The Sleepy Time Gal

 

Writer/director Christopher Münch

Münch with Maximilian Schell and Jacqueline Bisset in Munich

THE SLEEPY TIME GAL         A                                                                                         USA  (108 mi)  2002  d: Christopher Münch

What a discovery!  Christopher Münch, who is the writer, director, editor, and producer of the film, does a brilliant job of poetically weaving together multiple story lines of crisscrossing characters that haven’t seen and don’t know about one another, confronting incredibly powerful moments in their lives, where it’s not always the accomplishments we look back upon, but the biggest regrets and disappointments that we tend to remember.  There’s some terrific writing here, with a unique editing design, while there’s also extraordinary acting by all involved. Jacqueline Bisset?  It might be hard to believe, as Charlotte Rampling has re-invented herself in recent roles, but she never had a part as well written or as fully realized as this one.  Add to this Martha Plimpton and Nick Stahl, who both worked beautifully together before in Tim Blake Nelson’s first film THE EYE OF GOD (1997), which was one of the best American films seen in recent years.  Seymour Cassel, of all people, from the Cassavetes films (who the director met briefly before he died), reappears here along with Frankie R. Faison, where even the secondary roles have a profound impact.  All are simply fabulous.  This is highly personalized and amazingly human, a contemplative experience that is as intense and emotionally compelling as anything seen this year, a small gem of a film that has rarely been seen since its initial limited release.  Taking three years to make, with jazz and classical musical selections playing a prominent role in this rich under the surface atmosphere, the film premiered at Sundance, where most of the director’s features have played, distinguished by never having found a distributor, appearing on The Village Voice list of Best Undistributed Films of 2001, eventually released on the director’s own production company, Antarctic Pictures, shown on television by the Sundance Channel, which led to a brief American theatrical release, followed by a DVD from Sundance Home Channel Entertainment that is now out of print, never released on Blu Ray, making this an overlooked and very difficult find, though it has streamed on the Criterion Channel.  According to Film Comment editor Gavin Smith (FILM; Adventures of an Indie Gem on Its Way to the Screen), the film takes “incredible risks with material that’s been handled in really banal ways in the past.”  From the director of Letters From the Big Man (2011), Münch is a self-taught filmmaker from Southern California, the recipient of a Guggenheim fellow, while his first film, THE HOURS AND TIMES (1992), an inquiry into the Beatles’ psychosexual dynamics based on the friendship of Brian Epstein and John Lennon, won the Wolfgang Staudte Prize at Berlin for the best first or second feature.  He’s not a well-known artist, the son of astrophysicist Guido Münch and writer Louise Fernandez, and few have likely seen any of his works, but this particular film is a revelation, and well worth seeking out.

At the center of this film is Frances, played by Jaqueline Bisset, star of Peter Yates’ Bullitt (1968), François Truffaut’s DAY FOR NIGHT (1973), and John Huston’s UNDER THE VOLCANO (1984), who regards this as the finest performance of her career, where much of the character is based on the director’s own mother, a remarkable free-spirited woman in her fifties who has led a full life, with a keen intellect and love for the arts, married twice with two sons, one from each husband, though one lives abroad and is heard only by telephone and never seen.  Working as a freelance writer, social activist, and radio personality, also something of a history buff, she has an enlightened effect on the many people she has met, yet also interwoven into the storyline is Rebecca (Martha Plimpton), a high-powered corporate attorney, as we discover parallels between a younger version of Frances and Rebecca’s own life, where initially viewers have no idea how it all fits together.  Feeling more like a subconscious memory exploration, featuring a series of spatial shifts moving back and forth in time, a patchwork of random incidents, beginning with Frances in New York City in the summer of 1982, moving to Frances in San Francisco six months later, then discovering Rebecca in New York, jumping forward another year to Frances in San Francisco, switching back to Rebecca in Boston before boarding a plane for Daytona Beach, Florida.  Yet there are also some extraordinary 1930’s shots of New York City, supposedly shot by the director’s grandfather, a Mexican newsreel cameraman who had spent time in New York.  The autobiographical elements are simply an underside of this film, where things don’t necessarily have to make sense, as this is more of a story about human relationships, yet the stream of images are a potent reminder of how we come to understand the complexity of our lives.  What we see from Frances’ past is shown in poetic flashbacks of black-and-white photographs and home movies, which may be real or imagined, given a very literary feel.  Frances has a young gay son living in San Francisco, Morgan (Nick Stahl, a stand-in for the director), trying to establish himself as a photographer, working a minimum wage job in a photo copy shop, where they are close, but often butt heads in disagreements, leading completely different lives, where most of the backstory is never filled in.  Instead, Frances has to come to terms with rapidly spreading cancer, where part of confronting her own mortality is revisiting the source of her biggest regret, as she was forced by her own mother, Anna (Carmen Zapata), to give up a baby girl born out of wedlock to adoption.  Illegitimacy was once a real concern in 1950’s America, carrying a heavy weight, something few would comprehend today.  Rebecca, as it turns out, is that missing daughter, who also reflects on her birth mother as she gets older, pondering all the missing and unanswered questions, revealing the profound influence parents have on their children, oftentimes in ways that are only understood when reflecting on them later in life.  It’s an unusual technique of developing two separate storylines on parallel tracks throughout the picture that somehow merge emotionally and psychologically, as they never come face to face, but meet only in their minds and imaginations, which adds greatly to the emotional weight of the film.  This is an extremely original cinematic vision, taking us to unexpected places, surprising us every step of the way, showcasing different locations, styles of architecture, and enticing landscapes, as it probes an underside of something that never fully surfaces into the light, but has a pregnant life force of its own, with the director reeling viewers into their anxiously unsettled mindsets, where it’s clear just how much this exploration means to them, becoming a rarely seen existential essay on pursuing one’s own identity, where this unforgettable film is essentially that journey. 

Frances goes through the chemotherapy sessions, surrounded by caring doctors and hospital staff, with encouraging therapists, then she got better, and was in remission, hoping it’s just a setback, that she can get her life back on track, revisiting an old flame, Bob (Seymour Cassel), who happens to be Rebecca’s father, currently living with his wife of thirty years, Betty (Peggy Gormley), on a farm in the Amish country of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  While they still have a serious connection, perhaps more interesting is the relationship between the women, who have always known about the other, as it was never a secret, but Betty never knew about the child, only that Bob could just as easily have been married to Frances, where she is writing a book that fictionalizes a love story she imagines, which turns out to be fairly close to the truth about the affair between Bob and Frances.  Coming face to face, finally, opens up a part of their lives that each has never experienced, where there are so many emotions hidden beneath the surface.  Bob, of course, wants to pick up where they left off, even going on a hot-air balloon ride together, causing Frances to grow uncomfortable and leave without any word, as she just disappears like a thief in the night.  Seeking to make amends with some of the combative relationships she has experienced, always feeling strangely unfulfilled, Frances has a strained relationship with her mother, a small-minded Puerto Rican woman who is openly racist, still something of a culture shock and open wound in her life, something that apparently will never heal.  Rebecca, meanwhile, is sent to a Daytona Beach radio station for a corporate takeover, where she runs into one of the disc jockeys there, Jimmy (Frankie Faison), a black radio station manager who had free reign to play whatever he liked on what was commonly known as a “race station,” but he understands how the business works and has no hard feelings, thankful for the time he had there, where the station’s reputation was established by late night programming from a woman who described herself as the “Sleepy Time Gal,” with a photo of her hanging in the studio, someone Jimmy was drawn to as well, but Rebecca has no idea this is her mother.  As Rebecca attempts to gather court sealed information about her mother, it’s an eye-opening process, with Frances leaving behind messages for the daughter she never knew, searching for missed opportunities, where the dramatic combustion is nothing less than compelling, treading on very rare territory, using kaleidoscopic, stream of conscious imagery that can feel abstract and emotionally jarring, where we can never be sure whether we’re watching the fantasies of one character or the memories of another, yet it’s all in pursuit of a better understanding of ourselves.  There’s even a French girl (Clara Bellar) gathering mushrooms near San Francisco Bay that Frances encounters, where these ambiguous side excursions just add to the complexity of the experience.  As Frances’ condition deteriorates, she makes peace with life and death without an ounce of sentimentality, attended by a sympathetic hospice nurse, Maggie (Amy Madigan), and visited by her son, where it’s as close to being in the same room with someone dying as you’re ever likely to see onscreen, with Bisset miraculously displaying an unsparing depth of range we’ve never seen from her, providing touching moments that are simply unforgettable, most without uttering a word, requiring the full attention of viewers.  Tenderly observant, falling outside of traditional boundaries, ultimately this is a probing exploration of what it means to face death, avoiding melodrama, forgoing typically comforting clichés in favor of multifaceted ambiguity, offering something far more truthful and uncompromisingly open-ended.

Saint Frances

 

Alex Thompson and Kelly O'Sullivan

banner from 1977 National Women's Conference

Ramona Edith Williams on the set

SAINT FRANCES                 B+                                                                                                USA  (101 mi)  2019  d: Alex Thompson

As women’s movies go, there is nothing about this overtly personal film that would ever have been written by a man, as this is a brave approach to feminist cinema on a small scale, like an open conversation with other women, accentuating the importance of women’s bodies and not having to feel ashamed, bringing a singularly unique perspective that is eye-opening, to say the least, offering a melancholy expression of modern life, dealing with the subject of abortion in unexpected ways, expressing the severe toll it takes on a woman’s body, while even a sympathetic male supporter undergoes no similar transformation, having no real idea or understanding of what a woman actually goes through.  Unlike other films that deal with the subject substantially differently, like Yasujirō Ozu’s Tokyo Twilight (Tôkyô Boshoku) (1957), Cristian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (4 luni, 3 saptamâni si 2 zile) (2007), Nia DaCosta’s Little Woods (2018), Eliza Hittman’s 2020 Top Ten List #5 Never Rarely Sometimes Always, or Audrey Diwan’s 2023 Top Ten List #10 Happening (L’événement) (2021), the latter three made by women, this film balances the extremes of copious amounts of blood on the sheets after sex during menstruation with all the psychological ramifications of the ensuing consequences.  Women are intentionally kept ignorant about their own bodies and manipulated by a culture that expects their lives to conform to the approved narrative, reflective of all the ways society dictates how women should feel about themselves, where obtaining truths about certain realities can be hard to come by.  The prevailing sentiment is that if men got pregnant, abortion would be legal everywhere, as easily accessible as ATM machines.  Instead, the United States Supreme Court ruled in June 2022 that there is no constitutional right to abortion, overturning Roe v. Wade (1973), which guaranteed a constitutional right, a devastating decision that will reverberate for generations to come, now making it as difficult as possible, even outlawing abortion in most places of the country, making it against the law to even provide common sense knowledge and helpful information to women.  It’s a contentious subject that has divided the nation for decades, but abortions are an existing reality in America, with more than 20 million occurring in the last 20 years, yet 82% of both men and women don’t know where to go for after-abortion support.  That amounts to 16 million people who didn’t know where to find care, and that’s when Roe v. Wade was legal, so that number would be substantially higher today, where many women who have had an abortion turn to alcohol or drugs as tranquilizers to numb their painful memories.  No statistics are mentioned in the film, and this is not some kind of moral or social crusade, remaining completely non-judgmental at every turn, instead it’s simply a refreshingly honest take in its portrayal of female life, on what makes women biologically and psychologically different than men, where the drama is presented in a very matter of fact way, becoming a deeply empathetic film about the collective struggles that all women face and the power that comes with sharing them.  It’s rare to discover a film where the menstrual cycle is presented as an everyday, ordinary occurrence, where it’s not shocking or disgusting, but just how bodies work, often showing up at the most inopportune moments, something to contend with on a regular basis, with a wide variety of accompanying mood swings, yet it’s something women at an early age are taught to hide and keep concealed, where most women have an embarrassing period story.  In other words, this frank depiction of modern womanhood is far more complex than most of us truly know or understand, becoming a film about female sexual autonomy, the kind of rights that are being stripped from women today, yet showing a willingness to tackle big topics with disarming candor, where this essentially low-key film shines a light in the dark, offering unapologetic insight into a difficult subject, yet does so with extensive warmth and humor.

While the film is heavily female in tone and content, offering a perspective on both having a child and choosing not to, one unexpected surprise is that it’s actually directed by a man, Alex Thompson, who is also the editor, yet written by and starring his partner Kelly O’Sullivan as Bridget, a 34-year old woman that we see at a party in the opening, where she meets Jace (Max Lipchitz), ending up together in bed (in the actor’s own Uptown apartment in Chicago), where the unthinkable happens, as the sheets are covered in blood afterwards.  OK, she started menstruating during sex, not that big of a deal, but the blood motif is a sign of things to come, as she later gets pregnant and decides to terminate the pregnancy at home taking prescribed pills.  And while the much younger Jace is totally on board and supportive of her choice, the film shows a clear delineation between what they each experience.  It’s kind of cute, at first, how they act like a couple without really being a couple, something she makes unequivocally clear from the outset when Jace incorrectly assumes that he’s her boyfriend.  He does accompany her to the clinic, and tenderly reads her the precise instructions to follow afterwards, and while he may be politely supportive, she resents the fact that it’s her body alone that must suffer, as she loses copious amounts of blood, spending a great deal of time in the bathroom, as intermittent bleeding is a common aftereffect following an abortion, where it’s all a bit unsettling.  Yet there’s a breezy air about this woman, quick-witted and smart, easy to like, expressing an inherent decency, using dark humor to cover her anxieties, often making jokes at her own expense, exposing her own vulnerability, reminding some of the restless spirit of Greta Gerwig in Noah Baumbach’s Frances Ha (2012), yet she’s not without flaws, describing herself as “not an impressive person,” but somehow the overall tone is humorous and invigorating.  Audiences are invited into this strange new world, as it’s not something typically seen in movies, where the entire film is filtered through her eyes, working a frustrating job as a server at an American diner restaurant that she abruptly quits for a new summer job as a nanny for a biracial lesbian couple, who have two young children living near Northwestern University in a middle class suburb just north of Chicago, essentially so that the two mothers can look after their newborn.  While she never thought she’d be offered the job, not exactly acing the interview, the original hire did not work out, so she fills a need as the sensible choice, probably way overqualified, but has no real experience working with children.  In fact, she doesn’t even like children.  Not much is known about her initially, with viewers learning details much like her perspective employer does, and there’s not instant rapport with the children, as six-year old Frances (Ramona Edith Williams, who is a true revelation onscreen) gives her a hard time, bluntly informing her “You’re not good at anything,” instantly challenging the acceptable boundaries, feigning that she’s being abducted by a stranger, so when the police return them both to the door after a routine visit to the park, the mothers are predictably concerned, but they know their precocious daughter, who is smart beyond her years, a reflection of her mixed-race parents, Maya (Charin Alvarez), a practicing Catholic who is the nurturer and provider of the newborn, and Annie (Lily Mojekwu), a strong-willed lawyer working long hours who is more intellectually demanding.  No one is without sin in this film, which becomes universally relatable to the mainstream, even if the specific circumstances faced by the protagonist are completely unfamiliar, shockingly made for less than $150,000 and winning the Audience Choice Award at the 2019 SXSW Film Festival.  The film’s biggest weakness is depicting men exclusively as disappearing characters who hardly matter, while it’s also laced with a wistful, indie-heavy musical score that’s just not that interesting, sounding overly bland and generic.

One of the few films to stand out during a Covid pandemic lockdown, the dialogue is sharply written and candidly honest, perceptively dealing with unpleasant subjects or treading into often forbidden territory with down-to-earth humor, which makes this a rare film in that regard alone.  But the film really takes off as Bridget and Frances start to warm to each other, as the back and forth between them leads to some really touching moments, becoming amusingly playful and heartfelt, like having a longtime sidekick, knowing they are friends and allies, worthy of trust, and most of all safe companions.  The film is unusually charming in the breadth of their extraordinary honesty, with this young child stealing every scene she’s in, a remarkable contrast to the acute psychological stress from the lingering effects of the abortion, which is equally stunning in its transparency.  Bridget appears to be aimlessly stuck in a mid-life crisis, “an agnostic feminist” no longer connected to her lapsed Catholicism, where abortion remains a mortal sin, but retains an inherently old-fashioned adherence to the rhythm method of contraception, not really discovering her true purpose in life. Having achieved nothing of what is generally understood as a success, this brief introduction to motherhood has caused her to reassess her situation, as all her friends from school have gone on to either be super successful or married with children.  But she defiantly refuses to be defined by others, including her own disappointed parents, where her rather bossy mother (Mary Beth Fisher, a frequent collaborator of the Goodman Theater in Chicago) offers a lurid story of her own travails with early motherhood, where parenthood often feels like simply too much to handle, suggesting it’s always important to have someone to talk to so you don’t feel so isolated and alone, which allows for the possibility of growth.  One of the scenes of the film takes place on a playground, with Maya breastfeeding a young newborn, which offends one of the other mothers, offering a piece of her mind, attempting to guilt-trip her, with Bridget stepping in to defend a woman’s right to feed her own child, as that’s one of the wonders of nature that should never be judged as “offensive.”  Fraught with emotion, it’s like a provocative scene out of Todd Field’s Little Children (2006), where women are often meanest to other women, for some reason, and can be the patriarchy’s best enforcers, where a similar incident happens again when Frances is having a play date with another child, and the mother (Rebekah Ward), recognizes Bridget from a year spent together at Northwestern, when Bridget was thought of as “the next Sylvia Plath,” but after she realizes she’s just a lowly nanny, she starts ordering her around like a servant, reflective of pervasive class bigotry.  There are equally compelling scenes of Bridget dressing up Frances as a budding Joan Jett rock star, complete with playful anger and a badass attitude, where the bond they share is positively uplifting, but of course once Annie returns home she wipes off all the makeup and sends her daughter off to her room, as if she’s being punished for something.  There are plenty of contrasting moments or divergent points of view, including the lesbian relationship, which has its own issues, with Maya feeling overwhelmed, suffering from postpartum depression, worrying that she’s failed as a parent, not receiving enough support from her partner, who is in denial about what her partner is going through, but what really works is the evolution of these relationships, as we come to know these characters, who are so carefully drawn out as to become completely recognizable.  Frances is like a child savant, whose poignant reflections are astonishing, ultimately providing the saving grace, as her openness appears to be a healing bridge to all Bridget’s concerns, as she’s so essentially human that she resuscitates the sagging life force within her, allowing her to breathe again and just be herself, as mattering to someone is what matters.