Showing posts with label Native Peoples. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Native Peoples. Show all posts

Monday, 4 May 2015

AVENGED - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Redsploitation Payback Thriller with Babe n' arrows


Avenged - aka Savaged - (2013)
Dir. Michael S. Ojeda
Starring: Amanda Adrienne, Tom Ardavany, Rodney Rowland

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Avenged (previously known on the film festival circuits and some foreign markets as Savaged) is an all-new entry in the cinematic lexicon known amongst genre geeks as "Redsploitation".

Compared to the 70s onslaught of "Blaxsploitation" (Shaft, Hell Up In Harlem, Slaughter, the list goes on and on and on), "Redsploitation" is a relatively tiny sub-genre of contemporary B-pictures. They differ from the urban African-American sex-and/or-violence-ridden fantasies in that their scope was limited to the stereotype of noble savages, often in rural (albeit mostly contemporary) locales and always involving the exacting of revenge upon Whitey for his callous treatment of Native Americans.

"Redploitation" always lacked variation in terms of character and plot. African-American characters could certainly have any number of stereotypical roles like gangsters, pimps and dealers, but they could also be cops, rights activists, just plain folk (though facing extraordinary hurdles requiring acts of violence) and in the case of star Pam Grier, she got to be a nurse in Coffy (albeit one who prowled dark corners blowing away pimps and dealers). In fact, women in Blaxploitation could, more often than not, hold their own with the men and not just be victims (the latter being the solitary roles for Native women in Redsploitation).

The grandaddy of the Native American action pictures were Tom Laughlin's hugely popular Billy Jack extravaganzas, but even these male fantasies, initially aimed at drive-ins, grind houses (and now in the days of waning public exhibition venues, DVD and VOD), developed huge mainstream acceptance whereas hardcore "Redsploitation" was linked to independent and/or much smaller distribution/exhibition outlets.

One of the "best" 70s forays into the sub-genre was Johnny Firecloud by William Allen Castleman. Generally better written than most of this fare, it also featured taut direction and a decent, mostly Native American cast. Starring Mexican actor Victor Mohica in the title role, the indignities perpetrated upon Johnny and his people are horrendous, but they pale in comparison to the genuinely satisfying revenge he exacts upon the dimwitted racist White losers: tomahawks, scalping, burying in the ground save for the head exposed to ants and the elements, plus other grim payback delights. Going a few steps further than most films of this ilk like Savege Harvest, Ransom, Thunder Warrior, Scalps and Cry For Me, Billy, Johnny Firecloud doesn't end in an orgy of total mind-numbing violence, but actually veers into the territory of ambiguity and, hence, a bit more reality than the aforementioned.


Avenged, co-produced by the visionary Canadian company Raven Banner with the American auteur Michael S. Ojeda is distinctive for being the most recent entry in "Redsploitation". Its cool blend of kick-ass revenge action with the supernatural and a nice combination of first-rate production values and some genuinely rigorous moviemaking craft, manages to put a whole whack of huger budgeted studio pictures to shame. Director Ojeda seldom favours the ludicrous ADHD-like shooting and cutting which plagues most super-hero and other recent wham-bam effects-laden extravaganzas. His shot selections are smartly considered, efficient and feature a nice variation in focal lengths and point of view choices (as opposed to the reliance upon too many close-ups and few mediums and wides that we see in $200-$300million indulgences). This allows his cuts to be rooted in dramatic action rather than spurred on by empty kinetics.

Narratively, Avenged is fairly straightforward, but with a few oddball deviations which allow us to feel like we're not watching something that's completely run-of-the-mill. Zoe (Amanda Adrienne) is a lithe, babe-o-licious, long-blonde-tressed beauty who decides to drive cross-country to meet up with her African-American boyfriend with the plan of moving in with him. Sounds simple enough, but the cool element Ojeda adds to this mix is that Zoe is challenged with being deaf and partially mute (she can form words, sentences, etc. but they're not always intelligible to those who don't know her). Though her Mother expresses trepidation, her sensitive beau realizes that her trip, as well as the decision to leave home and move into common-law bliss with him, is an important part of her continued journey of empowerment.


As these tales often go, she finds herself in the middle of nowhere (topography similar to John Ford's use of Monument Valley in his westerns) when she's witness to a horrific hit and run murder twixt a truck full of Good Old Boy Whitey Rednecks and a young Native man. Before she can hightail it out of there, she's boxed in and approached by the slavering, inbred White fellas. She's kidnapped and taken to the family's remote "estate" of White Trash decrepitude wherein she's grotesquely tied and affixed to a bed in an old shed with - yuck! - barbed wire.

It should be immediately noted that Ojeda does not sexualize nor salaciously dwell upon Zoe's inevitable gang rape by these scumbags. Thank Heaven for tender mercies. However, plenty of Hell is to follow. She manages to get away, but wrenching oneself from barbed wire bindings is not a pain-free, nor is it a pretty sight. Unfortunately, as she flees into the night, Zoe is mortally wounded with a scatter of buckshot from one of the rednecks and is left for dead in the rocky, sandy hills.


So, you're wondering: Where's the "Redsploitation?"

Oh, ye of little faith, here's the rub. The family of inbreds are descendants of a vicious cavalry commander who wiped out most of the Apaches in the area. Our villains are so proud of this, they worship their great-great-grandpappy's memory with slavish devotion - so much so that they continue butchering Native people whenever they can. Ojeda's narrative then adds the following tasty frisson: Legend has it, that the Chief of the local First Nations people swore eternal revenge upon his killer and all those who followed his family lineage. When a lone medicine man in the middle of the wilderness finds Zoe's battered, bloodied body, he attempts to revive her with some ancient ritual, but in so doing, he revives the spirit of the Apache Chief who melds his soul with Zoe and soon, you've got two spirits in one body that both need to extract revenge.

And believe you me, the vengeance is as sweet as it is stomach churning.


Okay, I've seen a lot of movies in my day and as moronic as the aforementioned spirit-melding may be, I have to admit it's pretty original as far as genre pictures go (though it has a few nods of homage in the direction of The Crow). And, you know, there's also something to be said for the pleasing (albeit ludicrous) image of a hot blonde adorned in feathers and war paint as she hunts down the vicious inbreds one-by-one. This (dubiously authentic) appropriation of Native culture is exploitative, but even as you see the nuts and bolts of this construct, it's perversely entertaining. Still, by using the tragic history of the local Natives is not without more than a few dollops of ethnocentrism if not outright racism, BUT, and this is a BIG "but", the film does go out of its way to utilize and address the stereotypical trappings of civilization and savagery that have been so-long married to Euro-centric notions of superiority as they relate to the inherent "lower order" of Indigenous Peoples. There is a clear awareness on the part of the filmmaker that he's playing with these elements, but in a contemporary context, he's allowing his imagination to run as rampant as all get out, which is certainly a far cry from the naiveté of filmmakers from earlier ages.

In her great book "When the Other is Me", Emma LaRocque provides a detailed analysis of "the dichotomy of civilization versus savagery [which] is the long-held belief that humankind evolved from the primitive to the most advanced, from the savage to the civilized." LaRocque notes that:

"racialized evolutionism has not entirely disappeared from the Western intellectual tradition. In disciplines of anthropology, history, political science, psychology, sociology, religion, and even in earlier Marxist thought, theories on human development were and still are largely premised on patriarchal, Eurocentric and evolutionary ideas about so-called primitive peoples."

Appropriating a tragic history and doing so within the "obviously doctrinaire and self-serving" civ/sav perspective which permeates Avenged, seems somewhat less egregious within the context of a sheer contemporary "entertainment". After all, this is not scholarship, but a piece of pure fiction that is so clearly fantasy, one would hope that even the lowest sub-strata of movie-fandom would assume that the use, or rather, misuse of stereotypical images of Native People is, in fact, ridiculously lacking in veracity.


Then again, our modern world continues to be sadly fraught with ignorance of the lowest order. Given that, even a film like Avenged falls into a strange never-never land of (mis)appropriation. LaRocque's own scholarship presents the interesting findings that "White writers often portrayed 'Indians' as savage creatures who tortured and mutilated White bodies", though clearly, Ojeda's film presents the exact opposite (at least initially). The Whites in his film are the slavering, savage, psychotic violators - not just of a physically challenged woman, but contemporary Native people as an extension of the violent historical genocide of Natives. In this context I'm especially interested in how LaRocque also points out a reversal of "the violation" since "contemporary Native writers also turn the tables on the colonizer to point out White cruelty and contradictions; in effect, to point to White savagery."

I'm not 100% sure of filmmaker Ojeda's heritage, though his surname is certainly rooted in Spanish origin, one which in the South Western (or "Tex-Mex") states can often include Native DNA and cultural roots. Whatever the case may be, he is clearly having his cake and eating it too.

LaRocque admits that prior to being in "any position to critically examine the history and sociology of racism, [she] experienced a sense of shame and alienation from teachers, textbooks, comics, and movies that portrayed Indians as savages." Not surprisingly, her eventual pursuit of 'higher' education revealed how "many university professors and most textbooks presented Native peoples in as distorted and insulting ways" as the aforementioned mediums so that the "racist theme of Western civilization/Indian savagery was ever-present."

Given that Avenged, along with the Redsploitation sub-genre and the litany of literature and cinema over the past century (and then some) have wallowed shamelessly in lies and stereotypes, it's the scholarship which has yielded the most abominable violations of truth. The literature and popular culture of deception has been predominantly American and appallingly buttressed by American academics who support and defend (whilst denying) their racist scholarship within the sickening "star-spangled" flag-waving of "the American expansionist doctrine of Manifest Destiny."

Is it any wonder these stereotypes persist? "The notion" LaRocque argues "of 'civilization' and its antithesis 'savagery' are invariably defined and measured by Euro-White North American standards. It should be needless to point out that such an un-scientific belief is racist because it sets up Whites as superior and non-Whites as inferior."

So how then is (an admittedly) entertaining (albeit blood-spattered) trifle like Avenged dangerous? LaRocque points out that Aboriginal peoples "are still being hounded and haunted by White North America’s image machine, which has persistently portrayed them in extremes as either the grotesque ignoble or noble savage."

Avenged does double duty on this front.


When the "noble savage" medicine man accidentally conjures up the spirit of a revenge-crazed Apache warrior and allows it to morph with the equally violated and angry character of Zoe, she essentially becomes a zombie-like member of the living dead who exacts vengeance that's perhaps even more "savage" than the indignities perpetrated by the White inbred racist rednecks.

The again, I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't admit to gaining a fair degree of satisfaction seeing the White Trash get their comeuppance via bows and arrows, blades and in one pretty spectacular set piece (in terms of filmmaker Ojeda's directorial skill and sheer aplomb), wherein the Apache-warrior-possessed Zoe rips the intestines out of one of the "bad guys" with her own hands, pulling his guts out like a viscous rope that seems to have no end and causing the villain the most horrific (and equally endless) pain.

Thinking upon my own visceral response to this picture in relation to what I acknowledge is "wrong", I still can't help but applaud Ojeda's audacity. He takes us into some very dangerous territory and I'll take that over the commonplace, the fake vibes elicited from "feel-good" entertainments. Avenged dazzles because it yanks us, roller coaster-ride-like, back and forth, this way and that from extreme political, historical and cultural dichotomies.

It's an appalling film, but there is value in its terrible, terrible beauty.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ 3-and-ahalf-stars-Stars

Avenged (previously known as Savaged) is a Raven Banner production and world-wide release available on home video formats via Anchor Bay Canada. The extra features focusing upon the development and making of the film are especially interesting as they place solid emphasis upon director Michael S. Ojeda's considerable craft in terms of placing a visual emphasis upon his storytelling, but also how he works within the exigencies of modest financial resources to create a piece that feels far more imbued with production value than would normally be ascribed to such exploitation items.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

HOT DOCS 2015: SURVIVORS ROWE - Review By Greg Klymkiw *****

This is one of purportedly hundreds of children
viciously & mercilessly sexually assaulted by
former Anglican priest & Boy Scout leader Ralph Rowe.
Survivors Rowe (2015)
Dir. Daniel Roher
Prd. Peter O'Brian

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I doubt you're going to see a better short film at Hot Docs 2015 than Survivors Rowe. In fact, I doubt you're going to see a better short film all year than Survivors Rowe. There's something heroic about this picture - it's terrific filmmaking to be sure, but its subjects, all grown men who share their most deeply personal reminiscences of childhood are to be exalted to the highest degree imaginable.

The other heroic element, which cannot be ignored, is the commitment of the short's Producer Peter O'Brian to have offered his expertise, passion and artistry to director Daniel Roher's fine work. O'Brian is a legend. He's a genuinely heroic figure for having produced so many of Canada's greatest motion pictures including, but not limited to The Grey Fox with the late-greats Richard Farnsworth and Jackie Burroughs in one of the great westerns of all time - period - and One Magic Christmas with the astonishing Harry Dean Stanton as one of the most evocative (and dark) guardian angels in film history in (yes) one of the great films about Christmas - period!

What is not heroic is Canada itself and the country's insidiously grotesque and hateful history with respect to our aboriginal nations, a horrifying element of which is so artfully and powerfully exposed in Roher's short film. It is one of a multitude of inhuman(e) assaults upon Canada's Native People, one that began with colonialism and frankly, continues to this very day, especially in light of the hatred and disregard expressed by Canada's Chancellor (or is it Prime Minister?) Steven Harper, the leader of our country's Nazi party (or is it, the Conservative party?).

This is Canada's Prime Minister.
He and his government of intolerance
refuse to acknowledge the ever-prolonged
exploitation of Canada's Native People and the
heinous crimes perpetrated against them.
Colonialism, Hatred,
Human Rights Violations
and Apartheid
will continue under this
government's "leadership".
What's reflected in Survivors Rowe is at once, infuriating and on another level, infused with a sense of both healing and forgiveness - indicative of the fearlessness of its subjects and the skill with which Roher renders his film. Skillfully blending archival footage with knock-you-flat-on-your-back interviews, we're introduced to several young men - notably Joshua Frog, John Fox and Ralph Winter of Northern Ontario's Anishinaabe nation. They tell us their stories of living on isolated reservations, a strange combination of genuinely idyllic surroundings, but within the trappings of Canada's own system of apartheid. There are fond, memories, to be sure: living in the wilderness, a special bond with the natural world, skating on icy waterways, genuine play not rooted in the mind-destroying contemporary world of digital gaming and, at least initially, the dashingly dramatic arrival of Ralph Rowe, the rugged man's man who serves as a pilot, Boy Scout leader and Anglican priest.

Rowe is not only a charismatic, almost mythic figure, but he's actually taken the time to learn Native languages and dialects to converse with elders, adults his own age and kids. What nobody knows, what nobody could ever imagine, is that Ralph Rowe is a pedophile. The on-camera testaments delivered by the film's key subjects reveal some of the most harrowing, horrific and just plain malevolent acts perpetrated by this man of the wilderness, this man of God, this monster.

One of the most extraordinary things director Daniel Roher achieves here as a filmmaker is how he fashions any great narrative's need for an antagonist. On the surface, this figure is clearly Ralph Rowe, but as the film progresses, Rowe's external position as a villain, or rather, as an antagonistic force flows into the pain, sorrow, self-loathing and self-harm faced by the victims of his crimes. Then, even more extraordinarily, the antagonistic force of Rowe, his victims' suffering and the metamorphosis of this into the aforementioned process of healing, gives way to an even greater antagonist - a seemingly perpetual cycle of abuse which, is ultimately societal and must be actively addressed far more vigorously and openly than it is.

Ralph Rowe most likely sexually assaulted over 500 Native children and was, no doubt, responsible for a huge swath of suicides amongst both children and adults (not to mention residual effects upon subsequent generations). Unfortunately, the Canadian judicial system has only tried and convicted him for what amounts to a mere handful of sex crimes. He served a meagre five years in jail, was essentially handed a deal by the Crown to leave him be no matter how many accusations continue to surface and he lives a quiet, peaceful life in Surrey, British Columbia. Neither the Anglican Church nor the Boy Scouts have ever officially apologized to the victims and yet, those victims who did not commit suicide have endured decades and, if truth be told, lifetimes of living Hell.

On a purely aesthetic level, what Roher achieves here is a film that serves as a document of the suffering, torment and misery Ralph Rowe caused, but there is a strangely magical and poetic structure to the work which takes us from idyll to horror and finally and astoundingly, but perhaps necessarily, to forgiveness.

It's impossible to shake the impact this short film has. In fact, it has the sickening shock of a merciless cold-cock, blended with an elegiac, profoundly moving sense of loss and leavened with a kind of grace that not only reflects the deep humanity of the film's subjects, but shines a light of clemency upon a monster.

What the film cannot forgive, nor can any of us (I hope and pray), is the deep-seeded hatred and racism of colonialism which continues in Canada to this very day. If an Anglican priest and Boy Scout leader viciously sexually assaulted over 500 white children, would he still be living freely in society with the legal implication that he'll never serve more incarceration for his crimes, no matter how many continue to surface?

The answer is obvious.

Here's what convicted pedophile Ralph Rowe
looks like now in his comfy Surrey, B.C. environs.
It'd sure be nice to have a few more recent photos
out there for the safety of all children and families.
One final note about the heroism of the film's producer Peter O'Brian: Read his moving article in the Toronto Globe and Mail about the sexual assaults he suffered as a child and eventually came to terms with as an adult. Read it HERE.

And whatever you do, don't miss Survivors Rowe.

The Film Corner Rating: ***** Five Stars

Survivors Rowe is making its World Premiere at the 2015 edition of the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Festival. Visit the Hot Docs website for dates, showtimes and tickets by clicking HERE.

Friday, 13 March 2015

STANDSTILL - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Identity, redemption and facing the past drive this haunting portrait of a Canadian Mohawk living in the shadow of Colonialism and a Palestinian Refugee living in the shadow of an abusive lover.


Standstill (2013)
Dir. Majdi El-­Omari
Starring: Atwena:Ron David Deerhouse, Meisoon Azzaria, Iohani:Io Curotte, Skawennati Madelaine Montour, Tatum Ieronhienhawi McComber, Jean Pierre Lefebvre

Review By Greg Klymkiw

…Gently she sleeps
With her fingers
in her ears
Gently she dreams
With her palms
on her eyes…
While her Mother sings,
"They Killed the fish
They Killed the bird
and the Little Girl in the house."

-Excerpt from Wedad's poem

Standstill is a powerful and deeply moving first feature film by the Canadian-Palestinian filmmaker Majdi El-­Omari. Set in and around the Quebec town of Oka, the city of Montreal and the Native Reservation of Kanehsatake, it tells the tale of a middle-aged member of the Mohawk Nation. Arihote (Atewena:ron David Deerhouse) is a former war correspondent who used his gifts as a photographer in Sarajevo, but now seeks peace and solace as an anonymous wedding photographer. Juggling the emotional turmoil of an at-risk son, a wife who left him - disappearing as if into thin air - and a father who, in despair, blew his brains out, Arihote shambles through life like a somnambulist.

One night, though, this all changes when he hears a disturbance in the apartment above his basement suite. Upon investigating, he discovers that a murder has been committed by Wedad (Meissoon Azzaria), a Palestinian refugee. The victim is her abusive lover. Arihote is consumed with a need to help the woman, but at the same time, he's equally concerned about personally involving himself in anything that will bring him in contact with the police.

There's a good reason for both of these compelling feelings. They're rooted in the personal, to be sure, but there is also a historical backdrop to his motivations.


Canada's ages-old apartheid, aimed at its First Nations, has been one of the most horrendous, foul and insidious policies of hatred and racism in the history of colonialism in the Americas. The country has also had its fair share of violent genocide, though it's a drop in the bucket, compared to its neighbours to the south (right from the USA and down to the bottom tip of South America). What's been especially infuriating in the Great White North is the "polite" Canadian approach to decimating its Aboriginal Nations through lies, deceit and bureaucracy. The Canadian apartheid has essentially been a cultural genocide; ignoring treaties, swindling land, attempting to smother cultural identity and a grim system of residential schools aimed at "whitening" Native children (and sexually abusing them at the hands of Catholic priests).

More often than not, Canadian Aboriginals have attempted to use legal means to address this infinite litany of injustices perpetrated upon them by politicians and bureaucrats feathering their own nests whilst kowtowing to the needs of old money and corporate pigs. Resistance, more often than not, has been peaceful.

In 1990, the resistance had only one way to go. A whack of lily-white-bread-inbreds living in the town of Oka, Quebec near the Kanehsatake reservation, decided willy-nilly to mow down a huge swath of forested traditional lands belonging to the Mohawks of the region. A sacred and ancient burial ground would have been desecrated and the land would have been decimated environmentally. The Canadian government, as per usual, reneged on old agreements and subsequent attempts to rectify the situation legally amounted to a hill of beans.

The reason? The town wanted a golf course.

Yes, you read that right - a fucking golf course!

The Mohawks had only one choice - they set up barbed wire fences, blocked roads and occupied the forest. And they were armed to the teeth. This led to yahoo vigilantes, Quebec Police and eventually the Canadian Army descending upon the Native People. The "Oka Crisis", as it was eventually dubbed by the lily-white-bread-Canadian-media (and many historians who should know better), was indeed one of the most severe, tension-ridden armed conflicts between First Nations and their Colonizers during the history of Canada in the 20th Century. (It eventually took an Aboriginal filmmaker, Alanis Obomsawin, to provide a proper perspective on this injustice with her now-immortal documentary Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance, a film which the publicly-funded Canadian Broadcasting Corporation shamefully refused to broadcast.)

It is within this almost-ghostly social, historical and political backdrop that the character of Arihote is haunted in writer-editor-producer-director El-­Omari's astonishing Standstill, the first feature film presented primarily in the Mohawk language (with a smaller percentage in English, French and Arabic). Shot in stunning black and white (save for the equally arresting colour bookends) by cinematographer Stephanie Weber Biron and underscored by jangling, forbidding, mournful and evocative music by Antoine Bustros, this might be one of the most important films to be made in Canada in some time. El-Omari's mise-en-scene includes a series of neo-realist tableaux and simple, but effective handheld camera movements (floaty-cam-style, not shaky-cam) to tell this story about two people forced by political and social upheaval to confront the past in order to move forward with the future. Arihote is a stranger in his own land whilst Wedad is most definitely a stranger in a strange land.


So much of the film's story unfolds in slow, but richly composed and always fascinating details of real life - the camera at once being a fly on several walls, but also revealing the extremely potent points of view of Arihote. These latter moments are especially extraordinary, because we get a sense of his "camera eye" and when we see what he sees, it's as if we're seeing it through the eyes of one who has spent a lifetime photographing death, destruction, exploitation and despair.

El-Omari places most of the narrative emphasis upon Arihote. He is haunted by his wife's disappearance after he left for Sarajevo as well as trying to raise his motherless son in a world of conflict, but all of it far removed from his own experiences as a war photographer. What's especially moving is when we (and his son) discover that Arihote, was more than an ineffectual husband and partner to his long-gone wife - that he did a lot more than look at the world through a camera lens. She was a major activist in the "Oka Crisis", as well as being a brilliant visual artist. She placed her life on the line in a serious conflict, but also exposed her soul upon canvas. Arihote was not dissimilar. He's described to his son as being a vital participant at Oka "with a camera in one hand and a semi-automatic weapon in the other."

In a sense, we're faced with the tragedy of a couple whose love is effectively torn apart by the weight of colonialism and the crisis of Oka. She sought solace in rebuilding their family and love. Alas, he sought solace in the bitter war of Sarajevo. The broken pieces of this marriage resulted in abandonment on both sides of the equation and in the middle, Arihote's brilliant young son without a mother, his distant suicidal father and a sense of not belonging to either Kanehsatake or Montreal.


Add to this mix the parallel tale of Wedad and Arihote's involvement in her crisis - a strange narrative choice which starts the story off, but fades into the backdrop until the hugely emotional final third of the picture. Doing the math on the whole, we have a colonized aboriginal man, a female refugee from Palestine and a young man who doesn't know where he belongs. As such, El-Omari delivers what might be the ultimate indigenously Canadian story of all, one that recalls the title and even thematic layering of Edward Everett Hale's classic of short American fiction, "The Man Without a Country" (itself an allegory for the American Civil War).

To be without a country seems to be tantamount to being without a soul, not unlike so many aspects of Canadian existence amongst its aboriginal peoples, the diaspora of the poorest European immigrants and their progeny and the myriad of recent immigrants often fleeing political persecution in their countries of origin. In spite of this, though, El-Omari doesn't let us or his characters muddle about for an eternity of identity crises. He provides, like any great storyteller, obstacles that must be overcome and in so doing, he creates a film that is as despair-ridden as it is eventually very moving, powerful and oddly, but genuinely uplifting in a completely un-sentimental fashion.

There are no easy decisions or answers for any of the characters. Like most of us, they are living within an existential quagmire - one brought about by the crashing waves of history. As individuals it is their despair, practically hard-wired into their very beings by external powers which force them to face a new world, fresh horizons and a future in which they can break through the wall of stasis permeating their lives.

El-Omari presents all this in a muted fashion, but by doing so, he actually creates a film which might be one of the few Canadian films to be imbued with the strength and power which we have, for some 20 years turned to the Belgian filmmaking duo, the Dardenne Brothers for. Their intense naturalism and concentration upon the lives of the disenfranchised have been reflected in such masterworks as La promesse, Rosetta, L’Enfant, Le gamin au vélo and their most recent stunner Deux jours, une nuit.


Where Standstill might occasionally veer from a completely naturalistic style are its occasional dream-like visions and flashbacks, though even these extraordinary sequences are imbued with a highly realistic approach within the context of both the narrative and as self contained units of dramatic action. There's no overt flash to these haunting scenes, though in retrospect they are as unforgettable as anything else in the more realism-infused sequences. Like the Dardennes, El-Omari delivers considerable poetry, cinematic magic and flirts briefly, but pointedly with the cerebral.

It seems fitting, of course, that during a critical point in the story, the father of independent Canadian art cinema, director Jean Pierre Lefebvre appears in a pivotal, important role. (Full disclosure: Lefebvre appeared in a not dissimilar role in a film I produced in the late 90s by Bruno Lazaro Pacheco entitled City of Dark.) Here, as a weary French Canadian police detective investigating the murder that sets the whole film in action, he brings a wise, knowing humanity to his role as a man who has suffered similar personal bereavements as those experienced by Arihote. Lefebvre plays his role as more bureaucrat than Sûreté du Québec crime fighter whilst Arihote has all but given up his past as an activist and photographic eye upon the despair of war. It is here where we come face to face with men who both, in their own way, have been victims of British colonization and recognize a common ground in each other's place in the world.

Standstill is a film that gives Canadian Cinema the hope and promise that our truly indigenous stories will be told, stories about those who do far more living and dying in this world than the country's oppressors will ever do. Such stories will indeed be in very good hands with Majdi El­-Omari and the handful of other film artists who bring far more to the table than merely ephemeral expressions of cultural experience. He's made a film that has every potential to withstand the sands of time.

I can hardly wait for his next movie.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4-Stars

Standstill is a Domino Films release playing theatrically in Toronto at The Royal Cinema. Demand your local independent exhibitor bring it to your town.

Thursday, 6 November 2014

TRICK OR TREATY? Review By Greg Klymkiw - See Canada lie in great Obomsawin film





Chancellor Stephen Harper is the most insidious
of all Canadian Colonial Backwater Prime Ministers
in the "polite" genocide of our First Nations people.
Heil Canada! Heil Old Money! Heil Der Führer!
Heil Harper!
Trick or Treaty?
Dir. Alanis Obomsawin

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There are many things that disgust Canadians about Chancellor Stephen Harper, but for me, the worst is his refusal to properly deal with the egregious theft of Aboriginal Rights during the signing of the notorious James Bay Treaty, as well as the veritable litany of horrendously callous issues related to our First Nations People that he simply chooses to ignore. (The epidemic of murdered and missing Native women, anyone?) As the most vile Prime Minister in Canadian history (and we've had quite a few contenders for that dubious distinction in the Dominion of Canada), his record and public stance on the Native People of our country goes well beyond the pale. This pathetic Cowboy Hitler takes the cake.

Alanis Obomsawin's important body of work, including her new film Trick or Treaty?, confirms that Canada has always been the most insidious colonial backwater of them all and the genocide it continues to perpetrate upon our First Nations is perfectly in keeping with the country's sickeningly polite approach to decimating those who would dare get in the way of Old Money's needs to keep amassing money by just taking it (tactfully, graciously and ever-so sneakily, of course). Obmosawin's new documentary focuses upon a massive peaceful protest in Ottawa, the nation's capitol, that was designed to force Chancellor Harper (and, of course, the Governor General who represents the British Monarchy) to meet face-to-face with those First Nations Chiefs most affected by the over-100-year-old treaty which was designed and implemented to steal land and not allow any meaningful sharing in the decision-making process of dealing with said land.

The result of the James Bay Treaty has been abject poverty, skyrocketing rates of suicide and environmental destruction, all of which affects not just our Aboriginal brothers and sisters, but ALL Canadians. What affects the original inhabitants of this land IS our responsibility, but most of all, when any members of our nation are hard done by, our only real choice is to ensure our elected officials and bureaucrats are going to do the right thing.

Harper and his party of Totalitarian knuckle-draggers could care less. The power of this film is seeing the efforts of Native People trying to get him to address the problem - to give him a shot at something resembling redemption. We know in our heart of hearts it won't happen, but what's on view in Obomsawin's film makes us want it to happen nevertheless.

Top: Vile Canuck Bureaucrat (is there any other kind?)
Below: The True Heroes of every living Canadian
The core of the film involves a re-enactment of the 1905 signing of the James Bay Treaty (aka Treaty No. 9) in Moose Factory, Ontario. Presided over by the brainchild of this event, the late, great Dr. Stan Louttit, Grand Chief of the Mushkegowuk Tribal Council, presents some of the most damning evidence of Canada's wilful apartheid and genocide (take your pick, Canada's done both) against our First Nations.

One of the earliest 20th Century Canadian Nazis was a petty bureaucrat (bureaucrats are the pathetic dweebs who implement the desires of our foul politicians) who rose to power within the Department of Indian Affairs to eventually become its Obergruppenführer. In the film, Louttit brings our attention to Scott's evil when he reads the following words of the foul bureaucrat:
"I want to get rid of the Indian problem. I do not think as a matter of fact, that the country ought to continuously protect a class of people who are able to stand alone… Our objective is to continue until there is not a single Indian in Canada that has not been absorbed into the body politic . . ."
These are the words with which Scott extolled the virtues of Residential Schools - a horrendous program that forcibly wrenched over 150,000 Native Canadian children from their families and homes, shoving them into boarding schools designed to break their spirit and remove all vestiges of their culture from their hearts and minds. To do this involved physical and psychological abuse that was little more than torture. There was, of course, the added rampant sexual abuse, all of it perpetrated in the de rigueur fashion by - no surprise - Catholic nuns and priests.

So get this, in the film, Louttit exposes the fact that Scott, this paragon of forced assimilation, was also one of the chief bureaucrats present during the signing of the notorious James Bay Treaty where he and several others outright lied to the Native leaders about the content of the treaty and created an entire facade by which the First Nations representatives signed a document based on what the bureaucrats assured them was in the treaty as opposed to what was actually there. Louttit also exposes documentation which proves this fraud was perpetrated beyond any shadow of a doubt, so no matter what physically exists on paper in the treaty itself, the fact remains that the treaty the Chiefs signed is ultimately the treaty imparted to them verbally.

Native culture was rooted in an oral tradition and as such, especially during the time the treaty was presented, means VERY CLEARLY that the LIES of those Canadian politicians and bureaucrats present at the signing (all representing Mother England, our ruler) must, in fact, be taken as the ACTUAL TRUTH. The signatures of the Chiefs are actually "marks" (usually a single "X") since the men who signed the treaties could not read or write English and had to depend upon the aforementioned politicians and bureaucrats to tell them verbally what they were signing.

This powerful core of Obomsawin's film is deftly woven into the harrowing hunger strike implemented by Attawapiskat Chief Theresa Spence who went on a six-week-long liquids-only program to demand a meeting with Chancellor Harper and Canada's Governor General David Johnston to address a variety of issues related to treaty rights and the economic, cultural and societal plight Native Canadians find themselves in because of said treaties like James Bay. Obomsawin also includes a pointed Native Studies lecture dealing with the exploitative aspects of Treaty No. 9 and an astonishing, by-foot journey undertaken by several young Native men across Ontario's icy tundras from the far north to Ottawa itself.

And what of Chancellor Harper in all of this? It's what he chooses not to do that's the most egregious action. Looming in the backdrop of many of the activities is the symbol of Canadian evil, the Parliament Buildings, our very own Reichstagsgebäude. Harper is nestled safely within and yet a woman is potentially dying at his feet, thousands of men and women are gathered and even engaging in several spectacular displays of Native culture and then, several young, brave men have travelled by foot, thousands of miles to be in Ottawa.

Where the fuck is Chancellor Harper? Would it have been too much for him to make a few public appearances and say a few words to the assembled (no matter how empty they would have been)? He's simply nowhere to be seen, nor heard from throughout the range of spectacular, impressive and deeply moving events captured by Obomsawin's film (including a monumental circle dance involving hundreds of people).

Trick or Treaty? was produced by the National Film Board of Canada. It's somehow ironic that Harper, in his continued assault upon Canadian culture, is continually destroying the fabric of our cultural institutions and his vehement financial dismantlement of the Board itself is something we might, as a nation, never fully recover from.

At the end of her film, Obomsawin leaves us with a montage that's as heart-lifting as it's heartbreaking. It includes the powerful words of John Trudell. I'll leave you now, with the refrain:

Crazy Horse
We Hear what you say
One Earth, one Mother
One does not sell the Earth
The people walk upon
We are the land
How do we sell our Mother ?
How do we sell the stars ?
How do we sell the air ?

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

Trick or Treaty? plays at PLANET IN FOCUS, the 15th annual environmental film festival in Toronto. Obomsawin will be present for the screening. If you haven't seen it, don't miss it. If you HAVE seen it, see it again. For further information, visit the festival's website by clicking HERE.



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Sunday, 7 September 2014

TRICK OR TREATY? - TIFF 2014 - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Politely Canadian Apartheid

Chancellor Stephen Harper is the most insidious
of all Canadian Colonial Backwater Prime Ministers
in the "polite" genocide of our First Nations people.
Heil Canada! Heil Old Money! Heil Der Führer!
Heil Harper!
Trick or Treaty?
Dir. Alanis Obomsawin

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There are many things that disgust Canadians about Chancellor Stephen Harper, but for me, the worst is his refusal to properly deal with the egregious theft of Aboriginal Rights during the signing of the notorious James Bay Treaty, as well as the veritable litany of horrendously callous issues related to our First Nations People that he simply chooses to ignore. (The epidemic of murdered and missing Native women, anyone?) As the most vile Prime Minister in Canadian history (and we've had quite a few contenders for that dubious distinction in the Dominion of Canada), his record and public stance on the Native People of our country goes well beyond the pale. This pathetic Cowboy Hitler takes the cake.

Alanis Obomsawin's important body of work, including her new film Trick or Treaty?, confirms that Canada has always been the most insidious colonial backwater of them all and the genocide it continues to perpetrate upon our First Nations is perfectly in keeping with the country's sickeningly polite approach to decimating those who would dare get in the way of Old Money's needs to keep amassing money by just taking it (tactfully, graciously and ever-so sneakily, of course). Obmosawin's new documentary focuses upon a massive peaceful protest in Ottawa, the nation's capitol, that was designed to force Chancellor Harper (and, of course, the Governor General who represents the British Monarchy) to meet face-to-face with those First Nations Chiefs most affected by the over-100-year-old treaty which was designed and implemented to steal land and not allow any meaningful sharing in the decision-making process of dealing with said land.

The result of the James Bay Treaty has been abject poverty, skyrocketing rates of suicide and environmental destruction, all of which affects not just our Aboriginal brothers and sisters, but ALL Canadians. What affects the original inhabitants of this land IS our responsibility, but most of all, when any members of our nation are hard done by, our only real choice is to ensure our elected officials and bureaucrats are going to do the right thing.

Harper and his party of Totalitarian knuckle-draggers could care less. The power of this film is seeing the efforts of Native People trying to get him to address the problem - to give him a shot at something resembling redemption. We know in our heart of hearts it won't happen, but what's on view in Obomsawin's film makes us want it to happen nevertheless.

Top: Vile Canuck Bureaucrat (is there any other kind?)
Below: The True Heroes of every living Canadian
The core of the film involves a re-enactment of the 1905 signing of the James Bay Treaty (aka Treaty No. 9) in Moose Factory, Ontario. Presided over by the brainchild of this event, the late, great Dr. Stan Louttit, Grand Chief of the Mushkegowuk Tribal Council, presents some of the most damning evidence of Canada's wilful apartheid and genocide (take your pick, Canada's done both) against our First Nations.

One of the earliest 20th Century Canadian Nazis was a petty bureaucrat (bureaucrats are the pathetic dweebs who implement the desires of our foul politicians) who rose to power within the Department of Indian Affairs to eventually become its Obergruppenführer. In the film, Louttit brings our attention to Scott's evil when he reads the following words of the foul bureaucrat:
"I want to get rid of the Indian problem. I do not think as a matter of fact, that the country ought to continuously protect a class of people who are able to stand alone… Our objective is to continue until there is not a single Indian in Canada that has not been absorbed into the body politic . . ."
These are the words with which Scott extolled the virtues of Residential Schools - a horrendous program that forcibly wrenched over 150,000 Native Canadian children from their families and homes, shoving them into boarding schools designed to break their spirit and remove all vestiges of their culture from their hearts and minds. To do this involved physical and psychological abuse that was little more than torture. There was, of course, the added rampant sexual abuse, all of it perpetrated in the de rigueur fashion by - no surprise - Catholic nuns and priests.

So get this, in the film, Louttit exposes the fact that Scott, this paragon of forced assimilation, was also one of the chief bureaucrats present during the signing of the notorious James Bay Treaty where he and several others outright lied to the Native leaders about the content of the treaty and created an entire facade by which the First Nations representatives signed a document based on what the bureaucrats assured them was in the treaty as opposed to what was actually there. Louttit also exposes documentation which proves this fraud was perpetrated beyond any shadow of a doubt, so no matter what physically exists on paper in the treaty itself, the fact remains that the treaty the Chiefs signed is ultimately the treaty imparted to them verbally.

Native culture was rooted in an oral tradition and as such, especially during the time the treaty was presented, means VERY CLEARLY that the LIES of those Canadian politicians and bureaucrats present at the signing (all representing Mother England, our ruler) must, in fact, be taken as the ACTUAL TRUTH. The signatures of the Chiefs are actually "marks" (usually a single "X") since the men who signed the treaties could not read or write English and had to depend upon the aforementioned politicians and bureaucrats to tell them verbally what they were signing.

This powerful core of Obomsawin's film is deftly woven into the harrowing hunger strike implemented by Attawapiskat Chief Theresa Spence who went on a six-week-long liquids-only program to demand a meeting with Chancellor Harper and Canada's Governor General David Johnston to address a variety of issues related to treaty rights and the economic, cultural and societal plight Native Canadians find themselves in because of said treaties like James Bay. Obomsawin also includes a pointed Native Studies lecture dealing with the exploitative aspects of Treaty No. 9 and an astonishing, by-foot journey undertaken by several young Native men across Ontario's icy tundras from the far north to Ottawa itself.

And what of Chancellor Harper in all of this? It's what he chooses not to do that's the most egregious action. Looming in the backdrop of many of the activities is the symbol of Canadian evil, the Parliament Buildings, our very own Reichstagsgebäude. Harper is nestled safely within and yet a woman is potentially dying at his feet, thousands of men and women are gathered and even engaging in several spectacular displays of Native culture and then, several young, brave men have travelled by foot, thousands of miles to be in Ottawa.

Where the fuck is Chancellor Harper? Would it have been too much for him to make a few public appearances and say a few words to the assembled (no matter how empty they would have been)? He's simply nowhere to be seen, nor heard from throughout the range of spectacular, impressive and deeply moving events captured by Obomsawin's film (including a monumental circle dance involving hundreds of people).

Trick or Treaty? was produced by the National Film Board of Canada. It's somehow ironic that Harper, in his continued assault upon Canadian culture, is continually destroying the fabric of our cultural institutions and his vehement financial dismantlement of the Board itself is something we might, as a nation, never fully recover from.

At the end of her film, Obomsawin leaves us with a montage that's as heart-lifting as it's heartbreaking. It includes the powerful words of John Trudell. I'll leave you now, with the refrain:

Crazy Horse
We Hear what you say
One Earth, one Mother
One does not sell the Earth
The people walk upon
We are the land
How do we sell our Mother ?
How do we sell the stars ?
How do we sell the air ?

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

Trick or Treaty? enjoys its World Premiere at the 2014 Toronto International Film Festival. For further information, visit the festival's website by clicking HERE.



PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS ABOVE OR BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER.

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Thursday, 31 July 2014

ROAD TO PALOMA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - A haunting and lyrical directorial debut by actor Jason Momoa


The great cinematic spirit of 70s existential male angst lives in Momoa's directorial debut.

Father (Wes Studi) & Son (Jason Momoa)
Road to Paloma (2014) ****
Dir. Jason Momoa
Starring: Jason Momoa, Robert Mollohan, Wes Studi, Timothy V. Murphy, Charlie Brumbly, Lisa Bonet, Sarah Shahi

Review By Greg Klymkiw
"The government did not pursue rape charges on [Native American] reservations 65% of the time last year and rejected 61% of cases involving charges of sexual abuse of children..."
- THE NEW YORK TIMES, February 20th, 2012

BORN TO BE wild FREE!
Set against the backdrop of America's continued apartheid and genocide against its indigenous Native Peoples, actor Jason Momoa (Game of Thrones) delivers an extremely promising directorial debut with this powerful and cerebral tale of a young man who has extracted justice on his mother's behalf after the law fails to do so. Robert Wolf (Momoa) has already committed his act of vengeance before the film has begun (we experience bits of it in flashback at later junctures), so make no mistake, this is not a vigilante picture in any sense of the word.

Cleverly utilizing the tropes of westerns, biker pictures (notably Easy Rider) and the 70s genre of existential male angst, the picture (written by Momoa and his co-star Robert Mollohan) centres on the final activities of a man who senses that his own end will result in physical pain, incarceration and possibly even death, but in the days leading up to meeting with fate, he seeks both redemption and the opportunity to scatter his mother's ashes in a sacred place that binds her spirit (and his) to the natural world.

Robert is wanted by the law for murdering the man who trespassed onto the reservation, then raped and beat his mother to death (so severely she was facially unrecognizable). Robert's father Numay (Wes Studi) is a local cop and though he's wracked with guilt for being on the job during the horrific crime, he's even more devastated (albeit silently) that he placed his faith in the judicial system. The system, as it so often does, fails the Native People who live on the reservations. Well, it fails them - period, but that's another story.

The perpetrator is never brought to trial, spends one year awaiting official prosecution, then, like so many other White Men charged with vicious crimes against Native women, he's released. Numay sadly accepts this as the Status Quo. Robert does not. The result is that the long arm of the law, which does virtually nothing for Native victims of crime, spends an awful lot of time, money and resources to hunt down Robert for his "crime". Though Robert's a wanted man, Chuck (Charlie Brumbly), the local F.B.I. liaison twixt the Bureau and the reservation, well-knows the score and has intentionally "fucked the dog" on this matter. Kelly (an appropriately smarmy Lance Henriksen cameo) is one mean-ass Bureau head honcho who wants this "murderer" caught, so he enlists Williams (Timothy V. Kelly), his best agent and an even bigger-and-meaner-ass prick than he is to hightail it down there to extract "justice".

Robert's not too phased about any of this. He's come to town to pick up his Mom's ashes for a 500-mile-long odyssey "in-country" where he suspects he'll be unmolested until he can deal with his Mom's spirit-journey. Momoa, as a director, excels at capturing the spirit, architecture, people and topography of the town outside the reservation. It's a one-horse town replete with crumbling old service stations, a sleazy strip club, a country-and-western bar and a whole lot of rednecks, whores and tough-guys. That said, not a single one of them will tussle with Robert. He's more than earned their respect. The same can't be said for his old buddy Cash (co-writer Robert Homer Mollohan), an alcoholic musician who has a bad habit of picking fights he could only win if he was sober.

Soon, the two men are on their motorcycles and blasting free and clear along the highways of America's Southwest and here's yet another superb sequence beautifully handled by Momoa, the director. With cinematographer Brian Andrew Mendoza, he's created an indelible look at reservation life, small town sleaze and now, the film settles almost completely into a state of zen-sickle-ridin' with stunning vistas, gorgeous sunsets and hell, even Monument Valley (a clear nod to John Ford - the legendary director who both exploited images of Native People and eventually made the necessary amends to render works of genuine power).

What I loved most about this movie is that it has so many opportunities to deliver standard cat-and-mouse thrills, chases, action scenes and unbearable tension. It finally, offers, only a smidgen of that. The movie excels as cinematic tone poem - a tribute to land, freedom and at the same time, an elegy to a world destroyed by colonial forces, one that still suffers under the weight of these shackles of a Status Quo that works only for the "ruling class". Momoa himself knows something about this as his blood mixes two very colonized racial ethnicities - part Hawaiian, part Native American. He not only serves as a terrific leading man (he's intense and gorgeous), but he elicits a whole whack of fine performances from his entire cast - especially Wes Studi, who's great as always. It's also wonderful seeing Lisa Bonet again on a big screen - she's gorgeous and a fine actress - and in his own way, Mollohan as Momoa's sidekick, conjures up the spirit of a somewhat kinder, gentler Dennis Hopper.

Road to Paloma is clearly a deep, profound and reflective work. Yes, it meanders, yes it's sometimes too cerebral, yes, it might have been nice if Momoa had subscribed to genre a bit more vigorously, but this is a world and issue that's too often ignored by mainstream cinema. There is, however, one sequence which delivers the goods on straight-up brutal action and we do get a chance to experience an illegal, hidden-from-the-world no-holds-barred fighting match (similar to the one Walter Hill explored in his 70s - 'natch - classic Hard Times, with Charles Bronson and James Coburn). Momoa also offers a genuinely tense climax. It's as inevitable, as it's shattering and is directed with the kind of panache that suggests even greater things from him.

Shockingly, the film bears the imprimatur of the film production division of WWE - yup, World Wrestling Entertainment. Rather than supporting a straight-up genre picture with one or several of its wrasslin' stars, they've backed the work of someone who's a genuine artist and has made a picture that's actually about something. That said, WWE recently secured the brilliant Canadian film artists Sylvia and Jen Soska to direct a picture, so that they backed Momoa in his desire to create a stunning, poetic movie that's alternately joyous and heartbreaking, is perhaps not too much of a stretch, after all.

In the 70s, a picture like Momoa's would have been green-lit by the studios, but these days, it takes truly independent visionaries to back work by equally visionary artists. Big business as pro wrestling is, there's always been a strange sense of independent spirit to their world. Supporting a movie about the independent spirit of America's Southwestern Aboriginal People seems to have made for a pair of very happy bedfellows.

Road To Paloma is available on a gorgeous new Blu-Ray from Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada and Anchor Bay Films (WWE's partner on the presentation of this film). For those who especially love the 70s-style angst of manly-man work like The Gambler, The Last Detail, Your Three Minutes Are Up, etc. this is a definite keeper. My only quibble is the lack of extra features. There's one deleted scene which is excellent, and interestingly offers something that was wisely omitted from the final film, in spite of its quality. That, however, is it. I'd have loved a commentary track from Momoa, maybe one that was moderated by an academic critic in areas of cinematic representation of Native Peoples. Given the film and the subject matter, this would have been a perfect capper to a really fine film in an exquisitely transferred Blu-Ray. Ah well, who the fuck am I? I didn't produce the damn home entertainment release. Though more and more, I think I should, or at least someone who loves MOVIES as much as I do. [insert smiley face here]

Feel free to order Anchor Bay's Road to Paloma, the great Criterion Collection of 70s male existential angst (America: Lost and Found) and/or some fine literary discourse on Native Issues by Emma LaRocque and others, directly from the Amazon links below (and in so doing, you'll be supporting the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner).







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