Mark Reviews Movies: BLOODY NOSE, EMPTY POCKETS

Follow on Facebook | Follow on Twitter | Become a Patron

Review by Mark Dujsik | July 16, 2020

The exceptional Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets consists of two transcendent conceits in one film. The first is at the surface level—what the film actually presents to us. The second involves its making. Ultimately, these two concepts exist together, playing off each other and raising vital, fascinating questions about the nature of documentary filmmaking, as well as the reasons people tell stories in the first place.

It's perhaps best, though, to keep the two ideas separated in a discussion of the film. If one understands how fraternal directors Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross accomplished this wholly unique feat before watching the film, it almost certainly would remove the intended initial impact.

As such, this review will be divided in two: first (this part), detailing the film's surface and, second (after a noticeable break), examining what we know about its making. The second section should only be read after watching the film. Trust me.

There is such simplicity to this premise. The Ross brothers present a dive bar in Las Vegas, with its current changes being detailed on the news on the TVs over the bartenders' shoulders, during the course of the final 24 hours in which it's in business.

The name of the joint is the Roaring 20's Cocktail Lounge (The misplaced apostrophe belongs to the place), which looks like any small neighborhood bar anywhere in the United States. Its clientele consists of a group of regulars. That's especially true now. Word of the bar's closing has gotten around, so only the usual costumers know the place is still open. They definitely know the nightly or, for some, all-daily party is about to end.

We meet these people, as they enter the bar throughout the day, stay as long as they're willing or able, and leave with various degrees of notability. There through it all is Michael, an actor who's proud that he didn't become an alcoholic until after he was a failure. Michael wakes up with his head on the bar, and Marc, the helpful and cheery bartender/occasional minstrel (He keeps a guitar behind the counter and serenades everyone when the spirit moves him), pours this constant customer a bourbon. Michael leaves to get decorations for the bar's big blowout, and then he's there, drinking and chatting and sitting silently and sleeping, until the next morning.

We meet a good number of people, all of whom make an almost-instant connection. There's Bruce, the quiet and lonely veteran, who sits at the end of the bar, chiming in with words of wisdom and giving the bar an accidental but most apropos motto: "It's a place you can go when nobody else don't want your ass." Felix walks in looking like the reincarnation of Albert Einstein, and everyone is prepared for trouble when Pam enters—and proceeds to burp and hiccup her way toward getting louder and more confrontational as the night progresses. Marc's shift ends, and Shay, also keeping tabs on her teenage son outside, takes over as peacekeeper and the focus of at least two guys' flirtations.

On the other end of the spectrum, a pretty blonde comes in, noting that she hasn't been there in a while and wants to say farewell to the place, and just silently sits there. She's engaging, simply because we keep wondering what she's doing there or, if a couple of looks are any indication, for whom she's there.

That's the atmosphere and the appeal of a bar like this—always knowing who's going to be there, noticing the people who seem out of place, wondering what's really going on in the lives of these folks. With the mere act of observation, the Rosses give us that, through in-the-moment conversations that deal with politics, the generational divide, personal lives and experiences, whatever random drama emerges at any given moment, and, of course, that mainstay of late-night, alcohol-fueled talking: nothing at all in particular. Because the booze keeps pouring and being knocked back, there's an admirable and sometimes uncomfortable level of honesty to these discussions, monologues, and mutterings—said in that stage whisper way of people who want to ensure their private grievances are heard.

The filmmakers give us much more, too—a microcosm of the concerns of everyday people, of loneliness and remorse, and of a group of people who come together, because they instinctually know everyone at this place is feeling a similar way. There are arguments, obviously, and some people (most noticeably Michael, whose daytime friendliness transforms into a night of quiet, depressed reflection) start to create a bubble in which to stew. Moments of decency emerge, too, such as when Michael covers a sleeping man with a coat and, with a heartwarming sense of consideration, adjusts a lamp, so that the light won't be in the guy's face. He later confides in a musician of his resentment and regret, if only to get the younger guy to understand that he needs to get out of this cycle now.

It's incredible how many ideas, how much pain and suffering, and how much life this film provides. On that level alone, this is a great film, but there's more, too.

* * * * *

It's not entirely real. The Ross brothers shot this film at a bar in New Orleans, which is still operating, with a cast of people from the area.

Is this deceptive? It is, to an extent, but only if we take the film's style, with its fly-on-the-wall approach, to presume that it's a wholly legitimate documentary. At no point within the film do the Rosses state that they're capturing an actual event and a bar with its actual regulars in attendance.

Is any of it real? Well, it has to be. There are two ways of considering this: Either the filmmakers have somehow managed to get about a dozen of the most authentically naturalistic performances ever captured on film, or these people, whose names within the film are their actual names, and their interactions are genuine. The former is possible, if unlikely, so it has to be the latter.

The real question, perhaps, is why this film can't—inevitably in the minds of some who care more deeply about categorizing films and limiting the possibilities of them—exist as both a documentary and a narrative. There has been a long-standing, still-argued case that the presence of a camera can and will change the ways people behave, and documentary filmmakers often edit real-live events and stories in order to create and fulfill the concept of an established narrative.

If the people and the conversations and the disagreements here are real, how does a narrative premise change any of that? If it's drama, shouldn't we champion the Rosses for so convincingly re-creating reality and so ingeniously turning it into such an engaging story?

In other words, the sincere, empathetic, and humanistic point and impact of Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets remain—whether it's fully a documentary, partially one, or a dramatic narrative of the improvised variety. It surpasses such easy, restrictive labels and exists as a one-of-a-kind triumph of real—or "real"—storytelling.

Back to Home

Buy Related Products