Wandering Man

Two worlds, muddled ...

NIGHT ACROSS THE STREET (incomplete) - As I watched Raoul Ruiz's final film unfold on the big screen, I could see the images dissolve into fizzy bubbles and float away; I could feel everything pass through my brain and fall out of my ears. I saw it just a few days ago, and I can't really tell you anything about it.

So I won't go on. I do remember thinking: This would be great to see in 3-D, to be surrounded by it, embraced by it, swept up into its world. I'd love to see it again; I'd have to in order to properly review it. (I found this review at random, which assesses it about as well as any other would.)

This is the final film of a Chilean master, released after his death, and it's about as perfect a way to go as you could imagine. Don Celso Barra (Sergio Hernandez) is an office worker who apparently reflects on his life (and impending death?) and his interactions with friends, mentors, loved ones -- and even Beethoven and Long John Silver. He constantly insists on being called "Rhododendro," a play on his nickname. We see him as a child. We see him as an old man sitting in a classroom.

Ruiz's camera floats through some scenes. A few of his achingly slow but elegant pans, which cleverly reveal objects off to the side or in the foreground, are magical to behold.  That's all I've got. It was an experience. Maybe you had to be there.

LUV (B) - Vincent (the rapper/actor Common), fresh out of the pen after eight years, takes his 11-year-old nephew Woody (the impressive Michael Rainey Jr.) out on the seedy streets of Baltimore for a day to teach him "real world shit . . . what it takes to be a man . . . handling your business across the board." Vincent purportedly has a real-estate business plan to run past bankers, but his shady past bubbles to the surface before noon, and soon the boy, kitted out in a sharp suit, is knee-deep in adult behavior.

Common carries a movie well, and Rainey keeps up with him. The 24-hour conceit leads to more than one leap of faith that strains the movie's credibility. Director Sheldon Candis (who co-wrote with Justin Wilson) isn't subtle about hammering home the theme of rites of passage. The plot and the interplay of characters can be hard to follow at times. And like most movies in this genre, it shovels its share of macho bullshit. Otherwise, Candis strings together some fine moments. The bulk of the film unfolds like a classy episode of "The Wire," complete with the occasional muffled dialogue.

The supporting cast features a triumvirate of top-notch veterans: Danny Glover, Dennis Haysbert and Charles Dutton (looking shriveled from his "Roc" heyday). They bring class and gravity to a project that could have been just another throwaway slice-of-life crime saga. "LUV" has just enough momentum to string along its small moments to a satisfying conclusion.

George Jones, RIP

Here is, perhaps, the best country music song not written by Hank Williams or Willie Nelson:

Adult Content

Two satisfying, low-profile rentals successfully provide slices of life revolving around adults behaving badly, while a third falls short.

28 HOTEL ROOMS (A-minus) - This fascinating character study of a couple turns "Same Time Next Year" into a psychosexual drama. The amazing Marin Ireland and sturdy Chris Messina bring an impressive improv feel to this glorified stage play about a pair (she's an accountant; he's a novelist) who conduct a years-long series of trysts at hotels despite their betrothals to various others along the way.

Ireland, who had a memorable turn as a homegrown terrorist in "Homeland," is brilliant; she works wonders with her facial expressions. Messina is more than just a great smile and puppy eyes. Both are willing to get fully naked, physically and emotionally, as they coyly dance around the quandary of whether they truly belong together. As an undefined number of years pass (five? ten?), the power dynamic between the two ebbs and flows.

Veteran actor Matt Ross shows a sure hand and stylistic flair in his debut as a writer/director. The narrative can be choppy, but the flawless chemistry and loose banter between Ireland and Messina is riveting from minute 1 to 82. The passion behind their laughs, rants and lovemaking feels genuine. After a second viewing, I bumped this up from a B+ to an A-minus. It's a luscious bit of stagecraft.

(Stay for the end credits for the song "A Dash of Pixie Dust.")

NOBODY WALKS (B) - Thirty-something Ry Russo-Young ("Orphans," "You Won't Miss Me") walks a fine line between earnest romantic drama and cheesy movie tropes -- and succeeds, thanks in part to a strong cast. The expressive Olivia Thirlby ("Juno," "Margaret") carries the load here as Martine, a young filmmaker working on an experimental project involving natural sounds.

She's invited into the home of Peter and Julie (John Krasinski of "The Office" and the always-welcome Rosemarie DeWitt of "Your Sister's Sister"), where Peter is tapped to mentor Martine and help her finish her film. Their collaboration evolves into intimate recordings (of her breathing, for example) and eventually tips over into the physical. Meanwhile, Julie has her own temptations to deal with.

Teenager India Ennenga (HBO's "Treme"), as Peter and Julie's curious daughter Kolt, is the wild card who helps divert us from the potential of a trite series of misbehaviors. She plays an emerging young woman pining for her dad's hunky assistant (Rhys Wakefield) and fending off creepy come-ons from her Italian language tutor (Emanuele Secci).

The women make this worth watching, and Krasinski (who was good in the under-appreciated "Away We Go") doesn't embarrass himself. Things zip by in under 90 minutes and you cut Russo-Young (co-writing the script with Lena Dunham) enough slack for her to succeed. 

THE PLAYROOM (B-minus) - This is a lightweight period piece about the horrors of adulthood -- this time it is drunken, swinging mid-'70s parents traumatizing their four kids, led by 16-year-old Maggie (newcomer Olivia Harris). The kids gather upstairs telling fairy tales and ghost stories -- escapist adventures -- while the parents have "adult time" downstairs. While they fetishize the era with an authentic set, writer Gretchen Dyer and director Julia Dyer assemble enough charming small moments and neat visual tricks to hold our attention.

The kids here are all sharp. Maggie acts out (smoking and having realistic first-time sex) but she also fills in as de facto mom to her younger siblings. Alexandra Doke, as the other sister, around age 9, is a revelation; just the right amount of cute and smart. The banter among the children is casual and believable. Their camaraderie holds the film together.

The parents, however, come across as morose, mumbling caricatures who goof off in the background with the neighbor couple. They are about as relevant as the squawking adults in Peanuts cartoons. If it weren't for appealing duo of Molly Parker and John Hawkes, this would have been a train wreck. Even with them, the drama is broad and telegraphed. This wants to be "The Ice Storm" meets "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" but it comes off as a minor imitation of those dramatic giants.

The Dyers' lovely little mood piece falls apart in the final act, with a rather implausible climax involving the adults. But they've strung together some lovely scenes, and every so often they hit a nerve, even if all the film's pieces don't quite add up.

New to the queue

Recent releases we've flagged for potential:

Jeff Nichols' follow-up to "Take Shelter," the Matthew McConaughey freak-out "Mud."

The French father-son tale "Renoir."

The latest from the impeccable Francois Ozon, "In the House."

The '70s documentary "Free Angela and All Political Prisoners."

Eleanor Burke and Ron Eyal's debut feature, the awkward relationship drama "Stranger Things."


An American in Paris:  the morally conflicted "Simon Killer."

The trashy, sympathetic doc "Bert Stern: Original Mad Man."

Another doc, this one about magician/actor Ricky Jay, "Deceptive Practice: The Mysteries and Mentors of Ricky Jay."

Danny Boyle's heist film "Trance." 

The latest from Ken Loach, "The Angels' Share."

The documentary about an American caught up in China's postwar politics, "The Revolutionary."

Marley and Me

MARLEY (B+)*

Kevin Macdonald does a masterful job of putting forth the definitive biography of reggae star and music legend Bob Marley. The project holds up surprisingly well under the weight of nearly two-and-a-half hours.

The documentary captures not just the history but also the spirituality that emanated from Marley and the 1970s reggae/rastafarian movement. Our main guide is original band member Bunny Wailer, giving off a regal show-biz glow as sort of the Flavor Flav of the Wailers. Relatives, band members, wife Rita, lovers, baby mamas -- even an early studio hand identified as a "singer and janitor" -- all weigh in.

We're treated to the roots of the movement, the Jamaican ska scene of the 1950s and '60s. We get a healthy dose of the Wailers' ska phase. And then a wonderful moment comes around the 40-minute mark, when Bunny Wailer and session drummer Carlton "Santa" Davis explain the subtle technical shift from ska to raggae. (It's reminiscent of DJ Bonebrake's breakdown of his unique syncopated drumbeat in "X: The Unheard Music.") Macdonald immediately cuts to a familiar guitar lick, and the movie instantly clicks. It's as if it goes from black-and-white to color, like in "The Wizard of Oz." Technician Bob Andy also explains that the signature "chicka" guitar sound that happened almost by accident, "an illusion," created by instant feedback from the recording machines at the time. Wailer imbues it all with biblical significance.

Historical touchstones stitch this all together through remembrances and archival footage: the  1966 visit to Jamaica by Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie, a deity among the rastafarians; a description of the massive marijuana plants Marley planted in his mother's back yard during a brief stay in Delaware; the arrival of influential producer Lee Scratch Perry; videotape of the 1976 Miss World crowning of girlfriend Cindy Breakspeare; the political street violence in Jamaica in the mid to late '70s; the brief post-shooting exile in London during the height of punk. Macdonald explores the confounding phenomenon of Marley's lack of appeal to black audiences in the United States. The breakthrough tour opening for the Commodores and the euphoric concert at Madison Square Garden quickly turn bittersweet with the discovery of terminal cancer that made this the last tour.

The final days are painful. Marley ignored Breakspeare's advice to go give up on the cancer treatments and instead go back to Jamaica to "smoke a big-ass spliff" and enjoy fish tea; instead, his final months were spent in snowy, freezing Germany, undergoing experimental treatment. The reminiscences of an older German nurse are particularly poignant. For the first time, still photographs capture fear in Marley's eyes.

But it's the joy of the infectious music that wins out in the end; the iconic songs resonate. Especially powerful is an early demo of "No Woman No Cry" done in gospel style, with Peter Tosh on piano. The breakthrough "Stir It Up," seen in studio footage, earns renewed respect. Diehards will wallow in the hits; neophytes will be persuaded by the argument that Marley's music is much more than a best-of album played to death in college dorm rooms.

Reggae is perhaps my least favorite form of music. But you need not be a fan of Marley and his music to appreciate his story. His late-career embrace of Africa (including a somewhat naive gig in the dictatorship of Gabon) brings Marley's one-love/one-world philosophy full circle.

This is a loving film, produced with the cooperation of the Marley family. And it comes with a moral: don't ignore melanoma. Marley died at age 36 in 1981.

(* - Screened, coincidentally on 4/20)

Bonus Track
The early hit: "Simmer Down"

One-Liners

WEST CENTRAL FIVE (B+) - Ken Burns and company get out of the way of a good story: a recounting of the false accusations and flawed prosecution of five black and hispanic teenagers in the 1989 rape and assault of a jogger in Central Park. The two-hour film (available at PBS.org) indicts not only the police and the DA's office but also politicians and the rabid New York media, which ignited a frenzy of hate toward these kids, some as young as 14, who were causing trouble in the park that night but did not rape the woman. (DNA tests confirmed the identity of the lone rapists, and the five were exonerated about a decade after their convictions.) All five appear to tell their stories. Many of the police and prosecutors are missing in action, as we get the story mainly from the criminal defense perspective. A true cautionary tale.

ABOUT CHERRY (C) - A laconic debut feature about a young adult who drifts into the world of porn. Writer/director Stephen Elliott's shaky camera is ineffective, and he lapses into too many cliches, such as close-ups of raindrops on windows and windshields. The lead is newcomer Ashley Hinshaw, who was about 21 at the time of filming and who comes off like a junior January Jones, with limited range but ample assets. James Franco, as her rich-lazy-druggy failed-artist boyfriend, acts as if he wandered over confused from another movie set. Lili Taylor phones in a thankless role as Cherry's lying, boozing mom. The only reason to see this is for Heather Graham, having outgrown her own bouncy topless roles ("Boogie Nights" et al.). She brings surprising depth to her turn as an adult-film director who crushes on Cherry while watching her own relationship to Diane Farr fall apart. Nothing else here really works.

A BURNING HOT SUMMER (C-minus) - This bit of French mumblecore is listless and directionless. Two couples in faltering relationships hang out at one of the couples' swanky apartment in Rome, where he's an artist (Louis Garrel, "The Dreamers" and the director's son) and she's a former model and movie star (Monica Bellucci, "Matrix Reloaded"). A half hour in, there is a fascinating dance scene set to the entirety of Dirty Pretty Things' spunky "Truth Begins," in which Bellucci grinds seductively with a random party-goer surrounded by trippy trance dancers. That's immediately followed by a childish putdown from Garrel to Bellucci, who freezes him with a glare and dismisses him with one word: basta. Otherwise, he's a mope, she walks around spilling out of her dress, and they sometimes cry together or remove a splinter from his foot. We don't care whether they stay together or not, the film's fundamental flaw. The other couple, struggling actors played by a bland Jerome Robart and sad-eyed Celine Sallette ("House of Tolerance"), barely register here. Just like their characters are stuck with these overgrown boys, Bellucci and Sallette seem trapped in this tepid melodrama.

Daydreams of Cannes

USA Today reports on the lineup for next month's Cannes Film Festival, and we pick through it to craft a wish list of movies we're hoping to see in the coming months.

• The Coen Brothers, who have been on a spectacular roll, return with "Inside Llewyn Davis" starring Carey Mulligan, Justin Timberlake and some adults.
• Sofia Coppola, who got back on her game with "Somewhere," shows promise with another juicy tale of privileged young women, "The Bling Ring."
• The brilliant Jia Zhangke ("The World," "Still Life," "24 City") returns from a long break from feature films with "A Touch of Sin."
• Arnaud Desplechin ("Kings & Queen" and "A Christmas Tale") offers "Jimmy Picard," starring Benicio del Toro and the wonderful Mathieu Amalric. 
• Francois Ozon, whose "In the House" opens this week in New York, already has his follow-up ready to unspool: "Jeune et Jolie (Young and Pretty)," which features Charlotte Rampling.
• Veteran actress Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, who starred in Ozon's "5x2," sat behind the camera for "A Chateau in Italy."
• Steven Soderbergh presents his swan song, the Liberace biopic "Behind the Candelabra."
• Iran's Asghar Farhadi follows up the Oscar-winning "A Separation" with "The Past."
• A father-son story? A road movie? Alexander Payne ("The Descendants") promises both in "Nebraska."
• J.C. Chandor, who wowed with his debut, "Margin Call," serves up a sophomore effort, "All Is Lost."
• Japan's prolific pulp master Takashi Miike ("Audition") presents "Shield of Straw."
• BEWARE: The last time Nicolas Winding Refn and Ryan Gosling got together, they tortured us with "Drive." They are teaming up again for something called "Only God." (As in, "Only God can help us now.")
• BEWARE II: The insufferable Baz Luhrmann, who will never be forgiven for the horrific spectacle "Moulin Rouge," will not only present "The Great Gatsby," but he'll do his best to desecrate the literary classic by screening it in 3-D. 

Bonus Track
Here's the exhilarating trailer for Sofia Coppola's "The Bling Ring," near-perfection in less than a minute, a joyful retro explosion of music and graphics:

3 Unrelated films

A small indie, a Russian classic, and '60s kitsch:

SMASHED (B+) - A thinly sliced but winning indie drama about a drunken young couple whose marriage is challenged when she decides to sober up and go to AA. Mary Elizabeth Winstead (the purple-haired girl from "Scott Pilgrim vs. the World") is perfect as an elementary school teacher who does inappropriate things in front of her students to cover up her hangovers and lies. Nick Offerman (avoiding that annoying comedy thing he likes to do) is effective as her co-worker and AA sponsor. Aaron Paul (Jesse from "Breaking Bad") holds his own as her trust-fund slacker husband. But it's Winstead, with her soulful eyes and Plain Jane charm, who propels this neat 81-minute workout forward with energy and sincerity. Newcomers Susan Burke and James Ponsoldt (he also directs) crafted a smart, low-key script that refuses to get melodramatic or maudlin but never lacks for emotion. They artfully avoid the tropes of the Tragic Alcoholic and instead convey the minor day-to-day embarrassments of being a drunk and the struggles to stay sober. The solid supporting cast includes Octavia Spencer ("The Help) and -- in a fascinating rip in the fabric of the universe -- both Mary Kay Place and Megan Mullaley. This is a spare, compelling indie gem and a breakout role for Winstead.


SOLARIS (1972) (A-minus) - I won't reinvent the wheel here, and will instead recommend other discussions of Andrei Tarkovsky's film, such as this one, from Roger Ebert, who captures a key theme perfectly: "When we love someone, who do we love? That person, or our idea of that person? Some years before virtual reality became a byword, Tarkovsky was exploring its implications. Although other persons no doubt exist in independent physical space, our entire relationship with them exists in our minds." This is the third Tarkovsky film I've seen (the others are "Stalker" (playing this weekend at the Southwest Film Center at UNM) and "The Mirror"), and I could watch them all multiple times, luxuriating in their elliptical stories and playful philosophical word games. "Solaris" has the same melancholy tone of a good Kieslowski film, while matching Kubrick's "2001" slug for slug, including a lovely, powerful ending. I'll give you three lines from "Solaris":

• "The Earth has somehow become adjusted to people like you . . . although at what sacrifice?
• "Please don't interrupt me. I'm a woman, after all."
• "Don't turn a science problem into a common love story."

BORN LOSERS (1967) (C) - This cult oddity, the first movie to feature Tom Laughlin's character Billy Jack, is groovy kitsch and was appropriately screened on the retro channel THIS TV, with commercials and PG editing, just like we watched movies on television in the '70s. Laughlin wrote the story, about hippie bikers terrorizing a square town, in the '50s and finally directed it (under the name T.C. Frank) for a release just in time for the peak of the Summer of Love. This is pure caffeinated counter-culture clap-trap, but you have to admire Laughlin, totally believing in his character and proudly carrying that permanent chip on his shoulder forever like an epaulet. The bad guys come off as actors auditioning for an episode of "Batman" and the Sixties Chicks smolder as vixens and victims. It's a gas.

An 'A' for Effort, 'A' as in Acting

THE PLACE BEYOND THE PINES (B+)

We are treated to three generations of actors in the sweeping drama "The Place Beyond the Pines," and Derek Cianfrance sets them loose to squeeze away at his juicy script. This is a three-act extravaganza (a labored 140 minutes) that aims for immortality and gives you your money's worth.

But it falls short as high art, and that takes nothing away from Cianfrance who last pummeled us in 2010 with the relationship psychodrama "Blue Valentine." That stunning film and this one each lean heavily on Ryan Gosling and his rugged pout. But whereas "Valentine" was a compact two-handed exercise, pitting Gosling against the formidable Michelle Williams, here Gosling must lay the foundation for nearly the first hour of "Pines." And that's where the new release falls short of the greatness Cianfrance has had within his grasp.

Gosling and his stock moody-loner character (see also, the unforgivable "Drive") are close to wearing out their welcome. Here, the former child star sets this lumbering locomotive in motion as Luke, a stunt biker and tattooed trouble-maker who soon discovers the joys of robbing banks. This is his way of both impressing the ex he abandoned (Eva Mendes, making quite an entrance) and providing for the 1-year-old son of theirs whom Luke has just found out about upon his return to Schenectady.

It's difficult to discuss the rest of the movie without spoiling too much of the plot, but as Luke spins out of control, Gosling eventually hands off the film to Bradley Cooper, who finds just the right pitch as Avery, a law school grad slumming as a rookie cop but who also, as the son of a former New York State judge, harbors political ambitions, especially after he earns hero status for his daring police work. While Gosling and Cooper are given a portentous story to carry on their manly shoulders, their female co-stars, Mendes as Luke's girlfriend and Rose Byrne as Avery's wife, have little to work with aside from brooding over their bad boys. In a 180 from "Blue Valentine," this is a purely masculine film, a cautionary tale about the things that fathers pass on to their sons.

If the two young stars of the moment aren't quite up to producing an epic for the ages, they are rescued by an impressive cast of older actors. Journeyman Ben Mendelsohn throws a lifeline to Gosling in the first third as a shady body-shop owner, Robin, who recruits Luke for a few big scores. I've never seen Mendelsohn, an Australian actor who has kicked around for two decades, but with roles in some recent high-profile movies ("The Dark Knight Rises," "Killing Them Softly") perhaps his time has come. (He brings to mind Peter Coyote and John Hawkes.) The first third of "Pines" is awfully flat (on top of everything, Gosling and Mendes have no chemistry), and Mendelsohn gives things a jolt and keeps this one from going permanently off the rails.

In the second act, we're treated to some classic police graft, and no one does that better than Ray Liotta. When the film introduces his sleazy detective and a DA played by Bruce Greenwood (one of my favorites, from "Flight," "I'm Not There," "Exotica" and TV's "Nowhere Man" and "St. Elsewhere"), it's time for the grown-ups to right this ship. Longtime character actor Harris Yulin makes the most of his scenes as Avery's father/conscience. Cianfrance traffics in close-ups throughout, and these three veterans speak volumes with their wrinkles alone. Liotta's entrance is so powerful -- just a couple of his hard glances can elicit gasps -- that it makes the first half of the film seem in retrospect like just a warm-up filmed with stand-ins.

The final third of the film -- a jarring flash forward of 15 years, with inadequately aged actors -- hands the proceedings off yet again, this time to a pair of 17-year-olds, Emory Cohen and Dane DeHaan, who gamely carry this caravan across the finish line. My problem here isn't with the kids (Cohen is OK as a thick-headed guido, while DeHaan finds some depth to his character) but with a wild, improbable plot coincidence -- one of my cinematic pet peeves.

I don't normally focus so much analysis on acting; I tend to watch movies based on the work of directors. (Recent previews, by the way, have me giddy with anticipation for the latest films of two of my favorites, Noah Baumbach and Sofia Coppola.) But with "Pines," Cianfrance, ably aided by cinematographer Sean Bobbitt ("Shame"), tends to sit back and let the cast just go for it. Cianfrance may yet write and direct a masterpiece. "The Place Beyond the Pines" is a valiant attempt at crafting an epic, akin to the sweeping saga "Babel" by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, who aimed for greatness there and mostly succeeded.

"Pines" is, on balance, a compelling film. Cianfrance should be commended for his bravery in being willing to drive this project off a cliff at times. He shouldn't be criticized for trying. But we should be forgiven for wishing this one had at least been the first great film of 2013.

Nein, Non, a Thousand Times "NO"

Quick salvos from the foreign front:

"NO" (B-minus) - A fun but lightweight drama about Chile's 1988 referendum on the rule of its dictator, Augusto Pinochet. Gael Garcia Bernal is solid as Rene Saavedra, an ad man (whose father was disappeared by the Pinochet regime) recruited to head up the "No" campaign against the regime. Saavedra brings an MTV edge and zeal to the effort, as he would filming Pepsi commercials. The storyline is naturally compelling, but the film suffers from a surprising dearth of character development and human drama. I was waiting in vain throughout for this to start jumping off the screen. What we get instead is a serviceable period piece from Pablo Larrain ("Tony Manero" and "Post Mortem").

"FILM SOCIALISME" (C) - This meant nothing to me. I take it back: the reds and blues, like a digitally enhanced, high-def version of some of Godard's '60s classic shots, are stunning, at times mesmerizing. Beyond that, I'm not old or intellectual enough to appreciate whatever the French master is going for here, if he has a point at all. It seems to be some sort of sweeping history of western civilization and its economic system, but I was overwhelmed and defeated 20 minutes in. This plays out more like a collection of the random fevered musings of a man who can do absolutely anything he wants. We're on a cruise ship for much of the first third of the film, treated to scattered ramblings, mostly about World War II. We get multiple visual styles, jump cuts and sound dropouts -- as if we're receiving signals from a different dimension in some scenes. A child sips from a straw while jazz music plays. A llama stands hitched to a gas pump. Cats meow. Patti Smith strolls by. Incoherent (sometimes overlapping) dialogue often comes from off-screen; the script is essentially one long, dense non sequitur. (DVD viewers have the option of full English subtitles or subtitles employing Godard's brand of chopped-up pidgin English. For some reason.) Philosophy, history and nature swirl throughout. We're tugged back time and again to Palestine, which, for Godard, has some profound connection to gold-digging Europe's original sin -- but why does he drop in a card reading "KISS ME STUPID" in the middle of this muddle about the Middle East? What does it all mean? It might just mean that Jean Luc Godard can do whatever he wants and has final cut. Good for him. But, oh, the dizzying hues! The vibrant, digital primary perfection of those reds and the blues. We survive, wandering, world-weary tourists, in living color.

"BURDEN OF DREAMS" (1982) (B) - A somewhat crude documentary from Les Blank chronicling German director Werner Herzog's monomaniacal mission in the Brazilian jungle to film "Fitzcarraldo," described by the L.A. Times as "an epic about a man obsessed with hauling a steamship through the jungle to strike it rich in rubber" so that he can eventually build an opera house there. The humorless Herzog employs scores of native Indians as extras in his film, in which they struggle to help Fitzcarraldo haul a ship across a small mountain. The snakebit production is basically a string of disasters.  Early on it lost its two main stars -- Jason Robards to dysentery and Mick Jagger to "Tattoo You" (Klaus Kinski took over) -- and at one point was marred by tribal skirmishes. The documentary, crimped by bland narration, created a kerfuffle 30 years ago, because it exposed Herzog as bit of a mad man in Sisyphean pursuit of cinematic art. Watching it now, it's more quaint and amusing as a cultural artifact. A deeply nihilistic monologue by Herzog serves as a fitting climax.

(Bonus DVD Track: Les Blank's short film "Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe," about the director having lost a bet to colleague/rival Errol Morris about the success of the latter's classic doc "Gates of Heaven.")

The Last Word
Here's an obit of "Burden of Dreams" director Les Blank, from the Los Angeles Times. He died last Sunday.

Albuquerque Confidential

It's a fine weekend for cinema in town.

The Downtown Century theater adds Danny Boyle's "Trance" and Derek Cienfrance's "The Place Beyond the Pines," while keeping "No" and "Ginger and Rosa" around another week. Indie enthusiasts can't complain there.

The Southwest Film Center at UNM recycles "Black Power Mixtape."

The Guild Cinema wraps up "On the Road," and hosts the Albuquerque Film Club for De Sica's classic "The Miracle in Milan," before launching a weeklong affair with the annual "Experiments in Cinema" from Bryan Konefsky and his UNM cinema squad. ("Experiments" also graces several other venues between April 15 and 21.)

And if you just want to stay home and watch HBO, there's a new Louis C.K. special and the second-season premiere of "Veep" this weekend.

Consume entertainment.

Fade Out

Our correspondent Lionfish checks in to sharply disagree with our generous review of "Not Fade Away":

I admire your search for a higher purpose for this film . . . but its treatment of Vietnam seemed trivial and callous. Many plodding scenes add up to the following life lesson: It seemed sort of cool to be a soldier, but only until the war ramped up, because it’s not so cool to kill people, and no one with a lick of common sense wants to risk getting killed. The drummer turned sniper only got two lines of dialogue, and only drew a vaguely disgusted yawn from his friends. 

Smart people didn’t have to worry about the draft for a minute. They scored extra cool and noble points by turning their apathy into a statement about WWII discrimination against black soldiers and the massacre of women and children. That was the smart way to make a stand on race and war issues; it kept people free from the trouble of actually marching anywhere, or, God forbid, writing ridiculous protest songs.

I am pretty sure the writer/director is glorifying his own experience rather than providing any perspective. He is too busy demonstrating how his buddies and he perfectly embodied the 1960s, how they perhaps even helped define the decade in their small lovable way. How cool they were to have long hair, to smoke pot a lot, to love the Beatles, Dylan and the Stones, to piss off their neurotic 1950s moms and dads. He’s giving us every cliché and basically saying he had it right, ‘cos everyone knows so today. Oh, and he was especially, personally cool for overcoming his dorky looks, for listening to a handful of blues artists, for knowing a crazy girl who made it to the Village at just the right time, and for showing up at some Hollywood party where, he implies, his girlfriend might have blown Mick Jagger in the bathroom. 

There is no hint of self-criticism, just barely a knowing wink to the effect of, "glad the hair/shoes/Dostoyevsky references were just a phase." The boys’ half-hearted pursuit of a music career was filmed very seriously. When the band played, I could hear old geeks battling for days in meetings that started with – “Guys, this has to sound like the best mix there ever could have been of [insert above-mentioned icons] . . . played on [insert list of vintage equipment] . . . Go!!." They might insist that the soundtrack and the band member dynamics are what matter most in this movie. The writer mercifully acknowledges that his band wasn’t actually all that talented, and that failure was inevitable -- but only to make the point that his film is not simply a vanity project, it is The Absolute Defining Experience of His Generation. I thought it was simply pompous and boorish.

I am glad he had fun, despite the low self-esteem and band arguments he solemnly exposes us to. He went on to become a big-time Hollywood writer using his big Italian family for material. Good for him. That hardly makes the film a morality tale, or an insightful history lesson for us, since we’ve already heard those particular tales of the sixties ad nauseam. 

Sadly, it’s bound to become a history lesson anyway. The tiny flashes of JFK, MLK and Vietnam archival footage will give many a teacher an excuse to play that DVD to their students instead of lecturing them for two hours. It will be no surprise if the decade’s dramatic events keep fading away in the minds of kids, and if what those kids relate to the best is the growing domination of a kitschy and self-indulgent subculture.

GRADE: D+

Fade Away

The Boom begins to subside ...

* 56 UP (B)
* NOT FADE AWAY (B+) 
      (Both due on video in April)
* BILLY BRAGG at the KIMO THEATER (B)

Two years ago, I sat in the same pizza joint I have haunted weekly for at least six years. I watched the 20-somethings and 30-somethings come and go -- slacker dudes, casual women, beards, tattoos, knit caps, their damn phones. I was the mutant. As I walked out into the dusk that night, I was overwhelmed with a wave of recognition (if not mutilation): It's not my world anymore. Sure, I'm officially a respected authority figure, but culturally, my analog world of the '60s, '70s and '80s is not only a distant memory, but it's sealed in a time capsule.

I'm experiencing an extended wave of nostalgia lately -- lots of old college connections reconnecting -- and it's signaling a significant new chapter for me, so we're going to do this gauzy flashback in one comprehensive post and then take a great leap forwards. The subjects of this essay were born from 1946 to 1958 (mostly the late '50s, which means they're in their 50s), so they are boomers and my immediate elders, which means I have a thin generational divide to provide me a measure of remove, but I share their pop culture upbringing in enough ways to identify with them.

So what's it like to hit 50, and what was it like getting there?

Every seven years, I get to check in with the Brits who make up the Real World cast of Michael Apted's "7 Up" series, which debuted in 1964 and which this year presents those boys and girls as 56-year-olds entrenched in middle age. "56 Up" doesn't measure up to the last three stellar installments, but that's probably because it tends to be bathed in bittersweet bathos that reflects the growing wariness of the subjects -- with life and with this project -- and their weariness with trying to define themselves. (Apted himself, who assisted on the first program and has directed the rest, is now 72.)

More participants than usual note their hesitance to continue with this episode, and it is wearying for the viewer, as well, at times. With each layer, we get more flashbacks and more information to take in, and as the gang settles into middle age, not much new is happening beyond the arrival of grandchildren. Tough little Tony and forever wistful Suzy still break my heart. Snobby John will always annoy me; but bless his generosity. The other gals are sad. Neil still struggles to keep it together. This time around, his story is most fascinating, as he reveals about as much as any of them ever has -- about his struggles with depression, about his unreported relationships, about the fact that he writes nearly every day (imagine those memoirs!). Otherwise, Paul, Symon, Bruce, Nick and the rest are pretty much just plugging along, having handed things off to the young'uns.

Apted doesn't dig very deep, doesn't push his subjects much. In a refreshing twist, a few of the subjects turn on Apted and challenge him on some of his current and past actions. John, always sensitive about being lumped in with the blue bloods, sorely points out that his father died when John was 9, leaving him and his mother with a financial mess. Tony snaps back when Apted politely suggests that Tony might be racist when discussing the immigrant influx into London's East End. Tony is saved for last, perhaps because he is still the liveliest of the bunch and maybe because he is the only one who truly broke free from his class rank (the original point of this exercise). Apted lingers on Tony and his understanding wife luxuriating on the beach near their vacation home in Spain. And then their tans fade back to black-and-white for the traditional ending -- the flashback to the playground of the early '60s, where some of the children look as sad as they do now.

If "56 Up" is feeling gravity's pull, "Sopranos" creator David Chase, age 67, seems sprightly as he ventures into feature films. And he strolls out of the gate with a lovely period piece about the rise of our rock 'n' roll culture in the 1960s with an autobiographical story of young adults acting like they are changing the world when, in reality, whatever has been unleashed in their capitalist sphere is conniving to bend them to its will.

It would be easy to dismiss "Not Fade Away" as a cliched chronicle of an overexposed era, stuffed with played-out visual tropes. (Here's a spirited such dismantling of the film.) The set-up -- college kid, aggrieved by his gruff postwar dad, pursues rock glory and artsy liberated chicks -- is ripe for ridicule. And, granted, Chase certainly could have resisted the urge, for example, to linger on so many classic album covers. But this is more than a nostalgic, day-glo trip to the wonderful days of garage bands and post-pill women's liberation. At times it reminded me of Steve Tesich's immigrant's saga "Four Friends" (1981, directed by Arthur Penn), with its father-son and boy-pines-for-girl dynamics, though Chase is not nearly as earnest or melodramatic. And "Not Fade Away," while an easy target, is no Cameron Crowe boomer retro love drug or a sappy sentimental workout like "That Thing You Do."

Here's what I think David Chase is doing here:

• Puncturing the pretension of the '60s youth culture. He's not celebrating his own adolescence. In fact, he seems almost embarrassed by the arrogance of his cohort. Their attempts at existential brilliance come off as more silly than sober (though sweet). 
• That shallowness of these free spirits is subtly contrasted with those who go off to war. Both father (WWII) and son (Vietnam) are spared from service, and that hole in their record undercuts their flashes of bravado.
• The era wasn't all peace and love and fun. Chase has reportedly battled depression his whole life, especially during his college years, and his young hero here captures the emptiness at the core of American culture at a critical juncture when the elders feared that the old world was unraveling and the youth were christening the enlightened Age of Aquarius.
• Music can seem to be a salvation and can even feel like the very stuff of life, but once you commodify it, it loses its magic power.
• Fawning camera shots of Cuban heels or drum kits don't serve to fetishize the symbols of the era; they're meant to convey that simple, fleeting pleasure such objects give us. It is such random moments that briefly snap us out of our funk. 
• Some day, way in the future, all that memorabilia will be gone, and we'll get serious about those big philosophical questions, not just to impress our peers or piss off our parents, but to try to come to terms with the true crisis of self. 

Chase hasn't made a perfect film; not even close. But he gets the important things right. First off: Casting John Magaro as his alter-ego, Douglas. I'd never seen Magaro before, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He nails every key moment, whether it's band squabbles, girl trouble or his insufferable parents. James Gandolfini, still struggling to get Tony Soprano off his back, does a workmanlike job of nagging his son and resenting his wife. Chase also gets the music mostly right. Expect endless quibbling about his song choices (ranging from too obscure to too obvious), but the soundtrack revs the plot and stays in tune with the tone of the film. And "Sopranos" alum Steven van Zandt contributes a catchy teen-angst anthem that slips perfectly into a pivotal scene. And the final song, which nudges us awake in the next era, is clever and cool.

Finally, despite the somber overtones throughout, Chase punctuates the proceedings with his trademark stilted humor. Douglas' reaction to his father's third reference to looking like he "just got off the boat" is priceless. The dialogue throughout is understated and sharp.

In the end, Chase isn't interested in nostalgia. He's not wallowing in his reckless, affectless youth. He knows how it all turns out. He knows it was neither mindless fun nor the end of the world. He knows how "63 Up" will go.

I missed that psychedelic garage-band era, but rock 'n' roll has rescued me a few times. There was that Dex and Sara Romweber show amid a bunch of no-nothing planet-stealing 20-somethings in a sweaty Mercury Lounge in New York four years ago. And when I went to see Billy Bragg the other night I had no illusions that Mr. Love & Justice would either enlighten me somehow or reproduce the thrill of his October 1988 show at the Riv in Chicago, when he shared the bill (and a memorable foot-stompin' tune) with poor, confused Michelle Shocked.

Bragg brought a smooth band of young bucks with him to the KiMo Theater, Albuquerque's 1920s Deco-Pueblo landmark. His banter was as slick and witty as ever, though he laid on the liturgy as thick as his accent at times. His new songs were mostly pretty good. He kicked the boys off the stage midway through the night to be alone with his electric guitar for a three-song blast from the past. He got me teary-eyed with "Tank Park Salute" from his last really solid album, which came out three months after my dad died ("You were so tall / How could you fall?"), which is already a generation ago. He finished up his lone encore with "Great Leap Forwards."

The old boy is settling into middle age as well as the next bloke is, I suppose. He's less subtle and snarky than he was as a young man; now his polemics are more direct and thus more preachy. He's getting right to the point, but he's lecturing. And he oversells his connection to dear old Woody Guthrie.

It's a new phase for Billy, like for many of us. He's entering Dylan's traveling troubadour mode. He's punching the clock until retirement. I wouldn't blame him for being a bit cranky. After all, in 1988, he was at the top of his game, and he made the most of it -- musically, politically, and financially.

Twenty-five years later, he's a wise elder, surrounded by young bucks. It's not his world anymore either.

Final Word
For a nice remembrance of a journalist who took rock 'n' roll seriously as early as 1966, here's a fine obit of Paul Williams, founder of Crawdaddy.

Bonus Track
Back to the Future: Power-pop band Local H, which made a brief splash in the post-Nirvana '90s, tore the Launchpad a new one last night (here, from 2004):


  

One-Liners

We've got a backlog building up, so let's knock a few out quickly:

A GLIMPSE INSIDE THE MIND OF CHARLES SWAN III (B+) - I went in with low expectations and emerged more than pleasantly surprised at this widely ignored but entertaining lark featuring Charlie Sheen as a 1970s playboy graphic artist having a midlife crisis. You've got to hand it to writer/director Roman Coppola: Like his pal Wes Anderson, he creates a quirky, intimate world and/or era and he commits fully to bringing it magically to life, pushing that ever-moving line between profound and absurd. Here, Charlie is reeling from a breakup, headed for a heart attack or nervous breakdown, and he's supported by Anderson regulars Jason Schwartzman (truly inspired and very funny in a classic '70s curly wig) and Bill Murray as his sad-sack accountant, both laying the shtick on thick. This has the whiff of a knockoff vanity project, but it works as an homage to the films of America's post-New Wave. The plot barely hangs together, but Sheen and crew somehow create an almost touching character study along the way toward a Capra-esque ending. Extra points for Aubrey Plaza in a bit part and the music of Liam Hayes, rekindling the era by channeling Andrew Gold. And, finally ... 

• RICHARD EDSON ALERT! - The great character actor of our generation steals the show in his one scene as Sanchez, a technical expert who kits Charlie out with a bulky '70s-era surveillance device. It made the whole movie worth the risk of plunking down $5 for a matinee of a widely panned film. Put this on your Richard Edson list along with "Stranger Than Paradise," "Sunshine State," "Do the Right Thing" and "The Astronaut Farmer."

LIKE SOMEONE IN LOVE (C+) - I was not a fan of "Certified Copy," the most recent film from Abbas Kiarostami. I thought the story of a couple wandering around Italy was itself meandering, not to mention confounding and, in the end, kind of pointless. His latest runs about the same speed, only it's three people and they're in Tokyo. I'm open to someone explaining the point of it all. I liked the sense of dread that built around an elderly professor who is hanging out with a morose, vacant young prostitute and her boyfriend. A lot of classic Kiarostami car scenes and a few neat camera tricks. But scenes of a character frequently wanting to sleep and of another changing a car's timing belt can make the audience itself doze off. The Iranian director is oh-for-two in the West.

A ROYAL AFFAIR (B-minus) - Pure soap opera. An epic period piece and a fine performance by Mads Mikkelsen as Struensee, the personal physician and puppet-master behind the simpleton King Christian of Denmark during the enlightenment era of the late 18th century. Struensee manipulates Christian and convinces him to enact sweeping reforms aimed at raising up the lower classes. Meantime, Struensee also steps in for childlike Christian in the bed chambers of the queen, Caroline (a lovely, understated Alicia Vikander). The Lords eventually rebel, the sex scandal is exposed, and the royals will be made to pay. Director Nikolaj Arcel does a workmanlike job moving things along, though the film feels the bloat of its 137 minutes. Great costumes, a social conscience and forbidden passion make for a sometimes compelling saga, but it all wears rather thin by the end, and the climax doesn't have the impact it should.



Bonus One-Liner
From "It's a Bikini World" (1967):
Guy: If I tried to kiss you would you cry for help?
Gal: Would you need help?

RIP: Roger Ebert

Roger Ebert died today, one day after the 46th anniversary of his elevation to film critic at the Chicago Sun-Times. He was one of the finest essayists of our time, a thoughtful man. He set an elegant example not only for critics and journalists but for those looking for clues on how to live a fulfilling life.

I always qualify the following assertion: I worked with Roger Ebert in the 1990s at the Chicago Sun-Times. Of course, he was the heart of the paper, the class of the joint, and I just passed through there for seven years. I can remember him gracing the newsroom only a few times during my tenure; my recollection is that he didn't even have an office or a desk there. Why would he need one? He spent most of his time in dark theaters or at home penning smart, catchy reviews covering every genre of film imaginable. I rarely if ever even edited his reviews. Though he wasn't a regular in the newsroom, his presence was felt daily. (And, I have to think, not only the newsroom but the printed newspaper itself must seem like a shell today.) A good example of that long shadow of his: I'll never forget how he threw his famous weight around as a member of the Newspaper Guild in 1994, hours before our strike deadline, calling from his vacation spot to assure the union leadership (and to send a message to our bosses) that he was with us 100 percent as our dues-paying colleague.

We didn't know it yesterday, but this blog post was his farewell, so sweetly titled: A Leave of Presence.
Here's one of the better obits today, from the Los Angeles Times.

One of his pieces that's always stuck with me is his review of a film I've never seen: "South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut," from 1999. For me, it's a perfect example of his assured grasp of pop culture and his ability to riff on an elevated plane while connecting with the masses -- at a critical time when a major shift in media and entertainment was taking place on the brink of a new millennium. Here are a few excerpts:

The national debate about violence and obscenity in the movies has arrived in South Park.  . . . The year's most slashing political commentary is not in the new films by Oliver Stone, David Lynch or John Sayles, but in an animated comedy about obscenity.

. . . I laughed. I did not always feel proud of myself while I was laughing, however. The movie is like a depraved extension of ``Kids Say the Darnedest Things,'' in which little children repeat what they've heard and we cringe because we know what the words really mean. No target is too low, no attitude too mean or hurtful, no image too unthinkable. After making ``South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut,'' its creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, had better move on. They've taken ``South Park'' as far as it can go, and beyond.


. . . I laughed, as I have reported. Sometimes the laughter was liberating, as good laughter can be, and sometimes it was simply disbelieving: How could they get away with this? This is a season when the movies are hurtling themselves over the precipice of good taste. Every week brings its new surprises. I watch as Austin Powers drinks coffee that contains excrement, and two weeks later I go to ``American Pie'' and watch a character drink beer that contains the most famous bodily fluid from ``There's Something About Mary.'' In ``Big Daddy,'' I see an adult instruct a 5-year-old on how to trip Roller-bladers and urinate in public.

Now this--a cartoon, but it goes far beyond anything in any of those live-action movies. All it lacks is a point to its message. What is it saying? That movies have gone too far, or that protests against movies have gone too far? It is a sign of our times that I cannot tell. Perhaps it's simply anarchistic, and feels that if it throws enough shocking material at the wall, some of it will stick. A lot of the movie offended me. Some of it amazed me. It is too long and runs out of steam, but it serves as a signpost for our troubled times. Just for the information it contains about the way we live now, thoughtful and concerned people should see it. After all, everyone else will.

I wasn't really a consistent reader of his reviews, and when I compare his top-10 lists with those of his old partner, Gene Siskel, I find my tastes skewing toward those of the skinny bald one who, as a writer, wasn't in Roger's league. But I've been a lifelong admirer of the chubby one with glasses. And while our preferences haven't overlapped much since I left Chicago, I've been knocked over by how he handled his illnesses -- or how he rose above them, made them seem to not matter, to remain an important voice (even when he literally lost his) in our national cultural conversation. He's long  been a role model for me as a newspaperman, a writer and inveterate moviegoer.

I somehow got to share, in a small way, seven of those 46 years during which he held sway as a Pulitzer-winning critic, as a player in the world of cinema and as a beloved Chicago celebrity.

Newspaper work was fun.

I worked with Roger Ebert.