Mama, we made it! Ever since I was a wee boy, I knew I was destined for greatness, preordained for something greater than the trivial and stock earthly labours. I was to be author-extraordinaire of an unpaid monthly column detailing films promised to be forgotten in Letterboxd watchlists—and the day the comet comes tearing through Earth’s mantle, suffocating humanity in a prison of dust and molten stone; finally relieving the universe of the cursed abstraction that is life—one person, their genetic helix coming undone like God’s shoelace, whispers, “I wish I would have watched The Animatrix. That annoying guy on ODDCRITIC seemed to really enjoy it.”
This is really just an outlet for me to overuse semicolons and em dashes. Some people have boxing, skydiving, or jacking their shit with a belt around their neck—mine is poorly overusing grammar to feign intelligence. Let’s jump right in.
Harlan County, USA (1976) dir. Barbara Kopple
Come all ye young fellars… So brave and so fine… Seek not your fortune… Way down in the mine… Slip into your basement… Crack a bottle, roll some weed… Start this ol’ movie and you are destined to weep.
One fine evening, I found myself three beers deep enjoying an episode of Criterion Closet, featuring the now-defunct couple, Channing Tatum and Zoe Kravitz. RIP Zoneing Kravitumz—Blink Twice will be forgotten, but your charismatic couples interviews will live on in my heart forever. Channing’s first pick off the wall was Barbara Kopple’s debut picture, Harlan County, USA. My ears perked up when Tatum described the film as “punk rock.” Mr. Tatum has been known to don a tastefully sun-faded band tee so I felt it crucial to audit his definition of “punk.” Long story short, Channing can do no wrong, and I found one of my favourite films of all time.
Kopple’s 1976 documentary details the violent thirteen-month Brookside Strike that dominated Southeast Kentucky. The film sees 138 miners and their wives fight tooth, nail, and firearm against the corrupt Duke Power Company, which… come on… you don’t get a more classically evil corporation name than that. Harlan County, USA rocked me (hehe get it) in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. I wept three separate times throughout the film’s one-hour-and forty-four-minute duration, and as the credits rolled I was left croaking through cracked and black-dusted lips (also I have a French accent), “Cinema Vérité… Cinema Vérité… Cinema Vérité…” And then I died.
Hot take: teach labour history in schools! The least we can do is learn about unions, considering these boys were literally shot at for requesting an extra sick day and not to be exploded at work.
Kopple truly embeds herself in this struggle for workers’ rights. Several families spoke about how Kopple and her team were crucial in the fight for a new contract, and the presence of cameras added a layer of protection to what could have been an even more desperate engagement. For a film that is largely political, Kopple keeps the stakes high—so high you might check for a stick of dynamite sitting next to you on the couch, only to realize it’s a half-eaten king-sized Toblerone you got for Christmas; suddenly you’re aware of how high you are and maybe that’s the reason for all the crying. The only rhetorical tool Kopple uses, aside from honest ‘show don’t tell’ filmmaking, is music—and my God—what an incredible soundtrack. It’s powerful to hear storytelling songs in the context of their associated struggle; similarly to how I feel getting my scrotum waxed listening to Benson Boone. We’re talking fervent goose-pimples the size of quail eggs. I simply don’t have the vocabulary to discuss the impact of the music in this film; just shoutout to Hazel Dickens.
There is a scene in Harlan County, USA where one of the wives, Lois Scott, reaches into her brassiere and pulls out a revolver. “You tell them I started with a switch up there on the picket line, but I ended up now carrying a gun.” The undercurrent—the true momentum—of this film is provided by the women of Harlan County. It was the miners’ wives who were organizing, pushing, supplying and articulating this struggle. Kopple makes it clear that when the dust settles, they are the ones with children left to rear and husbands to grieve. Harlan County, USA won an Academy Award for best documentary, and, fuck aggregate review scores, but this film has 100% on Rotten Tomatoes. I recom
mend watching this movie in a subterranean setting dreaming of Channing’s brawny chest, with a copy of Marx’s Communist Manifesto tucked under arm.
The Sound of Noise (2010) dir. Ola Simonsson & Johannes Stjarne Nilsson
No, I haven’t seen Sound of Metal. No, I haven’t seen Whiplash. But yes, I do get stoned and tear up at the final ten minute Whiplash solo on Youtube, and yes, this column is turning out to be a glimpse into all the arbitrary things that make me cry. Anyways…here’s a completely different movie about drums that, frankly speaking, is probably the worst of the films just mentioned.
Who doesn’t love a tight elevator pitch? The Sound of Noise is about six drummers who, in protest of pretentious Swedish concerto music, stage four surreal guerrilla concerts. We’re talking operating room with a patient on the table, we’re talking bank heist with a guy who’s got the most perfect shriek I’ve ever heard, we’re talking… shhhhhhhh spoilers. A tone-deaf detective with a disdain for music is tasked with bringing these rapscallions before the courts.
The Sound of Noise is far from a masterpiece, but it is an endearing exploration of a high-concept premise. The front half of the film sees the two team leads, Sanna and Magnus, assembling their group of musical mercenaries. The sequence feels very Ocean’s Eleven, with the two recruiters showing up at each musician’s place of work with an ‘opportunity.’ Quite similar to the way Jenn Maxwell offered me this column.
It was a grey day. I was of course working the docks, comfortably resigned to a slow and honest life. Far gone was my involvement with the violent and inscrutable world of film-related web content. Like a black looming angel of death, she stood at the end of a ship’s bow. I set down my rope. She had on black sunglasses and a large scarf that danced in the wind like a giddy jester around stoic royalty. From her perch, she smiled.
“What are you doing here?” I called out. My words sounded thin—tossed downstream by the unrelenting aerial current.
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore… I have a job.”
“I’ll tag you on Instagram…” I pause for a moment, and we listen to the tide splashing against the dock.
“You can choose your own unique aesthetic theme, and I won’t put a cap on how many times you bring up Channing Tatum’s chest.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “Okay… I’m in… but did you know he can draw too? Like talk about multi-faceted talent.”
Anyways, none of that is true or important; like, except for the part about Channing’s drawing—whatever. I probably should have finished the film synopsis before my spiral. This section is a write-off.
I must stress that the film’s four escalating rebellion concerts are its greatest strength. To be honest, the rest of the movie struggles. I felt that the directors abandoned the musician’s character development as soon as their plan began. This left the ineffectual detective to carry the film’s emotional engagement, and frankly, the detective was a bit of a stale presence on screen. Regardless, this thing is certainly worth catching. I recommend viewing this movie while sitting on a stool (sans lumbar support) with the lights on bright, while frantically drumming on the neighbouring furniture with your pointer fingers.
Human Traffic (1999) dir. Justin Kerrigan
Human Traffic is Trainspotting meets Dazed and Confused—two of my favourite movies of all time (I didn’t even have a choice. As a scrawny whiteboy they come preloaded in your Letterboxd top four). Speaking of Letterboxd, I saw someone describe this film as “Gregg Araki but Welsh and heterosexual and stupid,” which also might be true.
Human Traffic, by Justin Kerrigan, follows a group of five friends on their noble quest to get absolutely pissed on a Friday night. The film’s plot is about as deep as a dime bag, but just as fun. I found the frequent breaks in the fourth wall create the illusion that you’re ‘one of the mates,’ and the many surrealist asides, including the ‘I’m Trying To Be Myself’ bar sing-along, Jeremy Factsman’s in-club interview, or (my favourite) ‘Spliff Politics,’ keep the film active and light. I also think this movie has the most incredible impotence description ever; I can’t wait to hit a partner with, “I’m having a monumental case of Mr. Floppy.”
As the night wanes, the narrative starts slipping into increasingly sentimental territory. The drama never reads as contrived and adds just enough weight to the film that when the gang are packed into their car, the sun coming up, Belfast by Orbital echoing through their speakers, you feel as if something important has occurred. If you like Guy Ritchie, watch this movie. If you like dance music, watch this movie. If you like cocaine, watch this movie. If you enjoy unexpectedly decent portrayals of feminine friendship, watch this movie. I recommend watching Human Traffic through bloodshot eyes with a group of equally wired friends after all the bars have closed.
Alice (1988) dir. Jan Svankmajer
Now you will see a film made for children… perhaps?
Did you know there’s a neurological disorder called Alice in Wonderland Syndrome? Apparently it feels similar to derealization, but with a hint of size-based visual distortion. Ceilings feel higher, furniture feels shorter, you start seeing animals as the personification of different DSM entries—that sort of thing.
Alice is a dark surrealist half live-action, half stop-motion, Czech film that plays off of Lewis Carroll’s first Alice in Wonderland book. Svankmajer explained that he thought most interpretations of Carroll’s text came off as fairy tales, whereas he wanted to create something closer to an “amoral dream”—which is the same sort of vibe I bring to ordering a Subway Sandwich. Oh, I forgot to mention if you don’t do well with taxidermy, then this one might not be for you. I’ll have six boneless rats on Italian herbs and cheese, please.
For the record, I LOVE stop motion. And no, not in a pull-my-pud type of way; more of a guy who owns candles sort of energy; I digress. With many high-labour animation projects there is a certain narrative sacrifice that is made to accomplish visual magnitude—I’m looking at you The Boss Baby. Did you know it’s ‘The’ Boss Baby, not just Boss Baby? Something about that is upsetting. Anyways, it’s kind of a comparable feeling to when you meet someone gorgeous and initially they are captivating. That’s until you’re an hour into talking and you realize they have no story to tell and you really just want to log them on your Letterboxd. All that to say, Alice avoids this common pitfall and keeps up its momentum, which is impressive given it’s a bunch of dreamy nonsense. I think part of its magnetism is the film’s source material. I found myself curious as to how they might represent my favourite loveable characters, and each portrayal subverted my expectations. I also found that the film actually invents genuinely tricky puzzles for Alice, and her completion of these obstacles maintains a satisfying sense of progress.
Alice features some incredibly endearing repetition: every time a drawer handle is pulled it pops right off, the cakes… well you should know about the cakes, and the rabbit’s constant expulsion of sawdust all serve the madness motif well. Googly eyes are at an all-time high in this one, and you never quite get used to the transition between stop-motion and live action. I don’t know if I have properly expressed the level of godlike detail in this movie. There are moments where the stop motion characters display realistic human mechanical mistakes, such as failing to grab a chair on the first reach or tripping over their stride. Nailing realism with such a demanding medium makes me question if Svankmajer is mad. The fishbone creature and Marie Lwyd-looking ass (real Welsh ones know) do not help his case.
There is an incredible two-minute scene where a rat paddles out to Alice, who is suspended up to her chin in water. The rat boards her head, starts a fire, and for a short while cooks a hearty stew. This is genuinely how I feel in most of my relationships, and it spoke to me with a profundity that sent a sparkle of glee up the left side of my spine and a shadow of sorrow down the right. With that said, I recommend watching this film while getting your septum pierced by a creature growing out of a jar in a room the size of a milk crate.
Well, that concludes this month’s installment of Who Put That On? I hope you discovered something worth watching or, at the very least, enjoyed the small window into my emotional fragility. Tune in next month to see if this column gets any better—it probably won’t; it’ll probably be Christmas time, and I’ll probably rant about four different versions of A Christmas Carol. I LOVE a Christmas Carol—and this time in a pull-my-pud type of way. Jacob Marley is so snatched. I don’t know what that word means. I’m embarrassed. Okay, sorry for wasting time. Long live Charles Dickens!