mruzick3
09-22-2003, 01:16 AM
I have lived in Birmingham, Alabama over five years now. After living in Southern California for nearly all of my life, I pulled up stakes with my then fiancé and moved to Birmingham for cheaper rent and to have a southern wedding to, yes, the preacher’s daughter. I’ve observed a lot of the idiosyncrasies that make the South such a hotbed of curious characters. I’ve seen entire local news reports spent on the lives of college football coaches and I’ve seen the deserted streets on any-given-Saturday in September. Even though I’ve lived here so long, people still ask me if I’ve adjusted to Southern life. Well I know have adjusted to pit barbeques and meat & threes (like a fish in water.) And, I swear, my wife still has to act the virtual diplomat when I’m meeting someone new (they can spot a ‘Yankee’--from either coast--coming a mile away.)
Birmingham, I’ve observed, is unique. Whenever people ask me how I like living here I always give the same answer, “I like it. It’s a big-small-town.” This identity paradox is seen everywhere in this town I now call home from the growing fashion-island-like suburban malls to the emphasis on preserving downtown architecture that is no longer occupied with commercial tenants. It’s this collective neurosis of a city that gives Birmingham its charm and its frustration, its drive and its failings, its future and its past. It just seemed fitting and ironic that, after moving here five years ago, I would choose to have my first film festival experience ever at the 5th Annual Sidewalk Film Festival in my little-big town of Birmingham and find that each film I chose to watch portrayed a neurotic turmoil playing itself out.
The Sidewalk Film Festival is the only festival for independent film of its kind in Alabama and, I would venture to guess, the region. This year’s event started Friday night, September 19th, and offered feature films, shorts, documentaries, and film talks through the weekend in the middle of downtown Birmingham’s historic district. Sidewalk has been going on for five years now, gaining momentum every year. Last year there were over 10,000 attendees and Alan Hunter, president of Sidewalk’s board, just proclaimed this year’s event a record breaking one. That’s pretty impressive considering Birmingham does not have an “art-house” theater strictly dedicated to independent film. Which also illustrates the city’s neurotic personality; we love independent film---just give us a little time to get used to the idea. Well, as I’ve seen in my film choices, a stranger can be quite a welcome breakthrough.
-Melvin Goes to Dinner: My first film choice for, what turned out to be, a triple feature Saturday. My wife and I descended the stairs to an underground makeshift theatre complete with tables and bar (minus the hard liquor.) I read the summary and noticed Michael Penn’s musicianship added to the ensemble and thought I’d take a shot. I failed to make the connection that the director, Bob Odenkirk, was also responsible for the now classic “Mr. Show.” Which seemed to fit with the night--I was unexpectedly amazed with this film’s story. It seemed simple enough, four relative strangers, with only the slightest bit of knowledge from each before the story really started, agree to have dinner. Through the course of the evening the audience is treated to each characters’ neurosis and how it has brought them to such a gathering. After each hour is spent drinking and talking and drinking more, the levels of superficiality that each character kept get peeled away with every salacious anecdote. The stories often become confessional in tone and bring each person sitting at the table a step closer to their own forgotten self-analysis. Odenkirk often shifts time-sequences, which plays well against the diluted schizophrenic nature of the characters. Here in the South, stories are the most important thing a guest can offer. It’s called visiting. The stranger is only stranger until his or her story is told. I felt very drawn to each story and really cared what was happening in each life. That’s very rare in this kind of film. The relational-generation-X-comedy has been done to often-cheesy effect. The reactions were real, the surprises (and there are a few) were tangible, and the appreciation of the audiences’ sensibilities was evident. A neurosis can blanket a person from fulfilling their life; a stranger doesn’t know the blanket is there.
-Happy Hour: A contradiction in title, but for my wife and I the hour between movie showings meant that we could walk down to the next venue and grab a couple dogs from Lyric’s Hot Dogs across the street from the Alabama Theater—truly a happy hour. The Alabama Theater is, honestly, the very best theater that I have ever seen a movie in. Every detail is impeccably chosen to portray a by-gone era of movie going that is trying very hard to come back. This perfectly set the tone for our next feature. Anthony LaPaglia portrays a self-proclaimed drunk that has seen the potential of his writing career build up and deflate after every blank page is crumpled up and thrown away. Before the ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ comparisons come in to fester, I want to say that this movie, like the theater it was shown in, took a very careful attention to a by-gone era of dialogue. Tulley (LaPaglia) is a drunk with a sharp wit and the ability to throw one-liners out completely sloshed better than an English major with a thesaurus. He’s flanked by his friend and non-confidant Levine, played with sidekick charm by Eric Stoltz. Tulley’s perfect nonchalance is turned upside-down when he falls for a stranger in the form of a teacher, Natalie, from Brooklyn played with great reverence to a by-gone style of acting by Caroleen Feeney. Happy Hour’s brilliance is in the dialogue, both external and internal. From the beginning, we hear a repentant Tulley voicing over his story. Externally, we hear his smirking jabs that only cover up his real speech. These voices slowly come together (as my wife pointed out after the film) at the point where a stranger reached out with love and another stranger randomly reached out to dealt pain. The neurotic crisis becomes real for Tulley when he finds his life unexpectantly limited and his literary voice limited only to his external persona. The pursuit to write down his last and first words becomes a physical and psychological torture as Tulley detoxes from a life only half drunk to the fullest. My only complaint has to do with the last, oh I’d say, minute or two of film. Please, Mike Bencivenga, as a director and writer of a great by-gone character, don’t give me that ending. Let it end with the walk-into-the-sunset. I know it is clichéd, but the film merits more than a gimmick.
-My Life With Morrissey: Ducking out of the Alabama before the Q&A, we high-tailed it down the couple of blocks to the Brick Room where our last feature was being shown. Of course, when we got there we found we were early to the tune of a half-hour. Our delusion of lateness set the tone for the delusion of obsession given to us by director Andrew Overtoom and that all-to-familiar anomaly—the obsessed Morrissey fan. Now, I have to confess, I was a big fan. I wore the T-shirts, I wrote the poetry, hell—I even smelled the flowers. Thankfully, I met someone else who shared my musical interest even after the music became irrelevant (I mean did anyone buy Maladjusted?) Coming at this movie with a fan’s point-of-view, I laughed…out loud…and then laughed even harder at the movie. Yes, we were all pretty ridiculous. I don't think the fact that this movie had a B-movie feel to it had anything to do with the lack of big money (or the lack of copyright permission to play certain songs from certain bands.) I loved every biting stare Jackie (the obsessed fan in question) gave to co-workers and two-dimensional icons alike. I loved the one-liners I’ll be repeating to strange stares and I gained a new appreciation for rolling bagels and mimes getting out of fake cubes. Jackie is neurotic, there’s no doubting that. Her, neurosis is flipped on to overload when her perfect stranger enters into her life to offer her a ride and the possibility of living within an alternate universe that only psychotics and obsessed fans occupy. Jackie’s breakthrough to normalville never comes after her meeting with the object of her desire. Her neurotic state seems to be her own version of normal, which she had to fight through every morning to get to work. Like the old saying goes, “I was looking for a job and then I found a job—and Heaven knows I’m miserable now.” Bless her heart.
Yes, my Sidewalk Film Festival had a very specific theme. There were a lot more movies that were shown and, I’m sure, are making the festival circuit as we speak. I didn’t stay the entire time and Grad school homework got in the way of going to any of Sunday’s features but I was delighted by our choices and to see such an event grow in this city. Birmingham’s little-big-identity-crisis is something that one can get used to and even love if the result is this very well done event. Thanks to everyone who put it together.
http://www.sidewalkfest.com/
________________________________________
Mike Ruzicka
Birmingham, I’ve observed, is unique. Whenever people ask me how I like living here I always give the same answer, “I like it. It’s a big-small-town.” This identity paradox is seen everywhere in this town I now call home from the growing fashion-island-like suburban malls to the emphasis on preserving downtown architecture that is no longer occupied with commercial tenants. It’s this collective neurosis of a city that gives Birmingham its charm and its frustration, its drive and its failings, its future and its past. It just seemed fitting and ironic that, after moving here five years ago, I would choose to have my first film festival experience ever at the 5th Annual Sidewalk Film Festival in my little-big town of Birmingham and find that each film I chose to watch portrayed a neurotic turmoil playing itself out.
The Sidewalk Film Festival is the only festival for independent film of its kind in Alabama and, I would venture to guess, the region. This year’s event started Friday night, September 19th, and offered feature films, shorts, documentaries, and film talks through the weekend in the middle of downtown Birmingham’s historic district. Sidewalk has been going on for five years now, gaining momentum every year. Last year there were over 10,000 attendees and Alan Hunter, president of Sidewalk’s board, just proclaimed this year’s event a record breaking one. That’s pretty impressive considering Birmingham does not have an “art-house” theater strictly dedicated to independent film. Which also illustrates the city’s neurotic personality; we love independent film---just give us a little time to get used to the idea. Well, as I’ve seen in my film choices, a stranger can be quite a welcome breakthrough.
-Melvin Goes to Dinner: My first film choice for, what turned out to be, a triple feature Saturday. My wife and I descended the stairs to an underground makeshift theatre complete with tables and bar (minus the hard liquor.) I read the summary and noticed Michael Penn’s musicianship added to the ensemble and thought I’d take a shot. I failed to make the connection that the director, Bob Odenkirk, was also responsible for the now classic “Mr. Show.” Which seemed to fit with the night--I was unexpectedly amazed with this film’s story. It seemed simple enough, four relative strangers, with only the slightest bit of knowledge from each before the story really started, agree to have dinner. Through the course of the evening the audience is treated to each characters’ neurosis and how it has brought them to such a gathering. After each hour is spent drinking and talking and drinking more, the levels of superficiality that each character kept get peeled away with every salacious anecdote. The stories often become confessional in tone and bring each person sitting at the table a step closer to their own forgotten self-analysis. Odenkirk often shifts time-sequences, which plays well against the diluted schizophrenic nature of the characters. Here in the South, stories are the most important thing a guest can offer. It’s called visiting. The stranger is only stranger until his or her story is told. I felt very drawn to each story and really cared what was happening in each life. That’s very rare in this kind of film. The relational-generation-X-comedy has been done to often-cheesy effect. The reactions were real, the surprises (and there are a few) were tangible, and the appreciation of the audiences’ sensibilities was evident. A neurosis can blanket a person from fulfilling their life; a stranger doesn’t know the blanket is there.
-Happy Hour: A contradiction in title, but for my wife and I the hour between movie showings meant that we could walk down to the next venue and grab a couple dogs from Lyric’s Hot Dogs across the street from the Alabama Theater—truly a happy hour. The Alabama Theater is, honestly, the very best theater that I have ever seen a movie in. Every detail is impeccably chosen to portray a by-gone era of movie going that is trying very hard to come back. This perfectly set the tone for our next feature. Anthony LaPaglia portrays a self-proclaimed drunk that has seen the potential of his writing career build up and deflate after every blank page is crumpled up and thrown away. Before the ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ comparisons come in to fester, I want to say that this movie, like the theater it was shown in, took a very careful attention to a by-gone era of dialogue. Tulley (LaPaglia) is a drunk with a sharp wit and the ability to throw one-liners out completely sloshed better than an English major with a thesaurus. He’s flanked by his friend and non-confidant Levine, played with sidekick charm by Eric Stoltz. Tulley’s perfect nonchalance is turned upside-down when he falls for a stranger in the form of a teacher, Natalie, from Brooklyn played with great reverence to a by-gone style of acting by Caroleen Feeney. Happy Hour’s brilliance is in the dialogue, both external and internal. From the beginning, we hear a repentant Tulley voicing over his story. Externally, we hear his smirking jabs that only cover up his real speech. These voices slowly come together (as my wife pointed out after the film) at the point where a stranger reached out with love and another stranger randomly reached out to dealt pain. The neurotic crisis becomes real for Tulley when he finds his life unexpectantly limited and his literary voice limited only to his external persona. The pursuit to write down his last and first words becomes a physical and psychological torture as Tulley detoxes from a life only half drunk to the fullest. My only complaint has to do with the last, oh I’d say, minute or two of film. Please, Mike Bencivenga, as a director and writer of a great by-gone character, don’t give me that ending. Let it end with the walk-into-the-sunset. I know it is clichéd, but the film merits more than a gimmick.
-My Life With Morrissey: Ducking out of the Alabama before the Q&A, we high-tailed it down the couple of blocks to the Brick Room where our last feature was being shown. Of course, when we got there we found we were early to the tune of a half-hour. Our delusion of lateness set the tone for the delusion of obsession given to us by director Andrew Overtoom and that all-to-familiar anomaly—the obsessed Morrissey fan. Now, I have to confess, I was a big fan. I wore the T-shirts, I wrote the poetry, hell—I even smelled the flowers. Thankfully, I met someone else who shared my musical interest even after the music became irrelevant (I mean did anyone buy Maladjusted?) Coming at this movie with a fan’s point-of-view, I laughed…out loud…and then laughed even harder at the movie. Yes, we were all pretty ridiculous. I don't think the fact that this movie had a B-movie feel to it had anything to do with the lack of big money (or the lack of copyright permission to play certain songs from certain bands.) I loved every biting stare Jackie (the obsessed fan in question) gave to co-workers and two-dimensional icons alike. I loved the one-liners I’ll be repeating to strange stares and I gained a new appreciation for rolling bagels and mimes getting out of fake cubes. Jackie is neurotic, there’s no doubting that. Her, neurosis is flipped on to overload when her perfect stranger enters into her life to offer her a ride and the possibility of living within an alternate universe that only psychotics and obsessed fans occupy. Jackie’s breakthrough to normalville never comes after her meeting with the object of her desire. Her neurotic state seems to be her own version of normal, which she had to fight through every morning to get to work. Like the old saying goes, “I was looking for a job and then I found a job—and Heaven knows I’m miserable now.” Bless her heart.
Yes, my Sidewalk Film Festival had a very specific theme. There were a lot more movies that were shown and, I’m sure, are making the festival circuit as we speak. I didn’t stay the entire time and Grad school homework got in the way of going to any of Sunday’s features but I was delighted by our choices and to see such an event grow in this city. Birmingham’s little-big-identity-crisis is something that one can get used to and even love if the result is this very well done event. Thanks to everyone who put it together.
http://www.sidewalkfest.com/
________________________________________
Mike Ruzicka