BREAKING NEWS about Terrence Malick's THE TREE OF LIFE. And what, exactly, is it like to select titles for a film festival crowd?

Upon seeing Anne Thompson's tweet about New York Film Festival selection committee member Todd McCarthy's incisive new post about what it's like to attack that laborious job, I was immediately reminded of my own odyssey as the Programming Director for the Dahlonega International Film Festival (now the Rome International Film Festival) back in the early 2000s. The festival's Executive Director, Barry Norman, as generous and radically creative as he is, offered me the position and I jumped at the chance to make my mark. But it ain't a cakewalk: Being a film festival programmer is a more serious task than most could possibly imagine. So I replied to Thompson's note:

As a former film festival Programming Director, I have often characterized the job as such: Imagine you're walking into a brand new video store, and all the 1200 videos there on the shelves have blank covers. The only information on them is the film's title, director, genre, length, and maybe a one-line synopsis. 99.5% of the filmmakers are unknown (not something the top film festivals have to worry about, I'm sorry to say). 55% of the titles are shorts (from 2 to 50 minutes long), but 45% of them are full-fledged features. And then the store's owner offers you a deal: you can watch all of these videos for free, but you must watch them all in four months, and provide a precise review on each one--that is, unless you hate them outright, in which case you give them the no-go gong and move on. Would you take the challenge, or not? How tough is your love of cinema? Will it withstand the effort? What will make you bang the gong? What does a movie have to do to keep you rooting for it? And what will you learn about cinema, and yourself, as a result?


I really have a lot more to say about my Programming Director experience, but it'll have to wait. It's a great big story, and must be told correctly. Let it suffice to say that the assignment was more challenging, but more exciting--even for a new, tiny but vivacious festival--than I could have ever expected. 1200 films a year, from 35 countries a year, for two years in a row, for little pay but for a surplus of good karma? It was a supremely difficult, hungry trip I'm very happy I took (and here I have to thank my lovely, too-understanding mother Lynn for helping me do it). McCarthy's comments bear this out. If you're a filmmaker wondering what the hell that film festival selection committee you hit up goes through--whoever may be on that board, and for whatever film festival in question--you'd do well to read this article. And later on, and very soon, I'll go into my own related experiences in greater narrative detail. (In fact, a fine movie could be made about the road I took through the apocryphal film festival adventure; mine was a life-changing journey.)

Terrence Malick intruding in on Kit and Holly's murder spree in his Badlands (1973)

Now back to Malick's The Tree of Life. I take Todd's opinions on definite faith: we will not be seeing this film--once the most anticipated of 2010--this year. I have been afraid of this, especially recently, given the death of its parent company, Apparition, and its present-day search for a distributor. After all this effort, Malick isn't going to rush his film out there. No way, no how. And now it seems to be certain--McCarthy posits that the earliest the film will drop is as part of the 2011 Cannes Film Festival, and he hopes it'll be a major feature of the 2011 New York Film Festival. That means we have another year to wait for it here in the USA. Somewhere up there, Stanley Kubrick is smiling. He knows the deal.

POST NOTE: According to Thompson, as of 8/19/2010, the plans are still in place for The Tree of Life to open this year. It still, nevertheless, sounds like hopeful thinking, but I'm perfectly willing for her to be deemed correct.

Film #110: 12

Without fear of overhype, Lawrence Bridges' 12 can safely be called an epic. This amazing movie is the result of fifteen years worth of production work by writer/director Bridges, and you can feel each bit of impassioned care that went into each of its smudged, torn, spliced-up frames. Watching this grandly-scaled, literary comedy is like watching the most beat-up work print you can possibly imagine; this, coupled with Bridges' beautiful photography, makes 12 into a visual treat.

It's set in modern L.A. where a band of Greek gods--Zeus, Hermes, Aphrodite and the like--have gathered to bring to a close a myth birthed eons ago. Seems that Zeus (Eugene Rubenzner) once condemned two mortals to a loveless eternity; their task, in order to feel love and humanity once again, was to discover the yet-to-be-written book that closely paralleled their lives. Now the couple (played by Allison Elliott and Tony Griffin) have found the book: it's The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde, so now they must decide whether to give up eternal life or rejoin humanity. Complicating things for the Gods, of course, are mortal love interests, including 12's unlikely leading man: a deadbeat commercial actor named Allen Allen (Allen Lulu, in a fun performance).

12 is most likely not for everyone; it's wild editing style could turn some off. And it's truly epic-lengthed (though I'm more familiar with the three-hour version that played at the Dahlonega International Film Festival, there is a 2-hour cut out there as well). But for those with a taste with more complex films, this is for you. A successful commercial director, Bridges financed 12 himself and worked on it from 1988 to 2003. The mind-boggling closing credits act as sort of a yearly diary for the production; first Bridges' starts out almost solo, and by 2003, he has hundreds of artisans at his disposal. This is probably because Bridges started showing rough cuts of 12 at makeshift drive-ins around L.A. and New York in the mid-90s, no doubt attracting a few more collaborators in the process.

All the work paid off. Bridges's photography and editing are superb; the cast (particularly Lulu and the astonishing Allison Elliott, perhaps most notable for her roles in The Spitfire Grill and The Wings of the Dove); the story is sweeping--just giving yourself over to the film is a breathless flight. And the soundtrack is stupendous: Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Bach, Prokofiev, Berilioz, Tchikovsky, Brian Eno, Lisa Germano and Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet? How can you lose with those guys on the jukebox? It might be hard to find, and hard to figure out, but 12 is very much worth the effort.

Film #103: And I Will Not Leave You Until I Die

Working as a film festival programmer from 2002 to 2004 was one of the most rewarding and taxing experiences of my life. As the Programming Director of the Dahlonega International Film Festival (nicknamed the DIFF and now relocated in Rome, Georgia), I worked closely with Executive Director Barry Norman, a mass of dedicated volunteers and filmmakers, and the good people living in the North Georgia mountain town of Dahlonega (the first gold rush town in the U.S., predating California and Alaska). In doing so, Barry and I were both called upon to fill a lot of shoes. In fact, here's my full resume entry for the job:

For two years, personally evaluated movies from an average of 28 countries around the world (450 for 2002 festival, 825 in 2003); programmed 175 accepted shorts and features per year, grouping similarly-themed films together for exhibition in five venues for four-day festival; wrote and designed 60-page festival program that doubled as on-line content; selected jury members and recorded their personal evaluations of each entry; with the jury, judged accepted films for awards recognition; designed and implemented system for determining audience award recipients; corresponded with accepted filmmakers as to their festival participation; handled PR for local print and TV outlets; coordinated activities with Dahlonega township, local movie theater, and North Georgia Military Academy officials; hosted many film presentations, awards ceremony, and some filmmaker Q&As; selected festival Special Guests (Jeff Krulik in 2002, Caveh Zahedi in 2003) and worked with them to determine their festival contribution; represented the DIFF at other film-related events, including the Atlanta, Palm Beach, and New York Film Festivals.

Even though it was a relatively small fest, it required a massive effort from everyone involved, and as such it taught me a great deal about what goes into making a film festival work. Now, when I attend the TriBeCa, New York, or Atlanta film fests, I have a very clear idea of what's wrong and right about them. This is an incredible mountain of information to be privy to, and I consider myself privileged to have been asked by the festival's founder, Barry Norman, to steward the event's film offerings. Indeed, I could write a novel about my beautiful, often frustrating and always tiring experiences in gorgeous Dahlonega, but I'll keep them all to myself for now. But, occasionally, my mind drifts back to the great and terrible films I saw as a result of the effort (the experience really gave a film analyst such as myself a deep understanding of how films operate best). One of the finest movies I was exposed during this time hailed from a Polish documentarian named Maciej Ademek. In 2000, he produced an incredible half-hour doc poetically titled And I Will Not Leave You Until I Die. To this day, I pop my VHS of the film into my player, and it never fails to touch my very soul. It's a movie that deserves to be seen widely, because it's funny, sentimental, realistic, and scintillating. It's everything we want movies to be.

And I Will Not Leave You Until I Die is the astonishing story of an immutable lifelong friendship. Frank and Andrej are two middle-aged buddies who, as childhood classmates, made a pact to stay by each other's sides, no matter what. See, these men are challenged to the nth degree--Frank is physically disabled, and Andy is mentally disabled. Early on, they decided to live a life together in which Frank would provide Andy with brains and Andy would provide Frank with hands. Ademek's masterful film reveals this unusually effective rapport as a miracle of collaboration. Though they're often seen slogging through a rather contemptuous world that sometimes seems to have forgotten them, they press on, refusing to let their disabilities knock them out of the fight for happiness and independence.

In their late 40s, they seem to have all the basics conquered. We catch them as they jokingly crack each other up, argue passionately over the purchase of a refrigerator, shop for groceries, toil on an idyllic country farm, cash their disability checks, and conscientiously groom themselves. But there's one thing missing from their lives: the loving presence of a woman. Much of And I Will Not Leave You Until I Die deals with Frank and Andy's desire for romance. We see them sitting on park benches, watching pretty ladies rushing off one place or another, or glancing at happy couples kissing, as they themselves starkly contemplate their loneliness. They're not passive about this at all, though: they peruse the personals columns (in some of the film's funniest scenes), and participate joyfully in singles' dances. And still they wait for romance to enter their lives. The movie's most heartbreaking moment comes when Andy finds Frank looking at an old, faded picture of his long-dead mother, and weeping over his longings for female companionship. It's all very powerful stuff.

And I Will Not Leave You Until I Die might seem to some as if it'd be a drag-in-the-dirt downer. But in actuality, it's a
serene and well-observed documentary that had everyone at Dahlonega laughing and crying tears of joy and anguish. Maciej Ademek (pictured right) won the DIFF's prize in 2002 for Best Documentary Short and was nominated for Best Short Film at the European Film Awards. He went on to be nominated again at the DIFF in 2003 for Competition, his incisive look at a Polish children's beauty contest. As a result of both films, I'll always have an eye peeled for Ademek's work; I feel sure he's due for a breakthrough to international popularity sooner or later. In fact, here's a preview for his first narrative film, Factory (Fabryka), released in 2006. I wanna see this!

Film #75: Thanksgiving

In 2002, when I was the Programming Director for North Georgia's Dahlonega International Film Festival (now the Rome International Film Festival), I had to watch hundreds of titles in the span of six months. This resulted in weeks upon weeks of movie-watching, most of it predictably disappointing. (Tip to all festival-bound filmmakers: Actually, with that many movies to watch, a programmer HOPES to be disappointed within the first five minutes, just so they can get through more movies. So make sure your first minutes are great ones.)

Anyway, some time during the spring of 2002, I fished through hundreds of anonymous-looking tapes and came across a short movie from New York City called Thanksgiving, by writer/director Alex R. Johnson. Popping it in on VHS, I was immediately convinced of its immense worth, even though I'd had relatively little experience evaluating live action shorts. No matter, I thought: I know a good movie when I see it. As I wrote in my festival program review, "Achingly sad then rumbling with belly laughs, this fantastic movie refuses to paint in broad strokes."

Thanksgiving begins with Rich (Chris Crofton) facing a lonely "eating day" (as I like to call it). His friends aren't picking up the phone, and he has nowhere else to turn except to his Great Aunt Ruby (Regina Dwyer Thomas). Rich and Ruby's tense holiday encounter with each other in her cramped outer-bourough kitchen constitutes the majority of this 17-minute comedy's running time. See Thanksgiving here on Alex R. Johnson's La Chima Films website (if you have the right Apple plugin). Here's the trailer:



Crofton, a Nashville-based musician and comedian, is beyond superb as our nervous hero; his every line delivery is amazingly natural and funny. And Thomas is his near-equal, ratcheting up his character's discomfort with her every attempt at conversation. Her very first words to him, as Rich takes off his wool cap, are "Jesus, you're bald!" This sets off Thanksgiving's deep dive into the essential gulf between young and old.

In an often vicious ping-pong session of dialogue between these two under-socialized loners, we see illustrated generational differences between manner of dress ("At least I'm not wearing some dead man's clothes," Ruby says, noticing the embroidered name on Rich's vintage jacket. "'Bill'? Who's 'Bill'?"); food consumption (Ruby insists on giving Rich a "small" slice of the pie he brought her, and he protests "Ruby, that piece's as big as a slice of pizza!"); health (Ruby: "I've seen you kids with your bottled water, think you're so hot!") racism (Ruby on all the gum on the sidewalk: "I think it's them Arabs" Rich: "I don't think it's 'them Arabs'"). This scorched-earth battleground leads to an ultimate confrontation that is subtly sobering and outwardly angry.

Thanksgiving gets everything right with its minimal photography by Sylvain D'Hautcourt and editing by John Barr (both help Johnson's film approach the drifting quality of a Jim Jarmusch effort, but without the endless meandering). And the emo-rock score from Scott Craggs, Klaus Hubben and Drew O'Doherty--all members of the Boston band The Ivory Coast--is incredibly effective, popping up in the most perfect of places without ever stepping on the dialogue. At the DIFF, the film won Best Narrative Comedy Short (live-action), Best Director (short), Best Actor, Best Actress, and Best Score.

Writer/director Alex R. Johnson (pictured above on a location shoot for his new film Pickup and Return) partially financed Thanksgiving by working as a production office assistant on Steve Buscemi's 1996 directorial debut Trees Lounge. He currently works as a commercial cinematographer and as a producer for Showtime and VH-1, and has recently completed his second short, the 22-minute Pickup and Return (see it here). His and his Thanksgiving cast's sharp talents are, to say the very least, worth much closer attention. Finding their work made extremely worthwhile my watching a hundred laughably terrible DIFF entries like The Singing Bass and Hands. (Please--don't ask...)

Film #15: The Gods of Times Square

In its pre-cleanup days, the Times Square area in New York City was a place of vague contradictions. There'd be creeps streaming out of the jerk-off palaces as the melancholy mop-up guy got ready for another swabbing of the booths. Down the street, at one of the broken-down but strangely opulent all-nite movie houses, Lady Terminator would be playing on a double bill with Killer Condom. Two crusted, white-bearded Night Train junkies could be heard further up, brawling over the last Pall-Mall. Fish-netted trannies patrolled the area, scanning men's eyes for the next "date." The latest issue of Knocked Up and Milky could be glimpsed through the cracked, pink neon-lit porn shop windows. And the best hot dog you ever had could be gotten for a song. It was gloriously filthy, America's Reeperbahn.

Then there would be the presence of those who thought they could save all the lost souls wandering dejected down the spit-spattered sidewalks. Nevertheless, religious zealots of all stripes still were unknowingly smeared with the same grime that coated 42nd Street. And it's these colorful, proselytizing characters that make up a large part of Richard Sandler's epic 1999 documentary The Gods of Times Square. For seven years, Sandler--who remains a practicing documentarian and acclaimed still photographer--roamed the area, pointing his camera towards his subjects and grilling them about their spiritual beliefs. In the process, he caught on camera a cultural sea change of tidal wave proportions.

He catches the Jews for Jesus hawking their dichotomous dogma. Militant blacks are emphatically out in force, screaming about how they are the real chosen ones, and how the white man was put here "to be the Devil on Earth." Hasidics hold fourth from a massive trailer that blasts klezmer music through the city air. A Christian semi-raps through his bullhorn, warning us that, come rapture, we're going to be "roasting on our roaster, while we're toasting on our toaster and we're coasting on our coaster" (remember, this was pre-2000, the Christian year of the supposed Armageddon). Jimmy, a personable, beatific rocker dude with a Madonna obsession (the singer, not Jesus' mom) confesses that the Son of God has already come back to Earth. An elusively poetic Muslim with a priest's collar and a bottle-bottom glasses dodges answers to the Eternal Questions. A homeless man, in one of my favorite segments, has wisdom to spare regarding the flow of energy and the fabric of life. A flamboyant, bow-tied older gentleman condemns the lack of spirit in the city. A long-standing hot dog joint has its final day in business, culminating in the owner's saddened, physically-challenged son's rendition of Springsteen's "Hungry Heart." And a hilariously, scarily, tongue-wagging, porn-addicted businessman mightily resists a disciple's efforts to rescue his hide from eternal damnation. The array of stubborn, gorgeous misfits here is dazzling, and long gone from Manhattan.

Daniel Brown's ethereal editing style transforms Sandler's arty portrayal of the Times Square milieu further into dreamlike territory, with musically-timed cuts of gigantic fashion ads, surreal electronic displays, and disturbing views of streetwise desperation. He makes an invaluable contribution to Sandler's heartrending mourning of an admittedly rough, earthy cultural touchstone destroyed by corporate (read: Disney) interests (one man, in a gaudy McDonald's t-shirt, applauds the change, but another--mayoral candidate Reverend Billy--invades the Disney store and brandishes a plush Mickey Mouse, labeling it a representation of the antichrist).

In the end, this is a personal journey documentary, as much as Ross McElwee's Sherman's March, for instance, or Michael Moore's Roger and Me. Its wholly original voice--part doc, part wild experimentation--places it easily in such company. Thankfully, there's no narration here, but we are guided by the personal, searching questions occasionally delivered by Sandler from behind the camera. The director/videographer remains a curious figure but that adds to the uniqueness of one of the most unforgettable documentaries of the 1990s (right up there with Crumb). Actually, it's in the pantheon of the 25 best documentaries ever made (here's my list: The 101 Greatest Documentaries). When I was programming the Dahlonega International Film Festival in 2002, I insisted on having The Gods of Times Square as a centerpiece attraction, and the director happily provided us with a film that was 12 minutes longer than the version with which I had originally fallen in love (the 2007 DVD release includes this footage separately on a second disc). Brave, unrelenting and honest, Richard Sandler's beautiful Gods of Times Square can withstand any level of hype: it's just that good. Miss it at the risk of your own soul's peril.