I had to leave the Woodstock Film Festival early—to give a poetry reading in Brooklyn—but I did get to see three films, and all of them were “winners,“ as my father would say. So here’s my report.
One goes through life forgetting how good Julianne Moore is. Then you see one of her films, and think: “They really should name a Burger King entree after her.” Such a movie is The Debut, where she plays Mona Friedman, a suburban wife who impulsively decides to audition for a play at the local community theater. (The play, which is a musical, was written by Jesse Eisenberg, who wrote, directed, and co-produced the movie. The play is entitled “Nosy Neighbors,” and Eisenberg even wrote 13 songs for it!)
Paul Giamatti is the often-exasperated director of “Nosy Neighbors,” and he reveals to Mona the secret of acting, which is also the secret of life: open your heart, and let it be broken.
The Debut is set in 1990, before cell phones destroyed our minds, and when groups of actors became inseparable friends for six weeks. In a different era, Jesse Eisenberg would be called a “genius,“ but we live in a post-icon era, so he’s almost ignored.
Hollywood movies are obviously a capitalist enterprise, involving big money (often of questionable origin, it’s rumored); but Indie films are a form of socialism, like summer camps. Groups of comrades toil harmoniously together without much pay, for a) the experience, b) love of the art, c) thrills. Such a film is A Company of Thieves, which even the great Debbie Harry (superstar of Blondie, the band) asked to be in—necessitating a revision of the script. (And she is wonderful.) The movie had its world debut in Woodstock.
Though I didn’t sit down formally with any directors or actors this year, I did inadvertently interview Ajay Naidu, star of The Company of Thieves. He happened to be behind me on line for the bathroom at the Tinker Street Cinema, and we got to talking. “It’s a heist movie, isn’t it?” I asked, just to have something to say. “Yeah, basically,” Naidu replied. “Where was it shot? Brooklyn?” “No, actually it was shot in Manhattan.” “I didn’t know you could shoot a film in Manhattan anymore! Where in Manhattan?” “A lot of it was shot around 20th St.” “Was it fun working on it?” “Yes, it was. My friend and I had just been in a play together, so it was nice to act together again.” “What play?” “’Waiting for Godot.’” “I know that play!”
Then it was time for me to go to the toilet, and our interview ended.
During the question-and-answer session, the director, Onur Tukel, mentioned that he saw that production of “Waiting for Godot,” and decided to hire the two actors. And suddenly I saw how Beckett’s play permeates the conversations between Naidu and Paul Sparks in the film.
The Company of Thieves is a farce, or maybe a satire, and on some level of serious parable of corporate anomie, crime, Asian massage, and the dangers of AI.
The Plea is a courtroom drama, or more precisely a juryroom drama, shot in black-and-white and filmed in Saugerties. A dozen Americans come together—plus a sign language interpreter, because one juror is deaf—to decide a critical question: whether an embryo is a human life. A man named Clifford Robertson unintentionally knocked over a tray of human embryos, while working for a fertility clinic. Is the guilty of manslaughter?
The characters are various: one is a movie star, one is a psychoanalyst, one is a writer (and also a trans woman), one is a bitter retiree, one is an idealistic youth, one is a committed Christian. How can they agree on this issue, which could affect abortion rights for decades (and how can any of us, in our fractured nation, agree on anything)?
I just read a review of the film by McAuley Tucker, and discovered that a lot of of the actors are well-known from TV. But I don’t watch much TV, and even Dennis Boutsikaris, whom I must’ve seen on “Better Call Saul,” did not look familiar. In fact, both of the directors, who spoke after the screening—Zach LeBeau and Dean Imperial—were in the movie, and I didn’t recognize them!
Should I mention that I have been on two juries, both in civil court, and that I tried to sway both of them like Henry Fonda did in 12 Angry Men (and failed)? Maybe that’s why I was so riveted by The Plea.
As I took the bus to Brooklyn for my poetry reading, I met another refugee from Woodstock, Brian Newman. He’s a distribution consultant for a firm called Sub-Genre; we talked about the festival.
“I think it’s become more important over time,“ I ventured.
“Yes, during the pandemic, because they’re late in the year, they were open when a lot of the other festivals were closed—Sundance, for example. Also, this festival is at the beginning of Oscar season, and a lot of Oscar voters have houses upstate, so they come to see the films. That helps.”
I’ve been to every one of the 27 Woodstock Film Festivals, and I thought it was improving, but it’s nice to know it’s not my imagination.
My favorite part of the weekend is always watching women and men with enviable wardrobes strolling around Woodstock looking for a good bagel. Standing among all the actresses, actors, gaffers, directors, I feel like I’m in a film myself.
