The
history of surfing is filled with its share of memorable characters,
rags-to-riches stories, and thrilling accomplishments. The new film
Bustin’ Down the Door, which chronic es the rise of a handful of
surfers from South Africa and Australia who helped create the sport of
pro surfing in three monumental seasons on the North Shore, has its
share of all of these. In full disclosure, I am not the biggest fan of
documentaries. This is due mainly to having fallen in love with some of
them (Bowling for Columbine, The King of Kong) only to find out later
that they are rife with oversimplifications, dishonest editing, and
sometimes outright lies. Thankfully, it would seem that producer Shaun
Thomson and director Jeremy Gosch have sought to be honest with this
story, so Bustin’ Down the Door seems to go a long way past either of
the aforementioned films in living up to its name of documentary.
Bustin’
Down the Door, however, suffers from a different malady, one that has
afflicted almost every surf documentary that has cropped up in recent
years: the inability to convey an intimate concern for its characters
to the audience. From Stacy Peralta’s Riding Giants to Dana Brown’s
Step Into Liquid, none have quite captured the personality and heart of
Bruce Brown’s fantastic Endless Summer films. Bustin’ Down the Door is
not without its qualities, but as a whole it did not leave me with the
feeling of, as the surfers would have it, stoke.
The
film world loves a good rags-to-riches tale, but like so many of these
stories, Bustin’ Down the Door seems little more than the traditional
underdog plotline with surfing as a tack-on. Most of the surfing we see
is out of context, divorced from the narration, and used as a
convenient way to keep our attention, but these editing choices end up
delving the film into surf video territory, barraging us with shot
after shot of surfing that after a while numbs us to the wonder of
wave-riding.
The
old film adage, “Show; don’t tell” can usually sum up the weaknesses of
a film with wordy and overstated dialogue, but this film disregards
another guiding rule that is no less important, “Don’t show too much
too soon.” Usually this rule is associated with horror or monster
movies, which need to build up suspense and create tension and wonder
as to what is around the corner or behind the door, but surf filmmakers
must learn this lesson if they want these stories to contain universal
appeal. When you show shot after shot of Mark Richards performing
blistering cutbacks on triple overhead waves at Sunset Beach in the
film’s early moments, without first showing us how difficult Sunset can
be to navigate and how frightening it is to take a cleanup set on the
head, it makes it all seem so easy. This flaw is only compounded in a
post-youtube world in which the most iconic surfing image has become
that oft-posted helicopter shot of a surfer riding that magnificently
beastly lump of ocean at Jaws from the IMAX surf film Extreme. The glut
of surf videos and magazine photos of airdrops at Mavericks and hands
free tube-rides at Teahupoo make the sport look easy, and if you are to
make a film about surfers who overcome obstacles, the first antagonist
in that drama must be the waves.
The
film also suffers from a lack of coherent structure in the beginning.
More effort should have been put into differentiating the surfers from
one another, so we could get to know them individually. Aside from
Shaun Thomson and Mark Richards, it is often difficult to determine who
is up and riding. Throughout the movie I found myself wondering, “Is
that Cairns, Rabbit or PT?” In addition, the decision to make this film
primarily as a rags-to-riches story means we get emotional
confessionals about difficult times, and though I am sure the director
was exuberant to capture these moments, they do less to forward the
narrative, and again, seem somewhat tacked-on. My last gripe is with
the interviews themselves. I suppose in an effort to keep the images
fresh, all manner of angles are used in the interviews, but the most
frustrating part is the tendency for a large portion of these shots to
be up-the-nose or eyes-only close-ups.
Nonetheless,
the film does give the audience a better understanding of the sport of
surfing and provides a primer on one particular aspect of its
lesser-known history. The film’s pinnacle is a brilliantly shot and
edited scene showing three of the title characters paddling out
together in the present day and ripping (surfers’ term for surfing very
well) on shortboards. The scene is capped by a phenomenal effect that
shows the three surfers in the middle of a turn morphing into archived
footage of their younger selves. This very creative scene captures a
sense of stoke and love for this great sport, but it left me wanting
more from the rest of the film. As a documentary then, Bustin’ Down the
Door is not without its merits, but the inspiration and artistry shown
in its closing moments is lacking throughout, making the film less than
it could have been.
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