Am I Racist? is a send up of the DEI industry

Matt Walsh’s Am I Racist? is a brilliant send up of the Diversity Equity and Inclusion movement and subverts one of the most powerful phenomena of our time, one that has infiltrated virtually every major corporation, non-profit and government sector. DEI, as it's known, takes what used to be known as equality - which everyone can agree to unless you’re a raving racist – to an uber or exaggerated level in the form of “equity” and in fact arguable creates divisions and racist attitudes all its own. Its chief exponents are authors like Robin DiAngelo and Ibram X. Kendi. DEI concludes that “white guilt” is something that never can be relinquished but whites can “work” to try to lessen it. That’s why Walsh, a conservative commentator , made the film. The mocumentary takes on a Barat (Sacha Baron Cohen, 2006) style format with Walsh posing as a true DEI exponent, complete with man bun (ha ha) and a wallet size card validating him as a DEI “expert,” and then subverting meetings or interviews with DEI adherents.  Walsh confronts by anonymously taking part in hugely expensive workshops and subtly questioning or indirectly mocking the meetings. In one case the jig us up and he’s expelled from a therapy session and the police called though he had hardly been threatening. In another – the film’s highlight – he makes a fool of Robin DiAngelo by having her donate $30 to his Black producer as a reparation for white guilt and Black slavery. Ultimately, the movie’s message is that DEI has escalated race to an issue that doesn’t exist in the average American’s mind, decades after official desegregation and equal rights laws. Even hard-core bikers – presumably the epitome of racists – talk of how they don’t judge people by their color. And average Black people talk of embracing everyone, whites included. So who are the real racists? The film’s final quote: “Racism is not dead, but it is on life support – kept alive by politicians, race hustlers and people who get a sense of superiority by denouncing others as ‘racists’” (Thomas Sowell) underlines the film's theme.

This has been a great couple of weeks at the local Bijou aka cineplex. I haven’t seen this many good films listed in a long time if ever. Last week I caught Speak No Evil (James Walston) starring James McAvoy, a remake of the 2022 Danish film by Christian Tafdrup. Then there’s Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance with Demi Moore and Dennis Quaid, another psychological thriller about fame and which is headlining this year’s WIFF. Last week had The Critic starring veteran Brit actor Ian McKellen (photo) and directed by Anund Tucker set in the 1930s newspaper and theatre worlds with themes of gay discrimination and media corruption. It left before I could see it -darn! Dennis Quaid was also in the biopic Reagan (Sean McNamara) which also disappeared too soon. And continuing this week are more cinematically astute films like Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, James Baldoni’s It Ends with Us starring Blake Lively based on the wildly successful Colleen Hoover novel and Alien: Romulus (Fede Álvarez), the latest in the Alien franchise.

1966 film scene almost identical to Trump assassination attempt

Coincidences and coincidences. A couple of weeks ago I noted to myself the bizarre coincidences that can occur almost back-to-back. I killed a creepy crawly in my kitchen only to read later that day on social media how the scary critters can be beneficial. Then, on a Montreal Facebook group, I see a photo of the famed Montreal Outremont Theatre, while earlier that day I had thought of a mild negative encounter I at one time had there. And yesterday, one day after watching a movie with a similar theme, there was an assassination attempt on US President Donald Trump’s life. The coincidence? The alleged shooter's gun was exposed from foliage on the side of Trump’s West Palm Beach golf course. This was almost the identical location of the shooter in Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 film Blow-Up (photo). In the film, a London fashion photographer played by David Hemmings happens upon a scene in a park where two people (one being a woman played by Vanessa Redgrave) are cavorting. The movie is part of The Criterion Channel’s current Photographer's Gaze series where photography plays a central role in a movie's plot. Hemmings’s character “Thomas” starts clicking away at the lovers unbeknownst to them. Later in his studio, he develops the negatives only to see something strange on one side of London’s Maryon Park (above). It’s someone pointing a gun out of the bushes, almost identically as the US Secret Service saw a gun pointing at Trump. “A Secret Service agent spotted the suspect as he stuck the barrel of his rifle through the fence on the outskirts of the golf course,” a press report said. This has now given me an excuse to write about Blow-Up, a great film which won Cannes’ Palme d’Or. There is much to like about this psychological drama and murder mystery: the role of the camera and voyeurism, shots of London during the height of its Swinging Sixties era, demure and understated Hayley Mills also at the peak of her career, a reminder of how beautiful Vanessa Redgrave was in her youth. And some minor delights. The score was by jazz great “Herbert” Hancock not “Herbie” (the same person). Cult actress Jane Birkin had a role as a wannabe model teen. Hemmings was no stranger to the era’s rock ’n roll world and was a musician himself.  One scene at London’s Ricky-Tick Club – which played host to many of the great British bands including the Rolling Stones, Who and Pink Floyd – has a mockup with The Yardbirds playing their signature “Stroll On.” Jeff Beck starts bashing his guitar into a malfunctioning amp, stomps on it and throws pieces of the guitar into a delirious crowd. All very fun. But what a premonition to what would take place the next day in West Palm Beach, Florida.

Best laid plans - times two - go awry

I regret to inform that I won’t be attending the Windsor International Film Festival’s edition after all. Well, the large majority of it anyhow. And in its celebratory 20^th year! And despite the fact I’d made it a point to attend the edition in full (usually I miss a few days due to other commitments). I had planned all this out carefully. I was first going to attend, as I usually do, Montreal’s Festival du nouveau cinema in mid-October, arrive home and gestate a few days before buying my pass and joining the joyful line at the Capitol Theatre or surrounding venues for the remarkable “little festival that could” (one of the most successful smaller city festivals in the country) 10-day event Oct. 24 – Nov. 3. And then, hot on its heels, Windsor’s experimental film festival, Media City Nov. 7 – 11. But because of new and unavoidable travel plans I won’t be able to make any of those glittering days except for opening night. Which I haven’t attended (nor closing night) in the past. So at least we’ll get to see Canadian filmmaker Sophie Deraspe’s Shepherds. As per description: “Mathyas trades in his Montreal life as a young advertising executive to become a shepherd in the South of France. But the harsh realities of the pastoral world force him to question his romantic vision of the profession.” In 2019 WIFF nomonated Deraspe’s Antigone for its Canadian Film prize.

This seems to be an autumn for bad luck, film festival wise, and ironically enough. My partner and I were planning to attend the press conference last week for this fall’s London (UK) Film Festival at the beautiful and sprawling British Film Institute on the Thames’ South Bank, sandwiched between the stunning Royal Festival Hall and Britain’s National Theatre complex. The conference was supposed to start at 10 am. Our flight arrived at 6.30, so no problem, right? Wrong. Heathrow airport’s accessibility services were very slow in transferring one of us from the aircraft through security and to baggage claim. We’d ordered an airport taxi to pick us up at 7.45. (I was looking forward to seeing our names on a small placard held up by the driver!) But by the time we cleared the Arrivals gate it was 8.30. And those cabs don’t wait forever. So, $124.04 down the drain. And hiring a London Black Cab at the regular taxi rank, iconic as they are, cost an additional $206.17. But the worst was missing the press conference itself. The BFI, by the way, is the epitome of film venues, and has including several cinemas, a wonderful bar and restaurant, café, bookstore and Mediatheque room of pods where you can recline in comfort and call up hundreds of films and videos to watch at your pleasure.