One of the world's smartest, most talented provocateurs is back: Jafar Panahi's TAXI

In his home country of Iran, filmmaker Jafar Panahi, who has given us some of the best Iranian movies -- hell, best from anywhere movies -- has, for some time now, been banned from making them by his country's powers-that-be. Still, he soldiers on. His latest provocation, and perhaps his most charming/scathing/endearing endeavor is called TAXI, and in it, Mr. Panahi plays (or maybe is) a taxi driver in downtown Tehran.

Panahi (shown at left with what looks like maybe his Golden Bear award from this year's Berlin International Film Fest, where he also won the FIPRESCI Prize) usually uses a documentary style, and his films often look like they are indeed documentaries (especially his last one, This Is Not a Film). Hardly. They are planned and plotted as tightly as the best of mysteries, making use of everything from irony to subtlety to quiet drama and on-the-fly humor. Yet they appear to be near improvisation, spinning outward into greater meaning and importance as they cleverly unfurl.

The movie begins with a panorama of Tehran traffic. Hey, we're just driving around; what's wrong with that? We'll soon see, as Panafi's new movie adds another link to the chain of work from this talented, put-upon man. (Under house arrest for some time, he is still banned from filmmaking.) Slowly, the soundtrack offers some music (the first notes of which may put you in mind of I Love Paris) and then dialog begins, as the taxi driver picks up passengers, one of whom is a blowhard whose dialog about the need for capital punishment for thieves causes the other passenger, a woman, to argue heatedly against this idea.

By the time the man has left the taxi, the first of many ironies to come has made itself plain -- and surprising, even funny.When at last we are allowed to see Panafi -- who's driving that cab, the effect is terrific. What a face this guy has! He might have become an actor (well, he is one, here), his visage is such an effective tool. In fact, this movie ought to have rightly been called Taxi Driver -- had that title not already been commandeered.)

Panafi's next fare recognizes him -- it's an black-market video dealer (above, left) from some time back, who used to provide the filmmaker with banned movies he craved to see. The guy is still up to those same old tricks, and we learn something of Panafi's taste in film (Once Upon a Time in Anatolia and Midnight in Paris). A wounded man and his wife must suddenly take over the cab -- and Panafi's cell phone -- for a video of the guy's last will and testament. Later two middle-aged ladies carrying fish in a glass bowl (below) plead for and receive a ride -- until the needs of the filmmaker's own niece (in the penultimate photo) supersede.

These little vignettes and those that follow -- all staged brilliantly to effect a reality that stings -- take in everything from politics to economics, crime, culture, tradition, belief, age, maturity, "rules" for movie-making, law (in the form of a lovely lawyer, below), prison, torture, voice recognition, and so much more. Further, these incidents seem to mirror each other in ironic ways, and while the movie looks like simplicity itself, its content is anything but.

Taxi is Panafi's most charming, plaintive, complex and inventive work to date. This man ought to be considered a national treasure rather than some kind of criminal. But there you go. How he has been getting away with these provocative little gems of cinema -- in Iran, yet! -- without losing his license, if not his life, is troubling to consider. (You fear for, not just the well-being of the filmmaker, but also for any of the actors/people he uses in his films.) This is "heroic" cinema of the highest order, every bit as entertaining and well-crafted as it is righteous.

Panahi's finale proves a mitzvah filmed with rare sweetness and subtlety -- which is then immediately leavened with an ironic touch of exactly the opposite. If Taxi isn't a cinematic masterpiece (and that's a word I almost never use), I sure wouldn't know what is.

The film -- from Kino Lorber, in Farsi with English subtitles and running just 81 minutes -- opened yesterday, October 2, in New York City at the IFC Center and Lincoln Plaza Cinema, and will grace Los Angeles next Friday, October 9, at various Laemmle theaters. In the weeks to come, TAXI will have opened in 25 cities across the USA.  Click here and scroll way down to see all currently scheduled playdates. 

Daniel Hoesl's SOLDATE JEANNETTE wryly targets today's naughty consumer culture

SOLDATE JEANNETTE translates roughly to Soldier Jane, but don't worry: This movie is no European rendition of G.I. Jane (and it's leading lady is certainly not reminiscent of Demi Moore). No. The more-or-less sub-title of the movie -- a European Film Conspiracy -- might give you a better sense of what is actually going on here. Made on a shoestring (probably a thrift-shop shoestring at that), the movie -- via a very odd screenplay that tells only the minimal but fills in the blanks via the performances -- makes us question the society in which we live and wonder about other ways we might better manage it.

As written and directed by Daniel Hoesl, shown at left, Soldate Jeannette is pretty much an ironic and rather sleek indie film European-style, that wants to indict crass materialism but has a very odd way of doing this. Live the good life it exhorts us; just do it via theft and undermining the bourgeoisie by lying, conning and then skipping town.

Fortunately Herr Hoesl has found a most interesting actress (Johanna Orsini-Rosenberg, shown below) to essay his leading role, that of an approaching-middle-age woman who is not only down on her luck but seem to actually court this. The various activities she gets up to are too much fun to give away here, but they cover a multitude of sins.

Ms Orsini-Rosenberg proves a large, horsey but not unattractive actress with the ability to hold our eye and mind as she brings her ever-under-the-radar schemes to fruition.

Her character resists the pleas of both family and friends to live according to the current notions of consumer society. She is her own gal at all times -- from her passe clothing choices to the karate class she joins, from her notions of investment advice (and its payoff)  to the interest she takes in a young co-worker (Christina Reichsthaler, above, right) with whom she bonds, once our heroine goes "on the run."
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Soldate Jeannette is more a smart, cute provocation than any kind of realistic, believable or serious movie. It's not even really a genre film. But it is fun, and I suspect that it -- and the performance of its leading lady -- will keep you alert and semi-surprised throughout.

Its DVD --  in a good transfer from IndiePix Films and running just 79 minutes, with some movie-making extras included, as well -- is available now for purchase or rental.

AI WEIWEI: NEVER SORRY/Alison Klayman offers art as protest, provocation -- and art

You can't really miss Ai Weiwei: The artist, along with his work, his blog (access to which China seems to be currently blocking) and his insistent "dissidency," so far as his homeland of China is concerned, is at this point something like legendary. And yet how much do we really know about the guy? TrustMovies certainly didn't know a lot, outside of a few obvious facts, and so Alison Klayman's new documentary, AI WEIWEI: NEVER SORRY, was eye-opening, mind-expanding and especially anger-producing. (So much about modern China is, no? For that matter, so is much about the USA. For real anger-production, however, don't miss the upcoming doc You've Been Trumped. More about that one next month....)

To get some kind of grip on her subject. Ms Klayman, shown at right, goes all over the place (as does Mr. Ai, who is quite the world traveler). While she runs the risk of flailing a bit, she mostly avoids this by concentrating on, via verbiage and camerawork, what is most important to the artist: the use of his art for social good and the freedom of the people. Nearly all (perhaps every one) of the artwork exists -- in addition to the beauty of its conception and execution -- to send a message. This does not, of course, preclude the filmmaker's showing us an awful lot of shots of the artist's cat, below, who can actually open doors (but never closes them afterward). I suspect Ms Klayman is a cat person.

As we listen to Ai Weiwei during the course of this film, it becomes clear that he is both an artist and a critic rolled into one who possesses a keen sense of humor. As do his workmen, one of whom tells us, regarding those employed to put together the artist's work: "We're just hired assassins."

For a first-time filmmaker, Ms Klayman managed to gain surprising access to the artist (above and below) and his family. (How this family plays out is among the surprises of the movie.) Prior to making the film, she worked as a journalist in Beijing, and it is clear from the film itself that her journalism still serves her well. While providing the facts, such as they are, she allows us to spend time with the artist, see his art in various stages (design, construction and completion) and hear his musings, often inspired and always intelligent, on art and life.

From his Names Project for the victims of the Chinese earthquake -- especially the schoolchildren who lost their lives in the shoddy, sub-standard construction provided by the Chinese government --  to the Sunflower Seeds installation (above) that opened (and then just as quickly closed) at London's Tate Modern to the razing of his studio by the Chinese government; from his beating at the hands of police officers to his imprisonment and eventual release, Klayman packs in a lot of events and information. (The Iran-Contra hearings even figure into all this!)

We meet everyone from the artist's mom and younger brother to his wife and the mother of his only child (and no, these last two are not the same person), and various Chinese filmmakers and performance artists. Together, these people offer a wider perspective on our guy, a fellow who has taken the term artist/activist to new heights. "If you don't act," he tells us at one point, "the danger only becomes stronger."

From Sundance Selects, the 91-minute documentary -- after making numerous international festival appearances -- opens this Friday, July 27, in New York City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington DC and Bethesda, MD. A further nationwide limited release will begin in August.

Bobcat Goldthwait's GOD BLESS AMERICA proves the cultural vigilante's wet-dream

If you thought Bobcat Goldthwait's earlier films -- Sleeping Dogs Lie and The World's Greatest Dad -- were transgressive, wait till you get a load of GOD BLESS AMERICA, his latest combination of smackdown and provocation. Up yours, America, would seem to be the message here, and there are going to be a lot of Americans who welcome and agree with it. It is not, I think, the problematic America of decades past at which Bobcat is directing his middle finger, not the America that simultaneously held such promise and despair, but today's USA, which promises only more despair -- no matter which crappy politicians the wealthy and corporate manage to grease into office. Ah, but Mr. Goldthwait, pictured below, has just the remedy we need.

A very good friend of mine with whom I attended the press screening -- he's an intelligent, cranky, 70-year-old with relatively high standards -- announced to me as the end credits finished rolling, "I have never seen a movie that was more about me."  That my friend is also a mild-mannered picture of civility, while the me of the movie is a rampaging, murderous vigilante is, well, something that should give us all pause. The movie itself will give us shocking, gut-busting laughs, as its "hero," fed up with the increasing stupidity and incivility of the modern world takes it upon himself (with a little unasked-for help from a local high-school girl) to, as the movie's priceless tag line puts it, "take out the trash, one jerk at a time."

The thing I like best about Bobcat as a filmmaker is that he lets the chips fall where they may. If he tackles a problem, he really wrestles with it. With each new film, he's grown more disciplined until, in this one, he's decided to take no prisoners. His filmmaking skill may still remain below his talent as a provocateur, and that's just fine. We already have plenty of skilled movie-makers. We don't have nearly as many hypocrisy-puncturers and balls-to-the-wall social critics like Mr. Goldthwait. 

My cranky but civil friend remarked on the filmmaker's occasional lack of continuity (something my longtime companion is also skilled at noting, while I am not), but let's talk about what's really good about this film -- in addition to its premise and execution. That would start with its well-chosen leading man: Joel Murray (above, and bro of Bill), who proves an inspired choice for the role of Frank. He gets exactly right the sense of "otherness" that eventually engulfs and then appears to becalm those of us who will identify with Frank. Really, though, this calm only masks our anger at the world around us, where black is now white, good evil, corporations humans and so much else touted as true that is patently false. And all of it as uncivil as can be -- from our schools to the workplace to television entertainment (below).

Murray goes from very believable, quiet sadness to depression, into fantasy and from there into action -- without missing a step along the way, And we're with him too, and much further along in his crazy, violent endeavor than we might expect.

As his partner in crime, Roxy, an "outsider" high-school student who has her own reasons for going on the rampage with Frank, Tara Lynne Barr is a good foil for Murray's gravity and odd grace. Her character is nowhere near as strong as his, however, but the act-ress is charged with enough energy and charm to carry us along.

Other than our two vigilantes, most of the rest of the cast are the victims (save the notably uninterested medical professional, above) -- and a scurvier, clueless, more entitled bunch of scumbags would be hard to find. Which of course makes us not care for them while they're with us and mourn them not at all when they're gone. As the film moves along, it becomes clearer what Frank's rationale really is. I'll use only one scene -- in the movie theater -- for emphasis so as not to spoil anything else.

It is not the political view of the other guy (or gal) that the filmmaker and his hero disdain unto death. No, it's the lack of civility these people bring to the table (and everywhere else they go). In that movie theater, a group of rowdy, thoughtless teens won't shut up during the movie. One young woman in their party desists and suggests that her companions tone it down. She is spared, and they are "offed." Another patron in the theater, although he made no noise and was not rude, decides to use his cell phone camera to record the carnage: bye-bye. Priorities, people!

There's a weird morality at work here. Or course, we root for the vigilantes, even though we know they've gone too far. But there is also a great release, a catharsis of sorts, to be found in what's going on.  This is most profoundly true during the American Idol-like satire in which a fat, talent-free contestant (below) is unmercifully mocked by all. What happens to him -- and why and with whose help -- may be Bobcat's most vicious, yet saddest, comment on the depths to which we can sink.

God Bless America is funny, all right, but it succeeds best as a nasty, no-holds-barred satire, the edge of which cuts us all. The film opens this Friday, May 11, in a dozen major cities across the country, with many more to come in the weeks that follow. (In New York City, it's playing at the Landmark Sunshine Cinema.)   Click here to see all currently scheduled playdates, with cities and theaters.

That old panderer Jean-Luc Godard gives us something to ponder in FILM SOCIALISM

Oh, am I using that headline word incorrectly?  I don't think so. According to my dictionary, a panderer, in addition to a sexual procurer, can be someone who "caters to or exploits the lower tastes and desires of others." While one does not necessarily think of intellectual pursuits as part of the "lower" tastes and desires, it seems to me -- and has for some time now -- that Jean-Luc Godard has become, intentionally or not, a fake who appeals to our pretensions more than anything else. And to my mind our pretensions qualify as lower tastes and desires.

Once upon a time, this filmmaker (shown at right) made a ground-breaking but not-very-good movie (Breathless) and then a much better one (Le Petit Soldat -- so important that France banned it for a long while). Otherwise, he's mostly been jerking us around. Misogynistic and misanthropic (the latter can be more easily forgiven than the former because it is at least all-inclusive), like Warhol in art, Godard makes us look at things differently. But not, unfortunately, in ways particularly edifying. So, having given up on JLG some years back, I decided to take a look at his latest, FILM SOCIALISM, with as open a mind as possible (what? You say it's sieve-like?) under these already greatly prejudiced circumstances.

Surprise! I wouldn't call the film a complete waste of time. Here are so many verbal and visual tricks and tics -- subtitles that sometimes do and sometimes don't translate what's being said in the dialog, plus a soundtrack that goes in and out at odd times, and subject headings that seem deliberately unhelpful -- that for a time you can't help but marvel at the filmmaker's use of distraction. Much of the film was also shot aboard a cruise ship, on which we're sailing with a bunch of tourists. Until we're not. (That ship, a friend of mine pointed out this morning, is the lately-infamous Concordia, the captain of which was recently immortalized by the NY Post, in one of its better recent headlines, as "Chicken of the Sea.")

I think you might call this movie another provocation by a provoker of long-standing, in which -- after all the nonsense (with maybe some sense buried deep within) -- the speech and the written word begin to somewhat coincide. Along the way we get a llama (above, left) and a mama (below, right).

We're treated to some Chopin and some Patti Smith (shown below), and on Blu-ray, the movie is often drop-dead gorgeous, with its scenes of the sea and sky pretty damned ravishing. (One character's blue eyes almost look like a special effect.)

We're whisked off briefly to the Palestine of 1926 and elsewhere, and moments from famous old movies are woven in throughout. And, oh, yes, there's politics, consumerism and immi/emigration, too -- though anything Godard might be saying about them that even approaches originality is lost on me. It's all style (I use the word loosely) but little real content here.

Then, near the end, we are shown a wise, old owl (no doubt a stand-in for our filmmaker), followed soon by the words NO COMMENT. Which is why TrustMovies decided to make his own comment via the above post.

Film Socialism, at a rather long 102 minutes, is available now -- for sale or rental -- on DVD and Blu-ray from Kino Lorber. Or you can watch it via Fandor, where it has just become available.  Bonne chance, mes amis!

Miguel Ángel Vivas' KIDNAPPED will get your juices flowing -- and maybe your ire

Crap from an angel? Well, what's in a name? (And it's his middle name, anyhow.) Am I being too hard on Miguel Ángel Vivas , the director and (with Javier García) co-writer of the new Spanish movie KIDNAPPED (Secuestrados)? Maybe. Clearly, Señor Vivas means his film to be above all a provocation to its audience -- which it sure as hell is. But is it much more than that? TrustMovies has doubts. He admits (and grudingly admires) this filmmaker's talent, which is often on noticeable display throughout this 85-minute film, but at the finale (there's ain't no denouement here) he felt annoyed and abused. (Which is, I suspect, exactly the effect on his audience for which the filmmaker fervently hopes.)

If not, then why begin his movie in the manner he has done? It's a terrific opening, by the way: an image of a man, his hands tied and his head covered and loosely wrapped, with the wind making small indentations in that wrapping. What follows is one good shock, followed by another, by another. Then we get a respite, as we decide that the filmmaker (that handsome devil shown at left) has begun in media res, then taken us a few minutes onward, only to flash us back into something like "Several Hours Earlier" or "One Day Previous."  Except that no title card tells us this, and instead -- having seen many, many movies in our day, right? -- we simply assume this to be so. Well, you know the old saying: Never assume: it makes an "ass" out of "u" and "me."

There have been other "provocations" in the popular family-in-jeopardy genre: Haneke's Funny Games (either version) comes immediately to mind, as well as Inside from Bustillo & Maury. But Kidnapped is something different. It doesn't (and I don't think Señor Vivas gives a shit about this) play fair with its audience. Consequently, once the film concludes, anger may be that audience's biggest response. But then, awhile later (like right now -- six months to the day from when I first saw this movie during last December's Spanish Cinema Now series at the FSLC) -- I find myself grinning as I type and rethink the thing, all over again.

Not that my grin means that I am overly happy with this film. Let's start with its title. Kidnapped usually involves being taken away, transported, by force. That doesn't happen here. Seized might have been a better title, but I guess it doesn't have the cojones of "kidnapped." (It does, however have more originality: the K-word has been the title of some 35 movies already; Seized has been used only once). Talking only about the chosen title seems a bit paltry, so instead let's ask about the filmmaker's decision to use the split-screen. This may be the worst example of split-screen in a movie that I have ever seen. Vivas insists on doing it at exactly the moment when two hugely eventful, important things are taking place. Both views are exciting and well done, but one's eye can only take in one of the two. So we simply miss what's happening on the other side of the screen. This is stupid and unforgivable. You can probably piece together what has happened plot-wise, all right, but in terms of action -- there's a lot of it -- you didn't see it.  (Or if you did, you missed it on the other side of the screen.)

Considering how short the film is, it still drags a bit midway, and a little too much goes wrong with the kidnappers' plot for maximum believability. Vivas is very good, however, at upping the tension -- both the intergenerational tension we see as we are introduced to the family, and then the tension we feel as audience members because we know something awful is going to happen. The filmmaker withholds the blood and gore for quite awhile, and then lets it come on full force. (The most violent scene provoked loud screams from the Walter Reade audience the afternoon I saw the film. But Vivas lets us know this is OK: the victim has been shown to be a very naughty Albanian -- these days the eastern European bad-guy of choice.)

What Vivas is probably best at is upending our expectations, which is also the main point behind this provocation. To move immediately from his ending -- one of the nastiest in movie history -- to the song he has chosen to be sung as the credits roll, is to be slapped in the face repeatedly and hard by the grinning, son-of-a-bitch director. (Masochists: start your engines.)

I realize that I have now said enough to send fans of this nasty genre racing non-stop to check it out. IFC Films picked up Kidnapped for both theatrical and On-Demand release, as part of the IFC Midnight series, after which a DVD debut is probably in the cards. The film opens tomorrow, Friday, June 17, at Brooklyn's reRun Gastropub theater. (It began its VOD run this past Wednesday. Click here to learn where and how to get it.)