WFA ’16: The Real Miyagi

It is no secret why Fumio Demura is so popular. He used to kick the stuffing out of Steven Seagal at the Japanese Deer Park. Technically, they were only karate demonstrations, but they were unusually realistic. He certainly made an impression that he shrewdly cultivated. The beloved sensei deservedly gets the star treatment in Kevin Derek’s documentary profile The Real Miyagi (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Winter Film Awards in New York.

It wasn’t just Seagal who learned from Demura. Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee also picked up a few moves from the master. He came to Los Angeles with $300, a suitcase, and a spotty grasp of English (at best). He also knew karate. At the time, there was not a crying demand for martial arts instruction in America, but Demura built up a following performing at the now defunct Japanese cultural theme park outside of LA. When that closed (it was a more controversial dissolution than Derek has time to deal with), Vegas came calling.

Eventually, Demura built up an international chain of dojos. He also amassed an impressive list of movie stunt credits. However, his most significant work would indeed be doubling Pat Morita in the original Karate Kid. It would lead to a lifelong friendship with the Oscar nominated actor. Basically, Demura is like a Horatio Alger hero with a black belt, but after a year of filming, a potentially tragic turn threatens to end Derek’s film on a downbeat note.

Regardless of Demura’s ultimate fate, Derek more than convinces us the sensei is the real deal, who has almost single-handedly reshaped how Americans think of karate specifically and martial arts in general. Of course, he has help from an all-star cast of interview subjects, including Seagal, Dolph Lungren, Michael Jai White, Tamlyn Tomita, Billy Banks, John G. Avildsen, and Isaac Florentine. It is also a potent reminder of how significant Morita’s Academy Award nominated performance was at the time. Frankly, without Demura, it is hard to envision careers for Seagal, Lungren, White, Scott Adkins, or Gary Daniels.

There are indeed many applicable lessons from Demura’s success, such as the shrewd way he cultivated coverage in Black Belt magazine. However, the talent was always there. He is also a hugely charismatic figure, so it is pleasant to spend the screen time with him. Warmly recommended for fans of martial art cinema, The Real Miyagi screens this Saturday night (2/20) as part of this year’s Winter Film Awards.

Forsaken: Father and Son Sutherlands Play Father and Son

John Henry Clayton is a preacher’s son with three first names, so he must be good at killing. He is also a machine when it comes to clearing brush. He will try to lay down his pistols and immerse himself in the latter, but his former life will not let him be in Jon Cassar’s Forsaken (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Clayton did not even know his mother had died, so his unexpected homecoming is even more awkward. He had not been seen in the small Wyoming community since he left to fight for the Union. Unfortunately, war changes a man, especially at places like Shiloh. While Clayton is sketchy on the details, somehow he was subsequently caught up in a life of gunslinging. In fact, Clayton achieved such a level of notoriety, he constantly had to deal with ill-advised glory-seekers looking to make their name by taking him down.

It takes Clayton about thirty seconds to figure out there is more amiss in his old home town than the Reverend’s cold shoulder. James McCurdy has openly been harassing the hardscrabble homesteaders to sell-out to him on advantageous terms. Dave Turner, McCurdy’s smooth talking hired gun prefers to keep Clayton on the sidelines, but Pickard, the rabid dog enforcer is determined to provoke and humiliate the reformed gun fighter at every opportunity. Discovering his old flame Mary Alice Watson is now a married mother is also a bit of a downer for Clayton. Obviously, this turning the other cheek cannot continue indefinitely. The question is how much damage will Pickard do before Clayton resigns himself to the inevitable?

Forsaken is a refreshingly straightforward western that makes no apologies for observing genre conventions. Donald and Kiefer Sutherland are certainly believable as Clayton Père and Fils. Although they have worked together several times in the past, this is their first time playing on-screen father and son. If you get a sense of the tortured Jack Bauer trying to go straight in John Henry that also rather figures. The Malta-born Cassar previously directed Sutherland for fifty-nine hours of 24 (where every second counted). In this case, that familiarity resulted in an appropriately flinty and gritty performance.

Demi Moore is perfectly fine as Watson and Brian Cox chews plenty of villainous scenery as McCurdy. However, Michael Wincott (24: Live Another Day) steals scene after scene as the moral ambiguous, slyly charismatic Turner. Dylan Smith (a.k.a. Eddie the Sleeping Walking Cannibal) also makes an impression as the mean-as-a-snake henchman Little Ned.

Screenwriter Brad Mirman deserves credit for a pitch perfect ending that should leave western fans fully satisfied for a change. Unlike recent murky, self-loathing westerns like Diablo and Angels and Outlaws (at Sundance), Forsaken rides into town with a purpose and it doesn’t leave until it has taken care of business. Recommended pretty enthusiastically, Forsaken opens this Friday (2/19) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Plan 9: Ed Wood Remade and Rebooted

It is long past time to induct Ed Wood’s Plan 9 from Outer Space into the National Film Registry. Its cultural significance is beyond question. No film is more responsible for the midnight movie screening tradition or the “so-bad-its-good” aesthetic. Without it, Tim Burton’s Oscar winning Ed Wood would not exist. Wood’s cult classic now has another claim to lasting cultural currency. It has spawned a remake. More of a reboot than a recreation, John Johnson still pays plenty of homage to the Wood canon in Plan 9 (trailer here), which releases today on VOD.

The prologue starts self-referentially, with Cinema Insomnia host Mister Lobo once again assuming the Criswell persona, but openly questioning the wisdom of remaking Ed Wood, because obviously. Oh but this Criswell will not get off as easily as the original. Once the reanimated corpses attack, he will find himself holed up in a country general store, along with Jeff Trent, the pilot who first reported seeing a flying saucer.

It is Halloween in the quiet town of Nilbog (Troll 2 reference alert), so Kelton the Cop is in no mood for UFO sighting reports. He will soon learn better. The Tor Johnson-looking Inspector Clay is one of the first to be killed by the re-animated hordes, but he will be back soon. So will workaholic scientist Lucy Grimm’s fatally suicidal grandfather. At least the whole Halloween thing explains why he was wearing a cape. Initially, Grimm thought the mysterious energy pulse was a death ray, but eight hypotheses later, she realizes it revives and controls the recently deceased.

There are no flamboyant, sequin-wearing aliens explaining their nefarious schemes in the more simply titled Plan 9. When the invaders finally show themselves, they trying to blend in, rather than stand out, but they only created two templates (one male, one female) for their human forms. There are in fact a number of departures from the original narrative (such as it was), but Johnson stays reasonably faithful to Wood’s concept.

It terms of tone, Johnson plays it perfectly. He never tries to slavishly duplicate the kitsch of Wood’s film. There are no cardboard tombstones flopping around here. Of course, Johnson keeps his tongue firmly planted in his cheek, but he still goes about the reanimated zombie business with all due earnestness. Arguably, Plan 9 is more closely akin to Dan O’Bannon’s comedic pseudo-sequel The Return of the Living Dead, which is very high praise indeed.

This might sound like faint praise, but Charmed’s Brian Krause is considerably better than his predecessor as Jeff Trent. Mister Lobo is a hammy riot as Criswell, while Jerry Moore adds some gritty Fessendenish flavor as the local DJ, Boss Man Mike. However, it is Johnson himself and Sara Eshleman who really make the film, bickering and bantering together as Kelton the Cop and the infinitely smarter Grimm.

In fact, elevating Kelton the Cop to the second lead is a clever way to acknowledge the character’s significance for small but strange cult fanbase. It is all just goofy and knowing enough to get away with its periodic winks and hat-tips, but sufficiently down-to-business to keep the audience invested. It is sort of shocking to say this, but Plan 9 is a clever, thoroughly entertaining film. Heck, it even deserves a sequel. Affectionately recommended for cult movie fans, Plan 9 launches today (2/16) on VOD.

Angel of Nanjing: Chen Si on Patrol

It often seems like contemporary China has kept the worst from the past and jettisoned the best. Traditional and regional cultures are increasingly marginalized, but the stigma attached to suicide remains in full force. Yet, as the government becomes ever more oligarchical and corrupt, more and more disenfranchised Chinese are committing suicide. The Yangtze River Bridge is a popular spot for many of those final exits. Alarmed by the staggering number of suicides committed there, Chen Si started patrolling the bridge eleven years ago, hoping to stage impromptu interventions and counselling sessions. Jordan Horowitz & Frank Ferendo document the unpaid volunteer at work in Angel of Nanjing (trailer here), which releases today on VOD.

Chen has no formal training in psychology, but he has a knack for forming fast bonds with strangers. Evidently, he is also a Yankees fan, which speaks well of his judgment. Like many of the would-be suicides he takes under his wing, Chen originally hailed from an impoverished village. Yet, he managed to reinvent himself reasonably well in Nanjing. He has a responsible office job with a logistics firm and an indulgent family. However, he still needs that gig to provide for his wife and daughter, so his patrols are mostly confined to the weekend.

In less than seventy minutes, Horowitz & Ferendo give viewers a full sense of Chen’s personality. He is very much an average, somewhat schlubby guy, who just happens to have an unusually high degree of empathy. Some of his altruistic drive comes from a sense of social and class-based solidarity, but the spirit of responsibility drummed into him by his revered grandmother was clearly his formative influence.

Horowitz & Ferendo prefer to focus on Chen and his clients, which is an understandable strategy, especially given the film’s relative brevity. As result, very little time is devoted to analyzing why suicide is so prevalent in contemporary China and the extent to which the government is cooking the books on suicide statistics goes unremarked. Nevertheless, it is impossible to watch Angel and conclude the events on the bridge are an isolated phenomenon.

Chen is an undeniably compelling figure, well worth spending time with. Clinical psychologists could probably find dozens of faults with his methods (which include pulling people off the ledge and cramming them on passing buses), but it is hard to argue with his results. Horowitz & Ferendo also incorporate significant insights from those saved by Chen’s long term efforts, thereby humanizing them as well. Despite their obviously unfettered access, Angel is executed with a good deal of sensitivity. Highly recommended for those interested in modern go-go China and the more universal mental health issues, Angel of Nanjing releases today (2/16) on VOD platforms, including iTunes.

Death in the Desert: The Binion Case Thinly Fictionalized

Las Vegas casino heir Ted Binion once shaved all the hair off his body so the Nevada Gaming Commission would not be able to test it for drug use. Needless to say, they would have found plenty. Delicate viewers should not fret. We will be spared any potentially provocative scenes of that nature in Josh Evans’ Death in the Desert (trailer here), a needlessly fictionalized treatment of the Binion case, which releases today on VOD.

Binion’s Horseshoe was old school, downtown Las Vegas and Ted Binion was its public face. Cheetah’s is classic Vegas, having already gained infamy as the setting of Paul Verhoeven’s Showgirls. It was there the technically still married “Ray Easler” (as he is called in John Steppling’s scaredy-cat adaptation of Cathy Scott’s true crime book) meets Kim Davis (Sandra Murphy). She will go from stripper to mobster’s kept woman in about five minutes of screen time.

Of course, Easler is not supposed to associate with known racketeers if he wants to keep his gaming license. He is not supposed to do drugs either, but he regularly hoovers up coke, Xanax, and black tar. Davis tries to moderate his intake, but it is a hopeless battle. Easler’s addictions are too severe and his daddy issues are too deeply rooted. Easler simply isn’t half the man his cold-hearted mobster father was—and he will never let himself forget it. Despite her apparent affection for the wildly unstable Easler, Davis starts a furtive affair with his henchman, Matt Duvall (Rick Tabish). Ironically, it will be Duvall that Easler recruits to help hide his silver.

They call Nevada the Silver State, but Easler really took it to heart. He amassed an enormous cache of silver bullion and coins, which now must be hidden from his soon-to-be ex-wife and the dreaded Gaming Commission. Logically, he decides to bury them in the middle of the desert, because that is what you do in Nevada.

It is hard to fathom Desert’s reason for being, since there was already a made-for-Lifetime movie about the Binion affair that had sufficient guts to use the principals’ real names. However, the erratic, hard-drugging Binion/Easler does seem like a character more in the wheelhouse of Michael Madsen than Matthew Modine. There is no question Madsen is the show to see in Evans’ watered-down tabloid tale, but Roxy Saint adds a bit of goth spice singing and vampy as Cory, Davis’s alt-rocker colleague at the strip joint.

Shayla Beesley looks convincingly like a stripper, but Steppling does not give her any decent dialogue from which viewers could fairly base any further judgements. To further stack the deck against her, most of her scenes not including Madsen are opposite the alarmingly over-made-up Paz de la Huerta. Is she supposed to be related to Tammy Faye Bakker? At least she registers. John Palladino’s blow-dried Duvall has to be one of the flattest, most vapid performances you will ever immediately forget.

By far, the most entertaining aspect of Desert is Madsen’s if-I-had-only-known narration, recited from the perspective of the now deceased Easler. It is totally silly, yet it follows in the tradition of many infinitely superior film noirs. Frankly, Evans and Steppling do not even bother to tell us how it all worked out. You would never know from the film Murphy and Tabish were twice tried for Binion’s murder, first convicted and then acquitted. Some folks might consider that the stuff of high drama, but Desert just sort of peters out before any of that happens. Frankly, it is sort of amazing how many dubious decisions are strung together in Death in the Desert. Not recommended, it hits VOD platforms today.

PIFF ’16: Marshland

It is 1980 in Spain—a time when all able bodied men were required to carry moustaches. The nation was also in the midst of transitioning to a more democratic form of government, which was all very nice, but rather inconvenient timing for homicide detective Juan Robles. He has been dispatched to the rural south to find missing twin girls, but finds evidence of a depraved serial killer instead. He would like to cut his usual corners, but his crusading partner and CYA-ing superiors will force him to do things the hard way in Alberto Rodríguez’s Marshland (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Portland International Film Festival.

Initially, Robles and reform-minded Pedro Suárez treat the disappearance of Carmen and Estrella as a missing person case, but they find their bodies all too quickly. More unsettling, they are soon presented with circumstantial evidence linking the murder of the twins with the deaths or disappearances of several other local girls. They all went missing around the time of the annual carnival and each were somehow linked to the village’s sleazy lothario, “Quini” Varela. However, Varela’s blood type is different from what was recovered from the bodies—and he seems to know it.

As Robles and Suárez pursue Varela’s accomplice, differences in their methods and backgrounds lead to conflict. Suárez is currently out of favor within the police establishment, because of an open letter he sent to the newspapers protesting departmental corruption. On the other hand, Robles’ long tenure of service under Franco makes him highly suspect.

With Marshland, Rodríguez steps up his game tremendously from the disappointingly middling Unit 7. While staying within the police procedural sub-genre, he shows a mastery of mood and fully capitalizes on the lonely but cinematic wetland backdrops. If not exactly a whodunit per se, the particulars of their case are highly compelling. By the standards of Spanish cinema, it is also relatively reserved in its Franco-era score-settling, mostly using the legacy of the old regime to create tension for the reluctant partners.

Javier Gutiérrez is total dynamite as the roguish old tougher-than-he-looks Robles. Wiry like a coiled spring, he might be fun to drink with, but he is all kinds dangerous. Gutiérrez convincingly conveys his charismatic charm and the ruthlessness he can turn on like a light switch. Raúl Arévalo does his best to keep up, but Suárez’s goody-two-shoes persona is no match for Robles’ grand complexities. However, Salva Reina adds some nice salty flavor as Jesús, the rustic outcast who becomes the coppers’ guide through the treacherous marshes.

Unlike the problematically slack Unit 7, Marshland is tight and tense the whole way through. It is a ripping good thriller, executed with stylish bravado. Recommended for mainstream fans of cop-and-serial killer movies, Marshland screens this Friday (2/19) and next Monday (2/22), as part of this year’s PIFF (and by the way, it’s also already available on DVD).

A.K.: Don’t Call It a “Making of”

It is a little ironic the notoriously camera-shy Chris Marker made several documentaries about other filmmakers, but at least he understood who was more interesting. Although Marker’s critical cult has won new adherents in recent years, there is no comparison between him and Akira Kurosawa, especially in 1985 when the Japanese auteur was helming his last great epic masterpiece, Ran. Marker tries to keep out of Kurosawa’s shots as he observes the master at work in A.K. (clip here), which opens at Film Forum this Friday, a week ahead of Ran.

Kurosawa’s iconic hat and sunglasses are instantly recognizable. Just seeing him rehearse the heck out of the nearly as legendary Tatsuya Nakadai is almost worth the price of admission—and watch we shall. While there is a fair amount of narration, it is mostly ruminative in nature, rather than descriptive or informative. It seems Marker was justly in awe of Kurosawa and finds every grand working method to be a revelation.

Those looking for “making of” details might be disappointed, but there are a few tantalizing glimpses of a scene that was agonizingly hand-crafted, only to be scrapped in the editing room. All that grass painted gold went for naught Marker’s narrator tells us.

Marker never even dares approach Kurosawa, Nakadai, or the longtime collaborators he dubs “the Seven Samurai,” instead just showing them plugging away on the set. Granted, talking head interviews are not so Markerian. Perhaps he was also worried he would start kowtowing and chanting “I’m not worthy,” like Wayne and Garth. However, the upshot is we do not get any final words of a summation from Toho Studios’ renowned sound technician Fumio Yanoguchi, who passed away shortly after A.K. wrapped filming.

If nothing else, A.K. teases Ran quite effectively. As a documentary in its right, it is awkwardly betwixt and between. Marker’s insights never run particularly deep, but his peaks behind-the-scenes are not detailed or geeky enough to satisfy armchair film school students. Frankly, it was probably not the right project for Marker, but it is infinitely more watchable than the leftist agitprop he might have otherwise produced. For the hardest of hardcore Kurosawa fans and Marker’s regular apologists, A.K. opens this Friday (2/19) at Film Forum, in advance of the 4K restoration of Ran.

PIFF ’16: The Sky Trembles and the Earth is Afraid and the Two Eyes are not Brothers

Ben Rivers has sort of made the Day for Night of experimental filmmaking (but not nearly enough so). To make matters even more challenging, he did it in the Morocco. That sort of explains why his meta-docu-hybrid turns into an adaptation of Paul Bowles’ short story, “A Distant Episode,” but not really. Regardless, Rivers gets uncharacteristically narrativey in The Sky Trembles and the Earth is Afraid and the Two Eyes are not Brothers (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Portland International Film Festival.

It all starts out innocently observational as Rivers documents the Moroccan-based Galician-French Oliver Laxe directing the indigenous cast of his upcoming The Mimosas. It is a rough shoot, but apparently there are no occupational safety regulations to slow things down. In its way, the sight of the crews’ land rovers crawling through the desert is not unlike Truffaut’s film crew descending on their location in his ode to movie-making. Things seem to be proceeding well enough, but for some reason Laxe takes an unplanned hiatus. That will be a mistake.

While following one of the Reguibat nomads that so fascinate him, Laxe discovers he was in fact their prey. Like the linguistics scholar in the Bowles story, the director is abducted, has his tongue cleaved from his mouth, and is forced into a surreal form of slavery. Wearing a full burqa suit made of tin can lids, Laxe becomes their dancing bear, performing his weird jig to their percussive music.

On a superficial level, Sky Trembles, etc., etc. operates as an anti-colonial tale of comeuppance. The appropriator now must dance to the tune of the formerly colonized. However, the implications of the Islamic nomads’ violent brutality and their open practice of slavery are hard to skirt. The Reguibat are really just a dehumanized as their victim here. Frankly, it is probably only their reputations as cinematic provocateurs that have protected Rivers and Laxe from charges of racism and islamophobia thus far, so kids, do not try to adapt this Paul Bowles story at home.

Nevertheless, Rivers acting as his own cinematographer captures some stunning images. The desert vistas and the Atlas Mountain backdrops are suitably exotic. It also effectively teases Laxe’s film, which might well prove to be more emotionally-engaging than Rivers’ coldly detached metaness. Yet, somehow Rivers successfully channels the disoriented, kif-clouded nature character of Bowles’ work. It is not for everyone, but it gives the adventurous more hooks to grab onto than Rivers & Russell’s A Spell to Ward Off the Darkness. Recommended exclusively for hardcore Rivers and Bowles fans, The Sky Trembles and the Earth is Afraid and the Title is Not Short screens this Wednesday (2/17) and Saturday (2/20), as part of this year’s Portland International Film Festival.

Argentine Noir: Never Open that Door

It is a two-part triptych. Obviously, it was intended to be a trio of Cornell Woolrich (a.k.a. William Irish) short story adaptations, but in early 1950s Argentina, there was even greater pressure on filmmakers to conform to manageable running times. At least Carlos Hugo Christensen’s original vision was more or less preserved. One segment became its own film and the other two were released as a strange matching pair. Yet, the parallels between the constituent stories work rather well together in Never Open that Door, which screens as part of MoMA’s current retrospective, Death is My Dance Partner: Film Noir in Postwar Argentina.

Once the seventy-three minute If I Die Before I Wake was split off, Door became a lean and most definitely mean eighty-five minutes of hard-bitten noir goodness. The first segment is very much in the tradition of Alfred Hitchcock Presents and the various incarnations of Lucille Fletcher’s Sorry, Wrong Number, but it also has a number of night club scenes for extra swinging fun.

In “Someone’s on the Phone,” grown siblings Raul and Luisa have a wildly dysfunctional, vaguely incestuous relationship. They both live in their absentee parents’ spectacularly cinematic town house (that sort of looks like a Trader Vic’s as designed by le Corbusier), but lead separate wastrel lives. However, their privileged existence is shattered when Luisa’s mounting gambling debts culminate in her suicide. Bitterly regretting his own ineffectualness, Raul sets out to kill her tormenting mystery caller. Irony will be involved.

Many consider “Phone” the weakest of the two-film anthology, but it might be the most stylish of the lot. The big band Latin jazz is hot and Pablo Tabernero’s slick noir cinematography is super-cool. Production designer Gori Muñoz and his team also crafted an ominously decadent environment perfect for the genre.

Family relations remain problematic in “The Hummingbird Comes Home.” Blind Rosa is a virtuous widow, who lives with her devoted niece and memories of her beloved son Daniel. After eight years without contact, Daniel suddenly returns, along with two gangster associates (one of whom is unlikely to see the sun rise) and a bullet-riddled car. Despite her love for her son, Rosa is not blind to the circumstances. To save her niece, she will turn the tables on the criminals during the dark of night—when the advantage shifts to her, assuming everything goes as planned.

Once Mother Rosa kills the power, Christensen stages some wonderfully tense and skillful cat-and-mouse skulking sequences. He and Tabernero evoke a sense of her unsighted POV, while clearly conveying the action to viewers. These are scenes that are worth close study. Of course, Ilde Pirovano is the crucial X-factor as the sainted but resourceful mother.

Structurally, it is a little weird to have the considerably shorter “Phone” stuck together with the longer “Hummingbird,” but they are both crackerjack noirs, so they never clash in terms of tone or aesthetics. It is still tough to beat Hitchcock’s Rear Window or Truffaut’s Mississippi Mermaid, but Never Open that Door definitely ranks close behind amongst the many film and television adaptations of Woolrich/Irish stories and novels. Happily it has been preserved and partially restored for future fans by the Film Noir Foundation. Highly recommended, Never Open that Door screens again this Tuesday afternoon (2/16), at MoMA.

Legend: the Complete Series—Hack Writers Can Be Heroes Too

Don Quixote is one hip novel. Cervantes forces his addled knight-errant to live up to reader expectations stemming from the previous sections published ten years early within his own narrative. It was meta and postmodern before meta and postmodern were cool. Nicodemus Legend is sort of the dime novel version—and proudly so. Pulp writer Ernest Pratt self-consciously modeled his western hero on himself, except he conspicuously lacked the virtues embodied by “the Knight of the Prairie.” However, with a little encouragement he starts to live up to his character’s heroic ideal in Legend: the Complete Series, now available on DVD from Mill Creek Entertainment.

Legend was part of the first wave of programming on the UPN network, which explains why it was so short-lived. It had decent a decent pedigree as the co-creation of Next Generation and Deep Space Nine producer Michael Piller, featuring the star of MacGyver. In fact, Pratt/Legend is sort of a cowardly, dissipated analog to Richard Dean Anderson’s ever-resourceful government agent. The only way Pratt ever carries a gun is between his thumb and fore-finger.

Although Pratt would prefer to stay half-crocked in a saloon, he is forced to travel to Sheridan, Colorado to clear his name in the two hour pilot. When he arrives, he receives a much warmer reception than he expected. Much to his confusion, the surrounding dirt-farmers believe he re-routed the local river, running it through their parched land instead of that of the local cattle baroness. Distinctly unamused, she has used her clout to trump up some rather embarrassing charges against him.

It turns out the man responsible is Janos Bartok, a Hungarian inventor inspired by Nikolai Tesla, who headed west after winning a pyrrhic legal victory against Edison. Reluctantly, Pratt will join forces with Bartok to protect the local immigrant Hungarian farming community. Pratt is a rather hedonistic dandy, but he has a heart—and Bartok has a real knack for dispensing guilt trips. Eventually, they strike a long term bargain. Bartok will serve as Pratt’s technical advisor, creating all sorts of steampunky gadgetry for his use, while Pratt will stay engaged with the people of Sheridan, trying to be the Legend-like hero they need and writing up the results in his first-person novels.

Like MacGyver, each remarkably consistent episode of Legend often ends with some form of conflict resolution or at least a bit of trickery that prevents bloodshed. Probably the best episodes include “Bone of Contention,” which suggests petroleum companies are not nearly as evil as Pratt had been led to expect, “Clueless in San Francisco,” featuring a fake séance and a brief but notable guest appearance by the great James Hong, and fittingly the final episode, “Skeletons in the Closet,” which starts with a weird uncredited cameo by Lara Flynn Boyle (completely at odds with the tone of the rest of the series), but concludes with a satisfying moment of shared comradery. Probably, the worst is “The Gospel According to Legend,” which seeks to score cheap points against Evangelicals and pharmaceutical companies, but at least it has Robert Englund doing his Elmer Gantry routine.

Maybe things would have been different if Legend had been on a different network (it certainly couldn’t have hurt). The show is actually quite pleasant to spend time with. Anderson and John de Lancie (Q in the Star Trek franchises) forge an endearing bickering buddy chemistry and Ken Harrison’s catchy theme is both nostalgic and contemporary sounding. The art-imitates-life-imitates-art meta-ness is generally rendered with a light touch. It is often clever and rarely forced. However, Jarrad (co-director of D Train) Paul’s shticky recurring work has not aged well, but let’s face it, any character named “Skeeter” is probably a mistake.

With its hot air balloons and mechanical buffalo, Legend is sort of like a Sunday school version of The Wild, Wild West. It means well and the directors (including Bob Balaban) keep it moving along at a good clip. Anderson and de Lancie are just hammy enough to mesh together nicely and the series projects a sense of optimism that compensates for its occasional lectures regarding manifest destiny’s manifest excesses. Frankly, you have to admire the ambition it takes to launch a retro genre-straddling western. Worth taking a look at, all twelve episodes of Legend are now available as a two-DVD set from Mill Creek Entertainment.

The Final Project: Yet More Found Footage

There are several kinds of plantations to be found in Louisiana. The classic antebellum style is very different from the Creole variety.  Some are also haunted. This is definitely one of those. A team of college students armed with video cameras will try to spend the night there in Taylor Ri’chard’s The Final Project (trailer here), which opens this Friday in Houston and Atlanta.

Guess what true believers. Something terrible happened at the old plantation, but the six students managed to capture it all on film. It seems one of them went kind of nuts, causing no end of embarrassment, especially for the mortified family member who introduces the screening.

In order to graduate, Genevieve Richard, her BFF, her current and previous BFs, a TA, a meathead, and a ditz must make a hand-held shaky-cam documentary of their night in spook central, because Recording Gruesome Deaths 101 was not exactly the blow-off class she was hoping for. Naturally, there is all sorts of jealousy and resentment going on causing Richard to walk out in a huff, just as things start getting strange.

Actually, Project is far less graphic than most horror films. Frankly, the ghosts or grudge-holding entities make short work of their victims, so at least we can say they don’t play with their food. The framing device, featuring the pixelated Ri’chard is not bad either. However, characterization of any sort is problematically thin and the ensemble no-name cast is serviceable, at best.
Such levels of mediocrity are not ideal, but in this genre, they are not absolutely fatal Achilles Heels. Found footage films of vary quality, including JeruZalem, Hollows Grove, Classroom 6, Creep, and the original Grave Encounters have helped themselves tremendously with their creepy locations. Unfortunately, the atmosphere of the plantation is just okay. That means Ri’chard cannot earn any easy points simply by soaking up the ambiance.

In just about every respect, Project is barely good enough to get by with a little help, but nothing the cast and crew contribute are special enough to distinguish the film from the pack. When you get right down to it, the film is pretty bland, which has to be the worst possible thing you can say about a horror movie.

There are way more plantation horrors in 1970s slavery exploitation films and considerably more enjoyable chills in JeruZalem and Grave Encounters 1. In contrast, The Final Project is a rather workaday effort that mostly goes through the motions. Simply not distinctive enough to recommend or despise, The Final Project opens tomorrow (2/12) in Houston at the Edwards Greenway and in the Atlanta area at the Regal Hollywood, Town Center, and Mall of Georgia.

MyFFF ’16: Heatwave

Heat kills. Just ask Camus’s Meursault. It’s not great for crops either. An unseasonable warm spell will set in motion a chain of events that culminates in murder. However, the developmentally challenged Josef Bousou maybe had it coming—or perhaps the good villagers deliberately misinterpreted his aggressively boorish behavior. He certainly winds up dead, as we can tell from the in media res opening. How he got that way will be revealed in the long flashback that forms the core of Raphaël Jacoulot’s Heatwave (trailer here), which currently streams as part of the 2016 My French Film Festival.

The thirty year-old Josef seems to have an elementary school child’s understanding of life, as well as an equivalent capacity for mischief. Madame Bousou often gets complaints regarding petty thefts and blasting loud music, but she steadfastly ignores them all. The ever-indulgent Mayor Daniel Huot-Marchand often runs interference for the Bousous, but Josef’s latest exploits will test his patience.

To help the village’s smaller farmers survive the drought, Huot-Marchand and the council approved the creation of a mechanized communal well station. Yet, in an apparently cruel act of sabotage, the pump is stolen and the key to the service shed is found on Bousou’s person. With sentiment already running against him, the easily manipulated hulking child sexually accosts a village elder. Of course, after a day or two of observations, Bousou returns home to his not-sufficiently-concerned family. When Bousou’s teenaged crush makes similar but more dubious charges against him, things really start to get ugly.

Frankly, Jacoulot’s weird attempt to switch gears in last twenty minutes never really works, because of how assiduously he has stacked the deck against Bousou in the preceding hour-plus. Despite everything that comes to light, it is hard to blame the Mayor for requesting professional intervention when Bousou haltingly forces himself on the old lady. Seriously, that is a totally fair deal-breaker, even if it technically never escalates to the point of legal criminality. As a practical matter, Bousou is cast as such an obnoxious trouble-maker, Jacoulot has no accrued sympathy to draw on when he makes his late pivot.

Still, it is sort of fascinating to watch Heatwave play out as a sort of perverse passion play. Karim Leklou is completely convincing as the socially underdeveloped Bousou—perhaps even too much so. As usual, the ever-dependable Jean-Pierre Darroussin brings the film instant salt-of-the-earth credibility as the conflicted Huot-Marchand. It is easy to understand why people vote for him, especially compared to the preening ideologue New Yorkers are currently stuck with.

Heatwave does not come together the way it is supposed to, but it is still weirdly compelling to view it unspooling. It ultimately works towards a conclusion that feels unfairly arbitrary, but Camus probably would have appreciated that. Jacoulot arguably loses control of the picture, but at least that makes it interesting. The price is also reasonable, considering it streams for a mere $2.20 as part of this year’s online My French Film Festival, concluding next Thursday (2/18).

Nina Forever: Death Does Not Part Them

Poor Rob is way past “it’s not you, it’s me.” Besides, it really is her. Nina is the one who’s dead, yet he still can’t break up with her. Of course, her ghost is not about to make things easy for him. That puts his new, living, breathing girlfriend in an awkward position in the Blaine Brothers’ Nina Forever (trailer here), which opens this Friday in Los Angeles.

After her latest dumping, Holly decides she needs a brooding Byronic type. She thinks her supermarket co-worker Rob will fit the bill—and does he ever. Still broken up over the death of his girlfriend Nina, Rob tries to passively commit suicide through recklessness, only ending up with some cuts and bruises for his efforts. However, life suddenly seems to make sense again when he finally starts dating Holly. Unfortunately, it all turns sour the first time they hit the sheets. Somehow, whenever they start to get physical, it summons the spirit of Nina. She is angry, obstinate, and very bloody. Her arrivals will ruin many a set of sheets.

Despite Nina’s supernatural inconvenience, Holly and Rob are convinced they are in love, so they try to make it work. Holly even suggests a threesome-like arrangement with her spectral rival, but Nina is far too possessive for compromise. Yet, the smitten lovers (the two living ones) will carry on nonetheless, until things really get weird.

Despite all the plasma that comes with Nina’s appearances, Forever is a surprisingly down-to-earth film. Frankly, there is more honesty in this ostensive horror-comedy than the average Noah Baumbach film, especially the scenes involving Nina’s grieving parents, played with acute sensitivity by Elizabeth Elvin and David Troughton. It is an unusually sharply written film that has some genuinely biting surprises in store for viewers.

Abigail Hardingham is spectacularly skittish and twitchy as Holly. It is impossible to envision her in a conventionally healthy relationship, even though we do root for her. In contrast, Fiona O’Shaughnessy makes a wonderfully macabre diva as Nina. While Cian Barry’s Rob is deceptively straightforward, he truly delivers the film’s emotional pop down-the-stretch.

Nina Forever really puts zombie rom-coms like Life After Beth to shame. It has the grit of a more accessible Ken Loach film and the subversive sensibility of Ben Wheatley. (Probably, the closest comparison would be Benson & Morehead’s Spring, but Forever has a darker vibe.) In all honesty, it deserves consideration outside the genre ghetto, but at least we will appreciate it here. Recommended for fans of dark fantasy and grounded supernatural tales, Nina Forever opens this Friday (2/12) at the MGN Five Star Cinema in Los Angeles, just in time for Valentine’s Day.

American Master B.B. King

Even for squares, B.B. King’s name is synonymous with the blues. He was once one of the so-called “Three Kings,” along with Freddie King and Albert King (no relations), but eventually just became “the King,” as crowned by Eric Clapton with their Riding with the King album. His name also graces the B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square, where they sometime even book blues musicians. The life and music of Indianola’s favorite son are celebrated in Jon Brewer’s B.B. King: the Life of Riley (trailer here), which airs this Friday on PBS, as part of the current season of American Masters.

B.B. stood for “Blues Boy” or “Beale Street Boy” and it stuck for Riley B. King. King was already working in the cotton fields as a young lad, but he had the unusual good fortune of working for the fair and decent Flake Cartledge, who employed an African American manager for his plantation. He also happened to buy King his first guitar. King started out playing in a gospel harmony ensemble, but the blues were his destiny.

King’s distant relative Bukka White taught him a few licks and a good deal survival skills for the music business. For a while he built his name recognition and earned some bread as a DJ on the trailblazing African American radio station, WDIA, but when “3 O’Clock Blues” hit, King became a full time road warrior.

In the broadcast edit, Brewer covers must of his career highlights, including collaborations with the Rolling Stones, U2, and Clapton. He revisits the famous London Live sessions as well as the making of King’s greatest hit, “The Thrill is Gone.” Although Brewer wrapped shooting shortly before King’s death, the legendary was still sharp and reflective during his final interview segments. It is also a kick to hear King’s classic sidemen banter and reminisce about the old days, both good and bad.

If some of the transitions in Life of Riley seem a bit abrupt, viewers should understand over an hour was snipped from the film’s theatrical cut for its American Masters broadcast. You can see the full version at Fandor. Although editing B.B. King is always problematic, there are very good reasons for at least one chop. The original film begins with Bill Cosby making an extraordinarily unfortunate analogy in light of what we now know. It is hard to object to losing that, but it also makes it harder to object to other cuts. It is actually a shame, because the broadcast version lacks some really nice sequences in which King pays tribute to Cartledge and his first grade school teacher Luther Henson of the Elkhorn School.

There is still plenty of music in Life of Riley, which is really what King was all about. There are also plenty of anecdotes from legit colleagues and admirers, like Buddy Guy, Dr. John, Edgar Winter, Leon Russell, Aaron Neville, and George Benson (however, you will have to go to Fandor or the DVD to hear the eternally cool Bernard “Pretty” Purdie).

There is a lot of good stuff in the full version, but the broadcast edition is a decent Reader’s Digest treatment. It should definitely leave viewers wanting more, which is probably a good. Recommended in whatever cut best fits your schedule, the fifty-some minute edit of B.B. King: Life of Riley airs this Friday (2/12) on most PBS outlets nationwide.

Comin’ at Ya! in 3D (or 2D, Depending on Man-Cave)

It launched the mini-3D boom in the early 1980s, but it was also the last gasp of the Spaghetti Western. It seems like the least likely of hits in retrospect, but its timing was perfect. Apparently, the world was ready for another round of 3D gimmickry and a band of American expats and Italian filmmakers were just the folks to deliver it. Prepare for a barrage of sundry items falling towards the camera in Ferdinando Baldi’s Comin’ at Ya! (trailer here), which is now available on DVD and 3D BluRay from MVD.

Without Comin’ at Ya! there would probably be no Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone or Treasure of the Four Crowns (also from Team At Ya!), so let’s thank our lucky stars this film exists. Kind of known for the “Stranger” films, Tony Anthony knew his way around a Spaghetti western, so he had street cred with the core fan base, despite looking a bit soft around the edges for a stone-cold killer like H.H. Hart. Presumably, Hart is a former desperado of some sort, but he had resolved to settle down with Abeline, his newlywed wife as of just after the opening credits (and what credits they are, featuring no end of falling dry goods.

Unfortunately, the Pike and Polk Thompson, a pair of Mexican white slaver brothers crash the ceremony to abduct the bride and leave the groom for dead—but not nearly dead enough. With the help of a drunken old Scottish former seminarian (they are always handy in a tight spot), Hart will ride south to rescue Abeline and serve up some payback. It quickly becomes personal for the Thompson Brothers too, especially Pike, the mastermind. As a result, all sorts of lethal weapons will be hurled at the screen.

Anthony is no Clint Eastwood or Franco Nero, but he has a pretty good badass strut. Victoria Abril (now most famous for her work in Pedro Almodóvar’s Kika and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!) is more than sufficient as the woefully helpless Abeline (watching her and the captive women shriek at a laughably fake bat attack is pretty cringey). However, Gene Quintano, who was later celebrated as the genius responsible for writing Police Academy 3 and 4, is quite decently dastardly as Pike Thompson.

Baldi throws everything at the lens except the kitchen sink, but frankly that blatant ridiculousness is the whole reason to watch it. On the other hand, the level of violence directed towards women is a bit eyebrow-raising. Well beyond lax Spaghetti Western standards, it approaches Giallo levels. In fact, the entire film is wildly politically incorrect, allowing Hart full license to kill Mexican and Native American white slavers without a twinge of guilt. It is impossible to imagine to imagine Hollywood distributing At Ya! today, so it is nice to have its shamelessness preserved for posterity. Recommended for fans of Spaghetti Westerns and 1980s nostalgia, Comin’ at Ya! is now available on 3D BluRay and regular DVD from MVD.

SBIFF ’16: She Walks

You would think French immigration has more dangerous illegals to worry about than Chinese street walkers—and perhaps they do. Still, any extra attention is dangerous for Lin Aiyu. Keenly aware of her precarious position, Lin will try to work the only angle left to her when she is pulled into some dodgy underworld dealings in Naël Marandin’s She Walks (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Santa Barbara International Film Festival.

Lin once worked as a maid for a snobby, established French-Chinese family, but like many of her street walking colleagues, she tired of the rigid control and meager pay. She now sends home a small remittance each month, scrimped from her work as an off-the-books home care-giver and the tricks she turns during the day. While she prefers the current arrangement (despite the obvious hazards), she no longer has legal standing to remain in France. Nonetheless, old Monsieur Kieffer is quite fond of Lin and her daughter Cherise, but it is his son who controls the purse-strings.

One fateful morning, Daniel Alvès, the sleazy neighbor across the street, forces his way into Kieffer’s flat behind the startled Lin. Initially, he promises to only stay one day, but he soon settles into the storeroom. As they can clearly see, groups of thugs are constantly giving his place a good turning over. Eventually, Lin gives him an ultimatum. He can continue to stay, but he must agree to marry her, thereby granting her legal status. However, Lin is determined to keep their bargain a secret from Cherise, just as she does with her prostitution sideline.

Without question, Marandin conceived She Walks with the best of intentions, but he needed someone to edit out the awkwardness (and unintentional irony) of his press bio, which states the film was “inspired by his reaching out to Chinese women working as prostitutes in Paris.” Reaching out, was he? Be that as it may, She Walks never exploits its female cast members. Inevitably, there are several graphic sex scenes, but they are the sort that will turn off reasonably healthy viewers, rather than heating them up.

Clearly, Marandin also forged a high degree of trust with his lead, Lan Qui. She carries the film with an extraordinarily brave and revealing performance. Physically and emotionally, she opens herself up to the audience, holding back nothing. It is quiet, deeply grounded work, yet raw as anything you’ve seen. In fact, the entire ensemble of Chinese street walkers is quite exceptional. They are funny and earthy, still attractive but convincingly weathered by life. Listening to them banter and gossip is really the only respite Marandin offers us, because She Walks is otherwise unremittingly downbeat and pessimistic.

Of course, a depressing film is still well worth seeing, if it is well made and there is a point to all the misery it rubs our nose in. That is definitely true for She Walks. We do sympathize wholeheartedly with the exploited Chinese women, who collectively do not represent a fraction of the threat posed by a lone Islamist Isis sympathizer. It is also significant as a French film allowing an Asian women a starring role. Lan Qui fully capitalizes on the moment, making an indelible impression. Cate Blanchett’s embarrassing Joan Crawford shtick in Carol looks like amateur hour compared to her. Recommended for mature audiences, She Walks screens this Wednesday (2/10) and Friday (2/12), as part of this year’s Santa Barbara International Film Festival.

Standoff: Laurence Fishburne Gets Villainous

You haven’t seen a cemetery this isolated since Night of the Living Dead. It makes sense for someone in hiding to hold a memorial service there, but it is curtains for all when a hitman gets the drop on them. The nearest house belongs to Carter Greene, which is sort of convenient, considering he is one the brink of suicide. However, he puts everything on hold when a twelve year-old witness seeks his protection. The combat veteran will dig-in with her for the duration in Adam Alleca’s Standoff (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Poor little orphan Isabel has already had quite a time of it. She still clings to the camera given to her by her deceased father, which will be significant when her aunt’s soon-to-be-late boyfriend takes her to visit her parent’s grave. She does indeed manage to get a snap of the killer at work, sans mask. Somehow she reaches Greene’s house just in time. Still grieving the son who died due to his own negligence, the former soldier was one or two shots away from ending it all. Instead, he gets a flesh wound in the leg from the killer, returning the favor with some twenty gauge buckshot to the waist.

Since they are out in the middle of nowhere, the killer can simply let his siege play out. Greene has the advantage when it comes to relative blood loss, but the killer has an overwhelming ammunition edge. He has a full clip, whereas Greene only has one short-range, wide dispersing shell left. The killer is also better at talking trash, but Greene is surprisingly resourceful—and in need of redemption.

Standoff is a perfectly good reminder that you can’t make a pizza without plenty of cheese. Let’s be honest, Laurence Fishburne’s villainy muscles have atrophied since his career-making performance as Ike Turner. However, he delivers some howlingly ludicrous lines with gusto. You have to give him credit for chewing the scenery like a champ, making Standoff rather watchable. It also leaves Thomas Jane as the strong, silent type, which was surely a relief to him.

To continue giving credit where it is due, Ella Ballentine is also quite good as the ticky and withdrawn Isabel. She comes across as a convincingly messed-up kid, without ever trying the audience’s patience. We never want Greene to kick her down the staircase, which is often the glaring weakness in films like this.

Frankly, Standoff really isn’t that manipulative either. Alleca is much more concerned with the tactics and strategies employed in each skirmish. Of course, there are preposterous plot holes all over the place, but at least everyone came to play. It is a total B-movie, but it is worth a stream when it inevitably turns up on Netflix, which should be in about twelve hours after its release. In the meantime, it opens this Friday (2/12) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Face of the Devil: Welcome to the Amazon Lodge

The Puma Rinri Amazon Lodge must be the beneficiary of the best or worst product placement ever. That is their logo plain as day, right when the end credits start to roll. Clearly, most of the film was shot there and it does indeed make the resort look enticing. The scenery is spectacular and the rooms are fab, but it is a bit of a drawback that the only observable employee is a practitioner of the dark satanic arts. Frankly, it would probably still be worth visiting, but that devil worshipper is not the guests’ biggest problem in Frank Pérez-Garland’s Peruvian horror flick, Face of the Devil (trailer here), which releases on DVD today in the UK.

Lucero’s father is a tad on the protective side, but understandably so, all things considered. Years ago, a demon possessed her mother, forcing him to exorcise it the hard way. Both father and daughter still carry the emotional scars from that day. Nevertheless, the old man finally relents, agreeing to let Lu join her BF and his hard-partying pals on their Andean getaway.

They certainly get away from it all staying at the high mountain inn, including things like emergency medical services. C’mon, what could go wrong, except maybe falling prey to the Tunche. According to their spooky tales poolside tales, the Tunche is a shapeshifting demon who stalks the mountainside. If you hear his piercing whistle, you basically know your butt is toast. However, Face of the Devil is probably a more evocative title than Whistle of the Tunche. Regardless, you had better believe he is real, because the old caretaker readily vouches for his existence.

In any event, the revelers from Lima are all considerate enough to let the Tunche stalk them in their swimwear. Aside from the schlubby Mateo, they all have fine beach bods. However, they also have real relationships that raise the stakes somewhat. Granted, Face is about as predictable as most horror films, but screenwriter Vanessa Saba brings Lucero’s backstory full circle somewhat cleverly. She is also pretty creepy appearing as Lu’s mother in the flashback sequences.

Vania Accinelli is perfectly presentable as Lu, but Nicolás Galindo and Carla Arriola develop some surprisingly compelling chemistry as Mateo the plugger and the curvy Paola, whom he so obviously carries a torch for. However, the real star of film is the exclusive mountain retreat (it is up there with The Shining’s Overlook Hotel). If you were an ancient elemental demon you would want to stalk victims there too. In contrast, the Tunche is supposedly a shapeshifter, but he is mostly invisible throughout the film. At least he is not especially sadistic, preferring to dispatch his prey quickly and efficiently, which is rather considerate of viewers’ tolerance as well.

Location is often key in horror films, so Face’s exotic backdrop really is key to its mojo. Largely foreswearing gore, Pérez-Garland builds up the suspense rather nicely, while cinematographer Roberto Maceda Kohatsu and art director Cecilia Herrera give the production a real quality look. Although not hugely ambitious (aside from the location shooting), Pérez-Garland gets the job done. Recommended for genre fans, Face of the Devil is now available on DVD in the UK from Jinga Films.