I have a rule to make no concerted effort to familiarize myself with the source material of a film before watching it. While there can be value in comparing a film to its source material, in the end, a film should be judged based on its own merits, not as a derivative of something else. Other than watching previous installments of a film franchise before settling into the current chapter (because sequels, at times, can require their predecessors be considered for things like familiarity of greater story/character arcs), I rarely make an exception to this rule. But for Stephen Winter’s Jason and Shirley, a bio-docu-drama fabricating stories from behind the scenes of a famous interview, I made such an exception.

The first two title cards combine to establish the past:

“On December 3, 1966, Oscar-winning filmmaker Shirley Clarke invited Jason Holliday, a black, middle-aged man to her Chelsea Hotel penthouse in New York City. She filmed him telling colorful stories from his turbulent life for 12 hours. This footage became ‘Portrait of Jason’ (1967), a groundbreaking documentary hailed worldwide for its unflinching look at race, sexuality, and the nature of truth.”

What follows for the next 79 minutes is a wholly fictionalized story of what went on behind the scenes during that 12-hour marathon filming session.

While those title cards are accurate, particularly the “unflinching look” statement, they don’t begin to capture the might of Jason’s 105-minute on-camera performance. And it is a performance, at least at first, until it becomes something heavier, something deeper and more impactful, something that brings Jason to tears. That’s when it becomes real. From behind the camera, Shirley directs the hell out of Jason, with a combination of alcohol and marijuana mixed with verbal interaction that ranges from coaxing to goading, even when Jason is obviously exhausted and (at times) ready to leave. Also goading him from offscreen is Carl Lee, a theater actor, frequent collaborator with Shirley, and friend of Jason. It is riveting filmmaking, something simultaneously mesmerizing and almost completely unbelievable, yet something that surely requires multiple viewings to truly take it all in.

And now I’ve spent a paragraph in a review of one film to explain another film, which simply shouldn’t be necessary. This is the first problem with Jason and Shirley—it requires existing knowledge of its subject to be understood, even on a basic level. Watching this film without having seen the source material turns this film into a pointless presentation.

Assuming you have seen the original, in Jason and Shirley, Jason is played by co-screenwriter Jack Waters mostly as an impersonation of the real Jason Holliday, who was quite the character, and Waters is fine. (Had I not seen the original, though, I doubt I would have believed such a “character” could exist in real life. Had YouTube existed in the 1960s, he would have been a star.) He’s presented here as clamoring for fame and fortune, a vibe I got watching the original. Shirley is played by fellow co-screenwriter Sarah Schulman, and her acting task a little more challenging than Waters’.

As written, Shirley is a heartless manipulator, constantly searching for ways to get Jason to turn off the Jason Character and speak to her camera as the Jason Person. She’s something of a Dr. Frankenstein in this sense, using the promise of notoriety to lure Jason in front of her camera, which creates a (showbiz) monster she later struggles to control. And she tries hard to control him, using the substances she already has in her arsenal, calling down the thunder for stronger stuff, and using sensitive points from Jason’s past to get a reaction from him (his relationship with his father, his incarceration, the time he was raped). Shirley even goes so far as to tell Carl (Orran Farmer, the real acting standout of the film) that she wants to “break” Jason. She might be a director, but she is written and portrayed here as an enemy interrogator using life-threatening manipulation to get what she wants out of her subject.

It’s no wonder the estate of Shirley Clarke neither authorized nor endorsed this film—a fact stated in a title card buried deep in the closing credits, a long time after many viewers will have stopped paying attention.

This is the second, more serious problem with the film: it’s fictional status means the filmmakers could have done anything they wanted to, and this is what they chose to film—a fabricated and unflattering characterization of a real person disguised as a documentary about the making of her film. The fact that the filmmakers could have put in the time and effort to assemble an actual documentary but instead chose to create this from scratch puts a taint on the film that can’t be ignored. Yes, they protect themselves with that late title card about the Clarke estate, along with another buried card that states, “This film is a work of fiction and is not intended to be a true or exact account of actual people or events,” but that doesn’t mean they were responsible, only cautious.

The filming style is practically an afterthought at this point, although it is still worth mentioning. It’s shot in 4:3 on what looks like VHS, complete with random discoloration and tracking issues, all of which makes for interesting stylistic choices considering the film takes place in 1966. It’s also filmed from multiple cameras and angles and never are the characters aware of their presence. Despite this odd, time-fractured feel, the presentation style is fun, harkening back to the days when tech prices dropped so amateur “filmmakers” could tell their own stories and circulate the tapes.

Jason and Shirley is a poorly-conceived, poorly-executed drama posing as a documentary. It’s a work of fiction that flaunts itself in front of the truth on which it’s based, a truth it never seeks to honor or expand upon, only pivot from for its own gain. With its found-footage feel and VHS veneer, Jason and Shirley is, at best, incomprehensible without first knowing Portrait of Jason, and at worst it’s a tabloid drama. Overall, it is not a film to be judged on its own merits, but rather a frivolous companion piece better relegated to the extras section of a DVD release.

I Am Big Bird

I Am Big Bird is, not surprisingly, one of the more popular titles at the festival this year. Directors Dave LaMattina and Chad Walker tell the life story of Carroll Spinney, the man behind Big Bird and Oscar The Grouch. Spinney’s story is quite interesting, from his childhood goal to become a puppeteer to his hiring on Sesame Street and loving marriage to his second wife Deb. The problem is that LaMattina and Walker refuse to let Spinney’s story breathe for a single moment, instead relying on a barrage of maudlin tactics to choke tears out of viewers. This includes a loud, obnoxious, seemingly never-ending score, and incredibly manipulative editing choices.

LaMattina and Walker’s lack of confidence in their material is disappointing because Spinney’s story is definitely worthy of a documentary. Carroll and Deb’s love story is touching when they explain it, and when the film steps back it’s much better at getting an emotional response (a clip of Spinney, dressed up as Big Bird, singing “Bein’ Green” at Jim Henson’s memorial while choking back tears is the film’s only truly moving moment because the clip plays without any editing or interruptions). LaMattina and Walker’s heavy-handedness kills any chance of Spinney getting any kind of proper treatment, making I Am Big Bird a puff piece more than a documentary. The absurd praise thrown on Spinney and his family reaches nauseating heights by the end, with suggestions of their politeness helping another family move on from a tragic death along with contributing to Barack Obama’s election win in 2012 (!). Spinney’s life deserves more than this mawkish treatment.

Private Violence

HBO has good, effective documentaries down to a science by now, and Private Violence is yet another example of it. Director Cynthia Hill gives a vérité look into two lives: Kit Gruelle, a former victim of domestic abuse advocating for justice, and Deanna Walters, a mother trying to put away her abusive husband for good. Hill’s intent is to show the complexity with abusive relationships, and to explain why telling a victim of abuse to “Just leave” does more harm than good. Hill nails this aspect 100%, but the lack of any serious legal consequences for abuse is one of the most shocking parts of the film. Walters, who was driven across the country by her husband in his 18-wheeler and mercilessly beaten for days, is fighting to get him convicted for kidnapping and not for the abuse. Kidnapping is a felony and can get him put away for over 20 years; assault of a female is a misdemeanor and can only get him a maximum sentence of 150 days.

Hill cuts back and forth between Gruelle’s advocacy efforts and Walters’ attempt to move on, and the result is effective in its (somewhat) narrow focus. Walters’ case is used as a main symbol of the systemic problems of dealing with domestic abuse, while Gruelle’s visits of other victims paints a bigger picture of how widespread the issue is. Granted, Hill’s film will come across as a boilerplate social issue documentary to some, but her work is still powerful and informative. HBO’s involvement will most likely increase the film’s popularity, and as Private Violence shows this kind of subject matter needs to be looked at.

Mateo

Matthew Stoneman had dreams of becoming a pop star, until he went to prison for four years in 1997. Stoneman became obsessed with mariachi music and learned Spanish during his time in prison, coming out of jail reborn as a “Gringo Mariachi.” Matthew, who now goes by Mateo, repeatedly flies to Cuba so he can make a new album of songs inspired by the music scene in 1950s Havana.

Despite the four year journey director Aaron I. Naar took to make Mateo, there will be inevitable comparisons with Searching for Sugar Man. Both have an element of discovering a musical treasure (it’s not my kind of music, but Mateo actually is pretty good as a singer/songwriter), and that alone makes Mateo mostly enjoyable. Naar ends up surprisingly carving out a complex portrait of the white Spanish singer, whose life seems split into two halves. In Los Angeles he lives the solitary life of a hoarder, mostly going to different gigs so he can fund his trips to Havana. In Cuba, Mateo shows himself as quite the sociable person, even if his affinity for prostitutes can get very creepy.

Naar doesn’t come down on either side of his subject, a smart decision elevating Mateo beyond the “Gringo Mariachi” hook. Naar’s doc does flounder around the middle, as scenes of Mateo in Havana begin feeling repetitious, but a neat epilogue of sorts in Tokyo adds another fresh layer to the proceedings. Mateo won’t do much for an average viewer, but those interested in the subject matter will find themselves having a good time with it.

Portrait of Jason

Finally, a few words on Shirley Clarke’s landmark documentary Portrait of Jason. Hot Docs has a nice retrospective program, and this year they snagged the 35mm restoration of this 1967 classic. Over one night, Clarke filmed Jason Holliday, a charismatic hustler with plenty of stories to tell. From frame one, Portrait of Jason shows its awareness as a documentary with some layer of artifice. The image is out of focus, we hear the crew talking in the background, and Jason repeats the same line twice (“My name is Jason Holliday”) before admitting it’s a fake name.

Looking for “reality” in Portrait of Jason is a fool’s errand. Clarke and her crew, never seen but frequently heard, keep asking Jason to tell different stories (“Tell the one about the cop”). The film feels less like a profile or interview than people asking for Holliday’s greatest hits. Jason performs for the camera, delivering his stories with plenty of bravado and exaggerations. Attempts to dig deeper into his life show signs of a troubled childhood, but even stories of Jason getting abused by his father are told in the same overdramatic style.

Watching Portrait of Jason soon becomes an exhaustive, but necessary, experience. The questions will keep flying: How much of this is rehearsed? Is Jason telling the truth? Does he know what Clarke and her crew are going to do? That core question of what’s “real” never gets answered, making the film exist in a space of nothing but a series of subjective points of view. Clarke’s involvement of herself (many scenes end with the a black screen, while Clarke says to keep recording sound despite the reel ending) throws things into more chaos, as the expectation of her authorial hand providing some kind of grounding for the view goes out the window.

This approach will frustrate people (there were more than a few walkouts at the screening), but the questions Clarke’s film brings up are necessary reminders of the level of trust audiences give documentary filmmakers. The ethical qualities of Portrait of Jason continue to get blurred, with Clarke giving him more liquor as the night goes on and, by the final reel, openly attacking him to provoke some sort of response that fits their definition of something genuine (“Be honest, motherfucker, stop acting.”). There’s plenty to dissect in Portrait of Jason, something I don’t have the room for here (and better people have done excellent jobs already), but this is vital viewing for anyone who considers themselves a fan of documentaries.