Hey, sorry about that. Where were we? Oh right - sleeping off the last month, a largish chunk of which I dedicated, body and soul, to the seventeenth Philadelphia Film Festival.

I’m currently in day six of a grotesque fever which refuses to budge from my body - an ailment I accrued in the middle of a four-films-in-a-day gorging. Coincidence? Well, yes - it’s the violent changing of the weather that dun it, though it’s entirely possible, if not scientifically so, that it was the result of seeing too many goddamn movies. My count (drum roll): 81. Eighty-one. That’s including, mind, both the heavy screening deluge I went through prior to the festival and the festival itself. Still, though: ye gods. Dearest cinema: we need a break.

I have to say, though, this might not have been the year to really cut loose and break a record - my record. Of those eighty-one I only really flipped - as in batshit insane loved - well…none, sadly. I really, really, really liked about three or four. I really liked, with some reservations, a handful or two. I hated maybe ten. And the rest - as in, most of them - I found crushingly mediocre, which is somehow worst of all. Rather than inspire some passionate reaction, whether good or bad, I just busied myself forgetting about them immediately. Good thing I carry a notebook.

Here, then is my PFF ‘08 Top Ten, not including the Repertory (otherwise Blast of Silence, Like a Shooting Star and Violent Saturday might push out some modern day underdogs). For your delectation:

Bad Biology (Frank Henenlotter, USA)
Chop Shop (Ramin Bahrani, USA)
Edge of Heaven (Fatih Akin, Germany/Turkey)
Hori Smoku Sailor Jerry (Erich Weiss, USA)
I Just Didn’t Do It (Masayuki Suo, Japan)
In a Dream (Jeremiah Zagar, USA)
The New Year Parade (Tom Quinn, USA)
Phoebe in Wonderland (Daniel Barnz, USA)
The Sun Also Rises (Jiang Wen, China)
You the Living (Roy Andersson, Sweden)

Nothing to sneeze at: Baghead, Glass, Kenny, Land of Confusion, Lucky Miles, The Mugger, Night Train, Son of Rambow, Song Sung Blue

Worth, uh, sneezing at (because you sneeze at the things you hate, right? this metaphor is terrible): Brick Lane, Exodus, Help Me Eros, Jesus the Spirit of God, Mongol, Storm, The Visitor, Young@Heart

(By the way: a 3.09 for You the Living, general public? For shame.)

Other than grumbling about the many, many festival circuit notables that weren’t, for whatever reason, snatched up and brought to our city (you can see a no doubt incomplete list here), my main complaint, as I’ve carped previously, is the rise of video presentation. I understand it when it’s an actual independent film we’re talking about - no need to pony up the heinous fee to convert your video-shot movie to sparkling 35mm. But while I’m pleased as punch the fest nabbed California Dreamin’ and Alexandra, I’m decidedly less pleased that both were screened on video - California Dreamin’ on a motherfucking 2nd or 3rd generation dub, no less. Blast of Silence, meanwhile, was screened not only off of its new Criterion disc, but incorrectly cropped at 1.85, with the top slither of the image projecting on the ceiling. Roughly the same thing happened to the film-projected Bogie vehicle Deadline U.S.A., with tops of heads and hats chopped off by a projectionist who didn’t properly adjust for the 1.33 image. The PFF’s supposed to be eternally on the rise, no?

In any case, thanks to the programmers, the fest staff, the tons and tons of amazing volunteers and those who kept me up to my ears in screeners before things began. And thanks, of course, to those who read this blog and followed my increasingly frazzled mental state. Peace out, yo!

The fest officially wrapped up with an epic presentation running some 3 1/2 hours that culminated in a sing-along to “Because the Night.” Seriously.

First off, when it comes to awards I am dramatically out of step. No matter how many films I see - and I think this year is a record, the number pertaining to which I’m more than a little embarrassed to reveal - I somehow manage to miss all the award-gobblers. Ordinarily my reaction to most of the read names is a double take denoting vague unfamiliarity. Either that, or it’s a title I felt was crushingly mediocre and had already busied myself forgetting.

So I was a little taken aback when the award for the “Archie” - a trophy for best debut film, dedicated to the late, great Archie Perlmutter, and handed out by the simply great Ruth Perlmutter - goes to a movie I really, really, really liked: Daniel Barnz’s Phoebe in Wonderland, starring Elle Fanning, Felicity Huffman and Patricia Clarkson.

I’m also way rah-rah on the awards for In a Dream (First Film…from the festival jury, that is), Song Sung Blue (Documentary) and Chop Shop’s Ramin Bahrani (Director). I’m a bit less so for the ones handed to Nothing to Lose (Feature), the ham-handed Choose Connor (American Independent) and definitely the gimmicky and wan Universal Signs (Audience Award - like Homer Simpson says, democracy doesn’t work). As for those I didn’t catch, there’s the striking B&W Breakout (Animated Short), Vexille (Animated Feature - what, between this and Dead Fury?) and Body of War (Audience Documentary), which I somehow managed to completely and utterly overlook. Apparently it was co-directed by Phil Donahue. Yes, that one!

Then unspooled (on film!) Patti Smith: Dream of Life (Steven Sebring, USA). On one level I’m more than happy that the festival opted for an experimental documentary, particularly about someone more than a little prone to break into poetry that, at times, is more than a little annoying to anyone who’s not Patti Smith herself. I’m extra happy about the way it serves as a counterpoint to the Opening Night film Young@Heart, which is as crassly calculated and manipulative as this is uncompromisingly personal. On the other hand, this thing is way too long, which is just the start of it. Shot over twelve years on 16mm, most of it B&W, it’s clearly modeled after the Chet Baker film Let’s Get Lost: a fashion photographer taking a break from soulless paid work to gawk over their new best friend. (There’s even a cameo from Flea on a beach, which happened towards the beginning of Lost. Nice memory, huh?) The difference is that Lost was capturing the skeletal, near-death Baker whereas Smith is very much cognizant and still insanely charismatic. The film essentially feels not at all like someone’s interpretation of Smith than Smith’s perception of herself. With that comes no shortage of self-indulgence, including poetry and attempts at avant-garde cinema that seemed to funnel out more than a couple audience members per instance. Then again, it also captures her playful, laid-back and charming side, which brushes up nicely against her rage-filled concert side, as well as any of her other sides she lets be captured on film. This would have made a great 70 minute film; at 109, it’s a touch too personal.

Afterwards Smith showed up with her director for a Q&A then a three-song performance, during which came the aforementioned loogie and sing-a-long. I would’ve gone to the after party if it wasn’t for this goddamned sickness, but really, isn’t this enough?

Well, here we are. Nearly two weeks, some 250 films (nearly half of them shorts, for the record) and countless spins of that Drexel-made intro later and there’s only two screenings left. (Four, if you count tomorrow’s double dose of the doc Traces of the Trade, which is technically post-festival.) Tonight you have your choice of the doc Richie Ashburn A Baseball Life (5pm, Prince Music Theater), to which there are still apparently a couple tickets left, and…that’s it, really, since the official Closing Night Film, Patti Smith: Dream of Life (7:15pm, PMT), is sold out and then some. I’ve seen neither but I’ll report back on the Smith doc later tonight (or sometime tomorrow if the Closing Night Party leaves me too soused to write).

Expect some end-o’-fest ruminations sometime tomorrow.

Still way, way too disgustingly sick, but I did manage to once again pull myself together to, you know, sit in a comfortable chair and stare. (And write.) Hard work.

Kenny (Clayton Jacobson, Australia): I may have an aversion to overly broad Aussie comedies (think Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Muriel’s Wedding; Love Serenade; etc.) but based on this and Lucky Miles, I have no problem with Aussie comedy in general. It helps that the titular protagonist - a heavy-set port-o-potty operator - is one of the most likable lead characters in the history of the nice guy. Unfailingly decent and only sporadically prone to self-pity, the “subject” of this mockumentary puts a nice spin on the usual mockumentary subject. Unlike David Brent or Alan Partridge, he’s not a deeply self-deluded twat and nor is he a magnet for embarrassing situations. Instead he goes through life, as stuck in a rut as are most of us, always failing to live up to his potential but generally talkative and always friendly. My god, I’m making this sound boring, but Jacobson’s performance is in fact as close to fully-rounded as you get, and the movie just follows his lead. Nice ornery chatter, too - must remember “It’s as silly as a bum full of Smarties.” I don’t even know what that means.

Choose Connor (Luke Eberl, USA): I hate to blame this interesting but flawed debut on the fact that the director was 21, but I will say that Choose Connor - a political satire about a teen who discovers his local would-be senator is running a gay pedophile ring - feels way more in thrall to its observations than seems warranted. Steven Weber was apparently born to play blandly slick politicians, and while the dialogue written for him is convincingly vapid, Eberl isn’t exactly tearing off the roof by pointing out that congressmen ain’t exactly beacons of moral and ethical leadership. At nearly two hours it’s too much for too little, though who’s to say what some tightening up in the editing room could do? Also, nice use of circular pans and casual, unshowoffy long takes.

The festival-proper, sadly, ends on a downer: not the film itself but the fact that it was shown on video. Eberl claimed it was shot on beautiful Super 16mm. That would have been nice to see that, just as it would have been nice to see Alexader Sokurov’s Alexandra projected on its intended film and not video - just as it would have been nice to see California Dreamin’ on something, anything better than a fucking screener. Is this the future of film festivals or just this one?

Sob sob. The last day of heavy screenings is upon us, with eight slots reserved for the so-called “Festival Favorites.” Let’s sort this out, shall we?

The Good
The comedy Lucky Miles (2:30pm, Ritz East), in which illegal immigrants scamper about lost in the Australian desert, was one of those finds: seen on purest whim and insanely enjoyable. My rave is here. Dust (2:30pm, Ritz East) is not, alas, a documentary cousin to What the Bleep Do We Know?, but rather an actual doc on dust; weirdly interesting and occasionally perversely dull. Tom Quinn’s terrific local indie The New Year Parade (4:45pm, Prince Music Theater), about divorce in South Philly among the String Band, plays for a last time. The Year of the Nail (5pm, The Bridge), the directorial debut of Jonás Cuarón, son of Children of Men’s Alfonso, is an acute and bittersweet tale of an impossible love told entirely, if somewhat pointlessly, in still photos à la La Jetée. See my rave for In a Dream (7pm, Ritz East), Jeremiah Zagar’s gorgeous on his father, local mosaiac muralist Isaiah that everyone and his mother is rightly talking about. And speaking of familial turmoil, Song Sung Blue (9:30pm, Ritz East), a doc following the roller-coaster life of a pair of musical impersoantors - he Neil Diamond, she Patsy Cline- pops up again.

The Not So Good
A rare exported film from Uruguay, The Pope’s Toilet (2:45pm, The Bridge) takes a satirical, anticlerical set-up - the impoverished trying to get rich off a visit from John Paul II - and only winds up proving that light and nearly declawed comedies know no borders. Where’s Luis Buñuel when you need him? Once a promising director, Sergei Bodrov (Prisoner of the Mountains) does Young Genghis Khan in Mongol (9:15pm, Ritz 5), concocting a film so flat, episodic and generically sweeping that star Tadanabu Asano - usually iconically laconic - looks just plain bored. John Woo produced the Chinese Blood Brothers (4:45pm, Ritz East), which pays back the favor by doing a so-so homage to classic Woo, if way short on both the bloodletting and especially the over-the-top melodrama.

And those I haven’t seen (yet) but which possess buzz and/or look promising
PW music critic Doug Wallen wanted me to tell you about the awesomeness of Kenny (7;15pm, The Bridge), an Australian comedy about a septic tank worker with an accent so thick it requires subtitles. And don’t you know? Tonight is the premiere of the doc Richie Ashburn: A Baseball Life (7pm, Prince Music Theater). Apparently if you don’t know who Richie Ashburn is, you’re not a real Philadelphian. Sorry, dad.

As per my feeling like ass (see below), I did manage to pull myself together long enough - but just barely - to catch two fest films. Thanks, DayQuil!

Triangle (Tsui Hark, Ringo Lam and Johnnie To, Hong Kong) Is the Exquisite Corpse the new omnibus film? Hopefully - it’s more fun to watch as directors build on eachother’s work rather than operate mostly in private. But turns out the wouldbe Heroic Trio of Hark, Lam and To were schooled by three Amerindie nobodies - the recent The Signal, no matter its flaws, had an energy and inventiveness, particularly in its middle section, mostly missing from this somewhat turgid case of a good idea/so-so execution. It’s not that Triangle’s wholly invention-free: it may start off plot-heavy and laborious, but the middle section makes a nice sideline into hysterical melodrama before the third goes for the lightly goofy. What’s most sad is what’s done with Hark: the major stylist of the three, he needed to follow someone up, not start things out, as he appears to have calmed the hell down for the greater good. Still, I think I like this EC structure. Let’s make it a trend, shall we?

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1920, John S. Robertson, USA): Based solely on this respectable take on the Robert Louis Stevenson yarn, Robertson wasn’t a premiere stylist of the silent era. His lighting can be moody (Jekyll’s lab is lit like a grotto), but this is mostly a case of keeping the story moving and allowing John Barrymore to chew some scenery, establishing mood coming in at third. That’s not necessarily a knock: Robertson’s storytelling is well-paced and Barrymore is captivating as both the sweetly naive Doctor and his funny-faced alter ego, all the moreso because the use of makeup and camera tricks is minimal. The Spencer Tracy version from 1941 doused the setup in Freudian goo; this one obsesses, somewhat queasily, over class, with Barrymore dipping below his status and tainting everything he touches. His relationship with Hyde is close to a drug addiction, one that turns him into the upper class’ worst stereotype of the rancid impoverished. I’m not convinced the film agrees with this view, though, as it’s clear that Jekyll himself is crossing class lines by trying to marry a woman above him. Questionable. But interesting.

A touch of wooziness and throat-gunkiness yesterday afternoon has sure enough ballooned into full-on, balls-out sickness. The scientific community (or as Ben Stein puts it, “Big Science — oooh!”) has yet to accept my theory that watching far, far, far, really far too many goddamn movies directly causes colds. Till they renege, I just have to believe that the violent changing of the seasons are the culprit. I only get violently ill about twice a year. About thrice it’s happened during the PFF. This is really one of the worst times of the year to have a fortnight-long film festival in this spot of the world, since early April finds the Eastern seaboard on the precipice between coldish, Spring jackety weather and total, no-jacket-required mugginess. I’ll try to make it out to a couple movies today - not even malaraia will keep me from tonight’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, even if I have to take out the rest of the theater with me - but right now, as is, I feel somewhere between hell and shit.

This, sadly, is the last full day of screenings, and because repertory cinema never, ever, ever sells out at the PFF, I want to through my light weight behind tonight’s screening of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a 1920 take on the Robert Louis Stevenson story starring Philly native John Barrymore. The film is notable for not using any makeup or camera tricks to achieve Barrymore’s transformation from nice scientist Hyde to crazed madman Jekyll. Moreover, the film - which no doubt teems in Grand Guignol sets and other eye-popping benefits of the silent era - will be accompanied live by locals Golden Ball (pictured). Go! (9:30pm, Prince Music Theater)

Also: Carlos Saura’s latest strikingly shot musical-and-hoofing extravaganza (after the likes of Blood Wedding and Tango) is Fados (12:15pm, Ritz 5), which takes the titular, centuries-old Portuguese form with plenty of rear projection and other baldly theatrical devices. The Mugger (12:15pm, The Bridge), from Argentina, is an intense, succinct account of an aging thief that suggests what a genre film from Belgium’s Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Rosetta, The Child) would look like. I blabber on about both the well-acted psycho/hostage thriller Nothing to Lose (2:30pm, Ritz 5) and the pretty damned hilarious Aussie desert romp Lucky Miles (2:45pm, The Bridge) here. The Italian The Last House in the Woods (5pm, Prince Music Theater) reimagines Texas Chainsaw Massacre as a neo-’giallo, one shot for about a euro and a half. Secrecy (4:45pm, Ritz East) is a chilling look at the uptick in classified government information since 9/11 and was reviewed here. Roy Andersson’s absurdist You the Living (5pm, Ritz 5) is my favorite film of the festival so far; get thee to it. Pennsylvania filmmaker-turned-solider Jeremy Zerechak’s Land of Confusion (7:15pm, International House) is a wry, acutely observed, gallows humor-filled account of his participation in the Iraq Survey Group, which made a futile attempt to locate those pesky WMDs. And the doc Song Sung Blue (7pm, Ritz East) is a perceptive and dedicated doc on a pair of cover singers - he Neil Diamond, she Patsy Cline - and their seriously roller-coaster life that only BEGINS when she loses her leg in a freak car accident.

The Not So Good
Why be so negative this late in the festival? Okay, Storm (9:30pm, Ritz 5) blows.

And those I haven’t seen (yet) but which possess buzz and/or look promising
What We Do is Secret (2:30pm, Ritz East) gives L.A. punk greats the Germs - specifically doomed frontman Darby Crash - its own biopic. Film Noir (5pm, The Bridge) is an animated, feature-length homage to the moody, fatalistic genre. Omnibus films usually sound better than they wind up being, but who can totally resist Triangle (7:15pm, Ritz East), which combines work from Hong Kong legends Tsui Hark, Ringo Lam and Johnnie To. Phawker’s Dan Buskirk raved to me about the Mexican Bad Habits (2:30pm, Ritz East), which features interconnecting stories involving eating disorders and one seriously torrential downpour. And Frank and Cindy (9:15pm, Ritz East) shares with the above-mentioned Song Sung Blue the roller-coaster life of a married musician.

Behind Forgotten Eyes (Anthony Gilmore, USA): If only a strong subject (the Japanese kidnapping of Korean women for use as sexual slaves for soldiers in WWII) and an adventurous approach (throws in animated recreations and interviews with violated and violators alike) were all it took. Gilmore’s doc lightly prods us on the horrors of the wartime mindset, specifically the former soldiers, now elderly and settled down, who try not to dwell too much on all the things they’ve done. But the mid-film move from the personal to the bigger picture of today - Japan still hasn’t formally apologized for the acts, and some Japanese historians refuse to acknowledge it even took place - turns an emotional experience into the equivalent of a 60 Minutes segment or even an infomercial. It loses focus is all, though it’s undeniably powerful in spots; one interviewee admonishing Japan for not following in the footsteps of Germany post-WWII - choosing to ignore rather than acknowledge and treat - has repercussions with today’s war that one can’t shake off.

Lucky Miles (Michael james Rowland, Australia): Few things slow down my pulse quite like culture clash and/or fish-out-of-water comedies, so kudos to first-time director Rowland for pulling off the near-impossible. Following a setup so prolonged it requires aggressive use of backpedaling/following a different character, we traipse along with three illegal immigrants - two Cambodians and an Iraqi structural engineer - lost in the Australia desert en route to scenic Perth. The possibility of weepy and/or hard-hitting polemic might seem like a logical third act tonal switch, but not only does that thankfully never happen, it becomes apparent not too long in that this is just not that kind of movie. Rowland has a prankish sense of humor, and the film is wealth of gags, most of them involving the frustration of simply trying to stay alive in a seriously foreboding locale, or trying to cross the desert in a beat-up truck holding together “by gum.” Basically I laughed my ass off and the film never gave me reason to stop.

Nothing to Lose (Pieter Kujipers, Netherlands): Star Theo Maassen is the only reason one needs to bother with this Dutch thriller, about an escaped killer who holds a 13-year old girl hostage on a trans-European road trip. Reportedly a popular comic actor in his native country, his casting is roughly equivalent to what Eric Bana’s casting was in Chopper, although Maassen’s role never once approaches the bottomless rage and wholly sincere guilt of a Mark “Chopper” Read. Basically Maassen conveys general decency yet something unmistakably but ambiguously off, as though he’s a psycho but you’re not sure what kind yet. It’s too bad this is a Last Minute Twist film, and there’s no way you don’t see this switcheroo coming around the fifteen minute mark. Happily both Maasen and his pubescent hostage create any and all of the film’s tension.

Chop Shop (Ramin Bahrani, USA): One of those movies that intently follows around an intensely focused blue collar worker from menial job to menial job. The twist is said worker is a 12-year old Dominican-American - a cute little moppet (arresting non-pro Alejandro Polanco) who just happens to know fake jeans when he sees them and can talk blow job prices. This is classic neo-realism, and sure enough, a melodrama soon crops up, one that’s not terribly different from what you’d see in the films of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Rosetta, The Child). Yes, capitalism is once again raked over the coals, but Chop Shop - much like Bahrani’s Man Push Cart allegedly, which I still haven’t seen - is more about showing it as it works rather than making a Statement. Sure, this kind of thing is borderline cookie-cutter, but it’s a nice design.

The Good
First off: a sizable correction for The New Year Parade, the local indie playing tonight (and Monday). Director Tom Quinn’s IMDb page was inexplicably collated with that of another Tom Quinn, a longtime assistant director on fare from David Cronenberg and Sofia Coppola. Even knowing better than to trust the user-based IMDb, I dumbly did just that and claimed the film was the long-in-the-waiting debut from some guy who’s sat patiently in the sidelines. That’s not true, but surely there are worse mistakes than to think that a debut looks like it comes from a seasoned pro. Regardless of my mistake, The New Parade is terrific - an acutely observed Amerindie about a divorce ripping apart a family in South Philly with ties to the South Philadelphia String Band. There are few big moments and many little ones and Quinn’s camerawork, editing and way with non-pro actors (excepting terrific local stage actor Tobias Segal) works beautifully in synch. Already the winner of the Grand Jury Award at Slamdance, it should have a long life besides. (9:30pm, International House)

Also: Hailing from deep within the prolific resume of Richard Fleischer (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), 1955’s bizarrely structured Violent Saturday (12:15pm, The Bridge) is Douglas Sirk doing Reservoir Dogs; my rave is here. Gael Garcia Bernal directorial debuts with Deficit (2:30pm, Ritz East), in which he also stars as a rich kid throwing a fateful fête for high school graduation. It opens theatrically next month, but there’s no shame in catching the terrific proto-Sweding opus Son of Rambow (2:30pm, The Bridge) early. Benjamin Herold’s First Person (4:30pm, International House) hands cameras to six Philadelphia students and watches the perilous difficulties it takes for them to get into college. The haunting doc James Castle: Portrait of an Artist (5pm, Ritz East) packs a lot into its under-an-hour length, covering a deaf artist who, having refused to learn to read or write, communicated only through his art. And the Italian The Last House in the Woods (10pm, RItz East) reimagines Texas Chainsaw Massacre as a neo-’giallo, one shot for about a euro and a half.

The Not So Good
A rare exported film from Uruguay, The Pope’s Toilet (12:15, Ritz 5) takes a satirical, anticlerical set-up - the impoverished trying to get rich off a visit from John Paul II - and only winds up proving that light and nearly declawed comedies know no borders. Where’s Luis Buñuel when you need him? Directed by Hana Makhmalbaf, the daughter of Iranian legend Mohsen (Gabbeh, Kandahar), Buddha Collapsed Out of Shame (7:45pm, The Bridge) follows a button-cute little girl as she’s abused and oppressed by men, boys and teachers; it aims for classic Iranian cinema but succeeds only in crafting one of the least subtle metaphors in the history of the metaphor.

And those I haven’t seen (yet) but which possess buzz and/or look promising
Behind Forgotten Eyes (12:30pm, Ritz East) tackles one of the more bizarre and horrifying war crimes of WWII: Japan’s habit of kidnapping Korean women and forcing them into sexual slavery. Young People Fucking (2:15pm, Prince Music Theater) is about young people fucking, I presume. Allegedly reminiscent of OldBoy maven Park Chan-wook’s vengeance trilogy, Soo follows a policeman on a grisly bout of vengeance. What We Do is Secret (7pm, Prince Music Theater) gives L.A. punk greats the Germs - specifically doomed frontman Darby Crash - its own biopic. From the acclaimed director of Man Push Cart, Chop Shop (9:30pm, Ritz 5) (and pictured) focuses on another low-wage American worker, this time a 12-year old Dominican-American who takes up odd jobs. Omnibus films usually sound better than they wind up being, but who can totally resist Triangle (10pm, The Bridge), which combines work from Hong Kong legends Tsui Hark, Ringo Lam and Johnnie To. And Film Noir (10pm, Ritz East) is an animated, feature-length homage to the moody, fatalistic genre.