Sahkanaga: Puppy Love and Rotting Bodies

Life as an undertaker’s son was probably not easy for a Georgia teenager, even before the crematory scandal.  Based on the notorious case of over three hundred supposedly cremated bodies discovered dumped in the Blue Hills, John Henry Summerour’s adds a slightly macabre spin on the tried and true coming of age tale in Sahkanaga (trailer here), which opens this Friday in Brooklyn and Atlanta.

Sheriff Kershaw dies a bad death.  A popular public figure, the entire town mourns his passing.  Of course, the anti-social Paul is hardly grief-stricken.  Frankly, he is quite okay with the Sheriff’s untimely demise, since it was the catalyst bringing his granddaughter Lyla to their sleepy town.  She makes quite the impression on the awkward teen when as he assists his father with the funeral.  Much to his surprise, Paul finds the Sheriff’s body sprawled out in the woods shortly thereafter.

Paul’s father subcontracts cremations to the amiable Chris.  Yes, his one man operation is the most affordable on offer, but he always seems reliable.  Unfortunately, Chris clearly has issues Summerour only hints at.  However, he also might be able to incriminate Paul for a stupid kid mistake he now sorely regrets.  Naturally, the truth will eventually come out, forcing Paul’s family to face the community’s understandable anger.

The summer infatuation story is rather standard stuff, but at least co-leads Trevor Neuhoff and Kristin Rievley look like real life kids.  Surprisingly though (particularly for a film screening in Dumbo, Brooklyn), Sahkanaga treats themes of faith seriously and fairly.  The Walker County citizenry are church goers, but that does not make them closet hypocrites.  It turns out the Sheriff was, but that subplot is merciful left to wither on the vine.  In contrast, rather than a venal predator, the town’s television prayer line host is a sympathetically dotty elderly lady.  Viewers rather feel for her when she is pulled into the grisly tale.

The fact that the troubled Chris is African American is neither belabored nor ignored.  Likewise, the responses to his crimes run the gamut of social enlightenment.  This is not a film out to score cheap shots against the Deep South.  As a result, Sahkanaga feels grounded in reality without getting preachy or burying its head in the sand.  Richly nuanced, Charles Patterson’s performance as the cremator is low key, but quite powerful.  It really helps make the film.

Summerour’s pay-off is subtle, but it stays with you.  Ultimately, Sahkanaga suggests faith might indeed help people face adversity.  Despite the somewhat weak presence of its protagonist, it is a distinctive film, capturing a vivid sense of place. A mature, forgiving work, Sahkanaga is worth seeing, if playing somewhere relatively convenient.  Recommended for patrons of the indie film scene and Southern audiences, Sahkanaga opens this Friday (12/7) at the ReRun Gastropub in Brooklyn and Plaza Theatre in Atlanta.

What’s Still Wrong with Virginia

Screenwriter turned director Dustin Lance Black deserves some credit.  It is difficult to admit your indie labor of love just isn’t happening, but Black forthrightly faced up to the uniformly negative reception for What’s Wrong with Virginia at Toronto and headed back to the editing bay.  Unfortunately, the problems are just too deeply rooted in the film now simply titled Virginia (trailer here), which nevertheless belatedly opens in New York today.

Emmett’s mother Virginia is sleeping with Sheriff Tipton, the holier than thou Mormon state senate candidate in a judgmental southern town.  At least, she was until she became too great a political liability.  Emmett deeply resents Tipton for tarnishing his mother’s reputation with their brazen carrying-on.  Tipton wants no part of Emmett either and he expressly forbids the sullen youth from seeing his daughter Jessie.  After all, he has been paying calls on Virginia for quite some time, if you follow.  Emmett fully understands this fact, but he doesn’t care.  As he pursues Jessie, his mother slowly begins to breakdown mentally.  She convinces herself she is pregnant (causing no end of embarrassment for Tipton) and contemplates some rash criminal acts.  Still, she is cool enough to give Emmett’s courtship of Jessie her blessings.

Evidently, in the previous cut much of this was presented as farcical comedy.  Black certainly succeeded in draining all the ostensive humor out of the film, which sounds like it is just as well.  While the dreary tone might be more consistent, huge problems remain.  The gauzy, nostalgic cinematography (and to a certain extent the costumes) give the film a 1950’s-early 1960’s vibe, but the cars and set trappings are clearly of a later vintage.  It is also hard to figure out where this could all take place.  From what the audience is told, this is a small town in the Deep South, politically and socially dominated by Mormons, within easy driving distance of Atlantic City.  Okay, find that on the map for us.

This is not just a matter of splitting pedantic hairs.  Penned by Black, the ex-Mormon Big Love scribe, Virginia’s screenplay is far too concerned with schooling people the director disagrees with, such as his former co-religionists, southerners, and Republicans (presumably), than telling a coherent story.  Nor is there much character development here, but rather a reliance on stereotypes.  Tipton is a conservative Mormon, therefore he is a hypocrite.  Virginia is a “free spirit,” so she must be saintly. 

Indeed, Tipton’s kinky laundry is predictably and repeatedly aired in public, lest we miss the point.  What can be said of a narrative that hinges on the realization Sheriff Tipton allowed a reality TV show to film him walking from a crime scene to the town’s fallen woman next door for a bit of action on the side?  The purpose of this review is hardly to give cheaters tips to prevent detection, but duh.

Jennifer Connelly is quite compelling as Virginia, but she portrays the title character as such a lost little girl in a state of perpetually arrested development, it adds layer of creepiness to the lurid sexual content.  Conversely, Ed Harris is nothing more than a caricature as Tipton.

It is really heavy to think this is the new and improved Virginia.  Those poor misfortunate souls in Toronto must have taken quite a hit for the team.  It is still pretty bad.  Not recommended for anyone, Virginia opens today (5/18) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Meth and Facial Hair: Cook County

Dealing crystal meth ought to be pretty darn recession-proof, but “Uncle Bump” has still found ways to mismanage his business. Like Tony Montana, he has become his own best customer. This leads to some rather tense moments for his family in David Pomes’ Cook County (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Abe is miserable living with his drug-addled uncle. Acting as the gopher for the slipshod meth operation, Abe is regularly sent into to town to buy up all the cold medicine from the oblivious general store. However, he forces himself to stay, so he can watch out for his little cousin. Though not explicitly abusive towards her, Bump opens up their home to all kinds of unsavory elements. Honest Abe initially hopes things will improve when his father, confusingly named Sonny, returns home from a stretch in the big house. However, it quickly becomes clear there simply will be no talking to Bump, while Sonny appears to have his own secretive agenda.

Cook should not be considered a redneck Scarface. Despite the madness engulfing Bump, Pomes de-emphasizes the genre elements, opting instead for a grittily naturalistic vibe. As a result, viewers do not have an action-driven escape hatch whenever Pomes shows us something disturbing (which he does, often). Rather, we are essentially stuck there, forced to revel in the meanness of it all.

While such white trash voyeurism is fairly shopworn indie grist, Cook is notable for allowing a pair of dependable character actors a turn in the spotlight. Currently generating some career heat in AMC’s Hell on Wheels, Anson Mount is frighteningly intense as the increasingly paranoid Bump. He certainly looks like a psycho-junkie. Yet, it is Xander Berkeley (the ill-fated George Mason on 24) who really delivers the goods as Sonny. He convincingly creates a multifaceted portrait of a tragically Machiavellian small-timer.

As a salvo in the cultural wars, Cook is largely a wash. The Evangelical rich relations in Houston really are portrayed as good-hearted God-fearing people. On the other hand, Bump’s periodic preening in front of American flags certainly seems to imply a commentary on Red State voters and values. There are some meaty performances in Cook, but viewers will know exactly where it is headed and it is not a lot of fun getting there. It opens tomorrow (12/16) in New York at the Cinema Village, just in time for the holidays.

ADIFF ’11: Mother Country

Dwight Porter starts out as a character from a gritty inner city crime drama, but becomes Tom Joad. Life on the open highways is hard, but at least it is living in Maria Breaux’s Mother Country (trailer here), which screens tonight and tomorrow night at the 2011 African Diaspora International Film Festival.

Porter is a weak young man living in a predatory environment. He knows better, but he still lets his cousin goad him into doing wrong. Unfortunately, this leads to tragedy when he inadvertently kills an innocent girl as part of meaningless feud. More out fear than guilt, he literally walks away from the scene, heading to California from Austin, Texas, on foot.

That is a brutal hike, but Porter finds some help along the way. Frankly, the sullen protagonist is a problematic POV figure, but the way the predominantly white exurbanites react to him is surprisingly intriguing and nuanced. While they span the gamut, they are often quite compassionate, or Christian, as some of them put it.

Even though Porter changes his surroundings, we see he still carries the resulting psychological baggage. Indeed, the nub of the film really concerns whether or not Porter can come to terms with his emotional issues. Still, at least he sees some action on the road.

Though shot on a shoestring, Country boasts a mostly (though not entirely) professional grade cast, including Tabatha Shaun, bright and engaging as Leah, one of the ships Porter passes in the night. Of particularly interest to those of us who came up in the 80’s, Ferris Bueller’s mom, Cindy Pickett, has a substantial supporting role as Porter’s former high school teacher Pamela Dupree. She has several scenes of uncomfortable honesty that really help make the picture. As Porter, Thomas Galasso is actually rather effective when he shakes off his character’s extreme reserve, but he currently lacks that dynamic presence to prevent viewers from getting restive during his many scenes of silent wandering.

Breaux really is on to something with Country, presenting Porter’s first meaningful adult encounters with those outside his race and class, in a sharply-observed, even-keeled manner. In fact, she is clearly tougher on Porter than any of her other supporting players. This is not mumblecore (thank the merciful lord). Country is headed in a very definite direction that is rather interesting, more often than not. Though understandably a bit uneven, those who seriously track the indie film scene should check out Country when it screens tonight and tomorrow night (12/6 & 12/7) at the 2011 ADIFF.

Why Everyone Hates LA: Answers to Nothing

Evidently, every narcissistic, self-deluding, sexually dysfunctional loser in Los Angeles is baffled by the emptiness of their lives. It is not much of a mystery, but Matthew Leutwyler plumbs it nonetheless in Answers to Nothing (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Everyone is connected in Answers, but no one is happy. Frankie Graylin is a cop investigating a missing child. Her friend Kate is trying to get artificial inseminated with Ryan, her headshrinker husband who is cheating on her with Tara, the grungy singer-songwriter, who gigs at the club where Evan works, when he is not going out Ryan’s patient Allegra, an African-American who “hates black people” and owns the dog that chased the cat that killed the rat that ate the cheese that lay in the house that Jack built.

Admittedly, the hunt for the young girl is not exactly groundbreaking, but it could have been fleshed out into a serviceable episode of Law & Order: Whatever. Instead, Answers gives us a whole lot of people doing nothing much at all. Granted, Leutwyler does not obsessively force his characters to constantly cross paths, but at least such contrivances would be something to watch. Even the cop story is hamstrung by bizarre tonal shifts. One minute Graylin is giggling like a school girl when her prime suspect hits on her, while in her next scene she is hounding him like Harry Callahan. Though not particularly explicit per se, the film also has several sexual scenes that are rather off-putting in their skuzziness.

If there is one bright spot in Answers, it would have to be the highly charismatic Kali Hawk as Allegra. Unfortunately, Leutwyler totally chickens out with her sessions, promising a probing examination of racial identity, but delivering hallmark card sentiment instead. Why Dane Cook was cast as Dr. Ryan is rather inexplicable, but in all honesty, he is probably as funny in Answers as he has ever been. Yet, the real casting miscue must be Barbara Hershey appearing as his mother Marilyn, despite the fact she looks maybe ten years older than him—twelve at tops.

Don’t these x-degree-of-separation films give you a headache? This is not Short Cuts. It sort of is Crash, but that is not meant as a compliment. Instead of portraying dozens of shallow characters, indie filmmakers should just pick a handful, deepen them and then build a legitimate story around them. That did not happen here. Safely skippable, the tiresome Answers opens today (12/2) in New York at the Village 7 and at the Kew Gardens Cinemas in the County of Queens.

Family, Indie Style: The Family Tree

The Burnetts are like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting, with their sex, drugs, and guns. They are just your typical dysfunctional suburbanites who find it much easier to live together after Mom is stricken with amnesia in Vivi Friedman’s The Family Tree (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Even family counselors can’t deal with the Burnetts. Jack, the father, is an emotionally frozen man in a grey flannel suit. His wife Bunnie is an aspiring lunching lady, who is carrying on an affair with the next door neighbor—at least. Son Eric has only one talent, marksmanship, which the Hunter S. Thompson-esque Reverend Diggs encourages, while his sister gets attention acting the part of the high school tramp. They are so caught up in their petty preoccupations, they do not notice the dead body hanging their front yard, the victim of a freak peeping accident. Rockwell had a painting for that too, right?

As usual, Tree presents a clichéd stereotype of corporate life and activist Christianity. Particularly problematic is the gang of super-Christian high school enforcers the Burnett son falls in with. At least Diggs is not presented as a bad type, unequivocally condemning their tactics, in between target practice and tokes. One might even argue the film presents thinly disguised NRA members in affectionate, if still caricatured terms.

In truth, Tree is built around a clever gimmick, the amnesiac suddenly interested in being a wife and mother now that she can no longer remember her family’s multitude of shortcomings and disappointments. However, Mark Lisson’s screenplay is so overstuffed with attempts at naughty humor, it is nearly impossible to buy in on an emotional level. Mostly, the film is like a series of gags held together with self-consciously quirky family drama, but to be fair, some of the jokes are funny.

Somehow amid the affected madness, Dermot Mulroney creates a likeable, sympathetic portrait of the emasculated corporate wage slave. As his wife Bunnie, Indie stalwart Hope Davis changes gears quite convincingly as well. Unfortunately, the teenaged cast is rather underwhelming. Still, Gabrielle Anwar entertainingly vamps it up as corporate down-sizer Nina, (looking sultry yet worlds different than she did tangoing with Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman). In a slight bit of type-casting, Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks also appears as a busty administrative assistant, but has literally nothing to do.

The Finnish born Friedman keeps Tree moving along at a decent pace, yet it is clear the film has little affection for any aspect of its characters’ lives. Lacking real satirical insight, Tree just delivers inconsistent American Pie style laughs. Somewhat diverting viewing on a lazy afternoon (at most), the middling Tree should wait for cable. For those fired up for its admittedly interesting cast, it opens tomorrow (8/26) in New York at the Village East.

What's Eating Terri

Yes, those are pajamas, but the high school kid wearing them to class is no Hefner. He is a rather sad and lonely young person, whose closest friend might actually be the school’s vice-principal in Azazel Jacobs’ Terri, which opens this Friday in New York.

Beyond his odd wardrobe and unmistakable “huskiness,” Terri Thompson just does not fit in with his peers, but he does not seem to want to. His parents are gone, for reasons implied perhaps, but never overtly stated. He lives with his late middle-aged Uncle James, whose faculties are slowly ebbing away, largely inverting their caretaker-ward relationship. However, Mr. Fitzgerald, vice-principal for discipline, is on a mission to reach out to misfit students like Thompson. One could almost say he collects them, yet his heart is still mostly in the right place.

Terri the film is far more interesting when watching Terri the character interact with adults than navigating the standard issue peer pressure and raging hormones of high school. Frankly, we have seen all that angst before. However, Mr. Fitzgerald is worth keeping an eye on. Neither a heroic Joe Clark nor an odious “Dick” Vernon from The Breakfast Club, Fitzgerald really wants to make a connection with kids like Thompson, but he is not above cutting corners and recycling lines in the process. Yet, he displays a genuinely deep and forgiving understanding of human nature.

In the lead, Jacob Wysocki is completely convincing, conveying a lot of pain and confusion with unexpectedly assured understatement. While on comfortable ground as Fitzgerald, the flawed everyman, John C. Reilly makes every scene and each line count. His sharply written near-monologue addressing the necessary hypocrisy to be expressed by his temp secretary about to go fulltime following her predecessor’s death is well worth showing the Academy during awards season.

Perhaps the greatest surprise though is former Grassroots guitarist and eponymous American Office cast-member Creed Bratton as Uncle James, who rings quiet dignity from what could have been a largely throwaway role. Thanks to Bratton’s work, when old James has his moments, they are heavy indeed. Also making the leap from small to large screen, Rescue Me’s Olivia Crocicchia shows real screen presence, even if her character, Heather Miles, the school’s reluctant sexpot, is a rather familiar stock figure.

Oddly enough, Terri is the second film released this year featuring a sensitive PJ-clad protagonist. Fortunately, Jacobs’ take is exponentially superior to the embarrassing dreck of Waiting for Forever, because he and writer Patrick Dewitt understand on some level Thompson is a troubled kid with difficulty expressing his feelings. This is not cutely eccentric, but acutely human. Though there are no real surprises, Terri boasts a host of finely drawn performances. An often uncomfortable but well executed return to high school (from the son of experimental auteur Ken Jacobs), Terri opens this Friday (7/1) at the Angelika Film Center and Lincoln Plaza Cinema.

Kids Love Uma Thurman: Ceremony

Prepare to feel really old—Uma Thurman is playing a “Mrs. Robinson” character. While not yet middle aged, she is considerably more mature than her would-be suitor. She is not exactly trying to seduce him either. She is too busy trying to get married in writer-director Max Winkler’s Ceremony (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Just because Sam Davis writes wish-fulfillment children’s book to make his meager living does not necessarily mean he is a mild state of arrested development. That just happens to be true in his case as well. During a rough patch with her fiancé, the tall thirty-something Zoe moved back to the City and had a fling with Davis. After she returned her soon-to-be husband’s Long Island estate, Davis started writing to her. She made the huge mistake of replying. Now Davis has crashed her matrimonial weekend festivities with his even more socially inept friend Marshall Schmidt in tow, hoping he can convince her to run off with him, like Katharine Ross in The Graduate.

Zoe’s fiancé, the boorish nature documentarian Whit Coutell is contemptuously dismissive of Davis (as are we all). Supremely self-confident, he believes his wealth trumps anything his nebbish rival might have to offer. Why she would consider either of these princes is hard to fathom. Yes, the film well establishes her deeply rooted need for security, but she is an attractive woman. Surely, she could find herself a doting sugar-daddy instead of the impossibly arrogant Coutell. They are in the Hamptons, after all.

Frankly, this cuts to core of Ceremony’s problems. Individually, there are several well turned scenes and its conclusion arguably represents the mature reciprocal of The Graduate’s ambiguous impulsiveness. However, neither side of Zoe’s love triangle are even remotely convincing. Michael Angarano is just too cringingly dweeby to be credible. Likewise, Lee Pace is ridiculously over the top as the blustery Coutell. Perhaps the strongest turn comes from Jake Johnson, finding humor and pathos in her profoundly troubled brother Teddy. In fact, Thurman and Johnson’s scenes conveying their brother-sister relationship are among the film’s strongest.

Indeed, Ceremony’s chemistry is so far off, it should be considered a victory that Winkler was able to periodically pull it together here and there. He also keeps the film moving along at a healthy pace, which is certainly appreciated. However, the film is fundamentally undermined by its casting. Another shrug-inducing indie, Ceremony opens this Friday (4/8) in New York at the Village East.

Kvetching Towards a Comeback: They’re Out of the Business

It is a tough business. One day you have one of the top five films in Trinidad and Tabago, the next day F. Murray Abraham won’t take your meeting. Nobody understands this better than Splick Featherstone and Jason Little, the co-writers-co-directors-co-stars of the early 1990’s indie breakout My Life's in Turnaround, played by Eric Schaeffer and Donal Lardner Ward, the co-writers-co-directors-co-stars of the early 1990’s indie breakout My Life's in Turnaround. As one might expect, the kvetching and indie in-jokes come fast and furious in their self-referential sequel They’re Out of the Business (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York at the IFC Center.

The last time Featherstone and Little were together, they were in court. Unfortunately, going their separate ways has not worked out swimmingly for them. Featherstone’s awful sounding television show has been cancelled, while Little has resigned himself to his failure as a novelist. Desperately hoping for a career Hail Mary, Featherstone pitches Little a follow-up to Turnaround. He will take some convincing, but he grudgingly starts hanging out again with his hyper-active partner, against his better judgment.

Like “plastics” in The Graduate, Featherstone’s agent drops the word “webisode” on Featherstone before giving him the boot as a client. He might be onto something. Schaeffer and Ward actually establish a good bickering-bantering rhythm between them. However, their material is somewhat hit or miss within the decidedly episodic structure of Business. Perhaps, the brevity of the format would better suit their strengths.

Indeed, Schaeffer and Ward play off each other rather well, often getting knowing laughs at their own expense. While Delores McDougal has some nice moments as Featherstone’s mother, the rest of the cast is rather forgettable (almost anonymous, in fact). The once-and-future partners deserve credit for handling the midlife maturation themes with a light touch. Still, here is a question for the women reading out there: would you ever like to see a pseudo-rom-com where the men are already grown-up adults? Consider that rhetorical.

Though it has an adult sensibility, Business’s quiet, unassuming style frankly works better than the indie industry standard. Pleasant enough as a brief distraction, but never very deep, Business opens tomorrow (4/6) at the IFC Center.

Kashmiri Indie: Zero Bridge

For now, Zero Bridge still stands in Srinagar, Kashmir. Such infrastructure if often targeted during times of war. If not exactly a battle zone, Indian-controlled Kashmir is hardly a peaceful region, but the constant din of terrorism is merely background noise for two young dissatisfied Kashmiris in American-born Tariq Tapa’s Zero Bridge (trailer here), which opens this Wednesday in New York at the Film Forum.

As a central landmark and the main artery out of town, Zero Bridge is a natural meeting point. It is also a security concern, which is why an undercover copper rousts the teenaged Dilawar as he waits there for his dodgy associate. Rather than terrorism, Dilawar tries apprenticing himself to a small time thief, but quickly gets pinched after their first job. Following a brief stretch behind bars, karma throws him another surprise when he comes face to face with his oblivious first victim.

Somewhat older but very attractive, Bani Sheikh works at the shipping office where Dilawar must pick-up his Uncle Ali’s construction contracts. Though he is far from charming, the American-educated Sheikh takes Dilawar under her wing, at least to an extent. He is a hard kid to love, but he seems to have his reasons. Essentially banished by his ostensive parents, Zero never fully explains the dynamics of his family, but implies enough to forgive much of Dilawar’s petulance. Perhaps Sheikh sees something of a kindred spirit in him. Unlike both their dysfunctional families, neither wishes to settle for things as they are. Of course, as a Muslim society, Kashmir does not offer her much say in the matter.

Zero is a film that intentionally de-emphasizes the violent climate of Kashmir, yet it remains inescapable nonetheless, directly contributing to the paucity of opportunities for younger generations. Reportedly the first feature film in forty years to be shot entirely in Kashmir, Zero evokes a sense of place, but it is far from flattering. Dingy, depressed, and even a little kitschy, it hardly looks like it is worth fighting for.

While Tapa’s story is small in scope and his cast consists entirely of nonprofessional actors, it should not be dismissed as Kashmiri mumblecore. Things really do happen in the film, with Tapa very deliberately leading viewers to a certain point. Yet, the modest nature of the film becomes almost frustrating, as Tapa takes viewers all the way to one of the touchiest flashpoints in the world, just to show them an uncle and nephew arguing.

Mohamad Emran Tapa expresses teen-aged angst nearly as well as anyone on film since Katie Jarvis blew the doors off Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank. Yet, it is Taniya Khan, smart and vulnerable as Sheikh, who shows real star power in Zero. If not precisely charismatic, Ali Muhammed Dar (a mason by trade, just like his character) looks like the real salt of Kashmir’s earth, coming across completely natural and unaffected as he struggles with his difficult nephew.

Although Zero’s up-close intimate focus might tire some viewers, it is ultimately quite an accomplished debut from Tapa and his principle cast. Indeed, one can only be intrigued at the prospect of future projects from Tapa addressing Kashmir’s culture and politics more directly. Small but worthy of notice, Zero opens this Wednesday (2/16) at Film Forum, with Tapa appearing in person for select evening screenings through Saturday (2/19).

Waiting for Forever: What were they thinking?

If you consider a chronically delusional, compulsively irresponsible stalker to be potential boyfriend material, than perhaps you too might be a budding indie filmmaker. However, anyone remotely aware of the painful challenges mental health issues represent will be left slack-jawed by the cutesy romance of James Keach’s Waiting for Forever (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

For the last ten years or so, Will Donner has silently followed his childhood sweetheart Emma Twist across the country, supporting himself as a street juggler, while wearing pajamas and holding long, emotional conversations with his long dead parents. Any problems, so far? Donner’s love for Twist was eternally cemented when she consoled him after his parents’ untimely death. Unfortunately, he was sent away to some lucky relative shortly thereafter, but he remained obsessed with her over the years. After her low-rated sitcom was canceled, Twist returned to their quaint little hometown to re-examine her life and share some quality time with her dying father. Of course, Donner is right behind her, much to the contempt of his gainfully employed brother and the regret of his inexplicably indulgent friends.

Naturally, the manipulative melodrama follows fast and furious as grouchy Papa Twist slowly expires and the creepy Hollywood boyfriend shows up to add some menace to the film’s saccharine sweetness. It is just one face-palm moment after another, even including an attempt to frame the Donner Party of one for murder (I kid you not). Frankly, by this point, most viewers will simply want to see the PJ-sporting fool institutionalized, so he can finally get the help he so desperately needs.

Forever’s depiction of its obviously emotionally disturbed protagonist would be offensively exploitative if it were not so agonizingly earnest. It is like a Farrelly Brothers comedy played straight. Indeed, it is simply embarrassing to see accomplished actors like Blythe Danner and Richard Jenkins laboring away as Twist’s parents. Somehow, the O.C.’s Rachel Bilson more-or-less manages to preserve her dignity as Twist, but have mercy, the word “cloying” is woefully insufficient to describe Tom Sturridge’s quirky, sentimental overkill as the sad-eyed Donner.

It is hard to imagine a more profoundly misconceived film than Forever. Problematic in multiple ways, Steve Adams’ treacle-laden screenplay never rings true, particularly when tying everything up at the end in a happy little bow. Only occasionally offering some unintentional laughter, Forever opens today (2/4) in New York at the AMC Empire.

New World Order: Zenith

There is something seductive about conspiracy theory rhetoric. It often posits a straw-man’s alternative of a “coincidental” conception of history, while capitalizing on class resentments. What conspiracy theorists often lack, perhaps assuming it goes without saying, is a compelling motive to explain why those with such a vested interest in the current system would want to hasten its destruction. Such is also the case with Vladan Nikolic’s Zenith (trailer here), a frequently clever near future speculative thriller with the same strengths and weaknesses of its protagonists’ conspiracy pamphlets that opens this Wednesday in New York at the Kraine Theater.

“Dumb” Jack Crowley sells drugs. Since the general population has been genetically modified into a state of banal satisfaction, one would think business would be slow. However, rather than a high, Crowley offers life-affirming pain induced by his stash of outdated prescription drugs. He is also known to sample his own wares. In the grimy post-industrial world, money is meaningless, but Crowley can barter his drugs for nearly everything, including a set of elusive VHS videotapes recorded by Crowley’s eccentric father forty years ago.

In X-Files parlance, Ed Crowley wanted to believe. He became a priest in an attempt to find his faith. It did not work, but a fateful encounter in his confessional turned him into a conspiracy buff. Leaving the priesthood, Ed Crowley sounds increasingly like a man who has heard too much Alex Jones on the radio (which would be about half a show) as he races around videotaping his strange investigations with his loyal sidekick-cameraman in tow.

Nikolic (a.k.a. Anonymous) nicely dovetails his two narrative time-frames, culminating with a neatly symmetrical climax. However, the final twists are not as mind-blowing as they are intended to be. What really works in Zenith is the credibly cruddy dystopian milieu created by the design team of Brian Goodwin and Grace G.G. Yun. Viewers get a visceral sense of this dreary world and the resulting compulsion to experience pain worthy of an existential Dostoyevsky anti-hero.

Unfortunately, Zenith is hampered by a villain weak in both the conception and the execution. The malevolent Berger (as in Bilderberger?) is a pharmaceutical tycoon who ought to be up doo-doo’s creek with the collapse of the world economy. Yet for some reason, he seems to be behind it all. Actor David Thornton also seems bored with the evil businessman cliché, playing Berger without any scenery-chewing, moustache-twisting zest. In contrast, Peter Scanavino and Jason Robards III are both quite intense and dynamic as junior and senior Crowley, respectively.

Aside from a bit of big pharma paranoia, Zenith is relatively free of ideological baggage, at least within the film itself. However, part of the underlying concept involves a network of supporting websites and viral videos, some of which indulge in rather extreme partisanship, including Wikileaks fan-worship. It is a good way to needlessly alienate half their potential audience. Genre fans should also take note, the Zenith sites also describe the film as “steampunk,” but there is nothing neo-Victorian about it. Though not perfect, “cyberpunk” would be a more fitting term.

Zenith sometimes offers flashes of DIY coolness, but lacks the kind of colorful villain required in genre films. It shows legitimate promise, but it is not clear the Zenith concept will expand in rewarding directions. For the intrigued and the paranoid obsessed, it opens in New York at the Kraine Theater (traditionally a dramatic venue) this Wednesday (1/19).

Ferrara at AFA: Happy Life

It looks like “Recovery Summer” passed over the techno specialty record shops, just like the rest of the nation’s economy. Feeling the financial pinch, an aging DJ plans to throw an old school rave to raise money for his ailing store in Michael M. Bilandic’s Happy Life (trailer here), which Anthology Film Archives has unofficially side-barred into the Abel Ferrara in the 21st Century series, since the filmmaker served as the project’s executive producer.

Keith is a true believer. He will argue passionately about the deeper sociological significance of early 90’s techno-house-whatever music and the original rave scene it fueled. Unfortunately, those glory days are gone. Kids want rap now rather than trance and Keith’s plan to wait for the world to revolve back to him does not seem to be working. Attempting a Hail Mary pass, he signs DJ Liquids, a not-so rehabbed superstar from the era gone by, to play his fundraiser-happening. At least he is finally doing something. In fact, Keith’s preparations give him an opportunity to problematically put the moves on a seventeen year-old drop-out who haunts the stoops of the neighborhood with her slacker friends.

Bilandic and his cinematographer Sean Price Williams both worked at the late lamented Kim’s Video on St. Marks. They really capture the right look and feel of the formerly funky East Village. Visually though, Happy is deliberately grungy to the point of distraction. In fact, Williams is probably better represented by his striking work on Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo and Beijing Taxi.

While there is no need to belabor the point, the real problem with Happy is the evidently unprofessional cast. Stand-up comedian Tom McCaffrey delivers deadpan sarcasm rather effectively, but he is essentially out to sea in the film’s more dramatic moments. Still, he fairs somewhat better than many of the supporting players.

Without Ferrara’s imprimatur, it is doubtful hardly anyone would give Happy a second look. Those who know their way around City record stores will want to like the potentially endearing story, but the film is just not professional grade. It screens this coming Tuesday (1/11) as an official selection of Newfilmmakers NY and unofficially as part of the ongoing Abel Ferrara retrospective, which continues through January 18th at Anthology Film Archives.

Blue Valentine, Blue-ish Movie

Being a parent is easy, marriage is hard—or something like that. Dean and Cindy are going through a rough patch, but as you might have heard, the sex is still there. Though Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine has generated considerable Oscar buzz, it is really most notable for the outside controversies involving its original MPAA rating of “NC-17,” which the Weinstein Company has since appealed down to an “R.” Still not for children, the accessibly R-rated Valentine (trailer here) opens today in New York, uncut, reflecting Cianfrance’s directorial intentions.

He used to crash in Brooklyn squats, while she got taken advantage of in her white bread Pennsylvania schools. Their very different worlds briefly intersected when he happened to move an elderly gentleman into her grandmother’s nursing home. Immediately smitten, he moved Heaven and Earth to get a date, which we see in all its glorious eccentricity over a series of flashbacks.

Of course, the bloom is off the rose in the here and now. Dean has forged a special connection with their daughter Frankie, perhaps because he is somewhat childlike himself. Cindy however, has had enough. Again, we witness the disintegration of their relationship in excruciatingly intimate detail.

It is hard to fathom why Valentine has been such a critical darling and festival favorite. While Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are separately quite effective, poignant even, as Dean the slacker goofball and Cindy the icily professional RN, together they are never the least bit believable as a couple. Frankly, their quirky courtship is like fingernails on a chalkboard. By the time their marriage completely implodes, despite a Hail Mary trip to the local no-tell motel that got the MPAA’s full attention, it is hard to see how they lasted so long in the first place.

Valentine is part of an indie movie sub-genre that finds white trash angst artistic in and of itself, but its cocktail of sex, bickering, and reminiscence grows increasingly tiresome. Though its simulations might leave a tad less to the imagination than customary, the film will hardly shock anyone who has seen a fair number of European imports.

To be fair, all three principles, including Faith Wladyka as Frankie, are quite strong. Gosling in particular, taps into something deep and honest as Dean. Yet, they are so mismatched from the get-go and so unremittingly annoying down the stretch, it is hard to do anything but shrug as the inevitable unfolds.

At least Valentine understands the consequences of its tale, clearly conscious of the unfortunate ramifications for Frankie. Still, it is not exactly the second coming of Kramer vs. Kramer. Essentially a case of indie slumming, Valentine does not live up to its ample fanfare. It opens today (12/29) at the Angelika Film Center, with Cianfrance taking questions after the 7:45 screening.

Knock-Off Fatherhood: Prince of Broadway

A born salesman, Lucky could sell ice in Antarctica—if it was fake. He has charm and ambition, but he is about to be thrown for a loop. Kids will do that to you every time, especially if they are yours (most likely). The street smart Lucky suddenly has to grow-up real quick in Sean Baker’s deliberately grungy indie Prince of Broadway (trailer here), which opens in New York tomorrow.

Lucky works the streets of New York’s Garment District, trying to entice customers back to Levon’s dodgy apparel showroom. Lucky and his Armenian boss get along fairly well, sharing a common bond as immigrants of dubious standing. Lucky lives in an efficiency, saving assiduously. Thanks to his financial means, Levon married for a greencard, but his wife is no longer content with their relationship. Then one fateful day, Lucky’s ex Linda shows up with a young boy who does not look completely dissimilar to him, insisting he look after his supposed son for a “few weeks.”

Of course, having a small child in tow (whose name he does not even know) cramps Lucky’s style hustling knock-offs for Levon. It also makes it nearly impossible for him to find quality time with his girlfriend Karina. While both are remarkably supportive of the reluctant father, it is clear Lucky will have to make some serious decisions.

Prince certainly covers some well-worn territory, but is surprisingly effective none-the-less. Yes, the kid is cute and Lucky eventually warms to him. Yet at critical junctures, Baker consistently opts for realism over easy sentimentality, which definitely keeps things real. It also avoids quite a few of the expected clichés, particularly with the friendly, cooperative relationship it depicts between Lucky and his illegal employer, rather than one solely characterized by class-based exploitation. Still, Prince’s grainy shaky-cam gets more than a bit distracting after a while.

Ghanaian Prince Adu’s dynamic breakthrough performance as Lucky is clearly the cornerstone of the film. Cocky, funny, desperate, and riveting, he delivers a real arc of character development. Karren Karagulian is also compulsively watchable as the unexpectedly complex Levon. Their scenes playing off each other are easily among the best of the largely improvised film.

Ultimately, Prince ends roughly where you would likely predict it to, but there are some sharply pointed scenes along the way. You also have to give credit to a film that includes a bit of jazz drummer Ari Hoenig’s “The Painter” in the soundtrack. Considerably better than one might expect, the unflaggingly naturalistic Prince opens tomorrow (9/3) in New York at the Angelika.

Coney Island Story: Lucky Days

Virginia’s family is Russian, but she aspires to be Italian. Hers is a very Brooklyn story, but unfortunately her boyfriend is no fairy tale prince. At least she could still enjoy the roller coaster. Reportedly the last film shot at the old Astroland amusement park, Angelica and Tony Torn’s Lucky Days (trailer here) makes the most of its Coney Island location. Appropriately, it opens a one week run tonight at IndieScreen, Brooklyn’s newest venue for independent film.

Virginia is convinced her longtime boyfriend Vincent will soon pop the question. It is hard to understand why she has waited this long. Their relationship has been strictly no sex, just the occasional beating. Indeed, Virginia has taken a lot of abuse from both her family and Vincent’s. Yet she seems to be the only one responsible enough to hold down a steady job or do the household chores. She never really questions her life choices until a mysterious stranger from her past reappears.

Virginia has not seen Zeth (yes, even his name is quirky) in years, but there is no ignoring the electricity between them. While he is more free-spirited, he has serious issues of his own, like his brother J.C. (how about those initials) who is being fried to a crisp in the mental hospital where Virginia works. Will Virginia find happiness with Zeth or will she choose to remain a martyr? Whatever she decides, we can be sure it will be poignantly bittersweet.

Without a doubt, Angelica Torn is the major revelation of Lucky. Her powerhouse performance is both complex and dynamic. Yet, it comes in a film that is just all over the map. It is hard to tell if it is intended as an oddball indie comedy or a gritty domestic violence drama. It also seems to conflate ethnicity with eccentricity. Indeed, the constant screeching of Virginia’s family is embarrassing, for the wrong reasons. Still, the Torns (son and daughter of Rip Torn, who also appears in a small supporting role) undeniably ground the film in the Coney Island locale, fitting the Ferris wheel into nearly every other shot.

It is hard not to respect the honesty of Lucky, particularly the fearless work of Angelica Torn. While it is painfully well-intentioned, its uneven tone and some awkward supporting turns prevent it from landing the emotional knock-out punch. However, it is about as Brooklyn as a film can get, so if you’re going to see it, IndieScreen should be the place. Though tonight’s opening screening is sold out, it plays at the Williamsburg art-house through August 12.

The Other Hollywood: Finding Bliss

At Q&A’s, why do people outside the industry always want to ask how much films cost to produce? If it is any good whatsoever, these are the dullest discussions you could possibly have about a picture. Still, one aspiring director would have an interesting answer to such questions. She hopes to make her film for next to nothing, using her employer’s cameras, lights, and film on the sly. Yep, she works in porn, but her heart is set on making highly sensitive dramatic features in Julie Davis’s indie comedy Finding Bliss (trailer here), which opens in New York tomorrow.

Based on Davis’s own day-job editing down hardcore movies to soft-core tease for the Playboy Channel, Bliss is not shy about its subject matter. It all truly appalls the uptight Jody Balaban. Thanks to a scrupulously traditional upbringing and some embarrassing early experiences, she is a world removed from the Sex and the City vamps. After receiving an award from Gary Marshall (playing himself) for her student film, she moves out to Hollywood hoping to break into the business. Unfortunately, the only opportunity she finds is an editing bay with her name on it at Grind Productions.

Nobody who ever walked past a Manhattan newsstand will be particularly surprised by the goings-on at Grind, but it continually shocks Balaban. Yet she stays to surreptitiously shoot her film with the studio’s equipment while tentatively pursuing a Tracy-Hepburn relationship with Jeff Drake, a past recipient of her film school award and now the studio’s top skin flick director.

Frankly, the sum of Bliss’s parts is greater than its whole. Just about every porn joke you would expect is in the film. Sometimes they are funny, sometimes not. However, the winning presence of Leelee Sobieski helps compensate for the more than occasionally smarmy moment. Her character’s romanticism is actually quite sweet and her performance is rather endearing.

The chaos around Balaban is much more hit or miss. It is particularly difficult to buy into her relationship with Drake, since Matthew Davis portrays him with all the charm of a blow-dried game show host. Still, the most embarrassing turn comes from Jamie Kennedy, perhaps the most annoying person in show business, who let’s just say does not have the right physical presence to credibly play porn star Richard (get it?) Harder.

Bliss has a nice heart, but its marriage to its naughty American Pie-style humor is an uneasy one. While Davis’s premise is quite clever and her protagonist is genuinely likable, the overall execution is somewhat muddled. Flawed yet undeniably watchable, Bliss opens tomorrow (6/4) at the Village East, but curious viewers can safely wait to Netflix it.

Hippies Smell: Happiness Runs

The idea of Rutger Hauer running a drug-infested hippie cult should sound scary enough. Though not a horror movie per se, the parents’ free-loving commune does irreparable damage to their children in Adam Sherman’s Happiness Runs (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

It seems like unorthodox parenting is simply always a self-serving practice on a fundamental level, leaving the resulting adult children in desperate need of analysis. Young Victor is a case in point. His wealthy mother has funded the commune because she is completely enthralled by the creepy guru Insley. Victor wants out, but selling drugs is the only method he can envision to raise traveling money. Evidently, getting a part-time retail job at the nearest town never occurred to him. Of course, he is a product of his environment.

Though perfectly willing to push grass on the brain dead commune kids, his plan is torpedoed by a price war launched by two rivals. He is also distracted by Becky, his childhood sweetheart recently returned from college to care for her terminally ill father. Regrettably, Becky’s self-destructive drug use and sexual promiscuity proves you can take the kid out of the commune, but you can’t take the commune out of the kid. By contrast, Victor never had the commune in him. Though a loner by temperament, he struggles to reconnect with Becky, while haunted by nightmares of her gruesome demise.

Happiness is the sort of film one might euphemistically call interesting when asked if it is good or bad. It is true to an extent. Based on his childhood experiences, Sherman never pulls his punches depicting the chaos and moral lassitude of the commune environment. Unfortunately, the recurring dream sequences are poorly realized and the protagonist is moody to the point of petulance. In addition, the very young looking cast’s frequent nudity and simulating sex is disturbing on a different level.

Hanna Hall is reasonably engaging as the troubled Becky. While Mark L. Young is certainly earnest as the disillusioned Victor, he lacks a naturally charismatic screen presence. However, the film’s “name” actors, Hauer as the smarmy Insley and Andie MacDowell as Victor’s manipulated mother, are large utilized as stock characters.

There is no denying the honesty of Happiness, but the execution is hit or miss. Though flawed, it is mostly an interesting muddle. At least there is enough here to suggest Sherman’s next film will be worth checking out. It opens Friday (5/7) in New York at the Quad.

Grumpy Old School New York: The Good Heart

Jacques owns one of those seedy old man bars that you have probably been too intimidated to enter. Those instincts were not wrong. Jacques chases out “walk-in’s” with ill-concealed contempt. As a mean old curmudgeon, he does not have anyone to inherit his dive. Unfortunately, the clock is ticking for the irascible tavern-keeper in Icelandic director Dagur Kári’s English language indie drama, The Good Heart (trailer here), which opens in New York today.

On heart attack number five and counting, Jacques’s ticker is basically held together by duct tape and spite. While he is a misogynistic misanthrope, he takes an odd liking to the suicidal homeless man sharing his room. Before the gentle Lucas realizes it, he finds himself in Jacques’s eccentric management trainee program, learning how to be surly barkeep from the master. Then he breaks Jacques’s one cardinal rule, sheltering the deeply distressed April, a beautiful woman of vaguely European origins.

Despite the formulaic fusion of comedy and drama, Heart is one of the better indie films of recent vintage. Its dark, grimy atmosphere is quite evocative, perhaps reflecting the severe Nordic sensibilities of the director. In a way, it is a valentine to old school Old New York. Unfortunately the third act culminates in a bit of a groaner, but up until that point, Heart is a sharply drawn drama with some memorably pointed dialogue (the film’s best bit though is given away in the trailer).

Funny and infuriating in equal measure, Brian Cox always hits the perfect pitch as Jacques. Frankly, he is the movie. Watching him snarl and putter around the bar might not sound like ambitious filmmaking, but it is entertaining. While Paul Dano is a bit wooden as the meek Lucas, the luminous Isild Le Besco is quite haunting as the waifish April, adding an interesting dimension to the film.

Unlike so many indie films, Heart has a bit of an edge and a fresh protagonist. Ultimately, when
Kári finally lets it slide into sentimentality, it loses its way. Until that point, it has real merit as a tart-tongued character-driven comedy-drama. Modest but engaging, Heart opens today (4/30) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

ND/NF ’10: 3 Backyards

Prepare to venture someplace exotic: suburbia. Though the quiet Long Island neighbor is not far from The City, it is presented as someplace more remote than Tasmania in Eric Mendelsohn’s 3 Backyards, which screens during New Directors New Films this year.

John does not want to talk. His marriage is experiencing a bit of a rough patch. Though the specifics are hazy, it is probably safe to say communication is an issue. Much to his wife’s frustration, he is using a business trip to avoid uncomfortable conversations. He even accepts a free hotel room when his flight is cancelled, rather than return home to his wife. Of course, they are not the only ones on the block with issues.

Peggy is an amateur artist obsessed with a movie star staying in the neighborhood incognito. When the celebrity asks her for a lift to the ferry, she leaps at the chance to forge a bond with the actress. Meanwhile Christina, a young school girl, is alarmed to discover she dropped her mother’s expensive bracelet in the backyard of a creepy teenager of ambiguous mental capacity on her way to school.

As Christina, Rachel Resheff proves to be a very engaging young actress. Unfortunately, her rather flat story arc is undoubtedly the film’s least developed. While the actress’s story has a sharp edge to it, Edie Falco (a.k.a. Carmella Soprano) painfully overplays as the self-esteem challenged Peggy. In contrast, the comparatively understated Embeth Davidtz is quite effective as the mysterious actress. By far though, the most successful scenes in Backyards feature the quietly intense Elias Koteas as John, the only character to undergo an interesting transformation during the course of the film.

Evidently aware of the frequent depictions of suburban angst in indie film, Mendelsohn gives Backyards a truly distinctive visual style, focusing on the lushness of the nature seemingly just held at bay at the outskirts of the neighborhood. Indeed, cinematographer Kasper Tuxen’s painterly use of sunlight is quite striking. The flute and string score composed by Michael Nicholas gives the film an additional layer of classy polish (even though it is distractingly loud in the overall audio mix).

Superficially, Backyards looks and sounds quite pretty, but it does not have much depth. Still, there is some nice work in the film, particularly from Koteas and Resheff. Ultimately, what probably could have been two decent shorts have been padded together with a third sketch into a rather languid full length feature. An excursion to all-too familiar indie terrain, Backyards screens tomorrow (3/26) at the Walter Reade Theater and Sunday (3/28) at MoMA.