Random Gatherings

NOTHING PERSONAL (B) - Put any two lonely people together and leave them absolutely along together, and if enough time passes they can form a bond. That, at least, is what I got out of the tone poem "Nothing Personal," a lovely but mostly inert film from the Polish director Urszula Antoniak (working here in English). I suppose that, in a different setting, two people who stumble upon each other could grow to despise each other, and one could simply smite the other.

Here,  young Anne (fiery redhead Lotte Verbeek) is first seen removing a ring from her finger and discarding her possessions before setting off from Holland to the Irish countryside. She eventually meanders to the spawling seaside estate of Martin (a haggard Stephen Rea), a sad widower. Anne at first is like a feral cat, refusing to enter the house for food or to engage in meaningful conversation. Slowly, she warms to the idea of a warm bed and a hot meal, and Antoniak lovingly films Anne diving into a bed and swimming naked in the lush white sheets. (That image will be echoed later in the film's bittersweet climactic scene.)

Martin is nearly twice her age, but Anne slowly comes around to his charms (the comfy, well-stocked house doesn't hurt). Like a hotelier, he leaves her breakfast on a tray outside her door. She  samples his music collection, and he gifts her with an old-fashioned cassette tape featuring her favorite music to play on her Walkman while she toils in the garden. Antoniak likes repetition ((Patsy Cline's version of "Crazy" gets played twice here; we get frequent close-ups of hands luxuriating in seaweed). Occasionally it works, but often it's a bit baffling. The movie's shtick is that the two agree early on to not ask each other personal questions; if one of them breaks the deal, he or she has to sing a song. It's cute the first time, but not so much the third time.

Time passes. It's clear that Martin is either ill or suicidal. He invites her to sleep with him one night because he's afraid of dying in his sleep. Their tenderness grows. Antoniak manages to create an atmosphere that is both despairing and loving. This is a movie that is at times both quite deep but seemingly shallow. Antoniak punctuates the five major stages of the movie with title cards announcing the stages before, during and after a relationship, though they run in reverse order. She also pauses at times to allow her camera to linger, giving us lovely still-lifes and time lapses. At times it borders on experimental narrative.

But Antoniak can frustrate at times, such as when Rea mumbles beyond comprehension or when a key shot of an object is hard to decipher. Overall, this is a wonderful, concise mood piece; but when you want it to exhibit a little heft, it lets you down.

4 (2005) (B+) - A piano tuner, a meat inspector and an escort walk into a bar ... and they bond over some tall tales in the presence of a sleepy bartender. That's the key foursome that kicks off this dark, unsettling tale from first-time director Ilya Khrzhanovskiy, which takes place in what looks like post-apocalyptic Russia but really was just post-millennial Russia.

The bar talk involves tall tales.  The escort, Marina, says she's in marketing, the meat inspector, Oleg, is a member of the president's staff, and the piano tuner, Volodya, styles himself  as a member of a team of genetic adventurers involved in a human cloning experiment that dates back to WWII. The best results, apparently, involve groups of four, and thus our title and theme.

The centerpiece of the film is a trip Marina takes (by train, as an unwilling neighbor of three gluttonous seatmates, and then by foot, her orange jacket a beacon in the bleakness) to the funeral of one of her three friends. The surreal scenes that follow involve doll-making old crones who get drunk and raunchy and exhibit more gluttony. The three young women resemble each other; the old women could very well be the discards of some cloning project.

Much drinking ensues. Sometimes this world is populated by as many stray dogs as humans. Oleg trafficks in perfectly round, genetically modified pigs. He lives with a doting father. Much of this seems random, but the stylized camerawork and the doomsday dialogue (I thought of Tarkovsky and Jarmusch throughout) hold your attention.

Cinematic Profiling

Here are the categories that Netflix is recommending to me this week, based on my viewing history:

"Criticially Acclaimed Cerebral Biographical Movies" -- Based on my interest in "This Is Not a Film" and "56 Up."

"Independent Dramas Based on a Strong Female Lead" -- Spinning off "Smashed" and "Nobody Walks."

"Documentaries" -- Just because. (I do watch a lot of them; two more reviews coming this weekend.)

"Gritty Crime Movies" -- Based on my interest in "Mikey and Nicky" and (holy crap!) "The Paperboy."

"Emotional Suspenseful Foreign Movies" -- No examples given, but, I presume, they know I'm a former copy editor who would like to slap either an adverb or a comma in that heading.

Eras Defined

Two films from long ago, themselves half a century apart.

MIKEY AND NICKY (1976) (B+) - Elaine May injects a dark, easy-going comic twist into this gangster version of "Husbands," using John Cassavetes and Peter Falk to pay homage to John Cassavetes and Peter Falk, as well as to the classic noir thrillers. May is subtle and clever throughout, rationing her one-liners wisely, preferring to give these acting legends wide berth in which to develop their characters (the camera lets them vamp often) and build the terror to a slow boil toward a devastating ending.

Nicky (Cassavetes) is holed up in a hotel room, knowing he is a marked man because he stole from the local mob boss. (One bookie has already been gunned down.) And, indeed, a lazy assassin (an understated Ned Beatty) has a contract to fulfill. Nicky calls Mikey (Falk), the only person he could possibly trust, and even Mikey is clearly not his pal anymore. But Mikey comes to meet his friend, given vague directions but signaled to the exact location by a booze bottle wrapped in a towel launched out of a window and sent crashing down in the street. (I laughed out loud at Falk's line-reading when he first knocks on Cassavetes' door: "I came as soon as I got your towel.")

The two embark on a rambling journey through the city, and it's clear early on that Mikey is tipping the mob boss off to Nicky's proposed whereabouts (not as simple in the days before cell phones, texting and Google Earth) and that Nicky is serpentining his way to his apparent doom. They scrap with a bus driver (the eminent M. Emmet Walsh) who won't let them exit out the front door; they visit the grave of Nicky's mother; and they pop in on Nicky's mistress, a sad but assertive woman who is used to being pushed around. (The real and threatened violence to women here is raw and disturbing.) Much smoking and drinking and bantering take place.

Beatty's hit man, meanwhile, provides an existential touch, as Death with a '70s sense of timing and a flair for the random. The film opens and closes with a raving man pounding on a door begging to be let in. This whole exercise demands attention. At times it feels redundant to the Cassavetes films and gritty American New Wave fare that preceded it; at other times, it has a profound sense of delirium and unraveling, as if the world and all its absurdity are doomed before the next sunrise -- somehow simultaneously chilling and comforting. 

THE GENERAL (1926) (A-minus) - Widely considered the greatest of the silent-era comedies (were there many of them?), Buster Keaton's personal masterpiece is storytelling, movie-making and entertainment at their finest.  Keaton writes, directs and stars as Johnnie Gray, a lowly train engineer who is rejected from Civil War duty (he thinks it's because of his slight physical stature, but the true reason is he's more valuable to the South as an engineer), thus lowering him in the sights of the manly men surrounding Johnnie's true love, Annabelle Lee (Marion Mack). But when Keaton's beloved train, The General, is hijacked by soldiers from the North -- with Annabelle as hostage aboard -- Johnnie springs into action to save the day.

Keaton, the premier physical comedian of his day, exhibits feline agility and expert timing. The comedic, Rube Goldbergian elements of the locomotive chases are a marvel to behold. Soaring above the typical Damsel in Distress tale, Keaton spins a compact, compelling yarn (this was the 78-minute version). It was the template for cinemative narrative for decades to come. It is funny, sweet, heroic and a hoot to witness with a group of other film fans of all ages in a darkened theater on a spring afternoon. A true treat.

Classic One-Liners

From the archive, these REALLY ARE one-liners. I culled them from an email to a friend in March 2012.

• Silver Tongues (B)  - disturbing story of a couple going from town to town playing psychological games with people -- and perhaps with each other.
• Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (B+)  - The story confused me, as expected, but I like the tone created by the director of "Let the Right One In" (A-) -- this was more mood than movie; some great actors being very understated.
• Sleeping Beauty (B)  - Another disturbing story, from Australia, of a young woman serving as an escort with a twist -- she is sedated and old men get to sleep with her; written & directed by a woman; at times fascinating to look at.
• Hugo (B-minus) - Two halves that don't make sense. First half was Scorsese showing off with CGI. And WHY oh WHY is it set in Paris but everyone speaks the Queen's English? Sappy story. Maybe this truly was for kids. 
• The Lie (B) - Based on one of my favorite T.C. Boyle stories. Young parent, a stoner dude in a dead-end job, doesn't want to go to work one day, so he begins to tell a series of lies, culminating in him telling his boss that his 6-month-old daughter has died. Dark humor and Millennial angst ensue.
• A Separation (A) - Fascinating Iranian drama that plays out like an old police/law TV procedural akin to "Hill Street Blues." So many layers. Slightly too long but worth every minute.
• Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (A-minus) - One of my favorite directors, Nuri Bilge Ceylan ("Climates," "Three Monkeys") makes another meditative masterpiece about our wandering existence on earth. Another police procedural, this time literally.
• Rejoice and Shout (B) - Fun documentary on gospel music.
• The Artist (B) - Cute 'n' all, but rather fluffy. 
• Moneyball (B+) - A solid guy movie with the always dependable Brad Pitt. 
• Exporting Raymond (HBO) (B) - Very fun (and funny) documentary about Phil Rosenthal, the creator of "Everybody Loves Raymond," going to Russia to create an adaptation of the show for Russians.
  

New to the Queue

Hopes, dreams, early jazz queens:

The experimental romantic comedy "An Oversimplification of Her Beauty."

A first-timer's couples road movie, "Sun Don't Shine."

A compendium from long-time experimental filmmaker Jonas Mekas, "Outtakes From the Life of a Happy Man."

The biographical documentary from Sarah Polley ("Away From Her," "Take This Waltz"), "Stories We Tell."

The Chinese documentary about three girls in an impoverished family, "Three Sisters." 

Another doc, this one about early female jazz musicians, "The Girls in the Band."

The young-adult crisis drama "What Richard Did," which drew an absolute rave from Stephen Holden of the New York Times.


Olivier Assayas' melodramatic take on May 1968, "Something in the Air."

The latest harrowing role for Michael Shannon, the mob picture "The Iceman."

One-Liners

UPSTREAM COLOR (A-minus) - I need another viewing to do justice to the latest jumbled narrative from Shane Carruth, who previously amazed with "Primer." This one is a bit easier to follow. It is, at its core, a simple but powerful love story. It focuses on the relationship between two people who both were apparently used as subjects of an experiment involving a worm-borne virus transmitted through pigs. Thoreau's "Walden" holds some sort of secret to the mysterious exercise, but I couldn't make all the connections. What I saw was lovely and compelling. It's due out on video at the end of the month. I'll report back.

BIG DEAL ON MADONNA STREET (1959) (B+) - Bumbling petty thieves plot a big score -- a pawn-shop safe -- in this endearing crime caper that builds toward a Keystone Cops version of the heist scene in "Rififi." Snappy repartee and crisp black-and-white cinematography make this feel fresh. The ragtag crew, mentored by a retired safecracker with a grab-bag of kitchen-sink tools, also includes a boxer with a glass jaw, an ex-jockey with a monumental appetite, and a petty thief who swipes baby carriages.  Marcello Mastroianni stands out as the hard-luck photographer stuck with an ever-wailing baby while his wife, like many of the characters here, does time. Claudia Cardinale is spectacular as ever as Carmelina, under house arrest by her brother looking to marry her off but who falls for the crook with a heart of gold looking to aid his former orphanage with his share. It's all smarter than it looks.


THE ISLAND PRESIDENT (B-minus) - A interesting but not necessarily compelling chronicle of the recent history of Maldives, the Indian Ocean nation that claims the lowest height above sea level in the world at 1.5 meters. In 2004, the country was devastated by a tsunami, and in 2008 a new constitution was implemented, ushering in as president Mohamed Nasheed, who quickly made climate change his international mission. This documentary tells his charming underdog tale. Not a must-see, but a good history lesson.
Available at PBS.org under "Independent Lens."


ONE-LINER
From Shane Carruth's previous effort, the time-travel mind-scrabble "Primer":

• "Are you hungry? I haven't eaten since later this afternoon."

One and Done

For those of us who can't imagine going anywhere near the latest Baz Luhrmann spectacle (and the latest vain attempt by Hollywood to interpret "The Great Gatsby"), David Denby of the New Yorker gets it done in a sentence:

Luhrmann's vulgarity is designed to win over the young audience, and it suggests that he's less a filmmaker than a music video director with endless resources and a stunning absence of taste.

Google credits

Google's home page pays tribute to Saul Bass, the king of jazzy, artsy movie credits, with this animation today, the 93rd anniversary of his birth:

Holy Crap: "Perfect Ending"

It's a soft-core porn film! It's a soap opera! It's the worst of both genres!

I can't remember the last time I saw a movie as ardently, urgently bad as "Perfect Ending," an embarrassing attempt at uplifting gay-power cinema. It is poorly acted, written with a computer program that strings together cliches, and it's shot as if by a toddler who had been handed an iPhone. It's as if 1950s sitcom actors were interpreting a '60s soap opera, all under the direction of an early '80s Cinemax hack. It's a riot.

Barbara Niven -- whose resume includes such titles as "Psycho Cop Returns," "Depraved," "Humanoids of the Deep," "Breast Men" and "Love Boat: The Next Wave" -- stars here as middle-aged Rebecca Westridge, a rich, hard-drinking, sexually deprived suburban housewife.  Rebecca's sassy lesbian pals get her to admit that she's never had an orgasm, and one of them proposes that she hire a female prostitute.  And the friend conveniently has a cousin who runs the agency and just happens to be played by Morgan Fairchild.  If the opening scenes featuring John Heard -- as the boorish husband who is such a repulsive cretin that he tells ethnic jokes! -- didn't place this squarely in 1982, then the appearance of the star of "Flamingo Road" calibrated the time machine with Swiss precision.

Oh, but Rebecca can't possibly sleep with a woman! She's straight, and married. But, alas, she relents and makes an appointment. And of course, just like when anyone hires a prostitute, a stunningly beautiful olive-skinned full-lipped model/artist half her age shows up at the door. But, no! Rebecca Westridge can't go through with it. She's too shy. It's wrong! And she sends Paris away. Oh, but this feline seductress will be back. But, no! Rebecca must resist again -- and run toward the door, dropping her purse as she fumbles with the knob, as if being pursued by Lon Chaney. This dangerous dance goes on for about an hour before Paris finally gets a clear shot at popping Rebecca's cherry.

Niven, who is no B-movie virgin, does a convincing post-coital purr. It is the only passable feat of acting in the entire film. The three actors playing her concerned grown children struggle to screw up concern over their parents' marriage and can't even convincingly pretend to worry about mom missing dinner -- she never misses dinner!, they marvel, Brady-style.

All of this is preciously presented by Nicole Conn, who's been allowed to produce these soft-focus melodramas sparingly over the past two decades.  Conn's amateurish script suffers further from her penchant for extreme pointless close-ups and the distracting habit of letting a scene's images linger while starting the dialogue from the next scene. It's confusing, not artistic.

For the piece de resistance, Conn dives full-on into movie-of-the-week mush by following up the Big O with the Big C. A character tragically gets a cancer diagnosis, but conveniently, it's the make-believe kind that doesn't involve any discernible suffering or any reduction in breast perkiness. Actors get to "play sad."  Conn, ever the fauxteur, gets to shoot a funeral as if it's a bar mitzvah.

And everyone gets to learn a valuable lesson about love, tolerance and oral sex. Heartwarming.

GRADE: F

Holy Crap is an occasional series about unique films that cut a wide swath from brilliant to awful. Check out a previous entry here.

Streets of San Francisco

Four scenes from a Sunday in San Francisco:

• At the trolley terminus turnaround at Powell & Hyde, an older gentleman was playing amplified acoustic guitar for the folks queueing up for the ride back downtown. Among the gems he played: a fresh, soulful rendition of the Captain and Tennille hit "Love Will Keep Us Together."
• At one end of the Wharf, I paid $5 and got to explore the WWII "Liberty ship" the SS Jeremiah O'Brien, marveling at the ingenuity and workmanship of a manmade wonder.
• In all my years, I've seen a lot of street musicians in countless combinations and permutations. But this was a new one on me: Along Columbus, a block from the City Lights bookstore, a ragtag jazz combo was playing a spirited session for passers-by, and in the middle of the scrum was a dude playing an upright piano. Right there on the corner in broad daylight, a real piano.
• Sunday night, at the Great American Music Hall, a purported former house of ill repute, we saw a hot show by the Cave Singers. Here's one of the songs they played: