Director: Jonas Akerlund
 Spun
is the most repugnant, foul, disgusting, obnoxious film ever
fed into a projector, the kind of wretched, pretentious dreck
only a masochistic junkie could love. “Hey, look at me, revel
in my glorious symbolism!” the film bellows from its every
bleakly bleached pore, patting itself on the back for being
so chock full of “meaning,” when “manure” would be a far more
appropriate word.
This brings us to the film’s only truly symbolic moment,
which arrives near the end of its short—yet seemingly neverending—running
time as constipated crack-addict Cookie (Mena Suvari)
struggles to have a bowel movement. Cookie’s quandary is quite
indicative of director Jonas Akerlund’s mentality,
as he strains to unload the biggest bunch of crap ever to
hit the silver screen. And does he ever release a steaming
pile. To call Spun a piece of shit would be an insult
to excrement everywhere.
The plotless film centers around a group of drug-addicted
delinquents including Ross (Jason Schwartzman), whose
meth-obsession has him drowning in a sea of debt; Frisbee
(Patrick Fugit), a pimple-faced video game devotee
who lives at home with his morbidly obese mother; Nikki (Brittany
Murphy), a hyperactive Las Vegas-bred stripper; and their
dealer Spider Mike (John Leguizamo) who spends his
downtime masturbating into a sock.
And just when you think things can’t possibly get any worse,
in waltzes Mickey Rourke as “The Cook,” a crack chemist
who takes the occasional sex break with the increasingly emaciated
Murphy. Like Eric Stoltz, Rourke’s presence in any
film is typically a strong indication it’s about to take a
plunge down the proverbial toilet. Fortunately—or rather,
unfortunately—Spun starts out in that very location,
so there’s not a whole lot left for Rourke to ruin.
Or so one might think, at least until the actor launches
into a mock-presidential speech in which he extols the wonders
of “pussy,” “big tits,” and “small asses,” an experience so
heinous that it makes slow, agonizing death seem absolutely
orgasmic by comparison. Only the most testicularly challenged
male screenwriters—in this case, Will De Los Santos
and Creighton Vero—could pen such horrifyingly unfunny,
misogynistic drivel and yet remain completely confident in
its brilliance.
Rourke’s monologue is undoubtedly one of the more disconcerting
aspects of the film, although the entire movie inspires non-stop
flinching, whether a result of the material itself or Akerlund’s
lust for abrasive camera tricks. The director has bragged
that Spun features more quick cuts than any film ever
made, as though creating a visually grating abomination is
an extraordinary accomplishment. Akerlund’s approach could
be called style over substance, except the film has no real
style. It’s an ugly, meaningless, sadsack second cousin to
the wonderfully realized Requiem For A Dream.
The most puzzling thing about Spun is that despite
its over-the-top antics and fast-paced editing, the movie
is incredibly, indescribably boring—so boring, in fact, that
even the characters have nodded off by film’s end. Of course,
they were likely just exhausted from handcuffing women to
beds, entering vaginas through clumsy animation sequences,
getting shot in the nether regions, and having the tar beaten
out of them by an angry lesbian (Deborah Harry).
Spun was showcased at this year’s SXSW film festival,
and perhaps that says something about the state of independent
filmmaking. Mostly, it says that achieving indie cred requires
nothing more than Tom Green-esque shock value, and
that those who are supposed to support struggling talent damage
filmmakers’ creative sensibilities by advocating vacuous time-drainers
such as Spun. To the up-and-coming artists whose work
was brushed aside in favor of Akerlund’s so-called “masterpiece
of drug cinema,” I offer my sincerest condolences.
While the headlining films featured at SXSW crashed with
an audible thud—including A Mighty Wind, the lackluster
Phone Booth and the incomparably awful Spun—a
few smaller films were on hand to counteract the smarmy pro-Hollywood
element the festival gladly trotted out in 2003.
 Not
least among those was Dummy, directed by Greg Pitikin
and starring The Pianist’s Adrien Brody. Set
in the suburbs of New York, the film features Brody as a shy
young ventriloquist Steven, who finds it difficult to express
his emotions through anything other than his dummy (which
gives a whole other meaning to a guy sporting “wood”).
The performances in the film are top-notch, including Milla
Jovovich as Steven’s extroverted, sexually ambiguous best
friend and Illeana Douglas as his snide sister. Dummy
isn’t exactly a laugh riot, but it’s quietly funny and features
a few laugh-out-loud moments. By the end, when Steven finds
love with his unemployment counselor, you can’t help but root
for him—and the film.
Likewise, you’ll be rooting for Flag Wars, a cinema
verité documentary directed by Linda Goode Bryant.
The film chronicles the reactions of residents in a black,
working-class neighborhood when gay white professionals move
in.
There are plenty of conflicts that arise in the four years
the director spends filming the goings-on in the small, Columbus,
Ohio community, but it’s a whole lot more than some trivial
“Jerry Springer” episode. Many important issues are raised
about the dividing lines within a neighborhood, leading audiences
to think about the divisions within their own lives.
Finally, Lubbock Lights may not have been the most
substantial film shown at SXSW, but it was a whole lot of
fun, especially for those who have a special place in their
heart for Texas music, and even more specifically, music of
the Texas panhandle.
Some of the musicians featured include Buddy Holly,
the Flatlanders, and Natalie Maines (who recently
got into hot water for making the very risky—and absolutely
true—statement that she’s ashamed George W. Bush is
from Texas). Lubbock Lights explores the musical culture
of the panhandle, and the musicians’ specific philosophies,
making the film both fun and enlightening.
—Erin Steele
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