Paste at PIFF 41

Movies Features Portland International Film Festival
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<i>Paste</i> at PIFF 41

From February 15th through March 4th, the wealth of films with which Portland overflowed was both a warm, welcomed feeling and an overwhelming prospect, the 41st Portland International Film Festival once more flooding a bunch of theaters all over the city, tiny and inexpensive and second-run and corporate alike, with almost 90 films most Portlanders won’t get a chance to see, let alone in theaters, ever.

Aside from the occasional visiting artist or director, no one really travels from out of town to attend the festival. The Northwest Film Center knows this, scheduling the countless screenings over the two-week pre-game to the Oscars hangover. Not in any sort of pretentious defiance of the Walmart-fed event, but more as a reminder of the variety of films the world has to offer apart from everything everyone is always talking about, conversations dominated by a select few pushing an inherently limited narrative. The festival has no theme or intent past providing a special resource to the people of Portland—who, maybe earned or not, consider themselves pretty culturally horny, and, outside of the couple who demanded their money back after seeing Narimane Mari’s Le fort des fous because it was “barely a movie,” they usually act like it.

Lines form at most screenings throughout the course of the festival’s 18-day span, thickening over the weekends, during which a theater like Cinemagic could fit in three or four screenings on a Saturday or Sunday, Portlanders of all ages (and especially the retired-seeming, those who have the blessed ability to spend seven hours at a small theater drinking the occasional beer) willing to pay and buy concessions to discover something new. More than that: to be a part of a group of people discovering it together in a public place, bearing witness to and gladly taking on responsibility of being witness of the kind of support that most directly supports the people making these films and the organizations which build communities around a demand for such discovery.


Per the Film Center’s typical raison d’être, PIFF is a survey of what the past 12 months of worldwide festivals have yielded, culling from genre celebrations like Fantastic Fest or premiere showcases like Cannes and Sundance. It calibrates accordingly, loosely organizing around such a designation as “Masters,” featuring the latest from Hong Sang-soo, because what’s a festival without 17 Hong Sang-soo films, as well as recent opuses by Sergei Loznitza, Claire Denis, Hirozaku Kore-eda, Agnieszka Holland, Philippe Garrel, Bruno Dumont and Lucretia Martel, whose Zama was one of the best films at the festival (and is getting a small U.S. release in April). PIFF showcased, too, “Films for Families” (including Benjamin Renner and Patrick Imbert’s animated, fablistic French-language The Big Bad Fox & Other Tales) and “Short Cuts,” offering 40-something short films with an eye for local Oregon talent. “Animated Worlds,” sponsored by LAIKA, offered up the remarkable and apparently unmarketable Birdboy: The Forgotten Children, by Spanish directors Alberto Vázquez and Pedro Rivero, which, despite the magnitude of its imagination (and a Goya Award), languishes in GKIDS’ vaults without much in the way of a U.S. release strategy.

Attempting to find a through line through it all is maddening, though opening the festival with Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin (at pretty much the same time news broke of Jeffrey Tambor’s removal from the film’s marketing) could be a convincing argument to not give up the good fight of finding meaning in the world where there is none.

Like The Post, Iannucci’s film announces itself breathlessly of-the-moment, as limber and unrelenting as everything Iannucci’s done before but palled with equally unending misery. Unlike The Post, The Death of Stalin doesn’t seem particularly concerned in reframing history, except to heighten it, Anglicize it, which is really funny and enjoyable lest anyone stop to ask why it does that at all. Set in 1953, mostly in the immediate aftermath of Stalin’s sudden stroke, the film reveals what Iannucci always reveals: In any power structure, the most ruthless are always the smartest and surrounded by buffoons. As Stalin’s cronies scramble to publicly mourn and privately vie for influence, players like Nikita Krushchev (Steve Buscemi, simultaneously round and spindly), Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor, haughty doofus), perennial Stalin yes-man Molotov (Michael Palin, blissfully dumb as shit) and Stalin’s head of security, Lavrentiy Beria (Simon Russell Beale, sinister) scheme over one another, conjuring up an image of Russia Americans really want to get behind in 2018. Iannucci’s vision, bleak and bloated with dipshits, while undoubtedly believable and most likely on the money, could bear resemblance to pretty much any current administration, which is perhaps why The Death of Stalin might not feel capable of bearing the weight of the points it’s making were it not making points whose weight has already been dispersed well throughout the zeitgeist. Yes, doom is imminent and oppression inescapable. Hook it to my veins.

After Dark


Another “timely”-as-fuck showing was Joseph Kahn’s Bodied, which PIFF After Dark programmer Nick Bruno admits he found at the Toronto International Film Festival’s similarly minded Midnight Madness, which the director, who was at PIFF’s screening, admitted was the last and only festival to actually accept his film. About one college-aged ginger’s profanity-leaden odyssey towards cipher celebritydom, Bodied confronts pretty much every type of trigger—racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, commercialism, elitism, whatever, all filtered through an artistic expression unapologetically shitting on them—with the delicacy of a wet fart, equally exhilarating and infuriating for it. As much about Adam Merkin’s (Calum Worthy) ascension from academic worshipping at the altar of KRS-One to title-holding battle rapper in his own right, the corpses of those who helped him along the way littered in his whitebred wake, as it is about the evolution of hip-hop as a full-on commodity, Kahn’s film pleads for discussion, for exactly the kind of Q&A that followed. Between white people standing up to tell Kahn their favorite rappers, and older couples congratulating Kahn on being so scintillating, conversations began, at least obliquely, that mostly involved viewers taking stock of themselves and where they belonged in the world of this vibrantly upsetting, wonderful, inviolably watchable screed. Kahn seemed satisfied, mostly opening up about how hard it was to get this movie out into the world, maybe too deep in the thing to see how it was hard for most of us to understand why that was.

Additional After Dark options Bruno picked out entailed South African director Michael Mathews’s Five Fingers for Marseilles, an epic Western bloodbath juiced up on sexy, smoldering outlaws doomed to roam the purgatory between Sergio Leone and Martin Scorsese sensibilities. It’s fine. Handsome too, but immobilized by its melodrama, not all that much fun to sit through.

What was: Belgian directors Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s Let the Corpses Tan, an unmitigated genre overload, assaultive and seductive, but nothing in between, pushed to the stylistically breaking point so hard that extreme sex always becomes extreme violence. It all looks very cool. Ostensibly European and perilously vintage, Cattet and Forzani’s pulp adaptation concerns a movie-long, synaesthetic shoot-out, the result of and aftermath following an armored vehicle robbery. The culprits hide out in the high desert outpost of aging artist Luce (Elina Löwensohn), where two highway patrol officers begin a violent setpiece that plays out over one long night. Everyone, pretty much, dies. Spectacularly, too, whether in soul-stirring pain or splayed out in technicolor. Let the Corpses Tan is all instinct, all sensation, absolutely no subtext, enrapturing all the way to the bottom.

Bruno also brought The Endless, Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s follow-up to Spring, to PIFF. As Lovecraftian as its predecessor, beholden not to any sort of gothic horror but instead to the incomprehensible terror of the beyond, The Endless pushes a kind of mumblecore ease into more and more mind-meltingly existential dilemmas. Benson and Moorhead play two brothers who, years after “escaping” a cult and pretty much failing at re-integrating into normal life, receive a cryptic package encouraging them to pay their former family members a visit. Genres and plots seem to sublimate and contort into increasingly convoluted shapes in the directors’ hands, but rather than lose the thread of what they’re doing, The Endless maintains a naturalistic core, demanding the audience keep up even as the characters kinda don’t. Regardless of where the film wants to go, or how much it may whiff an overly ambitious ending, no one is making these kinds of sci-fi films right now, besides maybe Charlie McDowell, whose The Discovery sunk that good-natured speculative fiction ship. The style of The Endless isn’t so much an aesthetic as it is an easygoing tone, which allows its overlapping themes and knotted plot threads to feel like natural extensions of these normal guys’ normal reactions to their whole sense of time and reality obliterating before their eyes.

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