Flickhead
Film Review
By Nelhydrea Paupér

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Jason Liebrecht, Nicol Zanzarella and Erin S. Visslailli

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Jiggity-Jig:

H O M E

A film by Matt Seitz

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Written and directed by Matt Zoller Seitz

With Jason Liebrecht, Nicol Zanzarella,
Erin S. Visslailli, Stephen T. Neave, Minerva Scelza,
Bradley Spinelli, Jennifer Larkin, Pavol Liska.

Official Site

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Review by Nelhydrea Paupér

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    We spent the week before the Oscars trying to cram in as many nominated films as possible, Mrs. Pauper and me. We don’t take the Oscars seriously—what fool does?—but we love the awfulness of the show itself. Ah, the riches of embarrassment.
    We rented Crash and Walk the Line before the Big Night. We’d already seen Good Night and Good Luck—easily the best of the bunch we managed to catch at the local simplex—and Brokeback Mountain—way overrated, aside from Heath Ledger’s excellent performance. Still haven’t seen Capote (played exactly one week—fart and you missed it). And Munich is “Un film by Steven Spielberg.” I’ll wait for a freebie rental before I give that guy more of my money.
    So we managed to snag Crash and Walk the Line at the local Bjorkbuster. Some good acting all around. But, sheesh. And I don’t mean that as in “hashish.” Walk the Line at least had great songs, even if they were badly sung. But I really thought I was going to have to walk a different line about twenty minutes into the really crappy Crash. It resembled a piece of agitprop theatre wherein every character represents someone or something. A character walks into the middle of the stage and shouts “I’M ANGRY AND I HATE YOU!!!” Then another character walks in and shouts “I’M ANGRY AND I HATE YOU!!!” This goes on for several days with all the characters—which in the case of this post-Altman, post-Tarantino, post-Paul Thomas Anderson movie means about forty-seven different people shrieking “I’M ANGRY AND I HATE YOU!!!” But eventually you know we’re going to get to the point when nearly everyone (somebody’s gotta die, right?) will take a deep breath and say sotto voce, “But… I need you. We must learn to live together.”
    At least in so many words. Or dissolves. Or camera moves.
    In the middle of this morass (and, really, who wouldn’t like a little morass, eh?) came my assigned film to review: Home by Matt Seitz. Flickhead decided to pass this one along to I, Pauper because—well, why? He already wrote something sorta nice about it. Why another review?
    In this case it seems to be because I, Pauper, lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn for nearly two decades. Mrs. Pauper and I left just a few years ago because we could no longer stay in our once-affordable neighborhood, what with the wee Pauper joining the fold. But I digress.
    Home is an indy (Flicky’s least favorite word) making the festival rounds. It all takes place during one night at a party in a Brooklyn apartment (ground-floor duplex in a brownstone—pricey but convenient for shooting a movie). The characters are a mix of mostly white twenty-somethings approaching their thirties, looking for love in all the wrong places. The two lead characters, Bobby (Jason Leibrecht) and Susan (the really lovely Nicol Zanzarella) are obviously falling in love with each other. But both are carrying lots of personal baggage.

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Nicol Zanzarella

    Now, I hate parties. I’m awkward at them, uncomfortable and nervous. Watching a movie about the exact same party I attended too many frigging times back in my twenties made me sigh with anxiety—and then sigh with relief realizing I don’t have to attend these things anymore. I endured them specifically with the hope of finding Nicol Zanzarella (didn’t find her at a party—no, I met Mrs. Pauper at a revival of Kiss Me, Stupid). Or if not her then Harper (Minerva Scelza), the girl intent on bedding every guy she can (I rarely scored a ride on Harper’s ferry either). No wonder I hate parties.
    The point, if I really must have one, is that despite my aversion to this stuff—parties and party movies with endless conversation and overly familiar types—Home is, well, actually a pretty nice movie. It has some good acting—both leads are fine, both quite appealing individuals (did I mention the lovely Ms. Zanzarella?); some nice scenes—the dream interpretation by Dennis Cabrini, the scene when Bobby follows Susan outside for air, bringing her slippers to her as his feeble excuse to stay near; and an overall quality that, while not really anything unusual or exceptional, was rather sweet.
    “Well…” pondered Mrs. Pauper after it ended, “I liked it more than Crash.”
    Me too, honey. Me too.

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