film reviews, interviews, features | BRWC

Author: Ray Lobo

  • Hating Peter Tatchell: Raindance 21 Review

    Hating Peter Tatchell: Raindance 21 Review

    Peter Tatchell has been a central figure in LGBTQ activism both in the Anglosphere and throughout the world.  For decades, he has been a dogged crusader that will not back down from a fight against any homophobic law, institution, or regime.  So why is he, as the title of director Christopher Amos’ documentary indicates, so hated?  Not surprisingly, a lot of the hatred directed at Tatchell was generated by homophobes who felt threatened by an articulate and politically active man who was openly gay. 

    But, and this is the surprising part, some of the vitriol directed at Tatchell came from the more moderate segments of LGBTQ activism that felt that his tactics were too radical.  Hating Peter Tatchell is a survey of Tatchell’s life as activist and polarizing figure.  The film also serves as a crash course on the history of LGBTQ activism.

    Tatchell was born in Australia to parents who were fervently doctrinaire about their Christianity.  As he tells it, he feared coming out to his parents because he suspected they would have reported him to the police and have had him arrested.  Tatchell grew up in an era in which LGBTQ individuals were seen as others and, as was the case in Australia and England, non-heteronormality was criminalized.  Inspired by the Black Civil Rights Movement and anti-war movements in the United States, a young Tatchell moved from Australia to England and went all in on the fight against institutionalized homophobia.  

    What makes Hating Peter Tatchell such a compelling watch is Amos’ focus on both Tatchell as person and Tatchell as protest technique.  As a young man, Tatchell began developing the nuts-and-bolts of effective protesting—mobilization and media attention.  A failed political campaign as a parliamentary candidate for the Labor Party—his one flirtation with mainstream politics back when Labor could truly be called a non-centrist party on the left—was an anomaly in a career mostly focused on grassroots groups such as the Gay Liberation Front and Outrage!  And it was precisely his protest tactics with Outrage! that earned him the most attention and ire.  Tatchell interrupted a mass given by the Archbishop of Canterbury. 

    He made sure media were present beforehand to capture his protest “performance.”  He staged protests in front of police stations wherein men would kiss and be arrested.  Tatchell was fully aware that the media spectacle created by such stunts would eventually steer the conversation in the direction of LGBTQ rights.  His most controversial tactic—the one that earned the most scorn within the LGBTQ movement—was his attempt to publicly out gay bishops.  His tactics were not just aimed at criticizing homophobic British institutions, but also homophobic institutions and regimes throughout the world.  Tatchell organized protests behind the Iron Curtain—most notably in East Germany.  He staged a citizen’s arrest of Zimbabwean President and notorious homophobe Robert Mugabe.  The Mugabe stunt and other stunts throughout the world have resulted in barrages of punches directed at Tatchell by government thugs.  He has paid the price for his courage.  As Tatchell admits, head traumas have resulted in semipermanent brain injuries.  

    While Hating Peter Tatchell does not shy away from the criticisms aimed at Tatchell’s militant stance, it does give Tatchell an opportunity to defend himself in his own words.  This is precisely where Tatchell shines.  He defends himself with composure.  When he is accused of extremism in outing gay bishops, Tatchell makes it clear that he is not outing rank and file members of the LGBTQ community.  He is outing hypocritical individuals within the church hierarchy who collude with homophobic institutions and the laws upheld by said institutions.  Church members who point out Tatchell’s lack of decorum in interrupting a religious ceremony are countered by his conviction that when it comes to the violation of human rights, lack of decorum is a mere trifle. 

    In fact, appreciation for Tatchell’s work shines brightest in relation to his opposition to the Thatcher regime’s upholding of the Section 28 law.  Section 28 banned the “promotion” and “normalization” of homosexuality in schools.  Tatchell was an outspoke critic of Section 28.  The unavoidable irony in all this is that Tatchell—considered a radical in the 80s for his opposition to Section 28—was ahead of the mainstream.  In 2021, LGBTQ inclusion in education—at least in the Anglosphere—has gained widespread acceptance.  The fruits of Tatchell’s “radical” efforts have ripened in 2021.    

  • The Noise Of Engines: Raindance 21 Review

    The Noise Of Engines: Raindance 21 Review

    The Noise Of Engines: Raindance 21 Review

    Longing for home is a longstanding theme in art.  It is the bedrock of the Western literary edifice—Odysseus’ exile from and subsequent journey back to Ithaca is the obvious example.  In my case, however, memories and yearnings revolving around home are a bit less epic and a bit more ambiguous.  I grew up in an objectively bland lower-middle class neighborhood.  As a child, I was not aware of how crummy it was.  That awareness came to me in my late teenage years.  And therein lies the ambiguity that I feel towards home.  Now in my adulthood, I realize how mediocre my hometown was; and yet, I feel nostalgia for it.  Certain smells, sights, and sounds bring back a sweet remembrance of dismal things past.  I couldn’t help but have these thoughts as I watched director Philippe Grégoire’s brilliant full-length debut, The Noise of Engines.

    Alexandre (Robert Naylor) is an instructor at a Canadian college that trains customs officers.  After he is discovered having sex with a student, he is summoned by the college’s director (Alexandrine Agostini).  The director pathologizes Alexandre as a sexual deviant and dismisses him from the college.  Alexandre returns to his hometown.  His Quebecois hometown, as he describes it, is a typical North American town devoid of any urban planning.  The town’s only “attraction” is its racetrack.  Alexandre’s mum is extremely meddling.  And as if he didn’t have enough eyes on him, Alexandre starts being followed and harassed by two policemen who accuse him of leaving pornographic drawings in the town’s church.  Thanks to Grégoire’s script and direction, the entire cast’s performance produces a suffocating but darkly humorous Kafkaesque world.  Alexandre is accused of something terribly deviant, but he does not know by whom exactly and does not know how they are surveilling him.  

    Then, out of nowhere, an Icelandic drag racer, Aðalbjörg (Tanja Björk Ómarsdóttir), comes into Alexandre’s life.  Aðalbjörg inexplicably knows everything about Alexandre, tells him that she learned French from French New Wave films, and gives him a CD that directs or maybe predicts his actions—we are unsure.  Alexandre takes Aðalbjörg on a tour of the town explaining the town’s genealogy.  Once Aðalbjörg makes her appearance, the film takes on the feel of a travelogue of both the town and historical/personal memory.  Alexandre and his new friend begin talking about how the noise of engines and the smell of burnt rubber remind them of home.  It is unclear whether Aðalbjörg is a real person, or whether she is a character in Alexandre’s imagination; if she has seeped into his real life from his dream life, or whether she is his unconscious.  

    If everything described thus far sounds like a metaphysical/psychoanalytic jumble, don’t despair.  You are in good hands with Grégoire as your director.  This being Grégoire’s full-length directorial debut, one can only think that what is to come will be as or even more compelling.  And, for those whom non-realist narratives are intimidating, it must be said as a selling point, The Noise of Engines is funny.  The Noise of Engines, though very different, reminds me of another film that I reviewed for this site.  It reminds me of my film of the year thus far—Radu Jude’s Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn.  Both films share a mischievously dark humor. 

    Both offer commentary on the hometowns that drive us mad.  But, even more curiously, both films converge on a common plot point; they hit upon a common zeitgeist.  Both films involve characters persecuted for “sexual deviances” that go viral.  In the case of The Noise of Engines, it is pornographic drawings.  In the case of Bad Luck Banging, it is a viral sex video.  This begs the question:  Are both these films capturing an era in which sex is more permissive than ever; but paradoxically, more surveilling of deviance than ever?  Regardless of whether there is a connection or not, seek out both films and watch them.  And if you have the time, you could make it a double feature.                  

  • The Velvet Underground: The BRWC Review

    The Velvet Underground: The BRWC Review

    Apple TV, for some reason, has heavily promoted music documentaries that, for lack of a better label, can be called Dad-Rockumentaries.  Save for the recent Billie Eilish offering, the streaming service has delivered Bruce Springsteen’s Letter to You, 1971, and Todd Haynes’ (Carol) much anticipated The Velvet Underground.  Those unfamiliar with The Velvet Underground’s music would assume they are just another 60s/70s Dad-Rock band along the lines of The Mamas & The Papas, Creedence Clearwater Revival, or The Rolling Stones. 

    If your taxonomy groups them with the aforementioned bands, I would advise you to stop reading this right now and listen to a few notable VU tracks.  Start with “Heroin,” “Venus in Furs,” “European Son,” and “Sister Ray.”  It will become obvious that VU were not on the same planet as most of their more popular contemporaries.  VU were art rock, punk, noise, and drone before these subgenres became part of rock’s vocabulary.  

    VU’s founding core was composed of Lou Reed, John Cale, Moe Tucker, and Sterling Morrison.  Haynes, to his credit, presents the band as the anomaly and paradox that they were.  Cale’s background was in classical music and the avant-garde—Satie, Cage, and La Monte Young.  Reed was seduced early on by the poetry of Ginsberg, the literature of Burroughs, and American popular music.  While Cale and Reed tended toward the conceptual, Morrison, and especially Tucker, gave VU a grounded scaffolding.  If a grounded avant-garde band is not paradoxical enough, throw in two more personalities that were essential to the band’s early construction—Andy Warhol and the model/singer Nico.  

    Warhol was the band’s “producer” in title alone.  In truth, he was more of a background godfather figure whose artistic blessing opened doors for the band.  Warhol’s banana album cover was the Warholian seal of approval that got the band signed to a record deal.  And of course, it must be mentioned that it was Warhol’s idea to have a Swedish model sing some of the tracks on the first record.  Nico gave the band’s music and look a different variant.  Nico was an icy blond that created a striking contrast against the black-clad quartet. 

    Warhol’s thinking was that Nico’s beauty would give VU more commercial exposure.  His thinking was part public relations savvy and a 60s paradigm that reduced women to surface looks.  The Warhol and Nico elements made the band even more difficult to map.  Consider that VU was associated with Warhol—a figure of highbrow culture who nonetheless was a leader of the Pop Art movement—and their first album alternated between spiky tracks by Cale/Reed and smoother Nico tracks.  VU’s topography was far from being consistently level and flat.  One wonders how a contemporary marketer or record company executive would attempt to package VU.  It becomes apparent that only Warhol could have packaged such an anomaly of a band.    

    Other reviewers have made much about Haynes’ split screen presentation in The Velvet Underground.  Split screens aside, Haynes’ documentary is not as daring as the band.  It is a fairly conventional documentary in its structure.  That does not at all mean it is banal.  The subject matter and the insights are captivating.  Sequences involving Lou Reed’s suburban upbringing, his early Doo-wop leanings and recordings, and how he would put himself in dangerous scenarios—usually while trying to score drugs—in order to gain material for his writing, are captivating sequences indeed.  John Cale’s incorporation of Natural Harmonics in his music and his use of drone sounds intended to match the brain’s state while dreaming are equally captivating. 

    The sequences consisting of interviews of Moe Tucker once more ground things, in a great way.  Her blunt opinions on the hippie scene that dominated popular culture and music give context to just how out of context VU were with the rest of American culture.  While hippies did marijuana and LSD, VU’s music was the sound of heroin and amphetamines.  Haynes also does a formidable job capturing the zeitgeist of New York City in the postwar decades.  New York was a sort of Weimar Republic Berlin in terms of artistic and sexual/gender experimentation.  VU channeled the city’s sense of limitless possibilities.  

    Reed and Cale were anti-establishment down to their cores.  It should have been expected that these two antis would eventually become anti each other.  Tensions mounted between the two and Cale quit.  Reed took on more of a leading role in the band.  After their second album—the criminally underrated White Light/White Heat—VU hired Doug Yule to replace Cale.  In what was perhaps the greatest surprise from a band brimming over in paradoxes, their sound became softer, more conventional, and less experimental.  Haynes’ documentary highlights the marvel that was VU—a pottage of personalities that somehow worked and made meaningful art. 

    While VU’s mesmeric drones tried to mimic a brain in a dream state, their music was far from “dreamy.”  “Dreamy” is the adjective used to describe teenage love songs, pop songs, and insignificant record industry commodities that get chewed up and are quickly spit out by consumers.  VU was a tear in an American culture that was, and still is, suspended in a slumber of commodified “dreaminess.”     

  • Hive: Review

    Hive: Review

    Are there any true winners in war?  The answer to that question is fairly obvious.  Then there’s the question of who bears the heaviest burden after a war?  That question is a bit more complicated.  Director Blerta Basholli’s full-length directorial debut, Hive, reminds us that it is often women who must pick up the pieces of their shattered societies often while still dealing with their own personal traumas. 

    Hive is based on a true story.  It recounts the life of Fahrije Hoti (Yllka Gashi).  Fahrije is a Kosovan woman who when we first meet her is searching through body bags, wondering if any contain the human remains of her husband.  In essence, she is a woman searching for any faint etchings left behind by a life erased by conflict. 

    Fahrije’s village is decimated by the Balkan conflict.  Her village is mostly comprised of children, widowed women, and old men.  The widows’ psyches are so shattered that some prefer the relief gained by being informed that their husbands’ remains were found so as to extinguish any faint false hope they still carry.  Fahrije, like all the other widows, has to deal with her children, her infirm father-in-law, finding a revenue source, governmental authorities charged with finding the body of her husband, and oh yes, her own trauma.  Fahrije takes up her husband’s vocation—beekeeping.  She tries selling her honey at the market, but sales are minimal.  Fahrije and a group of widows decide to make homemade ajvar (a traditional red pepper spread) and sell it to a supermarket in the capital city of Pristina.  The profits would be shared amongst the widows.  

    The widows go to work on the plan.  But they are met with obstacles.  One of them has to drive to Pristina to make a sales pitch to a supermarket owner.  Fahrije decides to take driving lessons.  Her village still maintains traditional values and gender roles.  Her driving is considered improper.  Gossip and acts of violence are directed toward Fahrije.  She is caught between tradition and independence.  She decides that maintaining tradition will not help her family and the other widows who help make the ajvar.  Yllka Gashi is exceptional in her role. 

    Her performance of Fahrije is all steely determination and quiet perseverance.  Yet, we know Fahrije’s personal traumas have not been addressed, that they have not healed—it is unlikely they ever will.  She, however, has no time to focus on herself.  Until, of course, Fahrije is forced to confront the trauma directly.  Gashi’s performance captures Fahrije’s many layers in a subtle manner.  This subtlety, however, is far from static.  In Gashi we get to witness an actor in full command of her character and her craft.  The rest of the cast is also spectacular.  Several of the actors in Hive also appeared in another Kosovan film—the exceptional Zana, which I reviewed for this site.     

    Hive marvelously succeeds on two levels.  It works on the level of a film focused on the trauma faced by those exposed to the horrors of war and it works as a commentary on women caught in a patriarchal society.  Everywhere Fahrije turns—the owner of the supermarket, the old men at the café, the vendor who sells peppers—there is a male gatekeeper making her journey all the more difficult.  Quite often, movies that deal with war and patriarchy handle these topics rather clumsily.  Hive and Zana give ample evidence that Kosovan directors and actors are at the forefront of dealing with such topics in their dramas. 

    There is something truly exciting happening in Kosovan film.  The directing and acting talent are top-notch.  As critics and film consumers, we would be foolish not to pay attention.  Kosovo may be in the beginning of a cinematic golden age.

  • The Sit-In: Review

    The Sit-In: Review

    THE SIT-IN:  HARRY BELAFONTE HOSTS THE TONIGHT SHOW

    In 1968 The Tonight Show host Johnny Carson handed over hosting duties for an entire week to Harry Belafonte.  Viewers accustomed to hearing the standard “Heeeere’s Johnny” introduction at the beginning of The Tonight Show had their expectations subverted when the show opened with “Heeeere’s Harry” and were greeted by a person of color hosting the most popular late-night talk show on American television.  Media representation of an increasingly diverse spectrum of individuals has come a long way since 1968.  Harry Belafonte’s hosting of The Tonight Show in 1968 was a phenomenon that fell quite outside the parameters of the mainstream. 

    Johnny Carson epitomized everything white America was comfortable with on their television screens in 1968.  Carson was white, midwestern, charismatic, and his schtick early in his tenure as host of The Tonight Show was fairly non-political.  Privately, Carson was keenly aware of the social unrest occurring in 1968.  He, however, was not quite ready to address the political and racial unrest sweeping through the country on The Tonight Show.  He decided that if anyone was going to break that ice on a late-night talk show, it was going to be Belafonte. 

    Belafonte was perfectly positioned to be the person of color that brought the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam protests, and the counterculture to white American homes.  Belafonte’s one foot in the white mainstream was established by his music—he sang calypso songs that were accepted by white America.  His other foot was firmly established in the counterculture.  Belafonte was a visible participant in the Civil Rights Movement and a political activist.  He was friends with Martin Luther King Jr. and understood the more radical Black Power movements that contrasted with MLK.  In fact, Belafonte was a go-between MLK and the more radical strands of the Black Power movement that thought MLK’s maneuverings and worldview were passe. 

    Director Yoruba Richen does a good job of contextualizing Belafonte’s week as host on The Tonight Show.  There were not many channel options in 1968.  American culture coalesced around the television shows offered by NBC and CBS.  Unfortunately, the shows Americans coalesced around presented a predominantly white paradigm.  As Whoopi Goldberg observes in a segment on the television landscape in 68, science fiction shows set in the future never included people of color.  This gave the appearance that the existence of non-whites would be erased in the future.  The Sit-In adequately demonstrates how Belafonte was a break with the ideology of the white entertainment industry.  For one week, Belafonte brought the counterculture into white bedrooms by infiltrating a late-night show that white viewers found soothing enough to end their night on. 

    He invited guests that were musicians, celebrities, and activists, all of whom were politically involved, and most of whom were personal friends.  Belafonte’s week as host had him interview MLK at a pivotal moment right before his murder—the Poor People Campaign, a campaign that interwove issues of race with issues of class.  Belafonte interviewed musician/activists like Lena Horne and Aretha Franklin.  He interviewed Robert Kennedy at a moment in which Kennedy had been pushed and prodded to take seriously the concerns of people of color.  Both MLK and Robert Kennedy would be murdered shortly after their appearances with Belafonte.    

    The Sit-In focuses on Belafonte’s appearance on The Tonight Show, but in essence it is a documentary on the upheavals of 1968; and that is where The Sit-In comes up a little short.  It does not shed new light on 1968.  One wishes that the segments that interview the older Belafonte reflecting on that week, and on his life, would have been longer.  But those weaknesses are more than made up for by the historical through line drawn in the last minutes of The Sit-In.  Richen connects the racism that existed in 1968 with the racist revival that was mainstreamed starting around 2016 in the US.  Richen also connects that one week in which Belafonte presented himself as a person of color in late-night television to The Arsenio Hall Show, to Trevor Noah, to all the late-night shows in 2021 that overtly talk about political issues. 

    Belafonte was truly exceptional.  In Belafonte you had a mainstream celebrity that managed to slip counterculture ideas into the homogenized world of American popular culture.  Pulling off that trick is one thing in 2021; it was another thing in 1968.