I have always struggled with remembering the names of and distinguishing between Emily Blunt and Rose Byrne. I file this placeholder so I don't have to wrack my brain each time this dilemma comes up. I can just do a quick search. Brain space freed up
So, the problem is: Rose Byrne (Australian) vs. Emily Blunt (British).
The solution is: Rachel McAdams (Canadian).
PAINT (B) - What silly fun. Owen Wilson does that thing of his, and he takes a ridiculous premise and somehow makes it work, in this surprisingly funny riff on the Vermont life of a frizzy-haired artist inspired by PBS legend Bob Ross.
Wilson stars as Carl Nargle (the goofy name is the first of many red flags you must ignore to make it through this), who has carved out a niche as a hack painter at the local PBS affiliate in Burlington, where he has assembled a stable of female admirers who jockey for the right to be invited into the pullout bed in the back of Nargle's upholstered van. But when a rival comes along -- young, beautiful Ambrosia (Ciara Renee) -- Nargle's star power quickly fades toward obsolescence.
Ambrosia not only takes over part of Carl's screen time, but she also makes a play for his ex, the meek director Katherine (Michaela Watkins). This all plays out with the goofiness of an Afterschool Special. It takes place in the present day (Carl is flummoxed by Uber), but the styles and the soundtrack are stuck in the 1970s. Sappy singer-songwriters of the day -- John Denver (the cloying "Annie's Song" makes several appearances) and Gordon Lightfoot -- dominate the soundtrack. Some songs land, such as Jerry Reed's "When You're Hot You're Hot":
Other oldies, like Heart's "Barracuda" and Dolly Parton's "Coat of Many Colors" are clunkier and fall flat. (Maybe it's the misogynist milieu.) The movie itself -- from the mind of writer-director Brit McAdams, who cut his chops with B-list comedians like Katt Williams and Daniel Tosh -- is such a mish-mash of ideas and gags that there is no reason any of this should work as well as it does. Part of that is Wilson's commitment to such a ridiculous character. Carl is comically zen but also lacks self-awareness; while watching an old clip of his show he scoffs at the shirt he was wearing, only to realize he is still wearing the same style. He is chronically stuck in the '70s, and it's amusing to watch women fall all over him (until, of course, Ambrosia starts siphoning off everyone's attention). The supporting cast of mostly character actors helps sell this. Watkins, abnormally subdued, makes the most of her deadpan deliveries, and Stephen Root does what he can as the inept station manager.
Part of the time I was rolling my eyes and wondering why this was much longer than a TV sketch. But the rest of the time, I was laughing out loud. Perhaps the best shorthand explanation is to point out that Chekhov's gun here is a salon-grade hair dryer that looms in the background until just the right time to deploy it for comedic effect.
"Paint" is even downright sweet at times, and again, give credit to Wilson's subtle skills as an actor and comedian. McAdams wrings actual emotion from the scenes between Carl and his barber, in spite of the goofy premise that entails to begin with. Wilson also wrings some pathos out of this emotionally vacant yet yearning pseudo celebrity. Carl barely bothers to diversify his portfolio; he likes to paint the same mountain over and over again. He smokes a pipe unironically. And he thinks his viewers are traveling to a "special place" with him every episode. How do Wilson and McAdams manage to wrap this up with some authentic sentiment?
Even John Denver wrote a good song once in a while. Some things just inexplicably work.
BONUS TRACKS
The references to John Denver brought to mind Monty Python's takedown of the chipper popster:
The final credits kick in to a nugget from one of the '70s' would-be New Dylans, Steve Forbert, with "Romeo's Tune":
And that segues into one of my favorite cheesy country tunes from the era, Don Williams' "I Believe in You":
A pair streaming on Mubi:
ACTUAL PEOPLE (B-minus) - Every generation gets the Mumblecore touchstones it deserves. Kit Zauhar writes, directs and stars as a college philosophy senior who can't be bothered to pass her last class before graduation, letting her jumbled love life get the best of her.
Zauhar stars as Riley, an attractive 22-year-old whose mind is just not in the game and who seems distracted by random micro-aggressions, to the point where she must eventually explain to her parents why she won't be graduating in a few weeks. Her main distractions are men and sexual politics. Maybe she can't pass her last class because she flunked the Bechdel Test. Zauhar's debut has all the hallmarks of a student film and presents herself as an antiquated anti-feminist.
She sleeps with her roommate once and then wonders why he's bothered to the point of not wanting to renew her lease. She's hung up on her ex -- who cheated on her -- and then crushes too much on a hunk from her hometown of Philadelphia. Several times she is seen wincing from a yeast infection. She has a wry habit of gulping glasses of water.
Riley's friends come and go so quickly that it is hard to keep track of them. Some of the men also seem indistinguishable. A few adults show up -- a teacher, a therapist -- and they highlight Zauhar's awkward weaknesses as an actor. She can be quite appealing, especially with little quirks, but a couple of emotional episodes really stretch her talents. (Zauhar's sister shows up as Riley's younger sister, and she has much more pizzazz.)
Visually, she has a fondness for shaky hand-held camera shots and uncomfortable close-ups. She provides occasional interludes, showing characters out of context, usually splitting the screen three ways. In sum, this is a bit of a mess, but it's not without its charm. Zauhar has a decent ear for dialogue, and she captures the angst of a young adult on the brink of graduation, torn about which direction she should take -- which describes Zauhar and Riley alike.
ZERO FUCKS GIVEN (B) - Adele Exarchopoulos ("Blue Is the Warmest Color") stars as a screwed-up flight attendant who can barely keep her life together as she soldiers through her thankless job at a low-rent airline. Her Cassandre is an expressionless hedonist who cares about little other than surviving from moment to moment.
That involves a lot of alcohol (often in tiny bottles) and zipless sex without strings attached, as she flies from city to city all over the world. Exarchopoulos manages to convey a range of feelings via this emotionally stunted character. She isn't so much dead inside as comfortably numb. Cassandre has her moments of joy and human connection; it's just that it never leads to anything lasting.
The script seems to leave room for improvisation, and that gives the movie a lived-in feeling. Newcomers Julie Lecoustre and Emmanuel Marre (with an assist from co-writer Mariette Desert) create a narrative arc that gradually builds to a grounding of Cassandre, where we finally get a glimpse of her family life -- and somewhat of an explanation for the state she is in.
Without Exarchopoulos, who has a face made for the big screen, this could have been dull and listless. But she brings depth and warmth to a character whose outward expression tells the rest of the world to fuck off.
BONUS TRACK
From the end credits of "Actual People," Lightning Bug with "October Song, Pt. II":
And from the final scene of "Zero Fucks Given," Viyolin with "Faded."
M3GAN (A-minus) - Sometimes a movie comes along whose plot or trailer might make you roll your eyes, but which captures the zeitgeist and finds just the right wavelength or carry you through its improbable premise. It's tough not to love this horror story about a robot girl who starts to outfox her creators. "Frankenstein" just never gets old.
Allison Williams, with that flat affect of hers, is kind of perfect as Gemma, the scientist who suddenly takes custody of her tween niece after Gemma's sister and brother-in-law die in a car crash. Little Cady (Violet McGraw) inspires Gemma to graduate from making robot pets to reviving her idea for a robot girl. Thus we get M3GAN, a creepy humanoid who "pairs" with Cady and instantly becomes her best friend, confidant and tutor, all in one.
The problem is that Gemma hasn't really fully beta-tested M3GAN (it's an acronym), so it's not hard to see this all falling apart quickly. M3GAN is synced with Cady, which means she not only lends a sympathetic ear to her charge but also is imbued with the killer instinct of a feral mother in the wild. Because she is programmed to protect Cady, M3GAN will stop at nothing to protect this broken little girl. You can get a sense of her ferocity in the trailer.
But the movie -- directed by journeyman Gerard Johnstone and written by TV veteran Akela Cooper and story specialist James Wan -- meticulously builds its story piece by piece. M3GAN often sits in the background, as obedient as a choir girl. She reads to Cady and is much more effective at grief counseling than the child's therapist is. But, gradually, the bot's "personality" starts to emerge. Her eyes deepen and narrow with the seeming flip of a switch. The first time she talks back to Gemma -- like a typical kid but with obvious menace -- it's subtly chilling.
The movie has a coy sense of humor. M3GAN gets dressed up for an outing in a prim winter coat and gloves. She recruits the home computer system (a Siri clone) into her schemes. Her spaghetti-armed dance moves are instant memes. Gemma's co-workers provide a Greek chorus of skeptics back in the lab, which is under pressure to produce the next big toy, under the thumb of an obnoxious tech bro who is too greedy to let the A.I. program take its natural course. A side story of an office assistant who might be stealing company secrets weaves in perfectly during the film's climax.
Meantime, the suspense feels earned throughout; this is not a lazy or cheap horror story. Johnstone keeps you alert, and the storyline carries the viewer along through every turn of the tightly compacted narrative. There's not a wasted moment, and the inevitable violent climax is satisfying. The film winks and nods at other films -- either overtly or covertly -- ranging from the Chucky films to "Terminator" to "Fatal Attraction." But in the end, it is its own satisfying night at the movies.
BONUS TRACK
Maybe the producers could not afford the rights to the full, original version of David Gueta and Sia's "Titanium," but we get a sample of the song, and it would have been perfect over the final credits.
THE BLIND MAN WHO DID NOT WANT TO SEE TITANIC (A-minus) - From Finland comes this brutally honest and gripping account of a handicapped man embarking on a mission, by himself, to finally meet his online soul mate.
Petri Poikolainen, who himself suffers from the maladies (including blindness) that his character does, plays jovial Jaako, a fervent movie buff for whom movies are now mostly a memory -- and a defining character trait. He's the kind of persnickety film connoisseur, present company included, who turns up his nose at uber-popular box office darlings like "Titantic" (and the rest of James Cameron's over-the-top oeuvre). Marjaana Maijala plays (mostly the voice of) Sirpa, whose phone communications have the regularity of Groundhog Day, as she lovingly likes to point out. Every day is a struggle for him, let down by his own useless legs, whom he refers to as Rocky and Rambo; he constantly dreams of running, only to wake up severely cramped.
Sirpa is ill (perhaps dying), and Jaako insists on heading out in his wheelchair and taking a train to visit her, but his assistant is unavailable. So he daringly maps out a strategy that relies on the kindness of strangers to help him in and out of trains and cabs. What could go wrong? Exactly what you think. Thugs exploit his helplessness, and we worry ourselves sick over whether this hero will overcome his obstacle.
The film by Teemu Nikki grabs you from the start with its elegant dialogue and its urgent cinematography. Until the final shot, the entire movie is filmed in close-up on Jaako, either head on or behind his ear, in a way that turns the rest of the frame out of focus. It's a clever device to immerse the viewer into Jaako's blurry world. The narrative ricochets along, and the movie is like a great novella you just can't put down.
There are times when this chronicle of Jaako's daily, endless struggles to get through each moment veers toward torture porn. That might be a little too much for some. But it can't be denied that Nikki, with his brave leading man, has crafted a powerful, assured story, with an ending that will grip your heart.
LINOLEUM (C) - Imagine the movie pitch here. A middle-aged astronomy nerd runs into his doppelganger, a much brasher and more successful former astronaut who is as rotten as the shlub is nice. Comedian Jim Gaffigan stars -- and there is most of your problem here -- as both characters, mainly Cameron, the affable husband and father who hosts a sarcastic science show on local television.
The movie takes places during an indistinct olden time -- we see station wagons and saddle shoes -- and that's a hint to the convoluted trickery that casually unspools over the movie's creaking 101 minutes. Bizarre events occur, and relationships are not always what they seem. Some characters don't talk, and others don't get named -- and it's all in the service of a late swerve, an unconvincing reveal in the movie's final minutes. Rather than knock us out, the concluding sleight of hand just feels like a big cheat and a waste of an hour and a half.
Gaffigan, a wonderful standup comic, just doesn't have what it takes to carry a film. He is paired with Rhea Seehorn (TV's "Better Call Saul"), who is distractingly flat as Cameron's wife, Erin, who used to co-star on his TV show but who now is in the process of divorcing him and maybe moving on with her own career. Katelyn Nacon steals the show as their daughter, Nora, a bright, brash teenager who slips into a sappy friendship with the new kid in town (Gabriel Rush), the mopey son of the doppelganger who happens to move in across the street from Cameron's house. A movie devoted to Nora might be worth seeing.
The tone here is erratic. The humor is subdued and gets overwhelmed by the mawkish melodrama, which keeps adding layer upon layer of treacle from scene to scene. The hook here is that the middle-aged nerd is going to build a rocket from the parts of an Apollo 10 craft that has crashed into his backyard. (So is it 1969? Unclear.) The regular-guy-builds-his-own-rocket story was done much better (and funnier) in 2007's "The Astronaut Farmer," and that movie boasted Billy Boy Thornton and Virginia Madsen -- you know, movie stars.
This version is earnest and occasionally affecting. Newcomer Colin West, who wrote and directed, poured his heart into it. He came up with a clever idea, but it tied him up in knots. "Linoleum" (that's a lousy title, too) is not really a bad movie; it's more of an unsuccessful one.
BONUS TRACK
From the closing credits of "The Blind Man," Pekko Kappi and KHHL with "Ikoni":
DEAR MR. BRODY (A-minus) - Documentaries have a way of rescuing obscure stories from the dustbin of history. This peppy production unspools the tale of Michael Brody, a highly unstable trust-fund hippie who in 1970 announced that he was going to start giving away his millions and invited the world to mail their pleas to him.
Writer-director Keith Maitland stumbled with his 2016 homage to the "Austin City Limits" TV show, "A Song for You," but he has a surer hand here unpeeling the fascinating tale of Brody's brief moment in the sun, when he was quickly revealed to have been too good to be true. Maitland, with the help of producer Melissa Robyn Glassman, unlocks a trove of the tens of thousands of letters stored in several locations, all but a few of them unopened for decades.
We are introduced to some of the people, 50 years later, who are invited to unseal their letters and read them aloud. The emotions are genuine and powerful. These people, a few of them children at the time they wrote in, managed to carve out meaningful lives, even without getting a penny from the heir of a margarine fortune. We meet a daughter and mother who had separately written in for a handout. There is a preacher who, as a young man, envisioned expanding his hair salon that would have served a diverse clientele. Most touching are three sisters who jointly discover the letter of their mother, who also had dreams of being an entrepreneur.
Michael Brody was a spoiled con man. Age 21 at the time, he had dreams of being a pop star, and at the height of the media scrum he appeared on "The Ed Sullivan Show." He had a whirlwind romance with a cool hippie chick, Renee, who appears here, seemingly still befuddled by the phenomenon. (Their son appears, too; he inherited a stash of unopened missives.) We also hear from a former high school classmate of Brody's, now a filmmaker, who tried in vain to produce a fictionalized version of the story, as well as a concert promoter who got swept up into Brody's entourage and provides some inside perspective. Pay attention and you'll see young TV reporters, including Geraldo Rivera, Peter Jennings and future "60 Minutes" stalwart Ed Bradley, rocking quite the 'fro and perhaps inspiring the retro look of Questlove.
While Brody's personality dominates this narrative, in the end the story is about the thousands of desperate people whose hopes fell victim to a frivolous young man's greed for attention. These ordinary people reached out -- often on behalf of friends or family members -- but never got the courtesy of a response. They moved on, regardless. One scene involves footage from a feeding frenzy of hopefuls, where one man, after talking to others in line, realizes that his hardship pales in comparison to that of the others, and so he walks away.
Maitland uses visuals well to add poignancy to the presentation. We see closeups of hands, now old or middle-aged, gripping a letter, and we watch the reader get magically transported to their youth, to a head space they might have completely forgotten. We see close-ups of the printed words, super-close-ups of individual letters, even punctuation. The effect is touching. The three sisters recognize a little stylistic flourish of their mother's: she bound the pages of her letter not with a staple but with a safety pin.
The words of the title, "Dear Mr. Brody," echo throughout the film, and you can hear the ellipses that follow that phrase, a hollow space for the wishes and dreams of ordinary folks. The movie, in the end, isn't about a fatuous playboy living out a self-indulgent fantasy. It's about the rest of us who forged ahead, soberly through the decades. Charity be damned; whatever they ended up with, they earned it on their own.
Revisiting a pair from back in the day:
ANGEL HEART (1987) (B+) - Mickey Rourke is in his prime as an alektorophobic* private eye who gets sucked into voodoo shenanigans in 1950s New Orleans, ending up in a battle for his own soul. Rourke swaggers through this neo-noir, blasting a Brooklyn accent, as Harry Angel, a hard-boiled dick who takes a job looking for a crooner named Johnny Favorite, a wounded veteran of World War II who sold his soul for stardom.
Angel is hired by the mysterious Louis Cyphere (the adapted screenplay, by director Alan Parker, is not subtle), brought to life with diabolical suavity by Robert De Niro, schooling Rourke in just the few scenes he appears in. When Angel lands in New Orleans, where the practitioners of the dark arts lead him on a goose chase. Or maybe chicken chase. (What is it with his fear of chickens? Even eggs creep him out.)
He meets the mystifying Margaret (a sizzling Charlotte Rampling); the alluring teen mother Epiphany (a provocative Lisa Bonet, in her breakout from "Cosby"); and a blues guitarist named Toots Sweet (musician Brownie McGhee), among other fascinating locals. Some of them end up dead shortly after Angel interacts with them. And the viewer needn't be a seasoned investigator to piece together the plot puzzle and figure out where this is headed.
Parker -- the elegant British filmmaker behind "Midnight Express," "Shoot the Moon," and "Mississippi Burning," among other hits -- pens a clever script, and he is a master at pacing. He also knows how to capture a sultry sex scene. You probably need to be a fan of Rourke's to buy into the fetishistic touches (that was easier to do back then), but this is solid storytelling and guilt-free entertainment.
* - Fear of chickens.
TRUE STORIES (1986) (B+) - David Byrne is now an old man who dresses like a celebrity communist and performs palatable songs on awards-show telecasts. But during the peak of his power in the mid-'80s, he walked the same tightrope that David Lynch trod in transitioning from the avant garde to the mainstream.
Byrne's ode to small-town America imagines the fictional town of Virgil, Texas, peopled by a diverse group of oddball Americans. It is on the one hand a glimpse of ordinary Americana but on the other hand an anomaly. It celebrates the state's sesquicentennial, and so the simple townfolk are putting on airs -- a fashion show, a parade (featuring an all-accordion marching band), a talent show.
John Goodman, in one of his first big roles, grounds the film as lovelorn Louis Fyne, a mid-30s bachelor searching for a wife. Goodman is surrounded by character actors who add depth and soul to their portrayals. Byrne addresses the camera as the outsider conducting his sociological study of small-town America. It might come across as condescending if it weren't so heartfelt; this isn't an elitist artist mocking the plebes. It rises above the smirking snark of a John Waters film of the same era.
The film is buoyed by one of Byrne's best song collections. You probably remember the "Wild, Wild Life" video from that year, and it is taken essentially from a lip-sync scene in the movie. In most other instances, the movie characters sing Byrne's tunes -- Pops Staples doing "Papa Legba"; Tito Larriva interpreting "Radio Head"; and Goodman pouring his heart out to "People Like Us," which always tugs at my heart.
The narrative is shaggy and meandering, but it holds together. Swoosie Kurtz charms as a bed-ridden socialite who experiences life through contraptions (they feed her and turn the pages of her magazines) and TV commercials (real ones interspersed with fake pitches). Byrne's halting, innocent delivery sets just the right tone. Annie Culver and Spalding Gray play well off of each other as a snooty couple who communicate only through their children. And journeyman actress Jo Harvey Allen delivers skewed laughs as the Lying Woman. Byrne brings it all together in a technicolor dreamscape that still feels lived-in to this day.
BONUS TRACKS
Over the "True Stories" end credits, the sweet and sorrowful "City of Dreams":
And Steve Jordan and his band crank out "Soy de Tejas" during a rowdy bar scene:
Hey, it's been a while ...
From France, Louis Garrel writes, directs and stars in a rom-com caper film, "The Innocent."
The Dardenne brothers ("Two Days, One Night," "The Kid With the Bike," "Rosetta") are back after a layoff, with another tale of children in peril, "Tori and Lokita."
An indie film out of Oakland made in 1998, about fears of a serial killer targeting young men in that city, "Drylongso."
Ulrich Seidl (the "Paradise" trilogy) dramatizes the pathetic life of a washed-up singer of power ballads, "Rimini."
A documentary about baseball legend Reggie Jackson? Let's indulge our inner adolescent with "Reggie."
MONEY SHOT: THE PORNHUB STORY (B+) - Netflix brings a surprisingly thorough and balanced approach to the tension, in the world of online porn, between cracking down on victims and inhibiting honest sex workers. In a perky hour-and-a-half, director Suzanne Hillinger juggles a lot of facts and personalities and weaves them into a coherent and compelling narrative.
Pornhub is the Walmart of porn, and the main rub, so to speak, began when an advocacy group and a New York Times columnist convinced Mastercard and Visa to halt its dealings with the site. It forced Pornhub to jettison millions of unverified uploads (thus, presumably, eliminating a lot of illegal content), but that move also punished small-time verified users, who lost a valuable source of quick and easy income.
The film skillfully sways back and forth in its sympathies, with the sex workers probably getting most of the benefit of the doubt. But the crusaders against child pornography and sex trafficking (who have roots in prudish Christian activism) make a strong case too. In the middle is Noelle Perdue, a former Pornhub employee, who comes off as a wise insider and an expert able to juggle all the nuances here.
The other talking heads are knowledgeable, articulate and at times rather entertaining. What could have been a throwaway and sleazy presentation is instead a meaty examination of a topic that's much more intriguing than it looks.
LOVE IN THE TIME OF FENTANYL (B) - This PBS documentary about a safe-shoot-up clinic for drug addicts in Vancouver could use a little less fly-on-the-wall edginess and a little more context, but it nonetheless is effective at offering a sobering glimpse of a ragtag group of people trying to prevent overdoses and save lives.
Newcomer Colin Askey embeds with the crew of workers and volunteers -- many of them in recovery themselves -- at the Overdose Prevention Society, a storefront in the city's Eastside neighborhood, as they perform Job-like work tending to addicts looking for a fix. At any time an overdose can occur, and the team has Narcan at the ready.
We watch one man make strides with his sobriety, but the focus is on the manager, Ronnie, who wearily soldiers on after years in the urban trenches. The hirsute bear of a man is lovingly called Narcan Jesus, and he provides the film with an ending that is both hopeful and heartbreaking.
But Askey does not deify anyone here. You realize that this is an uphill battle, a blip in the wave of fentanyl deaths sweeping across North America. These lives are fragile, and don't beat yourself up if a thought flashes through your mind about how and whether we go all out to rescue these lost souls.
SOUTH MOUNTAIN (2019) (B+) - This is a lyrical visual essay about a woman dealing with the dissolution of her marriage. It's not a tragedy, but rather a mere slice of life. Talia Balsam anchors a uniquely lived-in drama, full of authentic characters.
Lila (Balsam) lives an idyllic existence in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York with her writer husband Edgar (a solid Scott Cohen, Max from "Gilmore Girls") and their blended family. (She married him after his wife, her best friend, died.) Lila's pal Gigi (Andrus Nichols) is dealing with breast cancer, while their daughters fall in and out of friendship. Edgar's bad habit of infidelity hits a crescendo when his girlfriend gives birth, and Edgar finally moves out, triggering traumas of his past infidelities for Lila and her family.
Edgar's older daughter Sam (a sharp Macualee Cassaday) has a skeptical view of her parents' relationship, understandably. Sam's friend Jonah (Michael Oberholtzer) hangs around doing odd jobs and ends up in bed with Lila, who treats him as nothing more than cynical payback to her spouse, or merely a scratch to an itch. Naian Gonzalez Norvind is the secret weapon here as sharp-tongued Dara, the daughter of both Lila and Edgar.
Balsam has an even keel, and her wistful Lila grounds this deeply satisfying dramedy. She plays well against Cohen as her selfish husband, Nichols as her best friend, and especially Norvind's Dara. They are all surrounded by a wonderfully detailed set, centered around a summer house stuffed with a lifetime's worth of detritus. This comes from writer-director Hilary Braugher ("Stephanie Daley," "Innocence"), who has crafted a quiet, authentic chronicle of a familiar story of a middle-aged woman.
NO BEARS (C) - Jafar Panahi has made some brilliant films, but his latest is alternatively confusing and inert, a sloppy story about people limited by oppressive governments. It is honorable that Panahi traveled to the Iranian border to craft a meta-narrative about border politics; I wish it held together as a coherent narrative.
Panahi plays himself, a director who has gone close to the Iranian border with Turkey but who hides out in a remote rented house and directs the film-within-a-film remotely. The film he is making is about a couple -- based on a real couple he knows -- trying to cross from Turkey to Iran; meantime, Panahi gets caught up in some local intrigue in the Iranian village, as a young couple is planning to cross the border in the other direction.
It's an interesting set-up and a meta concept nested within a meta concept; if only Panahi had presented it that clearly and sensibly during his 106-minute odyssey. If it hadn't been so dull it might have been easier to engage with and follow. Furthermore, Panahi is just not a dynamic screen presence, and he is featured in nearly every scene.
Panahi, the man (as opposed to the actor), is a heroic filmmaker. He is a renegade fighting his government and willing to walk the walk, as he now sits in prison for his crimes of creating art. He brilliantly depicted his house arrest more than a decade ago in "This Is Not a Film," and he produced a much better meta experiment with "Jafar Panahi's Taxi." Not all of these experiments will pan out. Even great filmmakers can have an off year.
THE SILENT TWINS (A-minus) - Agnieszka Smoczynska has such an inventive, natural feel for filmmaking that her movies are a wonder to watch. She takes sophisticated ideas and presents them with flair but doesn't detract from the gravitas of the story she is telling.
We discovered her with "The Lure," the "trippy fever dream, a nostalgic horror musical" about a pair of mermaids emerging from the sea to fulfill their dream of becoming cheesy lounge singers. Smoczynska gets a little more sober here with the true-life period piece about twin sisters who spend most of their life refusing to speak to anyone -- not their parents or their teachers or even psychologists. Cute boys are excepted. And, of course, they talk to each other, building a rich twin inner life.
Smoczynska takes a rich script by Andrea Seigel ("Laggies") and makes it come alive through the intimate interactions between her stars, narrative urgency, and rich fantasy sequence. Letitia Wright stars as June Gibbons, the sister who would channel her creativity into publishing a book, and Tamara Lawrence plays her sister Jennifer, who seems to be the more adventurous and troubled of the two. It is Jennifer who will have the confidence to seduce a jock at school and eventually lead the sisters toward a stupid crime of vandalism that would get them locked up in a psychiatric facility -- and separated, painfully, for the first time.
The film starts in the '70s when these daughters of Caribbean immigrants are little and struggling to fit into their working-class UK environment. (At that age, the sisters are played by Leah Mondesir-Simmons as June and Eva-Arianna Baxter as Jennifer. The casting is spot-on from childhood to young adulthood.) As little girls, their bedroom comes alive with their imaginative stories and artwork and their vivid conversations. They have a fondness for Marc Bolan and T.Rex. But as soon as there is a knock on the door, they fall silent. Out in public they do little more than bow their heads and exchange glances.
As young adults, their challenges only deepens, as they are expected to eventually connect with the rest of the world. Their confinement feels soul-crushing.
Wright and Lawrence never sag under the weight of their monumental roles. And Smoczynska finds a tricky balance between the somber dirge of the narrative and the playfulness of the sisters when they create stories or act out. Those looking for the standard fare of a harrowing biopic dealing with mental health should look elsewhere; rather than try to figure out the roots of the psychosis on display, the film merely offers a representation of what it was like at the time. Do yourself a favor and don't look up the real story of the Gibbons sisters online; instead, start with this fascinating deep dive into the twisted world of troubled twins.
BONUS TRACKS
In addition to period songs from the likes of T. Rex and the Clash, the soundtrack revels in nuggets from the early disco era. Here is one we never heard before, Helen Banks with "Starlight":
And then there is Hot Chocolate ("You Sexy Thing") with the Shaftian "Put Your Love in Me":
TURN EVERY PAGE (A-minus) - This documentary about the half-century collaboration between LBJ biographer Robert Caro and editor Robert Gottlieb is a labor of love by Gottlieb's daughter, Lizzie. It is a fascinating, and very personal, study of two true titans of publishing.
Caro, a ferociously diligent investigative journalist, broke big in 1974 with "The Power Broker," a legendary tome about the man who created the modern New York City. Caro was paired on that project with Gottlieb, who would head up Knopf publishing and, later, the New Yorker magazine, and the two remained business partners forever. Each man is the personification of old-school dedication to the written word.
Caro learned from a news editor early on to leave no stone unturned when sifting through research documents, or, as the title reminds us, to "turn every page." His three-volume biography of Lyndon Johnson has morphed into a five-volume life mission, with the fifth installment still pending perilously, as both men were pushing 90 when the movie was being made. His books are about more than just the men who serve as his subjects, but also about the accumulation and effects of political power -- and thus they tell deeply American stories.
Other writers and editors, both old and young, are on hand to attest to the brilliance of Caro's chronicles. They also have deep admiration for Gottlieb, who estimates that he has edited between 600 and 700 books in his career, including such foundational titles as "Catch-22" (he changed the number from 18) and authors like Toni Morrison. Bill Clinton is on hand to sing Gottlieb's praises and to admit that he feels like a "lost little boy" after Gottlieb, at 89, took a pass on editing Clinton's latest book.
Both men are pre-eminent storytellers -- Caro, in particular, is riveting as he reveals how he finally got LBJ's brother to open up to him about the Johnsons' childhood -- and they have character and charisma to burn. Gottlieb drops witticisms effortlessly -- like his observation that it's much easier to be adorable than to be industrious. Talking heads -- including the New Yorker's famous comma queen, Mary Norris -- go beyond kindly bon mots to break down the nuts and bolts about the trades of writing and editing. (Norris and others offer a playful disquisition on the semicolon, for example.)
Perhaps the secret weapon of this film is that it is a valentine to the classic era of storytelling. Caro hand-writes his first drafts before typing them out, using carbon paper as a backup. Gottlieb, an inveterate reader since childhood, plies his trade with a yellow pencil. Just watching the lost art of detailed reporting and editing play out on the screen can make certain viewers a little misty-eyed. A few little touches pay off. We are treated to personal details like Caro's voluminous trove of carbon copies (stashed above his fridge) and Gottlieb's quirky collection of purses.
But even though this is a delectable story, it runs too long. Lizzie Gottlieb, like other recent documentarians (see the Kurt Vonnegut bio), insists on inserting herself into the story, from beginning, middle and end. (We don't need multiple shots of photos of her as a little girl with her parents; footage of her wedding; or scenes with her son walking through a bookstore with his grandfather.) This story could have been told in a tad over 90 minutes; as it is, it runs nearly two hours. Ironically, the filmmaker could have benefited from more editing.
SIRENS (B+) - This chronicle of a female death-metal band in Lebanon -- let the uniqueness of that sink in -- is a little too arty, but it does a fine job of exploring the personalities of and relationship between the band's guitarists, who share the spotlight and open themselves up to examination. It is a study of female sexuality, bonding and empowerment in a restrictive society.
Lilas (above, left) is big-haired and ballsy, pretty openly lesbian, and confident, whereas Shery (right) comes off as hesitant and a bit insecure. The women, firmly in their 20s, and their bandmates in Sleeping With Sirens appear to be earnest and dedicated to their music, even if there isn't much of an apparent fan base, illustrated by a sad performance in front of a smattering of fans on the D stage of a British music festival.
Filmmaker Rita Baghdadi embeds herself in the lives of Lilas and Shery, and the intimacy pays off. We also are privy to rehearsals and songwriting sessions, where the music seems much more nuanced and thoughtful than the noise that gets spewed onstage. Baghdadi tries too hard, though, to put a high gloss on the cinematography and scene choices. Too often, situations appear to be staged, with the camera happening to be in just the right place, at just the right angle, to perfectly capture a given moment, sometimes in soft focus.
But deep down this is a moving story of two women struggling for their art. It helps that the subjects -- Lilas, in particular, especially when she decides to trim that mop of hair of hers -- are relatable and admirable.
In this experiment, we paused a movie roughly midway through and reviewed it just from that perspective. (It was so bad that we were confident it wouldn't get better, or good enough to earn a recommendation.) Here is that first review. We have now watched the rest of the movie and review it further, to see if anything has changed.
TAR (C) - So we made it to the end and bumped the grade up half a notch. It's still a failed spectacle.
We paused at an interesting moment, around the 95-minute mark (with still another hour-plus to go), because "Tar" is certainly a very different film in its last hour. (And it needn't have spent a full hour and a half creaking along with a weak set-up.) As chickens start to come home to roost for the rapacious Lydia Tar (Cate Blanchett), director Todd Field turns this into a low-rent horror film, with her grotesque gothic Berlin apartment building standing in for the Dakota Building in "Rosemary's Baby."
Whereas in the first half, Tar had insomnia, the final hour is full of her waking from disturbing dreams. She loses her grip on reality at times, including a bizarre sequence where she wanders into the basement of a dilapidated apartment complex and runs off frightened, leading to a nasty fall. (This essay, which includes a lot of spoilers, goes even further and makes the case that maybe most of the final hour takes place in Tar's head. I wouldn't go that far, but the author makes some good points.)
In the spirit of Part 1 of this review, let us pause to relate some more annoyances, in bullet form:
Richard Brody, my nemesis from the New Yorker (we don't agree on movies very often), nails a lot of the problems with "Tar," which he deems a regressive film, considering it mocking, sneering and derisive. In his review, he notes how director Field tries to have it both ways -- the famed conductor is accused of misdeeds, but Field presents the film from her point of view and keeps the details so vague that we will be tempted to give her the benefit of the doubt. We agree that the film is "utterly unilluminating" about her work as a conductor and composer. He chastises Field for daring to equate -- or, at the very least, hint at an equivalence between -- the so-called cancellation of Tar with the de-Nazification of Germany after World War II. (This involves a bizarre and unnecessary conversation she has with yet another old white man.)
Brody concludes: "The careful ambiguities of 'Tar' offer a sort of plausible deniability to its relentlessly conservative button-pushing, and its aesthetic is no less regressive, conservative, and narrow."
In the final hour of the film, we finally get some action (thus the bump in grade), but too much of the plot development feels rushed, especially coming after an hour and a half of plodding table-setting. Field continues to offer excuses for his misbehaving star, including letting her fabricate a physical attack in order to engender sympathy for this predator.
In our 2022 year-end review, we lamented the over-indulgence of mid-career auteurs, and this is a prime example of a pampered filmmaker given every opportunity to just run rampant with flabby storytelling. It does, though, have a pretty good ending.
In this experiment, we are pausing a movie roughly midway through so that we can review it just from that perspective. (It's so bad that we are confident it won't get better, or good enough to earn a recommendation.) We will then watch the rest of the movie and review it further, to see if anything has changed.
TAR (C-minus) - How can a movie annoy thee? Let me count the ways. "Tar" is the award-hungry mature art film that is such a spotlight for Cate Blanchett that you truly ache for her every time her tightly wound conductor twitches and tics or belts out pinpoint-perfect diatribe after diatribe. Oh, the Hollywood trope of the tortured artist. R.I.P., Kirk Douglas.
This film, by the occasional would-be auteur Todd Field ("In the Bedroom," "Little Children"), is perpetually maddening right out of the gate, when we are expected to (maybe?) be able to read a blurry text on a shaky cell phone. I took notes on the parade of irritations:
So, Lydia Tar is a tightly wound genius who flashes a fairly dark mean streak occasionally, though she comes off as more autistic than diabolical. She dresses down an overly sensitive student of color in the class she teaches for refusing to dig Bach because the composer was a personally repulsive old white guy. Take that, Gen Z! Tar also goes onto the playground of her daughter's school to confront the daughter's bully. What a stone-cold meanie!
This emotionally retarded elitist in fitted suits is unpleasant to be around. Blanchett is trying way too hard here. (No one else is really worth mentioning , because the star sucks the oxygen out of every scene she's in.) I wouldn't have stuck around nearly as long as I did with the film if (a) my partner wasn't somehow enjoying the movie, despite my exasperated critical hysterics throughout (talk about annoying), or (b) I hadn't come up with this little gimmick of having a go at the first half of a bad film before watching the rest of it. It made what would have been a Life Is Short plug pull somewhat bearable.
This supposedly has a decent ending. Stay tuned for Part 2.
This is an odd one. I am not a jazz fan at all. It too often sounds noodly and pretentious. Aside from a little Mingus here, a little Miles there, I just never got into it.
Last Saturday, we ventured to the Northeast Heights in search of a burger. We settled on a place that we had known as a burger joint in Nob Hill and of all nights the venue featured a jazz band from the University of New Mexico, showcasing some graduates of the neighborhood high school. The place doesn't serve burgers anymore, so I didn't get a burger and had to sit through jazz. But the non-burgers were tasty, the kids were pretty good, and they played a fine version of "Blue Moon," the sentimental favorite, so it wasn't a bust.
I did try, back during my formative years, to explore my feelings toward another style of music besides the pop and rock I grew up with. I had a lot of alone time during high school, so I had a chance to explore a bit. That's how I discovered Willie Nelson and the various forms of country -- such as outlaw and Hank Williams -- and why I'm a fan to this day.
When it came to jazz, my attempt featured the group Weather Report, circa 1980. This was back in the olden days when WXRT in Chicago (now owned by a conglomerate) was more experimental when crafting its playlist and would still throw in a jazz piece here and there. One of those was "Birdland" by Weather Report, featuring Wayne Shorter (below, right) on soprano and tenor saxophones. The first time I heard the boppy little number I was hooked.
It was around the same time that the lite-jazz vocal group Manhattan Transfer was getting Grammy notice, and they scored airplay with a lyric-version of "Birdland," originally an instrumental written in 1977 by Joe Zawinul (below, left), the keyboardist in Weather Report. So it wasn't an obscure song at the time.
I splurged on a vinyl copy of Weather Report's "8:30," a double album recorded in Santa Monica and released in August 1979. I'm certain that it was junior year (perhaps the loneliest of the four high school years) that I dove into that album. I swooned to "Birdland," over and over, of course, but I scratched my head at most of the rest, including a skronky deconstruction of Bob Hope's theme song "Thanks for the Memory." Something about the combination of experimental jazz and old man Hope just gave me the willies.
But I never got over the swingin' suavity of "Birdland." I can hear the jazz purists scoff. It's cutesy and repetitive. The New York Times obit doesn't mention it. My clinging to it is probably the equivalent of someone claiming to be a rock 'n' roll fan by citing Chuck Berry and "My Ding-a-Ling." That's OK.
I never followed Weather Report much, and there are probably no more than 10 CDs in my "jazz collection." (I've taken multiple runs at Coltrane and failed every time.) But I always perked up when I ran across the names of Zawinul and Shorter. Wayne Shorter died this week at age 89. When I think of him, I think of those seven minutes of "Birdland." It's still impossible for me not to whistle along -- and to think of the jazz aficionado I could have been.
BONUS TRACK
One more knife-stick to the gut of the jazz world, and a whole nother separate essay about the indelible memory I have of discovering this album in my best friend's basement freshman year -- Shorter did the tenor-sax solo for Steely Dan's "Aja":
