Boarding Gate (Assayas, 2007)

Olivier Assayas’ Boarding Gate is not so much a film about plot or atmosphere. It’s a film about attitude. Early on, we are introduced to the basics of the situation involving a big time criminal who wants out of the lifestyle and a comparatively small-time drug dealer who used to be his lover. Most of this is material that you have probably seen countless times before. Pretty soon, the drug dealer will be in over her head and on the run from men who want her to disappear permanently. There are crosses and double crosses, twists and turns, many of which are predictable. So, you may be rightly wondering at this point, why should I care? You should care because the woman on the run is Asia Argento.

To say that Argento seems “at home” or “in her element” would be a cliché, but how else to describe her performance in which she lifts the film up by the scruff of the neck and carries it confidently from start to finish? At 32 years of age, Argento has the advantage of possessing over 20 years of acting experience. Making no effort to conceal her trademark tattoos, Asia is no chameleon. As in her other performances, she is rarely far from playing herself. And yet, she has just the right mixture of aggressiveness and vulnerability to make her characters entirely captivating. Even when she is trading bruising language with Michael Madsen, she never seems to be trying to achieve an effect. She uses her body with abandon, plunging headfirst into scenes where another actress might make us feel that she was being exploited. You get the sense that Argento hasn’t been cast in a role, so much as a film has been constructed around her.

Boarding Gate works, and works well, despite its uninspired plot because Assayas is able to sustain a prolonged sense of danger. You don’t know whether to envy the men Argento falls in love with or feel sorry for them. At any given moment they are seemingly at risk of being fucked or being killed, possibly both on the same night. In a supporting role, Michael Madsen is himself a combustible personality, playing the kind of man that would dare get close to Argento for any prolonged period of time. There is also fun to be had in the globe-skipping path Argento takes attempting to find safety and in seeing Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon suddenly appear on screen barking out orders in Cantonese. (Gordon unfortunately does not fare as well in English, giving a performance on the level of Lyle Lovett.)

Boarding Gate leaves us with very little thematically to ponder. The things at stake are the kinds of things that are really only important to movie characters in films such as this. Argento’s character makes a final decision that, while revealing something significant about her personality, does not offer us much in the way of a satisfying conclusion. Still, the film is fun while it lasts, artful and exciting enough to fully capture our interest and, most importantly, a worthy showcase for Argento’s charismatic bravado.

[***1/2]

The Freethinker (Watkins, 1994)

For his recent film study of iconoclast Bob Dylan, I’m Not There, director Todd Haynes employed six different actors to portray the central character, emphasizing his belief that a monolithic view of such a complex character would be inevitably problematic. When making a film biography, a director faces the challenge of staging personal moments that in most cases had no witnesses other than the direct participants. Even though viewers are aware that they are watching a film, a filmmaker can be put in the awkward position of purporting to ‘know’ in situations where knowledge is impossible. Consequently, responses to these films can get mired in discussions of whether this or that really happened while larger thematic matters get ignored.

For his four-and-a-half hour film on the troubled life of Swedish playwright, August Strindberg, Peter Watkins employs the same kind of democratic principles that he advocates for world governments in anti-authoritarian films like Punishment Park and The Journey. Watkins is, if nothing else, an untiring champion of the people. For The Freethinker, this means opening up the discussion to not only members of his cast, but also members of the public who have been invited to watch his actors rehearse and perform improvisations. There is no question that The Freethinker has the personality of a Watkins film in the way it blends documentary with historical recreation. In form, it most closely resembles Edvard Munch made some twenty years earlier. However, in this instance, Watkins goes even farther incorporating outside voices. The actors who play Strindberg and his wife occasionally address the camera in Bergmanesque close-up to share their thoughts on the characters they are playing. Peripheral characters discuss Strindberg in round table settings only to have the actors later drop character to share their own thoughts from the late 20^th century. In a small black box theater, Swedish members of the public respond casually to Watkins’ actors, waxing philosophical on the internal struggle between emotions and intellect.

And yet, at the end of the day, it is Watkins who controls the film’s editing decisions. In Strindberg, he has found a character full of contradiction. Early on, a revolutionary writer and historian who argues that the history of Sweden is the history of its people rather than its rulers, Strindberg later succumbs to the pressure of his critics and turns his back on his early ideals. His behavior becomes erratic, particularly as it concerns his family and his attitude towards women sours from comparatively enlightened to straight-up misogynistic. Quotes from Strindberg’s writings are displayed on title cards and then juxtaposed with both scenes from his plays and scenework speculating on how his domestic life might have looked behind his public appearance. Most of these scenes are performed with basic costumes and sets. Some appear to be simply the actors in rehearsal. Watkins’ films have always leaned towards the academic. Here, more than ever, it seems as if Watkins is using film to compose a thesis that never arrives at its conclusion. This is, in some sense, admirable as it allows viewers to feel as if they are a part of the investigation. At times though, Watkins’ refusal to boil down his subject can prove wearisome, particularly as he meanders to his pet theme of the damaging influence of modern media

The Freethinker has admirable qualities; however, it is not likely to hold the attention of anyone but Strindberg enthusiasts and Watkins completists, two categories that do not exactly boast large populations. Watkins has made films that are more provocative, more penetrating and better looking. Most importantly, he has made Edvard Munch a more effective examination of the artist in conflict with society.

[**1/2]

The Guernica Tree (Arrabal, 1975)

Fernando Arrabal’s take on the 1937 Nazi bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War is to film what Picasso’s Guernica is to the world of art. Both are works that draw from the horrors of war and then use evocative symbols and purposeful distortions of reality to communicate feelings of anger, sadness and disgust. The film is set, not in Guernica, but rather in a nearby village called Villa Ramiro. There, Bohemians dance in the streets in elaborate costumes and a local artist pulls shocking pranks on both government officials and church goers. Up in a tower of stone, the count coldly lords over the citizens. From the very beginning, the seeds of conflict are planted.

When a beautiful woman arrives in town, riding sidesaddle, she is chased by three Fascist thugs intent on raping her. She flees into a small deserted house. When the men find her and close in on her, she reveals a handful of vipers in her hands, which she flings at her attackers in self-defense. This incident is a metaphor for the large-scale conflict that serves as the film’s center. The woman’s name is Vandale, a survivor of the Guernica bombings who has come to Villa Ramiro to provide inspiration and leadership to the rebels who wish to overthrow their oppressors.

After the rebels topple the local government officials and desecrate the nearby church in ways that would not seem out of place in a de Sade novel, Vandale rallies the villagers and urges them to take up arms against the approaching armies intent on definitively crushing the uprising. Also involved is a local academic who preaches pacifism and believes in ideas that are transported “on the wings of a dove.” However, in the face of enemy artillery, he struggles to translate his ideals into tangible action, worrying that he has cornered himself into passivity.

Arrabal directs with equal parts creativity, rage and vulgarity. It is worth noting that his grudge against fascism was developed first-hand in his childhood when his father, a political enemy of Franco, was placed in a labor camp for life. Though it is believed that he escaped from prison in 1941, he disappeared forever. With that context, it is perhaps easier to understand the perverse glee Arrabal takes with debasing the film’s oppressors, often through sexual or scatological imagery. Holding the film together is an underlying sense of poetry and the masterful use of allegorical characters. On rare occasions, Arrabal lapses into scenes that are either insincere or obvious audience bait for moral outrage. However, for the most part, The Guernica Tree is a stirring, captivating plea for humanity and courage in the face of governmental cruelties.

[***1/2]

Sunshine (Boyle, 2007)

Problems don’t get a whole lot bigger than this. In Danny Boyle’s tense, skillfully made space film, Sunshine, the sun is dying and a crew of eight astronauts is hurtling towards the center of the solar system with the nuclear equivalent of jumper cables. Their task is to deliver a payload that will create a star within the star and bring the earth’s temperature back up where it belongs so that Al Gore can return to the lecture tour. Naturally, all sorts of scientific questions about the plausibility of such a mission are bound to leap into our minds. However, the point of Sunshine is not whether or not the mission will ultimately have precisely the desired effect. The point is that faced with the threat of extinction, the mission represents the last, best effort of the human race. Like De Palma’s Mission to Mars, Boyle’s film excels at offering us evidence of humankind’s ingenuity juxtaposed against cold, hard evidence of our fragility.

That such a journey is even ponderable is in itself rather extraordinary. The crew flying the Icarus II is equipped with technology that exceeds the capabilities of our own time, but not by much. An on-board Earth simulator allows one man, filled with the tension of being away from home for years, to refocus and recalibrate. An abundant greenhouse is filled with plants that provide a small bit of aesthetic beauty, as well as assist with the oxygen flow. Their navigational system is controlled by a computer system that allows for intuitive voice-activated interfacing that is essentially no different from having a conversation. Without resorting to easily defined ‘types’, Boyle’s characters (apart from a couple notable exceptions) also represent the high point of human education, rationality and courage. Some possess the ability to make extraordinary scientific and mathematical calculations. Others are notable for their ability to use logic under intense pressure and place themselves in danger understanding what ultimately is at stake.

At one point, the characters joke that they should not split up because they don’t want to be picked off one by one by a malicious alien. The gag works because it is a direct commentary on the type of film that Sunshine is not – well, not exactly. In addition to the mere difficulty of traversing a vast distance through space, the crew must also contend with a force representative of a certain kind of apocalyptic thought that is a very real threat to human well being in the real world. While there may be some who feel that the final section of Sunshine descends into something more base and ordinary, it seems to me that this is where the film asserts a rather pointed message regarding the battle between scientific accomplishment and religious faith. The idea of manipulating the sun is extraordinary. It may also be seen by some as hubristic. If the caretaker of the universe wants to shut down operations, then who are we to argue? The glorious spiritual conclusion of Sunshine is derived from the notion that we are, in fact, our own caretakers and the tiny part of the universe we inhabit, flawed though it may be, is more precious than the imagined paradises of mythology. This metaphorical struggle elevates Sunshine beyond the scope of a conventional thriller while at the same time intensifying the desperate acts of the Icarus crew.

[***1/2]

Citizen Dog (Sasanatieng, 2004)

I appreciate a film that lets you know from the very beginning that you are going to be in good hands. The bold, saturated colors of Citizen Dog are immediately arresting as we begin in a comic dream sequence where the protagonist, Pod, meets his grandmother in front of a vivid, pleasantly artificial landscape. After she offers a cryptic prophecy, an off-screen narrator introduces us to Pod’s quirks and personality traits. As we are introduced to Pod’s highly stylized environment, see him work a tedious job at a sardine factory and learn about his habit of plugging in the fan when he means to plug in the iron, it becomes increasingly harder to believe that Thai director, Wisit Sasanatieng, has not at some point in his life watched Amelie. To be sure, the film’s first 15-20 minutes are an absolute delight, highlighted by a giddy and joyful opening credits sequence.

Pod is a country boy who, we are told, has no dream. After accepting a new job in the big city, he soon finds himself attracted to Jin, an obsessive-compulsive maid who may actually find joy and fulfillment in a job devoted to cleanliness. Jin is, however, difficult to get to know, as she constantly has her head in a book. One book, to be precise – a book with a plain white cover and written in a language that she does not understand. Jin, we will find, has a habit of making huge assumptions about the world around her, believing certain people or things are of great importance and impulsively acting according to those fantasies.

Pod, on the other hand, seems utterly intimidated and paralyzed by the hustle and bustle of the world around him. All around him, extraordinary things happen. Yet, he seems too timid to take an active role. After he meets Jin, she and her blue uniform are all that he can see. Sometimes, literally. Despite her frequent irrationality, there is something about her intensity and passion that he finds alluring. In the film’s central metaphor, Pod resists growing a tail, as his grandmother has predicted he would. Sasanatieng’s purpose is somewhat elusive; however, it seems that what Pod fears about becoming a ‘citizen dog’ is that he feels it means conformity and obedience. Pod resists going along with the crowd. Yet, his resistance is passive and unengaged. He must ultimately make a choice: either continue to bump up against the mainstream or find a way to exist within it.

Citizen Dog is filled with enough surprises, humor and visual delights to make it well worth watching. I’ve purposefully avoided mentioning some of the film’s most magical moments and sight gags. However, I did find that my interest and involvement in the journey did begin to wane about halfway through. It is a joy to be introduced to the film’s conventions, idiosyncrasies and central characters. About the time the guy who licks everybody and everything makes his appearance though, I was ready for the film to get a little bit more sincere and forthcoming with what it ultimately hoped to accomplish. Jin’s journey actually turned out to be more moving and meaningful to me than Pod’s. Many of Sasanatieng’s metaphors failed to leave a lasting impression on me, remaining charming quirks, rather than resonant ideas.

Clearly, Sasanatieng is not short on ideas. Yet, in this particular instance, those ideas get a running start, but never truly take flight. Still, all told, there is much about Citizen Dog to recommend and it leaves me with the feeling that Sasanatieng is a director to watch in the future.

[***]

Artemisia (Merlet, 1997)

Agnès Merlet’s take on influential Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi is a film that veers away from the conventional account of the 17^th century feminist icon’s troubled life in order to recast fellow artist Agostino Tassi, the man widely considered to be her rapist, as an unconventional tutor who not only gave her a few pointers on perspective, but awakened her sexuality as well. While historians will tell you that Artemisia was subjected to humiliation and torture because she dared to bring forward accusations of rape, Merlet’s film suggests that clergy and judges inspected her vagina and cruelly bent her fingers because she was trying to protect her partner in an affair that was illicit, but consensual.

With this rather charitable interpretation of Tassi’s involvement, Artemisia’s father, Orazio, becomes the film’s chief villain, as he attempts to preserve his family’s honor by bringing charges against his painting painter. Because none of the art academies will admit a woman, he convinces Tassi to offer his gifted daughter personal instruction. Merlet’s film gets a lot of mileage out of the fact that as a young woman, Artemisia is not allowed to paint nudes. As her father paints using a nude male model, a sheet is drawn to protect Artemisia’s eyes from gazing upon his anatomy firsthand. Frustrated and defiant, Artemisia begins to trace the outline of the model’s silhouette on the sheet.

In another scene, Artemisia strips to the waist and paints her own semi-nude body because it is the only way for her to gain critical information about human body structure. Eventually, she finds other opportunities to obtain the forbidden knowledge – a man and a woman making love on the beach, a mini-orgy observed through a window late at night, a local boy who is willing to be observed naked in exchange for a kiss. Artemisia’s quest to educate herself never descends into tawdry exploitation; however, it is clear that by choosing to focus on titillating speculations, Merlet’s intent is to tie Artemisia’s artistic struggle directly to the sexual repression that pervades her culture. Tassi’s historical rape therefore becomes instead a vital transgression that propels Artemisia on an unavoidable path towards iconoclasm. Her reputation sullied, Artemisia is no longer left with any honor to protect, no longer left with any respectable options other than to immerse herself completely in her art.

Without attempting to make a value judgment about Merlet’s historical fudging, considering the film alongside the conventional storyline only brings the director’s purpose into sharper focus. Objections to transforming a famed historical rape victim into a highly sexualized contributor to her own persecution are certainly understandable and valid. Artemisia raises many questions about an artist’s responsibility to historical truth that cannot be effectively explored within the scope of this review. However, the fact remains that Artemisia is a well-made, provocative film with beautiful photography and a captivating lead performance. Ultimately, Merlet’s film asks us to consider the conditions and circumstances that work together to fuel the passion within an artistic soul.

[***]

Galaxy Quest (Parisot, 1999)

Galaxy Quest is a film with one of those premises that movie executives must love. What if the cast of a science-fiction television show was forced to travel to space and fend off malicious aliens in real life? It is easy to imagine the comic possibilities as we see actors attempt to bridge the gap between fantasy and reality. Ripping off as much as possible from Star Trek while still avoiding copyright infringement, Galaxy Quest assembles a talented group of actors (and Tim Allen) for a lightweight comedy adventure that is palatable enough, though not terribly ambitious.

We get the expected gags, such as backstage grumpiness from Alan Rickman’s character, a classically trained thespian who refuses to utter the catch phrase that made him famous, and a degrading appearance at the opening of a new retail store. Most of these moments work well enough because the cast attacks the material with exuberance and commitment. Tony Shalhoub’s ship maintenance specialist is a captivatingly odd creation, as we wonder to ourselves if he is perpetually baked or just acts that way naturally. We know for the entire length of the film that Rickman’s character will eventually be placed in a situation where he will rediscover the freshness of his catch-phrase and deliver it with gusto. When it finally occurs, it happens perhaps not quite as we had expected as Rickman demonstrates the way a great actor can find truth in even the silliest material. What is Sam Rockwell doing here? He doesn’t know. We don’t know, but what the heck. He’s good for a few moments of memorable oddness, even if his character is utterly superfluous.

But ultimately, the star of this show for me was an actor with which I had not been previously familiar. Enrico Colantoni as the lead alien, Mathesar, delivers a thoroughly satisfying comedic performance, adopting a bizarre high-pitched cadence and beaming with sincerity and optimism. His choices are peculiar and bold without becoming irritating or phony. I also enjoyed how the alien creatures moved, as if they were still unaccustomed to their adopted bodies, and the striking gaze of Missi Pyle’s Laliari, pitched somewhere between Milla Jovovich and Jim Carrey.

Although it has its share of comedic moments, Galaxy Quest also has an adventure plotline that is every bit as silly and formulaic as the shows the film is parodying. Naturally, this is intentional, but we, as an audience, are forced to endure it. When Sigourney Weaver’s character observes that it’s ridiculous that her only job is to repeat what the computer has said or that the crushing devices in the hallway of the starport are illogical, does that make the rudimentary action more bearable? Well, kind of. But too often, I felt like the film was making a joke and then pointing out that it had just made a joke in case I had missed it.

It’s hard to feel strongly about Galaxy Quest either positively or negatively. It takes a decent premise and a winsome cast and then coasts along. I suppose there is some joy to be had in laughing at dorky TV shows and the dorky people who obsess over them, but it’s a shallow pleasure at best.

[**1/2]

Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny (L. Lynch, 2006)

The remarkable thing about Tenacious D is that, despite obviously being a joke band, they are actually capable on occasion of achieving a bizarre death-folk nirvana. It's no wonder that the fictional versions of Jack Black and Kyle Gass spend so much time trying to catch lightning in a bottle. Most of the time, the two sound like a pair of goofs messing around after a night of mind-altering substances. But every once in a while - honest to goodness - the music actually soars and the two create a distinctive sound that is no less awesome for its copious references to medieval mythology and explicit sex.

Perhaps Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny is all the more disappointing because it gives us glimpses of the glorious film that could have been. In the opening sequence, quite obviously inspired by The Who's Tommy, a young Jack Black rocks the family dinner, upsets his Christian father and pledges his loyalty to Ronnie James Dio. The tone, the energy, the humor, the music - everything is pitch perfect. This is what the Tenacious D film needed to be - an overblown rock opera emulating (and topping) the excesses of their idols. Instead, the film soon drops its ambition and slides into a half-baked stoner comedy complete with mandatory cameos by Ben Stiller and Amy Poehler.

The D will probably never have another chance at making a feature film, so it is a shame that they settled for lame kung-fu parody, an uninspired hallucinogenic sequence and a gratuitous car chase. Most of this is transparent filler as we await the unavoidable confrontation with Satan himself. The film once again enters rock opera mode and immediately recaptures our attention. This is the D we need to see. We need nothing short of our minds completely blown. In the film's final scene, we get an ultra lame bong joke, followed by an after-the-credits fart gag. Not good enough. When watching the D, our level of enjoyment directly correlates to their level of mad ambition.

[**]

The NeverEnding Story (Petersen, 1984)

Although it contains many familiar plot elements, there is probably not another film that feels quite the same as The NeverEnding Story. There is a brave hero who has been sent on a great quest, a trusty steed, a journey filled with all manner of odd creatures who provide clues, a giant, a wolf, a dragon and a child monarch. However, it is not merely the plot that involves the viewer - although it certainly has its share of satisfying developments. Rather, it is the delightful way in which we are lured into the story - not just of a young hunter tasked with the responsibility of finding a cure for the Childlike Empress, but also of an ordinary boy who is discovering the extraordinary power of his own imagination.

You may remember the fantasy scenes more vividly from your childhood than you do the ‘reality’ scenes; however, the way the character of Bastian, the reader, is established is vital to the film’s success and as worthy of praise as anything else we see. First there is the simple and not overly emotional talk from Dad, in which we learn indirectly that Bastian’s Mom is no longer around. Bastian’s father is not painted as a caricature, nor is his advice all that unreasonable. He is loving, although he may not entirely grasp his son’s needs. Then, there is Bastian’s encounter with the bullies in which he is chased down an alleyway and forced to escape into a garbage dumpster. Here we see the daily reality that Bastian’s father is asking him to face. The bullies do not inflict physical pain upon Bastian. It is enough for us to experience his indignity.

Eluding the bullies’ second pursuit, Bastian ducks into an old bookstore run by a crotchety man who takes Bastian for the sort of kid who would rather spend his time at the video arcade. Bastian defends himself as a reader of worthwhile literature. Maybe so, but the shop owner assures him that all that he has experienced is kid-stuff compared to The Neverending Story. Luring Bastian in with quiet intensity, he eventually induces Bastian to ‘borrow’ the book while simultaneously piquing the viewer’s curiosity as well.



Skipping class and hiding himself away in an unused room at his school, Bastian’s decision to read and plunge himself into Fantasia, the setting for The Neverending Story, is positioned as an act of rebellion. This mysterious book and the wonders it must contain are too thrilling to be diluted. The math test will have to wait. His father will have to wait. Bastian isolates himself and plunges into a different world. The geography of Fantasia, with its swirling clouds, murky swamps, shimmering seas and gaping canyons is pleasantly disorienting. We are never quite sure how the various topographies interconnect. It is difficult to grasp how far Atreyu, the hunter, has traveled. When the wolf dispatched to end Atreyu’s mission pursues him, we are not sure how close or far away he is. Making matters worse is the ever-looming presence of The Nothing, a seemingly unstoppable force that rips up everything in its path. This fictional universe is elusive, intangible, ever-shifting and, most importantly, exhilarating.

As events unfold, it becomes clear that Bastian’s role as reader is more vital than he could possibly have imagined. Once Atreyu finally meets the ailing Childlike Empress (played by Tami Stronach, who is breathtaking in the only screen performance of her career), he arrives believing that his quest has been a failure. What follows is a deeply satisfying coup de theater that not only elevates the role of Bastian, the reader, but by logical extension, the viewer as well.

Michael Ende, the man who wrote the work upon which Wolfgang Petersen’s film is based, was deeply dissatisfied with the adaptation, going so far as to sue to have the name changed. It’s a shame - because one of the strongest feelings the film inspires in the viewer is the desire to lock oneself away with Mr. Ende’s book.

[****]

Death of a President (Range, 2006)

Much to my surprise, Gabriel Range’s faux-documentary, Death of a President, which considers what might happen in the wake of a successful assassination attempt on George W. Bush, is not the kind of wild-eyed, irresponsible shock-piece that I had anticipated. On the contrary, it is thoroughly engrossing speculation that concisely sums up the major tensions brewing in the United States at this time and suggests that the country, with Bush serving as a lightning rod, is not only a target of intense external aggression, but also is home to an alarming amount of internal discontent and anger. The filmmakers wisely steer clear of the sort of Bush ridicule that has become de rigeur over the past six years. Yet, at the same time, they create an accurate picture of the man, folksy bravado and ideological stubbornness intact.

Fittingly, the investigation that follows, headed up by President Cheney – I’ll give you a moment to shudder – falls into the same kind of methodological errors that have led to disaster in Iraq, namely letting a conclusion precede evidence rather than evidence leading to a conclusion. What is most admirable about the film is the way that it proceeds without concern for who will take offense. Political advisors, dissidents and talking heads alike are drawn with flaws exposed, but very little registers as being unfair or false. It’s quite possible that we are too close to the subject of Range’s film for it to receive wide appreciation. I suspect that it will be the sort of film that will gain more support with time. It seems to me that the film has been hastily dismissed for reasons that will not be important to those who will watch it in the future. Beyond the startling premise, this is a film that effectively captures the feeling of the age, wrapping post-9/11 paranoia, governmental distrust and Katrina outrage into one potent package.

[***1/2]

The Journey (Watkins, 1987)

Every generation deserves a rabble-rouser as committed and ambitious as Peter Watkins. During the mid-80’s, at the height of U.S.-Soviet nuclear tensions, Watkins traveled the world in order to make a film for peace – a 14-hour documentary broken into 18 installments entitled The Journey. Watkins’ goal was to demonstrate that despite the enormous network that has been established to stockpile nuclear weaponry - with the deadliest of bombs and missiles being constructed and transported right under our noses - the general public still remains largely ignorant about even the most basic concepts associated with the technology and its potential consequences. Watkins further asserts that the news media of the United States, Canada, England and Australia has failed to properly educate citizens about the growing nuclear danger and has, on the contrary, confused and mislead its viewers. Finally, Watkins ties in the expenditure made for nuclear weaponry to the lack of funds available to aid the starving populations of the world.

Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of The Journey is the extraordinary amount of information that Watkins unearths about how nuclear weapons are created within our midst. Although many of us may think that this activity goes on in top secret facilities tucked away somewhere beyond our reach, Watkins shows us that the technology for these weapons is developed at our universities, built in our factories and transported along railways that run through our neighborhoods. The task is divided up sufficiently so that very few people have to actually take personal responsibility for the creation of death devices. An individual factory worker may only know that he is responsible for the creation of one part. It is therefore easy to remain willfully ignorant of the part’s eventual purpose. In order to get at the truth, one would have to ask uncomfortable questions of authority figures responsible for your employment and break a taboo that dictates silence on the matter.

In some communities, conscientious objectors may not only be out of a job, but also branded by their neighbors as a political radical. As Watkins shows a train carrying an enormous amount of nuclear weaponry through a seemingly peaceful Washington town, the scene eerily calls to mind Resnais’ Holocaust documentary Night and Fog and the way in which grotesque acts were committed in neighborhoods where citizens dutifully went about their daily routine. Watkins covers so much territory that the likelihood that he will touch upon a surprising fact about an area near you is high, no matter what continent you currently occupy. Doggedly, Watkins works to lift the veil of silence that dominates the subject and provide average citizens with sobering information so that they may make a decision about whether or not they will remain complicit in these activities. However, Watkins also shows that effective protests are not easy to accomplish, particularly with a media that is all too willing to side with authority. When protestors decide to stand in the way of the aforementioned train, the local news story shows them being dragged away forcefully by police. The train carrying deadly weapons is not shown. The subject of the protest is not discussed. The objections are effectively marginalized.

For the most part, Watkins’ film staggers the viewer with both statistics (the hungry all over the world could be fed with what is spent on the arms race in two weeks) and scope. Watkins talks with witnesses to Hiroshima and Allied bombing in Germany. He talks to Algerians who are subject to prejudice in France, women in Mozambique who struggle to maintain their community despite war and poverty, and also Polynesians who live near the site of nuclear testing. In Australia and Norway, he stages speculative improvisations with non-actors, demonstrating how nonsensical and inadequate government guidelines are for handling post-nuclear situations. And yet, The Journey’s greatest strength also turns out to be the thing that keeps it from having the impact of some of Watkins’ shorter films like The War Game and Punishment Park. Watkins lays out an extraordinary case in the first two-thirds of his film and then spends much of the last third cycling back over points that have already been established. When he uses low-tech video to allow a family in Britain to communicate directly with a family in Russia without the filter of the media or the government, the resulting appeals for peace are moving. However, how many families around the world do we need to see arrive at the same conclusion: that family is essentially just like me.

The size of Watkins’ film coupled with the vitriolic nature of his attack on the media and government proved troublesome. Despite what obviously was an enormous amount of research, time, energy and dedication, the film has appeared on television exactly three times since its release according to the director’s website. Longer is the list of international TV stations that refused to air the film. Consequently, the documentary has appeared only at the occasional film festival or special screening. Perhaps the difficulties that Watkins has faced mirror the problems we face with the nuclear problem. The subject is so taboo, the conspiracy of silence so fierce and the cruel effects of the weaponry so surreal that it is hard for the average citizen to digest. Still, it is hard to imagine another filmmaker having the patience and courage to tackle such a noble use of the medium. Latest word is that Watkins is attempting to bring The Journey to DVD. If so, the number of people who have seen this work will multiply enormously. Despite being over two decades old, The Journey still holds much that could make the world a better place.

[***1/2]