My movie-watching day got off to a somewhat surreal start. I was worried that I was going to arrive late to Extraordinary Stories, but I got there quarter of an hour early; unfortunately, no-one mentioned that it was in the Paramount Bergman rather than the Paramount when I bought the ticket, so I ended up slightly late anyway. Even more unfortunately, they accidentally put the third reel on first, so I really, really didn’t know what is going on – however, they apologised for this, and gave us a refund and free pass to another movie. Even more more unfortunately, I had neglected to account for the two quarter-hour intervals that spaced out the four hours worth of film on the three reels, and so arrived at the Embassy far too late to go to my next movie (which was meant to be Cell 211). But the Film Festival website makes the same mistake, and C had got me the first John Le Carre novel to read, so I’m not that disappointed.
So, what can I say about the film that I did manage to see? If it had been in the right order, I think I would have enjoyed it more; there was a certain amount of trying to work out what was going on when I was watching the last reel, and trying to remember what was going to happened in the end (when you didn’t know what was important) with the other thirds. Also, it was a little slow in places – I could feel myself drifting off.
On the other hand, the film I saw was pretty interesting, even if it wasn’t the film that the director intended me to see. The film was narrated, sometimes describing what was seen, sometimes anticipating it, sometimes telling us about people’s internal landscapes, and sometimes explaining what is going on. One of the reasons that this worked quite well is because it was used to surprise us – for example, it explained an elaborate theory that one of the characters had built up about a newspaper story, linking it to another story he was concerned with; and then saying no, actually, that character was completely wrong, and the two stories had nothing in common; and then went on to explain what was actually going on with that other news story.
I enjoyed the various stories, anecdotes, and tangents – there were three main stories, about three virtual ciphers (who were only referred to as X, Z and H), but the story would branch off without warning into tributaries about the various people they met, or influenced, or who had influenced them. And the film was unafraid to abandon stories, letting your imagination fill in where the lives you’ve briefly glimpsed might go.
I don’t know if I’d be up to watching all four hours again; but I’m glad I did.
Now… I have a couple of hours to fill.
* * *
After spending some pleasant time in the company of George Smiley and co., I was ready for the unashamedly political film Strange Birds In Paradise: A West Papuan Story. The basic premise was that an Australian (who had lived in Indonesia) went on a tramping tour of Western Papua, and slowly realised that something was wrong – whispered stories of people disappearing in the night, missing husbands and sons. He gradually worked out that he was in, as he put it, an undeclared war zone.
This film makes no attempt to disguise where its sympathies lie, though he does show dissenting voices, as well as the reasons why popular Indonesian opinion sees no reason why West Papua should be allowed to break away. It also places the film-maker front-and-centre, which I think was the right call, since understanding why he made the documentary explains the the choices that he’s made. However, there were a few things that I was a little uncomfortable about – for example, some of the narration about war atrocities carried out by the Indonesian military were delivered in voice-over, without any sort of attribution. The film-maker hadn’t seen it, so… I would have been more convinced, or at least more comfortable, if he’d been able to say, “Amnesty International reported” or “United Nations peacekeepers said”, or something. I don’t doubt that the West Indonesian army has done and is doing terrible things, and that it’s using West Papua as it’s own personal piggy-bank; but there’s a part of me that wants the film-makers to show their working.
It was certainly an interesting take on how Indonesia works as a country – I had heard complaints about Muslim domination before, but hadn’t realised that West Papua had been groomed for independence by the Dutch, for example. And it’s not as if the people involved are monolithic: the attitude of one of the women in the refugee village in Papua New Guinea towards student protesters who arrived after walking for six weeks through the trackless jungle was basically, “If they want to talk politics, go into the jungle, go out of the village – we’re sick of it here.” And you can understand her frustration: basically, they aren’t strong enough to make it too expensive for the Indonesians to stay, and there’s too much money at stake. East Timor wasn’t a literal goldmine – it will be a lot harder getting them to let go.
I don’t think I’ll try and see this film again.
* * *
From Poverty Bay to Broadway was my next film, at the Film Archive. I thought that it worked well as a documentary, insofar as I felt more informed about Irish immigration (especially in New Zealand), why Gisbourne produced so many boxing champions, and the world of international boxing in the 1920s. But as far as the star of the show, Tom Heeney, goes… it’s weird, but I feel like I know a lot about what happened to him, and what he did, but I don’t feel I know who he was. There are little glimpses – he was able to get out of the boxing business and succeed (instead of succumbing to booze or depression), he stayed with his wife (who he met well before his championship match), and he volunteered for both World Wars… but still, it all feels like it’s on the surface.
In the end, that’s an extremely small niggle in a very good documentary. I’m glad that I saw it.
* * *
My final movie was Dream Home, a gory Hong Kong horror about a woman obsessed with getting an apartment with a sea view. The story was well done, with flashbacks showing the development of the woman’s character and situation intercut with a gory bloodbath. There were weird resonances with Love In A Puff (with the smokers conspiring around an ashtray outside), and less-weird resonances with The Housemaid; but where The Housemaid‘s violence is mostly considered and precise, Dream Home is full of spontaneous mayhem.
Storywise, the movie was well done, with some neat touches (like the kid deciding that “asshole” isn’t a swearword, because his Dad always uses it to describe property developers). But I’m just not the right audience for the blood-soaked violence – there were scenes that made me squeamish enough to close or avert my eyes. I won’t be seeking it out again.
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