 Storytelling (2001) Solondz is a phenomenal writer with a boldness that more filmmakers should acquire, but wading through the tedium of Storytelling I more than ever found myself wishing he would just play nice for once. Everything and everyone doesn't suck, you know? The first piece is the more memorable, as it kicks off with Selma Blair fucking her cerebral-palsied boyfriend and spirals downward into her ugly one-night stand with her angry black creative writing teacher. All of this is supposed to prod our sensibilities about racism, feminism, sexuality, discrimination, and artistic creation, but it's so numbingly boring that it's hard to get mad about anything but your time being wasted. Plus, there's no shock value in this kind of shit anymore … you could make a Cool Runnings-esque comedy about AIDS-infected African men fucking babies out of superstition, with the babyfuckers as the heroic protagonists, and it would not ruffle my feathers. Then again, I'm the one who wants to make a biopic about Abraham Lincoln, with Lincoln as the villain. The second part employs the fine Paul Giamatti as a documentary filmmaker trying to find meaning in a clueless teenager, and whose film shapes up as an American Movie-styled mockery of the kid. Here, Solondz takes on the hipster crowd with a surprising viciousness, seeing as it's those ironic twits who are his bread and butter in the first place. No one – the kid, the filmmaker, the movie audience, or the actual audience – escapes Solondz's nastiness here … he's basically saying "Fuck you, and fuck you for liking me saying 'Fuck you,' you fuckwits." And he's right. Storytelling is a dire film, but its audience deserves it.
Review by Hung Downey |