Bad Timing (1980)
dir: Nicolas Roeg
If you’re lucky enough to be someone who occasionally finds themselves involved in romantic relationships, then chances are that you’re unlucky enough to be someone who also occasionally finds themselves in romantic relationships that suck balls. The oddest and most seemingly unfair aspect of such relationships is that they almost always begin as the best ones. Or, at the very least, the most passionate (and by that I mean “sexy”). As the proverbial saying goes, “It takes two to tango.” So it’s always impossible to place the blame solely on either individual party for letting what was once a dimly-lit, soft-focus, sweaty sex party nosedive into a no-holds-barred, plate-throwing orgy of carefully-planned insults and inappropriately-timed digs at one another’s most secret and shameful weaknesses. Of course, if you’re anything like me, you usually choose to ignore that time-honored saying and feel perfectly comfortable placing all of the blame on someone else. Also if you’re like me (i.e. not a necrophilia-minded rapist), you’ve never managed to find yourself in the crumbling aftermath of a relationship quite as fucked up as the one in this film. Nicolas Roeg is a bit of an underrated mastermind. Dude has two Criterion releases under his belt but still remains a relatively unfamiliar name to film lovers both casual and dedicated. A lot of that probably has to do with his eventual foray into the world of unremarkable softcore trifles, but he certainly had his own unique talents for much of his career, beginning with his spectacular work as a cinematographer. Known for his unusual (to say the least) style of editing and time-displacement, and an uncanny ability to cast strikingly unattractive male weirdos (Donald Sutherland, Mick Jagger, fucking Art Garfunkel!!!) in roles that feature lots of probably unsimulated and surprisingly graphic sex acts, Roeg briefly carved a name for himself with films such as Walkabout (1971), Don’t Look Now (‘73), The Man Who Fell to Earth (‘76), and this one. Controversial upon release, and still shocking by today’s hypocritically sex-obsessed yet morally dogmatic and subtly repressive studio standards, the film does quite a nice job of portraying a relationship that starts out mysterious and exciting, gradually devolves into miscommunication and unmet expectations, and finally explodes with a chilling final revelation that could legitimately creep out Bela Lugosi’s scrotum. Especially worth watching if you’ve ever felt guilty about how a relationship ended. Trust Nicolas Roeg; it could have been a lot worse.
READ MORE BELOW THE BREAK ————>
Bad Timing (1980)
dir: Nicolas Roeg
If you’re lucky enough to be someone who occasionally finds themselves involved in romantic relationships, then chances are that you’re unlucky enough to be someone who also occasionally finds themselves in romantic relationships that suck balls. The oddest and most seemingly unfair aspect of such relationships is that they almost always begin as the best ones. Or, at the very least, the most passionate (and by that I mean “sexy”). As the proverbial saying goes, “It takes two to tango.” So it’s always impossible to place the blame solely on either individual party for letting what was once a dimly-lit, soft-focus, sweaty sex party nosedive into a no-holds-barred, plate-throwing orgy of carefully-planned insults and inappropriately-timed digs at one another’s most secret and shameful weaknesses. Of course, if you’re anything like me, you usually choose to ignore that time-honored saying and feel perfectly comfortable placing all of the blame on someone else. Also if you’re like me (i.e. not a necrophilia-minded rapist), you’ve never managed to find yourself in the crumbling aftermath of a relationship quite as fucked up as the one in this film. Nicolas Roeg is a bit of an underrated mastermind. Dude has two Criterion releases under his belt but still remains a relatively unfamiliar name to film lovers both casual and dedicated. A lot of that probably has to do with his eventual foray into the world of unremarkable softcore trifles, but he certainly had his own unique talents for much of his career, beginning with his spectacular work as a cinematographer. Known for his unusual (to say the least) style of editing and time-displacement, and an uncanny ability to cast strikingly unattractive male weirdos (Donald Sutherland, Mick Jagger, fucking Art Garfunkel!!!) in roles that feature lots of probably unsimulated and surprisingly graphic sex acts, Roeg briefly carved a name for himself with films such as Walkabout (1971), Don’t Look Now (‘73), The Man Who Fell to Earth (‘76), and this one. Controversial upon release, and still shocking by today’s hypocritically sex-obsessed yet morally dogmatic and subtly repressive studio standards, the film does quite a nice job of portraying a relationship that starts out mysterious and exciting, gradually devolves into miscommunication and unmet expectations, and finally explodes with a chilling final revelation that could legitimately creep out Bela Lugosi’s scrotum. Especially worth watching if you’ve ever felt guilty about how a relationship ended. Trust Nicolas Roeg; it could have been a lot worse.
READ MORE BELOW THE BREAK ————>
Alamar (2009)
dir: Pedro Gonzalez-Rubio
Pedro Gonzalez-Rubio is, I believe, mostly known as a documentary filmmaker. I’ve never seen any of his documentaries, but I honestly feel as though Alamar itself should be counted among them. About ten minutes into the film, it becomes obvious that this is the work of a filmmaker less concerned with presenting any notion of escapist storytelling than he is with simply stepping back and observing life as it exists in specific times and locations. There are millions of different ways to enjoy (or suffer through) the human experience, and this film simply presents one of them in a carefully-lensed and quietly observant manner. The wispy outline of a plot centers around a young fisherman who lives on an island somewhere off the coast of Mexico as he spends some quality time with his young son, who usually lives with his mother, and is soon to be living for an undisclosed period of time in far-off Italy. And that’s pretty much it. I’ll go ahead and throw some buzzwords out there so you can get a better idea of what to expect from this film: tender, respectful, unobtrusive, natural, languid, tranquility, family, fishguts, etc. This is essentially home-video footage of a father and son interacting and enjoying what amounts to an extremely different pace of life than what most of us are used to; assuming that said home-video was being shot by a professionally trained and immensely talented director. Brace yourself for some seriously drawn-out shots, though, as this is obviously a pace of life that isn’t for everyone. I thought it was some beautiful shit, but I’m also the kind of person who goes on a vacation and immediately decides that I want to live in whatever weird part of the world I had just spent some time dicking around. If you’re also that kind of person, or if you have a genuine interest in different ways of life, or if you couldn’t care less about any of that but you’re having a hard time falling asleep, peep this one. Bonus points for being the only movie I’ve ever seen where an adorable little boy and his equally adorable dad befriend a seriously cool egret. I challenge you to hate on that (it’s a trick challenge; you can’t do it!).
Winter’s Bone (2010)
dir: Debra Granik
I grew up in a seriously tiny town in southwestern VA, about an eyelash away from the West Virginia border. My family’s double-wide trailer (no shame in my game) was about ten miles from my elementary school, but I still sat on the school bus for roughly an hour every morning as we careened through some legitimately safety-challenged mountain roads to pick up hordes of filthy little childlike creatures. Said creatures lived in structures so geometrically challenged that it essentially amounted to magic that they even stood up at all. Of course, had I ever overcome my own irrational fear of these kids–which, in my defense, was primarily based on the absurdist intensity of their childhood racism, and the fact that they never referred to me as anything other than “faggot,” when even bothering to notice my presence at all–then I may have uncovered the Shakespearean levels of power struggle and exceptionally rich layers of personality that Debra Granik manages to find amongst a loosely-related “family” of meth producers living in what must be one of the poorest counties in rural America. But I doubt it. The kids on my bus were really, really dumb. Granik’s film is smart, though, and does a good job of presenting its characters and their very real story in a way that is not only refreshingly non-exploitative, but impressively good-natured in its ability to find the redeeming qualities of even the most seemingly villainous dregs of humanity that can only exist as they specifically do in such a remote and poverty-stricken corner of nowhere. Having grown up in similar surroundings, I can vouch for the accuracy of the film’s little touches, from the simple yet blunt and sometimes surprisingly sharp dialogue to the god-awful nu-metal horseshit that the main character’s best friend’s husband plays at full blast while his teenage wife takes care of the baby. These are real people with real problems, and the film grants them the respect that all real people deserve. It’s a nice change of pace from the usual Hollywood drivel about rich people doing rich people things and whining about their own self-generated rich people problems. Why the fuck does anyone care about them anyway? Is it some deeply ingrained sense of collective cultural masochism that we spend our few free moments obsessing over the superficially flashy mundane daily foibles of the few and the fabulous? Do yourself a favor and give this one a rental. It’s depressing, but it’s genuine. And that’s about as high of a praise that I can personally give to any form of art. Also, Teardrop FTW!
