Well once again the BOSNIAN WITCH DOCTOR has filed a spectacularly excellent report from abroad. From his Bosnian hut stretches a 8000 mile bit of phone cord and electrical cord plugged into my house so that he can deliver these reports. His hovel is lit solely by his ancient Commodore SuperPet with beefed up processors and ram abilities, but still contains it's... tape drive for backup abilities. He chants for 3 hours before turning it on... An ancient Bosnian good luck bit I suppose. But all that aside, he's got some truly great stuff here as he talks about a whole gaggle of films I'm dying to see. So... let's get on with it folks!

Hi, everyone.

I am Jack's sense of pride in foreign-language ability.

It was tremendously gratifying to read the talk-backs to the first part of my Venice report. So, thanks. There are just a few points regarding FIGHT CLUB I'd like to clarify before I go on with the 'merely' cool films from the Mostra. Feel free to ignore them and skip to the juicy bits.

a) According to the press kit, the film is 135' long, but since the end credits were not attached to it at the time, it could be even longer. (It did feature a gorgeous Pixies song over the last, great shot, and the blank leader that followed, entitled 'Where Is My Mind?', from their 1988 album 'Surfer Rosa'.)

b) Jeff Cronenweth does NOT use or abuse green fluorescents. Nobody does, ever since they invented Kino-Flos. Also, I would like to apologize to the great Alex Thomson, BSC (EXCALIBUR), for not including him in the (short) list of Fincher's cinematographers whom Cronenweth has surpassed… And appropriately so, since Jeff's father, the late, brilliant Jordan Cronenweth (BLADE RUNNER), was originally scheduled to shoot Alien3. (Know your DP stuff.)

c) I have seen RUN LOLA RUN at last year's Venice, and even went to their party at the Lido - one of the very few times anyone actually threw a party there. And they were partying to the soundtrack. (Yes, Tom and Franka say hi, everyone.) But what The Dust Brothers did for FIGHT CLUB can in no way be compared to it. Young Germans have this thing for techno music, you see: and even though Tykwer used it smartly and effectively in LOLA (and his previous film, WINTERSCHLAFER), it still is techno music - a very appropriate beat to run to, but not something you can develop in a gamut of dramatic ways. The Dust Brothers don't just put samples over a beat: what I'm talking about here is a completely new way to score movies with the same degree of complexity symphonic scores have had, from Steiner to Goldenthal. (Know your score stuff.)

d) Having been to two armies and one war before I turned 22, all I can say about violence is that I never had the nerve to punch another person, period.

OK, onto the fun stuff:

COOL FILMS AT THE 56th VENICE FILM FESTIVAL, or, as Bob put it, WE'RE STILL MEN

BEING JOHN MALKOVICH

This is one of the films that has been generating a very intriguing buzz for a while now, and it's a crying shame it was shown at the very beginning of the festival, when the program was crowded, so I didn't get to talk to actors and its indomitable director, Spike Jonze, at the press conference. Still, art usually speaks for itself - although BJM seems to be suffering from glossolalia at times, and speaks in tongues that really do not belong in the Hollywood we all love and cherish.

God bless it for that.

The level of joyous derangement screenwriter Charlie Kaufman brings to this tale? metaphor? practical joke? is at first overwhelming: the characters and actions described in the first half hour of the film just scream and shout out loud their difference from Screenwriting 101, which is enough to get anyone to salivate. You have honestly never seen the likes of John Cusack, Cameron Diaz or John Horatio Malkovich play with their personas (screen, or just-about-real, as in the case of my fellow Croat) to this extent. The whole thing starts out with the zest and punch of the good old television days of Monty Python, but then it just about closes the valve on surrealism (with the exception of one very singular scene featuring, well, Malkovich) and decides to follow through on its premises, with an emphasis on character development.

Was this necessary? I am inclined to think so: the film does keep coming up with amusing and often humorous scenes to the very end, in any case. But the people that populate it just about cease to be caricatures, and become people you actually do care about. Thus they deserve the ends they meet. Oh yes, I'm certain that there will also be those who will get angered by the film, mainly because of the way it circumvents the issues of a lesbian relationship for most of its duration - but then, there is hardly a way to interpret BJM as not being allegorical, and in that sense, it hits the nail on the head on most of the issues it raises - celebrity vs. anonimity, living in expected vs. living in unexpected ways, and even that Social Studies staple, GENDER IDENTITY. (Ta-dah!)

So there we have the aforementioned Themes #1 and #2. (Married life? Well, Cusack's and Diaz's characters are married here, at the beginning.) Again, Jonze's direction gives the film just enough seriousness to effectively deny its reviewers the right to dismiss BJM as a farce: his crew, culled for the most part from his music video days, admirably supports his narative efforts. You don't see the camera shaking or shots being presented in any unorthodox editing way here: having such a blissfuly demented story on his hands, Jonze tells it in a very cohesive manner. His only new major collaborator here, composer Carter Burwell, enriches this approach with a subtle, well-thought-out score.

Let me just mention one more thing: I felt very nervous about Catherine Keener playing a vamp here, mainly because her performance in 8MM made me wonder if she had any sense of humor. (And I had not obviously seen a whole lot of Tom DiCillo movies.) But she was spot-on great here, displaying charisma enough to make anyone fall in love with her, not just… a-a-a-a, no spoilers here!

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

I knew practically nothing about this before the Festival (underinformed pagan me), other than the fact that it was done by Stephan Elliott, the weirdo who gave Terrence Stamp in drag to the posterity. But the first shot made me sit up and take notice: what's that gun with multiple barrels doing in Ewan McGregor's hands? And next, a closeup of his eye - with the words, OF THE BEHOLDER, appearing beneath it. Well, well, ah sez to maself, this Aussie bloke sure doesn't take us for granted.

As indeed he doesn't. This is actually a dark thriller, and a road movie, dealing with obsession and yearning, loss and isolation. There are some guns and knives (& a little blood'n'guts) here, but the real weapons of these people who fight to stay alone and unattached - "so sad, yet safe in their afflictions," as Siouxsie once put it - are costumes and electronics, masks of an age past and an age to come. Elliott utilizes them wisely, never getting his gadgets come before his characters, who display Theme #2 abundantly, Theme #1 in a completely unfulfilled manner, and Theme #3 only in the intense privacy of their temporary nests.

Ashley Judd is the one who actually gives the real strength to the proceedings here: always different, yet always the same, her performance in EOTB gives the ring of reality to what might have easily just been a very artificial thriller. Yes, she's better here than in any other film I've seen her in. (The real treat, however, was seeing her in person: that was one press conference I was not going to omit. Let me be the first to fall under the spell of a gorgeous woman.) Ewan McGregor is, well, good: I have yet to see him in a film in which he can mesmerize me completely, but I always prefer to see him as a dignified loser as opposed to an out-and-out star (read: as an unholy amalgam of Iggy Pop & Lou Reed in the severely misjudged VELVET GOLDMINE). Actually, his relationship with his daughter is the most poignant, yet creepy, invocation of fatherhood I've seen in a long time - but this is as much due to Ewan as to Elliott.

Stephen Elliott was always talented, but, as the saying goes, an Aussie or a Kiwi has to leave the spell of the Southern Cross to start behaving seriously. And serious here he is: this is a tight, suspenseful film, packaged beautifully by its Canadian crew (see, those Canadians are full of surprises: they were the toughest fighters in the UN Bosnian peacekeeping force, a few years back). But you wouldn't know it if you talked to Elliott in person - he keeps yapping about how he improvised a lot during the shooting and how everything was done very casually, to the point where he got serious headaches in editing. Don't believe him too much: if what he says is true, that EOTB must have had a helluva guardian angel, because that camera of his always seems to know what it's doing.

At the conference, Elliott also tried to get the Italians to help him make his dream project: a heretofore lost script by Maestro Federico Fellini, dated 1962, in which Fellini fantasized about his death. More power to Stephan, I say. The script is in good hands, that's for sure, and I'll be the first in line for a ticket. Sadly, the rights seem to be embroiled in the neverending struggle over Fellini's estate, and I don't know if any of the Italian producers at the Festival were any help. Most of production wheelings and dealings have relocated from Venice to Toronto, anyway.

HOLY SMOKE

This is a prime example of a Kiwi behaving oh-so-seriously up north (as in PORTRAIT OF A LADY) but then going cheerfully gaga as soon as she gets back to her natural hemisphere. I'm talking about Jane Campion, of course, and her latest collaboration with Harvey Keitel, in which, miraculously, he did not feel compelled to exhibit his penis, but is otherwise behaving in a host of bizarre ways.

The organ-show this time belongs to Kate Winslet, who will be accused by the cynics to have tried to deconstruct her DeWitt-Bukater persona in all extreme ways at her disposal. Sure, she does get naked, sure, she pisses down her leg, sure (hell!), she doesn't shave, but then, as Harvey would say, all those things come with the role. And those sure are some juicy roles for ambitious thespians: Winslet and Keitel get to devote themselves copiously to the issues including: God, Gurus, Gender, and being Grotesque. The path to enlightenment, HOLY SMOKE suggests, is never straight. You can't just go to a holy place or to a holy man and - hey, presto - become one with God. Although this way of thinking does seem to be prevalent in every corner of the globe, from the Bible Belt to the incredibly self-righteous Balkans, to, as displayed here, Australia.

Jane Campion - and her screenwriting sister, Anna - are making the most of their anthropological roots here: those searching for divinity, however infantile and ridiculous their actions and behaviors may seem, will in the end be granted an epiphany, if not from above, then from within. Even their opposites, the incredibly kitchy Aussies onto whom falls the brunt of Themes #1 and #3 here, will not be excessively ridiculed by the Campions - perhaps because of the way in which the C sisters love all their characters, even the most laughable ones, or perhaps because of the way any anthropological study of a tribe (even a two-member tribe) is not complete without comparison with another relevant tribe.

This seems to be the main stumbling block of the narrative here: while Campion displays considerable skill in setting up the initial issues and developments in mere minutes at the beginning, her close observation of the increasingly complex interactions slows down the film considerably towards the end. Since this is a story in which people start out with diametrically opposing agendas and have to redefine them on their own terms, Jane Campion probably should not have chosen a safer route, but it does amount to increasingly demanding viewing.

Good thing, here, that the religion in question here is Indian in origin: I have a tremendous (albeit healthy) respect for India, and even though that country is not immune to religious zeal - far from it - I have a feeling that Indians will respond to the issues ivolved here much more constructively than would any number of Christian pundits if this film chose to base its initial premise on Christianity.

Oh, yes: Jane Campion does use visual effects here! Also as narrative, metaphorical devices, but sparingly, and humorously.

>SWEET AND LOWDOWN

I've been running around this whole day, so I'd better finish this up. Boring old black magic, yawwnnn… Anyway, a Woody Allen movie has been standing synonimous to easy viewing lately, and this one is no exception. Woody the Director really seems to not care anymore: his camera is there to cover the action in the most efficient manner possible - zooming, panning, whatever. If the first part of one take and the second part of another take are good, Woody will not try to get a third take with both parts right - no, he'll splice a few frames of an irrelevant shot in the middle, and happily get the best out of the existing footage. OK, the man has other preoccupations and is increasingly productive lately, plus, I'm really fond of literally all his films, so I'll just pretend that's how it was meant to look in the first place.

What really contrasts S&L from recent Allen Fall Projects is that it is not a movie about Allen confronting Gangsters, Murders, Relationships, Creativity or Celebrity (I hope I got the order right): rather, it is a biopic. And not Woody's, either! It deals with one Emmet Ray, a "little known jazz guitarist who flourished briefly in the 1930's," as the spare press kit says. Exactly: narrated in documentary fashion by Allen himself, plus Douglas McGrath and a host of other jazz aficionados, the story of Ray - an ebullient Sean Penn here - is exactly as long as the memory of him extends: which is to say, not very long.

So, narrating and being narrated at the same time, S&L achieves a very charming combination of fact and fiction: you are never more than once removed from the feeling that these guys are telling a story of a guy they didn't exactly know, but have heard enough about him first- and second-hand that they actually feel like they knew him: and the little that is known of Emmet Ray makes for a refreshing, jokey, and yet surprisingly tender story.

Allen has found, finally, a subject that is as dear to him as his own self, which is, of course, jazz - so even the requisite jazz soundtrack doesn't feel out of place for once. The sound in the film is - yowza - a glorious mono, and the cinematography by Zhang Yimou's once-regular collaborator, Zhao Fei, almost makes up in lighting and subtlety (and vivid color) what the person calling the shots lacked in elan. I just wonder what it must have looked like on the set, what with Woody having a Chinese DP who doesn't speak a word of English…

I am Jack's complete mental exhaustion.

That's about it for tonight. Next, I plan to give you the rundown on some titles also seen at Toronto, like LES AMANTS CRIMINELLES or THE CIDER HOUSE RULES, also reviewed here recently, plus the awarded Chinese films and a quintet of must-see American independents - BUDDY BOY, GETTING TO KNOW YOU, JESUS' SON, JULIEN DONKEY-BOY and A TEXAS FUNERAL - but right now, I'm in serious need of ether transfusion (no, not the one you buy in stores, I'm talking about higher ethers… whatever), so I'll sign off right here and now.

I am Jill's penis.

The Bosnian Witch Dr.