Paris, France Ontario, 1993 Directed by Gerard Ciccoritti Reviewed by Rich Sinclair | loved this film. There is tons of sex. And | like that. But wait, there’s more. It’s about writers and a woman who doesn’t take any shit from men. | like that too. And, not only do we get to see the male’s penis, he doesn’t try to hide it once it’s out. No one tries to hide any- thing in this film. | watched people struggle with real problems of identity, creative blockage, and the whole sexual obsession thing that our culture seems to nurture, yet deny. Director, Gerard Ciccoritti uses sex to talk about somthing other than sex. He distances the viewer from the sexual act. The sex becomes secondary to the people having it. Using high camera angles often, and combined with a wide angle, we get a very open perspective of sex making. In this film we dont’t see the closed, tight nude shots where great Care is usually taken to hide nasty stuff like the genitals and unconventional practices. Our attention is directed beyond the naked people, n>: re near Hollywood’s ridiculous thrills ville T&A skin shots, but rather into Lucy’s bizzare search for creativity. Here, Ciccoritti makes definite associations between sexual energy and creative evergy. And | would find it hard to believe anyone could walk out of this film having not firmly identified with the fantasy. Lucy dives into her past via a bold and stunning affair with Sloan, the would-be male macho ego idiot figure we know so well, thanks Hollywood. Lucy links Sloan’s character with Minter , her Parisian lover from the past who played a huge formative role in Lucy’s creative and sexual character. Fueled by her affair with Sloan, Lucy attempts to complete the novel she began years earlier in Paris, France. This proves to be a wholly trying experience for Sloan, and humbling moments detract from his macho stereotype. Sloan overestimates himself and underestimates Lucy's obsessive sexual prowess and creative drive. And, he falls face first. This dy- namic opens new perspectives to the kink-factor, and the film leaves the heterosexual formula to make important points about the thin line that separates the straight from the gay. This serves to support the idea that sexuality is very much a human thing, and not a gender thing. It is nice to finaly see a piece of work that really confronts our conservative and exploitive North American sexual conventions. This film comes as a much needed slap to the face. Its rawness, blessedly perverse, stands to remind us that sex isn’t at all like it is in the movies. The Bed You Sleep In Paris,France ‘a e ey re iv it iv ie The Bed You Sleep In USA, 1993 Directed by Jon Jost Reviewed by Terry Dawes The American film, The Bed You Sleep In directed by Jon Jost was the raging strip of celluloid fire that ripped off my blinders during this year’s Festival con- test marathon. Previous to that | had been glimpsing only traces of beauty, slowly turning into TV movies, feel good after-school special yawnathons, lower- ing my standards, a blurry haze of homogenous acetate screening from morning to night. It’s times like these | forget why | fell in love with film and | start to feel the urge to eat my children or at least leave the stove on as | leave the house and hope a fiery end is met. But sooth, a film has appeared before us, one which grabs the viewer and shows us life in all its glory and confusion. That said, The Bed You Sleep Inis all wheat, no chaff. Jon Jost is a pure screen poet. The objects before his lens appear to scream out in Technicolor, aching for a home on a few metres of film. The audience is presented with an Oregon logging mill town landscape, the figures running around like mice put up to a heat lamp. There is a plot, a narrative tight as a drum and inescapable in its unfolding. But | think the story is used almost as a prop, as a key to open up the screen so that the audience can walk through, Wonderland style, into the life of the soul. Speaking of Stanislavski’s goal, the acting in this film is incredible. These people could be anyone. You’ve known them. They are real. They are not acting. Pacewise, the film is like music. Each camera gesture, motion, flash, colour, sound, cut, word is em- ployed as a note which is detonated so slowly, so skilfully as to evoke a physical reaction. A crescendo is reached after which one is capable only of lying down and gasping for air. We follow the character Ray driving into his fate and we are shown the road before him actually spitting apart like our exhausted minds, vibrating with the exuberance of impending death. Needless to say, | was a mess at the end of this film and ready to lash out at the cappucino sipping fashion model frauds chattering away like a pair of rusty old teeth behind me. Apparently, the movie lacked the vio- lence and/or genital thrills that they get from most pathetic audience monger freakshows. They probably just lapped up the stinking awful Lotus Eaters, too. Which reminds me, why are people, especially “art” house audiences, so eager to heap accolades on only the blandest, tiredest tripe that can be rolled across a screen and applaud on command when witnessing scenes they've watched over and over again on television? P.T. Barnum was right after all. | guess that’s ; another article. < FILM FEST FILM FEST FILM FEST Paris, France Ontario, 1993 Directed by Gerard Ciccoritti Reviewed by Rich Sinclair I oved this film. There is tons of sex. And Ilike that. But wait, there’s more. It's about writers and a woman who doesn’t take any shit from men. | lke that too. And, not only do we get to see the male's penis, he doesn’t try to hide it once it’s out. No one tries to hide any- thing in this film, | watched people struggle with real problems of identity, creative blockage, and the whole sexual obsession thing that our culture seems to nurture, yet deny. Director, Gerard Ciccoritti uses sex to talk about somthing other than sex. He distances the viewer from the sexual act. The sex becomes secondary to the people having it. Using high camera angles often, and combined with a wide angle, we get a very open perspective of sex making. In this film we dont’t see the closed, tight nude shots where great care is usually taken to hide nasty stuff like the genitals and unconventional practices. Our attention is directed beyond the naked people, n> i-re near Hollywood's ridiculous thrills ville T&A skin shots, but rather into Lucy's bizzare search for creativity. Here, Ciccori makes definite associations between sexual energy and creative evergy. And | would find it hard to believe anyone could walk out of this film having not firmly identified with the fantasy. Lucy dives into her past via a bold and stunning affair with Sloan, the would-be male macho ego idiot figure we know so well, thanks Hollywood. Lucy links Sloan's character with Minter , her Parisian lover from the past who played a huge formative role in Lucy's creative and sexual character. Fueled by her affair with Sloan, Lucy attempts to complete the novel she began years earlier in Paris, France. This proves to be a wholly trying experience for Sloan, and humbling moments detract from his macho stereotype. Sloan overestimates himself and underestimates Lucy's obsessive sexual prowess and creative drive. And, he falls face first. his dy- namic opens new perspectives to the kink-factor, and the film leaves the heterosexual formula to make important Points about the thin line that separates the straight from the gay. This serves to support the idea that sexuality is very much a human thing, and not a gender thin Itis nice to finaly see a piece of work that really confronts our conservative and exploitive North American sexual conventions. This film comes as a much needed slap to the face. its rawness, blessedly perverse, stands to remind us that sex isn’t at all like itis in the movies. The Bed You Sleep in The Bed You Sleep In USA, 1993 Directed by Jon Jost Reviewed by Terry Dawes The American film, The Bed You Sleep In directed by Jon Jost was the raging strip of celluloid fire that ripped off my blinders during this year’s Festival con- test marathon. Previous to that | had been glimpsing only traces of beauty, slowly turning into TV movies, feel good after-school special yawnathons, lower- ing my standards, a blurry haze of homogenous acetate screening from morning to night. It’s times like these | forget why | fell in love with film and | start to feel the urge to eat my children or at least leave the stove on as | leave the house and hope a fiery end is met. But sooth, a film has appeared before us, ‘one which grabs the viewer and shows us life in all its glory and confusion. That said, The Bed You Sleep Inis all wheat, no chaff, Jon Jost is a pure screen poet. The objects before his lens appear to scream out in Technicolor, aching for a home on a few metres of film. The audience is presented with an Oregon logging mill town landscape, the figures running around like mice put up to a heat lamp. There is a plot, a narrative tight as a drum and inescapable in its unfolding. But | think the story is used almost as a prop, as a key to open up the screen so that the audience can walk through, Wonderland style, into the life of the soul. Speaking of Stanislavski's goal, the acting in this film is incredible. These people could be anyone. You've known them. They are real. They are not acting. Pacewise, the film is like music. Each camera gesture, motion, flash, colour, sound, cut, word is em- ployed as a note which is detonated so slowly, so skilfully as to evoke a physical reaction. A crescendo is reached after which one is capable only of lying down and gasping for air. We follow the character Ray driving into his fate and ‘we are shown the road before him actually spitting apart like our exhausted minds, vibrating with the exuberance of impending death. Needless to say, | was mess at the end of this film and ready to lash out at the cappucino sipping fashion model frauds chattering away like a pair of rusty old teeth behind me. Apparently, the movie lacked the vic lence and/or genital thrils that they get from most pathetic audience monger freakshows. They probably just lapped up the stinking awful Lotus Eaters, too. Which reminds me, why are people, especially “art” house audiences, so eager to heap accolades ‘on only the blandest,tredest tripe that can be rolled across a screen and applaud on. ‘command when witnessing scenes they've watched over and over again on television? PT. Bamum was right afterall. | quess that’s another article.