Thursday April 24, 8 p.m.
      It was a Thursday night, a night usually reserved – courtesy of a soul-draining day job – for only mild partying: a drink or two at a local dive, or a couch, a joint, and Netflix. Typically, a Thursday night would not include waiting outside a trendy Bowery bar, seriously considering how to defeat the mammoth line. But this was most certainly not a typical Thursday: this was the opening night of the New York International Independent Film & Video Festival. In its eleventh year, the NYIIFVF has become one of the largest, truly independent festivals on the circuit. With annual events here in New York and in three other major American entertainment cities – L.A., Vegas & Miami – the festival comprises two weeks of screenings, panels and parties, and attracts a heady crowd of industry outcasts and do-it-yourselfers, the unproven and untested, the wheeler/dealers and liars, eclectic artists and a couple of film students finding out how far their junior project can take them: in short, the real spirit of independent filmmaking.

      All were on display on the opening night at BLVD, the club/event space located where Spring St. hits the Bowery. Moved here from its previous venue at Madison Square Garden, the opening found the place stuffed to the gills – much to the disappointment of the scores of fans, friends and scenesters still outside when a too-smug bouncer announced that the club had reached capacity. Inside, one could see he wasn’t kidding. There was hardly enough room to breathe without accidentally molesting a stranger – never mind talking with the dozens of filmmakers who had set up booths to promote their screenings. It was like a bazaar of film: the walls plastered with homemade posters; televisions, laptop computers and portable DVD players blasting previews; postcards and presskits passed at you from every direction. The films, reflecting the NYIIFVF’s very open admission policy, ran the gamut of quality and production value. There were some really godawful ones, like the one about a serial-killing slut in a clown mask that succeeded only in being both slow and pointless. But there were also the little gems, like Fluid, a beautifully-shot, impressionistic video in which a really lovely girl rollerskates through the seasons; and Ledbetter Lust, a romantic slice-of-life showcasing the strengths of understated performance and Dogme minimalism. - Siegs

Friday April 23, Noon
     The New York International Independent Film & Video Festival kicks off with Welcome to Durham, a documentary that examines the rise of youth gang activity in Durham, North Carolina. Apparently an older woman in the audience didn’t read the logline in the program, and so the rest of us must now endure her loudmouth toddler. “Look, a choo-choo!” he politely informs us as a nineteenth-century locomotive comes on screen. As annoying as he is, so far he’s actually more engaging than the film, and we viewers don’t summon the nerve to shush the kid or even scowl at his idiot caregiver. But once the narrative arrives at present-day Durham and young black gang members get all N.W.A. with the camera, screaming and cussing and flashing they pieces, the kid bawls like a banshee in a bear trap, though it takes the lady about five more minutes until she decides that this particular film might not be the most appropriate one for junior. Now I’m not the most outspoken person when it comes to uncomfortable social situations with moronic strangers, so I’m just as much to blame, but come on folks, you call yourselves an independent film audience? Back at NYU, the cinephiles would have been on that lady’s dumb ass at “choo-choo.”

      Then again, Welcome to Durham wasn’t exactly fighting for attention itself. According to its interviews with the city’s older generation of black men, high-school administrators and police officers, gang activity is certainly present in Durham, but it’s nothing close to an epidemic- more like an inconvenient flu that goes around once a year. Some even claim the media are making something out of practically nothing, inaccurately portraying gang activity as responsible for more violent crime than it actually is- not exactly testimony that justifies this doc’s existence. At least if the filmmakers tried to explore more than one or two dimensions in any of their young subjects, other than how many scars they have and what kind of glocks they pack, they might have produced an interesting character study. As it stands, it’s about as poignant as an episode of COPS, summarizable in one reformed gangster interviewee’s words: “There’s crime, there’s shootin’...niggas is crazy.” Sad, true; but provocative? Not these days. - Obie

4:00 pm
      What Happened to Branson’s Eye- now here’s a picture. Elvis impersonator loses an eye, and it might have something to do with a vengeful secret society of tiny gnomes. Unfortunately, it’s not at the NYIIFVF that I get to see a film of this caliber, but at NYU’s First Run. Yes, director Eric Siegelstein is a Cityzen contributor and my good buddy. Yes, I worked on the set when I wasn’t passed out from Vicodin prescribed for my root canal. Yes, Arbor Day did the score. Maybe I’m biased. If you want to judge for yourself, you can download the trailer (soon) at bransonseye.com.
The only thing that could make me happier after Branson would be some sort of documentary about Feminist porn. Lo and behold, that is exactly what follows in Becky Goldberg’s Hot and Bothered. Not only do we get to see Nina Hartley fucking and loving it, but we learn that she and many other women are making quality porn for sensual intellectuals. Even though I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for shamelessly chauvinistic porn where guys pound airheads in the ass while giving the camera a smile and a thumbs-up, it’s nice to know that there’s an alternative out there for me to watch with my girlfriend, when I eventually meet her. - Obie

10 p.m.
Time to taste the cream of the crop- allegedly- as three of the next four films are “NYIIFVF AWARD WINNERS.” First is Mad Cow, a short by Tom “Totally Tom” McKeon. For two minutes, a Flash-animated cow curses out the barbaric non-vegans in the audience, and it’s as annoyingly lame as you would expect from a guy who nicknames himself “Totally Tom.” “You know that milk you had on your cereal this morning?” snaps the cow. “I pissed in it! Pasteurize that, bitch!” Ho, ho. “You don’t even want to know what I did to the sour cream!” Oh, snap, a joke about jizz in someone’s food, how edgy. By the way, a cow can’t jizz, that would be a bull’s job. But now I’m just being nitpicky. If you’re as masochistic as me, you can check out TotallyTom.com and, when you’re not bombarded with pop-up ads for emoticons, you can see more of Totally Tom’s self-described “brainfarts” and “Tom-o-licious web-a-mation content,” and find out what would happen if Jerry Seinfeld and the boss from The Office birthed an obnoxious frat boy who got a Power Mac last Christmas and now thinks he’s the next Trey Parker.

      The next “Award Winner” is Raining Spears, a music video directed by Saint & Kuut for their band, Exus. Spears and bombs fall from the sky. Plastic army men are set on fire. Two guys on perma-trip sport glittery tribal face paint and make noises that sound like Sloth from Goonies having an orgasm with a deaf-mute dominatrix. And in case you didn’t catch the message of the whole motif with the burning army toys, a title card at the end reminds us that “We have become the toys we once played with.”

     Halfway through the next short, Meteor Destination, also directed by Saint & Kuut, also featuring stock footage of explosions and hell-awful music by Exus, I check my program and realize that the film after this one is an hour-long NYIIFVF Award Winner for Documentary Feature...directed by Saint & Kuut. The first line in the program summary says “If you watch this program, your life will change forever.” There are quotes around it, but no name is attached. I’m guessing it’s Kuut- he seems like the true visionary of the two. Or maybe it’s Kuut’s mom. I decide that at this moment, the last thing my life needs is any further change courtesy of Saint & Kuut, and I walk the fuck out.- Obie

Saturday April 24, 11:30 am
      Back to First Run for a good old horrorshow matinee double feature. First is The Man in the Black Suit, directed by Nicholas Mariani and based on a Stephen King story. The Man in the black suit is actually Satan, and guess what, he’s a smarmy prick. The only thing the film world needs less than another smarmy prick devil character is another adaptation of a mediocre Stephen King story.
An homage to EC’s horror comics, however, is always welcome, despite Bordello of Blood. Graham Reznick’s The Woman Who Split Before Dinner has EC written all over it- they’re even thanked in the credits- and it has all the delicious irony and morbid humor of early Tales From the Crypt. After an aspiring actress murders her abusive food critic husband, she turns schizophrenic and tries to get away with it in two different worlds: live action reality, where she and a farmboy ditch the body in the woods, and a comic book fantasy that leads to Broadway stardom. There’s so many clever twists, I’d hate to give anything away, so I’ll just say the standing ovation scene is forever etched in my brain. (A teaser trailer is available at aphasiafilms.com) - Obie

4:10 p.m.
The documentary Gus by director Daniel Bowers was a pleasure to watch. The film documents a typical life in the day of Gus, a shoe and clothing store owner in the heart of St. Louis. This is a tale which any native city dweller will be sure to enjoy as it captures the vibe of the city and encapsulated the energy and work which goes into making a small business into a national name. Gus’ history is shown through black and white photos taken from his family, as well as brief interviews with people who know him. As his story progresses, we see that his complex yet simple character, could be described as a dichotomy of the Godfather meets the Dalai Lama. From the five foot tall drunkard (named “Jimmy the midget”) that Gus took off the streets to work in his store, to the aspiring teenage rappers who come into his establishment to have free reign over the loudspeakers, Gus is depicted as being an icon if you will, for the working class people. Gus, with his style of speaking in the present tense while describing the past, (“He breaks my bones”) and habit of interrupting the filming in order to yell orders to his employers who respond with laughter, is nevertheless, terribly charming. His non-jaded perception of the world and the stars who walk into his store is all too endearing to the audience. As such huge rap stars as Ice T, Nelly, and Flavor-Flav (or, “Flavor flavor” to Gus,) shop at his store, they are treated by Gus with the same attitude as he gives to the twelve year old neighborhood boys who come in once a month for a new pair of kicks. As “Jimmy the midget” one moment shows us the art of catching shoplifters, and the next moment describes how Gus saved his life, it is clear that everyone who comes into contact with Gus cannot easily forget him. And I’m sure that anyone who sees this film will feel the same way. - Abby

5:20 p.m.
      In Gaining Miles, the titular character is a troubled teenager living with his frustrated stepmother, mourning his dad, and crushing on his cute stepsister. To escape, Miles paints watercolors of himself in a happier, more perfect world, and a red door in the woods that is the entrance to this world. After he is suspended from school for having a small painter’s knife, Miles is woken early in the morning by a voice that beckons him into the woods, where he finds the door from his paintings. Going through, Miles finds himself in the perfect world he had created. But at the same time, the version of Miles from the painted world winds up in the original’s place, and searches for a way to restore himself to where he had been. Gaining Miles is an endearing little film, borrowing liberally from Donnie Darko and a little from Open Your Eyes, with a dash of the painted heaven of What Dreams May Come. Its greatest strength is in the performances of the actors, particularly the young lead, Alex Frost, whose Miles has an expressive vulnerability that is somewhat reminiscent of Patrick Fugit’s William in Almost Famous.

      The film (or video, if you want to pick nits – like many of the works at NYIIFVF, Gaining Miles was shot on DV) uses a very primary color scheme – reds and greens, yellows and blacks – that lends the picture a surreal, almost animated quality that works very much in its favor, while also contrasting it from the dark, blue/gray palette of Donnie Darko. “I’m a big fan of magical realism, or fantasy/reality, where magic can happen in the real world,” says the director, Cullen Hoback, who lists Japanese animator Hiyao Miyazaki (Spirited Away) as one of his influences. “About four years ago I started work on a script that involved this kid who doesn’t realize he’s dead, but he ends up in this field and there’s these five doors, and then there’s sort of like this gatekeeper who explains everything to him. And it wasn’t very good, but I really loved the image of this door standing in a field, you know, leading to somewhere else. It was a very simple image and it needed to relate to, you know, a sense of some kind of higher power in some form. Everything that I make is closely associated with escapism.”

      Gaining Miles was shot over three weeks at Performance Plus, a New Hampshire performing arts summer camp at which Hoback, the producers, and the film’s adult actors are instructors. “It was great for the kids who were in the film program,” Hoback said. “I sort of believe that the best way to learn a film is by working on a film, rather than just sending them out with cameras and saying, ‘Yeah, here’s the basics on how to frame a shot. Good luck!’” In addition to its screening at the NYIIFVF, Gaining Miles has played at the International Family Film Festival and Hollywood Mini-DV Festival in California, and the Longbaugh Film Festival in Portland, Oregon. Hoback and screenwriter Jerome Schwartz have a script for a longer, feature-length version of Miles for which they’re currently trying to get financing. - Siegs

8 p.m.
      A psychological mystery in which a real estate developer is held hostage by a demented agorophobe, What Ever Happened to Alice was by far one of the most intriguing films to play at the NYIIFVF. Alice lives alone in her father’s boarded-up house in the California desert, talking to herself and caring for an unseen baby. When Rebecca, the legal owner of the home, comes to get her to leave, Alice drugs Rebecca and ties her up. As Alice’s prisoner, Rebecca learns her story – not just from Alice herself, but from specters of her father, teenage boyfriend, and a mysterious little girl as well. What made What Ever Happened to Alice so interesting was its open-endedness. At no point is the action ever explained; the film never states with certainty, “Yes, these are ghosts,” or “No, this is all in so-and-so’s head.” And while such vagueness is very often a weakness in a film, here it’s the film’s greatest strength. The viewer is kept in a state of puzzlement, trying to decipher what is “actually” happening, which characters (if any) are real and how they relate to one another. The performances are all quite competent, particularly director/star Linda Larson, who invests Alice with a confused instability that’s part Norman Bates of Psycho and part Danny Torrance of The Shining.

      The film actually bears a few other parallels with The Shining, with its supernatural visions and especially with its creepy young ghost-girl, played by Becca Gardner. Alice represents Ms. Larson’s directorial debut, after more than 20 years as an actress in L.A. “I always wanted to do a film since I was sixteen years old,” she said, when we spoke after the festival, “so I thought, ‘Oh, it’s about time… My God, I better do it before I keel over!

      “I’ve always loved the name Alice. She is like everyman, or woman,” she said, discussing her inspiration for the film. “I also love complicated stories with characters striving to sort out their tragedy of existence. I love mysteries and ghost stories, so I tried to put this approach to storytelling in my film. I’ve also been fascinated with multiple personalities… I’ve thought about these characters for years, and how a person’s personality can split apart. I wondered how the personalities work together and yet also alone, and think they are wondrous and scary.”

      This was Alice’s second festival screening, following its debut at the NYIIFVF’s Los Angeles festival last month. Next it’ll be screening at the Cannes Film Market, where Ms. Larson hopes to find wider distribution. We wish her the best of luck. – Siegs

Sunday April 25, 4 p.m.
      Craig tells me about a film at NYIIFVF called Nobody American that might be worth checking out. Like an idiot, I misread the program and think it’s playing on Sunday at 4. It’s actually Monday at 4, and so I unknowingly walk into The Peace Pumpkin, a montage of Americans protesting the war in Iraq juxtaposed with shots of pumpkins branded with peace symbols while “Give Peace a Chance” plays on the soundtrack...for nine motherfucking minutes. It’s enough to make me want to join the Marines and kill a dozen innocent Iraqi children just to get even with the jackass who directed this. Is there anything that gets rejected from this festival? Next year, we’ll find out once and for all after I submit an uninterrupted twenty-minute shot of me shaving my choad to Jethro Tull’s “Bungle in the Jungle.”- Obie

Sunday, April 25, 4:15 p.m.
      The short film Clochard, by Angelo Maresca, deals primarily with the main character Mr. Paris, on a search for, what else, his own freedom. The movie opens with a very dirty, disillusioned Mr. Paris sitting not unlike a bum on a tiny Italian street, eyes cast downward, as he looks up once in a while, only mildly interested in the people who pass by. As he begins to reflect upon humanity, “We’re always late…late for what?...Death” one cringes with the anticipation of where this contrived tale will take us. As Mr. Paris continues on his quest, walking aimlessly through Italy, he eventually finds himself sitting in a café across from a beautiful self-absorbed woman. Now, I know that in a movie which quotes Nietzsche, and even more so in a movie which is categorized as a drama, it would seem most juvenile and inappropriate to laugh. Pardon me, pretentious artists of the lower east side- it could not be helped. When director Angelo Maresca spent three minutes on close ups of Mr. Paris’ irises as his eyes locked upon the alluring woman’s, I found that I was not the only one in the theater to find it amusing. As we stifle our laughs, the film continues by showing Mr. Paris in sudden fear, or shall we say… ahem, rising excitement, as he dashes out of the café, with the woman following closely behind him. Why the woman chooses to chase after this filthy Mr. Paris is beyond me. However, one will barely have time to question such major holes in the films story line when the next moment we are awkwardly watching Mr. Paris and the mysterious woman underground making some serious animalist love to one another. In the true form of Showtime’s late night soft porn meets Italy’s daytime soaps, if one is inclined to see a man find himself the only real way possible- through sex, poetry, and panhandling- this film is a must see. - Abby

8:10 p.m.
      Finally a NYIIFVF award winner intentionally makes me laugh, and that is The Dance Dance Documentary. In case you haven’t been to a state-of-the-art arcade since the turn of the century, Dance Dance Revolution is a video game where you score points by stepping on lighted pads in rhythm with techno music. And to the cult of Southern California kids profiled in this doc, “DDR” is more than just a way to kill time on a weekend afternoon- it’s a way of life, a competitive sport, a creative outlet, even a weight-loss regimen. The film was directed by Eric Woolery and Matthew Klekner, but at times it resembles a Christopher Guest mockumentary, albeit one where the characters are down-to-earth enough to occasionally poke fun at themselves and invite the audience to laugh with them, not at them.- Obie

Monday April 26, 4 p.m.
      This time I’m smart enough to attend the correct screening of Nobody American, a film that asks, “What if a film with the ideological ambitions of Network were made by folks who get their news from High Times?” God bless these kids, their collective heart is in the right place, but their story of a group of rebels who take control of the public airwaves has about as much substance as the last bong hit. - Obie

Tuesday April 27, 4:10 p.m.
      Sobreviviente is a feature length independent film which allows you to take a personal look at the restless and impulsive life of a boy named Tonatiuh. The story itself is somewhat trite; however, what the film lacks in originality it makes up for in some of the best independent imagery I’ve seen in a while. As the young Tonatiuh falls in love with a woman (Adela,) while traveling, all seems peachy keen- that is, until she becomes pregnant. Torantiuh, without home or job, surprisingly wants to keep the child and hopes to start a family with the woman he loves. Adela, more realistic and practical than Tarantiuh, senses the emotional and economic problems which lie ahead of them. Like a true to life Romeo, one might wonder whether Tarantiuh is really in love with Adela. In one seemingly seedy scene involving a whore house and a bottle of imported “French pills”, Tarantiuh’s nobility surfaces- for a second that is—until his lust takes over and he all too eagerly forgets about his Rosaline.
Cinematically, the opening sequence was a truly fantastic display of creative filming techniques. Although, the opening does leave the audience unclear as to whether they came to see a drama or horror flick. As Tarantiuh runs through dark streets, we are left to wonder what’s behind him. His dramatic phone call to…someone….is cut short as the opening credits end and the film begins.

      One of the best shots in the movie occurs when both Adela and Tarantiuh are seen sitting together in bed. Their nervous silence is perfectly complimented by the camera’s angle which films Tarantiuh holding his head in confusion off to the side of the bed, as we see Adela in the mirror- an exquisite look of anguish plaguing her face.

      Although the ending was not as “shocking” as I’m sure the director would have liked it to have been, it never the less managed to evoke a sense of …well, I’m not sure what to call it exactly. I do know however, that there was this heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach- like my first love had just broken up with me on the sidewalk in front of Key Food on a warm sunny afternoon. So I got myself a burrito, but couldn’t manage to shake that feeling all the way home… -Abby

Friday, April 30, 8:00 p.m.
      Oh my lord, I’m afraid that the only thing worse than having to sit through Conspiracized would be the possibility of…having to sit through it again. I must admit that my friend deftly summed up this movie with two words; ANGRY YAWN. It’s perfect. I was both bored by watching this pseudo-political film and angered that I had just wasted two hours of my life when I could’ve been doing something more interesting like say, clipping my toenails.

      The film, in a documentary style video, deals with a young man who’s caught in a political tirade against the government and corporate America. With constant political symbols flashing across the screen, a Dylan soundtrack, and clean polished white guys strumming guitars on the street, I’m sure that even Abbie Hoffman would’ve wanted to smack the film makers around just a little bit. Half way through the movie however, I had an ingenious idea – I would go home and make my own self- gratifying anti-American movie to send it in to the festival for next year. It would be simple. I could draw an anarchy symbol in black marker around my belly button and find someone to film me masturbating. Any takers? - Abby