Hey folks, Harry here with Hellman's look at 3 of what he considered the most interesting films to play at Seattle this year during that wondrous Seattle International Film Festival. SPRING SUBWAY is definitely a superior film, I caught it while I was in Beijeng and was blown away by just how emotional and raw the film was. Really wonderful. Here ye a go...

SIFF ended this past weekend, but I'm still polishing a number of writeups (I saw 68 movies). Below are what I consider to be the three most interesting films of the handful of reviews that were lost when M's laptop exploded. I'll be forwarding a few more (not all 68, of course) through the end of this week, and you can pick and choose the most interesting titles. Cheers!

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SPRING SUBWAY - China - written by Liu Fendou, directed by Zhang Yibai

By turns sweet and sad, simple and sublimely poetic, "Spring Subway" captures a feeling about romantic love with which I can definitely identify: that it's worth risking the possibility, even the likelihood, of eventual heartache to pursue those fleeting moments of beauty that give us true joy.

The film opens in the subway, where Jianbin has been spending his days. His wife thinks he's working, but he hasn't been able to tell her he lost his job months ago, and now he fills his empty hours riding back and forth, not doing much at all. In its premise, it resembles a French film of a couple of years ago called "Time Out," but "Spring Subway" is its own movie; it's less about the coldness of the world and more about the flickers of hopefulness that peer around our fears of being hurt by love.

In voice-over (and sometimes in direct-to-camera address), Jianbin tells us he's riding the subway in order to people-watch. He's desperately afraid of what his wife will do when she finds out about his lack of employment, so he's observing other people searching for insights about love. Specifically, he wants to know whether love really can last forever, because, as he claims, he needs confidence that his wife won't leave him over his lie. This is just a rationalization, of course; he's seeking an impossible goal, and is using it as an excuse not to confess.

And in any event, his wife has a deception of her own: She's finding a tentative connection with another man, who makes no secret of his interest in her. The movie gets tremendous mileage out of noticing the smallest details of behavior, and of pointing out that major changes in relationships often begin with seemingly insignificant moments. Note, for example, how the flirtation between Xiaohui, the wife, and the other man begins with an innocuous activity, as he teaches her to open and light a Zippo with the same flick. And then later, while Jianbin and Xiaohui are out to dinner, her cell phone rings when she's away from the table; he picks it up, absorbs the unknown name on the display, and then sets it back down, carefully arranging it the way it was so his wife won't know he picked it up.

As we explore the subtle deterioration of this relationship, we take momentary detours into the lives of the people Jianbin watches on the subway. There's an older man who's looking for love through some sort of matching service; there's a shy kid who wishes for the courage to ask out the cute girl he frequently stands next to; there's a woman who starts berating the riders, but turns out to be hawking a processed breakfast food. Some of their connections turn out well, some unhappily, and Jianbin isn't sure what he learns, or can learn, from the range of possible outcomes.

While many scenes take a quietly realistic, almost French, tone, observing the small but important details of how people interact, there are also passages of bold expressionism, in which we are transported into a reality that has more to do with the characters' emotions than their exterior lives. The film also occasionally visits a character's imagination, such as when Jianbin tries to visualize a successful confession to his wife. These moments can be funny, or painful, or both, but they're always recognizably, achingly true. For example, there's a scene where Jianbin is pretending to be asleep, and Xiaohui, lying next to him, tries to poke him awake. Her initial playfulness gives way to annoyance, since she knows he's feigning sleep, and she pokes at him harder and harder. Finally she pulls back her foot to give him a seriously pissed-off kick, and he whips around, staring at her. After a pause, each speaks to the camera, confessing more with sadness than anger that while a fight may be productive, neither of them really wants to do it right now, and that's the end of it.

The challenge with a movie like this is to maintain the simple, honest tone throughout. There's always a danger of tipping into mawkishness, of the filmmaker deciding he or she can't subject these likable people to any more suffering and imposing a too-happy ending that doesn't fit. Or, alternatively, the filmmaker can worry that the audience is getting bored with the unadorned simplicity, and may resort to howlingly artificial melodrama in a misguided attempt to inject some unnecessary excitement (see the ludicrously awful CPR scene at the end of the otherwise marvelous "The Tall Guy"). "Spring Subway" comes close to upsetting its delicate balance with a somewhat hackneyed subplot about Jianbin learning of and visiting a hospitalized woman whose eyes have been bandaged, so she can't tell who she's talking to, but it's saved with an unexpected resolution. And even better, the shy kid on the subway devises a sweet and truly clever way to propose to his dream girl, but he falters on the follow-through, leading to one of the most perfectly realized moments of exquisite heartbreak I've seen in many years.

Now, I have to say that the film may be a bit too elliptical for some viewers. As I was leaving, I overheard a small group of people analyzing the more poetic sequences, debating which were real and which were imagined, in order to determine what had "actually happened." I had to shake my head as I passed: It would be difficult, in my opinion, for them to have more fully missed the point. The movie isn't about its plot; it's about the internal landscapes of the characters, and about how sometimes our secret wishes and fantasies have more emotional weight than so-called reality. It's about how, really, each of us is alone in the world, but that sometimes, if we're lucky, we can be alone together with someone.

While I wasn't quite sure how I felt about "Spring Subway" as the credits rolled, it's really stuck with me. The more I think back, the clearer it resolves in my mind, and the more I like it. It's small, intimate, sometimes hilarious, and sometimes sad, but always honest and tender. It may not be revolutionary filmmaking, but it manages to tell the truth -- and that's really hard to do. Highly recommended.

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MY ARCHITECT - U.S., documentary - directed by Nathaniel Kahn

The documentary "My Architect" was one of the hottest tickets of the festival, based on word of mouth from passholders who saw the advance press screenings. Maybe my expectations were inflated as a result of this, but I believe the film, while very good, falls short of excellence.

When Nathaniel Kahn was eleven, he learned of the death of his father. It was no ordinary tragedy, however; it was marked with elements of strangeness and celebrity. First, his father died in a train station restroom, having just returned from overseas, and lay unidentified in a city morgue for three days. In addition, Nathaniel and his mother weren't the man's only family: He had children by two other mothers, which made the services understandably awkward.

And finally, Nathaniel's father was the world-famous and highly influential architect, Louis Kahn.

In "My Architect," Nathaniel, now in his late thirties, goes on a quest to understand his father. With film crew in tow, he visits many of his father's more renowned buildings, and further seeks out former associates, clients, and business partners, not to mention family members. The journey takes him across the United States and into Asia, where we finally see Louis Kahn's proudest achievement, the central governing complex for a capital city.

Discussing the film afterwards, my moviegoing companion and I made note of its objectivity, and of Nathaniel's willingness to go wherever the trail takes him. Given Louis's tangled family history, it would be possible for a muckraking journalist to focus on his personality and his numerous dalliances, and make a sensational "Hollywood True Story" sort of thing out of it. It would also be possible, of course, given Louis's prominence in twentieth-century architecture, to dispense with the scandal and focus entirely on his contributions to the field, dryly describing the conception and application of his architectural theories.

However, either of these exclusive approaches would shortchange the man, and Nathaniel Kahn, whether consciously or unconsciously, combines elements of both into a single film. This might seem a strange and uncertain approach, but the fact that it's such a personal subject means it's really the only way he can do it. Because he wants to understand what drove his father, and what led to his ignominious death, he has no choice but to delve into his numerous infidelities; but at the same time, because the only significant record of his life is in the buildings he created, Nathaniel must also get to know his father through his work, which leads to a lot of conversations about materials and geometry and how light and shadow interact with enclosed space and so on.

For most of the movie, this works surprisingly well. We enjoy a very intimate perspective on a celebrated man that wouldn't be possible if someone other than his son were directing the film, alternating with a very intense scrutiny of the man's life's work. In one scene we're listening to family members reminisce about the tensions at the funeral; in the next we're enthralled by a serene shot that captures how a needle-thin streak of sunlight angles across a concrete wall at a particular time of day.

It must be said, though, that the film begins to falter slightly after an hour, for a couple of reasons. First, while Nathaniel mentions his sisters early, he takes much too long to introduce them. Once he does, it sort of makes sense why it's structured the way it is, but until then we occasionally wonder if the film is avoiding them, which is distracting. Also, while Nathaniel goes many places and talks to many people, he rarely if ever comes anywhere close to the epiphany he's clearly after. At one point, for example, he manages to locate the man who found his father's body, and he seems excited by what he might learn, but surprisingly little comes of it. The most entertaining interview is with a crotchety old city planner, who doesn't bother concealing his contempt of architect Kahn's abilities, and for a few moments, we think an interesting new window on the father's personality may be opening; but once the meeting is concluded, Nathaniel seems too eager to dismiss and deny everything he's just learned, and almost by reflex goes back to defending his father. It's a rare lapse from objectivity, but it's indicative of the movie as a whole that Nathaniel seems to be looking for insights that refuse to be pinned down.

But then, finally, we arrive in Bangladesh, to explore Louis Kahn's most significant architectural triumph, and suddenly the whole movie snaps back into focus. Bangladesh is generally thought of, when we think of it at all, as a desperately poor and backward nation, but they're proud of their independence and sustain ambitious dreams of where democracy can take them. To that end, they commissioned the architect to design them an entire capital campus, one that would express their lofty goals and function almost as a temple of national idealism.

The result, which Kahn sadly did not live to see completed, is, without exaggeration, a breathtaking piece of work, one you must see to believe. And as Nathaniel stands and gazes around him, we get the sense that, in seeing what his father was capable of giving to the world when truly inspired, he has finally uncovered something deep and fundamental about the man he's been trying to understand over the course of the film. It's a very moving, and emotionally satisfying, finale.

"My Architect" meanders a bit before arriving at its remarkable conclusion, but the last five minutes make the whole film worthwhile. It's neither perfect nor groundbreaking, but I can still recommend the film with only minor reservations.

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THE GOOD OLD NAUGHTY DAYS - documentary (sort of), France - directed by Michel Reilhac

Two women go into a room and close the door. Initially, it's because one is helping the other with her stocking; then she starts caressing her friend, kissing her, and removing her clothes. The other is shy at first, but eventually reciprocates, and before long, they're having sex on the bed. Then, unexpectedly, a man enters! He's clownishly surprised by what he sees before him, but of course, with a little encouragement, he cheerfully agrees to join in.

A scene from a recent Vivid title, perhaps? Maybe starring Jenna Jameson? And Randy Spears as the goofy guy? You'd think so, wouldn't you? Actually, it's the first chapter in "The Good Old Naughty Days," a compilation of pornographic short films made between 1905 and 1930. Yes, that's right, these are from the silent era, with title cards and all. According to the onscreen explanation (there's no spoken narration, just piano music), these films were shown in the lobbies and waiting rooms of "the best brothels in Europe" to keep the men entertained while they waited their turn. And if this collection proves nothing else, it demonstrates that porn hasn't changed appreciably in almost a hundred years.

Before the first short is even half over, you're struck by the sameness of the material to today's adult films. Start with two women, doing a little striptease. Kiss and gently stroke one another. Soon, move on to cunnilingus. Bring in the guy. More cunnilingus, and of course fellatio. Maybe a sixty-nine, maybe a little spanking. Intercourse. A moment of awkwardness as we change positions, and then, more intercourse. Repeat as desired. Then, for the big finish, the man pulls out, and we get his spurting climax. I don't mean to be crude, but it is porn, after all.

And the amazing thing is how little the vocabulary has changed in all this time. There are usually two women, who begin the scene, and one man, who enters later. The camerawork is the same: wide shot as activity begins, cut to closeup of blowjob or whatever. Further, note how in one scene, as a man settles behind a woman on her hands and knees, he's careful to pull his nightgown up around his waist -- not because it's in his way, but because, just like today, the camera needs to see what he's doing. There are even occasional close-ups of the woman's orgasmic face, which strike us as being kind of silly and unrealistic (one woman crosses and uncrosses her eyes, for example) but which, if you think about it, really aren't any more unrealistic than the shouts and grunts featured in the modern porn lexicon. Neither are the characters any different; all the women are horny, whether overtly or with minimal persuasion, and all the men are either callow fools or single-minded seducers. Even the fetishes, amazingly, are the same: There's one short with a man being worked on by two nurses, and there's not one but two stories involving nuns and priests. The only real differences between then and now are cosmetic: film stock, costumes, somewhat more average bodies (no boob jobs, and only a couple of the johnsons are hugely oversized), and a lot more pubic hair. Other than that, pretty much everything's the same.

Well, except for when they brought in the dog. That was different.

It says something about us, I think, that our interests and obsessions have changed so little. One of my pet theories about human nature, thus far uncontradicted, is that any time a new technology is developed, before we do anything else with it, we try to determine whether we can use it to (1) kill each other and/or (2) enhance our sex lives. Only after those investigations are well under way, it seems, will we move on to exploring other applications. Based on that general principle, we may not be surprised that the movie camera hadn't been around very long before people started having sex in front of it, but what's remarkable about the material in "Good Old Naughty Days" is how contemporary it looks to our eyes. Either the porn filmmakers got sophisticated early, or our modern porn is just as primitive as it's always been from the beginning. The truth, perhaps, is a combination of the two.

Further worth thinking about is how depictions of sex have been a constant in human culture. Scripture-waving moralizers of every stripe desperately want to deny this part of ourselves, but the clips in this film wordlessly testify to the hopeless inaccuracy of that view. As long as we're human, we will be fascinated and titillated by this sort of material, whether above ground or under. It would be worthwhile, I think, to put these films alongside excerpts from current porn, and compare and contrast the storylines, the camerawork, and so on, to really make clear how little our drives and preoccupations have changed. One might also choose to gather a few well-known voices with different angles on human sexuality -- say, Dan Savage, Brad Armstrong, Annie Sprinkle, and Sue Johanson, for a variety of viewpoints -- in order to show them these movies and record their thoughts and comments.

Now, I know I'm making "Good Old Naughty Days" sound like some sort of milestone or documentary masterpiece. Regrettably, I must clarify that this is not the case. Basically, it's nothing more than a catalog, eleven short films with brief intertitles bridging the gaps. Missing from the film is any sort of insight or sociological discussion as touched on in the two paragraphs immediately above; those were issues I pondered for myself on the drive home. In fact, what's really unfortunate and, indeed, infuriating about the movie is how condescending it is toward the archival material as though it's little more than an amusing curiosity. This attitude is made especially clear by the way the title cards are used not to convey information about the films, but, rather, as a vehicle for infantile jokes about "learning to wield the beef bayonet" or looking for the "little boy in the boat." I have a vision of the director as a Gallic Butthead, pointing at the scratchy images, saying, Huh huh, aren't these movies hilariously dumb, huh huh huh.

No, Monsieur Reilhac, they aren't. You had an opportunity with these movies to do something really interesting, and to show us a part of ourselves we didn't expect to recognize. Instead, you've wasted them on a frivolous project, which you further mar by inflicting your unfunny, boorish juvenalia on it. Yes, you do us a service by bringing these fascinating films to light; now let's hope a real filmmaker comes along and does something meaningful with them.

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More to follow. --HH