The more films I see the more I hanker for a few simple things. Do we enter an interesting world, not fully charted? Can we steal an entry into life as it comes to be? Ways?
This is what I get here. Not just a documentary that traces the particulars of horrible crime - a serial killer who freely killed for 20 years has just been arrested - but a first person noir that swerves off the beaten track to investigate simmering truth.
What you'll see here is an English guy with a camera and his soundman driving around Southcentral LA or snooping outside homes to talk with people as they're trying to see how far this malaise seeps. Was it just a crazy man in an otherwise perfectly fine world after all?
Our host who shows them around is a former prostitute and crack addict, a tough street-wise woman who freely stops the car and chats with women on the street. A breathtaking sequence shows them driving around at night in search of prostitutes who may have known the killer, we find them here and there in dark streets and roll down the window to talk to them. We stop at a girl's house at night and someone is glaring from a window. During an interview, gunshots are heard from nearby.
It has all this tension, invaluable because it comes from having quietly slipped into this world from a backdoor and just prowling in search.
One acquaintance leads to another and we find a man who was paid one day by the killer to take a car out and burn it, who found bloodstained clothes in the back but kept quiet. We meet with the man's friends who insist he couldn't be the one but begin to have second thoughts. We're taken to a backroom where one of them keeps stacks of photos of nude girls who posed in shabby bedrooms or in the back of someone's car, images these guys passed on between them.
The greater insight is that all of this has been quietly taking place for decades and accepted as sleepless life, that we're seeing how the lives of 20 year olds in Reagan's time faded away. It's all in being able to see how this man who is now sharing stacks of photo albums - a catalogue of despair, both his and the women's who sell themselves for their next crack fix - is sharing what is for him a casual pastime in a life that you have nothing better to do, sleeping with hookers and keeping these mementos.
Even better; none of this would have been possible without these people being so candidly open to the camera and freely sharing stories. Can you imagine how fastidiously silent a German neighborhood would have kept? (and that's the subject of The White Ribbon)
Now we begin to see the life that give rise to this world. How many people would have been spared if they had all come forward or the police cared enough to investigate? They won't because of past experience with police, the police won't because murders in the ghetto are a triviality.
This is more valuable to me than any book James Ellroy could write or anything seen in True Detective. I'm going to go ahead and add it to my list of essential views of LA, next to Angel City, Killer of Sheep and Southland.
This is what I get here. Not just a documentary that traces the particulars of horrible crime - a serial killer who freely killed for 20 years has just been arrested - but a first person noir that swerves off the beaten track to investigate simmering truth.
What you'll see here is an English guy with a camera and his soundman driving around Southcentral LA or snooping outside homes to talk with people as they're trying to see how far this malaise seeps. Was it just a crazy man in an otherwise perfectly fine world after all?
Our host who shows them around is a former prostitute and crack addict, a tough street-wise woman who freely stops the car and chats with women on the street. A breathtaking sequence shows them driving around at night in search of prostitutes who may have known the killer, we find them here and there in dark streets and roll down the window to talk to them. We stop at a girl's house at night and someone is glaring from a window. During an interview, gunshots are heard from nearby.
It has all this tension, invaluable because it comes from having quietly slipped into this world from a backdoor and just prowling in search.
One acquaintance leads to another and we find a man who was paid one day by the killer to take a car out and burn it, who found bloodstained clothes in the back but kept quiet. We meet with the man's friends who insist he couldn't be the one but begin to have second thoughts. We're taken to a backroom where one of them keeps stacks of photos of nude girls who posed in shabby bedrooms or in the back of someone's car, images these guys passed on between them.
The greater insight is that all of this has been quietly taking place for decades and accepted as sleepless life, that we're seeing how the lives of 20 year olds in Reagan's time faded away. It's all in being able to see how this man who is now sharing stacks of photo albums - a catalogue of despair, both his and the women's who sell themselves for their next crack fix - is sharing what is for him a casual pastime in a life that you have nothing better to do, sleeping with hookers and keeping these mementos.
Even better; none of this would have been possible without these people being so candidly open to the camera and freely sharing stories. Can you imagine how fastidiously silent a German neighborhood would have kept? (and that's the subject of The White Ribbon)
Now we begin to see the life that give rise to this world. How many people would have been spared if they had all come forward or the police cared enough to investigate? They won't because of past experience with police, the police won't because murders in the ghetto are a triviality.
This is more valuable to me than any book James Ellroy could write or anything seen in True Detective. I'm going to go ahead and add it to my list of essential views of LA, next to Angel City, Killer of Sheep and Southland.