A friend of mine gave me a copy of this film, which must be extremely hard to find (or rather, it's such a small film I don't know how many people would know of it to find it). It's a kind of free-form documentary on the life and career of an indie filmmaker (Fred G. Sullivan, a unique person and artist any way you look at it), who has a wife and four kids, living in the Adirondack mountains in New York. Fellow friends and colleagues comment on Fred G's childhood, teenage years, army term of service, and his subsequent foray into feature filmmaking with the first film ever made in the Adirondack's, Cold River (a flop, as the film points out). Meanwhile, Fred tries to sort out what his kids think of him, his wife Polly, a filmmaking career that halted for him, and all the images that fly through his head, including a bear, a woman in a lake, and an obnoxious film critic.
When I asked my friend what this film was all about (as it said on the cover it was a 'Great Family Comedy Movie'), he said he could hardly say it in words. I could see what he meant - what Sullivan has put together is something of what could be comparable to the kind of filmmaking Godard did around this time. It's almost like celluloid masturbation. However, unlike some of Godard's philosophical tirades, Beer Drinker's Guide brought me in with it's unique outlook. Sullivan's life and family are both normal and a bit odd, and they're never boring. On top of this, Sullivan displays a wonderful craftsmanship, with editing that kept my senses on constant alert and surprise. And the narration seemed to have that commentary edge you rarely see in movies. In a way it's inspiring for a film buff such as myself (I loved the little inserts of the B sci-fi movie, and his trip to the proctologist), although for a few moments I thought the film might lose it's sense of direction. Bottom line, it is the kind of film that could work for kids to watch, or maybe not. It's like a slideshow that's put on proud display for all to see in a field or a park or something.
