The Taste of Tea

dir. Katsuhito Ishii

The director of The Taste of Tea, Katsuhito Ishii, is also its screenwriter and editor. But if Ishii had been its director, worked with another writer on the screenplay, and stayed entirely away from the editing suite, then this film would have reached the borders of greatness. As it is, The Taste of Tea suffers from the dominance of one vision, one mind, one way of thinking. Ishii made a 90-minute movie into one that runs for too long (two hours and 15 minutes), and his writing often leads us into paths, rooms, situations, moments that contribute little or nothing to the whole. Now Gogol, Proust, and Sterne proved to their readers that digressions are not at all bad things—that is, if they are not bad in themselves. But if a digression can't sustain itself, be good on its own, then it must be cut from the main branch of the plot. A decent number of digressions could have easily been removed from Ishii's script.

Despite all of these problems, however, it's better to see The Taste of Tea than to miss it. The story, which moves at the pleasant pace of a cloud, is about a family that lives in the country. There is a girl, her brother, her mother, her father, her uncle, and grandfather. Her grandfather is strange, her uncle is cracked, her father is a hypnotherapist, her mother is an anime artist, her brother has a crush on a schoolgirl, and she is followed by a giant version of herself. Though the editor completely overshoots a great ending, just seeing how the film could have ended is worth the price of admission. Also, as the credits roll after the overshoot ending, beautiful Japanese dub is played. This could have been a perfect picture. CHARLES MUDEDE

Boy Culture

dir. Q. Allan Brocka

Boy Culture begins with a bang—12 of them, to be precise—and ends 90 or so interminable minutes later with a whimper. Along the way we're treated to a parade of clichés about men in general and gay men in particular.

The lead, known only as "X," (Derek Magyar) is a jaded, soulful hustler—nothing cliché about that—who lives platonically with Andrew (Darryl Stephens), the man he secretly loves, and Joey (Jonathon Trent), an 18-year-old pass-around party slut he would like to protect. It's the same ol' fear-of-intimacy bullshit that too many men—gay and straight—mistake for soulfulness, with three sets of ripped abs and one exquisite ass tossed in to draw gay ticket buyers.

Filmed in Seattle, Boy Culture would have us believe that our sleepy little burg is a city of wet, neon-streaked streets crawling with hustlers, wannabes, and the kind of broad-shouldered, big-titted, narrow-waisted gay men you're more likely to find strolling through West Hollywood (and through casting agencies in Hollywood) than dancing at any gay club that exists in Seattle. It's Seattle dressed up in the drag of New York City circa Taxi Driver or Midnight Cowboy, complete with a ponderous, self-indulgent voice-over. Except our midnight cowboy lives in a high-tech loft with the Man He Loves But Cannot Tell and the Twink That Loves Him But Is Still Just a Boy. Only the ministrations of a Wise Old Queen can help these men cut through their intimacy issues, open their hearts, and make a commitment (to each other for X and Andrew; to college for Joey).

You'll find more believable characterizations of gay men on the American Family Association's website.

Finally, a word about that spectacular ass: If you want to go see a movie, go to a movie (just not this movie). If you want to watch some porn, have a little self-respect and go rent some honest-to-God porn. The guys in any given porno are hotter, their inner lives are more interesting, their motivations are more credible, and their heartbreaks are more genuine than anything that goes down in this dishonest little film. DAN SAVAGE

Diggers

dir. Katherine Dieckmann

In this potty-mouthed ode to '70s Long Island, written by native Long Islander Ken Marino (The State), a crotchety man drops dead and his thirtysomething children and their friends fail to rise to the occasion. Third-generation clam digger Hunt (Paul Rudd) feels oppressed by the incursions of the faceless corporation South Shell into his digging grounds—that is, while he's not chasing Big Apple tail (Lauren Ambrose) or snapping arty Polaroids of power lines. Big sister Gina (Maura Tierney), a recent divorcée, is too preoccupied to do anything but sling hash at the diner and kvetch about infrequent cunnilingus.

The heart of Diggers, however, lies not with these typical indie characters, but with a dedicated, passionate, and borderline abusive couple who are friends with Hunt and Gina. Frankie (a boisterous role apparently conceived by Marino for himself) and his wife Julie (the sweet and steely Sarah Paulson) chase their numerous brood around the house and sweat out finances at the kitchen table, but still find time for weird and touching exchanges. ("I am not an octopus, Frankie! I am not an octopus!") Without coming near endorsing Frankie's unreflective misogyny, the film wraps the combatants in a fuzzy bear hug—you can't get enough distance to judge either one.

Diggers is an ensemble movie, so the Frankie-and-Julie show is only sporadic. Time is wasted on a peace-loving stoner named Cons (Josh Hamilton) and a woman-loving stud named Jack (Ron Eldard) so that everyone can get together for a friendly street brawl at the end. As a movie, Diggers is affable and lazy—its purpose obscured by a swarm of clichés. As a comic sketch about Frankie and Julie, it's great. ANNIE WAGNER