Taiwan Film Days ’10: Tears

Detective Guo is one of those crusty late middle-agers who can thoroughly kick the butts of men less than half his age. In an American film, he might have been played by a Clint Eastwood or Tommy Lee Jones fifteen years ago. However, the hardened cop carries a lot of baggage that might finally catch up with him in Cheng Wen-tang’s Tears (trailer here), which screens this weekend as part of the San Francisco Film Society’s Taiwan Film Days at the Viz Theater.

Guo has not cried in ten years, but he is clearly sick at heart. Separated from his wife, he has no enthusiasm for patching up the family unit. For years he has been passed over for promotion, preferring to alienate his fellow officers with his cynicism and contempt for espirit de corps. It hardly helps ingratiate the prickly detective to his colleagues when he gets a bee in his bonnet over the apparent open-and-shut overdose death of a young supposedly former junkie.

Yet, Guo has a soft-side. He regularly volunteers at a long-term care hospital and looks out for Xiao Wen and Xuan Xuan, the two cute young women who work at an all-night betelnut kiosk. Perhaps, they are all linked by some secret in Guo’s past, but Cheng will not yield them up too quickly and Guo certainly isn’t talking. While Tears is somewhat coy about where it’s headed, at least it has someplace to go. Some of the more self-indulgent directors of the Romanian New Wave (ahem, Cristi Puiu) should take note of how Cheng crafts a deliberately paced intimate character study that never feels like a drag.

In fact, Tears is quite an intense, if slightly idiosyncratic, variation on the cop in search of redemption story. Tsai Chen-nan is pitch-perfect as Guo, looking like the personification of world-weariness. He perfectly captures the bearing of a veteran cop, while projecting the turmoil churning deep below his façade of resignation. Taiwanese singer-songwriter Enno Cheng also sneaks up on viewers, bringing substantial nuance and depth to Xiao Wen. If not as demanding a role, Taiwanese heavy metal superstar Doris Yeh is at least suitably energetic as Xuan Xuan.

While Hsin-Hua Feng’s digital cinematography is rather pedestrian and several flashbacks from minor players merely serve as unnecessary distractions, the combined strength of Guo’s character and Tsai’s performance doggedly pull viewers through. A gritty, street smart film that definitely earns its occasional moment of sentimentality, Tears is a very strong selection for Taiwan Film Days. It screens this coming Saturday (10/24) and Sunday (10/25) at the Viz Theater in San Francisco.

NYMF ’10: Trav’lin the Musical

Everybody recorded J.C. Johnson’s songs, most notably including Bessie Smith, Ethel Waters, Billie Holiday, and Ella Fitzgerald, yet his name has largely been forgotten, even among passionate devotees of the Great American Songbook. However, Johnson’s stories of jazz and Harlem nightlife made a strong impression on the young ears of Gary Holmes, eventually inspiring Trav’lin the Musical, whose book he co-wrote with Allen Schapiro. Years in development, Trav’lin finally graces New York stages as part of the 2010 NY Musical Theatre Festival in a limited run that ends tonight.

As the “unofficial mayor of 132nd Street,” Deacon George keeps an eye on his neighborhood. Naturally, he notices each new arrival, especially one that looks eerily similarly to Billie, his old flame from New Orleans. Now calling herself Ethel from Mississippi, Billie prefers not to reveal herself just yet, even as she finds herself romantically drawn to George once again.

No longer working on a Pullman Car, George has settled down into his community peacemaker role. Now, it is his nursing student niece Ella who is seeing a traveling man, straight-laced Nelson, a Bible salesman. He used to have eyes for Ros, the neighborhood beautician, but she remained true to her own traveling man, even if the smooth operating Archie was not always true to her. As Billie and Ros mentor the younger Ella their own romances fizzle and flair to the music of J.C. Johnson.

Johnson often wrote on love and longing, leaving many evocative standards and should-be-standards to chose from, including probably his best known tune “Trav’lin (All Alone),” a real highlight of the show performed as an epistolary dialogue between George and Billie/Ethel. However, the biggest showstopper has to be the low down “Empty Bed Blues” performed with verve and sass by Brenda Braxton channeling Bessie Smith as Billie.

Indeed, it is not surprising Johnson’s songbook lends itself so well to musical theater, since he often wrote for the stage, including The Jazz Train, a survey of popular African American music, with each train representing a particular period. (Though not widely seen in America, it was something of a sensation in Europe at the time and its cast album has since been reissued by Sepia, the British collector’s label.) A nice showcase for Johnson’s music, Holmes and Shapiro also pay tribute to his great collaborators through their characters’ names—Ella, Billie, and Ethel being readily apparent, while George is a tip of the cap to vaudeville lyricist George A. Whiting.

Trav’lin has a great cast and a strong four piece combo backing them up on-stage. Multi-reed player Marc Phaneuf has a distinctly bluesy sound on clarinet that sets the scene quite effectively. Musical director John DiPinto is also a strong player, but one wishes they could have shoehorned an upright piano into the theater for him, because music of this era never sounds quite right on a keyboard. Still, rhythm section mates Brian Brake and Benjamin Brown, on drums and bass respectively, set a swinging tempo that the cast definitely responds to. All six performers have strong voices, but Brenda Braxton and Doug Eskew arguably shine the brightest as Billie and George, the older experienced couple. While she excels in the Bessie Smith number, he nicely expresses the wistful nostalgia of “Louisiana,” which might have been Johnson’s most recognizable song in his day.

Cleverly staged by director Paul Stancato, Trav’lin feels like a bigger show than the limited space of the TBG stage would otherwise allow. An endearingly old-fashioned romance set to some swinging sounds, Trav’lin is faithful in spirit to the music that inspired it. Enthusiastically recommended, it runs once more under the auspices of NYMF, tonight (4:30), but hopefully it will soon return in some form for a longer run.

Royal Flush Fest ’10: Coals to Newcastle

Leeds is a hipper city than you might think. Home of the first European music college to offer a jazz degree, it has attracted talented students from around the continent, many of whom have stayed in town. As a result, it has a fairly happening music scene that can more or less support a band like the New Mastersounds. Still, it’s not New Orleans, so naturally the band jumped at the chance to play Jazz Fest, post-Katrina. Appreciating the band’s journey to the birthplace of all funky sounds, filmmakers Marca Hagenstad and Aaron Dunsay documented their mini-tour in Coals to New Castle—The New Mastersounds: from Leeds to New Orleans (trailer here), which screened last night at the 2010 Royal Flush Festival, New York’s annual celebration of film, music, and attitude, newly relocated to the Brooklyn Knitting Factory for extra added swagger.

The New Mastsersounds might have scratched out an even larger following in the States than in their native Britain. In fact, their 2007 New Orleans gigs generated a lot of heat and American goodwill for the band. A jazz-influenced instrumental funk jam-band, the NM’s blur genre distinctions in way that makes them feel quite at home in the Crescent City club circuit. Wisely, Hagenstad and Dunsay focus on their three big gigs: the venerable House of Blues, a free outdoor porch concert (literally on their host’s porch and probably their biggest show in NOLA), and at the Blue Nile on Frenchmen Street. (I’d just like to take a moment to give a shout out to the Blue Nile, whose staff was quite welcoming when I caught Kirk Joseph there nearly three years ago).

Sweet Georgia Brown, the music of Coals is funky. The NM’s are a groovy band and they had some killer NOLA musician’s musicians sitting-in with them in 2007, including the likes of Stanton Moore (of Galactic) and Ivan Neville (founder of Dumptaphunk). Though the music drives Coals, the bandmembers, particularly drummer Simon Allen, offer some interesting insights on the sociological differences between the British and American scenes. Indeed, the very NOLA tradition of sitting-in was something that took some getting used to for the NM’s. They clearly warmed to it though.

Obviously, Katrina’s wake was an all too fresh reality when they played Jazz Fest, but Hagenstad and Dunsay smartly resist over-playing that card. Instead, they just let the band and their guests chug away. The results are just a rollicking good time.

With their retro-1970’s graphics and some energizing concert footage, Coals looks cool and sounds great. Frankly, it is more than entertaining enough to merit a legitimate theatrical life. Unfortunately many distributors probably will not understand the New Mastersounds’s knack for packing houses. Thoroughly satisfying, Coals next screens on October 24th at the Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival in Arkansas, while the 2010 Royal Flush Festival continues at its new BKLN home through the 18th.

Taiwan Film Days ’10: Hear Me

While the Beijing 2008 Olympics were rife with controversy, the 2009 Deaflympics in Taipei earned high marks all the way around. The Taipei games also helped inspire a ridiculously cute teen rom-com that deals respectfully and forthrightly with the hearing impaired. A huge hit in Taiwan, Cheng Fen-fen’s Hear Me (trailer here) has a good heart and an earnest cast that should translate well when it screens next weekend during the San Francisco Film Society’s Taiwan Film Days at the Viz Theater.

Tian-kuo is a gooney delivery boy working for his family’s restaurant, who somehow picked up considerable fluency in sign language. It comes in handy when he tries to put the moves on Yang-yang, the sister of Xiao Peng, a Deaflypian swimmer in training. Though Yang-yang is the younger sibling, she is her sister’s sole financial support, willingly juggling multiple jobs to support her dreams of a gold medal.

By contrast, Tian-kuo only has one job, which he does rather poorly, but of course his nagging yet big-hearted mother and “aw-shucks” father are not about to fire him. Being an idiot (but a well meaning one) he inadvertently offends Yang-yang. Deeply heartsick, he desperately tries to make amends, but Yang-yang is more concerned with her other family tribulations.

A sweetly luminous screen presence, Ivy Chen displays a dynamic spirit and considerable dramatic range as Yang-yang. For his part, Eddie Peng makes a likable enough goober as Tian-kuo. Their chemistry together is pleasingly credible, even though she ought to be well out of his league. Adding further heft, Michelle Chen’s spot-on supporting turn as Xiao Peng is believably nuanced and ultimately quite moving.

Granted, Hear hardly breaks any new rom-com ground, but its execution is surprisingly strong. In fact, it pulls off a potentially gimmicky ending largely through the strength of its engaging cast. For cineastes, Hear might be a guilty pleasure, but for most movie patrons, it should be an entertaining crowd pleaser. It is really impossible not to have some affection for the film. It screens next Saturday (10/23) as part of the SFFS’s Taiwan Film Days.

Taiwan Film Days ’10: Monga

Forces from the Mainland have their eyes on Formosa territory. It is a familiar story, but in this case it is the Chinese syndicate looking to dislodge the traditional Taiwanese neighborhood triads in Doze Niu’s Monga (trailer here), which opens the San Francisco Film Society’s Taiwan Film Days next Friday at the Viz Theater.

In the 1980’s, nearly every densely packed block of Taipei’s Monga neighborhood has its own triad, like the Temple Front Gang. It is here the fatherless Chou Yi-Mong finds a sense of belonging. Recruited after standing up to a pack of bullying classmates, Chou (a.k.a. Mosquito) makes fast friends with Boss Geta’s son Dragon Lee and his three running mates. The fab five fight like unit, though they know the rules of the streets dictates they might eventually find themselves rivals. Frankly, Mosquito often does not understand why they are brawling, but the friendship is real. It is even realer than real for Monk, who is devoted to Dragon in quite a suggestive way.

Of course, the nature of their camaraderie is such that betrayal is inevitable, especially with the Mainlanders looking to move in. Indeed, the young gang princes find themselves caught up in a power struggle between those who want to maintain local control of organized crime, like Boss Geta, and those who want to cut a deal with the Northern triads, most notably including Grey Wolf, Mosquito’s mother’s mysterious old flame.

Though Monga was selected by Taiwan as its official foreign language Oscar candidate, it is a highly commercial film (in a good way). Energetically mixing teenaged coming of age angst with gritty street level gangster power games, it pretty much has all the elements. There is even young love, street smart as it may be, when Mosquito falls for Ning, a beautiful young prostitute often demeaned for her nearly invisible birthmark.

Monga features a number of young Taiwanese television and pop-stars who likely brought a built-in fan base to the film in the ROC. However, they are well suited to their roles, particularly Ethan Ruan as the intense Monk. Mark Chao also seems to appropriately grow into the role of Mosquito, while the haunting Chia-yen Ko projects a fragile vulnerability as Ning. Yet, the silver coiffed Niu might even upstage his cast appearing as the intriguing Grey Wolf.

With generous helpings of Big Brawl style street fighting and unapologetically tear-jerking romance, Monga has something for a wide array of Asian cinema devotees. Thoroughly entertaining, it deserves a productive life on the festival circuit and even a shot at specialty distribution. It should be a crowd pleasing opener for SFFS’s Taiwan Film Days when it screens at the Viz Cinema next Friday (10/22).

Eastwood’s Hereafter

That bright light must be significant. Near death researchers argue that since so many accounts agree on the particulars, there must be something to them. Some even hint at a conspiracy of silence in Clint Eastwood’s latest film, but the jazz-supporting actor-director thankfully never veers too far into such X-Filish territory in Hereafter (trailer here), which opens today in New York before expanding nationally next week.

Conversing with the dead made psychic George Lonegan nearly unfit for life among the living. Much to the dismay of his slick operator brother, he chucked it all in, despite the serious money to be made, preferring a quiet blue collar life. Yet, just like Pacino’s Michael Corleone, he keeps getting pulled back into his former life. French television talking head Marie Lelay got a glimpse of what haunts Lonegan. Caught up in a Southeast Asian tsunami, she briefly crossed over and back. Slightly preoccupied with the experience, her career and romantic relationship suffer as a result. While in third story arc, young Marcus, an identical twin grieving his brother Jason, is desperately searching for a legitimate medium like Lonegan amidst all the charlatans of London’s New Age scene.

Eventually, these three twains will meet, but it takes an awfully long time to get there. Despite the supernatural themes, Eastwood strives for an elegiac tone throughout Hereafter, eschewing cheap chills. (However, it is truly horrifying when the action culminates at a publishing trade show.) Though a bit snoozy, the director’s string-heavy score sets the right mood. Indeed, Hereafter has a very Euro-art film sense of time and ambiance.

Arguably, Hereafter is one of those films whose whole is less than the sum of its parts. The opening tsunami sequences are reasonably intense and realistic. However, subsequent scenes of Lelay moping around taking bad career advice are paint-by-numbers stuff. Lonegan’s relationship with his brother is also rather standard issue, but his aborted flirtation with a fellow student in his adult ed cooking class is sharply written and really finely turned, by Matt Damon and Bryce Dallas Howard, respectively. However, the most reliable strand involves the two twins, quite impressively played by Frankie and George McLaren. Completely natural in every scene, they are remarkably assured young actors.

Sensitively lensed by cinematographer Tom Stern, Hereafter is certainly a classy package. The discrete payoff might also grow on mature viewers upon later reflection. However, the overall presentation is a bit too long and much too self-serious. A respectable film but nowhere nearly as engaging as Gran Torino, Hereafter seems unlikely to be a major player come awards season. Earning a modest recommendation, Hereafter opens today (10/15) in New York at the AMC Loews Lincoln Square and Regal Union Square 14, before spreading wider next Friday.

Assayas' Carlos

Ilich Ramírez Sánchez killed on behalf of just about every violent extremist movement of the twentieth century. Sheltered by the East German Stasi, he was most closely aligned with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP). An ardent Marxist and notorious terrorist, Ramírez Sánchez is best known as the infamous “Carlos the Jackal” (though he preferred just plain “Carlos”). French director Olivier Assayas dramatizes his infamous crimes (and there are a lot of them) in his grandly ambitious, thinly fictionalized historical thriller Carlos (trailer here), which screens in its full five and a half hour glory for 38 special "Roadshow Edition" presentations at the IFC Center starting today (with popcorn included).

Soviet educated, the Venezuelan Ramírez Sánchez views the world through a radicalized prism. He is convinced “direct action” (meaning terrorism) is necessary to bring about supposedly progressive change. A promising volunteer for the PFLP terrorist network, Carlos steadily establishes a reputation for ruthlessness with a number of grenade attacks on cafes and the unsuccessful assassination attempt of Edward Sieff, president of Marks & Spencer and a prominent member of the British Jewish community.

Carlos forged alliances with the Japanese Red Army and extremist German Baader Meinhof/RAF splinter groups, acting more or less in concert. While he was not directly involved in the murder of the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics or the hijacking of Air France Flight 139 freed by IDF’s famous Entebbe operation, he was personally charged with subsequent reprisal attacks. However, his greatest international infamy probably arose from his attack on the 1975 OPEC meeting, taking the cartel’s delegates hostage.

Ramírez Sánchez is an anti-Semitic mass murderer. His crimes have no justification. Wisely, Assayas does not really go down that road. While his Carlos has a certain animal magnetism and a voracious sexual appetite, the film never makes a martyr of him, unlike the terrorist agit-prop of Uli Edel’s Baader Meinhof Complex. Essentially, Assayas shows Ramírez Sánchez going about his destructive business rather matter-of-factly, only occasionally paying lip service to some leftist cause, such as Allende in Chile. Yet, there are a handful of truly telling scenes, as when a former RAF accomplice remarks to Carlos how sick it is for Germans like himself to be killing Jews.

The five plus hours of Carlos are packed to the gills with violent intrigue. Yet, it is all pretty well grounded in historical fact. Indeed, it is quite in synch with the facts established in Barbet Schroeder’s Terror’s Advocate, a documentary profile of Jacques Vergés, the attorney for Ramírez Sánchez, the PFLP, and just about every other terrorist of the twentieth century (who also briefly appears as a character in Carlos). Frankly, it would make a much better double feature with Assayas’s film than Edel’s love-letter to terror.

Edgar Ramírez is appropriately both charismatic and creepy as Ramírez Sánchez, nicely capturing the ferocity of extremism. There are also scores of effective supporting performances from its large but completely credible ensemble cast. Yet, Carlos is much more a director’s film than an actor’s, seamlessly recreating complicated historical events around the globe and staging gritty action sequences with tick-tock precision.

Originally broadcast on French television and recently on the IFC Channel, Carlos might be divided into three parts, but it truly is one unified film, entirely helmed by Assayas (unlike the three interlocking films of Red Riding). Truthfully, the 319 minutes is a long haul. As fascinating and absorbing as it is, most viewers will be desperately hoping for his capture by the final half hour. For those with short attention spans, a two and half hour cut will also screen at the Lincoln Plaza. However, if you are going to see a big epic film like Carlos, you should do it right and get the full Roadshow experience at the IFC Center starting today (10/15).

From the Outback to the Streets: Samson & Delilah

Australia is a Commonwealth country, but it has roughly 150 living indigenous languages (though the majority of those are considered endangered). By capturing the life and language of a central Australian Aboriginal community, Warwick Thornton’s feature debut Samson & Delilah (trailer here) earned considerable attention as the country’s official 2009 submission for best foreign language Oscar consideration. After a bit of a wait, the Cannes Camera D’Or winner finally begins its regular theatrical engagement in New York this Friday.

With names like Samson and Delilah, it would seem like the two young aboriginal teenagers were meant to be together. Yet, as the film opens, both will need some convincing, particularly the distinctly unimpressed Delilah. Her ailing grandmother is all for it though. Eventually, they somewhat warm to each other, but when the elder women of the community turn against Delilah under tragic circumstances, she and Samson leave their hardscrabble homes to live on the streets of the big city. This turns out to be a harrowing mistake.

Delilah was a responsible young woman, content to take care of her aging Nana. By contrast, Samson could euphemistically be called a troubled youth. A compulsive huffer with anger management issues, he could use some growing up. As a result, he is probably not the best partner to face the dangers of homelessness with—a fact Thornton viscerally drives home in spades.

Watching S&D is a bit like stepping in front of a speeding freight train. Beyond naturalistic, its brutal realism can be overwhelming. While it might be difficult to watch at times, Thornton exerts a rather masterful control over the audience’s emotional responses. He also has a shrewd ear for soundtrack music, whipsawing viewers from the effectively anachronistic country of Charlie Pride to the ever present garage ska band chugging away outside Samson’s squat window.

Thornton’s young leads are disturbingly realistic as the street-dwelling teens. Marissa Gibson is truly heart-rending as Delilah, while as Samson, Rowan McNamara gives a rather courageous performance, portraying all his irresponsibility and manifold character weaknesses. Indeed, despite its tangible anger regarding the inequities faced by Aboriginal Australians, S&D never lets its characters off the hook for their personal failings.

S&D is a tough, uncompromising film. Though Warwick risks wallowing in the degradation of his protagonists, his relentless realism is always honest to their traumatic story and mean circumstances. Like Jay Rosenblatt’s The Darkness of Day, it is definitely recommended, but only to those not predisposed to chronic depression. It opens this Friday (10/15) in Manhattan at the Village East and in Brooklyn at IndieScreen.

Hurry Up Mid-Terms: I Want Your Money

In the time it takes to watch Ray Griggs’ new documentary, the current administration will rack up another $182,000,000 in debt. It’s not that long, either. While the makers of I.O.U.S.A. are strangely silent on the Obama debt explosion, it is nice to know some filmmakers have their eye on the ball. Audiences will even be able to see Griggs’ I Want Your Money (trailer here) when it opens in over 500 theaters tomorrow, though not in New York City (but it will screen in Albany, where the message of fiscal discipline is also sorely needed).

The trailer for Want is already something of an internet sensation, racking up over 450,000 views. It shrewdly showcases the strength of the film—bobble-head inspired animation featuring President Reagan schooling Obama in economics. It is often pretty funny in a subversive way. However, the lesson hews more closely to theory than nuts and bolts data, so it is doubtful to change many partisan minds. This is unfortunate, considering the opportunity Want has to influence the debate through its impressive distribution and attention grabbing animation.

Griggs and lead animator Alex Kahn nicely capture the famous twinkle in Reagan’s eye and the pomposity of his current successor. While the core audience might not groove to the caricature of President George W. Bush as a well-meaning frat boy, it establishes nonpartisan cred for the film. Still, the lecherous Bill Clinton jokes feel a bit old by now. (Indeed, it would be cleverer and more cutting to lampoon the ways he has cravenly sold his services since leaving office.)

Want also features a tea party rally’s worth of talking head interviews, including new media maverick Andrew Breitbart (disclosure: I have contributed to his Big Hollywood site), as well as imminently recognizable political figures like former Speaker Newt Gingrich, Rep. Thaddeus McCotter, Steve Forbes, and Michael Reagan. Frankly, they probably should have been allowed more time to present their points, particularly someone like Forbes, who understands economics better than nearly anyone in public life today.

The facts are on Griggs side, so one wishes he used them more. Comparing the fiscal heath of a state like Texas to a New York teetering on the brink of insolvency makes the point, as does the economic record of the current administration. Want is pleasantly entertaining and surely cannot hurt, but it is unlikely to appreciably reshape the debate. It opens nationwide this Friday (10/15), including the Crossgates Cinemas 18 in the Empire State’s capitol.

Brazil at its Seediest: Carmo Hit the Road

Even in romantic Brazil, border towns are pretty skuzzy. There are not a lot of career opportunities either, unless you happen to be a self-starting smuggler. Determined to get out of town, the floozyish Carmo invites herself along with a particularly surly contraband runner, but there will be no clean getaways in Murila Pasta’s gritty, grimy road movie, Carmo, Hit the Road (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Carmo has been trading on her looks and rather flexible morals, but it has not gotten her far enough from her past. Carrying merchandise hot two-times over, the wheel chair bound Marco is not looking for a partner, but circumstances force him together with Carmo. Naturally, they bicker, sulk, and part ways several times, while the goods in the back of Marco’s track (whatever they might be) often change hands between him and a rival pair of low life thugs out to hijack his big score.

Though these might be relatively standard issue road movie capers, the earthy characters have a refreshing lack of quirkiness. Do not look to Marco for cheap life-affirming inspiration. Instead, Fele Martínez’s admirably unsentimental performance brims with anger, resentment, and considerable menace. Likewise, writer-director Pasta never sugarcoats Carmo’s less than ladylike life strategies. Indeed, Road is largely distinguished by the honesty of its characterizations (aside from the cartoony portrayal of Carmo’s sexually voracious, super Catholic mother). Yet, Pasta dissonantly wraps it up with a gauzy, compulsively happy ending completely at odds with the grungy naturalism that led up to it.

Intense and frankly a bit scary, Martínez is just really darn good as Marco. Credibly attractive but not ridiculously so, Mariana Loureiro also holds her own quite nicely, projecting a strength of character to match Marco’s bitterness. Together they exhibit decent screen chemistry, allowing the audience to buy into their inevitable mutual attraction.

It is hard not to smile at the Latinized version of Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack” heard all too briefly in Pasta’s feature debut. Still, make no mistake, Road is no Two for the Road or It Happened One Night. At times, there are moments of jarring violence totally consistent with its seamy border-town setting. Indeed, that effectively seedy atmosphere and the strong performances of its two principal leads nicely differentiate Road from other recent road movie offerings. Bold in its grubbiness, Road opens this Friday (10/15) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Tragic Collage: Jay Rosenblatt’s The Darkness of Day

Those of a certain age will remember the old classroom film projector and the dated-for-decades films that used to flicker through them. Experimental filmmaker Jay Rosenblatt certainly does. His latest work consists entirely of such found footage. Like Jonas Mekas (a comparison that would surely flatter the filmmaker), Rosenblatt is obviously fascinated by the promise of castoff cans of film, frequently assembling their retro images into cinematic essays, like The Darkness of Day, the title film of a mini-retrospective program of Rosenblatt’s recent work that begins a weeklong run at MoMA tomorrow.

Consisting of two substantial twenty-some minute meditations on mortality and three comparatively minor shorts, the Darkness program starts with the blackly comic Afraid So, a briefly sardonic answer to the question “how bad can things get,” marrying Rosenblatt’s vintage imagery to Garrison Keillor’s recitation of Jeanne Marie Beaumont’s poem of the same name.

Indeed, the unspoken refrain “afraid so” seems all too apt for Rosenblatt, considering the personal tragedies that inspired the longer, richer films of Darkness. Though Rosenblatt was only nine years old when his younger brother died, the ever-present grief and guilt he and his parents suffer to this day is a tangible presence in Phantom Limb. At first, Rosenblatt’s constructivist technique feels at odds with the confessional tenor of Limb’s first vaguely Kübler-Ross-echoing section, yet it becomes clear this is how Rosenblatt processes his pain. Disconcertingly, he strips his family emotionally bare with silent, brutally honest inter-titles, interspersed with ironic imagery culled from film archives.

Yet, Limb goes beyond mere collage, making larger connections and drawing wider parallels, as when interviewing a man experiencing phantom pains after losing an arm. While it might sound like a questionable mish-mash, especially for such a delicate topic, Rosenblatt somehow maintains a deeply elegiac tone, aided in great measure by the music of Estonian minimalist classical composer Arvo Pärt, including his starkly beautiful Für Alina. (No stranger to hardship himself, Pärt’s music was banned under Communism and he dedicated all performances of his work during the 2006-2007 season to the murdered Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya.)

Though not quite as moving (or as challenging) as Limb, The Darkness of Day rather unflinchingly examines suicide with found footage that often looks too disturbing for the staid era during which it was filmed. Drawing on the journals of a friend who killed himself, Rosenblatt revisits famous suicides past, like that of the Japanese student who started a national craze when she hurled herself into the Mount Mihara volcano in 1933. Yet, where Limb offered a synthesis of grief, obscure and elusive as it might be, Darkness is only a cautionary lamentation that makes no pretenses of consolation.

As the closing titles reveal, Rosenblatt’s family was also touched by suicide during the production of Darkness. Along with Limb, it is one of the more grimly powerful works one will see programmed under the rubric of experimental film anytime soon. Frankly, the other two shorts films are rather flat in comparison, especially I Just Wanted to be Somebody, which essentially gloats at Anita Bryant’s divorce and professional setbacks following her famous foray into the gay rights debate. However, Limb and Darkness are undeniably the guts of the program and they are worth seeing—provided viewers are not predisposed to depression. The Darkness program opens at MoMA on the (lucky) 13th, with Rosenblatt in attendance for the Wednesday and Friday night screenings.

Mourning in Mexico: Norah’s Will

José Kurtz is an atheist, or at least he plays one to annoy the religious leaders of Mexico City’s tightly knit Jewish community. That puts him in an awkward spot when charged with organizing the funeral services for his former wife Norah. Yet, it quickly becomes clear nobody knew her better than her curmudgeonly ex in Mariana Chenillo’s elegant elegy Norah’s Will (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

When Kurtz walked out on the mother of his grown son, he did not get far—just across the street, in fact. Still in contact, he thinks nothing of receiving a large shipment of frozen meat for her, presumably for the upcoming Passover dinner. Indeed, her final exit appears to be part of a grand manipulative act to gather the family together. Unfortunately, her suicide and Kurtz’s prickly attitude make it difficult for him to fulfill the terms of her will—particularly the religious burial service.

Though we occasionally see a younger Norah in flashbacks, it is remarkable how well Chenillo establishes the dynamics of their complicated relationship through José’s eyes. In the process, we come to understand he was actually a far better father and husband than his son will ever know. One of the great grumpy old men of the movies, Fernando Luján’s José Kurtz is devilishly funny and painfully real. It is one of the most gracefully nuanced turns audiences will see on-screen for quite a while.

Unfortunately, the acorn seems to have fallen fairly far from the tree with his rather milquetoast son Rubén, never really brought to life by Ari Brickman. In truth, most of the extended family is colorful in a rather bland indie movie kind of way. Yet, it is Luján’s film and he makes the most of it in several deeply moving scenes. Wisely, it also holds onto a few of its secrets, in effect respecting the privacy of its lead characters.

A classy package, Chenillo and cinematographer Alberto Anaya Adalid bathe Will in warm glowing light, giving the proceedings an art-house sheen, while Darío González’s score is appropriately sensitive (if not especially memorable). It all serves an apparently simple but surprisingly deep family drama. It is even ultimately forgiving of organized religion, finding wiser representatives than the fuss-budgets Kurtz delights in antagonizing.

Mexico City’s Jewish community has proved quite cinematic, appearing in Alejandro Springall’s relatively recent My Mexican Shivah as well. (Hopefully, the next such film will involve a wedding rather than a funeral.) It proves to be a milieu worth revisiting though. At heart, Will is a deeply humanistic love story, featuring a near perfect screen performance from Luján. Wiser and gentler than most of the decidedly gritty recent Mexican cinematic imports, Will is definitely recommended. It opens this Friday (10/15) uptown at the Paris Theatre, New York’s single screen movie palace.

ESPN in Theaters: The Two Escobars

In the wake of the scandals that rocked the game of baseball, it is impossible to pretend the illicit drug trade never intersects the world of sports. After all, if you believe Jose Canseco’s memoir, his blood must have serious street value. However, the extent to which drugs have corrupted American athletics pales in comparison to recent Colombian sporting history. In chronicling the violent destinies of two very different Colombians who happened to have the same surnames, Jeff and Michael Zimbalist expose the corrupting influence of drug money on the Columbian national football (soccer) team in their documentary The Two Escobars (trailer here), part of ESPN’s 30 for 30 film series, which opens in New York this Friday after premiering at the 2010 Tribeca Film Festival and airing on the commissioning network this June.

Though unrelated, Andrés and Pablo Escobar both were born in Medellín, the city which the latter man would make infamous as the seat of his cocaine empire. By contrast, Andrés Escobar gained notoriety for his brilliant defense and genuine sportsmanship on the football field. However, he could not avoid the world other the other Escobar, who secretly funded the national team with his blood money.

While Pablo basically got what was coming to him, Andrés Escobar’s death was senselessly tragic. Unfortunately, he was the player who inadvertently scored the own goal during the Colombian team’s ill-fated 1994 World Cup tournament. Soon thereafter, he was gunned down outside a Medellín nightclub by underworld figures probably associated with a faction aligned against Escobar’s cartel (though it may not necessarily have been direct motivated by his World Cup mistake).

Although the scrappy American team was the beneficiary of Escobar’s mistake, watching his own goal replayed repeatedly in Escobars will make audiences cringe several times over. Yet, the film is more a tribute to the footballer Escobar rather than a true crime examination of the drug lord’s rise and fall. Indeed, the film is strongest when depicting the athlete’s life and legacy. Whereas, the Pablo Escobar material is somewhat undercut by thin, unconvincing conspiracy musings that detract from the overall film. In fact, its biases against the Colombian government seem rather off-base, considering what they sacrificed to join the international battle against narco-terrorism, not the least being a competitive national football team. Still, when Escobars sticks to straight reportage it is informative and its interviews with Andrés Escobar’s still grieving but strikingly dignified family are frankly quite moving.

Andrés Escobar set a graceful civic-minded example for Colombia, both on the field and in the difficult days leading up to his murder (the circumstances of which remain somewhat murky). Fortunately, his country has come a long way since that fateful night (which foreign policy makers should be mindful of). Escobars is worth seeing to get a sense of Andrés as an athlete and as a national symbol of something greater. Imperfect but not without merit, it opens theatrically this Friday (10/15) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Zen & Its Opposite: Kwaidan

Lafcadio Hearn helped popularize the distinct cultures of both the Crescent City and the land of the Rising Sun (where he is still well respected) to English speaking readers. The Irish Greek who naturalized in Japan via New Orleans remains best known for his ghostly tales adapted from Japanese folklore. The original Nipponophile, Hearn would have appreciated the premise behind Zen & Its Opposite, the Japan Society’s latest film series exploring the nexus of Zen Buddhism and the darker reaches of humanity. Appropriately, it starts this Friday with Kwaidan (trailer here), Masaki Kobayashi’s classic anthology film adaptation of four Hearn tales.

While Kobayashi needed three films to tell the story of his towering The Human Condition cycle, he was able to tell four stories within Kwaidan, albeit at a relatively generous running time 164 minutes. Fittingly for the Zen-inspired series, one is immediately struck by the lack of idle chatter therein. Of course, the samurai in the opening The Black Hair does not have much to say for himself. Divorcing his loyal wife to remarry into a connected family, he makes no pretenses of honor. However, he soon discovers why it took so long to marry off his shrewish new wife. For years, he pines the warm embrace of the wife he wronged and of course her long black tresses. If you are expecting a happy reunion though, you don’t understand the supernatural genre.

By contrast, young woodsman Minokichi seems to find domestic bliss in The Woman of the Snow, after being spared by the title spirit during a freak blizzard. She does so on the condition that he will never discuss the incident with anyone or she will immediately appear to finish the job. Hoichi the Earless then tells the story of a legendary blind biwa player living at a Buddhist monastery. Night after night a ghostly samurai takes him to recite the epic Battle of Dan-no-ura to the restless Heike spirits who lost to the Genji forces. Obviously, the very title telegraphs just how things will end up for Hoichi. Kwaidan concludes on a particularly strange note with In a Cup of Tea, a story of a samurai haunted by a spirit in his tea and the author who was unable to finish the tale. A rather clever narrative change-up, it still feels fresh in this game-playing postmodern age.

The quietness of Kwaidan makes the musical accents of avant-garde composer Tôru Takemitsu all the more unsettling. Yet it is the Daliesque landscapes that truly give the film its unworldly character. Eschewing realism, its haunted forests and eyeball filled skies are some of the most striking imagery ever immortalized on color film. True, there are not a lot of surprises in store for viewers, but Kobayashi ratchets up the tension quite effectively as viewers wait for the expected inevitable to happen. Indeed, many relatively early manifestations of j-horror tropes can be found in Kwaidan, like the supernaturally long flowing black hair and the malevolent spirits seen in reflections.

Connoisseurs of Japanese cinema will appreciate the first rate cast as well, including Tatsuya Nakadai frankly looking a bit old for the eighteen year Minokichi, but perfectly suiting the woodsman as a supposedly more mature family man. Though not as cute as she was in Ozu’s Early Spring, Keiko Kishi still makes quite an impression as his wife Yuki. Also keep an eye out for the always watchable Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura as the head priest in Hoichi. Perhaps most haunting though is Michiyo Aratama, luminous in Kobayashi’s Human Condition, both poignant and disquieting here as aggrieved first wife of Black Hair.

Arguably, Kwaidan is the greatest realization of the horror movie as high art. Sumptuous to look at, while appropriately atmospheric and creepy, it is a work of strange beauty that should be even more rewarding on the large screen of the Japan Society’s first class theater. Highly recommended, it kicks off Zen & Its Opposites this Friday (10/15).

Ozu at IFC: Floating Weeds

In post-war Japan, itinerant actors were rather closer to the bottom of the social ladder than the top. Considered little more than homeless tramps under the best of circumstances, this essentially becomes the reality for a traditional company stranded in a Japanese seaside village. Yet, for one veteran thespian, long neglected family matters become more pressing in Yasujiro Ozu’s Floating Weeds, which screens today at the IFC Center as part of their ongoing Ozu weekend series.

If anything, the economic prospects for a troupe like Komajuro Arashi’s have only gotten worse since 1934, when Ozu first told the story of the high and dry actors in his silent feature A Story of Floating Weeds. For a self-consciously modernizing society, Arashi’s productions seem distinctly old-fashioned. Patrons simply are not coming, except for a handful of old faithful, including Oyoshi, a single mother with whom he has a bit of history. Her son Kiyoshi knows Arashi as “Uncle,” but he is really the young man’s father.

When the company manager absconds with the meager receipts, at least it affords Arashi some time to spend with Oyoshi and his son. Unfortunately, this inflames the jealousy of his lover Sumiko. Out of spite, she bribes her sexpot colleague Kayo to lead on Kiyoshi and then cruelly dump him. Of course, unforeseen complications arise when the actress falls for her prey.

Like Kurosawa and Masumura, Ozu used a regular stable of actors in his films, in both lead and supporting roles. Frequently appearing as meddling aunts and gossipy family friends, Haruko Sugimura has one of her fullest, most sympathetic roles as a member unofficial Ozu repertory playing Oyoshi. Warm and nurturing, but all too conscious of the difficult nature of life, she is a quintessentially Ozu character. By contrast, the seductive Kayo is not exactly Ozu-ian, though Ayako Wakao (dubbed “Mad, Bad, and Dangerous” by the Japan Society in their retrospective earlier this year) was no stranger to sexually charged roles. However, she brings a sort of innocence to Kayo that is ultimately endearing. In the nominal lead, Ganjiro Nakamura holds it all together effectively enough as the gruff but deeply flawed Arashi.

Clearly acclimating to color cinematography, Ozu’s transitional beach and seaside shots have a burnished glow befitting his trademark style. Bittersweet and forgiving, it is yet another classic example of his deeply humanistic filmmaking. Weeds screens again this afternoon and Sunday (10/10) at the IFC Center.

NYFF ’10: Mysteries of Lisbon

Everyone in Portuguese novelist Camilo Castelo Branco’s late Eighteenth-early Nineteenth Century Lisbon seems to be secretly connected to each other. At least, this seems to be the case for all those marginalized on the upper-class peripheries: the noble penniless, the social climbing adventurers, the cousins twice-removed, the scandalous and the scandalized. Each has their own story to tell in Raúl Ruiz’s 272 minute epic adaption of Castelo Branco’s novel Mysteries of Lisbon (trailer here), which screens this Sunday at the 48th New York Film Festival.

Pedro da Silva is Lisbon’s first and over-riding meta-narrator, who will be frequently interrupted by the flashbacks and voiceovers of others. He does not even have a proper surname when he starts his story as an orphan in the boarding school administered by the kindly Father Dinis. Known only as João, he is frankly lucky to be alive. The illegitimate product of the Countess of Santa Barbara and her impoverished true love, fate spared him the premature death ordered by her vengeful husband, the Count. Eventually, da Silva furtively meets his abused mother through the assistance of Father Dinis, who duly explains his parents’ doomed romance.

Yet, Lisbon is just getting started. Everyone has crisscrossing back-stories that we learn in glorious detail, including the Count, Father Dinis, and even the killer sent to dispatch the infant da Silva. In fact, he reappears after a profitable Brazilian hiatus as a swashbuckling self-made man, who will play a strange role throughout young da Silva’s life. Still, this only scratches the surface of the subplots layered atop subplots in Ruiz’s decade and continent spanning, classically tragic and unexpectedly redemptive opus.

Though reliance on coincidence is often derided as contrivance, such pedantry would preclude one from appreciating a truly rich, hugely ambitious film. While Lisbon’s period look is finely rendered, Ruiz brings a post-modern sensibility to the picture, but never undermines its dramatic integrity. Instead, the unreliability of narrators and the slipperiness of identities deepen the film’s intrigue, while the stylized transitions of young da Silva’s proscenium arch playhouse simply add visual flair.

Ostensibly da Silva’s story, it is often hijacked by Ruiz’s large cast of characters, perhaps most profoundly by Adriano Luz as Father Dinis (and his two or three prior personas). It is a wonderfully humane and quietly assured performance that really gives the film its soul. In an effective contrast, Ricardo Peirera is an appropriately dynamic presence as the raffish Alberto de Magalhães, as he is now known. With several luckless heroines to pick from, Lisbon’s strongest is easily the striking Maria João Bastos, who personifies dignified grace as da Silva’s mother. However, the largely passive da Silva, both in the adult and child incarnations, comes across rather blandly.

There is so much cross-referencing to catch in Lisbon, it would obviously reward multiple viewings. Of course, at its current four hour plus running time that would constitute quite an investment. It really is that good, though. While an even longer version is set to debut on Portuguese television, Ruiz’s festival cut feels wholly complete as is. A gorgeous looking film featuring at least a dozen first class screen performances, Lisbon is arguably the highlight of the 2010 NYFF. It screens this Sunday (10/12) at Alice Tully Hall.

30 for 30: Once Brothers

In 1990, the Yugoslavian national basketball team probably could have given the 1992 American “Dream Team” a run for their money. Tragically, the 1991 splintering of Yugoslavia prevented the team from fulfilling its destiny. It also irreparably ruptured the friendship of teammates Vlade Divac and Dražen Petrović. Adding further tragedy to misfortune, the Croatian Petrović was killed in a traffic accident before reconciling with the Serbian Divac. Years later, Divac pays tribute to his late estranged friend in Once Brothers (trailer here), an NBA Entertainment documentary (written and directed by Michael Tolajian) produced for ESPN’s 30 for 30 series, which premieres on the network this coming Tuesday.

Yugoslavian teammates Divac, Petrović, and Toni Kukoč were all talented players, but shooting guard Petrović was clearly considered the first among equals. The 1990 World Champion title holders, they were schooling their European rivals so decisively, they could not help draw the attention of NBA scouts. Coming to America at the same time, Divac won the basketball lottery, getting drafted by the “Showtime” era Los Angeles Lakers. Petrović was not so fortunate, finding himself the fifth, bench-riding guard on the contending Portland Trailblazers.

Though Divac, the starting big man and goofy media darling, took off in LA, his friendship deepened with Petrović, as he frequently counseled his frustrated former teammate. They soon reunited with the national team during the off-season, but Divac’s infamous flag stomping incident forever poisoned their relationship. Describing himself as a patriotic Yugoslavian, Divac claims his actions were provoked by the disrespectful comments of a nationalistic Croatian fan, who bum-rushed the floor after the team’s victory, brandishing the fateful flag. Regardless of his intentions at the time, it is clear Divac deeply regrets his actions in retrospect.

Once is definitely a well-intentioned film. Divac, the central figure and narrator, deals with his mistakes rather forthrightly. However, the historical context provided by talking head expert Gordon N. Bardos is pretty shallow stuff, recycling talking points about Communism holding Yugoslavia together, while ignoring the active role Communists like Slobodan Milošević played in the subsequent Civil War.

Be that as it may, Brothers is truly a personal story that captures some telling moments. We see the still hulking Divac lumber good naturedly through the streets of his Serbian hometown and rather sheepishly on his return to Croatia. Yet, the opening footage of Petrović’s final interview, with the World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty clearly visible in the background, is frankly eerie.

Brothers is one of those welcome sports documentaries that reminds viewers there are many things more significant in life than sports. (This is a particularly appropriate message for fellow Knicks faithful that might be laboring under the misapprehension that a prolonged labor work-stoppage has shut down the NBA since the 2001 season.) Still, hoops fans will certainly be interested in interview segments featuring the likes of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Clyde Drexler, and Danny Ainge. Well edited and surprisingly heartfelt, Brothers is definitely rewarding television. It screens this Sunday (10/10) and Monday (10/11) at the Hamptons International Film Festival in advance of its Tuesday (10/12) broadcast debut on ESPN.

ContemporAsian: Make Yourself at Home

Since the 1950’s, Christianity has grown rapidly throughout South Korea. Of course, there are still those who hold to traditional Confucian, Buddhist, and Shamanistic practices. This clash of cultures transports itself to suburban America in Soopum Sohn’s psychological thriller-drama Make Yourself at Home (trailer here), now screening at MoMA as part of their continuing ContemporAsian film series.

Sookhy comes from a long line of mystical shaman, which she has broken by accepting an arranged marriage to Peter Kim, a nearly fully assimilated Korean living in America with his domineering mother. Yes, they are most definitely Christians. Still, he might not be so bad when he is away from Deaconess Kim’s watchful eye. Yet, it is Julie Waits, the privileged wife of Kim’s next door neighbor, who seems to make the greatest impression on Sookhy. In fact, she even adopts Julie as her Americanized name. As tragedy, perhaps of a vaguely supernatural nature, strikes the Kim family, Julie 2 draws closer to Julie 1. Then things get strange.

Home (previously known as Fetish) somewhat follows in the tradition of Kim Ki-young’s classic 1960 film The Housemaid, suggesting one should be careful who you let into your home, because you might not be able to get them out. Yet, Sohn pulls an interesting jujitsu move with audience sympathies, clearly leading viewers to identify with the innocent newlywed bride, before throwing them a battery of curve balls. Though his pacing can be rather deliberate, his psychosexual gamesmanship holds more than a few jolts, while never feeling lurid.

Arguably Home’s greatest credibility issue of Julie Kim’s strange preoccupation with Julie Waits’ ivory blonde looks. Not too disparage actress Athena Curry, but it is Korean superstar Song Hye-kyo (notable as the lead in the North-South costume drama co-production Hwang Jin-yi) who really lights up the screen. She deftly handles Sookhy/Julie’s strange evolution, without ever completely losing the audience’s sympathies. While she is tremendous, Curry and Austrian actor Arno Frisch (with constantly modulating accent) frequently look more than a bit awkward as the Waitses. However, June Kyoko Lu’s nuanced performance delivers unexpectedly human dimensions to the problematic Mother Kim.

Though the endgame plays out a bit longer than it perhaps should, Sohn and co-writer Maragaret Monaghan devise enough attention-grabbers along the way to keep audiences fully engaged. Recommended for its strangely compelling story and Song’s mesmeric presence, Home screens at MoMA through Monday (10/11).

Finnish Faith: Letters to Father Jacob

To be fair, the evangelical film industry is still in its infancy, but it would behoove the Christian filmmakers to look to Finland for inspiration. Submitted last year as the Scandinavian country’s official foreign language Oscar contender, themes of Christian faith and redemption are indeed front and center in Klaus Hӓrö’s Letters to Father Jacob (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

As Letters begins, one might think it will be a film noir. About to be released on a pardon she never requested, the hardboiled Leila Sten does not want anyone’s help. Yet as the dramatically lit prison official explains, a compassionate retired priest has offered her a job helping with his correspondence. Blind but profoundly devout, Father Jacob receives letters asking for his prayers from spiritually ailing people around the country. At least he did until Leila arrived.

Naturally, his simple piety and do-gooder mentality irk the callous woman, even though the depth of his faith and commitment are unimpeachable. Yes, it builds towards a redemptive crescendo of reconciliation, but Hӓrö never engages in cheap theatrics along the way. Instead, Leila’s gradual change of heart culminates in a relatively quiet, but truly honest pay-off.

As the title Father, Heikki Nousiainen truly transcends the shopworn kindly old country priest stereotypes in a performance of genuine pathos and humanity. Though it is a less showy role, Kaarina Hazard is quite remarkable as the surly Sten, deftly delivering the film’s emotional knockout punch. Indeed, they both have the look of real flesh-and-blood people who have seen a lot of life’s pain and struggles.

Like recent evangelical films, Letters is a deeply religious work, yet as cinema, it is fundamentally character driven. It is also not afraid to look into the darkness and doubts lingering in its characters’ souls. Hӓrö helms with a sensitive touch throughout, exhibiting tremendous sympathy for the polar opposites. A handsome production, Tuomo Hutri’s warm cinematography strikingly captures the verdant environment while Kaisa Mӓkinen’s sets look appropriately dank yet sheltering.

Deceptively simple, Letters is a surprisingly powerful film. Elegantly crafted and legitimately moving, it is definitely recommended to all art-house cinema patrons not already too cynical to appreciate its sincerity. It opens this Friday (10/8) at the Cinema Village.

As Good As Dead

In the movies, New York can be a dangerous place for a photojournalist. It is not the terrorism or the street crime he has to worry about, but the rural southern white supremacists hell-bent on revenge. While the actuarial tables might disagree, at least the execution, so to speak, is fairly tight in Jonathan Mossek’s As Good As Dead (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Ethan Belfrage is the sort of scruffy, endearingly immature divorced father Mel Gibson or Tom Hanks might have played fifteen years ago. His daughter rolls her eyes at him when visiting, while his greedy landlord gnashes his teeth at Belfrage defiance of his eviction notice. This is New York, good luck with that. However, Belfrage quickly drops the happy-go-lucky act when three redneck home invaders tie him up and start tooling on him.

Ten years ago, the not-so-right Reverend Kalahan was gunned down in West Virginnie in an apparent act of retribution for a racist mass murder committed by one of his flock. Belfrage’s home invaders, Kalahan’s somewhat younger wife Helen, her son Jake, and her new man Aaron, are convinced he was in on it. They want a confession and the names of his accomplices, which they intend to beat out of him. Naturally, Belfrage professes his innocence as best he can. Thus starts the cat and mouse game.

Though billed as a conflict of ideologies, Erez Mossek and Eve Pomerance’s screenplay wisely concentrates on the hostage-captor drama rather than tiresome red-blue polemics. Of course, there is no denying its white supremacist premise, considering the SS tattoo emblazoned on Aaron’s neck. Yet, it ultimately takes some twists and turns that might make smug New Yorkers a bit uneasy. (That’s a good thing.)

Dead definitely has one thing going for it—a strong villain. Frank Whaley might seem slightly under-sized for the role, but he is all kinds of creepy as the ruthless Aaron. Though never his on-screen match, Cary Elwes is reasonably credible as the hapless Belfrage, nicely handling the late inning curve balls. However, Andie MacDowell seems a bit too genteel as Helen Kalahan, while Brian Cox comes across about as West Virginia as the Royal Family when seen in flashbacks as the late Reverend.

Though not perfect, Dead is an effectively focused little thriller boasting quite a memorable villain. A better film than one might expect, it opens this Friday (10/8) in New York at the Quad Cinema.