The Last Movie Stars, on HBO Max

Even at the height of voyeuristic reality TV, nobody thought to make a Bobby & Whitney-style show about Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Everyone considered them Hollywood’s classiest power couple, so they assumed they must be boring. However, their relationship had plenty of behind-the-scenes drama. Ethan Hawke never shies away from any of it during his six-part documentary profile of Woodward and Newman, The Last Movie Stars, which premieres tomorrow on HBO Max.

They first worked together on the Broadway production of Picnic and soon became an item. There was a slight complication though, given the fact Newman was already married—to somebody else. That obviously planted the seed for certain tensions, as the Newman’s daughters (from both marriages) eventually address.

Despite their mutual fame and frequent collaborations, the two were on different career trajectories, which contributed to the other major theme of Hawke’s docu-series. At first, Woodward was the bigger star, thanks to her Oscar for The Three Faces of Eve. Of course, Newman soon eclipsed her with Somebody Up There Likes Me and he only grew in popularity through his Tennessee Williams films.

To tell their story, Hawke had a wealth of primary sources to draw from. Newman had commissioned his screenwriter friend Stewart Stern to conduct interviews with all the major people in his life (including his first wife), when he had a notion of writing an autobiography (that Knopf bought at auction for good money). When Newman changed his mind, he burned the tapes, but the transcripts survived. Making a virtue of necessity, Hawke recruited many of his colleagues for dramatic readings of the transcribed interviews. Mostly, it works quite well. George Clooney and Laura Linney are excellent vocal sound-alikes for the star couple. Brooks Ashmanskas also sounds so perfectly insufferable as their pal Gore Vidal, it is almost spooky.

Hawke (who previously helmed the refined doc, Seymour: An Introduction) has a keen eye for selecting clips from the couple’s filmography that marry up well with the themes and events under discussion. Many of the scenes should prompt viewers to revisit the given films. All the really big one, like The Hustler and even Paris Blues (which both have classic jazz soundtracks) get their full just due. Yet, it is a bit frustrating we only see scenes of Hitchcock’s Torn Curtain and Altman’s Quintet to illustrate Newman’s periods of personal confusion and unrewarding professional choices.

Still, it is a little weird to hear Absence of Malice so casually dismissed. If anything, this should be the Sydney Pollack film’s moment, since we’re now in an era of fake news and journalistic scandals, like the Taylor Lorenz doxing incident. Newman himself dismisses The Towering Inferno as mere commercial fare, but from the perspective of 2022, it looks like a pretty hard-hitting expose of shoddy construction techniques.

Regardless, Hawke’s most conspicuous oversight is the complete absence of Newman’s notorious (from his point-of-view) televised nuclear freeze debate with Charlton Heston. By all accounts, Heston handed Newman his head and reportedly the liberal star never spoke to his conservative former friend afterward. Frankly, it was a major event in Newman’s life that would nicely fit with analysis of his box office bomb, WUSA (which everyone concedes was a failure). Indeed, Stuart Rosenberg’s yarn demonizing a right-wing radio station arguably reflects a lack of understanding of differing viewpoints that contributed to Newman’s humbling in the Heston debate.

Tribeca ’22: The Black Phone

You can still find out-of-service pay phones left installed in the walls of old school diners, decrepit bus stations, and past-their-prime school buildings that seem to offer the promise of ghostly communication they cannot possibly fulfill. This serial killer assumes the disconnected phone in his basement dungeon is just like that, but his latest abductee will receive supernatural calls on it from previous victims in Scott Derrickson’s Blumhouse-produced The Black Phone, which opens tomorrow nationwide, after screening at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

He is called the Grabber for obvious reasons. He uses balloons and magic tricks to lure kids off the street, but even after grabbing them, he never lets them see his face unmasked. Unfortunately, Finney Shaw will be his next victim, following his friend Robin Arellano and his friendly softball rival, Bruce Yamada. Arellano was more formidable taking on bullies at school, but Shaw is the first to draw the Grabber’s blood during the abduction.

Thanks to the ghostly calls he receives on the supposedly kaput phone in the Grabber’s sound-proofed basement, Shaw also avoids all the mistakes his past victims made. They also offer advice regarding potential avenues for escape, but he will have to work quickly. So far, Shaw’s kidnapping has been so unsatisfying for the Grabber, he is starting to lose patience with his latest victim. Of course, the clueless cops are looking for him, but so is his younger sister Gwen. She has a bit of the shine, but she can’t necessarily summon it whenever she wants. Instead, it comes irregularly in dreams.

Based on the Joe Hill short story, Black Phone features an abusive father, similar to the many examples found in the works of his own dad, Stephen King. Critics of the psychoanalytic school can make of that what they will, if they dare. At least Derrickson and C. Robert Cargill’s adapted screenplay explains the Shaw siblings’ father acts they way he does, because their late mother was driven crazy by her clairvoyant gift/curse.

Regardless, Black Phone is insidiously effective (if you will) because the young cast is so compelling. Yes, the always reliable Ethan Hawke is all kinds of creepy as the Grabber, but the sinister masks are also a big part of his screen presence. However, Mason Thames really holds the audience’s attention and sympathy as the somewhat nebbish Shaw. When he is not on-screen, Madeleine McGraw steals numerous scenes and scores the film’s only laughs as his sister Gwen. You do not often see such an endearing and cooperative young brother-sister relationship in films—but it is done really well in Black Phone.

Abel Ferrara’s Zeroes and Ones

During the height of the global Covid-19 lockdowns, not everybody stayed inside. Crime skyrocketed in New York and other American big urban centers. However, in Rome, it is a shadowy terrorist network that is capitalizing on the empty city streets. At least, that is the cover story an American military commando has been told. For reasons that are never fully revealed, he believes his radical revolutionary twin brother has information that can avert their imminent attack in Abel Ferrara’s Zeroes and Ones, which releases today in theaters and on-demand.

That might sound like an explosive international thriller, but just so there are no misunderstandings, it should be understood from the outset that this is Abel Ferrara at his most Abel Ferrarish. In fact, he went back to his gritty street cinema roots, shooting Z&O on the fly, defying civic curfews, in Covid-era Rome’s ghost town-looking back alleys. It is not exactly clear whether his story unfolds during the current CCP viral outbreak or the next one, but the vibe is certainly similar.

The hardnosed J.J. is convinced Justin holds key intel. It also seems like he wants to find his radical brother to make an eleventh-hour effort to mend their estranged relationship. Unfortunately, agents of the terrorist cabal (which clearly includes a lot of Russians) already know he is in Rome.

Honestly, the only straightforward segments of Z&O are the wrap-arounds, wherein lead actor Ethan Hawke talks directly to the audience, discussing the process of collaborating with Ferrara. It doesn’t sound like he really knows what the film is about either, but he is still more or less okay with it.

He is also very good playing JJ—technically it is a dual role, but the respectable military twin gets the overwhelming lion-share of the screen-time. Right from the start, he looks sufficiently haggard and haunted to imply more than enough backstory. It is up to Hawke to carry this film and he does, if you can buy into Ferrara’s fractured perspective and hallucinatory aesthetics.

There is plenty of pretentious theological symbolism and frequent expressionistic representations of Ferrara’s tortured psyche, but at least we never see Harvey Keitel’s naked butt in this one. Nevertheless, Z&O could fill a bingo card full of Ferrara hallmarks, including a weird sex scene featuring his wife, Christina Chiriac, holding a gun and a video camera on J.J. as he acquiesces to the Russians’ incredibly unsubtle honey trap. Apparently, sometimes a spy has to do what a spy has to do.

Kore-eda’s The Truth

Fabienne Dangeville was no Joan Crawford, but she wasn’t the paragon of maternal virtue her new memoir makes her out to be. Instead, she has always been more interested in career than anything else. That is how her daughter Lumir remembers their family history, but her memory is also subjective. No matter whose recollections are more accurate, family is still family in Hirokazu Kore-eda’s The Truth, the first French-language production from the Japanese auteur, which opens today in very select cities and also releases on VOD.

Lumir has returned to Paris with her TV actor husband Hank and their daughter Charlotte, to celebrate the publication of her mother’s book, but Dangeville’s reluctance to send her an advance copy has aroused her suspicions. Meanwhile, the great actress struggles to relate to her latest film role, playing the aged daughter of a terminally-ill woman, who has used the relativity of interstellar space travel to stretch her time, but as a result, she has been almost entirely from her husband and daughter’s lives. Frankly, she only accepted the part to work with Manon Lenoir, the daughter of a former friend and colleague, whom she may have done wrong, at least according to Lumir.

If that premise sounds familiar, it is because associate producer Ken Liu’s story “Memories of My Mother” was previously adapted as the short film Beautiful Dreamer before becoming the source of Kore-eda’s film-within-the-film. It is quite a unique distinction for Liu among his fellow sf writers, but it is easy to see how the themes of his story overlap with those of Kore-eda’s family drama (and his entire oeuvre).

Of course, patrons of French cinema will be much more interested in the first-time pairing of Catherine Deneuve and Juliette Binoche as the mother-daughter tandem. They will not be disappointed. Admittedly, Deneuve is playing with her own image to some extent, but her grand diva act is certainly entertaining to behold. She also has some terrific scenes with young Clementine Grenier, as her granddaughter. However, Binoche is totally believable as the down-to-earth Lumir, who nurtures her resentments without wallowing in them. She plays Lumir as a functional adult rather than an over-the-top cliché. (Thank heavens, Meryl Streep is not in this film.)

Sundance ’20: Tesla

Nikola Tesla is probably the only inventor to have a heavy metal band and an electric car named after him. His great rival Thomas Edison can’t say that. Fittingly, he now also has the idiosyncratic distinction of being the subject of a Michael Almereyda film. It is concretely based on Tesla’s life, but there is nothing conventional about the way it unfolds on screen in Almereyda’s Tesla, which won the Alfred P. Sloan Prize for use of science in cinema at the 2020 Sundance Film Festival.

Yes, Almereyda covers all the major beats in Tesla’s life, including his early years in Croatia, his brief tenure at Edison’s workshop, his success developing alternating current, his difficult relationships with the Morgan family, and his iconic (or infamous) experiments in Colorado Springs and at Wardenclyffe Tower. However, this is about as far from straight biography as you can get. Instead, Almereyda starts with the approach of his fascinating Stanly Milgram film, Experimenter, cutting loose all narrative restraints and doubling down on surreal stylization.

This time around, he frequently utilizes similar rear-screen projections for disorienting effect, but he also employs the torch-carrying Anne Morgan as a wholly unreliable, fourth wall-puncturing narrator. The film freely skips around the Tesla timeline and often wistfully depicts long hoped-for incidents that never happened in life, much like the fantasy scenes in Annie Hall. The resulting spectacle resembles Milos Forman’s Ragtime if rewritten by Charlie Kaufman, but with a weird mix of mischievousness and wistfulness that is all Almereyda.

If you have seen Experimenter it will help prepare you for the sort of hyper-real effect Almereyda achieves throughout Tesla, even though the earlier profile-in-science was considerably more grounded. This is the sort of film you have to roll with, but if you can maintain your sea-legs and your bearings to any extent, Almereyda’s woozy kaleidoscope is absolutely dazzling to behold. Admittedly, Tesla’s third act crooning of Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” is wacky bridge too far, but hey, who’s to tell Almereyda he should start holding back at that point?

Two of the major reasons Tesla works so well are Ethan Hawke and Kyle MacLachlan, who are perfectly cast as Tesla and Edison, in ways that best contrast their differences. Hawke’s Tesla is the king of all brooders, who has contempt for the success he chases. He is an introverted man, uncomfortable in his own skin, somewhat akin to the shy teen Hawke played in Dead Poets Society. In contrast, Edison is a brash American striver. Yet, MacLachlan conveys all his insecurities and fears of failure. He is a rival to Tesla, but not a villain.

Blaze: The Roots of Blaze Foley

When John Prine recorded Blaze Foley’s “Clay Pigeons,” it was sort of like Elvis Presley covering Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes,” but on a much smaller scale. His greatest hit was no longer associated with him, but for Foley, “greatest hit” would be a highly relative term. His career was a minefield of frustrations, as was just about every other aspect of his life, especially for the people close to him. Of course, the worst part was its violent, premature end, at the age of thirty-nine (a mere five years older than Charlie Parker, if that constitutes any sort of bragging rights). Foley is gone and he was never as well known as he should have been, but his memory haunts those who know him in Ethan Hawke’s pointillistic portrait Blaze (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Hawke’s memory approximates the way memory works, hopping forwards and backwards, following murky emotional connections. However, we can easily piece together the broad narrative strokes of the life of Foley, born Michael David Fuller. We can also tell it will end early and badly, based on a radio interview with his friend and fellow musician, Townes Van Zandt, which turns into an informal eulogy for Foley.

Initially, the burly Foley was a mild-mannered carpenter with a surprisingly tuneful singing voice. His marriage to Sybil Rosen is clearly the best thing that ever happened to him. Yet, ironically, it is her confidence in his talent that convinces him to pursue a professional career, starting in Austin. Unfortunately, the pressure of their separation, coupled with addiction issues would undermine their union.

Tragically, we know where all this is headed, but that is no fault of Hawke, who co-adapted Rosen’s memoir for the screen, with Rosen herself. We can blame Foley for falling into the traps that ensnared so many other musicians before and since and we can blame his cronies for contributing to a bad scene, but what happened, happened. In this case, it really was a crime that maybe sort of fit his outlaw persona, rather than the inevitable end of a conventional addiction story.

Hawke’s indie musician friend Ben Dickey is a good physical and musical likeness of Foley. It is an impressive debut, but if award season comes calling for Blaze, it will be Alia Shawkat getting the calls. She shows arguably the greatest range of her career as Rosen, showing power and sorrow we have never had a chance to see from her before. Yet, it is the quiet chemistry she develops with Dickey that really kills it.

They sell the love story, but it is Charlie Sexton who makes it all sound so good, as the film’s music director and a truly spooky dead-ringer for Van Zandt. Rather mind-blowingly, Hawke recorded all the music live as it appears in the film, so it is always Dickey and Sexton we hear in performance, but they do right by Foley and Van Zandt.

There are plenty of films with less narrative cohesion than Blaze, but it still might take some viewers a bit of time to unlock Hawke’s approach, but there is very definitely a method to it. Viewers should really start to get it when they compare the two hitchhiking scenes (the contrast is heartbreaking).

It would also be rather maddening but also somewhat illuminating to compare Blaze with Robert Budreau’s Chet Baker bio-pic, Born to Be Blue, starring Hawke. (For one thing, Hawke poached cinematographer Steve Cossens, who perfectly captures the grittiness of Foley’s milieu.) The two films feature very different styles of very American forms of music, but in each case, the people around Foley and Baker probably forgave them more than was ultimately in their best interests, just because they were so talented. Highly recommended, especially for fans of roots music, Blaze opens this Friday (9/7) in New York, at the IFC Center.

Tribeca ’18: Stockholm

Ostensibly, it is a term used to condone questionable decisions, but the term “Stockholm Syndrome” definitely carries highly negative connotations. In general parlance, it implies the victim was either too weak or too stupid to resist the brainwashing or seduction of their captors. However, the circumstances of the historical incident that coined the term were considerably different. At least, that is how the somewhat fictionalized chronicle of the Normalmstorg Kreditbanken hostage crisis unfolds in Robert Budreau’s Stockholm, which screens during the 2018 Tribeca Film Festival.

He presents himself as an American singing cowboy, but the hostage-taker’s real identity will be the source of some controversy during the stand-off. Regardless, his love for Bob Dylan is genuine enough (the film opens with “New Morning,” a good one that isn’t over-played). Oddly enough, Kaj Hansson (as he is first assumed to be) is not so shocked when the alarm is tripped. In fact, it is a necessary precondition for him to start presenting his demands, which includes the release of his bank-robbing best pal Gunnar Sorensson.

It turns out Sorensson is rather surprised by the scheme, but he plays along—and maybe plays both sides against each other when the cops offer him a deal to act as a “mediator.” Bank officer Bianca Lind is more perceptive than Hansson (or whoever). She can tell he has more enthusiasm than brains. He is in over his head, but the increasingly infuriated cops are probably a greater threat to her safety. Together with the two other hostages, who also start to see things her way, Lind tries to help plot an exit strategy for Hansson and Sorensson.

For many viewers, the big surprise here is the portrayal of Lind (and to a lesser extent her two fellow hostages). Frankly, they are not victims at all (yes, they were menaced a bit during the initial hostage-taking, but they quickly get over it). There is no question Lind is the smartest person in the room—and she choses to help her serenading captor, making her own voluntary decision. As a result, this film is bound to be controversial, especially in Sweden, considering it portrays the sainted Olof Palme as a craven political beast.

The other happy revelation is just how good Noomi Rapace is as Lind. Let’s be honest, her post-Millennium Trilogy work has been iffy (we’re talking about films like Bright, Unlocked, and What Happened to Monday? here). Maybe going back to Sweden was healthy for her, because she is totally riveting as Lind, but in a way that is both cerebral and humane.

Rapace also develops some intriguingly ambiguous chemistry with Ethan Hawke as the nice guy hostage-taker. Arguably, Hawke is a tad old for the “impetuous kid” role (his historical analog was thirty-two at the time of the standoff), but he might be one of the few thesps working today who can credibly convey the character’s flamboyance and his naivete. Of course, Mark Strong is money in the bank as the intense, borderline sociopathic Sorensson. Terms like “heroes,” “villains,” and “anti-heroes” definitely get a little murky in a film like this, but Christopher Heyerdahl (a distant relation of the explorer) makes quite a memorably severe antagonist as police chief Mattsson.

“Stockholm Syndrome” is a term that gets haphazardly thrown around, but this film makes viewers question its usage, even starting in the first instance. It is a tight, energetic period thriller, helmed with a fair amount of flair by Budreau (who also directed Hawke in the hip Chet Baker bio-pic, Born to Be Blue). Highly recommended, Stockholm screens again this Monday (4/23) and the following Sunday (4/29), as part of this year’s Tribeca.

24 Hours to Live: Ethan Hawke Gets an Extension

Travis Conrad is a bit like Edmond O’Brien in D.O.A., except he knows exactly who killed him and why. Frankly, he would be the first to admit he had it coming, so when his shadowy employers give him a brief extension, he will ironically spend it protecting the Interpol agent who shot him dead. Redemption better not dally in Brian Smrz’s 24 Hours to Live (trailer here), which is now playing in New York.

Even though he still grieves for his wife and little boy, Conrad agrees to come back and do one last assignment for the Red Mountain merc agency. They are offering two million very good reasons. The job is to rub out a former operative turning state’s evidence in South Africa, but Lin Bisset, his Hong Kong-based Interpol handler has proved unusually resourceful thus far. Conrad tries to get to the target through Bisset, but he just cannot stomach killing the single mother, so she does him instead.

However, mean old Wetzler at Red Mountain secretly funded a project to bring back the recently deceased for twenty-four hours. The plan was to revive Conrad, extract the safe house location, and then put him down again, but the groggy assassin goes rogue before they can get to the third step. Rather disappointed in his colleagues, Conrad decides to protect the understandably distrustful Bisset and her witness, as a means of getting a little payback for the crummy things Red Mountain did to him.

So yes, Ethan Hawke sort of plays a zombie as Conrad, the dead man walking. Be that as it may, Smrz downplays any possible science fiction or horror angles, doubling down on action instead. Indeed, this definitely looks like a film helmed by a longtime stunt-performer, which it is. There is no nauseating shaky-cam to endure. His fight scenes and shoot-outs are crisply and clearly executed.

Hawke is decently hardboiled, but Xu Qing (a.k.a. Summer Qing) really emerges as the action star. As Bisset, she demonstrates impressive dramatic and action chops. We really pull for her rather than Conrad. Usually Liam Cunningham makes a reliably flamboyantly villain, but he sacks off a bit as Wetzler. On the other hand, Paul Anderson really makes things interesting playing the morally conflicted Jim Morrow, Conrad’s supposed friend and former supervisor. Rutger Hauer is mostly misused and under-employed as Conrad’s genial father-in-law, but at least he has a nice Hobo-with-a-shotgun moment.

Believe it or not, 24HTL is way better than you think it is. Granted, this is probably much more of a VOD release than a theatrical happening, but as a working-class action film, it has its merits. Smrz definitely knows what he is doing, while Xu and Anderson elevate the whole show. Recommended for action fans, 24 Hours to Live is now playing in New York, at the Village East.

Ti West’s In the Valley of Violence

Now its proximity to the Mexican border only gives it a comparative advantage in crime and exploitation. All the decent folk have long since left, but the stranger who rides into town is no choirboy. He is not looking for trouble, but it finds him nonetheless in Ti West’s In the Valley of Violence (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

His name is Paul, but he is the sort of gunslinger who often has no name. The Mexico-bound former cavalry man has deserted due to his mounting revulsion for the so-called “Indian campaigns.” We can tell by looking at him he was disgusted by the killing, precisely because he was so darned good at it. However, Gilly, the ringleader of the local Denton ne’er-do-wells is not so fast on the uptake. As the town Marshal’s deadbeat son, he can usually get away with his bullying behavior, but Paul is an entirely different sort of cat, just like his assertive dog Jumpy.

Like night follows day, Gilly challenges Paul when he reluctantly stops for supplies. Paul might have let things slide had the entitled thug not threatened his dog. When Paul duly shows him up, the chagrined marshal rather apologetically runs him out of town, to preserve public order. At that point, the deserter and the lawman would be fine letting matters stand, but not Gilly. Of course, he and his entourage lay a trap for Paul, but they only succeed in killing Jumpy. We know what that means—and so does West, who delivers Charles Bronson levels of vicarious payback.

Who knew Ethan Hawke had so much Eastwood in him? Granted, it is more of the tortured Josey Wales Eastwood, but it definitely still counts. He instantly projects a sense of a man well acquainted with death, while delivering West’s frequently droll dialogue with wry understatement. He also forges some terrific (albeit slightly problematic) ambiguous romantic chemistry with Taissa Farmiga, as Mary Anne the younger and more naïve of the two sisters operating the town’s high vacancy hotel.

Yet, the real scene stealer is none other than John Travolta, who gleefully gnaws the scenery even as his character struggles to be the voice of reason. Travolta been grinding out a spate of VOD-theatrical day-and-date B-movies, but Valley gives us reason to hope he might just have yet another comeback in him. As an extra added bonus for cult movie fans, West’s frequent co-conspirator Larry Fessenden does his thing playing one of Gilly’s ill-fated cronies.

Although The Sacrament was billed as a departure for West, the Jonestown-inspired found footage thriller was not really so far removed from the horror field. Granted, there is a spot of blood here and there in Valley, but it is a western through and through. Clearly, West has some affection for this genre too, at least as it was realized in Italian productions. He stages some nifty gun fights and pens some razor-sharp, attitude-drenched dialogue. It is a retro blast with uber-modern sensibility. Very highly recommended for a wide spectrum of genre fans, In a Valley of Violence opens this Friday (10/21) in New York, at the Village East.

Tribeca ’16: The Phenom

Baseball is a neurotic sport. When the chips are down, it is much more a test of nerves than a contest of strength or speed. Unfortunately, young mega-hyped prospect Hopper Gibson Jr.’s nerves will fail him at the worst possible time. Five wild pitches later, he starts his mandatory sessions with one of the top sports psychologists specializing in baseball. Gibson tries to take the talking cure in Noah Buschel’s The Phenom, which screens during the 2016 Tribeca Film Festival.

It will barely take the audience five minutes to diagnose the primary source of Gibson’s insecurities. That would be his abusive father. Hopper Senior is not afraid to knock him around a little, but he really does his worst damage on an emotional level. Senior is convinced he could have been a Major League talent were it not for the distractions of prison and whatnot. As a result, he deeply resents his son’s success.

Eventually, we see through flashbacks how Gibson Sr.’s warped perspective on life poisons his son’s personal relationships. He has a bit of the old man’s paranoia, which makes his suspicious and wary around Dr. Mobley. That is a shame, because the shrink really might be able to help Gibson, Jr.

Phenom is a strange baseball film, because it is clearly very conversant in the recent history of the game, but there is virtual no in-game action. Players go through trials like that kind Gibson wrestles with all the time. (Its even more awkward when second basemen come down with the Steve Sax curse.) This is real drama and the stakes are high.

Yet, Buschel keeps the tone surprisingly understated, mostly stringing together a series of one-on-one confrontations. Playing against his Linklater type, Ethan Hawke is shockingly ferocious as Gibson Sr. You can practically see the negative energy radiate off him. Likewise, Paul Giamatti provides the film’s razor-sharp moral center as Dr. Mobley, in what might be the best on-screen shrink performance since Mathieu Almaric in Jimmy P. He also provides an apostolic link to major league baseball through the Giamatti family. For further off-the-field cred, Paul Adelstein rocks his too-brief appearance as Gibson’s agent, transparently inspired by Scott Boras. Unfortunately, Johnny Simmons is just too sullen and withdrawn for us to fully relate to, which is a bit of a problem, since he is in every scene.

Let’s face it, there is just a desperate shortage young twentysomething male actors in Hollywood who can carry a film. Fortunately, Buschel surrounds Simmons with such talented supporting players (like Frank Wood and Meg Gibson, who make a strong impression in their scene as his long-suffering high school girlfriend’s parents), they are able to pull him through and take some of the pressure off. Regardless, real sports fans will appreciate his largely cliché-free narrative, which ends long before the “big game.” Recommended for those who appreciate moodier baseball films, like Fear Strikes Out and Bang the Drum Slowly, The Phenom screens again tonight (4/20) and Friday (4/22), as part of this year’s Tribeca.

Born to Be Blue: Ethan Hawke as Chet Baker

The best thing about those Mariachi Brass albums on Dick Bock’s World Pacific label were definitely the covers. They were transparently conceived as Tijuana Brass rip-offs, but they did indeed feature a recovering Chet Baker on trumpet to some extent. Essentially, they were yet another second chance for the king of second chances. Robert Budreau fictionalizes much, but he gets the little details spot-on in the Chet Baker bio-pic Born to Be Blue (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

As the film opens, Baker has bottomed out in an Italian prison cell, but he will soon fall even lower. Bizarrely, it will be the movie industry that comes to his rescue, but Baker quickly fritters away his shot at leading man stardom. It is not a total loss. During his flirtation with Hollywood, he meets the aspiring actress who will become his lover and caretaker. Shortly thereafter, he gets his teeth bashed in as punishment for his mounting drug debts.

Budreau and his star Ethan Hawke convey just how challenging it is for a horn player to develop a radically new embouchure. There will be a lot of scuffling while Baker’s plugs away at his agonizing comeback, but there also seems to be real love shared by the somewhat mismatched couple. Yet, even though Baker cleans up in a methadone program, his demons are always lurking nearby.

To his credit, Hawke makes a dynamite doppelganger for Chet Baker. Frankly, his speaking voice sounds a bit like an affected impersonation, but he totals channels Baker’s vocals when performing standards like “My Funny Valentine” (of course) and a wonderfully eerie “Blue Room.” Yet, in the quiet moments, he perfectly captures Baker’s twitchy aloofness and mannerisms, subtly expressing the resentments and insecurities quietly raging within.

Carmen Ejogo hits all the necessary marks as “Jane the actress,” but her arc of infatuation and disillusionment is pretty standard stuff. However, Callum Keith Rennie is terrific as the eternally optimistic but increasingly exasperated Bock. Frankly, Bock is an underappreciated figure in jazz history, who produced some classic sessions and a fair number of number of eccentric oddities, like the Mariachi Brass (but that is why some of us obsessively collect the World Pacific label).

Both Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie appear as Baker’s rivals (collegially in Dizzy’s case, but not so much with respects to Davis). It is nice that Budreau could shoehorn in a few extra jazz legends, but it is strange Gerry Mulligan, the co-leader of Baker’s breakthrough quartet, never makes an appearance.

In fact, it is rather unfortunate Baker remains the face of West Coast Jazz, rather than Mulligan (even though the baritone saxophonist was still remarkably successful by jazz standards). Mulligan eventually settled down and evolved through several distinctly fertile periods of artistic development. For several years, he led the acclaimed Concert Jazz Band and even penned proggy fusion compositions. Yet, it is Baker who is most closely identified with West Coast Cool, despite his wildly problematic behavior. That dramatic fall from grace was just too compelling, like a train derailment.

While not really depicting Baker’s reported mental and occasionally physical abuse, Hawke gets at his tragically self-defeating essence. His Baker will break your heart over and over if you let him. The film also sounds great, thanks to the swinging and era-appropriate arrangements and original compositions of Canadian jazz musician David Braid. Kevin Turcotte convincingly doubles all three trumpeters, which is quite a statement, while Canadian Jazz statesman Terry Clarke adds real deal authenticity on the drums.

To quote another Mariachi Brass album, “hats off” to Budreau for not sugar-coating the broad strokes of Baker’s life. The ending is absolutely perfect, because it is so frustratingly accurate. It is a whip-smart film that might take liberties with biography, but gets the jazz right. Recommended with enthusiasm, Born to Be Blue opens this Friday (3/25) in New York, at the IFC Center, a week ahead of Don Cheadle’s Miles Ahead.

Cymbeline: The Bard of Anarchy

Not exactly comedy or tragedy, Cymbeline is considered by many critics Shakespeare’s sly attempt at self-parody. Its only highly quotable line is: “the game is up,” so it is no surprising it is one of the Bard’s least performed plays. Yet, that makes it considerably easier for Michael Almereyda to stage a liberty-taking modernized production. The battle fought by the Celtic British and the forces of Rome becomes a conflict between the British biker gang and the Rome Police Department in Almereyda’s Cymbeline (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

In many ways, Cymbeline really is a mash-up of Shakespeare’s greatest hits, starting with the star-crossed romance of Imogen and Posthumus Leonatus. Having secretly married, they have already gotten further than most Shakespearean lovers. However, Imogen’s father, Cymbeline the biker king, is less than thrilled when their union is revealed. Since he essentially promised Imogen to step-son Cloten, the loutish offspring of his Lady Macbethish second wife, it is a rather awkward turn of events for him. Fleeing Cymbeline’s wrath, Leonatus takes refuge in Italy (or somewhere more prosaic), where he encounters the Iago-like Iachimo. After listening to Leonatus boast of his wife’s fidelity, Iachimo wagers he can seduce the woman. It is a bet Iachimo will collect through deceit and subterfuge.

There is no avoiding the antiquated vibe of the Iachimo storyline, but Almereyda plays it up big anyway, because the old scoundrel is portrayed by Ethan Hawke. Much more successful is the geopolitical intrigue reconceived as the biker gang’s fraught dealings with the corrupt civic constabulary. Some things are timeless, whereas as other are very much a product of their time and place.

Of course, Ed Harris as a leather jacket wearing biker monarch blasting away with an assault rifle gives Almereyda a solid base to work from. He has the stately presence of a Shakespearean king, while calling back to his early roots in George Romero’s Knightriders. Believe it or not, Milla Jovovich pulls off the Queen’s Machiavellian iciness quite well. Bill Pullman has limited screen time, but he makes a great entrance as the ghost of Leonatus’s father, while John Leguizamo is well cast as Pisanio, the wily servant. Nevertheless, it is Delroy Lindo who steals scene after scene as Cymbeline’s banished former ally.

On the other hand, the younger romantic leads and rivals largely underwhelm. Dakota Johnson is just sort of eh as Imogen. Penn Bagley is a double-eh as Leonatus and Anton Yelchin is a triple-eh as Cloten. Generally speaking, the older and more seasoned the cast member, the better they come across in Almereyda’s Cymbeline.

Once known as Anarchy, the updated Cymbeline openly invites comparison to Sons of Anarchy. It is a strange choice for such a treatment (perhaps Julius Caesar, the grandpappy of all power struggles would have made a better fit), but the greasy roadside settings are considerably more effective than one might expect, giving it a distinctly austere but slightly unreal aesthetic. It is clear why Cymbeline is considered a minor work in the Shakespearean canon, but perhaps the best way to handle it is by thoroughly recontextualizing as Almereyda does. It is an odd little film with a big cast that is rather entertaining, in an idiosyncratic way, despite its ragged edges. Recommended for fans of non-traditional Shakespeare, Cymbeline opens tomorrow in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Seymour: Ethan Hawke Makes an Introduction

Seymour Bernstein might have ranked alongside such classical pianists as Alfred Brendel and Van Cliburn. His recitals were glowingly reviewed and he had a highly supportive patron. Yet, at the significant age of fifty, he voluntarily withdrew from the world of public performance to concentrate on teaching. When it comes to piano technique and music theory he clearly has much to offer, but he also has insight into how one best pursues an artistic career in general, or at least that is what one future Oscar nominee thought we he happened to meet Bernstein at a dinner party. The music teacher gets a low-key but satisfying ovation in Ethan Hawke’s documentary profile, Seymour: an Introduction (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York at the IFC Center.

Evidently, Hawke found in Bernstein an empathetic counselor-guru who could well understand his bouts of stage fright and the general career uncertainty that was currently plaguing him. Perhaps he was also frustrated about that film he had spent over ten years on, but had yet to come out. Regardless, Bernstein had a knack for saying reassuring things.

In a variety of master classes and private lessons, we observe Bernstein at work. He is indeed a calm and constructive instructor, but also firm and specific. If you have the talent, he will refine it. Should you doubt it, several of his former students, including pianists Joseph Smith and Kimball Gallagher, offer their reminiscences and insights into Bernstein’s lasting influence on their careers.

For his documentary directorial debut, Hawke was not out to rake any muck. While not exactly hagiography, his Introduction is unflaggingly nice and polite. Fortunately, Bernstein is a New Yorker (albeit a really pleasant one), whose experienced, down-to-earth personality keeps it all real and grounded.

Anyone who knows pianos will not be surprised to see the prime placement for American Steinway in Seymour. As always, their concert models look and sound lovely. It is also cool to see they still consider Bernstein a Steinway artist thirty-some years after his last public performance. Fittingly, Hawke coaxes Bernstein into a return performance in the Steinway Rotunda on 57^th Street, which naturally serves as the closing sequence for the film. Obviously, he still has his touch.

Seymour: an Introduction has surely received considerably more attention because of Hawke’s involvement than it otherwise would have, but that is a fine way for him to spend some of his accrued Boyhood and Before Midnight capital in a way that will generate further good will. It is a very refined and civilized film that will probably have a number of viewers checking out youtube for his original compositions (he has a number of them posted, including The Hawke). Respectfully recommended for classical connoisseurs, Hawke fans, and Steinway admirers, the Salingerishly titled Seymour: an Introduction opens this Friday (3/13) in New York, at the IFC Center and the Lincoln Plaza.