Uncle Jazzbeau’s Gallimaufrey

face time with jj

Well, Ian, Kari, V., and I went into Berkeley to see Coffee and Cigarettes last night. I wish I could say I loved it, but it left me disappointed. I kept remembering back to a sultry summer in Bonn in 1985, when I walked a couple of miles into the suburban industrial zone to catch Stranger Than Paradise in an art-film theater. It was one of the few films I saw that year in Germany that was subtitled. At first, I was the only person laughing in a packed theater. Finally the person next to me asked me in English if the film was a comedy. That provoked more mirth on my part, but finally the Teutons started laughing, too, and I went home exhausted. But Stranger Than Paradise is a great film, and Coffee and Cigarettes is painful to watch. I cannot imagine watching it again. It is the first of Mr Jarmusch’s films that I can say that of. The high points, as most reviews negative and positive mention, are the Alfred Molina and Steve Coogan and the Bill Murray-Wu Tang Clan vignettes. The others all fall far below anything we could expect from Jarmusch. I had gone expecting more. For one thing, Turbokitty’s review at The Two Blowhards made me made me think it might be more than it turned out to be. There were some great moments, but it was rather like watching TV: there was so much bad to mediocre stuff in between those select cinematic moments. The linking concept of smokes and java was OK, but strained. In fact in the the best sketch, Molina does not smoke and he and Coogan drink tea. Many seem to like the Iggy Pop and Tom Waits blackout, but I think it’s one of the more painful ones to watch. Somewhere in California, two guys whose music I like, painfully act around one another. The fact that I like Jim and Iggy and Tom does not make this sub-high-school afternoon comedy skit any easier to endure. Part of the problem is what I’d call the paralysis of cool. Too many movies rely on the affectless actor, with burning butt dangling from his lower lip, staring unblinkingly at rather than interacting with or relating to the other character(s) in a scene. Didn’t Godard put this one to rest when Belmondo rubs his lip with his thumb in À Bout de souffle? Belmondo’s character leaks more humanity into that scene while attempting to hide behind his Bogie mask of cool than either Tom or Iggy have in their entire scene together. What is this fear that most independent filmmakers have in having their characters show any emotions? I’m not saying that everyobdy has to be Jack Nicholson chewing up the scenery, but maybe somewhere in between.