The Art of the Beg

What’s wrong with me? Maybe there’s something on my face. Is it the mustache? It can’t be the mustache. Maybe it’s the mustache. I don’t think so at least. It is pretty filthy. I knew I should’ve shaved.

I watch as another “friend” is handed a ticket like a knife to the back. It’s High School Gym class all over again. There goes the spelling bee champ. There’s only two of us now. And they’re going to go with the wheelchair kid? Really? This is kickball.

The denial sets in. I refuse to understand it. I’ve tried just about everything. A headband, some neon green shades, and a spankin’ new tux? It hardly gets more conspicuous than that. I look like that famous snowboarder except that he doesn’t have this disgusting creature growing on his upper lip.

Another ticket is handed away. They’re toying with me. It’s the only logical explanation for all of this. The apathetic attitudes, the lack of ice, no free refills…it’s all just some practical joke and all of France is in on it. The paranoia subsides.  It’s all just some elaborate prank. That’s all. Very funny Ashton. You can come out now. Ashton?

I watch as two more blondes flirt their way into a pair of tickets. I’ve never felt so emasculated. They stroll down the red carpet linking arms with a wealthy French somebody. Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I’m not showing enough skin. I loosen my pre-tied bowtie and unbutton the top button, sensual but classy-like.

My cheeks are starting to hurt from the smiling. I catch my reflection in the store window. I look like a botox operation gone horribly array. Not to mention that filthy mustache. Why the Hell did I not shave?

The sun is setting. Night will fall soon, and I’ll surely freeze to death…if not from the lack of sunlight then from the cold emitting from these monsters’ hearts. I fear I’m losing faith in mankind.

I enter yet another staring contest with an affluent looking male down the street. He’s walking my way with his cold eyes locked with mine. He’s judging me…staring into my soul. He’s deeming me unfit for this world. He likely makes millions on his ability to thrive in these situations, to stare the enemy in the eye and refuse defeat. But this only works when said enemy finds life worth living. On this night, he is no match for my dead eyes. He looks away sheepishly conquered.

Times are desperate. It’s homecoming all over again. All the pretty girls have found their dates to the ball. I’m the ugly girl…the one with the mustache. Damn, I really should have shaved. I’m Cinderella. Not so much that I’m secretly beautiful and I’ll get with Prince Charming in the end but because I’ve starting talking to the birds. They’re the only ones who understand me. I’ve never felt more alone.

But alas, an Asian reporter is interviewing me now. Despite her best efforts, she manages to form a mangled sentence in English. She wonders what I’m doing. I tell her I’m looking for the Eiffel tower, but I’m lost. I ask if she’s seen it anywhere. She begins to scribble some notes but thinks better of it and hurries away confused.

I wonder if my sign is spelled correctly? My French is about as good as this mustache looks. Maybe there’s still time to shave? Then again, I’ve heard the French work miracles with wax. It’s been a little over an hour now. I think my sign may be upside down. It’s hard to be sure.

I’m experiencing a wave of emotions. I’m sweating, or are those tears? My body is crying. Literally, every pore of my body is crying.

Just beyond the reporter, I see another ticket handed out. I consider defeat. But wait, something is different this time. The wealthy gentlemen seeking last minute dates have evolved into a new breed of elderly ladies in search of handsome young men. I am immediately taken back to my days bagging groceries at Kroger. If I could woo those stingy grandmothers on senior discount Wednesdays into some pocket change, surely I can flatter these ones into an unforgettable night. I unbutton another button. I mean business.

Here comes one now. I attempt to flash her a grin that makes her feel 30 years younger, but my sagging cheeks can only muster off five. It’ll have to do. But wait, she’s reaching into her purse. The tiniest ray of hope is growing by the second. The fading sun produces a flicker of brightness from her handbag as she extracts…a cigarette. She asks me for a light in a voice deeper than my own will ever be. My confidence momentarily escapes me as the fear takes hold. I try to muster an answer, but my mouth is paralyzed. Instead, I nod my head and manage some mumbled sounds through a lopsided smile. She frowns and asks why my sign is upside-down.

My mind begins to wander. I can only imagine what it’s like beyond that red carpet and on the other side of those doors. I picture divine bliss. A divine bliss made of chocolate. It’s Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and there’s all the free chocolate I could ever want or need. The dehydration is setting in.

I’m snapped out of my chocolate dreams by an old man using a handful of tickets as a fan. It seems a little excessive. He walks past the guards and onto the red carpet still fanning cool air from his unused tickets to his glistening brow. There goes that faith in mankind.

I picture the same man bathing in a bathtub overflowing with premiere tickets. I immediately regret the image in my head, not so much for the image of the man’s soap-lathered flesh but more so for the irresponsible use of the excess tickets.

An unkempt gypsy boy begging for spare change awakens me from my misguided daydream. Beat it kid. Time’s running out, and daddy needs a new pair of shoes. These ones have left me with a cramped foot and a newfound gimp. Besides, this is life or death here.

The gypsy child slumps away begrudgingly but not before looking back. The reflections in our eyes meet. Its funny, I see a lot of myself in him. Maybe we’re not so different, him and I. I begin to wonder. Based on everything I’ve learned at the festival thus far, I should get used to the begging lifestyle anyways. The future looks grim at best. I have decided. I will befriend the gypsy children, and they will raise me as their own…with their gypsy eyes and their gypsy hands.

An old man is walking towards me now. He slips his hand inside his jacket searching for something. So this is how it ends. I close my eyes and await my wretched fate. But wait, he’s putting something in my hand. A wave of serenity surges through my veins. For the first time, I feel that everything will be ok. I open my eyes to reveal a gleaming ticket in my outstretched hands.

It must be a mirage, a side effect from the excessive loss of sweaty tears perhaps. It’s a Christmas miracle. Like that year where you wake up to presents under the tree even after your parents have revealed the truth about Santa. Screw the gypsies. I think I’ll treat myself to a night at the movies tonight. I thank him the only way that seems appropriate. I kiss him the French way, not with two pecks on the cheek but with lots of tongue.

Two hours later, I hobble out of the movie palace. The seats were cramped. The movie sucked. And I still have this disgusting mustache. But worst of all, there wasn’t even any chocolate. C’est la vie.

 

 

 

 

Le Havre

Director: Aki Karuismäki

Distributor: Pyramide SA

Leads: André Wilms, Kati Outinen, blondin Miguel, Jean-Pierre Daroussin

Running Time: 93 minutes

 

In the current age of media and technology, the art of the movie review is a dying breed. This is what I’m told. The exodus of the professional movie review from the ink medium has left a void yet to be filled. In its place, a new crop of internet hacks has been grown and spoon fed to the consumers.

They write to hear themselves type and blog as if they have something worth saying. This is what I’ve been taught to know. They break rules, ending sentences in prepositions throughout. Or worse yet, with incomplete sentences. They generally write like they haphazardly talk, frequently using as many adverbs as they are willingly able. Passive voice is employed throughout by the author, and they use avoidable albeit appealing alliteration. Often times, beginning with introductory clauses, they write in expansive, convoluted sentences using archaic and overly loquacious words that have little, if anything at all to say, yet go on wasting ink purely to spite simplicity’s sake.

The result is a review that says a great deal without so much as mentioning the movie itself.  This is what I hear. They write for themselves rather than the reader. Hidden within their convoluted prose is absolutely nothing. The act of interpretation is thus transferred from the actual movie to the review itself.

But this is a call to arms. Despite what some may argue, I firmly believe in the possibility to write both vividly and with valuable content. I myself have been critiqued for this dramatic style of writing. Still, I believe in the review’s ability to review the movie itself in addition to a mere reaction to it. That being said, it may come across as ironic that I have reached this point in the review without so much as mentioning the film in question, Le Harve, thus far. But I do so only to lay the groundwork for the analysis to come.

For those for whom this form of expression is too colorful or too complicated, from this point onward I intend to write as straightforward as possible. This means as few compound sentences and long-winded introductory phrases as necessary to avoid skewing the intended message. The result may not necessarily be objective, but it will be rooted in the facts and free from hidden meanings. I do so with the intention to write as uncomplicated as possible at the risk of losing interest. You, the reader, have been warned.

Le Havre is a decent film. That is the extent of it. I did not laugh. I did not cry. I did not clap when it ended (for better or for worse). The film was still leading all other films in the daily ratings at the renowned Cannes film festival with a score of 3.2 out of 4 stars by day nine. The result of these high ratings was a number of disappointed expectations from viewers upon exiting the theater. Le Havre is not the film to revolutionize the film industry despite what the dailies may seem to argue. It is not the end of modern cinema as we know it either. It does not deserve the critical praise. It does not deserve the scathing criticisms. It is simply a decent film.

Le Havre was Director’s Aki Kaurismäki’s 29^th directorial feature. That is 29 more than the average individual. That is probably enough to learn a thing or two about making good and bad movies. Only a handful of these 29 films will likely reach the extreme ends of the spectrum. The majority will probably fall into the mediocre range. Le Havre falls into the latter category. The director has previously stated his preference for films to be under 90 minutes. This film in particular clocked in just above the mark at 93 minutes. It is not a long film by any means. It does not seem like one either. It seems like a film that is 93 minutes in length.

The story is simple enough. An elderly shoeshiner and his neighbors unite to hide an escaped, immigrant boy from the authorities. That is it. The remainder of the film plays out much like a game of chess. The authorities reach check. The protagonists continue to elude checkmate.

I was surprised to find only after exiting the theater that the film was not set in the 1970’s as I had thought. It was more contemporary in setting. The style is lifted straight from a film of the 70’s. Grainy film stock and subdued colors convey a retro vibe. The decision to film in such a manner is beyond me. It is aesthetically beautiful nonetheless.

The acting is hit or miss. Such is to be expected from no name actors. The boy is believable enough. His quiet ways makes up for being overconfident for his age. The shoeshiner’s dying wife, on the other hand, brings new meaning to dramatic. Every scene she looks as though her possibly fatal disease is enough to force the sky to fall around her. She would have just as easily been placed in Von Trier’s Melancholia as the hospital bed in Le Havre, France. The French inspector fortunately provides some lightness where the story seems heavy. The inspector, mistaken for the film’s antagonist, is reminiscent of the stereotypical French detective. He wears a long trench coat, sports a pencil thin mustache, and slips in and out of the shadows with expert dexterity. The remainder of the cast is forgettable.

The film itself reflects on the theme of community. Le Havre revolves around a town by the same banding together to save the young boy. One neighbor offers groceries to assist feeding the boy. Another neighbor helps to hide the boy from the authorities. The community even unites to throw a charity concert to raise money for the boy’s escape to England. The result is a lengthy sequence resembling a flashy music video. It seems out of place with the remainder of the suppressed film.

It remains difficult to ever become fully immersed in the story. You cheer for the protagonists to achieve their goals. But it is the type of cheering generally reserved for a mediocre, hometown sports franchise. You cheer out of obligation more than actual passion. This is not a story in which you become invested. It does not draw you in or push you away. It simply shows.

If this review is bland, it’s only because the form reflects the content. I’m not entirely sure of the point of Le Havre. Maybe it’s a French political film commenting on the immigration of the Tunisians and Algerians into a hostile region. Then again, maybe the message is somewhere out there lost in translation. Maybe, but I doubt it. Somehow I think that this is a mediocre film that got caught up in its own publicity.

After all, it’s just as easy to write a review on a terrible film as it is to write one on a good film. It is when reviewing the most mediocre of films that the reviewer threatens to get swept up and lost within the overcomplicated and overly long sentences full of convoluted and unnecessary words that lose the point of the entire film they are reviewing. This is what I’ve been taught to believe. What is lost in this belief, however, is the notion that everyone has his or her own preference and writing style. The movie review isn’t dying. It’s only evolving. Le Havre is a decent film. It’s that simple. How this is interpreted is up to you.

 

 

The Swell Season: Once More

Director: Nick August-Perna, Chris Dapkins

Distributor: Elephant Eye Films

Production Company: Elkcreek Cinema:

Leads: Glen Hansard, Markéta Irglová

Running Time: 89 minutes

Following in the wake of their unprecedented low-budget success Once, musicians Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová return in a new companion piece that might more appropriately be dubbed “Once More.”

Though a documentary by nature, directors Nick August-Perna and Chris Dapkins’ new film detailing the life of the band known as The Swell Season feels strikingly similar to the duo’s first true feature film, Once. Providing an in-depth look behind the scenes of the band, the documentary plays out much like the plot of Once. An Irish street musician finds love with a young Czech piano player and they find harmony in music. The only difference is that Once is a fiction.

Filmed in black and white, the movie itself reflects the lives of the individuals it captures. Every frame could be taken as a still photograph and called art. The minimalist approach allows us to focus more upon the lives of the film’s central characters in addition to reflecting a rather truthful portrait of the lives of its characters. This isn’t the story of sex, drugs, and rock in roll. In fact, it’s just the opposite. These are genuine people that just so happen to be Oscar winners.
The story itself is a collage of sources. Interviews are interwoven with concert footage and sketches of daily life to sew a tapestry of the band’s heart and soul.  Parallel stories are rallied back and forth between various people and perspectives to construct a rather heartwarming depiction of the nostalgia of yore. The overall effect is a rather intimate glance into the personal life of the band.

Of course, a documentary on a band is incomplete without the music. The film does well to capture the massive popularity of the band’s music generated from Once. Live concert footage is interspersed with practice sessions and individual performances. This isn’t simply a music video. It’s a video about music.

As beautiful as the music may be, it is ultimately what lies beyond the tunes that represents the film’s innermost beauty. August-Perna and Dapkins do well to capture the ever-evolving relationship between the duo that comprise the two band members.

Part of the film’s splendor lies in the notion that true fans will already know the outcome of the duo’s failed relationship before entering the film. Part of the discomforting enticement lies in watching them unravel throughout the film.

The film plays like a timeline of the duo’s relationship. The film begins as the portrait of any new couple in love. She cuts his hair. He remarks what a great life they share. They smile.  As the movie progresses, however, so too does the relationship. Songs of hope turn to premonitions of despair. Smiles fade.

In the end, like the duo’s award winning single, they indeed “fall slowly,” in this case out of love. What exactly lies at the heart of this falling out is difficult to pinpoint. On the one hand, both struggle constantly with the idea of fame. The two simpletons find difficulty relating to a life of stardom. Cast into the spotlight almost instantaneously, Markéta finds difficulty relating to the life of her newfound stardom. Reserved by nature, she eventually decides to refrain from taking photos with fans at all. The notion of stardom seems absurd to her.

Glen, on the other hand, finds himself questioning the point of this fame and fortune altogether. The film’s directors particularly highlight the contrasting views of Glen and his mother regarding his fame. Overcome with pride, Glen’s mother, Catherine, constantly boasts of her son’s 2007 Best Original Song Academy Award despite his disapproval.  

More so than their difference in opinion, however, Glen and Markéta ultimately lay victim to change. In capturing the relationship, the directors also capture the growth of the two characters. Once shy and reserved, Markéta gradually becomes more confident in herself. No longer domineered by Glen’s strong, Irish personality, Markéta is transformed from naive girl to a confident woman by the film’s end. Once reduced solely to harmonies and the shadows, she eventually finds her voice.

Like their music, the dynamic of the duo’s entire relationship is one that is constantly evolving for better or worse. Despite everything, however, music remains above all as the glue that unites the two. Their song may no longer be one distinctly of romance. It is one of mutual understanding of care of utmost care for one another, and that perhaps is the sweetest melody of all.

Martha Marcy May Marlene

Director: Sean Durkin

Distributor: FOX Searchlight France

Leads: Elizabeth Olsen, Sarah Paulson, John Hawkes

Running Time: 120 minutes

There are films that explore the coming of age tale. There are those from the perspective of a young girl. There are films contrasting parallel lives. Then there is Martha Marcy May Marlene.

Director and Writer Sean Durkin’s first feature length film explores all of these areas and then some. In form, the director’s film draws many comparisons to last year’s Blue Valentine. In reality, however, it is likely more innovative.

After fleeing from a mysterious, rustic plot of land within the film’s opening moments, Martha, played by Elizabeth Olsen, is rescued by her older sister. The life she escaped is soon discovered to be a strange and disturbing commune led by a somewhat deranged father figure in the form of Patrick. The film goes on to both parallel and contrast the young girl’s life on the commune with her difficult reintegration into society.

Visually, the film plays like some nostalgic memory. Cameraman Jody Lee Lipes produces a hauntingly grainy image quality that seems more related to a moving Polaroid picture than a motion picture film stock. Shadowy figures and silhouettes are illuminated and bathed within the often overexposed backgrounds. Colors remain washed and faded like a distant recollection of some forgotten event. The film’s shallow focus makes frames of the abstract shapes that border the subjects throughout. At times, the film’s roots in its organic palette seem like they were grown from the soil itself.

Similarly, the performances are intimate and personal. These are characters with cracks on the verge of breaking. Though perhaps overshadowed by her two notorious twin sisters, Elizabeth Olsen proves to be a rare gem capable of holding her own. Olsen separates herself from the glow of her sisters by transforming herself into a confused and vulnerable girl in search of veiled answers. The role represents a strong first step for Olsen in creating a name of her own separate from that of her sisters.

Seamless transitions act as time machines. Martha is instantly transported from plunging off the side of a boat to splashing from a waterfall below two years earlier. The often discreet cuts serve to both contrast and to highlight the similarities between the two seemingly differing episodes in the girl’s life.

Through the quick cuts, it is near impossible to restrain from comparing the two lives. From the beginning, the role of the commune is made to represent the dark force in the struggle of morality. Though adhering to the notions of free love and sexual liberation grown to be associated with the modern-day concept of the commune, this love expressed is reserved solely for members of the commune alone. The commune’s exclusion from the typical expectations of a utopian society manifests itself through various illegal actions taken out against members of neighboring property.

At its heart or hearts, Martha Marcy is a film about belonging. Martha is a puzzle piece in moving between various puzzles. Though capable of finding acceptance, she fails to ever reach the point of full integration. For Martha, anarchy feels too liberated and the alternative too strict. Torn between the two, Martha finds herself isolated from the world at large.

Though seemingly a film of white and black, in reality, this is a film that’s ambiguity survives on the grayscale. Its uncertainty is its lifeblood. Many questions are raised, and many are left unanswered. This uncertainty alone seems to be an underlying theme throughout the movie. Though there are plenty of questions worth asking, Martha seems to be the only one asking them.

One of the film’s primary ambiguities is the treatment of Martha’s two respective lives. Led by Patrick, a father-like figure and undeniable leader of the group, the commune borders on the edge of cult. Orders are followed and performed without question. When a heist goes wrong ending in the stabbing of an innocent homeowner, Martha is the only one to question the heinous act.

On the other hand, Martha’s life outside the commune isn’t treated with much more favor. Though seemingly the better of the two options, Durkin also questions the attitudes of contemporary society. As Martha notes, what makes the notion of a moneymaker more favorable than the alternative?

Though mistreated, part of Martha still remains attached to the commune. Likewise, Martha finds a degree of comfort in the confines of society at large. Here lies the true criticism of the film. Durkin touches upon the dangers of becoming desensitized to the surrounding world. No one view is necessarily better than the next. Rather, it remains essential to never stop inquiring and never stop learning.

Difficult to classify, Martha Marcy May Marlene plays like a thriller, building tension throughout. Yet somehow Durkin’s work seems all the more significant for its underlying message. Like Martha’s struggle to escape her past, freedom from the past will never be an option. Rather, like Martha, we must leave the shadows of this past in order to find a brighter future.

The Fairy: Movie Magic

Directors: Dominique Abel, Fiona Gordon, Bruno Romy

Distributor: NK2 Productions

Leads: Dominique Abel, Fiona Gordon, Bruno Romy, Philippe Martz

Running Time: 93 Minutes

“What a difference a day makes,” croons late singer Dinah Washington throughout recent film The Fairy (La Fee). In some cases, as is soon to be learned, the span of 24 hours can make all the difference.

Returning for their third feature following previous films Iceberg and Rumba, the Belgian-based trio consisting of Dominique Abel, Fiona Gordon, and Bruno Romy present yet another comedy in the style of physical comedy legends of yore. The rather quirky and unpredictable indie love story redefines the genre of romantic comedy as a whole while providing a refreshing breath of fresh air to a story that’s been all too frequently suffocated.

There are certain films that possess an unnatural ability to capture the audience’s collective hearts from the play of the projector. The Fairy is no exception. From the film’s credit sequence featuring a biker and his broken bike chain it becomes immediately apparent that this is a film worth supporting and the unfortunate Don a character worth rooting for.

Almost instantly labeled as painfully unlucky if not cursed, Don (played by Dominique Abel) comes across as the type of guy with not much going for him and not much of any place to go. Working the night shift at a small French hotel, his fortune takes an unexpected turn with the arrival of new rather seemingly ordinary tenant claiming to be a fairy. The result plays out like a modern day children’s manuscript with the fairy granting his allotted and customary three wishes. What a difference a day makes indeed.

What begins as fiction, however, soon becomes increasingly more genuine. If Don’s increasingly burning desire to be with Fiona doesn’t complicate matters enough, the film’s writers obscure all expectations entirely when we find that she is no fairy at all but instead an escaped mental patient.

What originally is mistaken for quirky tendencies erring on the side of cute provides a different interpretation entirely when taken from the context of the fantasy realm. Fiona’s silhouette literally bounces off the walls in the illuminated wardroom. She is literally and inexplicably mad.

What’s more, though Don appears to be perhaps the film’s only sensible personality, he finds himself driven all the more to the verge of insanity by those inept characters surrounding him. When constantly interrupted from a moment of relaxation by the influx of various incompetent guests, Don eventually breaks, taking matters into his own hands and revealing a capacity for a madness of his own. Still, the more Fiona’s eccentricity wears off on him, the more destined they appear to be made for one another. This madness, or more specifically, their crazy desire to be together, ultimately proves to be the sole thing crazy enough from saving them from the rational.

The film’s first half hour alone plays like a comedian incapable of satisfaction. Unleashing gag after unrelenting gag, every joke is delivered with impeccable timing and a straight-faced delivery that intensifies the outlandish by downplaying the absurd.

The film’s directors do well to create an environment where the bizarre is glorified. Everything is expected because nothing is. The interruption of the overarching story by an underwater dance sequence featuring a giant oyster and jellyfish fashioned from plastic bags is hardly even questioned. Eventually it becomes so near impossible to fathom what the following scene holds that it’s best not to try at all and rather to simply enjoy the show instead.

The film relies on the realms of physical humor for laughs and its two lead stars truly shine. Abel and Gordon pay homage to the vaudeville greats of ole. The ghosts of Keaton and Chaplin are transferred to the screen through the performers’ ingenious control of their own movements and bodies. Rescuing Fiona from her tower, Don hides his love beneath his own jacket. Though dialogue is minimized, the two communicate through movements to the point of transcending two entities altogether. United, they are transformed into one energizing force of movement and vigor that provides motion to the story and propels it onward.

Though Don never fully articulates his third and final wish, the message is clear. It’s not important that this wish is ever actually realized or that Fiona posses any magical powers at all. What’s important is that they are together. Fairy or not, La Fee manages to provide a touch of magic to a medium that can all too often be taken too seriously.

17 Girls: Coulins’ Baby

Director: Delphine Coulin, Muriel Coulin

Distributor: Films Distribution

Producer: Denis Freyd

Leads: Louise Grinberg, Juliette Darche, Roxane Duran, Esther Garrel

Running Time: 90 minutes

Rating: Not yet rated

17 Girls is not shy about hiding its background based on the true story of 17 girls who make a pregnancy pact with one another. From the film’s opening credit sequence, it is clear that this is more than a simple fictional tale. This understanding adds gravity to a film that otherwise might be mistaken for air. This is no Juno.

In fact, the females in 17 Girls share just as many similarities with the indie sweetheart as they do differences. Whereas Juno could be mistaken for an adult in the body of an underage adolescent, the girls in the film, directed by Delphine and Muriel Coulin, represent just the opposite. In this case, the 17 girls are just that, 17 young girls trapped within the ever-evolving bodies of young adults.

In this instance, the lead isn’t represented as an indie sweetheart with a child’s problems, but rather is a young woman with the mind of a child. Prematurely pregnant at the expense of a malfunctioned condom, Camille uses her pregnancy as fodder to launch a revolution against the suppression inflicted by authority figures and in doing so inspires her peers to do the same. For the girls, the notion of pregnancy is associated with a newfound freedom of their own. As the film’s title suggests, however, this is not the story of a single girl’s path to parenthood but rather the journey of a collective of individuals.

The film turns the typical Hollywood protagonist and molds it according to its own will. These are not the typical Hollywood beauties pestered by petty misfortunes, but rather, the girls in the film represent actual representations of reality. Each is a real girl with a real problem, specifically one ever-growing problem.

What’s perhaps most frightening is the carefree attitude with which these girls view their affliction. Led by Camille’s golden promises of happiness and liberty, pregnancy comes to be regarded as “cool,” and what’s more, inconsequential. Camille is treated as a celebrity and news of Julia’s positive test results is met with cheers and celebrations from the girls. The act of sex evolves into a rite of passage in which each participant experiences the instant transformation from girl to woman.

Filmed with the eloquence grown to be expected of the French, the film is poetry in light. The saturated and carefree blue skies provide an ironic contrast to the rather dim subject matter. What’s more, the film’s pacing never approaches uncomfortable, always remaining appropriate to the content at hand. Romantic notions of a future of their own provides an immediate spark that is just as quickly diminished when reality is realized. The future that each had worked to earn is just as quickly and willingly given away in the girls’ collective desires to become pregnant.

Confidence always seems to find strength in numbers though, and directors Delphine and Muriel Coulin do well to explore the emotions that lurk beneath the girls’ strong facade. Static shots of individual girls in personal environments not only serves as a motif throughout, but simultaneously serve to highlight their individual doubts reflected through each concerned and contemplative set of eyes. Though members of a pact, in truth each is on her own, left to fend for her own.

When crisis strikes, it becomes difficult to witness the plans that the girls worked so diligently to sew come unraveled stitch by stitch. The authority figures so eagerly dismissed are discovered to be the same ones needed in times of crisis. A case of abnormal bleeding and a rather severe car crash of two of the film’s lead characters within mere moments of one another reveal the girls for what they truly are. Hidden behind the disguises of their expanding stomachs and egos alike, it is easily forgotten that the girls are still no more than helpless and frightened children.

In an age inundated with stories of teen pregnancy popularized by the likes of MTV and followers, 17 Girls provides yet another perspective on the increasingly fashionable subject matter. Gone, however, are the cute pop culture references and quirky mothers. In their place, the film’s directors supply an adaptation of reality. Though somewhat stylized, the girls never stray too far from the believable. This is, after all, based on a true story, one that provides a rather cautionary undertone throughout and is never quite lost upon the viewer.

Though seemingly removed from the story itself, the film ends in the same fashion it begins. Alluding to a mass migration of ladybugs to the seaside, the account seems somewhat superfluous to the story itself. On closer inspection, however, the similarities become unavoidable. Despite what may be expected, 17 Girls is not simply the story of 17 planned pregnancies. It is the account of a journey, a future, and of a promise land. More specifically, it is one in which expectations are not fully realized, and which, in the end, the girls are left like the ladybugs with only the consequences of their actions.

Restless: Life in Death

Director: Gus Van Sant

Distributor: Sony Pictures Classics

Leads: Mia Wasikowska, Henry Hopper

Running Time: 91

Rating: PG-13

Acclaimed director Gus Van Sant’s most recent attempt at filmmaking, Restless, is a film as much about dying as it is about living. Despite the rather heavy content the film contemplates regarding the afterlife, the film soars.

Drawn to darkness of life after death by the memories of his ill-fated parents, Enoch finds himself haunted by a past filled to the brim with emptiness. The loner’s only true friend is the ghost of a fallen kamikaze warrior, Hiroshi. Emotionally confused while remaining unexpectedly charming Enoch finds belonging in his alter ego, Annabel. Diagnosed with a terminal illness and an expiring shelf life, Annabel self medicates on a steady diet of life in spite of death. In Annabel, Enoch not only finds a lost ability to love, but also to allow himself to be loved.

Though almost certainly destined to be deemed one of the most talked about new films for young hipsters and indie lovers alike, Van Sant’s film represents the newest addition to the director’s already impressive repertoire. Though hard pressed to live up to past gems such as Good Will Hunting or Milk, Restless finds a comfortable place nestled within the director’s notably celebrated works.

The film presents both rather unfortunate children as wiser than their ages should allow. Perhaps teetering on the precipice of overdramatic, the film never quite falls into the realm of the implausible. Instead the story paints a picture that defies the genres it attempts to emulate: too depressing for a comedy, too childish for drama, and too shallow for romance. What’s left is a film that is real enough to feel, but not enough to hurt.

Much of the emotion brought to the film is burdened by the lead actors Henry Hopper (Enoch) and Mia Wasikowska (Annabel). Together the duo breathes life into the two characters where the screenplay provides only air. Enoch’s loss and Annabel’s affliction both deny each from finding acceptance among peers.  But the elements that work to repel others effortlessly combine to form an even greater attraction between the two. While he remains trapped within his own mind that chooses to see only darkness in light, she finds just the opposite, in this case in the form of light at the end of a rapidly diminishing tunnel. The result is a balanced relationship that is just playful enough to be cute without the superfluous mush.

When invited to meet Enoch’s parents, Annabel is presented with a tombstone. The ensuing rather lopsided conversation with the unresponsive grave begs the question as to not only how loose their screws are, but if there are any left remaining whatsoever. They are perfect for each other.

Van Sant works well to present the viewers with a highly intimate story. Character emotions are examined on faces through incredibly tight close ups focused only just enough to convey emotion amidst the abstraction of skin and background. Though we never quite feel one with the story to the extent of total immersion, instead Van Sant supplies to us the rather fortunate opportunity to witness it all from behind a one sided mirror. The characters act not for us, but rather for themselves.

It all comes across as if they and their tale exist within its own bubble. The story itself is airtight if not too secure. Every action is not complete without an eventual purpose. The pieces fit together almost too perfectly, as none are damaged, and perhaps more importantly, none are missing. What is overlooked, however, is the notion that sometimes the flaws contain the truest form of beauty.

For a film that strives to be rough around the edges, Restless is overly polished. For the film’s most notable imperfection, however, this represents more of an achievement than a criticism. As Van Sant and writer Jason Lew confirm, it is better to err on the side of a well-crafted storyline than the alternative. Content is presented like a serving sized sample of deja-vú rather than a full course meal. The result is a story that, while perhaps too diagramed to convince reality, is entertaining to follow in the least.

When a painfully rehearsed death scene reveals itself to be just that, it’s hard not to secretly hope that the ensuing fight isn’t staged as well. Unfortunately, Enoch and Annabel like all real people, find themselves victim to bickering. Here we learn the coveted answer that has been so frequently eluded prior in the film. As Enoch so bluntly puts it in the presence of his dying lover, after life there is nothing. There are no exceptions: not for his parents and certainly not for his dying love.

Despite it’s dark nature, however, the film manages to evade overly depressing. Led by Annabel, the film carries a sense of hope in spite of its impending doom. Given buoyancy by the music of acclaimed Danny Elfman, the gently picked, soothing acoustic soundtrack provides an ambience that resonates the heartstrings.

Though certainly doomed to be criticized for its implausibly unfortunate story, Van Sant’s film reaffirms the director’s artistic ingenuity and deserved place among today’s most acclaimed filmmakers. At the hands of some rising director, the film would almost undoubtedly be commended for its original story. Unfortunately, Van Sant’s illustrious reputation precedes him. But life is funny that way. As the film attests, life lingers for no one. Here, Enoch is proven wrong. As for what comes after death, love remains. Taken as a whole, the film represents a call to arms to live life and to love. Fortunately for Enoch and Annabel, they have each other. If nothing else, that is enough.