Hey folks, Harry here with a report from PT Hanlon. PT turned going to Ebert's fest as sort of a grand run of drunken debauchery and highbrow film affair. You'll read about jello covered tits, ugly pajama wearing women, drunken film tolerance, silent technicolor films, film turned performance art, lack of sleep, the amazing Illinois women and much much more. He skipped some great films due to pursuit of pussy, alcohol and exhaustion. This is his experience...
Roger Ebert is a fucking cool guy. And lucky. I want my own goddam film festival, and a league of loyal film fans.
We left at 5am heading towards Champaign-Urbana, Illinois from our Ontario hideout to enjoy Mr. Ebert's 5th Annual Overlooked Film Festival: a celebration of films and formats Roger feels have not been fully appreciated. The fest began with a screening of "The Right Stuff" at 7:30 on Wednesday night. A fine choice indeed, as far as generally unseen films go. I was personally not able to appreciate it to my (or its) fullest capacity, as after eleven hours of driving, 5 ounces of rum and two cans of American beer, my body hated me. Struggling to stay awake, straining my eyes and furling my brow, I made it through with the aid of an awful couple of ladies sitting to my left. They were compelled to fake-laugh every 40 seconds to let everybody in the theatre know they understood what was going on and that it was the funniest shit they'd ever seen. I punched them in the neck and stole their popcorn. Paul, my friend on my right, wasn't able to stay awake and enjoy the 3-hour astronaut picture, so he wandered the streets of Urbana in search of hot spots. Justin, the other guy I had made the journey with, didn't even make it to the theatre. Loaded, he heard Pearl Jam were playing on the U of I campus and had our cab driver and his broken van take him to the auditorium. He bought a ticket from a scalper with track pants and a limp.
Meeting up with Paul after the credits, he took me to 02/two, a funky lounge full of incredible women, and men wearing gold chains. We had walked into some sororitey-frat mixer with some of the sexiest college femmes I've seen, wearing low skirts and flaunting their cleave. I drank a drink and tried not to ogle everyone to walk by. A fine blonde woman wearing a tight black outfit approached our table, bent down slightly to whisper in my ear, and asked if she could take the chair we weren't using. We decided it was then time to leave. We moved on from this high-class college soiree to yet another frat/sorority party - a pajama jam down the street with a horribly less attractive clientele. It felt like I was in Revenge of the Nerds and was leaving a Lambda Lambda Lambda party to go hang out with the Omega Mus.
Thursday, hung over and under slept, I made my way to a panel discussion entitled: What's the use of film criticism? Evidently there isn't much use for film criticism. Much esteemed film critics from Variety, the Chicago Tribune and other publications argued about the use of a star rating in a film review, David Bordwell proclaimed that the appeal of criticism is in the intellectual pleasure to read, and some insane French professor had no idea what the hell was going on. Chris Gore of Film Threat remained mainly silent, and I respected him for it.
Screening first that afternoon in the rather incredible Virginia theatre, was "Stone Reader," a documentary I had heard nothing about. A very welcome surprise. Turned out to be the best film of the festival. Director Mark Moskowitz recalls a book he got in the 70's called Stones of Summer, and sets out to discover what became of the book and its author. Avid readers will love the film's praise of literature and relate to the director's affection of a truly great book, while not so avid readers will be inspired to quit wasting their time in front of the television set. Well-paced, funny, and truly a film in love with its subjects.
Showing at 3:30 on Thursday was "El Automovil Gris" (The Grey Automobile). At first I resented this film, as it replaced the previously scheduled Ozu film "I Was Born But" which was to be narrated by a Japanese benshi. Apparently the benshi Roger had booked was unable to attend, and an adjustment had to be made. I left pleased. El Automovil is a Mexican film from 1919. The screening was accompanied by a troupe of modern Mexican benshis, elaborating on the Japanese tradition of film story-telling. Two actors in costume provided the sometimes-absurd dialogue in Japanese and Spanish, and broke out into a dance routine halfway through the film. A crazy and wonderful piece of cinema, although the film itself was rather dull.
We opted out of the two other films of the night ("Your Friends and Neighbours" and "Blood and Wine") to drink wildly in our hotel and enjoy the campus bar scene. Lovely women in Urbana. Very lovely. We wound up talking to these girls who told us about a keg party the following night. They gave us their address; we gave them our word we'd be there. A fine night of drinking, ended early by the fact that bars around campus close at 1am. Fuck.
Next morning, hung over once more. "Medium Cool." A great film. I hadn't seen it before, and I loved it. Similar to "I Am Curious" in its interweaving of dramatization within documentary, Cool addresses violence in the media, the representation of minorities, and the silencing of youthful "voices of dissent" at the riots during the '68 Chicago Democratic Convention. An angry and political film, just as pertinent today as it surely was at the time of its release in 1969. Robert Forster plays bad-ass reporter John Casselis, a womanizer and one-time champion boxer who seems to draw from the Jean-Paul Belmondo character from Breathless of whom he hangs a poster on his wall. Which reminds me why I often hate Q&A sessions.
Cool's director Haskell Wexler (the cinematographer for Thomas Crown Affair, Cukoo's Nest, and Matewan to name a few. Apparently he was also the uncredited cinematographer for half of Malick's Days Of Heaven) took the stage to chat with Ebert and answer a few questions. After seeing Cool, I was unsurprised by his political and highly intelligent anti-war, pro-American sentiments which garnered him several rounds of applause. Anyhow, some dick stands up and says "It seemed as though you were paying homage to Godard - am I right about this?" What a useless, pretentious question. You shouldn't care if you're right about this. You're a dick. Ask a "question" a-hole.
The next film up was "What's Cooking" -
Third on the bill, and for me the highlight of the weekend, was a beautiful print of the 2-strip Technicolor film "The Black Pirate" (1926), starring Dougie Fairbanks. A fucking awesome tale of swashbuckling, revenge, and the rescue of a Princess. The colour was incredible - hadn't seen anything quite like it - lots of striking greens, and realistic flesh-tones. Accompanying the film was the incomparable Alloy Orchestra. These guys blew me away. They created a wholly original and modern score to the film filled with odd percussion and a bassy synth line that felt absolutely perfect in every scene. See these guys if you have a chance - or at least pick up a DVD that features their music.
The people sitting around us for "The Black Pirate" hated us. Justin, hammered beyond reason, would occasionally turn to me and in a far-too-loud voice slur something like "These guys are fucking awesome," or "I like this beat," or "The colour's amazing. It's not even colour. It's like mono." He eventually passed out. I let him sleep through the next film, Bertrand Tavernier's "L.627." I had heard a lot about the film and the filmmaker all week, and had high expectations. Didn't appreciate it I'm afraid. Another viewing is required.
From "L.627," we ventured to our hotel. After over 2 hours of drunken slumber in the theatre, Justin was raring to go. He decided to take a detour and headed to the keg party and assured us he'd call us if it was any good. He didn't call and we didn't see him until 1pm the next day. Fearing he was dead, we went to the theatre at 11am for a lineup of fabulous silent shorts. Justin stumbled over to me during the intermission, and let us in on what we missed. Apparently the male to female ratio was heavily in our favour, and he says the girls were mainly decent-looking. One woman with massive breasts came up to Justin and told him to touch them. While fondling one chest with permission, he sucked jell-o off of another, and wound up the next morning in someone's bed. I spent the night alone and will forever regret passing up a ridiculous night of fine Illinois women.
But onto the silent shorts - Wow! Just great. Harold Lloyd, The Little Rascals, Buster Keaton, Charley Chase, Mr. Chaplin, and Felix the Cat. I don't know which I liked best. I had never seen an original Felix The Cat cartoon, and thought Felix Finds 'em Fickle was brilliant. A climb up a mountainside to pick a flower for a sexy feline leads to hilarity. Great fun. And Chaplin's first appearance as the Tramp in "Kid auto Races at Venice" was as genius as Charlie gets. Very original take on the silent-film, parodying the newsreels of the day.
Masayuki Suo's "Shall We Dance" was the third screening on Saturday. A really nice, romantic comedy set in Japan. The protagonist falls in love with a girl he sees every day on his way to work through the window of her dance studio. Deciding to act on his infatuations, he takes up dance lessons and manages to keep this secret life from his wife and daughter, as well as his co-workers who would surely ostracize him were they to find out.
Eric Byler's "Charlotte Sometimes" really got to me. Screening after Suo's look at Japanese culture through Western practices (ballroom dancing), Charlotte is an Asian-American film dealing specifically with Westernized Asian characters and their everyday lives. Starring Jacqueline Kim, Eugenia Yang as the stunning love interests of Michael (Michael Idemoto), it is an unconventional love story with a beautiful voice. With sparse and touching dialogue and little detail given regarding the charactersà history, Byler tells his story through implications and subtle moments of truth. His characters are twisted in a series of untruths which are examined through gentle gestures and conversations. The characters know where they're going and where they've been, so the audience doesn't have to. Excellent story-telling from such a young talent. Music from Michael Brook and Cody ChestnuTT adds a haunting layer to the exquisite and simplistic cinematography.
And then we left -
We skipped 13 Conversations, and the closing matinee of Singing In The Rain, because a rapidly decaying Justin had to work the next morning back home in Canada. Leaving Urbana at 9pm, we drove again for 11 straight hours. I grew delusional and loved every second of it.
Roger Ebert, a truly great festival. Highly recommended, especially to young folk who care about film. A great University town and a great exhibition of cinema. I'll be back next year.
-PT Hanlon
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