Strands of green lights (pictured above) were hung over Congress Avenue, home of both the Texas Capitol and the Paramount Theatre, to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, a SXSW staple.
For that reason, I won’t spend much time writing about either film. They’re unlikely to make any waves or even play in theaters, and I didn’t aggressively hate them enough to waste my time on a diatribe. Gary Hustwit’s Objectified—the filmmaker’s second feature-length documentary, after 2007’s acclaimed Helvetica—says bye-bye to type-face and tackles another type of design: that of the industrial product. Whereas Helvetica scratched below the surface and in the process became far more fascinating than one might expect given its dry subject-matter, Objectified’s appeal is as limited as my synopsis suggests. The movie’s basic premise—that every object, no matter how simple, is designed—interested me for all of about ten minutes. Even more peculiar is the fact that the film ultimately becomes little more than a walking, talking commercial for the Apple products and their superior aesthetic. at least it’s beautifully shot, which is more than Wyatt McDill’s Four Boxes, a plot-saturated bore, can claim. The film tells the story of three “estate liquidators” who spend their days selling the stuff in dead people’s houses on eBay. During a big job, they become obsessed with the mysterious website FourBoxes.tv, which purportedly features a twisted killer who didn’t know his house was pre-wired with operating cameras when he moved in, only for his sick crimes to be broadcast to the world. That all sounds good and dandy at first, but the film’s attempt at a dreamlike style ultimately just puts the audience to sleep. They’re probably better off that way, too, because those of us who managed to stay awake felt cheated by every one of the half-dozen obnoxious plot twists. Not to mention, the fictional FourBoxes.tv website comes equipped with the most annoying sound effects you’ll ever hear. Objectified – 2 Buckets out of 4; Four Boxes – 1 ½ Buckets out of 4.
After regrettably sitting through all of those two blemishes on my otherwise damned good festival schedule, my third pick for the day brought me back into a state of cinematic nirvana. In fact, I don’t think I saw a better movie than Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker at SXSW.
Forcing the politics of the Iraq War to sit on the sideline—the only way one could interpret this as a movie with an agenda would be to construe the age-old “war is hell” theme as anti-war—The Hurt Locker is exceptionally engaging in following the day-to-day operations of the American military specialists who disarm bombs. In a war full of IEDs and homemade weapons, this is an extremely dangerous and demanding task, and The Hurt Locker goes to great lengths to detail the skill of its central trio. In charge of the squad is Staff Sgt. William James (Jeremy Renner), who works brilliantly under-pressure sifting through the mechanics of and cutting cords on the bombs, but he seems to have a death wish given his reckless and often irresponsible defiance of protocol when it’s needed to get the job done. Staff Sgt. James’ subordinates, Sgt. JT Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), are more subdued and measured.
Like Severe Clear, playing in SXSW’s documentary competition, The Hurt Locker is refreshing in that it removes itself from all the propaganda and debate concerning the Iraq War and depicts the American soldiers for the incredibly talented, conditioned men they are. Consisting of one superiorly crafted white-knuckle action sequence after another, the movie offers an appropriate assault on the senses, showing the full extent of the insanity of modern guerilla warfare. The viewer comes to understand that, in Iraq, any roadside object could be a bomb, and the fear the characters must overcome to do their jobs properly is enormous. The film’s depiction of actual combat in Iraq is also one-of-a-kind; so many films that seek to convince the audience of what it’s like to fight in Iraq haven’t included a single scene of fighting. In this sense, The Hurt Locker provides viewers a respect for the job the military does that supersedes that of any glib representation of patriotism. Whether the Iraq War was right or wrong to begin with is never considered, and the Bush Administration is never mentioned. These guys are there to do their job, and watching the process is heart-stopping and immersive.
Beyond the film’s exceptional tech credits, which use little more than simple sound effects and claustrophobic camerawork to build tension, the acting is what makes The Hurt Locker so involving. In a performance that may be nominated for an Oscar, Jeremy Renner walks a tightrope in making Staff Sgt. James manic enough that he’s involving on a dramatic level, but never so over-the-top that he isn’t believable as a real soldier. I would imagine that a guy credited with disabling nearly 850 bombs would be just like this, minus James’ disregard for military regulation, which is mainly used as a device for screenwriter Mark Boal and director Bigelow to build suspense. At Renner’s side, Mackie and Geraghty are less frantic—after all, their characters aren’t the ones touching the bombs—but their work is just as compelling and authentic-feeling. Big names like Guy Pearce, Ralph Fiennes, and Evangeline Lily also appear and turn in fine performances, but their screen-time is limited.
The Hurt Locker’s sole flaw occurs in its final act, when the story sacrifices realism for good drama in forcing Staff Sgt. James to sneak off the base to avenge a death. While gripping in a narrative sense, this passage reeks of phoniness and betrays the prior realism of the material, stopping the picture short of greatness. But for a largely respectable, edge-of-your-seat look at some of the American military’s most valuable, adept members, viewers will do no better than The Hurt Locker, not your average Iraq War movie by any means. 3 ½ Buckets out of 4.
While I had planned to catch the 10 p.m. showing of a documentary about hippie activist Wavy Gravy, it got off to a late start, and I decided that I couldn’t risk seeing it and not getting a seat for the Midnight of Paul Sollet’s buzzed-about “It made people faint at Sundance!” zombie-baby sensation, Grace. As fate would have it, the theater ended up only half full, and why I thought it would sell out on a night green beer was being passed around in the streets is now beyond me. But, hey, I’ve made far worse decisions in life than to catch up on festival-related writing for two hours instead of seeing what was likely a mediocre movie.
But back to Grace, one of the freakiest and most atmospheric films I’ve seen in a long time, well deserving of its dual reputations as the most disturbing and most entertaining feature you’ll see on the festival circuit all year. The story follows Madeline Matheson (Jordan Ladd), who is pregnant and determined to deliver her baby at home with a midwife, not in a hospital, to maintain a natural lifestyle. After finding the right woman for the job—her ex-lover, Patricia Lang (Samantha Farris)—matters complicate. Madeline and her husband get in a car-wreck that leaves both he and the unborn child dead… or so we think. Madeline is determined to carry the fetus to term, and a minor miracle happens when little Grace comes to life after initially appearing stillborn. But Grace is no ordinary child: instead of nursing on milk, she needs blood.
The film, which is far more understated than the buzz might suggest, sneaks up on the viewer in a far creepier way than a more dramatic version would have. The first scene in which Grace bites into Mommy’s breast to nurse is a real shocker, mostly because Madeline’s reaction is so subdued, perhaps because she’s a good victim. In fact, the movie’s real terror rests not in what the baby does, but how her mother handles it. Desperate to keep Grace’s secret under wraps so that her mother-in-law, who wants to take Grace for herself under the argument Madeline is an unfit parent, Madeline goes to extremes to quench the baby’s thirst. The ultimate, inevitable showdown between mother and grandmother, which I dare not spoil, is bound to make the viewer’s jaw drop. In this sense, as Film Blather’s Eugene Novikov points out, the movie is a surprisingly conservative condemnation of the “hippie granola” lifestyle that leads Madeline to believe she’s doing what’s best for Grace. It’s a refreshing change-of-pace not to see Madeline depicted as an extremist Christian, as she no doubt would be in mainstream horror. Instead, writer/director Sollet’s social and political commentary examines the severe pitfalls “alternative” living, although he never does so in an overly obvious or preachy manner. In terms of message-delivery, Grace does for blood-thirsty babies what Romero does for zombies.
Grace is not a horror masterpiece, but it isn’t trying to be. The film is, plain and simple, fine Midnight moviemaking, with plenty of shocking action for audiences to marvel at and food for thought to chew on. If you’re looking for Tolstoy, then you clearly made a wrong turn several miles back. But for my tastes, Sollet’s film was certainly worth the hour it took me to hail a 2 a.m. St. Patty’s Day cab back to my hotel. Drunk Austinites who have no qualms about running into oncoming traffic to chase the bright yellow object they need to get home are tough competition in that regard. 3 Buckets out of 4.
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