BIG STAR: NOTHING CAN HURT ME (B) - This isn't so much a documentary about a '70s band (the fleeting would-be pop legends Big Star) as it is a tribute to studio rats from that analog heyday.
Alex Chilton, recovering from his celebrity run as teen sensation in 1967 with the Box Tops and their smash hit "The Letter," and the brooding Chris Bell tooled around Ardent Studios with two Memphis pals in the early '70s. Eventually adopting the ambitious name Big Star, they crafted a landmark album, the pristine "No. 1 Record," which went nowhere, thanks in part to lousy distribution. (The label would be gobbled by Stax Records just as the soul giant descended into bankruptcy.) Superstardom eluded them, but they grew to be cult legends.
This was a snakebit band. They had essentially broken up before their second album, similarly hallowed, came out in 1974. Bell would die in a car crash at the classic rock age of 27. Chilton would spend the rest of his career pushing the boundaries of idiosyncratic music, perpetually determined to thumb his nose at the industry that traumatized him as a youth. He and bassist Andy Hummel died a few years ago before reaching middle age.
The joy of this movie comes from the early footage of ratty-haired college-age kids working out their songs. Directors Drew DeNicola and Olivia Mori linger on images of the equipment -- knobs, needles, dancing lights on the soundboard. It's truly a paean to studio craftsmanship. And the boys of Big Star truly crafted those albums. The songs resonate today, still sounding fresh and crisp. It's timeless pop -- as much Avett Brothers or My Morning Jacket as it is Gram Parsons or Raspberries. One of the main drawbacks of the movie is the way the filmmakers too often cut the songs off; they fall short of conveying just how powerful the music could be.
One fun sequence involves the story of a brilliant marketing scheme cooked up by Ardent: a Memphis junket (headlined by Big Star) for the alt-journalists popping up amid the burgeoning rock-critic scene (Lester Bangs, Cameron Crowe, etal.). The movie culminates with an alt-star tribute concert (it's fun to see Mike Mills of R.E.M., producer Mitch Easter, and Chris Stamey of the dB's, southern rock compatriots) -- but here, too, the songs get snipped to shreds.
This is a bittersweet look at a lively era, and some young men who left behind a thoughtful legacy.
THE ICEMAN (B) - Michael Shannon was born for the role of a hardened hit man from the gritty "Goodfellas" era. This movie, based on a true story, succeeds mostly because of him, but it can be a chore at times.
Shannon plays stone-faced Richie Kuklinski, an emotionally hollow lug who finds it surprisingly easy to snuff out lives. Socially retarded, he does manage to woo Winona Ryder, lying about his first job (he dubbed porn dialogue not Disney films) and then, when they're settled in the suburbs with two darling girls, about his second gig (claiming his mob money came from currency trading). She either plays dumb or is dumb. His amazing luck at surrounding himself with these loving females will be undermined by one of his few soft spots: he refuses to kill women and children.
The film skips quickly from era to era, from the late '50s to the '80s. While it's fun to watch sideburns sprawl and recede, the frequent costume changes are a regular distraction. You can see the production crew struggling to achieve authenticity over and over. The time-lapse narrative also makes the whole movie feel rushed.
The supporting cast certainly helps make this a worthwhile effort, led by Ray Liotta as Roy Demeo, the mob boss who hires Richie. It's a tribute to Liotta's skills (and face) that he can still bring nuance to what long ago became a typecast role for him. (He also stood out earlier this year in "The Place Beyond the Pines.") The others: David Schwimmer as a twitchy mob underling (with porn 'stache and ponytail); Stephen Dorff in a cameo as Richie's brother; John Ventimiglia ("Sopranos") as another member of Demeo's crew; and Chris Evans (aka Captain America) as an ice cream man who makes creative use of his truck's freezer.
The dialogue at times crackles. "If you want to complain about life, you've got the wrong fuckin' guy," Liotta spits. When a rival sees Richie approach the guy wisecracks, "So, is it my lucky day -- or my last?"
Too often this feels like a retread of classic mob movies or '70s urban dramas (or worse, '70s urban TV shows). But Shannon (subtle when revealing Richie's backstory) and crew bring some heart to the production, and there are just enough twists in the story to keep you glued to the action.
BONUS TRACK
Big Star started earning big props by the mid-'80s. Here's a big-hair version of "September Gurls" by the Bangles:
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