From the "On The Scene" Archives:

by Dave Ratzlow

(indieWIRE/05.22.01) -- As if it were inaugurating a summer of goddess worship, the 6th Annual Gen Art Film Festival ran earlier this month in New York City proudly flaunting a distinctly feminine sensibility. Almost every film, from Ilya Chaikin's young mother drama "Margarita Happy Hour," to Anurag Mehta's romantic comedy "American Chai," could easily wear the label chick flick. While only two of seven feature directors and three of seven short film directors were women, a mid-week "vibrator party" confirmed the festival's heart with the ladies.

On the hottest May 2nd in recorded history, Fisher Stevens kicked it all off with his zany and steamy directorial debut, "Just a Kiss," about a successful playboy negotiating his entry into the world of monogamy. Still wet from the lab and screening for the first time at New York's big and comfortable Loews Times Square, "Kiss" is the best-looking digital video movie I've ever seen. Although it's filled with hysterical moments and strong performances, it never really decides what kind of movie it wants to be. Stevens throws in elements of farce, romantic comedy, parody and even surrealism, but the mixture never solidifies. But then again, when Taye Diggs and Kyra Sedgwick kiss on a fire escape, one can't help envy them both.

As usual with Gen Art, audiences considered the parties just as important as the films themselves, if not more so. Lotus (a jet-set favorite appropriately located in Manhattan's "meat-market" district) hosted the opening-night party. Stevens did his best to seem nonchalant while surrounded by sun guns and zoom lenses. Or maybe he was just dazzled by all the glistening flesh on display. Stevens later held court in a plush booth with hunky Liev Schreiber, flanked by a collection of fun, fearless females and well-suited geezers, while throughout the joint, people with names like Paulo, Sugar and Whitney drank and danced, flirted and schmoozed.

The next evening, Cory McAbee screened his Sundance entry, "The American Astronaut," a comic low-fi-sci-fi musical western, which follows a lonely space pirate on an interstellar odyssey. With scrumptious black and white cinematography by W. Mott Hupfel III and filled with fascinating characters with great faces and voices (including the director's own), "Astronaut" is sometimes brilliant, sometimes inscrutable, but always fascinating. (Artistic License has slated the film for a fall release.)

Studio 54 hosted a loud and crowded after-party that evening, but the real treat was the after-after-party where McAbee's band, The Billy Nayer Show (who also scored the film) played a set of their weird assertive rock at The Knitting Factory. Gushing with charisma, McAbee sang nutty nursery rhymes about animals in danger and bizarre relationships. Super guy, that McAbee.

On Thursday, Anurag Mehta presented "American Chai," (Slamdance 2001 Audience Award winner) about a college kid chaffing at the plans made for him by his Indian-born parents. They think he's graduating pre-med, but he's really a music major pursuing rock star dreams. With charming leads and just the right balance of comedy and cultural consciousness, the film has a lot going for it. But by adding a contrived "if I could only win that music contest" subplot, Mehta loses his story in a sea of clichés.

The inevitable father/son reconciliation scene still tugged at the heartstrings though, in large part thanks to the naturalistic performance by Bollywood vet, Paresh Rawal, as the domineering father. At the end of the week, Mehta took home Gen Art's Audience Award ($25,000 in film services), so let's hope he follows his own "to thine own self be true" advice, so he can put to better use his good sense with actors.

The only doc at this year's fest, Leigh Savidge's "Welcome to Death Row," recounts the fascinating characters and events surrounding the rise and fall of Death Row Records and the hip hop artists they made into stars. It's a mythic story of pathos and betrayal, hubris and stupidity, told by both major and minor players who were caught in the drama. The film suffers, though, by the fact that the filmmakers were unable to secure rights for the music they discuss. And the dizzying parade of narrators takes awhile getting used to. But it's worth viewing, if only to see an early '80s piece of footage in which ultra-masculine Dr. Dre proudly sports a goofy white lace jersey. That night, the audience did the bump and grind at Centro-Fly until the wee hours.

The female-centered theme peaked on Sunday with "Margarita Happy Hour," Ilya Chaiken's portrayal of a young woman trying to balance the party lifestyle she has always known and the new responsibilities of motherhood. While there are moments of pure poetry, especially in the relationship between the mother, played by Eleanor Hutchins and her best friend from the old days, played by Holly Ramos, Chaiken's refusal of the traditional three-act structure is the film's greatest asset and deficit. Although the loose storytelling lends the film a gritty reality, it's not always so compelling. And surrounded by mostly unappealing characters, Hutchins and Ramos have a tough job carrying the film on their own, cute kids notwithstanding.

On Sunday, audiences also saw the only stand-out among the shorts, Ari Gold's heart-wrenching "Helicopter," a fictionalization of life after his mother died in a helicopter crash along with concert promoter Bill Graham. In only a few minutes, Gold builds an emotional intensity that is hard to forget only a week before its Mother's Day screening.

After five nights of parties, even the army of amiable volunteers (the true engine of the festival, by the way) were a bit weary, and Sunday's party at Rubber Monkey thinned out considerably soon after the free drinks dried up. But the "Margarita" gang stayed late, piling into a big booth, wrapping their arms around each other and staring down cute boys.

"Amy's Orgasm," written, directed and starring Julie Davis ("I Love You, Don't Touch Me") attempts to explore what happens when a young and pretty best-selling author of "Why Love Doesn't Work" falls for a womanizing shock jock. Although occasionally very funny and filled with delightful characters, it's encumbered by issue-heavy dialogue and deliberate fantasy/reality confusions and never really takes flight. Worst of all, it ends in an embarrassingly teary "I need love like water" speech, which apparently solves a complex array of personal and political problems.

The after-party at Light was quite a hit, though. CakeNYC.com (hosts of "fresh parties for cool chicks") demonstrated a collection of bizarre-looking vibrators. The blue fingers, which resembled some sinister virtual-reality toy, did an especially good job of keeping the folks friendly and flirty.

But the most satisfyingly entertaining picture this year was closing night's, "The Chateau" directed by Jesse Peretz ("First Love Last Rights"). Paul Rudd ("Clueless") gives a hilariously inspired performance as one of a pair of American brothers who inherit a chateau in the south of France. Shot with a consumer digital video camera over 13 days, the improvised script bubbles with life, but Peretz and his actors never let it veer out of control. Sylvie Testud ("Beyond Silence") who plays a maid at the chateau, also contributes immensely to the film's success. She communicates so much with only slight eyebrow movements and shy giggles, it's no wonder that although she's just a supporting character, she remains the true emotional core of the film. You could say her presence, brief but resonant, epitomized the entire festival.