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Film Features Film/TV

A Little Help from His Friends

Dave Chappelle became a cultural icon through provocative skits on his hit Comedy Central program Chappelle’s Show about oblivious crackheads, black white supremacists, and Rick James. But my favorite moment on the show was when Chappelle drove around a New York neighborhood with rapper Mos Def riding shotgun. Mos Def slipped in a CD with an instrumental track (“Close Edge,” later to be released on Def’s album The New Danger) and rapped over it as Chappelle — nodding his head in appreciation and gracing the screen with a slight smile that balanced pride and joy — manned the wheel.

That side of Chappelle’s personality — both the gentle soul so interested in and appreciative of other people and the cultural ringleader unconcerned about pleasing his mass white audience — is more prominent than “Dave Chappelle: Funny Man” in Block Party, where even the copious laughs are relaxed and friendly and where Chappelle himself takes a back seat to a family of artists he loves and respects. And though it was filmed months before Chappelle’s infamous April 2005 “meltdown,” when he walked off the set of his show’s third season for an impromptu African sabbatical, one suspects the movie showcases a Chappelle more likely to resemble his public persona going forward.

Directed by French filmmaker Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), Block Party is a document of an all-day concert — “the concert I’ve always wanted to see” — Chappelle organized at a Brooklyn intersection on September 18, 2004, and is something like a mash-up of WattStax, The Last Waltz, and a Richard Pryor concert movie.

With rare exceptions (Kanye West), the music Chappelle celebrates here is less popular than he is. The “house band” is the Roots, a hip-hop band from Philadelphia. Rappers Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and Common are constants. Guest performers include West, neo-soul singers Erykah Badu and Jill Scott, a reformed Fugees, and incendiary rap duo Dead Prez (who get more attention here than ever before or ever will again and deserve every bit of it). This is a strand of bohemian hip-hop and R&B — generally too successful to be saddled with descriptives like “indie” or “underground” but unlikely to get heavy rotation on most commercial “urban” stations — that provides a conscious, earthy alternative to the desperate flash of most current mainstream rap or R&B music. It’s also music less likely to provoke identification or comic delight from an average Chappelle’s Show viewer than, say, Rick James or Lil’ Jon.

And yet despite ostensibly being a paean to a very specific musical culture, Block Party doesn’t feel at all insular. Partly this is a testament to the musical scene in question, which is far more level-headed and open than most. But mostly it’s a testament to Chappelle, who begins the movie three days earlier in his hometown of Dayton, Ohio, with a handful of “golden tickets” good for transportation and lodging to and from his dream concert. He wants to share the event with some of his neighbors, which ends up including a couple of parole officers, a pair of black teens on their way to play golf, the middle-aged white proprietresses of the corner store where Chappelle buys his smokes, and the entire marching band from Dayton’s Central State University.

Together, Chappelle, his neighbors, and his musical cohorts concoct a seductive cultural alternative: Fierce but not coarse. Righteous but not rigid. Funny and friendly yet uncompromising. Some performances (Kweli’s frantic flow, Scott’s poorly chosen songs) disappoint, and the movie has a dawdling pace that some viewers might find frustrating. But I found it to be utterly charming and, I hope, not just because I’m someone predisposed to get excited about the prospect of a Fugees reunion.

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Film Features Film/TV

Caché is a provocative allegory of domestic insecurity.

There may not be another film screened in Memphis this year that balances formal control, political/cultural content, and personal intrigue as well as Austrian director Michael Haneke’s Caché (Hidden).

Set in an unnamed French city, this allegory of domestic insecurity, cultural privilege, and selective public memory centers on an educated, upper-class nuclear family whose comfortable existence is threatened.

It’s a classic film-noir scenario, a la Cape Fear, but given a European art-film twist. Aside from one truly shocking moment of violence, the scenario never resolves itself through conventional cinematic action. Depending on how the viewer interprets the film’s final scenes, it may not resolve itself at all.

Caché opens with a static long shot of an urban residence. It holds the shot for several minutes, with minimal action. Two things are accomplished here. One is that Haneke is encouraging — even training — the viewer to let his or her eyes roam across the frame. This style of active watching is central to how Haneke wants you to think about his viewer-implicating film. Getting used to picking apart the on-screen information will also pay off later, especially in a final shot that offers a potentially crucial clue.

The other purpose of this static opening take is to lull viewers only to shock them when the image crinkles and begins to rewind. It turns out the image is from a surveillance tape, shot from in front of the home of Georges (Daniel Auteuil), the host of a TV literary talk show, and his wife Anne (Juliette Binoche), a book editor, and delivered anonymously at their door.

After this creepy beginning, the surveillance just becomes more disturbing. More tapes arrive, sometimes wrapped in crude, violent drawings. There are phone calls to Anne and cards sent to Georges at work and the couple’s 12-year-old son Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky) at school.

Initially, the family thinks the source of the harassment might be a prank from one of their son’s friends or an obsessive fan of Georges’ television show. But gradually, Georges senses that it’s the result of a repressed memory coming home to roost, linked to an Algerian man Georges was cruel to as a child.

And, at this point, though the plot is never fully resolved (depending on what you see and what you think about that final shot), Caché deepens into something more profound than a mere thriller. Is Georges a victim or a culprit? Is his selective memory, suppressed guilt, and mix of contempt and fear emblematic of his country? His race? His class?

There’s much in Caché that’s culturally specific to France, with a reference to a largely covered-up early ’60s massacre of Algerian immigrants by the French police figuring prominently and with the film arguably presaging the country’s culture-clash riots last fall (Haneke was named best director at the Cannes Film Festival last summer) in much the same way that late-’80s Los Angeles gangsta rap presaged the Rodney King riots. But Caché implicates Western culture more broadly in a way that would have been highly relevant even before 9/11 and the Iraq war. In the present context, it’s an intensely provocative and thoughtful film.

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Opinion The Last Word

The Rant

Every time I look up, I shake my head so much I feel like a tennis ball. I just finished watching a show on my newest addiction — Link TV, the independent television network out of San Francisco that might be even more knee-jerk liberal than I am, albeit much more serious. The network aired the recent Australian news story about phase II of the Abu Ghraib prison debacle, showing a whole new set of photographs and videos that are much more disturbing than the first set.
I’m sure some kind of beam went straight from my television to the FBI, and unless I have just missed it, the major American broadcast news media have made little mention of this. Imagine that. It showed some horrific — really horrific — images of prisoners not only tortured and bloodied and shot and hooded and forced to masturbate in front of chuckling U.S. soldiers, it also showed some who had been killed. Of course, when I flipped to one of the major networks to find out if they were reporting on it, the main story was whether or not people would be able to continue living their lives here if they lose their Blackberry personal digital assistants. Imagine that. Then — THEN — I read one tiny paragraph buried in a newspaper in which the Pillsbury Dough Boy, er, Scott McLellan, made a statement about the Dubai Ports World deal, letting us all sleep better at night by reminding us that Bush didn’t make the decision to let the firm control our major ports but instead learned about it from the news (!!!). Now, bear with me, because I’m a little late in the game catching up on all of this, but am I missing something here? Someone walk me through this, because I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree sometimes and I’m much more focused on the man who duked it out with police in Little Rock the other day after he tried to steal a sheep from the zoo and was walking around with it in a big can. So is this true? A company owned by the government of the United Arab Emirates is going to run the ports in six of our major cities, including New York City, in the midst of the worst West/Middle East relations in history, and the president of the United States found out about it on the news? Forget whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing to hire them. Worry more about what else might be going down that he might not know about. Let’s see. The terrorists in the Middle East despise our allies there and they just tried to blow up the largest oil plant in Saudi Arabia, but it’s okay to have our Middle Eastern allies come control our already far-too-vulnerable ports? This is a bit like rebuilding the World Trade Center towers and placing a bull’s eye on every side and a billboard that reads, “HERE WE ARE!” I’m in no way anti-Arab or anti-Muslim or anything like that, and I still say if everybody involved in this culture clash would just drop a few hits of ecstasy, ALL of this shit would end. But it seems to me that somebody here isn’t quite playing with a full deck. But that’s just my opinion. And the fact that Bush found out about this, uh, fairly important matter from news reports after it was a done deal is almost unbelievable. Oh. Right. What am I saying? It’s totally believable. Well, except for that little matter about him not reading newspapers. But I’m tired of writing about him. I’ve been trying not to let him take up that much space in my thoughts and I’ve been doing pretty well. So on to bigger and better things. I just read that someone spent a lot of money on a study to see if black people are more afraid of bird flu than white people. How someone can make the bird flu a racial issue is something that’s going to take a lot of time and thought to figure out.