Oscar Berliner’s life story is the quintessentially American kind. The son of Polish immigrants who came to the U.S. around the turn of the 20th century, his narrative was repeated innumerable times among the families of Eastern Europeans. This seemingly ubiquitous story is granted its uniqueness by its treatment at the hands of his son, director Alan Berliner, in the film Nobody’s Business. A document of the intergenerational tension that most any father-son relationship will yield, the film’s antagonism is leavened by the underlying affection that Berliner clearly feels for his father, and an affinity between the two is readily apparent. Berliner infuses the film with a playfulness that makes the sometimes sobering reality of life easier to deal with, leaving the viewer with something that is equal parts document, cinematic essay, fine art and a love letter to his father. Following the screening STF Artistic Director Thom Powers spoke with Berliner. Click “Read more” below for the Q&A.
(photo: from left, Thom Powers and Alan Berliner, courtesy Cathryne Czubek)
With the notable exception of The Hurt Locker, one is hard-pressed to cite examples of narrative cinema born of the U.S. wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that have managed to have any significant cultural impact. Much of the rhetorical work that was done a generation ago by war films like Apocalypse Now and The Deerhunter is today being shouldered by nonfiction films like Restrepo and Poster Girl, which provide viewers with insights into both the surreality of war, and the staggering cost it inflicts on both its willing and unwilling participants. The conventions of nonfiction storytelling lend themselves to an immediacy that is hard to duplicate in fictional narrative work, which may explain the wealth of astounding war-related documentary films in the past few years. (Films like Iraq in Fragments, Taxi to the Dark Side and The Oath immediately spring to mind, to cite just a few examples).
It’s impossible to pin down the cause of the collapse of the U.S.’s myriad manufacturing sectors to any one source. A host of factors have conspired to hasten the demise of the country’s industrial economy, and with it, a major source of social mobility for the thousands of immigrant laborers that once flooded U.S. shores. In Schmatta: Rags to Riches to Rags, filmmaker Marc Levin focuses his attention on a subset of one of these sectors—New York City’s garment district. Once a steady means of ingress to a solid middle class lifestyle, the city’s garment industry has contracted to a degree that leaves it a stone’s throw from extinction, with little hope for recovery. These industries are now reborn in the developing world, where labor, absent organization, is being exploited to grim result. Schmatta remains a cautionary tale about the excesses of capitalism that is easily applied to a range of other industries, and a warning of its ability to repeat its cruel brand of havoc today in sweatshops the world over. Filmmaker and writer 
So what hasn’t already been said about Grey Gardens? In the years since its 1975 release, the film has influenced incredibly distant corners of American culture. For instance, it has somehow managed to earn a strong following among gay men, while simultaneously spawning a cult fashion following based on Little Edie’s sublime self-styled “costumes.” Grey Gardens tells a story that resonates so deeply that, in the last five years alone, it has been reconceived not once, but twice, in eponymous homage—first as a Broadway musical in 2006, and then as an narrative film based on the Beales’ lives that premiered on HBO last year. The film has the uncanny ability to improve on repeated viewings, and it proves hard to avoid inferring deeper meaning from some of the memorable lines dropped by the Beales. A favorite bit of dialogue arrives when Little Edie, in a moment of existential musing, shares with the camera, “It’s very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present. You know what I mean? It’s awfully difficult.” Similar difficulties are faced when attempting to encapsule this incredible example of the direct cinema movement. Following the screening, STF Artistic Director spoke with Albert Maysles and Muffie Meyer, who, along with David Maysles and Ellen Hovde, directed the film. Click “Read more” below for the Q&A.
Having garnered accolades from disparate corners of the film and critical world since its release last year, the film Enemies of the People is assuredly many things. Most importantly, it is a record of the violence ordered by the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970s that killed as many as 1.7 million people, as detailed by “Brother Number Two,” the regime’s second-in-command, Nuon Chea. But the film also functions as strong evidence of the dogged determination of investigative journalist (and the film’s co-director) Thet Sambath, who dedicated 10 years—often at the expense of his personal life and bank account—to befriending Nuon Chea, and convincing him to share his story on film for the first time. The tale is made all the more remarkable by the fact that much of Sambath’s immediate family were victims of the genocide.