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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>It must have been a simpler time. Everyone seemed so naturally sexy, even wearing the most atrocious synthetics. Wireless communication devices were enormous and unreliable, and yet so very patiently tolerated. The sound of black power was alive and righteous, yet so funky, so sweet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And even the truly world-class entertainers seemed less like self-inflated, inhuman poseurs, than they do now. That’s right, I am telling you that even when James Brown bounced around on an enormous outdoor stage in a form-fitting jumpsuit and sequined “GFOS” boxing belt, he seemed somehow more humble than some of the entertainers of today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/james-brown.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>It was a time when the chance to play in Africa meant a lot to African-American performers. A time when attentive, broad-minded cinéma vérité prevailed in the creation of documentaries, and hope trumped cynicism in racial politics — although, with Muhammad Ali on the scene, and Don King there to promote him, pronouncements would be made.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The scene was Zaire ’74, the rollicking, politically magnanimous three-day festival of music conceived (albeit with a public-relations-savvy support from tyrant thug Mobutu Sese Seko) to be the opening act for Ali’s impending “Rumble in the Jungle” with George Foreman. The talent on hand included Brown, Celia Cruz and the Fania All-Stars, B.B. King, Miriam Makeba, The Spinners, and Bill Withers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That historically momentous Ali-Foreman fight got the movie it deserved in 1996, with the Oscar-lauded documentary \u003cb>When We Were Kings\u003c/b>. Now one of that film’s editors, Jeffrey Levy-Hinte, has used its outtakes to provide an essential film about the festival, \u003cb>Soul Power\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/ali.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>As a time capsule, it’s eye-opening: We see Ali giving interviews; and a spontaneous in-flight jam session, cross-cut with the logistical agonies of festival preparation; and Manu Dibango calling and responding with Kinshasa street kids; and, out of the blue, George Plimpton, drinking and grinning. And of course there are serious political messages, as when Makeba says, “It’s not a noise, but my native tongue,” while introducing “The Click Song.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/makeba.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the best destiny of \u003cb>Soul Power\u003c/b> is as a simple, commanding concert film. Photographed by Albert Maysles, Paul Goldsmith, Kevin Keating, and Roderick Young, it’s sort of its own little master class on looking and listening. And maybe that’s why the movie’s most beautiful moment seems to defy place and time entirely. If the devastating, universally understandable simplicity of Withers’ “Hope She’ll Be Happier” makes one thing clear, it’s that some things never go out of style.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Séraphine Louis was a dowdy French woman who walked with an earnest gait and cleaned houses for rude aristocrats in the village of Senlis. She communed with nature by day and painted beautifully by candlelight while singing hymns at night. She made her own paint and her own wine, and her talent was on par with Van Gogh’s, but she was treated poorly by her landlady-employer and nearly everyone else she encountered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With a lack of confidence and a strong religious faith, Séraphine was humble and rarely shared her paintings, until a chance meeting with German collector, Wilhelm Uhde, who immediately recognized her talent. When he asked why she worked as a maid when she had “gold in her hands,” Séraphine replied with a quote from St. Teresa of Avila, “Be ardent in your work, and you will find God in your cooking pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraphine-3.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the first World War, Uhde was forced to flee Senlis in a hurry and he lost contact with Séraphine for years. Despite the absence of her number one fan, she became even more dedicated to painting, taking on fewer cleaning jobs as he’d advised. She struggled to make a living as a full-time artist until Uhde returned to become her patron. She enjoyed a brief period of success before tragically descending into madness. Her tortured life had caught up with her and once institutionalized, personal art therapy was no longer an option.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraphine-1.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Martin Provost’s film about the artist, \u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b>, won seven Césars (French Oscars) this year, including Best Picture and Best Actress for its star, Yolande Moreau. It is a studied, quiet film, and although not a documentary, it satisfied my desire for a documentary-style portrait of the artist. The award-winning cinematography is painterly in itself, and the film should be given the respect of your undivided attention. As critic Andrew O’Heher states in the film’s press release, “If you turn off all that electronic crap in your pockets and sit still for it, \u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b> will be one of the year’s most memorable movie-going experiences.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Séraphine’s story could be compared to that of American artist Henry Darger, a janitor with enormous artistic talent who remained largely undiscovered until after his death. Both artists achieved posthumous fame and were thought to suffer from mental illness. What’s remarkable about them — whether labeled Naive (Séraphine) or Outsider (Darger) artists — is their natural dedication to art for art’s sake, and their initial lack of interest in any kind of fame or glory. Both stories also lend support to the argument that some of the best artwork is made by the most tragic characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b> is now playing at the Clay Theatre (San Francisco) Shattuck Cinemas (Berkeley) Camera 3 (San Jose) and Smith Rafael Film Center (San Rafael).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Séraphine Louis was a dowdy French woman who walked with an earnest gait and cleaned houses for rude aristocrats in the village of Senlis. She communed with nature by day and painted beautifully by candlelight while singing hymns at night. She made her own paint and her own wine, and her talent was on par with Van Gogh’s, but she was treated poorly by her landlady-employer and nearly everyone else she encountered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With a lack of confidence and a strong religious faith, Séraphine was humble and rarely shared her paintings, until a chance meeting with German collector, Wilhelm Uhde, who immediately recognized her talent. When he asked why she worked as a maid when she had “gold in her hands,” Séraphine replied with a quote from St. Teresa of Avila, “Be ardent in your work, and you will find God in your cooking pots.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraphine-3.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the first World War, Uhde was forced to flee Senlis in a hurry and he lost contact with Séraphine for years. Despite the absence of her number one fan, she became even more dedicated to painting, taking on fewer cleaning jobs as he’d advised. She struggled to make a living as a full-time artist until Uhde returned to become her patron. She enjoyed a brief period of success before tragically descending into madness. Her tortured life had caught up with her and once institutionalized, personal art therapy was no longer an option.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraphine-1.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Martin Provost’s film about the artist, \u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b>, won seven Césars (French Oscars) this year, including Best Picture and Best Actress for its star, Yolande Moreau. It is a studied, quiet film, and although not a documentary, it satisfied my desire for a documentary-style portrait of the artist. The award-winning cinematography is painterly in itself, and the film should be given the respect of your undivided attention. As critic Andrew O’Heher states in the film’s press release, “If you turn off all that electronic crap in your pockets and sit still for it, \u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b> will be one of the year’s most memorable movie-going experiences.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Séraphine’s story could be compared to that of American artist Henry Darger, a janitor with enormous artistic talent who remained largely undiscovered until after his death. Both artists achieved posthumous fame and were thought to suffer from mental illness. What’s remarkable about them — whether labeled Naive (Séraphine) or Outsider (Darger) artists — is their natural dedication to art for art’s sake, and their initial lack of interest in any kind of fame or glory. Both stories also lend support to the argument that some of the best artwork is made by the most tragic characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Séraphine\u003c/b> is now playing at the Clay Theatre (San Francisco) Shattuck Cinemas (Berkeley) Camera 3 (San Jose) and Smith Rafael Film Center (San Rafael).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The premise of Tatia Rosenthal’s \u003cb>$9.99\u003c/b> is irresistible: for a penny less than $10 you can discover the meaning of life. The age-old secret to existence can be found between the covers of a small booklet, printed on the finest paper, with exquisite color pictures. One of Rosenthal’s characters, 28-year-old Dave Peck, who is foundering, unemployed and living in a small apartment with his father, answers an ad and receives the booklet. He spends the rest of the film trying to impart this wisdom to his father, Jim, his brother, Lenny, and to anyone else in his apartment building who will listen. Trouble is, no one is willing to take the time to hear what he and the book have to say. Another book, “Be Heard,” distributed by the same company, contains the key to Dave’s conundrum, but unfortunately the publisher has gone out of business, so neither we nor any of the characters in \u003cb>$9.99\u003c/b> will ever find out what’s contained in the booklet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bummer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other tantalizing aspect to this film is its use of stop-motion clay animation, which is a kind of filmmaking that I have loved since \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gumby\">Gumby\u003c/a>. Though \u003cb>$9.99\u003c/b> is more akin to the dark-edged works of Czech animator \u003ca href=\"http://www.jansvankmajer.com/\">Jan Svankmajer\u003c/a> than it is to kiddie animation. (I’ll never forget seeing Svankmajer’s adaptation of \u003cb>Alice in Wonderland\u003c/b>. I don’t think I was on hallucinogens at the time, but I am sure that I left the theater hallucinating.) \u003cb>$9.99\u003c/b> shares Svankmajer’s penchant for surrealism. In this age of sleek, digital animation, it has a grit to it that one doesn’t see much anymore, which is the feeling of hands at work, not on keyboards, but on the action itself. And unlike Nick Park’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.wallaceandgromit.com/\">Wallace and Gromit\u003c/a> films (also clay animated), it deals with adult themes and situations. The grit isn’t only contained in the process; it is also in the intertwined stories of the melancholy characters that inhabit one apartment building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dave’s brother, Lenny, is obsessed with a supermodel who has recently moved into the building. He will go to terrifying lengths to satisfy one of her peculiar fetishes. Down a floor, a young man breaks up with the woman he was planning to marry and spends his evenings in a drunken stupor with three tiny — imaginary (?) — friends who behave like frat boy party animals. A belligerent, broken down angel solicits the assistance of a lonely, old widower who has spent the last twenty years living alone in the unchanging apartment he once shared with his wife. A former magician finds himself down on his luck and has a run in with a repo agency. A young man teaches his delusional son the importance of saving, with the assistance of a piggy bank, whose crooked smile becomes more important to the boy than his father’s lesson in personal finance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When \u003cb>$9.99\u003c/b> was finished I wondered at my ability to find beauty in sorrow — or more generally at humanity’s ability to make wondrous artworks out of everyday pain. Perhaps this is what was contained in that little booklet, one of the — apparently six –secrets to understanding the meaning of life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Prior to watching \u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b>, I had been hearing shocking stories of Satanism, church burnings and brutal murders related to the Norwegian black metal scene of the late eighties and early nineties. About three years ago, I visited \u003ca href=\"http://www.aquariusrecords.org/\">Aquarius Records\u003c/a> in San Francisco and heard a track from Norwegian artist Burzum, otherwise known as Varg “Count Grishnackh” Vikernes. At the time, I knew nothing about him or his reputation, but I remember being pummeled by the hellish sounds; Burzum’s screeching guitars and goblin growls put me in an utterly grim headspace. I wasn’t inspired to go out and burn the cross, but the music was original and had a lasting impact. Later on, I learned that Burzum, or Varg Vikernes, was one of the founding fathers of Norwegian black metal and, in 1993, was sentenced to 21 years in jail for three church arsons and for fatally stabbing a fellow musician in the skull. This was enough to inspire further investigation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> premiered in late 2008 and is a first of its kind documentary, focusing solely on the notorious black metal movement in Norway — a movement known for Satanic imagery, corpse-paint, double bass drums, anti-Semitism, homophobia and the contempt of Christian influence on Norwegian society. Directors Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell spent nearly two years in Norway to separate fact from fiction and explain how this movement, and the crimes that ensued, became prime time news fodder. To my surprise, Aquarius Records was also instrumental in motivating them to make the film. In an interview with \u003ca href=\"http://www.altfg.com/blog/\">The Alternative Film Guide\u003c/a>, Aites and Ewell explain: “We were introduced to black metal by a friend (Andee Conners, who owns Aquarius Records in San Francisco) and we both really got into it (almost obsessed with it). We were both working in film and we were in the early stages of working on a narrative feature together… we really wanted to see a documentary about black metal and there wasn’t one. That’s where the idea came from.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The feature length film methodically mixes archival footage, practice sessions, audiotape and photos with artist interviews, taking a chronological look at the rise, fall and ultimate trend appeal of black metal in Norway. (Warning for the faint of heart: one photo, also used as an album cover, shows brain matter seeping out of Dead’s head — Dead is the former vocalist for the band Mayhem.) Relentless pounding riffs, bleak chord structures and ghostly cries characterize the black metal sound, and albums such Mayhem’s \u003cb>Deathcrush\u003c/b>, Burzum’s self-title EP and Darkthrone’s \u003cb>A Blaze in the Northern Sky\u003c/b> were the first to pioneer this frenetic, genre-bending style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The majority of the film is spent with Gylve “Fenriz” Nagell of Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes of Burzum. Once friends, Gylve and Varg started along similar paths, devoting themselves to their music and cementing their reputation as metal overlords. Varg ventured beyond the music to fulfill some of his own personal convictions and, at the age of 21, was found guilty of first-degree murder and the burning of three historic churches. His interviews are shot entirely from a maximum-security prison in Trondheim, Norway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The directors do a good job of remaining neutral throughout the film and refrain from adding voice-over commentary or personal interjections. The candid interviews, graphic photos and bleak Norwegian landscape tell the story best on their own. What is surprising is the amount of humor and human qualities that shine through, despite the morbid music and the retelling of despicable acts. During a phone interview with a music journalist, Gylve from Darkthrone talks about how his new records should drive people to suicide, but also jokes about how he’s into Monika Kruse and German techno music. “We in Oslo… usually know about a lot of different sorts of styles of music. We’re not fu**in living in a trailer camp just listening to Anthrax, if you know what I’m saying.” Varg delves into some gritty details of how he murdered Euronymous, Mayhem’s guitarist, (“in self-defense”) without a shred of remorse, but then gets some comedic relief as he recounts a time, long ago, when he and Gylve were discussing whether corn flakes are better soft, or crispy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film takes a strange turn when Bjarne Melgaard is introduced. Bjarne is a visual artist who has latched onto black metal, and blatantly capitalizes on the movement for his own personal gain. Oddly enough, Gylve agrees to walk in a snowy forest as part of a video piece for Bjarne’s collection, but is shown in the gallery looking uncomfortable as hell, making fun of the exhibit flyer with Bjarne’s name in extra extra bold type. Clips from Harmony Korine’s 2000 black metal exhibit in LA titled \u003cb>The Sigil of the Cloven Hoof Marks thy Path\u003c/b> show him tap dancing with corpse-paint, ranting about how black metal is the most intense, raw music. At first, these scenes seem out of context but they ultimately prove how the movement has crossed over into other “artistic” venues. As Gylve puts it, “A big part of me wished that this whole thing didn’t turn into a trend… then again, you know, people like to dress up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film captures Norway’s beautiful, cold landscape with its slow pace, and pairs the mood well with the dark sentiments of black metal. \u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> doesn’t give into shock value or offer quick-fix assumptions of what this movement is about. Instead, the directors choose (wisely) to let the source material take center stage. Like the Manson murders, this is a story that had to be told and fortunately, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell use enough tact and discretion to follow through with a provocative and intelligent film.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> is screening at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, July 9-11, 2009.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Prior to watching \u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b>, I had been hearing shocking stories of Satanism, church burnings and brutal murders related to the Norwegian black metal scene of the late eighties and early nineties. About three years ago, I visited \u003ca href=\"http://www.aquariusrecords.org/\">Aquarius Records\u003c/a> in San Francisco and heard a track from Norwegian artist Burzum, otherwise known as Varg “Count Grishnackh” Vikernes. At the time, I knew nothing about him or his reputation, but I remember being pummeled by the hellish sounds; Burzum’s screeching guitars and goblin growls put me in an utterly grim headspace. I wasn’t inspired to go out and burn the cross, but the music was original and had a lasting impact. Later on, I learned that Burzum, or Varg Vikernes, was one of the founding fathers of Norwegian black metal and, in 1993, was sentenced to 21 years in jail for three church arsons and for fatally stabbing a fellow musician in the skull. This was enough to inspire further investigation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> premiered in late 2008 and is a first of its kind documentary, focusing solely on the notorious black metal movement in Norway — a movement known for Satanic imagery, corpse-paint, double bass drums, anti-Semitism, homophobia and the contempt of Christian influence on Norwegian society. Directors Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell spent nearly two years in Norway to separate fact from fiction and explain how this movement, and the crimes that ensued, became prime time news fodder. To my surprise, Aquarius Records was also instrumental in motivating them to make the film. In an interview with \u003ca href=\"http://www.altfg.com/blog/\">The Alternative Film Guide\u003c/a>, Aites and Ewell explain: “We were introduced to black metal by a friend (Andee Conners, who owns Aquarius Records in San Francisco) and we both really got into it (almost obsessed with it). We were both working in film and we were in the early stages of working on a narrative feature together… we really wanted to see a documentary about black metal and there wasn’t one. That’s where the idea came from.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The feature length film methodically mixes archival footage, practice sessions, audiotape and photos with artist interviews, taking a chronological look at the rise, fall and ultimate trend appeal of black metal in Norway. (Warning for the faint of heart: one photo, also used as an album cover, shows brain matter seeping out of Dead’s head — Dead is the former vocalist for the band Mayhem.) Relentless pounding riffs, bleak chord structures and ghostly cries characterize the black metal sound, and albums such Mayhem’s \u003cb>Deathcrush\u003c/b>, Burzum’s self-title EP and Darkthrone’s \u003cb>A Blaze in the Northern Sky\u003c/b> were the first to pioneer this frenetic, genre-bending style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The majority of the film is spent with Gylve “Fenriz” Nagell of Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes of Burzum. Once friends, Gylve and Varg started along similar paths, devoting themselves to their music and cementing their reputation as metal overlords. Varg ventured beyond the music to fulfill some of his own personal convictions and, at the age of 21, was found guilty of first-degree murder and the burning of three historic churches. His interviews are shot entirely from a maximum-security prison in Trondheim, Norway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The directors do a good job of remaining neutral throughout the film and refrain from adding voice-over commentary or personal interjections. The candid interviews, graphic photos and bleak Norwegian landscape tell the story best on their own. What is surprising is the amount of humor and human qualities that shine through, despite the morbid music and the retelling of despicable acts. During a phone interview with a music journalist, Gylve from Darkthrone talks about how his new records should drive people to suicide, but also jokes about how he’s into Monika Kruse and German techno music. “We in Oslo… usually know about a lot of different sorts of styles of music. We’re not fu**in living in a trailer camp just listening to Anthrax, if you know what I’m saying.” Varg delves into some gritty details of how he murdered Euronymous, Mayhem’s guitarist, (“in self-defense”) without a shred of remorse, but then gets some comedic relief as he recounts a time, long ago, when he and Gylve were discussing whether corn flakes are better soft, or crispy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film takes a strange turn when Bjarne Melgaard is introduced. Bjarne is a visual artist who has latched onto black metal, and blatantly capitalizes on the movement for his own personal gain. Oddly enough, Gylve agrees to walk in a snowy forest as part of a video piece for Bjarne’s collection, but is shown in the gallery looking uncomfortable as hell, making fun of the exhibit flyer with Bjarne’s name in extra extra bold type. Clips from Harmony Korine’s 2000 black metal exhibit in LA titled \u003cb>The Sigil of the Cloven Hoof Marks thy Path\u003c/b> show him tap dancing with corpse-paint, ranting about how black metal is the most intense, raw music. At first, these scenes seem out of context but they ultimately prove how the movement has crossed over into other “artistic” venues. As Gylve puts it, “A big part of me wished that this whole thing didn’t turn into a trend… then again, you know, people like to dress up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film captures Norway’s beautiful, cold landscape with its slow pace, and pairs the mood well with the dark sentiments of black metal. \u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> doesn’t give into shock value or offer quick-fix assumptions of what this movement is about. Instead, the directors choose (wisely) to let the source material take center stage. Like the Manson murders, this is a story that had to be told and fortunately, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell use enough tact and discretion to follow through with a provocative and intelligent film.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Until the Light Takes Us\u003c/b> is screening at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, July 9-11, 2009.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The provocative Argentine director Lucrecia Martel, a rising luminary in world cinema, makes a hit-and-run visit this week to Yerba Buena Center For the Arts with two of her three fascinating feature films. Inspired by her country’s moral lethargy, class divide and frustrated women, \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> and \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> nonetheless have plenty to say to American audiences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Martel’s films could be described as domestic mysteries, fraught with foreboding and crammed with casually yet carefully placed clues. We’re dropped into the middle of a household or location, and have to glean or deduce how the characters are related, and what they want or, more importantly, what they need. There’s no crime, per se, other than the sundry ways in which Martel’s people avoid taking responsibility for their behavior. I should add that the filmmaker has little interest in destinations or (re)solutions — she recognizes the messy life-goes-on nature of reality more than the artificial tropes of storytelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her remarkable 2001 debut, \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> (\u003cb>The Swamp\u003c/b>), screening Tuesday, July 14, begins with a woozy array of indolent adults drunkenly zoned out next to an uninviting swimming pool. They’re oblivious to the children running around with shotguns in the hills, or flirting with disaster inside the house. The parents’ abdication of responsibility (symbolizing the government’s) is most horrifyingly apparent, however, at meals or other times when they’re in the same room with their kids — physically present but indifferent, and blind to the effects their casual insults and thoughtless gossip have on their offspring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dissolute families in \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> are well off, but the movie is crammed with moments where we anticipate someone will come to harm. The hazards include guns, pools, alcohol, cars, dogs and ladders, but the main threat is the parental figures’ inertia and entropy. This may remind you of the studied pretentiousness of \u003cb>The Ice Storm\u003c/b>, Ang Lee’s depiction of selfish absentee parents, but there’s a big difference: Martel fills the screen with so much color and vitality that we find ourselves gradually subsumed into the home life, and strangely complicit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wine helps the mother sleepwalk through her unsatisfying existence, while the protagonist of Martel’s newest work, \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> (Wed., July 15, followed by a conversation between Martel and local critic B. Ruby Rich), enters into a glazed-eyed stupor after running something or someone over on a deserted road. It’s daylight but Veronica drives on without looking back, and over the next few days goes through the motions of her marriage and dental practice. (Martel underexposes many of these scenes or silhouettes her “heroine,” bathing her and us in the half-darkness of Veronica’s mental state.) When Veronica finally acknowledges what she thinks happened, and blurts it out to her husband, he’s quick to dissuade her and smooth her tracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For these women, adrift in their own worlds though surrounded by family and friends, complacency is both the Holy Grail and the devil’s workshop. People routinely talk past each other, so wrapped up in themselves they can’t be bothered to listen to anyone else. If religion makes an appearance, it’s represented as superstition rather than a basis for faith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exception is \u003cb>The Holy Girl\u003c/b> (2004), Martel’s breakout picture. In fact, it may be that the generally adverse reviews (misguided, in my opinion) to \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> at the Cannes and New York festivals last year had less to do with the film itself than with the expectations of the critics. In any event, \u003cb>The Holy Girl\u003c/b> (screening Thurs., July 23, well after the filmmaker’s departure) centers on a teenager trying to reconcile her religious education with her unformed sexuality. When a doctor staying at the hotel that her family runs surreptitiously presses himself against her on the street, Amalia resolves to be his agent of redemption. Never underestimate the will, and faith, of a teenage girl.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My favorite aspect of Martel’s films is their wondrous sense of life caught on the fly, even when the compositions and character movements are anything but accidental. Her movies pulse and breathe, making no attempt to explain themselves as they go. (Every film contains an intimation of an unrequited, thwarted or misconceived lesbian liaison, which the characters never discuss.) Now in her early 40s, with a kinetic signature style and a wealth of insights into the psyches of women in a world that pays lip service and nothing more to gender equality, Martel is assuredly a director to watch. This week, she’s also a director to see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Holy Girls and Headless Women: The Films of Lucrecia Martel\u003c/b> screens Tuesday, July 14 and Wednesday, July 15 (with the filmmaker present) and Thursday, July 23, 2009 at Yerba Buena Center For the Arts. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.ybca.org/tickets/production/view.aspx?id=9884\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit ybca.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The provocative Argentine director Lucrecia Martel, a rising luminary in world cinema, makes a hit-and-run visit this week to Yerba Buena Center For the Arts with two of her three fascinating feature films. Inspired by her country’s moral lethargy, class divide and frustrated women, \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> and \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> nonetheless have plenty to say to American audiences.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Martel’s films could be described as domestic mysteries, fraught with foreboding and crammed with casually yet carefully placed clues. We’re dropped into the middle of a household or location, and have to glean or deduce how the characters are related, and what they want or, more importantly, what they need. There’s no crime, per se, other than the sundry ways in which Martel’s people avoid taking responsibility for their behavior. I should add that the filmmaker has little interest in destinations or (re)solutions — she recognizes the messy life-goes-on nature of reality more than the artificial tropes of storytelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her remarkable 2001 debut, \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> (\u003cb>The Swamp\u003c/b>), screening Tuesday, July 14, begins with a woozy array of indolent adults drunkenly zoned out next to an uninviting swimming pool. They’re oblivious to the children running around with shotguns in the hills, or flirting with disaster inside the house. The parents’ abdication of responsibility (symbolizing the government’s) is most horrifyingly apparent, however, at meals or other times when they’re in the same room with their kids — physically present but indifferent, and blind to the effects their casual insults and thoughtless gossip have on their offspring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dissolute families in \u003cb>La Ciénaga\u003c/b> are well off, but the movie is crammed with moments where we anticipate someone will come to harm. The hazards include guns, pools, alcohol, cars, dogs and ladders, but the main threat is the parental figures’ inertia and entropy. This may remind you of the studied pretentiousness of \u003cb>The Ice Storm\u003c/b>, Ang Lee’s depiction of selfish absentee parents, but there’s a big difference: Martel fills the screen with so much color and vitality that we find ourselves gradually subsumed into the home life, and strangely complicit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wine helps the mother sleepwalk through her unsatisfying existence, while the protagonist of Martel’s newest work, \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> (Wed., July 15, followed by a conversation between Martel and local critic B. Ruby Rich), enters into a glazed-eyed stupor after running something or someone over on a deserted road. It’s daylight but Veronica drives on without looking back, and over the next few days goes through the motions of her marriage and dental practice. (Martel underexposes many of these scenes or silhouettes her “heroine,” bathing her and us in the half-darkness of Veronica’s mental state.) When Veronica finally acknowledges what she thinks happened, and blurts it out to her husband, he’s quick to dissuade her and smooth her tracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For these women, adrift in their own worlds though surrounded by family and friends, complacency is both the Holy Grail and the devil’s workshop. People routinely talk past each other, so wrapped up in themselves they can’t be bothered to listen to anyone else. If religion makes an appearance, it’s represented as superstition rather than a basis for faith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exception is \u003cb>The Holy Girl\u003c/b> (2004), Martel’s breakout picture. In fact, it may be that the generally adverse reviews (misguided, in my opinion) to \u003cb>The Headless Woman\u003c/b> at the Cannes and New York festivals last year had less to do with the film itself than with the expectations of the critics. In any event, \u003cb>The Holy Girl\u003c/b> (screening Thurs., July 23, well after the filmmaker’s departure) centers on a teenager trying to reconcile her religious education with her unformed sexuality. When a doctor staying at the hotel that her family runs surreptitiously presses himself against her on the street, Amalia resolves to be his agent of redemption. Never underestimate the will, and faith, of a teenage girl.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>My favorite aspect of Martel’s films is their wondrous sense of life caught on the fly, even when the compositions and character movements are anything but accidental. Her movies pulse and breathe, making no attempt to explain themselves as they go. (Every film contains an intimation of an unrequited, thwarted or misconceived lesbian liaison, which the characters never discuss.) Now in her early 40s, with a kinetic signature style and a wealth of insights into the psyches of women in a world that pays lip service and nothing more to gender equality, Martel is assuredly a director to watch. This week, she’s also a director to see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Holy Girls and Headless Women: The Films of Lucrecia Martel\u003c/b> screens Tuesday, July 14 and Wednesday, July 15 (with the filmmaker present) and Thursday, July 23, 2009 at Yerba Buena Center For the Arts. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.ybca.org/tickets/production/view.aspx?id=9884\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit ybca.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>For moviegoers craving engagement instead of escape, the stunningly acted Turkish domestic drama \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> is the perfect antidote to the smash-bang-kaboom blockbusters. A quietly cascading tale of the corruption, betrayal and manipulation corkscrewing from a car accident, the film earned Nuri Bilge Ceylan the best director award at Cannes 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night on a dark back road, a man alone at the wheel dozes off and runs someone over. He’s about to drive off, leaving the body and escaping the consequences, when another motorist sees his license plate but not his face. So Servet (Ercan Kesel), a man of means running for a seat in an imminent election, devises a solution: His driver, Eyup, will take the rap and serve a short prison term, in exchange for his usual salary (to be paid to his family) and a hefty payoff when he’s released.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Servet’s departure from the scene of the accident, it should be noted, was accompanied by a violent thunderclap. Not loud enough to dent the din in \u003cb>The Taking of Pelham 123\u003c/b> or \u003cb>Transformers\u003c/b>, mind you, but it’s a significant event in \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b>. Perhaps the crackling boom symbolizes the death of Servet’s conscience, or God’s presence as an observer to his crime of opportunism. What I can report is that we hear that thunder again much later in the film, and it is just as shattering and doom-laden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eyup (Yavuz Bingol) ends up getting a year in jail, leaving his wife Hacer (Hatice Aslan) and aimless teenage son Ismail (Ahmet Rifat Sungar) to live in mostly fraught silence without the patriarch to set the rules and maintain the status quo. We are given to know, though, through the gradual accretion of mysterious details, that this family was haunted and coming apart long before the event that led to Eyup’s departure. When he eventually returns home, all three must confront how — or whether — to pick up the pieces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ceylan achieved one gorgeous composition after another in his previous films, \u003cb>Distant\u003c/b> (2002) and \u003cb>Climates\u003c/b> (2006), but here he desaturates his colors, leaching the romance from Turkey and making the sunbaked terrain look more like Eastern Europe than the Mediterranean. His aim isn’t to make an ugly picture by any means, but to reduce any distractions that might draw our eye away from the characters. The landscape that Ceylan is interested in here is the human face, with its waves of unspoken emotion and passion and desperation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are stretches of pained silence in \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b>, and we are often left to infer or imagine what old wounds have been reopened. (Ismail returns home beaten and bleeding one day; we’re never told the cause of his injuries, or why Hacer looks at him with so little empathy.) This movie is squarely in the tradition of European art films of the ’70s such as Alain Tanner’s \u003cb>La Salamandre\u003c/b> or \u003cb>The Middle of the World\u003c/b> which required the viewer to connect the dots, a challenge made more challenging by the intentional omission of some of the dots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> is no masterpiece but it is a harrowing and rewarding film, and an increasingly rare treat for moviegoers weary of being treated by filmmakers as imbeciles or one of Pavlov’s dogs. It’s the kind of film that pushes to the fore my usual hobbyhorses: Is there still a place for a cinema of faces and silences, of introspection and ambiguity? In the post-MTV world, can we focus on a static shot lasting longer than five seconds? Can a filmmaker depict mysterious, unexplained behavior without being accused of preciousness? Are filmgoers still capable of seeing a society’s moral disintegration in the travails of an ordinary pockmarked family?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll walk out of \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> with your own questions. Here’s another: What’s worse — the deals we make with the devil, or the deals we make with ourselves? And are they not often the same thing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> opens Friday, June 26, 2009 on SFFS Screen at the Sundance Kabuki Cinemas.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>For moviegoers craving engagement instead of escape, the stunningly acted Turkish domestic drama \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> is the perfect antidote to the smash-bang-kaboom blockbusters. A quietly cascading tale of the corruption, betrayal and manipulation corkscrewing from a car accident, the film earned Nuri Bilge Ceylan the best director award at Cannes 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One night on a dark back road, a man alone at the wheel dozes off and runs someone over. He’s about to drive off, leaving the body and escaping the consequences, when another motorist sees his license plate but not his face. So Servet (Ercan Kesel), a man of means running for a seat in an imminent election, devises a solution: His driver, Eyup, will take the rap and serve a short prison term, in exchange for his usual salary (to be paid to his family) and a hefty payoff when he’s released.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Servet’s departure from the scene of the accident, it should be noted, was accompanied by a violent thunderclap. Not loud enough to dent the din in \u003cb>The Taking of Pelham 123\u003c/b> or \u003cb>Transformers\u003c/b>, mind you, but it’s a significant event in \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b>. Perhaps the crackling boom symbolizes the death of Servet’s conscience, or God’s presence as an observer to his crime of opportunism. What I can report is that we hear that thunder again much later in the film, and it is just as shattering and doom-laden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eyup (Yavuz Bingol) ends up getting a year in jail, leaving his wife Hacer (Hatice Aslan) and aimless teenage son Ismail (Ahmet Rifat Sungar) to live in mostly fraught silence without the patriarch to set the rules and maintain the status quo. We are given to know, though, through the gradual accretion of mysterious details, that this family was haunted and coming apart long before the event that led to Eyup’s departure. When he eventually returns home, all three must confront how — or whether — to pick up the pieces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ceylan achieved one gorgeous composition after another in his previous films, \u003cb>Distant\u003c/b> (2002) and \u003cb>Climates\u003c/b> (2006), but here he desaturates his colors, leaching the romance from Turkey and making the sunbaked terrain look more like Eastern Europe than the Mediterranean. His aim isn’t to make an ugly picture by any means, but to reduce any distractions that might draw our eye away from the characters. The landscape that Ceylan is interested in here is the human face, with its waves of unspoken emotion and passion and desperation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are stretches of pained silence in \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b>, and we are often left to infer or imagine what old wounds have been reopened. (Ismail returns home beaten and bleeding one day; we’re never told the cause of his injuries, or why Hacer looks at him with so little empathy.) This movie is squarely in the tradition of European art films of the ’70s such as Alain Tanner’s \u003cb>La Salamandre\u003c/b> or \u003cb>The Middle of the World\u003c/b> which required the viewer to connect the dots, a challenge made more challenging by the intentional omission of some of the dots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> is no masterpiece but it is a harrowing and rewarding film, and an increasingly rare treat for moviegoers weary of being treated by filmmakers as imbeciles or one of Pavlov’s dogs. It’s the kind of film that pushes to the fore my usual hobbyhorses: Is there still a place for a cinema of faces and silences, of introspection and ambiguity? In the post-MTV world, can we focus on a static shot lasting longer than five seconds? Can a filmmaker depict mysterious, unexplained behavior without being accused of preciousness? Are filmgoers still capable of seeing a society’s moral disintegration in the travails of an ordinary pockmarked family?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll walk out of \u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> with your own questions. Here’s another: What’s worse — the deals we make with the devil, or the deals we make with ourselves? And are they not often the same thing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Three Monkeys\u003c/b> opens Friday, June 26, 2009 on SFFS Screen at the Sundance Kabuki Cinemas.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>There was a moment in local film titan Francis Ford Coppola’s self-released new movie, not long after its stylish opening credits, when I thought, “Wait: Are we in for two hours of slamming doors and soprano sax? Uh oh.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But no, actually, we were in for more than that. Coppola may make off-putting choices sometimes, but stasis isn’t one of them. And anyway, what had I been expecting? \u003cb>Tetro\u003c/b> is, after all, an operatic, Oedipal melodrama of estranged brothers reuniting in Buenos Aires and falling into an aggressively collaborative creative response to inherited sibling rivalries and buried family secrets.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s also Coppola’s first original screenplay since his 1974 masterpiece, \u003cb>The Conversation\u003c/b>. The real reason that matters, I think, is as a qualification: \u003cb>Tetro\u003c/b> reveals how dramatically the advancement of Coppola’s directing skills has outpaced that of his dramatization skills. Of the latter, he’s rusty and needs more practice is all, and it’s encouraging to see him getting it. Of the former: wow, what a beauty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This partially explains how \u003cb>Tetro\u003c/b>, which refers to other movies but isn’t like other movies, can seem to me like both an aggravation and an inspiration. In all the best and worst ways, it is arty and amateur — a throwback, not just for its allusions to Coppola’s own family dynamics but also for its guileless infatuation with cinema, with the aura of the old world, with quaint ideas of manly bohemianism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Tetrocini brothers, Angelo and Bennie, grew up together in America, with different mothers and a domineering, famous-musician father (Klaus Maria Brandauer). One day, for ostensible reasons of artistic emancipation, the tortured genius Angelo (Vincent Gallo) fled the nest, leaving behind only a promise that eventually he’d come back for the much younger Bennie (Alden Ehrenreich).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he hasn’t lived up to his promise, probably because he hasn’t lived up to his potential. Now he goes by the name of Tetro, and spends his angsty days among the Argentine scenesters, doing lights for a drag version of \u003cb>Faust\u003c/b>, stashing away the jotted scraps of an unfinished, unpublished literary opus, and cohabitating with the notably maternal lover (Maribel Verdú) he picked up at an asylum (he stayed there; she worked there).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And now Bennie, who took a job on a cruise-ship presumably with the strategic goal of shore leave in Buenos Aires, has tracked his big brother down. But instead of welcoming the visit, Tetro tends to narrow his glittering reptile eyes and make dour pronouncements, like, “You know what love is in a family like ours, Bennie? It’s a quick stab in the heart.” So yes, they have a lot of catching up to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Contrasts are of the essence here; Coppola luxuriates in cinematographer Mihai Malaimare’s luminous black-and-white DV imagery (reserving color for flashbacks and the occasional Powell-Pressburger reference), and Gallo’s air of inglorious integrity has a natural foil in the newcomer Ehrenreich’s disarming vitality. By design, both performances seem at once obliging and refractory, like the film itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yes, \u003cb>Tetro\u003c/b> is a willful vision. That it seems so overworked but still so unfinished is how I know it’s also a genuine one.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Imagine amassing one of the most important collections of contemporary art on a postal worker’s salary. Collecting art like a wino collects bottles, your nights are filled with studio visits and exhibition openings as you accumulate piles of artwork, crowding your home from floor to ceiling with objects created by blue chip artists-in-the-making. As the artists gain notoriety, you realize you must care for your investment, and you cover the more delicate works with blankets to protect them. No longer able to see them, their presence still brings you joy. You squirrel away priceless art like there’s no tomorrow, and you have an exceptional eye for pieces that few people will ever understand. You collect religiously for nearly fifty years, and you never look back. Then, when your one-bedroom apartment is bursting, about ready to cave from the weight of your multiple truckloads of artwork, you give it all away. You are Dorothy and Herb Vogel, and your passion for art is “equal to the passion that artists have for art.” You are obsessed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Vogels were a fixture on the New York art scene and were the kind of collectors artists considered friends. They pet-sat for Jean Claude and Christo’s cat, Gladys, in exchange for a collage study for \u003ca href=\"http://christojeanneclaude.net/vc.shtml\">Valley Falls\u003c/a>. They purchased a source photo for a Chuck Close portrait and framed it without removing the masking tape the artist had applied to reframe the image. They convinced Richard Tuttle to rip a few sheets out of a book of drawings he’d planned to keep intact. They installed conceptual works by Sol Lewitt and Lawrence Weiner in their shower. They collected in depth, utterly dedicated to New York art and culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Vogels’ story is captured from all sides in Megumi Sasaki’s new film, \u003cb>Herb and Dorothy\u003c/b>, creating what seems like a genuine portrait of their lives. Their early years are revealed when Dorothy is disappointed to find an old trunk of paintings Herb made but none of her own — they started out as “wannabe artists,” she explains. Their childlike excitement shines through when they have their photo taken under \u003ca href=\"http://christojeanneclaude.net/tg.shtml\">The Gates\u003c/a> and debate its genre, “It’s a combination of everything, a happening, an event, and art,” they declare. The intensity of their hoarding becomes more obvious when a National Gallery curator, Jack Cowart, describes his “curatorial alarm bells” sounding upon first sight of the apartment packed with valuable artworks — cohabiting with cats and potentially leaky fish tanks. Herb’s lifelong, down-to-earth connection to the art world is apparent when he mentions drinking at Cedar Tavern with Jackson Pollock and Barnett Newman, but leaving early because he had to work. Both Herb and Dorothy claim the collection wouldn’t have been possible without each other; their mutual adoration adds many endearing moments to the film.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>The couple is considered phenomenal in their voracious, thrifty collecting habits but also in their decision to donate their holdings to the National Gallery in Washington D.C., where Dorothy got her first art lesson from Herb on their honeymoon. They favored the museum because of its free admission and its promise never to sell acquisitions. But the museum could only absorb so much (1,000 pieces), and so the Vogels initiated the “Fifty Artworks for Fifty States” plan, giving museums across the country a selection from their collection. By the end of this year, the art will be on view for you and me, thanks to Herb and Dorothy. Let’s give them a round of applause.\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Herb and Dorothy\u003c/b> is playing June 19th at the \u003ca href=\"http://www.landmarktheatres.com/Films/films_frameset.asp?id=74522\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Lumiere Theater\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Working in an investigative journalism tradition once honed and now abandoned by U.S. television networks, Robert Kenner’s \u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> is a non-sensationalist yet quietly infuriating exposé of U.S. chicken, cattle and corn production. If the phrase “essential viewing” still has any meaning, it applies to this documentary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like fine-grain sandpaper applied to the polished veneer of a dining-room table, \u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> diligently reveals the truth behind the cheerful advertising and rainbow-hued packaging that conspire to create the illusion of healthful, amber waves of grain. Forget about the cycles of nature and the family farm; a handful of companies control and/or dictate American meat and agricultural production. Worse, they’ve instituted a ruthless factory approach that they’ve successfully hidden from the public.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> Our guides are the leading chroniclers of the domestic food industry, Eric Schlosser (\u003cb>Fast Food Nation\u003c/b>) and Michael Pollan (\u003cb>The Omnivore’s Dilemma\u003c/b>), whose unassailable credibility is enhanced by their low-key but impassioned demeanors. I recognize that firebrands and radicals are essential for change, but it’s also important to have the facts and strong arguments on one’s side. Or perhaps I simply appreciate the thoughtful gravitas of articulate middle-aged men (even those clad in denim work shirts) over the bouncy narcissism and gimmickry displayed by Morgan Spurlock in \u003cb>Super Size Me\u003c/b>, his 2004 saga of eating nothing but fast food for a month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s not the filmmaking in \u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> that commands our attention, admittedly, but the content. (That’s the bottom line for most people when it comes to nonfiction, notwithstanding my quixotic insistence on calling attention to the craft and the art of documentary.) From Kentucky to Nebraska to Virginia, Kenner shows us chicken coops run by Tyson contractors and packing plants churning out beef for drive-through burgers. The footage is unpleasant but rarely harrowing or grisly; his intent isn’t to shock us or gross us out but to make us look at the real-world conditions of animals raised for meat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The vegetarians in the crowd will watch these scenes with a measure of detachment and perhaps a little self-righteousness, but I defy anyone to keep their blood pressure level during the section on grain production. Much of the information will be familiar to moviegoers here in the slow-food capital of the U.S.: Lobbyists for Cargill and the other behemoths push farm bills that subsidize corn, which enables it to be sold on the market for less than it costs to produce. That accounts for corn’s use as cattle feed, and the ubiquity of cheap American beef. The glut of inexpensive corn also fueled the switch from sugar to high fructose corn syrup in countless products, driving up obesity and Type-2 diabetes levels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The icing on this appetite-killing cake is Monsanto, which has employed the lethal combination of lawyers, technology and money to steamroll Midwestern soybean farmers into buying the company’s seeds. It’s possible, I suppose, to watch (\u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> and remain unmoved by the treatment of animals or the waistlines of unseen Americans. But any remaining detachment disappears at the sight of weathered, lifelong farmers stomped like bugs by a heartless multinational system. If the realization hasn’t sunk in by this point that our system is broken, this episode delivers the message in spades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Crisp and colorful, \u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> is anything but dry viewing. It doesn’t qualify as medicine — i.e. you should see it because it’s good for you. But at the same time, it doesn’t sell out either its subject or its activist soul by embracing the prevailing ethos of documentary-as-entertainment. With broadcast (and cable) news divisions abdicating their basic responsibility to inform us about real issues, we are dependent on independent documentary makers to step into the breach. \u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> does exactly that, powerfully and beautifully.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Food, Inc.\u003c/b> opens Friday, June 12, 2009. Visit \u003ca href=\"http://blogs.kqed.org/bayareabites/2009/06/09/hungry-for-change-food-inc/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Bay Area Bites\u003c/a> for their take on the documentary.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>\n\u003c/p>\u003cp>Several of these movies may either indicate a need for therapy or be a form of it; watch them not to be entertained, heaven knows, but to save yourself from some pretty embarrassing situations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Below, a few examples of what you might learn. Each of which should be a no-brainer — in the sense of being obvious, not in the sense of having your head impaled — but it never hurts to be reminded. Oh, except when it hurts really bad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Never, especially if you have heaving bosoms, several similarly curvaceous girlfriends, and a ventriloquist’s dummy on your couch, play with the Ouija board at midnight on the night a radical black serial rapist and murderer is to be executed. Look, this is not about race, or politics, or squeamishness in the presence of every imaginable bodily fluid. It’s just common sense. (\u003cb>Black Devil Doll\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Necrophilia alone probably should not motivate your choice of career. (\u003cb>Morgue Story\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. If you’re in the woods on a hunting trip with your San Francisco buddies, and the nasty-ass Mad Max-ish rednecks haven’t scared you off, and the hippie girls haven’t either (well, they are rather fetching, after all, especially when naked), and you find yourself gutting a hog, and you happen to pull a pair of severed human hands out of its belly, trip’s over, OK? (\u003cb>Pig Hunt\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. In the event of a strange human future in which sex is outlawed due to overpopulation, and you and your astronaut crew have not yet explored that planet full of libidinous ladies, do watch out for the beaks of flying lizards. Or seek them out, if that’s your thing. (\u003cb>Sex Galaxy\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Regardless of your aptitude for physical and romantic comedy while in human form, if you are a werewolf, and your wise and gentle Native American companion says, “Don’t go amongst people — they will hurt you, and you them,” try to give him the benefit of the doubt. (\u003cb>Audie and the Wolf\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Listen to your science teacher. Especially if he uses the movie \u003cb>Forbidden Planet\u003c/b> as a teaching tool. (\u003cb>Monsters from the Id\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Where no-budget moviemaking is concerned, your scrappy corner-cutting may indeed be a sign of indie authenticity. Fine. Just keep things in perspective. When making a zombie movie, for instance, it might just be more trouble than it’s worth to employ real zombies. (\u003cb>Reel Zombies\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. A pair of Catholic high school girls may one day appear at your door and attempt to sell you some religious paraphernalia. In this situation, being a horribly, irredeemably twisted individual to begin with does not entitle you to act on your basest impulses. Of course you probably will anyway, but do understand that there will be serious consequences. (\u003cb>Run! Bitch Run!\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9. Your wariness of eccentric mixed-media artists whose media include human blood and organs does not necessarily make you a philistine. (\u003cb>Detective Story\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>10. \u003cb>Someone’s Knocking at the Door\u003c/b>. And it’s not a pair of Catholic schoolgirls. Yeah, you’re gonna want to not be home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another Hole in the Head runs from June 5-18, 2009, at the Roxie Theater in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfindie.com\"> schedule, tickets, and more information\u003c/a>, visit www.sfindie.com.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "It may seem hard to believe, but the annual Another Hole in the Head film festival, an offshoot of SF Indie, has many valuable life lessons to impart. Gory, deviant, shocking and variously disgusting life lessons, sure, but that's why they're useful.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Necrophilia alone probably should not motivate your choice of career. (\u003cb>Morgue Story\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. If you’re in the woods on a hunting trip with your San Francisco buddies, and the nasty-ass Mad Max-ish rednecks haven’t scared you off, and the hippie girls haven’t either (well, they are rather fetching, after all, especially when naked), and you find yourself gutting a hog, and you happen to pull a pair of severed human hands out of its belly, trip’s over, OK? (\u003cb>Pig Hunt\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. In the event of a strange human future in which sex is outlawed due to overpopulation, and you and your astronaut crew have not yet explored that planet full of libidinous ladies, do watch out for the beaks of flying lizards. Or seek them out, if that’s your thing. (\u003cb>Sex Galaxy\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Regardless of your aptitude for physical and romantic comedy while in human form, if you are a werewolf, and your wise and gentle Native American companion says, “Don’t go amongst people — they will hurt you, and you them,” try to give him the benefit of the doubt. (\u003cb>Audie and the Wolf\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Listen to your science teacher. Especially if he uses the movie \u003cb>Forbidden Planet\u003c/b> as a teaching tool. (\u003cb>Monsters from the Id\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Where no-budget moviemaking is concerned, your scrappy corner-cutting may indeed be a sign of indie authenticity. Fine. Just keep things in perspective. When making a zombie movie, for instance, it might just be more trouble than it’s worth to employ real zombies. (\u003cb>Reel Zombies\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. A pair of Catholic high school girls may one day appear at your door and attempt to sell you some religious paraphernalia. In this situation, being a horribly, irredeemably twisted individual to begin with does not entitle you to act on your basest impulses. Of course you probably will anyway, but do understand that there will be serious consequences. (\u003cb>Run! Bitch Run!\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>9. Your wariness of eccentric mixed-media artists whose media include human blood and organs does not necessarily make you a philistine. (\u003cb>Detective Story\u003c/b>)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>10. \u003cb>Someone’s Knocking at the Door\u003c/b>. And it’s not a pair of Catholic schoolgirls. Yeah, you’re gonna want to not be home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another Hole in the Head runs from June 5-18, 2009, at the Roxie Theater in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfindie.com\"> schedule, tickets, and more information\u003c/a>, visit www.sfindie.com.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Here’s the nutshell lore of Saul Zaentz: He came up through Berkeley’s Fantasy Records, made a mint by spotting and signing Creedence Clearwater Revival, leapt into a singular, artisanal and exacting film-production concern, bucked the studio trend of boring bottom-line-ism and gradually accumulated a heap of congratulatory hardware from the Academy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>John Fogerty’s tunefully infuriated claim that “Zaentz can’t dance but he’ll steal your money” notwithstanding (and after Zaentz sued Fogerty for that, it was not withstanding), the consensus still holds that the power of Saul is not small. As local writer Sheerly Avni concludes in her 2006 book \u003cb>Cinema by the Bay\u003c/b>, “Saul Zaentz, with all his talents and wiles and machinations directed towards the quality of the art itself, is a throwback to the great studio heads of Hollywood’s golden age.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley’s Pacific Film Archive proves it by screening a selection of four Zaentz-produced pictures, beginning today with director Milos Forman’s 1984 film of Peter Shaffer’s play \u003cb>Amadeus\u003c/b>, then continuing weekly on Wednesdays, with San Francisco director Philip Kaufman’s 1988 film of Milan Kundera’s novel \u003cb>The Unbearable Lightness of Being\u003c/b>, director Hector Babenco’s 1991 film of Peter Matthiesen’s novel \u003cb>At Play in the Fields of the Lord\u003c/b>, and director Anthony Minghella’s 1996 film of Michael Ondaatje’s novel \u003cb>The English Patient\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What is immediately apparent about these films,” writes PFA video curator Steve Seid, “is their meticulous construction. Virtuosic sound design, graceful editing, and elegant cinematography characterize these works, which accumulated another four Oscars (and many more nominations) for technical excellence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also apparent: They’re all arguably ill-advised adaptations, replete with actors who weren’t necessarily “bankable” at the time of production, and rather flagrantly enamored of breadth and texture. It’s hard not to notice that each of these movies, or “challenging modern entertainments,” to borrow an apt summation from local writer David Thomson’s take on Zaentz in \u003cb>The New Biographical Dictionary of Film\u003c/b>, is more than two and a half hours long.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They need that time, of course, to achieve their ambitions. In \u003cb>Lightness\u003c/b>, a buoyant Daniel Day-Lewis plays Tomas, the late-’60s Czech libertine choosing between sexual liberty and provincial love — as embodied with erotic abandon by Lena Olin and Juliette Binoche, respectively — in a politically deadening era. It’s a story about lovemaking as subversion of totalitarian oppression. In \u003cb>Amadeus\u003c/b>, a magnetic F. Murray Abraham plays Salieri, the late 18th-century Kappellmeister of Vienna self-tortured to the brink of madness by his recognition of artistic genius — as embodied with daffy abandon by Tom Hulce — and concomitant failure to achieve it. It’s a story of…well, my life, kinda.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, one gets the sense of how Zaentz rolls. It goes on like this, lushly, operatically, with \u003cb>At Play\u003c/b>‘s culturally rapacious missionaries and mercenaries in the Amazon, and \u003cb>Patient\u003c/b>‘s lovesick and war-weary cosmopolitans in Tuscany and the Sahara.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Certainly it takes a rare fortitude of character to realize such projects. Thomson concurs with the old-school-mogul assessment of Zaentz, adding a wry caveat: “I would urge anyone to keep awake when making contracts with him.” Fogerty might not put it so nicely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as Avni reminds us, “Forman would say that the best thing about having worked with Zaentz twice was that they had been through all the fights and curses and the slammed telephones together the first time, so the next time they ‘didn’t have to dance any more.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With each of its four films introduced by a member of the creative team, \u003cb>Quality Control: Selected Works from Zaentz Films\u003c/b> begins Saturday May 30, 2009, and continues Wednesdays through June 17, 2009, at the Pacific Film Archive in Berkeley. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/filmseries/zaentz_films_2009\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit bampfa.berkeley.edu.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They need that time, of course, to achieve their ambitions. In \u003cb>Lightness\u003c/b>, a buoyant Daniel Day-Lewis plays Tomas, the late-’60s Czech libertine choosing between sexual liberty and provincial love — as embodied with erotic abandon by Lena Olin and Juliette Binoche, respectively — in a politically deadening era. It’s a story about lovemaking as subversion of totalitarian oppression. In \u003cb>Amadeus\u003c/b>, a magnetic F. Murray Abraham plays Salieri, the late 18th-century Kappellmeister of Vienna self-tortured to the brink of madness by his recognition of artistic genius — as embodied with daffy abandon by Tom Hulce — and concomitant failure to achieve it. It’s a story of…well, my life, kinda.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anyway, one gets the sense of how Zaentz rolls. It goes on like this, lushly, operatically, with \u003cb>At Play\u003c/b>‘s culturally rapacious missionaries and mercenaries in the Amazon, and \u003cb>Patient\u003c/b>‘s lovesick and war-weary cosmopolitans in Tuscany and the Sahara.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Certainly it takes a rare fortitude of character to realize such projects. Thomson concurs with the old-school-mogul assessment of Zaentz, adding a wry caveat: “I would urge anyone to keep awake when making contracts with him.” Fogerty might not put it so nicely.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But as Avni reminds us, “Forman would say that the best thing about having worked with Zaentz twice was that they had been through all the fights and curses and the slammed telephones together the first time, so the next time they ‘didn’t have to dance any more.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With each of its four films introduced by a member of the creative team, \u003cb>Quality Control: Selected Works from Zaentz Films\u003c/b> begins Saturday May 30, 2009, and continues Wednesdays through June 17, 2009, at the Pacific Film Archive in Berkeley. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/filmseries/zaentz_films_2009\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit bampfa.berkeley.edu.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"mindshift": {
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"order": 12
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"politicalbreakdown": {
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"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
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"possible": {
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"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
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"pri-the-world": {
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"title": "PRI's The World: Latest Edition",
"info": "Each weekday, host Marco Werman and his team of producers bring you the world's most interesting stories in an hour of radio that reminds us just how small our planet really is.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 2pm-3pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
"title": "Radiolab",
"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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},
"reveal": {
"id": "reveal",
"title": "Reveal",
"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
"airtime": "SAT 4pm-5pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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"link": "/radio/program/reveal",
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"rss": "http://feeds.revealradio.org/revealpodcast"
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
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