Cinefile

Although the Chicago International Film Festival may not have the "hip" or "rock star" sensibilities of say Sundance or SXSW, this year's 47th fest again proves that effective curation is more valuable than effervescent coolness. The Chicago Reader's J.R. Jones said it best: "[The films of the CIFF] may not be what the world is watching, but they represent a valuable opportunity for us to watch the world." Sure there are Hollywood films in the lineup (like the inexplicable inclusion of The Three Musketeers 3D) but the crux of the fest's appeal comes from its overwhelming amount of hard-to-find international films.

Surprising enough, one of the more quietly involving documentaries comes in Xan Aranda's concert film Andrew Bird: Fever Year (USA). Earlier this year Andrew Bird, the multi-instrumentalist with Chicago roots, decided that he did not want Aranda's doc to get theatrical distribution. Reservations aside and with respects to the artistic work behind the filmmaking, Bird recently agreed for the film to screen at festivals (it played at the New York Film Festival last week) and so Fever Year now finds itself on the eve of its Chicago debut next weekend (to two sold out shows no less).

Effortlessly playing back and forth between Pabst Theater concert footage from Bird's 2010 tour and introspective scenes of Bird on his family farm, recording at a studio and even discussing his creative process, the structure of Fever Year in many ways is a companion piece to Bird's unique delivery of music. Bird's music finds most of its power during live shows as he is at his most vital when improvisation, inspiration and innovation all seem to spring naturally from his band mates and instruments on stage. Likewise, the film is not an agenda-based doc; there is no villain, no social agenda or even an on camera guide (a la Michael Moore). Rather it's free flowing but never without form. Fever Year simply observes its subject and finds the rhythms of understanding an artist by letting him exist in front of the lens. By doing so, we can find relation to an artist of great admiration. We see Bird fumble for a moment on stage as he has to switch from a violin to a guitar and thus break up a song with dead silence. Near the end, we see Bird walking to a performance in crutches after hurting his heel (this event coming at the end of 155 show tour where he was sick most of the time). And at other times, we marvel at Bird's concentration and uncanny ability to create music; some terrific moments come in these "behind-the-music" sections where Bird is recording music in his living room barefoot or is standing in a loft full of tailor-made speaker horns.

But this isn't a mere profile piece or a promotional doc meant to sell records. Bird has his audience. They will see this for him. I believe the real appeal of this doc will be for those not too familiar with Bird's work. They will be moved by the music and will welcome the film's non-aggressive pace. Aranda's visual prose is what's commanding here. Fever Year is a thoughtfully delivered lyric to an artist's verse and his still growing song.

It goes without saying that most people who watch Thomas Imbach's Day Is Done (Switzerland) will hate it. Many will leave the auditorium before the first twenty minutes. For nearly two hours, Imbach's screen is made up of a vantage point facing this huge Zurich train station in daily operation. Trains run on the railroads. Planes fly in the sky. Sometimes it snows. Sometimes it rains. Other times the parking lot is full of kids playing or drunk couples making out. And all the while, on the film's soundtrack, we hear Imbach's personal voicemails and answering machines that were accumulated over fifteen years. That's it. And you know what? This is radical, experimental filmmaking at its best. One of the year's best films.

Day Is Done is the kind of "new cinema" filmmaking I've been hoping to see more of. This kind of artistic bravura only works when the content creator/artist is in full command of his ultimate goal (in this case, I believe Imbach wanted to dissect his own insecurities on romantic relationships, fatherhood and the imposing notion of "universal time"). For this style of filmmaking, you can't play it safe. You can't be a half-auteur. Thus, Imbach exposes himself--even at his most ugliest. Though we never literally "see" the narrative, we can feel it pulsate inside of us by connecting the voicemail messages as the film moves forward. We're able to hear (and thus internally visualize!) the heartbreak of a failed romantic relationship between Imbach and the eventual mother of his child. We also sense the daily strain of the committed artist; we hear voicemails from financial banks, possible clients and frustrated colleagues. Perhaps the most touching narrative comes in Imbach's own relationship with his son. If we're to take his ex's frustrated voicemails at face value, we're to assume that Imbach the artist was for the most part selfish (a necessary attribute to swing for the fences artistically) and seldomly made the effort to make sufficient time for his son Noah.

But of course, these are all the nominal aspects to film. Many times during the film, I found myself lost in the visuals (long shots of clouds moving in the sky, the fumes rising from the top of the train) and began dwelling on my own anxieties with themes of time, grief, family and artistic trajectory. Rarely do feelings this carnal rise in traditional movies. These sorts of reactions are saved for searing video essays, video installations or video mashups. It's like when you stare at a painting for a long stretch of time and began seeing past the artist's initial canvas (and even purpose sometimes). It's a hell of a feat for this film to be playing at a major festival and I'm very grateful to have experienced it. Yet I must stress: This is not for everybody.