Bio Rhythms

 Two more from HBO's documentary stable:

A CHOICE OF WEAPONS: INSPIRED BY GORDON PARKS (B) - This earnest examination of the career of pioneering photograph and filmmaker Gordon Parks is a victim of its structure. The "Inspired" part refers to the modern visual artists and documentarians who were influenced by the man who became Life magazine's first black photographer and who directed "Shaft," kicking off the '70s blaxploitation movement. Too often, though, this documentary is fawning and over-reverential.

The talking heads here are often solid but over-exposed. Go-to commentators like Spike Lee (rhymes with "hyperbole"), Ava Duvernay, Jelani Cobb -- we see them frequently, and their insights here are intermittent. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar sitting in a tiny chair, knees scrunched, is distracting. 

What's better are the stories of working photographers who truly have been inspired by Parks, who got his start in the 1940s with the Farm Security Administration, following in the immediate footsteps of legends Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans, who famously chronicled rural America during the Depression. Latoya Ruby Frazier, especially, embodies the Parks method of devoting great swaths of time with subjects, absorbing their stories behind the resulting images. The modern photographers' own stories can be captivating, as are the lingering shots of Parks' indelible photographs from the postwar era.

LISTENING TO KENNY G (B) - A problem with a documentary about smooth-jazz saxophonist Kenny G -- even one purporting to explore both sides of the fan ledger -- is that you have to listen to the music of Kenny G. And if you think his songs are tough to listen to, you should hear him race through scales. Ack!

The talented Penny Lane ("Hail Satan?", "Nuts!") walks a fine line here between indulging Mr. Gorelick and siccing a bunch of high-brow music critics on him (one calls the innocuous genre a "weapon of consent"), and she plummets into the less-interesting gulf in between. Kenny G is highly aware of the image-polishing opportunity before him, and at times it is refreshing to hear him essentially cop to the fact that he has no higher purpose other than writing catchy licks and practicing faithfully every day (and playing golf).  But his claim that he, a white man, has never before thought about the racial implications of his career rings hollow when Lane cuts to a clip of him performing in a stadium along with a video of Louis Armstrong. Purists might perish at the sight. He also resurrects Stan Getz to pour syrup on that fellow saxophonist's syrupy bossa novas (while electronically modernizing Getz's recordings).

Despite the limitations of the subject matter -- and the disconnect between Lane's celebration and subversion of Kenny G -- the man himself can garner grudging admiration for his work ethic and his knack for writing hooks that sell millions of records. (His songs also provide the soundtrack for malls and doctors' offices, and his song "Going Home" has become an end-of-the-day anthem throughout China.) He seems like a good guy, even if he comes off as almost as annoying as his mind-numbing music. (Richard Brody of the New Yorker does a really good deep dive into this film here.)