rrichr

If you're partial to the documentary approach to feature films, Dancing at the Blue Iguana is one you'll want to grab, possibly from your video store's for-sale rack or any bargain bin that it has tumbled into. It's interesting work and is considerably more than the soft-core porn for which it might be mistaken. The film was also an experiment on the part of the director Michael Radford, who began his film career as a documentary film maker. To remain true to his school, Mr. Radford allowed the principal actresses to map out their own back stories and interactions, then filmed the results. Many people seem to feel this process failed. I must disagree as I think it worked very well. The slight raggedness that resulted simply made the film more convincing to me. It's a thinking person's adult film. Viewers looking for a straight-up porn hit should pass. This film is more about people who have faced certain facts and settled into lives along the underbelly of Los Angeles. The fact that some of them happen to strip is merely coincidental.

Dancing at the Blue Iguana takes an MRI-like scan of life in an L.A.-area strip club, clinically sectioning the lives of the dancers and staff of the club, as well as providing interesting vantage points on the various types that patronize it. There's an elderly gentleman who watches the dancers from ten feet away through opera glasses, understanding that the devil is truly in the details, a Russian hit man who may be targeting one of the dancers. There's even a young woman regular, apparently in the same age bracket as the dancers. The overall slant is so detached, so transparent, that one comes away from the film feeling as though almost nothing has happened. A number of questions are asked but not really answered, but life is that way at times.

The entire cast turns in solid performances that simultaneously reveal both the surface and hidden aspects of their characters but the story really zeroes in on the various dancers, all of whom are portrayed with great conviction by several very fine actresses who have really taken the plunge into their roles; Daryl Hannah's wasted, self-deluding Angel and Jennifer Tilly's freaked and superfreaky Jo to mention just two off the top. There are more. But the real depth resides in Canadian actress Sandra Oh's Jasmine whose character, away from the pole, is a gifted poet in deep mourning for the dead end which her life, due to a lack of faith in her gift, is approaching. When Jasmine is finally persuaded to read at a local open-mike event by the owner of the bookstore where the reading takes place, she blows everyone out the door, including the headlining poetess who is touring behind her newly-published collection. But Jasmine can't be happy because her triumph is simply more proof of her, apparently, terminal weakness and lack of belief in herself, as well as the hate of what that lack has made her. It's a heart-rending performance. (You can catch a glimpse of this little-known actress in the beautifully-done Canadian production, The Red Violin, as the wealthy Asian lady who, with her husband, bids on the instrument near the film's climax.)

Dancing at the Blue Iguana also contains what may be the shortest 75-second sequence ever filmed in which Kristin Bauer's Nico, a touring professional stripper and porn star, whose anticipated guest performance comprises one the film's wispy back stories, takes the stage. The regular dancers all tend to mime various stages of sexual involvement as part of their individual routines; no such nonsense for Nico. When she confronts the hooting, cash-brandishing, SRO crowd, she operates behind a calm, Apsara smile that might have floated off a wall frieze at Angkor Wat. Nico is obviously the girl who really does this stuff for a living. If you were a fan of the great 80's group, Echo and the Bunnymen, as I was, you'll never hear their hit, 'Lips Like Sugar' quite the same way after Nico works with it. Hard to believe that Ms. Bauer is the same lady who played Jerry Seinfeld's entirely mainstream girl du jour in the 'Man Hands' episode, but it is. Her opening at the Blue Iguana is also set up by one of the most unexpected scene-to-scene jumps that I've ever witnessed. Nico's tough as nails but later, in a touching scene with Jasmine, the girl behind the woman comes out. If you find a VHS copy of this very engrossing movie, (It's probably available as a DVD.) you may want to have it duplicated to provide a backup when you finally wear out the tape under Nico's scene.

Fahrenheit 9/11 is a big, cinematic sour cream pie in the face of George W. Bush, his crew; a group that hijacked patriotism in the same way that the Taliban hijacked Islam, as well as the social sector he represents. Yeah, it's manipulative, and sometimes blatant. The sequence showing a kid flying his kite just before the bombs started falling made me wince a little. But Moore would probably say he's merely fighting fire with fire, pie with pie. The kite kid may have been having fun but the ground on which he ran was just a thin crust over an abyss of summary amputations, hydrochloric acid immersions, midnight disappearances, and very hard time in Abu Ghraib. This was Saddam's Iraq, remember; the nearest thing we had on Earth to the Klingon Empire. It's also periodically hilarious (Witness the incredulous Congressman when Moore asks him to consider sending his own kids into the service and to Iraq.) For viewers on the left, Fahrenheit 9/11 will certainly re-fan any waning flames of activism. It will make those on the right gnash teeth and cry foul. But for those not sure what to think it may supply a quite weather-resistant something to think about.

Despite its upside yo' head approach, Fahrenheit 9/11 actually let George Bush off more easily than it might have; certainly his cast of supporting characters: the comb-licking Paul Wolfowitz, the chilling and hypocritical Dick Cheney (5 Vietnam-related draft deferments yet an avowed war hawk), the simply strange Condoleezza Rice, and our own Othello, Colin Powell, to mention a few. There is more that the film could have said, as well as a few things that could have been said better; possibly an even closer look at the murky relationships that underpin the Bush family, especially its CIA connections. Let's not forget that one of the Agency's known modus operandi is the manipulation of elections, although historically in foreign countries… historically. Remember also that the CIA's mission is only tangentially to protect us here. Its real prime directive is optimizing conditions for American interests abroad, especially business interests. At least some reference to the repercussions of a post-Saddam power vacuum would have been good in this film's context, perhaps addressing the deluge of Iranian and Saudi cash in support of Iraqi Shiite and Sunni factions respectively. It only hints at the absolutely stunning lack of foresight on the part of the Bush Administration that has us and our stalwart service people up to our waists in the mire, regardless of how righteous the initial motives for invasion may have seemed. Too much was probably made by Moore of the Bin Laden family's hasty post-9/11 exit from the country, as these people were almost certainly innocent of any wrongdoing. Sure, they were tight with the Bushes, but that's not yet a crime. Too little was said about the administration's thinly-veiled, near-unprecedented arrogance toward the, albeit, lily-livered legislative branch of the government, on which our current unilateralism is founded. But, all considered, the film's main point has been made, or at least implied.

For many Hindus, everything is Karma; a word that translates most simply as Action, or possibly both action and its result. Nonaction is also a form of karma, because it too can generate results. That the Bush Administration is even possible reflects the karma of the sort of stall-inducing aerodynamic drag that results when a culture becomes, perhaps, too civilized; too complex, too disembodied, too abstracted by its own weight and momentum; a construct into which enormous quantities of energy must be channeled merely to hold it all together. Fahrenheit 9/11 is the Bush Administration's karma, the result of underestimating the intelligence of the majority of Americans and over-estimating its own charisma, as well as that of the presidential office. We're reminded that the real power in America tends to run at periscope depth, but under the cool Bush sparkle it has broken the surface, like a modern nuclear sub; conning tower out, most of the hull still submerged.

If the events surrounding the 2000 presidential election returns from Florida had transpired in France, much of the country's population would probably have been in the streets. In fact, they still might be there today. The French tend to be quite realistic about some things, such as sex, politics, and, of course, international relations; one of the main reasons Paris was not shelled into rubble by Hitler. But they do know how to be really p***ed off when that is called for; something we're still learning. The fact that, in a culture as politically demure as ours, Bush's inaugural motorcade was egged implies that America has not yet completely lost its cojones. The parallel fact that many media pundits denounced Fahrenheit 9/11 before it was ever screened should be reason enough for almost anyone to see it, aside from the fact that nothing like this film has ever been made for major release. It is something of a milestone. There's an old saying that has numerous variants: 'When among the wolves, howl.' In that light, Michael Moore, the current alpha coyote of the Left of Center pack, definitely be howlin'. That a film like this can be made and seen is a testament to how cool, and hot, America still is. Word is that an anti-Michael Moore film is slated for release. I'm sure Moore would say, 'Bring it on.'

I'll almost always have something better to do than watch a prime time soap. But I gave North Shore a shot because I wanted to spot locations. My rationale: if I can't currently be in the islands, in my opinion that only place on Earth where a sane person could want to be, I could maybe catch glimpses of some of the places I've been. Oahu is certainly nice enough but boasts only a few areas that would be sufficiently tropical and frameworthy for filming. Sure enough, I did recognize some of them. However, despite the fact that I'm not remotely in the series' target demographic, I'm still sort of watching.

Apparently North Shore is a solid go for season one and will probably get the green for a second season. However, I suspect that the show will run out of believable story ideas before season three, if it lives that long, and be forced to start recycling. There are only so many ways to shuffle the show's sun-splashed but limited deck, just a finite number of credible high-end guests to run past the Grand Waimea Hotel's front desk, and a limited number of romantic permutations. The length of time that contrivance can be disguised by complexity is also finite. The recent episode involving the Vice President's spirited daughter already stressed the believability envelope just a tad. (However, it did give Kristoffer Polaha the opportunity to deliver some beautiful Stink Eye to a thuggish Secret Service agent who tried to coerce him into helping cover up the visiting Veep's intimate indiscretions.)

Although North Shore's characters are somewhat formulaic, they're not entirely without appeal and all handle their chores more than adequately. Kristoffer Polaha's Jason Matthews, the hotel's General Manager, transmits a lot of believable humanity. Jason is respected and liked, qualities that are not often found together in the high-end workplace. The Jason character is very comfortable in his own skin and easy to root for. Brooke Burns, who plays the Grand Waimea's 'Guest Relations' Manager and Jason's former flame, Nicole Booth, has been dinged for her lack of range, but as the emotionally-planed corporate princess, who has been groomed from birth to excel for Daddy, she's just fine in the role. I completely bought her anguish when, in a recent episode she walked in on Jason while he was working it out with Tessa. Nicole had just left her fiancé at the altar to reconnect with Jason. In fact, the sequence made me wince; soapy but so nasty… Corey Sevier's Gabriel Miller, a talented surfer, who longs to turn pro while struggling to outgrow his adolescent goofiness, also works well. Anyone who feels that he or she has a gift but cannot quite find the way to get it across, to make it work, will relate to Gabriel. He's hormonal but still too much of a waterman to forget to tie down a borrowed jet ski, which subsequently rolls off its trailer and lands him in one-finger poi with a local bad boy from whom he borrowed the machine. But it seems that every script contains at least one moment when credibility must go on stand-by. The hotel's concierge from the dark side, Tessa, played with edge by Amanda Righetti, is a girl who could make a guy seriously consider giving up women, perhaps appropriate as Tessa has pretty much given up on men, although she's still up for making a meal of one now and then. It'll be Tessa vs. Nicole in upcoming episodes. I think I know who'll win but the war should be amusing. I've always liked James Remar, who built a career playing borderline personalities. His hotel owner, Vincent Colville, is an interesting against-type play. Colville gives the impression that he already knows everything that will happen and that the Grand Waimea, although dear to his heart, is also just a stepping stone. Still, he's the sort of boss almost anyone would like to have; tough, smart, but always fair.

The thing is, Hawaii is actually a far more interesting place than the environs of the Grand Waimea, and on several levels. But one has to be willing, and sufficiently patient, to see beneath the obvious surface to get at what I'm talking about. Young local (although not necessarily Hawaiian) men with bad attitudes are certainly a part of island life and have always been, right from Captain Cook on, but there's more. Unfortunately, North Shore, whose target audience will, presumably, begin to nod off just past tan lines, will probably not permit the series to mine the real mana and remain happily fixated on who's screwing whom, literally and figuratively. If you were in the islands on 9/11, as I was, sitting beneath the sheltering trees on 'Anini Beach, you may know what I mean. The islands are another place, out of time, almost not of this earth. Viewing televised coverage of the attack on the Towers from there, it seemed that an act of such stunning and precise brutality was simply impossible; the baddest of bad dreams. Against this essential, ancient, fleeting, and fading quality, even the Grand Waimea, ostensibly a perfect hotel in a perfect place, feels a bit like the Pentagon.