The Screengrab : kids

Reviews By Request: Mister Lonely (2007, Harmony Korine)

Paul Clark — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 20:00:00 GMT

As always, I’ll be polling you folks to determine my next Reviews By Request column. To vote, see the poll at the end of this review.

I find myself sort of at a loss at how to review Harmony Korine’s latest film, Mister Lonely. Here is a film with plenty of ideas without enough ways to satisfactorily tie them together, yet it’s also so rich and strange that it’s impossible to ignore. That it doesn’t really work in any of the usual ways is to its credit. Just because I have such a hard time pinning the movie down doesn’t diminish my admiration for it.

Like all of Korine’s films, Mister Lonely deals with characters who live on the fringes of society. In this case, his protagonist is a Michael Jackson impersonator (played by Diego Luna) who ekes out an existence in Paris. Most of time, he performs on the street, although occasionally his agent (fellow filmmaking enfant terrible Léos Carax, who’s really overdue to direct another movie) will find him a job. It’s at one of these jobs- a “personal appearance” at a nursing home where he cheerfully tells the residents, “don’t die! Live forever!”- that he meets another impersonator, a Marilyn Monroe played by Samantha Morton, who invites him to live with her in a commune just for impersonators.

The commune, an old castle in the Scottish Highlands, is inhabited by Marilyn’s husband Charlie Chaplin (Denis Lavant) and their daughter Shirley Temple (Morton’s real-life daughter Esme Creed-Miles). There’s also the Pope (James Fox), Queen Elizabeth II (Anita Pallenberg), Abraham Lincoln (Richard Strange), Madonna, James Dean, Sammy Davis Jr., Buckwheat, Little Red Riding Hood, and the Three Stooges. A rather eclectic mix, I’m sure you’ll agree. Here, Marilyn promises, they can all live the lives they’ve chosen in an environment where they will be understood and welcomed.

The early Paris scenes are good, but the movie gets really fascinating once Michael makes the journey to Scotland. It’s also here that the idea of impersonation becomes complicated- for some celebrity impersonators, it’s primarily about making money or indulging their fantasies in a relatively healthy context. Yet the residents of the commune are another breed entirely, having substituted the lives they’ve assumed for their own. Korine shows us the Pope getting drunk at dinner, Buckwheat tending to his chickens, and so on. But try as they may to escape who they are, their real natures end up coming out- Lincoln reveals himself to be a foul-mouthed petty tyrant, Chaplin alternately abuses and neglects his wife, and Marilyn begins to unravel. Even the sheep end up getting sick and having to be put down.

Complicating matters even more is the show they put on for the locals- a few of the impersonators do their own chosen celebrity’s shtick, but some do other people’s famous routines, with such strange sights as James Dean doing stand-up comedy. Indeed, all Three Stooges are never onstage at the same time. Could it be that these people are so uneasy in their own skin that they’re forever searching for another identity to assume? Regardless of the intent, the show is hardly the success that it was intended to be, no doubt because if people are paying to see celebrity impersonators, then by gum want to see them impersonating those celebrities.

All the while, Michael mostly keeps to himself, practicing his routine, never quite giving himself over to the commune’s vibe. If most of the other impersonators have turned the celebrities’ identities into their own, it becomes clear that Michael is more of a seeker, using the Michael Jackson persona as a way to find fulfillment in his own life. Once it’s clear to him that he won’t find it at the commune, he makes his way back to Paris and gives up his Michael Jackson persona, seeking fulfillment from something different altogether.

Perhaps it’s this search that best explains a strange subplot involving a group of nuns led by a priest who’s played by longtime Korine friend Werner Herzog. One day, when air-dropping bags of rice in Central America, one of the nuns falls out of the airplane only to discover that if she prays hard enough, she will survive the fall unharmed. In contrast to Michael, who has searched all his life for some kind of inner peace, the nuns happen upon it by accident, and seize upon the opportunity to experience transcendence through their literal leaps of faith.

After rising to prominence as the writer of Larry Clark’s Kids, Harmony Korine has made three features to date, all of which have attempted to push the boundaries of cinema. But while julien donkey-boy and particularly Gummo were dragged down by Korine’s need to turn them into freak shows, with Mister Lonely he has matured as a filmmaker by showing a real curiosity for his characters and a willingness to approach his ideas with real sincerity. In an interview earlier this year, Korine described his directing style by saying, “I try to create a place where you feel that anything's possible.” With Mister Lonely, I believe he has successfully accomplished this, and in doing so he’s made his best film to date.

What’s next for Reviews By Request? Once again, I’m playing catch-up on my 2008 releases, and this week’s choices include two of this year’s most acclaimed documentaries, a comic corrective to the rather humorless Quantum of Solace, a celebrated Danish drama, and a David Gordon Green-produced family tragedy. So, what’ll it be?

What should I watch for my next Review By Request? | BuzzDash polls

Voting closes on Monday night. Feel free to stump for your favorites or to recommend future candidates in the comments box. See you in two weeks!

Morning Deal Report: Nicole Kidman Marries Charlize Theron

Scott Von Doviak — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 15:30:00 GMT

If the voters of California had visualized that headline, Prop. 8 might have had a completely different outcome. Alas, it’s a match made only for the movies (as far as we know): Nicole Kidman and Charlize Theron will star in The Danish Girl. Kidman plays artist Einar Wegener, a man with a very smooth forehead who, with the encouragement of his wife Greta (Theron), adopts a female guise for a series of portraits. “What began as a harmless game led Einer to a metamorphosis and landmark 1931 operation that shocked the world and threatened their love,” per The Hollywood Reporter. That operation? Well, it ain’t liposuction.

As we await Werner Herzog’s highly unnecessary version of The Bad Lieutenant, news reports of an even less essential remake have surfaced. Larry Clark (Kids) will direct an update of Neil Jordan’s Mona Lisa, per Screen Daily. But that’s not all! “Hayden Christensen is in formal negotiations to take the lead in HandMade's remake of Mona Lisa. He will take on a younger version of George, the character made famous by Bob Hoskins in the original.” I’d rather see Bob Hoskins as Anakin Skywalker, but maybe that’s just me.

More! We demand more bad remake news! How about this: “Columbia Pictures is back in the dojo with a new version of the 1984 hit The Karate Kid, which has been refashioned as a star vehicle for Jaden Smith,” Variety reports. That’s Will Smith’s 10-year-old boy, who co-starred with his dad in The Pursuit of Happyness.

Related:
Charlize Theron Is a Sexual Creature
Werner Herzog's Very Bad Idea

Screengrab Review: "Garden Party"

Leonard Pierce — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 17:45:00 GMT

Garden Party, opening in limited release next week, is being touted as the arrival of a hot new talent in the person of writer/director Jason Freeland. In fact, though, Freeland's first film was an entire decade ago, a somewhat bewildering James Ellroy adaptation called Brown's Requiem. His new film, though, with its attractive young cast and allegedly verite look at contemporary Los Angeles, is getting way more attention than Brown's Requiem ever did, and if it's not technically his debut, it's at least poised to be his breakthrough. We had a chance to screen Garden Party recently; should you believe the hype?

Boiled down to the one-sentence description that no doubt got it through the vetting process, Garden Party is the story of a group of young people, all recently relocated to the vast construct of the American psyche that is Los Angeles, who try to get by faced with all the pitfalls and perils the wicked city is home to. Peopled with a game young cast, the movie gives us a bunch of characters who aren't quite established enough as archetypes to come across as trite right off the bat; there's the vaguely sinister real estate agent/drug dealer, the allegedly brilliant young musician who drifts through life intersecting with the other characters but never making a real emotional commitment to any of them, the renegade bohemian with a porn fetish, the sexually abused teen, and half a dozen other characters who seem like they just got off the late shift at the Quaalude factory. Needless to say, their stories all intersect in sometimes surprising, sometimes predictable ways; needless to say, a few of them experience what could be called a revelation if it didn't come across as so utterly trifling; and, needless to say, there's lots of fashionable sex, drugs, and pouting to make thing palatable to the drugged-out, pouty teenage couples who are presumably the movie's target audience. With all this stuff being needless to say, you might ask: why was it even necessary to make the film? The answer? That is a good question.

There are a few good reasons to see Garden Party. Freeland has a distinctive, if rather undeveloped, visual sensibility, and his pacing is very fine, keeping you involved in the story even when it spills over into the cliches he generates as a writer. And a number of the members of the largely anonymous cast are worth watching, particularly the lovely, polished Willa Holland in the lead role. However, these aspects are overwhelmed by its overall shapelessness and the fact that it seems kluged together from parts of other, usually better movies: the plot and structure capture the worst aspects of Rent but can't handle the best of Short Cuts. The teen cast and sexual panic aspects play like a lite version of Kids. The pseudo-verite is drawn from Cloverfield and the sense of communal destiny is like a mopier version of Magnolia. It draws its "depressed young white people unable to make significant emotional connections" vibe from the mumblecore movement, and its misunderstood-sensitive-genius characters from the mind of every teenager ever. Even the ad campaign makes it look like a moody remake of Swimfan. Freeland has the talent to make distinctive movies, but he seems to lack the focus to make ones that don't mostly remind us of a million things we've seen before.

The Jailbait Sweet 16 (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 22 May 2008 21:00:00 GMT

PRETTY BABY (1978) & THE BLUE LAGOON (1980)

Europe is a very different place than America, and the seventies were a very different time. From Socrates to Roman Polanski, Europeans have always had a much more, uh, relaxed attitude when it comes to May/December (or even early April/December) relationships. Whether said social mores indicate healthy, sex-positive liberation or sick, twisted perversion, the fact remains: them foreigners sure do make a lot of movies about sexed-up youngsters. In 1971, Louis Malle directed Murmur of the Heart, about a 15-year-old boy who gets hit on by priests and has sex with his mother. A few years later, Malle hit the controversy jackpot with Pretty Baby, the lurid yet turgid tale of a young girl raised by prostitutes whose virginity is auctioned off prior to her marriage to an older man. Brooke Shields, rouged and naked throughout, became the (literal) poster girl for commodified, sexualized “innocence” and a precursor to the sexualization of even younger girls in those creepy JonBenét Ramsey-esque pre-pubescent beauty pageants that Little Miss Sunshine mocked so brilliantly. Two years after Pretty Baby, Brooke Shields lost her virginity again in The Blue Lagoon, this time to a barely legal Christopher Atkins (who would later shake his groove thing for cougar Lesley Ann Warren as a male stripper in the 1983 cheese-whiz classic A Night In Heaven). That Lagoon was such a smash hit in the U.S. had everything to do with the movie’s lush cinematography and wholesome depiction of pure, innocent love and nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that its hot teenage stars were (tastefully!) naked half the time...because, of course, we Americans have superior morals.

PALE RIDER (1985)

In this inflated imitation of his own High Plains Drifter, the director-star Clint Eastwood plays a mystical, supernatural gunslinger who materializes after a 14-year-old girl (Sydney Penny) has prayed for a hero to come and deal with the meanies making things hard for her gold-mining community. Once he's arrived, though, Penny isn't content with having him shoot all the bad guys; she also puts the moves on him, only to have him turn her down, maybe because he's got something going on with her mother (Carrie Snodgress). In a snit, Penny has the bright idea of trying to make him jealous by riding off to where the bad guys are holed up so that Eastwood has to come and collect her before a drooling Richard Kiel can club her and drag her off to his cave. Pale Rider is just one of several films in the Eastwood oeuvre that can make you wonder if, back in the early seventies, Clint left some part of his brain unclaimed on the set of The Beguiled.

THE KID (1921)

The title character in this Charlie Chaplin silent is played by the seven-year-old Jackie Coogan, but the movie features a dream sequence set in Heaven, and in that sequence, Chaplin contrived an attention-getting bit for Lita Grey, an untested young actress who, decades before Nabokov wrote his novel, was sometimes known as "Lolita." In the movie, Gray, looking very cute, and playing a character known as "Flirtatious Angel", traipses out wearing big wings and starts cuddling up to Chaplin like a friendly kitten. She encourages him to chase after her by skipping away and flashing what she would later describe as "a very skinny leg", and he obligingly goes literally flying after her. Chaplin used her again in The Idle Rich and planned to cast her as the female lead in The Gold Rush, but she wound up playing a small role in movie history and a considerably larger one in Chaplin's scandal-plagued personal life; he had to recast her role, and marry her, when he got her pregnant at age 16. (Chaplin was 35.) Their marriage, which produced two children and ended in an ugly public divorce, lasted only three years, and her professional and intimate personal life with Chaplin was over by the time she was twenty.

BULLY (2001)

Larry Clark gets accused of a lot of things by critics. I mean, a lot. In the view of some film writers, he’s second only to Lars von Trier as the filmmaker most likely to be Nosferatu reincarnated. But the most common charge is that he’s some kind of dirty old man – a guy who makes movies for no better reason than to look at attractive young people cavorting in front of his camera lens so he can yell “AROO-GA!”. This charge is not only a tad conspiratorial (Clark lives in New York, a city where it’s pretty easy to get a gander at naked teenagers, and making expensive, highly controversial films would seem to be an awfully roundabout way of doing it), but also pretty fatuous when directed specifically at Clark. I mean, can you name a major Hollywood movie of the last 30 years that didn’t feature an attractive, overly sexualized young man or woman in a leading role? Most critics were pretty indulgent of the alleged Chester-the-Molester qualities of Clark’s 1999 debut feature, Kids, because they bought into its sense of impending moral panic; but by 2001, when the world had decided it had bigger problems than that of 17-year-olds having sex, a lot of people decided that Bully, his loose adaptation of a real Florida murder case, was nothing but a justification for Clark to see pretty young things in their altogether. But then, as now, this charge was ignorant of history and tone-deaf to reality. Clark has always been obsessed with beautiful young people who obliviously hurtle into self-destruction, including himself: he’s a brilliant photographer whose first book, Tulsa, featured his speed-freak friends shooting themselves into early graves, and like his films – Bully in particular – the grim realities of death and insanity gave a distinctively un-erotic charge to even the most beautiful bodies in his photographs. It was also released when he was 27 years old (and many of the photos were taken when he was much younger), exempting him from the charge of simply being a horny old coot. Later photographic works would focus on his own drug addiction, the tragic lives of handsome but damaged Times Square hustlers, and, tellingly, the way that media images of young people shape – and warp – youth culture. Far from being a dirty old man, the artist who made Bully was simply following a path he had been on for over 30 years. There’s no denying it’s a film crammed with prurient interest, but that serves only to solidify Clark’s central obsession: that the ignorant self-destruction of youth is all the more tragic because they are so vibrant and beautiful.

FREEWAY II: CONFESSIONS OF A TRICKBABY (1999)

Society’s moral strictures being what they are, film directors, when they bring to us a movie featuring a bunch of hot young things romping around in their birthday suits, must think of some way to convince us that we’re not watching for the obvious reason. There are many ways to do this: dramatic tension, outright deception, or the pretense of imparting some sort of grand moral lesson. Matthew Bright, the deranged auteur behind the Freeway movies, has discovered a method that’s, as far as we know, unique to him: he wedges his nymphomaniacal teenagers in between a bizarre framework of re-imagined postmodernist fairy tales tinged with a truly surreal sense of humor. The second movie in a proposed trilogy, Freeway II is, believe it or not, a retelling of “Hansel and Gretel”, only with lesbian shower scenes, cannibalistic transvestite nuns, and David Alan Grier. Absent the deranged trappings, it’s unlikely that this movie would ever have gotten made; Natasha Lyonne was of age in the female lead, but she’s meant to be playing an 18-year-old juvenile delinquent, and her partner in crime, the demented serial killer La Ciclona (played by the riveting Maria Celedonio), is explicity, and we mean explicitly, portrayed as being sixteen years old. Were this a mainstream movie aimed at a mainstream audience, it probably would have generated a Senate investigation when Lyonne and Celedonio get it on in a beer-fueled makeout session in a hotel bathroom; but Bright had already set the scene for this sort of nonsense by presenting us with a mass prison vomiting scene (choreographed like a Busby Berkley musical, with the bulimic prisoners as chorines) and a striptease involving a girl with a prosthetic leg. He continues in this vein, ultimately asking us to cope with the image of Vincent Gallo in nun drag trying to bake the hapless Ms. Lyonne into a pie. In the face of all that, there’s simply no room for self-incrimination for ogling teen girls; you just have to sit back and go where the ride takes you.

For more jailbait: Part One, Part Two

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Phil Nugent, Leonard Pierce

The Jailbait Sweet 16 (Part Two)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 22 May 2008 20:30:00 GMT

AMERICAN BEAUTY (1999)

This modern day take on Lolita, reviled by some, adored and Academy-Awarded by others, tells the story of Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey), a miserable hen-pecked middle-aged loser reinvigorated by a surge of life-altering lust for the sexually aggressive friend (Mena Suvari) of his mopey teenage daughter (Thora Birch). To attract Suvari’s character, Angela, Burnham starts working out, pumping up his body while channeling happy memories of his irresponsible, pot-smoking youth. Eventually, Burnham gets his wish to have sex with Angela...but, upon learning that the allegedly promiscuous girl is actually a virgin, he pulls back from the brink at the last moment, suddenly remembering that he is, in fact, an adult. And then he gets shot in the head...a nice, throwback moment to the old Hays Code days when moral transgression always led to a grisly end, cautioning the rest of us against stepping over the line. Yet transgression is part of the film’s DNA, and while I can appreciate the reasons why certain people hate this movie (the artifice, the middle-aged lust thing, the Spacey Smarm Quotient), I nevertheless enjoy the message of the smart Alan Ball script that we are not defined by our age, our possessions, or the way we’re perceived, and lying to ourselves about who we’d rather be instead of accepting who we really are leads to heartache, rage, bad relationships and, occasionally, bullets in the head. Like many dirty old men before him, Lester Burnham thinks he wants sex with a much younger woman, but what he really wants is to simply be much younger, with all of life’s possibilities ahead rather than fading away in the rearview mirror.

AMERICAN PIE (1999)

And speaking of fin de siècle movies with “American” in the title co-starring Mena Suvari...this raunchy-sweet comedy was a throwback to 1980s teen sex comedies like Fast Times At Ridgemont High, Risky Business, Porky’s, Screwballs, Losin’ It, The Last American Virgin, Zapped! and etc., etc. etc. Yet somehow, despite scenes of adolescent pie-fucking, discussions of inappropriate relations with a flute at teenage band camp, tons of high school sex and the deflowering of a pubescent boy by a predatory Mary Kay Letourneau-esque older woman, American Pie barely raised a flicker of controversy upon its release, possibly because it was simply too funny and ridiculous to get all het up about...but also perhaps because of the genuine affection writer/directors Chris and Paul Weitz had for their characters, male and female, as opposed to presenting them as figures of scorn and/or inflatable sex dolls (or just so much bloody meat, like the unfortunate young victims in any number of slasher flicks from Halloween to Hostel, where sex literally equals death). As the esteemed Mr. Pierce’s notes in an earlier post on Lolita, Nabokov’s book, for all the controversy surrounding it, was actually funny...and American Pie, a kind of classic in its own right, proves once again that sometimes the best way to deal with the scary issue of sex is simply to laugh.

FREEWAY (1996)

And then there’s the less funny side of sex: molestation, prostitution and violence against women, all of which is faced and overcome by a modern day So-Cal Red Riding Hood in this astonishing exploitation film by jailbait auteur Matthew Bright, whose fetish for pigtails and ponytails drove him to personally style the hair of his actresses...which must make him a creep, right? And yet, despite Bright's seemingly shady fascination with underage sexuality, this is one of the most empowering, ass-kicking girl power movies I’ve ever seen. Reese Witherspoon leaves this one off her resume, and yet her portrayal of the indomitable white trash warrior Vanessa Lutz is, hands-down, the single best performance of her career, promising a future of nitro-fueled intensity that (Tracy Flick aside) pretty much fizzled into perky romantic comedy fluff. Remember how cool Emilio Estevez was in Repo Man before he became...y’know, Emilio Estevez? Yeah, it’s kinda like that. The story pits Witherspoon’s illiterate, underage Lutz against a crack whore mother (Amanda Plummer), an abusive stepfather, the L.A.P.D. and, most notably, Kiefer Sutherland as the story’s Big Bad Wolf, Bob Wolverton (get it?), a leering bogeyman of a sexual predator. The escalating verbal and physical warfare between Lutz and Wolverton taps into something downright primal and possibly Freudian, as if Bright is investing all his forbidden love for the raw sexuality and electric vitality of youth into Lutz and all the self-loathing shame surrounding his secret, twisted obsessions into Wolverton, then letting the two duke it out in a steel-cage match. The result is the greatest B-movie John Waters never made, a loud, raucous, thriller with jaw-dropping stretches of pitch-black comedy and a truly startling cameo by the queen of Jailbait Cinema, the one and only Brooke Shields, who shows up (along with Mr. Bright’s even more peculiar sequel to Freeway) in part three of this list.

KIDS (1995)

In Kids, the first feature directed by the legendary photographer Larry Clark, a bunch of teenagers spend a day and a night wandering around New York City in the summer. They have sex, shoplift, beat the crap out of somebody, take drugs, and have an orgiastic party. There's no plot to speak of, but there is a suspense hook: Jennie (Chloe Sevigny) has just learned that she's contracted AIDS from the mushmouthed, seventeen-year-old lothario Telly (Leo Fitzpatrick), a serial deflowerer of girls who imagines that his sexual partners will always remember him if he's their first but who loses any interest in them after that, and she sets out to try to find him before he can rack up his next intended victim, Ruby (Rosario Dawson). (She is unsuccessful in this.) The whole movie is sunk so deep inside its obsessions with selfish teenage kicks that it gives the feeling that the screen could use a bath. When it first appeared, Kids was THE controversial indie film of its season, and it was defended by some moralists who argued that Clark and his twenty-two-year-old screenwriting partner Harmony Korine were obviously showing us these youngsters acting like animals--which is the closest thing they have to an interesting quality--as a "wake-up call" to parents. Please. Clark's subsequent films (Bully, Wassup Rockers), and for that matter the photo collections with which he'd made his name (Tulsa, Teenage Lust) have only served to confirm that Clark likes to film teenagers babbling incoherently, acting out nastily and fucking because he likes to watch teenagers babbling incoherently, acting out nastily and fucking; pointing a camera at it gives him an excuse to indulge in his hobby, which he is of course entitled to share with others who have similar interests. Those of us who used to get bored with such things after about three minutes even when we were teenagers need to look elsewhere.

HARD CANDY (2005)

At 21, Ellen Page sure is a hard-working gal. Juno may have made her a star when it opened late last year, but in recent months we've seen the arrival of three other movies in which she stars or has prominent roles (Smart People, The Tracey Fragments, and An American Crime, which played at the 2007 Sundance Film Festival but recently premiered on Showtime cable). In fact, the success of Juno was the explosion coming at the end of a long fuse set by the cult home video success of Hard Candy, a two-character drama that uses the then-teenaged actress's mixture of seductiveness and spikiness for all it's worth. She plays a 14-year-old who has struck up an Internet correspondence with an adult photographer (Patrick Wilson); when she meets him for the first time, she invites herself back to his place with the promise of hearing a Goldfrapp mp3 he boasts of having. Once they get back to his place, it turns out that she's springing a trap; taking him prisoner, she informs him that she knows that he's a pedophile who's involved in the murder of a girl, and she proceeds to torture him, threaten him with exposure and castration, and cajole him to do the right thing and commit suicide. It's to Page's considerable credit that, by turns enticing, alarming, and outright scary, she remains fascinating throughout, even though she can't make her character believable; she has a degree of infallible self-assurance that would be hard to buy in a SWAT team leader, let alone a 14-year-old girl playing cat and mouse with a psycho on his home turf. Her choicest moment of degradation for her prey may be when, having gotten him where she wants him, she casually reveals that she actually thinks Goldfrapp is pretty lame. Other movies (such as The Professional) know that the viewer's inner pedophile will be flattered by seeing a young girl insist that she wants the older man even if he has the nobility (and the box-office savvy) to not follow through; Hard Candy knows that, while castration threats are pretty bad, the best way to make the older man shrivel up is to let him know that, when he thought he was being cool and up to date, he was actually sounding like an old fart.

For more jailbait: Part One, Part Three

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Phil Nugent

Trailer Review: Mister Lonely

Paul Clark — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 16:00:00 GMT

I wasn't a big fan of Kids, Harmony Korine's screenwriting debut, or Gummo, his first feature as director. I was more positive on his subsequent film julien donkey-boy, although that film demonstrated that he still had some maturing to do. In spite of this, and the lukewarm notices from last year's Cannes and Toronto Film Festivals, this trailer has me intrigued about his latest film, Mister Lonely. A lot of it is the film's cast — where else are you going to find Diego Luna, Samantha Morton, and Denis Lavant in the same film, much less playing second-rate impersonators of Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe, and Charlie Chaplin respectively? Part of me fears that this moody trailer is hiding some of the thornier aspects of the film, and I don't have the foggiest idea of how Werner Herzog fits into the whole thing, but I'm certainly curious to find out how it all fits together.

Vanishing Act: Harmony Korine

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 16:00:00 GMT

Attention Diablo Cody: you are not the first oddly monikered young screenwriter whose first script became an indie sensation. Way back in the 20th century, there was a fella name o’ Harmony Korine, no more than a teenager when his screenplay Kids became photographer Larry Clark’s 1995 directorial debut. An instant controversy, the documentary-style look at the sexually-charged, drug-fueled life of a group of New York teens was slapped with an NC-17 rating that prevented its distribution by Miramax (then as now owned by Disney). The Weinstein brothers released Kids on their own to a mixed reception; some critics swooned, others proclaimed it exploitative sleaze.

Still, Korine made enough of a name for himself to secure his own directorial debut two years later with Gummo. A fragmented, impressionistic ode to white trash, the film was if anything even more divisive than Kids. Janet Maslin of the New York Times opened her review with the line “October is early, but not too early to acknowledge Harmony Korine's Gummo as the worst film of the year.” But while sophisticated metropolitan tastemakers were busy pointing out how condescending and hateful Korine was toward his “nonprofessional actors, often freakish individuals” (jeez, no condescension there, Janet!), Gummo was well on its way to becoming the cult favorite of the trailer park. And why not? Among other things, it featured the greatest battle of man versus chair ever captured on film:

Korine followed Gummo with his Dogme 95 entry, Julien Donkey-Boy (1999), an uneven tale of a schizophrenic that garnered the now-predictable mixed reception ( I offered qualified praise: “Shot on digital video, with blown-out colors and punishing graininess, Julien Donkey-Boy has the look and feel of something unearthed in an archeological dig - a primitive piece of folk art.” Admittedly, I haven’t revisited it since.) That was nearly a decade ago, so where has Korine been?

For a while, there was talk of a disturbing movie in the Jackass vein, wherein Korine would antagonize random people on the street into fighting him and document the resulting damage done to him. In 2002, Clark directed Korine’s script for Ken Park, but that had been written years earlier. There were whispers of heroin addiction and, perhaps even more disturbing, a friendship with doofus magician David Blaine that resulted in the British television special Above the Below. But there were no new Harmony Korine movies...until now.

Mister Lonely, which will have its U.S. premiere at South by Southwest in March, is exactly what you’d expect: a Michael Jackson impersonator (Diego Luna) meets a Marilyn Monroe impersonator (Samantha Morton), who brings him to a commune full of faux celebrities and historical figures. Having shown at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, the film breaks no new ground as far as its critical reception: it’s as divisive as ever, sometimes within the same review. The UK Telegraph describes it as “by turns idiotic, over-extended, childish and half-baked.” Then, in the very next sentence: “But when it’s not those things, and sometimes even when it is, the results are brilliantly bold, moving and tenderly, rhapsodically beautiful.” Sounds like a Harmony Korine movie alright.