Documentaries

We’re enormous fans of documentary film here at Toronto Screen Shots. In fact, this very blog grew out of the many reviews we were writing for the annual Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Festival. Our coverage now extends well beyond Hot Docs to include documentaries in other festivals, on DVD, on television and even films in development.

No Subtitles Necessary: Laszlo & Vilmos

No Subtitles Necessary: Laszlo & Vilmos (Director: James Chressanthis): Only appearing on DVD now, this 2008 doc­u­mentary explores the work of and friend­ship between two giants of cine­ma­to­graphy. Laszlo Kovacs and Vilmos Zsigmond first met as stu­dents at film school in Budapest in the 1950s. Soon, they were caught up in the events of 1956, when Hungarians briefly revolted against their Communist gov­ern­ment. As Soviet tanks rolled in to crush the rebel­lion, the two men took to the streets with their cam­eras to doc­u­ment events. When things calmed down, they knew they had to escape from Hungary, and their recol­lec­tions of heading for the Austrian border with their film are har­rowing, even though we know they made it.

Upon their even­tual arrival in America, they headed for Hollywood expecting to join the ASC (the cine­ma­to­graphers’ union) easily. When they were turned away and told cheekily to “come back when you can speak English,” they were undaunted. They quickly found work on all kinds of low-budget inde­pendent films, including those of Roger Corman. So when Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper decided to make Easy Rider (1969), they hired Laszlo based on his pre­vious work (including Peter Bogdanovich’s debut film Targets), and on his cheap (non-union) wages. The film’s suc­cess lifted all its cre­ators, including Kovacs, out of obscurity, and he soon found work on other films of the bur­geoning New Hollywood move­ment of the early 70s. When Peter Fonda wanted him for his next film, The Hired Hand (1971), he was already working on Paul Mazursky’s film Alex in Wonderland (1970), so he recom­mended his friend Vilmos Zsigmond (“call him Ziggy,” he told Fonda.) It was only after Fonda hired him that Vilmos con­fessed he’d never shot a colour film out­doors before.

It didn’t matter. Both men quickly developed a sig­na­ture style working with the expressive light of the American land­scape, and many of the great 70s films were shot by one of the two. Here’s just a par­tial list:

Laszlo Kovacs

  • Five Easy Pieces (1970)
  • The Last Movie (1971)
  • The King of Marvin Gardins (1972)
  • Paper Moon (1973)
  • Shampoo (1975)
  • New York, New York (1977)

Vilmos Szigmond

  • McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)
  • Deliverance (1972)
  • The Long Goodbye (1973)
  • Scarecrow (1973)
  • Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)
  • The Deer Hunter (1978)
  • Heaven’s Gate (1980)

And this was only work they did in one decade! Remarkably, only Close Encounters of the Third Kind was recog­nized with an Oscar, for Zsigmond. It’s fit­ting that the film spends a lot of time on his exper­i­ence on this film, since it was a tre­mendous lighting chal­lenge, and he was allegedly fired five sep­arate times. He says the only reason he fin­ished the film was that no other cine­ma­to­grapher wanted to step in, such was the dif­fi­culty of get­ting the lighting just right.

As films retreated from the innov­a­tions of the 1970s, both Zsigmond and Kovacs con­tinued to get steady work, but as the paucity of clips from their later work indic­ates, never would they work in such innov­ative and cre­ative ways again. Kovacs died in 2007, and the film ends shortly afterward.

Though I enjoyed this documentary’s gen­erous selec­tion of clips, I found the inter­views with both the men them­selves and their admirers a bit lacking. We get very little insight into their ideas about working with images and light, or how they worked with dif­ferent dir­ectors. And as with many talking head films, it’s the inter­views that aren’t included that leave us wanting more. Because Close Encounters of the Third Kind was such a sig­ni­ficant achieve­ment for Zsigmond, it’s dis­ap­pointing that the film­makers couldn’t get an inter­view with Steven Spielberg. And though there is a very short inter­view with Haskell Wexler, surely there could have been more dis­cus­sion of the mutual influ­ence between the two Hungarians and other pion­eering cine­ma­to­graphers of the time, like Wexler and Néstor Almendros.

Another mad­dening thread is the teasing dis­cus­sion of the mar­riages and family life of the two friends. Kovacs actu­ally returned to Hungary shortly after their escape to rescue their girl­friends, whom they mar­ried imme­di­ately after­ward. But these women are never men­tioned again. Brief inter­views with their cur­rent American wives aren’t enlight­ening on this front. Then there is the matter of Kovacs’ “secret” daughter, with whom he recon­ciles, but we never really hear the details of where she came from. If any­thing, these sec­tions could have been edited out if they weren’t going to con­tribute to our under­standing of the two subjects.

As an appre­ci­ation of the work of two master cine­ma­to­graphers, the clips speak for them­selves, but I wanted more from this doc­u­mentary. As it stands, it does a good job of making the viewer want to seek out some of their lesser-known work, but it doesn’t shed much light on what made these two so spe­cial, or on the obvious and unshake­able bond between them.

Official site of the film

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Backyard

by James McNally on January 31, 2012

in Documentaries,DVD

Backyard

Backyard (Director: Árni Sveinsson): While it’s true that I’ve long been a fan of Icelandic cinema, I have been a fan of Icelandic music for even longer. In the late 1980s, a band called The Sugarcubes and their elfin singer Björk intro­duced me to the unique sounds of this tiny country, and since then, I’ve come to love dozens of bands from Iceland. Someone in another recent doc­u­mentary about Iceland’s seem­ingly bound­less cre­ativity said that the fear of failure is almost nonex­istent, so people take risks. They also help each other out, which is exactly how Backyard came to be.

Each August the city of Reykjavik cel­eb­rates Menningarnótt (Reykjavik Culture Night), a daylong cel­eb­ra­tion of the cre­ative spirit of its cit­izens. There are all kinds of offi­cial and unof­fi­cial events, and in 2009, Árni Rúnar Hlöðversson (of FM Belfast) decided to hold a con­cert in his back­yard and invite his friends to play. He wanted to record the audio, but he also invited his friend Árni Sveinsson to shoot video. None of the bands (or even the two Árnis) thought they were making a “real” movie, so the whole thing is incred­ibly loose. Based on my own exper­i­ences in Iceland, most things organ­ized are “incred­ibly loose.” Icelanders like to fly by the seat of their pants, to be honest, but it gives the film a real energy, too.

Though we get the back­ground around the plan­ning (which seems to happen in a matter of days), the majority of the film’s brisk 73-minute run­ning time is given over to the per­form­ances, and what a treat. The lineup is incred­ibly diverse, from the lo-fi styl­ings of Borko and Sin Fang Bous to the raucous assault of Reykjavik! to the feel-good party sounds of Retro Stefson and FM Belfast (whose finale “Underwear” is guar­an­teed have you boun­cing around your living room grin­ning like an idiot). And though the musical styles change, it’s great to see how many bands actu­ally share mem­bers. In a small place like Iceland, this might be a neces­sity but it also allows for some very inter­esting musical cross-pollination. It’s fit­ting that the film ends with many of the musi­cians soaking together in one of Reykjavik’s thermal swim­ming pools.

Some of these bands (múm, Hjaltalín) were known to me, but most were new dis­cov­eries, and luckily the DVD package (buy it here!) comes with an audio CD of the songs as well. It’s been on con­stant rota­tion over the past few months for me, rein­for­cing my sin­cere belief that Iceland is pound-for-pound the most cre­ative place on the planet.

Official site of the film

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The Last Gladiators

The Last Gladiators (Director: Alex Gibney): Filmmaker Alex Gibney is clearly a very busy man. The Last Gladiators, in which he exam­ines the world of National Hockey League pugil­ists, focus­sing in on the story of former Montreal Canadiens enforcer Chris “Knuckles” Nilan, is his tenth fea­ture film since 2005, an unusu­ally pro­lific output for a doc­u­ment­arian. And you can add in a couple of shorter seg­ments he con­trib­uted to some other col­lab­or­ative doc­u­mentary pro­jects during that period. Gibney has a track record for matching the quantity with quality, as his latest film proves, even if it’s a depar­ture from the kind of politically-charged topics he’s best known for, such as the down­fall of politi­cians (Client 9: The Rise and Fall of Eliot Spitzer and Casino Jack and the United States of Money), cor­porate mal­feas­ance (Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room), and American mil­itary tor­ture (Taxi to the Dark Side, which won an Oscar in 2008 for best doc­u­mentary fea­ture). But as a lifelong hockey fan, Gibney, an American, saw rich source material in examining the sub­cul­ture of one of the most con­tro­ver­sial aspect of Canada’s game, with Nilan’s own intriguing story providing about 75% of the film’s content.

Retiring in 1992 after being plagued by injuries (he’s under­gone 26 sur­geries), Nilan’s most not­able achieve­ments from his 13 year NHL career are more than 3,000 pen­alty minutes, a Stanley Cup win with the Canadiens in 1986, and a selec­tion to Team USA for the 1987 Canada Cup series. After being drafted by Montreal, he played nine sea­sons for them before being traded to the New York Rangers and even­tu­ally his hometown Boston Bruins, before ending his career back with Montreal. Nilan’s pride and love for the Canadiens still runs deep and it seems as if he never got over the dev­ast­a­tion of being traded away from them. His troubled post-NHL his­tory, which proves to be the most sub­stantive part of the film, could make Nilan the poster child for pro ath­letes who struggle with their post-playing lives. A toxic com­bin­a­tion of sub­stance abuse (alcohol, pre­scrip­tion paink­illers, and heroin), employ­ment prob­lems (Nilan hated the insur­ance job he worked at), and legal troubles (including a 2009 arrest for shoplifting) des­troyed his rela­tion­ship with his wife and child and nearly killed him. Nilan, who has a very dark and intense side, may be a rough-around-the-edges char­acter, but he’s still a like­able one. Part of his appeal is his blunt hon­esty, open­ness, and a will­ing­ness to take full respons­ib­ility for his fail­ings. Interviews with his father who, like his son, pro­jects a hard-ass demeanour and speaks with that always-fascinating thick Boston accent, add real emo­tional depth to the film, as the senior Nilan holds little back in con­veying the pro­found heartache and shame he felt (and still feels) over his son’s struggles.

The non-Nilan por­tions of the film find Gibney tra­cing the evol­u­tion of the enforcer’s role in the game from its mid-70s heyday with the Philadelphia Flyers’ “Broad Street Bullies” through to its greatly dimin­ished need in the cur­rent game. Numerous inter­views with the most prom­inent fighters over the past couple of dec­ades provide insight into the enforcer mindset, with players like Marty McSorley, Tony Twist, Donald Brashear, and the late Bob Probert weighing in (Probert’s inter­views, con­ducted shortly before his death, are sad to watch). The scenes with Brashear are sad for a dif­ferent reason, as we see the former fan favourite playing in D-list hockey league games and still itching to drop his gloves.

The Last Gladiators is a timely piece in light of the recent deaths of three NHL enfor­cers that called into ques­tion the pos­sible link between their occu­pa­tions and its neg­ative residual effects on their lives. Nilan, who I heard give an inter­view on Toronto’s Prime Time Sports radio show the week before The Last Gladiators’ TIFF premiere, dis­counted the con­nec­tion. Nilan’s stance appar­ently escaped the atten­tion of TV’s Hockey Night in Canada neander­thal Don Cherry, who cri­ti­cized him and two other former fighters (also without basis) on the tele­cast for sup­porting the sup­posed theory.

Gibney, who began filming a gen­eral por­trait of hockey fighters, chose wisely in deciding to make Nilan the central sub­ject. The Last Gladiators is con­sist­ently grip­ping and only mis­fires when the dir­ector chooses some dis­ap­point­ingly obvious music on the soundtrack (Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild”) or engages in unne­ces­sary scene re-enactments to advance his nar­rative, drag­ging the doc­u­mentary into cheesy E! True Hollywood Story ter­ritory. Being a hockey fan isn’t even a neces­sary com­ponent in appre­ci­ating the film, as I haven’t given a toss about the NHL since the inept Toronto Maple Leafs killed my love for the game in the mid-90s.

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Tabloid

by James McNally on October 31, 2011 · 2 comments

in Documentaries,DVD

Tabloid
eOne released Tabloid on DVD in Canada on November 1, 2011. Help sup­port Toronto Screen Shots by buying it on Amazon.ca.

Tabloid (Director: Errol Morris): Joyce McKinney first came to the atten­tion of dir­ector Errol Morris back in 2008 when she paid a huge sum to a Korean lab to have her beloved dog Booger, recently deceased, cloned. As inter­esting as that story was, it was nothing com­pared to Ms. McKinney’s earlier exploits. Back in the late 1970s, she’d been a tabloid sen­sa­tion in the UK due to her involve­ment in a bizarre kid­nap­ping plot involving a Mormon mis­sionary. Ex-beauty queen McKinney claimed that her boy­friend Kirk Anderson had been brain­washed by Mormons and taken to England against his will, and that she was simply set­ting out to rescue him. But the rescue involved a fake gun, chlo­ro­form, and Anderson’s con­fine­ment (involving either ropes or chains, depending on the source) in a rural cot­tage where he was raped over a period of sev­eral days. McKinney’s ver­sion reads much more romantic­ally. She took Kirk to a “hon­ey­moon cot­tage” where they cooked meals and made love. She wanted to take him to a “quiet” place where she could essen­tially depro­gram him from what she con­sidered the cult-like indoc­trin­a­tion that was keeping them apart. She was even­tu­ally arrested and charged, and as the story emerges, the British papers had a field day. After three months in cus­tody, she was granted bail along with her accom­plice Keith “KJ” May, and they promptly fled the country, dis­guised as deaf-mutes. To hear her describe it today, it all sounds like a lark, rather than crim­inal behaviour.

Once back in the US, she con­tacted one of the tabloids, the Daily Express, to sell her story. Meanwhile, its com­pet­itor, the Mirror, was attempting to dig up some dirt on the woman loudly pro­claiming her inno­cence. And boy did they suc­ceed. I won’t spoil any more of the film’s many enter­taining sur­prises, but I promise you that you’ll be riv­eted. And that’s surely Morris’ intent, but I believe he’s also very con­sciously implic­ating all of us in a con­tinuing tabloid story. Why do we love these kind of lurid tales, and what makes us so happy to see someone pour out details of their life that any rational person would keep private? It’s inter­esting to note that although Joyce McKinney par­ti­cip­ated readily in the film’s pro­duc­tion, she’s since dis­avowed it, going so far as to turn up at some of the film’s fest­ival screen­ings to dis­pute cer­tain aspects of her portrayal.

And that’s where the film makes me a bit uncom­fort­able. McKinney is charming and a born storyteller, per­fectly happy to explain her side of the story, and sounding reas­on­able most of the time. But as I con­tinued to watch, it became more and more clear that she’s almost cer­tainly men­tally ill. Her obses­sion with the romantic fantasy of Kirk being “the one” for her has con­demned her to a lonely life where this bizarre tale is her only nar­rative. She has the like­ab­ility of most pro­fes­sional liars, and when parts of her story don’t add up, she simply throws another curve­ball to dis­tract us. At one point, refer­ring to Kirk’s sup­posed brain­washing, she says, “you can tell a lie often enough that you believe it.” It’s all ter­ribly sad, and I wonder if Morris should have simply let this story, great as it is, go past him.

On the other hand, it’s a chance to have a dis­cus­sion about these kinds of issues. Are films and stories like this exploit­ative, or are they simply a part of human exper­i­ence? I’m sure Joyce McKinney, no matter what she claims after the fact, was delighted to be able to tell her unfor­get­table story to a whole new audi­ence, and sad as it may be to give any more atten­tion to some­thing that happened so long ago, she seems to relish the oppor­tunity to revisit it. It’s both unfor­tu­nate and com­pletely under­stand­able that the Prince Charming in her romantic fable, Kirk Anderson, has refused all requests for inter­views over the years. He’s busy living a reg­ular guy’s life.

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From the Sky Down

From the Sky Down (Director: Davis Guggenheim): When asked to choose the best two albums in U2’s cata­logue, most fans and music critics will pick 1987’s The Joshua Tree and 1991’s Achtung Baby. That the band’s strongest work is on albums that sound so rad­ic­ally dif­ferent from one another is, even two dec­ades later, fairly astounding, and points emphat­ic­ally to the group’s renowned dis­dain for cre­ative passivity. As frontman Bono has fam­ously said, Achtung Baby was “the sound of four men cut­ting down The Joshua Tree”, as U2 struggled to cope with super­stardom and needed to “go away and dream it all up again.” That hard-fought musical and per­sonal journey for the band forms the found­a­tion of From the Sky Down, dir­ected by Davis Guggenheim (best known for An Inconvenient Truth and Waiting for Superman). Guggenheim, who had pre­vi­ously dir­ected U2 gui­tarist The Edge in his under­seen 2008 film It Might Get Loud, was approached by the band to put together some sort of visual doc­u­ment to tie in with the upcoming 20th anniversary reissue of Achtung Baby.

From the Sky Down takes a sur­pris­ingly brief glimpse at the band’s overall his­tory and I was also some­what taken aback by the com­plete absence of any men­tion of what they might have up their sleeve for the future. No, the focus here is almost entirely on the late 80s-early 90s era of the group, a refreshing approach from a rock doc­u­mentary format that tra­di­tion­ally only offers a quickly moving bio­graph­ical sum­mary, with little allow­ance for a truly in-depth exam­in­a­tion of par­tic­ular periods or albums. Perhaps the band was inspired by The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town, another high pro­file doc that decon­structed the making of a classic album from their friend and peer, Bruce Springsteen. From the Sky Down fea­tures extensive one-on-one inter­views with each member of the band (they’re rounded out by drummer Larry Mullen Jr. and bassist Adam Clayton) that provide a com­pre­hensive revis­iting of a period that began just after the band’s explo­sion in pop­ularity with the release of The Joshua Tree, through to the begin­ning of their land­mark Zoo TV Tour in 1992. Not sur­pris­ingly, the inter­views with the sharp-witted Bono are the most rev­el­atory and enter­taining. Special atten­tion is paid to 1988’s Rattle and Hum, the much-derided and mis­un­der­stood doc­u­mentary (with a com­panion album) that chron­icled U2’s bur­geoning interest in American roots music. Personally, I’m a huge fan of the film, but the band admits their mes­sage was mis­in­ter­preted and only rein­forced many people’s opinion of the Irish quartet as self-important and insuf­fer­able per­son­al­ities. Guggenheim makes good use of some pre­vi­ously unseen Rattle and Hum out­takes, including one that shows an irate Bono rip­ping on some incom­petent stage workers.

Achtung Baby’s dif­fi­cult recording ses­sions form the heart of the film, with addi­tional per­spective provided by the album’s pro­du­cers (Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno), engineer (Flood), and long­time pho­to­grapher (Anton Corbijn). Guggenheim recon­venes the group at Berlin’s Hansa Studios, where recording began, but where little res­ults were pro­duced due to cre­ative fric­tion and road­b­locks. Bono and The Edge wanted to take U2’s sound in a more elec­tronic, exper­i­mental dir­ec­tion, with which Mullen Jr. and Clayton couldn’t come to terms. The occa­sional anim­a­tion sequences that Guggenheim employs (accom­panied by band member voi­ceovers taken from their inter­views) are used to best effect here, with one sequence showing meta­phor­ical walls being erected between the four band­mates. The visual takes on even more sym­bolic meaning, con­sid­ering they were in the city during the fall of the Berlin Wall. The band digs out and reflects on old demos, and talks about their song­writing pro­cess, which fre­quently fea­tures Bono using gib­berish (dubbed “Bongolese”) in place of unwritten lyrics. Two songs get the most atten­tion: “Mysterious Ways” and “One.” The former, ori­gin­ally titled “Sick Puppy,” helped the band turn a corner from their cre­ative dif­fi­culties and even­tu­ally led to the cre­ation of “One,” which sprang from an idea used in the ori­ginal bridge in “Mysterious Ways.” The two tracks were the only ones from the album that were com­pleted in Berlin, with the rest fin­ished back home in Dublin.

Guggenheim’s decision to bookend the film with scenes from the group’s much-hyped appear­ance at this past summer’s Glastonbury Festival is only mod­er­ately effective, but he cap­tures some great footage of the band rehearsing various Achtung Baby songs in pre­par­a­tion for the big gig (one of the filming loc­a­tions is Winnipeg’s Burton Cummings Theatre, during a tour stop in the city this past spring). The standouts include a rough run-through of “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses,” which really jumped out of the speakers of the Ryerson Theatre’s sound system, and a rare solo vocal per­form­ance from The Edge of the album’s haunting closing song, “Love Is Blindness.” U2 has always been a band that has been quite pro­tective of their cre­ative pro­cess, and judging by the loose­ness and candour demon­strated by the band as we see them revisit old songs and exper­i­ment with arrange­ments (we see Bono yelling out upcoming chord changes to the rest of the group), it’s clear that Guggenheim was able to cul­tivate an intimate level of trust with his subjects.

Shot over the course of six months earlier this year and com­pleted just a week before its world premiere last month at TIFF, Guggenheim’s doc­u­mentary digs deep down into the inner work­ings of a band at a pivotal and tumul­tuous phase in their career. My only com­plaint about From the Sky Down would be that the dir­ector doesn’t quite dig deep enough when it comes to looking at the whole of Achtung Baby, an album that Bono says in the film “is the reason we’re still here now.” An inor­dinate amount of atten­tion is paid to the cre­ation of “Mysterious Ways” and “One” (which are important songs, to be sure), while other not­able tracks such as “The Fly,” “Even Better Than the Real Thing,” “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses,” and “Until the End of the World” are included only as per­form­ances or over the soundtrack, with little or no detail or insight into their ori­gins. One of the album’s best songs, “Ultraviolet (Light My Way),” isn’t men­tioned at all, nor can I recall even hearing a snippet of it in the film. Despite this rel­at­ively minor neg­ative, From the Sky Down is loaded with pos­it­ives that make it essen­tial viewing for any U2 fan.

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