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Horrible Bosses: Margin Call

By Adam Nayman

The Occupy Wall Street protestors who assault the hapless Kenneth Park ( Bobby Lee ) near the beginning of A Very Harold and Kumar 3-D Christmas are a sight gag: an excuse to restage James Caan’s tollbooth execution in The Godfather (1972) with hucked eggs in lieu of bullets. “They’ve lost their jobs…you’d be angry too” explains Harold (John Cho) moments before the yolky outburst in an attempt to mollify his friend, who thinks they’re all dirty, bearded psychos. The line can also be turned around as a sympathetic nod to the proud stoner franchise’s predominantly college-age audience, many of whom would happily self-identify with that demographic. Stilted and slack where the original was supple and spontaneous (though still an improvement over the confused first sequel), H&K 3 is interesting primarily for the way it negotiates Harold’s hard-fought arrival amongst the proverbial 1%. It frames his newfound wealth and privilege—a high-paying job, a massive house, a lavish Yuletide spread—as the end result of giving up his adolescent preoccupations; and it’s telling that by the end of the film, the defiantly juvenile Kumar (Kal Penn) has been similarly convinced of the benefits of “maturity.” That the filmmakers still permit the heroic duo a final clandestine puff is more of a sop than a statement of purpose.

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TIFF Day 7: Century of Birthing / Dark Horse / The Invader / You’re Next

Century of Birthing (Lav Diaz, The Philippines)—Visions

By Christoph Huber

If you want the entire experience of the 68th Venice Film Festival bottled up into one grand (almost) six-hour marathon, surely there’s no better way than Lav Diaz’s Orizzonti sidebar closer, which was—as always seems to be the case with Venice screenings of the Filiipono director’s epics—screened on the penultimate night to glazed if welcoming eyes and already deformed bodies, only to emerge as the magisterial fusion of  key strands of the festival: religion and faith (cf. films by Karmakar, Olmi, Ferrara and others), theatricality (Sokurov, Cronenberg, Polanski . . .), the attempt to overcome alienation (Lanthimos, Sono, German jr. etc.) and, not least, the role cinema plays—or should play—in all this (Naderi). (Only closeups of genitalia are conspicuously absent, if strongly implied.) Alternating stretches convey the stories of of a Chistian cult (led by Diaz axiom Joel Torre, sporting amazing wigwork) and its disintegration after the arrival of a photographer and of a (in many ways quite autobiographically conceived) filmmaker, who questions his work and his outlook in general as he struggles with an unfinished film. (“It’s existentialism,” he says in one of the many discussions with his lead actress, “It has no ending.”) Complicating matters are long excerpts from this project, presented in consumer-grade video, as seen on the director’s laptop, in stark contrast to the hi-def black and white of the main strands, which manages to evoke long past celluloid glories in its radiance. As usual, Diaz alternates long scenes of high intensity with generous, observant takes, producing a rich tapestry in which the main themes forcefully emerge as their poetic rhymes on different levels get more pronounced, while taking time to explore his subjects and their society with unusual complexity. Also, the cult’s hymn surely is the catchiest anthem around on the festival circuit.

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