Folks, if we’re going to do this thing, we’re going to do it right. Here are a few ground rules on how Guelph Movie Club is going to work:
Rule 1: There is a Guelph Movie Club--talk about it.
You'll need a ticket. Right now, there are no advanced tickets for the show. So, if you want one, you’ll need to get down to the Bookshelf the evening of movie club. Tickets will go on sale at 7:00. It’s a first come, first served kind of thing. However, a Dinner and a Movie reservation will guarantee you a ticket. It’s a great way to enjoy some delicious grub before a great movie, but spots are limited. Call 519-821-3311 (x155) to make a reservation.
Rule 2: You will be picking the movies.
On movie nights, we’ll give out nomination slips, and anyone who is attending the movie can nominate films for the Guelph Movie Club screening two months from then. We’ll use those nominations to create a short list of films which will be posted online for voting. (Just follow the Bookshelf on Facebook or Twitter for notification of when the list is posted, or become part of the Guelph Movie Club email list by emailing peter[at]bookshelf[dot]ca.) The name of the movie that wins the online poll will be announced at the prior GMC screening.
Rule 3: Other Stuff
We’re still looking for ways to make the experience bigger and better, so stay tuned in the coming months. Your suggestions for things like trivia, contests, and so on are most welcome.
That’s it for now. These rules may change as we go along, but we’ll be sure to keep you posted. Oh, and remember Rule 1: There is a Movie Club, talk about it. You can follow us on Twitter at #guelphmovieclub.
"Sex, fighting, killer whales and parental neglect," reads the New York Times's oddly specific content warning for Rust and Bone (De rouille et d'os en Français). Maybe we can add dog breeding, expired yogourt, illegal supermarket surveillance, and outer-thigh tattoos to the list and come close to a survey of the film.
Taking here and there from Craig Davidson's 2005 short story collection of the same name (primarily from the stories "Rust and Bone" and "Rocket Ride"), Jacques Audiard's follow-up to A Prophet certainly has a busy feel to it. The best short story usually has enough soul and fodder to support a feature-length film (Have we had the novel vs. short story adaptation conversation yet?) and it's rare that an entire, unconnected collection gets translated. Robert Altman's Short Cuts, based on the stories of Raymond Carver, was great, and Jesus' Son gets pretty close to the gobsmacked terseness and drugged-out attention span of Denis Johnson's collection (seriously one of the best collections, if you ask me).
When I call Rust and Bone busy, I don't mean to suggest that it lacks focus. Its many interests (as somewhat represented by the Times's warning) are the organic diversions of life. Story arcs are often represented by a steeply rising graph of action that plummets into denouement. An EKG reading of the peaks and valleys of an abnormal heart's beating might best map the structure of this movie.
The story is sort of this: Impoverished, Ali (Matthias Schoenaerts) and his five-year-old son leave Belgium and the boy's mother for undisclosed reasons (the leaving out of the impetus strikes me as a real short-story move) for coastal Antibes. Having had some experience Thai boxing, Ali lands a job working security in a dance club. One night he breaks up a fight, out of which he pulls a fairly battered Stephanie (Marion Cotillard). Their paths cross, then diverge. Stephanie is an orca trainer at Marineland (get ready for those warned-of killer whales), and in a performance accident she gets her legs gobbled. Beyond Ali and Stephanie meeting again, I don't want to gab about too much more. There's swimming and competitive bare-knuckle street fighting and ice skating without skates.
On the topic of grisly back-alley fisticuffs, Stephanie asks Ali, "You aren't afraid?" "Of what?" Ali asks, as though the idea of being pummeled being a bad thing never entered his mind. In Davidson's story, "rust and bone" describes the taste of getting socked in the puss. The idea of life coming at you with its fists up is a simple one, but just because an idea is simple doesn't mean it's easy. Watching Rust and Bone, you might taste a bit of rust and bone in your own mouth, or at least the metallic, chalky memory of whatever literal or figurative fights you've been in. These are two important questions: "Aren't you afraid?" and "Of what?" To live a life without fear is all well and good, but maybe only if you know what you're not afraid of. "Of what?" is a triumphant question as much as it can be a naive one.
With its focus on the human as body, as flesh, and the ways in which the flesh and body can be equally mangled and loved, Audiard's film reminds me of a brooding, violent version of Almodóvar. Coincidentally, Rust and Bone and The Intouchables(I think it might have been on the cinema schedule a few months back or something...) were contenders for France's Best Foreign Film submission to the Oscars. The themes of both are very similar, but the deliveries couldn't be more different. I've had a lot of Bookshelfers coming out of The Intouchables lauding it for how inspirational and uplifting it is. I'd love to think that those same people who've been back to see The Intouchables three or four times will find Rust and Bone uplifting, but I don't know.... Both films focus on confinement, by whatever circumstances, but in Rust and Bone you actually feel hampered, hemmed, and at times claustrophobic. The shots themselves are tight, the frame feels like a cage that's too small, the characters just barely fit into their environment. Framing aside, look out for how many examples of literal confinement and enthrallment appear in the film. Rust and Bone isn't as light and free as The Intouchables, but I'd argue that the journey of perceiving one's cage, never mind overcoming it, is all the more powerful, and I think you'll be able to offer a more articulate, visceral answer to that question, "You aren't afraid?"
And, if the film does nothing else, it should at least leave you with a new-found appreciation for that insipid, ubiquitous song, Firework:
What’s your favourite movie? What movie would make you drop everything if you had the chance to see it again (or for the first time) in a theatre? If you’re a movie lover, that can be a loaded question. Some of us can answer instantly, without equivocation or hesitation. Some of us need to refer to a detailed list of favourites with footnotes, caveats, and codicils.
I fall into the second camp. There are dozens (hundreds?) of movies I’d love to see in theatre. I’m a sucker for seeing a great movie on the big screen – especially if I can see it with people who also love great movies. But, unless you stumble across a showing or you want to see your favourite movie shoehorned into 3D or edited beyond recognition, you’re normally out of luck.
Cue the Guelph Movie Club (or #guelphmovieclub, if you’re on Twitter). Each month, we’ll pick a favourite and bring it to the Bookshelf Cinema for one night only. It’s a chance to see the movies we all love back on the big screen. And if you really love movies, there’s no substitute for seeing them in the dark on the big screen while munching on popcorn and separating your sneakers from soda-soaked floors. It’s the way movies were meant to be watched. There’s something special about it you can’t get from your flat screen.
This month, the Guelph Movie Club selection is Ghostbusters. That’s right. We’re spending the evening with Doctor Venkman and his associates as they protect New York City from ghouls, ghosts, and a giant marshmallow. So join us, won’t you? The inaugural Guelph Movie Club kicks off Thursday, January 31 at 9:00 and runs until we’ve run out of movie stuff to talk about.
We hope this will become a monthly event where folks come out not only to watch a movie, but to join like-minded movie nerds afterwards for a drink to talk more about the movies we love. Get to the cinema early, bring your friends, and get your popcorn ready. It’s going to be great.
In coming months, we’ll be looking for your suggestions. We want to know what movies you want to see. We really do. For more information, see The Rules of Movie Club.
This film has had too many awards to
mention, but the latest is an Oscar nomination for Best Documentary. Don’t miss
it! I spoke to a couple of men last night after the show and they both said
that they had to fight back tears. I wondered myself while watching what the
huge emotion was that I was feeling. It is the story of a musician from Detroit
by the name of Rodriguez who made a couple of albums in the 70s which went
absolutely nowhere in the U.S. but who became a hero for a whole generation of
South African youth. Many South Africans interviewed claimed that he was more
popular than Elvis but that no one knew anything about him. It had been rumoured
that he had died by setting himself on fire at a concert. Two intrepid South
African fans decided to investigate the trajectory of their hero. It is a
beautiful bittersweet story, and the collage of his life is a wonder to watch. But the music– well, the best way I can
describe it, and it doesn’t do it justice, is a combination of James Taylor and
Bob Dylan. His playing and singing is so
grounded and his lyrics so thoughtful that you give yourself up to some
indefinable feeling. Of course, what he did with the money when he toured South
Africa only adds to your admiration and longing that there be more characters
in the world like Rodriguez! The sound track is available in the bookstore.
You weren't allowed to see FDR in a wheelchair. The reason being, ostensibly, that a figure of such power--the bridge between that The Great Depression thing the States had and the Second War to End All Wars--couldn't be shown as weak, or hobbled, or anything less than infrangible. (Maybe this is what Paul Ryan was aiming for in this befuddling photo shoot?) Since that long-term reign (FDR was the only Prez to occupy the position for more than two terms), the culture has thrown off those rose-coloured kid gloves like so much hockey fight. All that stuff with Nixon didn't usher in a new phase of our relationship with our leaders so much as it hoofed the door down. Fifty years ago it would have been unthinkable that a movie like Fahrenheit 9/11would be released like it was while what's his name...that goofy cowboy with the big ears and bomber jacket...while he was still in power. But as bad as Michael Moore's indictment of Goofus 2's presidency was, it somehow paled in comparison, to me at least, to Oliver Stone's dramatization of the good ole boy (played by former Goonie, Josh Brolin) nearly choking to death on a pretzel. Obama did a lot to return reverence to the office, but really, that depends on whether you're talking to a donkey or an elephant.
For us Canadians, I think this portrait articulates best our national reverence for our current cold-eyed head.
But it's not just our perception of our leaders that's changed. There's been an important shift in how they want us to see them. They appear tie-less now, with sleeves rolled up as though they're ready to solve some brown crime in any one of our national bathrooms; they appear with backwards hats and earbuds, feeling the burn in a suspiciously empty, ill-stocked weight room. They're just one of us. If you want to blame anybody for the trip our leaders have taken from the ivory tower to the town fount, you can blame Kennedy for not wearing a hat.
Which brings us, I guess, to Bill Murray--or, as he's known to some, "Bill-Groundhog-Day-Ghostbustin'-Ass-Murray." In Roger Michell's Hyde Park on Hudson, not only is FDR seen in his wheelchair (sorry, he doesn't Murderball), but we get a peek into his boudoir. Here's the scandal: following FDR's death, a cache of letters was discovered amongst his stamp collection. These elevated mash notes were penned by Margaret Suckley, a distant cousin of FDR's who is played in the movie by Laura Linney. Without being really read, the letters were returned to Suckley. The tryst (as far as I can find) was mostly mumbled about after Suckley's death in 1991. In Hyde Park on Hudson, we finally have a clearly-spoken story.
In the film, which explores FDR's relationship with the monarchy as much as it does the one with his distant cousin, the attendant media is depicted as being nothing less than respectful of the President's embargo on chair shots. There's not a chance that such respect would be shown today, that the media would participate so reliably in the preservation of an image. But that doesn't mean there aren't attempts. I don't know if you know this, but the Monarchy effected a strong grip on media coverage of the recent Royal Wedding. Images from the ceremony were only permitted to be used in a flattering, supplementary manner. Not an iota of cynicism was permitted, which led John Stewart and The Daily Show to produce an animation of the ceremony featuring Gollum, Paddington Bear, and Adolf Hitler. I can't seem to find footage online, and maybe this is for the best.
P.S. Speaking of the Ghostbustin'-Ass Murray, did you notice that we're playing Ghost Busters at the end of the month?
While most movie fans and pundits are wrangling with the
predictability and shortcomings of many of yesterday's Oscar nominations, I
decided to walk away from the furor--if only for a day or two, to let the
celluloid, er, digital dust settle--and return to Matt Shapiro's annual
compilation, an excellent adventure of the last year in movies. My co-worker Stephanie (bookseller and toe-tapping in-house CD and vinyl buyer) turned me
on to this six minutes of fun.
Check it out!
And for local moviegoers, there's a prize...be the first person to
come to the Bookshelf Cinema box office during cinema business hours and tell
us who is the actor pictured in the final frame of Matt's collage. - Peter
The story's over five years old, but lately the social/cultural ruse perpetrated by renowned violinist Joshua Bell and the Washington Post in 2007 has been making the meme rounds. Here's the story. But here's the gist: after being paid heaps of money to saw out some classics for the stuffed shirts of the cultural elite, this Josh guys dons some dirty dugs, and sets up in the subway with his open violin case to play for the great unwashed. After playing the same or similar material from the fancy night before, he's accrued barely enough to take a family of three out to see a 3D movie.
Which reminds me of a story I heard about Toronto's living and breathing Kilgore Trout, Crad Kilodney. Feeling raw about rejections from higher-brow mags, Crad began to retype and submit lesser-known short fictions by the likes of Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Faulkner. All these stories were rejected by the best journals.
Here's the raised questions: To what extent are talent, quality, and the like inherent? How much do we rely on context when making judgements about these things? Pepsi® or Coke®? What do you mean you haven't seen The Wire?
The stones that Sixto Rodriguez threw at culture in the early 70s made little-to-no splash. Apparently his second album sold only six copies. The aptest description of his voice I've come across calls it a mix of Bob Dylan and Nick Drake. The character-driven streetwiseness of the songwriting comes close to Lou Reed. Some of the tracks on Cold Fact and Coming from Reality hit such a sweet spot that you both feelas though you've heard them before and can't believe that you never have. So why didn't this guy take off? How did everybody miss him?
There are more questions on the other side of this story, questions that come after Rodriguez's two albums landed in South Africa like so much cane toad. What is it about those songs, that voice, that perspective that fit so snugly into the political tumult of that apartheid-riven culture? What elusive chord did Rodriguez manage to strike over there that he missed here? As compelling a documentary as Searching for Sugar Man is, it can't answer this question. Chock it up to striking that secret chord everyone's been talking about.
Grouped with those stories of Bell and Kilodney, Rodriguez's story is an uncanny but apposite argument for inherent quality in art. But quality is like a tree falling outside earshot, unfortunately. All the questions these scenarios raise are, really, silly and otiose, and are maybe better addressed by Dr. John. What's certain and pertinent, though, is that Searching for Sugar Man makes for a great wood to gather in and hear Rodriguez fall.
