September 11, 2001, flipped the country upside
down. When American Airlines Flight 11 hit the North Tower of the World Trade
Center, the United States’ psyche broke. The shift was immediate, and it lasts
to this day. In American Folk’s early moments, though, Elliott (Joe
Purdy) and Joni (Amber Rubarth) are just confused in the immediate aftermath of
the country’s axis shift. They are strangers seated beside each other on a
flight from Los Angeles to New York—he to a gig as a backing musician with a
band he doesn’t respect and her to the draining grind of caring for a dying
mother rather than pursuing her own musical dreams—when the plane is ordered to return to LAX after the news hits. When
their feet hit the ground, they don’t know the news, but they know the whole
world’s mood has changed.
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| Photo credit: American Folk/IMDb |
Director David Heinz literally flips the camera
upside down—feet scurry where the ceiling should be and the color scheme has
become a muted mix of blues and grays, a stark contrast from the hazy yellows
and browns of his film’s opening scene of Elliott recording a folk song demo in
a janky motel room. In most cinematic contexts, this would perhaps be an overly
obvious metaphorical trick, but here it makes emotional sense—we’ve never
flipped the country back to “normal” in the 17 years since the events depicted in
the film, after all. Neither Elliott nor Joni is frightened, per sé, just
baffled and unsure of what to do. They catch a cab together because, despite
being mostly unknown to each other, their faces are the only familiar things to
one another in a panicked time.
That familiarity breeds a kind of reassurance.
It’s uncertain and tentative and vulnerable to breaking, but it’s comforting
nonetheless. And therein American Folk’s central thesis about human
nature and America. As Elliott and Joni drive her aunt’s beaten down van for an
unexpected cross-country road trip, they meet a populace in mourning,
desert-dwelling outsiders who are blissfully unaware of the horrible things
that transpired, and person after person who is willing to lend a hand and be a
dear friend—if only for a few moments, and only to be remembered via faded
Polaroids. Their names and the details of their stories may float away in the
recesses of memory, but their faces and their welcoming smiles stick around.
Those moments of connection and magnanimity are
sometimes brief, especially when someone is stressed and the world seems like
it’s ending and the sun’s beating down like a molten hammer and the stupid van
keeps overheating. Purdy and Rubarth, folk musicians in the real world and first-time
actors here, handle these stressful moments with charm and wit, even if they’re
missing some actorly polish. “Do you know anything about cars?” Joni asks as
smoke billows out of the hood.
“Of course I do,” Elliott answers tersely,
offended that his manly mechanical know-how could possibly be attacked in such
a way. But then, under his breath, he mutters, “Just don’t know much about
vans.” It’s a hilarious moment for the viewer but a serious moment of breakdown
between Elliott and Joni. They’re reeling from a national shock, reports of
which monopolize every radio station while these music-starved people search
for something, anything, with a beat and melody to escape from reality
for a moment, to latch onto a piece of beauty to forget ugliness. He spins out
from there, she recedes, and the trip, which had been going relatively well
considering the circumstances, threatens to spiral out of control.
Purdy and Rubarth’s acting muscles aren’t always
strong enough to carry the film through these more dramatic scenes. They often
sound as if they are fully aware that they are saying lines for a movie, and
they’re excited about being in said movie. They feel outside of their
characters when they grin and nod at (joking) sentences like, “Let’s bring back
the folk!”
But the movie benefits greatly from the
authenticity they bring to its musical sequences, where their emotions click
into place and ring rawly true. A duet between Joni, who strums a guitar in the
van’s cluttered midsection, and Elliott is pure movie magic. They’re sore and
upset after their traveling partnership nearly falls apart, but their voices
can harmonize and their eyes can lock. Cinematographer Devin Whetstone’s camera
seemingly wants to give them privacy, but it can’t look away from their
tenderness. It pulls back, centimeter by centimeter, but it never fully leaves
them while these two former strangers become something more intimate, if not
romantic.
These are the connections Americans can form
when they’re in a delicate space, when they’re able to reach out. It’s possible
to form these bonds without a national tragedy. It takes an acknowledgement
that you don’t know someone else’s story until you ask. It takes openness. And
sometimes it takes a gas station parking lot, a busted van, and a guitar.
Director: David Heinz
Writer: David Heinz
Starring: Joe Purdy, Amber Rubarth, Krisha
Fairchild
Rating: 3.5/5 stars
Available in limited release and on demand now
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