James-184

Vogue's movie critic summed up a cinematic subtext of certain distinctive films (Donnie Darko, Mulholland Drive, Memento) in this way: "the theme of the year would be 'What the hell happened? Did you get what happened? Here's my theory about what happened.'" While The Attic Expeditions doesn't rise to the level of Donnie Darko and other outstanding films, it masterfully falls into the category of the terminal head-scratcher, the cinematic uber-question mark you stay up all night debating with friends in a diner--an acquired taste to be sure, but subtly great all the same.

I reported to a friend on this film as it transpired, and my initial remarks were wholly negative: the acting reeked, especially in the case of the lead; the continuity errors were gross and blatant (a multi-year coma patient wakes up and hops out of bed with no muscular degeneration and atrophy); scenarios seemed cheesy beyond belief; there seemed an almost allergic aversion to transitions and audience hand-holding; etc.

But as the film rolled on, I began to notice amazing detail in the filmwork. If the director took the trouble to make sure to show nicotine stains on the wall when a painting is taken down, how could he have overlooked those earlier continuity errors? Selective attention to detail, or the mark of careful intention? Even the lead's atrocious acting made less and less sense as a conclusion: Is this fellow truly awful, or is he supposed to be awful, given the thorough-going malleability of the picture?

Quite simply, this movie wraps without surrendering a thing. Has it been the story of a comatose man's fevered nightmares? A tale of demonic magic twisting reality? A Truman Show-ish conspiracy yarn concocted by a sick therapist puppetmaster? A bad trip? The delusions of a madman? Pick your theory or any mix of the above: they can all be defended. The campy, awkward performances can feed any of these hypotheses: either this cast is singularly lame (and it's hard to believe this across the board for all the players), or they are actively trying to achieve something with all the affectedness. Watch the acting: it has chops in spots, suggesting either that the cast is inconsistent or that somebody's actually in control.

Some open-ended films are obviously intentional: Jacob's Ladder. Some appear intentional thanks to the skill of the filmmaker but really suggest the director has been overcome by the complexity of the film to the extent that a lesson or moral is no longer within reach: many Spike Lee joints. Some intend to mess with the viewer's mind, but cop out and opt for "The Answer" in the final frames: The Game, various con-game flicks.

What makes The Attic Expeditions so memorable is the question of intention. Is this film an accidental head trip born of inexperience and ineptitide on the part of all involved? Did the filmmakers trip into this "trip"? Or is its cheese and corn planned out and consciously chosen? Vanilla Sky's and Minority Report's high production values force us to see these films as premeditated mind-benders; The Attic Expedition's low production values and general oddness can lead us to conclude that its final, proliferating question marks are the result of kitchen-sink cooking. But then again, maybe the film practices what it "preaches"--unreliability and uncertainty at every level, including method. In theory, only a low-budget, small-name picture could pull off this ultimate level of uncertainty.

Personally, I hope to never learn whether or not Expeditions was simply a shoestring slip-and-fall into surrealism and debatability. I prefer to wonder whether this film's insanity was the result of an idiot savant or a savant. That final interpretive uncertainty is the real icing on the cake: if you want to make a mind-game movie, the ultimate mind game is whether the film itself stumbles into this effect or steers for it from the opening credits. Slicker, bigger budget head-trips are too afraid of this level of meta-uncertainty: Minority Report wraps things up comfortably for us in the end; Vanilla Sky and The Game do the same. We hang suspending and wondering all the way through, but find ourselves rescued and anchored to an interesting but more-or-less undebatable reality by the end. Expeditions either rejects or is incapable of this final anchoring, and I revel in not knowing which conclusion is warranted.

I've always liked Kevin Smith movies. Liked, not loved. My favorites are Mallrats (in the category of pure but better-honed fun and silliness) and Chasing Amy (in the category of "The sort of films Kevin Smith would make if he were grown up"). Clerks is good as a first film, but too much a first film. Dogma would have been better as a Chris Rock standup routine, which it basically was, but Smith billed it as a movie, so he had to stick in a bunch of scenes and characters and so on to pull off the con.

To say goodbye to all the characters in the Askewinverse, especially Jay and Bob, in one goofy film, is perfectly kosher with me. And given the main/title characters, we shouldn't expect anything with gravitas. And the movie is funny. It's just not as funny when this material was fresh.

Should we really be surprised? The film feels like the homage that it is, and a self-absorbed homage (both because Jay and Bob are self-absorbed, but because Smith himself seems to have been driven to adopt the same persona--maybe indicating his reason for ending the Jersey Chronicles). Jay and Bob go to Hollywood to stop their movie NOT because they weren't given a cut of the proceeds, but because they are incensed by the internet chatroom and BBS posters making fun of...Jay and Bob. That's wholly in character for our dynamic duo (to care more about the opinions of pimply nobodies on the WWW than about their foregone riches), but as a plot device, it seems as much about Smith's own frustration toward the 'net's movie reviewers as it is a plausible course for Jay and Bob.

The inside jokes referencing Smith cast members and their careers are the funniest elements, meaning that the movie can't be as successful if you haven't spent significant time in the Askewniverse. The cameos only reiterate the feeling of self-absorption--Smith has enlisted all his old pals in this masturbatory fantasy. Masturbation is all good and well, but it supports a finite number of jokes, and it's really not long sustainable as a spectator sport. Smith's movies start with Clerks (a movie he got to make), then to Mallrats (a movie he made right for the genre), then to Amy (a movie of quality that stands on its own), and then to Dogma and J&SBSB (movies he made just because he could). Gratuitous.

Smith seems to have rejected the idea that his filmmaking should grow and opted instead to seal it off in a time-capsule. Certainly that's his prerogative--I understand that he doesn't conceive of himself as a filmmaker, at least not simply as a filmmaker--but he showed enough talent with words and ideas that it would have been nice to see where he ended up.

I can't fathom it.

I don't like either lead actor. The effects are cheesy and below "The A Team." The film doesn't paint in broad strokes; its message is slopped on with push brooms.

But doggone, I get a kick out of this thing everytime it airs.

Maybe it's the handful of stars and almost stars and the games of "Holy Cow! That's where they were then." Marshall Bell, Pamela Gidley, Griffith herself.

Maybe it's the camp, as if the producers knew that a Bruckheimeran picture was beyond them, so they reveled in their low budget and milked everything to the point that teenage boys (my age when I first saw it) can't quite be sure if this is straight or tongue-in-cheek. (The Self-Actualized Nazis of Zone 7, with their proto-New Age totalitarianism are a hoot. Give them more lines!)

It defies explanation, and I suppose it's the mystery that keeps me tuning in.