By Michael E. Miller
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By Sabrina Rodriguez
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By Luther Campbell
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It's only the second day of the Miami Film Festival, but the event's new director, David Poland, is already engaged in damage control. After being publicly announced, mysteriously canceled, and then just as cryptically reinstated on the fest's schedule 24 hours earlier, famed Cuban filmmaker Humberto Solas's new Miel para Oshunis about to unspool inside the Gusman Center.
From the stage Poland and Independent Feature Project board members Patricia Boero and Angela Bustamanteattempt to put a positive face on the disappointing turnout of 40. Solas sends his apologies for not winging in from Havana personally to introduce his movie, they announce, but "he's working on a documentary for Spanish TV and just couldn't get away." It's an odd claim, considering Solas was spotted around Miami just days prior, even bumping into one journalist while shopping at a pharmacy. But things are about to get stranger.
An angry Latin-accented voice booms out from the Gusman's balcony: "You are destroying the condition of this festival!" Poland blinks, bemused, as the critic thunders on. "I have been coming here for fifteen years, and you are destroying the festival!" the voice reiterates. "Look at this theater -- it's empty!"
Could this be the wrath of el exilioPoland has heard so much about? After all, it was only two weeks ago that Miami City Commissioner Tomas Regalado had called for the de facto censorship of films the Cuban-exile community found "insensitive" at Little Havana's revamped Tower Theater. And back in 2000, after the Miami Film Festival screened the Cuba-produced Life Is to Whistlein violation of a (since repealed) county ordinance prohibiting business dealings with the island, Mayor Alex Penelas threatened to rescind a $50,000 grant to the fest.
But no, the target of this audience member's fury -- and the scattering of applause that greeted it -- wasn't ol' Fidel. It was that other brash leader with a radical new vision for the Americas: David Poland.
Later that evening Poland takes a dinner break from dashing between Lincoln Road's Colony Theater and the Regal South Beach Cinema, where he's been MCing the night's festival selections. Settling into a sidewalk table at Balans, Poland turns practically giddy at the memory of his Gusman heckler.
"That guy this afternoon -- part of me loves that!" he says. "Let him talk. For all his bitchin', he was still there.He came to the festival. And the woman who applauded him -- great!" He waves his hands frenetically in the air and enthuses, "Love me, hate me, it doesn't matter!" Poland's programming philosophy? "Just breathe; let it go with the flow. That's where the magic is, the moments you don't see coming."
Returning to Earth, he continues in a more solemn vein: "Some folks just don't like change -- there are people who are never going to like me." He adds with a shrug: "I'm never going to be Cuban. I'm never going to be Nat."
Indeed, as much as both Poland and the festival's parent, Florida International University, would prefer to keep the focus on the films being shown, the unseen presence of Nat Chediak looms large. It was Chediak who founded the Miami Film Festival in 1983, and over the next eighteen years, his own identity would become largely inseparable from it.
Accordingly his resignation last May was viewed as more than just a career shift. To many it augured the end of the festival.
Chediak declined to be interviewed by Kulchur,diplomatically preferring to stand by his previous statement. "The university wants to take the festival in a direction that is not consistent with my own vision," he told the Heraldback in May, a veiled reference to the clashes he'd had with the FIU administrators who had become his sponsors in 1999. The points of contention were reportedly over the expansion of the festival's scope and its inclusion of additional screenings on the Beach. An insistence on input into Chediak's film selections was apparently the breaking point: Chediak walked, and FIU placed a help-wanted ad in Variety. Poland, a Los Angeles entertainment journalist, accepted the position in August, and FIU insisted the show would most definitely go on.
Long-time patrons were less sure. Director Jorge Ulla penned an over-the-top op-ed piece for the Herald, lamenting the passing of "a mischievous shaman Che Di Ak."That's a bit melodramatic, but it captures the feelings of the thousands who annually packed the Gusman, even as the city's arthouses and alternative film spaces struggled to find audiences -- often for the same films Chediak had presented only months before.
In that light many of the attacks on Poland haven't exactly been rational; the new director's own credentials are beside the point -- whoever he is, he's not Chediak. El Nuevo Herald pilloried Poland for showcasing two classic Fifties Westerns from Budd Boetticher, deeming the auteur irrelevant. Yet there was no outcry from that quarter when in 2000, Chediak assembled a retrospective of Westerns from Boetticher contemporary John Ford. (There were just as few attendees sitting around Kulchur at those Ford screenings as well.)
For anyone who caught this year's presentation of Y Tu Mama Tambien, it's obvious Poland remains committed to securing the best Latin-American cinema has to offer. Still, there are clear aesthetic differences between the new director and his predecessor, ones that stretch far beyond their attire (Chediak's suit and loafers versus Poland's jeans and sneakers) or attitude (Chediak's wry reserve versus Poland's manic kid-in-a-candy-store enthusiasm). And one's opinion of future editions of the festival is likely to depend on whose set of sensibilities one is willing to embrace. Call it a question of taste.