“No good fish goes anywhere without a porpoise.” –Lewis Carroll
I’m currently at the Bayshore Mall, writing from the Alterra, while the delightful His & Hers director, Ken Wardrop, shirt shops. I think I’m crashing. I ate a real meal at lunchtime, and my body seems unprepared. Caffeine is no longer working, and I have a big night ahead of me! I know you don’t want to hear me whine about the tireds, though, so I’ll get to the good stuff: my last TWO days!!!
What was two days ago, anyway? Wednesday. Wednesday was supposed to be a four-movie day, but I made it a healthier two-movie day. I started with His & Hers in Mequon. I loved it. I laughed. I cried. I longed for a movie afternoon with bff Ruth Wollersheim, who would appreciate the gentle genius of these vignettes. The documentary is, essentially, short interviews with 70 charming women and girls about their relationships with men in various life stages. It’s enchanting.
Afterward, I drove to the Oriental at a leisurely pace for the first time all week! Adrian was stationed at the Mke Film photo wall with his “Be a faux-lebrity!” sign looking like a pathetic homeless person asking for spare photo ops. (Clarification: homeless people are not pathetic. Adrian is.) I tried to help him gather people, but he was like, “Looking pitiful is my shtick!” Mark Conner stood by (holding the half-cupcake I’d brought Adrian) while I roped Mike Krieger into a photo. Mark and I and cupcake may have jumped in for one, too.
We were there to see Marwencol, another fabulous documentary, and we sort of badgered Krieger into letting us sit with him. (He’d put his own photo in his festival badge—an idea I copied the next morning. Now Greta Garbo sits in my “open” seat.) Marwencol is the story of artist Mark Hogancamp who, some years ago, was brutally beaten and suffered severe head trauma. While healing, he built Marwencol, a 1/6-size WWII-era town where 27 Barbies were left behind after Germans attacked their men. Essentially, Mark exquisitely crafted the dolls after people he knew, built elaborate sets, staged detailed stories, and masterfully photographed the entire thing. It’s outsider art at its best, and two comments from the film especially stuck with me. In one, a journal editor noted the sincerity of the photos; Mark’s world couldn’t be more earnest. The other comment came from Mark’s best friend, who mentioned that someone at the gallery opening said he wanted to see images of “real” war. There’s no doubt Mark fights a “real” war every day, and Marwencol is a remarkable look at how he’s doing it. This film was one of the best of the fest.
Back in the lobby, I was delighted to see Carl Bogner! If you don’t know Carl, he’s a Milwaukee treasure. He probably would disagree with this assertion, but I feel there were years when Carl single-handedly kept the Milwaukee film scene alive by programming events at UWM, the MAM, and the LGBT Film/Video Festival. No one has the breadth of film knowledge in this town that Carl has. He was calling me “Kernsy.” I’ll take it. Actually, Carl could call me “Asshole,” and I’d still love him. He’s that high on my list.
Carl was there to introduce the William S. Burroughs doc, which was co-sponsored by the LGBT Film Festival. (The LGBT fest runs Oct. 21-24. Its opening night film, Topp Twins: Untouchable Girls, is getting great buzz.) I got called away and noticed Carl talking to Jeff Kurz, another Milwaukee favorite. Then I fantasized about a world in which I get to see these guys more than once every few months. Love.
The following day, Tami Williams and I found Bjorn Nasett volunteering! Miracle of miracles, Bjorn had made those volunteer shirts work!!! (Bjorn dressing well is not the miracle; making those volunteer shirts palatable is!) Blue shirt under, blue and yellow scarf at the neck, jeans that fit like they’re supposed to, and voila! That volunteer shirt looked like a real outfit! Color me impressed!
Tami and I attended my first eye-roller of the festival: the Romanian If I Want to Whistle, I Whistle. It was annoyingly implausible, and I felt frustrated it was playing instead of the superior Ordinary People, a Serbian film about a common soldier forced to spend a day killing defenseless men. It’s a harrowing film, which I imagine would have scared away audiences, but as an Eastern European selection, I feel it was more audience-worthy. Maybe the Union Theater will give it a go.
I’m taking a mental break here to figure out what else happened that day. Did we really hit two parties and Uncle Boonmee? Yes. Yes we did. RDI Stages held a pre-screening party for Feed the Fish, which I still have not seen! I tossed my business card in a fish bowl to promises of grand prizes and proceeded to the bar. I said hello to hostess Janine Sijan Rozina, one of RDI’s co-founders, who could not say enough nice things about Feed the Fish’s producer Alison Abrohams.
Local filmmaker Brendan Jones then grabbed me to tell me a story. He was wearing bright pink! I was wearing bright pink! Together, retinas would burn! He explained his dream of fighting mountain lions while wearing Puma-brand clothing wherein he discovered I had died. Despite his deep remorse, he went on to battle the mountain lions in Puma clothes. Then, he added, “Milwaukee was really sad you died.” Aw, shucks. I figured I should do a little ten-cent dream analysis, since this gem was dropped in my lap and all. Brendan’s dream might suggest an inner struggle between two aspects of himself. (Is he more mountain lion or Puma? A lion in Puma clothing? Is he feline at all, or just dressing the part?) I assume my death announcement via the paper stems from this blog, since I am annoying my friends with constant fb posts suggesting they should care what I have to say. It’s possible Brendan is tired of the posts—ready to kill me off theoretically while recognizing that, face to face, I’m kind of ok. (That’ll be $200, Brendan.)
I had a great time chatting with loads of people, including one of the backbones of the Milwaukee film scene, North American Camera’s Bob Donnelly. I often wonder where we all would be without this guy. Feed the Fish producer Nick Langholff caught me up on his myriad projects, Karen Erbach and I dished, Vinnie Besasie showed off his new duds (nice work, Wendy!), and Adrian tried one of every martini. Then Tony Shalhoub took the mic.
I’m neither here nor there about Tony Shalhoub, so I went for the cheese tray while everyone else gathered elsewhere. Another gentleman had the same idea, so I made a pre-cheese confession: “I’m going to pick this up with my fingers.” He told me I looked relatively sanitary and owned up to eating something off the floor earlier in the day! We introduced ourselves. Susan Kerns meet Michael Matzdorff, director of Feed the Fish. I was launching into my “wiener fingers” theory when Tony Shalhoub called my name! I walked to the stage where Alison hugged me like I’d won a beauty pageant, and apparently Tony Shalhoub made a joke about tartar sauce. It was all very whirlwind… until I realized what I’d won…
I knew I’d won a fishbowl. I assumed it would be full of, oh, Swedish Fish gummies, Feed the Fish schwag, or fishing lures or something. I did not anticipate a live fish! I am the most vocal person I know about responsible pet owning: pets as presents and prizes simply are never a good idea. I’m 100 percent supportive of this film, but boy did they give the wrong prize to the wrong person. I was seriously devastated, which I’m pretty sure everyone else read as melodrama, OCD, or mild insanity. Thank God I had a bunch of bottled water in the car. I gave Rosalind (my new fish) two Ice Mountains and headed back to the East Side.
We were way too amped up to see Uncle Boonmee in an appropriate mindset, but we went anyway. The film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, and this was only its second U.S. screening! I think I loved it, but I’m not sure. It incorporated a number of long takes of lush scenery and quiet conversations—peppered with glowing-eyed spirit monkeys and oral sex with catfish. I spent a lot of time spacing out, worrying about Rosalind, and wondering if spirit monkeys are related to Jawas. I probably should see it again.
We finally reached the Alterra after party where Brad Pruitt was celebrating the Mark My Words screening by allowing a number of lovely ladies to sit on his lap. I was most excited to see Donte McFadden enjoying himself. Donte was my first Milwaukee friend who balanced staying active in the community, through music and spoken-word poetry events, with academic work and teaching. In some ways, Mark My Words was a record of a decade of his work as well, and he was psyched about it. Cinematographer Tate Bunker also seemed proud of the film, as he mingled with the buzzing crowd of poets, artists, and musicians.
Perhaps my favorite conversation of the evening occurred between Mark Borchardt, whom I’ve learned this week is a complete sweetheart of a guy, and Tami Williams. Mark asked Tami about the Germaine Dulac film The Seashell and the Clergyman, for which Tami provided commentary on the new Light Cone DVD. She explained that this is the first time the reels are in the correct order: even the Kino version has them out of place. Mark is perhaps too well known for being the blue-collar filmmaker in American Movie. It is clear he has a breadth of film knowledge, and I wonder if his decade-old representation does him a disservice. Still, this moment illustrated Milwaukee’s charm: where else can one of the premiere Dulac scholars in the world talk shop with a man who, by chance, embodies notions of what it means to be Midwestern. There was zero attitude or pretentiousness; everyone just wanted to hang out and talk about film.
It was time to take Rosalind home. I debated whether the bass of Lil’ Wayne would be too much for her (reverb, you know?) or if she’d prefer songs from the animal kingdom like Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution. (I don’t listen to Phish.) I deliberately drove her by the Lake to make the transition easier, and then spent hours Googling fish care and home de-chlorination methods. (Turns out marijuana-growing sites give the best advice. Who knew?) I Brita-filtered a bunch of water, and Rosalind was moved to a pink lasagna pyrex, where she will remain until I can find her a pond to call home. There must be a lesson in here somewhere about accepting gifts from Tony Shalhoub.
Tomorrow: date night with the Drunk History guys!
