FILM REVIEW: COMING HOME

Dan Dan (Huiwen Zhang) in Coming Home. Photo Credit: Bai XiaoYan.

Frozen, forgotten and finished

By John Esther

Taking vulgar, ideological populism to its extreme, China's Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s and 1970s imprisoned thousands of intellectuals who were perceived as "counter-revolutionary" effete bourgeois elements who were trying to bring back capitalism to China.

This Cultural Revolution measure, along with thousands of other counterproductive ones, tore families and lives apart. Based on ending of Geling Yan's novel, The Criminal Lu Yanshi, the latest film by Yimou Zhang (Ju Dou; To Live; House of the Flying Daggers) cast two of China's finest actors to relay a story about two people who were sacrificed in the name of ideological purity.

One night, Feng Wanyu (Li Gong -- shedding her beauty as much as she can for the role), a teacher in a provinical town returns home where members of Red Guard surround her, asking if she knows the whereabouts of her recently escaped husband. Feng answers them honestly.

Recently escaped, her husband, Lu Yanshi (Daoming Chen), a professor with alleged counter-revolutionary sentiments is making his way back to their home, but he must do it in secret. Both will be in serious trouble if they are caught.

Meanwhile, their teenage daughter, Dan Dan (Huiwen Zhang) aspires to be the lead dancer in the ballet production of The Red Detachment of Women (Rise up, ye poor working women). Unfortunately, her father's escape threatens Dan Dan's chances. Dan Dan may be the best dancer in the class, but ideology trumps talent. If Dan Dan wants the role, she better do wrong to dad and mom.

In such a culture of despair and fear, the relentlessly ambitious and shortsighted ones are inclined to report whatever knowledge she or he possess if it pleases the powers that be. This can include a best friend or a daughter. 

Years later, Lu Yanshi returns home, again. However, family life has changed drastically. Family members no longer recognize their loved ones the way they used to -- literally and metaphorically.

The one who suffers the most is Feng Wanyu. The Cultural Revolution has taken her mind (in ways not intended) and she will never be the same. Lu Yanshi and Dan Dan work together to try and save her, but the damage may be too great.

The second half of the film deals with Feng Wanyu's "disease." Obviously, her condition is a metaphor for the masses of people of China, who would rather not, perhaps cannot, remember how gullible, raped and complacent they were for an ideology which never came near achievingwhat it pretended to promise.

While the film belabors its points, director Yimou, along with director of photography, Xiaoding Zhao, accomplishes its motives with serenity rather than intensity. The mise-en-scène focuses on details and atmosphere rather than demagoguery and action as it recreates a time of fear and collective denial. The acting conveys the pain of the family (and larger milieu) without resorting to wails of despair (although plenty of tears drop).

In other words, this is politically-fueled melodrama of a higher order.

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FILM REVIEW: DRAGON BLADE

Huo An (Jackie Chan) and Lucius (John Cusack) in Dragon Blade.

Can we all just get along?

By John Esther

Gosh darn it. It is such a big production; it means so well; it stars Jackie Chan -- who is so cool; and it has two likable American actors: Adrien Brody and John Cusack. Yet Dragon Blade barely passes the entertainment muster.

Inspired by, yet hardly accurately based on, historical events, writer-director-production designer Daniel Lee's film sets itself in 50 B.C. along the Silk Road. A significant road for trade between the Occident and the Orient, the protection of the road is headed by Huo An (Chan). A passionate, reasonable, and preferably peaceful man, Huo and his troop protect the land through negotiation and equality -- only resorting to violence when all other means have been resisted by members of the 36 warring nations roaming and occupying the northwestern territory.

With so many belligerent people (primarily men) in the area, a peaceful dude like Huo is bound to be framed for a violent act committed by someone else. This setup leads him to the Wild Geese Gate.

A trading post in the middle of the desert, Wild Geese Gate is currently under construction. If the construction is not done on time, the slave labors, along with their masters, Captain (Xiao Yang) and Rat (Wang Taili), will be killed by the higher echelon.

As the construction completion deadline approaches, matters are complicated when Roman soldiers attack. Led by Lucius (Cusack), the Roman soldiers are in dire need of water. They are many. They are strong. Fortunately, Huo will teach their leader humility through martial arts superiority and generosity.

In return for the compassion the occupants of the trading post have shown the Romans, the Romans will teach the east how to build the post much sooner through the use of cement and newer construction techniques. This collaboration brings east and west together, furthering the film's message about the value, peace and, even self preservation, through multiculturalism. United (nations) we stand.

Naturally, this multiculturalism will be challenged by those who seek power at the expense of others. Divide and conquer.

Led by their ruthless leader, Tiberius (Brody), the Roman soldiers -- those who did not split and follow Lucius -- intend to take over the trading post and steal its treasure. While these Roman soldiers do not have the overall martial arts expertise of the current occupants of Wild Geese Gate, they are far greater in numbers.

A massive hit in China, and one of the most expensive films ever made there, Dragon Blade is indeed a grand production with thousands of soldiers fighting and dieing. The spectacle is quite impressive. People and horses seem to be forever charging ahead. Bodies upon bodies fall to the ground. Masses of men stain the desert with their demise.

On the smaller, more personal levels is where Dragon Blade suffers. Everyone speaks English (and their "native" language -- at least while singing), which was hardly the international language of the time. And the much of the dialogue does not necessarily serve the language well.

The acting is bit sub par for the likes of the main players, too, as if the weight of the spectacle makes any serious thespian effort futile in the grand scope of the film's things. Brody's accent seems to change over the course of the film. And I would mention the actor who plays Publius, but I am not sure his performance is his fault or Lee's. At any rate, I do not like to pick on children.

Having written that, Dragon Blade is still worth the experience. There is a lot going on here, and the glaring anti-xenophobic message of peace, cooperation and understanding is a potent antidote to the trumped up poisonous fears of our times.










 

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FILM REVIEW: THE SECOND MOTHER

Val (Regina Casé) in The Second Mother.

Ma and order

By John Esther

In one of the nice neighborhoods of São Paulo, an upper-middle class family lives a life of monotonous order where everyone knows her or his place.

The official matriarch of the family, Bárbara (Karine Teles), seems to be of some importance to the fashion world. It is never exactly disclosed what she does, but we know it keeps her away from home during the week. Her husband, Carlos (Lourenco Mutarelli), was once an artist, but now just hangs around the house all day. He inherited money from his hardworking father so why labor? Their son, Fabinho (Michel Joelsas), is a teenage kid with all the advantages and none of the discipline to carve much of an identity for himself. He likes to swim and smoke pot. 

Holding the three in check is Val (Regina Casé), one of those quintessential domestic helpers who keeps everything in the house running on time and on target. She is there to see the casa of "Dona" Barbara make an impression to all that enter, wake up "Don" Carlos every morning at 11:00 a.m. to start another pointless day, and keep "her treasure" Fabinho out of trouble.

While it is clear the family is highly dependent on Val to assure the order of things, deep down they see Val as a second class citizen. They are nice and generous to her, but Val may not use the pool, sit with them at their dinner table, and she must always make sure she has done her chores before any she makes any personal requests.

Val is more than happy to accept this master/slave arrangement.

This longstanding modus operandi is disrupted with the arrival of Jéssica (Camila Márdila). Jessica has come from the northeast of Brazil to the most populous city in the Western and Southern hemisphere to study architecture. Raised by a person called Sandra, but financially supported by Val, Jessica is Val's daughter who she has not seen in 10 years.

The idea that someone of Jessica's social class would want to pursue a career in architecture is amusing to the Dona, but she takes it in kind stride. The Don takes it in a much kinder stride, clearly infatuated with the young woman who has just arrived in his home. (Click, click.)

While Val is proud of her daughter, she finds it very upsetting that Val does not know her place in the home. "She walks around with that expression likes she's a president," says Val -- who Jessica never refers to as "mom."

Soon enough, tensions accumulate in the household. There is a new element upsetting the natural order of life along class lines. Something has to give.

Written and directed by Anna Muylaert, The Second Mother maintains its charm and amusement during its nearly two-hour running time thanks to some fine performances by the cast, the notable art direction by Marquinho Pedroso, and superb cinematography by Barbara Alvarez.

The story about a young woman coming from "the outside" entering a particular milieu and shaking things up is not entirely new, but there is enough skill in The Second Mother to make this film worth viewing. The last 10 minutes of the film or so will raise a few questions about stability in the future, but out of a little chaos must rise a little (bit of) new order.

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FILM REVIEW: DIGGING FOR FIRE

Lee (Rosemarie Dewitt) in Digging for Fire.

 

Burning out

By John Esther

Lee (Rosemarie Dewitt), her husband, Tim (co-writer Jake Johnson), and their 3-year-old son, Jude (Jude Swanberg), have just arrived at a swank Hollywood Hills home, courtesy of one of Lee's clients.

While walking the grounds, Tim discovers a bone and a gun halfway buried in the dirt. He calls the cops, but the operator "with an attitude" says there is nothing they can do without more "evidence" (a suspicious response, but okay). Tim wants to excavate the grounds further to find proof of misdeeds. Lee thinks it is a bad idea. Tim concedes to Lee.

Other than the upgrade of their surroundings, life does not appear to change for the couple. She continues her private yoga classes while Tim -- a public teacher who, I  guess, is on summer vacation, futzes around the place. But no digging. Together they discuss their relationship, child rearing -- particularly Jude's education (private versus public schooling), and Tim's assignment to do their income taxes.

Hardly a vacation, it is not long before the two decide a break from one another would be a good thing. Lee and Jude head off to the extraordinary house of her mother (Judith Light) and stepfather (Sam Elliott) for the weekend. Lee's parents are loaded and they share Lee's upper-class demand for Jude's private school education. It would appear that Jude needs the best preschool available or his life is doomed.

Meanwhile, back at the Hollywood Hills pad, Tim has invited a bunch of his friends over to drink beer, play games, go swimming, bond and, yes, uh oh, do some digging. For some reason, most of the men, especially Tim's friend, Ray (Sam Rockwell), consider digging and drinking beer a fun time. They also listen to crappy, pretentious music. (Well, at least the film is playing it).

As the weekend proceeds, Digging for Fire moves back and forth between Lee and Tim. She was hoping to spend time with her sister (Melanie Lynskey), who also lives a life of luxury like their mother -- even if it appears to be an unhappy one -- but those plans fail to materialize. Tim spends the day with Max (Brie Larson), a younger woman who likes to party.

Throughout the entire time, Tim and Lee have conversations with everyone they know or meet about what having a relationship is about: expectations, sacrifices, disappointments, and goals.

Thanks to the actors -- which also include Steve Berg, Orlando Bloom, Anna Kendrick (whose character is poorly written), Chris Messina (who goes full frontal nude), Ron Livingston and Jenny Slate -- a few of the discussions about relationships are the best thing going for Digging for Fire.

Co-written by director Joe Swanberg (Drinking Buddies; Happy Christmas), Digging for Fire depicts a privileged strata of Los Angeles. The concerns of these people is hedonistic and self-reflective. Even parenting is a matter of self-pride for Lee and Tim. Are these the apolitical hipsters I have been hearing about, lately?

Discussions on topics like economic disparity, climate change, homegrown terrorism/mass gun shootings, overpopulation, cops killing unarmed African Americans, mass migration, the California drought, the destabilization of Western Asia, etc., are absent. (To be fair, there is a lot of mumbling in this movie, so maybe I just missed out on any important non-self absorbed issues the characters in the film may have addressed under her or his breath.)

The film uses very few changes of scenery. Everywhere we look, from the housing to the restaurants, is nice in this part of Los Angeles. Of course, it is the part of Los Angeles most Los Angelinos cannot afford. Even the ocean scene looks like it takes place on private property. Whatever happens beyond east of California's Interstate 110 Freeway and south of Santa Monica Blvd. does not seem to matter.  

It seems too cozy to really care what, if anything, these characters figure out by film's end. If the filmmakers are aware of this myopic milieu, it meets it at a superficial level. The yoga teacher seeking harmony buys a jacket made out of violence, steals from her mom, and eats dead flesh is not portrayed with an ounce of irony. The scene where Tim may have gone too far with the excavating -- plus, he seems to know nothing about protocol around a potential crime scene -- is painfully obvious. A ring and and a dead hand. Oh, I get it. And then there is the closing scene in this "indie" film, which is as reassuring as any narrative found in a mainstream movie.

It is not important that a film contain likable characters -- far from it. But when the filmmakers behind the camera seem to like those characters, or be too forgiving for their faults, then you get something like Digging for Fire.

 

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FILM REVIEW: TOP SPIN

Ariel Hsing in Top Spin.

The ways the balls bounce

By John Esther

For millions of fortunate Americans, playing table tennis, AKA ping pong, has been an enduring pastime over the years. Every summer some kid on the block with a table tennis table would open up his or her garage, basement or backyard where kids would meet for some fun competition. Or friends and family would congregate at the table at some recreation center or clubhouse during a winter vacation. Maybe, even both.

For those who loved the game, proficiency at the game could get pretty impressive over the years. A little dedication and practice may go a long way.

However, the difference between recreational play and those striving for Olympic play is a lot longer and harder than the length of a ping pong table or the speed of a smash hit.

Proving the sport can take on a greater level of skill and commitment than the typical America will see in her or his lifetime, Mary T. Son and Sara Newens' documentary, Top Spin, sheds lights on the great game of table tennis through its three highly likable and highly skilled subjects. These intelligent, well adjusted American kids are not just good, they are seeking a seat at the table at the 2012 London Olympics.  

Hailing from the San Jose, California area, Ariel Hsing had already won the national U.S. Women's Table Tennis Championship twice by the age of 16.

Hsing's personal friend yet greatest singles foe on the court (at least in the U.S.) is Lily Zhang from Palo Alto, California. At the age of 12, Zhang became the youngest player to join the U.S. Women's Team.

On the other side of the country, in another middle-upper class American community, is 17-year-old Michael Landers. The resident of Long Island won the U.S. Men's Table Tennis Championship at the age of 15.

Three of the best players in the U.S., these high school students must negotiate their studies, apply and prepare for college, and try to fit in what limited adolescent fun they can afford to experience, around a training session that lasts 4-6 hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes, even more. To make it to the Olympics these kids must train hard. Sacrifices will be made.

At least the kids do not have to go at it alone -- for the most part. Their parents are there to lend their support wherever possible. Hsing's father is her coach while the other two have non-family members train. Hsing and Zhang's parents never seem to miss a match, either, while Landers' parents are  very supportive, yet noticeably absent from the matches (there is a cute metanarrative where Hsing's mother, Xinhua Jiang, cheers on the young man who is playing the tournament of his life without his parents present).

Peppering the trials, tribulations and training of the three athletes is some spectacular table tennis action. Competent table tennis players will soon realize there is a massive difference between local tournament play and national tournament play. At the national level players create spins, slams and chops, forehand and backhand, bounce back and forth, sometimes an excess of 80 mph, across a nine-foot table, with the players standing back up to 15 feet behind the table. This is not beer pong.

Yet, according to Barney Reed, professional table tennis is not even as lucrative as "professional" beer pong. One of the best American table tennis players ever (and its most notorious), Reed meets up with the Top Spin crew during the Olympic tryouts, offering his insights into what it means to play as a professional ping pong player in the U.S.

According to Reed, nobody makes a living at it (although what else he does personally to make a living remains undisclosed), but nobody at his level is in it for the money. A college education is replaced by world travel. He does not regret his decision. (Reed did not make the 2012 Olympics in London.)

Blending the personal with the ping pong, co-director/editor Newens and co-director/producer Son manage to make a film about high school athletes which is neither mawkish or melancholic. Three hard working kids -- on and off the court -- are living out their dreams to the best of his or her ability, opportunity and happenstance. Even if one or more of them does not make the Olympics, we get the feeling they will keep the spins and whims of the future under control.  

Let the minuscule increase in table tennis interest in the U.S. begin.

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FILM REVIEW: FORT TILDEN

A scene from Fort Tilden.

Stop saying stuff

By Don Simpson

 

Allie (Clare McNulty) and Harper (Bridey Elliott) are the epitome of annoying Brooklyn hipsters. They are stereotypical “trust fund kids” with no source of income to justify their Williamsburg apartment. Harper is purportedly an artist who relies upon her father for financial support while Allie is preparing to join the Peace Corps to finally escape New York.

 

They may not be the easiest protagonists to like, but that only makes the near-Sisyphean struggle of Allie and Harper’s journey across the borough of Brooklyn from Williamsburg to Fort Tilden all the more enjoyable. It is difficult not to derive some pleasure from the repeated hardships that they endure -- that is until they escape each situation with the aid of Harper’s checkbook. (Just imagine how different the life of Sisyphus would have been if he only had access to Harper’s checkbook...) It should never be quite this difficult to enjoy a day at the beach with two cute boys, but it seems like most of the hurdles that Allie and Harper face are due to their own selfish, entitled attitudes.

 

In the end, we can only hope that Allie and Harper might learn some lessons from this experience and change their ways, but there is probably no shaking their unfathomably irresponsible lives of privilege. That said, they end the film with enough scrapes and bruises from their adventure that we can be somewhat hopeful that they may begin to consider a change in lifestyle. Sisyphus could only dream that perhaps this journey will prompt profound existential crises for both Allie and Harper.

 

Co-written and directed by Sarah-Violet Bliss and Charles Rogers, Fort Tilden will most likely be a bitter pill for many viewers to swallow. While there are some recent precedents for films (and television series) that have succeeded at least partially due to the sublimely unlikeable personalities of their protagonists, it will be interesting to see if Fort Tilden can ride a similar wave. But that is not to compare Fort Tilden with any of those films (and television series), because this is an incredibly unique production with a narrative arc that takes the form of a surrealist odyssey, leading its protagonists in a menagerie of totally unexpected directions. And while Allie and Harper’s personalities may be like nails on the chalkboard, it takes a hell of a lot of work to create such irritating personas — that is a high compliment to Bliss and Rogers’ writing and the performances of McNulty and Elliott.

 

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FILM REVIEW: THE DIARY OF A TEENAGE GIRL

Charlotte (Kirsten Wiig), Minnie (Bel Powley) and Monroe (Alexander Skarsgård in The Diary of a Teenage Girl.

Adol-l(ic)esentiousness

By John Esther

San Francisco, California, 1976. The kidnapping of heiress Patty Hearst is the news story du jour. It is a time of permissibility. The radical politics of the 1960s are gone. Noxious disco, swapping couples, and cocaine are in full swing.

In one particular home in The City by the Bay, 15-year-old Minnie Goetze (Bel Powley) is looking for love and loins in the wrong places. A budding artist, she draws a gigantic woman who rules the streets of San Francisco (brought to “life” by animator Sara Gunnarsdottir.) Minnie has dreams, desires, woes and whimsy, which she records in her diary. She also has the desire to sleep with “The handsomest man in the world,” Monroe (Alexander Skarsgård).

However, Monroe is a lot older than Minnie.

Meanwhile, Minnie’s mother, Charlotte (Kristen Wiig continuing to impress), is clueless to her daughter’s daily activities and aspirations. Once a raving beauty, at least she claims, Charlotte spends her life in a drift of drugs, "living nostalgia ([less] humble pie [than] bitter fruit"). Since her divorce to Minnie’s father, Pascal (Christopher Meloni), Charlotte had to find a job at a local library; but work and motherhood do not stop her from partying every chance she gets. Indeed, these responsibilities seem to generate it.

Charlotte's number one party pal is Monroe.

Based on the novel by Phoebe Gloieckner, writer-director Marielle Heller’s The Diary of a Teenage Girl is not your typical summer film fare. Few films this frank about teenage sexuality are found in American cinema. (Adolescent desire in French film is old hat.). Americans are still repressed when it comes to sexuality. And the last person who should be thinking about sex in “God’s country” is an American teenage girl. (Never mind, the US has the highest teenage pregnancy in the industrialized world. Thanks to all that jabber about abstinence.)

Rather than receive the typical Hollywood movie meme where the unremarkable teenage dude -- after a series of mishaps, pranks and bullies (usually handsome, rich dudes) -- gets the remarkable girl, The Diary of a Teenage Girl offers a more realistic approach where the awkward adolescent girl gets the older dude – tapping into his psyche where the conquest of the virgin is nearly unstoppable.

Their relationship, rather than titillating, is poised for stress. Monroe knows the ramifications if he gets caught. He will be arrested, lose Charlotte and be plagued as a sex offender the rest of his life, but the triumph for him is worth the risk. Legally speaking, he is a sexual predator. As far as the story goes, at best, he is a damn lascivious fool. For her naive part(s), Minnie seems clueless to the illegalities of such a relationship.

Powley, who was in her early 20s when the film was shot, gives a powerful and believable performance as the titular character. Minnie is awkward yet ambitious, eager yet earnest, troubled and troublesome. She begins to understand the power of her sexuality and it disturbs her. Minnie wants to use it for good via pleasure, not the domination of others via their desire.

Heller seems to agree. Audiences looking for some petty, petite bourgeois punishment for female sexual transgressions will be disappointed. This is not a story about how damaging sex can be for a young teenager, but how it is simply a part of life. It is about identity and growing up. Sex happens.

 

 

 

 

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FILM REVIEW: THE END OF THE TOUR

David Lipsky (Jessie Eisenberg) and David Foster Wallace (Jason Segel) in The End of the Tour.

A tale of two Davids, talking, a lot

By Ed Rampell

I enjoyed the first hour of James Ponsoldt’s The End of the Tour, which consists mostly of two 30-something men talking to each other. As an author, interviewer and journalist I was interested in the real life premise: In 1996, staff writer David Lipsky (Jesse Eisenberg) convinces his Rolling Stone editor (Ron Livingston in a cameo) to dispatch him from Manhattan to the Midwest to cover, all expenses paid, the latest literary phenom, David Foster Wallace (Jason Segel), and his book tour promoting the tome. Infinite Jest.

As in Louis Malle’s 1981 My Dinner with Andre, Tour’s pair of writers are, but of course, full of words. The repartee between the reporter and novelist is initially entertaining and engaging. Discourses on the literary life and creative process absorb me and the actors, especially Segel, do creditable jobs.

Lipsky arguably breaks journalistic standards by accepting Wallace’s hospitality and moves in with him, although there’s a motel nearby at this rural Illinois outpost. Lipsky is likely too close to his subject to remain objective, balanced and fair. He also does some pretty sneaky things behind the author’s back. For instance, in what may be another breach of journalistic ethics, the unsuccessful novelist-turned-reporter takes advantage of Wallace’s generously offering him a roof over his head by snooping in his host’s medicine cabinet to see what kind of prescription drugs Wallace is taking. (Wallace was reportedly on anti-depressants.) These possible violations of journalism’s code of ethics may indicate that Rolling Stone was reportage-challenged long before its current rape story brouhaha.

After what seems like a few days the not-so-dynamic duo fly to Minneapolis for the film’s titular tour. Joan Cusack is her quirky self as Patty, the author’s escort who shepherds the literati around town when they are in the Twin Cities’ vicinity. One of Cusack’s cracks is among the film’s best lines. Although Cusack’s role is too small it was good to see a screen depiction of minders -- interesting characters working in an overlooked avocation. I once had a minder when I was on a book tour in Hawaii who was such a malihini (newcomer) that she had no idea how to get around the islands, so I had to give her directions everywhere we went to sign books.

Anyway, after Wallace’s tour is over he and Lipsky return to the middle of nowhere in Illinois. It’s downhill from here, devolving into a blabfest that does not really capture one’s attention. Their male egos begin to clash. Lipsky, who has published a minor novel, is envious of Wallace’s fame and success after his Infinite Jest hits the bestseller list. They compete over women, and so on.

Nothing much really happens - no wonder Rolling Stone decided not to publish an article based on Lipsky’s dull misadventures in the Midwest after spending a wad of Jann Wenner’s loot. (Lipsky ain’t exactly a Hunter S. Thompson; or Matt Taibbi, for that matter.) The magazine was clearly exercising better journalistic judgment in the 1990s than it has in more recent times, caught up in scandals and lawsuits as it is now over allegedly bogus reporting about gang rape on a college campus.

Lipsky did, however, keep his extensive audiotapes, which he turned into a 2010 book after Wallace’s demise at the age of only 46. Did Lipsky cash in on Wallace and attain a measure of the fame and fortune he envied the Infinite Jest author for having? Although given Wallace’s ending, recognition and money don’t necessarily the happy one maketh and aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Eisenberg is pretentiously cerebral here, similar to his role as a guy who could only relate to humans virtually so he supposedly invented Facebook in 2010’s The Social Network. I’ve never been a fan of Segel’s buffoonish sexual loser shtick in flicks like 2012’s This is Forty and 2008’s Forgetting Sarah Marshall (which at least had the virtue of being shot in Hawaii). Seriously, has anyone ever seen Segel in a room with Seth Rogen at the same time? Having said that, in The End of the Tour, Segel probably delivers his best performance to date and he is a dead ringer for the misbegotten Wallace at a certain period of his all too short life.

The film could have used more of the idiosyncratic Cusack to jazz it up. Ponsoldt’s 2013 coming of age drama, The Spectacular Now, was better than this snoozefest that screenwriter Donald Margulies based on Lipsky’s tell-all. Really, whose idea was it to film a blabfest about a guy purportedly on anti-depressants? This movie barely moved, feeling more infinite than jest. Although the first sixty minutes or so of The End of the Tour was good, after 106 minutes, when the curtain fell, I felt as if it was the end of the snore.

 

 

 

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FILM REVIEW: LISTEN TO ME MARLON

Marlon Brando in Listen to Me Marlon.

Legendary

By Ed Rampell

Marlon Brando may have died in 2004 but he has not gone gently into Dylan Thomas’ good night. He’s back!

In the interests of full disclosure your humble scribe should let you know that Brando is his favorite actor. Having said that, Stevan Riley’s great new documentary, Listen to Me Marlon, about the stage and screen legend, is a must-see for viewers interested in film/theater history, the art of acting, celebrity activism and, of course Brando, the man and artist.

Riley had access to a hitherto previously unknown, privately held treasure trove of audiotapes the prolific Brando (an avid ham radio operator, By the way) accumulated over the years for various purposes, including: To prepare and research roles; self-hypnosis; recitations of Shakespeare monologues; etc. These wide-ranging ruminations reflect on: Growing up miserable in Nebraska, the son of alcoholics; Method Acting; Brando’s family; many of his movies; his romantic life; and this activist’s radical politics.

Riley’s documentary explores and expresses the actor’s inner and outer life through the audiotapes, spoken by Brando himself with that distinctive voice -- in effect Brando is posthumously narrating the film, literally having the last word. Of course, there are extensive still photos and clips -- not only from Marlon’s movies, but also of his Stanislavsky Method guru, Stella Adler. Some of those who worked with Brando, such as Bernardo Bertolucci, who directed 1973’s Last Tango in Paris, are also heard.

In archival and news footage we see Brando’s battles in court -- briefly with his ex-wife, Anna Kashfi and their custody clash over their son, Christian Brando and then, unfolding like a Shakespearean tragedy, what Brando called “the messenger of misery” arriving at his home: Christian’s shooting of his Tahitian half-sister Cheyenne’s Polynesian lover, Dag Drollet, at Marlon’s Mulholland Drive perch.

There are also home movies of Brando in happier days at Tahiti and Tetiaroa, the nearby atoll he bought as the reclusive star’s private getaway. Although the documentary, which is generally sympathetic to its subject (perhaps a condition of having access to the tapes and for making the film?), doesn’t go into it, the killing of Dag apparently prevented Brando for the last 15 years or so of his life from returning to French Polynesia, where he would have been under French jurisdiction and subject to questioning. By building a resort at Tetiaroa the oft-contradictory celebrity brought tourists to his supposed refuge. And Brando’s eco-obsession to transform Tetiaroa into an environmental paragon failed, marring the previously pristine paradise with abandoned rotting structures. (I know, I saw them there in the 1990s.)

Among the most absorbing of Marlon’s musings are his political views. The documenatry shows this son of alcoholics and an abusive father developed an inherent sense of identification with outsiders and the man who would play a Mafia chieftain in 1972’s The Godfather maintains he couldn’t stand to see the weak get pushed around. To his credit, in his finest moments Brando used his fame and fortune to support and shine a light on the oppressed. In Listen to Me Marlonthe actor and activist is seen in clips at civil rights events and at the funeral of “Little Bobby Hutton”, the teenaged Black Panther killed by Oakland police in a shootout which involved Eldridge Cleaver. Brando is shown standing beside Panther co-founder and chairman Bobby Seale. Martin Luther King also appears in a different clip.

Brando is better known for his stance on Native American issues, although he once rather pithily pointed out that when it comes to who’s more oppressed -- blacks, Indians, etc. - “it’s not an ouch contest.” Brando is heard recounting putting himself “on the line” during an armed land struggle at Kenosha, Wisconsin, pitting Natives against National Guardsmen, discussing being “four feet from death” as bullets whistled near him.

Of course, in what is arguably the Academy Awards ceremony’s greatest political moment, Brando sent traditionally-garbed Sacheen Little Feather to decline his Godfather Oscar, due to Hollywood’s disparaging treatment of America’s aboriginal people with decades of celluloid stereotypes. Part of this unforgettable moment, which raised the spirits of indigenous occupiers at Wounded Knee and finally gave some airtime to Native Americans, is in Listen to Me Marlon.

Intercut with clips from movies such as John Ford’s 1939 Drums Along the Mohawk, Listen to Me Marlon includes a bearded Brando denouncing Tinseltown’s depiction of Natives as “savages” during a 1970s appearance on Dick Cavett’s ABC-TV talk show, proclaiming: “Everything we are taught about the American Indian [by Hollywood] is wrong. There have been 400 treaties written by the United States, in good faith with the Indians, and every single one of them has been broken. We like to see ourselves as perhaps John Wayne sees us, that we are a country that stands for freedom, for rightness, for justice. It just simply doesn’t apply. And we were the most rapacious, aggressive, destructive, torturing, monstrous people who swept from one coast to the other, murdering and causing mayhem among the Indians.”

Listen to Me Marlon is a stellar, riveting biography. Riley previously directed the first cinema documentary on James Bond and the most lucrative film franchise ever, 2012’s Everything or Nothing, which Passion Pictures also co-produced. But what Brando aficionados may most appreciate is Marlon’s mulling over of acting and his stage and screen career. It’s fascinating to hear Brando reveal what he thought in order to unleash his pent-up explosive rage in A Streetcar Named Desire, which catapulted him to fame on Broadway and then Hollywood. It is an illuminating example of how the Stanislavsky Method works.

 

 

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FILM REVIEW: JENNY'S WEDDING

Jenny (Katherine Heigl) and Kitty (Alexis Bledel) in Jenny's Wedding.

Wind between the ears

By Miranda Inganni

Jenny (Katherine Heigl) is tired of dodging questions from her parents and siblings about her romantic life. After being pushed to lie one too many times, she finally decides to tell her parents that not only is she a lesbian, but that she wants to marry Kitty (Alexis Bledel), her “roommate” of five years. Predictable reactions from her family ensue.

Mom and Dad (Linda Emond and Tom Wilkinson) are disappointed and confused; what did they do to cause her to be like this? But like all of their concerns, Dad tries to sweep it under the rug, or covers as the case may be with the parents’ many bedtime talks, and Mom gossips with her best friend, Ellen (Diana Hardcastle). Essentially, both Mom and Dad feel like Jenny is trying to change their lives by being gay. They cannot accept that Jenny wants a big wedding and would prefer that she just keep things quiet (initially not even telling her siblings). Her parents perpetuate the lie about Jenny’s romances to their friends and colleagues, but continue to blame themselves and each other for this “failure.”

Meanwhile, Jenny's sister, Anne (Grace Gummer), having convinced herself that Jenny has always been mom and dad’s favorite, distances herself even more from her sister now that she knows her unspeakable truth. Big brother Michael (Matthew Metzger), on the other hand, couldn’t care less about who his sister marries and has known since high school that Jenny wasn’t into boys. (Why, oh why, then does he continually force awkward introductions between her and his single friends)

In the scene that proved to be cathartic for Jenny, she and her father finally have words. Loud words. In a funeral home. Jenny draws a line in the sand. It does not end well for familial ties, but Jenny asserts her independence and (finally!) realizes that she has to live her life the way she wants to.

Written, directed and produced by Mary Agnes Donoghue -- perhaps best known for having penned that 1988 tearjerker, Beaches --it’s as if Donoghue cannot get out of her own way and tell the story in a more organic way. It feels at times that Donoghue was trying to make a lesbian coming out movie aimed at Middle America, which is why it ends up diluted on impact. All of the acting is fine (though Bledel is underutilized), but the heavy-handed soundtrack is overused to dictate emotion -- and also reassure viewers that everything will be just fine.

 

 

 

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FILM REVIEW: FIVE FILMS BY CLAUDE SAUTET

A scene from Les Choses de La Vie.

A fistful of French film

By Ed Rampell

When one thinks of French New Wave directors the names Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard and Eric Rohmer are usually among those that leap to mind. But now Rialto Pictures is theatrically re-releasing five films by one France’s lesser known, yet nonetheless noteworthy auteurs, Claude Sautet. The quintet is being screened for a week beginning July 24 in the DCP (Digital Cinema Package) format in L.A. at the Laemmle Royal Theater and cineastes who love their cinema sophisticated are likely to savor these motion picture bonbons.

Truffaut’s 1962 Jules et Jim is often regarded as the gold standard for movies about ménage-a-trois relationships. However, Sautet’s 1972 César & Rosalie gives that classic threesome a run for its money. César & Rosalie is a sometimes buoyant, almost always riveting account of the three-way love affair between Romy Schneider (Sautet is credited with reviving the saucy Austrian actress’ career), Yves Montand, and Sami Frey.

When Rosalie’s (Schneider) former lover David (Frey) returns after a five year absence he upsets the sexual applecart. As the aptly named César, Montand has been romancing Rosalie. While César is a successful scrap metal businessman, David is a much younger, better looking cartoonist. The youthful artiste and middle-aged wheeler-dealer clash almost immediately.

Around the time César & Rosalie was released I used to argue with comrades on the New York Left about the state of mind of members of the capitalist class. Other leftists believed that the bourgeoisie were merely following their economic interests while I maintained that the capitalists were crazy, pursuing clinically insane policies like the misbegotten Vietnam War. I wish I had seen César & Rosalie at the time, because Montand’s (who, offscreen, was a gauchiste) depiction of the gauche César is exhibit “A” of my contention.

In addition to violent mood swings that jeopardize those around him (I fully expected César & Rosalie to end disastrously, like Jules et Jim), César is the embodiment of despicable conspicuous consumption. He buys things just to brag about them and show off that he can afford them and how rich he is now. He dresses to impress -- if not with his sartorial splendor, with the price tags of his garb. In one scene César boasts about how many francs his new shoes cost - which underwhelms Rosalie, who undercuts his braggadocio by pointing out that despite how expensive they are, his shiny brown shoes are mismatched with his suit.

I was really absorbed by and enjoyed César & Rosalie, with its untraditional take on relationships and human behavior. With its outré flavor and bent, the only recent U.S. release that’s similar in terms of tone is The Overnight, that other outrageous comedy of manners that takes a skewed, offbeat look at monogamy.

Other Sautet films being screened through July 30 at the Laemmle Royal include the 1971 policier Max et Les Ferrailleurs, a crime thriller starring Michel Piccoli and Schneider. They also co-star in 1970’s psychologically astute Les Choses de La Vie. Piccolli, a major French star, also returned with Montand for Sautet’s 1974 look at male mid-life crisis among several buddies in Vincent, François, Paul and the Others, costarring Gérard Depardieu.

 

 

 

 

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