Well, I guess there will be no more waiting for Guffman, as he claims this to be his last report from the Chicago Underground Film Festival. I just love festival reports as they give us a good look at the world of indie filmmaking.... An area that doesn't get near the exposure it should. Well... Here's Guffman...
Guffman here from my second, and probably last, day at the Chicago Underground Film Festival (www.cuff.org). I've been impressed with the event, but, as I'll get into, I have a nagging concern about its future.
Before I rant, CUFF was set-up pretty well and it attracted quality people. Tickets were reasonably priced ($6 per show, $25 for five) and available if you planned ahead. Even when I did have to wait, people were friendly and freely talked about future projects and ideas. A bar in the theater's lobby, sponsored by Stoli and Goose Island Brewery, was a nice touch, because I think it loosened the crowd and created a nice party atmosphere.
But as nice as a glass of beer was during the movie, it also hit at my concern over the event's popularity and large sponsor base. The "underground" festival is only in its sixth year, and I couldn't help but feel the thing is losing its edge.
In the CUFF-screened movie "Better Living through Circuitry," an exhilirating look into the rave scene, a woman questions the perception that raves and techno are still underground movements. I'm paraphrasing, but she said, "If 20,000 people show up, can you still call something underground?"
CUFF isn't going to get 10,000 people, but it is going to sell out many of its screenings and lay the foundation for a "bigger and better" show next year. Woopee.
I wonder, even hope, if its just a matter of time before we have a "Slam CUFF," type event as an outlet for the 800-plus movies CUFF rejected this year.
In the festival's defense, it did show some pretty dark shit. Wadd: The Life and Times of John C. Holmes went over pretty well, but nothing drew gasps of bemused horror like the posters for "Raping Steven Spielberg," which showed the silhoettes of two bucking soldiers against the backdrop of the "Saving Private Ryan" movie poster -- very twisted.
I'm just concerned about an ambitious festival pulling a Sundance and throwing around the word "underground," to sell a few more tickets.
Here's a total, and possibly inappropriate, non sequitor note for Chicago film fans: The Children's International Film Festival (www.ciff.org) is coming in October. Dubbed "Cannes for Kids," the 1998 festival drew 14,000 people and Mayor Daley's wife.
From what I've read, it looks like a great event for kids. And more importantly, it could inspire some 6-year-old to pick up a camera and become the next Reed Paget (a frustated artist with a wonderful film locked into obscurity by an industry that won't touch political documentaries unless you happened to be named Michael Moore. Call to arms: Go see "Amerikan Passport," and drag your friends with. This movie deserves to be distributed -- and Paget could use the money.)
Reviews
Like Paget, Christopher Wilcha picked up his camera as a clueless 23-year-old college graduate. Unlike Paget, he also got a job, which became the basis for the Wizard of Oz type documentary about the Columbia House record club.
Wilcha started working at an entry level marketing position at Columbia House in 1993. As a joke/ice breaker he brought a Hi-8 camera to work and began filming the man behind the curtain.
Nobody objects, and Wilcha films over 200 hours of the inner-workings of Columbia House's gigantic marketing machine. One scene shows Columbia House officials contemplating how to link the Beavis and Butthead soundtrack with an Alice in Chains album in a two-CD package deal for $19.99. The absurd combination showcases the company's disconnect from its audience and sets up Wilcha's impending "triumph."
He eventually convinces the company to revamp its alternative music catalogue, which in turn teaches Kurt Cobain-era kids that buying CDs can be an act of defiance.
Wilcha noted this dubious distinction, quit his job and went to film school to create "The Target Shoots First," a reference to teen-agers cynical attitude.
But there is an inherent contradiction in this wickedly funny movie. Namely, that while Wilcha reveals the absurdity of music marketing, he is actually revealing himself. He played a substantial role in the Columbia House machine and is as responsible as anybody for everything his film resents. As if to solidify this irony, Wilcha returned to work for Columbia House after completing graduate school.
The second documentary I saw is much cleaner and polished look at techno music and raves. Both exhilirating and insightful, Jon Reiss's "Better Living Through Circuitry" is a flourish of lights, dancing and, of course, music. The movie's one potential weakness is its unabashed support of the rave culture, which has a reputation of drug use and dead kids in mainstream America. Reiss addresses this issue in the documentary, but any cautionary comments are simply overwhelmed by the movie's feel-good message. "Better Living" could find a healthy following from the cult it glorifies -- and that could be its problem. Thanks to the recent school shootings and a political leadership that is assigning blame on all-things-entertainment, movie companies are scrutinizing every kid-based decision on the merits of what a film says, and more importantly, what it inspires.
I saw three shorts worth mentioning. "Spank," by Diane Nerwen, digitally altered about 10 seconds of film into a seven minute look at the incestual relationship between a father and his daughter. The result was a lot of nervous laughter, and a nice little film.
60hz, by Gene Ertel, James Woodfill and John Sjoblom, was the nicest piece of experimental camera work I saw. Filmed in three days, the short looks at the relationship between light, shadows and a 16mm camera. Very nice.
Nevermind, by Jennifer Reeder, shows the slow-motion angst of a girl listening to Nirvana. The movie also shows how Cobain and company were the first people to connect with many teen-agers. It contrasted nicely with the smug side of music I saw in The Target Shoots First, and continued a trend among young filmmakers who are beginning to interpret the early 90s, which, for many, hinged on Nirvana.
Guffman
