Not Coming to a Theater Near You | 2005 in review
by Chiranjit Goswami
Until I attended the Toronto International Film Festival in September, I considered the assortment of films I had watched in 2005 to be somewhat lackluster in comparison to previous years. My first assignment at notcoming.com provided me with a much desired opportunity to reconsider my grouchy perspective, but TIFF was considerably more physically, mentally, and creatively strenuous than I had envisioned. Within a few days I had acquired a newfound respect for all those film critics I had previously disparaged for lazy criticism. My amateur status became abundantly clear as my festival experience closed with Martin Scorsese’s 3-hour documentary No Direction Home and realized I was exhausted in almost every way. Fatigue aside, TIFF rejuvenated my enthusiasm for movies. Despite a few disappointments, the overall assortment of films I was able to watch inspired more interest than it thwarted. Afterwards, my fervor was revived and my faith in cinema was somewhat restored. I returned home confident that the potential of the autumn film schedule would be realized.
Strangely, as winter’s arrival marks the conclusion of the year, my disappointment regarding the filmmaking in 2005 has regrettably been restored, perhaps due to the annual trend of quality films arriving in Winnipeg months, or often years, after their initial acclaim. Unfortunately, I have yet to experience Malick’s The New World, witness Spielberg’s version of the events after Munich, or catch Kurosawa’s hi-tech Pulse. Yet I find myself struggling once again to wrestle my annual “Best of” list to its conventional limit. Based upon the evidence, I assume this incongruence to be a result of the cynicism that has been amplified as I grow older rather than any noticeable decline in the overall quality of cinema… but maybe it is youthful delusion.
One of the more welcome trends in filmmaking this year was the explicitly political material that mainstream movies embraced as a reflection of the current political climate, even if these films failed to spark substantial widespread interest. I am not yet jaded or myopic enough to assume the efforts of people such as Jeff Skoll are unnecessary, misguided, or useless, even if their momentary influence is a function of marketing. Unfortunately, while I appreciated the intentions of films such as Syriana, the outcomes of their labor were mixed, if not slightly unsatisfactory, in terms of personal enjoyment. Among the most frustrating displays, Soderbergh’s Bubble was noticeably patronizing to the plastic-doll populace of the insular Mid-West community it sought to probe, without allowing its glaring scorn to gaze beyond the monotony of blue-collar factory work or a fleeting implication of traditional religion. Soderbergh (one of my favorite directors) appeared content to condemn these townsfolk for their narrow view of the world, without broadening the scope of his own contempt. I fear the divergence between Blue and Red States, and the concern which fuels liberal Hollywood filmmakers to explore these small-town communities will result in more films in the mold of Bubble, rather than more balanced and thoughtful portraits.
However, politics did substantially influence my perception of filmmaking in 2005. While North America dealt with the dwindling support for a US President and the lack of confidence in a Canadian Prime Minister, where both leaders stumbled due to different forms of arrogance, corruption, and idiocy, it wasn’t at all unexpected that the most persistently prominent theme within cinema was that of a problematic patriarch. Throughout 2005 viewers were presented with masculine incompetence or indifference, often when dealing with family dynamics. Particularly fascinating, and somewhat concerning, was the difficulty fathers encountered while attempting to protect their offspring, occasionally being most responsible for the harmful circumstances that surrounded their children.
Whereas, Steve Carell’s innocent ignorance regarding women was hilarious in Judd Apatow’s The 40 Year Old Virgin, a father figure wasn’t even worthy of mention in Kore-eda’s Nobody Knows. Dads were swept aside and discarded as disappointments in Stephen Gaghan’s Syriana, where father-failure issues provided a needless distraction from the fundamental issue at hand. Quite often paternal immaturity and awkwardness were center-stage, such as in Steven Spielberg’s occupation-allegory War of the Worlds. Patriarchal deceit, deception, and delusion were the primary focus of both A History of Violence and Caché, as Cronenberg included an unsettling expression bestowed from father to son, while Haneke simply chose to capture the ensuing trauma. Meanwhile, Noah Baumbach chose to be honest in depicting his pitifully insecure elitist father while allowing Jeff Daniels to be simultaneously sophisticated and silly while portraying a washed-up literary intellectual. Daniels’ performance was matched by another charmingly catatonic turn by Bill Murray in Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers, where Jeffrey Wright’s Winston provided a delightful foil to all these dysfunctional dads. Unfortunately, Murray’s Don Juan realized his newly-discovered role as a dad wasn’t enough to surmount a lifetime of disinterest and he was justly abandoned by his potential progeny.
Fathers were also capable of making some rather shocking decisions. The Dardannes provided the year’s biggest gasp and may have caused viewers to emulate Sonia’s collapse once confronted with first-time father Bruno’s childish morality in L’Enfant. An equally astounding act in its foolish splendor was John Hawkes lighting his hand on fire as a ceremonial conclusion to his dissolved marriage in the opening moments of Miranda July’s Me and You and Everyone We Know. The earnest attempts of Hawke’s Richard Swersey were perhaps the most pathetic display of male helplessness, since they were disregarded by the very people who he sought connection with, but his endearing sincerity was appreciated even if his pains were ridiculous. Sometimes it’s just the thought that counts, especially within a cinematic landscape littered with father figures who are seemingly adrift. Finally there was Gus Van Sant’s Last Days, where Kim Gordon pops in to make a final plea to Blake/Kurt, and you have to wonder why the heck Thurston Moore never shows up to offer his figurative rock-star offspring some advice.
Interestingly, some contemporary Asian auteurs decided to explore the futility of male potency. Wong Kar-Wai appeared to be in the mood to delve into licentious links that were lost on the way to 2046, while Tsai Ming-Liang tracked The Wayward Cloud while wandered through the corridors connecting physical thirst with sexual desires using watermelons and musicals numbers. Mothers didn’t fair nearly as well, as maternal instincts were reduced to making ridiculously offensive concluding instructions from mother to daughter in Park Chan-Wook’s Sympathy for Lady Vengeance – “Be White.” is the counsel she offers her kid. Though Park appeared to be concerned with purity, such dialogue wouldn’t have been nearly as insulting if Park – who has become keenly aware of his popularity in North America – hadn’t required his heroine to speak such advice in English to a daughter raised in a Western society by Caucasian parents.