THE MAINE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL 2004 Diary

By Laurie Meunier Graves

DAY 7

I have noticed that in the past couple of days, my reviews have gotten more succinct. No more leisurely discussion of plot and character. Instead, I say what I have to say in a few paragraphs, and this is perhaps just as well. Even though I can’t compete with Pat, Lynn, and Betty-Jean, I have seen quite a few movies. Today’s viewing takes the total to nineteen, and anyway you look at it, that is a lot of movies to see in seven days. Therefore, succinct reviews are completely appropriate.

I talk with Pat about reviewing movies and art in general. With me, first comes the feeling and then the attempt to articulate those feelings. The articulation, of course, is the hard part and always feels a little unsatisfactory, especially if I really like something. How to do it justice? Oddly enough, venting about something I don’t like takes less effort. I suppose this is because it is easier to tear something apart than it is to build it up. My guess is that even though most people don’t write reviews, their approach to watching movies is the same as it is for me. How does it make them feel? This is why you can’t talk someone either into liking a film or out of liking a film. All you can do is present your case.

In the afternoon, we go to a panel discussion called Filmmaking from Crete to California to Maine, and this panel is moderated by none other than Wolf Moon’s own Joel Johnson. He does a terrific job, and the panelists—Topper Carew, Raphael Di Luzio, and Algis Kemezys—talk about making films as well as a myriad of other subjects, ranging from muses to the Civil Rights movement to terrorism. The discussions are so meaty that I could do an entire article on this panel and skip the reviews. Naturally, I am not going to do this, but I do want to touch on something that Raphael Di Luzio said that really caught my attention. He speaks of how 200 years ago, we had something called the quiet eye. Life and art were viewed slowly, in real time as it were, and this usually gave people plenty of time to contemplate what they had seen. However, movies changed all that. Now we have the flickering image, a steady barrage of sound, sights, and colors, and Di Luzio refers to this as the noisy, quick eye. His feeling is that film is coming into its own, that it is the art of our times. I think about this and wonder how books fit into the world of the noisy, quick eye. Will the written word eventually be a thing of the past? As much as I love movies, I hope this will never happen. I hope people are flexible enough to accommodate both, and that the quick eye does not ultimately reject the written word. See what I mean about the discussions being meaty? And this is just one small part of it.

DEMI-TARIF
France, 2004; 62 minutes; 35mm; in French with English subtitles

1/2

With its long, slow shots of three young siblings—two girls and one boy—living and making their way in Paris, I was afraid Demi-Tarif was going to be another Good Bye, Dragon Inn. There are seemingly endless scenes of the children playing, running through the streets, wrestling, and in short, doing things that children like to do. While amusing in its own way, this does not make for a fast-paced story. In addition, little of the children’s dialog is translated (perhaps those who understand French would have a very different impression of the film). Instead, we have a narrator who leads us through the children’s lives as they cope with some very serious problems. Namely, their parents have deserted them, leaving the children to fend for themselves in a small, cluttered apartment.

However, what gradually emerges is a subtle, visual story told from the children’s point of view rather than from an adult’s eye. It felt as though the director had submerged her own identity in the identity of the children. The parents are never shown, but there are repeated references to the mother, who, it seems, does come back from time to time to check on them and buy them things. Unfortunately, the visits become less and less frequent, and the children must scramble to survive. Because this is a French film, the emphasis is on food and movies, and the children steal, beg, and sneak into the cinema. Somehow they get by, but as the mother’s absences grow longer, the children’s condition becomes worse as they get dirtier, more ragged, and more desperate. Like ghosts, they move through Paris, and hardly anyone takes notice of them. By the middle of the movie, I was completely drawn into the children’s world as they struggled to cope with neglect and indifference, forming a tight, fierce band with each other.

This is not an easy film, and I expect many people won’t like it. However, to me the movie was haunting and ethereal, and despite its flaws (yes, there are too many scenes of the children fooling around), I can’t help but feel that Demi-Tarif is nearly a great film, even though it seemed unfinished, lacking titles and credits. That haunted feeling stayed with me for the rest of the day, and I almost didn’t want to see any other movies and spoil the effect. It’s my guess that Isild Le Besco, who wrote and directed the movie and is only twenty-one years old, has a promising and even brilliant career ahead of her. She is definitely someone to keep an eye on.

OFF THE MAP
USA, 2003; 111 minutes; 35mm; in English

1/2

After Demi-Tarif, almost any movie would be a letdown, and this is certainly the case with Off the Map, an offbeat, charming film that nevertheless feels like a cross between Northern Exposure and a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie. Having written this rather dismissive description, I am willing to concede that between the spell cast by Demi-Tarif and the syndrome know as festival fatigue, I am perhaps being a little unfair. Therefore, if Off the Map comes back to Railroad Square, I will be sure to see it again to see if I have the same impression.

Off the Map tells the story of the Groden family—eleven-year-old Bo (Valentina de Angelis) and her “free-thinking,” eccentric parents, Arlene (Joan Allen) and Charley (Sam Elliot). They live off the grid as well as off the map in the wilds of northern New Mexico, a place of austere beauty. Bo’s parents grow most of their own food, scavenge from the dump, and live a life of creative frugality, selling crafts and vegetables when they need money. A crack shot, young Bo hunts squirrels for dinner and, with some justification, longs to escape what she feels is an odd, confining life. In many ways, the film is a portrait of an artist as a young girl as Bo searches for the right words to express her inner feelings and wheedle free products from various companies. Valentina de Angelis does a fine job of playing a bright, overbearing child who has spent too much time with adults and not enough time with children her own age. Joan Allen’s Arlene is tolerant and serene as she deals not only with Bo’s prepubescent moodiness but also with a deep depression that Charley has recently fallen into. Into this potent brew enters William Gibbs, an IRS agent who has come to audit the Grodens. It turns out that they haven’t filed taxes in seven years, not out of any malice toward the government but instead because of sheer spaciness. Before you can say “back to nature,” Gibbs falls under the spell of the Grodens, shucks his stuffy job, and discovers his inner artist.

This gentle film then follows the various characters as they deal with their trials and tribulations. Although there are some potentially serious problems—especially Charley’s depression—this light, will-o’-the-wisp film is content to skim the surface and never go very deep. There really is never a doubt that all will end well for the lively Bo, and even the sudden death of one of the characters (I won’t reveal which one) seems peaceful and inevitable rather than sad.

THE ROBIN HARRIS STORY: “WE DON’T DIE; WE MULTIPLY”
USA, 2004; 94 minutes; video; in English



A documentary of the late comedian Robin Harris, who despite his untimely death at the age of thirty-four, paved the way for a generation of African American comedians, including Bernie Mac and Martin Lawrence. The Robin Harris Story: We Don’t Die; We Multiply does this in the usual way of such documentaries. It uses footage of Robin’s performances; testimonies from friends, colleagues, and family; and stills of Robin at various stages of his life. What emerges is the portrait of a man, “a black Don Rickles,” whose sarcastic, biting humor was very, very funny. The man was a natural, with a jaw-dropping rhythm and pace as well as a talent for the quick, insulting quip that took swipes at his own culture and anything else that crossed his path. I have no doubt that if Harris hadn’t died in his sleep after one of his performances, then he would have gone on to become a major comedic star, in movies as well as on the comedy circuit.

This movie also gave me some insight into how comedy is a release valve for those whose lives are not easy. “People need laughter, especially when they are going through hard times,” someone says in the film. (Unfortunately I can’t remember who it is. Chalk this up to festival fatigue as well.) Comedy is a way of breaking the silence, of assaulting barriers and divisions. After seeing Robin Harris in action, I couldn’t help but wish that Franco-Americans had had someone like him to pierce through the delusions and the discrimination. Unfortunately we didn’t, and we still don’t.
 

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