LYT at LAFF: Beating Back Burnout

When covering festivals, or even just attending them as a fan, there inevitably comes that moment. The moment where burning the candle at both ends for however many days suddenly doesn’t feel as exciting as it once did, and you want to just say, screw it, I’m gonna relax.

You can ignore this feeling, and it may still come back and kick your ass at some point. I have this thing that happens sometimes, usually after I’ve seen a bunch of films, where I can be watching a movie, and my body starts telling me it wants to doze off. I can try fighting this – have tried such tricks as pulling on my own leg hairs – but unless I can quickly go outside and buy an extra-large Mountain Dew, fighting doesn’t work. The only thing that does is to give in, and nap for five minutes or so, but then you run the risk of not just missing stuff, but dreaming that something completely different is unfolding onscreen than the actual movie you were supposed to be consciously watching. In film school, I would usually figure out I was asleep and dreaming if the silent movie I was supposed to be watching suddenly had synched-sound dialogue.

If I were paid per film, or to cover specific movies at the fest, I would cover my own ass much better, with Monster energy drinks and whatever else. But I’m not. As evidenced by these three paragraphs so far, I can find stuff to talk about even if I see nothing.

All of which is my way of coming up with a convoluted excuse for not posting anything yesterday. When I got to L.A. Live, all I wanted to do was eat oysters at Rock’n Fish’s happy hour. But by the time I got to MAHLER ON THE COUCH, the combination of a thoroughly enjoyed happy hour and overall burnout conspired to bring on the napping. I liked what I saw of the movie, but will not be reviewing as of yet, because I’m not sure how many catnaps I took throughout. I do know that it started so late that by the time it was over, all other movies had started and there was nothing left to see, so I crashed the MAHLER after-party, and enjoyed some wine and pork. I also remember fellow critic Justin Lowe berating me for complaining too much about a job I lost.

Saturday morning had a whole new viewing experience for me: another site that employs my services has asked me to review the next TWILIGHT flick, so I figured I had to catch up on NEW MOON so as not to seem like a total fraud on the topic. I even forced my girlfriend to watch with me (she likes to actively yell at the screen whenever Robert Pattinson says something dumb, which is often in these movies), and I have to point out that she did make me pause it during the bathroom breaks! I may have to review it a little more at my own site, but it’d be old news here. Suffice it to say that the movie’s both strangely watchable and eminently mockable.

I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the festival in time to see and successfully sit through something else right after that two-hour mopefest, but I got downtown in time for ANIMAL KINGDOM, which, as you might suspect of an art-house film, isn’t actually about animals at all, but a metaphor for criminals. Australian criminals.

There’s this teenager named Josh (James Frecheville), who, as the movie starts, is casually watching the Aussie version of “Deal or No Deal” as his mother is dying of a heroin overdose. Thus deprived of adult guardianship, he moves in with his grandmother and uncles, nearly all of whom happen to have a history of armed robbery, especially the deep-undercover “Pope” (Ben Mendelsohn), who is convinced he’s about to be killed by trigger-happy cops. This is not an unreasonable fear, as some of the lawmen seem particularly trigger-happy.

Initially, Josh digs the fact that he can threaten bullies with a gun now. But no sooner can you say “Goodfellas” than he finds himself wondering just what he’s gotten himself into. Pope, who initially seems to be a timid victim, and isn’t particularly physically imposing, turns out to be a vicious brute who can’t simply lie low, and acts out in rage. As the criminal family bring the noose closer around their own necks, a perceptive detective (Guy Pearce, rocking the handsome-guy mustache with aplomb) singles out Josh as the one most likely to help him get the goods.

Josh is an interesting case as a protagonist, since, like many male adolescents, he is not very expressive (I remember my own high-school years well, and how every single day my father would ask me “Anything interesting happen in school today?” and I would always say “no.”). A typical exchange between him and his girlfriend goes like this:

She: Do you love me?

He: Yeah.

She: Why?

He: ‘Cause you’re nice.

In compensation, though, we get a shit-ton of voice-over narration from him at the beginning, explaining everything. It’s probably not completely necessary. Yes, it sets up the characters, but it’s hard to keep track of them right upfront in the narration, and they show their characteristics soon enough anyway.

The animal kingdom metaphor is pretty obvious law of the jungle stuff, about how Josh is one of the weaker animals right now, and thus you can probably figure out where things must lead. It’s reasonably compelling stuff, although when things start to take a LAW & ORDER direction, it must be said that the courtroom stuff is less interesting.

My compliments to director David Michod, however, on his use of gunshots. Every single one comes as a shock, and that’s a hard thing to pull off in our era of action. Mendelsohn is also very good – like most real-life psychopaths and serial killers, he’s unassuming looking and doesn’t advertise his evilness in any way, but by the time you see it in him, it’s too late and you’re screwed.

Any interest in LOST ANGELS on my part was admittedly selfish – it was the only movie where I got an official e-mail invite to the after-party, and free food can be a healthy motivator. Does that make me an unethical critic? I don’t think so – can’t recall any time that a party has changed my opinion on a flick. I may not be the best judge of that, but even Roger Ebert has allowed that accepting chilled shrimp in the new era of scarce paychecks is somewhat more excusable than it once was. And there were chilled shrimp. Oh yes.

Certainly this is not the first movie to riff on “Los Angeles” as “Lost Angels” – I remember one starring Beastie Boy Ad-Rock way back one, though I never watched it, possibly because the Beastie Boys irritate the crap out of me (don’t bother arguing to the contrary...I accept that they have merit, and have tried to like them many times. After sitting through their entire set at Lollapalooza 1994, I finally gave up on that idea).

This LOST ANGELS is a spin-off of THE SOLOIST, directed by that movie’s 2^nd A.D., and featuring some of the homeless folks who became extras in THE SOLOIST. He filmed this documentary once a week, for twenty weeks. It seems to have paid off – this was the first screening I attended at the fest that was filled to 100% capacity. The fact that the tickets were free probably helped, but still, do a little experiment for me: call all your friends, and say, “Hey, I’ve got free tickets to a documentary on homelessness that’s showing downtown. Wanna go?”

I’d be amazed if you got even two takers on that offer, no matter how many Facebook friends you think you have.

Anyhow, I admit to getting an attack of the doze-symptoms during this one too, but I was able to fight them off more effectively this time. Good thing too, because it’s a flick full of colorful characters, from anger-management-issue/would-be-transgender/rock-star-dudded Albert “Bam Bam” Olson, to former Olympic medalist turned homeless drug addict Danny Harris, to a woman whose name I didn’t catch whose body is riddled with obvious tumors, making her look like a smallpox case and frankly creating a really gross first impression...until you hear her talk and sing; she sang live and a cappella at the Q&A afterward, to much-deserved applause.

I know now that “Skid Row” in L.A. is considered to encompass fifty blocks or so, that it immediately borders areas of swanky lofts (where public drunkenness is tolerated way more among the yuppies), and that the population over the years has shifted from aging drunks to dangerously aggressive younger crackheads. It’s described as “an open asylum for the mentally ill.”

Some of those profiled really get themselves together. Others meet tragedy. Mayor Villaraigosa comes under fire as “the most fascist Democrat” ever.

I think it’s worth seeing, and reckon that even if it doesn’t get distribution, some double-disc set with THE SOLOIST is inevitable. Catherine Keener’s narration is perhaps a tad needlessly somber, but she normally rules, so slack is cut on my part.

The after-party at a local Italian restaurant was something of a free-for-all, with no guest list in effect at all, and some really good food (though my friends who were strict vegetarian were SOL, as one of the hosts kept forgetting whether or not there was actually meat in any given dish). Only free drink was wine, and not being much of a wine guy I headed back to the festival lounge for some much-needed Diet Coke.

At that point, I decided that staying super-late to see Natasha Lyonne as a campy killer in ALL ABOUT EVIL was tempting fate too much, and besides, I knew I needed to be fresh in the morning to see Pee-wee Herman.

Only one question, though: how is it that Natasha Lyonne outlived Brittany Murphy?

Luke Y. Thompson is an actor, writer, and film critic living in Hollywood.