The Hot Button by David Poland

"It was also interesting to see the beautiful Bonham Carter look a bit too skinny next to the fit but fuller figured and also beautiful Gina McKee. One stereotype about Brit flicks vs. American is true. They do indulge a wider range of physical beauty."

Running the gauntlet of publicists with the goal of speaking to two directors whose films I felt passionate about here at the festival (Errol Morris and Catherine Breillat) meant intentionally walking into two movies today of which I knew I could only see 15-20 minutes going in. I hate that. And I avoided that assiduously earlier in the festival. Not today. Likewise, I booked interviews in 20 minute slots which I should know by now, could never be done in 20 minutes. I had no idea that I was interviewing two great talkers, which made the time limit even more worthless. On top of that, I mentioned Errol Morris' The Thin Blue Line to Errol Morris, knowing as the words came out of my mouth that I had renamed his great and classic documentary. (Red! Red! Red!) And Ms. Breillat's translator wasn't really good at translating me to her with the inherent subtext in my questions. My interviewing style is to ask complex questions which the interviewee can take in a lot of directions. Then, I try to surf their answers. I couldn't quite do that while being translated. And, in fact, I think Ms. Breillat got a bit irritated as she seemed to be indulging some questions which I simply had not asked. (For instance, I tried to ask a question about the emotional reaction of men to the sex in the film and got an answer about the movie not being about sex. I knew that. That's why I asked the question.) I will be having a transcriber who can translate do the transcript so that I can be 100% sure I am giving you a precise translation of Ms. Breillat's thoughts. I consider her a genius and her work terribly important, so I don't want to deliver any words of hers that may not be precisely her words.

The Morris interview, which I will have up on the site by late next week, ended up focusing almost exclusively on the one issue I expressed concern with yesterday: Will this film be embraced by Holocaust groups with the ferocity it deserves. Errol left no doubt that I was making him a bit nervous, thinking that I was looking to stir up trouble for his film. Quite the contrary. My only worry for this film is that there will be objections to its sophistication in denying the denial of the Jewish Holocaust. Errol was quite clear in saying that he films the movie so as to leave no room for any conversation about the deniers being right in any way. But again, I feel that we live in a culture today in which extremists need to vilify a man like Fred Leuchter beyond any hint of humanity. And what does not vilify is somehow not aggressive enough. Leuchter is a very human fool. But is he a villain? I think he is all too human for that. And there is the rub. The very point that Morris makes is one that I fear he will be hurt by within extremist groups.

And one last point on Mr. Death. Like all of Errol Morris' films, it is compelling, engrossing and entertaining whether the subject is important to you or not. I had no idea that the Holocaust had anything to do with this film until the second act or so. And I was thoroughly engrossed. Don't let Holocaust Movie Fatigue Syndrome keep you away from this movie.

After booking myself for 30 minutes and the interview starting 10 minutes late and Errol having more to say than 20 minutes could hold (I get the sense a 90 minute Q&A would be a good start), I was late for my next interview. I rescheduled, so I had a little time. It had been my original intention to see the 93 minute long Women Talking Dirty from director Coky Giedroyc. I saw the first 20 minutes. Not nearly enough to give a review. One thing I can say. The spiky hair that Helena Bonham Carter was running around with for a while there looks as great on film as it didn't in life. It was also interesting to see the beautiful Bonham Carter look a bit too skinny next to the fit but fuller figured and also beautiful Gina McKee. One stereotype about Brit flicks vs. American is true. They do indulge a wider range of physical beauty. (And just when I thought America was returning to sanity, the ABC report on breast implants with a six month pump-based size adjustment period makes me sick yet again. As Leno said, "If you thought guys wouldn't stop messing with the remote control...")

I left Women Talking Dirty to check out 20 minutes of This Year's Love, which is rumored to be on the edge of a sale to a distributor. This too was a Brit flick, though loaded with Scot accents. And it too was a bunch of wacky and wonderfully eccentric 30-somethings looking for love. Like the first film, I didn't see enough to offer a review, but what I did see compelled me. Especially the performance of Catherine McCormack, who seemed to be overcoming her beauty for the first time for real. (No glasses, no dressing down. Just a simple, pretty woman.) Dougray Scott, who I wrote about barely recognizing in Gregory's Two Girls, was more memorable and seemed to exude some real movie star charm. (It was also the first time I could really imagine him as Wolverine.) The great Kathy Burke got a chance to play a romantic role instead of a shrew, which is a welcome change for an incredibly talented actress. I am told there are other strong performances, but I didn't even have enough time to get a good taste of them.

I had to return to Catherine Breillat. And I was so happy to do that. I am now a huge fan of a woman I already admired for her writing on 38 Fillette. I wrote about her film, Romance, two days ago and whenever I think of the film, I am flushed with thoughts and images and all the shocks that human flesh is heir to. (That sounds familiar.) As I wrote before, the interview was not everything I hoped for because we could not communicate as easily as I might have hoped. However, she did tell me that some women in France had violent reactions to the film, angry that it exposed the "secrets" of women and she showed me an article in which a Paris Match writer compared 38 Fillette to Aliens, monster-to-monster. (An absurdity.) She also admitted that some in France were confused about the film because she cast a male porn star in one of the roles. But ultimately, she explained, the film is not about sex, but about power and isolation. She also explained that the reason the men have little depth in the film is that they are just "sign posts on the road to the woman's self-discovery." Fair enough.

There was something remarkable about looking into the eyes of this fiercely intelligent woman as she spoke, even as we could not understand exactly what we were saying to one another. She looks a bit like a dark haired Blythe Danner, so if we want a Little French Gwynnie, we'll have to hope her lover is a Norseman. All I can hope for is more female filmmakers as absolutely fearless as Catherine Breillat. In the meantime, let's not lose sight of incredibly promising voices like Audrey Wells, whose Guinevere played here at the festival after Sundance, where I saw it and absolutely loved it.

I went from Catherine The Great to Jesus' Son, a film that created some positive word-of-mouth at Telluride. That didn't keep me from missing it. Nor did it keep my exhaustion from overwhelming me a number of times during the film. I nodded in and out during the screening. That didn't keep me from being very impressed by Billy Crudup's work. Or Samantha Morton's work. But I felt disconnected by the style of the film. And my sleep. I hope to see the film again to give it a full review and its due as the hard work of a lot of people.

But the upside of the nap was that it left me wide awake for Grass, the new documentary from Ron Mann about (duh!) marijuana. Some of you may remember Mann's Comic Book Confidential, released in 1988. I liked that film, but I thought it was short of a home run because it just didn't quite pop. This one does. It is as though Mann realized where he was and doubled the volume. Mann's style may be the most hyperactive of all documentarians. Bold colors. Big graphics. Fun music. There is nothing held back. And he holds it to a crisp 90 minutes, never laying too heavily on any issue, never giving the audience a moment to head for the bathroom or concession stand. And the narration by (of course) Woody Harrelson never loses its way or becomes preachy. If you want to know why marijuana is such an issue in this country, this movie will tell you. Are you worried that this film will encourage kids to smoke dope? Well, let me tell you a little story. I am not a marijuana user. I was a non-imbiber in Junior High and then became "the guy who doesn't do that." So I never developed the taste. But this movie makes me want to start lighting up. First, it makes a great argument for the joy of joints. And then, it makes me feel like it is my political duty not to sit on the fence. There is no question that there are far too many people in jail in this country for something that is comparable to alcohol and probably less damaging. So, I have an obligation here. I don't want to do it, but...

NOTE: No one at TNT or any Time-Warner Company would ever indulge in illegal substances or suggest that anyone else should, lest the skies open and the guilty be immediately sent to Hell. Now don't tell us later that nobody warned you.

There was one more film on my schedule for the day. Anyone who suffered through Stepmom, as I did, has to be a little afraid of a Susan Sarandon and daughter movie, right? So, Natalie Portman or not (Jena Malone, who was in Stepmom, is certainly an actress equal to any), director Wayne Wang or not, Anywhere But Here felt a lot like a gamble. Kind of like Jakob The Liar, which I hope to see tomorrow. Robin Williams and sympathetic characters seem dangerous about now.

One of the stories of this festival has been the weak display by the big commercial films. American Beauty was a triumph. But outside of that, it's been Snow Falling On Cedars, Cider House Rules, Ride With The Devil, Dogma, Felicia's Journey and Mumford all stuck in neutral for most critics and, apparently, for real festivalgoers alike. And here comes Fox, riding yet another great year at the box office to a clear lead as the most profitable studio, regardless of total overall grosses (an often cited figure that has become absolutely meaningless). And now, they have the clearest shot at a big commercial hit shown so far at this festival.

Anywhere But Here is a wonderful, small, gentle movie about a woman and her daughter trying to survive each other, themselves and, finally, the world. This is not an abuse movie. This is not an ugly story. And it doesn't have the clever kinks of some of the great films made by women or starring women in the leads that were seen here and at Sundance this year, including Tumbleweeds, Guinevere, Coming Soon, Romance, But I'm A Cheerleader and others. But it is lyrical and beautiful and offers a top-of-her-game performance by Susan Sarandon and the best-role-meets-best-performance work of Natalie Portman. It is almost the anti-Stepmom. Everytime you expect a crescendo, you get a quiet moment. Every time you expect the same old same old, you get a slight variation on the theme that still has feeling, but doesn't manipulate you like a puppet on an emotional string. I must admit, I was always waiting for the big dramatic moments, but instead we get real human beings.

This movie will be yet another test. I don't know how clean and slick the TV advertising can be. This film doesn't have a lot of slick moments. It doesn't even bother to obsess on the time of the narrative. The film takes place over about three years, but it isn't about any time. It's about the pain of growing up, whether you are 14 or 38. It's about the twists and turns of the closest of relationships even when you wish they were the most distant. It may leave you wanting a little more, but what you get will stick. And that's a warm feeling.

Also, keep in mind that Music of My Heart, which still may be Miramax's big Oscar® run movie (they still have, they hope, The Talented Mr. Ripley ready in the wings in time for a quick holiday release, if necessary), is opening here tomorrow and I still haven't seen Jakob The Liar, so there could be other hits that fit. But I was shocked by Anywhere But Here. Very pleasantly.

Then I returned to my hotel room to a whole different kind of Fox-based cursing. The new show about Hollywood, "Action", premiered. Just remember. If you want a whole load of publicity and no ratings, do a show about Hollywood. After all the hype, which broke through my festival cone of hype silence, the show was a raging disappointment. Not only didn't I laugh out loud once, but I would say, like Dogma, it was shockingly tame. And the bleeping of foul language is completely uninteresting and not remotely compelling. How is it that it works well on "South Park" and not at all on "Action"? Probably because the bleeped out cursing on "South Park" isn't gratuitous and unfunny. To extend the comparison, if you saw "Action" without the bleeps, it probably wouldn't be any more fun. "South Park", as anyone who saw the feature film could tell you, used its freedom to swear to great, great effect. The problem with almost all one-camera comedies is tone and "Action" suffers from having an unclear one. Is it real or is it satire? When Jay Mohr's character tells Illeana Douglas' actress/prostitute "Thanks for the sex" as she heads to the door, it is as though the show can't decide to really play the laugh (she barely notices the comment) or to milk it like a TV show (he calls to her, stops her and she reacts a little). The writer wrote a tough, coarse joke and the director softened it to a non-joke.

Okay. Enough about Fox. A reader recommended Rol San here in Toronto's Chinatown. Great call. Thanks. And tomorrow night, I will actually party a little. Woo woo! Cubans for everyone! (Actually, free lobster for 300.) Until then...

READER OF THE DAY: From Racer X: "Both The Best Man and The Wood are definitely made for black audiences, and are certainly primarily about black culture. To give either of these films the compliment of being "universal" or about "all of us" is complete horses**t. Both are toney, polished minstrel shows about cool affluent blacks, the primary purpose of which is to project cool lifestyles and make the point that these well-to-do, hip, poised, good-looking blacks aren't gang-bangers.

Fact is, these movies themselves are racist, in a "positive" role-model way. I'm not afraid to be un-p.c. and tell the truth about these things. Spike himself used the term "minstrel shows" to describe goofy black comedies like Booty Call that star blacks but are funded by whites and meant for whites. The Wood and The Best Man are essentially advertisements for upwardly mobile blacks, with the intention of making the statement that hip, with-it, upwardly mobile, good-looking, well-dressed, well-spoken blacks about town can be just as bland and innocuous as any similar "romantic-but-introspective" film starring Jennifer Anniston or Sandra Bullock or Drew Barrymore. The invisible sub-title of The Best Man is "we not only got game -- we got clothes and high-limit credit cards and sophisticated taste in restaurants!" All these things are fine in themselves -- I've got good taste in restaurants myself, or at least I like to think so -- but the superficial in The Best Man and The Wood pretty much rules. Black and White is much more real and down-to-it than either of them. The fact that it was directed by a smart New York Jew shouldn't give you or anyone else the slightest pause. It doesn't me, I can tell you. Because I am standing in a 7-11 store and not deciphering racial realities and empty, superficial posturing through an ivory-tower p.c. prism. I alone have the courage to call a spade a spade."

E ME: Okay gang...who is the idiot, me or the ROTD? Feel free to make it me if you feel that way. I am comfortable with my convictions. And I will forward your mail to this occasional reader if you like. So let us have it.