Wholly shit.
I mean, it was a Monday night, right? And if you're going to start the work week off with a movie, at LEAST give me a sex scene, explosion or something. But, I'll get to the movie in a second.
If you've never been to the IFC, it pretty much mirrors every independent film theater you'll ever go to. The viewing rooms are really small to accommodate...the really small number of people going to see this shit. (I wonder if theaters go by the "Field of Dreams" rule...if you build it, they will come. If you don't... then hey. They'll catch it on cable.)
The seats, however are BIG. And comfortable. Really comfortable. So comfortable that they make you uncomfortable because chances are, you'll get that cozy "living room" feeling while sitting next to some weird old NYU professor who smells like grapefruit. And you just don't want to get comfortable with that. Or maybe you do. Who knows. I don't judge.
Anyway, so IFC works like every other theater. There's only one person working the refreshment stand, regardless of how many registers there are. (This person also takes your ticket.) It smells like stale popcorn and moldy rug. However, it's dark and you're surrounded by old posters from movies you've never seen, (and never cared about, but now, suddenly feel REALLY uncool for not). The vibe is "independent film"...which is exactly what you're going for.
You'll have to walk up and down actual steps...not hop on an elevator and ascend into movie Heaven. Nope. Keep it real and hoof it to the screening room.
So the movie...(oops, sorry...) film starts and first, we are treated by "video art", which means, it's some shit you'd see in the Museum of The Moving Image that'll give you a headache if you stare too long. I instantly hate it. I want it to be over right fucking now. I see nothing cool about it and I'm sure, if I'm an unknowing epileptic and the trait has laid dormant all this time, this fucking thing will bring it right out of me.
Mecifully, it ends, and the movie...(ugh..) film begins.
It opens to a...no shit... one minute take of a man in a coma sleeping.
Now, for those of you in the TV biz, you know how long a minute is. For those of you NOT...stare at any inanimate object for one full minute.
Now, do this for two hours.
Not that the mo...film wasn't great. OK. It wasn't. But it was at least...good. Sorta "Sunday afternoon" good. Where you have all day to contemplate the symbolism behind all the dirty water, or the director forcing you to watch a man sponge-bathe another man, or a older Chinese woman get fingered in a dirty alley...for a really long (and probably painful) time.
You get the love triangle, and the hardships of being poor while the world around you ignores this. The despair, the dirt, the hopelessness...the fact that there are maybe a total of twelve lines spoken in the entire film...sure. They all weave together to give you something powerful and deep.
Too damn deep for a Monday night.
I would have been much happier watching shit get blown up.
However, if you've got a free Sunday and are feeling deep...check it out.
Black factor: IFC is located in the Village. I coulda been purple and not drawn a single blink. However, if you get any shock factor at independent film, it's that you're actually interested in this film...and Madea ain't in it.
Cost: The usual. 11 bucks.
Go again: Sure. "Provoked" looks pretty damn good.
-N
Ski. Cook without seasoning salt. Yoga. Travel to places that don't speak English. If you think black people don't do it...you're wrong. And I'm going to prove it to you. One stereotype at a time.
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