Movie Review: "Gegen Die Wand/Head-On"

"Gegen Die Wand/Head-On (US title)"

Written and Directed by Fatih Akin

With: Sibel Kekilli and Birol Ünel

I have tremendous respect for German director Fatih Akin. From a substantial standpoint, I believe he does what most of the best filmmakers do. He doesn't moralize. He doesn't instruct his audience, demanding judgment or teasing feelings forth one way or another. If there is any manipulation, it is very subtle.

So, I was blown away by "The Edge of Heaven" and was informed that "Head-On" is even better. I agree. Both films are similar in style, formula, and theme, but what is particularly powerful about the film I'm reviewing here is, and here's what I don't bring up often: how it made me feel.

More on that.

Cahit and Sibel are two different people with only one two things in common: they are crazy, and they are Turks living in a German world. Now Cahit, who has lost his wife and has attempted suicide by driving his vehicle into a wall, is a very assimilated, very drugs (mostly alcohol) and rock & roll kind of guy. Sibel seems to come out of nowhere (with no expository info except for maybe allowing the viewer to infer that perhaps she's attempted suicide a few times) and demand that he marry her. He thinks this crazy, and doesn't so much verbalize it as shrug her off. He eventually takes her for a drink, where she again entreats him to marry her: "I cook, I clean, I like to fuck." And when she, in a cry for attention, tries to kill herself in front of him (in that very feminine, "I'll show you, I'll slit my wrists!" sort of way), and they later get kicked off a city bus (largely for being noisy, but more probably for being Turkish and announcing it), the courtship seems to end where it began.

But...

Eventually he agrees. The scene where he and his "uncle" meet her family is interesting in that Cahit is so obviously not comfortable. He is taking part in a charade in which he has ceded all power to Sibel. The funny part is that he can't even keep his lie straight, and his Turkish, as noted by Sibel's brother, is awful. Perhaps this is sabotage. Perhaps it's nerves because he believes that if he fails, the crazy bitch'll really kill herself. Whatever it is, I'm already with this guy. In for the long haul.

So they marry; Cahit is fucking a hairdresser/barfly who hooks Sibel up with a job, and Sibel, in her youthful ways, enjoys clubbing and fucking random guys she meets. Their lives are shared only by law and by the four walls they sleep within. The beauty is that there's this tension building between them. It's a definite arc. Of a natural kind of romantic tension. The kind where they are both reluctant to realize something more intimate. Even to the point where when they decide to finally consummate, she can't follow through. This creates a suppressed kind of longing in Cahit.

I identify with Cahit as he slowly, unbroodingly falls in love with Sibel. You're quiet, but you don't stare out of windows on rainy days, or make indie music mixtapes or profess feelings in quirky ways, no. This shit's for real. No "aww" moments here. He sits in his flat while she's out one night, shooting a bb gun, looking at their wedding photo. Probably wishing it all wasn't so fucking fake. Okay, maybe that's a tad quirky, and brooding, but not intentionally. If there's a particular reason for it, Akin doesn't bother to spell it out or accentuate it through repitition. It just exists. Fine. She's young, beautiful, and nurturing in a way that is welcome for any lonely man. That is, if you don't mind your shithole being redecorated to accommodate her aesthetic needs. I mean, after all, shithole is the operative term. As damaged as she is, who could not appreciate her?

One night, Cahit, plaintive and drunk (as if the two were disjunct), ends up killing one of Sibel's lovers. The guy is bad mouthing her. She's not around. He knocks him the fuck out. Guy doesn't wake up. Now, normally I'm of the opinion that violence is bullshit, but I felt very sad for Cahit. This wasn't some random expression of machismo, it was the act of a man in the throes of drunken passion.

As one would expect, it all goes down hill for the both of them. He goes to jail, Sibel's family in Germany are disgraced by her, so she flees to Turkey where she works in a hotel managed by her sister. She does drugs. Gets raped. Gets beat up in a dark alley of Istanbul. Shit's getting hopelessly depressing fast.

When Cahit manages his way out of the clink somehow, he endeavors to find his love. Her life has changed. She has a child, and presumably a new life. There's not a lot of focus on this, because now the film is about Cahit... as it really always has been. The most powerful scene to me is near the end where he finds Sibel's sister, who refuses to tell him of her whereabouts. For some reason, and I don't know if this was written into the script, or if the actors decided to throw in their own bit of improv, but they switch to ENGLISH. Up until that moment, it was all Turkish and German, and then out of nowhere, Cahit explains his feelings en breve and that was all it needed. So little said so much. English, so denounced in some linguistic circles as being simple and inexpressive, grabbed me by the throat. He. Fucking. Loves. Her.


So beautiful.

Of note: I have talked very little of the compositional make-up of the film. The cinematography is beautiful but understated. A lot of beauty comes from the settings. In particular, there's a continuous musical underpinning filmed in front of a seaside cityscape.

Cinema-rama: Stuart González

Hi, Stuart here.

Patrick asked me to pick five films off the top of my head that "speak to me." Well, it's an ambiguous enough request, right? Right. And while I don't share Patrick's thoughts and opinions on film I respect his right to hold them... but seriously, man, David O. Russell is not good. Did you even WATCH I *heart* Huckabees? Whatever. "There's glass between us." I think Jude Law should've choked that bitch then and there. Anything to end that nauseating, meaningless pseudo-intellectual claptrap, that suffocating morass of zen buddhist bullshit philosophy and existentialism (still perverted by intellectual midgets the world over) (¡¡¡¡¡¡!!!!!!)...

So here are five films that I think are cool:

The Lost Boys (1987)
Mac & Me (1988)
Flatliners (1990)
The Doom Generation (1995)
SLC Punk (1998)

I must confess that this list was carefully thought out. These are, in my estimation, the best films that came out between the end of the Falklands War and 9/11. Okay... fine. Between 1987 and 2001. Why? Because he didn't ask me about established classics or anything A.T.S.S (After The Sixth Sense) A.K.A. The worst movie ever.

So. I picked The Lost Boys because it was so obviously the inspiration for the brilliant and regrettably/predictably understated Twilight series. The books. They rule. Not the movies. Those are shit. Robert Pattinson isn't that pretty. And he hates Mexicans.

I picked Mac & Me because it is a nostalgic reminder of my early childhood. Except our family was a lot poorer and McDonald's always made me puke. A lot of 80's film critics dismissed it as a poor man's ET but that's bullshit. Mac & Me did what ET failed to do: highlight the Reagan era in a positive, go AMERICA (¡!), yay capitalism (¡!) light.

I picked Flatliners because come on (¡!) it's a veritable all-star affair. Pre-24 Kiefer Sutherland, Julia Roberts before she got old, Oliver Platt (underrated actor), Kevin Bacon (the guy's in everything!), and a young Hope Davis. Anyway, this movie rocks on concept alone. Sure, perhaps it's not "scientifically sound," but who importa? Huh? ¿Quién le importa? Nadie. So shut it. It's the movies and movies is magic, man!

I picked The Doom Generation for no other reason than it was the first time I ever saw Rose McGowan on screen. So what is it? Writer/Director Gregg Araki calls it a "heterosexual film," but I think of it more as a hedonist affair with sex between consenting adults. Essentially, the film is centered on an insular, loosely defined dystopian society where everything costs $6.66 and all convenience store proprietors rock sawed-offs. Between the nubile, sexy McGowan, her dumb-ass boyfriend, and a psychotic miscreant (who fucks them both): lots of booze is consumed, many cigarettes are smoked and many enemies are made.

The dialogue is ridiculously corny and sometimes funny (whereas the shit that spews from mouths in Tank Girl is not), but the bloodshed is regular, and sex scenes take up a good half hour of the picture's 82 minute runtime (for retards, that is 1 hr 22 minutes). So it's a Clinton era classic to be sure.

The cinematography is artful and raw both at once, and the set and costume design are a great compliment. The film would almost qualify as a noir if it weren't for the lack of a real plot.

Anyway, the bonus is that 90's "indie queen" Parker Posey shows up, and if you aren't paying attention, you miss it. She brandishes a sword in one of the greatest bar scenes that don't involve drunks ever.

I picked SLC Punk because I am a punk at heart. Sure, I don't dress like it... mainly because my dad made some comments about zoot suits when he saw me in uniform, but also because it's so expensive to look punk. It's a prevailing irony. You can't be a punk on a budget, you end up getting lumped with the grunge guys.

Anyway, SLC is one of those films that really makes me laugh. You could probably say that it takes itself too seriously and completely vaporizes all the "soft-targets" of the punk subculture, but you can also say that this movie also teaches us things about Utah that we could never possibly want to know. I bet the filmmakers holed themselves in this little room: "Yeah... NYC Punk is a little obvious, though, right? I mean, it is the birthplace of the movement (if you're not a European pansy)."

So yeah. Take all these stereotypes of the punk ethos, throw them somewhere miserable and ridiculous like Salt Lake City and "bombs away!"

Laughter ensues.

Makes for a great subversive movie experience.

So fuck off if you disagree.

Movie Review: "He Died With A Felafel in His Hand"

Written and Directed by Richard Lowenstein, based on the novel (of same title) by John Birmingham.

Starring: Noah Taylor, Emily Hamilton, Sophie Lee, and a bunch of other Australian unknowns.

This is a film that I'd often skipped over in my Netflix (instant view) perusals. I don't know if it was the title or the kitschy cover photo or what, but for some reason I couldn't will myself into clicking "play." After actually viewing the film, I cannot understand why. Because it's a good-- if somewhat standard-- piece of indie cinema.

The pieces are all there: desultory, quirky characters, youthful malaise, girls kissing (with implied lesbian sex), and of course, a guy dying with a felafel in his hand. The drawback to following or falling into a formula is that it gets predictable (obviously), and even verges on self-parody, but part of what saves this film is that it isn't American. Those cutesy, "hip," exhaustingly mundane portraits of people that require little of actors other than to embody a quirkiness unnatural in even the quirkiest of people are either not there, or are dulled/relegated to background noise.

Lowenstein achieves the latter here. Sophie Lee's portrayal of a fringe paganist/feminist beauty is really the only character that gets to the point of being grating. Less annoying/prevalent stock characters exist: a violent but loyal alpha male (who loves to buy hookers), a heroin addict who moon tans, creative stoners, an intelligent but sexually confused young woman, a closeted homosexual who picks the wrong time to "come out," a conspiracy theorist, an actress/drama queen, etc. etc.

But the film is focused on Noah Taylor's character, Richard. He's a writer. And he is the constant as he shifts from house to house, flatmates to flatmates, avoiding the inevitable: payment. He owes rent. He owes on damages. He owes on credit cards. The guy just fucking owes. Kind of hits home for me as I too, am drowning in debt.

However, Richard has a plan. He's written a story for Penthouse Magazine that is bound to get him 25 grand. So he moves about Australia with the idea that he is, in fact, a writer.

Taylor plays Richard quietly, detached. He's not incendiary or garrulous, funny or amiable. He just is. Deadpan and matter-of-fact. In some scenes he's in the background or foreground, strumming away at his guitar, quietly singing while other characters engage one another. In others he broods in front of a typewriter, a single phrase typed onto a "scroll" not dissimilar from the one Jack Kerouac used for On the Road.

Introspective is a good word for his performance. He's likeable and relatable. He carries the film along because he has to. He plays so distantly from even Emily Hamilton's character, the bookishly attractive would-be-love-interest who he refers to as his "best friend" in one scene. And despite this air of separation between all the characters, Lowenstein manages to make a watchable film of it. A film that has kept me talking about it for the last couple of days.