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Tribeca Film Festival Wrap-Up Reviews of Freeze Frame and Lipstick & Dynamite Okay, so we only saw two films. Our press passes were treated with Moynihanesque benign neglect. Freeze Frame Employing another ratchet from the toolbox of gimmickry, Freeze Frame attempts to do for self-surveillance what Memento did for tattooed cliff’s notes. Written and directed by John Simpson, it is the tale of Sean Veil (played by Lee Evans), who, after escaping a murder conviction on a technicality, has adopted the queer habit of videotaping himself for every second of every day, just in case the need for an alibi arises. Ten years of bed cams, web cams and chest-holstered face cams later, Veil has amassed a vault’s worth of tapes chronicling every snore and every shit. It’s unclear if he has a job or any means of income to support his creepy camera-filled dungeon, as the process of self-archival seems to consume every moment of his life. He’s even shaved his head and eyebrows for the dual purpose of being easy to identify and to eliminate the risk of leaving forensic evidence anywhere that could be used against him. He resembles a vole. Even paranoids have enemies, and, in Veil’s case, the adversaries are a pair of police inspectors who are convinced Veil will strike again and a retired investigator who made his name off the fudged triple-murder trial. Though Veil maintains his innocence, he relentlessly follows each local unsolved killing, sure the fuzz will try to pin one on him. And they do. When Veil goes to retrieve the vindicating footage of the day in question from his vault, the tapes have disappeared. His only ally against the Limey gumshoes is Katie Carter (Rachel Stirling), a reporter from a television tabloid called “Crime Wave”. Thus begins a tiresome breadcrumb trail of twists that culminates in all sorts of fantastic revelations, cruel betrayals and murders. Videotape is the theme here, and much of the film is viewed through the lens of recording devices. Simpson is hesitant to let his balls swing – instead of making Freeze Frame a genuinely weird movie shot entirely from surveillance cameras, he settles for a conventional film with a voyeuristic tinge. Even Veil’s bizarre appearance, Golem-like facial expressions, clumsy narration and annoying penchant for mournful wails are lovable in comparison to the bald-faced suspension of belief routinely requested of the viewer. Few characters’ motives make sense, people go from reasonable to murderous in the blink of an eye and the plotlines wrap up far too neatly at the end. Simpson is sort of like the snot-nosed kid who cleans his room by stuffing everything into the closet and leaning against the door as mommy surveys his bookshelves and fluffed pillows. Freeze Frame’s original title, Straight to Video, was more fitting.
We all long for a gangsta bitch with wrapped bandanas, razors tucked under long tongues, and Flava Unit all-star Apache riding shotgun. Our gangsta bitches pale in comparison to the gangsta bitches chronicled in Ruth Leitman’s Lipstick and Dynamite. A combo-pack of interviews with elderly female wrestlers and black ‘n’ white clips from the 1940’s, the documentary provides a rare glimpse of a social phenomenon that goes far beyond simple nostalgia. The film focuses on a group of lady grapplers who have all seen better days. Despite their spunk and spirited tales, there is a distinct sense of sadness that permeates the film. These are poor women; gleaned from the ranks of farm girls, abused daughters and runaways, none of the wrestlers have lived much of a glamorous life. Even with their turn on the big stage, almost all of the ladies have struggled since strolling away from the turnbuckles – cancer, drunken ex-husbands, embarrassment and financial decrepitude are common denominators. The juxtaposition of sepia-toned images of lovely smiling lassies and wrinkled old bats is both striking and poignant. That tall glass of water you fondle up in the VIP at the Canal Room will eventually be a grizzled old coot ravaged by pepperoni-sized age spots that can barely put words together. Lipstick and Dynamite is a worthwhile film for anyone, even if you think wresting is fucking idiotic. Read more articles in Arts » |
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