Saturday Night At The Movies



Stalking tall

By Dennis Hartley














Limited goals: Oswalt and Corrigan in Big Fan


There are sports fans, and there are sports fans. And then there is Paul Aufiero, the protagonist of writer-director Robert D. Siegel’s new film, Big Fan. To say that Paul (Patton Oswalt) is an uber-fan of the N.Y. Giants football team is a vast understatement. The Giants are his raison d’être. Every night before he goes to bed, he doesn’t say his prayers. Instead, he religiously breaks out his dog-eared yellow-ruled tablet and furiously scrawls out a litany of devotion to his team, which he then delivers like a well-rehearsed sermon in his nightly call to a popular local sports talk radio program. Occasionally, he is compelled to offer a point-by-point rebuttal to his arch-nemesis, a Philadelphia Eagles fan who calls into the same show for the express purpose of antagonizing the Giants fans.

You see, Paul (who is sort of a cross between Paddy Chayefsky’s Marty Piletti and John Kennedy Toole’s literary creation, Ignatius J. Reilly) has a lot of spare time to devote to defending the honor of his team against evil radio trolls, because he doesn’t really have too many other distractions in his life. A 30-something bachelor who still lives with his mother, he works an undemanding job as a parking lot attendant and has virtually no social life (if this sounds like it’s shaping up to be one of those depressing character studies about empty lives of quiet desperation, I am here to tell you something…um, you’re right.) Well, Paul does have one friend named Sal (played by indie film stalwart Kevin Corrigan) who shares his undying love for the team (he doesn’t date much, either).

One night, while Paul and Sal are out and about enjoying a bit of the Staten Island nightlife (who knew?) they happen to spot one of their beloved team’s star players (Jonathan Hamm) getting into a limousine at a local gas station. The two pals, walking on air and feeling beside themselves with fan boy giddiness, decide to surreptitiously tail the player and his entourage, to see how the other half lives. Eventually, they find themselves at a pricey strip joint in Manhattan, where Paul eventually screws up enough courage to make a beeline for his hero’s booth, in hopes of a meet and greet. Unfortunately, the evening (and subsequently, Paul’s life) proceeds to go sideways from that point forward.

The film is an odd mish-mash of broad social satire and brooding neo-realism; but for the most part, it works quite well (as long as you aren’t expecting a “feel good’ experience). I suppose it has something to say about the cult of celebrity, especially as it applies to the tendency in our society to turn a blind eye to the blatantly sociopathic public behavior of some multimillionaire athletes. The story takes a few unexpected twists and turns that reminded me a lot of Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo '66, another quirky indie character study that keeps you on your toes by challenging your expectations right through to the end.

Oswalt is quite impressive, giving a fearless performance in this decidedly unflattering role (you are most likely to be familiar with him from his work as a standup and the myriad of quirky supporting characters he’s played on TV shows like Reno 911). Corrigan is excellent, as always (when is somebody going to give this perennial second banana a starring role?). Michael Rapaport (who appears to be the “go-to” actor when a “drunken mook” is required) is suitably obnoxious as Paul’s radio tormentor, known on-air as “Philadelphia Phil”. Gino Cafarelli is good as Paul’s brother, an ambulance-chasing personal injury lawyer, and the unknown Serafina Fiore is a hoot as his wife, an orange-tanned, big-haired, high-maintenance East coast princess straight out of Sopranoworld.

This is the directorial debut for Siegel, who also wrote the screenplay for last year’s critically acclaimed, Oscar-nominated The Wrestler (which I reviewed here). There are enough parallels (dark character study, sports backdrop, blue-collar East Coast milieu) to suggest that there may be a certain theme running through his work. Or perhaps it’s too early to judge, based on two films. It will be interesting to see what he decides to do next.

I really admire your work: The Fan (1996), The Natural, Bend It Like Beckham, The King of Comedy, Nurse Betty, Garbo Talks, All About Eve, Fade to Black (1980), Sunday (1997), The Fan (1981), Fanboys, Trekkies, Free Enterprise, Cinemania, Stardust Memories, Heavy Metal Parking Lot, Rock Star, I Wanna Hold Your Hand, Groupies: The Movie, Misery , Secret Window , Play Misty for Me, Talk Radio, Following.

Previous posts with related themes:

The Killing of John Lennon

Mister Lonely

The Hoax/Color me Kubrick

Choke



Part II


Picky, picky, picky: It Might Get Loud


















Three buskers in your hedgerow: White, Page and the Edge



“My goal is to trick these guys…” a visibly nervous Jack White confides to the camera with somewhat forced bravado as he heads for an exclusive guitar player’s confab with U2’s The Edge and the legendary Jimmy Page, “…into showing me their tricks.” As our cocky young Mr. White comes to learn (along with the viewer) during the course of Davis Guggenheim’s new rockumentary, It Might Get Loud, “tricks”…erm, are for kids.

I will confess that, despite being a huge Zep fan, I was going to give this one a pass (at least until the DVD) because it offended my sensibilities that anyone would infer that the other two (talented as they may be) deserved to be mentioned in the same breath as Pagey-but a friend shamed me into dragging my lazy ass out to the theater. White (singer-guitarist for the White Stripes and The Raconteurs), The Edge and Page may seem like odd bedfellows; but once I “got” the filmmaker’s intent, it started to sort of make sense.

Each of the film’s three subjects represents a distinct type of species within the genus of Rock Guitarist. First, you have The Primitive (represented by White). The Primitive is raw, instinctually expressive and spontaneous (any piece of wood with strings will do…plugged into something that makes noise). Then, we have The Gearhead (represented by The Edge). The Gearhead is the antithesis of The Primitive; he is controlled and precise, obsessed with hardware and perennially tweaking his settings to match the elusive Perfect Tone he hears in his head. Finally, we have The Virtuoso (Page), who can pick up any stringed instrument, from a mandolin to a Les Paul, and make it sing like a gift from the gods (or as Page dubs it, “the whisper and the thunder”).

Guggenheim cuts back and forth between separately filmed interviews, with each artist discussing his influences and techniques. The individual interviews offer a bit more insight than the summit, which feels staged and awkward at times; and when the three do play a few numbers together, the result is disappointingly pedestrian (it’s not unlike the discordant sonic wash of “Riffs ‘r’ Us” that assaults you when you stroll into a Guitar Center on a busy Saturday afternoon). At least they do a passable rendition of “Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground”, which is one of the few White Stripes songs I actually like.

I suppose your reaction to this documentary will hinge on how much of a fan you are of the musicians who are profiled. For me personally, Page has the most interesting back story and could have easily provided enough fascinating material to fill the movie’s entire 97 minute running time. He’s kind of the Zelig of rock guitarists; over the course of his career he’s proved adept at nearly every style of modern pop music you’d care to mention. As a teenager he played in skiffle, blues, and R&B bands, and by the mid 60s had become one of England’s most in-demand session players, playing with everyone from Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey to The Who and The Kinks (although it isn’t mentioned in the film, one of his most recognizable solos-for-hire is that fuzz-toned psychedelic riffing on Donovan’s “Hurdy Gurdy Man”). Of course, once he joined The Yardbirds, the stage was set for the formation of Led Zeppelin, and the rest is History.

I don’t mean to belittle the fact that U2 is one of the most popular bands on the planet, or that Jack White doesn’t have his moments of inspiration; but in the context of the filmmaker’s intent, you do wonder what he hoped to achieve by bringing these three disparate stylists together. As a guitar player, I could compartmentalize what each artist brings to the table, but I was still scratching my head when it was over. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I’ll plug in and brush up on a bit of that “whisper and thunder” myself.



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