Visiting neighborhoods of all castes, we inevitably encounter architectural orphans—both opulent and frugal—anomalous statements of style, practicality, and narcissism. Whether surrounded by mansions or hovels they share two characteristics: a lack of esthetic harmony with the surroundings and camouflaged entrances (an obvious door is a blemish). My Father, The Genius is a first person account—a documentary by Lucia Small about her father, Glen Howard Small, an architect dedicated to such edifices.

Small’s early efforts, back in the 1960s, were focused on building communities in harmony with the environment, designed for energy efficiency and eco-friendly disposal of waste. Outside of the architectural community, his ideas received little attention. Among his colleagues, he fared somewhat better, becoming a founder of the acclaimed Southern California Institute of Architecture. But, eventually, his acerbic assessments of famous architects of the day—he found their work compromised—led to his undoing.

Feeling that his genius might go unrecognized, lost to history forever, he requested that his daughter compose his witten biography. What he got was a very revealing documentary.

Lucia recounts her dad’s life from a point of view he hadn’t anticipated. The film yields a portrait of an inattentive, egotistical father and husband, who underappreciated his several wives and to this day fails to truly comprehend his interpersonal shortcomings.

My Father, The Genius is part of the growing genre of very personal offerings made possible by the increased accessibility of production equipment. The intimate interaction between the subject and producer, often provokes a candor that heretofore was missing in their life—a narrative in itself. Sometimes, it reveals nothing but a contentious revisiting of old conflicts. In My Father it brings out something new—things gone unsaid, that feel refreshingly honest and well worth witnessing.

Candy
Directed by Neil Armfield

There is little that’s compelling about junkies. Their needs abrogate any social contract, explicit or implied. This complicates things for relatives who love them. All of this becomes doubly perverse in Candy, where two addicts fall deeply in love with each other.

When we meet Dan (Heath Ledger) and his eponymous girlfriend (Abbie Cornish), he has already developed an intravenous relationship with heroin, a method much more addictive than snorting. Candy still ingests through her nostrils, but senses she is missing out and wants to try the needle. Dan discourages her, but relents. In a very short amount of time their priorities turn inside out. Among all the accounts, fictive and true-life, from addicts to those who witnessed them, Candy stands out. It is a love story, where infidelity arrives in small packets of white powder.

The story is not complicated but complex, a witness to the loss of dignity, and the elusive path to finding it again, even when you’ve forgotten what it’s worth. Candy is neither maudlin nor overwrought. A straight telling with strong performances from Heath Ledger and Abbie Cornish is more than enough to get the point across.