Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden?
I arrived at the Alamo Draft House about 15 to 20 minutes prior to the start of the movie. With my film pass, I walked past a long line of impatient, angry, and jealous movie hopefuls. I think they resented the fact that, like SXSW badges trump film festival passes, film passes trump individual tickets. For those shows that are sold out, ticket buyers can get a rain check or refund. I almost wish I would've had a shield to protect me from the hatred pierced into the back of my head as I tucked into the hallway on my way to the auditorium.
After a brief announcement that identified the director who was present for this screening, the humorous pre-screening trailer that the fest put together (depicting a variety of scenerios between a puppet and co-workers at a fast-food joint), it was time for the film. It was the first film of the fest where the audio wasn't loud enough, and the audience screamed for more volume. The opening lines were almost inaudible, but the exploding action shortly thereafter about took our heads off.
And then there wasn't much to capture your attention. The long and dull diatribe that follows after the opening scene is nothing short of an all-time yawner. I hate it when I realize I'm watching a composition called a motion picture. It hearkens back to those early experiences with home movies -- which at least have the personal connection to the "talent." This lame excuse of a movie not only calls into quesion our loyalty as an audience, but the pre-festival screening process as well. How this movie could make it into a festival screening must've been a joke ... and those that chose it, I'm convinced, where in the back two rows giggling through this arduous experience. I can't remember ever walking out of a movie. I'm too cheap to let even a dollar cinema ticket go to waste. I can't get the haunting mockery out of my head: "You'll never get these 83 minutes to your life back" ... because it's true.
There were times when I thought my patience would pay off. When the narration hinted that the film crew might have information on his whereabouts in Pakistan, it felt like redemption was just around the corner. But then a redneck's ranting about Osama cut across from a rough edit almost like nails down a chalkboard. I felt sick when leaving the theater, and I even ducked into the restroom to purge, but I almost felt like that would have given the festival some satisfaction of any emotional reaction. Even though I wasn't really being watched, I felt convinced that my best recorse would be stoicism and no reaction. Almost like standing up to an agitator trying to coax a reaction out of me.
Now, the real truth is the show was completely sold out and my festival pass ticket could not get me inside. This entire review was just an exercise in the writing of a bad review. How'd I do?
©2008 HM Magazine - All Rights Reserved
Nice pull of the rug. I thought the critique was a little weird since his first documentry was worth watching, but in the end it all came together.
Posted by: Brandon at March 12, 2008 03:15 PM