14A - Substance Abuse

In the derelict and impoverished Baltimore of Matt Porterfield’s PUTTY HILL, a loose collection of friends and family gather for the funeral of a young man. Having died from an overdose in an abandoned house, the man remains, like much of the film’s back story, an enigma. All we have of the deceased young man is a blown-up photo at a karaoke-inspired memorial.

Instead of narrative certainty the viewer is placed into this naturalistic world of loss, unsettled malaise and beautiful quiet without a road map. What makes PUTTY HILL such a wonder is the ease with which it slides between characters, like a welcome guest in this suburb. The camera is as languid and casual as any skateboarder sitting on a park bench or tattoo customer dragging on a cigarette. The sense of place is unquestionable and spellbinding.

Director Matthew Porterfield occasionally breaks the spell by interviewing the amateur actors off camera. Somehow, and to his credit, the film works like a rough-edged meditation on growing up in America and the long, slow dissolution of that nation’s stubborn dreams. PUTTY HILL is nothing short of a sensation and an American classic-in-the-making of independent cinema.

TS