Entries tagged with “Home Movie” from Rooftop Films Blog

ROOFTOP FILMS and VERIZON FIOS present 

Short films and video about moments in time, capturing and imagining what it felt like to be there. 

OPEN BAR AFTER PARTY FOLLOWING THE SCREENING FOR ALL IN ATTENDANCE

   

Venue: On the lawn of Automotive High School Address: 50 Bedford Ave. @ North 13th St. (Williamsburg, Brooklyn) 

Directions: L to Bedford Ave. or G to Nassau Ave. 

Rain: In the event of rain the show will be held indoors at the same location 

8:00PM: Doors open 

8:30PM: Live music presented by Sound Fix Records 

9:00PM: Films 

10:30PM: Filmmaker Q & A 

11:30PM-1:00AM: After-party: Open Bar at Matchless (557 Manhattan Ave. @ Driggs) Courtesy of Radeberger Pilsner

Tickets: $9 at the door or online

Presented in partnership with: Cinereach, New York magazine, City Council Member David Yassky & Automotive High School

Every year Rooftop hosts a program of Home Movies--discovering the forgotten, unmediated moments of people's lives, unfiltered and as they live them. The films reveal textures, patterns, feelings that might go unnoticed, fleeting incidents that would otherwise pass without thought, but when captured on film or video provide an insight into the lives captured, or those recording.

This year's program includes a wide range of techniques and storytelling strategies, displaying the varied forms that biographical documentary (and pseudo-documentary) can take. Filmmakers parse through mysteriously painful childhood memories (Bloomfield or a Childhood Memory; My Rabbit Hoppy); trace their family history (Ten for Grandpa); work through their issues relating to failed romances and short-lived affairs (Men With Girlfriends Later; I Slept With a Cookie Monster); and capture the fleeting impact of politics on the moments of their lives (Hotel Diaries). The details change and the narrative devices are diverse, but the goal of each film remains the same: to express through film or video what happened in that moment, what it meant to the filmmaker, what it felt like to be there.

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New York Underground Film Festival
April 2-8, 2008
@ Anthology Film Archives
www.nyuff.com
Tickets

March 27 @ 9:45pm
Selections from the 2007 NYUFF
@ IFC Center
Tickets



The New York Underground Film Festival, a venerable anti-establishmentarian institution, the godfather of all "Underground" film festivals, will be hosting its 15th and Final installation in April, and then doing what any good punk rocker should do: dying young and . . . re-establishing itself as year-round programming consortium called "Migrating Forms."

The NYUFF has always been a haven for strange and beautiful, shocking and revealing avant garde cinema, and is definitely a big inspiration for Rooftop. I'll certainly be out for many screenings, including films by the following Rooftop alums: Jim Finn, Jacqueline Goss, Patrick Jolley, Jeanne Liotta, Jennifer Matotek, Seth Price, Robert Todd, Keith Wilson, Bryan Boyce, Lyn Elliot, Kent Lambert, Darrin Martin, Eileen Maxson, Kelly Oliver, Keary Rosen, Shelly Silver, Jim Trainor, Cory Arcangel, Skizz Cyzyk, Joe Nanashe, Moira Tierney, and Aaron Valdez (film pictured).

Check back here to the Rooftop Films blog for some write-ups and reviews of films, and I hope to see you there!

Late last night, after jumping from IFC's My Morning Jacket / Yo La Tengo concert to the wide-open SXSW Closing Night party and finally onto Joel Heller's birthday, I wound up at the Magnolia diner, eating scrambled eggs and discussing scrambled documentaries. I was there with Dan Nuxoll from Rooftop, Joel, and Alex Karpovsky and Eric Bruggermann, the director and editor, respectively, of "The Hole Story" and 2008 SXSW selection "Woodpecker."

I brought up the fascinating dialogue about the distinctions of fiction and non-fiction filmmaking that I had heard surrounding some of the films here at SXSW, including Alex's film(s), Daniel Stamm's "A Necessary Death," and even films as different as Nanette Burstein's "American Teen," Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" and Josh Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed," where categorical definitions would appear pretty straightforward. We'd heard a rumor that when "A Necessary Death" played one European festival, it was in the documentary section, and the crowd was incensed.

Why is it that people get so mad about films that blur these distinctions or even deliberately mislead the audience? Do these distinctions matter? And if so, how should we be defining these films?

[To read this entire article, please click here.]

In a certain way, this entire review is a spoiler, so if you don't want to know too much, skip my writings and go see the film. Herein, I don't really tell you the plot--an exciting and gripping drama--but I do get at the essence of the film.  I highly recommend it.

In Daniel Stamm's "A Necessary Death," we see a young film student known for taking wild risks as a filmmaker wants to make a documentary about someone who plans to commit suicide. His friends think it's a crazy idea, and while some of them agree to help, his roommate decides to document the making of the documentary. They post an ad online, interview some suicidal candidates, and finally settle on a young man with a terminal brain tumor who wants to kill himself before he has to suffer. The nature of the filmmaking process, and a series of manipulations, romances, and discoveries, lead the film in a taut and tragic trajectory.

At the SXSW premiere, after the screening, the audience gasped at the sight of the supposedly dead actors. The director of the film asked for a show of hands as to how many people thought it was a documentary through to the end, and fully half the crowd raised their hands. But it's not a documentary. It's a brilliantly executed work of fiction.

At the Q & A, one woman walked out 2/3rds of the way through, but came back at the end to discuss the film. She had believed it was a documentary, and was too disturbed to watch, but raised the question about filmmaking and audience complicity in this "death." Even if it turns out to be a narrative, what does it say about our society if we want to watch something like this?

My first reaction to that is, how is it different from watching a film about a war, or about someone dying of a disease? Presumably, death in those circumstances is completely inevitable and out of the filmmakers' control. In the rare circumstances when a filmmaker has a chance to save a life, they probably usually do put down the camera. But it's never just that simple. For example, what if a filmmaker in a war knows that someone is injured, but continues to film something else rather than helping, because to help would mean to stop filming?

I believe that most of the filmmakers whose films play at Rooftop and SXSW and similar festivals truly do want to help their subjects and the causes they stand for. They want to tell the story so that audience members can engage with the issue. If they stop filming, the one person may be sacrificed, but the larger issue of the film will carry on, eventually (so the hope goes) saving many people.

That was my initial reaction--an idealistic and utilitarian one. But frankly it didn't sit right with me. It felt morally thin. Talking to my extremely kind-hearted girlfriend Stephanie Skaff and to filmmaker/Docs That Inspire-writer Joel Heller about the topic, they expressed what I think is the key to the issue: a filmmaker who genuinely cares about his subjects wouldn't allow themselves to simply watch, and not interfere in order to save a life or help an individual. Of course, in every situation, the filmmaker has to make careful distinctions and choices, but I think one can probably draw a close link between the lasting humanity of a given film and the ability of that filmmaker to make the "right" choice as to when to interfere and when to keep rolling.

That still leaves the complicated issue of suicide, and this non-documentary "A Necessary Death." Personally, I think if I was working on a documentary about a potential suicide, the goal of the film would be to work through the issue of suicide and to engage audience members in a dialogue which could eventually help people. So I would try to help the person work through their issues, see if there was a solution before death, assist them in making the best choice for themselves. And if suicide were still the choice, I'd be willing to roll the camera.

"A Necessary Death" I think succeeds in raising and addressing the issues of the role of the documentarian, the viewer, and all witnesses and friends. In the film, the tragedy is not the suicide, but the fact that clearly the friends and documentarian have not done enough to engage and help, letting a man kill himself when he was not in fact at peace with that choice.

At least that's my take on this very thought-provoking film. If you get a chance, check it out so we can talk more.

One of the most beautiful shows Rooftop Films ever hosted was our 2007 edition of Dark 'Toons. The astonishing animator Brent Green showed his films and played live music with Brooklyn locals The Quavers. They are a band whose sound and focus is very much in line with Rooftop--quiet and surprisingly intricate songs about drifting through specific landscapes. I'm a huge fan, and hope to have them back on the roof again.

Vincent Moon on Blogotheque's "Take Away Shows" created a wonderful video with the Quavers playing two songs while floating down the Gowanus Canal (just one block away from Rooftop headquarters). I think it's a fantastic and perfectly executed idea (having Brooklyn indie film legend Jem Cohen piloting the boat adds to the mystique). Watch the video (below) and read the exciting story here.

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THE QUAVERS - Sea Won't Take Long
by lablogotheque

Props to Rooftop's Managing Director Genevieve DeLaurier for digging up this video.

[This is the complete article originally published on March 13, 2008.]

Late last night, after jumping from IFC's My Morning Jacket / Yo La Tengo concert to the wide-open SXSW Closing Night party and finally onto Joel Heller's birthday, I wound up at the Magnolia diner, eating scrambled eggs and discussing scrambled documentaries. I was there with Dan Nuxoll from Rooftop, Joel, and Alex Karpovsky and Eric Bruggermann, the director and editor, respectively, of "The Hole Story" and 2008 SXSW selection "Woodpecker" (pictured left).

I brought up the fascinating dialogue about the distinctions of fiction and non-fiction filmmaking that I had heard surrounding some of the films here at SXSW, including Alex's film(s), Daniel Stamm's "A Necessary Death," and even films as different as Nanette Burstein's "American Teen," Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" and Josh Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed," where categorical definitions would appear pretty straightforward. We'd heard a rumor that when "A Necessary Death" played one European festival, it was in the documentary section, and the crowd was incensed.

Why is it that people get so mad about films that blur these distinctions or even deliberately mislead the audience? Do these distinctions matter? And if so, how should we be defining these films?

One of the first things we realized is that general audience members, far more than film critics, filmmakers, and film programmers, do question what's "real." You hear in Q & A sessions how important it is to them. And a great number of film professionals also debate (and confuse) these terms and distinctions. So the distinctions do matter. And I think the first reason why they matter, why people want to know if a film is a work of fiction or non-fiction, is because people don't like "being suckered" (as entertainment lawyer and SXSW panelist Alan Levy put it when I was discussing the issue with him). Being suckered is different from being tricked: a murder mystery tricks you, but that's what you want it to do; a fiction film that poses as a non-fiction film (the thinking goes) suckers you. People think that the film is somehow lying to you, which you don't want it to do.

I think this discrepancy comes initially from expectation: when you go to see an action movie, you don't want to find yourself instead watching a quiet drama. When you see certain documentary aesthetics, you expect that what you are seeing is non-fiction. So the second and more important reason why audience members want to know the nature of the film is because of the inherent differences in the way we interact with fiction and non-fiction films. People are more likely to immediately connect emotionally with non-fiction characters because one of the greatest challenges of fiction cinema--effective suspension of disbelief--is alleviated. When a character in a fiction film does something outlandish, an audience member is likely to think, "No one would ever do that." Not so in documentary; you have to assume they really did it. So when you think a film is non-fiction, and it turns out to be scripted, you mistrust your own emotional reading of the film. The same is true in reverse for non-fiction films. Every camera move and edit in a documentary is of course a manipulation of reality, yet people still get hung up on the details of some non-attainable objective truth.

With either fiction or non-fiction, that mental approach to film watching is limiting. We should be able to watch a movie, and analyze our feelings and our thoughts based on the emotions expressed and the ideas addressed, not solely on whether it was "real." I think keeping the lines between fiction and non-fiction blurry is a wise move. Whether the filmmaker writes a story and casts actors to play the characters, or if the filmmaker follows the story of people leading their existing lives, the goals are the same for any film: to entertain the audience, to enlighten them, to take them to emotional highs and lows.

This is where films like Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed" and Burstein's "American Teen" come in. I thought "American Teen" was entertaining and engaging, but I didn't love the film because of some of the manipulations--jumps in time to enhance the weight of an emotion, moments that are clearly created in the editing room but didn't happen live. My problem isn't the manipulations per se, and I don't doubt the veracity of the basic facts. My problem is that because of those manipulations, I didn't really connect with the characters. I thought the jumps in time simplified complex emotions, and the forged scenes fell flat. When watching either a non-fiction or a fiction film, you understand that this isn't an objective reality, but if the cuts and camera angles fail to create a subjective emotional and intellectual truth, the film has failed.

In contrast, some scenes in Josh Safdie's film are, as he put it, "stolen"--he caught people on the street unawares and wrote them into his narrative. I was impressed by the way he was able to fluidly bring these elements into his rather fantastical story, and from a narrative standpoint, I was touched by the interactions.

Karpovsky's "Woodpecker" is a brilliant example of the way a filmmaker can blend fact and fiction to make an amusing, moving and meaningful film that transcends either documentary or fiction modes. The film is about the true story of the supposed sighting of an Ivory Billed Woodpecker in the bayou of Arkansas. Hundreds of bird watchers descended on the swamps, hoping to confirm the sighting. Alex sets the stage for his film with mostly documentary footage, and provides a sincere and intriguing look into a region transformed and polarized by this funny little bird. We meet ordinary people who were transfixed by the beauty of the bird, and hunters who are displeased that the search for the bird is keeping them from their hunting grounds. There are locals opening tourist shops selling bird trinkets, and taxidermists who claim to be able to manufacture an Ivory Billed in minutes. Into this world, Alex injects Jon e. Hyrnes (pictured below left), an actor who Alex discovered, ironically, when Johnny appeared as the subject of another documentary, "Johnny Berlin." Alex makes the wise point, "Much like the bird itself, "Woodpecker" explores the intersection of fact and fiction, manipulating our notions of documentary and narrative techniques within a tragic comedy about hope, perception, and some very very strange birds."

One of the ingenious cinematic devices in "Woodpecker" is the way Karpovsky has the character he scripted continue to develop a theme first brought up by one of the documentary characters. One of the birdwatchers who (I'm pretty sure) is real, says that the bird's cry is simply the announcement, "I am here." This phrase becomes a core leitmotif for Johnny, the lead in the film, who himself is looking for the bird in order mark to his place in birdwatching history. This lonely guy, who drolly remarks that when his wife left him "she was essentially saying 'I am not here,'" thinks that if he spots the bird he will somehow justify and signify his own existence. He wants to be famous, yes, but only in this obscure realm. His core desire, as he explains in one of his ludicrous but subtly insightful rants, is to be an integral part of the birdwatching community. He wants people to know he is there, to care that he's there, and to enable people to see this bird. So as we watch Johnny mingle with the locals and drift through the swamps, we relate to the community with his specific perspective, this strange but pure and life-affirming connection with the world.

The film raises a lot of issues about environmentalism and hunting, about dying small towns and the pitfalls of media attention, about individual isolation and community, and the way in which the issues are presented through the perspective of an entertaining and astute on-screen character effectively makes them more genuine and resonant than if we were seeing them in a purportedly neutral documentary. "Woodpecker" is a far more potent use of motion pictures than a purely factual news report of the (possible) discovery of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker.

So if blurring the lines between fiction and non-fiction can be useful, how do we define such films? Even though I think audiences shouldn't determine their appreciation of a film by any categories or expectations, I think we need definitions in order to avoid confusion and reach a more universal understanding of these conventions, so that audience members aren't burdened by misconceptions.

There are three essential categories, and a handful of styles within them. All films are fiction, non-fiction or a hybrid. I think one of the core confusions stems from the misleading term "narrative film." Most films, whether based on imagination or fact, are narrative--they are telling a story. Non-fiction films, however, can be told in a variety of styles, which include documentary, verité, and recreation. Conventional "documentary" style would include films in which the camera records events as they unfold in real time, without the director intentionally influencing the action. Documentaries often include elements such as music, titles, and effects that did not appear directly in front of the camera, and interviews, in which the action is perhaps staged with lights, sets, and questions, but what the subject says is not shaped by the filmmaker. In contrast, verité filmmaking does not use any such non-diegetic elements or staged events.

A film like Robinson Devor's "Zoo" (pictured left) is still non-fiction, because the audio and video are all based on facts not imagination, but it is a work of non-fiction not made in a documentary style, because the voices of the subjects were re-recorded by actors, and the images were recreated with actors, lighting, set-decoration, etc. (Throughout this article, I used the terms "documentary" and "narrative" to refer to the style of filmmaking, but not the category of films.) It's interesting to note that Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" is considered a work of non-fiction (by most people), in a documentary style, even though, like "Woodpecker," it contains scripted elements and a "character" who is interacting with real people. The differences between Spurlock's and Karpovsky's films is the way in which the character is presented (Spurlock as himself; Jon e. Hymes as the fictional Johnny Neander), and the essence of the narrative (Spurlock investigating a question; Karpovsky crafting a portrait).

Within hybrid films, the distinctions of style are equally varied, including mockumentaries, faux documentaries, meta-documentaries, and fake home movies. Over lunch at Stubb's BBQ joint, I was discussing the issue with filmmakers Andrew Bujalski and Garrett Savage, and filmmaker plus "Woodpecker" co-producer Dia Sokol, and for Karpovsky's film we settled on the term "faux documentary." Although "Woodpecker" is black comedy, it shouldn't be called a "mockumentary." A "faux documentary" is a film that incorporates fiction and non-fiction, and uses the style and conventions of a doc to tell semi-fictional story. A "mockumentary," in contrast, is completely imaginary, and tends to be making fun of the characters. Further, I think most "mockumentaries" poke fun at documentary form itself, with overly-contrived sit-down interviews and obvious nods to the camera, such as the ubiquitous "don't film this" moments.

In "Woodpecker," by contrast, although one is often laughing at Johnny's naiveté and quirky obsession, he's more like a Don Quixote, the madman on a mission who is lovable and laughable but also honest, noble, and inspiring. The film treats Johnny and all the characters with warmth and respect, so it lacks the spoofing of a mockumentary.

Non-fiction and fiction "meta-documentaries" would include films that explicitly address the essence of documentary form. "Woodpecker" does not, but Karpovsky's "The Hole Story" and "A Necessary Death" both in some ways deal with the nature media and the way the act of filming events inherently affects the action. "Fake home movies," such as the infamous "Blair Witch Project," purport to verité filmmaking conventions in which the on-screen characters are filming their own lives, only the characters and actions are scripted and staged.

So, I hope all my rambling has proved helpful or at least interesting to some. It seemed interesting enough in late-night film festival conversations over eggs migas and pulled pork sandwiches. The next question, I guess, is whether I've accurately documented all that we discussed.

Rooftop showed Chris Waitt's humorous narrative short "Dupe" a couple years ago, so I was very eager to check out his debut feature. The slick short starred Chris as an extremely lazy hipster who orders off the internet a cloning machine (that looks like an crappy old photocopier) so he can send his dupes off to work for him. (We actually showed that film in a program, about labor and industry; indicative of Rooftop's attempt to mix serious and silly films in themed programs.)

"A Complete History of My Sexual Failures" is a hysterical and inventive personal documentary which reveals that Chris is every bit the extremely lazy hipster he appeared to be in "Dupe." After realizing that he'd been dumped by every woman he'd ever dated, Chris decides to try to make a film of self-discovery: why do ladies drop him as easily as he drops his dirty clothes on the floor?

The first handful of exes he contacts dismiss him out of hand, with Chris demonstrating his deadpan ability to get rejected and to say the wrong thing. When interviewing a young lady on the street, he asks her how long her boyfriend's penis is. Her reply: a shy smiling "Uhh, me mum's right there." It's only when Chris' mum gets out some old love/hate letters sent to her son (one of which is addressed "Dear Shit-Fuck), and negotiates interviews on his behalf, that he is able to even really communicate with any other woman.

And that's when we get to see that his awkwardness and social irresponsibility isn't just limited to pestering women on the street; his failures run far deeper. From the interviews, a pattern emerges: he's uncaring, constantly late, a liar, and in one instance even tried to kiss his girlfriend's mother. One woman is so ashamed of having dated him, she only agrees to be interviewed behind a curtain, typing her humiliatingly harsh answers into a computerized voice machine. In the Q & A following the screening, Chris pointed out that he'd really allowed these women to "discover their inner anger."

One former fling who is a self-described sex addict reminds Chris that he was unable to perform in bed, he is forced to admit (in front of a wide-eyed female hotel clerk) that he's impotent. The film then really goes wild, with Chris seeking medical help, getting advice from drunks on the street, and visiting a dominatrix who literally whips his balls, in full view of the camera, in an uproariously funny sequence which is sure to vindicate many of his former lovers. Finally, Chris OD's on Viagra (and beer), and runs around the streets asking women to fuck him. Call it his own "Super Size Me" moment.  

The film is certainly part of the growing trend of "stunt" documentaries, with these numerous set pieces that wouldn't be happening if not for the camera. One has to wonder at points if Chris isn't hamming up his own lack of awareness, his own ignorance of basic human relationships. But I think Chris and these women are being pretty earnest. The fact is, Chris is a charming, attractive, creative, hip guy: women really want to love him. But he's also solipsistic and painfully uncaring, and so he disappoints his girlfriends badly. If he was just a dumb schmuck, none of these women would care one way or the other. But the fact that he does have so much potential makes the sting of his failures all the more poignant, and makes the film all the more compelling.

Chris does learn some lessons from the process. For one, he heals his relationship with his longest-running girlfriend, and now that she's had a baby, Chris seems to gain more respect for her, and seems to actually acquire some sense of responsibility. Even more amazingly, Chris ends up in a long-term relationship with one of the women he accosted during his little blue pill freak-out. At the Q & A, she said that remarkably she hadn't seen the film until now (a sign of both his insecurity and his callousness, it would seem), but though she was quite shocked by the film, she claims he's been a much better boyfriend.  

When asked if there was anything that was too embarrassing to put in the film, Chris said that it was all damn embarrassing, "but I had gotten some funding, and there comes a point when people have put all this time and effort into the thing, and I couldn't go back. I wondered when it would ever end, because after all, it's my life. And believe me, it wasn't good news for me when the film got into Sundance. I was like, 'Oh no, now even more people are going to know what a fuck-up I am."

That he is, but a charming and delightful one, who has made a daring, insightful and hilarious film, one which really fits with Rooftop's ethos of showing personal documentaries, even "home movies."

Katrina Browne can trace her family's history back to the early American colonial days . . . back when they ran one of the largest slave trade operations in the world. What do you do with knowledge like that? It's been at least 140 years since anyone in your family owned or traded other human beings--it's not your fault. Many people in Browne's position ignore that part of their heritage (check out Margaret Brown's fascinating "Order of Myths" to see some similar denial in action), or make excuses for it. But Browne decided to contact 200 of her known relatives, and invite them on an exploration of their family's past. 9 agreed to come, and the documentary "Traces of the Trade" is one of the many results.

The family members travel from Rhode Island (where the family was based) to Ghana (where they purchased slaves) to Cuba (where they owned plantations, worked by slaves, which fueled the cycle). One might wonder what these (mostly) privileged white people, in the 21st Century, would gain from such a trip--if it would merely end up as a guilt-assuaging tour of near-forgotten horrors. But for me, the film faces down complex moral turmoil and emotional anguish, and it's all split open on the family's first day in Ghana, where they see that these atrocities are not nearly as forgotten in Africa, and by African-Americans, as they may seem in to white Americans.

One relative says, [to paraphrase] "I had always excused my ancestors, saying that they were only a product of their times, that trading slaves was just the way of the world. But after being in one of the slave prisons, where hundreds of people were held in cramped, dark cells before being shipped across the Middle Passage, now I know that's bullshit. What they were doing was evil, and they had to know it was evil, and they did it anyway. I wouldn't have thought that if I hadn't come here."

That crucial admission, and the knowledge that he could only have reached that revelation by confronting the past directly, is the moral crux of the film. By making that admission he opens up the possibility of his own complicity, acknowledging that there are aspects of this horrible past which he may be suppressing, thereby continuing the legacy of denial,  ignorance, racism. And so the 9 press on, opening themselves up to learn and understand and attempt to do the right thing. They realize that even though slavery was abolished a century and a half ago, the problems of racial inequality persist, largely because the root causes have never been fully acknowledged. In the end, they each find ways to try to make amends, and Browne and a few others begin to advocate for large-scale reparations, with the funds earmarked for social programs that might help end the systems of racism and inequality.  

It could be easy to dismiss this family's journey as a limited example, relevant only to them and other direct descendents of slave-owners. But such a dismissal would avoid the important point that Browne's film makes: morality cannot be complacent. We all have beliefs--we're against the wars in the Middle East, we fear for the environment, we're outraged by the myriad inequalities in our society, for example--but are we doing enough? If we rationalize away our inactivity, our morals will crumble and fail. At a certain point, we have to examine at our excuses and simply say, "That's bullshit." It's time to do something.