Ladies Sing the Blues

GIRLHOOD (A) - Sometimes a film presents a singular experience that doesn't lend itself to a whole bunch of analysis. After two viewings, I'm still at a loss for words as to why this is such a powerful drama.

Celine Sciamma ("Water Lillies," "Tomboy") further explores the maturing of young women, here a group of black teen girls trapped in the dead-end life in a housing project outside Paris. (The original title "Bande de Filles" translates better as "Girl Gang.") We follow Marieme (Karidje Toure), nicknamed Vic by the gang's leader, Lady (the striking Assa Sylla), as Marieme finds strong companionship, an escape from a home where she must mother her two younger sisters while their mother works as a housekeeper. She's also terrorized by a menacing (or worse?) older brother who has a caveman's view of teen girls dating.

The connection is strong among the four girls, including the sporty Adiatou (Lindsay Karamoh), who knows how to rock a matching yellow 'do rag and high-tops, and heavy-lidded Fily (Marietou Toure). They prowl malls, party in hotel rooms, and get into fights with other gangs. Lady is the alpha female, but she'll face serious challenges that might create an opening for Marieme.

Marieme is a lousy student who flunked out and lost her chance to go to college, and she's adrift, fluctuating between seeking and escaping. She has a crush on cute, geeky Ismael (Idrissa Diabate), a friend of her brother's, but she risks getting tagged as a slut if she fully pursues him. She eventually shuns honest work with her mother and instead dabbles in drug-running, dolled up in a white wig or posing as a boy. Karidje Toure smolders as the pent-up 16-year-old, going to extended lengths to please her pals and defy her brother.

The story might sound familiar, but Sciamma and her regular cinematographer, Crystel Fournier, create a stunning visual palette. Most of the scenes are tinged or bathed in shades of blue. Every frame is carefully designed and is visually arresting. One scene that will be make this a classic is a full rendering of the Rihanna song "Diamonds," lip-synced by the girls in their hotel room, infusing it with love and yearning and grrrl power. They take a rather ordinary hit and make it an anthem.

This tale of society's outcasts coming of age in a barren suburban landscape gives voice and swagger to emerging women. The fact that it's a visual masterpiece elevates it to true art. Words just don't do it justice.

BONUS TRACK
A magical scene:


 

She Got Next

TRAINWRECK (B) - It's difficult to separate the phenomenon of Amy Schumer -- layered with the news of Uncle Judd Apatow's adoption of another young female comic -- from her debut film as a writer and star. It's probably just a coincidence that "Trainwreck" debuted the same weekend as the latest flaccid widget from the Woody Allen factory. And here I am, caught in the middle, a middle-aged man trying to make sense of a potty-mouthed comedy that is revealed to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill rom-com.

At times this is sharply funny. When a date goes down on her, Amy shamelessly directs him to "the top" -- "everything's at the top." But then she ruins the moment by falling asleep after her orgasm -- like a guy, get it? But wait ... she's faking it! (The sleeping, not the orgasm, apparently.) The whole movie is essentially one long sketch with the theme "What if women acted like men and men acted like women?!"

Because, you see, the guys are all sensitive and stuff, and they like to talk out their relationships and their feelings, even with each other. It's surprising that the film works at all, and Schumer has a strong cast of actors and comedians (and pro athletes) who enliven her script while also exposing her as somewhat of the weak stick in the lineup.

I haven't watched but a few clips of Schumer's sketch show, but this felt like an excruciatingly long skit. We all know by now that Apatow is an overly indulged faux-teur, and this, predictably, limps in at more than two hours. It's one of those films where you check the time and you say (hopefully not out loud), "Wait, there's still a half hour left? How can that be?" Of course, that comes amid a string of tropes -- the meet-cute, the whirlwind montage, the breakup, the sad Big Event, the pining, the Sunday morning conversion (she's a drunken slut, by the way -- you know, like a guy), and, of course, right before the climax ....

Oh, I can't tell you the ending. You have to guess. Actually, you won't really have to guess. You'll know.

So what makes this edgy? What makes it contemporary? (Besides the casual vulgarity.) After many recent false alarms, here is a movie that's actually a lot like Allen's "Annie Hall." Except less clever, and more predictable. Who would have thought that after four decades, the great subverted silly love story would still reign.

Oh, lord. I sound like an anachronistic grump. Am I really thinking that this saucy young lady is no '70s Woody Allen? That these cuspy X/Millennials don't know from funny?

There's something about Schumer that makes me think of a deal with the devil. She's funny enough, but she's no Sarah Silverman or Chris Rock. She's no pioneer; Elayne Boosler, Joan Rivers and the "Ab Fab" gals were slinging the raunch decades ago. And they wore dresses that fit them. This essay at Salon is interesting, not so much in the way it explores what it calls Schumer's "casual racism" but rather in the way it picks apart the script's rickety structure. And this essay at the Atlantic makes the case that it's revolutionary to show a lead female character who's both likeable and loathsome at the same time. Neither author got me any closer to solving the riddle of why this comedian at this moment gets the marquee slot at the summer box office. And why she gets swallowed up in her own creation.

The cast is best served in small doses; again, the running time does Apatow and Schumer no favors. The talented Vanessa Bayer ("Saturday Night Live") has never been so inexplicably unfunny, and if you pay attention to my helpful parentheticals, you know that she's had plenty of opportunities to be unfunny. We're supposed to laugh at her outfits, but the character is an empty suit. Bill Hader is a can't-miss comedian, but here he collapses under the weight of the great-guy goodness that is love-interest Aaron (a sports surgeon with a charitable heart). I kept thinking, "I loved every minute of him in 'Skeleton Twins' and didn't want it to end, but now I can't wait for the credits to roll." Brie Larson's vast talent is wasted in a trite role of Amy's sister making a go with a husband (Mike Birbiglia, also drained of humor) and stepson (who, of course, acts like a prissy little girl).

Better off are the bit players, some of whom inject an obvious improvisational jolt to the script. Colin Quinn is scattershot hilarious as Amy's bitter, racist, former philandering dad now suffering from multiple sclerosis. His opening scene -- a flashback where he schools his girls in the evils of monogamy -- is very funny ... until Apatow runs it into the ground (an omen). Dave Attel slings zingers as the erudite homeless guy (only in the movies) who hangs out outside Amy's apartment, philosophizing Greek-chorus style. Tilda Swinton, mascara'd to within an inch of the swingin' '60s, bats Schumer around comedically like a cat toying with a wounded bird; she does the newbie no favors.  Lebron James, playing himself (the doc's patient and pal), is surprisingly effective as an actor; he's warm and funny and, yes, more dimensional than the writer/star. Finally, John Cena struggles as Amy's earlier boyfriend, a thick-headed muscle boy. He is forced to toss out homo-erotic one-liners (is he a closet case or just stupid?), and it's hard to tell whether the writing fails or he does.

Other scenes are just unnecessary and should have been the first ones cut. Daniel Radcliffe and Marisa Tomei (huh?) star in a black-and-white film-within-a-film that goes nowhere. Perhaps the biggest belly flop involves a sports/celebrity roundtable -- Chris Evert, Matthew Broderick and Marv Albert, randomly -- critiquing Aaron.

In other words, the movie -- like the lead character -- is a hot mess. (At least until, literally overnight, she changes her ways!) It's the result of a new screenwriter/star falling prey to an overbearing mentor who is turning into a hack of a director.

What is it about Amy Schumer? Maybe next time we'll get a chance to find out.
 

Men Behaving Badly

Two guys weighed down by the old ball and chain:

EVERYTHING STRANGE AND NEW (2009) (B-minus) - Wayne (Jerry McDaniel) traipses through his days in a daze and a haze. He's married, with two boys, 4 and 5. He kvetches about money. He takes the bus each day to his boring construction job. He has beers with the boys, where they bitch about their zipless marriages and crazy wives. They barely have the energy to fantasize about straying.

This is the second feature from Frazer Bradshaw, who makes his living as a cinematographer. Shooting in Oakland, Bradshaw lingers achingly over the mundane details of domestic life: cooking a meal, reading to the kids, waiting for the bus, getting kids to eat dinner, lying silently in bed next to your spouse. Bradshaws camera stares at house fronts and across rooftops. He records routine traffic, then plays it backward. The camera tracks with Wayne walking down the street, sweeps around in a lazy 360, and there's Wayne, walking past the same restaurant, as if he's stuck in a loop (an obvious metaphor).

Wayne narrates in a monotone that is barely more than a mumble. Often the dialogue comes from off-screen while the camera goes off on a lark. One key piece of dialogue takes place during a super-slow zoom into the leaves of a tree. Wayne dresses as a clown to entertain his kids' party, and we see him in that costume during random scenes -- alone in bed (did his wife leave him?) or at the convenience store, where he gets change for the bus. A recurring musical interlude sounds like an Irish symphony warming up.

Time passes. We hit the one-third mark, then the halfway point, and nothing of significance happens. But at the two-thirds mark, he has an awkward exchange with his buddy Leo (Rigo Chacon Jr.) who has turned to porn (on videotape) as he goes through a divorce with his unstable wife. Wayne's boss Manny (Luis Saguar) escapes with chemicals. A tragedy hits at the climax. A final scene is of a man coming home from work, steeling himself to yet again interact with the daily cacophony that is the wife and kids. Numbing and brutal.

GILLES' WIFE (2005) (B-minus) - This glacial drama has one thing going for it: the face of Emanuelle Devos.

Here she plays a super-dutiful wife, Elisa. In the hardscrabble world of the early 20th century, she cooks and cleans and gardens and tends to the children, giving birth to a third during the film -- all while Gilles (Clovis Cornillac) has an affair with her sister.

During the first hour, Elisa notices all the little sign of a fiery romance between her louse of a spouse and the prettier Victorine (Laura Smet). She is impossibly stoic, as if she is merely piecing out a puzzle, trying to understand the situation. We watch Gilles and Victorine dance suggestively down at the local pub; and we see Gilles seethe with jealousy as Victorine takes a spin with another suitor. Elisa represents the fine line between saint and sucker. Too often she comes off as simply a dimwit, a mopey Edith to a philandering Archie.

At the midway point, the husband and wife finally verbalize the realities of their menage a trois. The second half is devoted to Gilles' determination to end the affair and his mental breakdown in trying to forget about Victorine. It doesn't go well. All the while,

The main problem here is that journeyman director Frederic Fonteyne emphasizes mood way more than narrative. This is a plod, though a gorgeous one. He works well in confined spaces, sometimes devoting a fraction of the screen to a glimpse through a window. His final sequence of the film -- employing a gymnastic flip of the camera -- is breathtaking and heartbreaking. "Gilles' Wife" is worth seeing for Devos' performance and for that profoundly disturbing way in which Elisa finally solves her problem.

BONUS TRACK
The trailer for "Everything Strange and New":


 

Hella Lugosi

WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (B+) - Talk about deadpan.

One generation's mockumentary is perfected around rock stars ("This Is Spinal Tap," 1984), and this one's is, naturally, drawn to the vampires/zombies crowd. "Shadows," with a New Zealand accent, finds a film crew tracking the run-of-the-mill domestic existence of four roommates who are centuries-old vampires.

The cast is led by Jemaine Clement, one of the main rascals from HBO's "Flight of the Conchords." He's Vlad (as in the Impaler), the hunky, brooding type, known for his past sexual proclivities and his rivalry with "the Beast."  He lives with Viago (Taiki Waititi, who wrote and directed with Clement), who yearns for the true love that got away, due to a mixup in the delivery of his coffin 80 years ago. Deacon (Jonny Brugh) is a rude grump, who is stringing along his human servant, refusing to sink a fang and grant her immortality. He also doesn't bother trying to hide his lust for virgin blood. (They all desire virgins. As Vlad offers this analogy: "If you're going to eat a sandwich, you would enjoy it more if you knew that no one had fucked it.") In the basement is the truly ancient Petyr (Ben Fransham), a dessicated mute who barely strays from his sarcophagus.

The gang bickers endlessly -- over the mounting blood-stained goblets in the sink, or the initiating of a new buddy into the coven. They occasionally bump into an equally squabbling pack of werewolves (led by Conchord co-star Rhys Darby as Anton, the alpha male). The bro putdowns between the rival gangs are perfectly lame.

Gags are found in the mundanities of eternal existence (not unlike Jim Jarmusch's more ruminating "Only Lovers Left Alive") and trying to keep a decent house when the guests often end up gushing blood. A hipster pal, newly bitten and initiated, demonstrates how to scratch records on the Victrola and turns them on to the Internet. As they marvel over the wonders of Googling around the web, Viago has a search request: "I lost a really nice silk scarf in about 1912 ... " When Vlad is ensconced in his "dark bidding," it turns out he's just hoping to score a table on eBay. The best joke is a long-delayed one, when in the second half we learn the true identity of the Beast.

It's all a bit plodding. There are few laugh-out-loud moments. The second half definitely delivers more payoffs. The mockumentary genre really has been ossified by those smirking TV shows, where the characters wink at the camera. They are descendents of the British original of "The Office," and none has managed to match it. "Shadows" struggles to find ways to inject new energy into the format. Maybe a shot of Geritol would cure the case of iron-poor blood.
 

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 weighs in on the latest super-hero slog, "Ant-Man."

Another week, another Marvel movie. Ant-Man is among the lesser known characters in the superhero parade, so deviations from the comic-book canon are no big deal. Paul Rudd, the guy who got the girl in "Clueless," plays the entirely implausible title character. Michael Douglas follows Robert Redford into the genre.

This is much quieter than the usual bombfest. Funny at times, but not "Guardians of the Galaxy" funny.

Guest Grade: B

  

Dumbest

Scraping the bottom of the barrel of entertainment:

TROPIC THUNDER (2008) (B-minus) - I had higher hopes for this, but maybe it just hasn't aged as well as some would have liked. Maybe it was ahead of its time, and now it's not.

Ben Stiller co-wrote, directed and stars in this story of four arrogant Hollywood actors shooting a Vietnam movie who end up getting dropped into the middle of nowhere and forced to actually fight their way out of trouble.

Robert Downey Jr. is beyond inspired as the Australian Oscar-winning Method adherent who undergoes pigmentation surgery to portray a stereotypical '70s-era black Army sergeant, refusing at all times to break character. Stiller plays his typical pompous gasbag, and Jack Black is the unabashed star of a series of fart films whose character in the fictional movie is a loudmouthed Southern flat-top. As always, a little of Jack Black goes a long way. Jay Baruchel and Brandon T. Jackson (the guy who's in those "Percy Jackson" films that commonly clog up several HBO channels) don't add much to the raunch. Even our guy Danny McBride struggles for laughs as an out-of-control special-effects expert. Steve Coogan, as the fictional film's director, isn't around long enough to make an impression.

This has its inspired moments, all of which make you yearn for the old Fox TV "Ben Stiller Show," because they work as small skits or great gags, but they don't cohere enough to sustain a 107-minute film. In fact, the opening montage -- faux theatrical trailers for each of the actor's movies or commercial projects (Jackson's character, Alpa Chino (ugh), pitches a drink called Booty Sweat and a power bar called "Bust-a-Nut" (yuk-yuk)) -- is more compact and clever than the actual movie. Stiller's character is still living down his embarrassing bid for Oscar glory, "Simple Jack," in which he plays a mentally handicapped boy that makes "I Am Sam" look like "My Left Foot." But again, that plays like a stale leftover from the "Stiller Show." (And is it weird or clever that Stiller hides behind his characters to mock a "retard" or have an actor appear in black face?)

While this one's often a lot of fun, you can't really consider this a cogent movie (within a movie).

DUMB & DUMBER TO (D+) - We're not embarrassed at all to announce to the world that the original "Dumb and Dumber" makes us laugh just about as much as any other movie out there. The fact that Jeff Daniels' career survived that bathroom scene (easier than it did "The Newsroom") is one of the meta-marvels of Hollywood lore.

But, damn, this parade of groaners from six (!) writers and two mugging middle-aged actors (looking like the Stooges at the end of their careers) is painful to watch. Doody and dick humor abound, with none of the inspired idiocy of the Farrelly Brothers' original. Farting with the car windows up? Oh, hilarious.

"Dumb and Dumber," in 1994 (!), was a ridiculous debut from the writer/directors. They followed it up with their best film, "There's Something About Mary." It's been hit-and-miss on a downhill slide ever since. ("Stuck On You," from 2003, was their last watchable and enjoyable film.) Here, we had low expectations, and still it fell short.

A few jokes land from the two idiots. The plot revolves around Harry (Daniels) searching for the daughter he never knew; meanwhile, Lloyd (Jim Carrey) starts crushing on the young lady (a seriously unfunny Rachel Melvin). The Farrellys find it hilarious to have blacks and Asians speak with a Canadian accent or to have a sassy nursing home resident trick one of the boys into pleasuring her under the covers.

We'll never know whether I would find the original so damn gut-busting if it came along in 2015, at my advanced age. But it was funny then. And the sequel is not funny now.
 

One-Liners: What's the Rush?

A pair of leisurely dramas from two debut writer/directors:

SLOW WEST (B+) - This is a gorgeous movie, best viewed on a big screen, a quiet indie throwback to classic westerns.

John Maclean, perhaps best known as the leader of the Beta Band around the turn of the millennium, has graduated from videos and short films to a full-length feature. Set in the American West in 1870, it was shot in New Zealand, and the landscape is breathtaking but never showy. The screen is frequently bathed in baby blues, or the amber of the glow of candles or a campfire. The framing of shots is exquisite and the images wonderfully sharp.

Oh, and there's a story, too. Teenager Jay Cavendish (Kodi Smit-McPhee from "A Birder's Guide to Everything") has traveled from Scotland to track down his childhood crush, Rose (Caren Pistorius), who fled the homeland for America with her father after some trouble with the law. They star on Wanted posters in the new frontier, and they've gone into hiding. The timid, effeminate Jay -- completely out of his element -- is determined to track them down.

He is saved from danger by a rugged stranger, Silas (Michael Fassbender, who also produced), who agrees to be the kid's bodyguard for $100, half upfront. But Silas, no surprise, is hoping that Jay will lead him to a large bounty for capturing the father and daughter. The odd-couple pairing provides some quietly comic moments. (In order to help lighten the boy's load, Silas tosses away his ceramic teapot.)

Maclean has done his homework, because "Slow West" is a confident homage to the filmmakers who have blazed that Oregon trail. A pivotal scene at a hitching post -- in which Jay and Silas get caught unarmed while a desperate foreign couple try to rob the joint -- is perfectly paced, ending with a compelling visual punchline, one of several optical sleights of hand that Maclean handles flawlessly. (He imbues the narrative with a dark Darwinian humor.)

Maclean employs acoustic guitar music to great effect -- the same riffs repeating on a loop throughout the movie, sounding a lot like the effect in "In the Mood for Love." (Jed Kurzel is credited with the soundtrack.)

What starts as a slow drift builds in tension, especially when Ben Mendelsohn ("Starred Up") shows up as one of Silas' menacing former bounty buddies, Payne, who engages his own gang in the hunt. The climactic shoot-out lasts nearly 15 minutes and floats like a ballet. Maclean's eye is unerring, whether he's looking up at the stars or zooming in on raindrops plopping on the barrel of a gun that's been left on the ground. By the end, it's all rather astonishing.

SOMETHING, ANYTHING (B-minus) - This one crawls at a snail's pace. A woman suffers a miscarriage and doesn't get enough sympathy from her husband (Act 1), so she leaves him and embarks on a spiritual quest, shedding possessions (Act 2), before then hunting down a former high school classmate who has joined a monastery (Act 3).

The laconic narrative is further weighted down by a morose lead, Ashley Shelton as Margaret (Peggy), who walks a fine line between seeking and moping. Sure, she's portraying a depressed and haunted woman, but Shelton shows no ability for subtlety or nuance. She is so mechanical that you want to look for her energy switch and flip it to the next speed.

Filmmaker Paul Hamill's hand here is not invisible. You feel the weightiness of his writing and directing, his maleness intruding on this woman's thoughts and journey. His two male leads -- Bryce Johnson as hubby Mark and Linds Edwards as the monk Tim -- don't offer much pizzazz, either.

But Hamill will fool you a few times with his plot choices, and he's got a decent ending up his sleeve. He captures the ordinariness of life well. He just needs to sharpen his game a bit and recruit a livelier cast to his next project.

BONUS TRACK
The song from a random scene from "Slow West," in which Jay and Silas stumble on three Congolese musicians playing the song "Mbanza Congo" (by Passi Joe):



And the main theme by "Django Django":


  
  

Stumblebum

MANGLEHORN (B) -  David Gordon Green gets high to make a film, and Al Pacino goes along with it.

Pacino plays a spacy septuagenarian locksmith in New York, mumbling, fumbling and stumbling around as A.J. Manglehorn, an oddball who hasn't quite lost all of his charm. He must have been quite charming (and certainly more hopeful) when he lost Clara, the apparent love of his life, who is memorialized by a roomful of postal offerings marked "Return to Sender" and spanning decades.

Green, who last charmed us with "Prince Avalanche" (and an offbeat lead character played by the smooth Paul Rudd), adores the creation of new writer Paul Logan (who was a driver on the previous film) and indulges both character and actor. Pacino rises -- or descends -- to the challenge. (He's been on a roll with grumpy and grizzled geezers of late, in "Danny Collins" and "The Humbling.") He evokes pathos but is never mawkish or hammy. He finds subtle tics to make the role genuine; for instance, he flicks his eyebrows up in order to make his reading glasses flop down from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He casually inhabits the character to such an extent that it's almost possible to forget that it's Pacino up there on the screen.)

Besides pining for the elusive Clara, Manglehorn dotes on his cat, Fanny, who has been sickened because she swallowed an object (it's not difficult to guess what that object is). With Fanny at the vet for a week recovering from surgery, Manglehorn is particularly discombobulated. His weekly visits with his favorite teller at the bank, Dawn (Holly Hunter), result in a date, which our hero badly mangles, complete with a klutzy move at her apartment.

Manglehorn also must deal with his son, a childhood dweeb who grew up to become a big-shot commodities trader. The two scenes between father and son (Chris Messina) suffer from some shorthand storytelling (Green's only serious misstep), but Pacino shines during the dinner scene at the snooty restaurant (Manglehorn prefers pancake jamborees, with extra bacon). But the shift in the dynamics of their relationship at the end feels forced.

The son, Jacob, must compete for his father's attention with the skeevy childhood classmate, Gary (Harmony Korine), who now runs a "tanning" parlor in Manglehorn's neighborhood, and tries to corrupt the old man with various entreaties to party. It is in these scenes that Manglehorn's apparently increasing disorientation is most apparent. Green is at his trippiest while playing with focus and scattering sounds to display this confusion and frustration.

Will Fanny recover? Will Clara surface? How will Manglehorn reconcile his relationships with Dawn, Jacob and Gary? Is he losing his marbles? Or is he just incorrigible? Green's talents take a thin concept and manages at times to make it all seem profound.
 

New to the Queue

No blockbusters, tent poles or comic-book heroes ...

Sean Baker's follow-up to "Starlet," the tale of transsexual hookers in Hollywood, "Tangerine."

A behind-the-headlines look at the flaws in the Innocence Project, in which the group helped free a man thought to be innocent but who probably was guilty, while another man ends up in prison -- the documentary "A Murder in the Park."

40+ years on, it's Les Blank's documentary about musician Leon Russell, "A Poem Is a Naked Person."

Debra Granik met biker-dude veteran Ron Hall while shooting "Winter's Bone," and subsequently shot a documentary about him, "Stray Dog."

A documentary about the way in which homosexual men present themselves to others, "Do I Sound Gay?"
 

Now & Then: Millennialism

For our occasional series, here is the latest from Lawrence Michael Levine, paired with his previous effort, his 2010 debut behind the camera. Both star Sophia Takal (the new Greta Gerwig). (A previous Now & Then entry is here.)

WILD CANARIES (B) - Writer/director Levine and his muse, Takal, play Noah and Barri, an engaged couple living in hipster Brooklyn and squabbling a lot over money -- he runs a failing company and she has pie-in-the-sky real estate ambitions with her crushy pal Jean (Alia Shawkat, from TV's "Arrested Development"). It's a wacky millennial take on the caper movie.

After the elderly neighbor in the only remaining rent-controlled unit in their building keels over from an apparent heart attack, Barri suspects foul play by the dead woman's visiting son (Kevin Corrigan alert!), thinking he may have knocked her off for financial purposes. But then Barri -- now clad in a trench coat, wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses and prone to breaking into their neighbors' apartments -- widens her list of suspects to include asshole landlord Damien (Jason Ritter), who's also having money troubles and whose marriage is falling apart. Is Barri being silly or is she truly on to something criminal?

The plot and execution are serviceable enough, and Levine actually makes it all fairly believable . However, the thrill of this film -- like in "Gabi," below -- is the realism embedded in his characters and their dialogue. He's about 10 years older than Takal, and Noah can be a really controlling prick. Barri, meanwhile, is a bit scattered, and refuses to buckle under the oppressiveness of the of the older man. Their fights feel organic and unsettling.

Levine also is quietly confident in juggling the relationships between the characters. Both Noah's old girlfriend, Eleanor (Annie Parisse), and Barri's friend Jean are lesbians, and their entanglements in the main couple's lives play out in subtle ways that are neither predictable nor trite. These shallow yuppies on a lark have heart and soul.

The snappy interactions are leavened by a decent amount of slapstick. Levine is quite adept at physical humor. He spends most of the movie wearing a neck brace (and sporting a black eye). Takal is a wonder. Quick with semi-improvised dialogue and with a trick-bag of facial expressions that communicate warmth and intelligence.

It all culminates in -- another corny nod to the Hitchcock generation -- an abandoned warehouse.  It's a bit of a a rushed and overly tidy ending, but hey, the kids are having fun.

GABI ON THE ROOF IN JULY (2010) (B+) -  Takal -- a young woman of many masks, recalling Isabelle Huppert -- gives a fascinating performance as an emotionally stunted 20-year-old spending her summer away from Oberlin with her brother and his friends in Brooklyn.

Levine plays Sam, Gabi's frustrated brother, who is struggling in his relationship with Madeline (an intense Brooke Bloom) and is tempted by his ex, Chelsea (a powerful Amy Seimetz from "Upstream Color"). Gabi acts out precociously in typical art-brat fashion, often involving Takal stripping full-frontal (Gabi declares one day at the apartment Naked Day and insists that everyone, her brother included, join in).

Levine eventually settles on a compelling story -- Sam's tortured romantic dilemma -- while turning Gabi's little journey into a subplot that adds an important layer. This easily could have been Mumblecore masturbation with Levine just parading around his deep bench of cute actress pals. Kate Lyn Sheil looks genuinely stoned as Gabi's BFF Dory. Tarajia Morrell makes an impression in a cameo as a gallery manager, Astrid, vainly trying to interview a childish Gabi, who spends the whole time just parroting everything Astrid says and does. Louis Cancelmi steals scenes with his electric personality as macho Garrett, another stoner who looks like he was born to seduce women with his mischievous snark and five-o'clock shadow.

Lena Dunham shows up early on as Garrett's nagging girlfriend, and I couldn't help thinking that Dunham was taking a lot of notes on set, because Gabi could easily be a prototype for Shoshana and Jessa on "Girls" two years later. Gabi's valley-girl affect and art-world obnoxiousness share a sensibility with the world of "Girls" and Dunham's "Tiny Furniture," which was released in 2012.

In the end, we appreciate the roots of Gabi's stunted development and acting out. Levine has found talented actors to fill in the gaps in his thin script, and he confidently harnesses this ensemble into a coherent story that manages to plumb emotion from a bunch of directionless young adults.
  

Slackers

ZERO MOTIVATION (A) - One of the organically funniest movies in recent years, this millennial military farce follows a group of female administrative aides in the Israeli army as they find creative ways to avoid work.

The assured debut feature by 37-year-old Talya Lavie has both snap and heart, with a lively cast of relatively rookie actress sculpting memorable characters. It plays like a cross between "MASH" and "The Office."

Zohar (a Groucho-browed Dana Igvy) is best pals with Daffi (Nelly Tagar, with an Ellie Kemper bubbliness), until the grumpy Zohar finds out that Daffi is working angles to get transferred to Tel Aviv (where glorious malls beckon). That tension drives the film's narrative, making this a touching buddy film, to boot.

Zohar is in perpetual recline in her office chair as she hones her Minesweeper skills to office-record levels. She is mocked by the others -- especially by the salty Russian, Irena (Tamara Klingon) -- because she is a dorky virgin. Zohar's desperate attempt to lose her virginity sets up a scene with an assaultive soldier that perfectly encapsulates the movie's mix of humor, sweetness and psychodrama.

Early on, tragedy befalls a newcomer to the group (also involving one of the interchangeable soldiers), and Lavie occasionally reminds us that a war is going on and that the squabbles in the hapless administrative office are petty compared to those who are giving their lives for their country. The running joke is that Admin really doesn't do anything, with Lavie bending the absurdity like Beckett.Another gag involves the coveted office staple gun -- a nod both to "Office Space" and Chekhov.

Igvy is a comic natural as a slothful brooder, carrying the movie like Bill Murray in "Stripes." Daffi (the Harold Ramis foil) can drag out her main task -- shredding documents -- to last a whole shift. Tagar's comic timing is precise in scenes where she teaches another to shred or lamely tries to take blame for the boss. That boss, Rama (Shani Klein), is a hybrid of Margaret Dumont and Hot Lips Houlihan. She's the Col. Hall to Zohar's Bilko. Like "MASH," "Zero Motivation" mines a war-time support staff for deadpan laughs.

Lavie doesn't forget that these conniving characters have feelings and desires, and that this is a classic buddy film. She also has a confident touch behind the camera. She effortlessly drops in subtle Wes Anderson flourishes and perfectly timed sight gags, while her keen eye captures both the dignity and absurdity of mandatory military duty.

As soon as the credits roll, you'll want to go back to the beginning and enjoy it again. Technically a late December 2014 release in New York, this is one of the best films of the year.
  

Other People's Property

Two engaging comic dramas that have nothing to do with each other ...

DOOMSDAYS (B) - This debut feature strikes a confident balance between mopey and deadpan. Smart-alecky Dirty Fred (Justin Rice, "Mutual Appreciation") and morose pal Bruho (Leo Fitzpatrick) squat in empty vacation homes in upstate New York in late winter and early spring.

They pick up a dumpy kid named Jaidon (Brian Charles Johnson) along the way, and they school the little goofball in the art of usurping other people's houses -- how not to get caught, what to do if you get caught. Besides raiding the fridge, Bruho has a habit of taking a tire-iron to vehicles, his way of protesting the world's dependence on oil. His perpetually foul mood, though, signals a darker secret, which is artfully revealed near the end of the film.

Along comes a gal, Reyna (TV actress Laura Campbell), who falls for the glib and alcoholic/charming Fred. Once this foursome takes root, the film spends the second half of the film unpacking the nuances of their various relationships.

Nothing big happens. Nothing epically tragic is in store for them. The characters meander until they don't anymore.

The actors are all solid. Rice (from the band Bishop Allen) is slick as the Jason Schwartzman/Bill Murray ring leader. Fitzpatrick fumes at just the right temperature. Campbell handles the quirks of each of the boys. And newcomer Eddie Mullins knits it all together into a wonderfully quirky story.

A MASTER BUILDER (B) - Jonathan Demme does Ibsen, in a modern adaptation buoyed by a delightful cast.

Wallace Shawn glows as Halvord Solness, a renowned but loathsome architect who is introduced to us on his deathbed before being revitalized by a visit from 22-year-old Hilde (Lisa Joyce), a red-haired temptress. When we meet Halvord, he's on his apparent death bed, zoning in and out of consciousness as he handles visits from Knut and Ragnar Brovik, the father and son he has long worked with; Ragnar's fiancee Kaia, whom Halvord covets; Halvord's wife, Aline (Julie Hagerty), who has been brutalized by Halvord's philandering and a tragedy that involved their children; and by his doctor, who engages him in some philosophical parrying.

When Hilde shows up about a half hour in, Halvord snaps out of his tailspin in what Demme subtly shows to be a mere reverie. Hilde reminds Halvord that they met 10 years earlier, when she was a child and he made a pass at her.The interplay between Shawn and Joyce is sheer delight. Their scenes are boldly intimate, with the old man often just inches from her voluptuous lips. They and others have a way of cackling maniacally, pushing this into the realm of uneasy farce.

Not everything quite adds up here. Halvord is often reminded of his fear of heights, though Hilde champions him as a powerful figure who is still vigorous enough to hang the wreath at the top of the towers he builds (the traditional cherry on top). It's apparent throughout that much of this is really the final fevered fantasies of a dying man who fears the loss of power and the onrush of a younger generation.

Demme presents four half-hour acts, and his production occasionally sags on its way to an underwhelming, old-fashioned ending. You can see how Arthur Miller may have borrowed some ideas here and elevated them into a masterpiece.

Despite the film's flaws, Joyce is fun to watch, and Hagerty is haunting as the shell-shocked lady of the house. Shawn is brilliant in the lead role, and he makes the most of his scene with old pal Andre Gregory ("My Dinner With Andre") as the elder Brovik -- a reunion that in itself is almost worth the price of admission.
 

Doc Watch: R.I.P., Nicky Winton

NICKY'S FAMILY (C-minus) -- In memory of Nicholas Winton, who died this week at 106, we finally got around to streaming the documentary celebrating his efforts in 1939 of shepherding more than 600 Jewish Czech children to safety, rescuing them from almost certain death after Hitler's invasion in a series of train journeys.

Unfortunately, this documentary -- if you can call it that, laden as it is with endless re-enactments -- is a mess. At more than 100 minutes, it is about twice as long as it needs to be. It starts with a 15-minute primer on the origins of World War II, which plays like it was written for schoolchildren. With this all you need is "Hitler, Jews -- Go." The final 15 minutes is also redundant, as we're shown example after example of the current generation paying the good deeds forward.

But it's the re-enactments that sink this as they dominate the middle hour of the film. They are clunky and corny, clashing with the archival footage as the filmmakers aim to portray Winton as the ultimate selfless saint. It's telling that a clip from a 1988 British TV show -- in which Winton's secret was revealed and he was reunited with many of the rescued kids now grown to middle age -- evokes the movie's only real emotional reaction. The documentary's gimmicks, by contrast, distract from the historical significance of Winton's heroic actions.

This is a noble effort -- it is hosted by one of the Prague survivors -- but it plays like cheesy TV trash.

INDUSTRIAL SOUNDTRACK FOR THE URBAN DECAY (C-minus) - This rather odd documentary about the roots of industrial music emanating from England in the late 1970s and early '80s barely scratches the surface of the subject matter.

It's only 52 minutes long and -- nearly fatally -- it features no live music on the soundtrack. It consists almost entirely of studio recordings -- in the background of talking head interviews and playing over crude footage of live performances.

We check in with the middle-age versions of the blokes and ladies behind such bands as Throbbing Gristle, Cabaret Voltaire, NON, SPK and Re/Search, including Genesis P. Orridge, Boyd Rice, Stephen Mallinder and Graeme Revell (now renowned for scoring films). They tell wonderful stories of growing up dirt poor in industrial towns like Sheffield and absorbing the sounds from factories and other clanking venues, incorporating it into their post-punk sound. One interviewee describes his tools of the trade as the debris of society.

It's a shame that the filmmakers (newcomers Travis Collins and Amelie Ravalec) neuter the music by compartmentalizing it into random ambient sounds. They also are hindered by serious audio dropouts in some of their interviews, which makes those working-class accents difficult to make out from under the muffled drone of their songs.

This is a basic primer on the fascinating subterranean industrial scene, which awaits a fuller, more polished documentary.