The Golden Globe Nominated Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem

There is one area where Israel should find common ground with its radical neighbors: its rabbinical system of divorce that applies to all, regardless of faith or lack thereof, and invariably favors men. Of course, women’s rights are assiduously protected in other spheres of life, so that compatibility extends only so far. Nevertheless, for an emotionally neglected wife desperate to move on with her life, divorce proceedings are unbearably unjust, absurd, and protracted in Ronit & Schlomi Elkabetz’s Golden Globe nominated Gett: the Trial of Viviane Amsalem (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Amsalem has not lived with her husband Elisha for years. All that time, she has stayed with her grown siblings, dutifully sending meals home to Elisha and their children every night. She has never been unfaithful or in any way brought shame on the family—aside from the scandal of their separation. She simply had enough of his passive aggressive cruelty and the isolation imposed by his anti-social Puritanism.

In an American court, this would be an open and shut case, especially when her husband contemptuously disregards notices to appear in court. Despite his recalcitrant behavior, the law remains on his side. As long as he continues to deny her long-sought after divorce (or gett), nobody can force him to change his mind. Viviane Amsalem’s decidedly unreligious attorney Carmel Ben Tovim will continue to file objections and call witnesses, but the institutional fix is in. Yet, like some sort of Kafkaesque Sisyphus, she continues to press a case that will be observed in months and eventually years.

Gett paints a traumatizing portrait of divorce, but unlike L.A. Law or American exposes like Divorce Corp, the Elkabetz sibling filmmakers never accuse the attorneys of exploiting the proceedings for financial gain. Frankly, everyone in this film is abjectly miserable, but the three-judge panel refuses impose a sensible gett, due their overriding doctrinal concerns.

Ronit Elkabetz (so seductively earthy in the Oscar disqualified The Band’s Visit) is quite remarkable as Ms. Amsalem. She viscerally conveys a sense of her bitter exhaustion, but can still shock us with eruptions of repressed emotion, manifesting as rage or inappropriate laughter. Simon Abkarian plays Mr. Amsalem with rigid discipline, coming off cold, clammy, and callous. Yet, he adroitly reveals aspects of the husband “defendant” that explain and somewhat humanize his actions to some extent, but not at the expense of viewer sympathy for his embattled wife.

In terms of themes, tone, and intensity, Gett most closely compares to Asghar Farhadi’s A Separation, but it probably does the Iranian filmmaker no favors to liken his film with an Israeli work. Regardless, they are both seamlessly exhausting viewing experiences. Arguably, it is the mark of a healthy society that can forthrightly address its faults through cultural and artistic statements. Frankly, you will not see Arab cinema tackle gender inequity so candidly. Of course they also have even more fundamental issues than biased divorce law to contend with, like honor killings and female genital mutilation. No doubt that is slim comfort to the Viviane Amsalems, but worth noting nonetheless. Recommended for the sheer power of its performances and the Elkabetzes’ almost unbearably intimate dramatic focus, Gett: the Trial of Viviane Amsalem opens this Friday (2/13) in New York, at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema.

Coast of Death: Galician Landscape Cinema

It sounds like an unduly severe nickname. In modern days, this rough patch of Galician shoreline might have been dubbed the “Coast of Insurance Claims” instead. Notorious for the many shipwrecks dotting its waters, this picturesque coastland supplies a hard but steady living to the weathered locals. Lois Patiño, in collaboration with assistant director Carla Andrade, paints an austere portrait of the land and its inhabitants in Coast of Death (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

If you asked them, the taciturn fishermen, sea-combers, and foresters would say they were Galician, not Spanish. Patiño quietly records their intermittent conversations as they go about their work, but he is more concerned with the general ambiance than the particulars of their shell fish harvesting. Through the film, he maintains long slow fixed takes that focus on the wide misty vistas rather than any of the faceless people laboring antlike in a corner of the screen. It is hard to get a sense of the personalities attached to the ghostly voices occasionally floating through the film, aside from two old-timers Patiño periodically returns to for their salty commentary.

Coast is sort of like watching an entire film made up of ECM covers. It looks great from the outside, but in this case, there is no record inside. Eschewing narrative and other such conventionalities, Coast is truly landscape cinema in the Peter Hutton tradition. Granted, Patiño is working with a few big themes, like eternity and man’s interrelationship with nature. With respect to the latter, the infamous mishandling of the 2002 Prestige oil spill is referenced several times throughout the sparse voice-overs, but the two grizzled cats claim to have seen worse when a National Socialist petrol tanker foundered in the shoals during WWII.

More than one decade after the Prestige spill and seventy-some years since the previous tanker misadventure, the titular coast looks timeless and unspoiled. The modern world (and its carnivals) has reached their remote corner of Spain/Galicia, but you would hardly know it from the daily rhythms Patiño documents. Initially, it is a strangely immersive viewing experience, but the eighty-five minute film eventually starts to repeat itself.

Serving as his own cinematographer, Patiño captures some lovely images—and he is not afraid to hold them for as long as he feels necessary. This will work for some audience, but not for others. Recommended for those more concerned with the form of cinema than the substance, Coast of Death opens this Friday (2/13) in New York, at the Anthology Film Archives.

The Last Five Years: Off-Broadway Goes Big Screen

The title of Jamie Wellerstein’s bestselling debut novel sounds nauseatingly pretentious, but Light Out of Darkness happens to be a hat tip to Sondheim’s Merrily We Roll Along, so all is forgiven. Regardless, his remarkable early success will put strain on his marriage to a would-be Broadway actress. We know it will not last, because he walks out in the first scene. We will subsequently see how it all unraveled in Richard LaGravenese’s adaptation of Jason Robert Brown’s Off-Broadway musical, The Last Five Years (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Wellerstein is leaving and it looks like he is never coming back. Cathy Hiatt is obviously devastated, but it gives her the first opportunity to show her range with the nakedly revealing feature spot, “Still Hurting.” There is more to this story than first appears. Wellerstein was once reasonably in love with Hiatt. It was he who first suggested they live together, before he eventually proposed. Yet, Wellerstein’s immediate success caused friction. Yes, it brought him into close proximity of literary groupies and trampy editorial assistants, but it is really caused more of a psychological disconnect between the brashly confident Wellerstein and the increasingly despondent Wellerstein née Hiatt.

Although the original stage production somewhat resembled Love Letters in its stripped down, dueling song-and-monologue structure, LaGravenese opens it up quite nicely. He brings it out onto the streets of New York and transforms the musical numbers into dramatic exchanges.

Frankly, the real issue with LFY is common to many new book musicals today. You might consider it the Rent effect. There simply is not enough emotional diversity to the score. Each number requires the cast to start at practically a crescendo level, maintaining the notes and the soul-baring wails. Even the show’s “novelty song,” “Shiksa Goddess” requires Wellerstein to belt out at the top of his lungs. It is more effective when a show goes up and down the scale. Give us some slow groovers and easy loopers, but with catchy melodies. Then hit us with the show-stopper.

Be that as it may, Anna Kendrick and Jeremy Jordan do everything that is asked of them and then some. As a veteran of Broadway (the way better than you’ve heard Bonnie & Clyde) and Smash, Jordan exhibits the chops you would expect, but the strength and clarity of Kendrick exceeds the expectations established by Pitch Perfect and her Tony nomination for High Society at the precocious age of twelve. They also have appealing chemistry together in the early days and convincingly push each away during the later bad times. Together, they make the arc of the relationship feel true.

Much of LFY’s narrative context and on-screen communication is delivered through song, often giving it a rock opera-ish vibe. Necessarily, one song often leads into another, reinforcing the samey-ness of the score. Nevertheless, Wellerstein’s climatic “If I Didn’t Believe in You” stands out as a dramatic equalizer, largely regaining the audience sympathy he lost in the opening scenes. Cinematographer Steven Meizler makes it all sparkle in a way that subtly evokes the big colorful Golden Age musicals, but in a way the still feels contemporary. If you like the sound of most post-Rent Broadway musicals that are not period productions, LaGravenese’s adaptation should be like catnip. For the rest of us, the two leads manage to carry the day through sheer gumption. Recommended for fans of movie musicals, The Last Five Years opens this Friday (2/13) in New York, at the Village East.

Sundance ’15: 6 Desires—D.H. Lawrence and Sardinia

There was a time when D.H. Lawrence’s travel writings were his best received work. Even before his sexually charged novels belatedly achieved widespread critical acceptance, Lawrence’s nonfiction did more than their share to promote Italian tourism. Over ninety years after its initial publication, his Sea and Sardinia continues to lure visitors from the UK to the Mediterranean isle. In this case it is Northern Irish documentarian Mark Cousins and his small intrepid crew, who will retrace the old man’s footsteps in the docu-essay-travelogue 6 Desires: D.H. Lawrence and Sardinia (trailer here), which screened during the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

Clearly, this will be a very personal and impressionist journey, considering Cousins starts his voiceovers by asking Lawrence (presumably in spirit) if he can call him Bert. At this point, the audience can envision the novelist looking down from somewhere, chillily replying: “that’s Mr. Lawrence to you.” Nevertheless, Cousins maintains the intimate, but one-sided dialogue, revisiting the sites from the book, but informing the film’s visits with their full historical and cultural context.

This will never be a breakout Sundance documentary hit like Searching for Sugarman, but it is pleasant enough for a while. Despite his libertine reputation, Cousins’ portrait emphasizes Lawrence’s conservative nature, including his categorical rejection of socialism and his contention feminism would largely emasculate males into what we would now call metrosexuals. Along the way, he offers plenty of tips for prospective tourists. The hearty Lawrence multi-course menu offered at one rustic restaurant sounds like it might be worth the trip by itself.

Strangely though, the film loses focus when Cousins hands over the third act narrating duties to a woman, for gender representational reasons Lawrence probably would have abhorred. It is sort of interesting to hear her contrast Lawrence with Grazia Deledda, Italy’s female proletarian Nobel Prize winner for literature, but the vague yet unmistakable implication he helped contribute to the Holocaust because he never criticized Italian fascists in-print is so excessive, it jeopardizes the entire film’s credibility. As points of reference, Sea and Sardinia was published in 1921 and Lawrence died in 1930, so please, get serious.

Frankly, 6 Desires is often doing odd little things to undercut itself. Many times, when Cousins has a lovely vista in his frame, he ruins it by sticking his arm out, selfie style, with a cheap laminated photo or a plastic overlay frame. These just look bad on-screen.

When the film actually focuses on its ostensive subject, it offers some intriguing insights that might lead to viewers to reappraise Lawrence and his work. To jolt everyone awake, Cousins also includes clips from Ken Russell’s adaptation of Women in Love, so you know what that means: Oliver Reed, full frontal. Unfortunately, this is about the time the film starts to founder. It has its moments, but 6 Desires really ought to have been chopped down to an hour and packaged specifically for television. Regardless, it will likely find more festival play following its screenings at this year’s Sundance Film Festival, thanks to the filmmakers’ reputation, but it is strictly for Lawrence and Cousins completists.

SF Indie Fest ’15: Black Mountain Side

What was an ancient civilization doing in the northern most regions of the Yukon’s Taiga Cordillera? Not much, at least not anymore. However, their stag-headed demigod might be up to some bad supernatural business in writer-director Nick Szostakiwskyj’s Black Mountain Side (trailer here), which screens during the 2015 SF Indie Fest.

Although there are indigenous peoples in the Taiga Ecozone, by the time you reach the research station commanded by Myles Jensen, civilization thins out to pretty much nothing. That is why the discovery of a Mesoamerican monument (or rather the visible tip of it) is such a significant surprise. The more academically respectable Peter Olsen is flown out to inspect it, unfortunately for him. He agrees, it is the darnedest thing, but it is not Mesoamerican.

Soon thereafter, the camp cat is found murdered at the excavation site, like a sacrifice at an altar. The next day, the outpost’s indigenous workers have all taken to the wind. With the weather getting even worse, the men are cut off from the world, struggling with each other’s increasingly violent, delusional behavior, diagnosed by the camp doctor as the result of exposure to an ancient but still potent virus.

Frankly, Szostakiwskyj’s surprisingly subtle script allows for the possible the bedlam might just as easily be the product of an all-too human psychosis brought on by stress and isolation as it is the result of a killer virus or the work of a malevolent entity. We can probably safely assume all three are a factor in the ensuing chaos.

Despite the severed body parts, Mountain is remarkably restrained for a horror film. Much like the original Howard Hawks produced The Thing, it features some unusually smart dialogue, particularly the speculation regarding the vanished civilization that left behind the ominous artifact (someone should have thrown a bone up in the air in front of it to see if it would turn into a space station). This film was not exactly a bumper crop of opportunities for actresses, but Szostakiwskyj deals pretty forthrightly with both sides of masculinity—the cerebral reserve and the arm-chopping violence.

Arguably, Mountain is a little too quiet, soaking up atmosphere when it should be getting somewhere quicker. The primary characters are also a bit tricky to differentiate from one another. Mostly, they are smart, intense, and liberally appointed with facial hair. Still, Michael Dickson makes all of Olsen’s anthropological speculation sound cool.

While its horror movie mechanics are a tad off, the creepy vibe and distinct sense of place elevate Mountain above most indie genre outings. It the sort of film that makes viewers feel chilly in the moment and inspires gratitude they live in major metropolitan centers after their screenings. Recommended for fans of naturalistic horror films, Black Mountain Side screens tonight (2/7), next Sunday (2/15), and the following Wednesday (2/18), as part of this year’s SF Indie Fest.

Slamdance ’15: Concrete Love

Pritzker Prize winner Gottfried Böhm and his three architect sons might be the world’s preeminent modernists, but the function of many of their buildings is to harken back to the past. With churches, mosques, World War II memorials, and an Egyptology museum to their collective credit, the Böhms have built, but they find themselves at a personal and professional crossroads in Maurizius Staerkle Drux’s documentary, Concrete Love: the Böhm Family (trailer here), which screened during the 2015 Slamdance Film Festival in Park City.

As the only German Pritzker laureate, Gottfried Böhm is the unquestioned head of the clan and of their family practice. His overwhelmingly dominant stature leads to issues and tensions within the family unit, particularly with respect to his wife Elisabeth. She was once a promising junior architect as well, but she permanently deferred her career to raise their children. She has long suffered from dementia when Drux starts observing the family, but she soon succumbs to age and infirmity.

Despite her failing health, the Böhm sons miss their mother’s stabilizing influence. Resentments of the patriarch start to become more pronounced, especially as the sons face their own particular professional challenges. Stephan is determined to get a toehold in the exploding Chinese market, even though he is a bit put off to learn architects are largely considered on par with contractors and workmen in the People’s Republic (arguably, a rare expression of egalitarianism in the increasingly stratified nation). Meanwhile, Paul Böhm is growing exasperated with the budget cuts and aesthetically dubious demands imposed on him by the strange network of patrons behind his mega-mosque project. Believe it or not, we sort of get the sense he is being set up to be some kind of scapegoat.

At least Peter Böhm sort of gets the last laugh at the opening of the Museum of Egyptian Art he designed. He had clashed with his father over its deceptively simple, boxy layout. Yet, once Drux takes his cameras inside, we get a sense of how its imposing massiveness evokes the great monumental structures of ancient Egypt and how the surprisingly airy open spaces serve the exhibitions. It really has a cool sense of place.

Of course, the elder Böhm has plenty of striking buildings to his credit as well. Indeed, seeing the family’s greatest hits is one of the best parts of Concrete. To his credit, Drux has a good eye for both architecture and familial drama. In a case of good news-bad news, his approach is probably too detached to feel voyeuristic or intrusive. As a result though, the pace can be a bit leisurely at times, but the film is clearly intended for a cultured audience with a sustainable attention span. Respectfully recommended for those interested in post-war architecture, Concrete Love will likely screen at many art-focused and German language festivals over the coming year, following its North American premiere at this year’s Slamdance Film Festival.

Aleksei Guerman at Anthology: Trial on the Road

It suggests the Red Army was often less than heroic during the Second World War, and implies treason is sometimes an understandable option during unreasonable times. You had better believe it was banned by the Soviet government. Frankly, it is hard to imagine how it was ever greenlighted in the first place. Of course, by western standards, it is a relatively restrained portrayal of the absurdity and petty cruelty of war, but it was far too potent for the state authorities. There will be little glory and absolutely no fun whatsoever to be found in war throughout Aleksei Guerman’s Trial on the Road, which screens during Anthology Film Archive’s mini Guerman film series.

Red Army Sergeant Alexander Lazarev defected to the Germans, lured by the promise of an easier life. In the short term, he would have been considerably more comfortable if he had stayed with the Germans. However, he allows himself to be captured out of a rekindled sense of patriotism. Naturally, he meets with a decidedly mixed receptive. Many new comrades, including the unit’s political officer, are in favor of summary execution.

Fortunately, the nominal commanding officer has other ideas. He would much prefer to see Lazarev die a redemptive death during a recklessly dangerous assignment. While there is no shortage of peril during Lazarev’s missions, it just seems like everyone else does all the dying.

From a Communist censor’s perspective, that kneejerk political officer has to be especially problematic, but Trial is veritable minefield of objectionable material. Its entire interpretation of reality contradicts the old Soviet mother-myth of the “Great Patriotic War.” People are cheap and the Communist war machine will dispose of them as it pleases.

Vladimir Zamansky is absolutely riveting as Lazarev. He is a completely convincing battle-hardened and world-weary hardnose, but when he periodically breaks down, overwhelmed by pointless barbarity of the war, it is heavy stuff. Likewise, Oleg Borisov supplies a powerful counterpunch as Solomin, one of Lazarev’s bitterest detractors, who pays dearly for a lesson in forgiveness.

Trial is an incredible film that combines tragedy and absurdity in a manner that feels so quintessentially Russian. The striking black-and-white cinematography and slightly surreal backdrops also show the early, subtle hallmarks of Guerman’s mature style. It is a shame Trial (his first sole directorial credit) and My Friend Ivan Lapshin (his third film, not released fourteen years later), were censored for so long. He was an extraordinary cinematic storyteller and stylist, but he was on the outs with the Soviet power structure during most of what should have been his peak creative years. Once again, the entire world has been impoverished by Communism. One of the best war films you will see on a New York screen this year, Trial on the Road screens again this Tuesday (2/10) as part of Anthology Film Archives’ Guerman mini-retrospective.

Sundance ’15: Cop Car

Seriously, does anyone still think keeping the car keys under the sun visor is a good idea? If anyone ought to know better, it should be a corrupt sheriff. Regardless, while burying a body, he leaves them in that conveniently obvious place for two mischievous ten year-olds. A dangerous joyride commences in Jon Watts’ Cop Car, which screened at the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

When you see Kevin Bacon playing a sheriff, you have to think he ought to be out there arresting kids for dancing. Instead, Sheriff Kretzer is in bed with a number of dodgy underworld types. Travis and Harrison just happened to blunder along at the right time to take his cruiser for a spin. Obviously, this is trouble for Kretzer. He can hardly explain why he was in the middle of scrub grass nowhere in the first place, let alone how he could allow his wheels to be swiped out from under him.

However, by claiming a faulty radio, he can get dispatch calling in regularly on his cell, as he madly dashes home, while still pretending to be on patrol. Eventually, Kretzer starts tracking the kids in his own pick-up, but troublesome witnesses will inevitably cross their paths.

As Travis and Harrison, James Freedson-Jackson and Hays Wellford really look and sound like real life kids (as they are), trying their darnedest to act tough through foul language and what they think is cool posturing. Watts taps into a sort of archetypal Stand By Me-Huck Finn youth-on-the-fateful-road vibe that gives the film more resonance than one might expect. Kevin Bacon is also entertainingly sleazy and cunning as Kretzer. Unfortunately, the film is more than a tad underwritten, with a fair amount of time-killing required in between its inspired scenes.

Camryn Manheim and Shea Whigham do what they can with their small, near cameo roles, but they do not provide much connective help in the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game. Cinematographers Matthew J. Lloyd and Larkin Seiple capture the big expansive emptiness of the Colorado plains and highways. Frankly, we can understand how the boys could do something so rash and potentially hazardous out of unsupervised boredom. Despite pacing issues, Cop Car is recommended for its atmosphere and Bacon’s salty turn, following its recent premiere at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

Lovesick: A Bad Case of Heartburn

Some guys get tongue-tied around the object of their affections. Unfortunately, Charlie Darby is not one of them. If he were, things would be much more pleasant for him, as well as us, the unsuspecting audience. Instead, he will be caught up in one painful-to-watch flight of jealousy lunacy after another in Luke Matheny’s Lovesick (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

According his friend Jason’s voiceovers, Darby is a great guy and a swell boss. He just thought the often-dumped elementary school principal was profoundly unlucky in love, until he witnesses our story first-hand. Despite swearing off romance, Darby meets Molly Kingston at a wedding and quickly falls for her. It is hard to blame him. She is a cute dance instructor who sings in an eighties cover band and regularly takes her grandmother on lovely vacations. If she has any faults, Dean Young’s screenplay never shows them.

On the other hand, whenever Darby is interested in a woman, his neurotic imagination concocts bizarre scenarios that fuel his manic jealousy, but have no basis in reality. Time and again, Darby sabotages his own relationships, by acting like an insane jerkweed. For some reason, Kingston is more tolerant of his acting out, but it is only a matter of time before he pushes her away for good.

Presumably, Lovesick was envisioned as a throwback to the sort of screwball rom-com farces Blake Edwards had such a touch with, but it falls far short. Frankly, watching Darby humiliate himself over and over just gets to be a sour viewing experience. Of course, Matt LeBlanc is a dubious stand-in for Dudley Moore.

Arguably, the predominance of TV actors might subconsciously make Lovesick feel even smaller in stature. LeBlanc (Friends, Joey, Episodes) mugs shamelessly and takes plenty of unnecessary pratfalls, but you can’t say he isn’t trying. Ali Larter (Heroes, Legends) somehow maintains her dignity as Kingston, but it is impossible to believe her and LeBlanc’s Darby are together. Chevy Chase (Community, SNL, The Chevy Chase Show for twenty-five awkward nights) also turns up from time to time as Darby’s anti-social porn-obsessed neighbor, so he’s likely just playing himself. Adam Rodriguez (C.S.I. Miami) is perfectly respectable as Jason, but the character is probably even described as a thankless role in the script. Somewhat frustratingly, Kristen Johnston (3^rd Rock from the Sun) gets some of the biggest laughs but has the briefest screen time as the child psychiatrist assigned to Darby’s school.

Matheny seems like a nice guy and his Oscar winning short film God of Love is absolutely terrific. Since he neither wrote Lovesick nor appears in a featured role, we can hopefully conclude this was a work-for-hire gig he can quickly move on from. For what it is worth, he keeps the film moving along at a good pace, despite the sticky cloyingness of the material.

There are worse crimes against cinema than Lovesick, but it still just doesn’t work. A disappointment for the fans of all involved, it opens tomorrow (2/6) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Sundance ’15: Station to Station

Where can hipsterdom and traditional Americana come together in common purpose? Evidently, along our nation’s railways. Neither wants to be tied down, nor are either in any particularly hurry. Collaborating with musicians who would feel at home either at Lollapalooza or on Austin City Limits, Doug Aitken documents a twenty-four day coast-to-coast train trip in sixty-one one-minute shorts films (plus beginning and end credits), assembling it all into the restless, slightly avant-garde concert doc, Station to Station (trailer here), which screened at the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

Granted, Aitken’s preferred term of “happenings” is pretty cringey, but the ten stops his transcontinental train made for multi-disciplinary performances mostly look like a lot of fun. It seems the music never stopped, as performer after performer gets their one minute feature spot, sometimes at the happening, other times on the speeding train.

A pair of flamenco dancers, an old school western auctioneer, and the Kansas City Marching Cobras are particularly fun to watch, because they have tons of talent, but they are hardly recognizable celebrities. However, big name recording stars like Beck and Thurston Moore bring their A-game, perhaps even winning over new fans. Of course, nobody can out power soul legend Mavis Staples. Perhaps the biggest surprise is the appearance of Giorgio “Flashdance” Moroder, but it is pretty cool to see him do his thing on the synthesizer.

Despite its linear direction and the imposed limits of the train, Station is a largely shapeless film. However, it has a lot of energy and it is visually quite stylish. Whether it be the lonely desert vistas, the warm glow of an electronica performance, or the evocative sight of Aitken’s movable light show of a train hurtling through the night, he and co-cinematographer Corey Walter always make the rapidly changing visuals look great. On the other hand, when he invites spoken word commentary from the likes of Gary Indiana, we mostly get annoyingly folksy dialectics.

Frankly, Station to Station probably isn’t experimental enough to sit comfortably in Sundance’s New Frontiers section, but it is hard to see where it would more easily fit. It certainly moves along at a good clip. Like Midwest weather, if you’re not digging it, just wait a minute and it will change. Rather pleasant overall, Station to Station is recommended for listeners of Sonic Youth and Patti Smith, as well as the sort of neo-roots artists profiled in No Depression. Having just notched a number of international sales, Station to Station should find its audience after world-premiering at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

Aleksei Guerman at Anthology: My Friend Ivan Lapshin

How can you be nostalgic for the bad times? Because they are the old times. For instance, our narrator looks back rather fondly on the early days of Stalinism. He and his father were fortunate to share their flat with the local police constable. That meant there were only five (and later six) people crammed into the apartment. How spacious. Even without depicting the Stalinist terror, there is still plenty of scarcity and absurdity in Aleksei Guerman’s My Friend Ivan Lapshin (trailer here), which screens as part of a mini-Guerman (sometimes translated as German) retrospective now running at Anthology Film Archives in conjunction with the premiere theatrical release of Guerman’s Hard to be a God.

There is not much sugar in this sleepy village of revolutionary fervor, but there always seems to be some in Lapshin’s flat. The town will also get a treat in the form of a traveling agitprop stage performance. The show is a bad as it sounds, but Lapshin still falls Natasha Adasova, a demur featured actress. They will have some laughs together, but unfortunately, it will be Lapshin’s suicidal journalist friend Khanin who turns her head.

However, Lapshin has another obsession to fall back on: capturing the dreaded Solovyey gang. It is not clear just what crimes the Solovyey outfit has committed, but their (comparative) liberty rankles Lapshin. Frankly, they seem to be born out of the same cloth of economic desperation that gave rise to Bonnie and Clyde—and their ability to evade justice (probably due to their considerable local support) arguably undercuts the state’s authority.

One thing is certain, everyone spends a good deal of time in queues, struggling with shortages, except Lapshin, who goes out of his way to bust black market firewood peddlers. Yet, somehow he seems like a decent fellow, in a rigid, stentorian sort of way, perhaps because we might guess what sort of trials and travails lie ahead for him.

Although Friend is far more accessible and narrative-driven than HTBAG, the vibes of the respective films are not so very different. In both cases, characters exist in a state of constant chaos, yet they live in an environment of near total stasis. Both films are distinguished by their striking black-and-white cinematography, but there is something about the dreamy vibe that keeps us at arm’s length.

Andrei Boltnev is commandingly tragic as the severe Lapshin, while Andrey Mironov makes a strangely charismatic sad sack as Khanin. Nina Ruslanova’s Adasova also brings sufficient heat to let us buy into their love triangle. Indeed, it is quite a fine example of ensemble acting, but it is still a rather odd film to watch, because Guerman is being so deliberately cagey with his allegorical implications, for obvious reasons.

Nevertheless, Friend was duly banned by the authorities for fourteen years, finally seeing the light of day in the late 1980s. Reportedly, it was deemed an insufficiently heroic portrayal of the early days of socialism building. It was also an awkward, sometimes even sarcastic reminder they had been building socialism for five decades, but things were as crummy as ever. Recommended as a fascinating historical document not without its own artistic merits, My Friend Ivan Lapshin screens again this coming Monday (2/9), as part of the Guerman series at Anthology Film Archives.

Slamdance ’15: 20 Years of Madness

In 1988, Mystery Science Theater 3000 debuted on Minnesota’s struggling independent KTMA with little fanfare, but it was just too funny not to go national. High school student Jerry White, Jr. assumed the same was true of his raucous suburban Detroit cable access show, 30 Minutes of Madness (30MOM). You could legitimately debate whether this was true or not, but the fact remains he never received the big league call-up he was hoping for. Twenty years later, White tries to get the gang together to take another shot at it. Jeremy Royce documents the unruly reunion in 20 Years of Madness (trailer here), which won the Jury Honorable Mention for Documentary Feature at the 2015 Slamdance Film Festival.

Based on the generous samplings of weird and wacky clips, the original 30MOM looks like a cross between the slapstick stunts of Jackass and The Kids in the Hall at their most conceptual. Although it was an analogue VHS deal, through and through, White had a facility for pulling off strange visual effects. Perhaps they could have caught on, but like every cult band that didn’t make it big, they imploded from within before they ever got that big break.

Having recently graduated from film school (where he met Royce), White is now at loose ends. Since 30MOM is still his best known calling card, he tries to revive it with his old colleagues. White will more or less admit his runaway ego was most to blame for poisoning the chemistry the first time around. Everyone seems to be willing to make another go of it, but some seem more willing to patch up old resentments than others.

One of the strange things about 20YOM is the way the various players shrink and grow in stature over time. Sometimes White seems to be reverting to his old high-handed ways, but as we listen difficult cast-members whine and play the diva card, it is hard to blame him for telling them where to get off. Happily, he seems be able to permanently repair his friendship with Joe Hornacek, who was probably the second most important 30MOM contributor after White.

It is rather fascinating to see what the motley crew does with their possible second chance. After all, no 30MOM alumnus has exactly set the world on fire. One lost about a decade to heroin addiction, while another struggled with Bi-Polar disorder. At least, White and Hornacek could reconnect for real, which is a rather hopeful development.

At times, White is rather contemptuous of youtube, explaining 30MOM had viewers who made a real time commitment to find and watch their show, rather than net surfers hitting the “like” button. Those who share his affection for the VHS tapes and cable broadcasting of the 1980s and 1990s will get his point. Even if you never saw 30MOM, 20YOM will make you nostalgic for the era that produced it. Who knows, now that Royce’s doc has at least one festival award under its belt, maybe the 30MOM show could see some kind of release on the increasingly obsolete format known as DVDs? Recommended for anyone who still feels more comfortable with old school media (and the grungier the better), 20 Years of Madness screened at this year’s Slamdance Film Festival.

Sundance ’15: Knock Knock

Eli Roth digs Chile and they dig him back. He’s like Hasselhoff over there, so its not surprising he shoehorned in some Chilean references, shot in Chile (Santiago doubling for the Hollywood Hills) and featured two Chilean actresses (one being his wife, Lorenza Izzo) in his latest film. However, the love affair might end once they get a load of his new psycho-sexual home invasion thriller, Knock Knock (trailer here), which premiered at the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

Evan Webber is an architect and a committed family man, but he still remembers his glory days as a DJ. He is home alone working on a commission while his artist wife and kids spend the weekend at the beach. Unfortunately, Webber’s dope smoking is soon interrupted by a fateful knock at the door. That will be Genesis and Bel Who, two party girl flight attendants who got lost in the rain looking for a friend’s bash. At least that is their initial story.

As Webber lets them in to dry off, they start flirting hard. Honestly, flirting is not a strong enough term. They practically wrestle him to the ground and have their way with him. Yet, the opening act is surprisingly effective pitting his awkward attempts at evasion against their sexed-up seduction techniques. There is a sly give-and-take or ebb-and-flow to this first half hour or so, but unfortunately it is completely jettisoned once Webber inevitably succumbs to temptation.

From here on out, Genesis and Bel become moralizing fatal attractions, who declare Webber must pay for his transgressions. Suddenly, Webber is fighting for his life and the well-being of his family, but he never stands a chance. The ladies just keeping beating him down at every turn. Perhaps this constitutes some sort of subversive feminist statement, but as dramatic arcs go, it is pretty darn flat.

One of the biggest disappointments of Knock Knock is the speed bump it drops in front of the Keanu Reeves comeback express. Everyone primed for more badassery after John Wick and Man of Tai Chi, will be let down by this Nic Cage-ish turn. Let’s face it, we don’t want to watch Reeves losing his cool. We want him to be silent, but violent. Still, Izzo and Ana de Armas are sufficiently ferocious and they look good soaking wet, so at least they keep their end up, in exploitation terms.

Knock Knock is largely based on-inspired by the 1977 cult exploiter Death Game, which featured producer Colleen Camp and executive producer Sondra Locke tormenting Seymour Cassel, so there is precedent for everything that feels like a misfire. It is a bit of a departure for Roth, but despite the lack of gore, it still really doesn’t work. It is all cat-toying-with-the-mouse with no promise of table-turning to keep things interesting. Regardless of its shortcomings, Knock Knock was picked up by Lionsgate, so expect to hear more from it following its midnight screenings at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

The Voices: Satrapi Tells an American Psycho Tale

Do you think talking cats are cute, like Garfield? Well, think again. Anthropomorphism can be a sinister business, but don’t worry, talking dogs are still cool. Regrettably, poor luckless Jerry Hickfang hears them both in Marjane Satrapi’s The Voices (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Forklift-driving Hickfang is clearly trying too hard to be liked by his co-workers at the Milton faucet and bath factory, but he seems harmless enough. Of course, they do not hear the conversations he has with his cat, Mr. Whiskers, and his loyal canine, Bosco. Mr. Whiskers does not suffer fools gladly. In fact, he is all in favor of killing them. In contrast, the dim-witted but affectionate Bosco always tries to find the best in people. Fortunately, good old Bosco can usually counterbalance Mr. Whiskers’ devilish influence, but it gets difficult when Hickfang is under emotional stress.

Despite what he tells his court-ordered psychiatrist, Hickfang has gone off his meds (hence the conversations with his pets). To make matters worse, getting the brush-off from Fiona, the British office sexpot, will hardly help his mental stability. Still, Lisa, her slightly more demur office-mate, continues to carry a torch for him. She might be his perfect match, but it is hard to envision Hickfang developing a healthy relationship, especially when we see his apartment without the happy haze of his dementia.

Along with Mississippi Grind at this year’s Sundance, The Voices ought to give Ryan Reynolds’ career a new lease on life. If nothing else, he ought to be able to find plentiful cartoon voice-over work, because his voices for Mr. Whiskers and Bosco are terrific. Who knew he could do such a pitch-perfect snippy Scottish accent for the former? He also does quite an impressive job conveying Hickfang’s naïve earnestness, along with his mounting mania. He is a tragic monster, in the Lon Chaney, Jr.-Wolfman tradition, who does not want to kill, but puts himself in that position through his own disastrous, but understandable, decision-making.

Frankly, it is hard to understand why it takes Hickfang so long to notice Anna Kendrick’s Lisa, but she definitely adds to the film’s energy and chemistry. Yet, the x-factor might be Jacki Weaver, who adds considerable humanity and authority to the film in her relatively brief turn as the over-worked Dr. Warren.

It is hard to imagine this is the same Satrapi who made Persepolis and Chicken with Plums, but she displays the same eye for visuals, employing color in bold and distinctive ways. When she contrasts Hickfang’s lunacy-tinged perspective with the film’s objective reality, it is quite effective. Cinematographer Maxime Alexandre gives it a warm, stylish sheen that somehow manages to feel slightly off, in the right way.

On paper, it all might sound rather sad and grubby, but it is actually a rather elegant little macabre tragedy. Recommended for genre audiences and fans of Reynolds and Kendrick, who want to see the thesps in a radically different context, The Voices opens this Friday (2/6) in New York, at the AMC Empire.

American Songbook at NJPAC: John Pizarelli

Maybe only Arthur Prysock ever experienced greater spillover success from a commercial gig than John Pizzarelli. For years, Pizzarelli got requests for the Foxwoods song, “The Wonder of it All,” but Prysock actually charted with “Here’s to Good Friends.” Of course, both also had a facility for interpreting the Great American Songbook, particularly Johnny Mercer in the case of Pizzarelli. The vocalist-guitarist takes the stage for an all Mercer concert for this week’s installment of American Songbook at NJPAC, premiering Wednesday night on NJTV.

Yes, it is all Mercer, but Pizzarelli also highlights the veritable hall of fame’s worth of collaborators he wrote with. It doesn’t get much more American Songbook than Jerome Kern, who composed the music for “Dearly Beloved.” Pizzarelli gives it a good healthy swing, featuring short but legit solos from Bud Burridge on trumpet and Kenny Berger on baritone. Acknowledging them by name, Pizzarelli gives the set an old school big band vibe, which is refreshing.

Shifting gears a bit, “Skylark,” written by Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael, gets a stripped down arrangement with only the barest of rhythmic support, but it’s the sort of melancholy song that lends itself to such treatment. However, the medley of Mercer’s four Academy Award winning songs really don’t really fit together so naturally, starting with “On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe” (Harold Arlen) and ending on with Mercer’s Henry Mancini collaborations, “The Days of Wine and Roses” and “Moon River.”

Pizzarelli cranks up the swing for an up-tempo high-energy rendition of “Something’s Gotta Give.” A bit surprisingly, he embraces some of Mercer’s more novelty-ish tunes, like “Goody Goody” and “Accentuate the Positive,” doing his best to keep them honest. Of course, Pizzarelli also has the sort of musical theater chops for those sort of numbers. In fact, he reminds the audience he met his wife, vocalist Jessica Molaskey when they were both performing in a Mercer show.

Unlike the Osnes and Fontana season opener, Pizzarelli never sits down for an interview segment with host Ted Chapin, but he has a lot more band to showcase. John Mosca on trombone, Ken Hitchcock on flute, and Konrad Paszkudzki on piano all get some nice, tasty solo spots, while drummer Kevin Kanner and Pizzarelli’s brother Martin on bass lay down rock solid support. (FYI, it is only a limited family affair, with neither their father, guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli, nor Molaskey making a guest appearance).

It is just a pleasure to hear good standards get a muscular going over. “Dearly Beloved” has an especially catchy and appealing melody, but it is not exactly overplayed, so it is quite nice to hear Pizzarelli put it into the mix. Thanks to NJTV and NJPAC, it is a lot of fun to have the chance to tap your toe along with the Mercer songbook Again, this is great original programming that ought to be a model for regional PBS stations. Highly recommended, American Songbook at NJPAC: John Pizzarelli premieres this Wednesday (2/4) on NJTV, with a later WNET Thirteen airdate scheduled for March 28^th.

(Photos: Daniel Cardenas/NJTV)

Sundance ’15: Hellions

One of the nice things about Manhattan walk-ups is trick-or-treaters never knock on your door. Instead, it is the local businesses that have to deal with them. Sure, you might think you would miss the little dears until you see Bruce McDonald’s Hellions (clip here), which screened during the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

Dora Vogel just got the super exciting news that she is pregnant—on Halloween. Seriously bummed out, she mopes around the house waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up, so she can spring the good news on him. However, he is running suspiciously late. With her mother and obnoxious younger brother out trick-or-treating, Vogel is stuck dealing with the persistent little buggers who keep coming to the door. They just aren’t satisfied with the dregs of her candy. When they show Vogel the head of her baby-daddy in their trick-or-treat bag, she realizes these little monster are as evil as they seem.

Of course, any horror fan knows the demonic trick-or-treaters really want the baby growing at a supernatural rate within Vogel. It turns out carrying a Halloween baby is a dangerous proposition in this paganistic neck of the woods. The creatures seem to be able to summon all kinds of elemental and inter-dimensional forces to help terrify Vogel. Somehow, the previously calm and rational Dr. Henry and Corman the local copper manage to reach Vogel, but they are essentially ineffectual dead meat. At least Corman brings guns, but they won’t be enough to stop the maniacal moppets. Only salt seems to do the trick.

McDonald certainly sets the creepy scene in Hellions, but compared to his cult classic Pontypool (arguably the best zombie film since the original Night of the Living Dead), it feels rather conventional. Granted, he opens it up rather well, turning the Vogel house into a surreal nightmarescape. Still, the film always fundamentally boils down to Vogel getting chased kids wearing burlap sacks.

Robert Patrick (T2, The X-Files) is still pretty awesome, delivering instant genre credibility as Corman. Rossif Sutherland also helps flesh out the good doctor, beyond being mere meat for the grinder. Unfortunately, Chloe Rose is a bit of a dull scream queen.

McDonald and cinematographer Norayr Kasper give the film an eerie, otherworldly look. Arguably, the implications of the film also support gun-ownership rights, because you never know when your home will be overrun by hellions. It gets the job done, but Pontypool admirers will be disappointed it isn’t more ambitious. Recommended for mostly fans of Patrick and evil children horror movies, Hellions is sure to make the genre festival rounds after premiering as a Park City at Midnight selection of this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

Sundance ’15: Listen to Me Marlon

Let’s be honest, the notion of Marlon Brando talking to himself probably isn’t that shocking. You might not have guessed it was through self-hypnosis tapes, but that probably still feels like it fits. They happened to be part of a large collection of private Brando recordings preserved by his estate. With its blessing, director-editor Stevan Riley has shaped this archive into a ghostly first-person confessional narrative, “written by” and “starring” the famous actor. The Brando that emerges is exactly what we expect, yet deeper and surprisingly revealing throughout Riley’s Listen to Me Marlon (clip here), which screened during the 2015 Sundance Film Festival, in advance of its future Showtime debut.

Through audio diaries and rarely seen interviews, Brando pretty much covers all his big career milestones (like Streetcar, Waterfront, Last Tango, and Godfather) as well as his more notorious misfires (Guys and Dolls, Mutiny on the Bounty, and Countess from Hong Kong). He also opens up regarding his troubled childhood and the profound influence of his acting teacher Stella Adler. Yet, as if often the case, some of the best sequences are relatively small moments, like his shameless flirting with a series of female interviewers during an early 1960s press junket.

Yes, Brando loved Tahiti, which he speaks of with deep affection. In fact, Brando is quite eloquent on his private tapes. Clearly, he is not speaking with an audience in mind, because he definitely lets his public mask slip. He is often painfully honest in his assessment of his own character and rather dismissive of much of his own work. His curt appraisal of his Oscar winning turn in On the Waterfront will be especially vexing to some fans, but it contains a real nugget of wisdom when recommends giving the audience the space to create a performance themselves. (Don’t you wish Meryl Streep had given us more of that kind of space in Osage County?).

Riley’s only real misstep is the overuse of a disembodied head, generated from a laser scanning session Brando consented to. It sort of breaks the intimate mood, evoking a Max Headroom vibe instead. However, the archival news reports of Brando tragic family scandals feel shockingly honest and raw. We get a sense the Brando on television and the private Brando were essentially one and the same.

For those of us who grew up when Letterman was still funny, it is strange to realize how spot-on Chris Elliott’s impersonations on the Late Show really were. All those Brandoisms are true, but we can understand better where they came from. Listen is the rare bio-doc that might make more fans for its subject, because it allows Brando to humanize himself. Recommended for fans of 1960s and 1970s Hollywood, Listen to Me Marlon was a hot ticket at this year’s Sundance Film Festival that should soon find a wide audience on Showtime.

Sundance ’15: Cartel Land

Dr. Jose Mireles is like a kindly Mexican Marcus Welby, except he also happens to be the leader of a group of paramilitary vigilantes. Tim “Nailer” Foley more looks the part of a border militiaman, but he shares a common enemy with Mireles. It is not the illegal immigrant per se that concerns him, but the drug cartels running the human trafficking business. Matthew Heineman documents the full scale breakdown of law and order south of the border and some of the resulting implications for American border towns in Cartel Land (teaser here), which screens today as an award winner at the 2015 Sundance Film Festival.

Perhaps the most disturbing thing about “El Doctor” Mireles’ Autodefensas organization is that they operate in the central state of Michoacán, far away from the border. Although Mireles originally attended Autodefensas organizing meetings wearing a mask, he was so recognizable, he simply chose to embrace his role as the group’s public face and spiritual leading. Under his guidance, Autodefensas has been on a roll, liberating town after town from their cartel occupiers. If that sounds like a military campaign, it darn well should.

Meanwhile, Nailer and his Arizona Border Recon group patrol what is known as “Cocaine Alley,” scouring the hills for the cartels’ spotters and traffic directors. Yes, they are also heavily armed. You do not challenge the drug cartels with good intentions and optimism.

Although Cartel Land started out as a project solely about American border patrol groups, Mireles and Autodefensas completely took over the film once Heineman widened the scope. Frankly, it seems like the film is not sure what to make of the Arizona scenes in light of the chaotic drama it documents in Mexico. You can practically feel the film shrug, as if to admit they might have a point.

In contrast, the sequences in Mexico are absolutely harrowing and massively telling. Early on, there is a mind-blowing scene in which an exasperated village rises up against a military unit trying to disarm the Autodefensas. They make it clear, in no uncertain terms, they consider the government to be in league with the cartels. They therefore put their trust in Autodefensas rather than the military. It is stunning stuff, but it should be noted not every village shares this sentiment.

No matter how you feel about the film, you have to give Heineman credit for making it under genuine battle conditions. He was there filming during live firefights, when nobody really knew who was shooting at whom or from where. This is legit war-reporting, just like Sebastian Junger’s Restrepo films.

Cartel Land does not necessarily endorse taking the law into one’s own hands. In fact, many of the scenes in Mexico illustrate the ethical perils of doing so. However, it leaves viewers with no illusions about the complete absence of the rule of law in Mexico today. You can question their on-the-ground tactics, but why it is painfully obvious why Dr. Mireles and his comrades joined together in Autodefensas. Arguably, the film might have been tightened up by editing out more of the Arizona material, but who would want to tell them they ended up on the cutting room floor?

Regardless, Cartel Land is quite an eye-opener as it is. (Since the current president refuses to visit the border, perhaps a private screening can be arranged for him). Recommended for anyone concerned affairs in our hemisphere, Cartel Land screens today (2/1) as a U.S. Documentary Competition winner at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.