I went to a movie event this week that is growing in importance and could rival the main Oscars night within a few years. It's the Academy of Motion Pictures' annual presentation of the films nominated for the two shorts categories - animated and live action.
At one time overlooked as a geeks' backwater, the short films (defined by the Academy as under 40 minutes) are becoming more and more popular. I am not sure why this is, except that a virtuous circle seems to be operating: as better directors make shorts, more people want to see them. But it's not clear where the original impetus came from, other than some directors treating this category as a stepping stone to full-length movies.
Jon Bloom, the Academy governor in charge of this category, suggested that more directors welcome the freedom of being creative without having to accept the discipline of the box office. These films are usually financed by benefactors of one sort or another, for the public good.
But that is all by way of background. What matters is what gets on to the screen.
This is my second year and this week's were every bit as good as those of a year ago. They are international, quirky, funny, sad, dramatic and in some cases made a profound point. So, compared to watching one or two full-length films, ten shorts are emotionally much more demanding and fulfilling.
Here is a brief summary of the ten. Sit back and enjoy.
ANIMATION
La Maison en Petits Cubes
Despite the French title, this is a Japanese film which definitely falls into the 'quirky' slot. It's about a man who lives in what appears to be a lighthouse, in the middle of a sea. As the water rises, he has to build a higher, smaller floor in which to live. Then he acquires a diving suit and dives right down to the seabed and we see his life history down through all his previous homes. Didn't do much for me, a little too quirky maybe.
Lavatory - Lovestory
A Russian entry, about a female lavatory attendant who is left flowers by a mystery admirer/customer who eventually reveals himself. (It is the custom in European public toilets, to have women attendants for both sexes) The form is simple cartoon line drawing and it is in places quite funny, charming, touching.
Oktapodi
A French film with a strong if simple plot. A man in a Greek seaside village buys an octopus and gets in his van to drive home. He doesn't know that the octopus has a mate who does not want to be separated from the one that has been bought. The animation is hilarious as the van clatters down steps and the octopusses flit from swimming pool to swimming pool. It's a great chase movie with wonderful facial expressions.
Presto
This has the stamp of Disney and Pixar all over it. Very professional but somehow not as personal as the first three - not that they were amateurish, just not hammered out of a major corporation. It's about a magician and his rabbit. The magician denies the rabbit a carrot before the show and then exploits the magician's limitations on-stage through a series of surreal revenges. It is funny, but has much more of the feel of what you get from watching any other Disney animation.
This Way Up
OK, I'll admit I'm biased. This is the British entry and the wacky humour was much more to my taste. It's about two undertakers taking a coffin to a graveyard and all the obstacles put in their way, from an enormous boulder to falling off a cliff. Very professionally animated and drawn.
All the animations except for the first played for laughs - and got them. I think the Oscar will be between the last two. Much as I'd like This Way Up to get it, my bet is that Presto will win as a consolation prize for Pixar's Wall-e being overlooked in the main Best Picture category. That's the way it often works round here.
(I was wrong. The Oscar went to La Maison en Petits Cubes).
LIVE ACTION
Auf der Strecke (On the Line)
This runs 30 minutes and is a bit like a TV drama. Security guard fancies sales assistant in the shop where he works, unbeknownst to her he sees her brother being beaten to death on a train and does nothing about it and they get together. OK, but nothing special.
Manon on the Asphalt
A female cyclist is killed in an accident and we see her life flashing past her. This didn't leave much impression on me either.
New Boy
An Irish film about a 10-year-old black boy's first day in an Irish school - how he is teased, makes an enemy and befriends his enemy as schoolkids do. It's well-made, though the teacher comes across as a bit lame. The kids are engaging, though, and play their roles well. It packs a lot into 11 minutes.
The Pig
A real contender, as far as I'm concerned. It's about an elderly man who goes into hospital and likes the picture of a pig on his bedroom wall. Then the bedroom is divided to make room for a Muslim patient. His family take down the picture, and another one drawn by the first man. It then becomes a classic confrontation of two conflicting priorities and why either should win. Very well argued, showing how this sort of dispute is futile.
Spielzeugland (Toyland)
Another strong film, basically a 14-minute version of Schindler's List. Two boys play the piano together, one Aryan and the other Jewish. The Jewish family are to be taken to a concentration camp but they tell their son it is Toyland - so his friend wants to come too.
It's pure coincidence, but again I think the last two were the best. Given Hollywood's predeliction for anti-Nazi films, Toyland may take it. I liked The Pig, though.
(I was right - Toyland did win)
I am grateful to Will Ryan, a member of the Academy and voter in the Oscar process, for giving me a valuable insight into the thinking behind the shorts:
'Your predictions of what may actually win are based on how "Hollywood" and "the Academy" voters may act. Luckily, the short films and documentaries (short and long) are the only categories wherein the voters are limited to people who have actually seen all the films nominated in each of those categories, with IDs shown to Pricewaterhouse Coopers personnel and Academy attendants who verify your identity simultaneously at the special screenings. We are told not to discuss our opinions with other voters. Because of these strictures, I believe the results in these categories are the most meaningful of all the Academy Award categories. We are uninfluenced by trade ads, campaigns, etc. In other categories, e.g., Best Picture, Best Supporting Actress, Best Sound Editing, etc. nobody verifies whether the voter has actually SEEN all the nominated films (or ANY of them, for that matter), whether the voter is actually voting or letting his secretary DingDong or her idiot cousin Kuku fill out the form, whether the voter is deaf or blind or capable, etc. These short film (and doc feature) categories are oft considered the "wild cards" for predictors, though most people don't realise exactly why. Granted, we voters DO work in "Hollywood" and ARE members of the "Academy", but you get a lot of non-studio-ish, independent types attracted to these screenings (like wacky artist/animators and weird independent film-makers), and the voting reflects that more eccentric frame of mind. Yep, there is that one Pixar short this year, and there could be Disney/Pixar block-voting (consciously or not), but each of the five animated nominees have received votes from people I've spoken with since voting closed - and that's only about 5 or 6 people in total I've spoken with on the subject.'
It's good to know that these categories are freer of Hollywood politics than those for the mainstream awards. I'll be delighted if one or more of the more offbeat entries wins an Oscar on Sunday, as that will only encourage the growth of the shorts.
Another friend, the worldly-wise Ian Whitcomb, makes the very cogent point that it is hard to see shorts breaking through the current rigid distribution system sufficiently to be shown in the big cinema chains. But it will be an achievement for them to be shown in indie houses or clubs such as American Cinematheque. Shorts are also very well suited to television or the internet, where the audience for filmed drama is growing rapidly. And, to be fair to the big chains, they can be persuaded to show small-budget movies - Little Miss Sunshine, Blair Witch Project - if they get the right backing. The fact that Fox, Warner and others have specialist brands shows that they are alive to the possibilities if the audience is there. I know that's a chicken-and-egg dilemma, but we are seeing rising demand for shorts and it is not beyond the wit of the cinemas or big studios to come up with a suitable package or framework. An awards evening like last Tuesday is inevitably going to be showing a random collection, but if the shorts culture takes off there is no reason why a cinema couldn't put together a couple of hours of shorts on a particular theme such as spurned love, sci-fi or spectacular failures. For one thing, it would be an inexpensive way for the studios to try out promising people in almost any movie role from directing to a walk-on part.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Not so magical mystery trip by Bill Kay
It all started out so straightforwardly. And, I suppose, ended straightforwardly. But in between was a bizarre road trip that just reminded that, after umpteen vacations and living here for two and a half years, I can still get caught out by the complexities of the LA road system.
The plan was to attend a journalists' meeting at the Metropolitan Water Board offices next to Union Station. It's a mess round there, and the first time we made several missteps, but we'd been before and knew the routine. You get to the front of Union Station, turn to the right and go round the back of the Water Board building to the underground parking lot.
But, having not made the trip lately, I consulted my new best pal, the map application on my iPhone. I entered Union Station and it helpfully told me to go down Pasadena Freeway and take the 5 south to Mission Street, just a mile or so down the road. The traffic wasn't too busy but, this being just before 6pm, it was the rush hour and the regular commuters weren't taking prisoners. Fine.
So, off the slip road, turn right on Mission and right on Cesar Chavez back into downtown. Then left on Vignes.
This didn't look very familiar, but it seemed like we were approaching from the back of the station, not too much of a problem, minor adjustment maybe.
So I went into the approach road, round in a circle and out again, not onto Vignes but a strange little open space which should have set alarm bells ringing. One exit said No Entry but the next seemed OK though (or maybe because) it had no sign saying where it led.
That, though I naturally didn't realise it at the time, was the point of no return. It led into a one-way channel with concrete walls on either side. Other cars were using it, which was reassuring and by now there was no way out. I thought it might lead back to Vignes or Cezar Chavez and the worst would be that I would have to start again.
But this little rat run went on. And on. And on. And on.
After a while I noticed we were travelling alongside a freeway, which I correctly guessed to be the 10, and we looked to be going east, out of town. But there was no turn-off, no way out.
I have checked the map - masochism is my middle name - and I calculate we went 25 miles before finding a turnoff.
Everything seemed upside down. I found Del Mar Boulevard, which I know a little bit, and took that without realising I was going south instead of north. We nearly got down to the 60 before correcting that mistake and eventually pulled into the side in San Gabriel to check the iPhone map. With touching innocence, I trusted it to take us over to Alhambra where we thought we might have a Chinese meal - the journalist meeting would have started by now and we were on to Plans B, C, D and E.
It directed us back to the 10 and recommended going back west for a few miles then north. Looked good - until I mistakenly took the eastbound ramp.
"Ah, there's an exit for Rosemead Boulevard, Route 19, I know that," I cried as if I were foraging through the Amazon jungle.
We took that and it did indeed take us to what I might loosely call civilisation. We swapped our Chinese meal in Alhambra for a Thai meal in east Pasadena, at a restaurant I'd been meaning to try for years. It wasn't a bad meal, not particularly memorable, but the important thing was that I knew where I was. Home was only a ten-minute ride away. We had been in a huge circle, the meeting was lost - and I learned to be more precise about telling a computerised map where I wanted to go.
The plan was to attend a journalists' meeting at the Metropolitan Water Board offices next to Union Station. It's a mess round there, and the first time we made several missteps, but we'd been before and knew the routine. You get to the front of Union Station, turn to the right and go round the back of the Water Board building to the underground parking lot.
But, having not made the trip lately, I consulted my new best pal, the map application on my iPhone. I entered Union Station and it helpfully told me to go down Pasadena Freeway and take the 5 south to Mission Street, just a mile or so down the road. The traffic wasn't too busy but, this being just before 6pm, it was the rush hour and the regular commuters weren't taking prisoners. Fine.
So, off the slip road, turn right on Mission and right on Cesar Chavez back into downtown. Then left on Vignes.
This didn't look very familiar, but it seemed like we were approaching from the back of the station, not too much of a problem, minor adjustment maybe.
So I went into the approach road, round in a circle and out again, not onto Vignes but a strange little open space which should have set alarm bells ringing. One exit said No Entry but the next seemed OK though (or maybe because) it had no sign saying where it led.
That, though I naturally didn't realise it at the time, was the point of no return. It led into a one-way channel with concrete walls on either side. Other cars were using it, which was reassuring and by now there was no way out. I thought it might lead back to Vignes or Cezar Chavez and the worst would be that I would have to start again.
But this little rat run went on. And on. And on. And on.
After a while I noticed we were travelling alongside a freeway, which I correctly guessed to be the 10, and we looked to be going east, out of town. But there was no turn-off, no way out.
I have checked the map - masochism is my middle name - and I calculate we went 25 miles before finding a turnoff.
Everything seemed upside down. I found Del Mar Boulevard, which I know a little bit, and took that without realising I was going south instead of north. We nearly got down to the 60 before correcting that mistake and eventually pulled into the side in San Gabriel to check the iPhone map. With touching innocence, I trusted it to take us over to Alhambra where we thought we might have a Chinese meal - the journalist meeting would have started by now and we were on to Plans B, C, D and E.
It directed us back to the 10 and recommended going back west for a few miles then north. Looked good - until I mistakenly took the eastbound ramp.
"Ah, there's an exit for Rosemead Boulevard, Route 19, I know that," I cried as if I were foraging through the Amazon jungle.
We took that and it did indeed take us to what I might loosely call civilisation. We swapped our Chinese meal in Alhambra for a Thai meal in east Pasadena, at a restaurant I'd been meaning to try for years. It wasn't a bad meal, not particularly memorable, but the important thing was that I knew where I was. Home was only a ten-minute ride away. We had been in a huge circle, the meeting was lost - and I learned to be more precise about telling a computerised map where I wanted to go.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
All that Jazz by Bill Kay
It is disconcerting when a perfect stranger yanks a bar stool away from under your feet - all the more so when she is a striking blonde in the throes of performing in a play and you're practically sitting on the stage of the theatre.
We were at the Blank Theatre Company's 2nd Stage, one of the run of small venues on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard known as Theatre Row. For Brits, it brings back memories of the Edinburgh Festival - no frills, seemingly impromptu, lots of scruffy guys in their twenties running about everywhere fixing seemingly vital last-minute problems. And nowhere to eat. We arrived early and wandered around for half an hour, finally settling for Winchell's Donuts on Fountain and Vine, a good half-mile away.
Our friend Ian Whitcomb has composed a musical background for the show - The Jazz Age - and is playing in it with his band, the Bungalow Boys (Fred Sokolow on guitar, Dave Jones on bass). Like anyone involved in a play, Ian has been agonising for weeks whether it will be a success and whether any of the countless changes will improve it or otherwise.
So my expectations were low. All the more of a surprise, then, to applaud the actors' final bow with the feeling that this was the best theatrical experience I had had for years.
It began as farce. The tiny foyer was crammed when we were allowed to go to our seats. You climb straight up to the back of the auditorium - capacity 55 - and then hare down to the front, no reserved seats, first come first served. We landed in the front at extreme stage left - by one of two bar stools.
The other facility that was first come, first served was the one and only restroom - and we were repeatedly reminded that there would be no intermission, the show was two hours straight through and the restroom was at the back of the stage. The Bungalow Boys were above us in a gallery, playing music to get us in the 1920s mood, as we lined up. The time for curtain up (or lights down, no curtain) was decided by the moment when the last satisfied customer made her way contentedly back across the stage to her seat.
The Jazz Age is as much a misnomer as the title of the recent film, Australia. Its only relevance is that the action takes place 1920-40. It tells the story of the developing relationship between Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, spiced by Zelda Fitzgerald (the blonde). I'd call it Scott, Zelda and Ernie, but what do I know? I'd probably have called King Lear Keep It In the Family.
The plot has a natural shape, as Fitzgerald goes on a steady, drink-fuelled decline while Hemingway grows into an international celebrity who ends up punching Louis B Meyer, the Hollywood studio magnate - in the play, anyway.
In one way I'd liked to have gone armed with more than my very skimpy knowledge of the actual threesome, but in another way I was probably better off not knowing any more or I could have been irritated by the inevitable inaccuracies, short-cuts and liberal use of poetic (or playwright's) licence.
As it was, the three characters didn't need names. They played themselves out in a timeless drama that Shakespeare would have loved to get his teeth into. I am not saying the writing - by Allan Knee - was up to Shakespeare, but it was tight and muscular, building the tension relentlessly with the help of three terrific actors: Luke MacFarlane, Jeremy Gabriel and Heather Prete. The beauty of it was that, like all good art, it felt complete and rounded and gave a sense that by the end the viewer knew all that he or she needed to know about that subject.
I came out on Santa Monica Boulevard feeling drained, but satisfied. And very glad that I hadn't fatally entwined my legs in that bar stool.
We were at the Blank Theatre Company's 2nd Stage, one of the run of small venues on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard known as Theatre Row. For Brits, it brings back memories of the Edinburgh Festival - no frills, seemingly impromptu, lots of scruffy guys in their twenties running about everywhere fixing seemingly vital last-minute problems. And nowhere to eat. We arrived early and wandered around for half an hour, finally settling for Winchell's Donuts on Fountain and Vine, a good half-mile away.
Our friend Ian Whitcomb has composed a musical background for the show - The Jazz Age - and is playing in it with his band, the Bungalow Boys (Fred Sokolow on guitar, Dave Jones on bass). Like anyone involved in a play, Ian has been agonising for weeks whether it will be a success and whether any of the countless changes will improve it or otherwise.
So my expectations were low. All the more of a surprise, then, to applaud the actors' final bow with the feeling that this was the best theatrical experience I had had for years.
It began as farce. The tiny foyer was crammed when we were allowed to go to our seats. You climb straight up to the back of the auditorium - capacity 55 - and then hare down to the front, no reserved seats, first come first served. We landed in the front at extreme stage left - by one of two bar stools.
The other facility that was first come, first served was the one and only restroom - and we were repeatedly reminded that there would be no intermission, the show was two hours straight through and the restroom was at the back of the stage. The Bungalow Boys were above us in a gallery, playing music to get us in the 1920s mood, as we lined up. The time for curtain up (or lights down, no curtain) was decided by the moment when the last satisfied customer made her way contentedly back across the stage to her seat.
The Jazz Age is as much a misnomer as the title of the recent film, Australia. Its only relevance is that the action takes place 1920-40. It tells the story of the developing relationship between Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, spiced by Zelda Fitzgerald (the blonde). I'd call it Scott, Zelda and Ernie, but what do I know? I'd probably have called King Lear Keep It In the Family.
The plot has a natural shape, as Fitzgerald goes on a steady, drink-fuelled decline while Hemingway grows into an international celebrity who ends up punching Louis B Meyer, the Hollywood studio magnate - in the play, anyway.
In one way I'd liked to have gone armed with more than my very skimpy knowledge of the actual threesome, but in another way I was probably better off not knowing any more or I could have been irritated by the inevitable inaccuracies, short-cuts and liberal use of poetic (or playwright's) licence.
As it was, the three characters didn't need names. They played themselves out in a timeless drama that Shakespeare would have loved to get his teeth into. I am not saying the writing - by Allan Knee - was up to Shakespeare, but it was tight and muscular, building the tension relentlessly with the help of three terrific actors: Luke MacFarlane, Jeremy Gabriel and Heather Prete. The beauty of it was that, like all good art, it felt complete and rounded and gave a sense that by the end the viewer knew all that he or she needed to know about that subject.
I came out on Santa Monica Boulevard feeling drained, but satisfied. And very glad that I hadn't fatally entwined my legs in that bar stool.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Best meal of my life
I know, I know, it's hard to justify a headline like that. But, for once, I really think it's true: last night I had what I believe was the best meal of my life. Anywhere. Certainly in California and I'm pretty sure in the whole of North America. Now I must admit there is some competition with forty years living high off the hog and well above the salt in London, so I concede my memory may be letting me down. Some excellent meals were, I admit, blurred by alcohol. For that I must apologise to Raymond Blanc, chef at the Manoir aux Quat' Saisons in Oxfordshire, proud holder of two Michelin stars. That was a blissful occasion in December 2005, but the details have melted away. http://www.manoir.com/web/olem/olem_menus_classiques.jsp gives the flavour, though.
Memory is part of what constitutes the best anything, unless it can be objectively measured - which food or drink cannot. So let us say that last night's gastronomic heaven has supplanted all others as the one I regard the best, and I have seldom sat back at the end of a meal and said 'That was it.'
And while the Manoir indulgence ran to six courses, with a different wine for each, this was a mere four, accompanied by gently sparkling mineral water.
OK, I will tease no more. The restaurant was Fatty's, a renowned vegetarian restaurant in Eagle Rock, a trendy community between Pasadena and Glendale. It's named after the owner's dog.
We had never been before, but kept meaning to go. At last we made it.
The unmistakable sign of brilliant cooking was the absolute necessity to taste one another's dishes, just to believe how good they all were.
I started with what was called a garlic feast. It was really a multiple bruschetta: a pile of tomato, garlic and cheese in the middle of a large plate, surrounded by slivers of toast. Very garlicky, very refreshing.
That was followed by a small dish of butternut squash soup, which could have had some carrot in it.
But the bigget surprise and simply exquisite was the entree: moussaca, as the menu spells it and best describes it: a mildly spicy gratin of chickpeas, red lentils, mushrooms and onions between layers of roasted eggplant and garlic mashed potatoes; topped with a crust of artisan dry Jack cheese - all the cheese is rennet-free, to meet the vegetarian stricture. It was surrounded by a tomatoey, but not plain tomato, sauce.
I finished with the cheese plate: five delicious cheeses, hard, soft and blue, with strawberries, olives and glacee walnuts. I also had a taste of apple pie and the peanut butter soy cream cup with dark chocolate syrup.
It was the sort of menu that I just want to return to again and again, until I have tasted the lot. The standard of cooking and presentation was second to none.
Yet this was not a foodie shrine. The surroundings are spartan, with huge windows looking out onto Colorado Boulevard. No tablecloths (but linen napkins). Very swift and friendly service, everything explained knowledgeably and painstakingly.
It was a meal where you just pushed your chair back and realised that you had had a completely fresh experience, unlike anything ever before. The bill was not cheap, at $25 a head without drinks, but for the quality of the food it was a giveaway.
At the next table were a couple aged 91 and 83 who had been married only five years and could have each been 30 years younger - no thanks to Fatty's, alas, as this was their first visit too. But I suspect that, like us, they'll be back.
Memory is part of what constitutes the best anything, unless it can be objectively measured - which food or drink cannot. So let us say that last night's gastronomic heaven has supplanted all others as the one I regard the best, and I have seldom sat back at the end of a meal and said 'That was it.'
And while the Manoir indulgence ran to six courses, with a different wine for each, this was a mere four, accompanied by gently sparkling mineral water.
OK, I will tease no more. The restaurant was Fatty's, a renowned vegetarian restaurant in Eagle Rock, a trendy community between Pasadena and Glendale. It's named after the owner's dog.
We had never been before, but kept meaning to go. At last we made it.
The unmistakable sign of brilliant cooking was the absolute necessity to taste one another's dishes, just to believe how good they all were.
I started with what was called a garlic feast. It was really a multiple bruschetta: a pile of tomato, garlic and cheese in the middle of a large plate, surrounded by slivers of toast. Very garlicky, very refreshing.
That was followed by a small dish of butternut squash soup, which could have had some carrot in it.
But the bigget surprise and simply exquisite was the entree: moussaca, as the menu spells it and best describes it: a mildly spicy gratin of chickpeas, red lentils, mushrooms and onions between layers of roasted eggplant and garlic mashed potatoes; topped with a crust of artisan dry Jack cheese - all the cheese is rennet-free, to meet the vegetarian stricture. It was surrounded by a tomatoey, but not plain tomato, sauce.
I finished with the cheese plate: five delicious cheeses, hard, soft and blue, with strawberries, olives and glacee walnuts. I also had a taste of apple pie and the peanut butter soy cream cup with dark chocolate syrup.
It was the sort of menu that I just want to return to again and again, until I have tasted the lot. The standard of cooking and presentation was second to none.
Yet this was not a foodie shrine. The surroundings are spartan, with huge windows looking out onto Colorado Boulevard. No tablecloths (but linen napkins). Very swift and friendly service, everything explained knowledgeably and painstakingly.
It was a meal where you just pushed your chair back and realised that you had had a completely fresh experience, unlike anything ever before. The bill was not cheap, at $25 a head without drinks, but for the quality of the food it was a giveaway.
At the next table were a couple aged 91 and 83 who had been married only five years and could have each been 30 years younger - no thanks to Fatty's, alas, as this was their first visit too. But I suspect that, like us, they'll be back.
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