The summer season presents our cinema culture at its most divisive. In the sweltering heat of July, with school out and days mercilessly long, two camps emerge: there’s the crash-, bash- and slash-craving blockbuster crowd, and the ceaselessly curious indie scene. If you’re waiting for that David O. Russell-Alexander Payne middle ground, best to mentally check out until after Labor Day.
On the surface, Sean Baker’s electric new film Tangerine should predominantly appeal to that niche-preferring moviegoer. It centers on a pair of transgender prostitutes, but favors a profanity-laced realism over something more erotic or suspenseful. It's talky and contemplative and strange, staples of the micro-budget festival hit that usually comes recommended but rarely cashes in more than a couple million.
But in this case, there's more to it. Tangerine is alive. It possesses an energy that needs to be seen to be believed. Baker shoots the film entirely on an iPhone 5S (along with some fancy-schmancy apps and additions), and you can feel the rawness of his vision. He’s frantically scuttling through alleys, quietly observing in the backseat of cabs, meticulously tracking along Los Angeles’ sparsely-populated sidewalks. His methods are right in front of you, as if he’s filming in real-time, creating a theatrical experience both intimately interactive and gorgeously operatic. And the best part? All Tangerine asks of its audience is an open heart, an open mind and a pair of wide-open ears.
That’s not just for the eclectic music mix. Tangerine opens in conversation, a place where its fascinating characters come to life and its vibrant perspective shines through. On a blindingly bright Los Angeles Christmas Eve morning, best friends and colleagues (of a sort) Alexandra and Sin-Dee (phenomenal newcomers Mya Taylor and Kitana Kiki Rodriguez) are cozied-up in a booth at Donut Time. Their wordplay is immediately unique in its flamboyance, hilarious in its familiarity. They’re talking about Sin-Dee’s (just ended) 30-day jail stint, her getting back into the swing of things. In their back-and-forth, you sense Alexandra holding back, ever-so-slightly; conversely, there’s a palpable, knowing self-absorption to her partner-in-crime. When Alexandra mistakenly reveals that Sin-Dee’s boyfriend/pimp Chester (Baker regular James Ransone) was unfaithful during her incarceration, the obsession over what happened dominates the scene. Who was it? When was it? How do you know? It’s all Sin-Dee can think or talk about. And Alexandra, delighted to have her friend back, is already dreading the ensuing action: now she’s got to deal with this all day.
In movies, characters like Alexandra and Sin-Dee -- that is, those involved in street-level prostitution -- are conditionally associated with a seedy underbelly to their city. Baker’s depiction of Los Angeles is thankfully devoid of such heightened dramatics. Take out the prostitutes and pimps (and jail-time), and Tangerine merely kicks off with recognizably primal reactions. It’s where the film gets its kinetic drive. Everything here is rooted in human conflict, putting what's essentially a buddy comedy into the hands of people who are typically, overwhelmingly avoided by popular artistic media. As the film splinters and floats in different directions, it comes together as a neo-mosaic of the city: while Sin-Dee is hellbent on finding this codebreaking homewrecker (Her name starts with a D; she amusingly refers to her as “Fish”), Alexandra sets off trying to convince her colleagues and clients to attend her evening musical performance. In interludes, we break into a day in the life of Razmik (Karren Karagulian), a mild-mannered cab driver with an undisclosed affinity for, well, transgender sex workers.
The world of Tangerine is both excited and excitable, drawing you into its grimy streets and underseen day-to-day. Baker’s work here is so consistently fresh and yet so instantly assured that he never gives you a chance to catch your breath. Musically, he’ll swivel from assaultive trap to smooth classical to abrupt silence and then play it back, on a loop, on shuffle -- the soundtrack is active in a way that’s immersively disorienting. His saturated images capture stark beauty, playing like a dreamlike, tangerine-hued foray into the L.A. streets when stitched together. The cumulative sensory experience is utterly exceptional. There’s always a tendency to seek out that film or series or book that challenges the form -- that fits into that “groundbreaking” narrative -- at the expense of grappling with the work’s actual quality. But sometimes, and most definitely in the case of Tangerine, difference is enthralling. Here, it’s a jolt, both for the film and the audience.
Baker also maintains a bold tonal command that allows Tangerine to build in impact. The film fuses its photography, its sound and its narrative to convey deep emotional truth. At Tangerine’s center is a friendship more intimate and meaningful than any romance that American cinema has provided in the past few years. The bumps it overcomes are somewhat familiar, but the specificity of the actress’ performances and of the script’s words softly transcend. There’s no backstory to these women, and yet they erupt authentically. Their dialogue is bracingly distinct, while individual moments luminously expose their vulnerabilities. Alexandra’s musical performance to a crowd of two is achingly sad but also strangely empowering; Sin-Dee ruthlessly dragging “Fish” around Los Angeles is as much of a riot as it is a harrowing expression of loneliness. There’s a nuance to every action and every word that allows a fuller realization of their interior life.
A deep melancholy settles into Tangerine, rendering the bumbling structure and well-trodden conflicts totally appropriate to its chaotic sensibilities. In each of the film’s threads is a simultaneous despair and buoyancy. There are lies told and secrets kept, and in each of these people is a subdued, maybe even repressed desire to extend beyond their bleakly imperfect experience of the city. But with it comes an exuberant, inexplicable beauty. It’s “a beautifully wrapped-up lie,” one character calls it -- the kind that shines the sun over tragedies as mundanely significant as a cheating boyfriend, a broken family, a life that will never be. The kind that shines the sun over Christmas Eve.
That may aptly describe Baker’s vision of the City of Angels, but it only gets Tangerine half-right. The film is a beautifully wrapped-up package, to be sure. But a lie it is not. Unflinchingly genuine and startlingly humane, it’s the real deal -- a vital discovery for the cinephiles and mainstream alike.
Grade: A