Waco: The Aftermath, on Showtime

This new limited series is sort of like The Path to 9/11, but for the Oklahoma City Bombing. Like the controversial mini-series that only aired once and was then buried in the vault, this fact-based drama blames many of the same powerful people for stoking social division and then ignoring the warning signs of a violent reaction. Fortunately, viewers should have more then one chance to see co-creators-co-writers Drew and John Erick Dowdle’s five-part Waco: The Aftermath, which premieres today on the Showtime app (and starts airing Sunday).

Technically, this is a sequel, with Michael Shannon reprising his original role in the Dowdles’ 2018 Waco, as FBI negotiator Special Agent Gary Noesner, who secured the evacuation of 35 followers of David Koresh at Mount Carmel, before the FBI and Janet Reno lost patience and sent in the tanks. The Aftermath picks up in 1995, but Noesner has not moved on from the tragedy. He remains haunted by the deaths of 76 people and his internal criticism of the FBI’s “official story” has hurt his career. Yet, he is one of the only agents starting to link the suspicion and resentment generated by the incendiary raid to increasingly coordinated militia activity.

Meanwhile, Dan Cogdell is preparing to defend a former follower, facing multiple charges. His client is one of four co-defendants, each with their own counsel, but Cogdell is by far the most formidable (at least according to the Dowdles). For full context (presumably, so viewers do not feel too sympathetic towards the former “Branch Davidians,” a term they reject), Aftermath also constantly rewinds to formative events in the history of Mount Carmel, invariably showing Koresh growing steadily creepier and more extreme.

Of the three intertwined narrative strains, the Waco trial and Noesner’s militia investigation are by far the most compelling. In contrast, the Mount Carmel flashbacks are underwhelming, largely because Keean Johnson (succeeding Taylor Kitsch in the first mini-series) simply is not sufficiently scary or unhinged. He is even a little boring.

In contrast, Michael Shannon perfectly personifies Aftermath’s internal contradiction as Noesnar, viscerally expressing angst and guilt over the FBI’s tactical overkill, while fretting Cassandra-like over the agency’s refusal to face the growing militia danger. One look at his worried face will make you need to pop an aspirin. Shannon is one of the best brooders in the business—and this is one of his most brooding performances yet.

George & Tammy, on Showtime

George Jones and Tammy Wynette had a relationship that was sort of like A Star is Born, but slightly less tragic, which is sort of ironic, since they are the country version. They had some huge hits together, but they couldn’t stay married. Yet, that old spark never totally went away, musically or romantically. Even if you are not fans, you will recognize their drama and some of their songs in Abe Sylvia’s six-episode George & Tammy, directed by John Hillcoat, which premieres tomorrow on Showtime.

George Jones was already the biggest act in country music and prone to self-destructive behavior when hired Tammy Wynette to open for him. He was starting to slip on the charts, but she was still crazy about his music. She also fell for him, even though she was still married to her manager, songwriter, and general coattail-rider Don Chapel. Nevertheless, Jones whisked her off her feet and literally carried her out of the house she bought for Chapel.

Before too long, we see Jones’ drinking problem and the violent anger it brought out in him. Soon thereafter, Wynette develops her own addictions issues with pills, following a botched operation. However, there are also good times. Unlike, bio-films like What’s Love Got to Do with It, we totally see why Jones and Wynette fell for each other and why they kept getting back together, albeit in more limited ways, after their divorce.

George & Tammy follows a similar arc as so many previous music biographies (from Eastwood’s Bird to Luhrmann’s Elvis), but that really isn’t Sylvia’s fault. The facts are the facts. Blame the music industry and maybe to some extent the media. In this case, he manages to humanize his subjects to a remarkable extent. Partly, this is because his primary source was the book written by Georgette Jones, the power couple’s daughter.

It is also impossible to overstate the importance of the two leads, Michael Shannon and Jessica Chastain, who bear a decent visual resemblance to the performers and have surprisingly strong singing voices. They really land those tunes, which often serve as a dramatic climax to each episode. (Weirdly, Shannon also made a compellingly off-kilter Elvis Presley in Elvis & Nixon.)

Frankly, Chastain and Shannon shine so bright, everyone else gets lost, including Walton Goggins as Peanut, Jones’ former bandmember, who becomes a sympathetic Baptist preacher, and Steve Zahn, portraying Wynette’s sleazy fifth husband (Jones was the third and Sylvia skips over the brief fourth). Frankly, the only thesp that makes any sort of impression, whose name isn’t Shannon or Chastain, would be Pat Healy, playing Wynette’s sleazy second husband, Chapel.

Knives Out: Daniel Craig Investigates Famous Suspects

If a suspicious character is not played by someone famous, chances are that person is not the murderer. That is why Agatha Christie movies used to have little pictures of the cast running along the bottom of their lobby posters. It showed off how many suspects there were. Winking homage is paid to those films in Rian Johnson’s Knives Out, which opens today nationwide.

Johnson’s screenplay is all about its twists, so some caginess is in order, to prevent spoilers. It is safe to say Harlan Thrombey, a celebrated mystery novelist and patriarch of a wildly dysfunctional and elitist family is about to die a premature death. Marta Cabrera, his private nurse is probably the only one who truly mourns him. The cops assume it is an open-and-shut case, but Benoit Blanc, an eccentric Southern gentleman private detective has reason to suspect otherwise. An unknown client hired his services to investigate, which is rather suspicious in itself.

Much to her surprise, Cabrera finds herself pressed into service as Blanc’s Watson. Of course, it becomes increasingly awkward for her, because she harbors her own secrets. Needless to say, everything is not as it seems.

There is quite a bit of clever misdirection going on throughout the film. It would be no fair telling, but rest assured the big reveals are all quite satisfying. The knowing humor is also mostly rather sly, but there are times when the scoldy class warfare messaging should have been throttled down. This is supposed to be larky fun, not a Theodore Dreiser adaptation.

Fortunately, Daniel Craig always keeps things snappy when he is on-screen, delighting viewers with Blanc’s impossibly lazy drawl. Honestly, that accent deserves some kind of award. It is also great fun watching him effortless shift from genteel charm to gleeful cunning.

Frankly, it is rather impressive that Ana de Armas can keep up Craig and the rest of the colorful ensemble as the almost fatally nice Cabrera. Of course, only Blanc can withstand the withering attitude Jamie Lee Curtis projects as the tartly cynical eldest daughter, Linda Drysdale. She is a totally believable chip off the block that is Christopher Plummer’s uber-yankee Thrombey (and really ought to have more screen time, but she makes the most of what she gets). Likewise, Plummer has the appropriate lordly presence, but he has some surprisingly engaging humanizing moments with De Armas.

Yet, Don Johnson might just score the biggest laughs as the venal and pretentious son-in-law, Richard Drysdale. Honestly, Johnson has yet to get the credit he deserves for his comedic chops (check out his razor-sharp cornpone turn in Cold in July, if you doubt it).

Fahrenheit 451 (2018)

If for no other reason, HBO’s remake of Fahrenheit 451 stakes a claim on history, because it gives Keir Dullea bragging rights as perhaps the only actor to appear in films based on the work of both Arthur C. Clarke and Ray Bradbury. Unfortunately, this adaptation is far too concerned with being “timely” and “relevant,” thereby limiting its long-term significance. Bradbury’s anti-censorship message is perhaps more needed now than in 1953 when he wrote his classic novel, but it doesn’t come through in an urgent, principled way in Ramin Bahrani’s Fahrenheit 451 (trailer here), co-adapted with the great expat Iranian filmmaker Amir Naderi, which premieres this Saturday on HBO.

Guy Montag is a fireman, just like mentor, Captain Beatty. As you should know, that means they set fire to banned books (pretty much all of them), rather than extinguishing accidental fires (come to think of it, wouldn’t they still need old-fashioned firemen in a dystopian world?). Montag has never really thought about the implications of his work, except maybe when a repressed incident from his childhood resurfaces in his memory. However, an encounter with Clarisse McClellan, one of Beatty’s reluctant sources, starts churning up vague doubts. Not long after, he secretly takes home a contraband book, Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. With McClellan’s help, the book spurs Montag to start thinking for himself, perhaps for the first time.

Montag is further haunted by the horrifying sight of an old fashioned “Eel,” who opts to self-immolate rather than abandon her books. In a significant departure from Bradbury (and Truffaut), she also happens to utter a word she really shouldn’t have, because it gives the Firemen a clue as to a game-changing book-preservation initiative the dissident underground has concocted. (As an aside, Montag’s media-anaesthetized wife Millie was cast, but later cut from the final film, which seems like a rather Orwellian act to make such a major character disappear without a trace.)

Without question, the greatest misstep of this Fahrenheit is the attempt to update the near dystopia with elements of internet culture and reality TV that will be familiar to contemporary viewers. However, this just distracts more than it enhances the films credibility. It’s a constant source of business undercutting the starkness of Bradbury’s original vision. Bahrani and Naderi also ash-can the background drumbeat of impending war, which explained why all these thought police regulations were implemented in the first place.

Still, the ever-reliable Michael Shannon is quite intriguing and compulsively watchable, playing the hard-nosed Beatty, who has his own secret print vices. In contrast, Michael B. Jordan is rather inert and inexpressive as Montag, the Fireman supposedly wrestling with his conscience and doubts. Nor is there much chemistry between him and Sofia Boutella’s McClellan. However, Dullea adds a note of integrity as the learned “Historian,” who is also involved in the book-preserving underground. That really was perfect casting.

Fahrenheit just doesn’t hold together as a persuasive cautionary vision, which is a shame, because we could use a good version about now. Quite problematically, it plays ideological favorites with the books we see burning. You will not find any conservative classics like Hayek’s The Road to Serfdom in the Firemen’s bonfires, but it is hard to think of a book that would be less acceptable to the dystopian powers-that-be. In fact, it rather mixes the message when one of the underground “Book People” is introduced as “Chairman Mao” because she memorized the Little Red Book—yet you would be hard-pressed to find anyone in history who did more to censor and eradicate books than Mao Zedong. Sadly, the film never really drives home the point that we should apply the 1^st Amendment most to books and articles that we do not agree with, or else we risk adulterating our own constitutional protections. A major disappointment, Fahrenheit 451 premieres this Saturday (5/19), on HBO.

Herzog’s Salt and Fire

Werner Herzog is a modern-day adventurer who travels to the remote corners of the globe to make eccentric films and documentaries on-location. However, he perhaps spent too much time in the sun without his pith helmet while shooting amid Bolivia’s Salar de Uyuni salt flats. Perhaps the film he brought back makes sense to him, but everyone else will be completely baffled by Salt and Fire (trailer here), which opens today in Los Angeles.

Laura Somerfeld and her two busybody UN ecologist colleagues have been kidnapped by masked gunmen, but before we get much further, let’s flashback to see if they had a pleasant flight to the unnamed country bearing a strong resemblance to Bolivia. They have come to collect data on the disastrous El Diablo Blanco (that means “White Devil”) salt lake. Before they can even start, they are kidnapped by Matt Riley, the CEO of the energy consortium cleverly known as “The Consortium” (which sounds only slightly less sinister than the “Cabal”), who were responsible for the disaster. Does he want to stop them from filing their paperwork? No, apparently, he just wants to recite dramatic monologues for Somerfeld.

As they work their way through Ecclesiastics quotations and renaissance art analysis, a strange Stockholm Syndrome-esque attraction grows between Somerfeld and Riley, until he up-and-strands her in the middle of White Devil Lake with two weeks-worth of supplies and two young legally blind indigenous brothers to care for.

If you think S&F sounds ludicrous, wait till you get a load of the outrageously stilted dialogue. Think of it as a film that combines the worst eccentricities of Eugène Green and … well, Werner Herzog. In terms of credible motivation, this film is an absolute train wreck—so much so, cult movie fans will be rubbernecking at its weird procession of non-sequiturs in slack-jawed bemusement for years to come. Herzog unsubtly goes for broke trying to invest the film with Biblical significance. Truly, in the Land of Salt, the nearly blind are just as confused as the rest of us.

One thing is for certain—you can’t fault Michael Shannon for a lack of trying. He struts about wearing his leather jacket in the desert and inveighing to the high heavens like a prophet in the wilderness. Veronica Ferres looks a little freaked out as Somerfeld, which in all likelihood she was. However, Gael García Bernal and Volker Michalowski are just cringe-inducingly embarrassing as the ineffectual Doctors Cavani and Meier, whom Riley deviously sidelines with nasty bouts of Montezuma’s revenge.

Just when you think the film can’t possibly run any further off the rails, it ends with a series of goofy sight gags. In filmmaking, there is the easy way, the hard way, and the utterly ridiculous way. Here, Herzog opts for the third way, all the way and then some. Presumably, there is an environmental message in there somewhere, but it will be hard to take it seriously, if you can find it. Frankly, all that salt cries out for a gigantic margarita glass, so cheers everybody. Indeed, the Salt and Fire can only be enhanced by potent potables when it opens tonight (4/7) in LA, at the Arena CineLounge.

Frank & Lola: Michael Shannon in Vegas and Paris

Surely, Paris is a more romantic city than Las Vegas, right? Believe it or not, a damaged couple will meet and fall in love in Sin City, despite both having history in the City of Light. At least it feels like love for a while. Their relationship will take a dark turn in Matthew Ross’s Frank & Lola (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Of all the struggling restaurants in Las Vegas, Lola walks into Frank’s on Halloween night. They immediately feel a kinship between lost, lonely souls. What starts as a likely one-night stand blossoms against the odds into the romance of a lifetime. Even though Frank is somewhat prone to jealousy and understandably bitter about the failure of his restaurant, things are good between them, until one fateful day.

There will be no getting around the fact that she cheated on him. However, once Frank settles down, he discovers more of the surrounding context. Apparently, Lola once again succumbed to the Svengali-like power her mother’s Parisian friend Alan holds over her. Although he is a celebrated memoirist in Europe, Alan is really a sexual predator, who raped Lola at a point when she was highly malleable emotionally and psychologically. Or so she tells Frank. He will start to have his doubts when he confronts the smooth-talking playboy in Paris.

Frankly, Frank & Lola feels like two entirely different films depending on which city Frank finds himself in. The Las Vegas scenes he shares with Lola are darkly seductive and potently redolent of lust and jealousy. Every development of their fraught relationship rings true. In contrast, the pseudo-noir revenge sequences in Paris largely feel forced and excessively lurid. They are just off compared to the moody but grounded Vegas passages.

Regardless, Michael Shannon just puts on a masterclass as Frank. He raises brooding to a high art form and forges some believably flawed but viscerally charged chemistry with Imogen Poots’ Lola. Unfortunately, she remains largely passive throughout the film, which is problematic. Likewise, Michael Nyqvist more-or-less hits the replay button on his portrayal of the literary cradle-robber in The Girl in the Book.

Arguably, the biggest star of F&L after Shannon is cinematographer Eric Koretz, who gives the proceedings a sheen that evokes classic 1970s hothouse dramas. He also captures the alien vibe of Las Vegas, especially for those who are not interested in gambling. Ross goes for the sort of genre ambiguity you often find in the films of André Téchiné, which is laudably ambitious, but the smarminess of some of the Parisian scenes pulls him up a bit short. It is flawed, but its adult sensibility probably makes it worth catching up with on DVD or VOD streaming. For Shannon’s diehard partisans, it opens tomorrow (12/9) in New York, at the Village East—and releases on iTunes.

Tribeca ’16: Elvis & Nixon

Generations of Americans grew up with the reassuring presences of Elvis Presley and Richard Nixon. You can’t get much more iconic than blue suede shoes, the swiveling hips not on The Ed Sullivan Show, Checkers the Dog, and the Pumpkin Papers. It turns out the two men had more in common than the general public generally assumed. Liza Johnson gives the famous late December 1970 summit meeting a thinly fictionalized treatment in Elvis & Nixon (trailer here), which is now playing in New York after screening as the centerpiece of this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

In late 1970, Presley was already a regular fixture in Vegas, but it would be eighteen months before he cut his milestone cover of “Always On My Mind.” The Gospel-singing man from Memphis has had enough of the hippies, New Left agitators, and Black Panthers he sees on television. After shooting out the TV (because he’s Elvis), he decides to fly to DC in order to meet with Pres. Nixon. The King has a half-baked notion of becoming a “Federal Agent At-Large,” not that such a thing exists.

To fulfill his mission, Presley slips out from under the Colonel’s thumb, calling on his old friend and former Memphis Mafia member Jerry Schilling to coordinate the logistics. Of course, even in 1970, nobody could just walk into the Oval Office, but Elvis Presley could get closer than most. He finds a key ally in Egil Krogh, the White House policy specialist on narcotics, who not so realistically envisions the King serving as a powerful spokesman for the administration’s anti-drug campaign.

Elvis & Nixon is a surprisingly gentle and nostalgic film that truly forgives the foibles of its subjects. Johnson and the trio of screenwriters, Joey Sagal, Hanala Sagal, and actor Cary Elwes, zero in on the common ground shared by the two Horatio Alger figures. Frankly, it is downright shocking (in a good way), how steadfastly the film resists taking pot shots at the Nixon administration figures.

Although not an obvious candidate, Michael Shannon turns out to be an inspired choice for Presley. Granted, he hardly has that resonate baritone voice, but he can do Presley’s aura and bearing without resorting to shtick. He powerfully conveys both the pride and regrets of the man they still call “King.” As an added bonus, he shares some quietly effective scenes with Alex Pettyfer’s Schilling. On the other hand, it is harder for Kevin Spacey to avoid sliding into impersonation terrain as our beloved and reviled 37^th President. At least his Nixonisms never feel vindictive or cheap.

Watching the eccentrically simpatico chemistry shared by Shannon and Spacey will make viewers regret the famous 1970 meeting was a one-off. You can almost see Presley and Nixon being the sort of friends they really needed, because unlike Bebe Rebozo and the Memphis Mafia, each was completely separate from the other’s world. Regardless, it is strangely entertaining to watch the two legends eat M&Ms and drink Dr. Pepper together. Recommended rather affectionately, Elvis & Nixon is now playing in New York at the Landmark Sunshine and Bow Tie Chelsea, closely following its centerpiece screenings at the 2016 Tribeca Film Festival.

The Harvest: Dr. Mommie Dearest

Katherine is the doctor in her family and her husband Richard is the nurse. This is a fact she never lets him forget, especially when they disagree over the treatment of their congenitally ill son, Andy. It would seem Andy’s relentlessly domineering mother has lost sight of the forest for the trees in her zeal to care for Andy’s ailments, but their new pre-teen neighbor soon suspects Dr. K has a more sinister agenda in John McNaughton’s The Harvest (trailer here), which opens midnight-ish this Friday in New York, at the IFC Center.

Recently orphaned, Maryann was forced to move in with her grandparents, who quietly reside in an exurban Upstate New York farm house. There are not a lot of neighbors around, so when she sees wheelchair-bound Andy through his window, she feels compelled to introduce herself, in reverse Romeo and Juliet style. Poor Andy is completely unaccustomed to talking with kids his age. Nonetheless, Maryann senses a kindred underdog spirit. While Andy’s father is willing to turn a blind eye to their friendship, his excessively controlling mother simply will not have it.

Frankly, at least half the film is devoted to the youngsters budding friendship and Maryann’s industrious efforts to circumvent Dr. Feelbad’s roadblocks. When Andy’s mother really starts playing hardball, it starts to ignite Maryann’s suspicions. After a little internet searching and a bit of snooping around the house, she becomes convinced Andy is in profoundly grave danger.

That patience is what really distinguishes the film. In all honesty, viewers should form a pretty accurate hypothesis simply from the film’s title and the general lack of agriculture depicted therein. However, the earnest and innocent chemistry of the two leads, Natasha Calis and Charlie Tahan, along with Samantha Morton’s absolutely ferocious turn as the monstrous mom are quite impressive. As usual, Michael Shannon is dependably understated as Andy’s conflicted father, instilling the film with further ambiguity. It is also rather mind-blowing to see Peter Fonda turn up as Maryann’s kindly grandfather, but he plays the part with suitably earthy dignity.

Maybe it is a little far-fetched to believe Dr. Katherine could take matters as far as she does in Harvest, but Calis and Tahan are completely believable together. Since we buy into them, we also get caught up in their peril. It might seem like an unlikely vehicle for McNaughton’s return to big screen horror, but he shrewdly de-emphasizes the genre aspects, in favor of the character and relationship development. Arguably, it is one of the more consistently watchable and strangely human films in a body of work that includes Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer and Wild Things, each of which is quite notorious in it is own way. Recommended for fans of horror and dark thriller films with mommy issues, The Harvest screens late nights this weekend (4/10 and 4/11) at the IFC Center.

Young Ones: It Makes You Miss Rik Mayall Even More

For centuries of human history, more battles have been fought over water than probably any other natural resource. Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow’s brother only recently discovered the strategic value of water, but he is duly impressed. Unfortunately, viewers will find an entertainment drought in Jake Paltrow’s Young Ones (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Ernest Holm was once a farmer, but his parched land is almost as arid as the characters he encounters. Following some sort of vaguely defined environmental disaster, Holm and his socially underdeveloped son Jerome eke out a modest living selling supplies to the knuckle-draggers working for the corrupt water works in the mountains. Flem Lever (a name everyone says with a straight face, to their estimable credit) covets Holm’s trading business and his eternally distant daughter, Mary. Despite Holm’s rugged manliness, the pretty boy Lever still manages to kill him in the desert, framing his new pack mule android for the murder most foul.

Of course, it takes Jerome quite a while to suspect Lever, because intuition hardly runs in the family. Ironically, Lever is much better suited to reversing the family’s fortunes, given his devious nature and ruthless follow-through. Nevertheless, little Jerome will get himself some payback when the time is right.

Ernest Holm is the sort of role Michael Shannon was born to play, but sadly that is the only bit of casting that makes sense in Young Ones. A slow burning brooder like Shannon should be counterbalanced with someone who can project and maybe even chew a bit of scenery. Instead, for Holm’s sort of grown children, Paltrow calls on Kodi Smit-McPhee and Elle Fanning, two of the mousiest screen thesps you will ever come across. Watching them shuffle around the farm makes the films of Bela Tarr look like madcap romps.

Without question, Young Ones’ MVP is cinematographer Giles Nuttgens, who also lensed Perfect Sense, an infinitely superior apocalyptic allegory. He gives the parched vistas the proper John Ford treatment, but unfortunately he does not have much else to shoot in terms of narrative or characters. Unremittingly dull, yet also pretentious, Young Ones is a would-be futuristic western genre-bender that completely melts down. Not recommended for anyone, it opens today (10/17) in New York at the Village East.

Stormy in the Heartland: Take Shelter

Better safe than sorry was the principle guiding our mayor in the days leading up to Hurricane Irene’s fly-by. Curtis LaForche would not necessarily agree with him. Nevertheless, he is compelled to act on his visions of apocalyptic storms in Jeff Nichols’ Take Shelter (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

LaForche is a hard-working family man, completely dedicated to his wife Samantha and their daughter Hannah. He has a steady job with good benefits, but times are still difficult, especially since Hannah lost her hearing. The last thing he needs is the end of the world, but he cannot shake the increasingly horrific dreams plaguing his sleep. Despite his better judgment, LaForche begins upgrading his old tornado shelter in anticipation of a Biblical-level storm.

Contrary to viewer expectations, LaForche is not portrayed as a Fundamentalist lunatic. In fact, his lack of church attendance is a point of contention with his in-laws. Rather, as the son of a mother living under permanent supervision, LaForche is only too aware mental illness runs in his family. Responsibly, he seeks professional help, but the dreams persist.

Shelter is unusually sensitive in its depiction of a Middle American family under stress. The LaForches’ experience grappling with Hannah’s deafness could have easily been a movie unto itself rather than just a sizable subplot. Still, the second act is a bit sluggish, continually repeating the cycle of increasingly creepy visions, followed by LaForche’s subsequent erratic behavior. However, the gritty honest performances from the central players should keep audiences invested throughout the lulls.

Perfectly cast as LaForche, Michael Shannon has the right rough-hewn look, while expressing a host of inner conflicts with delicate nuance. He creates a fully dimensional, legitimately engaging character. It is hard to imagine any other actor in the part. The suddenly hyper-busy Jessica Chastain is also totally convincing as the more practical, down-home Samantha, sort of playing a more accessible variation on her break-through role in Tree of Life.

Throughout Shelter, Nichols never looks down on his Red State, God-fearing characters, treating their dramas with the seriousness they deserve. Indeed, it has no snark and no irony. Rather, Shelter challenges viewers to put themselves in LaForche’s place. An unexpectedly humane film featuring a lead performance worthy of an Oscar nomination, Shelter is definitely recommended (ironically more for audiences in the heartland than typical patrons of the art-houses it will most likely play). It opens this Friday (9/30) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Film Noir: The Missing Man

The film noir world of railway sleeper cars and smoky jazz clubs might sound like a throwback to the 1940’s. However, reluctant protagonist John Rosow is definitely a creature of the world in which we now live. Like any good anti-hero, Rosow is drinking himself into oblivion, but his angst stems from the tragic events of September 11th in Noah Buschel’s oh-so-noir The Missing Person (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Formerly an NYPD detective, Rosow is now a low-rent Chicago P.I., who only wants to sleep off his latest bender. Unfortunately his phone will not leave him in peace. For inexplicable reasons, a power attorney is determined to hire him for a tail job. Before he fully realizes it, Miss Charley, his client’s frosty assistant, has bundled him onto an overnight express train to Los Angeles with an envelope of expense money and a heap of contempt.

The first two thirds of Missing often veer perilously close to self-parody, particularly during Rosow’s over-the-top voiceovers. However, the film offers a third act surprise, finding unexpected significance in its post-9/11 premise.

It turns out Harold Fulmer, Rosow’s quarry, was one of the World Trade Center’s “missing” who took advantage of the tragedy to abandon his wife. Fulmer hardly left her in a financial lurch though. In fact, he seems to be a good person engaged in selfless work, despite the sketchiness of his associates. He is even a passionate jazz listener, so he cannot be all bad. Still, Rosow has his own reasons for identifying with Mrs. Fulmer that also involve that hallowed ground in Lower Manhattan.

Following in the tradition of many classic film noirs, Missing effectively employs the blue notes of jazz to evoke the moodiness of its transient, nocturnal world. Making a welcome cameo appearance, tenor saxophonist Joe Lovano is seen and heard playing in a New York night club. Missing also makes effective use of classic Bud Powell recordings, like “Glass Enclosure,” of which Fulmer is a professed fan.

While Missing’s shrewdly selected music might sparkle, it is one of the most deliberately dingy looking films you can ever hope to see on screen. If nothing else, Ryan Samuel’s cinematography makes Rosow’s life look convincingly grim. To his credit, the granite-faced Michael Shannon never betrays a hint of irony as the lowlife gumshoe. He also has some nice screen chemistry Amy Ryan as Miss Charley. Several of the other supporting players are more than a little stiff though, further accentuating the film’s stylistic excesses.

Turning on a dime from highly exaggerated noir to existential contemporary drama, Missing is a film with a lot of ragged edges. However, it handles the 9/11story elements with proper respect. You also have to give due props to any new film exhibiting a jazz aesthetic. An odd blend of hardboiled attitude and apparently genuine human empathy, Missing has its moments for connoisseurs of the film noir genre. Yet, it will likely prove far too stylized and idiosyncratic for general audiences. It opens tomorrow at the Village East.