twas the late 60s, in a land far, far away from South Africa, when a solitary figure became a fixture on the stages of waterfront taverns in working-class Detroit.


Night after night, late into the murky, smoky, boozy darkness permeating these ramshackle, beer-soaked dream palaces, this brilliant young American folk singer, born into a family of poor, hardworking immigrants from Mexico, captured the hearts and minds of those who came to recognize themselves, like mirror images within the evocative lyrics of the man known to them as Rodriguez. He wrote about himself, and in so doing, wrote about everyman. He was their poet laureate, their preacher, their prophet, their confessor. He shared himself with you and you alone, not the world.

A man so gifted, however, must be shared with the wider world and in due time he was discovered. Detroit was not only Motor City, but Motown and soon, he fell into the hands of some very talented Motor City music producers. This resulted in Rodriguez delivering two great albums for Sussex Records - Cold Fact (1970) and Coming From Reality (1971).

The world, alas, did not embrace them. Both albums were huge commercial disasters and Rodriguez was dropped from his label while in the middle of recording a third album (which, sadly, was never finished). Disappearing into the anonymity and obscurity of manual labour and a "normal" life, Rodriguez quickly became a has-been who never was. This young man, who had been touted as the next Bob Dylan quickly became "Rodriguez Who?".

Unbeknownst to Rodriguez, his work had been released into the repressive regime of South Africa, whereupon both albums shockingly went through the roof. In a land ruled by a succession of iron-fisted fascist maniacs like Botha, Rodriguez spoke to a new generation who wished to extricate themselves from the sins of their fathers.

In South Africa, Rodriguez did indeed become bigger than the Beatles, Bob Dylan and remarkably, Elvis Presley.

His songs often depicted the plight of the oppressed, the exploited, the working class and the poor. Rodriguez became synonymous with fighting for what was right and his songs were both anthemic and iconic amongst the Afrikaner youth of South Africa. Smothered by the "establishment" in the Totalitarian-like regime of South Africa, young Afrikaners with minds of their own embraced this fresh, passionate voice.

And yet, something didn't sit well with his multitude of South African fans. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where, on Earth, was he? The only thing they knew for sure, or at least assumed, is that he didn't come to perform in South Africa for the same reasons other artists didn't (and why other countries imposed cultural, industrial and financial boycotts):

The world was telling South Africa that Apartheid would not be tolerated.

An island unto itself, South Africa ignored worldwide demands to establish human rights for ALL its citizens, and within its hermetically sealed borders, thousands upon thousands of South African youth, in protest and solidarity bought the Rodriguez albums, listened to them on the radio and demanded his songs be performed by live cover bands. Sales continued to skyrocket - especially when sad news filtered beyond the government-controlled media that Rodriguez was dead.

Reports were conflicted. At first they heard that Rodriguez had been onstage performing for an unappreciative audience. He waited for their silence, played one last tune, then pulled out a gun and blew his brains out onstage. However, news surfaced that Rodriguez had indeed NOT shot himself.

On stage, he doused himself with gasoline and immolated himself in front of the shocked audience and in South Africa, martyrdom for Rodriguez was not far behind.

Years later, long after the fall of Apartheid, Rodriguez was still popular as ever and two of his biggest fans in South Africa embarked on an arduous journey to seek the truth. It is this journey, a fascinating blend of Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" and "All the President's Men", that drives Searching For Sugar Man right out of the park. This expertly written, edited and directed story of investigation and devotion, not only exposes truth, but presents a story that is as uplifting as it is sad, as thrilling as it is profoundly and deeply moving.

And then, there's the music of Rodriguez. Bendjelloul does not skimp here and this dazzling tale of determination, revelation and hope embraces us with filmmaking of the highest order.

The movie must be seen on a big screen. Sound, image and story demand a bigger than life viewing experience. And when you're done watching, you will, like I did - float out of the theatre, wander straight to the nearest purveyor of CDs and vinyl and snatch up as much Rodriguez as you can possibly find.

And then, like those Afrikaner youth who so long ago sought to extricate themselves from an evil they had no use for, you will play your Rodriguez again and again and again.

And you will feel elation of the highest and most spiritual order.

"Searching For Sugarman" is currently in platform release via Canada's Mongrel Media and Sony Pictures Classics in the USA. In Toronto, you will be able to see it at the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema. For tickets and info, visit the Hot Docs website HERE.

PAUL WILLIAMS STILL ALIVE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - An evocative portrait of the truly legendary Paul Williams, one of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century.

Paul Williams Still Alive
(2011)dir.
Stephen
Kessler
****
Starring:
Paul Williams,
Stephen Kessler


A Memoir and a Review By Greg Klymkiw

1975 was the best Christmas of my life. I was 15 years old and I saw Brian DePalma’s satirical rock musical Phantom of the Paradise at least 20 times over a period of two weeks. I saw it so many times afterwards, I still have no idea how many times I’ve seen it – not just on home video, but mostly – throughout the late 70s and early 80s on BIG SCREENS.

I wasn’t the only one.

At least not in my hometown – my glorious winter city.

The movie was a huge flop all over the world – save for two cities; Paris, France and Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

In Winnipeg it played first-run, non-stop, six performances a day in a 1000-seat movie theatre for several months. Even when Phantom of the Paradise ended its first-run engagement, it was held-over, moved-over, re-released and revived in one-screen stand-alone suburban cinemas and drive-in movie theatres all over the city. It was played endlessly at Winnipeg repertory cinemas, the Winnipeg Art Gallery, the Manitoba Museum Auditorium, all the University film series and wherever, whenever movies were screened publicly on film. Hell, once I got a chance to program a repertory cinema all on my lonesome, I not only played the movie to packed houses, but watched it on occasion in the very cinema I was running.

Why?

It’s a great movie, to be sure. DePalma’s delicious trash sensibilities and style hit more than a few chords with me and others of my generation who grew up – in our very formative years – being raised on Universal Horror, Hammer Horror and Roger Corman horror pictures. The movie tapped into everything that made horror movies so special – working not just on the level of satirical humour, but like any great satire, it worked on the same levels as the thing that was being satirized. Even cooler was it’s story – a very special amalgam of Phantom of the Opera and Faust, but with rock music.

(Another reason was definitely Jessica Harper. What 15-year old boy DIDN’T have a crush on her as the sexy songstress Phoenix and what 15-year-old girl DIDN’T want to be Jessica Harper?)

Why Winnipeg?

Well, believe it or not, it was a pretty cool city in those days. On the surface, a sleepy Midwestern Canadian city in the middle of nowhere on the flat prairies, but with a heavy concentration of the coolest counter-culture in a four-to-five-block area downtown – GREAT record shops, comic book stores, pinball parlours, head shops, grind houses, greasy spoons, sleazy manor hotels (by law – men only in both the rooms and the bars) and this entire childhood playground of COOL included a bevy of porno cinemas and massage parlours. In spite of all the “nastier” elements, it was a surprisingly safe place for kids to go on their own by bus. (At the age of 12, I was watching Hammer horror, motorcycle movies and beach party picture triple bills in grindhouses stinking of urine, cum and vomit – staring wide-eyed at ratty old screens filled with large-breasted Swedish women baring their milky necks for Christopher Lee's fangs while toothless hookers gave gum jobs to old men all around me.)

I also think Winnipeg’s physical and cultural isolation played a big part in all this. Genre appreciation is big with kids everywhere, but in Winnipeg, there was NO American television and many of us didn’t get cable television in our homes until we were already in our mid-teens. Well, there was ONE American station – a border town on the USA side one-hour south – Pembina, North Dakota to be precise. A tiny independent television station called KCND-TV set up shop to beam its way to the greedy rabbit-ear antennae of Winnipeg boob tubes to cleanup on advertising dollars. With no network affiliations, the station ran old horror movies whenever it could – especially on Saturday nights after syndicated broadcasts of Perry Mason re-runs on every Winnipeg kid’s favourite show, Chiller Thriller.

Winnipeg was also a cool music town. Some were old enough to have seen Neil Young or The Guess Who – live: in Winnipeg, in their burgeoning years. Even if we didn't, we knew they were Winnipeggers. Neil went to Kelvin High School while Burton Cummings went to St. John's. Randy Bachmann's folks lived around the corner from my house. Burton Cummings Mom worked in the downtown Eaton's department store. All the school dances and sock hops and coffee houses featured live music from soon-to-be-rock-legends and all those others who should/could have been. (My Dad even gave Burton Cummings an early gig playing a riverboat cruise with the legendary Toilet Rockers Gary and Blair MacLean.)

The ‘Peg was – “shakin’ all over” big time.

Young 'Peggers were (at least I like to think) so genre and music savvy at just the right time in just the right place to turn Phantom of the Paradise into a huge cult film.

The prime ingredient of Phantom of the Paradise that connected with all of us was none other than the astounding music composed by Paul Williams.

His score was so popular in Winnipeg that the soundtrack album went Gold in Canada – solely from its sales in Winnipeg. (I still have MY mint condition sealed vinyl as well as an original well-worn copy - both of which I purchased at Gambles, the long-dead discount department store in Winnipeg's north end.)

Williams’s score was boss and spun at many high school dances and on local radio stations. Like DePalma’s cinematic approach to the material, Williams satirized so many beloved genres of rock music and, sounding like a skipped record here, great satire rides the delicate line between parody and the thing being satirized.

It’s a score that works on its own as truly great music.

Winnipeggers – initially through Phantom of the Paradise – became the most rapturous fans of Paul Williams. A few months after the movie opened and went through the rough, a hastily arranged series of sold out Paul Williams concerts played at Winnipeg’s majestic Centennial Concert Hall. Williams must have felt like Jesus Christ on the Second Coming – or, better than Jesus, The Beatles. That’s no exaggeration.

Phantom of the Paradise was our way into Paul Williams. He not only wrote the score that Winnipeggers drove to Gold Record status, but he starred in the movie as Swan, the slimy music promoter who signed his clients to deals with the Devil himself. And we loved him. He wasn’t so much the villain you loved to hate, but the villain you loved to love.

WHY Paul Williams became such an idol in Winnipeg is beautifully explained in Paul Williams Still Alive and it also happens to explain why director Kessler was a rapturous fan - so much so that he was driven to craft this extraordinary documentary.

And Paul Williams was ubiquitous. He was fucking everywhere. We now had cable TV all over the city and there he was – endless appearances on endless popular AMERICAN programs: Johnny Carson, Merv Griffin, Police Woman (getting blown away by Angie-hubba-hubba-Dickinson), The Odd Couple, Sonny and Cher – the list went on.

No luck finding Paul Williams on the CBC, though. Canada's national public broadcaster was too busy producing and programming shows featuring inbred East Coast fiddlers and, God Help Us! - Hymn Sing. (That said, we kind of loved those too. Winnipeg's water pipes were lined with asbestos for more years than most of us are too frightened to acknowledge.)

Some of us even went so far as to dig into his back catalogue of song writing and were stunned that he wrote hit music for Three Dog Night AND The Muppets. And while not all of us might have been as enamoured with his hits for The Carpenters, Helen Reddy and Barbara Streisand – we sure never begrudged him that – especially not when he began recording and performing his own renditions of the songs which, I can assure you we all preferred.

Paul Williams was so high on the radar.

Then he dropped off.

This "dropping off" is what precipitated and inspired the terrific new feature documentary by Stephen Kessler, Paul Williams Still Alive. Kessler, as he explains in his heart-felt narration had an equally rapturous adoration for Williams until eventually life moved on and Williams became a fleeting memory. A chance Internet surf brought Williams back onto his radar. He eagerly wanted to know more about his childhood idol. What happened? Where was he now? What was he up to?

What does a fan do in such circumstances? He makes a movie about it.

Kessler was in a good position to do so. He wasn’t a mere fan-boy with a camcorder – he was a bonafide filmmaker with a successful career as a TV commercial director, an Academy Award nominated short drama and two features which, for me, place him in the pantheon of one of the strangest filmmakers who should have been well on the road to some kind of greatness. I actually love Kessler’s first feature Vegas Vacation with Chevy Chase. What can I say? I loved all the Vacation pictures (except European Vacation) and the Vegas instalment especially made me soil myself with laughter. Then he made The Independent, one of the strangest features to NEVER find an audience, an oddball mockumentary about a Grade-Z moviemaker played by Jerry Stiller that, at the very least, should have become far better known than it is to geeks everywhere.

Great documentaries tell stories.

Imparting information A&E Biography-style is mind-numbingly dull. That said, great subject matter (which Paul Williams assuredly is) ALSO do not make for great documentaries. Every year at the Hot Docs film festival in Toronto I hear people extolling the virtues of documentaries because of what they’re about. Sorry wags, pundits, critics and worst of all, commissioning editors – just because the subject matter is great doesn’t mean it’s great FILMMAKING.

Grab a fucking brain, people!

Kessler, however, is a real filmmaker and this documentary not only tells a great story but it is first-rate moviemaking!

First and foremost it does all the stuff it needs to do – we get all the biographical details past and present and we most certainly get a keen sense of WHO Paul Williams was and is. If that is all you want out of the picture, it is most certainly there and then some.

What makes it special is not just what it is, but what it became during the filmmaking process and most importantly because Kessler is a real filmmaker who ultimately knew he had to grab the opportunity – if not on a conscious level at first, certainly at a gut level due to the fact that he’s the real thing and not one of these lunkhead losers with either an agenda and/or lucks into a great subject, grabs a camera and stumbles into a movie that connects with people who should know better.

This is a movie about friendship. We see it happen before our very eyes. We see a director who clearly loves his subject matter. As he begins the film, Kessler THINKS he knows where to take it, but because of his innate cinematic sensibilities, his fumbles become a part of the story (like his interrupting Paul Williams while he tells a great personal story to cleave out his own agenda and, in the process, pissing his subject off).

At one point, Kessler is forced to follow Williams around from a distance. It’s a hilarious scene and kind of touching.


As the shaky-cam pathetically captures its subject we can hear Williams and those with him commenting on Kessler’s doggedness. Williams is both annoyed and strangely grudging about the fact that Kessler means business.

In a very cool moment, Williams finally just tells Kessler to be in the movie with him because it’s the only way he feels comfortable participating in the project. Kessler wisely jumps on this. He is, in his own delightful geek-fan-boy way, a pretty good subject himself.

So now, not only do we get a chance to follow Paul Williams on his current gigs, meet his friends, associates, family and others, but also we see a friendship developing between the two men. We learn – within the context of this developing friendship – about Williams struggle with drugs, alcohol and personal relations. This is what gives the movie that added frisson because it’s not just about the relationship between two artists, one exploring, the other revealing – but we see two men getting closer as the movie progresses and we eventually get a central subject who lowers his guard and responds – not as a subject, but a friend.

One could argue all documentary directors, and to a certain extent news reporters, operate. Well, they do. It takes a real filmmaker to propel it to cinema.

By the end of the film, one learns as much about Paul Williams as one does about Kessler and because of this we get a far more evocative portrait of one of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century.

And guess what? He’s still alive, he’s still performing and he’s still writing music.

Hell, we’re in a new century now. Who knows what will happen next? The movie gives a sense that whatever it is it’s just beginning, but that it’s all good.

It’s a great story!

"Paul Williams Still Alive" is currently in platform release throughout Canada via Mongrel Media. If you live in Toronto, you can see it at the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema where the brilliant programming includes screenings of "Phantom of the Paradise", "Bugsy Malone", "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster", "The Last Waltz" and the first-run engagement of "Searching For Sugar Man" (which, in a strange way, tells a tale that makes South Africa not unlike Winnipeg and vice versa). For showtimes and info, visit the Hot Docs Bloor Cinema website HERE.

REMORQUES - Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw - This glorious melodrama appears in a new release from Criterion's Eclipse Series that focuses on director Jean Grémillon and the truly exquisite work he generated in Occupied France during WWII.

Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! Marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons! - La Marseillaise

Remorques (1941) *****
dir: Jean Grémillon
Starring: Jean Gabin, Madeleine Renaud and Michèle Morgan

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In 1941, during the Nazi Occupation of France, Three Wise Men (director Jean Grémillon, screenwriter Jacques Prévert and star Jean Gabin), all bearing precious gifts of motion picture genius, stood reverently beneath the shining star of French Cinema to deliver Remorques, a dazzling, compelling and moving movie melodrama of the highest order.

Vive le cinéma français!

Vive le cinéma de Jean Grémillon!

Vive le Criterion Collection Série Eclipse!

I always love discovering new films and filmmakers from earlier periods of cinema. Almost shamefully, however, I must admit that prior to diving headlong into the latest Criterion Eclipse Series, I'd never laid eyes upon a film by Jean Grémillon, the French auteur celebrated in this great box of DVDs devoted to work he directed during the Nazi Occupation of France.

What little I knew of him was the great story of how, as a young violinist in an orchestra that accompanied silent movies, he became entranced with the musicality of motion pictures, chucked his fiddle, entered the film business, cut his teeth as an editor, then became a prolific director whose career spanned over three decades.

After seeing Remorques, the aforementioned bit of movie lore comes as no surprise since the picture pulled, pushed, nudged, caressed, walloped and wrenched me until finally, I was reduced to a winded, quivering mass of jelly and gooseflesh.

What a picture!

The screenplay adaptation is gorgeously structured by Jacques (Les enfants du paradis) Prévert (based upon a novel by Roger Vercel, whose book Capitaine Conan was the basis for Bertrand Tavernier's strangely forgotten war film from 1996). Grémillon directs Prévert's deceptively simple script with all the panache of a genuine Master.

This stirring tale of brave, passionate, two-fisted men who work salvage vessels and the women who love them is replete with perfect ebbs and flows to keep us glued to our seats. Ever wanting to push forward with characters we come to love almost immediately, the script and direction allow the necessary weight to both the men saving ships in peril on troubled waters, whilst troubled domestic waters on terra firma roil amongst the women who love their men, fearing widowhood every time their husbands risk their lives to save others.

Jean Gabin plays Captain André Laurent, a veteran sailor who commands his men with confidence and camaraderie. He has taken this job to remain in greater physical proximity to his wife Yvonne (Madeleine Renaud). Their love seems deep and genuine, yet Laurent is unable to acquiesce to his wife's requests that he retire from the sea permanently so they can live out their lives peacefully and in a state of complete devotion to one another.

Gabin, probably France's biggest star and greatest screen actor is, as per usual, utterly fabulous. The first moment we see him on screen, it's apparent some form of doom is going to befall the guy. (This is not a spoiler - if you see enough Jean Gabin movies, you know he's going to suffer some major shit storm sooner or later.)

One of his loyal crew members is celebrating marriage to a beautiful young woman. A grand speech is made by the owner of the salvage company, but it's Capt. Laurent everyone wants to hear from. Perfectly in keeping with Gabin's natural talents/personality, the good Captain modestly wishes to remain silent, but he knows he won't. Neither do his men, nor the wedding guests and frankly, neither do we, the audience. Gabin rises gracefully and reluctantly. His modesty is both heart-felt AND for show.

He's Jean Gabin, after all.

His speech sets the tone perfectly. He claims he doesn't want to make a speech, proceeds to say little beyond some stock salutations, but then, he Gabin-izes all of us with a slight twinkle in his eye and a lovely, simple comment about how speeches are not necessary in times of celebration - that what is of utmost importance is for all to dance. He then adds a thoroughly gentlemanly offer to the bride to dance with him and he receives thunderous applause.

Eventually, the celebration is interrupted. An S.O.S. signal has been received. The men storm off into the eye of the raging waters. The new bride is whisked off to spend her wedding night commiserating with the Captain's wife.

Someone might not come home. Or be maimed. But always, in their lives is Capt. Laurent - steadfast, true and a great leader. We should all have Jean Gabin lead us into the breach. For American moviegoers during this time, it was John Wayne.

France, however, had Jean Gabin.

Jesus, Gabin is unbelievable.

And yes, he's always great, but this might well be one of his best performances. It's a perfect role - replete with a sense of loyalty, duty, perseverance and a genuine love for the sea. At the same, though, he clearly loves his wife - he's mad about her. Because he's so mad about her we feel his guilt all the more. Clearly, his true love, his ultimate mistress is the sea and the camaraderie of his men. When the Captain tells his wife - with a straight face - that she need not fret about him as she did in the early years when he was away at sea for months at a time, he evokes a sense of duality that only Jean Gabin was especially capable of.

He tells her that's why he accepted a salvage commission in the first place - to be close to her. Of course, the good Captain wants to believe this. He wants to believe it so bad that he's able to fool himself into thinking he does. And yet, as he speaks these words, we sense that he ultimately understands his self-deception and worse, that he's deceiving his wife.

Yvonne is no fool. She sees through his deception whilst recognizing and almost accepting his SELF-deception. Ultimately, she wants desperately to accept his word.

These are, of course, extremely complex emotions. On the page, however, in far less skilled hands than Grémillon's, the melodramatic aspects of the story could have gone so completely wrong. The emotions could have been BIG, but simply stayed at that. This might well have resulted in solid melodrama, but here Grémillon uses the tropes of melodrama as a springboard into actions and reactions, as well as subtext, that not only take us further and deeper into the characters, but in fact, forces us - so deliciously - to root for our heroes as people, NOT archetypes.

Instead, we have a sense that yes, emotions here are running high and that the stakes - every step of the way - are HUGE. And there's not a damn thing wrong with this. (As I always say, like a broken record, melodrama in and of itself is not bad, but rather, there is only good melodrama and bad melodrama.)

Without question, Remorques is not merely good, it's GREAT melodrama.

First of all, it helps that the script by Prévert appears to chart the most perfect elements from Vercel's novel to render a screen story that is electrifyingly compelling from beat to beat. Vercel loved the sea and much preferred to set his tales against its backdrop. Strangely, though, he had virtually no experience with the sea - for him it was the pure romance of it that attracted him.

Prévert seems to understand this all too well and he also recognizes that Vercel did, in fact, have the most harrowing of experiences during World War I, which he also wrote about extensively in other books. Since Vercel favoured writing about the sea, the script is infused with this passion every step of the way - especially as it applies to the character of Capt. Laurent.

Laurent is a romantic (perhaps much like Vercel himself) and it is what makes him so damned appealing because his overwhelming degree of romance is what could also condemn him to doom and disaster.

Laurent is romantic to a fault.

And again, who better than Jean Gabin?

In the legendary "What is Cinema?", Andre Bazin writes:

"The film star is not just an actor, not even an actor particularly beloved of the public, but a hero of legend or tragedy, embodying a destiny which scenarists and directors must comply - albeit unwittingly. Otherwise the spell between the actor and his public will be broken. The variety of films in which he appears, and which seem so agreeably surprising in their novelty, should not mislead us. It is the confirmation of a destiny, profound and essential, which we unconsciously seek in the actor's renewed exploits."

It's uncanny that as you watch Remorques, how indelibly you see and feel the aforementioned Bazinian sentiments expressed above. And though expressed well over a decade after the film was long finished, released and to a certain extent "forgotten", one feels explicitly that Grémillon understood, all too well, the sense of how Gabin would infuse his role and the film itself with the "profound and essential confirmation of destiny".

Grémillon was, after all, fashioning what he hoped would be a huge hit with the biggest star in France. And yes, it WAS a huge hit. Given the political realities facing France (and the world, for that matter) at the time of the film's making, Remorques feels like a film that could ONLY have sprung from the loins of a Frenchman during the Nazi Occupation. (Though I suspect, based on the superlative direction displayed in the other films in the Criterion box set, he'd have made a great film in another age - albeit, I think, a different one.)

Gabin's Capt. Laurent represents the culmination of what Bazin termed as the embodiment of "destiny" in a character played by the likes of one who, to his adoring public, represented a "hero of legend or tragedy". Surely audiences in occupied France could not help but identify with Gabin in this role - a loyal working stiff who is loyal to that of his passion which is, ultimately, the passion of laughing in the face of danger, while at the same time, investing his love and loyalty in all the fellow working stiffs whose lives he commands, but also holds firmly in the palms of his hands.

Love presents itself to Capt. Laurent in the form of his "good" wife, but also a "bad" temptress (the character of Catherine played by Michèle Morgan) who, in one of the film's most harrowing sequences during a storm at sea, is catapulted from the raging maw of salt water to escape the abuse of her brutish, conniving husband.

The "bad" girl's hubby is indeed bad. He's not only a wife abuser, but a lazy, cowardly cheat who gets Laurent to save his ship and cargo when the going's truly tough, then cuts himself loose from Laurent once the waters settle into a calm after the storm.

Laurent risks his life (and that of his men) to save the guy and is denied any sort of salvage percentage. For his troubles, he's offered an under the table cash bribe (which he refuses) and gets instead, a temptress to lure him from his wife. Not that Laurent is especially looking for another temptress - he has the sea, after all. However, as referred to above, Gabin has some sort of doom plastered all over him right from the start and Catherine is tossed his way - unasked for. And, of course, she presents herself as one of several ways in which Laurent might choose the wrong fork in the road.

So here we are during the Occupation and Grémillon serves up a movie that must have had a HUGE metaphorical impact amongst the people of France who filled the cinemas to watch Remorques. Right under the nostrils of both the turncoat Vichy government and the Nazis, we get a movie that has, on the surface, nothing to do with the war and yet, as melodrama (and damn fine melodrama at that) gave an entire nation under the thumb of evil incarnate, an opportunity to, in Bazin's words, "reflect on the profound meaning of a mythology in which ... an actor like Gabin [allowed] millions of [Frenchmen] to rediscover themselves."

Not surprisingly, it was Grémillon himself who rejected all previous screenplays of Remorque and finally insisted upon commissioning Prévert to write the script. Who better than a screenwriter with the soul of a poet, the dramatic chops of a pro and the experience of writing FOR Gabin in previous films? Prévert turned out to be the perfect scribe to deliver a blueprint with which a great artist like Grémillon could direct a film that worked as popular cinema which, at its core was both emotional and political.

Then again, as this movie proved to me, at least, Grémillon is no slouch. (This being my first taste of Grémillon, I could hardly wait to get to the other two pictures in Criterion's Eclipse box set.) Remorques is directed with inspiring musical precision which only makes sense - Grémillon is no mere craftsman. He's an artist and filmmaker - the real thing!

The pace of the film is impeccable, as one might reasonably expect from a man who is, on one hand, a virtuoso violinist and on the other, a highly skilled editor. The movie feels like it's moving at a breakneck speed - a steaming locomotive charging crazily into the darkness. Then, before we can even sense it, Grémillon subtly changes gears and we're in a territory bordering on the elegiac.

And no matter what the pace, Grémillon handles his actors expertly - allowing their natural rhythms lots of breathing space. Their deliveries are never stylized. They don't need to be. There's plenty of style and over the top material for them to slow down and play it all very straight. So many of the conversations - especially those involving Laurent and the two women in his life pulse with the stuff of life itself. They're wildly romantic, tender and/or passionate, but almost always naturalistic.

Remorques translates into English as "Stormy Waters" and in every respect Grémillon delivers a most tempestuous tale and one for the ages at that. Astoundingly this uncompromisingly moving experience does not offer an easy way out for either its main character nor the audience. Grémillon serves up a leading man who gives us, much as this film gave French audiences under the Nazis, an utterly devastating conclusion which, in any historical context is as gut-wrenching as it is wildly, irrepressibly satisfying. That Grémillon delivers it with the greatest French actor of his time is mighty rich frosting. As Bazin said: "The public that swallows many affronts would undoubtedly feel that they were being taken for a ride if screenwriters presented them with a happy ending for Jean Gabin."

Movies, like life, do not need, as Bazin offers, "to tack on artificial finales", but rather, when artists present the unfettered romance of a man suffering for both his passion and ideals, like so many do in times of deadly strife, is far more satisfying. Pictures like Remorques can infuse one with a greater satisfaction than all the false "feel-good" tropes foisted upon us like so much trash heaped into a stinking landfill.

Bring on all the suffering and pain as you like, but for Christ's sake, do it with style and a purity of commitment that rivals, if not trumps, the supposed purity of a virgin protecting her most precious hymen.

The waters are indeed stormy. Life and the movies are all the better for it.

"Remorques" is one of three great movies by Jean Grémillon on the Criterion Eclipse release of "Jesn Grémillon During The Occupation". Aside from the great movies - lovingly transferred to DVD - the only extra feature are some printed essays (which I have yet to read and am holding out on doing so, as is my wont, until I am completely finished writing about all three films). And yes, keep your eyes peeled for my reviews of the other two extraordinary Grémillon films in this collection. In the meantime, there is, for those serious about great cinema, no need to rent, stream or download - just buy the whole damn box and gorge yourself on greatness - again and again and again. Grémillon was a genuine new discovery for me. Now,  I want more.

THE MAN NOBODY KNEW: IN SEARCH OF MY FATHER, CIA SPYMASTER, WILLIAM COLBY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Personal Doc Strictly By The Numbers and as Unimaginative as its Unwieldy Title.

The Man Nobody Knew: In Search of My Father,
CIA Spymaster William Colby

(2011) Dir. Carl Colby

**

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Yes, it's unfair to expect something to be what it isn't, but what it is, is so bland and inconsequential, that what it could have been is, indeed, a far more interesting prospect than what exists.

William Colby is one of the most fascinating subjects in 20th Century American history. A spy for over 30 years, head of the Central Intelligence Agency, Mastermind of the notorious Phoenix Program in Vietnam and the guy who spilled his guts to Congress about the innermost workings of the CIA is more than enough to generate an amazing documentary.

That Colby's personal life was one of secrets, deception, betrayal and cold, mean abuse of his children, adds yet another fascinating layer.

That this particular film is written and directed by Colby's son Carl - with unfettered access to anyone he wanted for interviews, an abundance of family photos, a wealth of newsreel footage and a story told in his own words and voice, one would expect far more than this glorified episode of A&E Biography.

The movie is so utterly by-the-numbers and without the stylistic scope a great feature documentary needs to rise above the mundane, that one's level of disappointment is profound indeed.

Carl Colby tells his Dad's story from beginning to bitter end and while one is marginally engaged in the facts, what's finally lacking is a personal filmmaking voice, in spite of Carl's personal voiceover and recollections.

What we get are mostly a series of talking heads - some interesting by virtue of the subjects themselves, while others - not so interesting. There's not a damn thing wrong with talking heads - nothing at all, but there is a problem with them when they're trotted out with all the panache of a television documentary.

God knows, a similar film in terms of subject matter was Errol Morris's absolutely stunning portrait of America's former Secretary of war. The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara has a consistency of style, feels like the work of a genuine filmmaker (as opposed to that of a competent TV-doc-hack) and in spite of Morris's semi-objectivity, one feels like it's a far more personal film that Colby's.

I think where Colby blew it is by not being an integral presence on-screen, charting the life of his Dad and confronting, as well as ferreting out, aspects of his father's professional and private life. In fact, I have to admit I expected a strange cross between a Nick Broomfield or Michael Moore approach, blended with the straight up in your face self-reflective style of Alan Zweig.

We get none of this. All we do get is a ho-hum TV-doc that might be watchable if one had channel-hopped through enough stations and the pickings were so slim that one could finally only settle on this movie.

This is not the stuff of a dream factory that cinema - even in the genre of documentaries - should be.

The Man Nobody Knew: In Search of My Father, CIA Spymaster William Colby might well be feature length, but it's not a feature. Seeing this on a big screen would be like going out to the movies to watch TV.

If you're at all interested in the subject, Colby's movie is watchable.

No more. No less.

Perhaps it's up to a real filmmaker like Errol Morris to make the ultimate documentary about William Colby - a cold, calculating, but brilliant spy who ultimately got a raw deal from those who benefitted from his decades of service.

At one point in the film, the young Colby reveals utter disdain for his Dad. It's not disingenuous at all. We believe it because his words and tone of off-screen narration seems alternately cold and bile-ridden.

If anything, though, we feel the sort of sympathy for his Dad that Carl Colby was perhaps not hoping for. The math here is simple. Dad = Great Spy. Son = Competent TV director.

I finally have no idea what Carl Colby was trying to accomplish here, but whatever it was, it's pretty inconsequential compared to his Father's accomplishments.

"The Man Nobody Knew: In Search of My Father, CIA Spymaster William Colby" is in a very limited theatrical release before its home entertainment debut. In Toronto, it playing at the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema. For tickets and more information, feel free to visit the theatre's website HERE.

If, some reason you are compelled to buy this movie, feel free to support the maintenance of this site by ordering the picture direct from the links below.

SAVAGES - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Oliver Stone's Worst Movie. And I love Oliver Stone. Even "Alexander". But this lame crime picture feels phoned in.

Savages (2012) dir. Oliver Stone

Starring: Taylor Kitsh, Aaron Johnson, Blake Lively, John Travolta, Benicio Del Toro, Salma Hayek, Demián Bichir, Emile Hirsch,

*

Review By Greg Klymkiw

People crap on Oliver Stone all the time. I don't. I generally love his work. He's audacious, highly skilled and occasionally, with movies like Natural Born Killers, he delivers the goods and then some. Of late, however, he's been hitting rock bottom. Some might cite Alexander as the beginning of his nose dive. Not this fella. It's over the top and entertaining in all the right ways and is chock full of great battle scenes and Colin Farrell looks divine in blue eyeliner. The picture is worthy of any 50s technicolor historical epic.

For me, the losing streak began with the inconsequential W., the muted biopic of President George W. Bush that squandered all of its potential and on-screen talent by presenting a curiously "balanced" portrait of the biggest idiot to ruin his country (and by extension, the rest of the world) since Hitler. Granted, the expectation was for Stone to vilify Bush in some fashion, and that would have been the easiest thing to do. I'm at least grateful he didn't take the easy road, BUT the route he did choose - to (ahem) understand Bush sapped the movie of any power it might have had.

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps was the completely unnecessary sequel to Stone's fun 1987 hit that delivered an Oscar to Michael Douglas for his clammy, zesty portrayal of Wall Street broker Gordon "Greed is Good" Gekko. Even Stone's original fell on its face in its final third - after spending a bit over an hour showing us how cool it was to be a thief in fancy clothes, the movie descended into a kind of dour dose of morality. The sequel, isn't even fun. Just boring. And worse than taking a moralistic turn, Gordon Gekko seeks redemption. Ugh.

Savages, on the surface, feels like it's going to be a return to form for Stone - not unlike his 1997 bauble of amoral pulpy depravity U-Turn, a modest but crackling crime melodrama with a supremely entertaining mean streak a few miles long, a host of terrific characters (and performances) plus a solid script infused with great dialogue.

Unfortunately, Stone's new movie feels phoned-in with bland characters, a leaden pace and a predictable, by-the-numbers plot. Providing a less-than-zero narration is the atonal Blake Lively as the hippie chick annoyingly named - I kid you not - "O". She's the coffee table centrepiece in a groovy menage with her dope dealing boyfriends Ben (Johnson) and the equally annoyingly monikered Chon (Kitsch).

These guys make wicked dope, live the high life in their California dream house and boink the beautiful, but vapid O. When a Mexican drug cartel run by Latina she-bitch Elena (Hayek) seeks to muscle-in on their action, their dream comes crashing to a halt when O is kidnapped by the baddies and held hostage until they do the deal.

Ben's the brains of the operation, but Chon's the brawn. Being a former Special-Op, he's got a limitless supply of mercenary tough guys as buddies so we know there won't be too much trouble getting her back. Even worse than the lack of any real suspense is the sickening subplot involving Elena's estranged relationship with her own daughter and how she begins to take a shine to her kidnap victim O. She's just a normal Mom looking for the daughter she once had.

With a trio of bland leaders and a clutch of over-the-top villains, there's little to keep our interest. I have no problem with the heroes being dope dealers who are simply trying to protect their turf - my problem is that they're such dull, hippy-dippy and ultimately, empty dope dealers. And while the villains all chew the scenery, none of them feel like they're especially having any fun doing it.

The movie is a misfire from beginning to end. All it has going for it is the violence which, I'll admit is staged with Stone's classical style and efficiency, but because there's virtually nothing in the movie that's remotely engaging, even the well-staged carnage feels like a waste.

I suppose that strictly on this level, that being the dispensing of blood-letting, Savages could be enjoyed the same way pornography is also enjoyed, but porn, save for those who need to masturbate to something, is usually pretty dull.

As is Savages.

THE INVISIBLE WAR - Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw - The American Military is notorious for committing acts of rape during war, but also, it seems, among its own ranks. Here's a movie you'll not soon forget!

"It is almost impossible to escape your tormentors in the ... predatory culture of the military." - Chris Hedges

“Women are the fastest growing population among veterans, making up 8 percent of the Armed Forces. However, the Department of Defense estimates that one in four women who join the armed services will be raped or assaulted, but that only about 10 percent of such incidents are ever reported.” - Rep. Jon Runyan, Chairman of the Subcommittee on Disability Assistance and Memorial Affairs.

"If you serve in the U.S. military and you rape or sexually assault a fellow service member, chances are you won't be punished. In fact, you have an estimated 86.5% chance of keeping your crime a secret and a 92% chance of avoiding a court-martial. - Democratic U.S. Rep. Jackie Speier"

The Invisible War (2012)
dir. Kirby Dick

***1/2

Review By Greg Klymkiw

America loves rape. It's used as a weapon to both violate and steal. It's a symbol and an instrument of power. It is often applied in war, "diplomacy" and the propping up of puppet regimes. America is a country that rapes other countries of their wealth and natural resources (and to benefit a small faction of corporate interests) under the guise of protecting the values of democracy and freedom.

When America goes to war, its boys need to fulfill their manly desires for power, violence and subjugation in order to properly serve their country (and their own sick desires), so they happily rape whomever they like amongst civilian populations or partake in various exploitative offshoots akin to rape when civilian women of all ages are sold for sex - a direct result of poverty, much of it caused by devastation at the hands of American forces.

An even more insidious form of rape - utilized during the mayhem of Baltic countries and in even more recent history, the war on terror in the Middle East, is the preponderance of sexual slavery rings offering kidnapped Eastern European women as receptacles for the semen of brave American fighting men - the said slavery which is tolerated (and even welcomed) by American officials.

Here, even more innocents are raped.

Perhaps the most appalling and shocking of all rape cases can be found in the hundreds of thousands of sexual assaults perpetrated by American soldiers upon American soldiers.

This is not a typographical error.

Kirby Dick's harrowing and powerful new film, The Invisible War, presents a shocking portrait of rape within America's own armed forces and the general acceptance and covering up of these actions.

The film focuses on several women and men who all suffered rape at the hands of their fellow soldiers and in many cases, their superior officers. Dick's approach is simple - he lets the victims speak for themselves, buttressing their horrendous experiences with a few salient facts, along with interviews from those trying to fight this injustice and those who remain blind to it, and as such, are complicit in these heinous crimes.

The victims seek compensation, acknowledgment, justice, sweeping change and/or medical support. We follow their attempt to mount a class-action suit that results in a ludicrous Supreme Court decision that when one decides to serve in the military, rape is, quite simply, an "occupational hazard".

And no wonder. The statistics do not lie. There are two times more cases of rape in the military than there are in civilian existence and a huge majority of recruits are serial rapists who have already committed rape as civilians.

Dick's instinct to keep his camera primarily on the victims and as necessary, punctuating it with some inane comment from bureaucrats who blame not the system or perpetrators, but the victims, might be viewed by some as flouting the standards of objective journalism.

So what?

There are not two sides to this story, or rather, only one side that counts.

If anything, the brave people who tell their stories are the real heroes of America's military (not unlike the American people in general who in recent years have been swindled and decimated by the rich).

The litany of horrors presented by these women and men is so disturbing that it will be impossible for anyone to forget their stories.

Witness:

A woman is so badly beaten during her rape that she requires massive bone replacement, suffers pain that radiates constantly throughout her entire body, is unable to ingest anything but soft foods, is in so much physical and psychological pain that she can only watch from the windows as her child plays outside and among numerous other painful indignities, her quality of life is diminished to almost nil because of the post traumatic stress brought on - not only by the rape, but the way in which she, the victim, was treated by the government.

Result: Denial of medical treatment after several years to receive a response to her claim. To add insult to injury, she is covered for a staggering number of prescription drugs which, after researching them, she discovers that the combinations of said drugs are designed to cause death in those who continue to take them as instructed. Both the military and the medical profession just want her to shut up and go away - permanently. Her assailant remains free and is accruing full benefits and pension.

This is but one story. The movie tells many more - all equally horrific. Hundreds of people were interviewed. All the stories were the same. And beyond the parameters of the film itself - hundreds of thousands of such stories exist.

Within the movie, we're directly confronted by the disgraceful reality that the war against the vulnerable is never-ending. One victim is ordered to drink copious amounts of alcohol then raped. Another is repeatedly gang-raped within a remote Arctic outpost. Another is forced to run a gauntlet of soldiers through an isolated hotel corridor where she is abused sexually while trying to get to her room. Yet another is deflowered of her virginity. Others are threatened with murder if they report their rape. One young male soldier is struck from behind, held down, beaten and gang-sodomized. He doesn't, to this day, even know who his assailants were and if he had reported the assault, word would have spread that he submitted to sodomy and was, in fact, gay (though he is not) - which would have led to even more physical/sexual abuse.

In many cases, the victims are ordered to submit to being placed in positions where they KNOW they will be raped.

Those who are raped have their names passed on to other soldiers and she is raped again and again.

The individuals and agencies within the military charged with taking these assaults "seriously" do little more than defend their agency's "success" (which is ultimately the best most administrators of bureaucracies do) or worse, place all the responsibility upon the victims for their predicament.

One female victim is admonished for dressing provocatively. Her come-rape-me attire is a standard issue uniform.

Internal ad campaigns chide female rape victims for going anywhere on base alone and without a "buddy".

Many of the rapists platonically "seduce" their victims, build up trust-levels as big brother or father figures, THEN rape them.

The most unbelievable outrage is that women must report sexual assault to their commanding officer who, once an investigation is finished (and usually botched or slanted in favour of the perpetrator) is also the person designated to order the case to trial (though they are not qualified to do so). Usually, the commanding officer is friends with the perpetrator and in a shocking number of cases, is the perpetrator himself.

Adding insult to injury, the vast majority of victims are denied justice and, in turn, charged themselves with any number of ludicrous violations such as adultery (in cases where their rapist is a married man) and a variety of conduct unbecoming charges. The result is the stripping of rank and/or fines and/or more abuse as details of their actions are rendered "public" and/or a dishonourable discharge (leading to a loss of benefits and pension).

If we finally witness one positive outcome to this barbarism, it is revealed that two days after a single screening of this film in 2012 to Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta, he ordered that direct commanding officers be removed from the process and that a Special Victims Unit be created.

The fact that in 2011 there were nearly 23,000 cases of rape in the military suggests that Panetta's immediate actions, while a step in the right direction is a mere baby step.

Western Civilization is clearly on the brink of collapse. While America is leading the charge, my fellow Canadians needn't be too complacent about it. It's happening here too. The case of the decorated cross-dressing serial killer Col. Russell Williams is, no doubt, but the tip of the iceberg in a country where such heinous actions tend to be buried more benignly. Americans seem more up-front about their disgraceful behaviour, which, as per usual, makes Canadian indiscretions seem all the more insidious.

The Invisible War is a powerful film. It is a call to action, but it also makes the best case to discourage pretty much anyone (of both sexes) from joining the military. It's a perfect environment for psychopaths to carry out their desires under the safe umbrella of national defence. And national defence, is synonymous with serving the interests of the rich - the ultimate wolf in sheep's clothing.

"The Invisible War" is playing theatrically in Canada via Vagrant Films. In Toronto it is playing at the Magic Lantern Carlton Cinemas. For further information and showtimes, visit the theatre's website HERE.

QUEEN OF VERSAILLES - Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw - The greatest mockumentary since "This is Spinal Tap", is ACTUALLY a bona fide documentary about the worst consumerist excesses in America and how the financial crisis transforms the lifestyles of a wealthy family into a cross between "The Beverly Hillbillies" and Luis Bunuel's "The Exterminating Angel". Opens theatrically in Canada on August 3 via Mongrel Media.

The Queen of Versailles (2012)

dir. Lauren Greenfield

***1/2

Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw

Jackie's a curvy blonde, with pouty lips, forever-and-a-day legs and Grand Canyon cleavage. In another age, this dazzling Miss Florida 1993 beauty queen would have fit most comfortably on the silver screen, clutching the arms of such celebrated fictional lugs as Moose Malloy, Johnny Prince or Fredo Corleone. In today's world, and in real life, she's the well-preserved 40-something trophy wife of America's timeshare Real Estate Mogul David Siegel.

If I didn't know otherwise, I might have thought that Lauren Greenfield's feature documentary The Queen of Versailles was, in fact, an intensely satirical mockumentary on consumer culture in America.

When we first meet the Siegel family in their gaudily ornate 26,000-square-foot Florida mansion, we're initially shocked at the tacky opulence of this cavernous love den that houses the 74-year-old self-made multi-billionaire Siegel and the insanely voluptuous woman who bore him seven children. We alternate between being agog and slapping our knees in raucous laughter.

As the film progresses, however, we get to like these people and their over-the-top lifestyle, especially when we're delivered considerable insight and background into their humble beginnings - their respective individual drive to achieve success. They've not been born with silver spoons hanging out of their mouths - they've both had to work for their right to accumulate. Jackie, in fact, put herself through university and earned an engineering degree before she began a modelling career. If they want to spoil themselves and their progeny rotten - all the power to them.

That said, there's something vaguely offensive and chilling when we discover that the nanny, who loves the Siegel children dearly, has not been home to the Philippines to see her own kids in years. Given her slavish devotion to this family, I kept wondering why the Siegel family, especially when things were going well, didn't think to cough up a drop in the bucket and bring her family over.

These occasional dark thoughts inspired by the film keep us anchored from completely rooting for these consumerist lovebirds.

And make no mistake - Jackie and David are clearly in love. It's especially poignant how the film captures them alone and together so intimately that we see how this is more than a marriage of convenience. She's no traditional goldigger and he's no wily, old dog looking for a trophy.

In spite of David's wealth when Jackie met him, it was a long and traditional romantic courtship and I have to admit there's something genuinely sweet about getting these details. And once they do get married, the movie verges on fairytale as we see them in photos and archival footage cavorting with presidents and movie stars.

We're also delivered the ins-and-outs of David's business empire. He's strictly independent and is the largest private owner of timesharing resorts in the world. Witnessing such dynamic entrepreneurship is, frankly, cooler than cool.

When things turn especially surreal is when we're introduced to the most insane aspect of this couple's American Dream. Inspired by the Palace of Versailles, the Siegels build the largest home in America.

It's 90,000 square feet and has 30 toilets.

'Nuff said.

Thankfully for director Greenfield, the financial crisis of 2008 hit everyone - including the Siegel empire. If it hadn't, the movie would definitely had worked as a curiosity piece, but when we start following this family as they are forced into a major austerity program, this truly becomes the stuff of great drama. The fairytale marriage starts to strain at the seams, the unfinished Versailles must be put up for sale and the banks begin to put the squeeze on David.

Once most of the servants are dismissed from the 26,000 square feet the Siegel family still lives in, the house turns into a cross between Jed Clampett's Beverly Hills mansion (transplanted back to the swamp in the Ozarks) and the bourgeois nightmare of The Exterminating Angel. The Queen of Versailles definitely shapes itself into some ultra-Bunuelian phantasm with dollops of Shakespearean tragedy.

This once spotless (albeit gaudy) mansion is now just plain gaudy and has so much filth piling up that I don't even want to imagine how this place started to reek like a cesspool. I believe this movie features more scenes involving dogs crapping and urinating indoors (as well as neglected pets just dying outright) than has ever or will ever exist.

Ditto for shots of doggie fecal matter lying about.

This is America!

With piles of dog shit soiling the crumbling remains of a once proud family of consumerist gluttons yields a movie that could easily swipe the tagline from Robert Altman's Nashville:

"The damnedest thing you ever saw!"

"The Queen of Versailles" opens in Toronto and Vancouver August 3 via Mongrel Media.