Some filmmakers, like Chaplin and Kubrick, determined that they should release a film only every few years, to make it more like an event to be anticipated. Other filmmakers work faster and harder in an effort not to be forgotten, like Spike Lee or Woody Allen. It's difficult to determine which method is more effective, but it seems like if a filmmaker turns in over fifty films of mostly high quality, their work is eventually taken for granted. Everyone loves Hitchcock now, but in 1976 when his final film opened, he must have seemed like a relic compared to Rocky and Taxi Driver. That's how I imagine Claude Chabrol today. Now 77, he releases a movie a year, more or less, and passed the fifty-film marker some time ago. Unlike his French New Wave colleagues, he didn't make a single masterpiece in his youth, and so has nothing to live up to. Rather, he's consistently reliable and skillful, and it's difficult to judge any one of his films up against another. Look through reviews of his most recent films, and for each one you'll find at least one person claiming it's his best film in years.

And so comes A Girl Cut in Two, which recently screened at the 51st San Francisco International Film Festival. I loved it. It's another superbly-made, highly enjoyable Chabrol film, but you probably won't see it on any top ten lists, nor will Chabrol be collecting any awards for it. I think "consistent" is a bad word among film people; we're more easily impressed by change and diversity, or by the newest, latest thing. Actors like John Wayne were routinely overlooked in favor of actors like Marlon Brando, though Brando could never in a million years have pulled off what John Wayne accomplished in The Searchers. Brando could do lots of things, but John Wayne was the best at being John Wayne. That's my standard rant, and that's how I feel about Chabrol. Now, onto the new film:

With the rise of cheap digital video, some might claim that we're in a Golden Age of documentaries, except for the fact that most documentary filmmakers aren't really filmmakers. They copy a basic template over and over again, assembling footage rather than making a movie. Of course, some of this may qualify as great journalism: the 2003 film Blind Spot: Hitler's Secretary, for example, or last year's No End in Sight. But very few understand how to combine filmmaking and reporting, how to make the story speak on a personal level. For my money, then, Errol Morris is the greatest living documentary filmmaker. As his reputation has risen -- he went from a guy who couldn't get arrested at the Oscars to a guy who actually won one -- his films have become more like events, like a story you can't possibly miss from a reporter you know and trust. (He has become like a Walter Cronkite or an Edward R. Murrow of the documentary set.)

Morris' Standard Operating Procedure screened this week at the 51st San Francisco International Film Festival, where Morris received the festival's Persistence of Vision award. The new film can be seen as the third in a trilogy of Morris' war films, with Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. (1999) taking on World War II and The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara (2003) examining Vietnam. This one stumbles right into the current war in Iraq, and stares right into the face of the Abu Ghraib prison controversy. Of course, this story was extensively covered on the TV news and people have already seen the gruesome photographs, but Morris slows down the story a bit, taking a more careful look after the fact (many of his interview subjects have finished serving their jail time).

If nothing else, Eric Rohmer's The Romance of Astrea and Celadon raises many interesting questions about the nature of the auteur theory and film canons in general. Rohmer is a certified auteur, and a world master. He has made many, many good films and a few great ones, especially when adding entries to his three celebrated series: "Six Moral Tales" (in the 1960s and 1970s), "Comedies and Proverbs" (six films in the 1980s) and "Tales of the Four Seasons" (in the 1990s).

These films, which often have a relaxed, al fresco quality, mainly focus on young, smart, attractive contemporary French people who talk a lot get themselves into romantic situations. When he departs from this successful formula, as with his last two films, The Lady and the Duke (2001) and Triple Agent (2004), the results are considerably less. So when a filmmaker like Rohmer makes something as blatantly, painfully awful as The Romance of Astrea and Celadon, it brings such ideas into sharp relief.

Though the Dogme 95 movement caused something of a stir in the film community at the time, the films made under its banner were, to put it mildly, a bit downbeat. Only Lone Scherfig's Italian for Beginners (2002) could lift the fog. Scherfig had a talent for presenting depressing characters in a lighthearted way, and still managed to resolve everyone's problems by the end of the film.

Her film was a Hollywood ensemble comedy wrapped up in an enjoyable, intelligent art house package. As a result, it grossed over $4 million; the second highest grossing film in the series was The Celebration (1998), which made just over $1 million. None of the rest even made it that far. Working within the Dogme manifesto required Scherfig to follow ten specific rules, which included not making a period piece or genre film, using only props found on the set, using only natural sound (music must emanate naturally from the set), using hand-held cameras, natural light, no special effects, etc. The idea was that the rules would restore "truth" to cinema.

Given how well the classic song "Where Is My Mind?" worked at the end of Fight Club (1999) and given his "loudQUIETloud" (see Karina's review of the 2006 documentary) method of crafting songs, Black Francis (a.k.a. "Frank Black," a.k.a. Charles Thompson) would seem the perfect candidate to compose a fantastic new score for a classic silent film. And so an eager, sold-out crowd of fans lined up at the 51st San Francisco International Film Festival for a Friday night screening of Paul Wegener and Carl Boese's silent-era, German Expressionist horror film The Golem (1920), hoping for just that. Francis -- deliberately billed with his Pixies-era stage name -- set up underneath the screen at the Castro Theater with his seven-man band (strings, horns, keyboards, etc.) and started the proceedings with a blast of guitar (the "loud" portion of the evening).

Surprisingly, Francis' raspy, yowling vocals also emitted from the darkness; he has composed an album of songs to go with the film, rather than a traditional score. The trouble is that they don't always seem to go. The effect is rather like synching Pink Floyd to The Wizard of Oz. Sometimes some magical cohesion happens between image and music, but most times the two forms are battling for your attention. The most distracting thing of all was a snarky commentator/narrator whose job was to make fun of the film between songs. ("There has to be a 12-step program for this!") At least once he spoke over the film's intertitles, and so viewers were forced to choose between trying to read or listen.

For some mysterious reason, Catherine Breillat's newest film, The Last Mistress, was chosen as the Opening Night Feature for the 51st San Francisco International Film Festival. It's probably the same mysterious reason that caused most critics to praise Breillat's intolerable Fat Girl (2001). It's a reason I'll never understand. I usually love filmmakers who tackle their personal demons in film, but Breillat is different in several ways. She's a nutcase who doesn't admit to her personal demons so much as she tries to analyze them (self-analysis is always a bad idea). She raises the intellectual (or pretentiousness) level of her films rather than wallowing bodily in anything (her films have lots of sex, but it's cold and judgmental). And through it all, her films seem to have a kind of punishing contempt for everyone, her characters, critics and audience included.

However, The Last Mistress is the most enjoyable of the three Breillat films I've seen. It works on a gut level of sexual turmoil that her other films never approach, although I suspect that most of the film's success lies more with star Asia Argento than with Breillat. Argento is the exact opposite of someone like Breillat; she's a corporeal creature, a lithe force of nature. You can't even really call what she does acting. It's more like she explodes onscreen in a shitstorm of lust, blood, and unspeakable emotions made flesh. Her first appearance has her lying invitingly horizontal on a couch, and you envy the pillows. Director and actress have a meeting of minds in only one scene, the most purely Breillat-ian scene in the film: Argento leaps upon the bloody body of her lover, licks the blood out of his gunshot wounds and rises, sneering and screaming with the red, hot liquid dribbling down her chin. It's not exactly the bloody tampon teabag image from Breillat's Anatomy of Hell (2004), but it'll do.

Lust, Caution is a great festival film; it's lush and long and loaded. It's also a bad festival film; I want to go back to it and think about it more, as if it were too delicate or intricate to be understood with the snap judgments and quick appraisals a festival can make you turn to at first resort. Like director Ang Lee's prior film, Brokeback Mountain, Lust, Caution takes a brisk, brief short story (Se, Jei by Eileen Chang) and makes it fill the screen, with plenty of room for visual rapture and strong performances -- and some space for doubts and questions to seep in, with a distant whisper of controversy about sex (for the R-rated Brokeback, over gay themes and characters; for the NC-17-rated Lust, over explicit straight sex) at the edge of hearing.

In wartime Shanghai, Mrs. Mak (Tang Wei) enters a parlor and travels to another world. She plays Mah-Jong with idle, wealthy women (who live in constant danger, in the middle of squalor) and slowly, carefully, carries out the steps in a plan to meet her lover, Mr. Yee (Tony Leung) -- husband to Mrs. Yee (Joan Chen), collaborator in service to the occupying Japanese, torturer. But Mrs. Mak's actions don't speak in the warm close whispers of a lover, but rather in the brittle conspiratorial tones of a criminal. ...

Because she is not Mrs. Mak; she is Wong Chia Chi, and she has been on a four-year journey to meet with Mr. Yee and be his lover. Until some later point, when he can be killed. Lust, Caution revolves around a plot, like a thriller, and we try to read it like that; but it also revolves around character and nature, like a drama, and we see it through that perspective. The movie -- and the audience -- jumps from intimate drama to glossy thrills.

The singer Edith Piaf (1915-1963) was a unique soul, as beloved in France as much as, say, Elvis Presley was in the U.S. She had an unusual stage presence, almost mousy and withdrawn, but forceful in her voice; the effect was one of breaking out of her shell, and audiences connected with her. Her haunting voice is probably familiar to many Americans, as her songs continue to turn up as atmosphere in American movies, everything from Bull Durham (1988) to Saving Private Ryan (1998), Bernardo Bertolucci's The Dreamers (2003) to 2005's Valiant. She appeared in person in a few movies as well, notably Jean Renoir's French Cancan (1954). My favorite Edith Piaf moment comes in Babe: Pig in the City (1998), when Babe accidentally destroys Mickey Rooney's magic show, setting the stage aflame in slow motion to the tune of "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien."

Like many artists who have touched the souls of millions, Piaf probably deserves a good movie about her life, and someone worthy of playing her. The latter has stepped up, in the form of actress Marion Cotillard, in the new film La Vie en rose. Cotillard has thus far appeared without much fanfare in Tim Burton's Big Fish (2003), Luc Besson's Taxi films, Jean-Pierre Jeunet's A Very Long Engagement (2004) and Ridley Scott's A Good Year (2006). But here she gives a vigorous, demanding performance that runs the gamut. She plays a teenager all the way up to Piaf's decrepit mid-40s (during which she looked like she was in her 70s). She captures Piaf's rawness and awkwardness, and refines it as time passes. She doesn't sing (Jil Aigrot provides the singing voice) but she throws her words to the rafters as if she were singing. Unless I miss my guess, the Academy will remember this performance come next February.

In 1984, Christopher Guest and company refined and co-opted the "mockumentary" genre, and for over 20 years others have tried and failed to copy it. Some forgettable examples include Drop Dead Gorgeous (1999), The Big Tease (2000) and Confetti (2006). Last year Sacha Baron Cohen finally did it with Borat, but that's another story; if Guest's troupe stamped their handprints on the mockumentary, then that goes triple for the "mock-rockumentary." No one, not even Cohen, can crawl out from under the shadow of This Is Spinal Tap. At this point, it's like re-doing Citizen Kane.

For his directorial debut, American-born Hong Kong movie star Daniel Wu decided to make a documentary about a terrible boy band, but rather than tread upon sacred Spinal Tap territory, he and three friends actually formed a terrible boy band, recorded music and went on tour to conjure up material for this film. Of the four members, Wu, Conroy Chan, Andrew Lin and Terence Yin, none could dance and only one, Yin, could sing (he had a short-lived career as a pop star in Taiwan).

Thanks to the rise of digital video and the increase in box office, documentaries have become far more plentiful in recent years. In some ways that's a good thing; it means more worldly, educated moviegoers walking around. But it's also a bad thing for anyone who has to see more than a half dozen over a year's time. You start to notice the exact same techniques employed: talking heads, archival clips, filmed photographs, perhaps a narrator, and perhaps -- if we're lucky -- some actual new motion picture footage exposed just for the project.

Public television (not to mention Humphrey Jennings and his World War II-era industrials) years ago defined the format and rhythms for documentaries, and most filmmakers slavishly follow them, even if it flies in the face of their subject matter. I've seen documentaries on groundbreaking, and even indefinable artists such as John Cage and Syd Barrett filmed in exactly this same format. You'd think that the filmmakers would get inspired by their subjects and break out of the routine. Even more frustrating was the recent doc An Unreasonable Man, which told the story of Ralph Nader, and used Ralph Nader as one of a series of talking heads -- in his own movie. If the filmmakers had access to Nader, why not actually utilize him?

For all its troubles, Iran seems to have produced a good number of female filmmakers. One of the biggest inspirations for many of the New Wave directors was poet Forough Farrokhzad, who turned filmmaker with her extraordinary 1962 short film The House Is Black. New Wave director Mohsen Makhmalbaf helped both his wife Marzieh Meshkini (The Day I Became a Woman) and daughter Samira Makhmalbaf (The Apple, Blackboards) break into the business with great success. And Mania Akbari, who appeared as "the driver" in Abbas Kiarostami's Ten (2002) made her directorial debut with 20 Fingers (2004).

On the other end, we have Tahmineh Milani, whose overwrought melodramas (Two Women, The Hidden Half) and broad comedies (Cease Fire) received extra attention when she was arrested over the content of her films and threatened with execution. Many Western filmmakers and writers came to her defense, and the right to free expression prevailed in the end, but none of this actually means her films are any good.

For the most part these few Iranian women filmmakers have been accepted into the filmmaking community with little question. This, however, does not appear to be the case with the latest female director to emerge from Iran. Hers is a familiar face onscreen; Niki Karimi appeared in both Two Women and The Hidden Half. Karimi has said in interviews that she has always been more interested in directing than in acting, and after a couple of documentaries and an early feature, her latest, A Few Days Later... appeared at the 50th San Francisco International Film Festival.

Fifty years ago, the very first San Francisco International Film Festival showed Satyajit Ray's uniquely personal, practically homemade Pather Panchali, which was by then two years old. The festival had scheduled its brand-new follow-up, Aparajito, but had to make a last-minute switch. The film was shown again in 1992 when Ray won the festival's prestigious Akira Kurosawa award (also won by the likes of Akira Kurosawa himself, Michael Powell, Robert Bresson, Joseph L. Mankiewicz and many other greats). And it was shown yet again in 1997 when local director Philip Kaufman (The Right Stuff, Henry & June) chose it for the "Indelible Images" series and introduced the screening. That's when I saw the film for the first time. Now, to mark the occasion of the festival's 50th anniversary, what better film is there to show?

Some films take a while to sink in, and others hit big immediately and then age badly, but Pather Panchali (or, roughly translated, "Song of the Road") was an "instant classic" that still plays well to this day. It dropped like a bomb on the huge, rigid Indian film industry, which preferred -- and still prefers -- romances and musicals with decidedly non-realistic settings. Like the Neo-Realist classics from postwar Italy (Open City, Bicycle Thieves) and the late 1960s, early 1970s Hollywood films (Easy Rider, M*A*S*H), it brought to cinema a new kind of realism that audiences were thirsty for. Certainly escapism has its place, but there's only so often, and so far, one can escape. At some point, one must face one's self. And if you recognize a little of yourself in Apu, then the film has done its job.

It's part of the alchemy of pop culture, an inexplicable part of the wonder and the oddness: One person's obsession can become part of the culture for thousands, millions of people. There's the old joke that only 200 people actually bought the first Velvet Underground record -- but that all of them went out and started a band. So it is with Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music. Smith was a dabbler, a searcher, a packrat of cultural influences -- and collected a treasure trove of old '78s that contained recording of classical American folk songs; in 1952, Folkways Records released a compilation of songs from Smith's personal archives -- and the resulting 1960's folk explosion that gave American pop music a previously unseen type of craft and depth sprung in no small part from Smith's personal record collection. ...

Director Rani Singh knows this story; she spent two years as Smith's assistant from 1989 to his death in 1991. The Old Weird America is a bit of a mix of things -- it chronicles Smiths' life and times, the Anthology he created, his work outside the Anthology as a filmmaker and writer. The film also includes concert performances from a series of shows where modern performers played the music of the Anthology, so you hear Elvis Costello singing decades-old murder ballads and Beth Orton's distinctive voice wrapping itself sinuously around a piece of music that's come down through the years.

It's not a job that garners instant sympathy, like coal miner or bomb-squad cop or personal assistant to Harvey Weinstein, but pause for a second to contemplate the plight of the modern film festival programmer: Every three days, somewhere in the world, there's a film festival. There are not, however, a hundred and sixty-odd brand new films that would allow every fest to be a wall-to-wall blanket of world premieres. Many festivals offer revival screenings of classic material in a new light (I have happy memories of Don McKellar introducing a brand-new uncut print of Cronenberg's The Brood at Toronto a few years ago) as a way of offering something new. Many combine musical talents with older films to create unique experiences in viewing that, unlike some festival circuit films, can't go from town to town because they're unique live experiences. At this year's San Francisco International Film Festival, audiences had a chance to see one of those signature experiences – a screening of the Swedish 1921 horror-folktale The Phantom Carriage, with an original live score by local resident and pop music legend Jonathan Richman.

Richman's most familiar to mainstream audiences for his work as the singing narrator in There's Something About Mary – a tragedy on the same scale, and of the same nature, as if people only recognized Marlon Brando from his sleepwalking work in Superman. Richman's work – with his first band and as a solo artist – has gone from pretty much helping invent American post-punk with The Modern Lovers to raucous children's music to more gentle (but never banal) ventures into folk- and European-influenced acoustic songwriting. He seemed, at first blush, like an odd choice to compose a score for a 80-year old film; watching Richman lead an 8-piece orchestra on the stage of San Francisco's historic Castro Theater, however, any possible concerns about stylistic whiplash were washed away by the shimmer and grace of the score as it unfolded before the audience.

Richard Gazowsky leads a small church in San Francisco; he's committed to the love of Christ, and dedicated in service to the Lord. He is also convinced that God wants him -- needs him -- to make a multi-million dollar science-fiction film called Gravity: The Shadow of Joseph that will help spread the word of the Lord. The desire to lead a church is not unprecedented; neither is the desire to make a film. Both, however, make for a fairly unusual combination. ...

Directed by Michael Jacobs, Audience of One depicts the community of worship and the collective of art -- all thanks to Gazowsky's visions and belief that this is what God wants him to do. It's easy to see a sprinkling of Ed Wood-style mania in Gazowsky -- no problem is insurmountable, no technical challenge that can't be tackled, no performance so clunky that it can't be fixed in post-production -- but he's also in service of a higher idea. Sure, it's big and bold -- he's imploring local craftpersons to donate work and time, he's taking an untested cast and crew to Italy to film for five days -- but Gazowsky says "If you ask me, this was the message of Christ: To dream big."