THE DATING D I E T
Derek Jarman, Are We Here Yet?
Anthony Paull
The young gays of our generation, sadly, we are so easy to forget. We’re too focused on being trendy, indie, hot, now, cool – we barely have time to take in a breath of today or tomorrow, let alone look backwards at the triumphs of our gay forefathers. It’s tragic, really.The life-work of painter, punk, poet, and filmmaker Derek Jarman – whose story is told in the in the revealing documentary Derek – premiered at the 2008 Sundance Film Festival. The gay media barely flinched, opting instead to complain the festival neglected to include enough independent films with GLBT content this year. But seriously, do we need another “queer” film featuring two straight actors bumping and grinding in the boondocks to move us forward, or will looking to the past advance us in the long run? I take the blame too. I understand how easy it is to shy away from the term documentary. Just mention the word and I flash back to American History Class, clutching my heart in despair after being told to eyeball another film on the Civil War or the shooting of JFK. War is bad. Shooting the president is bad. Even then I understood. Still, I neither wanted nor needed to see such a highly-regarded man as JFK being murdered at every feasible camera angle. Though somehow, the well-crafted story of Derek Jarman changed that line of thinking for me. Shortly after viewing Derek, I yearned to know the intimacies surrounding the much-too-short life of Mr. Jarman. What made him fascinating enough to inspire Chumbawumba to write a song in his honor? Why did he choose to cover up all those sexy men with ill-fitting cloaks in The Pet Shop Boys “It’s a Sin” video? Did he ever get close enough to smell Morrissey’s armpit when working with The Smiths? I guess that’s what superb documentaries are meant to do –challenge us to risk asking peculiar questions.Narrated by the equally haunting and arresting voice of Oscar-nominee Tilda Swinton, Derek (directed by Isaac Julien) follows the nearly visible ghost of yesterqueer film prophet Jarman through the industrial streets and green, green fields of his English homeland. Through intimate recollections, you feel Swinton genuinely believes she’ll discover Jarman around a narrow bend in the road or in the shelter of the timber cottage where he lived, created, and erected a beach garden. This lends the documentary an eerie edge, allowing the viewer to drown in the notion of living beyond the emptiness of sleeping forever in a rarely visited grave, of continuing to leave a mark even when hidden six-feet-below.An outspoken AIDS activist, Derek’s unabashed love for men, film – along with the endless possibilities hidden within mundane projects like gardening – transports the viewer to a vulnerable place where compassion for his disease feels fresh and genuine. Modern day gay pornography, with all its prickly pleasantries, seems boorish in comparison to the homoerotism, the gentle touch of the semi-nude male soldiers portrayed in Jarman’s directorial debut, Sebastiane (1975), a film depicting the life and death of gay icon Saint Sebastiane.Personal friend of Jarman, Swinton solemnly admits she’ll miss “the mess, the vulgarity, the cant, the edge” that defines Jarman’s work. Clips and candid interviews of Jarman speak to her testament, allowing audiences a glimpse of a painter who wasn’t afraid to make a muddled splash, of a filmmaker who never feared to tattoo himself with a taboo subject. Even when faced with his demise, fear never fills Jarman’s fiery eyes. His endless body of work – comprised primarily of avant-garde short and feature films, including the 1978 masterpiece Jubilee that follows Queen Elizabeth I traveling four-hundred years in the future – speaks of a man unafraid to speak loudly, even if his fellow directors cringe and turn a deaf ear. With hope, Derek will allow those in the gay and straight world a chance to recognize the importance of Jarman’s artistic stroke, the bold manner in which he colored outside the once narrow line. Like Swinton, maybe someday we’ll pause long enough to see the footprints of Jarman surrounding us.
Projecting Another ‘Eleven Minutes’ of Fame for McCarroll
Anthony Paull
America has never been good at allowing people second chances. Consider Kylie Minogue. Though an overseas icon, many Americans still refuse to purchase her latest release, clearly not over that period in the ‘80’s when her infectious, yet irritating, rendition of “The Locomotion” clogged up radio waves. Now, think of the world of fashion and double that grudge. You see, you might be an innovative clothing designer who some refer to as a visionary. You might even win first place in the hit Bravo TV series Project Runway. But nonetheless, you’re just a reality TV star. Another has-been who’s gone away since the ‘who’s now’ has shown up. You haven’t shown a line since you’ve been off the air. You haven’t proven yourself at Fashion Week in New York yet. So why should anyone care about you? This is just the first of the ongoing questions that plague Season One Project Runway winner Jay McCarroll in the Selditch/Tate directed feature documentary “Eleven Minutes”.
Following behind the same fancy footsteps of “Unzipped” (1995), the high-heeled hysteria-laden documentary chronicling the creation of fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi’s Fall 1994 collection, “Eleven Minutes” grants viewers a behind-the-scenes glimpse at McCarroll from the conception of his first line until the day he attempts to sell his vision to Urban Outfitters. The difference: where Mizrahi succeeds, McCarroll finds a few glitches in his stitches, creating an insightful and entertaining look into a universe where being gifted with tremendous talent isn’t always enough to succeed, especially when you’re a reality TV star. You see, there are vultures lurking in the fashion world, hoping to feed on the dead-end careers of Project Runway alumni. And though this is almost expected in these modern “The Devil Wears Prada” times, capturing such cattiness is just the beginning of the vicious fun here. The main draw remains McCarroll himself.
With a witty-tongue as his weapon choice, McCarroll manages to draw the viewer in, but not at first, which works because you want him to win you over. It’s almost a challenge, much like McCarroll’s challenge to win over high-society New York fashion critics. Taking in the film, it’s honestly enjoyable to root against him in the first, pardon the pun, eleven minutes of screen time. He comes across as a crass, foul-mouthed brat who does nothing but complain time and again about wanting to be taken seriously for his art. Like we haven’t heard that from a reality TV star before.
However soon, in the traditional ‘Beast winning over Belle’ formula, you find that the beauty of McCarroll lies beyond the exterior. Through his steadfast determination to create a successful, wearable line and his ‘rags to nowhere close to riches’ story, McCarroll is exposed for who he truly is: your average Joe with an above-average dream and exceptional talent.
Screened at the nationally renowned 2008 Miami Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, “Eleven Minutes” shines by ultimately defying viewer’s expectations. It’s more than a portrait of a fashion designer and his line. It’s an expose on second chances and the difficulty associated with ‘burning the reality TV bridge’ to prove you’re more than reality TV star. As McCarroll’s life illustrates, modern society isn’t always willing to change the sticky label on the box of someone who’s been marketed and placed on sale for public consumption. For McCarroll, his first fifteen minutes of fame came with winning the first season of Project Runway. Here, he’s boldly asking for one, two, or three minutes more, with his line of bright yellow bumble-bee sweaters for boys and translucent jelly-skinned raincoats for girls. For the viewer, the fantastic costumes in “Eleven Minutes” are worth the price of entry alone. The question is: will we ever allow his designs to transcend television and hit the hipster crowd on the streets? The odds don’t look good, but it’s sure fun cheering him on while he tries.
Derek
I Love You Phillip Morris
Carrey and McGregor Sitting in Glee, K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Anthony Paull
Based on a true story.That’s what film audiences are told at the beginning credits of 'I Love you, Phillip Morris' – the latest big-budget, butt-banger of a queer-led film to hail out of Hollywood since the Ang Lee-directed Brokeback Mountain. And while audiences shall compare the two features due to the lack of competing, star-centered gay movies on the market, they are finally given the chance to do what Mountain could not offer – have a long, hard laugh.Following the erratic life of real-world con man Steven Russell (played by eternal funnyman Jim Carrey), Morris grants audiences a man-on-man love story that kicks into high-gear when Russell’s cons catch up to him, leading him find a soul male in the fellow committed Phillip Morris, smartly portrayed by Ewan McGregor. Comedy ensues when the duo become separated through a series of circumstances, leading Russell on a con campaign to arrange for the lovers to unite again. Co-written and directed by pen partners Glenn Ficarra and John Requa (Bad Santa), the adapted screenplay is based on a novel written by former Houston Chronicle reporter Steve McVicker.
The question: Can the culmination of this talented team do gay right? Can they balance the slippery slope of being funny and not objectionable? The answer, for the most part, is yes.And how could they not? Jim Carrey. Ewan McGregor. Here are two of the biggest A-listers presently lighting up the screen, blushing red while kissing and passing love notes in a prison cell. Here, gays are finally granted a love story, poking humor in all the right, dark places, where the editing process doesn’t cut the finale: the raw culmination of one man pursuing another, ultimately leading to the bedroom, or prison cell, where the two can embrace in raw, instinctual love. Thankfully, such unbridled passion in a mainstream film is just one of the surprises of the film, which has enough twists and turns to keep event the biggest naysayer satisfied. Of course, the bitter will wonder: Is the on-screen chemistry between Carrey and McGregor believable? Sure, McGregor’s depiction of the sweet, Southern boy Morris is heartbreakingly sincere, but can one suspend disbelief long enough to be conned into enjoying this queer con-man tale? Or will one react with sheer horror, blinded by foul humor and bigotry, like in 2007 Adam Sandler-flick 'Now I Pronounce You Chuck and Larry'?
The truth is even the doubters, who generally critique Carrey when he’s not bidding for lead goofball, will be hard-fit to admit they don’t like something about Phillip Morris. The reason: the story isn’t about being gay, but rather, a depiction of the lengths one will take in the name of obsessive love. Such a universal theme, both straight and gay alike, is carefully scripted here, complete with crisp, laughable dialogue that will hit close to home for anyone who’s dated the kind of man who lies. Still, those expecting Liar, Liar – don’t. Rather, expect the unexpected. That’s the art of the con, really, and that is where the film goes right. Premiering to a sold-out audience at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival, the Ficarra/Requa penned script consistently tricks viewers by jumping from hilarity to high drama to adventure within minutes. Fooled are those who feel they know where the film is headed, only to find everything changing within a single breath – smart move by Ficarra and Requa who simultaneously con the viewer as Carrey effortlessly cons Hollywood into falling in love with his sinister side once again. Still, the ultimate deceit of the story may lie in the film’s title. Remember: in the US, Phillip Morris is a cigarette company. In the UK, a cigarette is a fag. So in sum, are we all being duped into seeing a gay film with working title 'I Love You, Fag'? We’ll never know; Hollywood won't own that truth. And that’s what makes the film all the more intriguing.Eleven Minutes
