APRIL 5, 2003|Don't Have, Don't Give (Poland, 14min., David Turner, *** (out of four))--A quiet story of desperation, David Turner's Don't Have, Don't Give is given over entirely to a nicotine pall. Low and claustrophobic, the exteriors of Turner's industrial Poland are ceiling-close, the skies a stained yellow to match the burnt yellow of the land. The tale of two estranged brothers who find common ground at last in their failure is, then, at once secondary to and echoed by the bleak cynicism of its setting. Not so much surprising as neat--but better yet, tight.

Balance (USA, 6min., Adam Collis, **)--Essentially six minutes of artist Kevin Morgan making cairns on a beach at sunset, Balance is aesthetically pleasing but maddens for director Collis' reluctance to show the completed product. Six minutes of a well-built man carrying rocks around seems like a helluva lot longer and the eventual payoff, when it comes, is still obscure. An excellent final shot cures some of what ails.

I Used to Be a Filmmaker (USA, 10min., Jay Rosenblatt, *)--"I Used to Be a Filmmaker," Jay Rosenblatt introduces his work--and in that same spirit, I'd complete the title with "and now you're a sap." An almost unendurable ten-minutes of parent-love disguised as wryness, the picture uses title cards with various filmmaking terms ("soft focus," "fade to black," and so on) juxtaposed with what those terms mean to a proud papa. "Stock footage," for example, is combined with a loving "soft focus" shot of his infant's adorable tootsies. If it's hard to read about, it's a lot harder to watch--trust me.

Pa (Australia, 6min., Neil Goodridge, *1/2)--A fanciful documentary about an eight-year-old's dead grandpa, Pa is just another variation of "Kids Say the Darnedest Things" dressed up with some collage technique and camera trickery. As documentaries go it indirectly comments on the extent to which the filmmaker can skew a piece in one direction or another, and as technological advance goes, Monty Python was doing the same sort of thing decades ago.

Waiting (Thailand, 24min., Aditya Assarat, 1/2*)--Paced like a vigil at a deathbed, Waiting is at least titled correctly as Assarat's attempts at evoking a "Beat" Takeshi or Ozu ethic crosses the line from transcendentalism to pointlessness and boredom. The odd scene strikes a chord, but too much time is given over to long shots of bus rides, a lot of them in complete dark. Understanding that cinema of inversion can be powerful, Waiting is so relaxed and introspective that it's asleep.

Shearing (UK, 13min., Eicke Bettinga, **)--Sort of a humiliating statement about women and sexual politics that finds its conclusion in an ignored farmer's wife "shearing" herself of clothes (and pride) and standing naked amongst her husband's beloved sheep. The suggestions as staggering as the entendre, the piece suffers further from overwriting and a cast that, for as game as it is, doesn't provide much humanity for what is, after all, a stagy construct.

From the 104^th Floor (USA, 3min., Serguei Bassine, ***)--Narrated by Rosie Perez with the same sort of emotion and tenderness she brought to her magnificent performance in Peter Weir's Fearless, From the 104^th Floor takes its script from a 4^th grader's imagined internal dialogue of a woman in her last moments on the 104^th floor of the World Trade Center on 9/11. Animated in a simple sketch style, the piece is quick and poignant, striking to the heart of impossible decisions and regret. Not a bad summary, after all, of the tragedy of that day.

Four Simple Rules (USA, 14min., Geoffrey O'Connor, **1/2)--It's essentially an apocryphal joke--one of those things that men tell each other happened to someone they knew once over a beer or a dirty towel. A middle-aged lothario (an excellent Bruce Altman) breaks his four cardinal rules for successful infidelity and ends up pulling a boner so cosmic one can't help but laugh. Puerile fluff can be fun, but only as fun as the amount we're invested in the characters--you laugh, and then you move on.

Highrise (UK, 4min., Gabrielle Russell, ***)--Hopeless, wordless, and gripping, Highrise places a disconsolate young mother in a filthy room with her filthy infant and an open window. Redemption is questionable, but a possibility--certainty is that Highrise is powerfully conceived and executed making Russell a director to watch.

Terminal Bar (USA, 22min., Stefan Nadelman, ****)--An extraordinary document of the patrons of New York's 8^th side "Terminal Bar"--a squalid watering hole in the middle of the worst part of Gotham presided over by Sheldon Nadelman, barkeep and amateur portrait photographer. Ripping off snapshots of the Terminal's clientele form 1972 to 1982, Terminal Bar is son Stefan Nadelman's revisiting of his father's photograph collection--scored with heat and narrated now and again by papa Nadelman ("#405, he was crazy, man, nuts"). Asked why, Sheldon responds that people need to know the truth about his mean streets, his "New York Shitty"--if one man lies in the gutter, we all do. Terminal Bar is important and essential on its own, but more so in its discovery of a modern Weegee. Misery is the mother of inspiration, after all.

Parking (USA, 5min., Bill Plympton, **), Another disappointing outing after 2001's mostly failed feature Mutant Aliens, Bill Plympton's Parking is another take on the animator's Sisyphus-everyman, this time a parking lot attendant in mortal combat with a blade of grass. Whitman versus industrialization encapsulated, but sloppily, by the end it's just a Green apologia. From one of the most acerbic, grotesque voices on the animation scene, that softening is troubling indeed.

A Ninja Pays Half My Rent (USA, 5min., Steven Tsuchida, ***1/2)--Verging on inspired, the real trick of A Ninja Pays Half My Rent (the title also a plot summary) is director Tsuchida's ability to gauge when his material's about to go stale and stop it short. So successful that it must have been tempting to expand the premise, that it leaves the audience wanting more while satisfying that probably no more could be done with it is one of those things that speaks volumes of Tsuchida's potential.

Here Was the Anthem (USA/Mexico, 22min., Sergio Umansky, ***)--Proudly introduced as the winner of 2001's Columbia University award for best student film, Here Was the Anthem tackles police corruption in Mexico with a sort of grim Amores Perros feeling (complete with abused and murdered dog) married to a Midnight Express drug nightmare. The problem of the picture lies in its slickness--the sort of thing that begs for enjoyment while doling out unpleasantness. It's City of God in microcosm, in that way: not all that honourable an achievement.

Fish Never Sleep (UK, 6min., Gaelle Denis, **)--Style over substance crystallized in the tale of an insomnia-stricken woman who lives above a sushi parlour and begs the question of why fish don't sleep. That the film gives the question a philosophical answer is one of those deals that begs bigger questions--like, "Oh Jesus, what was that all about?"

The King and Dick (USA, 8min., Scott Calonico, **1/2)--A look at Elvis' infamous meeting with Richard Nixon told through photographs and national security archives, it's entertaining enough as far as it goes, but steps over a line when it underlines the irony of one of the most notorious addicts of his time volunteering to be a narc. A roll call of drugs found in The King's system upon his death is a mean thing to end the film on--a punchline to an insult, and an underestimation of its audience.

D.E.B.S. (USA, 14min., Angela Robinson, **1/2)--In the process of being examined into a feature-length production, D.E.B.S. is exactly what director Robinson describes it as: "a lezzie "Charlie's Angels"." Essentially about chicks making out and shooting guns, it sends up the "Angels" genre in the same way that the film version of Charlie's Angels already has--been there, done that, and no real big surprise that of all the shorts so far, this is the one tabbed for expansion. And so it goes.