Kicking the Tweets

Black Christmas (1974)

Different Seasons

The Chateau Grrr Crypticon celebrity dinner is just over a week away. In honor of future plate-mate Margot Kidder, I present the following video review…

Bob Clark directed Black Christmas, Porky’s and A Christmas Story.

I love that.

Before watching Black Christmas, I had no idea how groundbreaking the movie was for the stalk-and-slash genre, or how greatly it would influence two of the most subversive and successful comedies of all time. This is an odd film, and if you look at it through the right lens, it is a brilliant (if flawed) piece of entertainment.

Cinephiles will have the most fun watching the picture simply because of all the random people who show up in it; they certainly won’t be captivated by the plot, which centers on a sorority house beset by eerie prank phone calls and a couple of murders. Olivia Hussey stars as Jess, one of the sisters, who learns that she’s carrying her boyfriend Peter’s baby; a post-2001 Keir Dullea who, at the time of filming, was almost forty years old plays Peter (an early-twenties graduate student—talk about acting). Among the other housemates are comedienne Andrea Martin and future Lois Lane, Margot Kidder—whose part consists solely of drinking heavily, near-propositioning a cop, and passing out.

About the time of the sinister phone calls, one of the girls goes missing; she doesn’t disappear so much as get suffocated by a faceless killer and stuffed in the sorority house attic. The thirty-plus minutes leading up to the murder are rather excruciating, as they focus mainly on the mundane lives of the characters; the screenplay by Roy Moore could have used a lot more cattiness—or at least some additional sub-plots to keep the interest up. Fortunately, once the police are called in to investigate the disappearance and the calls, Black Christmas really picks up steam.

It helps that John Saxon plays the main cop, Lieutenant Fuller, as essentially a pre-drunkard version of his Donald Thompson character from A Nightmare on Elm Street. He works with Jess to run a trace on the phone calls (Side Note: this movie taught me where the term “running a trace” comes from: when Jess gets a call, we cut between her, Lieutenant Fuller, and a phone specialist in a giant room, running down long rows of towers trying to locate the signal; today he could probably just download an iPhone app and be done with it). The police in Black Christmas range from serious-minded investigators (Fuller) to well-intentioned idiots who spend their time doubling over in laughter at fellatio gags or going into hysterics while trying to convince a girl to calmly leave her house. Part of the movie’s magic is the way horror and comedy flow in and out of scenes with head-scratching regularity.

As I said before, Bob Clark pioneered the modern slasher movie, but Black Christmas is a very rough template. Conventions are sketched out here that would be filled in years later by the likes of John Carpenter (Halloween), Sean S. Cunningham (Friday the 13th), and to a lesser extent, Wes Craven (Elm Street). For example, a good stalk-and-slash movie either doesn’t waste the audience’s time getting to know a bunch of characters who have only been written in order to be creatively killed off; or the characters are so integral to the story that they are given interesting things to say or do. The sorority girls in Black Christmas are interchangeable, but are given way too much screen time between kills to bore us to death. Also, the killer in this movie is obviously Peter (Spoiler!); not only does he have the most distinctive silhouette of any of the characters, he is also the murderer by elimination (see Roger Ebert’s Law of the Economy of Characters). Subsequent slasher films know to conceal the killer’s identity via mask or twist ending; in a way, Clark does this in his film, except the twist makes absolutely no goddamned sense (I won’t further spoil the ending, except to say that it must be seen to be believed). For students of horror, this film provides great insight into how different directors can take a handful of ideas that don’t quite work and turn them into genre-defining paradigms.

Beyond that, this truly weird movie contains shots and story ideas that Bob Clark would use in his later career. The film begins and ends with an exterior of the sorority house; the end is particularly eerie as we hear a phone ringing off the hook; this shot recalls A Christmas Story, which closes on the Parker home with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” blaring on the soundtrack. They are identical endings to very distinct holiday pictures. Also, the scene in the police station where the police can’t control their laughter at a blowjob joke appears to have been cut-and-pasted right into the principal’s office scene in Porky’s that followed the Peeping Tom shower prank.

If you’re not familiar with the films and conventions I’ve mentioned here, I don’t know what kind of enjoyment you’ll get out of Black Christmas; I can only appreciate it on the level of a hundred-minute in-joke (because I can’t un-watch the movies I’ve seen). To the casual modern viewer, this might come off as a slow, goofy relic from the Seventies. But I guess that’s like worrying over whether Twilight Fans will appreciate Chuck Klosterman: you’ll either get it or you won’t. Regardless, this film needs to be seen.

Note: If you’re thinking about skipping the original and settling for the remake, don’t. I saw 2006’s Black Christmas (the day after Christmas, in an empty theatre, with my friend, Brian) without having seen the original and I can’t remember anything about it except for a scene involving meat cookies. There are many more memorable scenes in the original, though it takes half the movie to get to them.


Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant, 2009

With a Little Help from My Fiends

It’s depressing, the amount of movies based on young-adult books that have been churned this decade. I have no problem with fantasy films aimed at kids, but there’s so little magic on the screen that one often wonders how the novels became so successful.

The sixth Harry Potter film is interchangeable with any of the others, suffering from a lack of forward momentum and villain-of-the-weak syndrome that killed Smallville four seasons ago (though both franchises continue to lurch forward like the living dead). The Golden Compass was supposed to kick-start a parallel Potter-for-girls franchise, but was so cold and by-the-numbers that I’m surprised there wasn’t a box office ticker on the screen. Fortunately, we now have Cirque du Freak: The Vampire’s Assistant, a movie that actually made me want to read the books it’s based on.

The story outline is origin boilerplate, but the details make it interesting: Darren (Chris Massoglia) is a popular high school student who visits a traveling freak show with his best friend, Steve (Josh Hutcherson). The boys witness bizarre feats by unusual performers like the wolf-man, snake-boy, and the bearded lady. There’s also a fat dancing spider, the pet of the Cirque’s enigmatic and flamboyant ringleader, Larten Crepsley (John C. Reilly); when Darren sneaks back stage to “borrow” the creature, he learns that Crepsley is actually a vampire—fortunately, he’s part of a faction that doesn’t kill humans. Through a series of events I won’t spoil here, Darren runs away with the Cirque, leaving Steve behind—not good, considering Steve is a social outcast from a broken home; he shows up later in the film, having found his own band of new friends who have no qualms about eating people.

Like the Potter and X-Men series, Cirque du Freak is heavy on mythology; the key difference is that here the filmmakers remember to load the first picture with characters and action. This isn’t just a set-up movie, where we meet a lot of mutants who show off their powers and fight a really lame, low-budget enemy; where you’re just interested enough to come back for Part Two (which will inevitably have a bigger budget, and—hopefully—a more worthwhile story). Cirque du Freak wisely introduces us to the freaks, in all their CG splendor, during an early performance of their stage show; after that, they’re relegated to background players while the story and effects budget focus on the conflicts of the hero’s journey. I was so relieved when, at the epic, climactic battle, the freaks didn’t show up and use their deformities as special powers to save the day.

I think the reason the movie works so well is that the people behind it know how to write and shoot for adults, which means they take the material seriously and almost don’t know how to dumb-down their work. Brian Helgeland adapted L.A. Confidential and Mystic River, and created the genre-bending A Knight’s Tale. Paul Weitz directed About A Boy and American Pie (he also produced The Golden Compass and appears to have learned a number of lessons since then). Cirque du Freak is suitable for older children, but comes off as a film aimed at adults. It doesn’t rely on talking animals or spells that solve every problem, and it touches on—but doesn’t dwell on—some heavy issues, like suicide and alienation. The movie is also visually engaging, always switching up camera angles and transitions in ways that more “legitimate” adult fare could stand to copy.

I really liked Cirque du Freak, but I didn’t love it—mostly because Chris Massoglia is not a very good actor, quite the problem since he’s the lead. I get that he’s supposed to be the audience stand-in, taking in all the wonder and adventure with blank-slate passivity, but this guy doesn’t even register. When John C. Reilly either had the spotlight or shared time with Massoglia, I was in heaven, but when the focus shifted back to the Darren character only, I tuned out. Harry Potter and The Golden Compass suffered from this problem, too, and I wish studios would simply invest in charismatic, edgy leads instead of playing it safe with actors who’d be upstaged by the staples in their Tiger Beat pin-ups. Fortunately, Reilly gets a lot of screen time, along with other terrific actors like Willem Dafoe, Patrick Fugit and Salma Hayek. Unlike a lot of serious performers who seem to take guest spots in kids’ movies to please their nephews and nieces, these actors look like they’re having fun—mostly because they’re not called upon to step on rakes or make stretchy faces to get through the movie. But there’s a black hole in the center of this movie, one that can only be plugged with some solid re-casting.

Meta-note: Cirque du Freak opened at number eight this weekend, which means we may not get a sequel. This is a shame. Perhaps audiences are tired of movies that look like The Spiderwick Chronicles or Bridge to Terabithia. I have a feeling Cirque du Freak will drown in the glut of bad children’s fantasy films, and can only hope it finds an audience on home video. But this is a movie that must be seen on the big screen to be appreciated. I implore you to check it out before it’s gone; you don’t even have to bring the kids.


Saw VI (2009)

Healing the Sixth

I really didn’t like Saw V. The original Jigsaw Killer, John Kramer (Tobin Bell), had been dead since the third film, replaced by an un-charismatic thug cop named Hoffman (Costas Mandylor). A new batch of seemingly unrelated people were locked in a maze of elaborate traps, forced to work together to survive; neither the games nor the characters were as memorable as those from Saw II, where this plot-line was first injected into the series. Then there was the ending, in which the one remaining interesting character—a good cop named Peter Strahm (Scott Patterson)—was brutally killed off in a way that seemed unusually cruel, even for the franchise that unfairly birthed the term “torture porn.” The movie left me feeling depressed, angry, and sure that the Saw movies had finally run their course.

I went into Saw VI with marginal enthusiasm. The TV spots were customarily vague; the only thing I knew for sure was that Kramer would return, and a deadly merry-go-round was somehow part of the story. I felt sort of relieved, though, because I told myself that if (when) the movie sucked, I would be unburdened of my need to see any more sequels in the theatre—possibly ignoring them altogether. Fortunately for both my mood and for Lionsgate Films, I was pretty blown away by Saw VI.

“’Blown away?’” You might ask. “Really?”

To which I offer a qualified “yes.” While the movie does have its share of problems, director Kevin Greutert and screenwriters Patrick Melton and Marcus Dunstan do two new things with this film: they tone down the gore and give the film a message. It’s not the same “you can’t appreciate life until you’ve faced death” message of the other movies—though it’s certainly in there. No, Saw VI is about the need for universal health care, and insurance companies that murder American citizens every day by denying them coverage.

I’m not kidding. Soak it in.

The set-up, which recalls Saw III, sees an insurance company head named William (Peter Outerbridge) navigating an abandoned zoo that has been rigged with Hoffman/Jigsaw’s deadly games. They include a race through red-hot steam tunnels, a rib-smashing breathe-holding exercise, and the aforementioned merry-go-round, in which people are shot-gunned to death when the wheel stops; all of the participants in these games are associates of William’s, from his secretary and copy boy to his chief legal counsel and the pack of power-hungry associates whose job it is to look for coverage loopholes in policies. To varying degrees, William must determine who lives and who dies.

Running parallel to the main story is detective Hoffman’s struggle to keep his alter ego a secret while carrying out the games designed by the late John Kramer. We’re re-introduced to a presumed-dead character, as well as to Kramer’s ex-wife, Jill Tuck (Betsy Russell), and they both intensify Hoffman’s paranoia in different ways. I was not as engaged in these sub-plots, which were heavy on details that either referenced minutiae in the previous films or—I suspect—set up events for the later ones. They do serve a vital purpose in giving Hoffman an arc, however, taking him from somber lackey to impulsive brute, a marked contrast to his sophisticated, deep-thinking predecessor. Until this chapter, I’d assumed Costas Mandylor was either a bad actor or wholly disinterested in the role; in Saw VI his character is forced from his cold shell and shown to be relentless and cunning.

Speaking of cunning, I thought it was pretty ballsy of the filmmakers to make the sixth film in a popular horror franchise into a soapbox. Sure enough, there’s a flashback in which Kramer confronts William about a denied claim for his cancer treatment; he circles the executive’s office, spouting off about how the government and the doctors are not the problem, that it’s the insurance companies who are the real societal parasites. I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Never mind that I agree with the film’s point of view; I just loved that fact that Lionsgate has found a way to make the news entertaining (and subversive: in one scene, a tearful policy reader yells to William, “I’m on your side!” Which is a variation on Nationwide Insurance’s slogan).

As I said before, the movie has problems. The director spends a little too much time constructing arguments and visual metaphors that he forgets how to make horror movies scary. Many of the gags and jumps are telegraphed way too early and way too sloppily (a security guard who’s mistaken for an assailant; a series of six envelopes containing the game’s participants, one of which turns up missing until a “big reveal” at the climax). But what Kevin Greutert lacks in tension instincts, he makes up for in misdirection, particularly as it applies to the identity of two key characters; it’s the kind of surprise one should be used to in these movies, but damn it if I wasn’t caught off-guard.

Saw VI is not for everyone, but I think everyone should see it; at least the insurance executive portions. If Lionsgate could have an edited version of the movie shown on the House and Senate floors, we would soon have a) universal health care and b) higher ratings for C-SPAN.

Seriously, though, I cannot wait for Saw VII. Even if they leave the political messages out of it, I at least have hope that someone is minding the store, creatively. The fact that I can be surprised and entertained by the sixth installment of a series I’d almost written off as dead is enough to earn these pictures some good will for another year or two. There are more ideas and emotions at play here than I've seen since Saw III. And if later on the ideas start to peter out again, I’d love to see Jigsaw tackle global warming or the declining U.S. dollar.


Where the Wild Things Are (2009)

Beasts, Unburdened

"Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded."

--Baz Luhrmann, Everybody’s Free to Wear Sunscreen

People often ask me if I go into some movies predisposed to hate them; to which I’ll ask if they go into some movies predisposed to love them. I often find myself in the contrarian role when it comes to film opinion, but it’s not like I revel in sitting through boring, uninspired movies—most of them are two hours long, you know, which is a considerable chunk of time to spend doing anything unpleasant (and since I have a strict “no walk-outs” policy, I reserve the right to savage any filmmaker who subjects me to a modern-day Ludovico treatment). No, I give every movie as fair a shake as I can manage.

That’s not to say it’s always easy. I’ve been subjected to the awful trailers and hipster hype surrounding Spike Jonze’s Where the Wild Things Are for months. From the Arcade Fire song to the cute “hand-drawn” titles and aimless shaky-cam running shots, I rolled my eyes in frustration every time I saw one of these commercials. When I found out that novelist Dave Eggers—our generation’s Potentate of Pretension—co-authored the film, I almost killed myself (Eggers and Jonze are separately responsible for two of the most unpleasant moviegoing experiences I’ve had this decade: Being John Malkovich and Away We Go). Driving to the theatre yesterday, I’d given up any hope at objectivity and began to view this screening as a science experiment: could Where the Wild Things Are win me over despite my disdain for everything and everyone involved?

The answer is an enthusiastic, “Yes!” I loved this movie. Strangely, though, I found it to be very unpleasant in parts, and both my wife and I fell into profound funks for the rest of the day.

Let me begin by saying that this is not a movie for kids. It’s based on a classic children’s book, sure, and stars the adorable Max Records, but Where the Wild Things are is as much a kids’ film as Fritz the Cat. There were a lot of kids in the theatre we went to; some of the older ones seemed fine, but the rest were either restless or downright frightened (Parents, if your kid starts whining that they’re too scared to watch a movie, please take them out of the theatre and go see something else; don’t, for the love of Christ, lie and tell them, “It’s almost over, honey”; especially if there’s forty minutes left to go and your terrified tyke is kicking my seat in frustration). This is a movie about childhood that’s for adults, and the distinction is very important.

If you’ve read Maurice Sendak’s book (as I did for the first time after returning home from the film), you know the basic story. An unruly kid named Max travels to a far-away land where he runs wild with a group of weird, hairy beasts and returns home in time for supper. In the book, the Wild Things’ jungle sprouts up in Max’s bedroom, clearly a product of his imagination; in the movie, Max runs away from home after a nasty fight with his mother (Katherine Keener) and appears to board an actual boat that takes him to a mysterious island. Were you to plot out the rest of the film you could do so in just a few sentences. The story has little forward momentum in terms of traditional adventure movies; Where the Wild Things Are is about the kind of excitement that an imaginative nine-year-old boy can have all by himself: rolling down hills, building forts and having mud ball fights with friends.

This, I think, is why many have labeled this film “boring”. It’s a puzzling accusation considering this is one of the deepest, darkest movies I’ve seen in awhile. Jonze and Eggers take Sendak’s idea of Max acting out his wild fantasies and expand it to paint a disturbing psychological portrait of a boy in a broken home. The creatures stand in not for people in Max’s life, but for the emotions roiling around inside; the Wild Things bicker and fight and are sometimes intolerable, but they are honest interpretations of youthful angst. I loved that Max was not made out to be a hero in his own mind. In fact, his own petulance and rage turn against him in the end and he’s forced to leave the island. You’ll need to experience the film to find out what Max’s departure means, but trust me: there’s nothing boring about this journey.

Particularly impressive is James Gandolfini as Carol, the most prominent Wild Thing and a representation of Max's ego. In the trailers, it's hard to get the actor's Tony Soprano character out of your head, but in the context of the film, it's clear there's no better choice. In fact, Gandolfini incorporates an aspect of Soprano's personality in giving voice to Carol, that of the TV mobster's private persona, the one who's vulnerable and kind of whiny in therapy. His fragile personality--tender in one instant, violently destructive in the next--is encapsulated in a hulking fur suit that evokes terror more often than cuddliness; which is why landing the right actor to give the character life is so vital. If there's an Oscar to be given for voice work, Gandolfini's a shoe-in.

I should say that if you’re on the fence about whether or not to see Where the Wild Things Are in the theatre, I beg you to run out and catch it on the big screen. There’s nothing small-scale about the picture; though Jonze evokes The Wizard of Oz early on, by keeping Max’s home-life relatively claustrophobic in framing before opening up to sprawling deserts and seascapes in the island scenes.

As I mentioned before, this movie affected me heavily. It’s so evocative of childhood and even the primal nature of man that I felt as if I’d spent an hour-and-a-half in regression therapy. Granted, I, too, come from a broken home, but my wife was susceptible to Jonze’s and Eggers’ subliminal shout-outs to awkward adolescence. The experience recalls the scene from Fight Club where Tyler Durden spliced a frame of pornography into Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—kids in the audience freaked out and cried without consciously knowing why. Even leaving that aside, there are some harsh moments in the picture that I won’t ruin here, but they elicited genuine gasps from me, and that rarely happens.

Where the Wild Things Are is a ballsy film that treats children as actual human beings, and it wouldn’t surprise me if older kids discovered the picture and made it a classic. It’s the kind of movie one could come back to at different stages in life and draw new perceptions from each time (does that technically make it an “all-ages” movie?). Whatever gripes I have with Jonze’s and Eggers’ adult work, they have nailed what it means to be a kid—at least a certain kind of kid—and I’m happy to say that they beaned my preconceived notions with a mud ball.


Capitalism: A Love Story, 2009

Dead Peasants Society

As a person with liberal politics, I agree with many of the positions Michael Moore takes in his new film Capitalism: A Love Story. I’ve been a fan of Moore’s going all the way back to his General Motors expose, Roger & Me, and appreciate the passion and creativity he employs in his art; I say “art” because Moore doesn’t make straight documentaries: they’re message-driven performance pieces that happen to incorporate real-life footage in support of his arguments. He labors in the gonzo spirit of Hunter S. Thompson, revealing hard truths by way of disarming his audience with shtick. Unfortunately, Capitalism—and, to a lesser extent, his last film, Sicko—succumbs to that shtick, muddling his thesis in the process. As a liberal, I’m with him; as a film critic, I think Capitalism kind of stinks.

I should qualify that by saying if you’re the kind of Michael Moore fan who sees no inherent problems with destroying capitalism and starting over with a Jesus-style commune planet—better yet, if you actually believe that’s possible—then you may fall in love with Capitalism. However, if you’re a discerning filmgoer who pays attention not only during movies but also in real life (by, say, keeping up with current events) you’re likely to find this movie a frustrating exercise in terms of both storytelling and message.

Unlike Moore’s earlier works, there’s no through-line in Capitalism. Roger & Me began as a quest to interview GM CEO Roger Smith; Bowling for Columbine explored gun culture via the 1999 high school massacre; Fahrenheit 9/11 sought to lay out how we wound up in Iraq. All three films had central characters that we followed and learned about in-depth enough to understand how they factored into Moore’s stated goals. Capitalism opens with a montage of bank camera footage capturing robberies, and leads into a montage of people from around the country being evicted from their homes. I guessed that these would be our “protagonists”, but right off the bat, their stories had problems.

We watch as one family videotapes a group of sheriff’s cars and county officials driving up to their house to evict them. The ostensible head of the house calls the sheriff’s office and says that the officers will have to come inside and remove them—peaceably—from the home; which they do. While the deputies work to get inside by removing the door locks, the camera whips around the room as the family members identify themselves, like they’re getting ready to film evidence of a brutal police raid. The sheriff’s men come into the house without brandishing weapons or screaming at anybody, and the guy shooting the film mutters over and over, “This is America, folks”. This scene took me back to my early teen years when my Dad was evicted from his home for not paying the mortgage. The sheriff showed up with a bunch of people and began joylessly setting all of my father’s things out onto the lawn. I never considered this an egregious act of state power over an innocent prole; I simply thought, “So this is what happens when you fall way behind on your house payments.”

Perhaps that’s heartless; perhaps not. The point is that Moore never gave the back-story on this family, or why they felt they should be ready for Ruby Ridge Part Two. The footage was apparently not Moore’s own, but he could have at least followed up with the family: why were they being evicted? Was it for not paying the mortgage or for something else? Did they get suckered into an ARM during the housing boom, or were they simply hedonistic slackers (as many of Moore’s critics might argue)? Were they given enough notice between the time the eviction was served and the day the sheriff showed up with his “goons”? Moore could have also, I don’t know, gotten both sides of the story by talking with the sheriff’s department. Was that big of an entourage typical, or were the officers perhaps worried that the people inside might not have planned to leave without a fight? The point is, I wasn’t given nearly enough information to care about these people, and the whole scene felt like a dirty trick.

The same holds true for the rest of the evicted families in the movie. We’re meant to feel bad for people who are forced to sell or burn their possessions—as well as for a family who must sleep in the back of a moving truck—but without the benefit of learning how they came to those situations. Michael Moore would have made a much stronger case had he bothered to fill in the audience and get them behind his struggling heroes instead of wasting time with cute stunts like wrapping The New York Stock Exchange in crime scene tape.

Capitalism has a pretty strong middle, though. It’s here that we’re given some history of the financial pyramid scheme that nearly destroyed the economy, along with a list of the key players—on both sides of the aisle—that birthed it.

We also meet a couple of families who learned that their deceased loved ones’ former employers took out “Dead Peasants Insurance” policies on them, essentially betting on their untimely deaths and then reaping multi-million dollar payouts—that's right, the companies, not the families; all legal, all undisclosed to anyone except via leaked memos.

On the bright side, Moore profiles entrepreneurs at a bread-making company who opt for truly democratic workplaces, where everyone votes on corporate policies and practices; the CEO has the same stake as the assembly line worker, and both are able to live very comfortably. It’s an inspiring oasis amid a series of chilling vignettes.

The most chilling section deals with the bank bailout; we learn that Congress was flooded with millions of phone calls and letters on the eve of the vote—which, if passed, would have given billions of dollars to the unrepentant fat cats who’d steered our bus off the cliff—and, amazingly, Congress turned their backs on their corporate backers and voted down the measure. That is, until a few days later, when a group of lawmakers met in secret, called for a hasty, new vote, and made the bailout legal.

This part of Capitalism is so effective that I forgot my recent history for a few minutes and swelled with pride at the notion that people contacting their representatives can actually make a difference; then the rug was yanked and I became rather depressed.

It didn’t help that Moore takes us right back to the family living in the truck. It’s definitely sad but, again, we don’t know how sad. My sympathies eroded the moment the family got together with other members of their dying community of foreclosed and abandoned homes and decided to simply “take back” their house by squatting in it. A bank rep (if I recall correctly) shows up to tell the people that they can’t live there; he calls the police and is yelled at by neighbors and members of the squatting family. I don’t know who this is meant to garner sympathy from. Certainly not me; once again, the questions came bubbling up:

Why were they evicted? If they’re so broke, how is it they managed to have signs and t-shirts made to showcase their new community action group? At one point, a family relative yells at the bank guy, something to the effect of, “How can you throw them out of their house? They’re living in a truck!” To which I asked her, in my head, “If you know about the truck situation, and if you have your own home, why don’t you let them to live with you?” It’s a cold world, yes, but there are rules that people agree to—not just in the social contract, but also on, you know, paper. And in the not-so-fine-print of most mortgage contracts are provisions that state, “If you don’t pay for your house, you don’t get to live in it.”

Interestingly enough, there’s a great segment on the Chicago glass company that went on strike earlier this year. The workers were given three days’ notice to vacate the plant after Bank of America refused to back the corporation that owned it. Moore successfully gets the audience on the workers’ side as they state their case and stage a peaceful sit-in that garners media attention and the support of president Obama. This should have been the film’s through-line, rather than an inspired mini-movie bookended by vague, cloying crap.

I left the theatre thinking that Michael Moore should have stayed away from the camera altogether and simply produced a movie about the economy with journalist Matt Taibbi at its center. Taibbi’s thorough and thoroughly entertaining articles for Rolling Stone this year have documented the downfall of the big banks and highlighted their practices’ effects on average Americans better than anything in Capitalism. Taibbi writes the way Moore used to film: with an emphasis on the problem and not the man talking about it. It’s gonzo journalism that never forgets which word in that phrase is more important.