The Filmcake

Sarah takes on A Serbian Film in this Filmcake guest post:

A Serbian Film can only be described as an assault. With the exception of a certain dining scene in Salo, no other film has had me seriously contemplating whether or not I needed to grab myself a vomit bucket. And by the time this thing ended, I’d pretty much been reduced to a whimpering, curled-up ball on the end of my sofa.

Also, I was pretty sure that I’d never be able to have sex again.

I should mention that I’m not easily shocked. In fact, I have a long history of actively seeking out films that generate controversy, outrage and disgust. The more extreme, the better. As teenagers, my friends and I threw Faces of Death watch parties. I’ve seen Antichrist – twice. I look forward to the Human Centipede’s return as a Full Sequence. I want a film (and art in general) to show me something new, to provoke some kind of visceral reaction.

Usually, these kinds of films fall short of the hype. What plays out on-screen is rarely as horrific as what I’ve anticipated in my mind. A Serbian Film, perhaps because I knew so little about it going in, most certainly did not fall short. I had my visceral reaction, all right. But interestingly, A Serbian Film is more than just another torture porn wannabe.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of torture. And porn. And more torture. It’s no wonder that so much controversy has been generated – A Serbian Film employs something of a “no taboo left behind” strategy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend the majority of this film absolutely revulsed, hiding in my hoodie, knees pulled to my chest. But after processing it all for a couple of days, the increasingly over-the-top shenanigans start to seem increasingly silly, as though director/co-writer Srđan Spasojević was simply checking off boxes: Bestiality? Check. Pedophilia? Check. Necrophilia? Check. In retrospect, it just seems a little too much.

Subtle, this is not.

However, what makes this film more than mere exploitative trash is that Spasojević is actually trying to say something. There are some interesting ideas there – about contemporary Serbian politics, about the complicated nature of the relationship between the oppressed and the oppressor, about the movie-going audience’s complicit role in the violence. (Perhaps even suggesting that as long as there’s someone to watch, say, A Serbian Film, than these things will continue to exist. We are all to blame!)

However, I think a lot of these ideas were either introduced too explicitly (I probably could have figured out some of the sociopolitical metaphors without a monologue spelling them out for me) or else they seemed half-formed and jumbled. To be fair, I should revisit the film to develop a more thoughtful analysis of its thematic content, but I just don’t know if I could sit through it again.

Also worth noting is that a surprising amount of the violence and sex actually occurs off-camera. It’s rather impressive (my compliments to the editor) that the film managed to so effectively imply a lot of the horror without actually showing it. The viewer still ends up as freaked out as if it was being depicted graphically on-screen – and since our imaginations tend to fill in the blanks with far worse things than could ever actually be shown – perhaps even more so.

Finally, A Serbian Film is just technically well-made. It’s nicely shot, well-edited, and Srdjan Todorovic’s performance is terrific.

If you’re curious, not easily offended, and have a strong stomach, this is definitely a film worth seeking out.

Michael Winterbottom’s The Killer Inside Me, shot mostly in Oklahoma, was still shooting during last year’s deadCENTER festival. In my mind, the movie is intimately linked to the local film festival. We got our pictures taken with the “Alba Shark.” We saw them shooting a scene downtown. We caught glimpses of Simon Baker and Jessica Alba at a local lounge. I saw Casey Affleck heading to Bricktown as I checked out of the Colcord. Many locals were extras or helped out with the crew. It was a legitimate film, with a legitimate director, being filmed in Oklahoma during the best film festival in the state. So part of me was a little disappointed that it didn’t screen during this year’s festival. Sure, it probably wouldn’t have been the best movie to screen outdoors for the public. But it would’ve been an excellent addition to an already impressive 10th festival.

The Killer Inside Me Films in OKC

Michael Winterbottom is always a bit of a surprise. He seems to fly under the radar. Perhaps it’s the variety of his projects–the way he bounces around from genre to genre, from tone to tone, from mood to mood. But he’s certainly underappreciated. Most people will know him from A Mighty Heart. But, he’s done so much more. He did Jude, Welcome to Sarajevo, 24 Hour Party People, Tristam Shandy, and now The Killer Inside Me. In addition he’s managed to make a documentary based on a Naomi Klein book and a movie that has gained some notoriety because of its unsimulated sex.

I think he does fine work once again with The Killer Inside Me. Based on the pulp crime novel by Oklahoma born Jim Thompson, the film follows the exploits of Sheriff Lou Ford (Affleck) as he navigates his own slippery grip with psychopathy. All of the ingredients of hard-boiled fiction are present. There are unflinching takes on violence and sex. There are twists and turns and double-crosses. It certainly puts the dark back into noir. And for the cherry on top, an ample dose of Freud takes a stab at explanation.

The film is brutal. With seemingly little reason for doing so, Lou turn’s the beautiful face of prostitute Joyce Lakewood (Alba) into something resembling cube steak. It’s brutal. And frustrating. Freud stutters with a reason for this behavior. But whether the Freudian explanation is for Lou or for us remains unclear. Do we even care if violence (or sexual dysfunction) has a cause? Does it matter where the root lies? Or is it enough that it exists?

The violence of the film is also brutal because it comes from Lou’s perspective. To him, the women he loves somehow want this violence inflicted on them. They don’t put their hands up to block punches. For Lou, it is their sexual desire fulfilled.

Why the film offers potential paths toward explanations (e.g. the Freud books on Lou’s bookshelf, the babysitter, the back seat of the car, etc.), it doesn’t provide definitive answers. Perhaps Lou’s past has acted as a compass, directing him down his present path, but he is still very much guiding his own ship.

Casey Affleck impresses once again, playing a psychopathic version of The Coward Robert Ford. He keeps getting better and better. Kate Hudson just makes me long for Almost Famous with the hope that she can rekindle that fire at some point in a future project. Ned Beatty is great as usual. But I’m still not convinced that Alba can really act. She’s a pretty face who delivers some clunky lines. Luckily, a doormat is what the script called for so it’s not as if it’s bad casting. I want to like her as an actor. The shark posters she plastered all over the city last year actually kind of made me like her.

Mostly, I’m just glad that a major film from a credible director was made right here in the Great State of Oklahoma. I hope there is much more that links Hollywood with Oklahoma into the future.

It was fitting that a trailer for Richard Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles ran before the US premiere of The White Stripes tour documentary Under Great White Northern Lights last night at Noble Theatre in the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. The Third Man and C.F. Kane are both referenced in The White Stripes universe. Jack White’s label Third Man Records presents the film and we are also treated in the documentary with a segment from the band’s “The Union Forever” (which lyrically is comprised entirely of dialogue from Citizen Kane).

Jack says in the film that his favorite thing anyone has written about The White Stripes is that they are “simultaneously the most fake band…and the most real band in the world.” To me, that very Dylan-esque dichotomy really does sum up what the band is all about. They are the rawest, bluesiest form of cabaret. They are ultimate intensity in red, white, and black.

Thankfully, director Emmett Malloy crafts his tour documentary of the band with that aesthetic in mind. It is no Behind the Music attempt at biography or explanation. Jack and Meg White aren’t concerned with rehashing the past. It doesn’t matter whether or not they are brother and sister, or husband and wife. What matters is putting on a great show.

The film, shot mostly in black and white (and red) on 16mm, follows the band as they undertake their first Canadian tour. As they traverse all the provinces of Canada putting on shows, Jack & Meg surprise the locals with unique daytime shows. There’s a One Note Show. There’s a sing-a-long on a city bus. There’s a show in a bowling alley. There are short shows in town squares and in community centers. The quirky daytime locations provide the film and the tour with a bit of levity, while the footage from the regular shows leave this White Stripes fan wanting even more. Malloy captures the performances nicely–the grainy 16mm fitting perfectly with the band’s aesthetic–even if the sound in the theatre wasn’t perfectly balanced.

Meg & Jack -- http://whitestripes.bside.com/press-materials/

Amidst the levity of the daytime shows and the intensity of the nighttime performances, the documentary also presents an emotional side. Meg, who is the quieter and shyer of the duo (and given subtitles in the documentary), is seated on a piano bench as Jack plays and sings “White Moon.” As tears begin to slide down her cheeks, it is evident that the pressures of touring and fame may finally be too much to bear. A couple of months later, the band would cancel the remainder of the tour citing Meg’s acute anxiety. Whether or not The White Stripes tour again remains a mystery.