We could probably define independent American cinema–in broad, unsustainable strokes–via a couple of longstanding styles.
One tastes like sadness, call it Lyric Despair, where we have somewhat stoic, even silent characters suffering under psychic and social burdens which emerge through the course of the film, obliquely. LD films eschew dialogue, or boil it down to improvisatory snippets that are hard to untangle — they capture an almost-desperate inability to communicate. Yet the images–trains rolling along, the protagonist in shadows backlit by a brilliantly-shaded gray sky, the cluttered composition of dirty city streets–are lovely, evocative. Expressionist. Lance Hammer’s moving, thoughtful, and (yup) lovely Ballast is an LD.
The other recipe relies more on handheld images, seems grainy almost as a badge of honor, full of close-ups in apartments and hotel rooms and small spaces, the emphasis almost on found dialogue. Lots of talking. Talking talking talking — mumbling, as so many critics have noted — full of ums and pauses. I don’t like “mumblecore,” but I’ve got no good substitute. The inability to communicate here becomes an obsessive attention to the need to communicate. Images are almost after-thought; the camera’s incisive sociological eye unconcerned with composition, instead intent on community and identity and behavior. Lynn Shelton’s very funny, occasionally and obliquely moving, and often incisive Humpday is one of these.
See ’em both. They both wear some influences on their sleeves, with Malick and David Gordon Green clearly in Hammer’s netflix queue, and Shelton has seen her star Mark DuPlass’ very fine The Puffy Chair and all that Swanberg Bujalski jazz playing of late. But each film also is rigorously dedicated to the lives they depict, and in their respective flavors affirm and further develop the recipes. It’s tempting to make hay of the rough coincidence of Humpday‘s and Bruno‘s releases, and both films do exploit a hetero anxiety about the confusions of sexuality, but I think Chris is right that Bruno exploits those anxieties but seems much more intent on the relationship of audience to spectacle (whether celebrity or sexuality). I think Duplass is so very damn good in this film that he deserves some kind of nod…. he does more with a blank elsewhere-focused stare than I could have imagined being done….
I’d also reiterate my great appreciation for Frownland (see comment 2), which is maybe a mash-up of these two flavors.
I really liked Ballast a lot, particularly the performance by the actor who played Lawrence. Cinematography was quite beautiful with deep, rich black tones playing off the grays and purples of the skies (I should also mention how well the filmmakers capture skin tone). Can’t disagree with anything Mike has to say except to add the film is full of despair (lyric and/or poetic), but it seems to traffic more in human uplift and a decidedly neo-realist form of sentiment.
Humpday was too talky for me (and I like the “mumblecore” kids). I liked this film better when it was called Old Joy.
Jeff said: “I liked this film better when it was called Old Joy.”
True, but Humpday is funnier. (I pretty much agree, ‘though I thought Duplass’ performance pushed the film further. That great scene where the two friends are lying flat on the floor, staring up, camera staring down–Duplass handles this significant memory, and the sideways sexual tension, with a look of slightly-befuddled, slightly-open attention . . . his reaction to the moment and the other actor so precise and understated… I think all along he made the film better for me.)