Slackumentary

FUNNY HA-HA

Directed by Andrew Bujalski

Tattoo artist to prospective client: "You really haven't thought about what you want?"

Prospective client: "Oh, I've thought about it."

The exchange occurs in the first scene of writer-director Andrew Bujalski's first feature, Funny Ha-Ha. It seems mundane, even dull, until you pick apart the language, at which point you realize you're hearing dialogue of rare realism and precision. The tattoo artist knows his customer, a recently unemployed 23-year-old woman named Marnie (Kate Dollenmayer), isn't ready to make this particular decision, but he phrases the observation as a question, to let her down gently. Marnie admits he's correct, but in language that preserves her own dignity. This rich exchange hints at the beguiling comedy to come. Bujalski's tale of hyper-verbal twentysomethings floating through post-college life is filled with scenes where characters analyze moments instead of seizing them, and substitute droll, facetious humor-a junior version of Bill Murray?David Letterman humor-for real engagement. Their lives are enclosed by quote marks.

On paper, this approach sounds irritating, and sometimes it is. But Funny Ha-Ha is so honest that you smile rather than cringe. Shot on grainy, luminous 16mm color film stock, Bujalski's debut invites easy comparisons to Slacker, Metropolitan, Kicking and Screaming and other movies about white, middle-class, self-aware-yet-clueless twentysomethings. But the humor cuts deeper than those movies-and accumulates more emotional force-because of its naturalistic, at times nearly documentary style, which avoids exposition and backstory, depicts stammering, circuitous conversations in real time (sometimes without cuts) and forces us to engage with the characters solely by observing their behavior. (It's the kind of movie inattentive viewers shrug off by insisting that "nothing happens.")

Marnie is our surrogate and guide. We don't know much about her except that she's in love with a guy named Alex (Christian Rudder, sneakily effective) who has a girlfriend already, that she wishes she didn't drink so much, that she's the kind of witty, attractive, kindhearted young woman who inspires mad love among geeks, and that she recently got fired from a job for asking for a raise. (See what happens when you say what you mean?) Bujalski doesn't so much tell Marnie's story as follow her around and absorb her feelings by listening to her talk and watching her think.

It's a smart, non-obvious artistic choice. It pays off not because Bujalski is any kind of visual genius (in this John Cassavetes?inspired debut, he avoids compositional pizzazz and uses the camera as a recording device rather than a poetic instrument), but because he writes sharp dialogue and knows how to draw temperamentally similar performances from his eclectic cast and then meld them into a worldview. Dollenmayer, a filmmaker who worked as an animator on Waking Life, creates a romantic heroine with a naturalistic, self-deprecating vibe, sort of a baby Annie Hall. Bujalski complements her in a supporting part as Mitchell, a coworker at Marnie's temp job who offers himself up as a friend with potential. Rudder's Alex is striking, too-a cad impersonating a geek. (He compliments Marnie by telling her, "You're the most, like, evolution-istic person I know.")

Bujalski's characters are sweet but passive-aggressive. They aren't just reluctant to seize responsibility for their own lives; they lack the courage to describe them in a blunt way. They dance around feelings and intentions, cushioning crucial statements inside layers of fluffy hipster wit. On first glance, they all seem exceptionally polite-the kinds of young adults who used to be described as "well-bred." (Marnie declines a drink by announcing, "I am the opposite of parched.") But once you've heard them talk for a while, you realize they're not cute or harmless people. They're melancholy, fitfully dishonest and capable of cruelty. They elaborately describe queries they might "hypothetically" ask each other-a tricky way of asking a question while evading its immediate consequences. And when the chips are down, they deny responsibility for their actions. Funny Ha-Ha is not a perfect first film; it meanders and repeats itself, and the lighting runs the gamut from gorgeous to barely competent. But its lack of formal polish pales beside its honesty and subtlety. It could be the start of something big.

MADISON

Directed by William Bindley

Produced many years ago, and now finally released thanks to star Jim Caviezel's post-Passion fame, Madison is a film that will mesmerize fans of widescreen cinematography and hydroplane boat racing while causing everyone else to get very, very sleepy.

Based on a true story, William Bindley's waterborne sports epic takes place in Madison, Indiana, in the summer of 1971, when the town was reeling from layoffs and desperate to save itself from ruin. The only thing Madison had left was hydroplane boat racing-a sport beloved by locals despite the fact that its locally sponsored vehicle, the Miss Madison, usually lost races to rival towns and cities whose boats were sponsored by corporate juggernauts like Budweiser.

Madison usually hosts the race on Labor Day weekend, but this year San Diego is jockeying for that potentially lucrative slot; undaunted, local hydroplane manager turned racer Jim McCormick (Caviezel) counters by offering up Madison as host city for the year's biggest race, a gambit that requires the town to raise $50,000 it just doesn't have. It's hard not to smile thinking of how much fun Preston Sturges would have had with this setup. But cowriter-director William Bindley is no Sturges, and Madison isn't a comedy, or much of a drama either; it's more like an ad for Madison's hydroplane culture, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. Jim is a hustler, but as played by Caviezel, he lacks a hustler's verve; he's depicted as a bland do-gooder, sort of a Ned Flanders type, and the town's supporting characters are so undifferentiated that the movie might as well be taking place in Springfield (or Sim City). At a town meeting announcing Jim's gambit, the audience starts out mostly hostile to hosting the big race, and after Jim reads a faux-letter from San Diego dissing the hicks of Madison, the whole audience is on its feet cheering him on.

Mary McCormack plays the wife; Mary McCormack always plays the wife. Paul Dooley plays the mayor, of course. Paul Dooley should always play the mayor. Jake Lloyd, who irritated millions playing little Anakin Skywalker in The Phanton Menace, is much more likable here as Jim's adoring son, which suggests that George Lucas is to acting as a hammer is to glass. The real stars of the picture, though, are its two credited cinematographers James Glennon (About Schmidt) and John Gunselman (Perfect Game), who seem incapable of framing an unintelligent shot. Each frame puts us in a nostalgic state of mind without turning our brains to mush, and the use of color is very sophisticated, with just the right amount of grain. It recalls color printing from the era's pictorial magazines: Life or Look at 24 frames per second. But I should elaborate no further. I grew a knee-length white beard while sitting through Madison and I ought to shave it off.