Tropical Malady (2005)

As a filmmaker, Apitchatpong Weerasathakul doesn't do a damn thing like you're supposed to. His movies have no plot, no acting, no beginning, no middle and no end. He does long, slow dolly shots of trees and bushes. You're supposed to do long, slow dolly shots of actors expressing deep emotions, not trees and bushes. Who the hell wants to see trees and bushes?


A.W. loves trees and bushes. He loves sounds and shapes and colors. And rain. He is absolutely nuts about rain. He is only interested in people when they are doing the most boring and mundane things imaginable. A man looking at shoes is a major cinematic event to Apitchatpong Weerasathakul. He will begin telling a story, in this film it's a sort of a gay romance, then get sidetracked by looking at trees and bushes and listening to rain. The story may pick up again later on, or it may not...there's a pretty field of green grass over there...lets film that for a while. Wait...set up the dolly...we'll do a dolly shot of the grass. What the hell is he filming now?...ok here are some guys in a hut...they are supposed to be witch doctors or something. Give up.


Resistance is futile. Apitchatpong Weerasathakul does not make films for the logical mind. His films can only be experienced as random sensory input. You must get in his car and let him drive you wherever he wants to go using whatever route he wants to take. The audience has no say in the proceedings. He doesn't care one bit about what you think so shut up. He is like the kid in Art School who forgot to become a cynical money grubber. People persist in calling his films experimental because that is the only way a logical mind can make sense of his oddball constructions. Weerasathakul's films are not experimental in the least. He knows exactly what he is doing. He does not make films for you and me. He makes them for himself. Love'em or hate'em...he couldn't care less. And speaking of oddballs, he's got big, brass ones.

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Tropical Malady (2005)

As a filmmaker, Apitchatpong Weerasathakul doesn't do a damn thing like you're supposed to. His movies have no plot, no acting, no beginning, no middle and no end. He does long, slow dolly shots of trees and bushes. You're supposed to do long, slow dolly shots of actors expressing deep emotions, not trees and bushes. Who the hell wants to see trees and bushes?


A.W. loves trees and bushes. He loves sounds and shapes and colors. And rain. He is absolutely nuts about rain. He is only interested in people when they are doing the most boring and mundane things imaginable. A man looking at shoes is a major cinematic event to Apitchatpong Weerasathakul. He will begin telling a story, in this film it's a sort of a gay romance, then get sidetracked by looking at trees and bushes and listening to rain. The story may pick up again later on, or it may not...there's a pretty field of green grass over there...lets film that for a while. Wait...set up the dolly...we'll do a dolly shot of the grass. What the hell is he filming now?...ok here are some guys in a hut...they are supposed to be witch doctors or something. Give up.


Resistance is futile. Apitchatpong Weerasathakul does not make films for the logical mind. His films can only be experienced as random sensory input. You must get in his car and let him drive you wherever he wants to go using whatever route he wants to take. The audience has no say in the proceedings. He doesn't care one bit about what you think so shut up. He is like the kid in Art School who forgot to become a cynical money grubber. People persist in calling his films experimental because that is the only way a logical mind can make sense of his oddball constructions. Weerasathakul's films are not experimental in the least. He knows exactly what he is doing. He does not make films for you and me. He makes them for himself. Love'em or hate'em...he couldn't care less. And speaking of oddballs, he's got big, brass ones.

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I Can No Longer Hear The Guitar (1991)

A bleak, probing analysis of the enormous lengths people will go to in order to make themselves totally miserable. The film is the story of Gerard and Marianne, whose romance is characterized by moments of deep tenderness interrupted by periods of boredom and paralyzing fear.


Gerard (Benoit Regent) is completely captivated by Marianne (Johanna ter Steege) who is beautiful, bewitching and 110 lbs. of trouble.
Since neither one really trusts the notion of happiness, their brief interludes of domestic bliss cause a slow-simmering panic in each of them, because, to paraphrase their friend Martin (Yann Collette): the worst part of happiness is being afraid you’ll lose it. The couple eventually split, then reunite in an extraordinarily touching scene filmed in, of all places, a toilet. But in the interim, Marianne has developed a destructive habit that pushes Gerard’s patience to the limit. The film then shifts approximately a year into the future, where Gerard has managed to build a new life with a gentle, loving woman and an infant son, but it’s clear he’s still haunted by his feelings for the magical Marianne and, much to his surprise, he hasn’t heard the last from her yet. While this sounds like a melodrama, director Phillip Garrel tells the story (based on his true experience with a pop-star girlfriend) with an intellectually engaging realism.


In a way, Garrel’s approach is reminiscent of an Andrew Wyeth painting; you get the sense that something has just happened or is about to happen, but we never see the critical moment itself. But that is often the way of romantic relationships; we don’t know something profound has happened until we are left sifting through the emotional debris of it’s aftermath. In all, a memorable film that affects your mind as well as your heart, and well worth a look from any fan of European cinema.

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I Can No Longer Hear The Guitar (1991)

A bleak, probing analysis of the enormous lengths people will go to in order to make themselves totally miserable. The film is the story of Gerard and Marianne, whose romance is characterized by moments of deep tenderness interrupted by periods of boredom and paralyzing fear.


Gerard (Benoit Regent) is completely captivated by Marianne (Johanna ter Steege) who is beautiful, bewitching and 110 lbs. of trouble.
Since neither one really trusts the notion of happiness, their brief interludes of domestic bliss cause a slow-simmering panic in each of them, because, to paraphrase their friend Martin (Yann Collette): the worst part of happiness is being afraid you’ll lose it. The couple eventually split, then reunite in an extraordinarily touching scene filmed in, of all places, a toilet. But in the interim, Marianne has developed a destructive habit that pushes Gerard’s patience to the limit. The film then shifts approximately a year into the future, where Gerard has managed to build a new life with a gentle, loving woman and an infant son, but it’s clear he’s still haunted by his feelings for the magical Marianne and, much to his surprise, he hasn’t heard the last from her yet. While this sounds like a melodrama, director Phillip Garrel tells the story (based on his true experience with a pop-star girlfriend) with an intellectually engaging realism.


In a way, Garrel’s approach is reminiscent of an Andrew Wyeth painting; you get the sense that something has just happened or is about to happen, but we never see the critical moment itself. But that is often the way of romantic relationships; we don’t know something profound has happened until we are left sifting through the emotional debris of it’s aftermath. In all, a memorable film that affects your mind as well as your heart, and well worth a look from any fan of European cinema.

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Interiors (1978)

After his surprising Oscar win for Annie Hall the Hollywood establishment was gunning for Woody Allen. When this atypical Allen film came out in August of 1978, many critics didn’t just pan it; they savaged it, brutalized it and left it for dead in a New Jersey swamp. Rex Reed, who took a double dose of bitchy pills that morning, proclaimed Diane Keaton’s hair a “rat’s nest”. Vincent Canby offered some faint praise, but admitted he “had no idea what the film was up to”. Interiors examines a middle-class NYC family and the toll of years of emotional damage caused by the controlling, manipulative and quite mentally ill mother (Geraldine Page). E.G. Marshall projects a quiet desperation as the well-meaning father who realizes he must get away from this woman before she consumes his entire life. Diane Keaton, as one of the three daughters, maintains a tough exterior but is torn between caring for her mother and her emotionally needy, hard drinking husband (the great Richard Jordan). Kristen Griffith, as the glamorous daughter who fled to Hollywood to escape her mom’s hysterics, does what little can be done with her under-written part.


But this is Marybeth Hurt’s movie. In her turn as deeply angry Joey, you can feel her skin crawling as she tries to reason with her mother’s warped mind, as well as dealing with her deep sense of failure over not achieving the success her father expected of her. Hurt is further frustrated by wishing to express herself artistically, but not having the talent to do so. Two of Woody’s most talented collaborators were at their artistic peaks during this production - the great cinematographer Gordon Willis and editor Ralph Rosenblum – and their contributions were vital to keeping this complex story on track.


This is a serious adult film that grapples with deeply emotional issues, and despite a few moments of ponderousness, achieves its high objectives. The iconic last shot is a stunner.

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Interiors (1978)

After his surprising Oscar win for Annie Hall the Hollywood establishment was gunning for Woody Allen. When this atypical Allen film came out in August of 1978, many critics didn’t just pan it; they savaged it, brutalized it and left it for dead in a New Jersey swamp. Rex Reed, who took a double dose of bitchy pills that morning, proclaimed Diane Keaton’s hair a “rat’s nest”. Vincent Canby offered some faint praise, but admitted he “had no idea what the film was up to”. Interiors examines a middle-class NYC family and the toll of years of emotional damage caused by the controlling, manipulative and quite mentally ill mother (Geraldine Page). E.G. Marshall projects a quiet desperation as the well-meaning father who realizes he must get away from this woman before she consumes his entire life. Diane Keaton, as one of the three daughters, maintains a tough exterior but is torn between caring for her mother and her emotionally needy, hard drinking husband (the great Richard Jordan). Kristen Griffith, as the glamorous daughter who fled to Hollywood to escape her mom’s hysterics, does what little can be done with her under-written part.


But this is Marybeth Hurt’s movie. In her turn as deeply angry Joey, you can feel her skin crawling as she tries to reason with her mother’s warped mind, as well as dealing with her deep sense of failure over not achieving the success her father expected of her. Hurt is further frustrated by wishing to express herself artistically, but not having the talent to do so. Two of Woody’s most talented collaborators were at their artistic peaks during this production - the great cinematographer Gordon Willis and editor Ralph Rosenblum – and their contributions were vital to keeping this complex story on track.


This is a serious adult film that grapples with deeply emotional issues, and despite a few moments of ponderousness, achieves its high objectives. The iconic last shot is a stunner.

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James' Journey to Jerusalem (2004)

“James' Journey to Jerusalem” is an amusing allegory about a young Christian idealist who is dispatched to the Holy Land by his tribal village. James hopes to learn and absorb as much as he can in the rarified religious air of Jerusalem, and ultimately return to his hometown and assume the role of village pastor. In James’ mind, Israel is still the biblical land of milk and honey and olive trees, but he receives a rude awakening immediately upon arrival at Ben Guirion airport, where he is detained by immigration authorites and handed over to a corrupt dim bulb of a policeman (Yak’akov Ronen Morad).


Through some shady dealing, James is then given over to Shimi (Salim Dau), who runs a sort of underground employment agency for undocumented workers. James’ gentle personality and sense of ethics soon earn him a high place in this rather squalid hierarchy, but he begins to fall prey to consumerism and to those who would take advantage of his innocence. Having learned some hard lessons, James decides to beat these hustlers at their own game, and a number of scenes follow that are both humorous and heartbreaking.


The film has become a festival favorite in recent years, and has been showered with an array of impressive awards. But at heart it is a very simple story, told at a jaunty and engaging pace. And while there are many narrative parallels to biblical tales, perhaps the film is best understood as a postmodern retelling of the Missing Years of Jesus.
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