Thanksgiving

“It's Christmas Eve. It's-it's the one night of the year when we all act a little nicer, we-we-we smile a little easier, we-w-w-we-we-we cheer a little more. For a couple of hours out of the whole year we are the people that we always hoped we would be.”

Frank Cross (Bill Murray) – Scrooged


The other day I saw a commercial on TV. There was a car in the middle of a blue nowhere, surrounded by nothing but fake Christmas trees. Big, fluffy snowflakes fall from the heavens. The color scheme is magnficent. The blue is so soft it’s like someone reimagined it. There is music over the scene: a choir, singing holdiay music. A group of people approach the car, wearing colorful robes. They are not in a circle but the they surround the car, a gleeclub of raindrops. Their mouths are open, singing loudly, strongly, ebulliently. They are celebrating the season. They are selling that car. The Christmas season is upon us.

It doesn’t take a nation of savvy consumers to recognize that this commercial is an monumental shoveling of bullshit. It attempts to manufacture excitement about the purchase of an automobile and tie it into the Spirit of Christmas. It’s a misguided ploy at best and a cynical one at worst. Buying a car might elicit such a response, especially if you love cars, as might the receiving of one but the showrooms are never that beautifully blue and if a choir of angels ever accompanied the purchase of, well, anything, I would hightail it the hell out of that dealership.

This is one example of many such cynical commercials and from time to time I find myself wondering about the people behind these commercials. I wonder where they began and how they came to find themselves in a position to create such commercials. This is futile, of course, but when these judgemental urges hit I always bring myself back to earth by remembering that integirty is slippery, there by the grace of G-d go I, and cliffs don’t always make themselves known until it’s too late. It’s pretty easy to get annoyed by the commercial cynicism of the season.

That said: I love Christmas. I love everything about it. I love the lights, the music, the department store windows, the lighting of the tree in Rockefeller Center, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, the eggnog, the Christmas trees, the ornaments, the garlands, the presents, the alcoholic cousin… you get the idea. It’s one of the nicest holiday times a year, from Black Friday all the way up to the last minute shoppers on Christmas even combing the Dollar Stores buying last minute stocking stuffers for their kids. It’s can get ugly, and if you watch the news it may seem like it’s entirely undignified, but if you take a break from it all and walk around you really do notice that outside of ourselves, we are a little nice to each other, we do smile a little easier and the holiday season does provide us with the opportunity to be the people we hoped we’d become or be the people we’d like to be. Maybe it’s the pomp and circumstance of the season, maybe it’s the holiday commericals, television episodes, television specials, and holiday films we watch, maybe the 18 years of holiday breaks we went to as school never leave our bodies or our psyches. Whatever it is and no matter how much stress the holidays provide, the holidays are and opportunity to be our better selves. And if it takes that much more work to find those selves in the midst of all the crap then, as my father and mother used to say, life ain’t fair. And if you don’t believe me, consider the alternative.

So in honor of the holidays and the better people we can all be, I’m dedicating this blog to holiday films. This will not be a countdown of the greatest holiday films of all times. Lists like that are arbitrary and limiting. Some of the films I’ll review will be commercially crass. Some will be cynical as hell. Some will be dishonest on the verge of hateful. But all are films I’ve seen over the years and contain a kernal of some truth about the season. And in the spirit of that season – and given that movies, films, pictures are a reflection of our best and worst selves – I will try to take the best these films have to offer and try to honor the best part of ourselves.

Tomorrow: The Family Stone

Popcorn

It has been awhile: both since I’ve written (this is nothing new; I’m streaky) and since I’ve been to the movies. Being away from something you love is a strange feeling: like something is far away and no matter what you do you can’t get close to it. As time passes it feels like it’s no big deal but there is always a voice in the back of your head that strongly disagrees. This voice knows better and is probably the one that should be listened to but the distance anaesthetizes the desire and silences the voice, until ignoring it becomes effortless. We become zombies. Not the flesh eating kind (unless you let it go way too far) with expressionless faces who moan constantly and stumble about with arms raised in front of them as if they’ve got solid balls of starch wedged underneath their armpits. I’m talking about the other kind. The kind that wander around in a daze, knowing something is missing but can’t quite figure what it is.

I use the second and third person but the person I’m actually talking about is myself. And I’m only talking about the movies. Can you imagine what the wierdness would feel like if it involved a person? I can imagine it, have imagined it, and it ain’t pretty.

Last Sunday though, Jeremy invited me to see ‘Note by Note: The Making of Steinway L1037’ at the Film Forum and the voice and I became reacquainted. It wasn’t the film, although this thoroughly entertaining tale following the contruction of a Steinway grand piano at the company’s manufacturing plant in Astoria, Queens was worth the trek. It wasn’t the company, although Jeremy is an absolute gem of a movie companion: great taste, thoughtful opinions, an honest laugh and a genuine desire to see and think about the films he sees. (Leigh is great too. I’d see a movie with her any day.) And it wasn’t The Film Forum with its amazing popcorn, its insane programming, and its Jacques Derrida recommended carrot cake gracing the display case. (It’s true. Check it out.)

It was the popcorn.

The Film Forum has the best cinema popcorn I have ever tasted, which is weird because they don’t use butter. It wasn’t the physical fact of the popcorn that did it. Bars serve popcorn which rarely has an effect beyond curing an drunken case of the munchies. Satisfying? Yes. Therapeutic? Not so much.

Have you ever picked up exercising after a long period without it? There’s usually a moment – for me, about five minutes in – when the body recognizes what’s happening. It remembers the activity and adjusts. The moment may be fleeting. Your body may also remember the period of inactivity and tire quickly. But the body is not just remembering and action. The action brings with it a sensation and the sensation carries deep seeded emotions. It amplifies the hidden voice.

During the film, Jeremy and I shared the popcorn and as I popped piece after puffy piece into my mouth, it came back to me, how much I missed being at the movies. Watching the previews, putting my feet up on the seat in front of me, getting lost in the story. I ate that popcorn. I scarfed. I did some serious eating. Near the middle of the film, the popcorn was gone. But it didn’t matter. By that time I, and my love for the movies, was back.


Mini-Reviews –

No Country for Old Men – The new Cohen Brothers movies is relentlessly bleak. The world of the film is unforgiving and its inhabitants ruthless, psychotic, sociopathic and (is this even necessary?) violent. Tommy Lee Jones is amazing; his chiseled face masks a core of helplessness and, most importantly, he acts as the film’s soul, something I never would have expected of this Republican ex-roomate of Al Gore. I loved him. It is also incredibly frightening. Javier Bardim scared the living crap out of me and is the scariest film character since the spectre of Keyser Söze haunted ‘The Usual Suspects.’

Eastern Promises – Viggo Mortensen speaks with a Russian accent. He plays Nikolai, the driver and best friend of Kirill (well played by Vincent Cassell), the son of a russian mobster, Semyon (the annoyingly level-headed – this is a compliment – Armin Mueller-Stahl). He is smarter than he lets on and is not really who he seems. Naomi Watts speaks with an English accent. She plays a midwife who finds a diary written by a 14- year old girl held captive by one of the main characters. I won’t say which one. The film is a class act all around: well written, acted, directed and shot. David Cronenberg fills his film with power struggles, double crosses, complicated characters and unexpected acts of humanity. It’s an interesting film that never quite comes to life. It rolls along with a cold efficiency that never quite lets you into the secret of its humanity. This is probably intentional. I’m still trying to figure out why. This probably has more to say about me than it does about the film. But isn’t that the point?

Bryant Park

Jeremy and I went to Bryant Park Monday night to see the outdoor showing of All The King’s Men, the 1950 version directed by Robert Rossen and starring Broderick Crawford, who won an Academy Award ® for his portrayal of the charismatic Willie Stark. We sat on a blanket. We ate pizza slices and drank sodas. From time to time, Jeremy worked on his ibook and I read part one of a four part article The Washington Post ran in June on the Vice-Presidency of Dick Cheney. We talked some. I nibbled on licorice whips. We both people watched: the lawn was full of people seated on their blankets, picnicking, talking, laughing, drinking. A woman with a green balloon and a clipboard roamed the grounds talking to people. She passed me by but didn’t (thankfully) talk to me: who knows what she was representing. When the sun went down, Jeremy and I leaned back, propped our heads on our backpacks, and let the show begin.

Bryant Park’s Summer Film Festival (sponsored by HBO and Citibank), whose offices are across the street) began 15 years ago and the rules are pretty simple: find a spot on the lawn and lay claim to it. Lawn spots go quickly (my friend Jenna once made the mad dash to claim a spot sound like the releasing of the hounds.) but latecomers need not fear because there are chairs and tables set up around the perimeter. The sound system could stand some rethinking, especially if you’re sitting near the back (Jeremy and I watched the Steve McQueen film Bullitt from the back last year and the dialogue came off as macho mumbling) and the films are occasionally rained out but despite all that the experience of watching a film there is wonderful.

Outdoor theatres are nothing new of course. From our origins as feral, mumbling cavedwellers, people have taken time from life’s demands and gathered ‘round various specialized locales (campfires) to watch other people tell stories. The Greeks made things more official with amphitheatres and festivals for Dionysus which led to the bloody, pre-Siskel & Ebert carnage of the Roman Coliseum, the roaming Dell Artian pageant wagons and Shakespeare’s Globe, right on up to the 60’s site-specific Happenings, Suzuki’s outdoor presentations of Bunraku puppets, Joseph Papp’s Delacorte Theatre, Arena Di Verona’s outdoor operas and the many high priced, public-fund sucking sports’ arenas dotting major markets throughout the United States. (I prefer playground soccer, football and baseball diamonds) Movies are usually a more insular experience but ever since Richard M. Hollingshead, Jr. of Camden, New Jersey nailed a screen to some trees in his backyard and placed a 1928 Kodak projector on the hood of his car in 1932, film has joined this illustrious crowd.

Watching a film in Bryant Park – especially old black & white films like All The King’s Men - is a singular experience because the sound system and surrounding building’s simultaneously take you out of, and constantly remind you that you are watching a film in, the middle of the city. (Bryant Park is located on 42nd Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues and not that far off from the lights and nonsense of Times Square) Audience reactions (laughter, cheers, boos, groans) seem to rise, scatter and dissolve into dark sky. If the picture is engaging, the surrounding traffic with its roaring engines and excessive horn honkings combine to create an underlying hum which mixes nicely with the crackling echoes produced by the film’s struggling speakers. If not so engaging (Bullitt is not an outdoor movie), the extra sounds mixed with the light from the surrounding urban landscape expose a larger, slowly moving picture of what over 500 people crammed into a small space might look like from a satellite – or at the very least, a small bird. (With excellent bladder and bowel control, one would hope.) It’s surreal to be both inside and outside of an experience but it can be a thrilling alternative to the pace and scope of everyday life.

- The Poop Report are very happy with the newly renovated Bryant Park public restrooms.

- All The King's Men tells the story of Louisiana Governor Huey Long. Wikipedia provides a brief bio

Le Doulos

My friend Dave and I went to the Film Forum last night to catch a 9:50 p.m. showing of Le Doulos, the 1963 French film noire directed by Jean Pierre Melville. The film runs 108 minutes.

Le Doulos (French slang for a stoolpigeon, or one who rats out a buddy to the cops) tells the story of a fresh-out-of-prison thief named Maurice (Serge Reggiani) who is preparing his next job so he can stop sponging off his girlfriend, Thérèse. Maurice is a rather tired looking fellow with droopy eyelids who smokes constantly. He is helped in his exploits by his friend Silien, played by French New Wave film legend Jean-Paul Belmondo. As in all heist films, the job goes awry and we spend the rest of the following them as they pick up the pieces of the botched job. As in all noire films, the characters are one or two steps from the truth, guilty until proven innocent and never tell the full truth.

It's the first movie I’ve ever scene in which I was consciously aware of the director as a puppeteer: pulling strings, blowing smoke and placing mirrors. The film is full of clever cuts and twists, (one scene ends with a bound and gagged femme fatale staring straight into the camera which transitions to a shot of a fluffy, domesticated dog doing the same; the first scene is something of a shocker) and Melville skillfully paces and layers his story in a way that left me confused and curious. Because it is so deliberate in its execution, the effect of it is somewhat distancing; Dave pointed out on the way home that there is a never a person to whom we relate. The result is less a film about the characters and actions within but a film about film noire itself.

This shouldn't detract from anyone's enjoyment of the film. The print is gorgeous, the actors are French Cool and the shocks lurk around every corner.

• This Wikipedia Biography gives a basic rundown of Jean-Pierre Melville's life and influence.
• Here's what Manohla Dargis, reviewer of The New York Times says in her review.
• Peter Lennon of The Guardian calls Melville a "Poet of the Underground" in this article.
• Here is a review of the Film from Films de France.com.

Sicko

Sicko, the new Michael Moore film about the state of healthcare in the United States, opens with a video clip of George W. Bush, during a speech he made to a group of handpicked audience members in anywhere U.S.A. The specific locale doesn’t matter: he’s incapable of making any other kinds of speeches. The clip might have been taken out of context but Mr. Bush seems to be discussing what he sees as one problem with the healthcare system. "Too many good docs are getting out of the business," he says. “Too many OB-GYNs aren’t able to practice their love with women all across this country.”

I know this clip has been a major part of the film’s advertising campaign. I have seen and heard the clip many times myself and yet I still laughed incredulously as our President humiliated us yet again. The sight of President Bush standing at a podium these days is akin to having a joke telling friend walk up to you and say “A priest, a rabbi and your sister walk into a bar…” But it smartly establishes the climate of the Sicko and deviously hides the film’s greater questions.

Michael Moore has the skills of a journalist, the timing of a comic and the audacity of a carnival barker. He’s a trickster who operates outside the lines and tastes of everyday life. Tricksters are interested in facts inasmuch as they can distort, manipulate and highlight certain truths. In Moore’s film, the streets of France (Paris particularly) are lined with kissing couples and goateed men smoking cigarettes, drinking wine and living far healthier lives because of it; England is full of wealthy doctors and academics who receive bonuses from the government for getting their patients to live healthier lives and speak eloquently about a democracy’s need to take care of its downtrodden; Canada is full of people, conservatives even, who calmly yet fervently believe in the need for a society to look after one another; and Cuba is a place full of doctors who consult with their patients with patience and compassion while thoroughly and creatively finding solutions to their medical problems.

The fact is Michael Moore has a camera and a reputation and his subjects are, for the most part, equally enamored with – and of - both. The people he interviews in the film are all on their best, thoughtful behavior and paint a rather rosy portrait of every industrialized country he visits. He never once points his camera at the seedy underbelly of these systems. I’m sure these systems are not perfect and that there are people in them who fall into the cracks or, as one ex-insurance adjuster says in the film, are being swept into the cracks made by the system.

Moore plays stupid but is really smart. Here he goes, wandering around a hospital in England, looking for a billing department or a cashier. When he finds one, he’s dumbfounded when it is explained to him that the cashier is only there to pay patients’ transportation costs as they leave the hospital. He talks to a group of Americans living in Paris about France’s healthcare system and sits googly eyed as they revel in their 5 weeks of paid vacation, one week’s mandatory pay for newlywed couples’ honeymoon (outside the aforementioned vacation) and state sponsored house calls by very qualified doctors. His jaw hits the floor listening to a group of domino playing Cubans in a rundown neighborhood give him directions to a nearby hospital as they explain how every neighborhood has one.

Every one of these instances is a surprise in itself to those unfamiliar with healthcare policies in different countries (i.e., me) but the reason Mr. Moore comes across as disingenuous sometimes is that he already knows the answers to the questions he’s asking. He knows everything and he seems to think that by feigning ignorance, he is somehow bringing his point home more effectively or speaking for the ill-informed (i.e. me again). It’s an interesting but not altogether effective tactic. It’s a mild form of narcissism – or maybe self-indulgence - that distracts from the force of his argument. Instead of allowing the problem to speak for itself, Moore forces us to deal with the issues through the prism of his personality and wit.

But there is a moment in the film that packs supreme power. In it, we are told a simple story of a woman who, dazed and poor, is put into a cab by a major University hospital in Southern California and dropped off outside a Skid Row Hospital in Los Angeles. This illegal act is horrifying enough when recounted but Moore ups the ante by showing us video surveillance tape of the actual incident and includes filmed footage of the woman being interviewed following submission to the hospital. Moore presents this footage without commentary and without music. He allows the events to speak for themselves. And to top it off, he posits a question that caused me to consider the film in a different light. The Question? “What has become of us? Where is our soul?”

It’s a fair question and one I can’t remember ever being asked so directly. How is it that the world’s richest country lives with a system where the value of money takes precedence over the value of life and health? Why have we bought into and come to accept a system which values profit over compassion? Why do we, our politicians and our health care providers continue to perpetuate a system in which we don’t look out for the health and well being of our fellow citizens? We are not uncaring people. Why do we accept a system that is so heartless and selfish?

There are no easy answers to these questions but I never got the impression that Moore wanted any. The film provides the history of the U.S. Healthcare system and compares it to that of other industrialized nation but doesn’t offer any overt solutions. This may seem irresponsible but I’m not sure it’s his job as an entertainer to provide them. I’m pretty if you sat him down he’d have a few hours worth of ideas but that is not the point. Sicko seems to be saying the healthcare system is fundamentally sick but he does it, strangely enough, not by blaming anyone in particular (Bush is a symptom, not a cause) but by highlighting our country’s unhealthy attitude toward it. The film is a good one because it raises important questions and implies that EVERYONE is responsible by allowing the disease to fester. I left the theatre incredulous rather than angry. It caused me to look around and think about how we as a society and as individuals come to accept certain injustices as normal. I still think Moore is a bit disingenuous. But it has been a while since someone has asked the question “What the hell is going on here?” to such dazzling effect.

The Iron Giant

‘The Iron Giant’, the 1999 animated film directed by Brad Bird (‘The Incredibles’), is set in the year 1958 at the height of the Eisenhower administration with its clean cut image, its all consuming preoccupation with the Soviet Union, its ever expanding military-industrial complex and its belief that people could survive an atomic bomb by simply jumping underneath their desks or tables and holding their arms above their heads. In the midst of all this unfounded optimism, during a heavy rainstorm, a hole opens in the heavens and drops a giant robot into the sea. He is huge, about 100 feet tall, with big round glowing eyes and a fragile jaw which seems a loose screw away from becoming unhinged. (Think Hermann Munster, without the goofy smile)

The Robot (voiced with sensitivity by Vin Diesel) is later found by Hogarth Hughes (voiced effectively by Eli Marienthal) in the woods near the house Hogarth shares with his mother. Upon finding the Robot, Hogarth paces frantically as his face maniacally twists and contorts with the wonder of his find (“Wow, my own giant robot! I am now the luckiest kid in America! This must be the biggest discovery since, I don't know, television or something!”) and, like any boy his age, his imagination goes into overdrive playing out all the cool things he’ll be able to do with his newfound friend/toy. A wider image reveals the Robot, bored and about to fall asleep, waiting for the kid to finish his wonder and get on with the situation at hand. This lost Robot has work to do: He’s hungry and he needs to find some food. We later find out he also has a temper which is not always in his control.

I watched this film at 2:30 in the morning after an usually good date and when it dawned on me that the robot needed food, the boy was fatherless and that an arrogant National Security Agent was going after the Robot by any means necessary, I turned the film off and went to straight to bed to refill my emotional coffers. Call me a wuss but I think it was the best move I could have made: half an hour more would have left me an emotional mess.

Please understand that the movie is not at all depressing. The story is wonderful: Hogarth, an intelligent, troublesome and somewhat lonely kid, finds and befriends the giant Robot in the woods near his house. After finding him a home and a food-source in the local junkyard, run by a garbage collector/artist named Dean McCoppin (Harry Connick Jr.), Hogarth tutors the robot in subjects as varied as English, community, choice and in one particularly touching scene, death. He also spends a good deal of the film hiding him from Kent Mansley (voiced with smarmy menace by Christopher McDonald) the National Security Advisor, who pursues the Robot’s whereabouts with bumbling, ignorant and ruthless efficiency.

What drove me to my bed on this particular night was the fact that the characters in this film have actual needs and Bird, using quick, simple set-ups, does an amazing job of making those needs immediate and visceral. Nowhere in the film is this skill more apparent than in portrayal of the Robot: Juxtaposing panoramic shots of the Giant’s interactions with the planet earth with close ups of that unhinged jaw and those bright, round soulful eyes, we get a sense of his loneliness amidst his struggle to find his place on this new planet and discover the source of his violent tendencies. Unlike E.T. he does not want to go home. He seems more like Virginia Woolf in wanting to find a place of his own.

Most recent animated films focus on gags and hip references while completely ignoring the niceties of plot and nuance. In the first ‘Shrek’ film for example, Shrek rescues the princess so he can get his home back but there is never a sense of what that home truly means to him. I don’t mean this as a criticism: the anarchic havoc wreaking in that film are truly inspired and I laughed for about five minutes during and after Lord Farqaad’s interrogation of The Gingerbread Man (Lord Farquaad: Run, run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man. Gingerbread Man: You’re a Monster!)

‘The Iron Giant’ does this too but carries itself with a bit more sophistication. Bird and his cohorts put a lot of effort into fleshing out the characters and their relationships with incredible detail placed on their distinctive quirks. The result is an animated film where the characters’ actions and relationships carry consequence and meaning.

In one scene, the Robot takes Hogarth for a walk in the woods, carrying Hogarth in the palm of his hand. From high above the woods, the Robot spots the main town and in sheer excitement runs toward it. Hogarth stops the Robot in his tracks though by announcing that the town is not ready to accept him. The Robot slinks off and the slope of his spark plugs could not paint a sadder picture.

Since this is an animated film, he does find meaning and I feel duty-bound to reiterate that the film is a lot more fun than my serious, somewhat melancholic musings would lead you to believe. There is one scene in particular involving Hogarth trying to distract his mother (voiced wonderfully by Jennifer Anniston) from noticing the Robot’s disconnected hand wandering through their house (It watches TV, it unravels a roll of toilet paper) that left me satisfied and smiling.

In its quieter moments though, ‘The Iron Giant’ packs surprising, soulful emotional wallops. The film is about people who have something (or everything) to lose, be it their lives, their homes, their loved ones, their tractors, their electricity, their security or their sanity. It looks like what we have come to think of as a Disney film but imbues it with the tone and style of the Japanese anime director Hayao Miyazaki. On a broader level it places common fears into an everyday (suburban?) context and handles them in a thoughtful, mature and funny way.

Should you have the chance, Netflix or rent the thing.

Isabella Huppert & 'Ma Mere'

I’m not particularly interested in the personal lives of film stars. I don’t find an actor’s personal life particularly useful in assessing their career and understanding the films they make. Woody Allen’s ‘Husbands and Wives’ was released around the time of his non-marital troubles but I never found his tabloid life to shed any light on Woody’s “art” no matter how closely one mirrored the other. ‘Husbands and Wives’ is a film so outside that particular episode that to compare the two would cause someone to miss the beauty of that film entirely. His real life may hover in the back of my mind but the life on the screen is far more important.

People’s quirks come from sources so varied while life throws such large and looping curveballs, we can never truly know what drives a person and their creations. To try and add a person’s personal life and problems to the process of watching and understanding a film, book, play, painting, etc. takes away the ability to understand the thing on its own terms. And while we think we may know Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Lindsay Lohan (as talented a film actor as they come, by the way), the truth of them lies so far outside our realm of understanding, that we’d best accept what they have to offer, grab a bag of popcorn, sit back and enjoy the show.

Having said that: What the fuck is up with Isabelle Huppert?

My first encounter with this legendary film actress happened in 2001 when a friend and I went to see ‘The Piano Teacher’ (La Pianiste) in which she plays a sexually repressed piano teacher engaged in what can only lightly be called an affair with one of her young students. After watching what one reviewer (I forget which one) called the most bizarre love scene in the history of cinema and another scene in which Isabelle Huppert sits on a bathtub and takes a razor blade to her own genitalia, my friend and I stumbled out of the theatre in need of a some smelling salts and a serious shower.

My second encounter came courtesy of David O’Russell’s hilarious existential comedy ‘I Heart Huckabees.” Somewhat lighter, Huppert plays a guru named Caterine Vaubin who is well versed in absurdist/nihilistic philosophy. Here is what the folks at Wikipedia have to say about her character:

She teaches them to disconnect their inner beings from their daily lives and their problems, to synthesize a non-thinking state of "pure being". Being lifted from their troubles, they wish to keep that feeling forever, yet she tells them that it is inevitable to be drawn back to the human drama, and to understand that the core truth of that drama is misery and meaninglessness.

Russell’s film makes excellent use of Huppert’s French-cool and her film persona by having her seduce her intellectual young charge, mud wrestle him into his primary self and lead him to a significant source of his suffering. Huppert has good fun with this variation of the knowing older woman coaxing the younger man toward maturity and the fact that her lips look like they do when she speaks makes me want to be that young man.

Huppert and I were reacquainted with a vengeance yesterday on, of all days, Mother’s Day when Jeremy and I went to BAM to see the 2004 film ‘Ma Mere.’ The film, directed and adapted with a serious Oedipal complexity by Christophe Honoré and based on a story by the French intellectual surrealist pornster Georges Bataille, takes on the age old theme of the incest love triangle and charges like a bull into uncharted sexual and psychological territories with a combination of intelligence and repulsion rarely experienced in a multiplex. Huppert plays Hélène, the prostitute mother of the film’s hero, Pierre, and her motherly duties include introducing Pierre to her lesbian lover, engaging in a teasing threesome with the two of them in the backseat of a taxicab, watching as Pierre practically rapes her lover, hiring one of her associate prostitutes to watch over him while she’s away on business and, in the film’s climatic moment, cradling a masturbating Pierre while taking her own life. After the film, Jeremy said he considered leaving two or three times. Though it would have pained me to do so (I hate leaving a theatre before finding out how the story ends) the thought had crossed my mind as well.

I admit three films does not a career make but on the basis of these three encounters with her, Huppert creeps the living bejeesus out of me. Her face, full of freckles and topped with long red hair, promises warmth but her manner exudes cool. She seems to rebuff every camera’s (and our) attempt to love her by turning our affections inside out to reveal jagged and often cancerous underbelly of our desires. It takes a good and brave actress to delve into these darker realms of ourselves and Huppert, by reputation, seems perfectly suited for the challenge. A scroll through IMDB reveals an accomplished stage and film actress who began acting at a young age and later attended the Conservatory of Versailles and the National Conservatory of Dramatic Art of Paris. It shows a career spanning theatre, television and film in France, England and the United States in a variety of roles and working with a variety of directors.

Having only seen three of her films I find myself at something of a crossroads: I appreciate the work she does in such projects but am disturbed by the projects themselves. When confronted with such a conundrum I find myself wondering why actors choose the projects they do. Films which explore the oft-ignored parts of human life, however unpleasant, are certainly worth looking at but I find myself wondering what compels directors, actors’, painters’, writers’ to continually explore these themes in these ways. I wonder what leaps into Huppert’s mind and/or soul when she read ‘The Piano Teacher’ or ‘Ma Mére’ that provokes her to be involved in such projects. I wonder what quirks in her personality brought these interests about. These wonderings may be where fascination with movie stars begins. And part of the attraction may be the indisputable fact that because these people are not us, we will never know the answers. But still, I have to ask:

What the fuck is up with Isabelle Huppert? (but in a good way, you know?)