SXSW 2009: Day Seven

Taking a final snapshot with the historic Paramount in the background, moments before catching a final cab back to my hotel, to commemorate my SXSW 2009 experience.

As I wrote in yesterday’s post, Day 7 of SXSW was something of a drag because the movies were less thrilling than I had hoped. I didn’t let that inconvenient fact get me down too much, though, because it was the last full day of my wonderful first-ever out-of-town (let alone out-of-state) trip to a film festival. Sure, the excursion had its hiccups, namely an incident in which I feared for my safety as a taxi driver manically told me about his suicidal tendencies caused by passengers’ disbelief in his assertion that he saw a UFO in the mid-‘80s. (The only freakier moment in the 25-minute ride was when he then breathlessly discussed how star-struck he was when Barbara Streisand hopped in his cab.) But both my planes ran on time, the hotel didn’t lose my reservation, and I was able to catch nearly every film I had on my schedule. I had no big qualms.

My final screening at the Paramount (which, aside from having poor sight-lines, is glorious) was first on the day’s agenda. Lynn Shelton’s Humpday claimed two easy-to-garner SXSW titles: Best Movie I Saw on Day 7 and Best Mumblecore Movie at the Festival (unless you include True Adolescents). While hardly remarkable when judged by itself, the film boasts several funny moments and a unique look at certain heterosexual males’ perplexedly fascinated attitude towards homoeroticism that made it seem like a masterpiece compared to the two movies I saw afterwards.

The basic premise: Ben (Mark Duplass, also seen in True Adolescents) is a thirtysomething who has already settled down into a quiet life with his lovely wife Anna (Alycia Delmore). But he begins to question whether taking the domestic route was the right choice when old, scraggly buddy Andrew (Joshua Leonard) shows up in the middle of the night looking for a place to bunk, only to take him partying the next day. Ben finds the youthful scene he left behind for marriage to be alluring, and soon enough he’s high as a kite. Loaded, he and Andrew proclaim to their hippie-dippy counterparts that they’re going to make a gay porn movie and enter it into competition at the popular local sex festival, Humpday. Instead of forgetting about the idea when they’ve sobered up, though, the two only further commit, almost as if it would be emasculating to not live up to the challenge.

For once, the mumblecore style really fits the material—OK, maybe it worked in the Duplasses’ Baghead, too—but not in the way one might expect. Humpday works on meta level, as if writer/director Lynn Shelton and the cast are making fun of their commitment to the understated genre, which proves so unwavering that they even use it to tell this outrageous story. The tactic pays off immensely. For instance, had a pivotal scene in which Anna learns of her now-aspiring filmmaker husband’s plan been handled in an overbearing, desperate-for-laughs manner, it would’ve fell flat. The deathly serious, nearly sublime tone Humpday instead opts for proves hilarious. When Ben and Andrew finally book a hotel room and get down to business, the experience reaches an uncomfortably comic crescendo. Both Shelton and her deadpan actors, especially the where-did-they-get-this-guy Joshua Leonard and the terrified-looking Alycia Delmore, are responsible for maintaining the delicate balance of comedy and bizarre realism.

Unfortunately, the usual misgivings of mumblecore pictures still apply to Humpday, even if it’s better than the average genre-entry. When the humor falls flat—namely in the first act when Ben first indulges in the party scene and in the second when Ben and Andrew constantly debate whether they should go through with the porno or not—the token style seems as boring and phony as it has ever been. Despite its many brilliant moments, Humday also has a tendency to look and feel like a bad student-film, as mumblecore efforts all-too-frequently do. Yes, Shelton’s film is entertaining enough on the whole that it left me more optimistic about the genre and its core-players than I was during the bulk of the festival, but I still doubt that it ultimately has much to say. Humpday touches on a few fascinating themes about masculinity and has its share of laughs, but one would be hard pressed to argue there’s enough substance there that it was worth making the film in the first place. 2 ½ Buckets out of 4.

As the day wore on, the movies got worse. In fact, my final two SXSW reviews will be pretty short given that neither film is likely to have a sizable theatrical release, if one at all. But, hey, Austin was alive and kickin’—bright sunshiney days and loud music coming from every which direction tend to attract the 6^th Street Crowd—and I couldn’t have been happier knowing my first SXSW was a resounding success no matter what my schedule had in store. (Short of a widespread chemical attack on the U.S., that is.) Back to the Alamo Ritz I went to finish my fest.

The Immaculate Conception of Little Dizzle is a strange little movie that, it seems, exists for the sole purpose of being “quirky” (read: “annoying”). The story follows Dory (Marshall Allman), who takes a job as a janitor after getting fed up with his desk-hound gig doing data-entry. One of the offices that his new company cleans tests food products, and they often use the janitors as guinea pigs for new creations. One day, Dory and co-workers innocently munch on self-warming cookies designed to taste like they’re fresh from the oven. They don’t expect the array of side-effects that propel the movie’s plot, from cookie-withdrawal to… well, pooping out a colorful little creature.

At times, The Immaculate Conception of Little Dizzle is amusing because of its sheer wackiness. But on the other hand, does anybody need to see another movie that seeks to get by on wackiness alone? Shouldn’t that remain the role of big-budget, zero-substance Hollywood productions that are transparent in their emptiness, not independent films that should, by design, offer something deeper? In a way, “indies”—much as I detest grouping everything low-budget into one category—need to be more interesting and more original than box-office giants if they want to continue to make headway in growing a well-deserved audience. As often as the concept of The Immaculate Conception of Little Dizzle lends itself to inventive visuals—writer/director David Russo’s history is in animated shorts—the one-dimensional ill-effects of imaginary test-cookies don’t make for interesting and original material. The movie may seem ballsy upon first glance, but viewers will quickly discover that this emperor has no clothes. 2 Buckets out of 4.

How exactly first-time writer/director Judith Krant’s Made in China won this year’s SXSW Narrative Jury Prize is beyond me. (I could also phrase this in a more direct way: What the heck were you thinking, judges Scott Foundas, Ted Hope, and Kim Voynar?) I’d be willing to bet the reason rests in the many ways this tale of an idealistic young inventor who’s duped by those promising him fame and fortune parallels the causes of the current worldwide economic crisis. But I found the movie’s attempts to be humorous and politically relevant rather banal, their topicality notwithstanding. Yes, Made in China was an ambitious attempt for a first feature in that it was shot on location in Shanghai, but that doesn’t change the fact that it isn’t a good movie.

The focal inventor is Johnson (Jackson Kuehn), who’s more annoying than he is charismatic, and he’s confident that a certain “humorous domestic hygiene product”—revealed in one of the film’s few genuinely funny moments—will make him a fortune. He lives with his mom and sister in East Texas, where he can’t find any investors despite several vigorous pitches to locals. In order to make his dream a reality, Johnson travels to China, where he plans to meet a business man who agrees to fund the product over the Internet. Unfortunately for Johnson, the guy was just looking to run away with the hefty deposit he demanded upfront, failing to book the hotel room he promised Johnson or show up for the restaurant-meeting where Johnson planned to discuss production. In a twist of fate, Johnson meets the successful Magnus (Dan Sumpter), who agrees to help him. But this isn’t just any old favor; Johnson will have to live up to his half of the deal. Ya think more financial ruin might be in store for the naïve American?

That all sounds good and dandy on paper, but the film’s obnoxious, slapstick style undoes the relevance of the material. Had Made in China been written as a full-on farce, then it might have been funny, but its attempts to bring humor out of the farcical elements of the plot’s all-to-real Ponzi-scheme come off as obnoxious and unwatchable. This is probably because Johnson is such an unsympathetic loser that he practically deserves to be gamed, making it impossible to laugh at otherwise-funny sequences like the one in which all of his ludicrous invention-ideas are shown. Not to mention, Johnson’s idiocy kind of defeats his ability to parallel those good people whose lives have recently been destroyed by economic corruption. Made in China probably would have been more successful had it attempted a more serious tone, but even that seems like an idea better suited for a superiorly written film with actual production value. SXSW Award Winner or not, this juvenile attempt at humor and sociopolitical pertinence totally misses the mark. 1 Bucket out of 4.

And with that, my official coverage of the 2009 South by Southwest Film Festival is complete. In the event that my 10,000+ words on the event left you hungry for more, then you’re in luck: sometime during the next few months, I’ll chime in with reviews of three more films I was sent/will be receiving on DVD screeners, but for whatever reason wasn’t able to watch before SXSW’s end. They are: Best Worst Movie, a documentary on the making of the cult-classic Troll II; Pontypool, a Canadian zombie flick from the director of the Ellen Page starrer The Tracy Fragments; and Sweethearts of the Prison Rodeo, a look at the Oklahoma convicts who participate in “penitentiary rodeos.” Stay tuned.

In closing, I’d just like to once again highlight the films from SXSW that I highly recommend you go see when they (hopefully) play at a theater near you. In alphabetical order: Breaking Upwards; The Eyes of Me; Grace; The Hurt Locker; I Love You, Man; Lake Mungo; Me and Orson Welles; Moon; Observe and Report; Severe Clear; Sin Nombre; The Slammin’ Salmon; That Evening Sun; and True Adolescents. These movies, plus a half-dozen more that will play just fine on DVD, made my first SXSW experience an unforgettable way to spend my spring break. I can only hope that next year, everything will click again and I will be back in Austin in full-force.

SXSW 2009: Day Six

The marquee at the Alamo South Lamar, home to Day 6 of my SXSW experience. Immediately below the frame, a line of over 200 waited in anticipation for Broken Lizard's latest, The Slammin' Salmon.

Oh how the quality of the movies depreciated once the music started.

Being a SXSW first-timer, I wasn’t aware of the unspoken rule that weaker movies tend to run during the second half of the festival (aside from perhaps the final day), so I booked my stay through Friday morning. While two of the four flicks I attempted on Day 6 were decent, the crop on Day 7 (coverage coming soon) was pretty rough. My stay next year will definitely be shorter. Rest assured, however: the quantity of films I see will remain the same. I’ll just be cramming them into a smaller chunk of time—catching all the Midnight shows—in hopes of a higher percentage of good ones.

The bleak race to the finish line began with Antonio Campos’ Afterschool, a sensationalistic exploration of the YouTube generation’s alleged emotional disconnect and hopeless complexity that is no more profound than your average “Dr. Phil Show” discussion on the topic. Strangely enough, the film seems to be catching on with critics—the seminal Mike D’Angelo named it his favorite movie of 2008—perhaps because it has the look and feel of an edgy auteur piece. If this is the case, however, one has to wonder why the raving critics don’t seem to recognize how derivative Afterschool is of Gus Van Sant’s similarly-themed (but far better) Elephant.

The film follows Robert (Erza Miller), an insecure, bottled-up teenager who can’t relate to the other kids at his Northeast prep school. Perhaps this is because they know he spends his days watching violent porn videos on the Internet, blowing his load to the sight of women getting strangled and other charming things. Perhaps it’s because his roommate deals drugs. Or perhaps, as the movie would like us to think, it’s because modern technology and social structures in America have singlehandedly turned him into a basket case.

Despite Robert’s social issues, his attractive partner on a school film project, Amy (Addison Timlin), inexplicably makes advances toward him. The story, however, takes a radical turn when Robert, filming footage for said project, witnesses popular female twin classmates die in what’s later found to be a drug overdose, camera rolling. His abnormal reaction to the incident—not calling for help as the girls cough up blood and then behaving, well, disturbingly around the bodies—seems to alert the clueless school staff to the fact that Robert’s probably more than a little effed up, but they choose to ignore this an appropriately bureaucratic fashion. His assigned therapy is to make the memorial film that will be shown at an assembly commemorating the girls.

For a film so contemporary and distinctly young in subject and in style—writer/director Campos is only 25—Afterschool takes a puzzlingly bleak attitude towards the present teenage generation. It’s more than a little ironic that Campos’ assault on the YouTube era could not have been made without modern technology. The film’s central thesis seems to be that new media, especially Internet pornography, allow troubled youth to explore dark emotions that attract them and hence lead to a more detached, problematic society. While I think this is a bullshit assertion to begin with, Afterschool does itself no favors by evidencing the message through an unredeemed loser of a main character. Robert is so screwed up that it’s hard to believe he wasn’t a victim of child abuse and wouldn’t have reached his breaking-point without YouTube at any other time in history.

One could argue that the movie merely seeks to explore how new media affect one disturbed individual and not make the aforementioned blanket-judgments about the 21^st Century world. If this is the case, the film is even worse because, when not viewed as a human hyperbole or a device to communicate broader themes, Robert is completely unbelievable. Certainly, there were screwed up kids like Robert at my high school, but they weren’t so removed from reality that they wouldn’t scream if they saw two girls dying in a corridor.

One wonders if the film is actually more personal than its writer/director would admit. If Robert is indeed a version of Campos, then the filmmaker’s motivations make a lot more sense. Could Afterschool actually be little more than an F-you to Campos’ own film teacher who, like Robert’s in the movie, criticized his crude attempts at the avant-garde because they weren’t narrative or sentimental enough? (Robert’s tribute stylistically resembles Afterschool and inspires a big “What was that!?” from the teacher, who then cuts it into the video equivalent of Hallmark greeting card for the actual presentation.) Could Campos’ own awkward lack of luck with the ladies at his prep school be the reason he had the beautiful Amy so much as befriend Robert? These are big character accusations that I probably shouldn’t be making—apologies to Campos if they’re untrue, of course—but the movie’s critique of contemporary American society reeks deeply of self-idealization and catharsis that this seems like the only logical explanation. With a concept that’s only provocative in theory, not execution, Afterschool exploits its teenage characters and its violence to form a morally reprehensible vision of the age in which we live. ½ a Bucket out of 4.

While Afterschool was a bad start to the day, it gave way to two festival-firsts that I was proud to experience. #1 was that I saw a movie at the South Lamar, the festival’s bigger and in many ways better-equipped Alamo location (complimentary water is available as you enter each auditorium and there is WiFi, an invaluable asset for us film critics), where I would remain all day. #2 was my first-ever walk-out, which I pulled on the subsequent show of the Oprah-esque documentary Motherhood realizing that two bad movies in a row would not affect my mood in a positive way. Not to mention, the two hours of free time provided me a great opportunity to write… and eavesdrop on Cinematical’s brilliant Scott Weinberg, sitting several benches down, as he ferociously typed and talked with a cigarette in his mouth, looking up only to compliment and tip—yes, tip—a pretty festival volunteer playing a Decemberists song on the ukulele. Please don’t send e-mails about how I inappropriately lurk on others; I’m quite aware of the behavior.

After that nice, long break, I settled in for The Eyes of Me, a documentary on the lives of four students at Austin’s own School for the Blind and Visually Impaired. While the movie’s blind stars would’ve had to have been gymnasts or rock-drummers to ensure a theatrical release—are you listening, Christopher Guest?—writer/director Keith Maitland’s simple take on the everyday challenges and triumphs of his subjects is engaging enough that a premium cable deal is not out of the question. The film’s most distinguished quality is that Davidson avoids all the congratulatory, score-infused moments typical of the genre in favor of a more subdued and introspective look at the topic. Thus, emotion organically arises from the film’s subjects, not its style.

While all four young people featured in The Eyes of Me are interesting—two are just entering TSVBI and two are about to graduate—one stands out far above the rest. His name is Chas, and he’s not only blind, but poor. (How’s that for a tough break?) Out on his own, living with a roommate who picks up and leaves without paying his half of the rent, Chas somehow still squeaks by, working in a factory that employs the blind. Given the somewhat foreign nature of the subject-matter for most viewers, Chas’ everyman demeanor and common problems forge a relatable bond that makes the material more involving. Chas is also an aspiring rapper—the film’s title is based on one of his songs—but the quality of his charisma far supersedes that of his music. The film’s depiction of Chas is emblematic of why it succeeds on the whole: it’s more about humans with a disability than it is about the disability itself. It’s hard to saywhere The Eyes of Me will ultimately end up, but if you have a chance to catch it on the festival circuit, it’s a worthy way to spend a quick 72 minutes. 3 Buckets out of 4.

My final movie for the day was yet another SXSW selection that one wouldn’t find playing at any other film festival: The Slammin’ Salmon, courtesy of the beloved-in-circles Broken Lizard comedy troupe (Super Troopers, Beerfest). While I have never been a fan of the quintet myself, this latest entry on their resume worked for me because it abandons their usual crude style—no small feat for the gang given gross-out gags are easy to do in food-related comedies—and because it stars some highly talented non-Lizards.

The premise is simple enough: former boxer and Miami seafood restaurant owner Cleon ‘Slammin’ Salmon (played by a balls-to-the walls, outrageous Michael Clark Duncan) has to come up with $10,000 quickly so he can settle his debts with some Yakuza members. He challenges floor manager Rich Ferente (Kevin Heffernan) to do $20,000 in sales – $10,000 for the Yakuzas and $10,000 for the waiter with the biggest bills. Broad comedy ensues as the colorful group—off-his-meds Nuts (Jay Chandrasekhar), med-student Tara (Cobie Smulders), flirt Mia (April Bowlby), retard Donnie (Paul Soter), and washed-up “CFI: Hotlanta” star Conor (Steve Lemme)—duke it out for the 10 grand.

While the individual jokes aren’t laugh-out-loud funny in and of themselves, the characterizations are. Michael Clarke Duncan lets all hang loose and somehow comes off as a completely credible boxer-turned-businessman, as manic and irresponsible as he is charming. Both of the women—“How I Met Your Mother”’s invaluable Cobie Smulders and “Two and a Half Men”’s ditzy charmer April Bowlby—are very funny and great to look at. Will Forte has a hilarious bit part as a patron who spends the day sipping on water and iced tea, reading War & Peace cover-to-cover, much to the chagrin of his money-hungry waitress. And the whole Broken Lizard crew is the best they’ve ever been, especially Jay Chandrasekhar, who proves far more apt at physical comedy than usual, perhaps because for once he isn’t on his double-duty directing. This time, that task went to Kevin Heffernan, who does a competent job at moving the picture along.

While The Slammin’ Salmon is decidedly minor and contains a few passages in which the humor falls flat, it’s one of the spunkier comedies I’ve recently seen, certainly the best Broken Lizard effort to date. That’s not a monumental accomplishment, but it’s highly refreshing amidst all the heavy movies and bad movies one encounters at a film festival. Why no distributor will so much as touch the film is a mystery to me, especially when considering the fact that studios have historically not only had no problems releasing, but also funding, the group’s past works. 3 Buckets out of 4.

Tempted as I was to stick around and watch the midnight showing of Lesbian Vampire Killers based on the film’s title alone, I decided against it when I spotted an open cab surfing the parking lot, a rarity during the music portion of the festival. Unfortunately, I would end up well-rested for a pretty disappointing final set of films. More on that tomorrow.

SXSW 2009: Day Four

Downtown's Alamo Ritz, host to two of SXSW's seven total screens, stands amidst a bustling 6th Street crowd in the early evening.

The 2009 SXSW Film Festival may be over and all the awards handed out (check out the fest’s official website for more information on those), my coverage keeps on coming. All I can say is that next year, I’ll try harder to stay up-to-date, but when you’re watching four or five movies a day, that’s easier said than done. Here’s my write-up on Day Four of the festival.

The day began as a mystery. “Super Secret Screening” was listed in the 11 a.m. timeslot for the humungous Paramount Theatre. Given that no programmer in their right mind would make under-slept festival-goers wake up at 9 in the morning for just anything, I decided to go. Speculation was rife in line. I read that Knocked Up was unveiled to an audience in the same way two years prior, so I initially wondered if the secret offering might be the new Judd Apatow summer comedy, Funny People. But with the frat-pack films I Love You, Man and Observe and Report already on the schedule, that seemed an unlikely possibility. Maybe it was a festival favorite still awaiting release, like the Charlene Yi-starrer Paper Heart? But why would that be a “secret”? Ten minutes before the show, I had saved my seat and, walking to the concession stand to grab a pick-me-up Coke, I was told that the cat was out of the bag. The film was Richard Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles, a selection that was just as unexpected as it was easily predicted. Linklater is an Austin native and friend of the fest, so it all clicked, but no one was honestly thinking SXSW’s big secret would involve Zac Efron. A few folks—presumably those who reacted violently to High School Musical—walked out when they heard the news, but most of us were excited. Not only was Me and Orson Welles a big movie, it was a big movie that hadn’t yet been picked up and wouldn’t come out for months!

While Me and Orson Welles never reaches beyond the realm of lighthearted, fluffy entertainment, it’s always engaging thanks to Linklater’s solid classical-style craftsmanship and uniformly good performances. Efron plays protagonist Richard Samuels, a high school-aged dreamer who sneaks away to New York City one day and lands himself the role of Lucius in the soon-to-be-infamous Orson Welles’ (Christian McKay) 1937 Mercury Theatre rendition of Julius Caesar. Given Welles’ unstable genius, the young and hopeful Richard’s life is largely dictated by the near-random whims of his director, who commutes across town by ambulance to save time and won’t commit to an opening day until it is an absolute must that he do so. This relationship gets more personal and complicated, too, when Welles’ booty-call of an assistant, the beautiful Sonja (Claire Danes), begins to reciprocate Richard’s head-over-heels crush on her.

The film’s true star is not Efron, who perfectly fits the bill for the wide-eyed Richard without being extraordinary, but Christian McKay. If McKay doesn’t nail Welles, then he at least nails a compelling variation on the endlessly-discussed historical figure. This was no easy task given most viewers’ extensive prior knowledge of the man and expectations for the portrayal. Smartly, director Linklater centers the film’s depiction of Welles on the director’s interaction with Richard, so as to avoid it coming off as a glib attempt to show the full extent of his life and career. This gives McKay some creative room to roam while still adhering to Welles’ manic reputation, and he exercises it brilliantly. Claire Danes is also memorable, both for her looks and her acting.

Beyond the fact that it offers a good time, audiences may appreciate Me and Orson Welles because it tackles two underrepresented sub-genres in American film: historical fiction that doesn’t involve a war and non-musical live theater. Linklater may not have fashioned anything remarkable, but if all movies were this briskly enjoyable and semi-unique, I’d be one content critic. 3 Buckets out of 4.

After Me and Orson Welles was over, I faced an annoyance that regular festival attendees know all too well: the dreaded 150 minute gap between shows. While too short a period of time for me to comfortably return to my hotel room between scheduled shows, it was also too long to sit in a local coffee-shop writing reviews. Alas, I forced myself to watch a “time killer movie” I otherwise wouldn’t have touched with a 10-foot pole, hoping it’d make for a tolerable hour and a half. Such was not the case with The Yes Men Fix the World, the title leftist duo’s latest anti-globalist practical-joke piece. If you haven’t heard of the Yes Men, just know that they’re extremists of the most irrational kind. For a conservative like me, sitting through a feature-length version of their schtick is pretty much torture. I never saw the first Yes Men movie and why I decided that this one was a legitimate option is now beyond me. But I guess it’s good to acquaint oneself with the political extremes every so often, only to be repelled. I got my dose of the hard right on my first day of SXSW when the cab driver pointed out New World Order alarmist Alex Jones’ live radio broadcast, so perhaps The Yes Men Fix the World was just life balancing itself out.

The basic schtick: front-men Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonnano, who might describe themselves as activist jokesters, create fake websites for “evil” corporations like Haliburton and wait for various business conference-groups and news channels to invite them to events at which they pretend to be executives for said corporations. In character, they usually convey their anti-capitalist sentiments by encouraging the corporate-employee filled audiences to respond favorably to outrageously irresponsible remarks. The big stunt in The Yes Men Fix the World involves Andy posing as an exec for Dow Chemical and announcing the company will pay millions of dollars in compensation to the families of Indians who died or got injured in a chemical-leak 20 years ago at a factory operated by Union Carbide, now owned by Dow. The movie purports that this caused a massive stock dive for Dow and that most residents of the factory-town were ultimately happy with the stunt because it brought awareness to the issue, but who knows if this is actually the case? The momentary drop in share-price could be attributed to a number of things, although I don’t doubt that the televised announcement had something to do with it. Additionally, Variety’s Leslie Felperin, among others, echoes my impression that the footage from India seems staged.

Even though the Yes Men spend a lot of time congratulating themselves on a job well done at the end of the film and trying to convince viewers they’ve made a positive impact, it’s hard to see any honor in their cause or their methods. While it’s admittedly funny in a juvenile sense to watch them fool accomplished multi-millionaires, the stunts they pull are pretty deplorable. How many victims of the chemical-leak believed they would finally be compensated for their health problems or the death of their family members? (That is, if any of them actually saw the fake announcement—I’m making a big leap of faith in taking Andy and Mike’s word that it was widely televised.) And, presuming the Yes Men indeed caused a dip in Dow’s share-price, how many hardworking Americans did they force to sell stock at a lowered cost? Because of the Yes Men’s tactless approach and senselessly anti-capitalist agenda, it’s hard to take even the few valuable things they have to say about corporate responsibility seriously. By comparison, Michael Moore seems like a rational, informed documentarian. ½ a Bucket out of 4.

Luckily, the bad movies for the day stopped there.

Kristian Fraga’s Severe Clear offers what seems to be the clearest-eyed documentary depiction of what it’s like to be a soldier in Iraq to date. (I say “seems” because I don’t know what it’s like so my judgment is an object of perception, not experience.) The film was assembled entirely from digital-camera footage shot by First Lieutenant Mike Scotti and his fellow Marines during the initial invasion of Iraq. The purpose of Severe Clear is not to dissect the war itself, but to show the lives of the soldiers on the ground, who must follow orders whether the war is justified or not. The film’s most refreshing trait is that, unlike so many others on the subject that inaccurately depict those serving in the American military as helpless chess-pieces that were arbitrarily moved by the Bush Administration, it shows the Marines as the highly informed citizens they are. There’s a scene midway through in which a radio report on the invasion plays and, after initially assuming that director Fraga added this to the film’s soundtrack to provide a sense of the timeline, the viewer is taken aback when they realize the soldiers are actually listening to the news while driving in their Humvee. Coupled with the picture’s up-close-and-personal showcase of the skills of soldiers in combat, this is a powerful testament to the ability and heroism of those serving in the American military.

The film does have its technical problems. Despite Fraga’s clear ability to select riveting bits of Scotti’s footage, he crudely divides the film into arbitrary “chapters,” making the pace choppy. In addition, Fraga relies heavily on voice-over by Scotti reading the letters he wrote home during the war. While there’s nothing wrong with this approach in and of itself, it has a tendency to bring the viewer out of the moment because Scotti sounds like he’s carefully reading them into a microphone. (Imagine that: he’s not also a part-time actor with professional training in voice-work.) Severe Clear could have been a great film had it been assembled better. But the picture’s flaws can ultimately be forgiven in favor of its superior portrayal of a side of the Iraq War that hadn’t before been seen on film. Given audiences’ proven aversion to the subject, the movie may have trouble securing a theatrical distribution deal, but I hope it beats the odds and has the chance to finally provide moviegoers a balanced and human take on an all-too-politicized war. 3 Buckets out of 4.

In 2007, the legendary Hal Holbrook returned to film acting after a six-year lull with a supporting performance for the ages in Into the Wild. He’s back in the lead with That Evening Sun, which won the festival’s Audience Award and Special Jury Award.

Based on a short story by William Gay, the film follows Abner Meecham (Holbrook), an 80-year-old Tennessee man who escapes from a depressing nursing-home and returns to his longtime farm. Conflict ensues when Abner finds the deadbeat Lonzo Choat (Ray McKinnon) living there with his wife and daughter (Carrie Preston and Mia Wasikowska). Apparently, Abner’s son, who put him in the nursing home to begin with, leased Lonzo the place with the option to buy. Despite Lonzo’s threats, Abner doesn’t intend to leave: he sleeps in the shed out back as tension further escalates. As That Evening Sun progresses, the viewer realizes they’re in for a showdown, but how it happens and how these characters develop makes for a truly involving experience.

This is a strong feature debut for writer/director Scott Teems, who effortlessly allows the emotions to build and take hold over the audience. In the process, he brings out the film’s unique Southern setting, both in the visuals and in the characters. But the real distinguishing quality of That Evening Sun is the cast, who turn in excellent performances across the board. Holbrook’s Abner, while set in his ways and hot-tempered, is a sympathetic and complex protagonist. It’s worth noting that he’s one of the few strong elderly characters we’ve seen in recent American film, and this adds an additional dimension to the material. McKinnon makes for a thoroughly yucky villain in Lonzo, but the character becomes a lot deeper than that in the third act. That Evening Sun is one of those movies that the viewer must just take in as it unfolds and, by the end, they will have discovered unexpected and enriching rewards. 3 Buckets out of 4.

I don’t think I could have found a movie more different from a Southern Gothic tale starring Hal Holbrook than Jody “Foot Fist Way” Hill’s Observe and Report had I tried. But, hey, that’s one reason I love film festivals: the variety. The assortment of choices at SXSW is especially diverse, too, as the programmers aren’t afraid to bring low-brow comedies and horror films, often stigmatized in the “sophisticated” festival circuit, into the mix.

The invaluable—yes, I said it—Seth Rogen stars as Ronnie Barnhardt, a mall cop who shares about as much in common with Paul Blart as Marilyn Manson does with Elmo. Ronnie’s a total loser by conventional standards: he’s well into his thirties, but still lives with his alcoholic mother and doesn’t have an apparent life outside the mall, which he exhorts a near-sadistic sense of ownership over. (Okay, I’m serious here, as much as that might sound like Paul Blart: Mall Cop on paper, take one look at the trailer and you won’t be comparing the two any longer.) Ronnie goes completely gun-ho when an on-the-loose male flasher who terrorizes mall patrons disrobes before his unhealthy obsession of a crush: make-up kiosk worker Brandi (Anna Faris). Ignoring the detective assigned to the case (Ray Liotta), Ronnie vows to take matters into his own hands and catch the perpetrator at all costs.

Observe and Report is as offensive and abstract as studio movies come. Yes, the rumors are true: there is an extended a scene in which Ronnie date-rapes Brandi, only for her to perk up and ask “Why are you stopping, motherfucker?” when he slows his thrusts to check if she’s alive. Many will call it trash, but I found it to be the funniest film of the year so far. We laugh at Ronnie because he’s downright pathetic and, as was the case with the karate-choppin’ protagonist in Hill’s debut, we don’t feel bad about doing so because we sense that Ronnie is so far gone that he wouldn’t recognize our laughter for a character judgment even if he could hear it. In fact, it isn’t necessarily a judgment: one could argue that it’s instead the only way for the viewer to cope with the scary idea that there are probably real Ronnies living in America. For this same reason, we nearly embrace the character because he’s utterly fascinating as a representation of a culture gone down the tubes. As such, Ronnie may not even fit the “anti-hero” mold; if pressed, I’d call him a “likably flawed hero.”

It goes without saying that a full understanding of why Rogen and Hill’s brand of absurdism can be so riotous is beyond the scope of this piece. Don’t even get me started on the social commentary achieved by Ronnie’s equally-nutty fleet of fellow mall officers played Michael Pena and the Yuan twins, let alone the film’s buzzed-about resemblance to Taxi Driver. Observe and Report is simply a movie you must see to believe and, in truth, whether it leaves you revolted or in stitches may be beside the point entirely. 3 Buckets out of 4.

And there you have it – another piece of my SXSW coverage is in the can. With only three days of the festival left for me to write about, I can see the light at the end of the word-tunnel. Hope you’re enjoying these as they sure take a lot of time to write.

SXSW 2009: Day Three

Trying to take a snapshot crossing Congress Avenue with the Texas Capitol in the background... only my noggin's in the way.

Two days after my last post, here I am in San Diego, fully recuperated from a surprising amount of jetlag. The flight from Austin to the West Coast is only a bit more than three hours, but I conked out for 13 on the night of my return. Maybe it was all those Auntie Annie’s pretzels I ate in the airport terminal at the recommendation of Emily Blunt, who devoured one of the garlic twists a few nights ago on “Late Night With Jimmy Fallon” after discussing what a life-changing find they were for her while shooting the recent Sunshine Cleaning in New Mexico. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you thought you were looking for SXSW film festival coverage, you’ve come to the wrong place: The Bucket ‘Blog has now officially become a source for long-winded descriptions of simple foods I enjoy.

The festival closes tonight without me, with the Zooey Deschanel/Joseph Gordon Levitt romance and Sundance fave (500) Days of Summer. But SXSW keeps on rollin’ in my mind because I’ve got five more days of coverage to post for you people.

I was able to catch five films on Day Three of the festival thanks to one of the great time-savers employed by the SXSW crew this year: the screening library. Lodged in Downtown Austin’s Hilton Hotel, which is far more expensive than the place I’m staying, this small, dark room houses six small viewing terminals where we critics can select from a wide array of festival titles. I only took advantage of the opportunity the once—I didn’t fly 1,400 miles to miss out on the theatrical experience—but it was a great way to squeeze in two of the best films I saw all festival long.

In Breaking Upwards, New York twentysomethings Daryl (Daryl Wein) and Zoe (Zoe Lister Jones) struggle to break off their relationship because they’ve become dangerously codependent on one another as they’ve grown. First failing at a cold turkey separation, they decide to dedicate days they will speak to each other and days they won’t (“Tuesday? But that’s ‘Idol’ night!”). The results are even more destructive this way, of course, because the time has come for the couple to part ways and their need to dwell on what they had in the past only ends in an argument, heartbreak, or both. Things get even messier when Daryl and Zoe start seeing other people. The film is supposedly based off of Wein and Lister Jones’ real-life relationship, which explains the authentic performances, but it’s hard to believe the two experienced all this and still liked each other enough to make a movie about it.

That’s not to say that Breaking Upwards is a depressing, brooding deconstruction of the pains of relationships. Most of the time, the movie’s upbeat tempo mitigates a lot of the hurt that exists underneath this relationship, which is ultimately a good thing because it gets us to genuinely like these two so much that we care about their futures. In other words, the experience isn’t detached like those of many realistic “breaking up” movies. Breaking Upwards probably would have failed for most viewers had it been that way, too, because Daryl and Zoe aren’t instantly relatable as people given they walk and talk like the young, hip, and artistic New York Jews they are – not a demographic the movie-going masses know very well.

But Breaking Upwards ultimately succeeds on a universal level because its portrayal of modern American values and emotions is dead-on, no matter how distant the main characters may seem from one’s own life. Rarely has a movie felt so honest about what it means to love in the era of Facebook and Netflix, both of which receive their due amount of time. Daryl and Zoe are about as far from romantic-comedy characters as you can get – trapped in the conventional crux of co-dependency, but as real people trying to deal, not caricatures marching around farcically. And it’s great that the film is perceptive enough to realize that this reality involves, for instance, Daryl being a flagrant metrosexual who touts expensive, tight designer jeans. You wouldn’t see that in a studio film or even a “quirky” low-budget comedy. Nor would you see his mother’s reaction to said pants, which is a part of the film’s grander, no-bullshit discussion of Daryl and Zoe’s generation’s values as opposed to those of their parents. For a refreshing take on the love-gone-bad scenario with two surprisingly engrossing characters, viewers would be hard-pressed to do better than Breaking Upwards. Keep an eye out for it. 3 ½ Buckets out of 4.

Lake Mungo fooled me good. I didn’t know anything about the Australian ghost-story mockumentary when I popped it into the screening-library player—the film I intended to see wasn’t available—and, until looking at the movie’s IMDb page yesterday and reading that it featured actors, I believed it was all true. I gasped repeatedly in disbelief as it rolled, often horrified by what I was witnessing. While I feel more than a bit cheated now and I doubt I would’ve had the same strong reaction had I known it wasn’t real, it took an incredibly well-done movie to get me to buy some of the farfetched suggestions the characters make. I’m so in awe of writer/director Joel Anderson’s accomplishment that I’m hardly embarrassed admitting that I planned to write that the film’s only flaw was it too strongly resembled a CourtTV documentary as if to stylistically confirm is evident legitimacy.

Almost entirely through flashback “interviews,” the film tells the story of the Palmer family, which tragically loses its 15-year-old daughter Alice (Talia Zucker) in a drowning accident. A month later, they hear someone in their house late at night, only to then see the image of her ghost. The crazy plot-twists fly from there and while you won’t be left as dumfounded by them as I was because you’ll know the movie isn’t real as you watch it, I will still refrain from divulging them in an effort to preserve the movie’s effect.

Reflecting on the experience, I’m still befuddled by the fact that filmmaker Anderson got me to buy into the movie’s superior imitation of the documentary style. My response is a testament to the strength of the production values and performances, all of which are spot on. Lake Mungo is a reminder of the sheer power a film can have over the viewer when they see it without any prior knowledge. In fact, in writing this review, I’m no longer angry at the fact I got duped because the 89 minutes of sheer belief that the movie provided me, prolonged for days until I finally wised up and read something about it, made for a fascinating experience that got me to think about the story far more than I would have had I known it was fiction. I marveled over each twist and what it meant on narrative and social level. I considered the supernatural more than I ever had before. While some narrative movies are meant to be seen as fiction, many would be better if we thought they were real. Lake Mungo is certainly one of these movies and, while it would be irresponsible to review it as if it were a documentary, I wish I could because doing so could lead others to have similarly fascinating experiences watching it. 3 ½ Buckets out of 4.

After two exceptional movies, I suppose I was due for a bad one, and boy did I get it in the form of Tim Disney’s American Violet, the latest liberal guilt trip designed to expose racial injustice only to encourage further hatred and division among blacks and whites in the U.S.

No, I’m not about to doubt the movie’s legitimacy as a “true story.” But given what we know about media effects, I would assert that it marks a step backwards for racial tolerance, not the leap forwards that the cast and crew probably intended. It’s the year 2000 and Dee Roberts (Nicole Beharie) is an African-American single mom living in a Texas housing project with her four children. When a government raid sweeps the project, Dee is taken into custody for what she believes to be unpaid parking tickets, only to find out she’s actually being held on drug charges. Soon, injustice in the system is exposed: squeaky-clean Dee is offered a plea bargain for 10 years probation, a much better deal than she’d get if found guilty by a jury. Ya think a district attorney is looming in the background looking to better his crime credentials? If Dee accepts the deal like so many other women, she’ll be out of jail. But she’ll also be doomed to unemployment given her newfound criminal record. Enter ACLU Attorney David Cohen (Tim Blake Nelson), ready to save Dee from her rotten fate by taking on the corrupt legal process, as the ACLU has a time-honored tradition of doing (wink, wink). As Dee, David, and helping company try to get to the bottom of Dee’s arrest, they discover a long history of racial motivation in the D.A.’s office.

The film selectively uses a bad moment in recent history to show that racial problems still exist in America. The cause of promoting awareness is noble, but the issue will only get worse if filmmakers continue to depict it in such a stereotypical light. As is the case with all groups who are minimally represented in movies, each portrayal of African Americans is particularly important to how the group is seen by consumers of media. For American Violet to so clearly depict Dee as an innocent black victim helpless to the whims of a racist, deep-Southern government is deplorably regressive. These images are bound to make African-American audiences who racially identify with Dee to view whites (particularly those with Southern accents) as villains. Whites, myself included, are equally bound to have a visceral reaction to the material given that it promotes an utterly racist version of our group. (Sure, one could argue that the Tim Blake Nelson character and the former assistant D.A. who help Dee take on the system are both noble Caucasians, but they’re depicted as few-and-far-between progressives willing to tackle a long oppressive government power-structure). Alas, we have a movie that encourages racial tension, whatever its intention may have been.

American Violet’s technical elements are top-notch and the cast is full of excellent actors, but I would argue that these are not redeeming qualities because the more the movie looks like a mainstream piece of work, the more acceptable its dangerous intrinsic message becomes. Nonetheless, it’s worth noting that cinematographer Steve Yedlin, who worked on both of Rian Johnson’s films, is a heck of a talented guy. Buzzed-about lead actress Nicole Beharie also turns in exceptional work and is unbelievably beautiful. But American Violet, made by a Disney clearly racked with white liberal guilt, is not the movie that President Obama’s so-called “post-racial America” needs to succeed. 1 Bucket out of 4.

Luckily, the painful experience of American Violet was quickly quelled by a film with actually enlightening messages about race relations in America, even though it takes place almost entirely south of the border. Cary Fukunaga's first feature, Sin Nombre, captures the grit and brutality of life in Latin America far more authentically than this decade’s overrated critical darlings on the subject, Maria Full of Grace and City of God. Whereas those films sacrificed realism by indulging in overwrought stylistic techniques to convey their messages, Fukunaga’s film uses the drama of a traditional narrative arc to organically bring out the harsh realism of the material.

Sin Nombre interlocks two topical stories: that of a teenage Honduran girl’s treacherous trek to illegally immigrate to the United States and that of a young man running from the Mexican gang he rebels against. She’s Sayra (Paulina Gaitan), and she and her family are riding atop the freight train that Willy A.K.A. “El Casper” (Edgar Flores) has been assigned to pillage. The only problem: he’s transfixed by her and, already seeking a way out of his violent thug life, decides he’ll merely ride away from the past. If only things were that simple.

The way the various elements of the film balance drama and realism is its greatest asset. While Sin Nombre is as suspenseful as any cat-and-mouse story—Sayra and Willy become better and better friends as the gang gets closer and closer to catching him—it also provides all the insight of a documentary on immigrant journeys and gang activity south of the border. These are topics of endless discussion in the American political sphere and yet most Americans actually know very little about them. Early on in the film, Sayra’s father tells her that half of the train-riders will die on the way to the United States. The film depicts the journey in sobering detail, and yet it commendably stops short of becoming a political polemic, as was the case with Maria Full of Grace. In fact, the script fully recognizes that illegal immigration contributes to violent crime in the U.S.: running after him, Willy’s former gang members yell that they have connections in Los Angeles who will kill him if they fail to do so. Dramatized as it is, this passage is terrifyingly real because the gang is based off of an actual group called Mara Salvatrucha.

Perhaps the film’s unique, balanced style can be attributed to the fact that writer/director Fukunaga is American and made the picture thinking of U.S. audiences. While never preachy or naïve, Fukunaga goes to incredible lengths to enlighten the viewer on these topics, which is something an accustomed native filmmaker might not have done. Not to mention, he implements a distinctly American sense of drama, which works harmoniously with the story because it’s never overdone. However, my praise for Fukunaga’s work should not keep me from mentioning the great, raw performances from young actors Gaitan and Flores or the beautiful, lush cinematography from D.P. Adriano Goldman. Nearly every facet of Sin Nombre, one of 2009’s first must-sees, is as informative as it is intense. 3 ½ Buckets out of 4.

Had I been smart, I would have headed back to my hotel room to write and to get a healthy amount of shut-eye for the next day’s offerings. But I just had to stick around for Women in Trouble because of its all-star cast. I came to regret the decision enormously.

The dialogue in Sebastian Gutierrez’ farce is so obnoxious and attention-begging, it makes Tarantino seem as understated as Jim Jarmusch by comparison. An interlocking stories-formatted commentary on sex per the basic premise of its title, the movie is broad and not funny at all. Filmmaker Gutierrez shot it over about ten days and, because he didn’t need much of their time, was able to cast big stars who probably wouldn’t have otherwise even considered the dead-on-arrival script. But perhaps the inclusion of well-known names like Josh Brolin, Carla Gugino, and Marley Shelton is fitting because Women in Trouble mostly attempts graphic body-part jokes that would be right at home in the average hard-R-rated Hollywood sex comedy. (Like, oh my God, isn’t making obvious sexual references so funny?) Unfortunately for the viewer, this type of gag proves even more insufferable than failed attempts at indie edge you might expect from this low-budget a production. Because there is no reason to care about the caricatures, the fact that the goofy and humiliating plots they partake in aren’t funny renders the movie a painful experience. The only saving grace is that a few of the actresses make for nice eye-candy: when Emmanuelle Chriqui was onscreen, I was just bored as opposed to feeling like I was being stabbed repeatedly. 1 Bucket out of 4.

I probably could’ve recovered from the experience had I stuck around for the Midnight presentation of Sam Raimi’s much-awaited return to horror, Drag Me to Hell. But given it was an unfinished “work-print” and I had to be back at the Paramount bright and early the next day for an 11 a.m. “Super Secret Screening”, I decided to wait for the film’s May release instead.

SXSW 2009: Day Two

Austin brightened up after the festival's dreary opening day, luckily for us out-of-towners.

It’s my final night here in Austin, and I must say I’ve had a hell of a time. Said time hasn’t afforded many writing opportunities—I’ve been in and out of cabs, theaters, restaurants, city streets, et cetera—but given that most who in attendance knew what they were seeing without the help of my recommendations (or asked me in person here), I assume that my catching up on reviews after the festival’s curtain closes is a-OK. You all (or, as my new friends might say it: “y’all”) will be hearing my thoughts well in advance of these films’ theatrical releases. One thing’s for sure: hectic as it was, I wouldn’t have traded this Spring Break for the world. Provided I’m once again press accredited by the lovely SXSW staff next year, I hope to return in full-force, having learned quite a few things about the festival and the American South in general. But anyway, my contemplations about how Austin’s acclaimed Iron Works Barbeque isn’t the shit it’s cracked up to be on Yelp or how the “ra-ra” atmosphere of UT far overwhelms anything I’ve ever seen at USC probably aren’t of interest to ye who came to read about the movies. Well, fine. Here’s what I can muster on Day Two of the festival before I finally rest up for tomorrow’s long plane ride home back to the West Coast.

Beeswax was my first encounter with writer/director Andrew Bujalski, whose previous features Funny Ha Ha and Mutual Appreciation are lauded in indie film-geek circles but unseen everywhere else. While I certainly liked the film better than fellow mumblecore movement filmmaker Joe Swanberg’s Alexander the Last (also in competition, reviewed below), I can’t say I respond to these guys’ style in the least. No, I’m not bothered by the lack of a linear narrative, but I’d like something to latch onto beyond general ideas. In fact, that’s all Beeswax, the tale of an Austin paraplegic (Tilly Hatcher) who finds herself involved in a potential legal battle with the co-owner of her vintage clothing store, is about: general ideas. While nuanced and believable, the characters lack empathy—if my description of protagonist Jeannie seems uninviting, wait ‘til you meet her sister Lauren (Maggie Hatcher) or vague love-interest Merill (Alex Karpovsky)—and because of this, the film becomes more of an examination of humanness rather than a work of humanness itself. While there’s nothing wrong with this idea in theory, in practice it results in a film that fails to engage. Yes, there are several themes in Beeswax that should stir up discussion, namely those related to its timely commentary on small business and how Jeannie’s disability affects her daily life, but they don’t carry any gravitas because the film is painfully detached on the whole. It’s hard to fault anything but the film’s conceptual framework for this, as the performances are as authentic and accurate to the script as they could be, the subject is topical, and the tech credits are top-notch. Beeswax has a lot of good qualities indeed, but they fail to overcome a flawed inception. 2 Buckets out of 4.

Once the credits on Beeswax began to roll, I darted from the historic Paramount Theatre over to catch True Adolescents at the beloved Alamo Drafthouse, the country’s top-rated theater where they serve you food and drink as you watch the movie. While I had already filled up on lunch at that point, I was ready to give the service a whirl and scribbled “Chocolate Milkshake, please” on the fabled quarter-sheet order-card. Sure enough, five minutes into the film, the delectable cold treat was placed before me. Since then, I have had many a meal at both Alamo locations showcasing festival films: the Downtown Ritz and the South Lamar, two miles from the brute of the action. If you’re ever in Texas and see a movie at an Alamo location, I recommend the Turkey Sandwich, which comes on ciabatta with Havarti cheese, field greens, red onions, and rosemary aioli and the Midnight Espresso Milkshake, complete with chocolate coffee beans on atop the whipped cream. Compared to the food-wasteland that makes up the rest of Austin—my 24/7 Southern California brain had a hard time comprehending that there are places where restaurants close at 6 p.m.—the Alamo is a haven. (Bring one to L.A., please!) But I said I would concentrate on the movies, didn’t I? But, oh, that Havarti!

True Adolescents softened the Bujalski-inspired angst I felt towards mumblecore filmmakers given that one of the key players in the movement, Mark Duplass, stars in what is an extremely enjoyable film. While True Adolescents probably doesn’t qualify as a mumblecore effort itself—or do mumblesome qualities and Duplass’ presence indicate defacto membership?—the fact that a mumblecore regular could participate in an involving narrative with sympathetic characters was highly reassuring.

The film at first seems like an unremarkable “indie” take on a Hollywood standard: the camping trip comedy. But before it’s over, writer/director Craig Johnson ends up taking the story in several unexpected directions that make it engaging. Sam is a thirtysomething loser who plays in a rock band and temporarily bunks with his Aunt Sharon (Melissa Leo) and teenage nephew Oliver (Bret Loehr) after a failed relationship. In a short set-up, Sharon forces Sam to fill the shoes of Oliver’s absent dad, who flakes out on a camping trip planned with Olier’s best friend Jake (Carr Thompson). While the trip follows the structural conventions of the genre—yes, the trio is at one point separated and lost in the woods—comparisons to fellow camping movies end there. Dialogue is sparser than usual, and it’s genuinely fascinating to watch how laid-back loser Sam—the one who puts the “true” in the movie’s title—interacts with his younger counterparts. While initially lacking in apparent maturity and offering advice that only makes him see more juvenile, Sam reveals true character and becomes rather likable in the movie’s shocking, thought-provoking climax. But there’s a lot more to contemplate than Sam’s attitude when it comes to said climax, which is refreshing in its honesty and topicality. Using a conventional mold, writer/director Johnson doesn’t attract any unnecessary attention to plot; instead, he focuses his energy on building these characters and saying something about modern American society while he’s at it. True Adolescents, benign as it initially may seem, proves to be compelling stuff. 3 Buckets out of 4.

After losing my Alamo virginity, it was back to the bustling Paramount for the highest-profile film (excluding opening night’s I Love You, Man) I had seen at the festival yet: Duncan Jones’ Sundance hit Moon. One thing that has fascinated me the entire time here is that the Paramount has a hard liquor license and people drink while watching movies in an auditorium of 1,300, young and old. Okay, fine: I’ll stick to the movies one more time. But only because you asked nicely.

Moon is about as avant-garde and intrinsic as a movie with a big-name lead and modest commercial viability can get away with, and it’s all the more commendable for pushing this boundary as far as it’ll go. It’s a tough movie to review, though, because it has pretty much become an established critical sin to spoil the driving force of the plot in the final two acts. Working to ensure your movie-going experience is just as fresh as mine was, I’ll only divulge the basic premise. Sam Bell (Sam Rockwell) is an astronaut near the end of a three-year tour working on the dark side of the moon harvesting Helium-3, a rare element in nuclear fusion that humans have used to solve the energy crisis on Earth. He’s glad he’ll soon be done, as the distance from his wife and young daughter has been emotionally tasking; the only “person” to keep him company all day is the talking, emoticon-displaying computer he works with, named GERTY (and voiced by Kevin Spacey). But before Sam makes his return voyage, he’s involved in a game-changing Land Rover accident. He survives, but something very peculiar happens, causing Sam to question his very existence and the frighteningly advanced technology around him.

Again, I dare not reveal the plot-point that makes the movie what it is, especially because other reviewers have done such a good job in keeping the secret safe. What I will say is that the movie achieves everything that thought-based science-fiction (the gold standard of which remains 2001: A Space Odyssey) should: it considers the pitfalls of modern technology, makes itself socially and politically relevant through allegory, and provides a credible representation of what the future might be like. Star Wars fans beware: there aren’t any intergalactic battles being fought here. Instead, all the action rests internally in Sam Rockwell’s protagonist, who spends the majority of the movie trying to make sense of what’s going on around him, usually only one slight step ahead of the audience. Rockwell nails the performance by playing intense and smart, but never shying from the humanity of a man who becomes involved in a situation that at once defies humanity and encompasses it. So too does Kevin Spacey, whose recognizable voice initially seems like a misstep on storywriter/director Jones’ part, but clicks on a meta level when one confronts how intertwined celebrity and technology have become.

That Jones set a detailed, credible stage was just as integral to Moon’s success as the performances. He made sure to use all the real science he could, and it shows in the movie’s authentic feel. As if that weren’t enough, Jones made a conscious choice not to use any CGI, meaning all of the visual effects were physically orchestrated. As a result, Moon is not only visually appealing, it’s also that much more believable, making its inferences about the future highly effective. While I must complain that the film gets awful tedious for those of us who aren’t big on sci-fi as it gets more and more abstract, no matter how thoughtful it may be, those who dig the genre of thing will struggle to find a better movie all year. 3 Buckets out of 4.

That’s it for me from Austin, which is no doubt a great American city. If I’m feeling productive and punctual, perhaps I’ll bang out and post another day’s worth of coverage before my plane leaves for San Diego bright and early tomorrow morning—I plan to enjoy my birthday weekend at home before returning to L.A.—but that’s unlikely. Check out my Twitter feed for more recent, reliable updates.