Doc Watch: Pop Idols

 

MARTHA (B+) - You get the feeling watching this documentary about the rise and fall and resurrection of better-living guru Martha Stewart that the film might have actually captured the true personality of its subject. Here she is, warts and all, an in-your-face businesswoman who doesn't seem to care what you think about her.

I can see viewers walking away from this with varying reactions -- some thinking that she was singled out for prosecution (over a shady but relatively minor stock trade) because she was a strong woman, and others concluding that she was an insufferable task-mistress who likely got what she deserved. (It could be both.) R.J. Cutler specializes in celebrity profiles (like "Belushi"), and he finally seems in command of the storytelling. 

 

He is lucky to have Stewart herself, parked in a chair, essentially narrating much of the film and framing the arc of her life story. How reliable a narrator she is, well, that's also for viewers to decide. I got the feeling that she doesn't always tell the truth -- including when James Comey went after her for the suspicious timing of her selling stock in a friend's company, right before a negative news story was going to tank it. She has no reason to be repentant -- she did five months in prison -- and she comes off as quite the scrappy executive. But her veneer slips occasionally, like when Cutler calls her out on a double-standard after she trashes her first husband for cheating on her -- when she also was unfaithful. Stewart dismisses her indiscretion as nothing but decries her husband's affairs as unforgivable. We also see her treating underlings dismissively and borderline cruelly.

But we also are offered many clips of Stewart in her prime -- planting gardens, glazing desserts, tricking out a bedroom -- as a woman on a mission who could not be stopped. She is smart and funny, and the camera adored her like the model she once was. The stories about her time in prison -- again, you have to assume she is being truthful about all of it -- are fascinating, and her renaissance as a social media butterfly and pal to Snoop Dogg is fun to watch.

It all feels like a comprehensive two-hour spin through the life of a key pop-culture figure of the second half of the 20th century. It might reinforce your opinion of a divisive personality, or it might open your mind to reconsideration of a celebrity you thought you loved or hated.

RETURN OF THE KING: THE FALL AND RISE OF ELVIS PRESLEY (B-minus) - What a lopsided misfire about one of the most fascinating moments in rock 'n' roll history. In a bit of a bait-and-switch, only a fraction of this movie revolves around the December 1968 TV special that revived Elvis Presley's career after a decade that had sidetracked the rock idol with military duty and bad Hollywood movies, while the Beatles reconfigured the music world. (An inauspicious opening to the film doesn't help; it starts out with a re-enactment and hyperbole, a couple of red flags.)

Two-thirds of the movie -- more than an hour -- are spent just on the run-up to the '68 special, which then gets short shrift. Some build-up was necessary; you can't tell a redemption story without putting the original fall from grace into perspective. But here it feels as if the familiar beats of Presley's first 12 years or so in the public eye form a litany of greatest hits that won't end. We don't need yet another glimpse of Presley with his locks shorn before heading to Germany or his bride Priscilla's giant bouffants. 

There certainly is some great outtake footage from the '68 special, some of it showing an anxious and insecure Presley. And an unusual array of talking heads -- such as Bruce Springsteen, Conan O'Brien and Billy Corgan -- offer some quite cogent insight into Presley's psyche. But the final half hour is just not enough time to appreciate the TV spectacle that unfolded, in particular the electrifying jam circle that reunited Presley with his '50s bandmates. They show clips from "Trying to Get to You," but not the heady moment where Elvis gets so riled up he can't stay in his seat. The rest of the clips are so chopped up that they lack sufficient impact. Maybe last year's "Reinventing Elvis" from Paramount did a better job; we'll have to track it down and compare.

BONUS TRACK

The full-on Elvis, whose chair just cannot contain him, with "Trying to Get to You" at the 1968 taping:

R.I.P., Gena Rowlands, Part 1: Women on the Verge

 Gena Rowlands, the longtime wife of and collaborator with John Cassavetes, died in August at age 94. With an assist from the Guild Cinema, we are (re)viewing some of her foundational films. 

 

A WOMAN UNDER THE INFLUENCE (1974) (A-minus) - This is a brutal two-and-a-half hours of domestic cinema verite, in which Gena Rowlands gives a devastating performance as a woman unraveling mentally before her husband and three young children.

Mabel (Rowlands) is particularly under the influence of alcohol, but who wasn't back then? As rough as it was back then, the drinking levels were appreciably higher in John Cassavetes movies. He is the writer-director here, with a huge assist from his improvisational cast, in particular Peter Falk as Mabel's fitfully angry blue-collar husband, Nick. As the film opens, Mabel has sent the children off to be with her mother so that she and Nick can have a date night -- except that Nick's crew gets sent to fix an emergency water leak, and so Mabel gets stood up. She responds by going to a bar, getting drunk, and bringing a man home to spend the night.

The strange behavior accelerates the next morning when Nick brings his crew home for a meal, and Mabel gets oddly flirty with one of the young men. She later hosts a birthday party for one of the kids and freaks out another parent; Nick eventually comes home to find the all of the children under-dressed and running wild. That leads to a climactic argument between Mabel and Nick (backed by his mother, played by Cassavetes' mother, Katherine) and the family doctor, who eventually has her committed.

There's more tortured domesticity, and until the end Mabel and Nick will try to create a mirage of a normal family in front of the kids. Falk is fascinating as a man at his wits' end, with such little patience for Mabel's mental illness that he resorts to that era's old stand-by, twice trying to slap it out of her. His bursts of anger are jarring. Nick shows little patience with the kids, too, as he tends to them with a similarly rough hand during Mabel's absence. 

Meantime, Rowlands, juggling the innocence of a girl with the skewed wiles of a fated to unhappiness, cycles through emotions as if she were possessed by the character. She imbues Mabel with personality quirks -- like her habit of jerking her thumb and blowing raspberries -- that define Rowlands' career image to this day, a half century later. It is hard to imagine a more raw performance by an actor insistent on exploring the terrors of misogyny during a backward era.

Cassavetes' camera stalks the actors, as if goading them into uncharted emotional territory. (He gets an assist from regular cinematographer Al Ruban.) He mines the dark humor of family life that can occur when a couple acts out in front of friends, strangers or their own resilient children. You can laugh at the absurdity one moment and bridle at the appalling domestic abuse the next. Rowlands' masterpiece might not appeal to modern, enlightened viewers, but the power of her high-wire act and Cassavetes' cinematic provocation cannot be denied.

OPENING NIGHT (1977) (B+) - It's hard to tell, in retrospect, whether John Cassavetes' scripts in the 1970s were exploiting his wife's ability to plumb emotional depths or were indulging her desire to take such deep dives. She sure gets knocked around a lot, both physically and metaphorically. 

Now in her mid-40s, Rowlands takes on the role of Myrtle Gordon, an aging actress having a midlife meltdown as she portrays a woman on stage having a midlife meltdown during her latest show's previews in the run-up to opening night. Anytime there's a play-within-a-play, things can get arty, but Cassavetes actually brings a fresh take to the inside baseball of backstage antics. The workings of the crew are fascinating at times, as Cassavetes' nosy camera turns us into VIP lurkers.

Myrtle is jarred after an early performance when she is confronted by an obsessive fan outside the stage door and then watches as the young woman gets hit by a car and dies. Myrtle strong-arms her way into the family shiva and then goes on a major bender that will culminate in her showing up late and trashed for the big night. 

It is the last straw for the play's director, Manny (Ben Gazzara), who has tired of suffering through Myrtle's antics in rehearsals and during the previews -- blowing lines, ad-libbing, addressing the audience, and taking flops on stage (there is one scene in which her lover's character, played by Cassavetes, is called on to slap Myrtle's character). Despite this slow-motion trainwreck, Manny rebuffs pleas to dump Myrtle by the playwright, Sarah (a marvelous old-school Joan Blondell, near the end of her career). Sarah is spooked by Myrtle, who suffers delusional visions of the young woman who died, sometimes having knock-down drag-out battles with the ghost. 

Rowlands nails the slow unraveling of a woman not just mourning and not just suffering from alcoholism, but also the haunting realization that her looks won't draw the autograph hounds much longer. It's Sarah's script that jangles her as much as anything. Rowlands gets a lot of mileage just by narrowing her eyes and letting her character's judgment spill out from a stare. And she plays a believable rubbery-legged souse. As a stagehand marvels to her: "I've never seen as drunk as you and still standing up." It is delivered as a high compliment.

Gazzara does a slow burn throughout, with occasional bouts of quick outrage. Cassavetes is a great foil as Maurice, who taunts Myrtle during rehearsals. Stay for the final half hour (the film runs 2 hours 25 minutes), as Rowlands and Cassavetes go toe-to-toe onstage, riveting the audience with their dueling, escalating improv to cap the play. (Again, it's a nested-doll concept -- did Cassavetes script the ad-libs, or were the ad-libs ad-libbed?) That extended climax of the film between real-life husband-and-wife is instantly iconic, and it makes up for any missteps of the previous two hours. That kind of sizzle between characters cannot be taught, though it serves as a master class in acting.

Soundtrack of Your Life: Rocktober

 We had an especially busy month or so on the concert front. Here are the highlights.

It started with Brooks Nielsen from the Growlers, who appeared at Revel on September 22. There is something about Nielsen, the face and sound of the beach-goth SoCal group that fizzled around the time of COVID, that just fills me with joy. He comes off as a clever, sweet stoner, who also has great taste in music. Each time I saw the Growlers (once in Albuquerque, once at their annual festival in San Pedro) the shows were a little slow out of the gate. But once he and his band hit their stride, a switch goes off, and they can do no wrong.

Nielsen is about as close as Millennials can get to their own Dylan. He's a hipster lounge singer (with his own neon "Brooksy" sign) who knows how to craft a groove to lay over languid lyrics. His latest band featured a ringer of a lead guitarist (who gave off a Flea vibe), which propelled a lot of the songs. Here they are in San Diego playing the sing-along "Love Test":

 

I caught a book reading by Joe Boyd in support of his latest And the Roots of Rhythm Remain, a world tour of world music. He told bittersweet stories from a historical perspective, most memorably when he traced the origins of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" back to South Africa in the late 1930s and as popularized as "Wemoweh" by the Weavers. It just so happens that Boyd's brother lives in Albuquerque, so a stop here should not have been a surprise. I was drawn to Boyd because of his work with R.E.M. in the mid-'80s. A Harvard grad, he went to England in the 1960s and became synonymous with the British folk scene of Fairport Convention and Nick Drake. 

My partner took me to see one of her favorites, Skating Polly, at the Launchpad in late September. Step-siblings Peyton Bighorse and Kelli Mayo, who share vocal duties and switch off between guitar and bass, were "discovered" in Oklahoma by Exene Cervenka of X. They can give off a Throwing Muses vibe with some off-kilter rhythm shifts. They certainly played loud and tore it up before a small crowd. Here they are six years ago in a live set on KEXP:

I bought tickets to see sadgirl Haley Heynderickx, who is doing her part in supporting the consonants at the end of the alphabet, but I just was too busy to run downtown on a Tuesday night. I hope she appreciates my $20 contribution; I'd still like to see her during a calmer period.

Rocktober crescendoed with a trip to Austin. The visit was bookended by concerts from Guided by Voices (at the Mohawk) and Dehd (at the Scoot Inn).

Opening for Dehd was Chicago-based Sweat FM, who has to be seen to be believed. Apparently a guy named Dom Rabalais, who is into bodybuilding, tattoos and a porn side gig, he sings techno-punk songs to a recorded digital backing track. He strips down to barely anything and jumps around the stage, like a kickboxing aerobics instructor who sings his own songs. My favorite outfit was a neon lime-green jock strap. The ladies loved his hydraulic butt cheeks. He ended every song with a verbal stamp: "Sweat FM!" (Like Mary Katherine Gallagher's "Superstar!") Here he is without the peroxide in his hair:

Dehd drew a packed crowd to the outdoor venue on a warm night. They seem a little more confident than when we saw them two years ago in Albuquerque. Jason Balla still stalks the stage while bashing out his spare, loose lead guitar riffs, and Emily Kempf is the anchor on the left side of the stage. Highlights included "Loner" and "Light On"; they are the second and third track on the video below from a recent live KCRW recording. We left at the end of the main set, ceding the encore to the kids to enjoy, as we wandered past the Daniel Johnston tribute mural, getting a jump on traffic, only to have our bus break down and then getting caught in a massive snarl on the UT campus as a Sabrina Carpenter was letting out, unleashing a horde of blond girls in white boots onto the thoroughfare.

We're nearing double digits on our Guided by Voices world tour. Austin was either the 8th or 9th city we've seen the Dayton legends (depending on whether you count Los Angeles and Long Beach separately). God bless Robert Pollard. He refuses to rest on his legacy songs. For better or worse, he leans into his recent catalogue more and more, which made the second hour a bit of a drag at times. (One stretch of 7 out of 8 songs were barely recognizable to me, a diehard since "Bee Thousand.") Pollard is getting more and more judicious with the old favorites, like "Motor Away," "The Best of Jill Hives" and "Shocker in Gloomtown," sprinkling them in almost as teases amid the denser new material. 

I didn't stay for the encore (which means I missed one of his best live songs, "Jane of the Waking Universe" ... and, of course, "Echoes Myron") but he finished the main set strong with "I Am a Scientist," "Cut-out Witch" and "Glad Girls," with one new ringer mixed in -- "Serene King," an instant pop classic:

I don't know which one of us is going to fold first -- Bob (who is 67) or me. There were times at the Austin gig where I vowed that it might be my last GBV show -- especially considering it was one of those concerts where Pollard had that chip on his shoulder that comes from not being appreciated as the greatest pop songwriter of his generation, and he wouldn't shut up about it -- but I'll probably end up in a place like Pittsburgh next year pogoing to "Teenage FBI." Never say never.

New to the Queue

 There is a season ...

A documentary, the last in a trilogy, about the solidarity of workers at a Chinese garment factory, "Youth: Homecoming."

Andrea Arnold ("Fish Tank," "American Honey") is back in her British working-class milieu, focused on a tween protagonist, with "Bird."

From Jesse Eisenberg, the story of cousins who go to Poland to explore their Jewish roots, "A Real Pain."

A chronicle of the 1961 assassination of Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba, "Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat."

A quirky black-and-white comedy about teen step-siblings falling for each other, "Hippo."

Caste Away

 

ORIGIN (C-minus) - Props to Ava Duvernay for thinking outside of the box and being ambitious. But this fictional interpretation of the crafting of a nonfiction book is an interesting idea that fails miserably on the screen. 

Based on writer Isabel Wilkerson and her book Caste, which recalculated traditional thinking on race and class, the film tags along as the fictionalized Wilkerson (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor from "King Richard") travels the globe -- to Germany, India and across the United States -- exploring the ideas of hierarchal cultural categorization. Aside from the visuals of such a travelogue, the grunt work of researching a book never really jumps off the big screen. Attempts to rope in real-life current events feel forced -- the film starts with a re-enactment of the shooting of Trayvon Martin by George Zimmerman, and Wilkerson awkwardly interacts with a plumber wearing a MAGA hat (Nick Offerman) at her house.

The dramatic hitch comes from the fact that Wilkerson suffers, in quick succession, the deaths of her mother and her husband (plus a cousin (Niecy Nash) is seriously ill), which, rather than create some dramatic tension, casts a pall over the proceedings. Next stop: research into Nazi Germany! We get sepia-toned flashbacks to a couple in the 1930s, a gentile man in love with a Jewish woman, and there is just nothing particularly fresh to convey about such forbidden romance amid horrors. Too often this one feels like Holocaust porn or similar wallowing in the history of lynching. (Wilkerson was influenced by a 1941 sociological study of "caste and class" in the Deep South at that time, penned by a couple whose story is also told in grim flashback.)

She eventually sets out to study untouchables in India, where Duvernay's palette brightens, but the dialogue remains stiff and academic. By the time we hear a droning lecture on endogamy (marrying within your own group), I was tempted to shout at the screen, begging for a in-depth documentary rather than this 141-minute gloss across one writer's serendipitous world. 

SAINT OMER (C-minus) - Stilted does not begin to describe this melancholy drama about the trial of an immigrant woman who killed her six-month-old child while battling long-term depression. Most of the film literally consists of dry testimony in a French court.

 

The hook here is a shared focus on not just the accused but also on Rama (Kayije Kagame), a professor and novelist who is drawn to the woman's narrative and attends the trial. Rama, who happens to look like a model, wants to parallel this tragic story of Laurence Coly (a placid Guslagie Malanda) with the myth of Medea. But she doesn't do much more than sit in the gallery brooding as she, like us, endures the droning court proceedings.

We are allowed some fresh air at times -- domestic scenes between Rama and her husband and family, and between Rama and the accused's mother -- but even those scenes are lethargic and obtuse. Alice Diop (the documentary "We") has a heavy hand with both the script (along with two co-writers) and behind the camera. Colors are muted. And these court scenes stretch out for 20 minutes at a time. Rama's scenes outside the courtroom are often wordless. At one point she takes out her recorder to replay some of the testimony that we've already sat through. It's just too much to take over 2 hours 2 minutes in running time. 

From flashbacks we can see from Rama's childhood that she herself has some mommy issues, and through scenes depicting her romantic relationship, she might also have some motherhood issues. None of this coalesces. Some of the court dialogue is somewhat enlightening, as it humanizes Laurence and allows her to tell her back story -- she had a tough mother, a sham of a marriage, mental health struggles. If only Diop had managed to tighten it and brighten it and given us something more complex than a mopey protagonist and a stone-faced antagonist.

Doc Watch: Buddy Movies

 

DUSTY & STONES (B+) - This fish-out-of-water documentary is a little flat but quite charming, as it follows two cousins from Swaziland who chase their dream of country-music stardom in Nashville and Texas. It takes the fish-out-of-water concept about as far as you can go without wearing out its welcome.

 

Debut director Jesse Rudoy embeds deeply with Gazi (Dusty) and Linda (Stones) in a story set, oddly, back in 2018 and only now getting a wide release. Dusty and Stones pay respects to classic country with covers of Johnny Cash and others, but they also write their own songs in a more modern mode. They catch their big break when an international music festival in Jefferson, Texas, contacts them in their town of Mooihoek, inviting them to take part in the town's annual competition.

On their way to Texas, they stop in Nashville to record a few songs with a noted producer and top session players. It's touching to watch the duo express pure tear-filled joy at the way their songs come to life with a full band and professional production. The guys also sample America's strip-mall fast-food culture. They find a sacred link between the American South and Swaziland through Dolly Parton's "Tennessee Mountain Home," which resonates with their connection to their own homeland. 

Once the festival starts, there are ominous moments, as it looks like the two men might not be so welcome in a rural white world. The leader of the house band acts dismissively during their sound check, and the men are regarded more as curiosities than established musicians. (Although they are warmly embraced, at times literally, by local women at a rowdy bar.) No matter the outcome, you sense that Dusty and Stones had a dream come true and appreciate what they have, both at home and abroad.

WILL & HARPER (B-minus) - Funny guy Will Ferrell uses the road-trip device to chronicle the journey of his pal and comedy co-conspirator Harper Steele, whose transition from man to woman challenges Ferrell's heteronormative construct of their friendship, which dates to their days on "Saturday Night Live," where Steele wrote some of Ferrell's most memorable sketches.

Ferrell is earnest and open-minded as the old friends take a car trip across the country to revisit some of Steele's favorite dive bars and other dumps in order to gauge the reception that Steele will get now that he no longer is a slumming good ol' boy. (The men are also partial to celebrating beer o'clock in Walmart parking lots, and they even take a balloon ride in New Mexico.) However, the settings are unimaginative, and the reactions are fairly predictable -- mostly inadvertent misgendering mixed with acceptance from unexpected sources. Too often the placement of Steele into these situations seems forced, solely for the purpose of goosing the narrative. Often, the constant distraction of having a celebrity present spoils the whole experiment.

The bond between Ferrell and his older friend is genuine, but that friendship is not really explored beyond that gimmick that got them in a car to drive across the USA. Besides a cursory montage of sketches and characters that Steele apparently created, you don't get a good sense of what made him so funny before he went through a dark period about seven years ago before breaking through as his true self. And maybe that's the point; the old Steele is dead, and this is the person you get now. 

And maybe that's what lends a layer of melancholy over the exercise. Ferrell sometimes looks flat-out bored; though he's funny enough here that he at least makes this watchable. If not for his antics, this would be a pretty flat film. As it is, things drag and get repetitive. Director Josh Greenberg did not need the nearly two-hour running time afforded to him. The movie is slow out of the gates; it takes about 20 minutes to get the pair fully on the road, first wasting time in New York with a boring reunion at "SNL."

The inclusion of many "SNL" alums don't feel organic, but rather a way to get bold-faced names in the credits. Only Kristen Wiig makes a mark, as she is recruited to pen a theme song, and her composition over the closing credits doesn't disappoint. It's getting to that final destination that can be a chore here.

BONUS TRACK

Dusty and Stones' "hit" song, "The River":

 Also over the closing credits of "Will & Harper," a ginchy pop bauble "Go With Me" by Gene & Debbe:

The Bachelor

 

WOMAN OF THE HOUR (B) - Anna Kendrick lends her own star power to her directorial debut about a struggling actress who goes on "The Dating Game" in the late '70s, where she will cross paths with a serial killer.  

Kendrick takes a tight script from Ian McDonald ("Some Freaks") and creates a jangly but low-key thriller with fun period sets and costumes. She plays Sheryl, a somewhat ordinary actress who fails to grab attention at auditions where she competes with more glamorous L.A. starlets. When her agent books her on "The Dating Game," she figures she has nothing to lose.

Sheryl's story runs parallel to that of Rodney (Daniel Zovatto), a charming photographer who preys on young women. One young woman, a runaway named Amy (Autumn Best), manages to string Rodney along after surviving his initial attack, and their cat-and-mouse combat grows much more interesting than the episode of the game show that threads through the film's 95-minute running time. It's a clever move for Kendrick to cede that space to that darker understory.

The "Dating Game" episode (presented, for no good reason, as if it were airing live) is played for macabre laughs. Tony Hale is underwhelming in Jim Lange's host role. But it's fun to watch Bachelors No. 1 and 2 struggle mightily in the face of both Rodney's verbal dexterity and Sheryl going off-script by ad-libbing complex questions to the would-be beaus.

Other subplots are not so successful. Pete Holmes (HBO's "Crashing") is a drag, bookending the film as the puppy-eyed neighbor crushing on Sheryl. And there's a senseless distraction involving a woman in the show's audience (Nicolette Robinson) who recognizes Rodney from a beach party and tries in vain to get security guards and police interested in hearing her story.

But as Netflix fare goes, this one hums along like an edgy episode of "Police Woman" or "Rockford Files." Both Sheryl and Amy's stories have smart endings, and Kendrick shows an assured hand juggling those plot lines while presenting understated visuals, in an act of restraint for a first-time filmmaker.

Baby Bros

BABES (B+) - Two engaging leads elevate a script that is the messy, raunchy embodiment of childbirth in Pamela Adlon's comedy about best friends going through pregnancies. Ilana Glazer co-wrote the rat-a-tat screenplay and riffs through it with Michelle Buteau.

The two of them get a long leash from Adlon, and they do not abuse the privilege. Glazer plays Eden, a fairly unserious 30-something who enjoys a one-night stand with a man she met on the subway and with whom she had enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner of sushi while commuting (it's a very New York film and this is an endearing scene).  Meanwhile Buteau is Dawn, who starts out the film about to burst with her second child and who is much more advanced in adulting than Eden is.

Eden ends up pregnant, with the father out of the picture, and her self-centered nature goes into hyper-drive, to the irritation of Dawn, whose post-partum experience and strained marriage leaves little room for the antics of her childhood BFF. How they endeavor to work that out is part of the charm and even a level of gravitas that probably owes a debt to Adlon, the former "Louie" actress who went on to create the acclaimed cable TV series "Better Things" and makes her big-screen debut here.

What she and Glazer (and co-writer Josh Rabinowitz) have created here is a modern gal-pal rom-com. Glazer (who made her cable TV bones as one half of "Broad City") jumps into the fray of gross-out chick flicks that have evolved since "Bridesmaids." Eden and Dawn's connection is so intimate that there are no gynecological barriers between them; they're not afraid to get all up into each other's plumbing when the other is in crisis. It's certainly a fresh take on motherhood.

The one-liners zip by nonstop, in keeping with the Tina Fey shotgun approach of comedy by volume. Glazer and Buteau rifle through some improv moments and seem to have workshopped the script to a fine point. Glazer is generous in scattering the funny to a talented supporting cast. John Carroll Lynch ("Fargo," TV's "The Drew Carey Show") has a blast as Eden's OB-GYN who suffers through embarrassing phases of hair-loss strategies. Twins Keith and Kenneth Lucas (HBO's "Crashing") perform their deadpan shtick in stereo. Oliver Platt is the right kind of loopy as Eden's arm's-length, emotionally stunted father. And Stephan James (who has portrayed Jesse Owens and John Lewis on screen) oozes appeal as Eden's fleeting love interest.

It is sloppy at times, and its vulgarity can occasionally feel a little forced, but this is a cohesive film with a rather poignant story to tell about love and friendship (and loss). Everyone has a good time telling a funny and touching story.

BONUS TRACKS

The film bops along to a peppy soundtrack. The closing credits feature Bloods with "Thinking of You Thinking of Me":

And there's always room for Le Tigre, with their go-go ode to the subway, "My My Metrocard":

Doc Watch: Revisionist History

 

BS HIGH (A-minus) - Netflix set the modern standard for outrage documentaries five years ago with "Fyre," about a sham music festival, and HBO jumps into the fray with this profile of a scam artist who fielded a motley high school football team in Ohio that got exposed big time on ESPN. "BS High" is another product of the Trump era.

The "star" of the film is Roy Johnson, who doesn't even try to hide the fact that he spews bullshit for a living. He is a narcissist who revels in the the role at the center of a movie, even if it tears to shreds any hint of credibility he might have ever possessed. He is downright giddy being a sociopath.

Directors Travon Free and Martin Desmond Roe produce a slick, lively tick-tock of the incredible story of Bishop Sycamore, a school in name only, where Johnson recruited 19- and 20-year-olds, preying on their gap-year desire to make it to a Division I football school. Free and Roe let Johnson bob and weave in the hot seat, but they never let him off the hook. 

They bring on entertaining talking heads -- an investigator for the high school association; a journalist who chronicled the catastrophe; and Bomani Jones, a plain-spoken TV sports guy who serves as the conscience of the film. The filmmakers also assemble the key players who got hoodwinked by Johnson; each one is thoughtful and sincere in revealing the scars that this saga caused them. 

Bishop Sycamore is famous for ending up on national TV playing the biggest powerhouse in the country (IMG Academy from Florida, which would eventually get bought up by a billion-dollar equity firm) -- despite having little preparation or even enough helmets to go around. Turns out that Johnson was a con artist who didn't pay his bills, even if it meant his students would get evicted from the hotels they were housed in. BS got crushed on national TV, sending social-media critics into an instant feeding frenzy, and embarrassing the young men as the program crumbled and Johnson was exposed as a charlatan.

Free and Roe wring juicy quotes from their commentators, and their fascinating story zips along in 95 minutes, some of it so ludicrous that it is laugh-out-loud funny. But it's also heart-wrenching at times -- these are young men from rough backgrounds who got taken for a ride -- and it has some deep thoughts to offer about capitalism's football-industrial complex. It is highly entertaining but also wise and penetrating.

THE SKYJACKER'S TALE (2017) (B-minus) - This archeological dig into another scam artist -- a criminal from 1970s Virgin Islands who escaped a life sentence by hijacking a plane to Cuba in the '80s -- is a low-budget affair that lacks focus and drowns in cheap re-enactments. There is a great movie to be made about Ishmael Muslim Ali, but this one is not it.

Ali (born Ishmael LaBeet) was a self-styled anti-colonialist revolutionary who was convicted of leading a gang of gunmen that killed seven people at a country club in St. Croix, a place then dominated by Hess Oil. Twelve years later, while being flown from the mainland United States back to the islands for a habeas hearing, he emerged from the plane's bathroom with a gun and diverted the plane to Cuba, where he walked away a free man. 

The best scenes involve interviews with the elderly Ali, who apparently is a family man who occasionally parties like a pimp. Filmmaker Jamie Kastner tracks down some interesting characters, including a local detective who has a few revelations to share decades later. The best quote comes from a waitress who survived the traumatic event; describing the Virgin Islands in the early '70s, she says, "It was nice. Until the massacre happened."

But endless re-enactments -- of the siege on the country club and the hijacking, in particular -- are awkwardly staged and distracting. (Kastner pulled similar antics in "The Secret Disco Revolution" a decade ago.) Either make a documentary or a drama. Pick a lane. This hybrid just doesn't come together in the end.

New to the Queue

 "Working on a world ... that I may never see ..."

Our guy Sean Baker ("Red Rocket," "The Florida Project") returns with another romp involving the sex trade, "Anora."

A painter struggles to reconcile with the abusive father from his childhood, "Exhibiting Forgiveness."

Anna Kendrick directs a period piece about a serial killer who uses "The Dating Game" to stalk his next prey, "Woman of the Hour."

A documentary chronicles the organizing of Amazon warehouse workers, "Union."

An adaptation of Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer-winning novel about two kids at a reform school, "The Nickel Boys."

O, Canada

 

MY OLD ASS (A-minus) - There's something refreshing about taking a break from the culture of the U.S.A. Even a skip across the border can provide a welcome respite from the assault of the American way.

The sophomore directing effort from Megan Park ("The Fallout") is a bittersweet feel-good story about an 18-year-old who, during a hallucinogenic trip, meets her 39-year-old self and then keeps in touch, besieged by the older self's warnings about how life will turn out. Maisy Stella carries it all on her shoulders as young Elliott, the alpha female in a trio of friends, whom she is leaving (as well as her family) to go off to college in Toronto. Whereas 18-year-old Elliott is full of life and hope, her older version comes in the form of a dour, cynical woman played by Aubrey Plaza, lending gravitas to the proceedings.

 

Park's script is sharp, tackling philosophical subjects but with an often light touch. She doesn't overthink the simple sci-fi trick -- old Elliott puts her number in young Elliott's phone, and it somehow works -- passing it off with a shrug and a few self-deprecating lines. Old Elliott tells her young self to appreciate her family more, and the 18-year-old's attempt to bond with her mom and brothers is amusing. Old Elliott's biggest warning: Don't go near any guy named Chad. But, of course, who shows up as a worker on the family cranberry farm? A gawky, charming young man named Chad (Percy Hynes White), who is hard to resist. 

Stella creates a complex character, an emerging woman who is confident but sometimes confused, with an engaging sense of humor that shows hints of the cynicism to come. Plaza mostly appears only vocally, by phone, and her Elliott has a passive-aggressive way of hinting at tidbits of dystopia 21 years into the future. (Apparently the salmon have disappeared. What else is she not telling us?) Plaza brings her standard sly comic style as she essentially bookends the film with her appearances. Her best advice to her younger self? "Wear your retainer."

White tips it all in as goofy Chad, and even Elliott's friends -- Kerrice Brooks and Maddie Ziegler -- bring depth to their sidekick roles. And Park has a smooth twist ready for the final reel. Like many plot devices she uses, the key reveal could have been dragged down by shmaltz, but she manages to make a movie that is endearing but never sappy. It has heart and a spine, and an old-fashioned sincerity that is refreshing. It avoids the cynicism that old Elliott has fallen victim to. You go, young Elliott.

Fast-Forward Theater: Col. Urinal*

 An occasional feature whereby we make it through slow-paced movies by deftly employing the FF button.

PERFECT DAYS (C+) - Wim Wenders ("Wings of Desire") takes a great idea and turns it into a Boomer wank, as he celebrates a simple Everyman who cleans public toilets in Tokyo while savoring the beauty of the every day. It's about as sappy as movies come these days.

Koji Yakusho is perfectly charming as Hirayama, a middle-aged regular Joe who refuses to let his lowly job define him. Rather, he studies photography, embraces nature, and reads highbrow books before nodding off to sleep each night on a simple mat in a humble home. He always has an amused look on his face, and he is a man of few words. Ah, let us celebrate the noble working man! (One who never gets his uniform dirty and who absent-mindedly scrubs away at porcelain that's already in cinematic ship-shape, as if the Japanese don't leave a mark on their public potties.)

Of course, Wenders imbues Hirayama with the exact musical taste you would expect Wenders to have. He pops a cassette (old school, but of course) into his car stereo on his daily commute and blares one overplayed classic pop song after another. (The world just never needs to hear "Brown-Eyed Girl" in a movie ever again. And "(Sittin' on) the Dock of the Bay" is a close second.) And wouldn't you know it, young people -- especially young women -- go gaga over his taste in music and analog ways. One even crushes on him and gives him a peck on the cheek. Happens to us geezers all the time!

The plot, you ask? There really isn't one, and that's supposed to be the cloying point, I suppose. Hirayama's younger colleague Takashi (Tokio Emoto) makes a play for one of the women, a stereotypical manic-pixie dream girl, but the two men often toil in silence -- convenient for fast-forwarding through the toilet-scrubbing and the leaf-gazing. Hirayama's niece Niko (Arisa Nakano) comes to visit, and of course she is completely smitten with his zen bachelor-pad aesthetic -- not to mention his taste in literature, because what teen wouldn't want to live like a 60-year-old man. 

If Hirayama were believable as a real working slug instead of an idealized slumming intellectual, this might have more than Hallmark appeal. But with so little action, the weaknesses and wish-fulfillment are glaring.

BONUS TRACK

ONLY IN THEATERS (C) - It's hard to describe how misleading and annoying this documentary -- about Los Angeles' elite art-house cinema chain, curated for decades by the Laemmle family -- is. You settle into your seat and hope to celebrate the dying communal experience of watching quality films in a quaint theater, only to be stuck with a dreary, drawn-out hagiography of the clan that has exhibited movies for nearly as long as Hollywood has been making them. 

No one has an unkind word for four generations of Laemmles, and the filmmakers hang their narrative on friendly Greg Laemmle, the middle-aged grandson of the founder, who finds himself seriously considering unloading the chain when we meet him in the late 2010s. We hear praise from a wide range of eminent talking heads -- Ava Duvernay, Cameron Crowe, James Ivory, Nicole Holofcener and even old Leonard Maltin. The filmmakers are grateful for this type of theater chain that reached its heights during the '90s heyday of boutique indies. 

But things here bog down about halfway through when Covid hits. Director Raphael Sbarge thinks he's got grand drama on his hands, but instead his documentary drops like a lead balloon. There is little narrative spark to be derived from rehashing the pandemic's closures and panic. (A nice touch is a running visual accounting of the clever marquee movie references the shuttered theaters feature during the shutdown.) Greg Laemmle and his fawning wife move to Seattle, and it's just hard to care how this all turns out. (You'll likely be as disappointed as Sbarge probably was at the outcome.) For some reason, Greg's kids, who have nothing interesting to offer, get a lot of face time, including during bland family gatherings.

Meantime, interview after interview waxes poetic over how precious these theaters are and how crucial it is that we watch prestige films in these hallowed group settings. No one finds an original or interesting way to articulate that. And when the narrative here stalls, you'll be grateful that you are watching this on home video so that you can fast-forward through this indulgent family album.

* - "Col. Urinal" comes from my days working in the kitchen of a catering company on the southwest side of Chicago during high school and college. It was the honorary title conferred on the employee who was assigned that day to clean the bathroom.

Digging Out the Truth

 

SUGARCANE (A-minus) - Heart-wrenching isn't an adequate word to describe this documentary about the ghosts of the past that are stirred up by an investigation into an Indian residential school run by the Catholic church, which enabled some unspeakable horrors over the past century. 

Emily Kassie and Julian Brave NoiseCat, who also plays a lead role, take a highly polished approach to this searing dramatic story they have to tell. At times the visuals and narrative flourishes feel almost too stylized for the harsh truths they are unearthing. But there is no denying the power of the story.

Julian's father, Ed Archie NoiseCat (below), is one of several middle-aged Native Americans who continue to cope with the abuse they suffered at the hands of nuns and priests. (What is laid out is probably even worse than you imagine, even knowing the evils of the Catholic Church and its penchant for shuffling pedophiles from parish to parish.) Ed's harrowing origin story -- he was born under dire circumstances while his mother was a student at St. Joseph's Mission near Williams Lake, British Columbia, around the late '50s -- grounds this grave and clear-eyed film. He, understandably, had demons to slay, and he walked away from Julian at some point, though they reconciled and form the heart of the film. Their conversations are touching. Ed's mother appears, but she has never wanted to talk about what happened.

The narrative is scaffolded on a reconciliation project that returns to the school land in a grim hunt for human remains. We watch key figures from Canada's indigenous community diligently engage in research and forensics. A B-story involves an elderly survivor, Rick Gilbert, still beholden to his religious faith, going on a mission to the Vatican. He seeks a final healing or explanation but is greeted with not much more than sympathetic looks and shrugs from one of the Pope's flunkies. 

A young Chief, Willie Sellars, gamely shows respect for the investigation but also serves as a bridge to the modern era, forging ahead and trying to outrun the past, while still honoring the victims. At nearly two hours, the documentary can be daunting to sit through, and maybe that's why Kassie and NoiseCat, along with cinematographer Christopher LaMarca, imbue the visuals with such beauty and reverence. Maybe the dissonance is their own way of trying to reconcile the past with the present.

BAD PRESS (B) - This interesting but overlong documentary spends years chronicling the fate of Muscogee Media, which fought for its free-speech rights against the Creek Nation in Oklahoma, where, like almost all of the 500-plus tribal lands, there is no First Amendment.

We meet scrappy reporters and editors, notably Angel Ellis, as they fall victim to the whims of the tribal council, which, at the beginning of the film, repeals a statute that had guaranteed independence to Muscogee Media. The filmmakers embed themselves with the staff (both video and print) and dig in for the long haul as political fortunes hang in the balance.

The movie is more about politics than journalism much of the time. It begins with the repeal in 2018 and slogs its way through several election cycles, to diminishing effect. The villain is the head of the 16-member council, Lucien Tiger III, who eventually runs for chief. The second half of the 98-minute film bogs down in a 10-person primary and then a two-person runoff. But even after a favorable candidate grabs the chief position, the next hurdle is trying to get approval for a ballot initiative for a constitutional amendment enshrining the right of a free press. A lot of the characters, who seem like good guys, come off as corrupt as the mayor of New York.

Directors Rebecca Landsberry-Baker and Joe Peeler have a sly eye for artsy establishing shots, and they certainly steeped themselves in the fine details of Creek life. Sometimes that is to their detriment, as the passing years -- including an apparent break for COVID -- can be wearying to the casual viewer. They place a huge burden on Ellis, and there are only so many times we can empathize with her as she lights another cigarette and spews frustration. But this is a fine David vs. Goliath tale, as well as an insightful examination of a culture torn between tradition and progressive values.

The Wilder Wild West

 Dare we dig up a relic and once again confront the consequences of a misspent youth?

BLAZING SADDLES (1974) (B+) - About 20 years ago, I was dating a woman 12 years younger, and I thought it would be fun if I schooled the young woman on the great joy of watching "Young Frankenstein." This was 30 years after its release, and I'll never forget how, after about 10 minutes of Borscht Belt slapstick (the worst part of the movie) that left my date stone-faced, I leaped for the remote to turn it off, embarrassed that I was now on the wrong side of my 40s and out of touch with the person on the couch who born the year the movie came out.

 

So it was with trepidation that I approached the whole idea of screening "Blazing Saddles," the other Mel Brooks-Gene Wilder collaboration, released earlier in 1974. And this one comes with a whole nother hornet's nest of pitfalls -- it has a script riddled with the n-word, and it leaves few vulnerable groups unscathed as it employs Brooks' patented broad vaudevillian humor to skewer the western genre that he and others grew up with. Good lord, should anyone watch this anachronism anymore? 

The screenplay was a five-person effort, which included Richard Pryor, who gave cover to Brooks' regulars to let fly with the racial epithets and who was supposed to star, but for his drug and alcohol battles rendering him unreliable. Enter Cleavon Little, who is a revelation as Black Bart, who lucks out when he's plucked from a lowly railroad job and foisted on the town of Rock Ridge as sheriff. This is the plan of Hedley Lamarr (Harvey Korman), who needs the town's real estate to reroute his railroad through. The plan is that the sight of a black sheriff will cause all the townsfolk to flee.

Surviving the initial backlash, Bart teams up with the Waco Kid (Gene Wilder) to win over the residents and fend off Lamarr's henchmen, which includes the monstrous moron Mongo (football player Alex Karras), who achieves screen-legend status when the character drops a horse with one punch. Lamarr also sends in a German chanteuse -- the impeccable Madeleine Kahn satirizing Marlene Dietrich -- who succumbs to Black Bart's charms because ... well, you know what they said back then about the brothers. 

This all gets quite silly, of course. And the movie has burnished its notoriety with scenes and one-liners that got passed around my junior high back in the day -- bean-eating cowboys farting around a camp fire; "Where the white women at?"; and, of course, "Excuse me, while I whip this out."

It's been 50 long years since even the idea of a spoof of westerns seemed like something that could work. Jokes about a man constantly being mistaken for Hedy Lamarr ("It's Hedley!") certainly don't age well. The kitchen-sink slapstick can still elicit belly-laughs, but too much now just seems more embarrassing than gut-busting. You can carve out a pretty fun drinking game every time a new vulnerable group gets made fun of. (Even Kahn's character, Lili Von Shtupp, not only has a slut-shaming name as subtle as a poke in the eye, but she comes with a wacky speech impediment.) Back then, you could be an equal-opportunity offender and be rewarded with a hit movie; these days, the few of us who bother to revisit that era will find it more quaint than hilarious. We won't even get into the beta-meta ending, which breaks the fourth wall and offers a spectacle of anarcy, featuring hundreds of extras, that would make Cecil B. Demille blush and which would leave anyone under 40 baffled as to how this would ever be considered amusing.

But, "Blazing Saddles," for better or worst, is a snapshot of a moment in time. In 1974, it had been less than 50 years since Al Jolson performed in blackface. Hollywood of the '40s and '50s was still a fresh memory, and Brooks was the master of satire. Nazis and Klansmen were played for laughs. Effeminate men were a riot. Ethnic putdowns were the coin of the realm. You could argue that the excessive use of the n-word is so over the top that it makes a powerful argument against racism. Who can say anymore? Who cares? Why did I even bring it up? (Counter-argument: the Library of Congress has preserved the movie in the National Film Registry.)

That said, there is much to enjoy about this crazy production. Little is smart and charming. Wilder is an understated gem. Kahn was probably the funniest actress of her generation (she would re-team with Wilder, more famously, in "Young Frankenstein"). I laughed when town leader Howard Johnson (again, that name was funny back when Nixon was president) held up a floral wreath and announced that he wished to "extend a laurel ... and hardy handshake" to the new sheriff. That one will always trigger the 12-year-old in me. Even during this enlightened era we now live in.

REMEMBERING GENE WILDER (C) - This is a rather glum hagiography about the career of Gene Wilder, narrated in his monotone from beyond the grave, presumably from the audio version of his 2005 memoir. He was not only a great comic actor who peaked in the 1970s, but he went on to make his own movies and was also a published author.

But this unimaginative slog through his oeuvre leans heavy on the likes of Mel Brooks -- almost certainly spinning apocryphal, embellished tales of their time together, especially that great run of "The Producers," "Blazing Saddles" and "Young Frankenstein -- and, for some reason, Harry Connick Jr. Other random folks who show up include Alan Alda, Richard Pryor's daughter, and Eric McCormack. Ben Mankiewicz puts on his serious glasses to play cinema historian for the guy who played Willy Wonka.

Wilder was intensely funny. The bar he set in "Young Frankenstein" will always be tough to clear for any actor. But it almost diminishes his contributions to have folks fawn over him as if he were some sort of saint. His relationship with Gilda Radner -- her cancer was diagnosed not long after they fell in love -- gets surprisingly short shrift, with a couple of backhanded digs at the former "SNL" star's troubles. Wilder's widow -- whom he met within a year of Radner's death -- dominates the second half of the film, which takes up Wilder's descent into dementia (in a Hallmark fashion). The man (and poor Gilda) deserves better.

Finding Your Voice

 

BETWEEN THE TEMPLES (A-minus) - There they are, at the top of the ticket, a dream team: Jason Schwartzman and Carol Kane. You go into it thinking "Please don't screw this up." Thankfully, filmmaker Nathan Silver -- who has flown under our radar up until now -- delivers, along with his stars.

Schwartzman plays Ben, a depressed cantor who has lost his voice -- but not his job, because his two moms are big donors to the temple. He gets drunk (and slugged) at a dive bar. He lies prone in front of an oncoming truck (to no avail; it easily stops before it gets to him). By chance, he runs into his childhood music teacher, Carla (Kane), who decides to take his bat mitzvah class, along with a bunch of tweens, as a sly way of getting closer to him to look out for him. 

 

What develops is a charming update of "Harold & Maude," featuring a quirky odd couple who develop an improbable but deep bond that helps heal each person's psychic wounds. No one is better at this than Schwartzman, the master of intellectual quirk, and Kane (TV's "Taxi" and "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt"), who can find the humanity in any screwball character. The two of them make the screen ripple with joy and melancholy, as they blithely carry every minute of the nearly two-hour run time. 

It's a little disconcerting to see Schwartzman -- the breakout youngster from "Rushmore" and then so many other Wes Anderson films and lo-fi indies -- start to descend into a chubby middle age. But that aging process, while it threatens to take the zip off his fastball, has the effect of wiping that smirk off his face and revealing another layer to his personality. Kane looks surprisingly youthful here, a cross between Ruth Gordon and Julie Delpy, a savvy mix of would-be cougar and mother hen. Their bond is ostensibly platonic, but it does intrude on others' efforts to set Ben up with the rabbi's daughter, Gabby (a vivacious Madeline Weinstein), whose healthy lust is too much for Ben to contemplate these days. (The rabbi is played by gagster Robert Smigel, who delivers one-liners with a low-key confidence.)

None of this would mean much if Silver didn't imbue it with smart humor and carefully layered characterizations. The whole production has the grittiness of a 1970s comic morality play, even copping the retro graphic styles for the opening credits (plus, see the soundtrack samples below). And the cast sinks its teeth into the clever dialogue, much of it subtle and deliciously Jewish. At one point Ben has to explain away the concepts of the afterlife: "In Judaism, we don't have heaven or hell; we just have upstate New York." Upon first meeting Carla, he tries to jog her memory, bragging that he got top grades. Her retort: "It's music class; everybody gets an A."

You can never be certain, right up until the end, if Ben will get his voice back (and if that matters), or if he seriously thinks he has more of a future with a woman decades his senior while passing up a romp with a randy younger woman. But the particulars of romantic possibilities are not really the point here. Toss aside your scorecard and let a movie by adults, for adults, carry you away with its nuanced storytelling.

BONUS TRACKS

The soundtrack adds to the '70s vibe with a bunch of folky throwbacks, many in Hebrew. They set a Lee Hazelwood mood. There are a couple by Arik Einstein, including "Hi Tavo (She Will Come)":

 

There is the glum "Wish I Was a Single Girl Again," from Tia Blake from 2008:

 

And this dusty from Buddy Gibson, "To Be or Not To Be":