Dingo, with Music by Miles Davis & Michel Legrand

There have been plenty of hard-swinging Australian jazz musicians, like Don Burrows, Bernie McGann, and James Morrison. Some of them even came from outback country, so the odyssey of John “Dingo” Anderson should not sound so outlandish. Regardless, it features Miles Davis on-screen and throughout the soundtrack. Frankly, it should have won best score at the Oscars, but someone messed up the paperwork. Some of us have been listening to the album for years, but now we can finally [re]-watch Rolf de Heer’s Dingo when it re-releases in select theaters today.

When he was a kid, Anderson happened to see American expat jazz musician Billy Cross perform an impromptu concert on the tarmac, while his plane was refueling on the remote Poola Flat airstrip. The sight was pretty surreal by any standard, but it was the music that really made an impression on Anderson. Cross could see it, so he told the young boy to look him up if he ever came to Paris.

Twentysome years later, Anderson is a knock-around handyman and dingo trapper with a wife and family, but he still idolizes Cross. Like Sonny Rollins woodshedding on the Williamsburg Bridge, Anderson has developed a healthy tone serenading the outback wilderness. However, everyone in his one-horse town thinks his jazz dreams are crazy, maybe even including his wife. Yet, it turns out Cross still remembers the boy from way back when.

Marc Rosenberg’s screenplay is nice enough but predictable. However, it really doesn’t matter, because the music is the thing here—and its incredible. The legendary Michel Legrand did most of the true composing, but Davis contributed some eloquent solos. Dingo Anderson’s playing was handled off-screen by Chuck Findlay, who also sounds great, while contrasting effectively with Davis’s patented muted style. Notable musicians also heard on the soundtrack include Alphonse Mouzon, Buddy Collette, Jimmy Cleveland, and Kenny Garrett, who was a regular sideman in Davis’s final bands.

Davis is also quite engaging portraying Cross, a character transparently based on himself. Like late-period Miles, Cross is reluctant to revisit his classic recordings and now primarily composes synthesizer music. Davis invests him with a sly off-kilter sense of humor, tempered by some hard-won (but never cynical) wisdom regarding the music business.

Orson Welles’ The Other Side of the Wind

If his final film had been released in his lifetime, Orson Welles might also be known as the father of found footage, but should’ve-could’ve-would’ve was pretty much the story of his later career. Over forty years after Welles’ on-and-off-again, on-the-fly 1970-1976 shooting wrapped, his acidic Hollywood satire has finally been cut together and unveiled with the fanfare the old master was due in his lifetime. However, Welles fans should temper their expectations when The Other Side of the Wind (trailer here) finally arrives tomorrow, both in theaters and on Netflix.

Jake Hannaford is a crusty old filmmaker, who is considered a “living legend” due to his early work, but has just returned to Hollywood after a long, semi-self-imposed exile—or at least he was. This will be his final night on earth, but at least he will go out with a bang. All of Hollywood has flocked to his homecoming party, so they can gawk at his latest film: a self-indulgent attempt at sexually frank European art cinema—and a rather spot-on send-up of Antonioni. Out of eccentricity or indifference, Hannaford has allowed every journalist or amateur videographer with a handheld camera to document his snarky, drunken soiree.

Despite Welles’ protests otherwise, Hannaford certainly sounds like his alter-ego. The fact that he is played by the spectacularly craggy John Huston adds further layers of psycho-biographical significance. In fact, it is one of the more meta films of its era, with Peter Bogdanovich playing an analog of himself, Brooks Otterlake, Hannaford’s former protégé, whose current Hollywood success has eclipsed his former master. Hannaford has become unhealthily obsessed with the cast of his film-within-the-film, most notably his would-have-been discovery, John Dale, who bolted from the production before Hannaford could complete it for murky reasons. Pauline Kael-esque critic Juliette Rich, who hypothesizes Hannaford seduced Dale’s girlfriend as a surrogate for Dale himself. Dale’s leading lady, condescendingly referred to as “Red” (portrayed by Welles’ lover, Oja Kodar, naturally enough) is still present and accounted for, but she clearly is not happy to be there.

Editor Bob Murawski did a flat-out brilliant job shaping together all the footage, while doing his best to respect Welles’ original intentions. The result is a visually kinetic kaleidoscope of hedonism and bedlam. The often rapid-fire cuts are not classically Wellesian, per se, but we can still see his masterful eye composing each shot. It also features a wonderful score composed by the legendary-in-his-own-right Michel Legrand (seriously, his name also ought to be on the key art, because LeGrand scoring Welles again is an event). In all honesty, it is one of Legrand’s jazziest scores and one of his best, which is saying a lot (considering the themes he composed for F for Fake, Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and Thomas Crown Affair, to name just a few).

So why the warning to keep your enthusiasm in check? Unlike every other Welles film, Wind feels like a dated relic of its era, even though we are just seeing it now. Some of party dialogue has the sly acidic bite of the nattering gossipers in Citizen Kane or Magnificent Ambersons, but Otterlake’s pontifications sound like the shallow group-think of the time. Particularly cringe-worthy are his jibes at then Governor Reagan, who would go on to be the last president who unified the nation, in a positive way. There is also a phallic sight gag late in the picture that should have been considered beneath Welles’ dignity. More fundamentally, it is simply impossible to get around the fact that Welles & Kodar’s narrative is really just a sketch-like premise stretched to its absolute limits.

Wind is further notable as Welles’ most sexually explicit film, but the nude scenes in Hannaford’s film are actually work in their on-screen context. Frankly, there is an energy to these scenes that the rest of the proper film could have used. The dramatic, saturated colors also really pop off the screen, providing a vivid contrast with the black-and-white or dingy 16mm color of the party footage.

Those scenes also give us an idea of what might have been for Kodar, who was always (fairly or unfairly) dismissed as Welles’ lover, and Robert Random, who is best known for guest-starring on episodic TV (seven appearances on Gunsmoke, each in a different role). They are terrific together, generating some legit heat on screen. The mood is further heightened by Gary Graver’s striking color cinematography.

There is definitely stuff to see here, including Lilli Palmer, who is a delight playing the Marlene Dietrich-like Zarah Valeska. However, with a running time just over two hours, Wind is way too long and self-serious for what should have simply been a larky middle finger extended in Hollywood’s face. Still, the Legrand sounds great (there is also some Jaki Byard in there, along with some other jazz greats). It is too bad Welles’ unfinished The Deep will most likely always remain so, because it is more likely to be the lost masterpiece we crave from him. Recommended as a curiosity rather than a revelation, The Other Side of the Wind opens tomorrow (11/2) in New York, at the IFC Center and also starts streaming on Netflix.

Beauvois’s The Guardians

In strategic terms, it is not so advantageous to have the front line on your national soil. At least for French soldiers during World War I, it provided opportunities to return home on furloughs. However, it is decidedly a mixed blessing when they also bring home their post-traumatic stress and find gossip waiting for them. There is still plenty of tension on the home-front in Xavier Beauvois’s The Guardians (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Hortense Sandrail is not called a matriarch for no reason. Despite her advanced age, she has kept the Paridier farm productive while the men in her family have served at the front. She has done so mostly just with the help of her daughter Solange. Somewhat reluctantly, she hires Francine Riant as a temp worker for the harvest. Happily, Riant quickly proves she is both a hard worker and a good personality fit within the family. In fact, Mother Sandrail offers her a permanent position, but that was before she realized she and her son Georges developed an intimate attraction during his leave.

The family always assumed Georges Sandrail would marry his childhood friend Marguerite, as did she. However, Georges is so smitten, he carries on a deeply revealing correspondence with Riant after his return to duty. Unfortunately, some rather foolish misunderstandings will be exploited to short circuit their romance. Partly, it is all due to bad timing. There are already rumors swirling about Solange’s fidelity, or lack thereof, as well as a percolating resentment of the Paridier Farm’s continued success, during what for many is a time of privation.

Guardians is set during WWI, but the pastoral setting and circumstances could almost pass for the American Civil War. Certainly, many folks residing in Middle America should relate to the family drama and the challenges of agricultural economics. Even before the war, life on Paridier Farm was surely one of toil and hardship. Yet, they endure, because Hortense insists.

However, Beauvois’s achingly deliberate pace will be a barrier to entry for many less adventurous viewers. His approach is often more that of a painter than a filmmaker, composing vistas for his hardscrabble characters to populate. Still, he is acutely attuned to the characters’ emotional travails. Every time the mayor pays a death-notice call, appropriately dressed in black, the simple dignity of their reactions pack an emotional wallop.

Nathalie Baye is a wonder of grit and rectitude as the severe Hortense. Laura Smet, her real-life daughter, also projects strength and beauty, in a rustic kind of way. However, Iris Bry is shockingly expressive and strangely prepossessing, considering she was literally a discovery off the street (or rather in the bookstore), with no formal dramatic training to speak of. She is indeed a find.

The Guardians could also very well spur a [re]-discovery of Ernest Pérochon, the author of the source novel, who was a French provincial school teacher drafted into service at the front, very much likes Georges’ older brother Constant. However, he died prematurely during the second German Occupation of WWII, due to stress caused by his refusal to collaborate. His reputation is unimpeachable, but alas, he has not been available to promote his canon.

There is a good deal of grit in Guardians, but it is also elegant in a hauntingly old-fashioned way. Cinematographer Caroline Champetier evokes the soft light and warm colors of Impressionist landscapes, while the sparse but graceful score composed by the legendary Michel Legrand lends just the right supportive notes, at just the right time. Very highly recommended, The Guardians opens this Friday (5/4) in New York, at the Quad Cinema.

Max Rose: Jerry Lewis Plays a Jazz Musician without Jazz

Max Rose only recorded one trio session back in the day, apparently for the esteemed Riverside Records, making him a contemporary of legends like Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, Randy Weston, Dr. Billy Taylor, Kenny Drew, and Wynton Kelly. Unfortunately, Rose went one-and-done for the label, putting him in the solitary company of overlooked talents like Roosevelt Wardell. Yet, Rose still led a rewarding life, mainly thanks to his wife and great love Eva. Unfortunately, the grieving Rose will start to question the truth of their relationship after her death in Daniel Noah’s Max Rose (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Eva was the love of Max Rose’s life. After her passing, Rose clearly starts deteriorating mentally and physically, despite the efforts of his beloved granddaughter Annie. Already struggling with depression, Rose suffers a further blow when he discovers Eva’s favorite compact was a gift from a man who was not himself. A bit more digging amongst her effects yields a devastating revelation: Eva had agreed to meet the mysterious Ben Tracey while the musician was in New York for his fateful recording session.

Frustratingly, Max Rose is yet another film about a jazz musician made by a filmmaker who has zero confidence in the music the title character would have played. Instead of logically giving us a jazz soundtrack, we get saccharine background music instead. Occasionally, we hear hints of Rose’s recording, but never enough to understand his musical personality. Perhaps must baffling, Max Rose boasts a brand new song from Michel Legrand and lyricists Alan & Marilyn Bergman (they collaborated on a little tune called “The Windmills of Your Mind”) performed by Melissa Errico, but it is buried in the closing credits. It is nice, but not their best work. (Online reports suggest Legrand had in fact composed a full score for the film, much more befitting the central character, but it was perversely replaced with its current dull mushy themes. If that is true, it was a horrendous, unforgivable decision.)

Look, film music does matter. Jerry Lewis is a legend and his performance as Rose is considerably better than you might have heard, but without the right music, viewers will never understand why Rose is so clearly defined by his one recording session. That elevator music actually puts Lewis at a distinct disadvantage. Nevertheless, he is rather soulful as Rose and he develops some genuinely touching chemistry with Kerry Bishé as the loyal granddaughter. Yet, it is his nuanced work with Kevin Pollak as Rose’s semi-estranged son that really helps save the film.

Arguably, Lewis, Bishé, and Pollak all contribute awards caliber work, but it comes in such a bland package. Frankly, watching the film is a maddening experience because it is so blatantly obvious how it could have been dramatically improved. In recent years, we have mourned the loss of a number of great musicians from Rose’s generation (or later). Sadly, the amazing Bobby Hutcherson is probably the latest. Max Rose could have been a zeitgeisty film about the passing of the Blue Note-Riverside-Prestige era, but instead it just wants to be a geriatric melodrama. Recommended only for Jerry Lewis fans, Max Rose opens this Friday (9/2) in New York, at the Landmark Sunshine.