At the movies with Mark Sandman and Windfall
I wish I had all week to take in the films at the Independent Film Festival Boston, which Wesley and Ty so kindly laid out for us. I’ll just point to a pair of movies I’m taking in, one that I’ve seen – and loved enough to see again – and another I’m eager to catch for the first time. (Disclosure: Our film played IFFB last year.)
“Windfall,” at the Brattle on Saturday at 4:45 p.m., is the documentary that Wesley called simply the best in the festival. I have to confess, the whole Cape Wind thing with the Kennedys and Walter Cronkite, etc. had me kind of, er, winded-out. Then I saw Laura Israel’s film and got sucked into Meredith, the town in upstate New York that is thrown into turmoil when a wind developer comes courting. This is the first film Israel has directed, but she’s a talented editor, not only on documentaries but for videos of Lou Reed, Sonic Youth and David Byrne, among others. Beyond the characters, this film is beautiful and visually-arresting. Stylistically, “Windfall” reminded me more of a narrative film, David Lynch’s “The Straight Story,” than any issues-doc I could think of.
Friday night, I’ll be with the masses at the Somerville Theatre for “Cure for Pain: The Mark Sandman Story.” I confess that I fear this film will do what Mark Sandman never did: Bore me. It promises to get into the Sandman life story, which seems centered in Newton, which strikes me as a lot less interesting of a place than the weird, cosmic universe that Sandman created. That said, I’ve never seen “Cure for Pain” and it wouldn’t be fair to judge it from a 171-second clip.
I have one Mark Sandman story. It’s 1992. My friend, Jeremy, is at Tufts and gets really into the first Morphine record, which is on a tiny local label. He calls the number inside the CD jacket and hires them to play the Crafts House. Sandman arrives with Dana Colley and I’m guessing Jerome Dupree, though it could have been Billy Conway. Strangely enough, the man so famous for playing the two-string, slide bass brought an old keyboard. You know, one of those loungy-sounding things. He sat for the entire performance. I heard his back was bothering him but it might just have been because the room was so small or maybe he dug that sound. There were about 25 of us, and I remember feeling a bit awkward in such close quarters. The music, though, was stunning. Morphine would go on to release albums for Rykodisc and Dreamworks and get on MTV and play big tours. That night, I remember snatches of future records, as Sandman crooned on. Sharks patrol these waters. Get in your go-kart and go little sister. Then, the gig was done and Sandman, cigarette lit, headed into the night, loading his keyboard in the trunk of what looked like a Ford Fairline or something black and 1960sish.
I bought my ticket for tonight’s film and I’m hoping for the best. But please, don’t let me find out the dude went to my Hebrew School.
