The Night of the 12th
It’s no secret that true crime is one of the most popular themes in the “entertainment” space. All too often in this current landscape, one person’s tragedy is turned into cultural fodder that we devour weekly in the form of podcasts and TV shows, sitting through a plethora of advertisements to get our “whodunnit” fix. What is it about true crime that is so appealing? Is it our innate voyeuristic nature, or our fascination with death and its permanence? Audiences are left to wrestle with those complex rhetorical questions in French director Dominik Moll’s layered crime drama, The Night of the 12th (La Nuit du 12).
Clara Royer (Lula Cotton-Frapier) is heading home after a night out with friends when she is confronted by a stranger on a dimly lit street. Masked and unrecognizable, he calls Clara by name – catching her off guard – before dousing her in gasoline and throwing a lighter in her face. Head and torso ablaze, she runs a short distance before collapsing onto the street and is left to die. The graphic nature of the crime is a shock to the community, especially the police department. Even though they are used to dealing with the sad reality of death every day, it never gets easier to tell the family of a loved one that they have passed.
From the very beginning, Clara’s case feels strangely unique and the deeper investigators dig into her background, the more obsessed they become. Police captain Yohan Vivès (Bastien Bouillon) begins to spiral after initial leads become dead ends. After speaking with Clara's best friend and uncovering dark truths about her past, Clara's sexual history becomes his North Star. The film toes the line between being concerned and shaming Clara’s past actions. A pattern quickly emerges that every suspect on the police’s radar has slept with Clara rather recently, more than one being an illicit affair.
Yohan becomes fixated on this fact, and his personal feelings toward the matter seep into his professional actions. The evidence is right in front of him, and at the same time, isn’t there at all. No matter how strong his intuition is, it cannot compete with physical evidence – or lack thereof. Clara’s killer roams free, and that haunts Yohan to no end.
The Night of the 12th is ominous and dark both in subject matter and visual aesthetic. Setting the film in the mountainous French commune of Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne has a baked-in sense of isolation that feels both idyllic and anxiety-inducing. Composer Olivier Margueri’s score offers a beautiful mix of buoyancy sprinkled with melancholy. At times reminiscent of the French pop scene he used to frequent as a musician, Margueri uses soft vocal melodies and luxuriant arrangements to give the film a sense of cautious optimism.
Filmmaker Dominik Moll combines elements of documentary and fiction in The Night of the 12th, adapting a book from writer Pauline Guéna, who spent a year immersed in the Versailles Criminal Investigation Department. Her book, “18.3 - une année à la PJ” (18.3 - A Year With the Crime Squad) is the source of inspiration for the film. An official selection of the 2022 Cannes Film Festival, The Night of the 12th is a tough film to swallow but an equally important story to digest.
Distributed by Film Movement. Playing at NYC’s Quad Cinema this Friday, May 19, 2023, followed by additional markets including Los Angeles, Seattle, St. Louis, and Pittsburgh.
Giving Birth to a Butterfly
Theodore Schaefer’s debut feature Giving Birth to a Butterfly takes an artful approach when it comes to the classic American trope of shedding one's limiting preconceived notions and reclaiming a new sense of self–much like how a monarch emerges from its cocoon as a completely changed animal. In a cinematically surreal story of identity, two women from very different backgrounds embark on a road trip that ends up sending one down the road less traveled and ends up changing her life forever.
Diana (Annie Parisse) is getting the bare minimum of enjoyment out of daily life. As the mother of two kids, she is responsible for a lot of the housework and continuously gets affected when her husband (Paul Sparks), overly optimistic to a fault, unintentionally steamrolls her and her feelings. The night their son returns home with his pregnant girlfriend, Marlene (Gus Birney), Diana is at her breaking point–only to be pushed over the edge when she discovers that she's been the target of identity theft and her bank account is wiped clean.
Determined to track down the thieves, Diana convinces a heavily pregnant Marlene to come with her on this revenge road trip. The objective may have initially been to confront the criminals but by the time the duo reach their destination and discover whose doorstep they've landed on, their initial plans go out the window, and instead, they start a new, unexpected journey towards enlightenment. By the end of the film, only one woman has given birth; not to a human, but to a belief.
Schaefer, the executive producer of We're All Going to the World's Fair, gives the film a pastel-toned hue, perhaps to signify a type of "rose-colored glasses" from our protagonist. The decision to shoot on 16mm film with intimate framing forces the audience to have a sort of tunnel vision perspective, at times it can feel claustrophobic but given the small scope of the production, this choice makes sense. A bit soap opera-esque at times, Giving Birth to a Butterfly has a solid nugget of wisdom buried within but unfortunately, that can get lost amongst its various filters and seemingly unnecessary stylistic choices.
This review originally ran on August 24, 2021, during Fantasia Fest.
Distributed by Cinedigm. Now streaming on Fandor, the company’s indie discovery platform, and VOD.
BlackBerry
From director Matt Johnson comes BlackBerry, a fictionalized story inspired by real people and events leading up to the uncharted success and ugly demise of the world’s first smartphone.
In the early 2000s, the BlackBerry was a symbol of status. Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton would carry their Swarovski-covered accessories to and from Hollywood’s most exclusive clubs, and teenage girls everywhere (*raises hand) subconsciously equated this bedazzled phone to power. A device that you could call, text, and check your email? It was a cultural revolution. Running 124 minutes long, we’re treated to revisionist history’s version of BlackBerry’s ripe rise and sour fall.
The year is 1996. Mike Lazaridis (Jay Baruchel) and Douglas Fregin (Matt Johnson) are on their way to pitch the latest invention born out of their small Canadian-run business, Research in Motion. The men are on a mission – a deal with a corporate big shot would mean financial security and technological advancements the world has never seen.
Unfortunately, their dreams seem even further out of reach after stumbling their way through the presentation for their "computer-in-a-phone" device in front of businessman Jim Balsillie (Glenn Howerton). Jim is a fast talker and brutally honest straight shooter and barely acknowledges the men, even as they speak directly to him. Jim has too much to do and too little time and he makes that known.
Deeming the pitch a disaster, Mike and Doug begin to feel the prongs of desperation grip their bodies. Everything changes when, after a moment of clarity, Jim returns with a counteroffer that would take the company and the device to the next level. What ensues is a Wolf of Wall Street-type ebb and flow of nerdy engineers who fell into an influx of cash and don’t know what to do with the newfound success.
Mike has always been the most level-headed of the group and keeps one foot rooted in reality but not Jim. If he’s not trying to buy a professional hockey team, he’s unethically trying to poach employees from competitive companies or letting personal grievances get in the way of the health of the company. The final nail in the coffin comes during Apple’s keynote address when Steve Jobs (using archived footage from a real event) introduces the world to the first iPhone. Game over.
Now, the reason why you should see this film: Glenn Howerton.
Director Matt Johnson, who also co-stars in the film, creates a thoroughly engaging, high-stakes comedic adaptation from his inspiration source: the book “Losing the Signal: The Untold Story Behind the Extraordinary Rise and Spectacular Fall of Blackberry”. BlackBerry is shot in a style that’s similar to The Office. It's not a faux-documentary but the loose, handheld camerawork gives BlackBerry a breathy nature that contrasts the corporate world we’re living in. The film’s soundtrack further sets the mood and takes us down memory lane, with tracks from Joy Division, The White Stripes, and The Strokes to name a few.
Now, the reason why you should see this film: Glenn Howerton. His performance as a manic, loud-mouthed, egomaniac is entirely pitch-perfect and hilarious. His comedic fingerprints are all over this film in the best way possible; anyone acting alongside him is automatically elevated to his level. The energy that radiates from this film probably equates to a double shot of espresso.
BlackBerry was an official selection of the 2023 SXSW Film Festival and is distributed by IFC Films. If you ever wondered about the evolution of the smartphone and how it landed into the palms of people everywhere, or just looking for a smart, comedic gut punch, this is for you.
124 minutes. Opening in select theaters on Friday, May 12, 2023.
The Eight Mountains
Co-directors Felix van Groeningen and Charlotte Vandermeersch bring Paolo Cognetti’s novel The Eight Mountains to life delicately and compassionately in this stunning adaptation based on his famous Italian novel. Written for the screen by van Groeningen and Vandermeersch, the film takes the literature’s words and transforms them into a visceral, heart-stirring nod to male friendship and the ties that bind us.
The Eight Mountains is a love story about friendship. Two boys from different walks of life, Pietro (Luca Marinelli) and Bruno (Alessandro Borghi) strike up an unusual relationship after first meeting as 12-year-olds. Pietro is a city boy, whose familial aspirations include a career-driven life beyond their modest hometown. Bruno, on the other hand, has grown up in a remote mountain village, the last child of the nearly-forgotten community, and has no desire to ever leave. Through the years (which turns into decades) we follow Pietro and Bruno as they grow up, navigate the complexities of young adulthood, and fall in and out of each other’s lives just as the tide washes to and from the shore.
Relationship reassignment is a normal part of life. Many of us have outgrown the childhood friendships that we swore would last forever; the BFF necklaces stuffed in the back of the dresser drawer instead of proudly displayed hanging from our necks. It’s a gradual mourning that sometimes we don’t realize has happened until the memories of our time together become more than the actual time spent. Then there are the people we seem to have a soul contract with, the people that will stay in our lives forever. This is the bond that Pietro and Bruno share. Throughout all of life’s inconsistencies and hardships, true friendship will always rise.
Another through-line in this coming-of-age story is the relationship dynamic between fathers and sons. Both boys had complicated family dynamics which they played out in their adult lives in different ways. Masculine trauma and the expectation to uphold a legacy, abandonment issues, grief, and loss are just some of the threads pulled throughout the film.
The world of The Eight Mountains is stunning, both visually and through the film’s use of music. Nature is a major theme in the film, and the directors do a wonderful job of contrasting its beauty and melancholy so elegantly. The snowy mountaintops, nighttime bonfires, and cattle farms evoke a sense of spiritual easiness, reminding us that people and the environment can co-exist peacefully.
Adding to this ethereal mood is the score by Daniel Norgren, who directors Felix van Groeningen and Charlotte Vandermeersch consider the Swedish version of Bruno. They have stated, “Like Bruno, he lives far away from the crowd, in the woods, on his own mountain, building his own house and his own music studio. He finds his inspiration wandering in the woods.” This expression of isolation is felt throughout the score, it’s vulnerable in all the right ways and hits all of the right notes, especially the angelic recurring piano theme.
The Eight Mountains offers many nuggets of wisdom, and at least one is bound to resonate with you personally. One moment in the film has stuck with me since first watching, and I’ve been contemplating this rhetorical question ever since: “At the center of the world is the tallest mountain, the Sumeru, which is surrounded by eight seas and eight mountains. The question is: who has learned the most, the one who has been to all eight mountains, or the one who has reached the top?” There is no wrong answer here, and our past may dictate what we value as more impressive. However, we should remember that progress isn't linear, accomplishments are relative, and life is more enjoyable with a good friend.
https://youtu.be/ak4yBWxJDj8
De Humani Corporis Fabrica
Let me start by saying De Humani Corporis Fabrica should be watched with caution. Preferably on an empty stomach. And definitely not while eating ground beef.
If you're familiar with the sensory sea-epic Leviathan, you'll know what to expect from directors Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel. This includes intense, tedious, and often time uncomfortable moments from the natural world that force viewers to expand their horizons and thresholds. But instead of getting enveloped in the oceanic environment of an industrial shipping vessel, this time our attention is drawn to the smallest of minutiae in one of the highest-stress environments: the operating room.
De Humani Corporis Fabrica derives its name from the collection of books by anatomist André Vésale from the mid-1500s. The books thoroughly detail human anatomy based on Vésale's findings from dissecting human bodies for science. The film quite literally lives up to its name; human flesh is cut, punctured, probed, cracked, sliced, and sewn in this deeply affecting commentary on the fragility of life.
Playing up slice-of-life (pun intended) vignettes over a traditional storyline structure, the film is an intimate look at the goings on inside the walls of a hospital during incredibly heightened moments. Knowing that as a patient, one needs to place their trust in the hands of a stranger–albeit, an incredibly smart and capable stranger–is a crazy thing when you really think about it. These situations, no matter how routine, are always life and death. The subjects in the film clearly have good intentions and maliciousness isn't perceived once but the muttering of "I'm lost" by a surgeon as he's in the middle of a surgery is as horrifying to witness as the surgery itself.
Despite the film's graphic nature–which includes a Lasik-type eye surgery, an emergency C-section, and spinal surgery to combat severe scoliosis–perhaps the most somber moments come from the nursing facility that the filmmakers intermittently cut to between scenes. Here are senior citizens who are close to the brink of death, some of whom are aware the end is near. It's haunting and humbling all at once.
De Humani Corporis Fabrica marks Castaing-Taylor and Paravel's fourth feature film collaboration. The directing duo currently works out of the Sensory Ethnography Laboratory (SEL) at Harvard University. A quick Google search describes the center as an experimental laboratory that promotes innovative combinations of aesthetics and ethnography. Using various forms of expression–including analog and digital media, installation, and performance–the directing duo's work aims to explore the aesthetics and ontology of the natural and unnatural world.
118 minutes. Distributed by Grasshopper Film and Gratitude Films. Opening in LA at Laemmle Glendale on Friday, April 28, 2023.
32 Sounds
This review originally ran on March 14, 2022, during the SXSW Film Festival
32 Sounds is unlike any other documentary in the SXSW lineup. For one, headphones are strongly encouraged. This is a highly sensory film and to achieve the filmmaker's intended impact, audience members are to fully immerse themselves into the sonic landscape by wearing headphones. Also, this is the only film I've ever watched that encourages you to close your eyes.
Oscar-nominated filmmaker Sam Green (The Weather Underground) is the man in charge of leading us through this journey through sound. His voice is eerily similar to Owen Wilson's (since we're paying such close attention to detail, I couldn't help but notice this uncanny resemblance). He, along with JD Samson (Le Tigre, MEN)–who also provides original music for the film–provides an interactive cinematic experience to illustrate the importance of sound, its history, and how it can shape the world around us.
Sound is the first sense we develop. We unconsciously are attuned to what we hear when in the womb; we may be alone, but we are still connected to the world through the sounds we hear. To illustrate this point, the audience is asked multiple times throughout the film to close their eyes and just listen to the audio that's being pumped into our headphones. "Sound is an energy channel," Sam states, as we explore 32 distinct sounds throughout the course of the film.
Taking us back to Thomas Edison's invention of the phonograph in 1877, Sam explains that prior to this technology, once you died, your voice was gone forever. Since its creation and accessibility over time, we are able to "play sounds of the dead" by listening to music from record players, CD players, and streaming apps, with unlimited potential for the future.
Continuing our sonic journey through the senses, we're introduced to avant-garde composer Annea Lockwood who's most famous for her Piano Burning performance. At 81 years old at the time of filming, we see Lockwood is still just as fascinated with the sounds of the natural world, and her awe easily fills us with awe as well.
We round out the film with a visit to a foley artist's studio and watch her create cues for film and TV, manipulating various objects to sound like different objects. We're also given a slightly amateur yet still entertaining education on the difference between binaural sound vs surround sound (again, the headphones come in handy here).
32 Sounds is a unique watch that feels like it belongs in a museum rather than a traditional movie theatre. Its interactive nature is engaging from start to finish, and well worth a watch if you're interested in a meditative approach to understanding the auditory sense.
Distributed by Abramorama. Playing in select theaters this Friday, April 28, 2023.
Nam June Paik: Moon is the Oldest TV
Who was Nam June Paik, the inventor of video art? Director Amanda Kim turns this question about the enigmatic figure into a dazzling portrait of reverberating inspiration in the documentary Nam June Paik: Moon is the Oldest TV. Kim, a former creative director at Vice Media, offers a generous look into the fascinating life of this true thinker. One that bustles with sound, color, and electrifying discovery.
No words will be enough to describe the legendary impact this avant-garde Korean artist had on the video art community, but many have boiled it down to one word: Eccentric. Paik's unusual, bewildering performances left audiences in awe, and his relationship with how we embrace and utilize technology is still revered to this day as revolutionary. He had the uncanny ability to chart where technology was headed and his art reflected the potential damages, as well as possibilities, that would bring.
The film follows a traditionally linear path from Paik's childhood in South Korea, to his studies in Germany–where he received a Ph.D. in pre-Renissance Music and Philosophy–to his professional career as an artist in New York City. Paik's personal writings are read aloud throughout the film by Steven Yeun (Minari, Nope). The documentary does a thorough job of incorporating archival footage, as well as past and current interviews with his contemporaries (including composer John Cage and members of the Fluxus movement).
Nam June Paik has been called "The George Washington of Video Art," the "Citizen Zero of the Electronic Superhighway," and a "Cultural Terrorist." But those who knew him best describe him as a humble, reserved man who spoke 20 languages and was always fiddling with something. His art took priority in his life, up until the very end. In 2006, Paik passed away at the age of 74 due to complications from an earlier stroke. "It's the artist's job to think about the future," Paik so eloquently states at one point in the film. Not surprisingly, Paik's impact on the future goes beyond his physical work. He has even been credited as having come up with the phrase “electronic superhighway” (which later was ascribed to the Internet).
Of all of Nam June Paik's accomplishments, it's his expression of spirituality interconnected with technology that is the most profound (aka the "why" behind his installations and performances). His way of thinking has inspired countless artists, some of whom we see in the film. Paik continues to inspire future generations through his notable works, many of which are still on display through traveling exhibitions including his 1974 video sculpture "TV Buddha." Paik is credited with opening the door to the technological revolution, and it is our duty to make sure that door stays open.
https://youtu.be/nzhEUxmqGWs
Sick of Myself
From the producers of Joachim Trier's Academy Award-nominated film, The Worst Person in the World comes Sick of Myself (Syk Pike). Norwegian-born filmmaker Kristoffer Borgli takes twisted relationship dynamics to extreme lengths in this dark, demented comedy about the "actual" worst person in the world and their no-holds-barred addiction to sympathy. Nominated for the Un Certain Regard Award at the 2022 Cannes Film Festival, Sick of Myself is a 97-minute-long insanity spiral and a nihilist's delight.
Kristine Kujath Thorp plays Signe, a woman in her early twenties who has the emotional maturity of a toddler. Signe and her boyfriend Thomas (Eirik Sæther)–another stunted adult–have a rather unconventional relationship; despite presenting a compassionate and fun-loving facade, the duo vindictively takes any opportunity to outshine and undercut their partner. When the film begins, the stakes already seem high but turns out that stealing a $2,300 vintage bottle of wine is just the beginning.
Thomas is a contemporary artist whose star is on the rise. This upsets Signe, a barista, whose jealousy oozes through her pores. She wants the attention–the good, the bad, the ugly. It doesn't matter from who, as long as it's her name is in the mouths of their friends, and not Thomas'. Things take a nasty turn when Signe realizes that feigning an illness may be her golden ticket to notoriety.
Her desperation goes too far, even for her, when hair starts falling out in chunks, blood pours out of her mouth and head, and fainting spells become all too common. Signe–clearly spiraling from delusion, a bruised ego, and desperation– becomes a shell of herself, unrecognizable from the inside as well as the outside. Her "mystery illness" turns out not to be a medical condition but rather a sickly amount of narcissism.
From beginning to end, Sick of Myself is an unhinged black comedy fueled by gaslighting of the highest degree. Kristine Kujath Thorp’s performance is praiseworthy and her complex villain origin story is one we love to hate. The rest of the cast equally holds their own, including a short guest appearance by Norway’s finest, Anders Danielsen Lie.
With Sick of Myself, Kristoffer Borgli has solidified himself as a director to watch. Although, he's far from new on the scene with over 10 short film credits on his IMDb. Born in Oslo, his childhood revolved around skateboarding and making videos (not unlike our other favorite Norwegian filmmaker). It's this effortless confidence behind the lens and strong directorial point of view that makes Sick of Myself one of the most exciting films of the year thus far.
97 minutes. Distributed by Utopia. Opening in theaters this Friday, April 14, 2023.