THE THIN BLUE LINE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Criterion Unleashes Classic Morris Doc

In anticipation of the upcoming 2015 Toronto Hot Docs International Festival of Documentary Cinema, here's my review of the new Criterion Collection DVD/Blu-Ray release of the classic Errol Morris documentary The Thin Blue Line. YOUNG FILMMAKERS (MAYBE EVEN A FEW SEASONED ONES) WHO ARE FORCED TO GO THROUGH THE DOG & PONY SHOWS DURING PUBLIC PITCH SESSIONS @ FILM FESTS (OR INFURIATING PRIVATE MEETINGS OUTSIDE THIS RARIFIED PURVIEW) MIGHT WELL RECOGNIZE A FEW CHOICE RANTS CONTAINED HEREIN AND/OR EVEN LEARN A FEW THINGS, LIKE, FOR EXAMPLE, HOW GREAT MOVIES ARE REALLY MADE (OR WORSE, NOT MADE).

The Thin Blue Line (1988)
Dir. Errol Morris

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There are many stupid things filmmakers have to put up with from those who hold the purse-strings. The worst, I think, is what documentary filmmakers have to go through - facing down (mostly) idiot "commissioning editors", the lofty title many dimwit broadcasters enjoy lobbing about like so many balls on the tennis courts of their respective power positions. These puffed-up pea-knuckles require - nay, DEMAND - from said filmmakers, a clear narrative structure for the documentaries; blow-by-blow treatises which guarantee, at least on paper, what the final movie will be. More often than not, these sycophantic blowhards, who purport to know what their viewers want, are looking for "sexy" nuggets which can be boiled down into bite-sized log lines not much bigger than the meagre sections of the brains they attempt to valiantly make use of.

This is what Errol Morris faced at the beginning of his life as a filmmaker. These, of course, were in the days when there was no real independent industry and the opportunities to finance documentary cinema, at least in America, was relegated to whatever pittances could be squelched out of public educational broadcasters. Even those bastions of artistic nobility required guarantees as to what they'd be getting.

The problem, of course, is you don't always know - especially in documentary film - which way the winds are going to blow when you're documenting something.

Those shifting sands might actually involve finding the story.

"Tut-tut," most commissioning editors chide, "God forbid!"

Or life itself might generate a better film than what was originally pitched.

"Impossible," the commissioning editors insist. "After all, we've had a hand in shaping your film in these early stages and we're ultimately the real artists."

Or the explorations of documentary filmmakers might even affect change.

"It's what we demand!" the commissioning editors confirm. "That's why we make sure fuckers like you do as we tell them to do before you can get a dime out of us."

And here was Errol Morris, finally deciding to chuck it all and give up making films at all. For three years, he worked as a private investigator - not bad training for ANY filmmaker, never mind those of the doc persuasion, but Morris knew he needed to make films again. The story is legendary. As he describes in one of the fantastic extras Criterion provides on the DVD, Morris hears about an utterly appalling human being employed by the State of Texas to ensure that convicted murderers get the death sentence rather than life in prison.

The jury had to be provided with proof "beyond a reasonable doubt" that the "probability" of the convicted man or woman to commit deathly acts of violence again was not only high, but pretty much a guarantee. And who could guarantee such a thing? Why, none other than Dr. James Grigson, a much-beloved psychiatrist with the monicker "Dr. Death." Morris pitched a documentary about this clown and his financiers bit upon the bait greedily.

Once in Dallas, Morris discovered something else. One of the men Dr. Death would proclaim to be a worthy recipient of the death penalty, might actually be innocent and was about to be railroaded into an electric chair by a number of not-too-bright and ambitious members of the State prosecution, law enforcement and judicial team.

This is what became The Thin Blue Line, one of the greatest American documentaries ever made. From beginning to end, you experience a complex murder mystery wherein one Randall Dale Adams, a long-haired drifter was charged and convicted of a murder he didn't commit. Utilizing all the powers of cinematic art, Morris provides us with a gorgeously shot and tautly edited story which has us on the edge of our seats and increasingly fuels our anger and frustration as we experience the endless traps set to condemn the wrong man.

Blending effective dramatic recreations, penetrating interviews, wisely selected archival news footage, Weegee-like stills and a classic, pulsating original score by Phillip Glass, The Thin Blue Line forces us as viewers to perch nervously on the edge of our seats with mouths agape. (I'll never forget first seeing the film during a Gala screening at the 1988 Toronto International Film Festival wherein, during moments of silence or quiet, you could hear a pin drop in the packed-to-the-rafters cinema unspooling the picture.) Even knowing the outcome of the events depicted, my recent viewing on the Criterion Collection home entertainment version, yielded a similar effect, but one which was enhanced by the stunning transfer and the benefit of my own age, life experience and exposure to similar contemporary miscarriages of justice.

It's an important and dazzling movie. What began as a project to appease the financial powers that be, morphed by breaking all the rules into a picture that did far more than present a telling indictment of the judicial system, but a movie that saved an innocent man's life - an innocent man who had spent 12 years in prison, most of them on death-row until one year after the film's release when the charges were dropped and he went free.

Think on this well as you watch the film. More importantly, think on the tenacity and brilliance of Errol Morris. Most of all, if you're a filmmaker, let it empower you to make films that are not merely ephemeral, but films that confound all expectations and lack of vision displayed by the powers-that-be - a film that will live now and forever.

And maybe, just maybe, save lives.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

The Criterion Collection director-approved DVD and Blue-Ray of The Thin Blue Line includes all the aforementioned virtues in addition to an HD digital restoration, supervised by director Errol Morris and producer Mark Lipson, with 2.0 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack on the Blu-ray, a great interview with Joshua Oppenheimer, director of The Act of Killing, an NBC report from 1989 that covers Randall Adams’s release from prison, a fine essay by film scholar Charles Musser and a stunningly designed new cover by Peter Mendelsund.

FEEL FREE TO PURCHASE THE FILM DIRECTLY FROM THE AMAZON LINKS BELOW AND IN SO DOING, CONTRIBUTE TO THE ONGOING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER:

In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY The Thin Blue Line - HERE!

In Canada - BUY The Thin Blue Line HERE, eh!

In UK BUY The Thin Blue Line HERE

THE QATSI TRILOGY (KOYAANISQATSI, POWAQQATSI, NAQOYQATSI) - BLU-RAY REVIEW By Greg Klymkiw - The Criterion Collection Keeps On Outdoing Themselves With Every New Blu-Ray Release. Just apply for another line of credit. What the hell, eh? There's only a major financial crisis on and during the Great Depression, everyone sought solace in the movies. Why not now? So sit back, fire up a doobie and relax.

The Qatsi Trilogy (Criterion Collection Blu-Ray Box Set)
dir. Godfrey Reggio (2013 - BRD Release) *****
Koyaanisqatsi (1982) dir. Godfrey Reggio ****
Powaqqatsi (1988) dir. Godfrey Reggio ***
Naqoyqatsi (2002) dir. Godfrey Reggio **

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Turn out the lights. Close the curtains. Mute your phones. Relieve yourself of all waste matter. Sit. Fire up a mega-doobie. Sit.

Do not move for 274 minutes except to change discs, fire up more doobies, address munchie/thirst-concerns and/or (if you must) relieve yourself of any additional waste matter that builds up. Given the themes of the films in question, you must engage in all the aforementioned activities in a completely off-grid environment (including waste relief in a compost toilet).

Everybody loves a good "head" film. Since the 1960s, eager youthful audiences always sought out movies that could be appreciated under the influence of marijuana and/or hash. LSD was not always recommended, but some braved this type of motion picture experience with mega-doses of acid anyway. Different strokes. IT'S. ALL. COOL. BY. ME. MAN. Some of the bigger "head" films (intended as such or not) include 2001: A Space Odyssey, El Topo, Holy Mountain, Liquid Sky, Eraserhead and the grandaddy laugh riot head film (about "heads") of them all, Louis Gasnier's masterpiece Reefer Madness.

In spite of the considerable virtues of the aforementioned, Director Godfrey Reggio delivered the ultimate cinematic "head" experience of all time - stoner celluloid of the highest order - and not just one movie, but an entire trilogy of cinemalis cannabisus sexualis.

Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi and Naqoyqatsi might well be the best mind bending movie trips for drug addicts ever made. I'm not certain is Mr. Reggio would agree with my assessment, but what I'm especially certain about is that there isn't a single spell-check program in the known universe that's going to give even a smidgen of help with these titles. (If spell-check in Hopi exists, please illuminate me.)

What you're going to get from these movies is absolutely no plot, though in their own psychedelic mind-fuck-eye-candy fashion, they tell a story - the story of man and his relationship to the natural world, or in other words, a beautiful world that man is fucking up with his increasing reliance upon technology which, in turn, creates waste that destroys all that is natural.

Each film is comprised of seemingly unrelated images, but they are all indeed connected, gorgeously shot and accompanied by music written by Philip Glass, everyone's musical go-to boy for hypnotic, repetitive, New Age-styled beats. The third in the trilogy even has cello solos by the incomparable Yo Yo Ma. Get 'yer dancin' clogs on.

Reggio's first stab at this avant-garde exploration of man and nature is without question the best of the lot. Koyaanisqatsi is the clearest of all three in terms of stunningly reflecting the translation of the title, which is: "Life Out of Balance". Seeing one gorgeous piece of natural beauty after another in an America mediated through optical manipulations, stop motion effects, experimental use of stock, lighting and filters, then accompanied by haunting images of technology wreaking environmental havoc, this is a work that is as profoundly important as it is a perfectly fashioned bauble of big sledge hammer activist cinema.

Every element of the picture works like clockwork and yields powerful, imaginative images that are expertly captured by cinematographer Ron Fricke (who would go on to direct his own similarly-styled head films, Baraka and the recent Samsara). Though Reggio's touch is decidedly lacking in any subtlety, the message is an important one and profoundly clear. Even more astounding is that the movie was initially released theatrically by a major studio, generated fabulous box office and continued to amass grosses in repertory, non-theatrical markets and eventually home video. The Philip Glass score here is also first-rate - perfectly in balance with the themes and images and a sure addition to the overall experience for those many who choose to partake in the film under the influence of hallucinogens of their choice.

Powaqqatsi feels like more of the same, even though we're clearly into new territory. The rendering of images that follow adhere to the English translation of the title from Hopi into English as "Life in Transformation". Here, Reggio leaves America behind and shoots in a variety of third world countries. The focus is upon mostly images of man engaged in work - hard, physical labour against the backdrop of the natural world. Cinematographer Ron Fricke abandoned his post and moved on to directing Baraka and though the movie has more aural Clarence Carter-like "strokin'" from Philip Glass, the movie is not without merit, but loses a fair bit of the punch Reggio's first outing had.

Naqoyqatsi definitely has its fans, but I'm not really one of them. The title translated from Hopi to English means "Life as War" and here, Reggio dabbles in the idea of a complete lack of personal communication in a digital age, coupled with violence mediated through even more impersonal technological means. All of this is presented within the super-obvious context of The Tower of Babel. We get Philip Glass, Yo Yo Ma cello strokin' and tons o' digital imagery, but the movie sadly feels dated compared to the "old-fashioned" Koyaanisqatsi which successfully managed to remain vital and ahead of its time in spite of the fact that it's over 30 years old.

All in all, this is a truly worthwhile purchase - especially on Blu-Ray. Criterion provides Reggio-approved HD transfers, first-rate sound and a treasure trove of extra features that enhance the viewing experience of all three films.

And, I should also clarify that the trilogy, while a stoner experience of the first order, can be equally appreciated by those who remain straight. Much of it is mind-blowingly mind-fucking without mind-altering substances.

The Qatsi Trilogy is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from the Criterion Collection.

VIBES - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Sickeningly Unfunny Comedy w/sickening leading lady

Vibes (1988) *
dir. Ken Kwapis
Starring: Cyndi Lauper, Jeff Goldblum, Peter Falk, Julian Sands, Michael Lerner

Review By Greg Klymkiw

At some point in the development of this property, there might have actually been something resembling a good movie waiting to get made, but this dull, clumsy romantic comedy without laughs and dollops of Indiana Jones and Romancing The Stone is one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had to endure in my many long years of slavish devotion to ingesting as many movies as humanly possible.

The movie that should have been good involves two psychics – one male and one female, with very different and ultra complimentary extra sensory skills who meet cute in a parapsychology lab and find themselves thrust together on a dangerous journey/mission and in the process, solve a mystery, nail the bad guys and fall in love. On the surface, this is, indeed, what happens, but alas the journey as rendered by director Ken Kwapis and the overrated screenwriting team of Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel (Night Shift), requires the audience to nail its collective feet to the floor in order to actually sit through the picture in order to live to tell about it. The aforementioned simple storyline is a solid enough narrative coat hanger, but one needs a bit more than that to make a good movie.

First of all, one needs some cool shit to actually adorn the coat hanger with and the famed screenwriting duo do little more than dress it with the most dire, hackneyed events as the couple journey to a Latin American hell hole in order to help a crusty old rascal locate his missing son and find instead that they’re being used for more nefarious purposes.

An even greater sin is that the characters do little but exist beyond the status of cardboard cutouts. The male psychic has the ability to touch inanimate objects and both feel and see the people and events that have also touched the same objects. Not a bad idea, but the writers do little beyond using it as a mere and rather clunky device to move the story ever so conveniently forward. The female psychic is saddled with something far less interesting – she is endowed with a living voice in her head that imparts sage advice for her to impart, in turn, to others. This particular ability kind of renders the character as relatively passive and even the relationship between her and the voice in her head is not explored/exploited beyond being the most rudimentary of storytelling devices.

The less said about Kwapis’ lame, unexciting direction the better. He does little more than cover the action in the most basic manner. It’s vaguely conceivable that a director with some visual style might have rendered this tedious script with enough life to keep it at least watchable, but Kwapis, being a TV hack, is unable to do even this. Not that it’s surprising. One need only turn to the sort of feature work Kwapis did long after this film was made (The Beautician and the Beast, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and He’s Just Not That Into You) and realize that he’s only as good as the material he gets and even then, like a Garry Marshall and others of that loathsome lack-of-style ilk, he can’t turn excrement to gold and he most certainly has it in him to turn gold into excrement. Worst of all, he basically makes mediocre television for the big screen and there’s nothing more annoying than that.

Finally, there is the matter of casting. Jeff Goldblum as the male psychic is ALWAYS worth watching. His handsome, yet geeky facial features, his lanky physique and those magnificent bright eyes come close to carrying him unscathed through the mess that is Vibes. Alas, Goldblum must share screen time with one of the most loathsome leading ladies ever to find her way onto a movie set.

Pop star Cyndi Lauper, five years after she recorded the hit girlie anthem "Girls Just Wanna’ Have Fun”, was shoehorned into this film and she attacks her role with all the grace of a hippopotamus. In what possible world did anyone think that she was going to be even remotely palatable on a big screen? Needless to say, when a romantic comedy displays absolutely no chemistry between the leads, not even an eminently watchable figure like Jeff Goldblum can remain untarnished.

Finally, while it’s always fun to watch Peter Falk at his trademark crusty and crotchety best, he’s not in his finest form here and he really does seem to be sleepwalking through this picture, dreaming no doubt about his pay cheque.

Vibes is a perfectly abhorrent affair. I dare you to watch it without clutching, for dear life, to an airsickness bag.

Vibes is currently available on the Sony Pictures Home Entertainment DVD label as part of their “Martini Movies” brand, which seems like a convenient way to lump a grab bag of catalogue titles under one banner. Alas, the banner makes no sense whatsoever with respect to the vast majority of films contained under it.