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 Three Dancing Slaves
In his latest homoerotic meditation on stunted masculinity
and personal strife, French director Gail Morel (whose
oeuvre includes such gay-themed favorites as Wild Reeds and
Full Speed) presents the story of three brothers desperately
attempting to come to terms with their place in the world:
Increasingly angry Marc (the preternaturally good-looking
Nicholas Cazalé) gets involved in a dangerous drug
trade -- following in the footsteps of his older brother
Chistophe (Morel regular Stéphane Rideau), who's off
finishing up a jail sentence for possession, while younger
sibling Olivier (Thomas Dumerchez) struggles with his broken
family life and talks to the ashes of their recently deceased
mother. When Christophe returns home from prison and sees
what's become of his family (exacerbated by the ineptitude
of their overbearing father), tensions begin flaring between
the three siblings, leading them to find a way to come to
terms with the family dysfunction and grief that threatens
to drive them apart. Like in his other films, Morel employs
a jumpy and often disjointed narrative to tell his story,
skipping over large chunks of time with little or no explanation
of what happened during the gaps. Surprisingly, however,
the fractured storytelling technique often works in the film's
favor. His celebration of the camaraderie of raw, unbridled
-- and often cruel -- masculine bravado (indeed, the actors
spend so much time cavorting around with each other in various
states of undress that the movie might as well be an extended
A&F commercial) is quite bold, even more so when he introduces
sexual ambiguity into the mix (like most of his oversexed
pals, Marc likes to get his kicks by making it with the local
pre-op trannie, while the three brothers like to sleep together
naked with their limbs and bodies entwined). Morel's direction
is terse and steady, while the performances from the uniformly
attractive cast (especially Cazalé) are dynamically
high-caliber. In the end, Three Dancing Slaves is a thoughtful,
bold, and daringly erotic "family film" -- though
decidedly not one for the whole family. --
By Ken Knox
 Dear Wendy
Directed by Thomas Vinterberg from a Lars von Trier script,
Dear Wendy is an exploration of guns and violence in America.
Anyone with the slightest knowledge of von Trier's work will
know what to expect. His scabrous view of America precludes
him from creating characters, only positions. Not to be trusted,
the vulgar Americans will ultimately start killing each other.
Dear Wendy is narrated by Dick (Jamie Bell), an inept teen
raised in Electric Park Square in a town called Estherslope
(is that Danish for "slippery slope"?). He buys
the gift of a toy gun, decides to keep it, and discovers
it's real. Confident with his weapon, he creates a ragtag
gang of teenage losers, the Dandies, "pacifists with
guns." They fashion headquarters in an abandoned mine-shaft
called the Temple. They name guns, compare them, dress like
glam cowboys, and engage in target practice.
The film has a fluky spirit during the early Temple scenes.
There's a recognizable thrill watching these kids find themselves
though gunplay -- it's like having adolescence boiled down
to its essence. The young actors, for a few minutes, spark
to this version of playtime.
But innocence is shattered when a male outsider to the
Temple has the audacity to touch "Wendy" -- that's
the name of Dick's gun. It isn't long before there's a shootout
in the town square.
Yee-haw!
Dear Wendy is a ludicrous allegory. You laugh at it, not
with it. If there was one character who wasn't a gun-loving
yahoo, or if the massacre wasn't so reminiscent of von Trier's
Dogville -- maybe we'd give Dear Wendy the benefit of the
doubt. Yet the indictment of American violence isn't just
hackneyed, it's predictable. What can be done about stupid
Americans who do nothing but shoot their guns? Nothing, the
film answers, which is about as much as we can do about writer/directors
who shoot polemics then try to pass them off as art. --
By Dan Loughry
 Garcon Stupide
Brown Bunny has nothing on 2004's Garcon Stupide. If full-frontal
images of young men giving and receiving fellatio and having
intercourse with other men individually or in groups offends
you, perhaps you should stop reading now. Still here? Thought
so. Swiss documentary director Lionel Baier has discovered
Pierre Chatagny, a beautiful 20-year-old boy in a small Switzerland
village, who has an unassuming job at a chocolate factory
-- well, naturally -- and a much more interesting Internet
pastime: He picks up older men and boys online then meets
them for anonymous sexual encounters. The more anonymous
the better. Until he meets an older man named, well, Lionel,
who seems to be interested in more than his large uncut penis.
Or he's a serial killer. It's a bit creepy. Because Baier
wants to make a film -- in French with subtitles -- that
blends his documentary storytelling with a more narrative
vein, It's never clear whether he's documenting the life
of Pierre, who assumes the role of Loic in the film, or if
it's all fiction (Baier and Laurent Guido do share a writing
credit). Director Lionel, is, after all, playing the role
of "Lionel" and we know that Chatagny still works
in that chocolate factory. Loic is, by the way, a stupid
boy. He has to refer to a dictionary to find out who Hitler
is and what an Impressionist painting looks like. But, generally,
queer cinema focuses on the older, wiser man's obsession
with the stupid boy in his life -- and the angst he causes.
Usually, we'd watch the story of Lionel unfold. It's daring
to alter our perspective, but a documentary shot like a feature
film works. It's less successful the other way -- scenes
play too long, lighting's too harsh or too low. You wish
Lionel -- as cinematographer and interrogator -- would have
pre-interviewed his subject and cut to the good stuff. Ultimately,
Baier loses the plot. The third act's a mess of suicide,
a soccer player and a car wreck -- Baier's gone a bit mad.
But there's every indication that Loic's about to get tortured
by his own stupid, pretty boy. See? Life is fair. --
By Anderson Jones
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