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Trailer
She first pours her pathos on him in the cab
at about 9 minutes into the movie. He, being the
Middle Eastern guy, is of course the cab driver
and she carelessly (but not cluelessly-on the
contrary, quite manipulatively) spilling her lamentations
upon him from the aloof perch of privilege (presumptuously
assuming he gives a shit) is our standard disgruntled
middle class professional white woman. Accept
not so cliché now see, we've never quite
seen her like this-Robin Wright Penn's portrayal
of Phoebe layers on the prototypical white female
neuroses to a degree that I doubt we've seen in
cinema-but more on that later. All this occurs
in the quintessential American city of New York
where such cultural juxtapositions occur on a
daily basis damn near by the minute. But how often
does such proximity afford one access into the
intimate annals of a stranger's (of another culture's
no less) life.
"Sorry, Haters" is, amongst other things,
a movie about stereotypes… shattering them-and
reassembling them… and shattering them again.
A psychological thriller that pummels your perception
of everyday social relations (in the schizophrenic
cauldron of chaos that passes for social relations
in "modern" society) by positing all
the usual suspects alongside each other introducing
one cliché to another and then scrambling
their identity into a whole new definition altogether.
I began to slowly ascertain what was being done
(to my consciousness) in the first scene of the
movie when Ashade, the cab driver played by Abdellatif
Kechiche, poses a question to a very distracted
bank security guard whose attention is besieged
by the MTV-esque reality show on his monitor,
the namesake of which is the same as the movie
title. "Sorry, haters!" goes the antagonistic
retort accented to a perfect uptown Brooklyn b-girl
tee. It serves as the slogan for the show which
is an obvious spoof on MTV cribs. Hmmm… I
was mildly jolted for a second as I processed
this. First I had to take into account what was
being taken into (someone else's) account here.
You see, SH is one of those films with the ribbons
on it (hence my attraction to it). You know those
films with the ribbons shaped like (the) parentheses
(that proliferate themselves thru out my discourse
like so much confetti at the monster's ball of
mind meets pen meets paper for the lynching of
the ignorance and oblivion of the societal automaton).
They always hold the accolades from some film
festival or another inside their brackets. (Film
festivals which I am starting to suspect, by the
way, must litter themselves about the art world
like so much broken plates at a Greek wedding
judging from the amount of "ribbon"
films one can spot in the local video store these
days.)
Anyhow, it was a haunting knowing that loomed
on the horizon of my awareness as I began to suspect
that the culprit behind the depiction of my aforementioned
beloved b-girl (whose sensual intonations echoing
with buoyancy from the cacophonous backdrop of
modern day hip-hop provide our clumsy entry into
the realm of contemporary black American culture-Black
American culture being the third "usual suspect"
in this crash course thru social relations, the
other two being the aforementioned white and middle
eastern) was in deed of the same sect of Lubriderm
libertarians that have been the primary vanguards
of (and conduits for) the independent film movement.
In short, after having ingested more than my share
of shorts and foreign films that have perpetually
hopped, skipped and jumped from Indian brothels
to Israeli ghettoes, Chinese opium dens to German
electronica clubs, Brazilian 'favelas' to Sierra
Leone diamond mines, it was eery to now finally
have the indie film world faintly brush over one
of the most exclamatory abrasive (and undeniably
American) cultural forces of our time-the return
of the Minstrel Nigger! O ye of endlessly expansive
social consciousness; connoisseurs of cinematic
craftsmanship and impeccable artistic aesthetic,
where the fuck hast thou been as my niggers right
here on the mainland have writhed under the glaring
oppressive surveillance of your corporate sponsored
governments clandestine operatives, CIA COINTELPRO
manipulations, NSA and FBI covert investigations,
planned assassinations and other endless atrocities
against the collateral loss that is and has always
been the black community in America? Thou hast
been amiss… to say the least… probably
lobbying for animal rights or endangered trees
somewhere in a South American rainforest…
ahem… err some shit. -O what's that? -Absentee
voters in the name of our cause were you? Too
bad the powers that be aren't into counting even
the real votes now-a-days. With "friends
like these" (as my man Jimmy Baldwin referenced
you), I needn't enemies. But I can't after all
say that I blame you. No human is responsible
for living the life of or making the decisions
for another human. Dually, no one is privy to
the antecedent intentions and motivations of another's
psyche. And if I were you, I'd probably sit, err
cringe awkwardly from outside of the arena of
niggerdom myself and wonder in stupefied amazement
at all the chicken bones doused in watermelon
juice (or were those human bones drenched in blood…)
being flung over the mysterious rim of the nigger
amphitheater and fumbling beyond its perimeter
into the cesspool of mainstream Western society.
Hell I'm black and I do! That said, I'm not even
all opposed to the Sarah Silverman-esque "honest"
approach that renders my community antagonized
with angst-ridden incendiary sideline commentary
on our pathological use of the "N" word
which she so graciously alleviates us of the burdensome
responsibility of bearing under the opaque weighted
title of "N" with as she ships it right
down to the naked nigger nitty gritty for all
those politically incorrect challenged out there.
Head nod to that grimey hymey by the way-she a
real nigga for that one ya heard me! And as one
good turn deserves another, I raise her one good
nigger chicken bone for every one of her slain
ancestors in the so-called "holocaust"
of World War II. Ahem… reparations if you
will-seeing as how the degenerate WASP whores
who pimped your jewish grandparents will never
break your weak ass off. Alas, I digress, all
the aforementioned was in pure jest. And if you
think Sarah ain't tough enough to tango, just
watch her recent "Jesus Is Magic" (see,
I even gave her punk ass a plug-I assure you it's
all love!) But back to the aforementioned of the
Lubriderm art fart world; a separate diagnosis
for them. While "Sorry, Haters" is a
good movie (I'm being so unfair, I know!), I have
apparently been inspired by some intangible force
(oh I don'tknow, the movie's namesake, perhaps…
just a thought) to use this review as a venting
session as I am beyond disgusted at not only the
state of global affairs but also their depiction,
or lack thereof via not only mainstream media
but even the more so-called independent channels
that have funneled our supposedly subversive "underground"
culture to us. Perceptive bias being the commonality
that links all of us together (the one thing we
all have in common is what keeps us all apart!)
I am not convinced that anyone on any respective
"level" of life is so different from
anyone else. Underground and mainstream is an
illusion that has rendered itself as futile as
trying to differentiate between the biochemical
consistency of the isotopes in a molecule of water
found in the depths of the Mediterranean Sea foam
from that found in the froth of Coney Island sea
foam. Though the Coney Island molecule may have
some shit and heroine residue in it (I'm just
sayin' though!), water is water ya' feel me.
So this brings me back to Robin Wright Penn in
the movie at hand. Say you're a disenfranchised
youth from Anyghetto, USA witnessing your dreams
prostrate before your oppression-jaundiced eyes
(as in… "you're eyes will sing a song
of deep hate" eyes) as broadcast over the
television into your living room is some rap star
bragging of his platinum bejeweled grandiose ballerific
lifestyle. At the end of his narcissistic soliloquy,
he'll peer tauntingly into the camera and tease
(motivate?) your broke ass with a retort like,
"Sorry, haters!" or "get the bleep
out of my crib."
Well if I was in said situation I might wanna,
oh I don't know, kill or rob said rapper or both;
and if that didn't work, what choice have I left
but to become my own rap artist, achieve a level
of prominence akin to my at one time antagonistic
overseer only to be able to usurp said nemesis'
status quo and assume it as my own. Or if I am
on the immediate outside of said equation and
rendered an even more useless x-factor in the
grand scheme of things; as is the posterity of
former of slave owners (or at least middle tier
immigrants who were benefactors of the American
social scheme) now bequeathed a rung on the social
ladder inferior to that of the children of the
former slave; or more plainly, a lame white chic
of little to no social consequence and 0% cool
factor forced to eek out my existence counting
the money of the mega-large who parade their riches
and party lifestyle in my face, then I might find
myself equally as, if not more angst ridden than
the aforementioned ghetto youth. That, in a nutshell,
is the disposition of Phoebe of "Sorry, Haters."
She picks her prey carefully. In the post 9/11
milieu that provides the backdrop for this film
she coyly plays upon the most likely suspect for
haterism-a devout Muslim man who fits the stereotype
of terrorist. Watching her in motion trips us
through a few psychological vantage points embodied
in one apparently borderline (if not full blown)
schizophrenic human being. On the one hand, there
is the fragile, feeble Phoebe; a broken character
whose reason for being is unclear, but whose troubled
psyche renders itself quite apparent. She has
Ashade drive her up to some sprawling estate presumably
on the outskirts of New York city, only to look
upon abjectly from afar the successful lives of
a woman, who she says stole her husband from her,
her alleged former husband and their happy daughter.
The scene is shot in a dark shadowy lighting that
forces the viewer to have to imagine much of it
for him/herself. Not to mention the fact that
we are never allowed a clear view of the house
that she is haunting, we only hear the voices
of the family trailing off in the distance, as
Phoebe creepily stalks them form the driveway
and defiles their luxury car. Ashade sits in wing,
waiting oblivious in his car.
We move on from the passive side of Phoebe's
passive aggression (who has, by this point already
broken down in tears in front of Ashade, who is
by the way still a stranger to her) to be accosted
by a more domineering version of her character
that introduces itself during a break in the cab
ride wherein Ashade goes to visit his French sister
in law. It is here where the vile face of her
Western superiority complex unveils chimeras of
the blaring glare to be more fully rendered later
on. She imposes herself on Ashade's family visit
under the guise of having to use their bathroom.
But not long after, she is, once again presumptously
spilling her life story into the laps of strangers
as she "catharts" in their living room.
Splashing her narrative with a little racist reference
to her supposed hubby stealing former housemaid
(excellently played later on in the movie by Sandra
Oh), her faux concern for "minorities"
and the disenfranchised is rendered as transparent
as it is baseless directly prior to ther probing
Ashade and his sister in law to "please do
share too" at the table of suffering and
misery. And so it goes; it turns out Ashade's
brother has been arrested and detained on trumped
up charges of terrorism. Ashade looks after sister
in law and nephew in the wake of brother's absence.
So Phoebe offers a favor to the socially marooned
Ashade in the form of legal assistance for his
uphill struggle. Only there's a catch; invisible
strings attached that equate to a noose of control
and inextricable binds. Phoebe makes some severe
demands of Ashade's Muslim manhood, as it were,
in exchange for her gifts of alleged Western affluence
and access. These demands aren't exactly sexual
in nature, though they are deeply bouyed by a
societally and media modified stereotype of a
foreign culture (which is, of course directly
derived from a xenophobia rooted in fears which
are mostly sexual in nature;). She wants to exact
her revenge upon the hierarchical capitalist social
system that has rendered her menial existence
all but futile via one wild act of terrorism enacted
by none other than our usual suspect. (Picture
that-a salty white chic plays the angry black
man-see how amorphous these character archetypes
can be...?) Ashade is locked in to his connection
to Phoebe once she unveils her diabolical plan,
because after all, he's public enemy number one
and who would believe his story if he told anyhow?
I can just see him now, detained in Guantanamo
with his brother explaining to military intelligence
how it all happenned on Mulberry Street. Next
thing you know he'll be asking them to believe
that the American government was responsible for
9/11. Speaking of which, as the movie comes to
somewhat of a helm-after a 60 minute or so journey
through the winding paths of Phoebe and Ashade,
we settle into Phoebe's apartment where she breaks
down-yet again-in front of Ashade and reveals
some of the reasoning behind her pathos. By now
she has already antagonized this man and manipulated
his life to the brink of ruin and subsequently
all but forced him into becoming the terrorist
that she envisions him as, and fantasizes of being
herself. Her emotional "breakdowns"
have proven themselves to be suspect to say the
least and even Ashade has concluded that she is
a "crazy bitch!" and "fack you
fack you fack you!" (accented translation)
to boot. So as you look on as the end approaches,
and she shows him her post 9-11 collage of famous
faces of Western contemporary culture (all multi
millionaires like Oprah and Donald Trump) with
her face plastered in the middle along side the
still smoking towers; you kind of hope that Ashade
will see through the mellowdramatic plea for sympathy
as the farce that it is. But to no avail, Ashade
being forever the humble Islamic faithful (according
to the dvd's director commentary on Abdelatif
Kachiche, art imitates life in this regard). And
yet Phoebe has yet still another grand finale
of a trick up her sleeves that will leave your
head spinning for days after watching this movie.
If nothing else, it causes one to examine the
dynamic nature of the vengeful spirit and its
potential consequences for the avenged. It also
causes one to explore the complexiites, the very
dissonant and cacophonous rhythyms of that peculiar
institution of human consciousness we like to
call "evil". And while the motives behind
Phoebe's pathological actions are hardly discernable
from the opaque discourse that the film leaves
you with, logical comprehension may not be the
point at all here. But instead, experential knowledge
of what it is to walk through such tarnished,
hate laden shoes, to ebb and flow through the
oscillating tides of her emotional roller coaster,
and be coarsed haplessly through the desperate
abysses and shadowed crevices of such a (inner)
war torn, tortured psyche. This is the gift of
a journey that this film affords you. And insodoing,
provides more understanding than any intellectual
or psychological dissertation ever could. Here
we have a "terrorist" in white face.
And as proven by the recent tragedy at Virginia
Tech, this is a state of mind that can be born
into any being and represented by any face. Perhaps
the missing link in our systemic backwash and
intide of violence and hatred can be found in
the very forces that funnel it outwards to begin
with. Or maybe the timeless wisdom spoken by Dr.
King can elucidate things further with, "Injustice
for one is Injustice for all." Sounds kind
of harsh, huh? Well revenge can be a motherfucker
sometimes. Sorry haters.
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