Google credits

Google's home page pays tribute to Saul Bass, the king of jazzy, artsy movie credits, with this animation today, the 93rd anniversary of his birth:

Holy Crap: "Perfect Ending"

It's a soft-core porn film! It's a soap opera! It's the worst of both genres!

I can't remember the last time I saw a movie as ardently, urgently bad as "Perfect Ending," an embarrassing attempt at uplifting gay-power cinema. It is poorly acted, written with a computer program that strings together cliches, and it's shot as if by a toddler who had been handed an iPhone. It's as if 1950s sitcom actors were interpreting a '60s soap opera, all under the direction of an early '80s Cinemax hack. It's a riot.

Barbara Niven -- whose resume includes such titles as "Psycho Cop Returns," "Depraved," "Humanoids of the Deep," "Breast Men" and "Love Boat: The Next Wave" -- stars here as middle-aged Rebecca Westridge, a rich, hard-drinking, sexually deprived suburban housewife.  Rebecca's sassy lesbian pals get her to admit that she's never had an orgasm, and one of them proposes that she hire a female prostitute.  And the friend conveniently has a cousin who runs the agency and just happens to be played by Morgan Fairchild.  If the opening scenes featuring John Heard -- as the boorish husband who is such a repulsive cretin that he tells ethnic jokes! -- didn't place this squarely in 1982, then the appearance of the star of "Flamingo Road" calibrated the time machine with Swiss precision.

Oh, but Rebecca can't possibly sleep with a woman! She's straight, and married. But, alas, she relents and makes an appointment. And of course, just like when anyone hires a prostitute, a stunningly beautiful olive-skinned full-lipped model/artist half her age shows up at the door. But, no! Rebecca Westridge can't go through with it. She's too shy. It's wrong! And she sends Paris away. Oh, but this feline seductress will be back. But, no! Rebecca must resist again -- and run toward the door, dropping her purse as she fumbles with the knob, as if being pursued by Lon Chaney. This dangerous dance goes on for about an hour before Paris finally gets a clear shot at popping Rebecca's cherry.

Niven, who is no B-movie virgin, does a convincing post-coital purr. It is the only passable feat of acting in the entire film. The three actors playing her concerned grown children struggle to screw up concern over their parents' marriage and can't even convincingly pretend to worry about mom missing dinner -- she never misses dinner!, they marvel, Brady-style.

All of this is preciously presented by Nicole Conn, who's been allowed to produce these soft-focus melodramas sparingly over the past two decades.  Conn's amateurish script suffers further from her penchant for extreme pointless close-ups and the distracting habit of letting a scene's images linger while starting the dialogue from the next scene. It's confusing, not artistic.

For the piece de resistance, Conn dives full-on into movie-of-the-week mush by following up the Big O with the Big C. A character tragically gets a cancer diagnosis, but conveniently, it's the make-believe kind that doesn't involve any discernible suffering or any reduction in breast perkiness. Actors get to "play sad."  Conn, ever the fauxteur, gets to shoot a funeral as if it's a bar mitzvah.

And everyone gets to learn a valuable lesson about love, tolerance and oral sex. Heartwarming.

GRADE: F

Holy Crap is an occasional series about unique films that cut a wide swath from brilliant to awful. Check out a previous entry here.

Streets of San Francisco

Four scenes from a Sunday in San Francisco:

• At the trolley terminus turnaround at Powell & Hyde, an older gentleman was playing amplified acoustic guitar for the folks queueing up for the ride back downtown. Among the gems he played: a fresh, soulful rendition of the Captain and Tennille hit "Love Will Keep Us Together."
• At one end of the Wharf, I paid $5 and got to explore the WWII "Liberty ship" the SS Jeremiah O'Brien, marveling at the ingenuity and workmanship of a manmade wonder.
• In all my years, I've seen a lot of street musicians in countless combinations and permutations. But this was a new one on me: Along Columbus, a block from the City Lights bookstore, a ragtag jazz combo was playing a spirited session for passers-by, and in the middle of the scrum was a dude playing an upright piano. Right there on the corner in broad daylight, a real piano.
• Sunday night, at the Great American Music Hall, a purported former house of ill repute, we saw a hot show by the Cave Singers. Here's one of the songs they played:

Wandering Man

Two worlds, muddled ...

NIGHT ACROSS THE STREET (incomplete) - As I watched Raoul Ruiz's final film unfold on the big screen, I could see the images dissolve into fizzy bubbles and float away; I could feel everything pass through my brain and fall out of my ears. I saw it just a few days ago, and I can't really tell you anything about it.

So I won't go on. I do remember thinking: This would be great to see in 3-D, to be surrounded by it, embraced by it, swept up into its world. I'd love to see it again; I'd have to in order to properly review it. (I found this review at random, which assesses it about as well as any other would.)

This is the final film of a Chilean master, released after his death, and it's about as perfect a way to go as you could imagine. Don Celso Barra (Sergio Hernandez) is an office worker who apparently reflects on his life (and impending death?) and his interactions with friends, mentors, loved ones -- and even Beethoven and Long John Silver. He constantly insists on being called "Rhododendro," a play on his nickname. We see him as a child. We see him as an old man sitting in a classroom.

Ruiz's camera floats through some scenes. A few of his achingly slow but elegant pans, which cleverly reveal objects off to the side or in the foreground, are magical to behold.  That's all I've got. It was an experience. Maybe you had to be there.

LUV (B) - Vincent (the rapper/actor Common), fresh out of the pen after eight years, takes his 11-year-old nephew Woody (the impressive Michael Rainey Jr.) out on the seedy streets of Baltimore for a day to teach him "real world shit . . . what it takes to be a man . . . handling your business across the board." Vincent purportedly has a real-estate business plan to run past bankers, but his shady past bubbles to the surface before noon, and soon the boy, kitted out in a sharp suit, is knee-deep in adult behavior.

Common carries a movie well, and Rainey keeps up with him. The 24-hour conceit leads to more than one leap of faith that strains the movie's credibility. Director Sheldon Candis (who co-wrote with Justin Wilson) isn't subtle about hammering home the theme of rites of passage. The plot and the interplay of characters can be hard to follow at times. And like most movies in this genre, it shovels its share of macho bullshit. Otherwise, Candis strings together some fine moments. The bulk of the film unfolds like a classy episode of "The Wire," complete with the occasional muffled dialogue.

The supporting cast features a triumvirate of top-notch veterans: Danny Glover, Dennis Haysbert and Charles Dutton (looking shriveled from his "Roc" heyday). They bring class and gravity to a project that could have been just another throwaway slice-of-life crime saga. "LUV" has just enough momentum to string along its small moments to a satisfying conclusion.

George Jones, RIP

Here is, perhaps, the best country music song not written by Hank Williams or Willie Nelson:

Adult Content

Two satisfying, low-profile rentals successfully provide slices of life revolving around adults behaving badly, while a third falls short.

28 HOTEL ROOMS (A-minus) - This fascinating character study of a couple turns "Same Time Next Year" into a psychosexual drama. The amazing Marin Ireland and sturdy Chris Messina bring an impressive improv feel to this glorified stage play about a pair (she's an accountant; he's a novelist) who conduct a years-long series of trysts at hotels despite their betrothals to various others along the way.

Ireland, who had a memorable turn as a homegrown terrorist in "Homeland," is brilliant; she works wonders with her facial expressions. Messina is more than just a great smile and puppy eyes. Both are willing to get fully naked, physically and emotionally, as they coyly dance around the quandary of whether they truly belong together. As an undefined number of years pass (five? ten?), the power dynamic between the two ebbs and flows.

Veteran actor Matt Ross shows a sure hand and stylistic flair in his debut as a writer/director. The narrative can be choppy, but the flawless chemistry and loose banter between Ireland and Messina is riveting from minute 1 to 82. The passion behind their laughs, rants and lovemaking feels genuine. After a second viewing, I bumped this up from a B+ to an A-minus. It's a luscious bit of stagecraft.

(Stay for the end credits for the song "A Dash of Pixie Dust.")

NOBODY WALKS (B) - Thirty-something Ry Russo-Young ("Orphans," "You Won't Miss Me") walks a fine line between earnest romantic drama and cheesy movie tropes -- and succeeds, thanks in part to a strong cast. The expressive Olivia Thirlby ("Juno," "Margaret") carries the load here as Martine, a young filmmaker working on an experimental project involving natural sounds.

She's invited into the home of Peter and Julie (John Krasinski of "The Office" and the always-welcome Rosemarie DeWitt of "Your Sister's Sister"), where Peter is tapped to mentor Martine and help her finish her film. Their collaboration evolves into intimate recordings (of her breathing, for example) and eventually tips over into the physical. Meanwhile, Julie has her own temptations to deal with.

Teenager India Ennenga (HBO's "Treme"), as Peter and Julie's curious daughter Kolt, is the wild card who helps divert us from the potential of a trite series of misbehaviors. She plays an emerging young woman pining for her dad's hunky assistant (Rhys Wakefield) and fending off creepy come-ons from her Italian language tutor (Emanuele Secci).

The women make this worth watching, and Krasinski (who was good in the under-appreciated "Away We Go") doesn't embarrass himself. Things zip by in under 90 minutes and you cut Russo-Young (co-writing the script with Lena Dunham) enough slack for her to succeed. 

THE PLAYROOM (B-minus) - This is a lightweight period piece about the horrors of adulthood -- this time it is drunken, swinging mid-'70s parents traumatizing their four kids, led by 16-year-old Maggie (newcomer Olivia Harris). The kids gather upstairs telling fairy tales and ghost stories -- escapist adventures -- while the parents have "adult time" downstairs. While they fetishize the era with an authentic set, writer Gretchen Dyer and director Julia Dyer assemble enough charming small moments and neat visual tricks to hold our attention.

The kids here are all sharp. Maggie acts out (smoking and having realistic first-time sex) but she also fills in as de facto mom to her younger siblings. Alexandra Doke, as the other sister, around age 9, is a revelation; just the right amount of cute and smart. The banter among the children is casual and believable. Their camaraderie holds the film together.

The parents, however, come across as morose, mumbling caricatures who goof off in the background with the neighbor couple. They are about as relevant as the squawking adults in Peanuts cartoons. If it weren't for appealing duo of Molly Parker and John Hawkes, this would have been a train wreck. Even with them, the drama is broad and telegraphed. This wants to be "The Ice Storm" meets "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" but it comes off as a minor imitation of those dramatic giants.

The Dyers' lovely little mood piece falls apart in the final act, with a rather implausible climax involving the adults. But they've strung together some lovely scenes, and every so often they hit a nerve, even if all the film's pieces don't quite add up.

New to the queue

Recent releases we've flagged for potential:

Jeff Nichols' follow-up to "Take Shelter," the Matthew McConaughey freak-out "Mud."

The French father-son tale "Renoir."

The latest from the impeccable Francois Ozon, "In the House."

The '70s documentary "Free Angela and All Political Prisoners."

Eleanor Burke and Ron Eyal's debut feature, the awkward relationship drama "Stranger Things."


An American in Paris:  the morally conflicted "Simon Killer."

The trashy, sympathetic doc "Bert Stern: Original Mad Man."

Another doc, this one about magician/actor Ricky Jay, "Deceptive Practice: The Mysteries and Mentors of Ricky Jay."

Danny Boyle's heist film "Trance." 

The latest from Ken Loach, "The Angels' Share."

The documentary about an American caught up in China's postwar politics, "The Revolutionary."

Marley and Me

MARLEY (B+)*

Kevin Macdonald does a masterful job of putting forth the definitive biography of reggae star and music legend Bob Marley. The project holds up surprisingly well under the weight of nearly two-and-a-half hours.

The documentary captures not just the history but also the spirituality that emanated from Marley and the 1970s reggae/rastafarian movement. Our main guide is original band member Bunny Wailer, giving off a regal show-biz glow as sort of the Flavor Flav of the Wailers. Relatives, band members, wife Rita, lovers, baby mamas -- even an early studio hand identified as a "singer and janitor" -- all weigh in.

We're treated to the roots of the movement, the Jamaican ska scene of the 1950s and '60s. We get a healthy dose of the Wailers' ska phase. And then a wonderful moment comes around the 40-minute mark, when Bunny Wailer and session drummer Carlton "Santa" Davis explain the subtle technical shift from ska to raggae. (It's reminiscent of DJ Bonebrake's breakdown of his unique syncopated drumbeat in "X: The Unheard Music.") Macdonald immediately cuts to a familiar guitar lick, and the movie instantly clicks. It's as if it goes from black-and-white to color, like in "The Wizard of Oz." Technician Bob Andy also explains that the signature "chicka" guitar sound that happened almost by accident, "an illusion," created by instant feedback from the recording machines at the time. Wailer imbues it all with biblical significance.

Historical touchstones stitch this all together through remembrances and archival footage: the  1966 visit to Jamaica by Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie, a deity among the rastafarians; a description of the massive marijuana plants Marley planted in his mother's back yard during a brief stay in Delaware; the arrival of influential producer Lee Scratch Perry; videotape of the 1976 Miss World crowning of girlfriend Cindy Breakspeare; the political street violence in Jamaica in the mid to late '70s; the brief post-shooting exile in London during the height of punk. Macdonald explores the confounding phenomenon of Marley's lack of appeal to black audiences in the United States. The breakthrough tour opening for the Commodores and the euphoric concert at Madison Square Garden quickly turn bittersweet with the discovery of terminal cancer that made this the last tour.

The final days are painful. Marley ignored Breakspeare's advice to go give up on the cancer treatments and instead go back to Jamaica to "smoke a big-ass spliff" and enjoy fish tea; instead, his final months were spent in snowy, freezing Germany, undergoing experimental treatment. The reminiscences of an older German nurse are particularly poignant. For the first time, still photographs capture fear in Marley's eyes.

But it's the joy of the infectious music that wins out in the end; the iconic songs resonate. Especially powerful is an early demo of "No Woman No Cry" done in gospel style, with Peter Tosh on piano. The breakthrough "Stir It Up," seen in studio footage, earns renewed respect. Diehards will wallow in the hits; neophytes will be persuaded by the argument that Marley's music is much more than a best-of album played to death in college dorm rooms.

Reggae is perhaps my least favorite form of music. But you need not be a fan of Marley and his music to appreciate his story. His late-career embrace of Africa (including a somewhat naive gig in the dictatorship of Gabon) brings Marley's one-love/one-world philosophy full circle.

This is a loving film, produced with the cooperation of the Marley family. And it comes with a moral: don't ignore melanoma. Marley died at age 36 in 1981.

(* - Screened, coincidentally on 4/20)

Bonus Track
The early hit: "Simmer Down"

One-Liners

WEST CENTRAL FIVE (B+) - Ken Burns and company get out of the way of a good story: a recounting of the false accusations and flawed prosecution of five black and hispanic teenagers in the 1989 rape and assault of a jogger in Central Park. The two-hour film (available at PBS.org) indicts not only the police and the DA's office but also politicians and the rabid New York media, which ignited a frenzy of hate toward these kids, some as young as 14, who were causing trouble in the park that night but did not rape the woman. (DNA tests confirmed the identity of the lone rapists, and the five were exonerated about a decade after their convictions.) All five appear to tell their stories. Many of the police and prosecutors are missing in action, as we get the story mainly from the criminal defense perspective. A true cautionary tale.

ABOUT CHERRY (C) - A laconic debut feature about a young adult who drifts into the world of porn. Writer/director Stephen Elliott's shaky camera is ineffective, and he lapses into too many cliches, such as close-ups of raindrops on windows and windshields. The lead is newcomer Ashley Hinshaw, who was about 21 at the time of filming and who comes off like a junior January Jones, with limited range but ample assets. James Franco, as her rich-lazy-druggy failed-artist boyfriend, acts as if he wandered over confused from another movie set. Lili Taylor phones in a thankless role as Cherry's lying, boozing mom. The only reason to see this is for Heather Graham, having outgrown her own bouncy topless roles ("Boogie Nights" et al.). She brings surprising depth to her turn as an adult-film director who crushes on Cherry while watching her own relationship to Diane Farr fall apart. Nothing else here really works.

A BURNING HOT SUMMER (C-minus) - This bit of French mumblecore is listless and directionless. Two couples in faltering relationships hang out at one of the couples' swanky apartment in Rome, where he's an artist (Louis Garrel, "The Dreamers" and the director's son) and she's a former model and movie star (Monica Bellucci, "Matrix Reloaded"). A half hour in, there is a fascinating dance scene set to the entirety of Dirty Pretty Things' spunky "Truth Begins," in which Bellucci grinds seductively with a random party-goer surrounded by trippy trance dancers. That's immediately followed by a childish putdown from Garrel to Bellucci, who freezes him with a glare and dismisses him with one word: basta. Otherwise, he's a mope, she walks around spilling out of her dress, and they sometimes cry together or remove a splinter from his foot. We don't care whether they stay together or not, the film's fundamental flaw. The other couple, struggling actors played by a bland Jerome Robart and sad-eyed Celine Sallette ("House of Tolerance"), barely register here. Just like their characters are stuck with these overgrown boys, Bellucci and Sallette seem trapped in this tepid melodrama.

Daydreams of Cannes

USA Today reports on the lineup for next month's Cannes Film Festival, and we pick through it to craft a wish list of movies we're hoping to see in the coming months.

• The Coen Brothers, who have been on a spectacular roll, return with "Inside Llewyn Davis" starring Carey Mulligan, Justin Timberlake and some adults.
• Sofia Coppola, who got back on her game with "Somewhere," shows promise with another juicy tale of privileged young women, "The Bling Ring."
• The brilliant Jia Zhangke ("The World," "Still Life," "24 City") returns from a long break from feature films with "A Touch of Sin."
• Arnaud Desplechin ("Kings & Queen" and "A Christmas Tale") offers "Jimmy Picard," starring Benicio del Toro and the wonderful Mathieu Amalric. 
• Francois Ozon, whose "In the House" opens this week in New York, already has his follow-up ready to unspool: "Jeune et Jolie (Young and Pretty)," which features Charlotte Rampling.
• Veteran actress Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, who starred in Ozon's "5x2," sat behind the camera for "A Chateau in Italy."
• Steven Soderbergh presents his swan song, the Liberace biopic "Behind the Candelabra."
• Iran's Asghar Farhadi follows up the Oscar-winning "A Separation" with "The Past."
• A father-son story? A road movie? Alexander Payne ("The Descendants") promises both in "Nebraska."
• J.C. Chandor, who wowed with his debut, "Margin Call," serves up a sophomore effort, "All Is Lost."
• Japan's prolific pulp master Takashi Miike ("Audition") presents "Shield of Straw."
• BEWARE: The last time Nicolas Winding Refn and Ryan Gosling got together, they tortured us with "Drive." They are teaming up again for something called "Only God." (As in, "Only God can help us now.")
• BEWARE II: The insufferable Baz Luhrmann, who will never be forgiven for the horrific spectacle "Moulin Rouge," will not only present "The Great Gatsby," but he'll do his best to desecrate the literary classic by screening it in 3-D. 

Bonus Track
Here's the exhilarating trailer for Sofia Coppola's "The Bling Ring," near-perfection in less than a minute, a joyful retro explosion of music and graphics:

3 Unrelated films

A small indie, a Russian classic, and '60s kitsch:

SMASHED (B+) - A thinly sliced but winning indie drama about a drunken young couple whose marriage is challenged when she decides to sober up and go to AA. Mary Elizabeth Winstead (the purple-haired girl from "Scott Pilgrim vs. the World") is perfect as an elementary school teacher who does inappropriate things in front of her students to cover up her hangovers and lies. Nick Offerman (avoiding that annoying comedy thing he likes to do) is effective as her co-worker and AA sponsor. Aaron Paul (Jesse from "Breaking Bad") holds his own as her trust-fund slacker husband. But it's Winstead, with her soulful eyes and Plain Jane charm, who propels this neat 81-minute workout forward with energy and sincerity. Newcomers Susan Burke and James Ponsoldt (he also directs) crafted a smart, low-key script that refuses to get melodramatic or maudlin but never lacks for emotion. They artfully avoid the tropes of the Tragic Alcoholic and instead convey the minor day-to-day embarrassments of being a drunk and the struggles to stay sober. The solid supporting cast includes Octavia Spencer ("The Help) and -- in a fascinating rip in the fabric of the universe -- both Mary Kay Place and Megan Mullaley. This is a spare, compelling indie gem and a breakout role for Winstead.


SOLARIS (1972) (A-minus) - I won't reinvent the wheel here, and will instead recommend other discussions of Andrei Tarkovsky's film, such as this one, from Roger Ebert, who captures a key theme perfectly: "When we love someone, who do we love? That person, or our idea of that person? Some years before virtual reality became a byword, Tarkovsky was exploring its implications. Although other persons no doubt exist in independent physical space, our entire relationship with them exists in our minds." This is the third Tarkovsky film I've seen (the others are "Stalker" (playing this weekend at the Southwest Film Center at UNM) and "The Mirror"), and I could watch them all multiple times, luxuriating in their elliptical stories and playful philosophical word games. "Solaris" has the same melancholy tone of a good Kieslowski film, while matching Kubrick's "2001" slug for slug, including a lovely, powerful ending. I'll give you three lines from "Solaris":

• "The Earth has somehow become adjusted to people like you . . . although at what sacrifice?
• "Please don't interrupt me. I'm a woman, after all."
• "Don't turn a science problem into a common love story."

BORN LOSERS (1967) (C) - This cult oddity, the first movie to feature Tom Laughlin's character Billy Jack, is groovy kitsch and was appropriately screened on the retro channel THIS TV, with commercials and PG editing, just like we watched movies on television in the '70s. Laughlin wrote the story, about hippie bikers terrorizing a square town, in the '50s and finally directed it (under the name T.C. Frank) for a release just in time for the peak of the Summer of Love. This is pure caffeinated counter-culture clap-trap, but you have to admire Laughlin, totally believing in his character and proudly carrying that permanent chip on his shoulder forever like an epaulet. The bad guys come off as actors auditioning for an episode of "Batman" and the Sixties Chicks smolder as vixens and victims. It's a gas.

An 'A' for Effort, 'A' as in Acting

THE PLACE BEYOND THE PINES (B+)

We are treated to three generations of actors in the sweeping drama "The Place Beyond the Pines," and Derek Cianfrance sets them loose to squeeze away at his juicy script. This is a three-act extravaganza (a labored 140 minutes) that aims for immortality and gives you your money's worth.

But it falls short as high art, and that takes nothing away from Cianfrance who last pummeled us in 2010 with the relationship psychodrama "Blue Valentine." That stunning film and this one each lean heavily on Ryan Gosling and his rugged pout. But whereas "Valentine" was a compact two-handed exercise, pitting Gosling against the formidable Michelle Williams, here Gosling must lay the foundation for nearly the first hour of "Pines." And that's where the new release falls short of the greatness Cianfrance has had within his grasp.

Gosling and his stock moody-loner character (see also, the unforgivable "Drive") are close to wearing out their welcome. Here, the former child star sets this lumbering locomotive in motion as Luke, a stunt biker and tattooed trouble-maker who soon discovers the joys of robbing banks. This is his way of both impressing the ex he abandoned (Eva Mendes, making quite an entrance) and providing for the 1-year-old son of theirs whom Luke has just found out about upon his return to Schenectady.

It's difficult to discuss the rest of the movie without spoiling too much of the plot, but as Luke spins out of control, Gosling eventually hands off the film to Bradley Cooper, who finds just the right pitch as Avery, a law school grad slumming as a rookie cop but who also, as the son of a former New York State judge, harbors political ambitions, especially after he earns hero status for his daring police work. While Gosling and Cooper are given a portentous story to carry on their manly shoulders, their female co-stars, Mendes as Luke's girlfriend and Rose Byrne as Avery's wife, have little to work with aside from brooding over their bad boys. In a 180 from "Blue Valentine," this is a purely masculine film, a cautionary tale about the things that fathers pass on to their sons.

If the two young stars of the moment aren't quite up to producing an epic for the ages, they are rescued by an impressive cast of older actors. Journeyman Ben Mendelsohn throws a lifeline to Gosling in the first third as a shady body-shop owner, Robin, who recruits Luke for a few big scores. I've never seen Mendelsohn, an Australian actor who has kicked around for two decades, but with roles in some recent high-profile movies ("The Dark Knight Rises," "Killing Them Softly") perhaps his time has come. (He brings to mind Peter Coyote and John Hawkes.) The first third of "Pines" is awfully flat (on top of everything, Gosling and Mendes have no chemistry), and Mendelsohn gives things a jolt and keeps this one from going permanently off the rails.

In the second act, we're treated to some classic police graft, and no one does that better than Ray Liotta. When the film introduces his sleazy detective and a DA played by Bruce Greenwood (one of my favorites, from "Flight," "I'm Not There," "Exotica" and TV's "Nowhere Man" and "St. Elsewhere"), it's time for the grown-ups to right this ship. Longtime character actor Harris Yulin makes the most of his scenes as Avery's father/conscience. Cianfrance traffics in close-ups throughout, and these three veterans speak volumes with their wrinkles alone. Liotta's entrance is so powerful -- just a couple of his hard glances can elicit gasps -- that it makes the first half of the film seem in retrospect like just a warm-up filmed with stand-ins.

The final third of the film -- a jarring flash forward of 15 years, with inadequately aged actors -- hands the proceedings off yet again, this time to a pair of 17-year-olds, Emory Cohen and Dane DeHaan, who gamely carry this caravan across the finish line. My problem here isn't with the kids (Cohen is OK as a thick-headed guido, while DeHaan finds some depth to his character) but with a wild, improbable plot coincidence -- one of my cinematic pet peeves.

I don't normally focus so much analysis on acting; I tend to watch movies based on the work of directors. (Recent previews, by the way, have me giddy with anticipation for the latest films of two of my favorites, Noah Baumbach and Sofia Coppola.) But with "Pines," Cianfrance, ably aided by cinematographer Sean Bobbitt ("Shame"), tends to sit back and let the cast just go for it. Cianfrance may yet write and direct a masterpiece. "The Place Beyond the Pines" is a valiant attempt at crafting an epic, akin to the sweeping saga "Babel" by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, who aimed for greatness there and mostly succeeded.

"Pines" is, on balance, a compelling film. Cianfrance should be commended for his bravery in being willing to drive this project off a cliff at times. He shouldn't be criticized for trying. But we should be forgiven for wishing this one had at least been the first great film of 2013.

Nein, Non, a Thousand Times "NO"

Quick salvos from the foreign front:

"NO" (B-minus) - A fun but lightweight drama about Chile's 1988 referendum on the rule of its dictator, Augusto Pinochet. Gael Garcia Bernal is solid as Rene Saavedra, an ad man (whose father was disappeared by the Pinochet regime) recruited to head up the "No" campaign against the regime. Saavedra brings an MTV edge and zeal to the effort, as he would filming Pepsi commercials. The storyline is naturally compelling, but the film suffers from a surprising dearth of character development and human drama. I was waiting in vain throughout for this to start jumping off the screen. What we get instead is a serviceable period piece from Pablo Larrain ("Tony Manero" and "Post Mortem").

"FILM SOCIALISME" (C) - This meant nothing to me. I take it back: the reds and blues, like a digitally enhanced, high-def version of some of Godard's '60s classic shots, are stunning, at times mesmerizing. Beyond that, I'm not old or intellectual enough to appreciate whatever the French master is going for here, if he has a point at all. It seems to be some sort of sweeping history of western civilization and its economic system, but I was overwhelmed and defeated 20 minutes in. This plays out more like a collection of the random fevered musings of a man who can do absolutely anything he wants. We're on a cruise ship for much of the first third of the film, treated to scattered ramblings, mostly about World War II. We get multiple visual styles, jump cuts and sound dropouts -- as if we're receiving signals from a different dimension in some scenes. A child sips from a straw while jazz music plays. A llama stands hitched to a gas pump. Cats meow. Patti Smith strolls by. Incoherent (sometimes overlapping) dialogue often comes from off-screen; the script is essentially one long, dense non sequitur. (DVD viewers have the option of full English subtitles or subtitles employing Godard's brand of chopped-up pidgin English. For some reason.) Philosophy, history and nature swirl throughout. We're tugged back time and again to Palestine, which, for Godard, has some profound connection to gold-digging Europe's original sin -- but why does he drop in a card reading "KISS ME STUPID" in the middle of this muddle about the Middle East? What does it all mean? It might just mean that Jean Luc Godard can do whatever he wants and has final cut. Good for him. But, oh, the dizzying hues! The vibrant, digital primary perfection of those reds and the blues. We survive, wandering, world-weary tourists, in living color.

"BURDEN OF DREAMS" (1982) (B) - A somewhat crude documentary from Les Blank chronicling German director Werner Herzog's monomaniacal mission in the Brazilian jungle to film "Fitzcarraldo," described by the L.A. Times as "an epic about a man obsessed with hauling a steamship through the jungle to strike it rich in rubber" so that he can eventually build an opera house there. The humorless Herzog employs scores of native Indians as extras in his film, in which they struggle to help Fitzcarraldo haul a ship across a small mountain. The snakebit production is basically a string of disasters.  Early on it lost its two main stars -- Jason Robards to dysentery and Mick Jagger to "Tattoo You" (Klaus Kinski took over) -- and at one point was marred by tribal skirmishes. The documentary, crimped by bland narration, created a kerfuffle 30 years ago, because it exposed Herzog as bit of a mad man in Sisyphean pursuit of cinematic art. Watching it now, it's more quaint and amusing as a cultural artifact. A deeply nihilistic monologue by Herzog serves as a fitting climax.

(Bonus DVD Track: Les Blank's short film "Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe," about the director having lost a bet to colleague/rival Errol Morris about the success of the latter's classic doc "Gates of Heaven.")

The Last Word
Here's an obit of "Burden of Dreams" director Les Blank, from the Los Angeles Times. He died last Sunday.

Albuquerque Confidential

It's a fine weekend for cinema in town.

The Downtown Century theater adds Danny Boyle's "Trance" and Derek Cienfrance's "The Place Beyond the Pines," while keeping "No" and "Ginger and Rosa" around another week. Indie enthusiasts can't complain there.

The Southwest Film Center at UNM recycles "Black Power Mixtape."

The Guild Cinema wraps up "On the Road," and hosts the Albuquerque Film Club for De Sica's classic "The Miracle in Milan," before launching a weeklong affair with the annual "Experiments in Cinema" from Bryan Konefsky and his UNM cinema squad. ("Experiments" also graces several other venues between April 15 and 21.)

And if you just want to stay home and watch HBO, there's a new Louis C.K. special and the second-season premiere of "Veep" this weekend.

Consume entertainment.

Fade Out

Our correspondent Lionfish checks in to sharply disagree with our generous review of "Not Fade Away":

I admire your search for a higher purpose for this film . . . but its treatment of Vietnam seemed trivial and callous. Many plodding scenes add up to the following life lesson: It seemed sort of cool to be a soldier, but only until the war ramped up, because it’s not so cool to kill people, and no one with a lick of common sense wants to risk getting killed. The drummer turned sniper only got two lines of dialogue, and only drew a vaguely disgusted yawn from his friends. 

Smart people didn’t have to worry about the draft for a minute. They scored extra cool and noble points by turning their apathy into a statement about WWII discrimination against black soldiers and the massacre of women and children. That was the smart way to make a stand on race and war issues; it kept people free from the trouble of actually marching anywhere, or, God forbid, writing ridiculous protest songs.

I am pretty sure the writer/director is glorifying his own experience rather than providing any perspective. He is too busy demonstrating how his buddies and he perfectly embodied the 1960s, how they perhaps even helped define the decade in their small lovable way. How cool they were to have long hair, to smoke pot a lot, to love the Beatles, Dylan and the Stones, to piss off their neurotic 1950s moms and dads. He’s giving us every cliché and basically saying he had it right, ‘cos everyone knows so today. Oh, and he was especially, personally cool for overcoming his dorky looks, for listening to a handful of blues artists, for knowing a crazy girl who made it to the Village at just the right time, and for showing up at some Hollywood party where, he implies, his girlfriend might have blown Mick Jagger in the bathroom. 

There is no hint of self-criticism, just barely a knowing wink to the effect of, "glad the hair/shoes/Dostoyevsky references were just a phase." The boys’ half-hearted pursuit of a music career was filmed very seriously. When the band played, I could hear old geeks battling for days in meetings that started with – “Guys, this has to sound like the best mix there ever could have been of [insert above-mentioned icons] . . . played on [insert list of vintage equipment] . . . Go!!." They might insist that the soundtrack and the band member dynamics are what matter most in this movie. The writer mercifully acknowledges that his band wasn’t actually all that talented, and that failure was inevitable -- but only to make the point that his film is not simply a vanity project, it is The Absolute Defining Experience of His Generation. I thought it was simply pompous and boorish.

I am glad he had fun, despite the low self-esteem and band arguments he solemnly exposes us to. He went on to become a big-time Hollywood writer using his big Italian family for material. Good for him. That hardly makes the film a morality tale, or an insightful history lesson for us, since we’ve already heard those particular tales of the sixties ad nauseam. 

Sadly, it’s bound to become a history lesson anyway. The tiny flashes of JFK, MLK and Vietnam archival footage will give many a teacher an excuse to play that DVD to their students instead of lecturing them for two hours. It will be no surprise if the decade’s dramatic events keep fading away in the minds of kids, and if what those kids relate to the best is the growing domination of a kitschy and self-indulgent subculture.

GRADE: D+