I’ve seen my share
of bad films. Really bad films.
Not bad as in...
Drug references. Nudity.
Sex. Foul language.
But genuinely
bad. Bad acting. Bad story.
Bad cinematography. Bad
directorial decisions. Bad...art.
Twilight. Fireproof.
The Tourist. Thor. I could go on, as this type of Hollywood "blockbuster" saturates the movie business. But I'm encouraged by the fact that independent film makers are gaining steam. Real artists. Visionaries. They produce meaningful, thoughtful, realistic films.
Real people. Real problems. Real solutions. Real life.
Chris White's TAKEN IN is one such film. Over the course of a weekend, a father and daughter are bound by the confines of a roadside motel and theme park. It is obvious from the beginning that neither of them has any interest in being there, much less talking to one another. The limited boundaries of time and space force Simon and Brooklyn to become honest with each other, and their respective pasts.
TAKEN IN is an honest film. Life comes in various forms, both good and bad. Ups and downs. This father and daughter are presented with an opportunity. What do they do with it? See for yourself.
____________________________________
You can be a part of another feature length film by Greenville, SC indie film maker Chris White by visiting the link on the right at KICKSTARTER.
Our national tendency is to inflate and thereby sound important. The airline pilot who announces that he is presently anticipating experiencing considerable precipitation wouldn't think of saying it may rain. The sentence is too simple -- there must be something wrong with it.
Look outside and you’ll
see Korea. Not to be confused with
Seoul. Not the zoo of sleek, modern
office buildings. Not the Armani, Prada,
or Lexus retailers.
But Korea. Real Koreans doing real Korean things. The street outside is narrow. The buildings old. Retired men ride bicycles. Elderly women walk permanently hunched from
years of planting, picking, and planting (again) in the rice fields that constitute
the nearby countryside.
Across the street,
past the bicycles mounted with baskets carrying stacks of cardboard, past the
scores of motorbikes, past the Korean school children and shopkeepers, men and
women sit in a cluttered restaurant advertising fresh octopus, squid, and all
the rice you can eat. They look
hot. Sweaty. Some eat iced noodles to keep their bodies
cool. All use the typical stainless
steel chopsticks, a matter of pride on the peninsula, as they require more finesse
than those used by their neighbors across the sea, whether to the east or west. This is Korea. Yeongju to be exact.
But from where I’m
sitting, it’s a different story. On my
side of the window, the line dividing the old and the new, the humid and the
cool, the Asian stereotype and the artsy, vintage, espresso filled air of my
favorite café, I hear bouncy jazz. I
envision a cozy club in lower Manhattan.
My foot is tapping, but it’s not from the iced Americano.
This is Café Wide,
tucked away on a side street in my small Korean town. Inside are shelves of 1960’s era electric
fans, alarm clocks, and tea sets, reminiscent of June Cleaver’s make-believe
kitchen. Across the cafe is a display of
vintage cameras. Big. Bulky.
Boxy. An era of technology long
gone. To my right is a shiny pastel blue refrigerator, stolen from the year that Beatles made it big. On the wall behind the espresso machine, painted in black and white, is Vultron. One part artsy. One part eclectic. Throw in a little big city feel and cozy atmosphere, stir well, and you've got Cafe Wide. My home away from home.
Written
& Directed by Florian Hinckel vonDonnersmarck
Growing up in Reagan’s America, we pitied those who
were living behind the so-called “iron curtain.” We spoke of our freedom and
democracy as people who know only what has always been.
THE LIVES OF OTHERS
gives us a glimpse behind that storied curtain—twenty years or so after the
fact—and in doing so, reveals a passion for
free expression…for a life lived without state-sponsored oppression, that
neither I nor any of my freedom-loving, American neighbors could have possibly
known.
East German artists in the 1970s and 80s served at
the pleasure of the state. The state monitored their artists—both publicly and
privately—to keep tabs on how pleasing an artist’s behavior was.
In the film, an acclaimed playwright abides his
benevolent keepers. Lives in relative peace with them. Until…his actress
girlfriend becomes a person of increasing state suspicion. And it is here,
under the oppressive monitor of the state, that their lives are forever
changed.
With, perhaps, the most satisfying ending in recent
cinema history, THE LIVES OF OTHERS fascinates and compels at every turn. It is
a deeply human film. One that may be, in fact, the most accomplished first
feature since Orson Welles’ CITIZEN KANE.
I can
remember one Christmas afternoon when I was in elementary school building a
Lego train station in my bedroom.I had
received the set via Santa Claus.I don’t
remember exactly what triggered my thoughts, but I was struck then and there by
the idea that time moves at a speed too quickly to grasp.Unstoppable.Fast.Very fast. Too fast.
Maybe it
was because the train station didn’t take as long as I thought to build.The fun part of Lego sets is the building,
not the finished product.For me, once
the police station, or hospital, or whatever, was constructed, that was
it.Done.What next?
Or maybe
it was because it felt like just 5 minutes ago my brothers and I were waking up
early and anxiously waiting in the hallway for our parents to say we could
survey the loot.And now I found myself
realizing that it was over, and would have to endure 365 more days before I got
to do it again.
Time
flies.Not just when I’m having
fun.Everyday.I don’t know why this idea took a firm hold
of me at such a young age.But it
did.And I’m happy about it.
As an
adult on the cusp of 30 years of existence, I am terribly afraid of wasting
time. I’ve wasted my share. It depresses me if I think about it too
much. So I find myself constantly
(obsessively) evaluating my life every few days. Have I been active in chasing my dreams? Has the past year been a success? Have I grown as a person? Have I learned anything new? Have I written that book that I said I would if I could just get to the other side of the world?
One of the interesting things about living in the United States is that you know, just know, can feel it in your bones, that you inhabit the beating heart of the world. This isn't true, of course. Nevertheless, we take it for granted that when we have our Super Bowls, 3 billion people around the world upend their work schedules and forgo sleep so that they, too, can watch. We assume that as we view the colossal fuck-up that is the life and times of Britney Spears, people abroad care as much as we do when the sad, bloated Mouseketeer decides to shave her head. We are told that when our economy sneezes, Canada, Europe, Asia, wherever, catches a cold. When we screw up, it's the rest of the world we screw up. And when we triumph, the rest of the world stops to admire the great shining city on the hill. We are, we believe, the prime movers and the rest of the planet just rolls along on the ride that is America.
It really
shouldn’t surprise me. Korea, after
all, is a very uniform place. Every
mid-size town (and if your town is not referred to as Seoul, it’s a mid-size town) is the
same. Mirror images of each other.
Mr.
Pizza. Paris Baguette. 3rd floor Billiard rooms. Homeplus.
Lotteria.
And...
RACIAL INSENSITIVIY ALERT: Everyone looks the same. Really.
It’s not
a slight to Koreans. Rather it’s a
matter of pride. An ethnic
identity. Same black hair. Same basic facial features. Same semi-flattened nose bone and same “slanted”
eyes. Rarely will you find a Korean with
facial hair. Or hair on the forearms.
On a few occasions,
Jessica and I have tried to describe to each other someone we met, or a teacher
or student at school. It always begins (and
ends) the same way...
Ummm...he has black
hair, and olive-ish colored skin, about 5 feet, 5 inches tall, and...ummmm...well
he just looks Korean.
Visit any
of the numerous walking paths in Korea and the scene will inevitably be identical to the last. The trailhead
will be liberally sprinkled with men and women of all ages wearing black nylon
hiking pants. Each will have a backpack,
hiking poles, a ventilated hat with the brim extending a full circle around
their head, a colorful moisture wicking shirt, a bandana around the neck, and
(my favorite) a small tin cup attached to the shoulder strap, dangling in the
non-existent breeze. If I didn’t know
better, I’d say that all of these people were headed off on a multi-day trek in
the Alps.
Koreans
do not wander far from the norm.
So, as
noted earlier, I should not have thought it odd that when my school went on a
field trip yesterday to a local swimming pool all of the children emerged from the changing rooms dressed
alike.
Swim
caps, goggles, spandex Olympic-ish swim trunks.
ALL of them. Swim caps. (What? Why?)
Koreans, I've learned, know who they are. What they look like. What Korean food is. Ask me what an American looks like, and I can't give you a definite answer. White? Black? Hispanic? Asian? Ask me what American food is...another ambiguous answer. Koreans, on the other hand, are a bit more certain.
Diversity is not on the list of Korea's strengths. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
In the aftermath of World War II, many Italian filmmakers pursued a much more sobering and truthful kind of cinema. Known as "Italian Neorealism," the movement spawned a generation of non-romantic dramas about the harsh realities of life.
Federico Fellini, who would later be known for cinematic theatricality, free-flowing style, and plot whimsy started in this movement. In the heartbreaking NIGHTS OF CABIRIA we see him true to that form...while straining to transcend it.
CABIRIA stars Fellini's wife, Giulietta Masina, in the title role. As she was in her husband's LA STRADA (1956), Masina is a female Charlie Chaplin...a screen comedienne for the ages. And it is within her flawless performance we find a character of true pathos, not a cartoon. Though Cabiria (Masina) lives as a prostitute on the streets of Rome, she always seems to find the goodness in others and in the dark world she inhabits.
Facing endless disappointment and humiliation, Cabiria is broken, and beaten and then broken again. And yet...she never stays down. Always, always, she rises to the next occasion. She perseveres. "Dum spiro-spero."
Underscoring the pathos and pain of Cabiri's hard life and positive outlook is Nino Rota's (THE GODFATHER) stirring theme.
1957 // BW //110 min. Criterion Collection (Janus Films) COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: Italy
10 months to the day. Greenville was behind us. Yeongju was on the horizon.
We crossed the ocean of no return. Bound for a new world, full of new people. New foods. New languages. New toilets. It was an exciting time. Everything was changing. Everything had changed.
Together we stepped off the airplane and saw...McDonald's. And then Starbucks. And Americans. Too many to count. (Did we transfer to the wrong plane back in San Francisco?)
10 months ago (and 2 weeks into our marriage), Jessica and I exited the International Arrivals gate at Incheon International Airport with a trail of luggage. Our lives jammed into several large suitcases. We just stood there.
Well what do we do now?
It was Sunday evening. Someone from the recruiting agency would be by the airport to pick us up in the morning. But until then we had to figure out what to do with ourselves. I had $80 to my name. So naturally we opted for coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts kiosk. After that we counted what was left, guessed we had enough for a hotel, and boarded a shuttle bus into a very unfamiliar night.
In the time since that night I've learned a lot. About myself. About Jessica. About us. About people. I've learned that beans on your ice cream isn't necessarily a bad thing. I've learned eel and tomatoes for dinner is good for stamina. (If you know what I mean. wink wink.) I've learned that children are children. America. China. Taiwan. Korea. People are people.
But most importantly I've learned that Jessica and I can do anything. At home or in Asia. Whatever we set our mind to. We're a great team. We work well together. We share goals and dreams. We're best friends, which has been our secret to a smooth first year of marriage away from home.
.....that and a steady diet of eel and tomato soup.
So what exactly does the mountain region of Pyeongchang have to offer? Here's an inside look just a few years before the Olympians start packing their bags.
Figure skater Kim Yu-na may have drawn attention to South Korea with her cool choreography and winning smile, but when it comes to winter sports in the country, the world knows little else.
The good news is that Pyeongchang -- the mountain resort region with 40,000 permanent residents that’s just secured its bid to host the 2018 Winter Olympics -- has plenty of time to repackage itself as a world-class winter sports destination.
Located 182 kilometers southeast of Seoul, in the spectacular southern part of Gangwon Province, Pyeongchang sits at 700 meters above sea level in one of the most rugged, mountainous regions of the country, an area often referred to as “Korea’s Alps.”
Read more about Pyeongchang and preparations for the 2018 Winter Olympics at CNN GO
I hear it every day. My classroom sits between the two Korean co-English teacher's classrooms. To the right, children are belting out...
Bah bah black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.
One for the master, one for the dame,
And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.
To the left…
Let’s make a robot
Let’s make a robot
Ok, ok, ooooookkkkk.
Let’s make a robot
Let’s make a robot
Ok, ok, oooookkkkkk
I must seem like a painfully boring teacher to my students. I teach them things like…
Excuse me, where is the bus station?
It is two blocks away. First, walk straight to the end of the block.
Turn right at the corner. Walk two more blocks.
The bus station will be in front of you.
…or
Yesterday was Wednesday, July 6, 2011.
Today is Thursday,July 7, 2011.
Tomorrow will be Friday, July 8, 2011.
…or
I need one ticket to Seoul. What time does the train leave?
My favorite travel writer,Bill Bryson, while sitting in a cafe in Belgium, put it this way...
...but hardly anyone in Wallonia (southern, French-speaking Belgium) speaks
English. I began to regret that I didn't understand French well enough to
eavesdrop. I took three years of French in school, but learned next to nothing.
The trouble was that the textbooks were so amazingly useless. They were always
written by somebody clearly out of touch with the Francophile world -- Professor
Marvis Frisbee of the Highway 68 State Teachers College at Windsock, North
Dakota, or something -- and at no point did they intersect with the real world. They
never told you any of the things you would need to know in France -- how to engage
a bidet, deal with a toilet matron, or kneecap a line-jumper. They were always
tediously preoccupied with classroom activities: hanging up coats in the cloakroom,
cleaning the blackboard, opening the window, shutting the window, setting
out the day's lessons. Even in the seventh grade I could see that this sort of
thing would be of limited utility in the years ahead. How often on a visit to France
do you need to tell someone you want to clean the blackboard? How frequently
do you wish to say: "It is winter. Soon it will be spring." In my experience,
people know this already.
from Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe
Maybe I'm just a little too critical. The children are, of course, learning useful things. Pronunciation. Tone. Vocabulary. Show tunes. I used to wonder why taxi drivers would sing the theme songs to the Lion King and Alladin as they carted us off across town to do our shopping. I thought he was trying to impress me, and be rewarded with a gracious tip.
...or maybe Disney is implementing a new marketing scheme in rural Korea. Sneaky.
Love
‘em, or hate ‘em, most of us have been wooed by a tale of cutes falling in love
on screen. No matter how far-fetched the premise, how dumb the dialogue, or how
predictable the plot, most of us have fallen for a romcom.
I DO (or, “How to Get
Married and Stay Single”) is a guilty pleasure to enjoy without shame. It is a
smart, well-written, well-made comedy. It’s populated with terrific characters
and plausible complications that keep you guessing.
Luis
(Alain Chabat) is the little brother in a family of older, domineering women.
He has been unsuccessful in securing a wife. This fact is fine with him, but
not with his mother and sisters who constantly nag him to find a nice woman and
settle down.
With
the help of a friend, he hatches a plan. He will meet and become engaged to the
fetching Emma (Charlotte Gainsbourg). And she will dramatically leave him at
the altar, thus indelibly breaking his heart. This trauma, he feels, will quiet
the nags for once and for all.
But
it won’t work out that way, of course. You can probably guess how it will
end…still, what a charming ride.
2006 \\ Color \\ 90 min. Studio Canal COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: France
DURBAN, South Africa (AP)—The victory margin was massive and the message loud and clear: Persistence paid off for South Korea in its third consecutive bid for the Winter Olympics.
After two stinging defeats in a decade of trying, the South Korean city of Pyeongchang finally won its Olympic prize Wednesday, burying two European rivals in a landslide vote for the 2018 Winter Games and bringing them back to the lucrative Asian market.
...15 Korean kindergarten children burst into your classroom. No kindergarten or
English co-teacher to be found. Immediately, the children commence swinging from
anything they can secure a grip on. Your classroom resembles a monkey cage at the
local petting zoo, full of hungry, irritable primates. By some stroke of luck, you manage
to get everyone in a seat and somewhat hold their attention. You begin to recite the
alphabet when you notice a little boy in the back of the classroom, preoccupied to say
the least. You stroll casually to the back, trying your best not to alert everyone to
the problem,and conclude that the blood covering the lower half of his face is the
culprit. Now, for the record, you don't care in the least when one of these
little hemorrhoids is bleeding, but you reason with yourself that if he's determined
to bleed, it would be better that he do it outside of your classroom. So you lead him out,
at arms length of course, to the office where another teacher inquires of the
aforementioned blood.You should have guessed: he was picking his nose too vigorously.
You return to the classroom to find the remaining children huddled around the
trash can. One boy is digging furiously with tears in his little eyes. You peer in to see what
he's looking for, but see nothing but crumpled paper. You look again, praying you find
something significant so order can be restored (relatively speaking). Nothing. Suddenly
he spies it...a magnet. Nothing special. As generic as they come. But it's his, the one
he came to class with, and all is well again. Until you spot two boys in the back of the room,
laughing hysterically. Boy A is standing behind Boy B. Boy A has his finger extended
and is poking, nay, jabbing it into Boy B's...ass. Seriously. And by the sound
of things, this activity is the most fun either of them has had in a very long time. You take
another handful of your already thinning hair and pull it out...for the third time today.
Dr. H. Douglas Brown, professor of TESOL at San Francisco State University, author of multiple textbooks, and widely accepted as an authority on the subject, states that "short attention spans come into play when children have to deal with material that to them is useless, boring, or too difficult." It would necessarily make sense to put me in a classroom with 15 Korean kindergarten children with no interpreter. The moment Dr. Brown refers to above, at which the children are confronted with material that to them is useless, boring, or too difficult, coincidentally is the same moment I open my mouth. The children were apparently expected to hear my English, sense and accept the lifelong importance of acquiring the language, mull over future international business dealings, and process the connection with their own language. I might as well have been teaching the lesson with a series of rhythmically ordered farts. It would have all sounded the same.
And so naturally, any gathering of competent persons would come to the same conclusion: what could drive a man to such a place? What awful circumstances would push him to flee his native country, his home of 29 years, for a life of such disorder and absurdity? I'm glad you asked.
One thing, among many, that a foreigner in a new setting must come to terms with is the fact that travel is a solitary experience. Sure, you may walk the Great Wall with your wife. Or lounge on the southern coast of Taiwan with a crowd of tourists. But at its heart, travel is about leaving. Going away. Not so much on a holiday, but just going.
Deep in the jeans she's wearin', I'm hooked and I can't stop starin'
Languages are different. Cultures are strange. Stares. Smells. People. It’s all foreign. Odd. Unknown.
Oh baby, I wanna get with ya, and take yo' picture
The traveler soon learns he must become a skilled thespian on the local stage where he finds himself…if he hopes to eat, that is. For words are no longer a means of communication. At least not for you. The rest of them, all of those people staring at you, they can speak…to each other. But you, you are different. Your words have no meaning.
My homeboys tried to warn me, but that butt you got makes me so horny
Here, youare the odd ball. You have the handicap. You are the guy that needs special accommodations. Because, well, you can’t speak. Your thoughts, needs, questions, etc. You’re like a helpless infant who craps his diaper. All you can do is cry and hope someone comes to the rescue.
I just can't help myself, I'm actin' like an animal
What do you want?
A hotel? Pretend you’re sleeping. Or showering.
Food? Pretend you have a fork in your hand. Chew something. Or nothing.
Toilet? Pretend to pee. Or make “noises” and point to your backside.
I wanna get you home and uuugh, double up, uuugh uuugh
This is the adventure of travel. It’s fun…at times. Other times…not so much.
I want 'em real thick and juicy, so find that juicy double
Despite the frustrations we’ve experienced, the simple objects we can’t seem to buy at Homeplus, the bus station we can’t find or ask directions to, the overall confusion, etc. etc. etc., I would contend that there exists no greater drawback to being unable to communicate than when something is so funny that you can’t help but pee on yourself, but you can’t explain it to anyone. You laugh like a maniac, you see the irony in it all, you can’t believe the situation you find yourself in…but you must necessarily keep it all to yourself. It’s almost painful.
Mix-a-lot's in trouble, beggin' for a piece of that bubble
Like Field Day at BuseokElementary School. An outside company is hired to set up the event. They decorate the field in front of the school with an international flag display. They line the area with running lanes. They judge the races. Officiate the medal ceremony. The principal has his own tent, under which he hosts various dignitaries. All clad in suits, looking very important. It’s a big day in the life of the school.
'Cause I'm long, and I'm strong, and I'm down to get the friction on
But the best part of the day, the part that separates the spectacle from American Field Days (at least the yearly spring event at the elementary school where I attended) is the final chapter. The culmination of the most celebrated day of the year for the children. The Dance Party.
If you wanna role in my Mercedes, then turn around, stick it out
I never saw it coming. The children (kindergarten-6th grade) were corralled into small groups, spread out across the field of play. Suddenly, and much to my delight, that now (in)famous beat burst forth from the rented loud-speakers. Sir Mix-a-lot was in the house.
Dial 1-900-MIX-A-LOT and kick them nasty thoughts
The children (again, kindergarten-6th grade) began to gyrate. One at a time, on the cue of a whistle, they took turns “shakin’ what they’re mama gave ‘em” in the middle of each circle. It was all very Soul Train-ish. The highlight of the year for me.
So fellas, has your girlfriend got the butt? Tell 'em to shake it, shake it
But the best part was that all of the adults smiled and laughed, completely clueless. Teachers. Principal. Vice principal. Parents. Guests. They tried to hide the fact that they were slyly moving to the rhythm. The worst part is that I could never even begin to explain the lyrics, the message of the song, and why this was all so funny.
My anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, hun
Call it a hunch. Call it intuition. Maybe some kind of creepy 6th sense. Whatever it was, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the folks at Buseok Elementary School believed in me. The privilege (burden) of educating the next generation of Koreans was placed on my shoulders. Thousands of young minds were in my care.
Actually it was more like 53. But still.
The first hint that my principal placed an inordinate amount of confidence in me as an English teacher was the sound of the door slamming shut behind me. Except for the 14 sets of beady little eyes staring back, I was alone. For the first time. In a foreign country. 12,000 miles from home. Alone. To say I was shoved into the classroom kicking and screaming would not be far from the truth.
Not 24 hours ago my wife and I were fresh off an airplane and standing outside Incheon International Airport awaiting the director of the recruiting agency through whom I had secured employment for the following 12 months, and now we found ourselves in the middle of the countryside in the tiny rural farming community of Buseok. This was my first time outside of the United States, and the swirl of Korean conversation around me caused a bit of light-headedness. My burps were reminiscent of the fish, seaweed, and kimchi I was served for lunch only half an hour ago, and I was still not quite myself after the standard medical examination for foreign workers I had undergone that morning. Blood was drawn. Not my favorite activity, as this procedure generally causes me to squirm like an embarrassed school girl.
But the door to my classroom shut nonetheless. (I could have sworn I heard a dead-bolt fasten from the outside.) I was given simple instructions: Teach. But...
What grade is this?
What do these students already know?
Is there a textbook?
What about a curriculum I'm to follow?
What time does class end?
Wasn't a co-teacher promised in my contract?
Is it too late to rethink this?
There exists a common misconception when it comes to foreign English teachers and their students. It may seem painfully obvious, but never underestimate a Korean school teacher's ability to miss a small snippet of common sense, which is: I speak English...my students do not. It would seem easy enough to understand. But alas, it was not. Because of this lapse in communication (I thought I made it abundantly clear in the interview process that I was an American, and as such we would have a bit of a language barrier) my days were spent dealing with alternating versions of the following scenario.
a foreign film review by Chris White ________________
MY ARCHITECT: A SON'S JOURNEY
Written & Directed by Nathaniel Kahn
MY ARCHITECT is Nathaniel Kahn’s personal journey to forgiveness and reconciliation with his rogue father, one of the 20th Century’s most brilliant architects.
Kahn’s film moves along patiently, painstakingly…each frame filled with the grief of a son, mostly unknown to his father, searching desperately to know his dad and, ultimately, to love him. To “hug his buildings.”
There is no question that Louis I. Kahn’s work is fascinating, moving, powerful. And it is not really surprising to learn that he died poor and alone...that his life was filled with dysfunctional relationships, poor business decisions, and general self-absorption. It is the all-too-familiar “genius artist’s” tale.
But MY ARCHITECT works as meta-Biblical narrative…the lost son seeking his creator father…within his creation. Kahn’s tale resonates more deeply, and the peace he ultimately finds during this journey is more rewarding.
(The one-minute scene of Nathaniel Kahn roller-blading at his father’s ethereal Salk Institute courtyard, underscored by Neil Young and Stephen Stills’s “Long May You Run,” is pure cinema…rare for a documentary.)
Nathaniel Kahn’s film manages to celebrate his father’s work, damn his paternal failings, and restore his own sense of origin, of family in less than two hours. It is an amazing accomplishment.
