Limitless: Produced with 20% Brain Functionality

What happened to Obama? So ruthlessly effective on the campaign trail, these days he can hardly chose an iron for his approach shots. Maybe he ran out of NZT. A designer drug formulated to tap into the supposed 80% of the brain lying dormant in mere mortals (a myth says Snopes), NZT offers life changing opportunities to one sad sack would-be writer, but it also comes with a mess of trouble in Neil Burger’s Limitless (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Eddie Morra is a listless under-achiever. His girlfriend Lindy has finally given him the dumping he so richly deserved. Despondent, he mopes around the City until he bumps into his ex-brother-in-law Vernon (no, Lindy is not the first woman to issue Morra his walking papers.). Recognizing his former whatever is a bit glum, Vernon gives him a blue Matrix pill, which the big dummy takes for no good reason. Suddenly, Morra can talk his landlord’s wife into bed, dash off her law school paper on Oliver Wendell Holmes, and then churn out his own novel before calling it a night.

Unfortunately, he wakes up as the same old idiot in the morning, which prompts an emergency visit to his dear old ex-brother-in-law. For some reason, the shadowy cabal developing NZT has entrusted its distribution to a pusher leftover from the glory days of Studio 54. Of course, Vernon’s carelessness gets him killed, but Morra gets his stash. Fueled by smarty-pants pills, Morra takes Wall Street by storm, even attracting the attention of Robert De Niro’s shadowy financier, Thurston W. Focker-Gekko, III, or some such.

Morra might be amped on brainiac drugs, but in Limitless’s world any IQ cracking 100 constitutes genius levels. You would think anyone borrowing money from a loan shark for a quick succession of day trades would make a point of paying that off as soon as possible. Not if you’re a genius, evidently. It would have saved so much trouble though.

Indeed, the clichés fly fast and furious throughout Limitless, while the characters are all pretty slow-witted, NZT notwithstanding. The crooked Focker-Gekko (Carl Van Loo) is a particularly tiresome cliché. The film would have been much fresher and far more engaging had we been invited to identify with his character. Watching Van Loo play a chess match against the younger pharmaceutically-enhanced Morra while relying only on twenty percent of his grey matter and his hard-earned experience, could have been intriguing drama, a la Kasparov vs. Deep Blue. Instead, De Niro just looks bored to distraction.

Years ago, only big movies stars had their names above the title. However, in Limitless’s opening credits, both Bradley Cooper and Abbie Cornish are not just billed over the title, but also above De Niro. Are they joking? De Niro might have made a few too many Fockers, but he is still De Niro. Cooper and Cornish on the other hand, are like actor-widgets, blandly attractive here perhaps, but little more. In the film’s most believable scene, a witness fails to pick Morra out of a line-up. Truly, who could blame her? (Still, Cooper's deadpan neo-noir narration is a plus.)

Given a dull cast and a predictable script, Burger tries to compensate with his execution, using a plethora of razzle dazzle, like fish-eye lenses, time-lapse photography, and Matrix-bullet effects. Frankly, it is appreciated. His pacing is fairly tight and he choreographs some clever bits during the action sequences. It is all rather dumb, but at least on some level, he makes it watchable. Entirely skippable, Limitless opens today (3/18) in New York at the AMC Empire 25 and Loews Lincoln Square.

Kazakhstan’s Gift to Stalin

One of the scarier aspects of Stalin’s reign of terror was the effectiveness of his cult of personality. His image was omnipresent, investing his iron-fisted rule with a secular idolatry which brooked no criticism. In fact, reverence for dictator was so deeply ingrained in the Soviet people, many of those who suffered personal persecution under his regime reportedly still wept when news of Stalin’s death was released to the public. That emotional dichotomy is sensitively dramatized in Rustem Abdrashev’s The Gift to Stalin (trailer here), which finally opens theatrically in New York after an extended festival run.

Under Stalinism, Kazakhstan became the dumping ground for massive deportations of Soviet ethnic minorities (including a surprisingly large Korean community). As Gift opens in 1949, young Sashka’s Jewish family is on one such cramped transport making its way through the Eurasian steppe, in a scene that bears an obvious similarity to tragic events from Europe’s recent anti-Semitic history. The train stops at each provincial station just long enough to unload the freshly deceased, but it is sufficient time for Sashka’s family to smuggle him off the train in the company of corpses, where he is discovered and essentially adopted by Kasym, a fierce looking, but gentle track worker.

Given the risks inherent in sheltering Sashka, the Muslim Kasym has the village spiritualist rename him something less suspicious and more Kazakh sounding: Sabyr, meaning humble. Though still physically powerful, Kasym is old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, so he accepts the welcome help of his neighbor Verka, the exiled widow of an alleged traitor. Unfortunately, the village cannot openly come together to raise Sashka/Sabyr. Even on the lonely steppe, the Party apparatus, represented by a venal policeman and the sadistic regional military commander, maintain the Stalinist atmosphere of fear.

When not victimizing the local women, the party leaders are preparing the town’s commemoration of Stalin’s big seven-oh. Gifts from children across the USSR are being collected for the nationwide birthday celebration. The child offering the best sacrifice wins the privilege of giving their offering to Stalin personally. It might sound like a questionable honor, but Sashka covets it as an opportunity to petition Stalin for the release of his parents. However, the gift Stalin really wanted was the first successful Soviet test of an atomic bomb, which will soon literally rock Kazkhstan.

Abdrashev dramatically employs the vastness of the steppe to express the alienation of his exiled characters and deftly handles his many young actors. The physically imposing Nurjuman Ikhtimbayev turns in a legitimately touching performance as Kasym, the gentle giant. Likewise, Dalen Shintemirov comes across quite naturally on-screen, never cloying nor affected in the role of young Sashka.

Told in flashbacks by an adult Sashka now safely residing in Israel, Gift is an unabashedly sentimental story of sacrifice and thanksgiving, but honestly earns its emotional pay-off. To its credit, the film does not whitewash the realities of life under Stalinism, particularly regarding ethnic minorities banished to the Eurasian republics. One of the best films to play both the New York Jewish Film Festival and Russian Film Week in recent years, Gift well deserves its long deferred theatrical run. Recommended with enthusiasm and affection, it opens this Friday (3/18) at the Cinema Village.

Guzman’s Nostalgia for the Light

Chile’s Atacama Desert might be the closest place on Earth to the world of Frank Herbert’s Dune novels. It is not just the arid sandy environment, but also the retro-futuristic looking observatories that dot the Atacama skyline. Extremely photogenic, they provide some striking visuals in Patricio Guzmán’s docu-essay Nostalgia for the Light (trailer here), winner of the Best Documentary Grand Prix at the 2010 European Film Awards, which opens this Friday in New York.

The Atacama has the world’s clearest skies and lowest humidity. It is a place uniquely suited for stargazing. However, for the essentially enslaved miners of the Nineteenth Century, it was an unforgiving locale. It was not any more pleasant for the political prisoners who were moved into their former digs during the tenure of Pinochet’s authoritarian government. Ironically, the Atacama’s low humidity and complete absence of precipitation are ideal for preserving bodies interred in its salty sands. As a result, while the astronomers study the heavens, committed family members scour the sands, hoping to find remnants of loved ones.

Truly, Nostalgia is meditative to a fault. At its finest, Guzmán approximates the vibe of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, allowing the astronomers to contemplate the nature of the universe in appropriately evocative settings. However, Guzmán overplays the metaphor of each plumbing the past, when comparing the survivors and archaeologists searching for bones to the astronomers recording astral light traveling through time and space from long dead stars.

A man of the hard left, Guzmán professes concern Chileans are deliberately oblivious to their own recent history. Yet, it is precisely the relatively recent revelations of the extent to which Allende and the KGB were in intimate collaboration that is scrupulously ignored by the media. Indeed, Pinochet clearly was not fooling around, but Chileans might have had it far worse. After recently screening films from and about North Korea for the KAFFNY, one suspects Kim Jong-il would consider the Pinochet regime rather indulgent for allowing the children and parents of his prisoners to remain at liberty. Everything is relative, even repression.

Guzmán and cinematographer Katell Djian capture some truly striking imagery. Indeed, it works best as an exotic travelogue, much like the real life science fiction of Into Eternity, which tours Finland’s Onkalo nuclear waste repository buried deep beneath the Earth’s surface. Ultimately, Nostalgia’s burnished look is impressive, but it is not nearly as profound as its accolades suggest. It opens this Friday (3/18) at the IFC Center.

Slight Family Dysfunction: Motherland

Ex-wives—can’t live with them, can’t kill them. However, there are professionals one can hire for that sort of thing. One woman comes to the awkward conclusion her father did exactly that in Doris Yeung’s dark family drama Motherland (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Raffi Tang has been living in near seclusion south of the border. One fateful night, her ex calls with the news of her estranged mother’s murder. Returning to the Bay Area for the funeral, Tang seems to be on decent terms with her father Stanley. Indeed, she is quite fond of her little half-sister Jaki. However, Tang’s guilt is in overdrive and the suspicious circumstances are piling up fast and furious.

Frankly, the mystery of Motherland is not all that mysterious, but the thorny family dynamics are surprisingly well developed. In a way, Motherland plays against stereotype, having Tang’s mother reject her lesbian relationship, while the old man either had no problem, or otherwise came to terms with it. Indeed, it helps explain how Tang could stay so long at her father’s McMansion, given her suspicions. Reportedly inspired by the violent killing of Yeung’s mother, one hopes her screenplay of angst and recriminations is entirely fictional.

Though certainly not perfect, Motherland starts with an effective pseudo-noir vibe and maintains momentum through the perilous mid-section. Despite common sense, viewers might even find themselves caring about Tang’s nonsensical legal dilemma inherited from her mother. Unfortunately, it is all too clear Yeung only knew how she did not want to end the film. As a result, the film struggles through one anti-climatic scene after another following the big confrontation, trying to find a serviceable conclusion. Eventually, Motherland ends in some fashion, so mark that down as a victory.

Known more as an action star (as in Jackie Chan’s Rumble in the Bronx and Jet Li’s Black Mask, so you know she’s cool), Françoise Yip is quite good as Tang, playing her as a figure so restrained, she could shatter at any moment. Kenneth Tsang, a fixture of the HK film industry who has probably made more films than Michael Caine, is also a rather grounded, believable presence as her father. At least, there is no moustache twisting here. Alas, the payoff is pretty watery soup.

It is intriguing for HK action fans to see Yip and Tsang in such a different movie context. Ultimately though, Motherland just wilts down the stretch. For Yip fans (they must be out there), it opens this Friday (3/18) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Dirie’s Story: Desert Flower

Few supermodels should be compared to Ayaan Hirsi Ali, the courageous Somali-born former Dutch MP. However, Waris Dirie experienced similar horrors as a young child. Both were forced to undergo the barbarities of female genital mutilation (FGM) and both have publically spoken out against the practice as adults. However, unlike Hirsi Ali, Dirie has not been the target of death threats (fortunately for her), having narrowly focused her criticism on FGM. Yet, she undeniably endured great pain and humiliation before becoming the toast of the fashion world. Adapting Dirie’s memoir-novel, writer-director Sherry Hormann tells a real life rags-to-high couture story in Desert Flower (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

A shallow fashion writer wants to do a puff piece on Dirie. However, the model is about to drop something heavy on her: the unvarnished truth. In overlapping flashbacks, viewers watch in disgust as the thirteen year-old Dirie is sold off to the harem of a lecherous old man. Running away from home, she becomes the de-facto house slave of the Somali ambassador to Britain, a distant but heartless relative. When the ambassador is recalled during the Somali Civil War, Dirie is left behind to fend for herself on the streets of London.

Though she speaks little English, her innate goodness wins over Marilyn, an aspiring dancer, who probably shouldn’t be. Her looks and demeanor also attract the eye of Terry Donaldson, a hard-to-impress fashion photographer. Yet, the butchery she barely survived as a girl led to long-term physical and emotional problems that threaten Dirie’s bid for a new life.

While it can only show so much, Desert does not tip toe around the nature of the original mutilation. To its credit, the film gives viewers a visceral sense of FGM’s savagery. Still, it is rather coy about providing any wider perspective. Indeed, the only oblique reference to Islam occurs when a traumatized Dirie seeks solace at a mosque. Desert is still a rather bold film, but it leaves an awful lot of contextual blanks for the audience to fill in for themselves (should they be so enterprising).

Frankly, simply broaching the subject of FGM on film constitutes a valuable contribution to public discourse. It also lends itself to some memorable drama. The scene in which Dirie reveals her condition to Marilyn is particularly notable for its honesty and sensitivity.

Indeed, the relationship between the two women is one of the film’s strongest elements. In addition to her supermodel credibility, Liya Kebede also expresses the right vulnerability and resolve as Dirie. Providing both occasional comic relief and a working class conscience, Sally Hawkins always hits the perfect note as Marilyn. She is honestly quite endearing in a part rife with the potential pitfalls of quirkiness. Even though he never breaks a sweat as Donaldson, Timothy Spall again proves himself to be one of those British actors who are always interesting to watch, regardless of the circumstances.

In terms of tone, Hormann is a bit erratic, going for a cutesy laugh in one scene, only to follow it up with the painfully real. Regardless, she keeps the pacing brisk and Martin Todsharow’s soundtrack evokes a sense of sweeping triumph that really rings in the ear. As an advocacy piece, Desert picks its fights rather judiciously, but as cinema, it is a crowd pleaser. Recommended as only too topical entertainment, Desert opens this Friday (3/18) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

The Dutch Winter in Wartime

Wars always spell the death of innocence for children swept up in their wakes. However, WWII offers a particularly upsetting lesson in human nature to one Dutch pre-teen. In fact, this tale of German occupation is defined more by intimate familial betrayals than grand historic battles. Both loyalty and defiance have painful consequences in Martin Koolhoven’s Winter in Wartime (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Young Michiel Van Beusekom is an ardent anti-Nazi. He is also just a kid, but he harbors ambitions of joining the underground nonetheless. When picked up by the National Socialists for a minor bit of youthful zeal, Van Beusekom refuses to rat out his neighborhood friend, Theo. This demonstration of character earns him the trust of Theo’s older brother Dirk, a foot soldier in the Dutch resistance, who indirectly involves the boy in a major intrigue. Unfortunately, when Dirk falls in an ill-conceived mission, Van Beusekom becomes the sole lifeline for an injured English pilot hiding in the forest.

At least Van Beusekom has one role model in his underground endeavors: his dashing if regrettably named Uncle Ben. In contrast, he is openly resentful of his father, the town mayor, who obsequiously glad-hands the occupying authorities in order to keep the relative peace. Of course, things are always more complicated than they appear to a thirteen year-old. Van Beusekom will learn this lesson in no uncertain terms.

Based on the partially autobiographical young adult novel by Jan Terlouw, a former scientist and one-time Deputy Prime Minister of Holland, Winter dramatizes its share of wartime atrocities. Yet, it is the complex family dynamics that really distinguish the film. Raymond Thiry gives a remarkably nuanced and humane performance as the elder Van Beusekom. Though technically a supporting turn, it really is the key to the film. Still, Martijn Lakemeier is also laudably natural and convincing as the young protagonist, while the legitimately English Jamie Campbell Bower (a Harry Potter alumnus, no less) adds energy and charisma as the stranded RAF airman.

While Winter could certainly be compared to a host of WWII resistance films and miniseries (like Army of Shadows and Dresden for starters), Koolhoven’s execution is exemplary. This provincial town seems completely real and the surrounding countryside feels bitterly cold. Sensitively lensed by Guido van Gennep, it is a truly artful production. Highly recommended, Winter opens this Friday (3/18) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Go to the Mat: Win Win

Though Paul Giamatti had no love on Oscar night, he just took home Canada’s best actor honors for Barney’s Version at the Genie Awards last week. His newest film is set in an even more exotic locale: New Jersey. With its new rock-star governor, Jersey is cool again, but nobody would accuse struggling attorney Mike Flaherty of being overly hip. He is an everyman who makes some very human mistakes in Tom McCarthy’s Win Win (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Poor Flaherty loses a lot. By day, his legal practice languishes, while in the afternoons he coaches the high school’s winless wrestling team. He is about to taste defeat again, on behalf of the mildly age-addled Leo Poplar. Unable to locate his client’s junkie daughter, Flaherty steps in at the last moment to become Poplar’s guardian. Yet, despite his assurances to keep the old man in his home, Flaherty immediately moves him into an assisted living facility. Oh, and there is that matter of the $1,500 monthly allowance he receives for managing Poplar’s estate.

Of course, things get a little awkward when the grandson Poplar never knew he had suddenly shows up. As fate would have it though, the kid can wrestle. In fact, he is a pinning machine. With young Kyle, brimming with resentment for his absentee mother, safely ensconced in the Flaherty basement, everything seems to be coming together for the luckless coach, but you-know-who is bound to show up eventually.

WinX2 might sound like a crowded house style sitcom, it is really a dramedy that leans more to the drama. However, that in turn requires the film to treat its characters seriously, which is rather refreshing. Indeed, Giamatti supplies the film’s heart as an average, reasonably well meaning guy, with oh-so human flaws. This is a role that could have easily gone to actor with a less nebbish image than Giamatti (John Adams not withstanding), but he perfectly expresses all of Flaherty’s average little fears and insecurities (that are never little or average to those experiencing them).

While there is no denying WinX2 can be manipulative, it deliberately sidesteps all the tired sports movie conventions. Likewise, the great Burt Young (Rocky’s brother-in-law, Paulie) avoids wallowing in clichéd pathos as Poplar, suggesting dignity and dementia are not mutually exclusive. Unfortunately, Alex Shaffer is a bit underwhelming as Kyle. Yes, all teenagers are sullen and his character has particularly acute socialization issues, but would it kill him to speak up a little? After all, he’s in a movie.

For all its sentimental elements, WinX2 is really a rather down-to earth affair. A big hit at this year’s Sundance Film Festival, it is a pleasing little film with a deeply satisfying lead performance from Giamatti. It opens this Friday (3/18) in New York at the Lincoln Plaza and Angelika Film Center.

KAFFNY ’11: Deface (short)

People cannot eat slogans, yet that is all Kim Jong-il’s North Korean regime provides a steady diet of. Blunt instruments of social control, the omnipresent propaganda posters are especially painful for one grieving father to behold in John Arlotto’s Deface (trailer here), a devastating rejoinder to DPRK propaganda films (like Centre Forward), which screens as part of the Shorts 1 program at this year’s Korean American Film Festival (New York).

A widowed father obediently labors for the Communist authorities, undergoing public self-criticism sessions as required, solely for the sake of his sweet-tempered daughter, Kyung-ha. When she also dies of starvation, Sooyoung has nothing left to live for. Ironically, this makes him dangerous in a police state that rules through fear. Using his late daughter’s school paints, Sooyoung defaces Party propaganda, becoming a graffiti truth-teller. It is a small, but meaningful rebellion that naturally provokes harsh counter-measures.

Though filmed entirely in America, the Korean language Deface viscerally captures the look and feel of a hopeless corner of the DPRK. Indeed, the film packs a powerful emotional punch, thanks in good measure to deeply affecting work of Joseph Steven Yang as Sooyoung and young Aira H. Kim as his ill-fated daughter. Deface also boasts a notable supporting cast, including Alexis Rhee (whose credits include Blade Runner’s “Billboard Geisha”) as Sooyoung’s fellow slave (that is the right term), Jeung-un.

Well conceived and executed, Deface ends as it must, given the realities of the gulag nation. Yet, it still manages to hit an inspirational note, without breaking from its established tone or becoming jarringly manipulative. Far more engrossing than most full length features, it is an excellent short. Highly recommended to any and all viewers (especially those who also check out Centre and Red Chapel), the genuinely moving Deface screens twice this Friday (3/18) as part of the Shorts 1 program at the 2011 KAFFNY.

Iranian Theater Fest: Ka

The more repressive the regime, the more guardedly artists shroud their allegories. The fact that Siavash Pakrah wrote Ka in the wake of Iran’s “Green” democracy protests is surely significant, especially considering the playwright has been imprisoned by the Islamist regime. Yet, the density of the work and its ancient Egyptian setting helped slip it by the repressive state censors. Indeed, responses to Pakrah’s Ka may depend on what the audience brings with them during its premiere American run as part of the Iranian Theater Festival, currently underway at the Brick Theater.

Three servants have been walled up in what is apparently their master’s tomb. According the hourglass, they only have sixty minutes of air remaining. Should they work together, they might conceivably navigate their way out. Unfortunately, their manifest flaws which kept them in bondage will most likely prevent any effective cooperation. One obsequiously servile slave clings to the hope their master will return to save them. Another slave lashes out in indiscriminate fury. Consider him a perpetual one-man day of rage. The woman amongst them is easily the most sympathetic. Horribly abused by their master, both physically and sexually, she has had to survive on the most pragmatic of terms.

As with many dissident Iranian filmmakers, adds a distinct class element to his implied critique of theocratic Iran. Yet, it is hard to miss the enslaving role playing by religious doctrine, nor its intimate association with death. Likewise, the malevolent threat of misogynist violence is another constant undercurrent. Yet, the hour-long Ka is so tightly packed, it is a challenge to find a loose strand to unravel it with.

Of the three trapped slaves, the woman is easily the most fully realized character. This seems to be a function of both the text and Melissa Roth’s forceful performance. Tragically, she might be the most deserving of deliverance, but the least likely to receive it. Again, it is not hard to draw parallels to contemporary Iran, if one is so inclined.

Ka is a strange and unsettling work, well suited to the dark, intimate space of the Brick. Yet, on a human level, its bleakness and emotional distance is ultimately unsatisfying. Again though, what can we expect? It is most definitely a product of its time and place. Certainly a bold selection, Ka runs again March 19th, 24th, and 26th as the Iranian Theater Festival continues at the Brick Theater in the County of Kings.

BCNY: Bill Cunningham New York

Do not stereotype this fashion photographer. Bill Cunningham is a Korean War-era veteran, who goes to church every Sunday. As for his personal life, that is one of the mysteries Richard Press attempts to plumb in his documentary profile Bill Cunningham New York (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday at New York’s Film Forum.

In addition to select runway coverage, Cunningham has two regular photo-essay columns in another major New York newspaper that shall remain nameless. One is a society spread. The other is a street-level, boots-on-the-ground fashion report, using everyday eccentric New Yorkers as his bellwether subjects. The latter appears much closer to his heart. He clearly enjoys the sight of a well turned outfit, but refuses to elevate a supermodel above an office worker with particular panache. Yet, one of the obvious ironies of Cunningham’s life is the modesty of his own wardrobe. Famous for his blue windbreaker and disposable ponchos, Cunningham would probably shop at Wal-Mart were the price-cutting chain ever allowed to open a Manhattan store.

Press temporarily veers off course when attempting to gin up outrage at Carnegie Hall for relocating Cunningham and a handful of hold-out tenants of the studios above the venerable institution. Yet, Cunningham largely undercuts him, readily admitting he could crash with his over-stuffed filing cabinets just about anywhere. Indeed, it is dashed difficult not to like the photographer, whose fundamental decency comes through quite strikingly. Perhaps most tellingly, the young Cunningham willing answered his country’s call to serve, despite the outrageous flak leveled at him by the wealthy family backing his line of designer hats.

Cunningham is a cagey interview subject, but Press successfully “hounds” his subject until he opens up, at least to an extent. There is no big third act revelation though, just more niceness. Indeed, BCNY might be the least cynical portrayal of the fashionista world to ever hit the big-screen.

Though shot with a minimal crew with off-the-shelf cameras, as per Cunningham’s mandate, BCNY still looks professionally put together. (The licensed soundtrack is also surprisingly interesting, even featuring “Blues” by the latter George Lewis.) Any film that scores on-camera interviews with Anna Wintour and Tom Wolfe may safely lay claim to some serious society cred. For that matter, how many docs can boast cameos from both Pinch Sulzberger and David Koch? More to the point, Cunningham emerges as a subject well worth spending time with. His enthusiasm for enthusiasm is infectious. A film with wider mainstream appeal than one might assume, BCNY opens this Wednesday (3/16) in New York at Film Forum.

KAFFNY ’11: Centre Forward

The “Fatherly Leader” loved the sight of young comrades physically exerting themselves in the open arena. Of course, the consequences of losing were rather permanent in “Juche” sports. Fortunately, Kim Il-sung also had ideas on cinema that prohibited any inconvenient realism. As a result, North Koreans had a steady diet of propaganda films, including Pak Chong-song’s oddly watchable Centre Forward (trailer here), which screens at the 2011 Korean American Film Festival on a double bill with Mads Brügger’s reality check Red Chapel.

After several frustrating years as a scrub, Cha In-son finally gets a chance to start for the Taesongsan football team. Unfortunately, he is so keyed-up, he pretty much stinks up the field. Shortly thereafter, he and his entire family are consigned to a prison camp. The end. Actually, not in this sanitized portrayal of DPRK. Instead, Cha’s awful performance sets of a round of recriminations and self-criticism that would be out of place in any healthy society.

Basically, the Taesongsan coach decides his team lost because everyone got too fat and complacent, so he institutes a bone-crushing new training program, making Cha one popular fellow. He does not get much sympathy from his sister Myong-suk either, because as dancer in the elaborate propaganda productions staged on behalf of the Kim personality cult, she works harder than any of the football slackers.

Anyone waiting for a romance to blossom between Cha’s superstar roommate Chol-gyu and his sister Myong-suk better forget it. Centre is not merely chaste, it is neutered. There is only one person getting any love in this film, but he never appears directly. However, plenty of rousing songs are sung in Kim’s honor.

There is no question Centre is propaganda bearing little or no resemblance to the truth. Everyone is robustly vital and all the shops are amply stocked. Yet, it is bizarrely fascinating to watch this Rocky unfold with all its idiosyncrasies, while knowing it all takes place in one of the most isolated, repressive regimes in the world. At times, it is downright surreal, like the cut-away shots of the Taesongsan team suddenly riding a roller coaster in their Sunday best amidst their final training montage. (Aren’t they supposed to win the big game before going to Kim Il-sung-Land?) Still, the young actress playing Myong-suk is quite good, still coming across endearingly sweetly as she busts Cha’s chops for his insufficient zeal.

Although obviously stilted, a film like Centre is well worth screening, if it is presented in the proper context. Fortunately, KAFFNY gives equal time to Mads Brügger’s Red Chapel (trailer here), a bracing dose of truth. Ostensively, Brügger came to North Korea with two Danish Korean comedians, Simon Jul Jørgensen and Jacob Nossell, to stage a good will show. However, his real intent was to expose the oppressive nature of DPRK system.

As soon as the Danes arrived in the North, their minder, Mrs. Pak, stuck to them like glue. Her response to the Nossell was particularly unnerving, almost smothering the wheelchair-bound comedian with attention. However, even Mrs. Pak could not fake an enthusiastic response to the program the comedians had prepared. Featuring skits in drag and an unclassifiable rendition of Oasis’s “Wonderwall,” it was not just bad, it was awe-inspiringly awful.

While Chapel is at times a riotous exercise in comedic performance art, the overall film is as serious as a missile attack. The pathological nature of DPRK society weighed particularly heavily on Nossell (all too aware of the suspicious absence of North Koreans disabled in any way), causing frequent rifts between him and the director.

Though he makes a noble effort, Brügger fails to capture the smoking gun scene that would utterly lay bear North Korea’s tyranny. Of course, he was doomed from the start, because the Communists set all the rules and could change them at their convenience. Still, they are plenty of telling moments, as well as some truly outrageous humor. Indeed, Chapel compliments and counterbalances Centre quite effectively. Together, they will make for a mind-blowing night of film this coming Saturday (3/19). However, the final word of the DPKR should go to John Arlotto’s poignant short film Deface, which also screens at this year’s KAFFNY (review to come).

Iranian Theater Fest: Silken Veils

Opinions of Iran’s Islamic Revolution differed widely within Darya’s family. Her traditional father embraced it, while she and her mother chafed under the new restrictions for women. As a result, her tumultuous Revolutionary-era childhood has profoundly influenced her perception of relationships. The political becomes the personal in Leila Ghaznavi’s Silken Veils (trailer here), a remarkably artful and cohesive fusion of live theater, puppetry, silhouettes, projected animation, and the poetry of Rumi, which runs this weekend as part of the Brick Theater’s Festival of Iranian Theater.

Veils opens like Plaza Suite, with Darya barricading herself in a room after bolting from her own wedding. She never thought she would marry a Persian man and it hardly looks like she is going to do so now, despite their whirlwind romance. Her memories of life in Iran simply will not rest in peace. In flashbacks, we see her father used to be rational and tolerant. Yet, his increasing zealous embrace of Khomeini essentially cleaves their family apart.

In contrast, her mother’s attitudes towards the Shah reflect a more realpolitik sensibility. If not a supporter per se, she certainly appreciates his modernization efforts and their implications for women. As for Darya’s brother, he never really has an opportunity to develop his own opinions. Instead, he becomes one of the twelve year-old “martyrs” the Revolutionary regime used as human mine-sweepers during the Iran-Iraq War.

Though they loom large in Darya’s psyche, we never see her parents personified directly on-stage. Instead, they are represented as either marionettes or evocative backlist shadows. Frankly, it is quite surprising how much emotion Veils conveys through both techniques. In fact, it is downright heavy to watch Ghaznavi make her mother’s marionette weep on-stage.

While the audience gets a bit of an impressionistic sense of life under the oppressive Revolutionary government, Veils is more successful giving voice to the tragic Iranian soul. Indeed, the great misfortune of Darya’s story is the extent to which politics and ideology infect the family unit. Of course, that is what totalitarian regimes set out to do.

Ghaznavi is a very talented puppeteer and a fairly compelling protagonist (though it is worth noting the play is not autobiographical). Despite stepping at nearly the last minute, Tim Shelton works well with Ghaznavi in their puppetry sequences and projects the right open-faced innocence as the ill-fated younger brother. Yet, perhaps the greatest surprise is just how expressive Warren St. George II and Cady Zuckerman are as Darya’s parents, relying solely on their voices and shadowy body language.

Veils is quite literate in its use of language, seamlessly integrating Rumi’s verse into its text. Hamed Nikpay & Houman Pourmehdi’s distinctive soundtrack further burnishes a rich production. Sort of a multi-media theater version of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, Veils is one of the clear highlights of the Iranian Theater Fest. Enthusiastically recommended, it runs again today (3/12) and tomorrow afternoon (3/13) at the Brick Theater in Brooklyn.

(Photo: Lily Gottlieb)

The Collegiate Chorale’s Remembrance through Music

Alexander Kulisiewicz was not Jewish. A political prisoner at the Sachsenhausen concentration camp and a songwriter in his own right, Kulisiewicz witnessed the final rehearsal of Martin Rosenberg’s clandestine inmate chorus. It would be disrupted by the SS, who were to transport Rosenberg and his chorale to the certain death of Auschwitz. Rosenberg implored Kulisiewicz to remember their music, which he did. Indeed, the efforts of survivors like Kulisiewicz made possible the Collegiate Chorale’s concert of solemn remembrance, We Remember Them: Choral Music from the Camps and the Ghettos, which was greatly appreciated by a capacity audience last night at New York’s Central Synagogue.

Given the subject matter and fates of most of the composers, the proceedings had an inescapable heaviness. Often the audience seemed unsure if applause was appropriate after each selection. However, the power of the program was equally undeniable. It was also quite enlightening, thanks to the well thought-out commentary provided by Chorale conductor James Bagwell and Central Synagogue’s senior cantor Angela Warnick Buchdahl, who served as the evening’s host.

In addition to Rosenberg, the audience heard the story of Lea Rudnitska, a Lithuanian Jewish poet who cared for the orphaned babies of parents murdered or forcibly removed to the death camps. Her lullaby “Dremien Feygl,” which she set to Leyb Yampolsky’s music, served as a starkly powerful opener.

Several selections involved chorale adaptations of poems, including Hannah Senesh’s stirring “Blessed is the Match.” An Israeli national hero, the Hungarian-born Senesh left the safety of what was then the British Mandate to serve as a paratrooper and a liaison between the British and the Eastern European Jewry. Tragically though, she was quickly captured by the National Socialists, who imprisoned, tortured, and eventually executed the young poet. Yet, the brief quatrain she handed to a surviving comrade would hold special significance for generations of her countrymen.

Unlike typical concerts, varying the tone and tempo of We Remember Them would be nearly impossible. However, Paul Epstein’s arrangements of “Two Partisan Song (Yidishe Brigades/Zog Nit Keynmol)” allowed for a more muscular piano accompaniment from Kenneth Bowen, as well as a brief but beautiful solo by Buchdahl. It also offered an opportunity to celebrate Jewish resistance, in addition to commemorating the lives lost during the Holocaust. Fittingly, the sensitively conceived program ended on its most dramatic note, Maimonides’s prayer “Ani Ma’amin,” which became known as “hymn of the camps.”

Frankly, performing such meaningful music is an intimidating proposition, but the Collegiate Chorale handled it with grace. It was a truly impressive show, clearly inspiring all participants. Boasting a rich history, the Chorale was founded by Robert Shaw and has performed with some of the world’s great conductors, including Toscanini, Bernstein, and Mehta. Those who missed the previous concerts of their 2010-2011 Season can make up for it at their finale and spring benefit show on May 19th, featuring an evening of Broadway with Deborah Voigt and special guest Paulo Szot.

(Photo: Erin Baiano)

Dank and Murky: Black Death

During the Middle Ages, the Catholic Church preserved the classical knowledge of antiquity, even though the Greeks and Romans were obviously not Christian. This crucial undertaking does not even earn mumbled thanks from one heavy-handed new genre film. Forswearing subtlety, Christopher Smith’s Black Death (trailer here) is simply a long, dank Catholic bash, which stumbles onto screens this Friday in New York.

The year is 1348. The plague has ravished Europe, but being stupid Christians, they ascribe supernatural causes to the pestilence. Reportedly, there is a remote village somewhere in the Brothers Grimm forest that remains untouched by the disease. Of course, witchcraft is the only conceivable explanation. So off they go, with the film’s one ostensibly likable Christian to guide them.

Osmund might be a monk, but his soul is conflicted. Having taken a woman as his lover, he is using the trek as a pretext for reuniting with her. As a rather sensitive lad, he is out of step with his rough new companions, including their fanatical leader Ulric and the impish torturer Dalywag. Indeed, as Christians, they naturally travel with an officially designated pain dispenser, but he will not have much opportunity to apply his skills. The wise pagans have plans for Ulric’s company once they finally meander into their Potemkin village.

Frankly, Death is a lot like the films that get roasted in Mystery Science Theater for their interminable walking sequences. Aside from a really good death scene late in the game, there is precious little action in the film. Mostly, it is just Ulric and company wandering through the forest, dragging their knuckles on the ground.

Given how thoroughly the deck is stacked against his character, it is rather impressive the extent to which Sean Bean fleshes out the zealous Ulric. Unfortunately, most of his comrades are little more than interchangeable troglodytes. As Osmund, Eddie Redmayne looks appropriately lost as the film begins, but becomes increasingly unconvincing as the film chugs along. At least, Death has a worthy villain in the mostly likely sorceress Langiva, played with frosty aplomb by Carice van Houten (who was so riveting in Paul Verhoeven’s underappreciated Black Book).

In truth, Black Death might as well be called “Christians Hate People.” It really is just about that nuanced. Slow and clumsy, Death will most likely disappoint genre lovers of all stripes when it opens this Friday (3/11) in New York at the Cinema Village.

EUFF ’11: The Invisible Frame & Rabbit a la Berlin

For most mere mortals, the non-narrative experimental film and the travelogue rank amongst the least engaging of film genres. Yet, unlikely enough, a film that combined elements of both spawned a sequel of sorts. In the waning days of the Cold War, filmmaker Cynthia Beatt followed Tilda Swinton as she biked around the Berlin Wall in Cycling the Frame. With the fall of the Wall and the reunification of Germany, it made a certain amount of sense to revisit their trip twenty-one years later in The Invisible Frame (trailer here), with screens with the superior Oscar nominated documentary Rabbit á la Berlin at the 2011 European Union Film Festival.

Beginning and ending at the Brandenburg Gate, Swinton does indeed peddle around the Wall, or at least its remnants. We see the few odd standing fragments and looming watchtowers, decaying ghosts of a tragic period of German history. She frequently stops to examine the many monuments to the victims of the GDR regime, such as Günter Litfin, the first reported escapee killed by his Communist captors. In her voice-overs, Swinton occasionally offers some navel-gazing ruminations and recites some poetry (the most appropriate being some untitled verse by Soviet dissident Anna Akhmatova).

Frame shows viewers a whole lot of peaceful countryside, which might be pleasant, but also gets repetitive. Still, it is quite the contrast to our general mental picture of the Wall and its environs. At her most insightful, Swinton muses on the clarity with which one can see how dramatically the Wall divided people and neighborhoods, through its absence. Unfortunately, Frame makes a wholly inappropriate analogy in its final dedication to the people of so-called “Palestine.” For shame.

The Berlin Wall never saved a single life (quite the contrary), whereas Israel’s security barrier has saved hundreds, perhaps thousands. Relatively unobtrusive over most of its length, with regular established crossing points, it is protective rather than imprisoning, bearing no comparison to the Wall. Indeed, those committing acts of terror in Israel are much closer akin to the Communist guards, firing at fellow Germans like Chris Gueffroy, the final victim of the Wall, whose memorial is also found along Frame’s route.

Unquestionably, directors Bartek Konopka and Piotr Rosolowski’s truly original Rabbit á la Berlin (trailer here) is the main event of the double bill. During the immediate post-war years, a hearty band of rabbits survived by raiding the garden patches on Potsdamer Platz. Much to their supposed surprise, sheltering walls were suddenly erected around the bunnies in 1961. With a nice grassy run, plenty of shade, and precious little human contact, the whiskered critters made like rabbits and multiplied. The East German guards even began adopting them to help pass the time.

However, for many West Berliners, especially artists, the rabbits’ ability to burrow beneath the walls made them symbols of something greater—coyote tricksters for their divided age. Then, as escape attempts became more frequent and daring, the rabbits’ peaceful lives were upturned. Their lush grass was destroyed so that fugitive footsteps would be more easily tracked in the exposed dirt. Formerly their protectors, the guards declared open season on the rabbits, like a red army of Elmer Fudds.

One of Rabbit’s many surprises is the extent and quality of the archival film capturing the Berlin rabbits in their former environment. Credible simply as a wildlife film (even featuring the smoothly placid narration of Krystyna Czubówna, a well-known Polish voice-over artist for nature docs), it also has a slyly subversive sensibility, particularly when it incorporates news footage of the likes of Fidel Castro and Yassir Arafat (take note Beatt) gawking approvingly at the Wall. Wistful without being nostalgic, it was one of the more inventive and entertaining documentaries to play in New York last year. Highly recommended (but Frame not so much), Rabbit screens Sunday (3/20) and Wednesday (3/23) as part of the EUFF at the Siskel Film Center in Chicago.

Jane Eyre Anew

To be a more-or-less orphan of ambiguous class and no apparent means was a tough card to draw in Nineteenth Century England. However, pluck and providence will provide much to a virtuous governess. Her name of course, is Jane Eyre. Following many previous screen adaptations of vary quality, director Cary Joji Fukunaga is quite faithful to the Charlotte Brontë source novel throughout his brisk new version of Jane Eyre (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

In a bit of a departure, Moira Buffini’s screenplay tells much of Eyre’s story in flashback, explaining the circumstances that led the bedraggled young woman to seek sanctuary with the Reverend St. John Rivers and his sisters. The particulars of her story remain the same. After the untimely death her parents, she is sent to live with her with her emotionally cruel aunt, Sarah Reed. Educated at the austere Lowood School, Eyre eventually accepts a position as the governess to the young French ward of Thornfield Hall’s moody master.

Usually described as “Byronic,” Edward Rochester has a fearsome reputation. Much to his surprise though, the difficult Mr. Rochester genuinely respects his deceptively mousy new governess. Indeed, sparks start to fly. Of course, as we all (should) know, there are revelations in store for Eyre that will send her flying from the estate.

Unlike other notable film takes, Fukunaga seems to deliberately downplay the gothic aspects of the story. Frankly, his Thornfield looks almost cozy (but earns kudos for art director Karl Probert and set decorator Tina Jones). While not necessarily right or wrong, it gives the film a romantic character distinct from that of the dank looking classic 1944 version starring Orson Welles.

Funneling Brontë’s hefty novel into a running time of just under two hours, Fukunaga largely sacrifices a few of the supporting characters. Do not blink when Imogen Poots appears as Blanche Ingram, because she will not be around for long. Yet, he covers all the important bases and wisely invests the proper time to establish the budding attraction between Eyre and Rochester.

Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender are perfectly cast as the unlikely couple. They truly look the parts and develop electric screen chemistry together. Though Fassbender might be a tad younger than traditional for Rochester, he is one of the few actors working today who has adequate presence and the right malevolent charisma for the role. While never really challenged in her supporting turn, Dame Judi Dench still adds a touch of class to the proceedings as the mostly sympathetic housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax.

Capitalizing on the strength of its two leads, Fukunaga’s Eyre plays like Brontë for Jane Austen readers. The results are thoroughly engaging. Artfully crafted and well paced, is one of the better English literary period dramas to hit screens in a number of years. A solidly entertaining Eyre, it opens this Friday (3/11) in New York at the Landmark Sunshine and Lincoln Square Cinemas.

Brooklyn Story: Monogamy

A Brooklyn photographer’s new gig is sort of cool, but also kind of creepy. He calls himself the Gumshooter. For a reasonable fee, he discretely follows clients at a pre-arranged time and place, shooting surveillance style photographs. He also shoots weddings, which can also be unsettling for more conventional reasons. Unfortunately, he lets a mysterious client distract him from his own relationship in Dana Adam Shapiro’s Monogamy (trailer here), the winner of the best New York narrative award at the 2010 Tribeca Film Festival, which opens this Friday in the City.

Theo and Nat are a very Brooklyn couple. He scrapes by as a photographer, while she aspires to be a singer-songwriter. Happily engaged, neither is particularly keen on wedding planning details. Everything seems perfect between them until they suddenly hit a rough patch. When Nat is unexpectedly hospitalized after a seemingly pedestrian kitchen mishap, unsupervised Theo finds himself preoccupied to the point of obsession with Subgirl, an increasingly exhibitionist repeat Gumshoot client.

Those waiting for the great American Staph Infection movie will probably have to keep waiting. Much like its protagonist, Monogamy has a hard time committing, constantly vacillating between a psychological thriller and an intimate relationship drama. Frankly, at times it just feels like a lazy walk through Brooklyn’s parks.

Unquestionably, Monogamy’s greatest shortcoming is its weak protagonist. As written, Theo is immature and boring—generally not an engaging combination. Indeed, Chris Messina does not exactly breathe life into this underwritten character, coming across as rather shallow and whiny. As Nat, Rashida Jones (daughter of Quincy Jones and Peggy Lipton) brings a certain spark to the proceedings, but it is hard to understand what she sees in the underwhelming Theo.

Monogamy’s characterization might be problematic, but it knows the County of Kings. We see both its old neighborhood charm and hipster grunge in Theo’s endless rambles. Sensitively lensed by Doug Emmett, it really is a valentine to Brooklyn. Even the music, including contributions from avant-garde jazz-experimental crossover artist Jamie Saft and an original song from Jones, sounds borough appropriate.

There is definitely the germ of an original idea in Monogamy. Indeed, it has an impressive look and vibe. Unfortunately, it never really gets anywhere. Frankly, there simply were not a lot of films set in New York screening at Tribeca last year. Very so-so, it opens this Friday (3/11) at the Village East.

Savitsky’s Legacy: The Desert of Forbidden Art

Nearly any art the Soviets would suppress, Igor Savitsky collected—using their money. In a remote corner of Central Asia, Savitsky built the Nukus Museum to house an extraordinary collection of Soviet modernist and Uzbekistani folk art. This unlikely institution and its visionary founder are introduced to the world at-large in Amanda Pope and Tchavdar Georgiev’s fascinating documentary, The Desert of Forbidden Art (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Frankly, as the son of aristocratic stock, Savitsky was fortunate simply to be living in relative liberty during the Stalinist era. After being rudely disabused of his own artistic ambitions, Savitsky returned the scene of his happiest times, the remote Uzbekistani autonomous republic of Karakalpakstan, where he had served as a sketch artist on an archaeological dig. Savitsky soon began collecting the local folk art considered verboten under Stalinism. However, his greatest acquisitions were the explicitly banned work of Soviet avant-garde artists who had come to Uzbekistan in the 1920’s and 1930’s to avoid the secret police’s prying eyes.

Figures like Alexander Volkov and Alexander Nikolaev synthesized modernism and the exotic Central Asian art into something new and unique to the region. Clearly not working within the Soviet Realism style dictated by the state, their art was quickly banned. Many, like Mikhail Kurzin, were interrogated and even imprisoned. Yet, somehow Savitsky managed to convince the Karakalpak party boss to fund his proposed museum, (which he did through embezzlement).

While Savitsky’s subversive institution might sound like just another ironic episode of Cold War history, the quality, diversity, and volume of art he collected there is absolutely staggering. Pope and Georgiev choose some genuinely striking highlights to spotlight throughout Desert, but they could only scratch the surface of the 40,000 some works he amassed. However, an estimated 97% percent of the Savitsky Collection is in dire need of restoration.

Not just a remarkable history lesson (though it is surely that), Desert is also a call to action, urging viewers to support the museum. The staff, though passionate, is woefully underpaid, and the building’s environmental controls are essentially non-existent. The Islamist specter also looms over the Nukus Museum. Though not yet directly threatened by Taliban-style militias, Uzbekistan is a Muslim country that shares a border with Afghanistan. Indeed, the Nukus curator is all too aware of the fate of the Bamiyan Buddhas.

Truly, Desert is a revelation several times over. A genuine cultural hero, Savitsky and a handful of highly placed allies saved a treasure trove of exceptional paintings and graphics. Pope and Georgiev tell his story beautifully, featuring work after work of power and originality evident even to the untrained eye, as well as the smoothly polished voice of Sir Ben Kingsley, which well serves Savitsky’s words. Perfectly ending on a note of gentle irony, it is hard to imagine a more insightful or informative documentary will be released this year. Highly recommended for all audiences (and to art lovers in particular), Desert opens this Friday (3/11) in New York at the Cinema Village.

Kiarostami’s Certified Copy

It is a major international auteur’s first production outside his native Iran, featuring a British opera singer in his on-screen acting debut. Fittingly, their efforts were in service of a film that explicitly challenges notions of authenticity. While there is indeed a bit of narrative gamesmanship afoot, the sophistication and seductiveness of Abbas Kiarostami’s Certified Copy (trailer here) is such that it may be easily enjoyed (savored even) at face value (if you will) when it opens this Friday in New York.

The first sight the unhurried Certified slyly offers the audience (both in the theater and within the film) is an empty chair. Eventually, it is filled by British author James Miller, unapologetically late for his own book talk, cheerfully admitting he has no reasonable excuse. No matter. His baritone voice and erudite charm quickly wins back the restive crowd. However, one woman in the front row reluctantly leaves early, literally pulled away by her hungry son. Clearly, she has also fallen under the speaker’s spell, though she vehemently disagrees with Miller’s premise.

An amateur art historian, Miller wrote a treatise extolling the virtue of replicas, de-coupling notions of value and authenticity from each other. As an antiquities dealer, the unnamed woman sees things more conventionally, but even her son perceives her interest in the writer. In fact, she is visibly nervous when the writer agrees to meet her before his evening flight. They spar good-naturedly over aesthetics and soak up the stunning scenery—so far, so good.

Shortly after a woman mistakes them for a married couple though, the dynamic abruptly changes. The woman is now much more forceful, while the formerly suave man is suddenly petty and petulant. Are the characters play-acting or is Kiarostami playing with us? Either way, we are listening to some very smart discussions about grown-up issues, against an evocative La Dolce Vita backdrop. Kiarostami certainly made the most of his romantic Tuscan locales, which genuinely sparkle through cinematographer Luca Bigazzi’s lens, while also hinting at the mysterious.

One of the world’s finest (and most beautiful) screen thespians, Binoche again demonstrates women can be sensitive and vulnerable, without being weak or compliant. As the nameless woman, she essentially takes on a number of roles so convincingly it makes it difficult to truly know what to make of Certified. In his first screen outing, opera singer William Shimell is very nearly as impressive. He projects an elegant but manly presence quite befitting the character, while his rich voice carries the film’s heavy dialogue with élan.

It is worth noting both Kiarostami and Binoche condemned the Iranian government’s arrest of their mutual friend, Jafar Panahi. In fact, the distraught Binoche’s tears made worldwide headlines during the 2010 Cannes Film Festival, where she justly won best actress honors for her work in Certified. One wonders if Kiarostami, who has collaborated with Panahi on several films (including Crimson Gold), will have trouble shooting future projects outside the Islamist prison of Iran, after forcefully speaking out against his persecution. At least, he made his Italian foray count.

Ultimately, Certified is such an intelligent and inviting encounter, it overcomes any viewer resistance to its rather slippery internal nature. Indeed, it is a strange pleasure to submerse one’s self into, thanks to the exceptional charm of its leads and the artful craftsmanship of Kiarostami. One of the best selections of last year’s New York Film Festival, Certified opens this Friday (3/11) in New York at the IFC Center.

Union Made: Kill the Irishman

Mere collective bargaining was small beer for this duly elected union head. International Longshoremen boss Danny Greene was much more interested in racketeering, larceny, and embezzlement. He developed quite a following though. Also quite resilient, Greene was a tough mobster to whack, but it was not for a lack of trying, as the city of Cleveland witnesses firsthand in Jonathan Hensleigh’s Kill the Irishman (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Irishman’s opening scene perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the film. We watch Greene cruise down the street while the soundtrack pounds out a vintage 1970’s rock tune. As the muscle car turns a corner, the rock tune starts playing diegetically through the car’s radio, which suddenly sputters and pops. Just in the nick of time, Greene dives out of the exploding car, springs up and starts yelling those such-and-such will have to try a lot harder than that to kill him. If this sounds even slightly awesome, than Irishman is the film for you.

Surprisingly, Irishman is also quite topical, as it documents what being a union leader in 1970’s Cleveland entailed. After dethroning his featherbedding predecessor, Greene ran the ILA local (the same union from On the Waterfront) primarily as a cover for John Nardi, a local mobster who regularly plundered the container ships they were supposed to unload. When the operation generated too much heat, Greene took a simple embezzlement wrap. Though he agreed to become a confidential informant, Irishman clearly suggests he did little to justify the protection the Feds granted him.

Once released, Greene worked his way back up the organization ranks, starting as a collector for bookie Shondor Birns. Of course, when the mob decided to force the city’s independent garbage collectors to join a union they did not want or need, Greene was the perfect man for the job. Then there was a bit of a falling out. Thirty-six car bombs would rock Cleveland in the resulting gang war.

It is hard to go far wrong with a film that features Christopher Walken, Vincent D’Onofrio, Paul Sorvino, Robert Davi, and Tony Lo Bianco all playing gangsters and having an opportunity to chew up the retro scenery. Some might dismiss Irishman as a poor man’s Goodfellas, but Hensleigh understands how to deliver the goods. In fact, there are a number of cleverly executed scenes, including the incorporation of Brian Ross’s actual television reports from the time of the mob war. Production designer Patrizia von Brandenstein also earns props for nailing the 1970’s period details.

Though he does not exactly look like a leading man, Ray Stevenson has the right presence and intensity for Greene. Though somewhat restrained by their standards, Walken and D’Onofrio also steal plenty of scenes to keep their fans well satisfied. Frankly though, the out-of-shape Val Kilmer looks a little sad as Greene’s boyhood chum turned copper, Joe Manditski.

For those who were wondering, the credits do indeed carry the AFL-CIO and Teamsters seals of approval. Be that as it may, Irishman vividly captures a bloody episode in the history of American labor and organized crime that was not all that long ago. Still, even though it is based on a true story, one can’t help wondering when it is all said and done, why didn’t Greene and Nardi start taking the bus? A solidly entertaining meat-and-potatoes gangster film, Irishman is definitely worth seeing when it opens this Friday (3/11) in New York at the Landmark Sunshine.