Meet Rocky Salemmo. He’s a ramblin’ gamblin’ man. For the majority of his adult life Rocky has hustled bowling for a living.

Dunne’s hugely entertaining, character-driven doc tells the story of Rocky Salemmo, a larger than life man, who has spent the majority of his adult life in the bowling alley, gambling for a living. Like a heady combination of Bill Murray’s Ernie McCracken from Kingpin and Joe Pesci’s Tommy DeVito from Goodfellas (without the violent episodes), Salemmo feels like he was born to be in front of the camera. Rocky is a seriously hyper personality (he claims he doesn’t take coke as it brings him down), he tears up the screen like a wild man, spitting out stories like his life will end if he doesn’t tell them. It’s these rambling antidotes that form the basic structure of Dunne’s film, it feels like he just set-up his crew and waited for Rocky to let loose (much like a crew shooting a wildlife doc would do).

However, there’s no point in having a captivating character with a wonderful story, if the production values don’t match the levels set by the content.

Shot on the Sony EX3, the film features some sumptuous cinematography by director of photography Hillary Spera, as her camera seems magnetized to Rocky and his manic behaviour. The interviews are beautifully constructed and whether we’re in the low-lit bars or Rocky’s mother’s busy living room, Salemmo is always the given space he needs to frantically tell his stories. Often overlay the distinctive voice of our storyteller, The Bowler is also filled with a wealth of hugely effective cutaways ranging from random bowling alley shots, to close-up shots of Rocky bowling, laughing and dancing. Salemmo’s quick-fire delivery is perfectly matched with the fast paced snappy editing from Kathy Gatto and her cutting does a great job of painting the world in which Rocky believes he lives.

Dunne seems to be rapidly becoming a name to watch in the world of the documentary short and his distinctive style and charming stories are sure to win him an army of followers. If you liked The Bowler, be sure to check out the 2009 Sundance selected short The Archive, another fascinating short focusing on the owner of the world’s largest record collection.

In 1969, a 14-year-old Beatle obsessive Jerry Levitan tricked his way into John Lennon’s hotel room in Toronto and equipped with a reel-to-reel recorder, he managed to persuade Lennon to do a spontaneous interview. Almost 40 years later, Josh Raskin (along with help from Jerry Levitan as producer) has moulded this interview into a mesmerizing animation, featuring time-honoured ink sketching alongside modern digital illustration.

Taking the initial audio recording of the interview as it basis, Raskin develops Lennon’s words into a non-stop visual bombardment of the animated kind. Illustrator James Braithwaite lends his penmanship to the film and his scratchy style is the perfect accompaniment to the old school fuzzy soundtrack. At times Braithwaite’s designs and animations can’t but help elicit memories of The Beatles Yellow Submarine and although the illustrator’s vision is somewhat less colourful and psychedelic than it’s predecessor, you have to presume it played some part in his aesthetic choices. To add a modern edge to the film, Raskin employed the talents of Designer and New Media artist Alex Kurina, whose well-ordered, somewhat more precise style creates an intriguing infusion alongside Braithwaite’s.

Don’t be fooled into thinking this is a film solely based in its visuals though, as however eye-catching they may be, there probably isn’t an animator in the world that could eclipse the thoughts and messages of John Lennon. The interview with Lennon may now be over 40 years old, but it’s incredible how applicable and significant his words still are. In a time still overshadowed with ongoing war and the threat of terrorism, Lennon could almost be speaking of the ‘establishment’ of modern day and the troubles it faces. Adding to the charm of the film, the Musician and Activist seems to have a frankness and honesty in his answers, when speaking to the 14yr old Levitan. These are words and opinions that may not have been so forthcoming to a more seasoned, professional journalist.

Together, this powerful interview combines potently with the strong, imaginative visuals of Raskin and his fellow artists, creating a striking film that is bound to stick in its audiences mind for a long time after watching. It’s easy to see why this innovative short was nominated for a Best Animated Short Film Oscar in 2008.

I went home and googled, dutifully looking out for all of you, our beloved fledgling audience,  but of course none of the short films were to be found. None except for the Animation Grand Jury Prize winning Photograph of Jesus! Hoo-Raaaaay.

Photograph for Jesus is of that weird genre hybrid, the animated documentary. Ryan or I Met the Walrus are examples in this mode, using recorded audio as the basis for the narrative. In this film an unseen photographic curator relates some of the odd and sometimes just plain daft requests he gets while working at the archive. We all get a chuckle via simple storytelling as he recounts his surprise, disbelief and exasperation at some of the things folk are looking for, while images catalogued in the vast wharehouse come to life via an impressive diversity of animation techniques. My personal favorite is the story of someone wanting an actual photograph of a Yeti.

The content of the short is heavily influenced by the reason for its creation. In 2008 Getty Images put on a contest for filmmakers, asking them to create a short film in which no less than 50% of the imagery was comprised of material from their London-based Hulton archive. Using image archives for the raw material in which to animate films is a neat idea and so far has produce some dynamite work—Run Wrake’s Control Master being the other example that comes to mind, but Laurie Hill took the premise of the contest and cleverly turned it in upon itself, creating a film out of the archive that itelf comments on the archive.

The Getty’s contest page displays some of the other worthy entries, including one by SotW-featured Ian Mackinnon, but Photograph of Jesus is the undisputed cream in my mind, only partly because of its perfection as a commercial. The film is also a delight of animation. It comes at a furious clip and blends photographic manipulation with collage, including a few instance of a bizarre but interesting kaleidoscopic montage, as well as stop motion of the physical space housing the collection. It’s visually arresting stuff, and the madcap feel of the action is a nice complement to the dry humor of the British narration.

Like most short filmed goodness on the web, our man Dek already scooped the film well before us, so visit if you want a personal copy.

The film animates the interactions between its director, Chris Landreth, and a panhandling, ex-addict named Ryan Larkin. What elevates these interviews beyond simple sympathy, a mere portrait in degradation, is the relationship between the two. Ryan is a hero to Chris. An Oscar-nominated animator in his own right, Ryan Larkin is a man whose work in the 60’s and early 70’s “secured his place in the history of animated fimmaking” as the film states. But artistic and commercial frustration, paired with a debilitating addiction brought Ryan out onto the streets where Chris finds him.

While blessed with a fascinating subject in the figure of Ryan, Landreth finds more than mere tragedy, he finds a cautionary tale. The film emphasizes a kinship that Landreth feels towards Ryan, and finds him terrified. This emphasis on Landreth’s self-recognition is represented from the beginning as the film opens with him talking about his own failures. Thus the film morphs from what on first glance is a reclamation project, into as much of an examination of Landreth as of Ryan. Throughout the interviews he inserts himself into the work, and as a result the film becomes a meditation on the madness and sacrifice of the art.

This theme is represented verbally through the interviews and through Landreth’s voice-overs, but the film, as an animation, won most of its acclaim though its ability to impart these themes visually. The characters in the film are animated in realistic CG, but are damaged. Landreth has been mutated in a psychedelic fashion, and his fear of failure pops up periodically throughout the film as a literal entitiy, colorful strips which bind his head and face, blinding him. While Landreth has his scars, even missing part of his head, Ryan is simply lacking. In a literal sense. Ryan is represented more or less normally, but huge chunks of his face and head are simply missing. The metaphor is clear—The ravages of his lifestyle clearly have damaged him, but more sinisterly, it can be read that his art has in fact consumed him as well. That the self-destructive impulses of creativity, have hollowed Ryan out.

Ironically, in the film Ryan talks about his Oscar nomination. About how he lost out to Walt Disney. Later in the film he decries the lack of money as something that killed his animation career. The awarding of an Oscar to this film therefore brings out an added level depth when watching, and reiterates the importance of these awards to independent filmmakers, a point I made much more eloquently around this time last year. Thanks go out to the Youtube Screening Room for bringing Ryan to us for free in a way that still benefits the filmmakers. Youtube is really bringing great films into this series as the last couple of weeks have showcased Short of the Week 2008 faves, I Love Sarah Jane and The Bloody Olive. Thanks go to NFB Canada as well for their continued production support of great artists, but also for bringing some of their illustrious catalog to YouTube.

Shot on the street and in various check-cashing stores, Checkmate sketches the landscape of the check-cashing industry in Brooklyn. Why are there always jewelry stores next to check-cashing spots? Why is there 1 bank per 1,000 people in fancy Brooklyn Heights, but only 1 per 50,000 people in gritty Bushwick? In discursive style, Rafi and Dallas take us around the borough, talking to people on the street and walking us through the mechanics of the check-cashing spot to illustrate how this particular part of the cycle of debt operates. And we learn how the cycle changes. “Internets,” Dallas jokes, “you know you’ve made it when you go from check-cashing fees to ATM fees.” Ben Popken, an editor at consumerist.com, makes an appearance as a talking head, but it’s mostly Dallas and Rafi on camera, riffing on the absurdities of our new, “eff-ed the eff up” economy.

The Internets Celebrities (the name, by the way, is very much toungue in cheek) are doing something unique on YouTube: using it as vehicle for informed, pointed documentary-making. The rough style is part of the message, that this is off-the-cuff, not watered down. There’s no critical distance here, and the video itself has a loose style perfectly suited to embeddable online video. But the lack of obvious slickness obscures how slick Checkmate actually is—it’s a 10-minute video about “check-cashing” of all things, but it’s already had nearly half a million views. Are they indeed, as they claim, “the Woodward and Bernstein for the YouTube generation”?

It commences with a giant stork-like, metal bird, beautifully crafted—there can be no other word for all the prop and puppet design here—sweeping down over a wooden carcass of a ship, the struts and frame boat and the skeletal system of a giant animal. The ship is floating on strips of wood, like complex pedals of a vast cathedral organ, the gently undulating lathes forming the sea. We become aware of a bespectacled figure immersed in the innards, studiously working on the cogs and wheels of his wooden clock. When the bell rings it is with the resonance of the giant metal bowls in the heights of Notre Dame. There is no Quasimodo figure however, just an old man hard at work, the passage of time and the disease revealed in his transparent, emaciating figure. The soundtrack is the bells and ticking of the clock.

Visually, this stop-motion movie is stunning even in the reduced quality available. Building the set and puppets took one year alone. The studio set is remarkable—artfully lit, providing ample scope for the camera to pan around. We see the clock-maker from different angles—his face sculptured from wood cast in the warm glow from his lantern; or we look down from above and marvel at the symmetry of the boat beneath.

Veteran actor Barry Otto narrates the story of Dik’s relationship with his father with such sincerity I believed, until I read the credits, that it was the director himself speaking. It is a complex work involving guilt over the death of his younger brother, John, who died at the age of five, 14 years before Dik was born. The consequent sadness in the family was one from which Dik felt excluded. Unlike the sudden death of a road accident the slowness of cancer allowed the son to say goodbye and “hello”. When his father dies his ashes are buried with those of his long dead son. In a moving passage of commentary the difference in quantity of the ashes between the two, boy and man, achieves both reconciliation and a release.

Dik was courteous in replying to questions from one of my students, Adam Fadra, in an extended interview for my school website last year and provides ample detail about the production. For example, the “hero bird” was assembled from brass, aluminium and bits of one of his father’s clocks whilst the process involved Dik constructing a thousand moving parts and making 22,000 images.

I see a lot of animated movies. Dad’s Clock stands out for a number of reasons, its candour being one. I have never seen a set of this complexity, a work of art in itself. The supreme craftsmanship allows Dik to form striking tableaux: the skeleton figure peering into his telescope out to the stars on top of the symmetrical alignment of timber, figure and ship viewed in front of the backdrop of the cosmos. When the old man descends for a final time into the machine and the mechanism closes around him it is an obvious metaphor but an effective one.

Dik’s personal and dignified tribute deserves greater recognition than it has received other than the director’s Australian home. His design and architecture company Studio 505 is situated in Melbourne.

Tabares is both the director and subject of Rapping at Fear, a short documentary currently competing in the 7th annual Media That Matters Film Festival, the self-described “premiere showcase for short films on the most important topics of the day.”

Tabares shot Rapping at Fear when he was 13-years-old, but rather than being the vanity project of a self-centered teenager, this film is simply another step in Tabares’ already long history of speaking out against the violence in Colombian slums. In a place filled with social cleansing groups, Tabares, who risked his life by speaking out against these groups in his pre-teen years, has found that his gift for words resonates with fellow Colombians. A street rapper in the finest sense of the word, Rapping at Fear features both a determined and playful Tabares boldly speaking out as the graffiti-soaked concrete behind him host death threats to anyone who dares to question the authority of the various slum gangs.

Beautifully photographed, the film combines Tabares’ narrative with what could best be described as primal animation and live-action that captures both the reality and the fantasy of this creative young man’s daily life of poverty and violence. Winner of the festival’s “Speak the Peace Award,” it avoids the pitfalls of many social justice films by trusting the power of its story and not falling into overt preachiness. Instead, Rapping at Fear is simply one young man’s effort to create a peaceful life for himself and his people.

Andrés has joined City TV Bogota as a children’s TV host for almost a year, and continues to perform rap in Cazuca. He also belongs to a theater group in Taller de Vida.

One of a series of 11 short films created by teenage filmmakers from around the world, Rapping at Fear is, indeed, about the power of film and the power of one person to make a difference even when surrounded by fear, poverty and violence.

I find this week’s short to be interesting for a myriad of reasons, perhaps the least of which are its controversial politics. Part documentary, half advertisement and in places an artistic short film, with a solid dose of agit-prop thrown in, The Shock Doctrine is a slick piece of media that employs a smorgasbord of filmic and graphic techniques.

Produced by acclaimed film director Alfonso Cuaron (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) and directed by his brother, the films primary raison d’etre is as a companion to/commercial for the book of the same title written by the famous writer/activist Naomi Klein. A decidedly political book, Klein makes the case that free market policies are consciously pushed forward by political leadership during times of crisis in order to capitalize on the population’s collective trauma; allowing the passage of unpopular laws that ordinarily would be rejected.

The film summarizes and dramatizes Klein’s thesis, serving as an effective teaser for the book itself. Short films used as glorified commercials is of course not a new phenomenon, the BMW films probably being the most famous example, but this is the first time I’ve encountered this in the publishing industry. That interesting note aside, there is notable intrinsic value to the film outside this marketing angle. As mentioned before, the film utilizes a wide variety of techniques in order to summarize Klein’s book, but also to establish a narrative that is separate and complementary to her’s as well. Early in the film a stern man’s voice is heard over motion graphic images illustrated to look as though they were from a manual. It’s revealed that the man is reading from the CIA’s manual for interrogation. As the narrator begins to discuss the effect of shock in breaking a detainee’s ability to resist, the motion graphic art provides a visual depiction of several torture techniques that are controversially used in the current War on Terror. Cuaron is thus transposing Klein’s thesis of the debilitating effect of shock on a societal level and applying it on the individual level in an attack on torture. Seeing as how the Bush administration figures prominently in both critiques, the comparison is apt and effective.

It is also propaganda. There is no “fair and balanced” reporting here, this is a film designed to incite and outrage. Yet I’m very pleased to see Alfonso Cuaron involved in a project like this. This fall Hollywood is subjecting us to a bevy of half-baked political dramas, a perfect storm of belated outrage as if in apology for seven years of ignoring the state of the country while enveloped in its narcissistic bubble. Cuaron though made Children of Men, one of the most fiercely political films of recent memory. Here he backs up his politics, and lends his talents to supporting the infrastructure of dissent. Regardless of your feelings on the salient points made in the film and book, it is something to be admired.

His site, thisisnotpuzzle.com began in 2003 as a series of absurdist photos pasted up on the ‘net. The consensus of internet patrons was that it was some kind of puzzle. Not wanting to disappoint, Boruff decided to make puzzles for the site, ultimately attracting puzzle aficionado’s the world over, who pored over his site and, much to Boruff’s chagrin, his personal life as well.

The film itself is narrated by Boruff and is briskly paced. Simple, yet elegant effects and green screen work is done to enhance the presentation, making the appeal of the film more than simply the story.

Chris Ware, American cartoonist and graphic novelist, teamed up with animator, John Kuramoto, to create a simplified world of geometric-based illustration. It’s a chilling true life story told with playfully bold visuals.