Bangers

 

TURA! (B-minus) - This fawning documentary with selective memory celebrates the life and career of Tura Satana, the amazonian star of sexploitation B movies in the 1960s and '70s (see Exhibit A, below). In keeping with modern times, it accepts apocryphal stories and treats them as gospel.

 

 

Satana was a living comic-book character, complete with a vengeful origin story -- she was gang-raped as a girl, and she claims to have years later exacted violent revenge on each of the perpetrators. I suppose we have to take her at her word, which filmmaker Cody Jarrett does. Satana also claimed not only that Elvis Presley proposed to her but that he insisted she keep the engagement ring, which she flashes in old video clips. 

A Greek chorus led by filmmaker John Waters amplifies these mythical stories, and perhaps a credulous biography is just what the larger-than-life Satana deserves. She created a Japanese-stripper image as a teenager in the 1950s (the film's coda offers an interesting twist regarding her mixed heritage), and she drew attention in a bit role as a streetwalker in Billy Wilder's "Irma La Duce" with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon. Russ Meyers built "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" around her -- Satana added a karate element to the picture -- and her cult status was cemented forevermore. 

With Kabuki eyebrows, severe bangs, massive breasts and a svelte waist, the towering Satana cut an intimidating figure. Her acting was fairly wooden, and her stardom was fleeting before she eventually fell back to the nostalgia circuit, eventually succumbing to gravity and the middle-age spread. She left a mark as a poor man's Bettie Page or Marilyn Monroe. 

Jarrett has fun with his subject, though many viewers will grow tired of seeing the same photos and film clips over and over again. (He could have easily cut 15 minutes from the 105-minute running time.) Margaret Cho is on hand to narrate, and talking heads include some of Satana's former burlesque mates and next-gen admirers like Pamela Des Barres and Dita Von Teese, who lights up the screen. We also hear from Satana's two daughters and from director Ted Mikels, who directed Satana in 1968's "The Astro-Zombies." 

It all zips by at breakneck speed, those images on an annoying loop, and one does come away with a rather broad picture of a curious character in film history. If you don't think about it all too much, you can get swept up in it and help cement the myth. 

FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! (1967) (C+) - Tura Satana made her name with this psycho Russ Meyer romp about three burlesque dancers who go on a spree of racing cars and killing men, hoping to separate one of them from a horde of cash.  

 

Satana stars as Varla, the alpha female of the crew, which also includes the exotic Rosie (Haji, above center) and blond bombshell Billie (Lori Williams). We meet these beauties in an opening montage of them dancing on stage while creeps leer, drool and yell "Go, baby, Go!" But quickly they are each styling in their own vintage sports car (Varla's is a 1964 Porsche 356, while the others are '50s models -- an MG and a Triumph.) When a loudmouth and his bikini-clad girlfriend, Linda (Sue Bernard), challenge the gals to a race, it ends not only badly for him but also tragically. 

Varla's squad shrugs it off and, during a pit stop, spot a man in a wheelchair and his dim-witted son, told that the old man has just come into some money. The women (with kidnapped Linda in tow) follow the men to their shack in the Mojave Desert and variously seduce and bitch-slap them and another son. With noir-detective dialogue and jolting violence, Meyer adds cheap camera tricks (on a micro-budget) to mash this all into a juicy pulp. He leers at the women's cleavage, and he likes it even more when they walk away from the camera. Despite all the provocations, there is no nudity beyond a bare back or two. 

What sells this is the gonzo dialogue, courtesy of Jackie Moran, who was mostly an actor but penned a few movies, including one called "Wild Gals of the Naked West." Satana likes to shout her lines, showing little modulation. When a gas-station attendant cleans her windshield, he tells Varla that he admires their road-warrior spirit and, while gawping at her cavernous cleavage, says he believes in "seeing America first," and she snaps back: "You won't find it down there, Columbus." At another point she lectures a rival about her personal philosophy: "I never try anything. I just do it." When seducing one of the old man's sons, she reduces him to a burbling mess, as he sputters, "You're a beautiful animal, and I'm weak, and I want you." And the comedy has a zip to it. The old man (a sharp Stuart Lancaster) is full of one liners, including when he asks his visitors, "You girls a bunch of nudists or are you just short of clothes?"

The intoxicating mix of violence and whimsy surely must have struck a young Quentin Tarantino at a vulnerable age. "Faster, Pussycat" is the beta version of pulp fiction, one that takes those classic women-behind-bars types and unleashes the cast out on the open road, snakes in the forbidding desert landscape (shot in ominous black and white). You might roll your eyes at how corny it all is 60 years later, but you'll almost certainly walk away entertained, perhaps even empowered.

BONUS TRACK

The "Pussycat" title track by the Bostweeds:

The Festival Circuit

 In mid-October, we caught a few titles at the Santa Fe International Film Festival, which reclaimed some of the vigor from its heyday 20 years ago.

FREE LEONARD PELTIER (B+) - If you haven't caught up on the developments of jailed Native American activist Leonard Peltier, hold off on running to Wikipedia. Instead, watch this energetic history of the admired member of the American Indian Movement (AIM) as he awaits word on clemency in 2024 over his conviction in 1977 for the killing of two FBI agents on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota.

            (Albuquerque Center for Peace and Justice)

Directors David France ("How to Survive a Plague") and Jesse Short Bull ("Lakota Nation vs. United States") curate a treasure trove of footage from the early '70s, catapulting the viewer into a specific time and place in American history. By 1972, Peltier had been recruited by Dennis Banks to join AIM in leading the opposition to the militia organized by tribal chairman Dennis Wilson, who was seen as corrupt and a sell-out to Washington. Pine Ridge was known in 1973 for the Wounded Knee occupation. That eventually culminated in a 1975 showdown, where the FBI agents were shot to death, and Peltier was hunted down and convicted on shaky evidence.

The filmmakers are meticulous in the rendering of these events and the trial that put Peltier away on two consecutive life sentences. We see interviews of Peltier during the early years of his incarceration, and we hear him by phone in the present day, as activists champion the 80-year-old inmate in the final months and weeks of the Biden administration, trying to convince the lame-duck president to heed the years-long call to free Peltier. The film, over a brisk two hours, thus melds past and present, providing an overview of AIM and the long-standing struggles on reservations for decades and balancing it with present-day drama over whether Peltier will be freed or left to almost certainly die behind bars.

I had forgotten the outcome of January 2025, and I was rewarded with a suspenseful climax to the film. All the while, admiration builds for Peltier, who likely could have been sprung by President Clinton had Peltier admitted guilt to something he adamantly denies. Contemporary interviews with veterans of Wounded Knee and other struggles add heft to the storytelling. This is rousing filmmaking.

THE LOVE THAT REMAINS (B+) - From Iceland, we get a fascinating, granular study of a relatively content household, where the parent happen to be splitting up. There is no high drama or trauma for the adolescent children; it just so happens that mom and dad don't want to be married anymore.

This comes from Hlynur Palmason, who emerged in 2020 with "A White, White Day," but bogged down a couple of years later with the sluggish "Godland." Here he hits a sweet spot with a depiction of an artist, Anna (Saga Gardarsdottir), and her husband, Magnus (Sverrir Gudnason), who mostly lives separately and is often at sea working on fishing expeditions. He also fishes for invitations to return home and is often sniffing around for sex, which Anna is loath to consent to. She's just over him.

The children, an older girl and two boys (apparently the director's offspring), engage in fun rural high jinks (be careful with that bow and arrow, kids), and are fully aware of their parents' estrangement, but they merely work that odd rapport into their own naive conversations about sex and relationships. (The girl is just about old enough to date, but she shows no interest in boys.) The children engage in random kid behavior -- playing outside, admiring baby chicks -- and don't seem to be repressing things that will later burst out into the open; they mostly go with the flow of the day-to-day.

Palmason makes an odd choice to inject magical realism into the proceedings. Those scenes come out of left field, and perhaps they are a means to convey to the viewer how off-guard and confused Anna and Magnus are during this absurd phase when their paths are diverging. Palmason begins the film with a shot of a crane forcefully removing the roof from Anna's industrial work space, a perfect metaphor about the upheaval the two adults will encounter going forward. 

Anna's art process is fascinating -- it involves industrial metal cuttings, large objects, exposure to the elements and the passage of time. By the film's final reveal, it provides an apt parallel to the slow drift apart by a man and woman as they protect their children through uncharted waters.

PETER HUJAR'S DAY (C-minus) - There is such a thing as being too faithful to your source material. Here we spend 24 hours with '70s New York photographer Peter Hujar, in a dramatization of an interview transcript that had been lost to history until recently. Ben Whishaw tries to salvage the project as the chain-smoking interview subject dropping names during the Big Apple's Drop Dead era from the avant-garde arts scene.

And there's not much more too it than that. This is literally 75 minutes of the interviewer, Linda Rosenkrantz (Rebecca Hall), running a tape machine as Hujar babbles on describing one recent day hobnobbing around New York with the likes of Susan Sontag, Fran Lebowitz and Allen Ginsberg.  Hujar also drops dozens of names, most of whom you've probably never heard. (Halfway through I fantasized about a version of this along the lines of a VH-1 "pop-up" video device, which would identify the obscure characters name-checked throughout the film.)

There is something almost audacious about the numbing recitation of minutiae by Hujar. It's almost as if writer-director Ira Sachs is daring you to walk out; but I was oddly frozen in my seat, convinced that a plot would rear up at any moment. Alas, there really is no there there. (We first heard of Hujar from the great documentary about his former lover, "Wojnarowicz.")

We have a love-hate relationship with Sachs, whose previous films have never scored higher than a B (2023's "Passages"; see also, "Little Men," "Love Is Strange" and "Keep the Lights On"). Here he sets aside his usual drama and light comedy for a quirky sociological experiment. Whishaw and Hall can be fascinating to watch at times, but very few people will find it worthwhile to trudge through this random Rolodex and bland recitation of a day in the life of an artist from 50 years ago.

BONUS TRACK

A break from the tedium in "Hujar" comes when he and Rosenkrantz dance in her apartment to the rockabilly nugget "Hold Me Tight" by Tennessee Jim: 

 

RIP, Robert Redford, Part 2: Deceptions

  

Robert Redford died in September at 89. We will sample a random selection of his output, including his debut directing triumph. See also previous reviews of "All the President's Men," "All Is Lost" and "The Old Man and the Gun." Here is Part 1.

ORDINARY PEOPLE (1980) (A) - Imagine, back in the day, directing your first film, and Donald Sutherland is merely the fourth-best performer in your cast. That's a deep lineup.

 

Robert Redford's debut behind the camera packs the same gut punch it did 45 years ago, a searing portrait of an emotionally repressed family struggling to keep up a facade of civility in the wake of a tragedy. Redford is blessed with fine source material -- the novel of Judith Guest -- and a loose, authentic screenplay by Alvin Sargent ("Paper Moon," "What About Bob?"). And Redford stays out of the way of three powerful performances -- Mary Tyler Moore as the icy mother who lost one son to a boating accident and almost lost the other to suicide; Timothy Hutton (in his big-screen debut), who is reeling mentally from the death of his brother and the lack of love and comfort from his parents; and Judd Hirsch as the therapist helping the high schooler cope.

Everything here is bone-dry kindling that will inevitably combust. Hutton stars as Conrad Jarrett, adrift during re-entry to his suburban life after a stint in a mental institution, endeavoring to fit in on the swim team and find a way to chat up a cute classmate from chorus. Sutherland and Moore are the parents, who also seem to just erect a facade as they circulate in their snooty social circle and avoid confronting their grief over the loss of their older son. There is also the obvious precariousness of their marriage, which they cannot get back on track.

Back in 1980, you could truly get away with calling Moore -- the doyenne of TV comedy -- a revelation as Beth, the frigid, bitchy mother and wife. Her body is a block of anxiety and resentment, and her subtle facial expressions could qualify the film as a horror movie. She is both calculating and vulnerable. Flashbacks confirm that the older boy was her unabashed favorite, and her life now will never be the same; Conrad just can't please his mom. Sutherland struggles for much of the film to find the right tone, though he finally manages during the climax.

This is Hutton's stage from start to finish. Conrad's mind races constantly, and he flails for a lifeline (that he can't get at home) wherever he goes, whether it is with a former fellow asylum inmate (Dinah Manoff in a perfect cameo), that crushy classmate (Elizabeth McGovern, also in her debut), or his psychiatrist, Dr. Berger (Hersch), who is the only person who both challenges Conrad and champions him. Their back-and-forths are raw and combative. It is a stark contrast to the suffocating, antiseptic home life that has Conrad desperate for attention and compassion. Hirsch is masterful in scenes that feel partly improvised; like Moore, he proves that he can be more than a TV cut-up.

To this day, I vividly remember the most powerful scene in the film -- when taking family Christmas photos with the grandparents, Beth makes it obvious that she does not want to have her picture taken alone with her son. His outburst at this visceral rejection is no less powerful on screen than it was on first viewing. 

I can't point to anything special that Redford does behind the camera. The visuals pretty much direct themselves. I have to believe, though, that he wielded a special touch that evoked such dynamic performances, which can still leave a repeat viewer drained and demoralized.

THE STING (1973) (B+) - This period romp dating back to the ragtime era doesn't have the oomph it had 50 years ago. You can spot the seams in this well-acted paean to the classic con men and hustlers of the Depression era.  

 

It reunites Paul Newman and Robert Redford ("Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid") as a pair of veteran grifters who plan the ultimate take-down of the vicious Irish crime boss Doyle Lonnegan, played with villainous glee by the immortal Robert Shaw. Eileen Brennan co-stars as a madame and leads a rich supporting cast that includes Ray Walston, Charles Durning, Harold Gould and Dana Elcar (the boss on "MacGyver").

Redford's Johnny Hooker and partner Luther (Robert Earl Jones) roll a mark for $11,000 only to find out later that the victim was a courier for Lonnegan, who will not let this go un-avenged, no matter how petty the amount in the relative scheme of things. On the lam from Joliet to Chicago (after Luther is offed), Hooker seeks out Newman's Henry Gondorff, a drunk who is the master of "the big con." The two assemble a team of two-bit hoodlums to create an off-track betting site in which they rig the teletype reports of the horse races to guarantee bets in advance. Hooker, using a pseudonym, gains Lonnegan's confidence, convincing the mob boss that they will build up to a big score.

Redford is strong but nothing special as Hooker. Newman is oddly muted at times. (He comes alive during a poker game against Lonnegan on the train to Chicago.) Their supporting crew has its moments. No one, though, is nearly as intense as Shaw, who positively stews the entire movie, coming off as alternatively menacing and buffoonish. Everyone looks like they are having a swell time.

The problem, a half century later, is that "The Sting" is not only an old movie at this point but positively old-fashioned. That was part of its selling point back in the day. (Roger Ebert praised it as "a movie movie." It was a runaway hit as a Christmas Day release.) It is corny and silly at times, and director George Roy Hill ("Butch Cassidy") intentionally sought to mimic the screwball comedies of the 1930s. That was quaint in 1973, which was closer to that era than the movie is to ours now. Now, not so much. That isn't to say that there isn't fun to be had here, especially in the clever script by David S. Ward ("Major League," "Sleepless in Seattle"). 

There is no harm in having a good time at the movies. (The ending is delicious.) But having previously seen Newman and Redford sizzle as turn-of-the-century outlaws, and then Redford in an unforgettable role in "The Candidate" just the year before "The Sting," you can see Redford getting typecast as the dashing leading man (his next two releases would be blockbusters: "The Way We Were" and "The Great Gatsby") and perhaps losing his way a bit in the Hollywood mainstream. 

BONUS TRACK

You probably have this Scott Joplin rag in your head already. Marvin Hamlisch did the period honors with "The Entertainer" (from a soundtrack that hit No. 1):

R.I.P., Robert Redford, Part 1: Now What?

 

Robert Redford died in September at 89. We will sample a random selection of his output, including his debut directing triumph. We did a test run reviewing "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" last month. See also previous reviews of "All the President's Men," "All Is Lost" and "The Old Man and the Gun."

ELECTRIC HORSEMAN (1979) (B+) - Like in "Butch Cassidy," we are asked to accept '70s cinema stud Robert Redford, with his perfectly windswept blond mane, as a drawling cowboy. He mostly pulls it off as a five-time rodeo champ who now demeans himself by hawking breakfast cereal for an evil conglomerate.

 

Redford plays Sonny Steele, who stumbles drunk through his PR appearances (his outfit lined with light bulbs) until the day he can no longer stand to see his prize equine co-star, Rising Star, doped up and exploited. So Sonny rides off into the the Las Vegas night with Rising Star, determined to set him loose in the wild. (It is an opportunity for both man and horse to dry out.) 

Hot on Sonny's trail is intrepid TV reporter Hallie Martin (Jane Fonda), who tracks him down and ends up falling for him. (Normally I'd be contemptuous of a depiction of a female journalist sleeping with a source, but this was Robert Redford in the '70s, after all.)

Redford and Fonda carry this movie through their sheer talent as old-school movie stars. (Roger Ebert compared them to Tracy and Hepburn.) Fonda always seemed under-rated, and here she brings nuance and depth to her character, flashing both smarts and vulnerability. The quips between the two are as dynamic as the romantic sizzle. (Their first kiss is swoon-worthy.) Director Sydney Pollack stitches together the script from a trio of writers who outline a rather trite idea peppered with snarky dialogue. 

Pollack also assembles a crack crew of character actors to line out the corporate weasels and yes-men who melt down during the company's PR nightmare (on the eve of a mega-merger, no less). We get John Saxon, Alan Arbus, Basil Hoffman, and Nicolas Coster. Wilfred Brimley plays a farmer sympathetic to Sonny's adventure, and Valerie Perrine glows as Sonny's ex-wife. But the true revelation is Willie Nelson as part of Steele's entourage. It is Nelson's film debut, and he is a natural on screen. (A year later he would headline the semi-biographical "Honeysuckle Rose.") He has a way with a one liner -- bored at a hotel, he tells a colleague that his only short-term goal is to find "one of those keno girls who can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch."

Some might scoff at Redford's accent and Fonda's puppy love or shaky professional ethics, and maybe this doesn't age as well as everyone would have liked, but it is a compelling story, with just enough cynical humor to qualify as a hangover to That '70s Drift of the American New Wave. Let go of the present and return to the halcyon days of yesteryear and its formulaic but satisfying cinema. 

THE CANDIDATE (1972) (A) - Michael Ritchie re-teams with Redford after "Downhill Racer" for this cynical, documentary-style take on politics. Ritchie and writer Jeremy Larner ("Drive, He Said") drop Redford in among real politicians and celebrities (including Alan Cranston and Natalie Wood), in a manner that suggests Robert Altman's work, in particular his semi-realist "Tanner" TV series for HBO.

 

A candidate being packaged and presented like a grocery-store product was a rather novel concept half a century ago. Peter Boyle is that ringer here as Marvin Lucas, the packager, a ruthless strategist who recruit's Redford's Bill McKay (son of a former governor) to take on a long-shot run for a California Senate seat against the grey-haired Republic incumbent. How much of a long shot? Lucas essentially guarantees McKay that he will lose, but at least Lucas will get a paycheck running the campaign.

McKay undermines the tomato-can strategy by speaking whatever is on his mind as an old-fashioned good-government liberal, reaching out to poor and minority constituents. McKay's good looks and fresh approach start to catch on, and he closes the gap against the arrogant Crocker Jarmon (Don Porter). Late in the campaign, McKay makes Jarmon sweat during a debate, and the possibility of pulling off an upset starts to feel real.

Ritchie seems to be taking his cue from "Primary," the classic documentary about the 1960 race between John Kennedy and Hubert Humphrey for the Democratic nomination. He places Redford in very real situations, whether out in the community pressing flesh or speaking off the cuff at banquets in front of donors. Actual politicians and reporters ground this in cinema verite from start to finish.

Ritchie also builds drama around McKay personally. His marriage relations seem stilted, and there is a question of whether is father will bridge the generation gap and embrace his son. There also is a subtle Clintonian flair, when we see McKay and a young female campaign worker sheepishly emerge from the same hotel room before McKay goes into a meeting with a labor leader (whom McKay insults but gains an endorsement regardless).  

This seems like a role Redford was born to play -- the handsome bleeding-heart liberal with an independent streak. His bumbling as a neophyte on the political scene feels legit, as does his meteoric rise as a Mamdani-type phenomenon. Ritchie captures this lightning in a bottle  and crafts a masterpiece of its time, right up to its iconic final line.

BONUS TRACKS

Willie Nelson with his heart-breaking version of "Hands on the Wheel," which runs over the closing credits of "Electric Horseman":

 

Threaded through "Horseman" is Nelson's cover of Gregg Allman's "Midnight Rider," powered by Mickey Raphael's dyspeptic harmonica:

Rock Docs: As the Millennium Turned

 

DIG! (XX) (2004/2024) (A) - Pure diligence pays off. Early in her career, filmmaker Ondi Timoner committed to years of embedding with two bands who were relatively unknown and who may never have broken through. Her aim was to tell their story in depth, as it unfolded over time. 

Originally released (to great Sundance festival fanfare) in 2004 as "Dig!", Timoner celebrates the 20th anniversary with an update on the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre, filling out about a half hour of extra footage, now streaming on the Criterion Channel. It remains a fascinating character study of divergent approaches to the rock 'n' roll ethos, flashing back to the heyday of alternative music at the turn of the millennium. It is granular in its study of each band's creative forces.

 

While Portland's Dandy Warhols achieved a decent level of commercial success on the Warner Bros. label, it is their self-defeating rivals, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, who drive the narrative here. Led by their charismatic, drug-addled purist leader Anton Newcombe (above, left), psych revivalists BJM are an object lesson in shooting oneself in the foot, repeatedly. They refuse to make concessions to the music industry, and seem to pursue record deals merely to earn a big enough advance to fuel their drug and alcohol habits. (The TVT label took that sucker's bet during filming.) Still, there's no denying the trippy glee of their songs, like the heady "Mary, Please."

 

The band's secret weapon is tambourine player Joel Gion (above, right), the puppet-like court jester who shares narrating duties in the film, trading off with Courtney Taylor-Taylor, the suave lead man of the Dandy Warhols. (The narrative back-and-forth is an inspired choice.) At one point Taylor-Taylor tags along on tour with BJM, and the unspoken look on his face suggests eminent gratitude that his own band is not nearly as fucked up as Newcombe's.

Gion is the constant who holds the plot together, sticking by Newcombe's side when no one else would. (Co-founder Matt Hollywood eventually was driven out of the band, like the others. The drummer, though, stuck around a while -- not because of any great skills, which were questionable, but because his blond page-boy haircut closely resembled Brian Jones' mod coif.) 

Gion is like the Flavor Flav to Newcombe's Chuck D -- not to insult the mastermind behind Public Enemy. Newcombe comes off as obsessed about his art, to the detriment of everything else in his life, including, oddly enough, his music career. Most of the time he is a greasy slob with wild eyes, spouting philosophical musings in a style not unlike fellow musician Charles Manson.

The Dandy Warhols are the yang to Newcombe's yin. They are four relatively clean-cut young adults who write more hooky numbers than opaque, droning jams. Taylor-Taylor obsesses over image as much as the sound, curating a style for the band through elaborate videos. The Dandys' biggest break came when the European company Vodafone used the band's single, "Bohemian Like You" (below), in a 2000 commercial, and the band has cultivated a savvy cult status to this day. Cohorts Zia McCabe (keyboards and bass) and Peter Holmstrom (lead guitar) exude charm and style, as well, bringing essential energy and chops to their leader's songs. 

 

Timoner's camera -- which infiltrates every nook and cranny of each band's every facet of existence -- stalks both bands over the course of about seven years, from the mid-'90s to the early '00s. This was a leap of faith (or a wildly inadvisable career choice) at the time, never really guaranteed to show that either of the bands would make it big enough for an audience to care about the light-years of footage she shot over that particular life cycle. But her perseverance feels like a critical part of the overall narrative. This is a feat of endurance and devotion -- she edited the film in addition to writing and directing it -- and Timoner survives as an unseen and uncredited character tying everything together. It is partly her story.

If there is one nit to pick, it is that Timoner (who also directed 2009's "We Live in Public") never really does fair justice to any of Brian Jonestown Massacre's recordings. Everything here is snippets, and you wouldn't be blamed for wondering what all the fuss is about when it comes to their appeal. Maybe that was a strategy. Perhaps she is illustrating just how self-destructive Newcombe's methods were, as exemplified by the trickles of album sales. (The updated footage includes the band members brawling onstage with each other in Melbourne in 2023, torpedoing that tour.)

Feel free to not overthink things, and just wallow in the minutiae of the budding careers of a bunch of music lifers who continue to record and tour to this day. Never heard of them before? Who cares. You need not sign up as a fan; just turn black the clock to a Beatles-vs.-Stones 2.0 romp. 

You might also quibble over the emphasis on the battle of the bands. Was there ever a true rivalry between the bands? Did one band's path prove more reliable than the other's? More people bought Dandy Warhols albums and saw their videos. But Newcombe is still slogging away. Both bands added Santa Fe stops to their fall tours this year. In late September, the Dandys drew a middling (but devoted) crowd. Brian Jonestown Massacre's show in November has been sold out for months. 

BONUS TRACKS

No one mines "Nuggets" like Brian Jonestown Massacre. Here's a typical retro workout, "Straight Up and Down" (the theme to HBO's "Boardwalk Empire"):

 

"Who?"

 

The Dandys burst on the scene with their sophomore album that included a howl at the end of the century, the gender-affirming romp "Boys Better":

 

POST-SCRIPT

As luck would have it, we caught the Dandy Warhols' Santa Fe show. They flashed their own psych-rock jam-band bona fides, in addition to serving up the hits during the second half of the show. (You know you are an aging music fan rocking out to a 30-year-old group when two of the band members call a time-out in the middle of the show for a pee break.) One peppy nugget that stood out was the 2018 single "Be Alright":

New to the Queue

 Multiples of seven ...

Auteur Kelly Reichardt ("First Cow," "Certain Women," "Night Moves") follows a low-energy art thief in "Mastermind."

Joachim Trier re-teams with Renate Reinsve ("The Worst Person in the World") for the family drama "Sentimental Value."

Raoul Peck ("I Am Not Your Negro," "The Young Karl Marx") undertakes a timely examination of one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, "Orwell: 2 + 2 = 5."

A biography of Tura Satana, the vivacious star of classic exploitation films, "Tura."

Inmates with smuggled cell phones help expose a prison system in the Deep South, "The Alabama Solution."

Lucile Hadzihalilovic (reuniting with Marion Cotillard from "Innocence") spins a harrowing tale of a teen runaway obsessed with an actress, "The Ice Tower."

Ben Stiller combs through his family history for a documentary about his comedy-duo parents, "Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost."

BONUS TRACK

Flat Duo Jets with "Tura Satana":

Doc Watch: The Dark Future

DEMOCRACY NOIR (B) - This earnest documentary conveys the oppression in Hungary through three women's attempts to battle the authoritarian regime that Viktor Orban started to craft after his election in 2010 and which has curdled ominously since. Director Connie Field gets up-close and personal with her three subjects -- opposition politician Timea Szabo; reporter Babett Oroszi; and nurse/activist Niko Antal -- as they oppose the regime in their own ways.

The principal economic beneficiary of Orban's good graces is old pal Lorinc Meszaros, a former gas-industry pipe-fitter who expeditiously became the richest man in Hungary. The most cynical ploy has been Orban taking funds from the European Union -- a group he despises and demonizes as anti-Christian and pro-immigrant -- and plowing them into projects around the country and taking credit for them as he pummels the EU as his personal punching bag. 

Each woman is worthy of attention, though you can't help wondering how futile their efforts have been. That haunting thought is freighted with the context of living in America in 2025 and the ominous parallels that are obvious between Orban's rule and the current regime in Washington. But the women haven't given up, and perhaps their resistance will bear fruit or at least be recognized someday in a brighter future. 

Director Field does a workmanlike job personalizing the stories while conveying loads of information covering the past two decades and the dizzying descent into authoritarianism. Her visual bookends feel trite, though -- she begins and ends the film with arty glamour shots of Budapest that feel forced and vain rather than faithful to the project at hand. I understand, though, her inclination to counteract the ugliness that seems to surround the country.

THE DYNASTY (B+) - From an independent journalism operation, Direkt36 (one of the few remaining in Hungary), comes this years-in-the-making tick-tock about the rise of Fidesz, the corrupt political party that launched Viktor Orban's political career. This one-hour news piece on YouTube is rooted in a textbook ethos of reporting: Follow the money.

Once Orban took office in 2010, his son-in-law and key pals started winning government contracts, based on bidding processes rigged in their favor. This was the culmination of financial shenanigans that dated back to the 1990s, when the party learned how to play the money game, in part by converting public funding for the party into private gain.

The son-in-law's path to wealth started innocuously enough with winning the bid for street lighting in cities around the country, quickly dominating the market as competitors suspiciously stepped aside, unable to meet the unique requirements -- all of this overseen by a corrupt auditor, of course. The son-in-law soon built a real estate empire of stunning proportions in just a few years, including prestige properties all over Budapest. (Is this all sounding familiar?)

Direkt36 digs through decades of dirty deals for this one-hour expose. The facts unfold fast and furious from the talking-head journalists. It is a breath-taking analysis of a blatant kleptocracy. One journalist describes the overt corruption as the ruling party creating an Infrastructure Procurement Department and a Dynasty Building Department, flimsy excuses to shovel money to Orban's family and pals. 

The filmmakers do a good job of sorting through a ton of facts and keeping track of the journalists who serve as talking heads. Some viewers might be overwhelmed, whether it's the rapid fire of the screaming headlines or the onslaught of corruption that seems impossible to contain. 

Grace Notes

 

IT'S NEVER OVER, JEFF BUCKLEY (B) - If anyone would think to make a documentary about my life -- and don't worry, no one will -- I would hope that two of the main talking heads would not be my mom and an ex whom I treated like crap. Jeff Buckley -- the troubled troubadour who died young, like his father -- suffers that unfortunate indignity in an earnest but somewhat mawkish biography.

 

Director Amy Berg mixes talking heads exuding a noticeable preponderance of feminine energy with often-chaotic image montages that might force you to look away lest you go cross-eyed. The question we post here: Is the super-sensitive Buckley a subject worthy of a full-length documentary? He died at age 30, too young, like his deadbeat dad, the '70s folk singer Tim Buckley, who died a junkie at age 28.

Jeff Buckley had a lot of talent, pouring his heart out into deeply personal lyrics. The women in his life attest here to his earnest attempts to be a good person, but you can read between the lines and appreciate that he could sometimes be an asshole, especially after he became a music-industry darling, signed by Columbia Records and blessed by David Bowie. (Maybe the film could have poked a little deeper with the drummer who quit the band during the tour in support of the debut album, "Grace.") 

As a singer, Buckley could be hit and miss. With jazzy stylings, he aimed for Nina Simone but occasionally landed on Liza Minnelli. (To be fair, he had an admirer in Nusrat Fateh Ali Kahn, whose Qawwali style Buckley liked to imitate.) To his credit, Buckley honed his craft in small clubs, toiling away on more than just his name. In the end, though, he managed only one proper studio album, with a second pieced-together after his death. His version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is considered to be definitive.

Berg's hectic biography strives too hard to add depth to Buckley's resume. After reporting on his suspicious drowning (it is insisted that it was accidental, but why was he wearing his clothes, and why did he phone many of his loved ones in the days before that?), she wrings maximum emotion out of the final answering-machine message he left for his mother, a bit of a drama queen who cries on cue on camera. In the end, it is difficult to accept that all of this attention on Buckley is earned 28 years after his death. 

THELONIOUS MONK: STRAIGHT, NO CHASER (1989) (A-minus) - This is a fascinating curation of footage that took many years, and a late boost from executive producer Clint Eastwood, to bring to fruition, seeing the light only after the bebop piano pioneer had died. It is made up mainly of footage from a 1967 public TV documentary that never aired outside of Germany.

Monk certainly is a curious subject. The footage from the late '60s and early '70s delves, in fly-on-the-wall style, into quiet personal moments to go with generous clips of performances. Talking heads gathered in the '80s -- including his old colleagues and his son -- attest to his genius but they don't shy away from discussing his personal problems. (Monk was possibly an undiagnosed schizophrenic or suffering from bipolar disorder.) His mental health issues are clearly evident; we see examples of him randomly rise from his piano bench and wander the stage. Off-stage he is barely verbal, apparently heavily medicated. 

His talents -- on full display -- are sui generis. I'm no jazz aficionado, but I can appreciate his sophisticated compositions (beyond the standard "'Round Midnight") and his staccato keyboard technique. Some of his former collaborates reunite at times to reinterpret some of his well-known compositions. But it's the old footage -- worshiped by jazz fanatics -- that can be riveting at times. 

This is all assembled by Maysles veteran Charlotte Zwerin ("Gimme Shelter," "Salesman"). She is not shy about exploring Monk's complicated personal life -- he stayed married to his devoted wife Nellie, but he spent just as much time, in his later years, with Rothschild family scion Pannonica "Nica" de Koenigswarter, who often housed him at her New Jersey waterfront home. That place had a piano prominently displayed but rarely if ever played in Monk's final years.

BONUS TRACKS 

My favorite Buckley song landed on my radar courtesy of a younger ex who fell hard for his catalog in the '00s, the Leonard Cohen knockoff "Jewel Box":

 

We previously linked to Thelonious Monk's version of "Just a Gigolo." Here he is in a clip from Denmark, performing Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields' "Don't Blame Me":

 

The on-point "Monk's Mood":