Robot Dreams, the Animated Oscar Nominee

This alternate 1980s New York is populated by animals and a few robots. It must be during the animal-Koch years rather than the animal-Dinkins years, because “Dog V.” is relatively unconcerned about crime. He is just lonely. That is why he orders a mechanical companion in Pablo Berger’s Oscar-nominated animated feature Robot Dreams, adapted from Sara Varon’s graphic novel, which opens today in New York.

Instead of Ginsu knives, Dog orders a robot from a late-night TV commercial. Once he struggles through the assembly, they get on famously. They are in-synch roller-skating in Central Park like kids from Fame. It is the same at the beach, at least until Robot starts malfunctioning. It is late in the day, so scrawny Dog is forced to leave him on the beach. The next day, the city has chained off the beach for the off-season. Repeatedly, the City Parks Department refuses his access requests, leaving Robot marooned with his increasingly fanciful thoughts.

It is rather ambiguous whether Dog and Robot’s relationship is one of friendship or animal-robotic love, but whatever it is, it was cruelly severed by the New York municipal government. New York’s bureaucratic incompetence and indifference is an eternal constant, but the early 1980s vibe is surprisingly wistful. Berger shows viewers the Twin Towers early and often. The attention to detail is impressive, including real life local landmarks like the El Quijote in Chelsea.

Admittedly, this is an animated fable, but Dog’s passivity is excruciatingly annoying. Would you let a chain-link fence stand between you and the special someone you love (or whatever), especially when New York has plenty of piers, where boats are kept?

The Plot Against Harry

Yes, Harry Plotnick is a gangster, who runs the numbers game for the Jewish mob, but do not judge him too harshly. After all, the old school numbers racket always used to payout more of the take than state lotteries. Having just finished a nine-month prison stretch, Plotnick re-enters society right when other gangs are moving in on his territory. He also rather suddenly discovers he has a larger family than he realized in Michael Roemer’s nearly lost The Plot Against Harry, which is now playing at Film Forum.

Plotnick’s is well passed his Damon Runyon-esque prime and he knows it, but he is still bluffing his way through, because that is all he knows. Many of his numbers runners have defected to younger gangs that they also better identify with, in terms of ethnicity. He is so agitated by the current state of affairs, he nearly wrecks another car in a road rage incident.

As fate would have it, his former brother-in-law, Leo, is behind the wheel. Much to Plotnick’s surprise and embarrassment, Leo also happens to be driving the gangster’s ex-wife, Kay, their grown daughter Millie, and the son-in-law and granddaughter he never knew he had. It would seem to be an awkward start, but Leo takes it upon himself to pull Plotnick back into the family. Kay also decides to drop a bombshell of her own. When she walked out on Plotnick she was pregnant with their second daughter, Tillie, who is surprisingly willing to let him into her life, probably as a way of annoying her mother.

Shot in 1969 on the gritty streets of New York, Plot only had a one-week Seattle theatrical engagement in 1971, until it was rediscovered and re-released to great acclaim in 1990. It is a wryly amusing mobster comedy that somewhat wistfully captures the end of the era for neighborhoodly gangs that observed some sort of code of honor. It is maybe not the comedy classic some critics make it out to be, but it is as funny as many of Jack Lemmon’s 1960’s comedies and has a similarly bittersweet vibe. You could think of it as the Zero Mostel gangster movie he never made.

Regardless, Martin Priest is wonderfully deadpan as the sour-faced Plotnick. It is a great showcase for the late actor, who mostly did episodic TV guest-starring gigs (including The Reporter and East Side/West Side, which jazz record collectors might know from their soundtracks). He is very funny, especially when playing off Ben Lang as the big-hearted, slightly naïve Uncle Leo. They get a nice Matthau-and-Lemmon rhythm going between them.

On the Rocks, Very Definitely Starring Bill Murray

The neighborhoods are mostly Tribeca and the Meatpacking District instead of the Upper Eastside, but the vibe is Woody Allen all the way. Nature abhors a vacuum, even one created by hypocritical wokeness, so apparently Sophia Coppola is jockeying to become the next leading chronicler of neurotic City residents. It is a good thing too, because we have plenty of neuroses. Yet, rather logically, it is the defiantly politically incorrect character who gets all the laughs in Coppola’s On the Rocks, which premieres on Apple TV tomorrow.

The main reason anyone cares about On the Rocks is Bill Murray, who previously starred in Coppola’s breakout hit, Lost in Translation. He provides the comedy and everything else interesting playing Felix King, a roguish Manhattan art dealer. Like everyone else, Laura forgives his shortcomings, because of his charm, even though he was unfaithful to her mother. Unfortunately, that makes him the best or maybe worst person to ask when she starts to suspect her husband Dean is having an affair with a work colleague.

Naturally, old man Felix immediately concludes where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Laura tries to dismiss his warnings as the projections of a serial philanderer, but he makes a convincing case, as the weird circumstances of Dean’s constant business travel keep piling up. Soon, she and her dad start tailing Dean around Lower Manhattan late-night hotspots, giving them (or at least Felix) plenty of opportunities to imbibe cocktails.

That is basically the gist of it, but it is often funny, thanks to Murray’s vermouth-dry wise-cracking. Frankly, the film is at its best when it just sets up his riffing. Still, Murray develops a down-to-earth, believable rapport with Rashida Jones’ Laura. (Many viewers will be tempted to read a biographical dimension into her performance, given her father Quincy Jones’ reputation as a ladies man, just like we’re often tempted to read things into Woody Allen movies.)

Woody Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York

Woody Allen is just as creepy now as he was when he won his fourth Oscar for Midnight in Paris. In recent years, he has been dogged by molestation accusations, but since Allen’s son Moses disputes his sister’s allegations and two investigations either found insufficient evidence for a charge or concluded the events in question did not happen, most sane people would be reluctant to offer an opinion of their own on such a murky, contested issue. However, these are not sane times. The truth is we have no idea whether Allen did what he is accused of and neither do you, (whereas we know with absolute certainty Polanski committed and pled guilty to the crime that made him a fugitive).

So, that’s all very awkward, but if you want to vent moral indignation, the concentration camps in Xinjiang or the abduction of the Hong Kong 12 are clear-cut targets of worthy outrage. Whereas, if you enjoyed Woody Allen films during less over-heated times, his long-delayed A Rainy Day in New York is pretty much like all the other ones. After his first distributor caved to mob-pressure, Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York finally opens this Friday in the U.S., but not in Allen’s beloved New York, because theaters are closed here, perhaps permanently.

Allen-surrogate Gatsby Welles is a bright young man, but he had to transfer to Yardley, a sheltered liberal arts college, because Ivy League schools were too unstructured for him. (I was going to joke Welles was originally called Orson Hemingway in an earlier draft, but that actually sounds less pretentious.) Welles still isn’t studying much, but he gets by academically and enjoys romancing his naïve girlfriend Asheigh Enright, from the wild backcountry of Tucson, Arizona (believe it or not, they have a symphony and an opera company there, but this film was intended for Manhattan snobs, so it doesn’t matter).

When the campus paper assigns Enright an interview with tormented indie director Roland Pollard, Welles tags along, to show her the City. Inevitably, Welles gets frustrated and jealous when the smitten Pollard stretches out the one-hour interview with a special screening and a supplemental interview with his equally neurotic screenwriter, Ted Davidoff. Instead, Welles spends the day, off-on-on, with Chan Tyrell, the whip-smart younger sister of his old girlfriend. All those romantic cliches he wanted to do with Enright he does with Tyrell—and its not bad.

Timothee Chalamet apologized to everyone in Hollywood for making this film, but he really should have apologized to Allen for being so shticky and affected playing Welles. This character is supposed to be a Ferris Bueller of Park Avenue, but he is never comfortable in Welles’ retro hipster skin—and his crooning voice is pathetic. Likewise, Elle Fanning is downright cringe-inducing as the air-headed Enright. On the other hand, Selena Gomez takes command of every scene she has as Tyrell, through the warmth of her charm and her intelligent good humor.

Liev Schreiber (the scourge of auto-correct features) is drolly amusing portraying Pollard, the anxiety-ridden, self-destructive but prolific filmmaker. You have to wonder who he could have looked to for inspiration while filming his scenes. Jude Law nicely plays against type as the nebbish Davidoff. Yet, it is Cherry Jones who steals the picture with her unforgettable third act scene portraying Welles’ surprisingly cool grand society mother.

21 Bridges: Boseman Protects and Serves

In this street-smart New York manhunt thriller, the cops deeply resent the grandstanding mayor, who has often thrown them under the bus. Yes, you can definitely say it is “ripped from the headlines”—recent headlines. We soon suspect a cabal of dirty cops could be the ultimate cause of all the trouble, so it is also ripped from 1970’s Serpico era headlines as well. Det. Andre Davis has a reputation for unholstering his firearm, making him the perfect point-man to track down two desperate cop-killers, but he turns out to be more of a loose cannon than anyone bargained for in Brian Kirk’s 21 Bridges, which opens today nationwide.

Ray Jackson and Michael Trujillo thought they had been recruited to steal 30 kilos of cocaine, but they find 300 kilos instead. For them, that is way too much of a “good thing.” Almost immediately thereafter, a firefight ensues with four Brooklyn cops, who did not arrive responding to any calls, before getting blown away by the better armed criminals. Subsequently, they fatally shoot four more officers legitimately dispatched to the scene, fleeing into Manhattan, in search of a buyer and a money-launderer. It is a mess that the local precinct captain and the deputy chief want Davis to clean up—permanently.

Given the considerable quantity of uncut coke recovered, local drug squad detective Frankie Burns will ride shotgun with Davis, whether he likes it or not. She seems tough enough, but many of her trigger-happy colleagues keep getting in his way. Nevertheless, Davis steadily closes in on his targets, thanks to his strategy the useless mayor agrees to implement. Every tunnel, train, ferry, and bridge (yes, all 21 of them) providing access out of Manhattan will be locked-down from 1:00 to 5:00 (so as not to interrupt the financial markets).

Basically, screenwriters Adam Mervis and Matthew Michael Carnahan want the audience to hate cops. However, their propaganda campaign is sabotaged by the steely but charismatic performance of their star, Chadwick Boseman. His intense screen presence is still acutely human, winning over viewer’s sympathy and largely carrying the film. Boseman and Sienna Miller, as Burns, nicely play good cop-bad cop together, but it is debatable which is which.

De Palma’s Sisters

This early, career-defining film by Brian De Palma probably features the best use of split screens since The Thomas Crown Affair. It definitely has exploitative elements, but it also boasts a fully orchestrated score composed by the legendary Bernard Hermann. Not surprisingly, “Hitchcockian” is often a word used to describe De Palma’s sinister 1972 homage. Freshly restored in 4K, Sisters (trailer here) opens this Friday at the Quad.

Contemporary viewers will pick up on odd echoes and resonances when watching De Palma’s gritty, ever-so-1970s film, starting with the opening sequences involving a voyeuristic game show called Peeping Toms. Phillip Woode has been set-up by French Canadian model Danielle Breton, but his chivalrous behavior earns him her respect and a date to use his free dinner for two. She won a set of Ginzo-esque knives, which should indeed sound ominous.

Breton gets very drunk during their date, but Woode continues to be gallant, driving her all the way home to remote and exotic Staten Island. He also must contend with her stalker ex-husband, Emil. However, the real surprise comes in the morning, when Breton reveals she lives with her twin, Dominique. Alas, it seems Dominique is even more prone to jealous rages, judging from the slasher murder of Woode. Grace Collier, a professionally stalled local SI journalist, sees it all, or at least a good deal of it from her rear window, but her most recent story was an expose on police brutality, so getting the cops to take her seriously will be a challenge.

Of course, De Palma tightly controls just what exactly the audience does and does not see, rather skillfully pulling off a neat feat of misdirection. He alludes to just about every Hitchcock film except Jamaica Inn, but the parallels with Psycho are especially strong, with a dysfunctional sibling relationship replacing Norman Bates’ special friendship with his mother. There is even a terrific scene in which a Life magazine reporter reveals the Breton sisters’ tragic backstory, much like Simon Oakland’s classic Psycho epilogue, but De Palma puts it at the midway point instead.

Sisters is not a perfect film. Arguably, a pivotal but totally nutty flashback-fantasia looks like it could be the ironic work of Guy Maddin, yet for fans, the rough edges are part of its charm. Regardless, its merits far outweigh its shortcomings, starting with its street-level depiction of 70s New York, which is just as effective as a time capsule of the era as Sidney Lumet’s more “respectable” films.

Margot Kidder is terrific as the Breton Twins, in what might be her best role not involving a man in a cape. She is all kinds of creepy and squirrely, but in a way that is entirely different and distinct from Norman Bates and his imitators. Likewise, William Finley immediately established his cult status with his unsettlingly weird turn as the mysterious Emil (probably half his credits come in films directed by De Palma and Tobe Hooper).

Lisle Wilson is quite charismatic and down-to-earth as Woode, making him quite a worthy Marion Crane analog. Granted, Collier is supposed to represent many of the era’s frustrations, but Jennifer Salt’s confrontational portrayal often leads to face-palms. However, ubiquitous 1980s character actor Bernard Hughes (Tron, The Lost Boys) is quite memorable explaining it all as Life reporter Arthur McLennen.

So, is it horror or is it a thriller? Hermann’s Hitchcockian score says the latter. That will be good enough for anyone who takes their movie soundtracks seriously, but people of good conscience could disagree. De Palma worked in both genres, blurring the lines between them with films like Carrie, The Fury, Body Double, and Dressed to Kill. It is still a tense and grabby film that has also become a fascinating cinematic artifact of its time. Highly recommended for fans of De Palma and psycho-killer movies (across genre), Sisters opens this Friday (10/12) in New York, at the Quad Cinema.

Tribeca ’18: In the Soup

Today, “independent film” is a marketing term that inspires skepticism, but in the early 1990s, it was an institution that enjoyed a high level of public confidence. Since then a lot of mediocre and dreadful indies have disappeared into the obscurity they deserved, but this one was different. In many ways, it is the prototypical 90s indie, but it fell out of circulation due to the bankruptcy of its distributor and serious damage to the only surviving archival copy. The difficult but pristine-looking restoration of Alexandre Rockwell’s In the Soup had its world premiere at the 2018 Tribeca Film Festival—and repertory engagements are sure to follow.

In 1992, we were willing to believe film about a nebbish filmmaker struggling to finance his pretentious art film could hold intrinsic importance. In 2018, we can nostalgically look back on it for capturing a time when the Lower Eastside was still considered a slightly sketchy neighborhood. It was an era of punk clubs that Rockwell and his cast were comfortable navigating.

Adolpho Rollo has no money and a five-hundred-page screenplay. With rent due to his thuggish landlords, Rollo takes out a classified ad, offering to sell his unfilmmable monster for five hundred bucks (seems like a fair price on a per page basis). However, he immediately receives a call from “Joe,” a grifter-gambler, who offers to finance Rollo’s film—sort of.

Rollo is not as dumb as he looks, so he suspects Joe is looking to scam him somehow. However, until that shoe drops, he reaps the benefit of Joe’s largesse, including rent money and plenty of boozy parties. He even starts to think he might be able to make his film, which would allow him to save Angelica Pena, the neighbor he carries a torch for, by casting her as his lead.

Steve Buscemi plays Rollo, which is a major reason why In the Soup still sounds like an entertaining way to spend ninety-some minutes. In retrospect, it looks like the Expendables of nineties indie movies, because Buscemi is joined by independent stalwarts such as Seymour Cassel, Jennifer Beals, Will Patton, Stanley Tucci, Jim Jarmusch, Carol Kane, Debi Mazur, and Sam Rockwell.

As Rollo, Buscemi is definitely doing his indie shtick, but there is also a poignant naivete to his performance. He is a likable loser, but he has some guts too. Cassel is in his element, hamming it up as hammy “Joe.” The perennially under-appreciated Beals’ sensitive, multi-layered portrayal of Pena might surprise some viewers, but it really shouldn’t. Jarmusch, Kane, and Tucci all play outrageous caricatures, but their obvious enjoyment is contagious.

As a veritable time-capsule from the early 1990s, Soup is a fascinating and nostalgic viewing experience, but it is also fun. Sure, we have a good idea of how the beats will line up, but it is so much more earnest and energetic than the parade of calculatingly eccentric indies that followed it. It is hard to believe a Sundance Jury Grand Prize winner, with such a notable cast, could come so close to being lost. Fortunately, it is back and worth looking for when it comes around again. Affectionately recommended for the New York nostalgia, the freshly restored In the Soup had a special retrospective screening at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

Barenholtz’s Alina

He played a zombie in Night of the Living Dead and is widely recognized as the man who discovered David Lynch and the Coen Brothers. Producer-distributor Ben Barenholtz’s place in film history was already secure before he directed his first narrative feature at the youthful age of eighty. Manoel de Oliveira was still regularly cranking out films when he passed away at an untimely 106, so who’s to say how many more films Barenholtz might have in him? In any event, his directorial debut is rather notable. The title character will sip tea at the Russian Samovar and learn something about herself and her dear mother in Barenholtz’s Alina (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Her mother never speaks of her father or their time together in New York, so Alina sneaks off to find out for herself, under the pretense of visiting Cuba on a rumba pilgrimage. It turns out her childhood friend degenerated into a gold digger with loose morals. However, Maria, a bartender at the Samovar proves to be a fast but true friend. She will help Alina follow her father’s trail, but in doing so, she inadvertently introduces the naïve Russian woman to some really smarmy cads, with money and bad intentions.

On the plus side, she also introduces herself to a big, boisterous Italian family, whose paths tangentially crossed those her father. The brooding grandson David rather turns her head and vice versa. There might be something brewing there, assuming history does not repeat itself.

As one would expect from the Ukraine-born Barenholtz, his film has a good feel for the Russian diaspora community, as well as the streets of New York City. Unlike terminally cute indies, the tone is darker and grittier than viewers might expect, but very true to the immigrant/migrant worker experience.

Darya Ekamasova (probably best known in America for The Americans) is quite remarkable as Alina. It is a forceful yet very vulnerable performance, which certainly sounds very Russian, doesn’t it? She shares a pleasant rapport with David Atrakchi’s David—and the rest of his big fat Italian family. On the other side of the spectrum, Grisha Reydler is charismatically sinister as her exploitative boss.

Alina is a nice film, distinguished by its assured ensemble and Barenhotz’s low key, but distinctive style. The soundtrack’s blend mix of classical, jazz, and Latin tracks well suits its seasoned sophistication and sounds terrific. Modest in scope but packing a potent after-kick, Alina is recommended for mature indie audiences when it opens today (9/15) in New York, at the Landmark Sunshine.

DWF ’17: Central Park

Seriously, why couldn’t these prep school kids have just gone to a coke-fueled dance club. It’s not like they don’t have money. Then again, a few of them are scholarship students. That makes it even more unfair when a maniac with a grudge against a Madoff-like Ponzi-schemer hunts his sons’ friends through that big park over there in Justin Reinsilber’s Central Park, which screens during this year’s Dances with Films.

These are strange days for Harold Smith. His father Charles Lincoln Smith Jr. is in jail for the biggest investment con game of the millennium and a gaggle of reporters are permanently parked outside his fashionable Upper Eastside townhouse. The media frenzy is particularly intense, because Smith’s biggest victim was the NAACP. At least his friends are standing by him—while they’re still alive.

Really, for no compelling reason, they are going to drink and get stoned in the park. Look, it’s just a really bad idea to go in their late at night. Mikey the scholarship student will start to have second thoughts when the weed brings out his paranoia. Unfortunately, he will call their cool teacher, Daniel Shaw, for help, even before they know they are being stalked. That means the faithful husband and father of a newborn will get dragged into their madness. It also means his wife Melissa will call in a favor with her ambiguous NYPD detective “friend,” when he goes off the grid.

Central Park is mostly standard issue stuff, but Reinsilber cleverly incorporates some of the Park’s lore, including “Barry,” the “Central Park Bigfoot.” The details he sketches out on Smith’s father and his crimes are also sound highly plausible, in a way that is very much analogous to the Madoff case.
Unfortunately, the teen characters are mostly rather boring. In contrast, the most intriguing figures in the film are Melissa Shaw and Max, the detective who lost his surname. The fact that their relationship and the circumstances that gave rise to it are never precisely spelled out, gives a bit of an edge to their scenes together. Marina Squerciati and Charles Borland portray them with mature, grounded credibility. Michael Lombardi is also quite strong as the diverted Daniel Shaw. The kids? Eh, whatever.

Central Park actually looks like Central Park, not Stanley Park in Vancouver. Reinsilber makes it feel rather creepy and not the least bit inviting. It’s not spectacular, but there are a heck of a lot worse films out there. Arguably, as a first film, Central Park shows some signs of promise. We’re definitely willing to check out his next film, for what that’s worth. Basically recommended for horror fans in the mood for some competent slasher business, Central Park screens this Saturday (6/3), as part of this year’s Dances with Films, in Hollywood, USA.

Lost Cat Corona: Truly Made in NY

A lot of those free “Made in NY” subway posters doled out by the Mayor’s Office of Media and Entertainment go to films that do not look so “made in NY,” but that certainly won’t be an issue here. People in the City tend to forget Queens is technically part of Long Island, but it has plenty of street smart neighborhoods and iconic New York sites. From the Flushing Meadows-Corona Park of World’s Fair fame to plenty of back alleys and backyards, a reluctant sad sack searches for his girlfriend’s missing feline in Anthony Tarsitano’s Lost Cat Corona (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Leonard the black cat is missing, probably to make poor Dominic’s life miserable. He had taken the day off to attend the wake for the father of his high school pal Sal, but the domineering Connie insists he find Leonard first. For a while, Dominic’s buddy Ponce offers his dubious help, but all he finds is a paper bad stuffed with cash and a severed ear. As Dominic scours the neighborhood, he crosses paths with some criminal elements. Disappointingly, it seems old Sal the cop is one of them. However, Dominic also re-connects with some decent folks, including his Uncle Sam and Jimmy Pipes, a Vietnam veteran whose Purple Heart was stolen by a local punk kid.

As movies go, LCC is light-weight and wafer-thin, but Ralph Macchio carries it quite well. The Karate Kid survivor was surprisingly funny in the unfairly maligned Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Undead and he exudes an easy everyman charm as Dominic. On the other hand, Gina Gershon is like fingernails on the blackboard as Connie, a stereotypical big-haired hen-pecking Queens drama queen. The large ensemble of New York character actors largely do their shticky thing playing colorful members of the neighborhood, but Tom Wopat (the former Duke of Hazard turned Tony-nominated Broadway mainstay) is the clear standout for his sensitive turn as Pipes.

Let’s be honest, a film about a lost cat is by definition small stakes stuff, but Tarsitano helms with a light touch. Over the course of the day, he forces Dominic to dredge up some painful memories, but the film never feels maudlin or manipulative. In fact, it is rather pleasant in a low-calorie, low-stress kind of way. Recommended for natives of Queens and maybe parts of Brooklyn that can relate, Lost Cat Corona opens tomorrow (2/24) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Sundance ’17: Bushwick

In New York City, Manhattan does all the work and Staten Island and Queens pay all the property taxes, but Brooklyn always thinks it’s all about them. This time they are right. Red Dawn is about to break out amid the partially gentrified neighborhood in Cary Murnion & Jonathan Milott’s Bushwick, which screened during the 2017 Sundance Film Festival.

Lucy and her boyfriend have ventured into Brooklyn for dinner at her grandmother’s apartment, but you don’t need to know his name, because he ain’t gonna make it very far. While they were in the subway, urban warfare broke out on the streets of Bushwick, but this time it is particularly bad. Suddenly single, Lucy makes a wrong turn into potential rape and murder, but fortunately Stupe the building super is there to save her. Right, he’s a super like Casey Ryback is cook.

Stupe is indeed Marine Corps trained, so he reluctantly agrees to help get Lucy to Grandma’s, before dashing off to Hoboken to check on his wife and son. However, the level of tactical coordination and armaments exhibited by the assailants makes him suspect this is no ordinary day of Brooklyn rioting. After a little “enhanced interrogation,” (remember, that never works, right?), Stupe discovers the truth: a coalition of Southern and border states has invaded Bushwick hoping to force the president to approve their succession demands (of course, that would be Pres. Trump, but whatever).

The first act of Bushwick is actually not bad, notwithstanding the Rope-like faux-single-take gimmick. Dave Bautista Dave Bautista has a big, credible action movie presence and the fact that he is not a superman, but a mortal who is injured quite early in the going could have really distinguished Bushwick. Unfortunately, the film just craters once it elevates ideology over action. Of course, the idea of holding Bushwick hostage is just ridiculous. Frankly, most New Yorkers would say: “that’s all very well, but couldn’t you destroy Williamsburg instead? Or maybe Greenpoint?”

It probably should come as no surprise the second half of Bushwick crashes and burns. Milott & Murnion’s last Sundance selection, Cooties was recut before its eventual theatrical release. Brittany Snow is inoffensive as Lucy, but her hippy-stoner sister Belinda (played by Angelic Zambrana) is like fingernails on the blackboard.

Bushwick is the sort of film that uses the decision of who lives and who dies as stick to beat the audience over the head. It is all an unruly mess, especially since most of the supporting characters are ugly criminal stereotypes, who undercut our sympathy. Not recommended, Bushwick premiered at this year’s Sundance.

Sundance ’17: Person to Person

Forget seven degrees of separation. In indie movies, New Yorkers are only separated by two or three degrees. Therefore, paths are bound to intersect. Mercifully, Dustin Guy Defa does not belabor the near-missed connections and tangential relationships in the day-in-the-lives of interconnected New Yorkers. Still, there is apparently no better city to be hip and dumb, judging from Defa’s Person to Person, a feature riff on his similarly titled short film, which screens during the 2017 Sundance Film Festival.

Real life Red Hook record store owner Bene Coopersmith is the interesting exception to everything above. His namesake Bene is a likable record collector (aren’t we all?), who has a line on a rare Charlie Parker record. However, when the seller has passes off a knock-off, Bene pursues the villain for the sake of justice for all vinyl junkies.

Meanwhile, Bene’s temporary roommate Ray must figure out a way to apologize to his probably ex-girlfriend for posting naked pictures of her on the internet. Good luck with that one. Across town, Phil, a bottom-feeding tabloid reporter is trying to train Claire in the practice of unethical journalism. They are working the case of a suspicious widow, who left her late husband watch to be repaired at Jimmy’s shop, earning him visits from the police and the reluctant Claire. To round out another day of sun in New York, we periodically check in with the sexually ambiguous Wendy, who might somehow be attracted to the best pal of her roommate’s boyfriend, who just so happens to be a guy.

On one hand, we want to give Defa credit for namechecking Parker and including some of his music on the generally terrific soundtrack. Yet, it sort of nags at us that it is not so true to the jazz record collecting experience. Everybody respects Bird’s artistry, but his records are not particularly collectible, because even in his day, they pressed considerable quantities. It would have been more realistic if the con involved a rare mono Blue Note.

Regardless, Coopersmith has boundless energy and an air of sincerity that is quite refreshing. His scenes have plenty of vigor and zip. In contrast, as Phil the “journalist,” Michael Cera basically amalgamates and exaggerates all the annoying shtick of his previous neurotic characters. Crafty Philip Baker Hall adds much needed gravitas as Jimmy the watch repairman and Tavi Gevinson is also surprisingly intriguing as Wendy, even though her story arc is the least developed.

Arguably, Person to Person the feature demonstrates why Defa is so well regarded for his short films (several of which also feature Coopersmith as Bene). There are some finely rendered discrete moments, but the whole is uneven and off-balance. Mostly endurable and largely inoffensive, Person to Person screens again this afternoon (1/21), Thursday (1/26), and Friday (1/27) in Park City and Tuesday (1/24) in Salt Lake, as part of this year’s Sundance.

The Lennon Report: The Death of a Beatle

WABC’s Eyewitness News pioneered the use of so-called “Happy Talk” banter, but the legendary Roger Grimsby gave it an acerbic edge suitable for gritty 1970s New York. It was indeed number one in the largest local market, but WABC producer Alan Weiss had even higher ambitions. Tragedy becomes scoopable opportunity when Weiss is admitted to the same emergency room that labored to save John Lennon’s life. The long dark night of December 8, 1980 is dramatized in Jeremy Profe’s The Lennon Report (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

As several of the real life medical staffers note in the film’s epilogue, this was very definitely pre-Giuliani New York. Roosevelt Hospital (now Mount Sinai West) was located in Midtown West, but at the time it regularly admitted numerous gunshot and stabbing victims each night. It was a relatively prosaic motorcycle accident that landed Weiss in the ER. Despite the pain in his hip, Weiss could not miss the whirlwind of activity surrounding a VIP gunshot victim and he is pretty sure he heard the name John Lennon. However, the doctors and nurses will not confirm anything and they certainly are not about to help him communicate with his newsroom. Yes, it was so much easier keeping things under wraps before the era of smart phones.

Dark and moody, Report is sort of a throwback to the sort of contemporary urban chamber dramas that used to be staples of Golden Age anthology shows like Playhouse 90. Ironically, a story like this is probably too small for television now, so it must be produced as a feature. To his credit, Profe is quite sensitive in his depiction of the real life characters. John Lennon’s features are never shown, nor do we ever really see much of his murderer, besides a few glimpses of his fat ass in passing. Perhaps most significantly, Karen Tsen Lee portrays Yoko Ono with such dignity and vulnerability, she might finally convince Beatles fans to lighten up on her.

Most of the drama centers on Dr. David Halleran, the young doctor on call charged with resuscitating his idol, the nursing staff, and the pesky Weiss. Stef Dawson and Stephen Spinella have some particularly effective and humane moments as Barbara Kammerer RN and pulmonary specialist Dr. Richards Marks, respectively. Walter Vincent and Devin Ratray also supply some welcome bantering rapport as Weiss and his newsroom manager Phil Bernstein, which periodically airs out the film a little, without dispelling the somber mood.

Report is well executed, but it is undeniably small in scope. Frankly, people of good conscience can debate whether Lennon merits such passion play treatment. Yes, he was a Beatle, but he wasn’t Lincoln or Kennedy. Still, Profe and production designer have crafted an evocative time-capsule period piece that will remind those who lived through the era of the time when New York City was facing financial default and just about every man in America planned his week around Monday Night Football. Recommended for old school New Yorkers as a VOD option, The Lennon Report opens this Friday (10/7) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

The Brooklyn Banker: When Williamsburg Behaved

In 1973, Williamsburg, Brooklyn was still a livable neighborhood, because the local syndicate’s godfather made a point of keeping out all the knit-cap-wearing, Bernie Sanders-voting, vegan riff-raff. Manny “the Hand” Mistera, where are you now? Sensing trouble that fateful summer, the gangster tries to recruit a legit banker with a savant-like talent for memorizing numbers. Santo Bastucci wants no part of the crooked life, but how can he turn down one of those offers in Federico Castelluccio’s The Brooklyn Banker (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Bastucci inherited his gift for numbers from his father, but he really knows very little about his late old man (so we know what that means). He understands full well his father-in-law is a made man, but Benny seems like the amiable go-along-to-get-along sort. Bastucci never wanted that life and his uncle, the good Father Matteo was always around to keep him on the straight and narrow. Unfortunately, dumb old Benny gives Bastucci major indigestion when he involves the banker in a scheme to cash potentially fraudulent cashier’s checks supplied by a bookie in hock to Manny the Hand. However, old Benny might not be as dumb as he looks. In fact, he is clearly running some sort of scam, which puts the son-in-law in a devilishly awkward position.

Banker is a surprisingly well produced period piece. It really has the look and texture of the decade’s classic gangster dramas. Unfortunately, the narrative and characters just aren’t special enough. Frankly, it all feels rather workaday.

True, Paul Sorvino’s Benny has that mischievous twinkle in his eye, but how many similar characters has he played over the course of his career? On opposite sides of the spectrum, David Proval (Mean Streets and The Sopranos) and Arthur J. Nascarella (World Trade Center and also The Soprano) both bring a lot of grit and steely dignity to the film as Manny the Hand and Father Matteo, respectively. Veteran television character actor John Bedford Lloyd also steals most of his scenes as Bostonian Secret Service Agent Cahil. Unfortunately, Troy Garity underwhelms in the lead. Understatement is one thing, cold, clamminess is something else entirely.

Castelluccio (yet another alumnus of the Sopranos) vividly transports viewers back to the Dog Day Afternoon-Bronx is Burning New York that few of us ever really knew. Yet, it is frustrating the film never rises above the level of okay. For diehard fans of gangster films and old school New York, The Brooklyn Banker opens this Friday (8/5) in the City at the Cinema Village and on the Island at the Malverne Cinema.

Manhattan Night: Nocturne for Tabloids

Porter Wren is a New York City tabloid columnist constantly bemoaning the passing of his once great profession. It is a rather self-serving pursuit, but somebody has to do it—and it apparently won’t be readers. Like his colleagues, he is not inclined to take any responsibility for the decline of old media, but he will eventually have to own up to all the personal mistakes he is about to make in Brian DeCubellis’s Manhattan Night (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Adapting Colin Harrison’s New York Times Notable novel, Manhattan Nocturne, DeCubellis started the dumbing-down process with the title and presumably kept it going all the way through. Initially we meet Wren working the late night crime beat. He tells us people open up to him because he is such a good listener and he shows it to us by cocking his head like a golden retriever whenever witnesses talk to him. He made his name and column byline by finding a missing child the cops had given up on, but he is now in a bit of a rut, albeit a sensitive muckraking one.

Enter Caroline Crowley to liven things up. She is the widow of Simon Crowley, an acclaimed filmmaker who died under mysterious circumstances. The married-with-children Wren senses this might be the kind of sensational story that will keep the paper’s new Rupert Murdochian owner Sebastian Hobbs at bay, but he does not start investigating until Crowley sweetens the deal by seducing him. However, he quickly discovers this case is more about blackmail than murder. Evidently, Simon Crowley compulsively shot videotape all around the City, like an annoying Tarantino character. One of his tapes included something Hobbs very much wants to keep out of the public eye and he has been regularly paying someone to keep it so.

That is all perfectly reasonable as noir set-ups go, but the third act is just a logical train wreck. We can try to avoid pedantry, but there are just too if-that-was-X-than-who-did-Y questions to glaze over. Seriously, it makes the conclusion of The Big Sleep look neat and tidy, while completely lacking the wit of Bogart and Bacall.

Somehow as Wren, Adrien Brody manages to look simultaneously morose and smug. At least Yvonne Strahovski brings all kind of femme fatale heat as Crowley, despite the film’s constantly vacillating attitude towards her. On the other hand, there is no getting around the icky awkwardness of her flashbacks scenes with Campbell Scott hamming it up as the games-playing Simon Crowley. Steven Berkoff (who played Soviet villains in Octopussy and Rambo: First Blood Part II) also gets to play it coolly ruthless and openly revealing as Hobbs. Unfortunately, Jennifer Beals is completely under-employed as Wren’s not so forgiving wife Lisa, but she looks smart enough to be a doctor, which is something. What she is doing with him is anyone’s guess.

Real noir fans could still forgive the plot holes if there were more humor and attitude to spruce up the film. Yet, DeCubellis’s screenplay takes itself too seriously, in all the worst ways. It is safe to say the laughs all come at the wrong spots. Not recommended, Manhattan Night opens this Friday (5/20) in New York, at the AMC Empire.

Club Life: New York Nightlife Circa 2008

One of Johnny D’s greatest accomplishments as a night club promoter will be drumming up business on Tuesday nights. Funny, those of us who went to school in Ohio might just remember Tuesday as a traditional going out night, but evidently Manhattan hipsters needed more convincing. Viewers get a sanitized behind-the-scenes peak into the ins-and-outs of night club promotion, based on the real life experiences of co-star-co-screenwriter Danny “A.” Abeckaser in Fabrizio Conte’s Club Life (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Believe it or not, getting beautiful women to your club is a top priority for a veteran operator like Mark Cohen. If you comp enough models, the prospective sugar daddies and horn dogs will follow. It turns out “Johnny D,” as he will soon be known, has a talent for it. He could use the money too. The independent limo driver’s father has had a massive stroke and the family has no insurance.  

Starting with his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend and her hot friends and quickly graduating to bored junior models living in agency apartments, Johnny D brings a steady stream of investment banker bait to the club Cohen promotes. However, Johnny D (or is that D Train) grows tired of lining the pockets of the sleazy owner. With Cohen, he launches “Tuesday, Baby, Tuesday,” taking over a club on the dead night by guaranteeing a minimum dollar volume at the bar. Of course, it is only a matter of time before someone as ambitious as Johnny D clashes with someone as territorial as Cohen.

Frankly, Club Life should have been way more hedonistic than it turned out to be. For some reason, Conte is just as interested in Johnny D’s strained relationship with his judgmental mother as he is in the sausage making of the night club business. While it might imply Cohen’s boss is a bit of a shady character, organized crime plays no appreciable role in the film, which will probably strike seasoned New Yorkers as rather Pollyannaish.

Despite the risk of accentuating the negative, a little more gangsterism could have worked wonders for Club Land. After all, the best aspect of the film is the attitude delivered by Abeckaser as Cohen and Robert Davi as his demanding client. Listening to them sneer and jeer is a lot of fun. On the other hand, Tovah Feldshuhh is routinely great on stage, but she is a real wet blanket as the charmless Mother D. Still, Entourage’s Jerry Ferrara makes a believable enough hustler, but the film has him spinning his wheels in too many tractionless scenes.

There is enough New Yorkiness in Club Land to keep it watchable, but it is hard to shake the suspicion Conte, Abeckaser, and company have watered-down the real story, for someone’s benefit. No match for Last Days of Disco or 54 (theatrical or director’s cut) Club Land might eventually be worth of stream when people start getting nostalgic for the late-aughts club scene. It opens today (5/29) in New York, at the AMC Empire (and launches on iTunes).

Tribeca ’15: The Wannabe

How are Tommy and Rosemarie Uva like Truman Capote, Yves Saint Laurent, Coco Chanel, Jean Harlow, and Steve Prefontaine? They were all the subjects of rival film treatments produced at roughly the same time. Obviously, when faced with the prospects of a competitive production, you either want to be the first or the best. Unfortunately, Nick Sandow settles for second best on both scores with The Wannabe, which screens during the 2015 Tribeca Film Festival.

In Raymond De Felitta’s superior Rob the Mob, Tommy Uva is a low life operator, who hates the Mob. Sandow changes his name to Greco and gives him a hero-complex fixated on John Gotti, “the Dapper Don.” For obvious reasons, the Mafia has no need of a loser like Greco. Rose from Ozone Park still loves him anyway, despite his whininess. To ingratiate himself with the Mob, Greco hatches a hair-brained scheme to fix the Gotti trial. Unfortunately, it only leads to a humiliating reality check from a neighborhood captain. Smarting from the dressing down, Greco and his wife finally start the holding up Mafia social clubs—the crime wave De Felitta shrewdly focused on throughout his punchier second act.

As Thomas and Rose “Greco,” Vincent Piazza and Patricia Arquette are cringingly annoying. Frankly, the Mob just can’t whack them soon enough. Yes, with a title like Wannabe, you have to expect a sad, pathetic protagonist, but that does not make it any more pleasant to spend time with these characters. Frankly, the Uvas were not especially grabby in Rob the Mob either, but De Felitta had some wonderfully colorful supporting help from Andy Garcia as composite don of dons “Big Al” Fiorello, Ray Romano as nervy crime reporter Jerry Cardozo, and Burt Young as aging Mafia lieutenant Joey D. Unfortunately, Wannabe does not have analogs for any of these characters, preferring to focus almost exclusively on the Grecos’ codependent relationship.

Still, Wannabe captures the vibe of pre-Giuliani New York quite well. It also inadvertently establishes the gutsiness of Guradian Angel founder and media gadfly Curtis Sliwa’s radio crusade against Gotti. Genre fans will also appreciate Michael “Spider” Imperioli’s brief but finely turned work as Greco’s florist brother, Alphonse. Nevertheless, when the slow starting film finally gets going, we have still already seen it all before.

It might seem unfair to compare films like Rob the Mob and The Wannabe or Capote and Infamous, but potential viewers should know if there is a better and more readily accessible doppelganger film available. Frankly, considering De Felitta’s past history with Tribeca, it is somewhat ironic Sandow’s film is the one that found its way into the festival, but Martin Scorsese’s role as executive producer probably counted for a lot. A wan also-ran, The Wannabe screens again today (4/26), as part of this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

5 to 7: The Rules of Infidelity, According to the French

The French are so sophisticated about love and sex. Wannabe literary hipsters are so not. Yet, for reasons bafflingly obscure, a retired French model picks an aspiring New Yorker short story writer for her evening dalliances. They can only meet for two hours in the early evening because according to French tradition that is the time when husbands and wives might be indisposed without arousing suspicion. Of course, her unlikely lover has trouble with their arrangement because he is so hopelessly bourgeoisie. There is culture clash on the Upper Eastside in Victor Levin’s 5 to 7 (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

It is pretty clear from his constant bittersweet narration, if Brian Bloom ever made it as writer, it is because he had his heart ripped out and stomped on. The glamorous Arielle looks like the perfect woman to do it. Much to Bloom shock (and the audience’s disbelief), the slightly older French woman is receptive when he awkwardly approaches he outside the St. Regis. She rather enjoys his earnest geekiness and recommends he meet her again the following week at the same time and place. That would be after five, of course. She makes no secret of her marriage, but stresses they must follow the rules.

We eventually learn Bloom was raised Jewish, but he is more uptight about this sort of thing than a repressed Protestant with body issues. Just having some ships-in-the-night fun is beyond him, but Arielle’s charm and beauty have him bewitched. She even introduces him to her gracious editor at FSG (you won’t find any Harlequin drones at their shindigs). Although it is unfathomable for the audience, everyone believes in Bloom’s potential, but he jeopardizes everything by falling in love with Arielle.

On the one hand, Levin captures a vivid sense of why New York is such an alluring city in the first place. When he goes for pure elegance and ambiance, 5 to 7 is rather entertaining like a one night assignation, heavy on champagne and light on consequences. Unfortunately, Bloom’s narration will have viewers pulling their hair out and his dialogue often sounds like it was written with a laugh track in mind. As it happens, Levin has extensive television credits with shows like Mad About You and Dream On.

According to imdb, less than ten years separate co-leads Anton Yelchin and Bérénice Marlohe, but he looks about fourteen years old and she looks incredible. James Bond had good reason to be upset when Javier Bardem killed her character in Skyfall. She is trés charmant and makes her scenes with Yelchin work, despite the glib, sitcommy banter he is stuck with. As the suave Valéry, Lambert Wilson makes Charles Boyer look like Walter Brennan, but he is also shockingly compelling when defending the rules and rituals required to keep up appearances. However, when Glenn Close and Frank Langella show up as Bloom’s bickering parents, we find ourselves expecting the laugh track to kick in again.

Levin is clearly aiming for old fashioned romance and the exquisite regret of love lost. We could use more of that sort of vibe in films today, but 5 to 7 would have worked better if he kept it simpler, straighter, and quieter. It should play quite well on television, but for those craving a decidedly nostalgic rom com, 5 to 7 opens tomorrow (4/3) in New York, at the IFC Center.

The Dog: He Had His Day

It was late in the Lindsay administration. New York really was becoming the grungy crime-ridden vice pit largely sustained by attitude people remember with such strange fondness. John Wojtowicz helped paint that picture. True, there is more to his story than the ill-fated bank robbery immortalized in Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon, but there is no getting around that notorious incident in Brooklyn. Wojtowicz speaks for posterity (and he is not shy about it) in Allison Berg & Frank Keraudren’s The Dog (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

For the record, Wojtowicz did his time in Lewistown, not Attica. Arguably, he was a something of a gay marriage pioneer, wedding his lover Ernest Aron (subsequently known as Liz Debbie Eden) in a Catholic-aping ceremony. It was a troubled union, mostly because of Aron’s discomfort living as a man. Initially, Wojtowicz opposed the gender re-assignment surgery, but he eventually relented. Of course, that would cost money. Recruiting two accomplices from the scene, Wojtowicz hatched a very half-baked plan.

The late Wojtowicz (adopting the moniker of “The Dog”) sounds every bit the tough talking, unapologetic New Yorker viewers would expect. His interviews dominate Berg & Keraudren’s film, for obvious reasons. They also evoke plenty of the era’s seedy atmosphere, while documenting the early years of New York gay activism. It definitely has value as a time capsule, but it does little to burnish Lindsay’s reputation.

In addition to Wojtowicz, Berg & Keraudren talk to nearly all of the surviving principles, including his first “legal” wife, Carmen Bifulco, and George Heath, the third wife Wojtowicz met in prison. Clearly, the man was not shy or commitment phobic. Unfortunately, Eden and Lindsay have long since passed.

Berg & Keraudren keep the pacing brisk, never getting overly fixated on any particular tribulation. While the film holds unmistakable GLBT interest, it should also appeal to true crime audiences. Recommended for old school New York nostalgics, The Dog opens this Friday (8/8) in New York at the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center uptown and the IFC Center downtown.

They Came Together—But Can They Stay Together for a Sequel

Last night the Tribeca Film Festival hosted free screenings of When Harry Met Sally in all five boroughs (except Brooklyn, where winds were just too windy). For some reason, New Yorkers collectively chose the rom-com for Tribeca’s Film For All promotion, even though we could all more easily relate to New York films like Death Wish and The Exterminator. If you haven’t seen it by now, you’re probably never going to. However, those who remember when Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan were movie stars will appreciate most of the gags in David Wain’s They Came Together (trailer here), opening this Friday in New York, which is practically like another character in the film.

Should you doubt it, Joel and Molly will assert the New Yorkiness of their romance right from the start, as they recount their story for another couple with the profound misfortune to be having dinner with them. As the flashback narrative commences, Joel is about to break up with Tiffany, his hot on the outside, icy on the inside girlfriend. Since Molly is still smarting from her last break-up, their mutual friends want to fix them up (at a Halloween party).

Instead, they bicker like cats and dogs. It hardly helps matter when Molly learns Joel works for the candy store conglomerate trying to force her cutesy corner store out of business. Of course they will still fall for it, but they will take turns sabotaging their budding relationship.

Wain and co-writer Michael Showalter are so busy skewering romantic comedy clichés they do not even bother wasting time on boring stuff like characterization. Their humor whipsaws back and forth between droll satire and unrepentantly naughty slapstick. It is often quite funny, but after a while viewers will realize there is nothing for them to invest in emotionally. Even Mel Brooks classics (the gold standard of movie spoofs) had a bit of heart anchoring them. TC Together is really more like a serial skit or a web series than a movie. Still, you have to respect Wain and Showalter’s willingness to tip over sacred cows and subvert viewers expectations by twisting the very rom-com conventions they are sending up.

As Molly and Joel, Amy Poehler and Paul Rudd are game for just about any joke in questionable taste, but they are still rather low wattage when it comes to screen charisma. On the other hand, Cobie Smulders’ Tiffany is appropriately cold and decorative, while audiences may never look at SVU’s Christopher Meloni in the same way after his outrageous turn as Joel’s boss, Roland. Nora Jones also has an amusing cameo as herself, but if you do not remember when MTV and VH-1 played music videos in the 1980s, you probably won’t get it.

TC Together is consistently entertaining, but defiantly shallow. It is like having ice cream for dinner. It is sweet and gives you a rush, but a steak would be more satisfying. Recommended for those who miss movie spoofs that do not require turning off nine tenths of your brain to endure (hello, Wayanses), They Came Together opens this Friday (6/27) in New York (which is very much like another character in the film) at the Cinema Village.