A Lost Art

 

BOB ROSS: HAPPY ACCIDENTS, BETRAYAL & GREED (B) - For a guy who drew happy clouds and happy trees, he sure gets quite the melancholy treatment in this documentary biography. That's mainly because the film is more of a look at Bob Ross' sad-sack son, Steve, and less about the pleasant painter who entertained and inspired PBS audiences for years.

On my smart TV, there is a conglomeration of channels, some devoted to a single subject. One is a Bob Ross channel, airing the 11 seasons of his series from 30 years ago on a continuous loop, one painting appearing before your eyes every half hour. The visual and his voice are soothing, and can be a balm before bedtime. As you might expect, his life was not so placid. 

Documentarian Joshua Rofe's previous efforts seem to have a grit to them. Here he digs for the conflict behind the smile and the frizzy perm. Rofe targets Anne and Walt Kowalski, the gurus who backed Ross at the beginning and eventually took over his empire after Ross died of cancer at 52 in 1994, controlling his intellectual property to this day. Steve Ross spins tales going back to his childhood. He chafed at his dad's efforts to push him to paint in front of the camera and at his dad's apparent infidelities.

Friends and former colleagues of Bob Ross are on hand to give a sense of early camaraderie and an appreciation for the paint-by-numbers genre of pulp picture-making. That includes Gary and Kathwren Jenkins, whose own niche industry in flower-drawing was undermined by the rapacious Kowalskis. Rofe spins a sort of brooding soap opera, a paean to a more innocent but repressed era. You may learn a lot about Ross, but you might prefer to skip this and instead prefer to bliss out in the Mr. Rogers bubble of his time-warp, never-ending world of yesteryear. Either way, happy viewing.

BRESLIN AND HAMILL: DEADLINE ARTISTS (2018) (B+) - This reverent, gauzy look back at the 20th century era of the gruff newspaper columnists focuses on Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill, two New York legends and masters of the crafts of reporting and writing. Three next-gen journalists, including former media critic Jonathan Alter, share directing duties to bring to life the accomplishments of the brawler Breslin and the smooth-tongued Hamill.

Talking heads include a mix of former colleagues, longtime contemporaries, and family members to give a well-rounded picture of two guys who banged out column after column for decades. Breslin bristles at the term "journalist" -- "I'm a reporter." And he was; he literally wrote the book and was the shining star for new journalism, with even Tom Wolfe and Gay Talese on hand to defer to the master. Breslin, as always, comes across as a warts-and-all, emotionally damaged champion of the working class. The documentary doesn't gloss over his outburst against a Korean co-worker in the 1990s but puts his postwar persona in perspective. It features all his greatest hits, including JFK's gravedigger and the Son of Sam killer.

Hamill earns kudos for his more literary (but no more powerful) writing style, and he is admired for his way with the ladies (including Jackie Onassis, Shirley MacLaine and Linda Ronstadt). His battle with the publisher of the New York Post is fondly recalled. (Both men eventually cycled through just about every paper in New York except for the Times.)

The two men -- who have died since this was released three years ago -- sit together for a contemporary final set of interviews. They come off as proud of their accomplishments but not overly egotistical. Their contemporaries are reverent but not starry-eyed. This is an ode to an old style of newspaper work, and it's a valentine to a rougher, livelier era that no longer exists, for better and for worse.

New to the Queue

 The autumn of one's youth ...

A debut drama follows two cousins whose lives diverge and they grow into two very different adults, "Wild Indian."

We tend to skip biopics featuring lives we witnessed the first time around, but there's something appealingly trashy about the film from Michael Showalter ("Hello, My Name Is Doris," "The Big Sick") about our favorite religious charlatans the Bakkers, "The Eyes of Tammy Faye."

It looks like Annie Clark (St. Vincent) and Carrie Brownstein (TV's "Portlandia") had a lot of fun crafting the meta-mockumentary "The Nowhere Inn."

We're still onboard with David Chase ("Not Fade Away") and "The Sopranos," so we'll indulge him with his prequel, "The Many Saints of Newark."

The Duplass brothers rarely let us down, and Mark co-stars with Natalie Morales (who also directs) in a Zoom-era study of a budding long-distance friendship, "Language Lessons."

Adulting

 

MONDAY (A) - Irish TV and stage veteran Denise Gough unleashes a powerful performance as an ex-pat American in Greece stumbling into a rebound relationship and getting stuck in Athens with a charming DJ (also an ex-pat) instead of returning to Chicago to resume her legal career. This is another subversive modern anti-rom-com, and it is the flawless followup by Argyris Papadimitroupoulos, who wowed in 2017 with the equally insightful "Suntan."

Chloe (Gough) has a head-clunking meet-cute with rascally Mickey (Sebastian Stan) on a loud dance floor not long after Chloe has a fuck-off phone conversation with her controlling ex-boyfriend Dimitrios. Chloe and Mickey will wake up from a blackout the next morning, naked in the sand as families are arriving at the beach. This won't be their only brush with the law, which lets the randy couple go free with a slap on the wrist. Chloe is due to leave the next day, but Mickey entices her to stay. This is a movie where the race to the airport to stop the object of affection from getting on that plane happens near the beginning of the movie, and not at the end. Thus begins a strained, complicated, fascinating relationship between these two directionless Americans adrift abroad.

Mickey has been in Athens a lot longer, seven years, and he's got a kid to show for it, though he's battling with his ex to allow him to have time with little Hector, who has a room waiting for him at Mickey's place, even after Chloe moves in with Mickey in way too short order. Tensions build, especially when the couple try to integrate their social circles or try to conduct business from home at the same time (she's an immigration lawyer). Even their epic sexual chemistry gets tested, as each of them wrestles with an issue without telling the other.

Everything here feels so lived in and real. No relationship is perfect, and smart good people make bad choices when they want to trust their gut and make that relationship work no matter what. There are fun and funny moments here, with an assist from strong supporting charactors-- Mickey's alcoholic pal Argyris (Yorgos Pirpassopoulos) is especially appealing as a one-man Greek chorus, and Chloe's friend Elli (Alkistis Poulopoulou) bursts with manic frustration at Mickey's immature friends. As Mickey, Stan exhibits a charm and looks that are a mix of Ryan Seacrest and Bruce Greenwood (thankfully, the latter wins out in the end). Gough, meanwhile, reveals layers of emotion and nuance via a character who is struggling to take control of her life; she is a revelation.

Papadimitroupoulos grabs us in the manic first half and then he gives us a good rag-doll shake in the second half. He organizes this from the start with a series of title cards that always announce a new time sequence beginning on a FRIDAY. He is suggesting that life and relationships, like weekends, always seem most enjoyable and promising at the start but that a case of the Mondays will always arrive. The filmmaker, by resetting the week at Friday throughout, builds tension, and "Monday" eventually morphs into a subtle horror film. Mickey and Chloe decide, for old times' sake, to go on a weekend club bender before little Hector is finally to arrive on that literal Monday, and things get out of hand, in spectacular fashion. 

Will these two get their acts together when Monday comes, and if they do, would that be a happy ending or a tragedy?

DAUGHTER OF MINE (2019) (B) - Another strong, forceful performance rescues this coming-of-age story from melodrama, barely. Alba Rohrwacher ("I Am Love") goes all in as the miserable town drunk who finally meets the girl she gave up at birth to another woman to raise 10 years earlier. That girl is the mousy Vittoria (Sara Casu), who has long bristled at not knowing about her birth mom, even though she appreciates the woman who so obviously, from a physical standpoint, is not her biological mother, Tina (Valeria Golino).

This maternal love triangle unfolds slowly, and little monosyllabic Vittoria is like a feral kitten who suddenly shuns Tina's utter devotion in order to explore her real roots with messed-up, ambivalent Angelica. Rohrwacher's Angelica is also feral and mad at the world. She wants to leave the small town but can't get her funding together and isn't willing to sell off her animals because they would end up slaughtered.

It seems like Vittoria knows that her birth mother is no good for her, but she aches for a connection to the woman that everyone in the small town knows she resembles. Angelica is an unrepentant alcoholic and man-chaser whose idea of feeding her child is to open a can of beans and dump it on the kid's plate. Golino struggles to rein in her instincts as the spurned woman here, sometimes overdoing the emotion. 

This sophomore effort from Laura Bispuri is grounded in some hard truths, and the world she creates is raw and lived-in. Even if the story gets a little far-fetched at times, Bispuri brings it all home with an uplifting ending.

BONUS TRACKS

A club classic bookends "Monday," Donna Summer's "I Feel Love":

No Wave

LYDIA LUNCH: THE WAR IS NEVER OVER (B+) - This spirited 75-minute documentary spans the life and career of Lydia Lunch, a true original ultra-punk who still walks the walk. No Wave contemporary Beth B is behind the camera, so don't expect this to be critical or anything other than a dumpster dive into the good ol' days.

The women present an engaging nostalgia trip to 1970s New York, when that grimy city unleashed a torrent of underground music and film. The film conveys a good sense of the insurgency that Lunch spewed back in the day and stayed faithful to over the years. Contemporaries and acolytes offer colorful recollections and perspectives, including Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth), Donita Sparks (L7) and Carla Bozulich (Geraldine Fibbers). 

It takes a while for Beth B to delve into the abusive childhood that created the foundation for Lunch's angst and pain, the source of those primal screams. A final scene shows Lunch interacting with audience members at a recent live show, and it makes you wish we were privy to more examples of Lunch connecting with her audience rather than serving as a historical figure. But there's plenty of interviews and archival footage to provide a strong sense of the woman, artist and sexual adventurer. I was never a fan, but this project communicates the maelstrom and joy in Lunch's work.

ATTENBERG (2012) (A-minus) - Meet the inexperienced young woman, in her natural habitat. In this quirky Greek film, we follow Marina (Ariane Labed), a socially awkward -- borderline wooden -- young woman smitten with the nature documentaries of David Attenborough and dealing with her terminally ill father, Spyros (Vangelis Mourikis), with whom she is particularly close.

Marina relies on her more normal friend, Bella (Evangelia Randou), for lessons in French kissing and other standard activities of young adults. The two women are frequently filmed in choreographed perambulations, emulating freakish birds and other animals in the wild. Marina eventually finds a boring man to lose her virginity to. 

Writer-director Athina Rachel Tsangari (a collaborator with Yorgos Lanthimos) presents a melancholy examination of not only this spectrumy young adult but also the small-town gloom and post-industrial ennui embodied by the dying Spyros, who refers to himself as a "toxic remnant of modernism." He tells his daughter that their society has failed. "We built an industrial colony on top of sheep pens," he laments, "and we thought we were making a revolution. ... I leave you in the hands of a new century without having taught you anything." 

So maybe Marina is lucky to exist outside of society's norms. Her journey is a fascinating one.

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING (1966/2012) (B) - In the wake of the death of Charlie Watts last month, the Guild Cinema presented this documentary about the Rolling Stones' tour of England and Ireland in 1965-66. A short film was originally released in 1966 and then lost; it was restored and expanded in 2012.

The boys come off as rather thoughtful as they navigate their own fame in the echo of Beatlemania. Jagger, in particular is somewhat insightful; in one interview he points out that these kids seeking to rebel against their parents' conformity will be grandparents before the world truly changes. He is now a grandfather, and the world has finally made progress, as these Boomers move on. 

The live performances at theaters, shot with handheld cameras, have a ferocious energy. "The Last Time" and "Round and Round" sound fresh and invigorating; even "Satisfaction," their recent hit at the time, sounds urgent and a little dangerous. The talent is off the charts. Richard, during downtimes is almost always playing guitar or piano, music pouring out of his pores. The lads do impromptu jam sessions -- a reverent Beatles medley, a mocking of Elvis Presley and Fats Domino, a couple of jolly old standards. 

This cross between "Help!" and Dylan's "Don't Look Back" doesn't stand up to either of those great films, but at 64 minutes it's a fascinating time capsule of a band exploding into fame.

Best of Ever, Vol. 5: Consequences of a Misspent Youth

An experiment wherein we revisit the movies we were crazy about back when we were young and clueless ... 

CADDYSHACK (1980) (B+) - I have to laugh. Like with Bill Murray's other half of his back-to-back classics, I lived this movie and quoted it ad nauseam, especially the lines of Murray's assistant groundskeeper, Carl Spackler, the young Cinderella story who came out of nowhere (in his tetched mind) to lead the pack at the Master's. In the kitchen of the catering place on the near Southwest Side of Chicago, we batted the dialogue around and organized theme days to honor the defining comedy of our era, or so it felt at the time. 

"Caddyshack" is the bridge from the '70s to the '80s. If "Animal House," just a few years earlier, was a capstone of Boomer nostalgia, then Bill Murray was the pied piper for Gen X. Famously David Letterman's first guest on "Late Night" in 1981, those two Boomers ushered in the age of irony that swallowed us first X wavers. Whereas "Meatballs" was cute and '70s, "Caddyshack" was absurd and raunchy, a turn of the wheel, less earnest and more insurgent. 

Yet it is very much of its time -- sexist (a frisky Barbie doll named Lacey Underall), druggist.  Elitist, even (ironically). Some of the scenarios and line readings clunk 40 years later. Rodney Dangerfield, one of the greatest standups ever, comes off as a mugging anachronism, playing the bawdy millionaire crashing the snooty country club. Michael O'Keefe is a little awkward as our young hero, Danny the caddy; and I've never figured out why his girlfriend Maggie (Sarah Holcomb) has a heavy Irish brogue.

Ted Knight is more surehanded as the stuffy old judge, in the now obligatory "National Lampoon" role of the blustery authority figure. Chevy Chase, in a sweet spot here between TV stardom and his Goldie Hawn run, has fun playing off of everyone else as the bubble-headed playboy, Ty Webb ("I'm a veg"). Brian Doyle-Murray is the secret weapon, underplaying the role of the mid-level put-upon boss; I'll never not laugh at his order to an underling to pick up a tissue that's on the ground. 

Of course, it's Brian's brother who steals the show as the gopher-obsessed sling-blader who spits out scattershot id-leakings like "I'll slack you off, you fuzzy little foreigner." In the immortal words of Jean-Paul Sartre ... 

It's hard to tell if much of this was ad-libbed or part of the original script by Doyle-Murray, Harold Ramis (also in his directorial debut) and Doug Kenney (the link to "Animal House"). Whether he modified the line readings or not, Bill Murray is beyond inspired when Carl describes caddying for the Dalai Lama and asking for a tip -- "Hey, Lama, how about a little something, you know, for the effort." Rather than offering money, the Lama assures him that he will one day achieve enlightenment.  "So I got that goin' for me, which is nice."

Carl's feud with the animatronic gopher is one for the ages. One of the funniest scenes involves Carl, in his hovel, constructing explosives in the form of various woodland creatures, as the gopher peaks in the window and expresses alarm at the development before scurrying off in fear. Meantime, Carl channels Sun Tzu and reasons, "I've gotta get inside this guy's pelt and crawl around for a few days." Grimy Carl also has a memorable extended scene hosting Chase's Ty, who, by contrast, comes from luxury.  When offered a seat, Ty says, "No thanks; I don't want to stick to anything." "You got a pool at your place?" Carl asks.  "We have a pond in the back," Ty responds. "We have a pool and a pond. (Beat) Pond'd be good for you."

I could go on. And I used to. Incessantly. "Freeze, gopher!"

So the exercise here is to commune with that 18-year-old goofball that I once was and find out if we still have some common ground. We do. 

STRIPES (1981) (A-minus) - Not as ribald as "Caddyshack," Murray's assured follow-up -- where he introduces his classic character, the suave prankster -- is the better movie and yet another step away from the National Lampoon anarchy of the '70s. Murray teams up with the fundamentally funny Harold Ramis as two slackers who decide it might be a hoot to join the Army as a cure for their dead-end lives. 

Ivan Reitman (who would go on to direct "Ghostbusters" with Murray and Ramis) is the adult in the room and the steady hand throughout. Ramis wrote the script with Len Blum and Daniel Goldberg (from "Meatballs"), and they provide an impressive structured narrative that you didn't get in the messy, bawdy predecessors. There is actual intrigue in the European escapades the troop stumbles into in the movie's final third. 

The joy here lies in many of the supporting characters. Warren Oates does a nuanced variation on Sgt. Carter with his fuming Sgt. Hulka. John Candy updates Curly as big lovable Ox. John Larroquette plays deadpan as the inept captain. John Diehl and Judge Reinhold bring depth to the lineup. And Sean Young and P.J. Soles provide zip as the love interests for Murray and Ramis. 

And the memorable lines fly throughout. In his pep talk to his squad, Murray boasts, "We're American soldiers. We've been kicking ass for 200 years! We're 10 and 1." Ramis to a recruiter: "No, we're not homosexuals, but" -- cocking an eyebrow -- "we are willing to learn." (Ramis' facial expressions as he watches the other soldiers introduce themselves are a thing of beauty. He also teaches ESL students the words to "Da Doo Ron Ron.") Murray to Soles, as he gives her the Aunt Jemima Treatment on the stove, "Who's your friend? Who's your buddy? I am, aren't I?" Downplaying the danger and distance of driving the captain's beloved tanklike vehicle from Germany to Czechoslovakia (in order to rescue the bumbling captain), Murray reasons, "We're not going to Moscow. We're going to Czechoslovakia. It's like going to Wisconsin!" Murray, introducing himself to the squad: "Chicks dig me, because I rarely wear underwear, and when I do it's usually something unusual." And, of course, Sgt. Hulka's epic putdown to Psycho (Conrad Dunn), who doesn't want anyone touching him or his stuff: "Lighten up, Francis."

There is innocent joy in watching Murray and Ramis lean into the irony not long after that loss in Vietnam and essentially proclaim a new era in Cold War ideology and global realpolitik. As Murray noted, it was time to stop licking our wounds from the depressing decade that had just ended; we were still 10-1 at the time and leading the league in spending on weapons. Time to move on. Let's get over the '70s and the '60s, and let's have fun again. Hold your heads up high, soldiers. 

It's almost as if our present moment calls for the same attitude. Sure, we're out of shape, and our won-loss record continues to slide, but we're still Americans -- and at least 60 percent of us aren't traitors -- so we should be able to get out of our long-simmering funk. Whaddya, say, guys -- are ya with me?!

BONUS TRACKS

The website Uproxx has a thoughtful reconsideration of "Stripes" 40 years after its release, noting "the depiction of American Empire at arguably its greatest period of calm in 100 years" with a "patriotism [that] is heavily tongue-in-cheek" and which "still feels subversive to modern eyes."

And here is the joy that was the guilty pleasure of Kenny Loggins 41 years ago:

R.I.P., Charlie Watts

The slick drummer for the Rolling Stones died the other day at 80. Charlie Watts had a good long life. I was Team Beatles over Team Stones as a youth, but I had an appreciation for the early output of the bad boys. 

I. One of my favorite Stones memories doesn't even involve me. 

I'm almost certain it was the "Some Girls" tour of July 1978. Blistering hot day, and the Stones played Soldier Field in Chicago. All the Southwest Siders at B&B Catering wanted the Saturday off work to go to the show of the summer. (Wikipedia says 70,000 people were there.) I was too cool for that -- I was into Willie Nelson at the time -- so I worked and held down the fort with a skeleton crew. 

The next day everyone had stories to tell. Brian O described how the Chicago Park District (or the Fire Department) hosed down the sweltering crowd to cool them off. Fair-haired Beth C had sunburn. Everyone was hung over. I have savored that contact high now for decades. "Some Girls" is a great album, maybe the band's peak for me. I like to play "Respectable" and "Before They Make Me Run" on the jukebox at the pool hall. (Yeah, I'm that geezer.) 

II. My other favorite Stones memory doesn't involve the Stones. 

It was probably the next summer at B&B Catering. Our busy seasons were December (holiday parties) and May/June (graduations and weddings). After the season rush ended in June we would blow it out with a late day party, dubbed the Alley Rally. (The alley behind Archer Avenue separated the kitchen and  loading dock from the parking lot.) Across Archer was an epic dive bar that I wasn't old enough to go into. Four older black dudes were the house band. That year, we paid them to set up on the loading dock and play their house blues and R&B. Hot stuff.

I'll never forget the moment a bunch of us were inside, in the front office, taking a break from the music, bullshitting away, chugging beer. The band outside launched into the opening chords of the Stones' "Miss You," heavy on the bass. I looked at Dave M, the straight-A stoner kid, and his eyes popped wide open in awe. My jaw dropped in ironic excitement. The group of us made a beeline toward the dock and danced blissfully in the alley until the extended jam ended.

III. My third memory doesn't involve anyone else. 

When we were young, my brother used to throw his own blowout parties, the logistics of which involved carting the stereo system down to the basement as the focal point for the festivities. The next day he was too lazy (or hungover) to lug the stereo back upstairs. Days turned into weeks for the basement studio arrangement. I set up shop down there and shot pool, solo, for hours on the ratty third-hand pool table that my dad had salvaged somewhere. I spun the Stones' "Love You Live" on the turntable, over and over (occasionally mixing in the Beatles' White Album). It had the definitive version of "Sympathy for the Devil." Doesn't hold up like it used to, but then, neither do I.

My significant other reminds me now that she saw the Stones in Berlin in 1990, sneaking into the grounds while people in the crowd were fleeing for the exits during a downpour that preceded the show.  Well, fuck, anyone could have gone to see the Stones live.

Bonus Track

We previously posted a reference to Ralph Fiennes dancing to "Emotional Rescue" in "A Bigger Splash." Here's the Stones' video from back in the day:

Here are the Stones in '78 with "Miss You":

Searching Inward

 

LOOKING FOR ERIC (2009) (B) - From Ken Loach ("I, Daniel Blake," "Kes," "The Angels' Share") comes this sweet little tale of a middle-aged mailman in Manchester, England, having a crisis and turning to a poster-come-to-life version of soccer star Eric Cantona to find his inner champion. Steve Evets plays Eric Bishop, struggling to raise a couple of young-adult stepsons while still pining for his true love, the woman he abandoned after she gave birth to their daughter decades ago.

Cantona, who finished his career with Manchester United, plays himself here, seen only to Eric, in particular during times of doubt. Cantona (who transitioned to acting and does a workmanlike job here) is a sort of philosophic therapist and life coach. He gives Eric the gumption to try to reconnect with that ex, Lily (Stephanie Bishop), when they are brought together by their daughter's need for a baby-sitter for six weeks now that the daughter, Sam (Lucy-Jo Hudson), is finishing up her studies. 

But Eric is distracted by the rowdy two stepsons and their friends. One son gets caught up with a local hoodlum and is harboring a gun in the house under the floorboards. Eric's worlds will collide as he tries to make things up to Lily and perhaps even win her back. Can the great Cantona lead him to glory?

It all sounds a bit soapy, but Loach keeps everything grounded, and the script by Paul Laverty, Loach's longtime collaborator, is smart and unpredictable. Eric and his mates banter quite expertly, either at the post office or at the pub while watching their beloved local football squad. One-liners mix with heartfelt conversations. (When Cantona asks Eric if he was close with his father, Eric says, "Well, he once sat on me by mistake.") The final reel -- in which the drama over the weapon is resolved with a shock of violence -- loses the thread a bit and feels unearned, but this one comes through in the end.

WHERE THE TRUTH LIES (2005) (B-minus) - Atom Egoyan ("The Sweet Hereafter," "Exotica") has fun with this convoluted and cheap-looking slow burn about a Martin-and-Lewis type of duo whose partnership ended in the late '50s after a young woman was found dead in their hotel suite bathtub. Colin Firth (as the Dean Martin figure) and Kevin Bacon (channeling Jerry Lewis) are pale imitations of the real deal, but Egoyan wisely focuses on the "present day," 1972, a time when ambitious reporter Karen O'Connor (Alison Lohman) tracks down the two men, who are now slipping into their respective maudlin middle years. 

Firth and Bacon are much more compelling when they are older and moody than when they are trying to convey the magic that was the '50s slapstick of Martin and Lewis. Egoyan's set-up is playful: The key event is a telethon circa 1957 and hosted by the men. (Instead of Lewis going solo with muscular dystrophy, this version has both men fronting for polio.)  Things get crazy one night back in the suite with a young willing hotel employee, and somehow, a few days later, her body turns up.

The main problem with the film is that the narrative is confusing. The story not only jumps back and forth in time, but it also toggles between New Jersey and Miami. And the mob is involved, of course. In the end, the story (Egoyan adapted a novel written by Rupert Holmes, the guy who wrote "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)") barely maintains plausibility, but as a diverting exercise in period revisionist history, it'll do.

The Show Must Go Off

 

WOODSTOCK '99: PEACE, LOVE, AND RAGE (B+) - Editor Garret Price transitions to directing with this curated examination of Gen X's attempt at staging an iconic music festival. Actually, the staging was led by Michael Lang, the mastermind behind the original cultural touchstone 30 years earlier, and this film plays out as an interesting clash of the generations.

Woodstock '99 featured only three female acts amid a sea of testosterone-fueled post-grunge knucklehead bands, and the crowd reflected the pre-millennial mood of pent-up frustration that would explode on the streets of Seattle later that year. At the Woodstock sequel, the target would be the commercialism of the festival itself. Whereas the original hippies chilled out with pot and LSD, the Xers were whipped up by overnight ecstasy-enabled raves. The result was a burst of sexual violence and rebellion against the $4 bottles of water and capitalist propaganda permeating the event.

Price does a fine job of placing the viewer at the scene of the sea of hormones, mud, piss and shit that roiled over a blistering hot July weekend in upstate New York at the site, ironically, of a former military base. (Talking heads, including former Spin reporter Maureen Callahan and writer Dave Holmes, are particularly insightful here with their recollections from the front lines.) The clusterfuck was even too much for host MTV to handle, with the veejays eventually decrying the event as it unfolded (or unraveled). The proceedings would descend in to a chaos of looting, vandalism and arson in classic "Lord of the Flies" fashion. (A shot of looted frozen pretzels flying through the air like angry seagulls is haunting.)

Frat-boy bands of the era including Korn, Bush, Limp Bizkit, Kid Rock and the Offspring (singing, appropriately, "The Kids Aren't Alright") stole the thunder from legacy acts like Elvis Costello, Willie Nelson and George Clinton (none of whom are featured). Only three prominent female acts were booked, and it's scary to watch Jewel warble onstage and risk taking a deadly flying object to the neck. By the time the bonfires grew out of control, the peril is barely leavened by the good nature of the Red Hot Chili Peppers tentatively covering Jimi Hendrix's "Fire."

The film, though, does want to have its cake and eat it too, at times. While decrying the "show us your tits" culture that predominated, Price proceeds to show us a lot of tits during the nearly two-hour run. He tut-tuts the caveman mentality while cashing in on it himself. Still, in his defense, he is attempting to produce a clear-eyed recap of the buttoned-up catastrophe that was the twilight of the Clinton era. And we can see parallels between the pent-up brutality of those 20-year-olds and perhaps some of the same figures, two decades later, who air their grievances under political cover these days. It makes you wonder whether we'll ever get over this.

BEST WORST THING THAT EVER COULD HAVE HAPPENED (2016) (B) - Theater people! Lonny Price directs and narrates the tale of the Broadway musical that -- despite being graced by legends Stephen Sondheim and Hal Prince -- bombed spectacularly in 1981, crushing its cast of young actors. Price, an original cast member who went on to be a stage director, gathers many of his former co-stars, as well as Sondheim and Prince, for an emotional reunion and a reconsideration of their efforts.

The results are surprisingly endearing. Price stumbles on a trove of film footage, running from the first auditions through the trainwreck of an opening night. We meet actors as young as 16 (Abby Pogrebin was the youngest) then and now. The cast included future "Seinfeld" star Jason Alexander, who had hair then (and miraculously does again now). Alexander joins his fellow actors in opening up not only about that jarring experience but also how he has coped since and what theater has meant to him (a shy child) throughout his life. Pogrebin is insightful too; she went on to have success in TV journalism. Most others seems to long have made peace with the fact that starring at a young age in a Sondheim musical did not line their future path with riches or fame. 

Sondheim and Prince (who died in 2019) also soberly participate (separately) with rather fond recollections of the production that ended up breaking up, for many years, a legendary collaboration that had broken big in the '70s with the likes of "Sweeney Todd." They acknowledge, in retrospect, that the play's concept -- a cast of kids telling a story in reverse chronological order -- wasn't as compelling as it seemed at the time. And the featured songs all sound pretty much like duds. Former New York Times critic Frank Rich is on hand to explain just how badly "Merrily We Roll Along" (based on a 1934 play) was received.  

But it's the former cast members who are the stars in this production. They laugh, they cry, they shrug off the sting of rejection all those years ago. Price sets this up as part reunion and part therapy. He and his cohorts finally learn the lessons of friendship and regret that the original musical explored. 

BONUS TRACK

The Offspring (Dexter Holland and Noodles) actually come off as level-headed and thoughtful in "Woodstock '99." Let's flesh out the documentary's snippet of an all-time classic, "Self Esteem":

Teen Angst

Two directions a teenage girl's life can go ... 

SISTERS ON TRACK (B+) - With a big heart, a journeyman filmmaking team embeds itself with a family of three young-teen sisters to show them overcoming the struggles of a single mom as they compete as runners. At first living in a homeless shelter, the family benefits from the generosity of filmmaker Tyler Perry, who puts them up in an apartment.

This allows the Sheppard girls to have a sense of stability and routine. They take advantage of it and thrive as regular teens/tweens dealing with school, sports, boys and thoughts of their futures. Middle child Rainn is the most expressive and appealing of the characters. Older Tai gets a little distracted by a boy and acts out, and little Brooke kind of follows along. What's interesting is that the girls' mother doesn't play a prominent role in the film; instead, by the second half, it's clear that Coach Jean (below right) is the most inspirational and influential figure in each girl's life, and for good reason. She is a relentlessly upbeat but practical teacher and mentor, both when it comes to track and when it comes to planning for the future.

The main problem with the movie is how sloppy it can be at times in helping the viewer navigate the timeline as the filming covers several years. Because the girls are around the age of the transition from middle school to high school, they evolve in looks and style. Their hairstyles change constantly. And because they are sisters, they look alike, and at times it is difficult to tell them apart. 

Nonetheless, directors Tone Grottjord-Glenne and Corinne van der Borch embed seamlessly in this family's life, gaining intimate access that allows the girls' personalities to break through. The result is a hopeful, uplifting story of love and determination and a glimpse of what it's like to be a girl transitioning into young adulthood.

MURDER TO MERCY: THE CYNTOIA BROWN STORY (B) - A matter-of-fact chronicle of an abused teenager who ended up in prison benefits from the diligence of a production that showed up at the point of incarceration in 2004 and stuck through it to the present day. Cyntoia Brown was the victim of sex trafficking when she was 16, and she ended up going to a man's house and shooting him to death with his own gun. (It's debatable whether she did that in self-defense or to rob him while high.)

We only have Brown's side of the story, but it's obvious that she'd been a victim long before she pulled the trigger. We meet her biological mother -- a trailer park drug addict -- and grandmother, who was another cog in a family history of abuse, addiction and mental illness. We also meet her adopted mother, who never gave up on her. 

She was tried as an adult and sentenced to life in prison; an appeal a few years later based on a defense of fetal alcohol spectrum disorder failed. It's left to a parole board in 2019 to give her hope of release. Filmmaker Dan Birman originally produced a documentary about Brown's pimp, who died a year after she was imprisoned, and Birman picked up the project off and on over the next decade. He depicts Brown as a model prisoner and sympathetic figure, though you get the sense he was leaving out some unflattering details. Nonetheless, this is a deeply reported documentary, with advantage of time to chronicle the evolution of a messed-up teenager into a productive adult.

New to the Queue

Cooler by the lake ...

Taiwan's Tsai Ming-liang started the millennium brilliantly ("What Time Is It There?," "Goodbye, Dragon Inn," "I Don't Want to Sleep Alone") but slumped with "Stray Dogs." We eagerly anticipate a return to form with his latest, "Days."

A story of two California fires and their impact on the communities, "Bring Your Own Brigade."

A somber coming of (middle) age story, from Italy, "The Macaluso Sisters."

Four other women, dealing with individual crises, are brought together by an incident on the subway in a debut film, "Materna."

A documentary that curates scraps of films from Afghanistan's communist era, "What We Left Unfinished."

The Noir Chronicles

 After a year in the dark, the Guild Cinema film noir festival returns to its rightful place smack in the middle of the dog days of summer.  Here are some titles we sampled.

DEAD RECKONING (1947) (B-minus) - Lizabeth Scott stands in ably for Lauren Bacall opposite Humphrey Bogart in this tale of a WWII hero who tracks down the  mystery of his fellow paratrooper. Bogart is strong, but Scott is left to mostly pout her way through the role of a spoiled rich woman whose story is merely carried along by the current of an over-stuffed plot.

Rip Murdock (Bogart) courts trouble by tracking down his Army buddy, Johnny (William Prince), who skips out on a medal ceremony because he has been faking his identity, rooted in an incident in which he was possibly being framed for murder. The buddy goes missing, so Bogart works with the woman Johnny pined for, Coral Chandler (Scott), navigating among some casino moguls. 

Like a lot of this year's entries, this one is about a reel too long; 100 minutes is just too much real estate, allowing the convoluted narrative to meander way beyond a false ending that comes around the 75-minute mark.  I honestly struggled at times to keep up with the twists and turns. The dialogue has its moments ("Careful what you say to me," Coral purrs to Rip, "I'm the marrying type.") but the script tries to hard to be clever and snappy. Rip narrates most of the story in flashback, leaving most of the heavy lifting to Bogart and his swagger. Scott doesn't have much range, but she is fascinating to watch, and the film makes a point of playing up -- and pointing out -- that husky voice of hers. This is serviceable postwar noir.

SPOTTED: Frank Wilcox, who would go on to play Mr. Brewster on "The Beverly Hillbillies," appears for a few seconds as a hotel clerk.

TOO LATE FOR TEARS (KILLER BAIT) (1949) (B) - Lizabeth Scott (in the other half of her double feature) runs the show here as part of a couple who have a bag full of money almost literally fall into their lap. He's queasy about it, so she needs to get that milquetoast hubby out of the way. She recruits a big brute who has a connection to the cash to help her with the plan, but she's wise enough to keep the lug at arm's length. 

Scott, a postwar Kathleen Turner, stars as Jane Palmer, who, in order to get away with the money, cooks up a pretty good plot (courtesy of screenwriter Roy Huggins, who would go on to create the TV classic "The Fugitive"). She keeps her nosy sister-in-law Kathy (Kristine Miller), who lives across the hall, at arm's length, while she schemes with alcoholic Danny Fuller (Dan Duryea) and plays him like a violin. 

The only real stumbling block here is an old "army pal" of her husband's, Don Blake (Don DeFore), whose folksy charm (he woos the sister-in-law) belies the mind of a sleuth. He and Scott exchange the best lines, such as when, knowing she carries a gun, he questions her as she starts rooting around in her purse.  "Looking for something?" he asks. She replies, "My lipstick." His retort: "Colt or Smith & Wesson?" A tad long at 99 minutes, this is sharp movie-making from journeyman director Byron Haskin.

SPOTTED: DeFore, who would go on to play the harried father on TV's "Hazel."

THE RED HOUSE (1947) (C+) - Edward G. Robinson hams it up as a spooked ol' coot who warns the teeny-boppers away from a creepy house in the woods, even though the psychic terror is his and his alone -- because it's the site of a personal tragedy that has scarred him for life. Now old Pete (Robinson) lives with his sister, Ellen (Judith Anderson), and their adopted teenage daughter, Meg (Allene Roberts), who cavorts with a few other high school seniors who are curious about the red house in the woods.

Meg is a bit of a wallflower, and she has a quiet crush on Nath (Lon McCallister), whom she recruits to work on Pete's farm (Pete has a wooden leg, the result of a fateful night at the red house). Nath, however, is going steady with sultry, sulky Tibby (Julie London), who in turn flirts with the hunky but creepy guy who patrols the woods, Teller (western veteran Rory Calhoun in an early role). And yes, this all plays out like a soap opera full of teen angst.

Director Delmer Daves ("3:10 to Yuma") drags this out for 100 minutes, watering down the suspense and letting Robinson spin out of control toward madness. Roberts, who would go on to have an uneventful career, gives a strong debut performance and holds down the core of a sloppy film. The homespun Gidgety dialogue of the teens has the occasional pop to it. When Meg seems anxious Nath accuses her of having "a case of the fidgets." And he says of the wild Tibby, "She's like an ornery heifer sometimes -- hard to hold down." Even Pete can seem young at heart: "When I was a young man and in love, Sunday was always a good day for spooning."

SPOTTED: London, who would croon the classic torch song "Cry Me a River" in "The Girl Can't Help It" and end her career in the '70s as a nurse on TV's "Emergency."

THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW (1944) (B) - The Edward G. Robinson double feature teamed him here with Joan Bennett in Fritz Lang's tale of a femme fatale who draws a professor into a world of murder and blackmail. Too long at 99 minutes, this nevertheless zips along thanks to Robinson's sympathetic portrayal of Professor Richard Wanley and his platonic rapport with Bennett's Alice Reed, a model whose portrait in a window launches this caper.

Wanley, feeling like a bachelor after his wife and kids go on vacation, follows Alice home for a nightcap when a man bursts in and attacks him; Wanley kills him in self-defense. Alice knew her sugar daddy by a different name; he turns out to have been a well-known businessman. Instead of calling police, Wanley disposes of the body in the woods, and he spends the rest of the movie dodging the suspicions of his pal, District Attorney Frank Lalor (a sly Raymond Massey), who notes Wanley's nervous verbal slips during their various chats and a visit to the site where the body was found.

Meantime, Alice is being blackmailed by the dead man's former bodyguard (Dan Duryea again), and she and Wanley up the ante by plotting to rub out the bodyguard, too. Robinson is strong as the shlumpy lonely everyman caught up in an exciting underworld, and Bennett (later of the '60s goth soap opera "Dark Shadows") adds depth to her character. They benefit from the strong visuals and direction from master Fritz Lang ("Metropolis," "M") and a tight script from the prolific Nunnally Johnson, who pays attention to details every step of the way. Only a cop-out ending (billed as "the most startling surprise ending ever filmed!") undercuts the credibility that builds along with the suspense.

SPOTTED: Little Rascal Robert Blake, uncredited in the opening scene as the son of Robinson's professor. His '70s TV moment would be as "Baretta."

The World Beneath Your Feet

THE HIDDEN LIFE OF TREES (B-minus) - This study of the inner lives of trees feels like a lost opportunity. It could have been a big-screen visual poem and thought piece. Instead, it plays out like a PBS nature special stretched out from an hour to an hour and a half.

The film focuses on the research of Peter Wohlleben, whose 2015 book this is based on. He's an engaging presence, but he's no Bill Nye or Neil deGrasse Tyson. You'll probably learn a lot (trees apparently feel pain when a caterpillar nibbles at its leaves) but you might wonder why you left your house and paid money to see this attempt at stylizing an episode of "Nova." We get frequent time-lapse photography of shoots sprouting up, and we watch acorns descend to the ground in slow motion -- so stylized that it starts to feel unnatural.

Wohlleben's advocacy for forests -- urging that they be kept in their natural state -- is backed by convincing science. Filmmakers Jorg Adolph and Jan Haft encapsulate the dangers of the modern world when they depict a giant machine -- which snatches up an entire felled tree and proceeds to slice it into smaller sections -- as if it were an alien invader attacking Earth. 

FANTASTIC FUNGI (2019) (B) - This earlier release shares a good deal of DNA with "The Hidden Life of Trees," but does a much better job of tossing a little magic into the mix. Still, it's a little too touchy-feely for its own good.

Once again we get umpteen shots of mushrooms blooming and an exploration of the communication among plants and other flora. Director Louie Schwartzberg dives headlong into his subject, celebrating the vast underground network of the mushroom world. The second half delves into the world of psychedelics. One subject tells the story of his first trip, experienced from the top of a tree during a thunderstorm. Schwartzberg also explores the medicinal benefits of mushroom therapy. 

The beauty of this film is in the way that it ties together this idea of an underground network, a sort of internet of nature. It also compares the network to the human brain. With just enough new-age musings mixed with a grounded point-of-view, "Fungi" can be an enlightening trip.

R.I.P., Robert Downey Sr.

No, we don't really have anything to say about the life and career of the man who spawned Robert Downey Jr., but we thought that his death this month would be a good excuse to finally screen the cult classic that stamped his reputation.

PUTNEY SWOPE (1969) (C+) - Not much more than a curious artifact at this point, "Putney Swope" is quite a mess of a movie about an advertising firm turning from white to black control virtually overnight. Very much of its time -- the year of "Midnight Cowboy," "Easy Rider" and "Take the Money and Run" -- it comes across as a psychedelic mix of high-brow blaxploitation, "Laugh-In" lunacy, and blackout sketches from the "Carol Burnett Show."

Provocative for its time, I'm sure, the cheapness of the production magnifies the shortcomings of an incongruent script. It's not clear what the point was at the time, and there's no evident moral to this story. A bunch of militants with guns show up to protect Putney Swope (Arnold Johnson, whose voice Downey dubbed himself) who, in a fluke following the unexpected death of the firm's founder, is elected president of the agency. He immediately cracks down and refuses to advertise alcohol, cigarettes and war toys. 

The new firm, Truth and Soul, draws attention from the president of the United States (Pepi Hermine), but it's not really clear why. Allan Arbus (TV's "MASH") provides some actual acting chops amid a gaggle of scene chewers. Antonio Fargas (TV's "Starsky and Hutch") also stands out with an energy that must have been later studied by Flavor Flav. 

The film is shot in black and white, but it converts to color for the interspersed commercial parodies that are hit and miss on the comedy scale. One involves topless stewardesses jumping up and down in slow motion, if that helps you set a gauge. Some one-liners land better than others. When Swope is informed that a client was caught in bed with a 13-year-old, Swope deadpans, "Well, at least we know he's not superstitious." When confronted with a foul-smelling window cleaner, he barks out, "Put soybeans in it and market it as a soft drink in the ghetto. We'll put a picture of a rhythm and blues singer on the front and call it Victrola Cola."

In the end, the main disappointment is that this obviously was intended as a bold polemic about capitalism and race, but Downey lands nary a body blow on those fronts. OK, so it's a comedy. Eh. I've seen funnier, even back then.

BONUS TRACK

The trailer, and a random clip:

Zen Master

While we await the theatrical release of Jia Zhangke's latest film (the documentary "Swimming Out Till the Sea Turns Blue"), we go back and look at a documentary about the director himself and revisit one of his best films.

JIA ZHANGKE: A GUY FROM FENYANG (2016) (B) - Walter Salles ("The Motorcycle Diaries") pays homage to Jia Zhangke with this thoughtful and faithful biography that follows the director to his hometown to Fenyang as a jumping-off point to study his filmmaking inspirations and techniques.

Nothing fancy here; just tagging along with the filmmaker as he reminisces with old acquaintances and revisits specific sites from his youth that would populate his early work. Rotating members of his regular troupe join the reveries. As Salles' camera rolls, Jia unspools a narrative that creates a broad sense of his own worldview and goals as an artist. 

There is a shambling, familiar feel to this exercise, which sketches in some back story to the auteur's body of work. He comes across as a humble guy whose heart is into telling stories.

24 CITY (2009) (B) - This is a low-key and somewhat uneventful farewell to a Chinese factory as it makes way for luxury condominiums. Jia is one of the foremost chroniclers of the nation's transition from communism to controlled capitalism, but you wish he offered more insight this time. 

He lets workers tell their stories, but for some reason, he brings in ringers -- actors -- to portray some workers. And he doesn't make clear who is real and who is not. Though it is pretty easy to detect Joan Chen sitting in as the pretty woman who in her youth was often flagged as a dead ringer for Joan Chen. Also present is Jia's muse, Tao Zhao, as one of the final two characters who represent children of workers and the next, more yuppie, generation yearning for something beyond the daily grind.

Jia offers lush images paying homage to the work (and crafts) performed at the Chengdu factory and the steady dismantling of the buildings on the vast grounds. It's a lovely film and a fine idea, but it can be strangely inert at times.

New to the Queue

 A warming trend ...

A documentary that should wash over the senses, "The Hidden Life of Trees."

Our guy Sean Baker ("The Florida Project," "Tangerine") finally returns with another study of under-class life, "Red Rocket."

A look at an influential artist of the 20th century, Chicago's Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, "The New Bauhaus."

A documentary about Gen X's catastrophic music-festival sequel, "Woodstock 99: Peace, Love and Rage."

Jess Weixler is usually a draw, and her latest involves a couple having a quarter-life crisis, "Fully Realized Humans."