Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets (Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross, 2020)

Okay, guys, it's Cinephile Confession Time. This is the first film I've seen by the acclaimed duo of Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross. In fact, awhile back I tried watching two of their films (45365 and Tchoupitoulas) and lost interest. But of course, the near-unanimous praise that has greeted their latest film has made it impossible to ignore. And what can I say? Sometimes critical consensus is correct. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets is the ultimate "bottle episode," and the bottles don't stop coming. Set on the last day of operation of a nondescript Las Vegas watering hole, the film is a portrait of alternative family, working class desolation, and the loss of public gathering in the age of fast capital. 

At the same time, the Ross brothers work overtime to make the film appear so naturalistic as to obfuscate those meanings. They have called Bloody Nose a "documentary," even though it is fiction(alized). The bar where it's filmed is actually in New Orleans, and the "patrons" were assembled through an audition process. While they are essentially playing themselves, the directors provided them with certain topics and a general framework for their ad-lib performances. This is partly why several of the subjects are so ready with the bon mots, and of course why the Rosses' camera captures actions that would be pretty much impossible for a conventional documentary shoot.

I have had some trouble recently with hybrid docs that have disguised their fictional nature. This is mostly because I think that the films themselves would be richer if they had let the audience in on the artifice, and not necessarily because I find them unethical or dishonest. I do have some qualms about the lack of transparency, particularly in this alleged age of "fake news." But I think there are works of creative nonfiction that subtly indicate to the viewer that we are watching some form of reenactments or staged behavior. I'd compare Bloody Nose to the work of Roberto Minervini in this respect, to say nothing of Iranian greats like Kiarostami, Panahi, and Makhmalbaf. 

After all, why would Tra, the son of Shay the bartender, let a camera crew catch him and his friends stealing liquor from the bar? Why would a cameraperson follow a hungover Michael into the men's room to watch him shave? (How would he know the guy wasn't about to puke?) But perhaps more significantly, how else could the Rosses produce a film that accommodates the basic urge to perform that we find in so many of these self-professed losers and  misfits? A "real" documentary would probably buckle under the tension of the subjects' obvious desire to be seen and heard. Lowell wants his tenderness toward Pam (toward anyone) to be recognized. Pam wants adulation for her "60-year-old titties." Bruce wants his sacrifices to be honored. And Michael just wants attention so he can slap it away.

The collective drunk's utopia these people generate -- a hometown bar called the Roaring 20s -- reflects an idealized space that none of them probably had, or ever will. As such, Bloody Nose can only construct this fantasy as one that is already over. The world of the bar, which is a bit like "Cheers" in the Upside Down, is something that is actually produced through the process of making the film. And yet, the subjects' vast life experience provides them with everything they need to assemble and make this world out of nothing. This suggests that as social forces conspire to drive us further and further apart, our instinct for community becomes ever sharper. And until social change can properly accommodate that urge, art can take up some of the slack.