Author Archives: Kari Pulizzano

I’m a firm believer that all people should be psychologically evaluated before being deemed fit to be parents, not once the children are old enough to have faced the effects of those who would not have passed in the first place. Andrea Arnold’s short film, Wasp, only strengthens this belief.

In a mere twenty-six minute time frame, Arnold packed this film with emotional turmoil and controversial issues. As Zoë, a young and obviously unfit mother, faces the struggle many single parents face, the loss of their social lives, I could only hold myself back from jumping through the screen and shaking her for making her four young children, one only an infant, pay the price for her needs.

Early in the film, it’s almost as if Zoë herself is trying to prove to the audience that she is a good mother by defending her daughter against the woman that harmed her. Noble? I think not. While it’s obviously not acceptable for a grown woman to physically harm a child, that act is nothing compared to the harm Zoë has done to her own children. Emotional and psychological pains are real, and last longer than any physical scar.

The trail of events leading up to Zoë finally realizing that a good mother is not one that leaves her children outside of a bar while she attempts to recapture her youth left me with my own little emotional scar. To see children, actors or not, in such a dangerous situation and knowing that they will be in the care of such a lowlife in this fictional world even once the credits roll is torture.

Right back 'atcha, Zoe.

The film was so real, so tragically believable, that I couldn’t help but accept it as reality and worry for the safety of the children (and shed a tear for children who aren’t just playing the part in a film). While it ended on a note of calm relief, which for the children was simply the fact that they were given a meal and a ride home, I was left with an extremely unsettling, even queasy feeling; a feeling very few films have been able to draw out of me.

I can’t help but feel that the audience was meant to feel sorry for this young woman, or at least pity her plight as a single mother who has hit rock bottom and applaud her as her maternal instincts kicked in, but I could not have felt less sympathy for her. Rather, I applaud Arnold for being able to so accurately portray such a dreary world that is sadly not far from reality for many people.

Many movie-goers today are cynical, pessimistic; constantly seeking the destruction of metropolises and hopeless hearts being broken. We do, however, still need the occasional light-hearted take on an unfortunate situation. Director Ian Barnes and writer Tom Bidwell brought this to fruition in Wish 143, a short film focusing on a terminally ill teenager’s wish to lose his virginity before it is too late, and my personal favorite short of the Oscar nominees.

While there is an obvious air of gloom and doom because of the setting, the pediatrics ward of a hospital, and the main character’s situation, a downhill battle with cancer, the filmmakers took a more whimsical approach to presenting his plight, and created a fabulously believable mindset of a teenage boy approaching the end of his life. The muted colors and dim lighting reminds viewers of the seriousness of the situation, but the dialog, mostly the unconventional quips of the lead, David, keeps it from dipping too low into morbidity. When approached by the British equivalent of the Make a Wish Foundation, David matter-of-factly writes down that he wishes to lose his virginity, to the distress of the wish-giver. The mix of sex-talk, the sinking realization of David’s pending fate, and the setting of a kiddie table in the pediatrics ward play room makes for a scene too awkward for words and perfect for some uncomfortable laughs.

As the film goes on, we see that David’s wish is fueled by more than just raging teenage hormones, but the desire to become a man before it’s too late, and to have the chance to really be close to a woman. The desperation sets off a tragic stream of events sprinkled with humor to keep the tears at bay. His unlikely accomplice in fulfilling his wish, Father Carter, works tirelessly to counter David’s irrational plans to make his wish come true, and eventually puts aside his beliefs and sets up a safe and secure way for David to reach his goal.

Not surprisingly, David reacts with fear and uncertainty when faced with the opportunity to fulfill his wish. Rather than acting out the moment of passion he’s had in his head for years, he is hit with the realization of all circumstances leading to this point, and curls up in the arms of the call girl, desperate for comfort. This heart-wrenching scene is not broken with humor, for good reason. It made for an extremely real, raw show of emotions and a believable response on all characters’ parts.

The end of the twenty-four-minute emotional rollercoaster brings us back from the brink of depression with David’s positive attitude, and the comforting presence of Father Carter. Some banter about their shortcomings over a light-hearted session of skeet shooting is an uneasy reminder that all is not well and things have not gone the way David wished, but leaves us with a feeling that he has found some kind of inner peace in realizing that he can’t control his fate or force himself to mature at a certain pace.

Wish 143 was on the verge of heartbreaking, but managed to keep the pieces together with some much-needed laughter. It didn’t seem forced, though. The mood followed David’s journey accurately; airy and awkward at first, sad and uneasy through his trials, and finally relieving and light again as David accepted his circumstance.

Reflecting on the day of the screening of the Oscar Nominated Short Films, I need to remind myself that I did actually see the short films, that I made it to the theater and sat perfectly still for about two hours, safe and exactly where I was meant to be.

With hours to spare between the end of our first class of the day and the 2:30 p.m. start time of the short films, a friend and classmate of mine, Izabella, and I took our sweet time to get a move on. We bonded over Press wraps and coffee, sharing personal stories and people-watching for more time than the five short films would elapse.

With about an hour to spare, and Izabella’s trusty new iPhone leading the way, we departed from our 23rd Street comfort zone and were off into the city we all pretend to know better than we actually do. The first half of the trip was a success; the whole ten minutes it took to walk to the 6 train and get off at Bleecker Street, that is.

But then, dun dun dun…

Our nemesis, the B Train. *Spoiler Alert: It won.

We waited impatiently for a train that we were not positive was the correct one to  arrive, in a station filled with sights and smells that reminded me of my humble Staten Island roots. After about ten minutes, we joked that it would never come, that it was a sign that we were waiting for the wrong train; we should have followed that sign. Finally, our chariot arrived and we eagerly jumped aboard, looking as out of place as we felt, outsiders among the Village-ers.

Among muffled conductor-isms, Izabella managed to make out a string of words which she translated to me as, “Get up right now, we’re going to Brooklyn!” I didn’t wait for an explanation.

Now, I’m not shy to admit that I rarely know my way around, but I am a stubborn fool when it comes to asking for help, a quality that I share with Izabella. Needless to say, we were screwed when we emerged from the murky underground to a slew of signs and posters in Chinese.

I feel no loss of pride by jumping in a cab and calling it quits, and I was not about to wander around China Town, if that’s even where we were, for the remaining 15 minutes we had until the beginning of the films, so I dragged Izabella to the first cab I could find and we set off on the ten minute drive to our real destination, the IFC theater, which we were clearly incapable of finding on our own.

The promised land.

I’d never been so happy to fork over fourteen bucks for a movie ticket. I triumphantly climbed the steps to the stuffy little Theater 2 and settled into my seat, safe and sound. Nothing could make me budge, not even my nagging craving for the popcorn all of my classmates were raving about.

So, if you get caught somewhere between 23rd Street and the IFC Theater, close your eyes, click your heels together, and hail a damn cab.