That '70s Drift: Missed Connections

SPACE STATION 76 (B+) -  Patrick Wilson ("Angels in America") is a depressed, closeted captain of a gloomy crew aboard a refueling satellite in this spoofy '70s version of the future.

With an apparent nod to Buck Henry's failed 1977 sitcom "Quark," a handful of 40-something actors (mostly from TV, and including Jennifer Elise Cox who played Jan in the Brady Bunch movies) wrote their first film together and chose one of them, Jack Plotnick ("The Mentalist"), to direct it. They have come up with an offbeat but surprisingly touching story of failed romantic relationships and longings for home.

No one here is happy. Ted (Matt Bomer) is henpecked by his nasty wife, Misty (Marisa Coughlan), and he has daydream visions of a floating, busty naked woman. Their daughter Sunshine (Kylie Rogers) is alternatively neglected or manipulated by misty, especially when Jessica (Liv Tyler) shows up and tries to make friends with Sunshine. Jessica is physically unable to have children, and Misty pounces on that weakness. Donna (Kali Rocha) ignores her own crying infant while she cheats on her husband. Wilson's Captain Glenn mopes around, pining for former colleague Daniel; you expect the Elton John song to bust out at any time, but it never does. We do get plenty of era-appropriate Todd Rundgren. Plotnick wistfully splashes "Hello, It's Me" and follows it up with a sweet scene in which Ted switches off his living quarters' gravity so Sunshine can float around to Neil Sedaka's cheesy "Laughter in the Rain." Keir Dullea, the icon from "2001: A Space Odyssey," has a fun cameo as Jessica's father who struggles to work his video phone; it's broad shtick that still manages to drive home Jessica's deep-seated melancholy.

Jessica is drawn not only to Sunshine but to Ted. She has trouble communicating with the morose Captain Glenn, who makes a couple of deadpan suicide attempts, foiled by the space ship's technology. He eats glumly in the cafeteria, shunned by colleagues as he sits under the garish brown/orange design on the wall (perfectly invoking those ugly San Diego Padres uniforms of the era). Misty pours her heart out to Dr. Bot, a robotic therapist (and gynecologist), whose limited recognition software can barely process trite platitudes as she riffs hilariously. Every once in a while, intentionally crude graphics show asteroids hurtling toward this collection of misfits.

The kitschy sets work well as an homage to the '70s and that decade's idea of futuristic space travel. Artificial intelligence sits side-by-side with top-loading VCRs. The meta presentation provides genuine laughs with an undercurrent of true Gen X-istential angst. 

LIFE OF CRIME (B) - A perfectly serviceable crime caper from the Elmore Leonard files, in the capable hands of Daniel Schechter, who last surprised us with "Supporting Players."

John Hawkes and Mos Def (aka Yasiin Bey) carry this familiar tale of a pair of low-level gangsters kidnapping a rich guy's wife for ransom. The problem here is that the rich guy has just filed divorce and doesn't care if he ever sees his wife again. The film, set in Detroit in 1978, has just enough style and grit to recall that era's modern noir.

Tim Robbins and Jennifer Aniston are well cast as the estranged couple, Frank and Mickey. Frank is using his apartment buildings as a tax dodge, and he is spending time with his young mistress, Melanie (a delightfully impish Isla Fisher). Mickey is snatched from her kitchen by Louis (Hawkes) and Ordell (Mos Def), the same characters from Leonard's "Rum Punch" (which was turned into Quentin Tarantino's "Jackie Brown"). They keep her at the home of a neo-Nazi, and they treat her well; Louis, in fact, develops a tender rapport with Mickey.

The actors save this from devolving into tedium, and Schecter keeps the momentum rolling forward. The rest is clever Leonard plotting. The punch line at the end is expertly delivered.

That '70s Drift: Dog Days

The Guild Cinema offers a fascinating double feature:

THE DOG (B) - Meet John Wojtowicz, the lunatic who tried to rob a bank in August 1972 and was immortalized by Al Pacino's portrayal of him two years later in "Dog Day Afternoon" (see below).

Wojtowicz was a hedonistic hustler who returned from Vietnam in the late '60s, having had his first homosexual experience in the service, and threw himself into the gay culture of New York.  Filmmakers Allison Berg and Frank Keraudren spent years putting together Wojtowicz's story, and they do a workmanlike job re-creating that Vietnam era. They also dig up some fascinating post-Stonewall footage.

Wojtowicz is an entertaining subject. He's on camera a lot, bragging (mostly about his sex life) and reveling in his long-past 15 minutes of fame. We get fresh talking-head interviews with other classic Brooklynites, including his ex-wife Carmen and his mother Theresa, both still shaking their heads at crazy John. (Wojtowicz died in 2006 at age 60 after a battle with cancer depicted here, and his mother also died before the film was released.)

The subject matter pretty much speaks for itself. We get not only a renewed blow-by-blow of the robbery and the tale of Wojtowicz's love for Liz Eden (nee Ernie), the one he allegedly robbed the bank for. (She and others suggest that other money woes were the primary motivation, including mob debts.)

The filmmakers introduce Wojtowicz's mentally challenged brother Tony, and the second half gets a bit maudlin as Tony pushes his frail brother around, the narrative meandering to a finish. This and other weaknesses aside, this is a fun portrait of an interesting individual and a long-gone era.

DOG DAY AFTERNOON (1975) (A-minus) - Forty years on, Sidney Lumet's raw nerve of a movie still sizzles, with Al Pacino riffing on a grand stage with his fine supporting cast.

Lumet was just, you know, knockin' something out between "Serpico" and "Network," a man on a roll. He gives this a documentary feeling, with the streets of Brooklyn seething with a wild mob, tense cops and inept robbers. Pacino, as Sonny, finds the right tone, with a character he can go a little crazy with, without taking it over the edge. Sonny's raw confrontations with police hack Moretti (the amazing Charles Durning) have a tinge of danger to them as well as black comedy. John Cazale is all sweaty and monosyllabic throughout as Sonny's sidekick Sal. Chris Sarandon brings heart and pathos as Sonny's transgender lover Leon. James Broderick is chilling as the calculating FBI agent plotting Sonny and Sal's downfall. Bronx native Marcia Jean Kurtz is delightful as the perky hostage. Look for Carol Kane as another teller.

Master screenwriter Frank Pierson ("Cool Hand Luke," "Cat Ballou") crafts pitch-perfect local dialogue. He presents a media circus that feels both quaint and modern. Lumet zips it all along in a breezy 125 minutes. This is one of the treasures of the golden era of American film. 

BONUS TRACK
The Elton John deep cut that plays over the opening credits of Lumet's film and over the closing credits of the new documentary -- "Amoreena":

Cartoon Dystopia

SNOWPIERCER (B-minus) -  Korean pulpmeister Bong Joon-ho envisions yet another apocalyptic future, this one aboard a perpetually moving train traversing a ruined planet. Its politics is two-dimensional but its excessive violence jumps off the screen, pummeling you.

It's just a few decades into the future, and man's attempt to cure global warming has backfired -- the planet is a frozen tundra unsuitable for humans. The few hundred or so survivors have been stuffed onto that moving train, which is said to circumnavigate the globe once a year. The lower classes live in squalor in the rear car. As you move up among the cars life improves. In the head car is Mr. Wilford (Ed Harris), the benevolent dictator who wears silk robes and dines on steak, while the poor folks live in filth and eat "protein bars" of questionable provenance.

The masses plot an uprising. The one-note Chris Evans, widely known as Captain America, stars as Curtis, the hunky revolutionary who conspires with the wise old Gilliam, portrayed predictably by John Hurt, in almost a parody of his classic roles. Meantime, doing Wilford's dirty work and PR is Tilda Swinton as Mason, sporting a ridiculous set of protruding teeth as she bickers with the riff-raff. Octavia Spencer is given embarrassingly little to do as a poor single mom fretting over her son and allowing the producers to punch their diversity card.

As the freedom fighters slowly make their way forward, they recruit the train's keymaster (Kang-ho Song from Bong's "The Host"), a junkie who does it for the fix that Curtis provides. Horrific battles ensue, featuring crude arms straight out of "Game of Thrones." Soon, all nuance is gone, and this becomes a matter of the viewer surviving the onslaught of gore. The resolution is fairly anti-climactic.

Bong does have a sophisticated visual style, and he works wonders in confined spaces. The technological quirks he tosses in give the film just enough of a hint of plausibility that you coast along with the concept throughout. But the characters are conventional archetypes and the journey is familiar. Those who don't mind the relentless carnage and overacting will probably consider this a minor classic. 

THE LEGO MOVIE (C) -  I can't imagine being assaulted by this on the big screen. 3-D would have killed me. Did parents really subject their children to this attack on the senses? How does one react to such neon candy-colored crack?

This action-packed polemic about tyranny and conformity (while also serving as a 100-minute advertisement for a consumer product aimed at children) is brought to us by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, who are on a roll of late with the popular kids -- also writing/directing "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs I & II" and directing "21/22 Jump Street." This one is teeming with that tight clique of somewhat smug semi-funny Thursday night NBC prime-time players: Alison Brie, Nick Offerman, Chris Pratt, Will Forte, Elizabeth Banks, Will Arnett. They mix in with the familiar frat-boy hipster types: Will Ferrell, Jonah Hill, Channing Tatum, James Franco's brother Dave, Charlie Day ... Will Arnett. Arnett is actually quite amusing as Batman, the raspy-voiced buffoon who dates the heroine WyldeStyle (Banks). Brie has her moments as Unikitty (a Hello Kitty unicorn), but a little of that goes a long way. Ferrell is surprisingly unamusing as President Business. Morgan Freeman has a few good lines as a wise oracle (typecasting or spoof?).

It had its moments. I laughed out loud at just a few frames of an astronaut floating in space while listening to a satellite broadcast on what looked like a transistor radio. When President Business transforms to his alter-ego, Lord Business, he uses elaborate mispronunciations of ordinary household items -- the Fleece-Crested Scepter of Que-Teep (a Q-Tip) and the Sword of Exact-Zero (an X-acto blade), and his henchmen are ominously referred to as Micro Managers. On paper I bet this is quite clever and funny. But the political statement is weak, and it grows tiring after about twenty minutes. The love story is beyond trite. And a mawkish live-action ending, in which the innocent make the evil ones see the error of their ways, is both too cute and too stupid to justify its attempt at heart-string tugging.

The big question is, what audience would appreciate such a violent film (just how many beheadings are there?) written for simpletons? Besides college stoners, I mean.

Jazz, by the numbers

WHIPLASH (B) - "Whiplash" is a trite, corny, formulaic, melodramatic depiction of the macho-bullshit holy trinity of performance, competition and perfection, commonly found in sports movies. It's also a pretty entertaining two hours.

Miles Teller ("The Spectacular Now") stars as Andrew, a mild-mannered but determined drummer who enrolls at a prestigious music academy in New York (portrayed here by L.A.). There he falls into the trap of the intimidating Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), the maniacal, terrorizing director of the school's elite jazz band. Fletcher is part football coach, part drill sergeant, part Bond villain. He is psychologically abusive, and he drives young Andrew near the breaking point.

Andrew wants to be the next great jazz legend. Fletcher is obsessed with discovering and molding the next transcendent jazz god, a white-hot genius like Charlie Parker. He mercilessly harangues his musicians, relying on homophobic putdowns and ethnic stereotypes. He is as punctual as Mussolini. He is as demanding as Vince Lombardi. He's a tyrant utilizing psychological warfare. And Simmons sinks his teeth into that role. He is super-buff, with a shaved head, and he nails every verbal riff like a drum machine. (He's Buddy Rich when he flies off the handle.) Meantime, Teller brings nuance to a poorly fleshed out character. (Paul Reiser is wasted as Andrew's stage father; he's often used mainly for contrast as the alpha male's punchline.)

Young director Damian Chazelle has quite a visual flair, an obvious love of the music (and the jazz scene), and he sure knows how to sell the music, which is often worth staying in your seat for. The performance pieces look legit. He also stages a car crash that is genuinely startling. But as a writer, he traffics in tropes throughout. We see Andrew practice until his hands bleed (numerous times). There's the understanding girlfriend who must be sacrificed for the cause of the team. We get a "There's no crying in baseball jazz" moment. There's the marathon hazing session, complete with shots of a clock to note the passing of hours. We get the buildup to the Big Showdown. There is little to distinguish the narrative from the typical heroic sports saga; "Rudy" with a brass section.

Chazelle hits us with a couple of twists at the end, in the mold of a psychological thriller. They are just clever enough to rescue his story from crescendoing into one big sloppy cliche.

"Whiplash" (the title is taken from a classic tune riffed on repeatedly in the movie) suffers from that generic skeletal structure we find in just about every competition film driven by an over-the-top coach or instructor. But it's got enough of a psychological edge -- mostly the distorted father/mentor performance by Simmons, veins bulging -- that it carries you along to its decent conclusion.

BONUS TRACK
The title song from the film:

New to the Queue

Glorious bounty ...

OOOH! It's a rollicking documentary about one of my favorite bands ever, "Revenge of the Mekons."

I'm at least curious about the new Godard film, even if I probably will never find a place that shows it in 3-D, "Goodbye to Language."

The latest from Bennett Miller ("Capote," "Moneyball"), another short title, "Foxcatcher."


The arty feature film debut from Josephine Decker, "Butter on the Latch."

I could easily be lured to the "Bodyguard"-like rom-com-drahm "Beyond the Lights."

A drama about a musician working as a New York taxi driver, "Love Hunter."

MORE DOCS
A look at polygamy in Bali, "Bitter Honey."

We might get back on the horse with the great Frederick Wiseman and his three-hour surreptitious look at a British institution, "National Gallery."

A study of a B-list actor pushing 40 and struggling with relationship and career, "Actress."

A chronicle of the French businessman who helped end apartheid, "Plot for Peace."

The story of a group in Tanzania who live as simple hunter-gatherers, "The Hadza: Last of the First."

Revisiting the great '80s-era Soviet hockey team, "Red Army."

A look at a former Pennsylvania steel town -- described by the New York Times as a "blue-collar poem threaded with old-timer memories and present-day pain" -- "Braddock America."

The story of a 21-year-old running for city council in Stockton, Calif., "True Son."

BONUS TRACK 
Jon Langford and Sally Timms from the Mekons singing an Alejandro Escovedo song:

The Rattle of the Sexes

THE BLUE ROOM (A-minus) - Familiar face Matthieu Amalric ("Venus in Fur," "The Diving Bell and Butterfly") sits behind the camera and also stars in this slow-burn of a story about the tragic consequences of a love affair.

We open amid the sweaty limbs of Julien (Amalric ) and Esther (Stephanie Cleau). After their lovemaking, she bites his lip, drawing blood. She has marked him. Go explain that to your wife. They also engage in some ominous pillow talk, recklessly chatting about a possible future in that treacherous way of couples in illicit affairs.

Amalric has created a pure suspense film, but one that unfolds gingerly and culminates in an understated final-scene reveal that elicits a shudder. He isn't going for the harshness of a Polanski film or the brashness of Hitchcock, but he's trafficking in that territory. It also brings to mind Asghar Farhadi's devastating study of a broken relationship, "A Separation" (as well as his more recent one, "The Past").

Meantime, this is a smoldering cigarette of a police procedural. Someone has died; we don't know whom until well into the second half of the film. Julien is being questioned by the authorities, with snippets of scenes serving to dish out only some pieces of the puzzle. Is this about Esther's husband? About Esther? Someone else? Flashbacks reveal a strained relationship between Julien and his wife, Delphine (Lea Drucker). He tampers with clues that likely are evidence. Yet he also seems genuinely befuddled by the twists and turns of events.

The claustrophobic spaces in the police station are contrasted with the lovers' chamber, which is highly erotic. That is so even when the room is empty and all we see are mussed sheets. You can almost smell the musk left behind.

Amalric is making a misogynist statement or a statement about misogyny, but I'm not sure which. Julien is portrayed as the hapless victim of both his wife and his mistress. The director's camera leers at times. We watch a fly rest on Esther's bare belly. Not once but twice he lingers just half a beat longer than normal as a naked Esther sensually uncrosses and crosses her legs, clearly displaying her crotch. It's not a playful tease like in "Basic Instinct"; it's borderline pornographic. You get the feeling that Amalric wants to zoom in closer or even inside, return to the womb.

The combination of mood, visuals and sharp storytelling are surreptitiously intoxicating. And Amalric has the good sense and sure hand to wrap this up quickly. It's over in 76 minutes, and there's not a moment wasted. You don't realize that Amalric's film is taking your breath away.
 

Two for Two

We hand out our second A in a row, and the third in as many weeks; can you sense our year-end list beginning to come together?

LISTEN UP PHILIP (A) - This is a film about an asshole. Make that two of them. They're writers. So, no surprise there. And it's about the women -- daughters, girlfriends -- who endure them.

Alex Ross Perry scored big in 2011 with his acerbic sibling road movie "The Color Wheel." For a followup, Perry unleashes a scathing profile of an pompous and prickish young writer, who ditches his girlfriend to be mentored by an equally insufferable Phillip Roth-type novelist. Jason Schwartzman and Jonathan Pryce comfortably slip into those roles of young and old.

This is an odd, refreshing celebration of arrogance, petulance and the indulgence of the male artist. Old Ike Zimmerman (Pryce) invites young Philip (Schwartzman), who is about to drop a second novel, to his country house, where peace and quiet best serve a writer. Philip has been grinding on the last nerve of his girlfriend anyway, so he leaves her in the city and heads off to his retreat, which comes with a teaching gig at a stuffy private college. 

About halfway through, we leave Philip for a while and spend time with his estranged ex, Ashley, a mess of frustration and contradictions played smartly by Elisabeth Moss ("Mad Men"). It's a bold move by Perry to ditch Philip, though most Moss fans would consider it a no-brainer. Her Ashley is no cliched rom-com queen on the rebound or typical Brooklyn brat. When Philip does return at one point, we're reminded of the wonder that is Moss's face -- in a matter of seconds, she cycles through a series of emotions after that brief, tense reunion.

"Listen Up Philip" has the heart and soul of classic '70s American cinema. It's not a stretch to compare this to the works of Cassavetes or Altman (this shares an attitude with "The Long Goodbye" with Elliott Gould). And Perry owes an obvious debt to Woody Allen's "Annie Hall," whose echoes we hear throughout. Yet it feels wholly of this era, as well. Perry, working with "Color Wheel" cinematographer Sean Price Williams," gives this a lived-in feeling.

Meantime, the lines dart around artfully, like a modern Mumblecore Philip Marlowe novel. At one point Ike greets Philip with writerly banter:

"You are selfish and unsentimental!"
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"On the contrary!" 

Perry and Schwartzman even make academic office hours funny. Yet this isn't a flippant, throwaway comedy. Philip meets Ike's daughter, Melanie (Krysten Ritter, who was Jane in "Breaking Bad"), at the country house, and they have a sibling-like flirtation. He also woos a French woman on the faculty. Neither relationship goes where you think it will. Philip also gets roped into Ike's decadent indulgences with Ike's pal and a couple of good-time girls, in a sad little party that tips its brim to "Husbands."

All in all, Perry (writing solo here) has crafted a powerful, mature narrative. It's a movie stuffed with subtle emotion, plot twists and biting one-liners. It's not predictable. It leads you eagerly to its somewhat bitter finish line. And it is ably led by an A-list of talented character actors.

It's easy to dismiss Schwartzman as a silly man-child who plays the go-to goofball in Wes Anderson movies. But the man has many layers, as he shows here and in his delightful HBO series "Bored to Death." He nimbly mixes the verbal with the physical. (A quick shot of him starting a lawn mower  here is laugh-out-loud funny.) He's inherently appealing, like Zach Galifianakis, only with an elitist smirk and an impish gleam in his eye.

Schwartzman and Perry absolutely click in "Listen Up Philip." The women in the film, while sometimes treated as props (that's the dickish point, after all), play off of Schwartzman and Pryce well, not only taking their guff but returning it as well. It's an impressive ensemble film.

BONUS TRACK
One of the joys of "Listen Up Philip" is the attention to detail in the jacket covers of Ike Zimmerman's books. Ike is a stand-in for Philip Roth, and Perry, along with artist Teddy Blanks, toss out some savory titles and graphic designs. Titles include "Madness & Women" and "The Cinch (A Very Easy Novel)."

Slate magazine has some samples, along with a Q&A with Perry and Blanks. You can find that here.

Theater People!

BIRDMAN (A) - This is what the wonder of cinema and storytelling is all about. The always ambitious Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu is back on his game with the epic tragedy of a former Hollywood super-hero star desperately grasping for relevance and critical acclaim by staging a Raymond Carver play on Broadway.

Michael Keaton plays Riggan , who used to play the wildly popular Birdman a couple of decades ago before he turned down Birdman IV and his career went south. You might recall that Keaton, ages ago, played Batman a couple of times on the big screen after his "Beetlejuice" breakthrough. Keaton intimately knows what obsolescence feels like.

When we first see Riggan, he is in his dressing room, seated in the lotas position in his underwear (the briefs are a running theme), hovering two feet off the floor -- Inarritu is not shy about announcing the playfulness and grim magical realism that will permeate the story. Riggan can seemingly move objects through telekinesis. And he is also haunted by a voice that serves as his conscience; it's the voice of his Birdman character, presumably Keaton doing his breathy, gravelly imitation of Christian Bale's recent Batman. Are we ensconced in the meta-narrative yet?

Riggan is disappointed in his male co-star in the play, which is poised to start previews. When the co-star is conveniently rendered unable to perform, he is replaced by arrogant hot-shot Mike (Edward Norton), the boyfriend of another star in the show Lesley (Naomi Watts, solid). ("How do you know him?" someone asks Lesley. She replies, "We share a vagina.") Riggan is sleeping with the other cast member, Laura (a wonderfully expressive Andrea Riseborough). He's got his daughter helping out on the crew, Sam, a recovering junkie (a live-wire Emma Stone). And he's trying to maintain peace with her mother, his ex Sylvia (the perfect Amy Ryan). Trying to hold the production together is Riggan's attorney pal Jake (Zach Galifianakis, tightly controlled), a jumble of nerves.

Even if the story weren't compelling, "Birdman" would be worth seeing just for the visual wonder created by Inarritu, the lightning-rod director of "Amores Perros" and "Babel" and the misfires "21 Grams" and "Biutiful." Here, he is a master wielding the camera along with the eminent cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki (coming off of Terence Malick's last two films and Alfonso Cuaron's "Children of Men" and "Gravity"). "Birdman" is shot and edited as if it were one long take. Characters pass through doors and into the next scene, jumping seamlessly in time. The viewer gets sucked in and carried along by the current.

All the while, Inarritu injects a nervous, fumbling jazz drum score. It jangles the entire movie. It serves as both warning and rim shot. It makes it seem as if Riggan is tumbling down a flight of stairs half the time. It is the soundtrack of his apparent nervous breakdown. He's not the only one suffering here; every main character reveals a fatal flaw or paralyzing insecurity. Stone, Norton and Galifianakis feed off of each other's energies.

The dialogue is sharp, the plot tight and propulsive. A plotline involving a bitter, vindictive New York Times theater critic ratchets the tension. Inarritu (also writing, with three others) has created a profound mix of "All That Jazz" and "A Prairie Home Companion." It's a thrill ride that both celebrates and scathingly satirizes the entertainment industry. 

In that opening scene we see this saying tacked on Riggan's vanity mirror: "A thing is a thing. Not what is said about that thing." For two hours, this film thoroughly cloaks itself in the creative ideal; it internalizes the process of transforming some "thing" as well as the criticism of the end product.

The play's the thing. "Birdman" captures that perfectly.

Life Is Short: Land Ho!

Life Is Short is an as-needed series documenting the films we just couldn't make it through. We like to refer to these movies as "Damsels in Distress." Previous entries are here , here, here, here, here. and here.

To quote IMDb: "A pair of ex-brothers-in-law set off to Iceland in an attempt to reclaim their youth through Reykjavik nightclubs, trendy spas, and rugged campsites."

What "Land Ho!" consists of -- at least the first half hour or so, with no sign of veering from its course -- is one of the two main characters, Mitch (played by Earl Lynn Nelson), being a sexist pig. It's as if AARP produced "Porky's." It was not very interesting and not a little bit offensive. Sensing it was going nowhere, I pulled the plug a third of the way through.

On to the next adventure.

Title: LAND HO!
Running Time: 96 MIN
Elapsed Time at Plug Pull: 36 MIN
Portion Watched: 38%
My Age at Time of Viewing: 51 YRS, 11 MOS.
Average Male American Lifespan: 81.2 YRS.
Watched/Did Instead: A crossword puzzle with random HBO in the background.
Odds of Re-viewing This Title: 125-1.

So I Don't Have To

In an occasional feature, we present capsule reviews from correspondents who go see the movies that we don't have an interest in seeing.  Today, veteran filmgoer Phillip Blanchard chimes in on the latest Christopher Nolan spectacle: 

INTERSTELLAR - Some complain that “Interstellar” is too long. Well, it’s a long story. Other whiners carp that they can’t hear dialogue because of the loud music and thunderous sound effects. Well, listen more closely. 

You’ve also heard a bunch of Stephen Hawking wannabes bitch about how the movie distorts known physics. Well, first of all, this is a movie, so live with it. And anyhow, how can we be so sure that our understanding of physics won’t change? Smart guys 2,000 years ago thought they knew everything.

“Interstellar” is a terrific science-fiction movie that no one will confuse with, say, “Guardians of the Galaxy.” The acting is very good. The special effects are outstanding and don’t depend solely on CGI like so many other space-based movies. That loud music is perfect for this movie.

It’s exhausting, and I can’t imagine ever watching it again.

Guest grade: A

Real Gone

A couple of mainstream, and fairly decent, offerings:

GONE GIRL (B+) - It's a shame that a person can't enjoy the book and the movie equally. Some folks out there are coming to the movie fresh and probably enjoying the hell out of it. Those of us who loved the book can appreciate the thriller's adaptation, even though we know all of the twists in advance.

David Fincher, as usual, is technically adept but lacking in heart. He creates a mood and churns the story, but there's little thrill or delight in the movie as a whole. In other words, despite a screenplay from the novelist, Gillian Flynn, "Gone Girl" isn't the page-turner it is in print.

Rosamund Pike stars as Amy Dunne, the New Yorker yanked by her husband to Missouri, only to go missing on their fifth anniversary amid signs of foul play. Ben Affleck, workmanlike, is nonetheless slightly off-cast as her husband, Nick, who follows the clues Amy left for him, as she did every year on their anniversary. Affleck's everyman quality lacks that certain indefinable edge that Nick had in the book, despite the first key twist that exposes a character flaw.

The cast is strong, but Fincher fails to draw sublime performances out of them. Pike is the weak link of the first half. She brings nothing special to the character of Amy, and Fincher seems to be doing something to her voice on the soundtrack, making it dreamlike, as if Pike's voice is dubbed. Carrie Coon (in the role that used to be filled by Janeane Garafolo) plays Nick's snarky but sympathetic twin sister, Margo, and she finds nuance here, as she did in HBO's dull "Leftovers." Tyler Perry is serviceable but nothing special as the shady celebrity lawyer who defends Nick, the suspect in his wife's disappearance. Kim Dickens is delightful but somewhat cliched as the hard-ass detective on Nick's case. Affleck (in a role that used to be played by ... Ben Affleck) hits his marks but overdoes the bland side of Nick. Lola Kirke lights up the screen as a sexy, scheming trailer-park denizen. Missi Pyle sinks her teeth into the giddy Nancy Grace role of the haughty cable news scold. (The media circus, in general, comes off as too much of a caricature.)

By the time Neil Patrick Harris arrives to ham it up as Amy's old friend/stalker, Desi, the narrative starts to strain credulity, and the run time -- two and a half hours -- draws a bit of attention to itself. The subsequent twists aren't quite as scrumptious when splayed on the big screen, but they qualify as solid entertainment, and there's no denying that this has broad appeal. It might even seem compelling to those new to the story.

If not transcendent, it's often a lot of fun.

THE FAULT IN OUR STARS (B) - Shailene Woodley doesn't have to have cancer to make us want to weep just watching her act. She's endlessly appealing, and she's the main reason that this manipulative little weeper doesn't devolve into slushy schmaltz.

This Millennial "Love Story" is fairly predictable but not without its charms. It's not a little thing to watch a young Hollywood actress wear oxygen tubes on her face, throughout an entire film. Woodley is Hazel, a high-schooler suffering from a terminal form of lung cancer. At a support group meeting (hosted with goofy Christian enthusiasm by comedian Mike Birbiglia) she meets Gus, a pretty boy who lost his right leg to cancer but who now is apparently disease-free.

Gus (newcomer Ansel Elgort) is silver-screen perfect, and he and Hazel are beyond cute as a couple. In one of the more fetching touches, she calls him Augustus and he ritualistically calls her Hazel Grace. They develop a quaint secret-couple word: "Okay." And they bond over her favorite book, about a dying girl, a novel that ends in mid-sentence.

They are determined to visit the American author exiled in Amsterdam to ask him to explain the book's ending. They want to make the trip while Hazel is still healthy enough to do so. Eventually they make it to the apartment of Van Houten, a stereotypical drunken and bitter writer, expertly rendered by Willem Dafoe. That meeting goes poorly, but the Amsterdam trip is magical for the smitten teens. A trip to Anne Frank's home is quite moving; we watch as Hazel lugs her oxygen tank up to the attic, and we swoon when Hazel and Gus embrace amid the tourists.

The film is less weepy and more clever than I expected. But the dialogue is just too precious. The supporting characters don't fare so well. Laura Dern has a thankless role as Hazel's nerve-racked mother. Nat Wolff ("Palo Alto") plays the cliched sassy best pal who is dumped by his slutty girlfriend and is losing his sight.

Writers Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber definitely know how to tell a story. They crafted the disappointing but well received "(500) Days of Summer" as well as the winning Woodley vehicle "The Spectacular Now." This script has a natural rhythm, and it dabbles in the profound. The miserable writer conveys to the kids the concept of gradations of the infinite, and the characters echo that idea at the end, searching for infinite existence in the many moments in their numbered days.

It's a lovely thought. And Woodley, a seriously authentic actor, sells this maudlin shtick.

The Power of Music

ALIVE INSIDE (B-minus) - This feel-good documentary is just a little too perfect in its advocacy of music as a way to heal the sick, especially elderly folks with dementia. Michael Rossato-Bennett follows true believer Dan Cohen as the founder of Music & Memory  visits assisted-care facilities and tests out his theory about the healing effects of the tunes from the patients' youth.

Repeatedly we see instances of older folks suddenly coming to life and firing off fresh neurons connecting the music to long-lost memories. It's all a bit too perfect, though. I got the feeling that some of the scenes were either staged or goosed, with the subjects maybe coached a bit before the headphones were slapped on them. We never see an example of Cohen failing to snap a senior out of a stupor.

As heartfelt advocacy, though, "Alive Inside" can be quite entertaining. Scenes with a younger man suffering from multiple sclerosis is quite moving. Others work with Cohen to pick out their favorite oldies, dredging up the Beach Boys or Glenn Miller. If it were a more objective rendering, it would be downright inspiring.

THE BALLAD OF RAMBLIN' JACK (2000) (C+) -  A daughter with marginal filmmaking skills -- and a voice unsuited for narration -- makes a documentary about her quirky folkie father. The results are underwhelming. Jack Elliot was a key link between Woody Guthrie, whom he befriended, and Bob Dylan, who copied them both.

Aiyana Elliott tries desperately to infuse drama and pathos into a narrative of the absentee father, but she never connects the dots. Thus, her attempt to create a Big Drama falls flat. She also tends to gloss over her father's failing, dismissing his apparent drug woes of the 1970s with a casual aside.

We do get great footage, including the Brooklyn Cowboy jamming with Johnny Cash on Cash's late '60s TV show. We get flashes of Elliott's verbal ramblings on stage, but again, we don't get that full picture.

This is an obvious valentine to the old folk legend, but at nearly two hours, the subject matter sags by the end.


1991: THE YEAR PUNK BROKE (D+) - A crappy home movie focused mainly on Thurston Moore as his band Sonic Youth tours Europe in August 1991 with Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr. and a handful of other bands from the Heyday of the Planet of Sound. Moore riffs verbally (and nonsensically, mostly) over crude footage in between performances, mostly by Sonic Youth.

It was a heady time, but you wouldn't know it from this shaky chronicle of hipster slackers, shot by one of Moore's hangers on. The footage of Kurt Cobain and his mates are interesting, but otherwise this all plays like a rather sad snapshot of a forgotten era.

Oddly, many of the performances are chopped up -- to the point where very few of the images are actual live shots, as if the filmmakers were limited by copyright issues.

BONUS TRACK
Henry, 93, is transformed by music (from "Alive Inside"):

Let Me Count the Cliches

ST. VINCENT (C) - Here's a list of what went wrong with this movie:

• A pregnant hooker.
• A pregnant hooker with a heart of gold.
• Naomi Watts as a pregnant Russian hooker with a heart of gold.
• Naomi Watts doing a ridiculous Russian accent.
• Bill Murray doing an accent.
• Chris O'Dowd.
• Chris O'Dowd not doing an accent.
• Chris O'Dowd as a priest.
• Chris O'Dowd as a wisecracking priest, maybe exaggerating his accent.
• A character valiantly recovering from a stroke, seemingly in a matter of days.
• A child actor making his screen debut.
• The aging wife suffering from dementia not recognizing her loving husband.
• The noble nurse.
• The noble single mother who is a nurse.
• Brooklyn, yet again.
• Sheepshead Bay, to be exact.
• Characters at odds brought together by the innocence of a child.

Here's what went right: At the end, in the big sappy scene that this all builds up to, I cried. Those characters and that hack of a filmmaker got to me. And stick around for the end credits, when Bill Murray sings along to a Bob Dylan song; it is a glimpse of the old Murray, rather than the grizzled actor tossed out to sea with an insipid script.