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by Bill Gibron

22 Aug 2009

How is it that great movies end up forgotten, or worse, undiscovered? How does a masterpiece, meaning some important work clearly recognized as having amazing artistic merit or qualifications, wind up sitting on a shelf in some studio, quietly distributed and then all but disregarded? It seems to happen all the time - a director’s magnum opus newly uncovered, an actor’s best role just recently released. Such is the case with the flawless Australian film Bad Boy Bubby. Before hitting DVD a few years ago, this 1993 wonder from Downunder was celebrated by a select few, known among cinephiles as an explosive tour de force. But to the rest of the cinematic status quo, Rolf De Heer’s allegory of purposefully arrested adolescence was that lost diamond in a celluloid cave full of rhinestones and fool’s gold - and it definitely didn’t deserve to be.

The story centers on Bubby, a deranged manchild who has been living in the horrific Hellhole of his mother’s bunker like home for over 35 years. Cautioned that the real world outside the barricaded front door is dangerous and poisoned, he spends his days isolated and afraid, his only friend a feral cat (which, in pure psycho-logical profile style, he relentlessly torments). Mother makes demands of Bubby, her menopausal loneliness leading to inappropriate acts of abuse and incest. When a stranger arrives at their door, claiming to be the overgrown boy’s Dad, our stunted savant goes crazy. Soon, he’s escaped his dungeon-like domain, and goes on a perplexing Pilgrim’s progress through a series of social interactions. In the end, Bubby winds up a vitriol spewing member of a rock band. He also helps those unable to communicate to “voice” their heretofore unheard thoughts.

Imagine Christ born, not in a manger, but in an abattoir, the Virgin Mary so lost and biologically bonkers that she beds down the matured messiah any chance she gets. Now turn our soiled savior into a combination Johnny Rotten and Sigmund Freud, disconnected from the real world but capable of linking with society’s frightening fringe. Wrap it all in an amazing performance by actor Nicholas Hope (who is truly remarkable) and exceptional direction by A Quiet Room‘s De Heer, and you’ve got some idea of the level Bad Boy Bubby exists within. In this uneasy, unforgettable portrait of pain amplified into aggression, we see humanity defiled, personality perverted, compassion corrupted, and the healing power of love tossed aside for an equally therapeutic dose of hate. In fact, convert the aforementioned Biblical angle on its head and this could be the Antichrist’s biopic.

Told in movements, each one meant to mimic our lead’s claustrophobic sense of the world, De Heer manages the unthinkable. He turns the derelict into something defendable, the sadistic and malignant into the somewhat soured milk of maternal kindness. We get why Bubby’s mum is the way she is. It all comes back to her - and us - when “Dad” returns. Her demented defense mechanisms have colored her son’s 35 plus years on the planet, making him completely ill-prepared for reality. This in turn sets up the finale for the first act, a disgusting, destructive jag that indicates just how deep Bubby’s bruises go. Sure, there are elements that seem excessive, but in comparison to what we’ve seen in the set-up, our heroes acts are some of the most cruel - and cathartic - of any movie ever made.

Thus we enter De Heer’s second “symphony of struggle” and the outside world is just as traumatic. Bubby is inundated with goodness and badness, both sides of the social coin unprepared to make sense of, and or exploit, his naïve nature. It’s like a Pynchon novel as envision by the two Davids - Lynch and Cronenberg. Toward the end, when his stardom and psychic abilities are secured, the final movement manages the truly remarkable. Here, in this stunted, stifled human being is potential fully realized, acceptance gained without a moment’s hesitation or a single personal compromise. Bubby might not be settled, but he sure as Hell is happy…for once.

Indeed, like any struggle for enlightenment, Bad Boy Bubby is about channeling the past in an appropriate and productive manner. It’s about finding your place, no matter how long you’ve been out of the currently running rat race. In this case, the outrageous physical and sexual abuse he’s been subjected to, in combination with the limited purview of his experience, results in Bubby’s uncanny ability to communicate. He’s not special, he’s just really, really tuned in. The punks respond to him because he knows pain, knows it like an unnatural love (and lover). Similarly, the physically handicapped connect with him because he’s used to reading minor changes and gestures as details. With De Heer presenting everything in a kind surreal puzzle box of pleasures, visual - and most importantly aural - approach simulating Bubby’s perspective, we become lost in this undeniable stunning cinematic exercise.

It’s an experience accented by the new Blu-ray release from Blue Underground. Porting over all their extras from the original DVD, we are treated to interviews with De Heer, Hope, and a strange short film, Confessor Caressor (the catalyst for landing the actor this part). There is also a trailer, as well as an accurate audio track which recreates the binaural set-up the director used to put the viewer directly into Bubby’s brain. It can be disorienting at first, especially when you consider that the technique was meant to capture the craziness going on in the character’s head. While some may be sad that a rumored commentary track from other region releases didn’t make the switch to the new format, the updated technical attributes (including an amazing 2.35:1, 1080p image) more than makes up for its absence.

In fact, Bad Boy Bubby is one of those rarities that requires little actual supplemental support to matter within the motion picture artform. Sure, it’s a set example of its time and place, a reflection of the unusual filmmaking fervor overtaking Australia during the ‘90s. But it’s also a potent metaphor for the horrors of youth translating into an equally scary adult sense of dread. As the old saying goes, Bubby was not born bad. He was made that way after years of neglect and trauma. But if the results lead to a kind of redemption, to a freedom forced through violence and aggression, then maybe it was worth it. To suggest that something good can come out of depravity and disease is just one of this film’s finer pleasures. Then again, that’s the great thing about lost gems - they’ll surprise you every time.

by Bill Gibron

22 Aug 2009

They really shouldn’t call it coming of age. That simply suggests the passage or arrival of time. Instead, they should label it “the moment of transcendence”, the sequence or frame of opportunities when life clarifies itself in plan and purpose. In retrospect, we make the link to maturation because of the unusual perspective aging provides. But while it does infer growth and a movement away from youthful exuberance, it really is a clever combination of the two - each one finding their place in the personality pecking order. For James Brennan, the hero of Greg Mottola’s magnificent Adventureland, the Summer of 1987 was indeed that meaningful three months of Zen. It remains the moment when what he meant to the world finally matched what he believed about himself.

James always knew that the 12 weeks before graduate school meant Europe. Along with his college roommate, he planned on traveling the continent before heading off to Columbia for an advanced degree in journalism. But when his father’s secret drinking problem gets him demoted, James’ parents renege on their plan to support his trip. Instead, he is forced to return home and look for a job. Disheartened, James winds up working at a local Pittsburgh amusement park called Adventureland. While he would like to man one of the rides, supervisors Bobby and Paulette put him on games. There, he meets nerdy intellectual Joel, adult handyman Connell, racy ride operator Lisa P., and most importantly, the distant and distracting Em. It’s not long before James is spending all his time with the cool, compelling girl, their lives apparently paralleling each other. What our hero doesn’t know, however, is how complicated things really are - not only with Em, but with his own lost life as well.

Adventureland is a classic, a great film fashioned out of truths, consequences, and half-remembered conclusions. It’s a love letter to independence discovered and emotions stripped bare. It’s funny but not farcical, natural and organic without a hint of the whack job perversion that colored writer/director Greg Mottola’s previous film, Superbad. Indeed, audience failed to respond to the film when it was released in theaters because the geniuses behind the movie’s marketing kept repeating the Apatow angle over and over again. But unlike that updated teen sex romp, Adventureland is more like Mottola’s first film, the critically acclaimed effort from 1996, The Daytrippers. The humor here is not outrageous, peppered with every curse word and innuendo possible. Instead, this is the standard slice of life, carved with precision and purpose. The results surpass anything his previous canon could have suggested.

Indeed, the great thing about Mottola’s movie is how subtle and sly it is. This is not some broad burlesque with little bits of truth sprinkled within. Instead, it’s a wonderfully realistic portrait of mid-‘80s angst, of going nowhere relatively fast in a small suburban Pittsburgh town. In turn the laughs are generated directly from how authentic and recognizable it all is, not based around caricatures, clichés and classic songs. Granted, in Mottola’s Greed Decade design, music is very, very important. But instead of working in every ditzy dance and new wave pop track from the past, this filmmaker filters his sonic support through his characters. That’s why we get big, brilliant doses of The Replacements. It’s why Lou Reed runs ramshackle over tired takes like “Point of No Return” and “Obsession”. In fact, such a personal purview is how Mottola handles everything in Adventureland. He is so sure that his experiences circa 1987 were universal that they will translate across most audience memories - and he’s right.

At it’s core, this is a film about finding oneself, about digging beneath the surface scoured by parents, friends, teachers, television, film, music, mistakes, accomplishments, dreams, defeats, and more importantly, one’s own awareness. It’s about taking a chance, risking it all, and losing most of it in the process. It’s about rebuilding from the mix tape up, about recognizing your limits and striving to move beyond them. For many, Mottola may be trying to craft a calmer, gentler John Hughes charade, The Breakfast Club without the slapstick setpieces or sit down confessionals. But unlike the late great director who redefined the teen comedy, Adventureland is about being stuck and stunted long after you’ve graduated and gone to college. What many viewers fail to realize is that James and Em are headed to graduate school. They are in their early 20s and still stifled by families who make dumb, selfish decisions and a world that’s not quite ready for their prone and perplexed contributions.

In both Eisenberg and Stewart, Mottola finds the perfect insular companion pieces. She is all anger swallowed up in a desperate desire to be wanted. He’s a weak-willed wallflower who has never found the proper outlet for his well-educated shrug. In combination, they become the Zen reflection of each other, yin and yang muted of philosophical significance only to end up players in a game of “Who’s Life Sucks Worse?” Together, they give each other solace. Apart, the merely amplify each other’s misery. While Mottola may not be suggesting that James and Em are destined for a life as partners, he captures that post-adolescent ‘click’ between similarly stunted wanderers flawlessly. From an acting perspective, both rising stars give very special performances. Eisenberg may be channeling a Michael Cera type of deadpan, but there’s more in his looks of longing than in a dozen Superbads. And Stewart, currently trapped in the Twilight zone of hysteria, proves she is more than just a future Convention fixture with her turn as Em.

Mottola also makes the wise decision to surround his lovebirds with actual people instead of satiric comic pawns. Martin Starr is marvelous as Joel, uber-dorky, pipe in mouth, and fated for a life as a misunderstood, cynical loner. It’s a type we’ve seen before, but as with all of Adventureland, presented in a prescient manner. Similarly, Margarita Levieva’s Lisa P. is the iconic ‘easy’ girl, slut dance moves making all the boys (and a few of the men) hot and very bothered. Yet she too is hiding some undeniable pain, the product of a home life which fosters a softer, sweeter, more sensitive side. In some ways, this movie is about matching, about finding who fits and who doesn’t. Bill Hader and Kristin Wiig illustrate this concept wonderfully. As park managers Bobby and Paulette, they were clearly meant for each other, and are 1000 times better for it. 

Oddly enough, the new Blu-ray release of this film fails to tap into much of said specialness. The commentary from Mottola and Eisenberg is barebones and genial, more about themselves than the film. Similarly, the promised “Unrated” content turns out to be deleted scenes that don’t have to pass MPAA muster to be included - thus the PR come-on. There’s a decent Making-of, and the ability to single out specific songs, but once again, Miramax treats this title like a gentle failure. Instead of increasing its profile, the format packaging offers a great picture and sound with only a smattering of substance.

Still, if the film itself is all that’s important Adventureland more than delivers. For a generation tired of the same pat answers and an array of meet-cute determinations about their meaning, Greg Mottola creates the ultimate expression of the truth. This is a movie that feels real, that projects certain fictional facets within a construct that comes from actual pain and interpersonal perception. If you missed it the first time around, word of mouth making this perceived indirect Superbad sequel into something less scatological, step right up and try your luck. You’ll almost certainly find something worth celebrating, even if the victories are small and oh so human. Maybe you’ll discover your own transcendent moment.

by Bill Gibron

22 Aug 2009

Every story like this has a cast of the usual suspects - heroes and villains, wildcards and unseen sources of inspiration. There’s always some injustice, a skewed sense of entitlement, decades of tradition, unforeseen circumstances and weeks of backroom finagling. In the end, one party looks like the devil, the others are demanding sainthood, and stuck somewhere in the middle is common sense, the truth, and a means of rational, realistic settlement. Yet as part of Scott Hamilton Kennedy’s mesmerizing, moving, and sometimes frustrating film The Garden, we see that ego, perception, and cold-blood calculation can rob of community of even its more prized, personal possession - and pride.

The story goes a little something like this: tired of seeing her neighborhood depressed and derelict, original founder Doris Bloch suggests that a 13 acre plot of land in the middle of LA’s 9th ward be turned into a neighborhood garden. Originally owned by Robert Horowitz, the city took the lots by eminent domain (and paid a cool $5 million) to house a garbage incinerator.

When local activist Juanita Tate defeated the plan, the property ended up in the hands of a mostly immigrant, largely Latino populace who put their desire to farm and cultivate the land to wondrous use. Now, over a decade after the Rodney King riots (which inspired the plan in the first place), Horowitz is back, and with the help of Tate, 9th District City Councilwoman Jan Perry, and a secret city deal, he has regained ownership - and he wants these “squatters” off his property pronto.

Thus begins the legal battles, the accusations, the slam dunk judicial proceedings, and the last minute mind-bogglers on both sides. Kennedy, who kind of ‘accidentally’ fell into this story, seems content to leave lots of unanswered questions and unexplored areas. For instance, we never really learn how Horowitz came into the property (there is an inference of inheritance), nor do we understand how he came to believe he was entitled to buy it back. Tate goes from high-minded organizer to angry, defensive subject of interest at the drop of a deposition. Perry, placed in a constituency that is at least 60% Hispanic, appears nonplused about ignoring their needs (she is African American). And the farmers, good people that they are, never explain how their ‘gift’ of property turned into a perceived birthright.

It’s all part of The Garden‘s many elusive charms - and occasional narrative hurdles. As someone sitting on the outside looking in, armed with a wealth of backseat driving deduction and maneuvers, it seems easy to second guess the efforts of all involved. When famed civil rights lawyer Dan Stormer steps in and appears to save the day, last minute, we finally find the cooler head that needs to prevail. But as with most of these stories, the injunction-provided reprieve is just that - a chance for both sides to regroup, reestablish their position, and go in for the finishing move.

The great thing about Kennedy’s vérité approach is that it lets both sides defend, and defuse, themselves. The various members of the land conspiracy come across as petty and focused on power. But the farmers are no better. They bicker. They bellyache. One memorable scene shows how a new desire to enforce existing rules on the property results in hurt feelings, infighting…and a machete attack.

Even more compelling is the role the media played in this case. At first, the farmers could barely get attention, a few reporters walking among the fields, getting the personal side of the story. But once celebrities like Joan Baez, Martin Sheen, Danny Glover, and Darryl Hannah make the South Central association their ‘personal’ cause, the cameras come out in droves. By the time they have pulled in newly elected Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, it looks like nothing can stop our disenfranchised heroes.

But this is Hollywood - or by indirect comparison, Los Angeles - and no story stops where it should. Indeed, The Garden moves beyond the feel good facet of any apparent ending to show how stark, stupid reality can rip said victory away. It won’t make sense - none of these ‘us vs. them’ situations ever do - but it does create compelling cinema.

Yet it’s the open-ended elements that linger…the accusations of kickbacks and self-interest (Tate and her son are chastised by California for a soccer field deal gone sour and are ordered to pay back huge sums of money they raised for the project), the suggestions that everyone except the farmers had a conniving, cash-on-the-barrelhead interest for making this deal work.

Perhaps most compelling is Horowitz desire to maintain his role as villain. After agreeing to sell the property back to the area for $5 million, he ups the price to $16 million. It then becomes a game of chicken, one he assumes the farmers would never be able to compete in. When he’s proven wrong, he pulls out the one remaining card he had - race. You can guess where things go from here.

Indeed, The Garden is very much centered on the “black vs. brown” dynamic spreading throughout Southern California. As the population becomes more and more Hispanic, as said Latinos organize and begin demanding more of the American Dream, those who’ve lived mired in the minority for decades are not happy about the advances the newcomers make. Many argue that Tate’s objection to the farmers was based on a two-fold subterfuge - to make money for herself and her own organization, and a desire to promote an African American agenda over all others. It seems unfair, but there is power in numbers. Tate represents less than 10% of the 9th District. The garden stands for more than half.

In the end, The Garden stands for sacrifice; the farmers who struggle to make a barren bit of land in South Central LA fertile and full of life; the organizers within, like Rufina Juárez, who must address modern social structure within a group used to rural tradition and trade-offs; the lawyers who believe they have right on their side; the politicians who need to balance the needs of all - or at the very least, those greasing their already oily pockets; the man who just wants his property back, no matter the blow to his reputation; the famous outsiders who step in to play civil super heroes.

While Kennedy could have crafted a mini-series with the various stories and subplots present, he makes the wise decision to go for the simple and (some what) straightforward. As a result, The Garden feels like a clever cautionary tale masking a much deeper discussion on the way things are done down at city hall. The farmers never stood a chance, really. They acted as if their newfound nation was the land of milk and honey, capable of embracing hard work and good intentions over standard operating procedure. Instead, what was sweet quickly turned sour - and sadly, everyone lost in the end. As with all great documentaries, The Garden reminds us that truth is always more compelling - and painful - than fiction.

by Bill Gibron

21 Aug 2009

It didn’t necessarily inspire confidence. A mere day before yours truly had to battle the geek hordes to take his reserved seat at the Avatar Day preview screening of 15 minutes of James Cameron’s four years in the making epic, the teaser trailer arrived online, and as the great Canadian pop band Sloan might say, I was underwhelmed. Granted, it’s been so long since Aliens (23 years), The Abyss (20 years), Terminator 2: Judgment Day (18 years), the criminally underrated True Lies (15 years) that we’ve forgotten how good he is at the kind of muscular sci-fi actioner he more or less helped hone in the 1980s. But when your meticulous, well-publicized “ground-breaking” efforts remind the viewer of an eco-friendly videogame meshed with that horrific CG slop job Delgo (great minds think alike, Movieline), you’re not necessarily inspiring pre-hype confidence.

Cameron’s been through this before, of course. When his Oscar winning behemoth Titanic was in its years-long production process, rumors and reports indicated a massive flop-in-the-making. They had the famed writer/director losing his luster, the studio losing its shirt, and viewers losing their patience with the elephantine love story. Turns out, reports of Titanic‘s death were greatly exaggerated. Several Oscars and a couple billion dollars (that BILLIONS with a “B”) in box office and it remains the number one film of all time. So it makes sense that Cameron would parlay that critical and commercial cache into fulfilling a personal cinematic fantasy. He has dreamed about Avatar since the first Terminator, hoping that technology would catch up with his vision. Now that it has, we’re back to the old innuendo and conjecture game.

by Rob Horning

21 Aug 2009

Yves Smith noted a WSJ article reporting diminishing retail sales and heralding the new austerity in American consumers. This tidbit didn’t quite fit the frame: “A cashier at Target in Los Angeles checks the authenticity of $100 bills.” Counterfeiting is not exactly the act of an austere, frugal consumer, though it may be the act of debt-starved one. 

Zero Hedge unleashed a long analysis of “the stratified American consumer” last weekend, making the useful point that the way the designation “American consumer” is thrown around tends to conceal the fact that it is not a homogeneous group. Statements like “Major retailers reported that American consumers are continuing to hunker down” from the WSJ article are not especially useful, because it is extrapolating a universal mental framework from aggregate macro data. (The same problem arises when a negative savings rate is extrapolated into “all Americans are spendthrifts,” a rhetorically tempting logical leap I’ve certainly been guilty of.) Zero Hedge:

A drill down of disposable net income (after tax) and net worth, demonstrates why any discussion of “generic” consumers should be much more properly phrased as an observation of the “Wealthy” and “Everyone else”. The disposable income difference between the richest 10% and even the next richest decile is staggering: a 3x order of magnitude….
While 10% of the population collects 40% of disposable income, it represents 57% of net worth! This is an impressive conclusion: on a lowest common denominator, the Net Worth variance between the 10% of the population that make up the wealthy and the 50% that comprise the middle class is over 8x! No wonder the aspirational consumer was the most vibrant retail category at the peak of the bubble: if the middle class can not accumulate 8x the net worth it needs to migrate into the top decile, it can at least dress like it. Unfortunately, it did these purchases on credit and is now paying for it (or not).

The upshot of this analysis is not surprising, but worth reiterating: that the data trends tracked regarding consumption reveal consumerism as a middle-class phenomenon driven probably by status envy of the upper-middle class for the upper-upper class. That the gap is widening means that the consumers now discovering austerity aren’t liking it very much and that there is no paradigm shift to a culture of maximum utility extraction. Also worth noting: The lower classes (the bottom 40% who consume 12% of what’s consumed in America) are statistically and economically irrelevant. I wonder if there is a social corollary to that—beneath a certain income point, one’s subsistence-style consumption becomes anonymous. The thought inspires in me a classic middle-class fantasy of the escape into squalor, a la the George Orwell of Down and Out in London and Paris: the dream that subsistence living is automatically authentic, and this authenticity compensates for the misery of relative deprivation.

The conclusions drawn in the Zero Hedge post seem ominous: The recession has hurt the lower and middle classes more than the wealthy, and has merely increased the wealthy’s advantage. Calls for a consumer-led recovery will draw on their increased spending power, and when that spending shows up in the data it will mask the fact that more people in America are making do with less—suffering the new frugality at the conspicuous spenders’ expense.

Is it safe to say that the wealthy have managed to game the system yet again and avoided a significant loss of wealth, while maintaining sufficient access to credit? If in fact that is the case, a case could be made for a consumer lead-recovery, granted one that is massively skewed to the 10% of the population which consumes 42% in the US.

At that point, all the talk of the era of frugality will be over, even though more of us will be living it. What the Zero Hedge scenario means, as some others have remarked (now I can’t find the links, grr), the U.S. will become more like Brazil—a wealthy elite, with a monopoly on the social power that comes from the power to spend in a consumer society, living in gated communities with elaborate collections of luxury goods, with bodyguards for their children and so on, while the rest of the population is increasingly impoverished.

It reminds me of Baudelaire’s The Eyes of the Poor, the poor family staring in at the lovers in their leisure at a “dazzling” cafe, whose decorations depicted “all history and all mythology pandering to gluttony.” Increasingly, we are becoming that poor family, spectators of the heroic consumption of the upper classes. Thanks to the inexpensiveness of media entertainment, we consume the cheap images of their class status and derive what gratification we can.

The eyes of the father said: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! All the gold of the poor world must have found its way onto those walls.” The eyes of the little boy: “How beautiful it is! How beautiful it is! But it is a house where only people who are not like us can go.” As for the baby, he was much too fascinated to express anything but joy—utterly stupid and profound.

Meanwhile economic forces cement the boundary between us and those in the cafe enjoying the splendor, continue the redistribution upward, making sure we can do nothing but marvel at wealth.

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