Recess remembers the days gone by
(04/15/04 4:00am)
The films you can't forget
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The films you can't forget
When you're being buried alive, the final nail in the coffin lid is a bad thing, relatively speaking. But maybe it's that first nail which really gets you thinking.
Charlie Kaufman does it again with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. What 'it' might be we're not really sure, but you saw it for the first time when John Cusack wriggled through a trapdoor and landed in John Malkovich's brain. After Being John Malkovich came Adaptation and Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, and with all three came the kind of publicity that today makes a Charlie Kaufman screenplay a brand-name seal of approval. A Kaufman is a Kaufman because anything can happen, and will happen, and when it does happen, it'll be exponentially more bizarre than your own (pitifully stunted) imagination can possibly comprehend.
On screen, in print, on the air and by word of mouth, the media and the public have been screaming controversy since Passion trailers first hit the web almost a year ago. Somewhere along the line, speculation about the film's content evolved almost unconsciously into a discussion about people's perceptions of the content; transforming anticipation into anxiety. How were people likely to react?
Oh, the horror. This past weekend was--dare we say?--the best Nevermore film festival to date, setting new attendance records and making Carolina history by selling out the theater's entire 1000-seat Fletcher Hall. Better still, many of the films' directors, producers, writers and actors were in attendance to make the rounds and chat with the audience. Finally, Recess gets to the heart, soul, blood and guts of independent filmmaking. The highlights:
The fifth annual Nevermore Film Festival debuts at Durham's Carolina Theatre this weekend, showcasing fifteen of the best, brightest and never-before-seen in North Carolina independent films. Traditionally dedicated to horror, goth and fantasy, Nevermore is all about expanding the possibilities of independent filmmaking, but in a good, gory kind of way. Each of these films is decidedly the better for lack of studio supervision, because when it comes to independent filmmaking there aren't any boundaries--just newer, more creative ways of killing people.
Old storytellers, like old fishermen, never really die. At heart, Tim Burton's Big Fish is no more pretentious than the occasional bumper sticker or needlepoint pillow, though--for the most part--more intelligent.
Today kicks off Park City's annual Sundance Film Festival, where a final cut of independent films hit the big screen for the first time. Here, independent films vie for the attention of studio executives who come armed with millions of dollars and potential contracts for the next big thing. Previous prizewinners included Personal Velocity, Secretary and Real Women Have Curves.
Iremember this Andy Warhol movie of someone sleeping for 8 hours," recalls filmmaker Jean-Pierre Bekolo, a Duke filmmaker-in-residence from Cameroon. "I think it was a brilliant thing! Because we don't even know who we are sometimes; we don't have time."
Every program must have a purpose. If not, it is deleted. Four years ago the Wachowski brothers created The Matrix, a world infused with almost careless profundity. Their film was an elaborate series of rhetorical questions, but the high-flown hypotheticals were interspersed with high-tech shoot-outs to cleanse the palate. It was deep, but gutturally satisfying.
We're all gonna die, but with a little bit of luck and a whole lotta money, you--or at least your body--can last forever. For the price of a Duke education, the Summum mummification organization of Salt Lake City offers the chance of a lifetime. Nay, an eternity.
This moment," croons Bill, to the pregnant bride dying in his arms, "this is me... at my most masochistic." Bang.
Onomatopoeia is the word you're looking for; the name for a word that audibly mimics the sound or the idea it describes. Surely, there's no more revolting word than puberty. It's redolent with oily-haired awkwardness, squirming sexuality and all the shudderingly heinous attributes of that down-and-dirty plunge into adulthood.
Two years ago this October, my New Jersey hometown featured a shrine to family and friends lost in the Sept. 11 attacks. Come Christmas, the only physical reminders remaining were dribbles of candle wax and a lopsided skyline. We didn't forget, but we had to move on.
AAAARH. That's the sound of a frustrated pirate, foundering hopelessly in the Summer of Suck. Orlando Bloom can rescue me anytime, but Pirates of the Caribbean marks one of the few surprises in this summer's monotonous procession of second-rate sequels. The only thing worse than another sequel is another damn story about all the damn sequels--so, instead, we'll take a look at better things to come.
We've all played around with camcorders at some point, and we've all had delusions of Hollywood excess. If you're really cool, maybe you even made it as an extra on Dawson's Creek at some point. But somewhere between the little spark and the big dream lies that notion of filmmaking as art; as a means of creative expression in which the yardstick of success is the clarity of your vision rather than the size of your budget.
Staying in tonight? Catching up on some quality trash TV? You're not alone. Thank Chuck Barris, the - those campy 60s and 70s primetime hits considered precursors to modern reality TV shows. Think Joe Millionaire and American Idol; they were the fun, but tacky big-network cash cows that Americans loved to hate. Barris was a pop-culture icon credited with revolutionizing network television, putting the boob in the tube and the idiot in the box. In his 1984 autobiography, Barris also claimed to have led a secret life as a CIA hit man, using his television persona as a front. His life story is the premise for George Clooney's Confessions of a Dangerous Mind.
I met Snood midway through freshman year. It was love. Those friendly faces were always waiting for me - waiting, smiling, never judging. The orange ones look like Cheetos, bless 'em. And that's what freshman year was all about. Snood, I mean.
Tolkien's world is as dangerous and compelling as the One Ring itself. Few stories have the trilogy's inexplicable ability to transcend its pages, and its legions of near-cultist fans prove it.
Like expensive wine and Harrison Ford, the finest things in life only improve with age. The James Bond dynasty is no exception. After 40 years, 20 feature films and five bodily reincarnations, Bond still reigns supreme in the world of high rollers, big explosions, fast cars and faster women.