Matt Ogens, "Confessions of a Superhero" (2007).

Last night I felt the need to kick back by myself and absorb a movie. I used to do that all the time, and the habit resulted in multiple posts with reviews. Lately I haven't made the time to see films by myself, and it was refreshing to have the opportunity to do so. I could have wasted ten or fifteen minutes agonizing over what title to pick. I certainly have a large stockpile of shrink-wrapped and unwatched DVDs waiting for me. But for some reason, I knew ahead of time that I wanted to see a documentary that I recently acquired called Confessions of a Superhero. It was produced by Morgan Spurlock (of Supersize Me fame) and directed by newcomer Matt Ogens. I had heard from others that it was well worth watching.

Ogens somehow became fascinated by the costumed characters that pose for photographs with tourists in front of Mann's Chinese Theater in Hollywood. These folks aren't affiliated with the business attached to the sidewalk they haunt, and in some ways they are really just glorified pan-handlers. Supposedly there are up to 70 different people donning tights, capes and whatnot to hustle dollars from the rubes. There is a Ghost Rider, a dude from Hellraiser, an Elmo, a Cookie Monster, a Chewbacca, a couple of Marilyn Monroes, and a handful of Spidermen. Certainly the assortment of masked freaks changes with the times, depending upon whatever pop culture items are currently in vogue.

But the director of Confessions wisely concentrated on four individuals who apparently had the most intriguing personal stories. We meet Jennifer Wenger (Wonder Woman), Maxwell Allen (Batman), Joe McQueen (The Incredible Hulk), and Christopher Dennis (Superman). It's easy to identify Dennis right off the bat as the informal leader and unofficial representative of the profession. His obsession with the caped hero seems to overwhelm almost every other aspect of his life. Footage of the small apartment he shares with his wife discloses an environment chock-a-bloc with collectibles and memorabilia, all devoted to the worship of the man from Kal-El. And yet somehow that's not even the weirdest part of his personal story.

One might expect anyone that dresses up in costume in order to bum money from strangers to be eccentric, and the folks that Ogens highlights are certainly not exceptions. The girl that plays Wonder Woman was reportedly Ms. Popularity back in high school, and she is probably the most normal of the bunch. I assume she was chosen to add a sexy element to the proceedings. McQueen also seems fairly sane, despite the fact that he spent a number of years as a homeless man, and his decision to appropriate an identity that entails wearing a suffocating body suit in a climate that often exceeds 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The George Clooney lookalike that plays Batman, on the other hand, is completely off his gourd.

If you don't feel at least a little bit sorry for these posers, then I suspect that you aren't fully human. Without exception, they have all landed in their silly outfits in order to "make it" in the Hollywood film industry. It doesn't seem like any wild stretch to predict that they will all inevitably fail in this quest. Yet somehow they have found a means to stay in the public eye, and engage the world of entertainment that they love. Is what these people do any more ridiculous or pathetic then dressing up in a mouse costume in Disney World? Yes, they depend on the largess of passersby to make their living... but at least they work for themselves and control their own destinies. And they all get to appear in this beautifully-shot flick.

Seth Gordon, "The King of Kong" (2007). Juan Antonio Bayona, "El Orfanato" (2007).

Every once in awhile it's good to change things up a bit. So last Friday night when a few friends and I decided to stay in and watch movies, I was open to new suggestions. Since I was visiting someone else's house, I quickly assented to seeing two films I had no part in picking out. Our host had gotten them through Netflix, and he wanted to screen them so that he could exchange them for new ones. I had selected the pool to choose from the two previous times that we got together, and I supposed it was only fair to let someone else set the tone for the evening. It's quite honestly a bit of a novelty for me to have my viewing experience dictated externally, but the situation wasn't as bad as it might have been.

The two flicks on our schedule were both titles I had considered buying pre-viewed. I figured that it was a boon to have the opportunity to save the money and discover their value without having to track them down myself. Whereas I might have put up a fight if the offerings were ones I had no interest in, it was easy for me to sit back and relax with what was on hand. We agreed to start with The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters (2007). Directed by relative newcomer Seth Gordon, the documentary traces the world of competitive classic video gamers. Like virtually any other marginal amusement activity in America, there is an entire subculture built up around 1980's-era stand-up games like Donkey Kong, Centipede and Q-bert.

You can probably imagine what these folks are like- they are nerdy, pasty and socially awkward. Yet they take their hobby very, very seriously. One player (a suburban everyman named Steve Wiebe) is so caught up in chasing the record score on DK that he regularly sheds tears when he is bested. The man usually delivering the smack-downs is "celebrity" player Billy Mitchell. In the world of the video arcade, this guy is the smoothest of the geeks. Gordon sets up an epic battle, pitching Mitchell as the dark knight going up against the clean-cut sincerity of Wiebe. There are plenty of laughs to be had along the way, but we couldn't help thinking the entire milieu was a bit pathetic. By the end we were all hoping for the very real tragedy of suicide.

After the comic pathos of The King of Kong, we were ready for some unadulterated bleakness. Our follow-up was El Orfanato (2007, US title- The Orphanage). Produced by Guillermo del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth, Cronos, Hellboy) and directed by first-timer Juan Antonio Bayona, it tells the story of a couple that has decided to open up a school for "special children" along an isolated stretch of the Spanish coastline. It just so happens that Laura (Belén Rueda) was once housed at this location as an orphaned child herself. Perhaps that is why she adopted Simón (Roger Príncep), a young boy with HIV. Laura and Carlos (Fernando Cayo) have not told their child that he is afflicted with the deadly disease, nor that he is not their natural child.

Despite the family secrets, young Simón knows the deal. He's being advised by what his parents believe are his "imaginary friends". While Laura at first believes that these consorts are simply the product of a kid's fanciful imagination, she soon suspects that her new living environs harbor some eerie forces. When Simón disappears without a trace, his mother dedicates herself to unlocking the mysteries of the house and its storied history. There are certainly some deftly horrific shots and sequences in El Orfanato. A particular highlight is a creepy costume party that Laura hosts for the arrival of her new wards. However, the narrative is encumbered by a score weighed down by cliché and an ending that is just too sentimentalized for its own good. It's an interesting diversion, but not necessary for your collection.

Dan Klores and Fisher Stevens, "Crazy Love" (2007).

I finally got to sit down and watch a movie the other night. The roller coaster of national events has kept my head spinning for weeks. The level of engagement of the US citizenry is as about as intense as I've ever seen it. Instead of talking about the latest celebrity scandal, or the victim of some heinous crime, people actually seem to be concerned with the world outside of their circumscribed circles. I've not often been described as someone drawn to looking at the bright side, but there it is. Anyway, I knew it was time for some concentrated leisure, and that didn't involve sitting down in front of the computer. So I scanned the many titles of my DVD shelf looking for a suitably entertaining diversion.

Crazy Love (2007) is nothing like it sounds. It's not a charming little indie starring Jennifer Aniston. Nor is it a blockbuster with Robin Williams. Instead it's the story of Burt Pugach, a New York City "ambulance-chaser" who had a very successful law firm and owned a nightclub. It's also the tale of how he spotted a woman named Linda Riss, and immediately fell in love with her. Burt had to have her, and set out immediately to court her with roses and dinner. Riss was a lovely girl with a cynicism influenced by family loss and a healthy skepticism of men. Still, she was captivated by Pugach's success and seeming charm. If only he would have been as pretty as her, it might have been a match "made in heaven".

It's true that Burt Pugach was far from being a "hunk". He was inordinately thin, weak-chinned, and kind of goofy looking. But as the old man said- "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", and often one's vision is clouded by great wealth and lavish generosity. It certainly helped that Pugach owned his own plane, and knew many stars. Bottom line, Burt Pugach was completely devoted to Linda Riss. This presented a problem, as he was already married. When Linda found out that he was betrothed, it seemed to make sense. Why would a prosperous man like him still be single? Linda decided that she couldn't continue to see Burt, as long as he had a wife. Pugach responded by promising to get a divorce.

One of the enduring powers that women hold over men is their right of refusal. Although Linda definitely liked boys, she wasn't the easy sort. She refused to put out until marriage. This drove Pugach up a wall, and he started to imagine that his beloved was straying. He badgered her until she offered to take him to a doctor that would verify her virginity. He accepted, and soon found out that he had been wrong. He redoubled his efforts to keep her, promising that his divorce was in motion. Meanwhile, Linda was starting to believe that her suitor was insane. She went on vacation to Florida with a girlfriend and fell in love with a stud. When she came back, Pugach became completely unhinged. If he couldn't have her, he didn't want anyone else to.

As Linda's relationship with her new man developed, Burt intensified his efforts to get her back. He realized that he was losing the game when he was informed of Linda's engagement. Some jealous men simply stew, and others take action. Burt Pugach hired some men to show up at Linda's house and throw lye in her face. As a result, she was hospitalized and permanently blinded. The sordid story of the disbarred attorney who had disfigured his ex-girlfriend hit the media with a big splash. Burt was put on trial, convicted, and imprisoned. This should have been the end of the road for the romantic possibilities between Linda and Burt. But it wasn't. What happened next should justify your search for the DVD... I'm not telling.

John Ewing III, "Life After Death" (2007).

It's rare that I'll take the chance on a DVD without reading a single consumer review beforehand. But there was something about the packaging of Life After Death that inspired me to overlook the complete absence of critical attention. It didn't hurt that I was able to buy a copy of it from an Amazon independent seller for about $5 + shipping and handling. I probably wouldn't have chosen to order it alone, but since I was basically indulging myself in a mass purchase, I figured I'd assume the minimal risk. Now after watching it, I can't say that I'm overwhelmingly satisfied. While it wouldn't be entirely correct that it was a waste of time, I will admit to being misled into believing it would be something that it wasn't.

Basically what John Ewing III delivered with this movie is a series of interviews with black men and women who have spent significant time in the nation's prison system. Before I get into the content, I feel it necessary to comment on its form. This is one of the most poorly produced documentaries I have ever seen. It appears that very little money was wasted on things like sound mastering or professional editing. The former is especially problematic since many of the interviews are delivered in a garbled, heavily slang-inflected manner. If you are used to the cadences of urban inner-city accents, then you may have an easier time with this. Even so, the volume levels vary wildly throughout the film.

As far as editing is concerned, what we have here is a series of full frontal segments with former prisoners. All throughout there is an undercurrent of gangster rap that can be subtly distracting. To top it off, some of the footage is simply repeated or interjected in a seemingly random fashion. At other points interviewees are cut off in mid-sentence, or seem to be responding to questions that are only barely audible or consistent with the delivered answers. In between clips, we get to see shots of anonymous prison interiors, with no hint of where they were taken or who took them. I suppose they were included to provide the proper Mise-en-scène. At any rate they are only partially effective.

Yet all this criticism is tempered by the authenticity of Life After Death. Many of the stories related by the ex-cons are both compelling and effective. For the most part the inquiries made elicit frank and descriptive talk of life inside our penal institutions. Much of it will probably come as no surprise to students of the subject. But for those with only minimal exposure to information about our nation's prisons, this should be an enlightening viewing experience. Obviously the viewer should keep in mind that the participants are capable of exaggeration. This indeed is endemic among the incarcerated population. However I'd be shocked if the spirit of their accounts wasn't true, especially given the nature of some of their admissions.

Ultimately I'm not sorry I ordered this. There are multiple opportunities for folks to view or read objective accounts by so-called "experts" presenting outsider views of prison life. On the other hand, it's relatively rare to encounter unvarnished commentary by those who have 'walked the walk'. Even firsthand memoirs are often delivered by non-traditional inmates, who are blessed with ample skills of articulation. The men and women in Life After Death seem generally representative of the African-American population currently housed in federal and state prisons. They are a cross-section of people caught up in a depersonalized and controversial system. I'm glad someone made a document of their voices.

Chris Bradley and Kyle LaBrache "Pittsburgh" (2006).

Not many smaller cities get a film titled after them. It's mostly for that reason that I picked up Pittsburgh, starring Jeff Goldblum. Actually I needed a fourth DVD to qualify for the special, and I had mild interest in the film. I thought it would be a good opportunity to see an informed yet distant perspective of the 'Burgh. Ultimately it turned out to be about the lot of a professional actor who has "outgrown" his hometown, and decides on a lark to come back and make a summer stock production of The Music Man. While Goldblum had been casting about for an interesting project that would merge the documentary approach with fictional elements, the directorial voices (Bradley and LaBrache) are just as significant in the film's production.

For those not familiar with Goldblum's ties to Pittsburgh, it should be pointed out that he was born (1952) in West Homestead. His parents were Orthodox Jews who had an interest in show business. When Jeff turned 17 he split town and never really came back. He studied acting with Sanford Meisner at the Neighborhood Playhouse in NYC. His first roles were bit parts in movies as diverse as Death Wish, Nashville, The Sentinel, and Annie Hall. He seemed to peak creatively in David Cronenberg's 1986 re-make of The Fly. After that he attained financial success in inane blockbusters like Independence Day and Jurassic Park. Presumably his interests have recently returned to smaller idiosyncratic projects.

Pittsburgh gets going with Goldblum's decision, against the strident opposition of his agent, to play the starring role in the Pittsburgh CLO's production of The Music Man. It's fairly clear that his infatuation with a 23-year old Canadian dancer named Catherine Wreford is the impetus for this unconventional career move. Apparently she is having problems retaining her visa, and needs to either get married to Goldblum or find a job in-country. So they present themselves as a package deal to the CLO. What's particularly amusing is that the The Music Man's Pittsburgh producers seem to smell a rat almost immediately. They fear that Goldblum will flake out after committing to the project, and get distracted into some big budget film.

So Goldblum and Wreford actually have to audition for the gig. While Goldblum does indeed have musical talent and has some distant experience in musical theater, it turns out that he has to strenuously prepare for the job. It also seems he must bribe his way on board with the inclusion of his friends Ed Begley, Jr and Illeana Douglas. What originally started as a lark transforms itself into a bit of an ordeal. The play's director accuses Goldblum of being smarmy and over-acting, and even says he thought about shooting the actor to avert an impending failure. The biggest surprise is that all of this is really happening, and what is marketed as a "mockumentary" is really an lot more real than the joke it was intended to be.

Basically everyone in the film plays themselves. There are a couple entirely-contrived subplots including Begley's scheme to involve Goldblum in the marketing of portable solar generators, and a completely fictional (but hilarious) romance between Douglas and rock star Moby. But by and large the narrative traces Goldblum's realization that Pittsburgh musical theater is no joke. While the city itself takes a back seat to the main plot thread, there is a smattering of scenes featuring the Golden Triangle and the end credits depict a visit to Kennywood. However, in the end Pittsburgh is more concerned with portraying Goldblum's self-identity as a "serious actor". It has very little to do with the culture or character of this city.


Extra Special Trivia: The directors state on the commentary that Goldblum originally wanted to title this film Two Pickets to Tits-burgh, which is apparently the punchline to some joke.

Jeff Stimmel , "The Art of Failure: Chuck Connelly Not for Sale" (2008).

About a week ago a friend told me about an HBO documentary called The Art of Failure. The subject of the film is a Pittsburgh native named Chuck Connelly, who found success in the New York arts scene in the 80's alongside such names as Basquiat and Schnabel. Truthfully I despaired of having the opportunity to see it, since I don't have cable. Fortunately on my recent trip to Eastern PA my host had plenty of channels. Although I kept myself busy with other stuff, I did get an hour here and there to surf the tube. One night after returning from a long walk I plopped down on the sofa and started scanning the program guide. I was pleased by serendipity when I discovered that I would get a chance to watch The Art of Failure from the beginning.

Right from the start it was clear that Chuck Connelly was a bit unstable. He paced through the screen nervously, ranting and raving against his perceived enemies and the injustices of his life. He was shown haranguing a woman who I soon figured out was his ex-wife, and it was clear that being around Connelly must be a trial. He is the true manifestation of the artist as L'enfant terrible. He drinks incessantly, and becomes increasingly agitated until the point of violence. This isn't surprising as he is said to view himself as a Jackson Pollock-type, outside the realms of polite cultured society. Apparently he learned quite early that he would be allowed a certain amount of self-indulgence, given his profuse talent.

But evidently Connelly miscalculated the reception his act would generate. At one point he looked assured to attain the lofty ranks of art-stardom. He was represented by Annina Nosei, and courted by collectors and celebrities. He sold millions of dollars in paintings. Martin Scorcese even used him as his subject in his segment of New York Stories. According to the tale that director Jeff Stimmel spins, this tribute actually led to his downfall. After New York Stories (starring Nick Nolte as the infamously truculent artist) was released, Connelly was asked for his reaction to the film by The New York Post. He called the portrayal mundane and cliché, and made a rather unflattering comparison to Scorcese's masterpiece, Raging Bull.

While Connelly's remarks about New York Stories were obviously impolitic, this viewer found the premise that they singlehandedly sabotaged his career a bit implausible. Connelly had clearly built a track record of being recalcitrant. No matter how things were going for him, he seemed to have the belief that he deserved better. But there were other factors that may have kept him from being as prominent as he would have liked. It's clear that from the many examples of his paintings shown in The Art of Failure that his style was far from consistent. His subject matter and aesthetic approaches were all over the map. No doubt his talent was prodigious, but there doesn't seem to be any real cohesion that would tie his work together.

Nonetheless I would certainly love to get my hands on a few of his artworks. His expressionist brushwork lends an undeniable charm to the most challenging of subjects. One specific piece has a portrait of a particularly ugly Santa Claus overlaid with the word "Ho-mo". There are also post-apocalyptic cityscapes and a cavalcade of freaks. No doubt the exposure that The Art of Failure is likely to bring to Connelly will go some length in reviving his career. He has alienated a lot of people, but his most grievous sins are now buried in the past. The current media environment has a very short memory. Reportedly Connelly is achieving a measure of success now. Who says there are no second acts in the Twenty-First Century??

George Ratliff, "Hell House" (2001).

Last Friday I packed in an entire weekend's worth of going out, and so I was perfectly satisfied to go over to a friend's house and watch a movie on Saturday. I brought with me a selection of documentaries that I thought would be of interest to the people that I knew would be there. It's a lot of fun to share things with folks that they'd otherwise have little chance to see, and it fulfills my purpose of purchasing DVD's rather than renting them. After watching the first choice, I decided that I'd pick the follow-up movie. I hadn't seen Hell House in a long time, and I was looking forward to revisiting the story in like-minded company. No one else had even heard of it before. Given the particular makeup of our small crowd, I believed that this feature would be alternatively edifying, amusing, disturbing, and irritating.

Hell House (2001) , directed by George Ratliff, examines the phenomena of a haunted house constructed and operated by a Pentecostal Church. On its surface, the concept sounds completely bizarre. Most fundamentalist Christian sects condemn Halloween as a Pagan holiday meant to subvert morality. But instead of condemning the holiday, Trinity Church in Dallas has found a way to use it to its advantage. Every year a multitude of organizations offer walk-throughs which, in keeping with the spirit of the time of year, are meant to scare the crap out of anyone willing to pay the admission price. These attractions are particularly appealing to young folks, who are usually limited in the type of thrills they are offered. Trinity Church is well aware of this dynamic, and is perfectly willing to exploit it- in order to save souls.

This project requires months of preparation and a multitude of volunteers. George Ratliff documents every step along the way. It all starts with a brainstorming session among veterans of former productions. They work out several "scenes"- each of which represent some type of sinful behavior, and the kinds of extreme consequences that can result. These vary from a drunk-driving scene complete with gory fatalities, to a hospital room with an AIDS patient and an abortion gone horribly wrong. There are school shootings, drug deals turned violent, and rape scenes. These tableau often go so far over the top that they are emotionally disturbing. They are not meant to be "fun" in any way. They are supposed to serve as cautionary messages to those who would choose to break God's rules. Naturally they often reflect the simple stereotypes that many fundamentalist Christians are so fond of espousing.

In each of these vignettes, there are histrionic actors who have auditioned for the highly-coveted roles. Ratliff makes a point of including these auditions in the documentary. It is very surreal to watch these clean-cut, wholesome Bible-Belters assume the personalities of criminals and other ne'er-do-wells. Seeing their eyes light up with excitement as they speak about wanting to be the "rape girl" or "demon" in this year's Hell House is illuminating in a very strange way. Actually, a lot is conveyed through the depictions of the "fallen" that they hope to represent. They display a stream of unintentionally humorous misconceptions about what they politely refer to as "alternative" lifestyles (especially funny is the crimson-hued Star of David that some eager beaver mistakenly painted to convey a pentagram in the "occult scene"). The entire endeavor is fittingly ironic because Pentecostals themselves seem so alien to the uninitiated. Ratliff has included footage of their church services, in which they dance to their own version of contemporary "rock music", flail about, and speak in tongues.

The climax of the Hell House experience is being shepherded into a wood-paneled room, and being exposed to the hard sell of conversion. A drill-sergeant-like preacher is there to confront all the shocked patrons into re-examining their relationship with "God". Those who have not yet been "saved" are pressured to enter one last well-lit chamber, where they will meet church representatives anxious to bring them into the glory of faith. Others file out into the dark world of their doomed ordinary lives... their pockets $7 lighter than when they first entered. The apparent inconsistencies between the protests that fundamentalists direct toward violence and sex in media, and the explicit nature of their own attempts to scare people into Christ's arms, shine with a heavenly brightness. Aside from a few very subtle hints, the filmmakers of Hell House make a solid effort not to reveal their biases. If you watch it, I have a feeling you'll have difficulty containing your own.

Serial Killer Art. Julian Hobbs, "Collectors" (2000)

Because I have interests in both stories of true crime and outsider art, it's natural that I would seek a way to merge the two. It's not difficult to find the connection, as artwork by incarcerated criminals has certainly found its market niche over the last twenty or so years. This shouldn't be too surprising, as "cults of personality" have grown up around the most prominent of society's lawbreakers. A truly heinous class of "evildoer" has been comprehensively studied since the 70's- that of the serial killer. Around these extreme men (for they are mostly male) have gathered "groupies", as if they were rock stars instead of murderers. These fanatics try to establish correspondence with their heroes, and many of them have persuaded their favorites to create and send them poems and artwork.

Truth be told, much of the artistic product of serial killers is outright garbage. One might make the mistake of assuming that such personalities would have vivid imaginations capable of depicting dark fantasies characterized by gore and fright. The reality is much more mundane. John Wayne Gacy (who tortured, murdered, and buried 33 young men in the basement of his home) liked to draw Disney's Seven Dwarfs. Elmer Wayne Henley, who was involved with crimes that inspired Gacy, has focused his moderate gifts on sunflowers and landscapes. Richard Ramirez (the "Night Stalker") may have been responsible for some intricately grisly crime scenes, but his drawings consist of little more than juvenile scribblings.

Some of the art produced by serial killers is genuinely inspired. If you think about it, it makes sense- many are on death row, locked in their cells for 23 hours per day. There's not a whole lot for them to do. That's likely why it's so easy to convince them to begin making art. No doubt there are a few killers who would engage in such activities regardless of whether or not anyone cared about the product. Add in the prospect of raising a few dollars for luxuries like candy and soda, and it becomes a no-brainer. Gacy, a successful entrepreneur in his everyday life, was probably among the first famous criminals to realize the potential of artistic enterprise. If nothing else, Gacy had good luck with his timing. As I noted in a previous post, his inclinations coincided with a growing fascination with "outsider art".

While the artwork of serial killers is often less than compelling, the motivations of the collectors of such memorabilia are complex. Why would someone want a piece of art of questionable quality, just because it was created by a man who has taken multiple lives? I understand the acute curiosity that is stimulated by extreme behavior, but insights are not often found in the amateurish articulation of the inane subjects chosen by the typical "prison artist". Would perpetrating intensely destructive acts lead to some deeply mysterious and refined artistic aesthetic? The amount of proportional talent within this self-selecting subgroup probably mirrors that of society in general. Why would we expect to find more value in the paintings, sculptures and drawings of killers? Why would the association between the object and the man's deeds be meaningful at all?

For a worthy study of the topic, I suggest tracking down Julian's Hobbs' obscure documentary "Collectors". The director focuses on the activities of two of the more notable serial killer art aficionados. Rick Staton is a mortician from Louisiana, and a recognized expert within this little world. He has encouraged numerous serial killers to create art by organizing exhibitions of their work. Hobbs followed Staton and his partner Tobias Allen on several of their quests to gather materials from actual crime sites. Along the way, the pair ruminated on their motivations for their peculiar predilection. It could be seen as a hobby like anything else, or a quixotic search for totemic symbols of life and death. But Hobbs has taken pains to present a balanced portrayal.

Staton and Allen have been accused of exploitation, and contributing to a perversion of justice in the promotion of their obsessions. They have become lightning rods for controversy. Victims' rights organizations have decried the insensitivity they perceive in the veneration of serial killer artists. Without the voices of the family members of serial killer victims, the viewer could easily characterize these collectors as harmless (if eccentric) ghouls. But the overall picture is more complicated than anyone could summarize in the space of five paragraphs. Collectors brings up a lot of questions about our society, and it even attempts a few answers. However Hobbs has ultimately provided plenty of space for the viewer to come to his/her own conclusions.

Gabriel Range, "Death of a President" (2006).

If there's one way to be certain about becoming a target of FBI surveillance, it's to craft a documentary about the assassination of a sitting president. In fact, I'm probably taking some kind of risk by writing a review of the movie. But hell- I'm not doing anything wrong, and I'd certainly never advocate violence against the government. It would be a shame to become so paranoid about the erosion of our civil rights that I would find myself censoring my self-expression. I talked to a woman I met at a party the other night, and she was telling me how little trust she has in the US government. Meanwhile she works for them. I don't have an inordinate amount of trust in the leadership of this country either, but I hardly think they have the time and/or resources to invest in tracking down lawful citizens and harassing them. They've got bigger fish to fry than us guppies.

Anyway, I have to admit that I was honestly astonished to find out someone had made a fake documentary about the death of George W. Bush. The decision to work on such a project does seem to cross some line. I don't believe that an American could ever get financing for such a film. In this case that was no problem, as the filmmakers are British. They were obviously not dissuaded by any type of "chilling effect" in the wake of 9-11 and the subsequent "War on Terrorism". I've also been surprised that I've not heard too much of the backlash directed against the release of the film. I'd have to assume that most people in the United States aren't even aware of its existence. One can only imagine that the mainstream media (aside from Fox and AM Radio) would likely downplay any story about this documentary.

When I saw a used copy of Death of a President at Hollywood Video, I was compelled by my own curiosity to take it home and watch it. I wondered whether it would be some perverse type of wish fulfillment on the part of its creators. What I discovered was an extremely well-made movie posing as a conventional documentary. The production values, the performance, the dialog and the editing all seemed indistinguishable from something you'd see on public television. It was completely convincing, as if the events portrayed had actually taken place. It employs both actual media footage and a variety of other camera outputs to add layers of authenticity. Had I just returned to the United States from space, I would have believed I was watching actual history. Given the way the film presents the speculative consequences of the assassination, we should all thank our gods that it never happened.

Anybody of rational mind should be able to figure out that killing the head of our government could never have positive results. Sure... I've heard people make offhand comments that Bush's absence would be welcome. I'm not a big fan of Dubya myself. But who of sane mind would want to face the extreme negative consequences of such an eventuality? For one- we live in a purported "representative democracy". Violence undermines the entire enterprise. If you use such tactics to influence the course of society, then you risk evoking (or actually embracing) the vilest of human tendencies. Additionally such acts of civil disorder only prompt further repressions from whoever is left in the federal government. In Death of a President, we see the new President Cheney push through a new and stricter version of the Patriot Act. We also see him use the fatal attack as an excuse to promote another invasion of a Middle Eastern country.

It's no wild leap of reasoning to suggest that the assassination of our leader would be viewed as an attack of "terrorism", no matter the provenance of the perpetrators. All types of retributions would be justified in response. What scares me most about the scenario portrayed in Death of a President is the remarkable realism of the production. Given that a fiction like this can be made on a relatively small budget, just think what the government itself could do with its unlimited resources. It seems that we can no longer trust our own senses in determining the truth of a situation. We have entered the era of infinite doubt. With modern technologies, we can be led to believe anything at all has happened. Imagine how easy it would be for a manufactured (or virtual) crisis to be put into play.

Albert Nerenberg, "Stupidity" (2006).

Today I stumbled on a documentary that I hadn't heard about. Its title was "Stupidity", and (naturally?) the face of our sitting president was featured on the cover. Nowadays it's a commonly accepted cliche that we are led by a man who is (at best) not particularly smart. There is even a cartoon on cable television that features a cartoon-version of a young George W. Bush that episodically reveals his vast idiocy. Had the cover of this DVD placed the "smirking chimp" front-and-center, I probably would have left it on the shelf. You have to give me more than that- it's just too obvious an attack. It wouldn't even be any fun. But instead there's a teen with a dunce cap being worshiped by a crowd, and Osama Bin Laden flanked by Bert (of Sesame Street fame). When I flipped the package over and noticed the Disinformation logo on the back, I was virtually sold.

The Disinformation imprint has become notable for issuing risky media that challenges the conventional perspective on a variety of topics- including politics, art, culture and social issues. I appreciate what they do, and so I decided to support them by buying Stupidity. Since I had no idea what points the filmmakers would be making, I popped it in this evening. It was basically what you might imagine- an examination of the concept of "stupidity" and plenty of documentation of its many incarnations within our culture. Of course its creators needed to define the word first, before it could draw some conclusions about its ramifications. It turns out that "stupidity" is a fluid idea, and not so easy to pin down. The most convincing definition I heard had to do with the inability to process information that violates one's internal schema.

At this point it may be useful to draw discriminations between terms like "idiot", "imbecile" and "moron". Incidentally, the documentary tells us that these words were invented to describe the lower score ranges on the very first I.Q. tests. They were originally very specifically applied, and only later found traction in common parlance. It could well be that these descriptors were disseminated so quickly, and now appear so frequently, primarily because there is so much in our society worthy of being described with these words. Surprisingly though, "stupidity" hasn't been the subject of many academic studies. Several talking heads in the film were asked why that should be, and a few speculations were offered. Perhaps the most convincing argument was that researching the phenomenon would lead to the attainment of insights that would ultimately introduce a responsibility for our society's leaders. And it appears that many influential groups within our nation would rather that the populace embrace stupidity.

It should come as no surprise that the quality of television was a prominent subject in the film. I often marvel at the extreme stupidity of the programming our corporate media groups offer us. (The filmmakers treat us to excerpts from modern-day stupidity-fests such as Jackass and Steve-O to underscore the depths we have collectively reached) Obviously it is in the best interest of those in power to encourage us to be uncritical of "the way things are and must be". This is the strategy they employ in order to consolidate and increase their wealth and control. We must be led to continue a sheep-like consumerist existence. The shows themselves are meant to defuse our mental faculties, and leave us more vulnerable to the real "content" of the platform- the advertisements. The same thing applies to Hollywood, which also gets tough treatment in Stupidity. The stories we are told reinforce simplistic absolutes that can be manipulated to manage us easily and effectively. We are hypnotized by these simple, black-and-white messages and the accompanying titillation provided by violence, sex and the "glamor" of consumption. These are all necessary for an era of global capitalist dominance.

Now we get to the part with George W. Bush. The charge of "stupidity" has often been levied against him. But is this the reality, or a carefully crafted and intentional facade? It seems reasonable (at least) to accuse him of extreme intellectual laziness. He's always admitted this to be the case (and historical analysis confirms it). Furthermore, if you believe what he says about the role of his Christian faith in his politics, you'd have to accept that he meets the definition of "stupidity". For there is nothing characteristically "Christian" about how he has run the country. Rather than using a considered personal spirituality to guide his policy, he merely sets up a schema that cannot ever be confronted on a rational basis. He has used the strategy of public perception management to infantilize the citizenry with absolutist fairy tales about vast indeterminate struggles between "good" and "evil". Still he seems to get his way every single time, despite the numerous examples of communicative idiocy he displays that lead many to think of him as a "boob".

Whether or not Bush is indeed "stupid" is mostly beside the point at this late date. What his presidency has shown is that a substantial proportion of the US population is vulnerable to an anti-intellectualism that allows those in power (corporations and government both) to enhance their positions at the expense of just about everybody on Earth. So who exactly is "stupid"?

Who was Henry Geldzahler?

I can't tell you how many times I've gone to galleries and art museums and heard people exclaim their wonder that the stuff on the walls was considered art. Obviously we are talking about something incredibly subjective when we discuss the quality of any specific piece of work. There was a time a few centuries ago when representational art was the dominant style worldwide. Within the last 100 years things have changed quite a bit. Perhaps one can trace the development from the invention of photography- I'm not an art historian, so I can't say so with any authority. What I can say for sure is that the art world certainly has the ability to confuse most conventional viewers nowadays.

If you are looking for someone to blame for the confusion, you might want to consider Henry Geldzahler. He'd be an appropriate candidate to confront if he wasn't already dead. He wasn't an artist, but rather a big-time New York City curator during the second half of the Twentieth Century. Born in Belgium to a conservative Jewish family, he developed a brash and jovial persona and sought to employ it in the service of high culture. As a relatively young man he was asked to work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Geldzahler had been shadowing several famous art dealers (including Ivan Carp) while he was a student at Harvard University. At first he turned down the opportunity to curate at what he perceived to be one of the stodgiest institutions in Manhattan. He later reconsidered, pledging to bring in an element of contemporary art that had never been seen before at the Met.

Geldzahler had many connections in the New York art scene. As depicted in Peter Rosen's Who Gets to Call it Art? , not only was he involved in the hip gay community, but he actually lived and played among the young artists doing the most vital work of the period. The generation that lived in NYC after WWII (the one dominated by Abstract Expressionism) had been largely antisocial and very small. Everyone in the art scene could fit into a single gallery space during a Tuesday night opening. But as a new breed of artist emerged in the 60's, the scene began to expand and take on a dynamic attitude. Geldzahler became friends with Frank Stella, David Hockney and Andy Warhol. He appeared in a Claus Oldenburg "Happening", and at every reception for every show he could attend. Most importantly (and uncharacteristically for a curator of that time period) he continued to visit artist's studios and engaged them on their level.

As Pop art became to coalesce into a formal movement, it became apparent that Geldzahler was gifted with an incredibly discerning eye. His crowning moment on the island was "New York Painting and Scuplture: 1940-1970", the most revolutionary exhibit ever displayed at the Metropolitan. In 18 prime gallery spaces within the museum, Geldzahler put together a collection of over 400 pieces from 43 artists that he personally liked. This was unprecedented at the time, and drew harsh criticism from critics and member patrons alike- shows on that scale had invariably been juried by committee. But this became appropriately known as "Henry's Show", and in retrospect it was hugely successful. It included a roster of art star luminaries that would soon form the pantheon of late 20th Century Art- Warhol, Lichtenstein, Johns, Stella, Rosenquist, Rauschenberg, Kelly, Rothko, etc. The list was exhaustive.

While it was inevitable that Geldzahler would run into some criticism over who he left out of the show, the level of invective was indeed stunning. To his credit, the master curator simply replied that he simply included what he'd seen and wanted to see again. In doing so he forever changed the legacy of American Art. "His artists" are now accepted as the most important of his times. Even during the years before Geldzahler's untimely death, he continued to discover vital art that would form the center of the next wave of NYC art stars. He spent time with Francisco Clemente, Keith Haring, and Jean Michael Basquiat. He passed away (cancer) in 1994 at the age of 59.

Nathaniel Kahn, "My Architect" (2003).

One of the art forms I've been almost criminally negligent in learning about has been architecture. This ignorance may be more egregious because Pittsburgh is a city famous for its diversity of building design. Works by prominent figures such as Henry Hobson Richardson (The Allegheny Courthouse and Jail- 1883), Frederick Osterling (The Pittsburgh Union Trust Building- 1915), Philip Johnson (PPG Place- 1984), Charles Klauder (The Cathedral of Learning- 1921) and Rafael Vinoly (The David Lawrence Convention center- 2003) dot the city landscape. In addition Falling Water (a private home by Frank Lloyd Wright) is a short drive away. Simply walk through one of the many distinctive neighborhoods in the 'Burgh, and you'll get an idea of the breadth and range of architectural styles. Certainly there is plenty in town to keep a serious student busy.

I'm assuredly a layman when it comes to this subject. In order to confront this deficit in my knowledge, I recently picked up a couple of documentaries focusing on Twentieth Century architects. Tonight I watched My Architect: A Son's Journey (2003)- a film about Louis I. Kahn, directed by his son Nathaniel. The elder Kahn is not noted for having realized many of his designs, but rather his reputation has grown from the creation of several masterpieces. He is known to have incorporated the International Style with special attention paid to the play of light and the durability of his structures. His legacy includes the Richards Medical Research Laboratories at the University of Pennsylvania, the Salk Institute in La Jolla, CA, the Indian Institute of Management in Ahmedabad, the National Assembly Building of Bangladesh in Dhaka, and the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, TX. In addition to these applications, he was quite noted as a professor and academic at Yale University.

Yet though the viewer of My Architect will pick up some valuable insights about Kahn's influence from noted modern architects like I.M. Pei, Philip Johnson, and Frank Gehry- this film is really structured around the personal journey Nathaniel Kahn undertook to garner some understanding of his father. Louis Kahn was not an exemplary family man. In addition to his wife Esther and their daughter Amy, Kahn had two secret families. Kahn sired two children (Nathaniel and daughter Alex) with two different mistresses . Nathaniel's mother was a very young 22 when he was born... his father was over 60.

From Nathaniel's perspective, Louis Kahn never spent much time with him and his mother. Not only was he juggling several women, but for all intents and purposes he was married to his job. According to colleagues Kahn had no sense of day or night and lived an extraordinarily nomadic existence. This seems to be borne out by his late success in Asia. From the time that the architect initially achieved international notoriety for his buildings, he would have only a couple of decades to live. Kahn was a flurry of activity in his twilight years, and during this time he devoted a bare minimum to his "second family". They'd see him approximately once a week until Nathaniel was eleven. Then at the age of 74, Louis Kahn died. In his obituary, only Esther and daughter Amy were listed as survivors.

It's notable that Nathaniel Kahn evinces very little resentment toward his famous father. he demonstrates remarkable restraint in not passing judgment or making assumptions. His on-screen trip is very much about letting the figures from Louis Kahn's life talk about the man from their individual points-of-view. Not only does Nathaniel seek out folks who knew his father professionally, but he interviews his half-siblings, the other mistress, his own mother, and her sisters. Naturally there is a wide divergence of opinions expressed on his situation and the elder Kahn's life. Perhaps the most touching assessment comes from a place least expected- a Bangladeshi official explains the import Louis Kahn holds for his people. It's an astonishingly direct and nuanced perspective, and it is delivered with genuine emotion. Much the same can be said about the totality of My Architect.

A Cautionary Tale.

Imagine working at a dive bar in L.A. as a bouncer and bartender, with huge dreams of becoming a success story in Hollywood. That dream (of course) is a modern-day cliche. But what if you actually got that "big break"... do you think you'd be able to handle it? That happened to a man named Troy Duffy in the late 90's. He was living in a veritable shithole along with his brother, with only dreams of their band making it big to sustain him. One day he watched a woman in his apartment being carried out of the building on a stretcher. She had been the victim of a domestic assault. Duffy began having visions of vigilantism, and decided to write a sceenplay for purposes of self-administered "therapy". He happened to have a buddy who was an intern for a big movie prodicer, and he asked him to shop his work around.

Against all odds, the script ended up in the hands of some important people. The next thing Duffy new he was being courted by several big film corporations to turn The Boondock Saints into the next hit independent film. After a visit from Harvey Weinstein, he decided to pursue a contract with Miramax. The famous producer offfered a lucrative deal for the script and offered to purchase and co-own the bar where Duffy worked. Soon the bouncer-turned-scriptwriter was meeting all manner of celebrities. At the same time it looked like his band would be allowed to create the soundtrack, and the deal held out the promise of a major deal with a record company. Things couldn't look brighter for the hot young neophyte. On top of the world, he hired his friends to film a documentary about his impending rise to fame. The result is Overnight: There's More Than One Way to Shoot Yourself (2004) by Mark Brian Smith and Tony Montana.

From the title, you can reasonably assume that Duffy's career trajectory wasn't what he had anticipated. Because it turned out that the "next Tarantino" ended up being a complete asshole. Duffy was convinced that he was setting a unique precedent in all of history. He believed that he was a genius, and that it didn't matter how he acted- as long as he was a success. He quickly began to alienate all around him. Smith and Montana (who were originally co-managers of Duffy's band, "The Brood") were encouraged to witness the great fall. When it came to casting, Duffy wasn't very diplomatic about the prospects. He was loose-lipped concerning his disdain for several of the actors Weinstein wanted him to consider for the film. It wasn't long before Miramax decided to put the project on turnaround, and eventually they simply pulled out of the deal altogether.

Instead of recognizing the destructive capacity of his own hubris, Duffy bullheadedly proceeded to badmouth Weinstein around town. His drunken antics made him into a media spectacle. He even went as far as to utter anti-semitic comments in public. This was a fatal mistake. After several years languishing in limbo, and in the process of disgusting every last friend he had, Duffy was finally able to convince (with the help of the William Morris agency) an independent film company to let him make his film... albeit at a greatly reduced budget. He directed The Boondock Saints (with Willem Dafoe, Billy Connelly and Norman Reedus) and exposed it to an abysmally limited theatrical release. In the wake of the Columbine shootings, no one was very interested in screening the hyperviolent tale of revenge. To add insult to injury, the soundtrack only sold about 700 copies nationwide, and Duffy was soon bankrupt and forgotten.

Eventually The Boondock Saints would receive the benefit of a market push from Blockbuster Home Video, and after years it became something of a "cult classic". However this didn't help Duffy, as he had foolishly ceded the DVD and video rights in his initial contract. Since the great debacle, his band has broken up (creative differences) and he has been unable to find gainful employment at any level in the film industry. Despite intermittent statements that he is working on a sequel, it is not likely that Duffy will make his return any time soon. Apparently he is legendary for his boorish behavior, and he may have pissed away any amount of goodwill he had been able to generate. Or perhaps the version created by Smith and Montana is so one-sided that it misrepresents the reality of the story they lived through. The possibility of a biased presentation is always present when those documenting events have played an active role in them. Nonetheless it's hard to see what they captured and come away with any other conclusion than that Troy Duffy is an asshole. It's worthwhile seeing for yourself. As far as The Boondock Saints- I'll get back to you after I see it.

"Who Killed the Electric Car?" (2006?)

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you have surely noticed the amount of time I have given over to considering New Vrindaban and my visit there this past Monday. No doubt the extra amount of free time summer affords me has been a factor contributing to this mini-obsession. Sometimes I have to pull back and consider how alien this material is to almost everyone I know. I've given a lot of thought to what N.V. means, both as a center of spirituality and as a planned community. Perhaps in the near future I'll invest some time and build a structure to organize my ideas and personal responses, and write a post on those subjects. In the meantime, I keep going back to the conversations I had with Tapahpunja.

During the relatively short time we spent around the table talking, T. mentioned a number of obscure documentaries and books that he believes are worth investing time in tracking down. Of course each recommendation he made was followed by a spate of talk concerning the particular subject or theme of the work in question. The tangential nature of such a discussion meant that a lot that was said about specific items faded with the twists and turns of conversational flow. However the name and premise of one film lingered in my memory.

T. told us about an annual convention attended by the hundreds of public television stations across the nation. The purpose of this gathering is for representatives of these local affiliates to get a look at the shows available for purchase in the coming year. Apparently a documentary was screened recently that was entitled Who Killed the Electric Car? (2006). Apparently there were well over 100 public TV stations interested in airing this program. But when it later came time to receive the material, the stations were informed that the documentary wouldn't be made available. As T. explains the story, this was the decision of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. T. says that he was told that the reason the film was withdrawn from distribution was because the Chevron Company offered a million dollar donation to the CPB, with the implied understanding that the meddlesome documentary would not be shown on Public Television.

Who Killed the Electric Car? examined the development and subsequent marketing of General Motors' EV1- an electric car made available for lease in Southern California in 1990. Apparently a group of celebrities drove the car, and the film includes interviews and testimonial from people like Mel Gibson, Tom Hanks and Ed Begley, Jr., regarding their experiences with driving the EV1. Despite the overall satisfactory response of drivers, GM decided to recall the vehicles and subsequently destroy them. Citing inconveniences like its limited range (amount of miles the battery will supply before recharging), GM executives reasoned that there would be little commercial demand for the EV1. Apparently the filmmakers disagreed, and presented evidence of a coordinated and lasting campaign of suppression of electrical car technology resulting from pressure from auto manufacturers, the oil industry, and (since 2000) the Bush administration. They also included a reasoned criticism of the Bush-"sponsored" hydrogen fuel cell technology.

I have to emphasize that I have yet to see the film, and therefore can't offer a substantiated opinion of its veracity. I also can't confirm T.'s comments about the CPB's suppression of the film, or the business about Chevron's donation. But I can say that I've heard and read a lot of negative press about Kenneth Tomlinson, who Bush appointed as CPB chief. The man resigned from the post in November, 2005 when it became public knowledge that he was using his position (and Public Television) to advance a "conservative agenda". I don't know the timeline for the events T. relates, but I definitely wouldn't put it past the CPB (with or without Tomlinson) to take marching orders from the oil industry. I have learned that Bill Moyers featured a segment about Who Killed the Electric Car? on NOW shortly before he was forced out of Public Television by the conservative czars of the CPB- but who knows if these events were related?

It also seems a strange coincidence that Chevron owns (until 2014) the patent on the battery technology (NiMH battery pack) that could have been used to maximize the utility of the EV1.

Who Killed the Electric Car? did indeed receive a limited theatrical release in 2006, and is now available on DVD. I guess this is one for the wishlist.

Jacob Young, "Holy Cow Swami" (1996).

One of the pleasant surprises of Jacob Young's visit to Film Kitchen last week was the existence on DVD of several of his works that I had been wanting to see for a long time. A couple of years ago I had actually planned to drive down into West Virginia to buy several VHS tapes straight from the director himself. Probably the most intriguing film I had heard about was an almost 3-hour long documentary about Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada (a.k.a. Keith Ham), the founder and spiritual head of the Hare Krishna community at New Vrindaban, near Moundsville, WV.

As I wrote in a blog post last summer, I have visited New Vrindaban several times- both while Bhaktipada was going through the worst of his legal difficulties (around 1992), and during the past five years. During my initial visit I wasn't even aware of the problems the community was then facing. Later I heard stories of the Swami getting charged and imprisoned for multiple criminal acts. I never did get the full story though, and that is why I was so anxious to see Jacob Young's Holy Cow Swami. So a couple of days ago, my sparkling new copy arrived directly from Young's distributor, and I watched it earlier this evening.

The film starts with the introduction of ISKCON-founder A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, who came to New York City as an Indian immigrant with $6 in his pocket. He set up a storefront mission on the Lower East Side and began sharing his faith and spiritual knowledge with all the young people then inhabiting that environment. It was at that time that Keith Ham approached Prabhupada, and became his first devotee. While his master traveled to California (and internationally) to spread his message, Ham and his lover Howard Wheeler set out to build a Krishna Community on a 100-acre farm in the wilderness of West Virginia.

As time passed, Prabhupada built temples all over the world. By the time of his death in 1977, New Vrindaban had grown to hundreds of acres, and had hundreds of devotees. Keith Ham had become Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada- the head of the community, and one of twelve internationally-recognized spiritual successors to Prabhupada. The mid-80's marked the peak of New Vrindaban's development, and almost 800 inhabitants had built up a thriving center of worship. Almost 500,000 tourists annually were making pilgrimages to the holy site. A grand "Palace of Gold" had been built to honor Prabhupada. Meanwhile the surrounding community in Marshall County looked on warily. Rumors began to spread that things weren't altogether above board at New Vrindaban.

Part of the controversy was the method that Krishnas were using to raise money. They would approach groups of people at sporting events, and issue "citations" for "having too much fun". This was their pitch to get people to contribute to the charities that the fundraisers said they represented- including Jerry's Kid's, Appalachian Orphanages, and (hilariously) NORML. But in point of fact, that money was landing directly in the pockets of Bhaktipada, to spend as he saw fit. At the same time other schemes involved the copyright infringement of professional sports team logos on pirated gear that Krishnas were selling.

But this wasn't the worst of it. When one disgruntled ex-devotee was gunned down in California, and another was executed at New Vrindaban itself, the authorities moved on the Swami. They charged him with conspiracy to murder, fraud, kidnapping and racketeering. Amidst all these charges ran a constant stream of allegations regarding child molestation that Bhaktipada was said to be personally involved in. For years the community rallied behind their beloved guru, even as he was convicted and put on house arrest pending appeal. But as more bodies began to surface on temple lands, a mass defection started. When Bhaktipada was released due to a successful appeal for a new trial, his return to New Vrindaban was celebrated by his remaining followers.

However, the celebration was short-lived. The last straw occurred when Bhaktivada's loyal disciples bought him a Winnebago to travel to a world religious conference. On the way, the Swami stopped to pick up a Malaysian youth from an airport. The Winnebago's driver witnessed Bhaktipada engaged in hanky-panky with the boy in the vehicle's on-board bed. Word soon passed between the adherents at New Vrindaban, and a group of elder devotees met with their guru and expelled him from the community for good. The permanently disgraced Keith Ham ultimately pled guilty and went to serve his time in prison.

Jacob Young justifiably considers Holy Cow Swami to be his magnum opus. The film runs almost three complete hours, and its production values are the best I've seen in any of Young's documentary works. Its length virtually prohibits any chance of widespread distribution. But Young has no intention of trimming it down. Indeed he says he can't imagine cutting any footage- material for which he risked his very life. The story itself is fascinating, with lovely photography and plenty of illuminating interviews with all of the major players- including lengthy segments with Bhaktipada. It's clear that Young presumed the innocence of the Swami throughout much of the film. For that reason, the viewer is often left undecided about the true nature of the events at New Vrindiban. That makes it extraordinarily compelling viewing.

More on Jacob Young.

Just as I expected, the new Jacob Young film was both interesting and entertaining. Todd Walker (along with his "brothers" Davy and Dale) proved to be likable, amusing, and obsessive. The object that Walker suspected to be the biblical artifact of divination (the Urim and Thummin) was indeed wholly unidentifiable. As a focal point of meditation, it did have the requisite qualities to promote hallucinatory visions. Its surface (especially the interior) was both luminescent and oddly-shaped. Walker put the thing in the hands of many witnesses, and their testimony is (at least) indicative of the power of faith.

What passes for expert authority in the Appalachian communities of the film certainly made me chuckle. When Walker wants to find some especially convincing support, he turns to a two-time Jeopardy champion and the manager of the local Auto Zone. Only later does he drive to Vanderbilt University, where academics in religious studies, archeology and psychology demonstrate tremendous diplomacy and tact in meeting with him. Truth be told, it would have been quite easy for them to laugh at Walker from their "ivory towers". Perhaps Young's cameras restrain them. Nevertheless the scholars give generously of their feedback, while every established religious institution pushes Walker away. While Young claims the resistance from church leaders amazed him, I wasn't at all surprised by it. Walker's claims are a direct challenge to their perceived authority. If a bumpkin can receive a holy gift of true vision, then what does that say about the role God has bestowed upon HIS priests?

It was clear during the Q and A session that Young had great affection for his subjects. The director explained that the project was initiated because his producer and partner (Dub Cornet) had a phone number that Walker responded to numerologically. Cornet shot a bunch of video that Young was later tasked with making into a coherent film. Although Young never derived the same otherworldly experiences from the object that others had, he was sure to avoid passing judgment on the phenomena. He absolutely refused to discount Walkers' beliefs. Young pointed out that he needs to be on his subject's side if he is to make a quality documentary. And in order for his films to have any real depth, he has to convey the spirituality of the people in front of the camera. Any element of obvious skepticism would introduce a confrontation that would spoil his intentions. Young is, by his own words, inspired by people on a mission- and the more unlikely his subject is to succeed, the more interesting a subject he/she becomes.

Anyone who spends any substantial time with the works of Jacob Young will understand the purity of his intentions. But that wasn't the case with the network (CBS) executives who pulled the plug on his latest project- The Real Beverly Hillbillies. Cornet and Young had decided to update the original concept for reality television. They identified an Appalachian family (the Griffeys) and planned to install them in a genuine multi-million dollar mansion in Hollywood. The idea encountered political resistance from people who believed that the show would prove to be patronizing and exploitative. But that was never the intention of the filmmakers. It was Young's contention that all the truly negative portrayals in the original Beverly Hillbillies centered on the city sophisticates. The country-folk were shown to be caring, authentic and morally sound. Young made it a point to select a family that would be an ideal representation of Appalachia. He claims that anyone that met them couldn't help but like them.

When the project was killed, Young and Cornet felt bad that the Griffeys had been promised so much that was later snatched away. They took the money they had left from preproduction and rented a motor home to take the family cross-country. The intention was to both give the Griffey's the grand tour of America and to film a defense of the original concept. The result was a documentary called The True Adventures of the Real Beverly Hillbillies (2006). Although I haven't seen it, I expect it to be a perfect palliative to the corrosive belief that authentic regional phenomena ought to be sugar-coated or homogenized for public consumption.

In fact I'd say that what I most enjoy about Young's films is their honest depiction of a widely misunderstood region of the country. This is most evident in his Different Drummer collection. I was lucky enough to buy a rough copy of the DVD set from the man himself. I stayed up late last night watching all the episodes. Now you too can be so fortunate as to own this set. Visit the Dancing Outlaw website to purchase it and other fine products.

Jacob Young @ Film Kitchen on Tuesday, June 12th.

I know that, during the run of this blog, I've made only scant mention of West Virginian filmmaker Jacob Young. That's a bit of an egregious oversight. Young is one of the most compelling documentarians working in the United States. He's focused his efforts on presenting people and stories from his home state. Of course when you're born in the Mountaineer State (the most beautiful and enigmatic place in the Eastern United States), there is plenty of ground to cover.

Some of Young's early subjects have included Appalachian junkyard owners, the rich industrialist who plagues the land with those goddamned three crosses, the warden from the Moundsville Penitentiary, white supremacist author Dr. William Pierce (author of The Turner Diaries - a book found on Timothy McVeigh after the Oklahoma City bombing), and the swami-turned-felon of the North American headquarters of the Hare Krishnas. Young has received some well-deserved praise for his West Virginia Public TV-produced Different Drummer series, which (of course) documented the antics of a string of eccentric WV characters. One episode is about a senior citizen hussy, who dolls herself up and sings show tunes in the dives of the hollers, performing as "Amazing Dolores".

But Young has received his greatest notoriety with The Dancing Outlaw. This was a documentary about the "Last Mountain Dancer", Jesse White. This Boone County native has appropriated at least two alter egos- Elvis (The King) and Satan himself (nicknamed "Jesco"). Young presented White, his family, and his girlfriend in all their backwoods splendor. Jesco assumes center stage as he relates stories about his lamentably departed father and siblings, and his own gas-huffing, thieving, and alcohol-sodden childhood. But when he's not raising hell White plies his trade in a mix of clog and tap dancing, accompanied by bluegrass music. This was his own father's stock-in-trade, and Jesse has aspired to keep the dying art alive.

Having received his fifteen minutes of fame, Jesco later resumed his place in the spotlight when Roseanne Barr became a fan of The Dancing Outlaw. He was actually invited to Hollywood to appear on her show, and Young was along for the ride to document his adventure. All did not go as expected. Barr had Jesco removed from the set when she noticed a tattoo of a swastika on his arm. White later had the offending symbol covered up when he realized its significance. He explains that it was merely a youthful indiscretion.

It would be a more just world if Jacob Young had received as much acclaim and name recognition as Jesco. But his misfortune pays off for us tomorrow. We can actually meet him in person at Pitsburgh Filmmakers in Oakland (Melwood Street). He'll be at Film Kitchen, presenting his newest documentary- Urim and Thummim*. It's about a man named Todd Walker who bought an object at a Nashville Goodwill for 69 cents. Apparently he was pleased to discover that the thing proved to be a visual gateway to both Heaven and Hell. But evidently others were skeptical about his claims. Young followed Walker on a "witness tour" aimed at convincing the locals that the relic was a genuine and miraculous holy object.

If you are so inclined, you can chat with Jacob Young at the reception (7PM) that precedes the screening. I've spoken with him on two previous occasions, and I've found him to be both accessible and generous with his thoughts. But if you are the shy sort, stick around for the Q & A session after the film. It's sure to be illuminating.


* - Find out more about this obscure-sounding title here.