Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Just got out of Forbidden Lie$, a film by Australian filmmaker Anna Broinowski that starts out as one thing and turns into another. In fact, by the time the film ends, you’re not sure how much of what you just watched was true and how much of it was bunk. All I know for sure is that I loved it!

It’s about Norma Khouri (aka Norma Bagain, who may or may not be wanted by the FBI among others), the author of the best-seller Forbidden Love which is about an alleged “honour killing” in Jordan (wherein a Muslim woman was killed by her family to avenge her dishonouring the family because of a romance with a Christian man). This book is alleged (and generally accepted) to be a hoax. To say that Norma is manipulative and convincing, sneaky and smart is an understatement. She and her massive nerve command and dominate the screen and it is easy to understand how she manages to get away with such amazing shit. ‘Cause, y’see, the book she wrote may not be true at all. Or it may be partly true. Or it could be all true. And she might’ve been abused by her father and her husband and she might’ve stolen $40,000 and a house from her Chicago neighbour (who may or may not have been senile at the time) and she might be wanted by the FBI and she might’ve known somebody named Dalia (or maybe the name was something else) who was killed by her father (or brother). Or mebbe not. Hard to say for sure. This is definitely one of those things that you can draw your own conclusions about, but it sure seems like we meet the World Champeen Con in this film.

Broinowski makes clever use of reinactment (since the whole notion of “truth” is one of the main subjects of the film, this seems quite appropriate to me) and the tales told by Norma throughout the film are contrasted with the versions of the stories told by the others involved. Piece by piece, her story is taken apart and exposed as bullshit (mebbe) but Norma dances around these exposures with grace and amazing endurance–quickly coming up with reasons for why she lied about this or that and how, now, this version is true. Who you choose to believe is up to you.

Broinowski and producer Sally Regan are headed to Chicago to show the film for the first time to Norma tomorrow.

Earlier today, I saw Losers And Winners, which documents the culture clash that happens when a German coke refinery is bought by a Chinese company that comes to Dortmund to dismantle it and carry it back to China, where it will be reconstructed. This dismantling job is being overseen by a few remaining employees of the German company that sold the plant. While the German future looks bleak, the Chinese future looks prosperous–especially if it’s built on the backs of these workers who are dedicated to their jobs despite poor working conditions, poor living conditions, and being so far from family and friends for year-long jobs like this one. Each side tolerates the other with remarkable good humour. It was especially amusing to see the top man on the Chinese side coveting the newest Mercedes SAV at the local dealer while singing odes to Chairman Mao (literally–their weirdly serene, poetic little songs that make reference to, say, Mao’s “gentle smile”).

No screenings yesterday. Spent the day helping Frank pack his apartment in (short) advance of his move back home to Halifax. I could be a lot more honest and open about this if I knew he weren’t reading this blog.

Seriously, I didn’t mind doing it–in fact, it felt good to help a friend (as it always does, duh). Plus, helping him saved me the hell of dealing with a shitload of guilt if I hadn’t. So he wins and I win and the Forces Of Good win.

Now, where did I put my fucking halo?!

I am mostly just trying to not sob my eyes out–and I am failing miserably right now as I type this–over the thought of him leaving. I am closer to Frank than I am to most people. I have spent the past few months since he told me he was leaving trying my damndest to not think about tomorrow. I’ve had great success up ’til now.

He’s done this to me before, y’know. Back in the late 80s, he left Tronna for home and I was a fucking emotional mess. I like to think that I am better equipped to deal with it now–a lot in me has changed since those Bad Ol’ Days–but I must confess my heart still feels like somebody is squeezing it mercilessly.

My world feels small today.

Aside from the fact that Girls Rock! should be spelled Grrrlz Rawk! (and have you voted in the second round of Rawk the Puck yet?), the film is flawless. And it’s a blast!

It’s a look at a week-long Oregon “rock camp” for girls that features counsellors from bands like Sleater-Kinney and The Gossip (among many others, who generously donate their time to this fabulous cause). The girls–whose ages range from 8-18 and musical experience may be nil– form their own bands, write their own songs, and perform before a live audience. All in one week. And they’re surprisingly good! Of course, the camp is about more than just music–it’s a place where the mission is ‘to empower them with tools for self-reliance as a means to enhance and affirm positive self-esteem’. This is a very impressive debut by filmmakers Arne Johnson & Shane King. There is some cool work with graphics used to impart statistics and poll results about how young girls feel about themselves and how the world perceives them. And, naturally, it employs a cool soundtrack by the bands that form within the film and also the bands of the artists who are there to help as counsellors. I wish every girl could go to this camp. Shit, I wish I’d been able to go to this camp! (BTW, in the Q&A afterwards, one of the filmmakers directed the audience to BlüBird–a band that formed during the making of the film and which is still together.)

I have to preface this one by admitting that I am not a Scott Walker fan. In fact, I remember that when Howie useta play Scott Walker records from time to time at Records on Wheels, they always gave me the willies. But I thought that it would be educational for me to see Scott Walker: 30 Century Man, if only to try to understand what the appeal is. I mean, intellectually, I could understand that this guy is considered (by many) to be a musical genius. And because this film was to feature interviews with fellow musicians who would talk about why this guy is a genius, I figgered I needed to see it. Plus, well, Manufacturing Dissent was sold out before I got to the box office that night. 30 Century Man looks at Walker’s music and the influence it has had on many musicians who are interviewed for the film: David Bowie (one of the film’s producers, as a matter of fact), Brian Eno, Johnny Marr, Ute Lemper, Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn, Lulu, Stink Sting, and many others. But the most interesting–and surprising (since the guy kinda has the rep of being a hermit)–interviewee was Scott Walker, himself. He proves to be (not surprisingly) articulate, intelligent, insightful, funny, friendly, and really very charming. His music, while it remains outside my realm of preferences, is obviously startling and ground-breaking and influencial. I feel like I learned a lot about Walker in this film.

Tangentially–’cause of the Velvet Underground connection (footage of early Velvets is seen in the film and John Cale is interviewed)–I will include A Walk Into the Sea: Danny Williams and the Warhol Factory here. I watched it late last night at the Isabel Bader Theatre and almost nodded off. The problem with trying to talk to former Factory regulars is that it seems like half of ‘em are brain-damaged from all those drugs and the other half of ‘em are bitter about having had their own work (mebbe) stolen. There is rambling, there is kvetching, there are wild eyes. Paul Morrissey comes off particularly bitter and sniffy in this film–to the point of being laughable. (In fact, he got even more laughs than Anita Bryant did during the opening film, I Just Wanted To Be Somebody, wherein karma bites her in the butt.) Danny Williams was a film editor/director who worked with Andy Warhol during the 60s until he mysteriously disappeared (presumably into the sea, near his family’s home) and this film was made by his neice, Esther Robinson. It employs many of Williams’ films which were discovered in a cache of Warhol films, and it is interesting to see how much warmer his work is than Warhol’s, even though they are stylistically similar. Like the Scott Walker film, this one consists of interviews with those who knew and worked with Williams and Warhol back in the Factory days interspersed with examples of Williams’ work.

From an article about the Flames/Dead Things Game 5 foofaraw…

‘Hasek singled out Iginla, who took hooking and cross-checking minors in the final minute, as part of the problem in the game that threatened to get out of hand as Detroit led 5-1 with just under five minutes to go.

“Even their captain, he should be in charge and he was one of the guys who probably embarrassed himself because of too many penalties for no reason,” Hasek said before Game 6. “I think it was embarrassing.”‘

Wow. I’m not so sure Dominik Hasek should have anything to say about this. All things considered.

Okay, well, my internet access and available time has been rather more limited than I’d envisioned… Right now, I am happily ensconced in a charming room at the Madison Manor Boutique Hotel, listening to the drunks stumble outta the nextdoor bar after last call. This room is probably six times the size of my room at the Castlegate Inn, and more than six times as comfortable. I even have a little balcony with a table and a couple chairs where I would be sitting if a big thunderstorm hadn’t torn through town a few hours ago and put such a dent in our mild temperatures. (In between the two hotel stays, I was lucky to be able to stay with a friend in her beautifully appointed apartment in the eastern part of town. Thanks, Sharon!!)

Here are a few short (and sometimes judgemental) descriptions of some of the films I’ve seen so far at Hot Docs. I’ll put some more up as soon as I can…

Englishman David Sington’s film In the Shadow of the Moon is a series of interviews with the surviving Apollo astronauts who talk about their lunar experiences and their lasting effects on them. It is a pretty harmless film to choose to open the festival. Frankly, there are few I can imagine who would not fall victim to its charms: the NASA space footage is spectacular (especially to these CGI-weary eyes) and the astronauts prove to be insightful and surprisingly humourous. But it is not critical in any way. Not that I would’ve preferred that–this is just an observation. As a matter of fact, I found the film very enjoyable. In the Q&A that followed, Sington pointed out that the situation that existed when the Apollo project was in its heyday seems vaguely familiar: the United States was involved in an unpopular (and what many considered unwinnable) war and anti-administration sentiment in the country was high. And it wasn’t just many of the American people who were pissed about being “over there”, either–people and nations all over the world were feeling likewise disgruntled with the American administration’s foreign policy. Apollo 11 was something that eclipsed (plz forgive me that one) everything else that was going on in the world at that time and allowed Americans to feel proud of their country again. As Sington noted, the current administration doesn’t have anything like that going for it.

And if you’re looking for a Dream Double Bill, how ’bout pairing that one with Rory Kennedy’s Ghosts of Abu Ghraib to end up with both the “good” and “bad” angles on the States? In case you were feeling all sugary after In the Shadow of the Moon, this one should get that sweet taste out of your mouth. His film opens with footage of the Milgrim experiment, in which ordinary people tortured other ordinary people when instructed to do so by an authoritative figure. From there, you can figure where this film is going, although I’m not sure it really succeeds in explaining why those American soldiers tortured those Iraqi prisoners. Honestly, I felt that few of the soldiers interviewed showed anything that looked even remotely like geniune remorse or displayed much willingness to take responsibility for what they’d done. Just a lotta finger pointing up the chain of command to Donald Rumsfeld, who just shrugs his shoulders and looks flummoxed when Senator John McCain asks where the buck stops. It seems like a good beginning, but I think the filmmakers needed to push their interviewees a bit harder.

Let’s All Hate Toronto is a comic look at the national pastime of hating Tronna that commits the unforgivable (by me) crime of being Not Funny. And utterly superficial. I think I understand now why the film was not made available for review before its debut at the festival: I think that’s because they knew the thing is a failure on almost all levels. This thing coulda been hilarious because, hell, it’s true that countless non-Torontonians have a hate on for The Big Smoke. But while the filmmakers did succeed in showing how most anti-Toronto sentiment is emotional rather than rational, they did it while portraying the critics with the same kind of cliché as the critics portrayed Torontonians. Thus, East Coasters were all drunkards and West Coasters were all hippies. The whole thing felt (and looked) poorly executed. A good idea that didn’t get the treatment it deserved.

Billy the Kid is a 15-year-old outsider in smalltown Maine. The kid is articulate, clever, open, utterly brave, and just a bit weird. Unrepentedly so. And he’s an utter delight. The film follows him through an undefined period during those tough mid-teen years, and we see him (and feel for him–you can’t help but genuinely like this kid) deal with the typical horrors of high school life (made worse, of course, by his uniqueness–high school is no place for that!). It played with a Scottish short called The Truth About Tooth, which is a look at real and imagined Tooth Fairies. Very sweet little film.

A mermerizingly beautifully shot short called Liquidman, which is about free diving (deep water diving without air tanks), opened for Yoga Inc., which is a look at the commercialization of yoga. The personal result of having watched this film is that I now feel guilty about being interested in yoga as only a way to help me get physically fit. Especially after having looked down my nose at the idea of chi spilling outta my belly button. My favourite part of Yoga Inc. was when the crowd jeered Saint Stink Sting. And WTF is going on with Bikram Choudhury’s lid?

Bald + ponytail = atrocious crime against hair.

And topknots are for Hellboy only.

I coulda saved the Leafs a lotta cash over the next few years if I hadn’t been so quick to jam on the brakes when Bryan McCabe ran across Bloor Street in front of my car yesterday.