The Black Hole of the Camera

Me And You and Memento and Fargo

 

Two Years at Sea

The 2012 Wisconsin Film Festival began last Wednesday night with London filmmaker Ben Rivers’s Two Years at Sea (2011), his majestic feature-length portrait of an eccentric recluse named Jake Williams, whom he had filmed previously in a fourteen-minute short This is My Land (2006). The film documents and explores Jake’s isolated rural existence within the clutter and junk of a sprawling ramshackle dwelling in a forest in Scotland. Throughout the course of Two Years at Sea, we never see another human being, but hear sounds of sheep, cows, birds, and other wildlife.

It’s hard to know exactly what to make of Jake, as we observe him in his daily rituals: trudging through the snow from behind, sleeping in various places, bathing in a home-made shower, washing clothes, chopping wood, fishing on a primitive raft, listening to cassette tapes, reading a book, and so forth. There’s a story there, to be sure. Why does Jake live the way he does? Why has he chosen this type of existence? Rivers, however, has little interest in issues of conventional narrative, despite the fact that Jake looks at old photographs (there’s one of an attractive young woman; another of an older man; and an overexposed one of two kids) that hint at some type of missing back story.

In an interview with Michael Sicinski in Cinema Scope, Rivers explains: “Because the film is also a world, it’s something I want to exist in and of itself, rather than being about something. This all brings me to J.G. Ballard, one of my all-time favourite authors. His work is all about the transformation of landscape into something that somehow frees the central character from all their preconceived norms, a place that is consciously significant to every decision made about how one is living and proceeding through the mire.”

At times, we feel as if Jake might be the last human being left on earth. Yet, to me, the film feels less about the present or future or a self-contained world than a depiction of a present that’s nonetheless imbued with a strong sense of the past. Rivers shot the film in anamorphic 16mm film, which he hand processed in his kitchen sink. It was subsequently blown up to 35mm. There’s a sense that we’re viewing historical footage. It feels, at first, as if we’re back in the 1960s or early 1970s, observing an old hippie who has dropped out.

As the film progresses, however, there’s an odd sensation that we seem to be moving backward in time. The shots of Jake asleep in various locations and situations reminded me of post-mortems, those antique photos of loved ones preserved through photography. In one sequence, we watch as Jake makes a long trek over rugged terrain. In a wide shot, he walks toward the camera, carrying some type of rig on his head and four oblong plastic containers. Jake gradually blows up air mattresses and constructs a raft that he uses to fish in a loch. This shot of him fishing, which lasts nearly 7 minutes, is a key scene in the film’s trajectory back in time – as if we’ve suddenly been transported to the 19th century.

It’s difficult to make an intriguing film with a single character, especially if it’s going to be feature length. We watch Jake go through his daily chores, routines, and rituals, some of which seem to be of the filmmaker’s devising (this is a somewhat contrived or fictional quasi-documentary portrait), especially when he transforms an old camper into a sort of tree house. The shot shows the trailer, like a flying saucer, magically rising up in the frame to eventually perch atop trees. The artifice of how this is accomplished is deliberately withheld, which adds a sense of mystery. Throughout the film, Rivers focuses on formal shots of clouds moving through the sky, a thunderstorm, steam rising from a kettle on the stove, and a black cat who stares curiously at the camera.

Jake’s lifestyle nevertheless embodies the past. The film mimics this in a number of ways. It’s shot on film, for one thing. The photo-chemical process (as was evident in the retrospective of exquisite films Phil Solomon presented in subsequent programs at the festival) contains its own inherent magic that somehow continues to fascinate, even as it heads toward extinction. Whether acknowledged by the filmmaker or not, death hovers like specter over the film, not only in the imagery (a photo of a tombstone and other old photographs) and in its obsession with earlier technology (phonograph and cassettes), but even in the lyrics of the Scottish song “The Carpenter and the Sexton,” which we hear on the soundtrack at one point.

Certain shots are remarkably crisp, yet deliberately grainy, which gives Rivers’s film a liveliness lacking in most digital films. Processing blotches from home development swirl about the image, and the light within certain shots pulsates and flickers, giving an energy and sense of materiality to Two Years at Sea. Rivers’s rigorous framing often places the subject at the right hand side of the frame, such as in the scenes of him showering or fishing, or the extended portrait shot of Jake at the film’s end.

In the final shot, which lasts close to 8 minutes, the camera frames Jake in close-up in front of a cracking fire that illuminates his face. He has a contemplative expression. At one point he rubs his head and rests his head on his hand. His eyes momentarily dart around the frame. He repositions his body and appears to get sleepy as the dying fire’s light ever so slowly begins to fade. This spectacular shot conjures up an antiquated Andy Warhol-like Screen Test, as the image of Jake gradually fades to black and transforms into bouncing grain.

Postscript: The Wisconsin Film Festival was pretty awesome. I saw many great films over the course of 5 days. Ben Sachs of the Chicago Reader provides a very humorous, outsider perspective on the festival.

Posted 28 April, 2012

We Need to Talk about Kevin

Most people don’t think twice about having children. That’s not exactly the case for Eva Khatchadourian (Tilda Swinton), a career woman and travel writer who decides to have a kid, but remains ambivalent. A potential parent might wonder: what if I don’t actually love my child, or what if he or she doesn’t love me? But Scottish director Lynne Ramsay’s film, We Need to Talk about Kevin (2011), takes it a step further. She interrogates the more seldom-thought possibility: what if my kid turns out to be a sociopath? There have been other films that have dealt with teenagers who ruthlessly slaughter their classmates, such as Ben Coccio’s Zero Day (2003) or Gus Van Sant’s Elephant (2003). The former portrays the perpetrators, while the latter focuses more on the victims. Yet Ramsay filters her film through the mind of the perpetrator’s mother, portraying it as a kind of unfolding horror story that begins at birth.

Ramsay’s film fractures the narrative by employing a type of associational logic. It parcels out information relating to the inevitable carnage at school, while withholding the actual details until the very end. The film instead focuses on Eva’s tenuous psychological state in the traumatic aftermath of the event: the red paint that’s been splattered on her ramshackle house and car windshield, the hard stare of the neighbors, a physical assault on the street, the perils of shopping at the local grocery store, the difficulty of finding a job, and the utter isolation at work that comes from being stigmatized. When one of her co-workers at the travel agency, where Eva finally lands a job, asks her to dance at a holiday party and she politely refuses, he quietly snarls, “Where do you get off, you stuck-up bitch. Do you think anyone else is going to want you now?”

While driving home one night, someone in an ape costume approaches her car from the driver’s side and a skeleton and other masked figures scamper in her path. What appear to be frightening fantasies turn out to be merely kids in costume on Halloween, but daily life for Eva is filled with real demons from both the present and the past. When she visits Kevin in prison, he bites his finger nails and places them in a row in front of her while not bothering to speak. As he glowers at her, she clearly must wonder how the trajectory of her life caused her to wind up in this predicament. Yet Ramsay reinforces the connection, as their faces merge while she washes her face.  The director told Eric Kohn in Indiewire: “By proxy, she has murdered all these people. It’s really exploring the psyche of a woman who has this massive guilt.”

As the film flashes back, Kevin cries incessantly as a baby, initially doesn’t speak, refuses to be potty trained, and gradually becomes openly hostile to Eva. Her husband, Franklin (John C. Reilly), a cuddly bear of a guy, is a study in denial. Kevin favors his father, who shows him more affection, but doesn’t hide his loathing for his mother who remains defensively distant. Franklin insists that they move out of the city to the suburbs, so that Kevin will have more space and access to better schools, which only alienates and isolates Eva even further. It does nothing for Kevin, except that it allows him to take up archery, a sport he seems to relish after becoming fixated on a passage from Robin Hood that his mother reads to him.

When Eva and Franklin unexpectedly have a second child, Celia (Ashley Gerasimovich), they dress Kevin in a shirt that says “I’m the Big Brother.” He’s not a protective older brother but a menace, as he immediately makes the baby cry. Sure enough, several years later, the sweet little girl finds her hamster missing and then suffers an eye injury that Eva suspects has been caused by Kevin. When his father suggests that Kevin look out for Celia at school, the teen responds, “You don’t really remember being a kid much, do you, dad? Celia’s just going to have to suck it up.” When Eva tries to relate to Kevin by taking him out to dinner, he stuffs himself beforehand. As they sit together in the restaurant, she’s forced to eat alone.

Ramsay, who along with Rory Stewart Kinnear, adapted the screenplay from Lionel Shriver’s 2003 novel, deviates from employing any sort of conventional linear storyline by creating an impressionistic film that scrambles time. Images fade in and out of focus, sounds become amplified, while the film conveys Eva’s feelings of guilt and repulsion in an almost visceral way, which is reinforced by the film’s excessively red palette.

In an early scene of La Tomatina, a Spanish tomato festival, a mass of semi-naked bodies sway amidst a tomato throwing contest. In one image that appears to be in her dream, we see an ecstatic Eva lifted, Crucifixion style, above the crowd before being splattered in thick red sauce. The image becomes a kind of metaphor for the horrific violence soon to come, as indicated by the repeated shots of flashing lights and anxious parents outside a school that appear several times throughout the film.

We Need to Talk about Kevin does not really attempt to offer insight into Kevin’s behavior. Erza Miller, with his good looks and cocky swagger, does his best to deny viewers any semblance of empathy. Somewhat strangely, we don’t feel sorry for Eva either. As played by Tilda Swinton, there’s a decided lack of emotion to her character as she bravely soldiers on, despite everything that’s happened.

We Need to Talk about Kevin, which is being distributed by Oscilloscope Laboratories, opened Friday at the Sundance Cinemas here in Madison, where it is scheduled to play for the rest of the week.

Posted 4 March, 2012

Best Indpendent Films of 2011

Although the overall quality of this past year’s independent films remained strong, most still had difficulty finding an audience. Of the films on my list, Martha Marcy May Marlene grossed the highest amount, at nearly $3 million; Take Shelter and The Future made less than their budgets.

Todd Solondz claims his films don’t make money any more and is struggling to release his latest effort, Dark Horse, while Hal Hartley is looking to raise funding on Kickstarter. Even Spike Lee got tired of waiting to find financing for his latest commercial film, and wound up self-financing it. Everyone keeps talking about new distribution models, but let’s face it: the theaters are, for the most part, empty when independent films actually do have theatrical runs. DVD appears to have died as well, as we know from the fiasco involving Netflix. I believe that only 6 of the 10 films on my list played in my home town of Madison, Wisconsin.

No matter how cheap films are to make these days, filmmakers can’t continue to lose money. VOD doesn’t seem to be the answer either. Ti West literally wrote a letter to fans begging them not to pirate his latest release, The Innkeepers. He claims he hasn’t made any money from his films. Joe Swanberg seems to have found a viable model, but it appears to involve sheer quantity. Frank V. Ross, a filmmaker whose work I greatly admire (Hohokam, 2007 and Audrey the Trainwreck, 2010) told me he doesn’t ever expect to realize any return on his films.

On a personal level, I’ve struggled to keep up with this blog because I’ve been consumed with completing my latest book, The Black Hole of the Camera: The Films of Andy Warhol (University of California Press, 2012), which has taken up so much of my time. It’s due out this spring. Publishing, however, isn’t all that different from making movies these days. Unless you’re a celebrity author, you can’t expect to get rich on book sales, especially writing academic books.

I saw a number of inspiring films from outside the USA: Melancholia, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, and Certified Copy, to name a few, but I also missed a number of important films that I hope to see shortly. Ironically, I saw some terrific American indie films this past year that I can’t include them because they didn’t have a theatrical opening: Alex Ross Perry’s The Color Wheel, Dustin Guy Defa’s Bad Fever, Sophia Takal’s Green, Gregory Kohn’s Northeast, and Mark Jackson’s Without. I’ve written about four of the five already. I saw Alex Ross Perry’s film at the Wisconsin Film Festival last April, and intend to write about it at some point this year.

To be honest, it’s difficult to write blogs about films that many folks simply haven’t seen, but I remain committed to doing so if it can bring more attention to independent work. I have to say that no blogger has been more supportive of my efforts than Mike Everleth at Bad Lit, whose site I consider essential reading for anyone interested in alternative film.

If there was one major theme that emerged this year, it was the feeling that the end of the world is imminent. Melancholia might serve as the model, but Take Shelter, The Future, and Bellflower share the same vision of impending doom.

I saw Meek’s Cutoff twice when it played to the New York Film Festival in October of 2010. I found myself driving to the theater when it played here in town many months later. I felt under a spell like in a Miranda July film. Once the first image appeared, however, I suddenly understood why I was there. It was without a doubt my favorite film of the year. Jon Raymond, the film’s gifted screenwriter, has a new novel coming out this spring, entitled Rain Dragon. Jon (who co-wrote the screenplays for Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy as well) is a terrific writer. I strongly recommend that you order his book. It’s already listed on Amazon.

In any event, here is my personal list of the best indie films of 2011:

(Click on the titles below for extended commentary).

  1. Meek’s Cutoff (Kelly Reichardt)
  2. Take Shelter (Jeff Nichols)
  3. The Future (Miranda July)
  4. Martha Marcy May Marlene (Sean Durkin)
  5. Bellflower (Evan Glodell)
  6. Putty Hill (Matthew Porterfield)
  7. Cold Weather (Aaron Katz)
  8. Jess + Moss (Clay Jeter)
  9. Terri (Azazel Jacobs)
  10. The Catechism Cataclysm (Todd Rohal)

Two of the filmmakers on my list have been included in this year’s upcoming Whitney Biennial: Kelly Reichardt and Matthew Porterfield. I try never to miss a Whitney Biennial, if at all possible.

There were many extraordinary performances this year: Michael Shannon (Take Shelter), Jacob Wysocki (Terri), Robert Longstreet (The Catechism Cataclysm), Michelle Williams (Meek’s Cutoff), and Elizabeth Olsen (Martha Marcy May Marlene). Austin Vickers (Jess + Moss) is a natural. For purposes of comparison, you might want to check out my lists of “The Best Indie Films of 2010,” “The Best Indie Films of 2009” as well as “The Best Indie Films of 2008.

For the record, I always post my list in February.

Posted 24 February, 2012

Take Shelter

The suspense/horror genre has gained new prominence in indie cinema lately. This appears evident not only in films such as Ti West’s House of the Devil (2009) and The Innkeepers (2012), and Calvin Reeder’s Lynchian-inspired The Oregonian (2011), but also in films that employ elements of the genre, notably Todd Rohal’s The Catechism Cataclysm (2010), Mark Jackson’s Without (2012), and Jeff Nichols’s Take Shelter (2011). Horror also seems to have crept back into our daily lives with a vengeance, taxing our psyches’ ability to grapple with catastrophes – both natural and human-made – that inundate us each day. Add to that an economic recession and the fact that ordinary people’s security nets are being pulled away ruthlessly. As a result, it should hardly be surprising that Jeff Nichols’s angst-ridden Take Shelter would strike such a responsive chord.

Nichols’s regionally flavored first effort, Shotgun Stories (2008), was a study of bitter hatred stemming from a family feud. His new film Take Shelter focuses on a construction worker in rural Ohio named Curtis (Michael Shannon), who is desperately trying to provide for his family as he begins to suffer hallucinations and nightmares that may be apocalyptic premonitions or merely demons inside his head. The film allows us to view Curtis’s torturous plight through its impact on his wife Samantha (Jessica Chastain) and deaf child Hannah (Tova Stewart), as well as his best friend, a hot-headed co-worker named Dewart (Shea Whigham). The fact that his mother began suffering from paranoid schizophrenia at a similar age adds a complicating factor regarding the nature of Curtis’s shaky mental state.

Take Shelter begins with tree branches swaying in the wind. Curtis stands in his driveway and surveys a clouded sky. As lightning flickers through the overcast sky, the ensuing drops of rain contain a viscous brown substance. Nature is just as much a character in Take Shelter. The great expanse of Midwestern sky appears ominous and threatening early on, as bad weather interrupts Curtis’s construction job at a gravel pit and causes Samantha to teach Hannah how to say “storm” in sign language. As Dewart and Curtis talk in the car after work and drinks, Dewart tells his friend: “You got a good life, Curtis. Serious. I think that’s the best compliment you can give a man. Take a look at his life, and say, ‘that’s good.’ That guy’s doing something right.” Curtis responds, “Well, it ain’t always so easy.”

Curtis’s remark is a gross understatement. As he stares at his sleeping daughter and Samantha appears bedside him, the parents worry over the fact that Hannah is unable to play with the other kids. Amidst more rain and lightening, Curtis has a hallucination in which the family dog attacks him. Concerned for Hannah’s safety, he puts the dog outside and later gives it away to his brother. As his own condition deteriorates, Curtis has terrible nightmares involving Hannah’s safety. In one instance, the furniture levitates and crashes in his living room. Curtis wets his bed, experiences a seizure, and spits blood. His behavior becomes more erratic. He ploughs money he doesn’t have into remodeling and expanding an old storm shelter to protect his family. In response, his brother warns him, “You take your eye off the ball one minute in this economy and you’re screwed.” Yet Curtis proceeds to put his pal Dewart in an awkward position and jeopardizes his job and health insurance, which is crucial to Hannah’s impending ear surgery.

Marital discord develops between Samantha and Curtis over his actions. She loves him deeply and is concerned for his well-being, but he’s clearly starting to unravel. The slow fuse in Curtis that’s been burning beneath the surface finally explodes at the local Lions Club dinner. His fury feels as if a scary Frankenstein-like monster has suddenly been unleashed, as Curtis admonishes his neighbors with a fire-and-brimstone tirade that’s downright biblical. Forced to decide whether to stay with her husband, Samantha develops her own plan to salvage their increasingly desperate situation. Take Shelter is like watching a Greek tragedy slowly unfold, but, to his credit, Nichols manages to keep us riveted right until the film’s unpredictable end.

Nichols’s Take Shelter has the ambition and grandeur of an American epic, in which the bonds of a working-class family get tested and pushed to the limits. It’s a truly remarkable second feature that, like Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011), left me utterly shaken when I first saw it opening weekend in New York City. A great deal of the power of Take Shelter derives from the film’s striking imagery, David Wingo’s haunting score, and the performances of Jessica Chastain and Michael Shannon. Shannon, who was fantastic in Shotgun Stories, is even more mesmerizing here. Much of Curtis’s character is conveyed through gesture. His pained face somehow becomes a map of worried intensity, which is reinforced by his wooden jaw, bowed head, and a faraway look that appears when he’s talking. If there was a better acting performance last year, I didn’t see it.

As in Shotgun Stories, Nichols uses the natural landscape to full effect, especially in how weather contributes to the film’s overall mood and atmosphere. He told Scott Macaulay in Filmmaker that Take Shelter is “a movie about skies,” which necessitated shooting it on super 35 mm film. It’s against that threatening and turbulent sky and Adam Stone’s majestic cinematography that Curtis wages his battle – a human figure dwarfed by the natural world. He’s also at the mercy of an economy that can be equally brutal to those most vulnerable, such as someone like Curtis suffering from mental problems, or his daughter, Hannah, who needs expensive surgery. It is no wonder that Curtis clings to his family with such ferocity. He secretly knows that, without them, he’ll never be able to survive.

Posted 23 February, 2012

Jess + Moss

At last year’s Sundance Film Festival, the reviewer for the Hollywood Reporter wrote: “Experimental films at Sundance are not unlike the flu bugs that run rampant through the festival’s many crowded venues: They’re inevitable but to be avoided if possible” Even though the reviewer considered Jess + Moss to be an exception, he nevertheless qualified his response: “Not that its slow rhythms and intricate sight and sound design won’t tax the patience of those who trek here for celebrity sightings and the next hot film.” Why pander to the lowest common denominator? Clay Jeter’s Jess + Moss was not only one of the most imaginative films at the festival, but also of the past year.

Jeter’s poetic film has a skeletal narrative, but exults in stunningly rich visual details rather than a conventional plot. Jess + Moss tells the story of an unlikely pair: an 18-year-old female named Jess (Sarah Hagan) and her 12-year-old second cousin, Moss (Austin Vickers). The two misfits hang out together during the hot summer months on a red-dirt tobacco farm in western Kentucky. They race bicycles, shoot off fireworks, smoke cigarettes (Moss only pretends), jump on trampolines, climb on top of giant grain bins, and play games in a dilapidated abandoned farm house, reenacting scenes from their childhood.

Although Jess and Moss are incredibly close to each other, the sullen Jess sometimes gets frustrated with her younger cousin due to their age difference. Early on, Moss tries to interest Jess in getting some free school supplies without success. He tells her, “You need art supplies. Your pencil is almost gone. You have, like no paper left in that art book.” When he asks Jess what kind of job she’s going to get, she’s unsure, but Moss thinks that she should design tee shirts because of her artistic skills. When Jess in turn asks Moss about his future plans, he wants to become a farmer and drive a tractor like everyone else in his family. “You don’t have to do that,” she cautions, “You can do whatever you want to do. It’s your life.”

Both Jess and Moss remain strangely isolated from others, but share a special bond. Moss lives with his overly religious grandparents. He later satirizes them by playing a preacher, as Jess corrects his saying of “The Lord’s Prayer” before enacting her own Crucifixion scene. What happened to Moss’s parents remains an issue that the film returns to over and over again. Moss relishes having Jess repeat the story of how his parents died in a car wreck and that his pregnancy and birth were the happiest events of their shortened lives. After dinner, as Moss eats a purple Popsicle, his grandparents dance to Connie Francis’s version of “Tammy.” This is intercut with shots of Jess, wearing a brassiere and wig, as she smokes a cigarette and poses in front of a mirror that somehow conjures up David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr (2001).

Jess lives with her father, who seems aloof and distant. As she eats what looks like a TV dinner and stares straight ahead, he complains: “Don’t be fucking taking cigarettes anymore. You’re old enough to get a damn job . . . buy your own smokes.” Jess spends time listening to cassette tapes left by her mother. They offer Jess advice and explain why she decided to leave the family. Jess + Moss is obsessed with old technology in a way that’s reminiscent of Harmony Korine’s Trash Humpers (2010). The two characters listen to cassettes, as well as old records on a hand-cranked phonograph. In an effort to remember his past, Moss plays self-help tapes about improving his memory.

Despite its unconventional form, Jess + Moss still manages to be remarkably engaging as a poignant character study. Jess is pretty and has blue eyes, but she’s also tall and gangly, while Moss is short and much too young to be her companion. Jess knows this, of course, but this knowledge doesn’t prevent a repressed sexual undercurrent between them that’s palpable. As the film goes on, Jess only becomes more restless with her situation.

In one scene Jess questions Moss about his sexual experience – how far he’s gone with girls. He tells her he’s kissed one before, but when she mocks him for being in love with a younger girl named Haley, he adamantly denies it. As Moss takes a pee with his back to her, in voiceover he asks her what a dildo is. Jess insists that he’s much too young to know about such things, but when she explains that it’s a “substitute penis,” the two of them crack up. Moss and Jess have strange and intimate conversations, about such issues as longevity and the quality of life, including how long people should have to wipe your butt after you grow old. When they later dance together to an old record, Jess asks matter-of-factly, “Aren’t we supposed to dance closer?”

In another pivotal scene that takes place inside an old pickup truck in a barn while it’s raining, Jess takes off her wet blouse and suggests that they sit closer together for body warmth. She discusses the meaning of “Seven Minutes in Heaven,” which she describes to Moss as when a boy and girl go in a closed room and kiss or do whatever they want to do. Jess claims she’s done it before, but it’s clear that she’d also like to do it with him. Jess also remarks, “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I know the difference between right and wrong,” as a worried look crosses Moss’s face. Nothing happens, but she later kisses him with intense affection when he falls asleep.

Despite her fondness for Moss, Jess is mean to him on several occasions. She locks him in the barn with Haley and shoots at one of his jars of moss and swamp water, the contents of which he continually investigates under a microscope. And when Moss storms into the room while she’s listening to her Mom’s tape on a huge boom box, their subsequent spat inevitably alters their relationship

Jeter reportedly began the film with a location, two performers, and over 30 different outdated film stocks. He then proceeded to develop the semblance of a story. He told an interviewer: “I had the outline for the story and often wrote on the day of shooting. There was never a full screenplay but just these pages of ideas.” Once production began, however, Jeter more or less discarded them in favor of a more improvisational approach. Much of the strength of the film derives from how the two performers, Sarah Hagen and the young novice Austin Vickers, inhabit their characters. The cinematography by Will Basanta is exceptional, while Isaac Hagy’s editing is impressive for the way he’s able to create a sense of fluidity between disparate scenes.

Mark Jackson’s Without, which I wrote about previously, is about digital memory. Clay Jeter’s Jess + Moss is another memory piece about the ache of loss and abandonment, but the analog version. The two main characters’ nostalgia for old technology is their desperate attempt to hold on to the past. Yet neither Jess nor Moss fully understands the ways in which the past can often haunt the future.

Jess + Moss will have a week-long theatrical run at the reRun Gastropub Theater in Brooklyn starting February 17. The film is currently available on VOD, while the DVD will be released in late March.

Posted 11 February, 2012

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