Screen Comment

SAFELY ARRIVED IN CANNES

2011-05-14T04:55:00.003-04:00

By ALI NADERZAD - May 14, 2011

I arrived in Cannes around midnight on Friday and made it to the first Saturday screening, namely 'Pirates of the Caribbean,' in 3D. The temporary disappointment of our bespoke site not launching in time has been mitigated, somewhat, by this 48-hour Cannes visit which will give me a chance to see “Be omid e didar” by Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof, Robert Guediguian’s ‘The Snows of Kilimandjaro,” the new Dardennes Brothers movie “The kid with the bike” and “Michael,” by first-time director Marcus Schleinzer (he previously worked as Michael Haneke’s casting director) about a man holding a child hostage. More news soon.

NEW ANGELA BASSETT MOVIE EXPLORES CLASS DIFFERENCES AT THE ALTAR

2011-05-08T02:41:00.006-04:00

Starring Paula Patton, Laz Alonso and Angela Bassett, directed by Salim Akil.

By KEVIN BOWEN - May 8, 2011

How few films are targeted toward a black audience? You only think about this question when watching such a film, like the eminently passable wedding movie "Jumping the Broom."

When found, these movies can place a different spin on familiar family situations. The title refers to the ritual that slaves used to signify marriage and that has lasted to the modern age. The movies also create an entire star circuit of black actors and comedians that operates in the shadow of Hollywood stardom.

One African-American star worth noting is the Reverend TD Jakes. The spirituality book author is moving into film, looking to expand his multimedia empire. "Jumping the Broom" is his latest endeavor. He’s even the Alfred Hitchcock of these movies, always showing up for a cameo to dispense a smidgen of advice.

Jakes has forgotten more than I’ll ever know about marriage, and "Jumping the Broom" is his second film on the topic. 2008’s "Not Easily Broken" was not the disaster one might suspect would arise from dabbling in a new medium, but it wasn’t much more than formulaic marital self-help onscreen. "Jumping the Broom" takes a step forward by seeming to be a natural though familiar story. In other words, the Jakes films have advanced from preachy polemic to organic cliché.

Dome reasonably well, the clichés here have a way of slipping past you. We have the bride who has been bad at finding a man. The nice-guy groom overwhelmed by his sabotaging mother. An uptight mother-in-law. A playboy uncle. A studly cook. The best friend with too-high standards who can never find a man but whose eyes are opened to someone during the weekend. Rich people. Unlikely hook-ups. Dark family secrets. A disastrous rehearsal dinner. The too tidy ending of unlikely forgivenesses. Did I miss any? Does the film?

Yet "Jumping the Broom" gets plenty right. The film’s most compelling aspect is its clash of the classes within the black community. Her family is tremendously wealthy, French-speaking, and without history as slaves. His is a lower-class, city-dwelling family that's suspicious of money. Class conflict is a cliché of many wedding films, but class fissures among black families is not a topic often seen in films and "Jumping the Broom" does well with this fresh approach.

Paula Patton may never be a star in the wide universe of movies. But the "Precious" actress has the same brims with an affecting smile of a junior Julia Roberts. If her character is a little too much of a saint, and she is at times a little too eager to please, then we forgive her. Angela Bassett needs no forgiveness. She simply doesn’t get as much film work as she might deserve.

Ultimately that’s about it and that’s enough. I’ve seen enough wedding comedies in my life to know when one isn’t working. This one does.

LAST NIGHT

2011-05-06T08:10:00.002-04:00

Starring Keira Knightley, Sam Worthington, Eva Mendes. Directed by Massy Tadjedin.

By SAM WEISBERG - May 7, 2011

Joanna (Keira Knightley) and Michael (Sam Worthington) are a gorgeous, chic married couple, living in a posh New York City loft. She's a freelance fashion writer, he's a successful real estate agent. Half-naked much of the time, they have cute domestic squabbles and make up over midnight snacks in the kitchen. They're at the three-year point of marriage, and a little bit uncomfortable with routine contentment—they broke up briefly during their pre-wedding courtship--but content nonetheless.

Then one night, at a party, Joanna spots Michael flirting with his co-worker, Laura (Eva Mendes). Michael is about to go on a business trip with Laura, and Joanna, understandably, is jealous. (Knightley has the most bashfully sexy smile in all of Hollywood, but even she couldn't sport a chin mole as alluringly as Mendes). It doesn't help that, while Michael is gone, she runs smack into her old beau, Alex (Guillaume Canet), whom she dated during her temporary split from Michael. Of course, he is French and bearded. Of course, his aching, reptilian grins, while repellent to us, still prove irresistible to her. And from that point on, director/writer Massy Tadjedin criss-crosses between Michael and Joanna's excursions with their respective tempters, over the course of one very long night.

In other words, “Last Night” is yet another in-depth look at upper-class infidelity, another opportunity to yell “No, don't do that!” at the screen for nearly two hours. If your facial muscles aren't permanently sore from cringing throughout “Eyes Wide Shut,” “Closer,” “Unfaithful,” “The Last Kiss” and “The Freebie,” fear not, masochists: “Last Night” is guaranteed to provide the same level of discomfort.

Whether the affluent philanderers in these movies are swapping mates (“Closer”), taking a designated “night off” of monogamy (“The Freebie”), or banging their suburban boredom away with a worldly, hairy French stud (“Unfaithful”), their stories ultimately bear the same familiar message: no matter how scorching the siren or lothario in question, cheating is wrong, wrong, wrong. That this morality play is usually mingled with extravagantly lit, acrobatic sex scenes—that the imagery serves to glorify impulsivity while the script excoriates it—is, naturally, a paradox meant to be ignored.

To be fair, though, “Last Night” is both more implicit and less preachy than its predecessors. It's less about adultery itself than the moments when its potential becomes overwhelmingly palpable, and Tadjedin explores rather intelligently how this generic couple might handle such urges.

She's adept, visually, at emphasizing the characters' jittery lust; in two separate scenes, the camera jumps downward and then rapidly back up to trail a woman's posterior, mirroring the leering eyes of the man. Tadjedin also extracts a great deal of eroticism from the claustrophobic spaces that, at various times, enclose the two pairs—a taxi cab, a freight elevator, a shallow hotel swimming pool—without resorting to “Fatal Attraction”-like histrionics. Clint Mansell's softly ominous piano score further heightens the guilt-ridden sexual tension.

Tadjedin, while clearly not a hedonist, is relatively forgiving, or at least understanding, of her characters' imperfections. Happily, she doesn't turn Alex into the aggressively seductive creep he appears to be at the outset; he's pushy yet heartfelt, and Canet and Knightley make you believe their genuine feelings for each other. Knightley, despite looking alarmingly rail-thin—her neck is so compressed it forms a virtual Adam's Apple—is so captivating to watch that you forgive her character's naïve, coquettish behavior.

But the overheated lines these two have to say are straight out of third-rate soap operas (“It can't be that kind of a night,” “I think of you when things aren't going well,” etc). And the Mendes-Worthington interplay, while less overwrought, is just plain unconvincing. No one as effortlessly self-composed as Mendes would throw herself this shamelessly at such an indecisive, weak man. Mendes lends her unabashed sultriness to the proceedings, but her character—despite Tadjedin's half-hearted explanation for her actions—remains underdeveloped. And the dour-faced Worthington registers more confusion than heat.

Given Tadjedin's intimate, small-scale approach to this material, you can't help wondering why there's so little humor in the dialogue, and so much melodramatic stammering and brooding. Why don't these characters ever laugh at the absurdity of what they're doing, or even make small talk with each other? All they talk about are their urges, which only dampens the sexual fervor.

Those fascinated by certain minutiae associated with straying—the revealing body language, the nervous lip-biting, the teasing come-ons—will find “Last Night” gripping throughout. But the film will likely bore or frustrate everyone else. The libertines in the audience will want these sad-eyed fools to get on with the deed already, while the eternally faithful will just feel sorry for them.

WATER FOR ELEPHANTS

2011-05-05T15:31:00.005-04:00

Starring Reese Witherspoon, Robert Pattinson, and Christoph Waltz. Directed by Francis Lawrence.

By SAIDEH PAKRAVAN - May 6 , 2011

The marriage of circus and cinema took place in the very early days, fittingly enough as film, the new form of entertainment, sought to capitalize on one of the oldest ones. Some of the first memorable movies about the big top are Chaplin’s “The Circus” in 1928 and Tod Browning’s unforgettable “Freaks” in 1932. From then on, the list of circus movies is unending, about pathetic carnival sideshows in Fellini’s “La Strada” or extravaganzas like Cecil B. de Mille’s “Greatest Show on Earth,” (this last earning a reputation as worse Academy Award winner ever). There are the Marx Brothers, there’s “Trapeze,” we even have Elvis in “Roustabout,” for crying out loud. Some of these films are spectacular or inspired, many corny, hammy, sentimental, and likable. None of these qualifiers apply to “Water for Elephants” a strangely inert vehicle for cardboard cutout characters who sleepwalk through a tired and predictable story.

Readers of the best-selling 2006 novel by Sarah Gruen are familiar with the bareback rider (here Reese Witherspoon, in pale and expressionless china doll mode), her brutal husband August, played by Christoph Waltz, and the failed vet who runs away to join the circus (Twilight” Robert Pattinson, channeling a young Brendan Fraser). Events unfold as expected in an overlong production that tries hard to be entertaining but fails on all counts. We know we’re in the midst of the great depression as we’re told of circus hands thrown off the train when there’s no money to pay them. We know the young couple is in love because they tell us so. We know that August is violent through his horrendous treatment of Rosie the elephant. We know the circus is magical because the public laughs and applauds the lavish numbers too briefly shown. But none of this touches our hearts or registers in any way.

The one draw, Austrian actor Christoph Waltz, was also a let-down. His performance is a perfect film-school study of the importance of balance and chemistry between director and actor. Where Tarantino played this tremendous actor like a Stradivarius in “Inglourious Basterds,” in “Water for Elephants” Waltz screeches like an out-of-tune fiddle. Neither his violence, nor his rants, nor his charm are at all credible.

Hal Holbrook who brackets beginning and end is marvelous as always but perhaps not reason enough to waste two-plus perfectly good hours that would have been put to better use by going to an actual circus for real magic and emotion.

ONE HELL OF A SPORTS CURSE

2011-05-04T17:03:00.004-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - May 5, 2011

Alex Gibney's riveting documentary "Catching Hell," part of ESPN's "30 for 30" film series, centers on the ruthless scapegoating that high-strung, frenzied fans of ill-fated sports teams often resort to. It's about the ugly side of underdogs, about understandable but misplaced rage at avoidable—yet consistent—failure.

No sports movie will likely achieve the psychological depth that "Catching Hell" does any time soon, or the pathos. The variety of subjects Gibney interviews is staggering—from sportscasters to authors like Scott Turow to former Boston Red Sox and Chicago Cubs players. And they all share a common, hilarious humility, the instinct for anticipating the death knell that's been sounded at all too many near-victory playoff and World Series games.

During Game 6 of 2003's National League Championship Series, Steve Bartman, a meek, turtleneck-wearing Cubs fan, tried to catch a foul ball hit by the Florida Marlins' Luis Castillo, accidentally blocking Cubs' outfielder Moisés Alou from retrieving it. There was one out in the top of the 8th inning and the Cubs were up 3-0; Alou's catch would have left the Cubs—who had not won the World Series since 1908—four outs away from entering the Series.

As noted by Gibney, several other blunders—a botched double play, a wild pitch—led to the Marlins scoring eight runs that same inning, defeating the Cubs. Yet ultimately, Bartman became the fall guy for keeping this long-doomed team from winning.

Through linking up with filmmaker Matt Liston—who attended the game with a video camera hidden in his crotch—Gibney has obtained illuminating new angles on the incident, revealing the "slow build" of the crowd's angry reaction. Throughout "Catching Hell," he employs an Errol Morris-like visual method, replaying the incident several times using different footage as well as re-enactments, to intoxicating effect.

Television replays have cemented certain images in the minds of baseball fans: the headphones-wearing Bartman flailing his arms ungracefully to get the ball; Alou snarling at the dumbstruck Bartman; the umpire pointing menacingly at Bartman; Bartman looking ashen—and all of this is shown. But Liston's hand-held footage adds little-known phenomena to the proceedings. We see a man in the parking lot lifting a portable TV over his head, broadcasting the replay for throngs of fans, who begin the chant of "Asshole! Asshole!" Before long, fans at the stadium are also screaming at Bartman, throwing beer and food at him, threatening to kill him. His harmless demeanor only seems to incite more violence, and Bartman is finally escorted out of Wrigley Field by security. Bartman—who was so vilified that scores of people dressed like him that Halloween—has remained a recluse to this day; his only public response was the apology issued to the press two days later.

Though Bartman declined to participate in "Catching Hell," his absence from the movie inevitably gives him more sympathy, shaping his persona as a man practically forced into hiding. Gibney, speaking at a Tribeca Film Festival post-screening discussion last weekend, said he was moved by the "poignancy of a guy, for whom baseball meant so much, to be remembered as a failure."

A lifelong Red Sox fan, Gibney decided to take a "personal approach" to Bartman's story by drawing parallels between him and another notorious scapegoat: Bill Buckner. During the 1986 World Series—also Game 6—the Sox first baseman let a slow Mookie Wilson grounder roll under his glove, capping off a miraculous Mets comeback that lived in infamy for Red Sox fans—until their World Series victory in 2004.

There are obvious differences between the two men. Buckner was a professional ball player decidedly making an error; Bartman, a mere fan, was just trying to catch a ball, as were several people sitting next to him (two of whom admit on camera that, in retrospect, they could have easily made the exact same goof). Bartman's foul-up only cost the Cubs a second out in the eighth inning; Buckner's error literally gave up the winning run.

But in both cases, sports analysts, broadcasters and fans seem to have overlooked certain other teammates' clumsy playing in Game 6—as well as in Game 7, when both teams could have overcome humiliation and won their respective series. The Cubs and the Red Sox both have a history of long-standing omens; in 1945, the last year the Cubs made the Series, a bar owner whose goat was banned from Wrigley put the "Billy Goat Curse" on the team, while the Red Sox suffered the "Curse of the Bambino" after Babe Ruth left for the Yankees in 1919. The Red Sox supposedly ended their curse in 2004, but the Cubs still need a culprit to lay their rage and disappointment on when deprived, yet again, of a near-win.

"Catching Hell" is, in the end, a call for calming that rage. The interviewees, many of whom once lashed out at Bartman, are mostly empathetic now. ESPN reporter Wayne Drehs—one of the only journalists to interact with Bartman since his silence—recalls, with trepidation, his assignment to "find Steve Bartman," his approaching Bartman at his office's parking lot and scaring the bejesus out of him. The female security guard that protected Bartman tears up when recalling his plight. Several spectators present at the Cubs game who admit they picked on Bartman—including a Chicago Tribune journalist—express regret at causing him harm. (Alou, now retired from pro-baseball, seems less remorseful, dismissing his singling out of Bartman as "an in-the-moment thing.")

But the most heart-rending scenes in "Catching Hell" are the interviews with Buckner, who is still visibly shaken from his gaffe. It's hard not to get choked up when the kindly Buckner is invited to throw the first pitch at the Red Sox's opening day in 2008, finally forgiven for his error. At the Tribeca festival discussion, Gibney predicted that, similarly, Bartman's day in the sun will come when the Cubs win the Series. This triumphant, funny, painful film will have you hoping along with him.

"Catching Hell" was recently shown at the Tribeca Film Festival.

SELLING OUT IN A FANTASTIC KIND OF WAY

2011-05-02T15:32:00.006-04:00

[Documentary filmmaker Morgan Spurlock organized a daytrip to Altoona, PA, to help promote his latest movie "Pom Wonderful presents the greatest movie ever sold, Altoona, Pa." Screen Comment's Eric Isaac was on the plane]

By ERIC ISAAC - May 3, 2011

I met documentary filmmaker Morgan Spurlock at JFK airport early in the morning. He wore a two-piece suit festooned with the logos of the numerous companies (fifteen in all) who sponsored his latest documentary, “POM Wonderful Presents The Greatest Movie Ever Sold, Altoona, Pa,” a gleeful examination of product placement in movies. Spurlock Spurlock went all out to make a film about advertising and product placement in movies by funding his documentary with advertising and product placement. As simple as that may sound, the story isn’t.

The question that Spurlock and his team asked themselves is, if stadiums can sell their names to the highest bidder, why can’t a town, and how much? It turns out that that figure is $ 25,000. Searching for the town was pretty easy. Altoona, Pa is the home of the corporate headquarters of Sheetz, one of the main sponsors of the film.

To poke fun at advertisers in a movie funded by advertising makes about as much sense as “Super-Size Me” being funded by McDonalds; at least on the surface. In the film, POM’s owner Lynda Rae Resnick (POM was the key sponsor, paying upwards of one million dollars) insists that transparency, in the way that they do business and how much they pay to be in a film, is important to them—with a few caveats. The film has to gross 10 million dollars at the box office and there has to be 650 million media impressions, which is no small feat. Last week the film was given a limited release and according to Yahoo! has made a little over 100K.

Sheetz is. In the film, it is introduced during a pitch meeting to the owners. One of the owners was pretty skeptical about how this film could even be made. Morgan turns to the camera and says “This is the film. We are making the film right now”.

Sheetz, a family-owned chain of gas stations-cum-convenience stores based in Pennsylvania is headquartered in Altoona, PA. It is pretty clear that this small rust-belt town, with its many boarded-up windows and closed down businesses, could really use the money in exchange for the town’s name. A 25,000-dollar donation check to the town doesn’t really go a long way, but it also begs the question, could they have gotten more? In his speech to the town of Altoona, Spurlock said this about the mayor, “I would first like to thank him for returning my calls. A lot of people don’t like to do that. Thank you for being a man whose elevated sense of irony is only matched by his inability to negotiate.”

For the film’s premiere at Altoona’s theatre Spurlock was going to walk down the red carpet accompanied by a miniature Shetland pony. When the theatre’s manager saw it, she said "Get that damn poodle off the red carpet, it’s rented. If it shits on the carpet we lose our deposit. WHO brings a dog to a movie?"

The premiere was a hit and a massive cocktail party was thrown for the audience of 2,000 afterward. For a small town in central Pennsylvania, this would probably be the “greatest day ever,” a phrase that Spurlock used repeatedly throughout the day.

Corporate funding can easily translate into unwanted influence over the movie. When I asked Spurlock if he thought that his vision of the movie had changed since its inception he told me, ‘every documentary should change from the original vision. They are organic and unscripted and you can’t say, I am going to tell this story and fuck what everyone else thinks. Some of the best stories come from tangential story lines that you never predicted.”

Considering that one of the main clauses of the contract was that the sponsors had final cut, one would fairly assume that changes were made. But if Spurlock is a maverick thinker, sometimes defiantly so, he can also negotiate tactfully. “They [the sponsors] wanted to see it before Sundance, in a conference room, and the last thing I wanted to do was show them this through the long narrow tunnel that is their vision of the film which is “This is how I see my brand” and ignoring the bigger picture that is this film that they are a part of. I suggested that they see it at Sundance with everyone else. In the end, the sponsors were ecstatic about how well it was received, and I think that was better than having them dissect it.”

The next few weeks will determine the success of this film and whether branding in documentaries is successful enough for sponsors to justify their participation. In this case, however, they already have a leg up by being involved in a project that has already created a lot of media attention for some of its bizarre antics, and also because they have a sparklingly-friendly spokesperson known for his integrity at the helm. If “POM Wonderful” is successful you might be looking at the next step in the moneymaking business of filmmaking—franchising. “If we’ve really made a Docbuster, which is what we really wanted to do, then by week four or five we will green light the sequel, The Greatest Movie Ever Sold 2 - The Quest for More Money, ” Spurlock said.

In a few months, the show “Damages” will move from FX to an advertisement-free platform on DirectTV. Corporations will always find a way to get their adverts to the consumer, even if it means resorting to the silly but all-too real antics of placing its brand in places you cannot avoid. Money is not an obstacle when it comes to advertisers making an impression on you. In his “address” to the town of POM Wonderful Presents The Greatest Movie Ever Sold, PA, Spurlock declared, “let this be a day for everyone to learn from: no matter what your price, someone, somewhere in the world will pay it.”

AT ONE WITH THE MALE ID: NEW THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS OUT NOW

2011-04-30T11:48:00.006-04:00

Starring Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, Jordana Brewster, Dwayne Johnson (The Rock), Tyrese Gibson, Ludacris and Gal Gadot. Directed by Justin Lin

By KEVIN BOWEN - April 30, 2011

It’s the moment that we’ve all been waiting for!

No, not when Vin Diesel and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson throw each other through a series of windows, as they sweat nails in a scuffle only missing a cage (but the moment when The Rock spits out broken glass is precious.)

It’s rather when, after surviving an urban warfare ambush in a armor-plated Humvee, these two macho adversaries lock Marine-thick forearms to climb off the ground in a show of respect. It’s the sort of pure man moment that touches every guy’s id. Director Justin Lin even lathers it in slow motion. You think about that first wheelie on your bike. You think about peeling out your first car. And damn it, for a brief moment you allow the words “best movie ever” to tickle the inside of your lips.

It’s at that instant that we reach the hyper manmageddon toward which the "Fast and the Furious" series has been driving since its beginning in 2002. I’m not sure if the movie is actually any good, but it does seem to reach some kind of an ideal.

As ideals go, it’s not ashamed to be a lizard-brained one. The only apparent logic appears to be the male id. This is an ideal of fast cars, machine guns, stringy babes, roadway smashups, somersaulting buses, a deadly double-cross by the richest man in Brazil, and a plot to steal millions from the vault of a Rio police station. It’s like the filmmakers read all the scholarly feminist criticism and shouted “Hell yeah!”

Diesel, Paul Walker, and Jordana Brewster return from the four previous adventures. A cast of all-stars return from the scattered remains of the previous outings. That sound you hear isn’t the screech of wheels. It’s the sound of the air quotes digging in around the word “stars.” No one in this five-film series has gone on to more success, and this is a profitable refuge for a number of them.

If the old cast members are the protons in the nucleus of the testosterone atom, then it was inevitable that they would attract Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson, as a take-no-prisoners federal agent. All buff, goateed, and camp, he’s perfect for the role. His vein-bulging intensity has a way of being scary and comic at the same time. One of the film’s small drawbacks is it spends too much time on the supporting team and not enough on The Rock.

There are three deliciously unreal action set pieces. The first is a fantastic piece of work, a superb car heist from a moving train at one-hundred miles an hour in the desert that keeps upping the ante. The second, a rooftop to rooftop chase through the favelas, stands out by having three different sides: good guys, bad guys, and cops. In the last, a moving bank vault takes out half the storefronts in Rio as the anti-heroes try to outrun the cops. This is the weakest of the three--the editing is poor, and it’s too easy to see the moviemaking rather than the movie magic.

"The Fast and The Furious" first appeared in 2002, it came at the end of two decades of steroidal male-action heroes. By then the exhaust was coming from something more than the tailpipe. But everything old becomes new again. In an era in which shrimpy nerds like Jesse Eisenberg or Emile Hirsch vie for leading man stardom, the muscular escapism of "Fast Five" feels like a delirious relief.

TFF'11: MARATHON BOY

2011-04-29T03:27:00.004-04:00

By LITA ROBINSON - April 29, 2011

“Marathon Boy” follows the unbelievable story of Budhia Singh, a boy born into the crushing poverty of an Indian slum, sold by his destitute mother, and rescued by a judo coach who runs an orphanage. The coach, Biranchi Das, soon discovers that then-three year-old Budhia has a prodigious talent for running. Jumping on what he sees as a huge opportunity both for himself and the children who depend on him, Das promotes Budhia to the Indian media as a boy wonder, an expression of the unquenchable Indian spirit. By the time he is four, Budhia has run twenty half-marathons and 48 full marathons.

Buoyed by Budhia’s inexhaustible willpower Das stages one hell of a publicity stunt: a 42-mile run, which could set a new world record.

Director Gemma Atwal does a masterful job, in this HBO production, of allowing the story to play out in front of her without prejudicing it. Though the press notes handed out at Tribeca indicated that Atwal was in fact intimately involved with all the major players in the film, “Marathon Boy” really makes an effort to present an objective picture of a very complex situation. Whatever your opinion of the subjects of the film, “Marathon Boy” is very much worth seeing if only for its commitment to impartial storytelling—something we get far too little of these days.

TFF'11: DENNIS FARINA IS SUPERB IN LAST RITES OF JOE MAY

2011-04-28T02:31:00.007-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 28, 2011

No actor has mastered the art of muttering obscenities under his breath more expertly than Dennis Farina. In “Get Shorty,” “Snatch” and other films about low-life criminals, Farina, with his eagle-eyed glare, Charles Bronson-like mustache and clenched-teeth diction, has stolen every scene he’s in merely by spouting off an array of expletives. “The fucking airport,” he barks at a cab driver in “Get Shorty,” disgusted at being put upon to give simple directions. His every eyebrow twitch, stiff-necked shrug and sarcastic overemphasis on every word—as if he’s already explained what he’s saying three times—deliver the message: “I don’t give an inch for you—you give an inch for me.”

Happily, Farina’s signature macho style is put to good use for much of “The Last Rites of Joe May.” But the film, directed and written by Joe Maggio, stretches Farina’s range to an unexpected level: for the first time, he’s showing genuine hurt and weakness, with astonishingly powerful results. Joe May certainly bears the same hostility and bitterness as Farina’s other characters, but he’s a man with a conscience, a soul, and his brooding takes on a tragic dimension.

The film begins with Joe, an aging, low-level street hustler, leaving a two-month hospital stint. Still crippled by pneumonia, he skulks back into his dreary Chicago neighborhood, only to discover that his landlord threw all his belongings out and rented his apartment to a young hospital worker (Jamie Anne Allman) and her daughter (Meredith Droeger). Homeless, his vehicle impounded, his bank account nearly empty, he’s reduced to wandering through icy, darkened streets and nodding off on buses. Spotting him huddled beneath his beige leather jacket one night, Allman takes pity on him and invites him to share the apartment.

The “last rites” of the title refer, naturally, to Joe’s redemption, developed through his budding relationship with, and sense of duty to, Allman and Droeger.

Thematically the film is distressingly familiar: a fallen-soul-finds-peace story in the vein of “The Wrestler,” “Crazy Heart” and “Affliction.” The lighting is punishingly dim, meant to mirror the bleak proceedings but often just making the picture tough to look at. And some of the characters, while necessary to keep the plot in motion, are ciphers through and through: Joe’s estranged, angry son (Brian Boland), the battered single mom (Allman), the abusive boyfriend/corrupt cop who’s “under a lot of pressure” (Ian Barford).

Maggio throws in plenty of “Wrestler”-like sentimentality, as we watch Joe sink deeper into despair. A one-time pro at hawking watches and electronics, Joe is now mocked by his shady employer (Gary Cole, effectively smarmy), assigned demeaning tasks like selling lamb meat to unfriendly grocers. Besides the sweet little girl (played nicely by Droeger, who is a refreshingly low-key child actress), Joe’s only true friends are his pigeons, which he houses in a coop on his roof. As if the main story wasn't dramatic enough, Maggio torpedoes key scenes with excerpts from Puccini’s “La Boheme” and Verdi’s “Trovatore.” Countless films, from “Moonstruck” to “Philadelphia,” have used opera to underscore human frailty but never as shamelessly as here.

Yet despite the film's flaws, Maggio does achieve several dark comic moments to break up the lingering aura of gloom. There's a painfully funny sequence where Joe loses the fifty-pound cut of lamb to a feral dog, after trying in vain to sell it. The exchange between Joe and the snooty DMV clerk (Jack Bronis) when he tries to retrieve his car is a hoot (“I don't know the blue-book value on an '89 Cutlass, but I think you're getting away with murder,” he says, after telling him the DMV sold the car for $400).

But mainly, “The Last Rites of Joe May” will be remembered as a tour de force for Dennis Farina. Watching him weep over the loss of his pigeons, or run pathetically from the psycho cop, is to witness a celebrated character actor’s ascent into multi-faceted, Oscar-worthy territory. Farina will always be at his best when exhibiting futile rage (“I pray you hit a lamp-post, you fucking hump!” he shouts, hilariously, at an unhelpful cab driver). But “The Last Rites of Joe May” allows his softer, more vulnerable side to come through, and it’s intoxicating to behold.

TFF'11: THE SWELL SEASON

2011-04-27T00:48:00.006-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 27, 2011

When “Once,” the small story of an earnest Irish busker singing earnest songs who falls for an earnest Czech immigrant, was released in 2006, it enchanted even the most hard-hearted movie critics. It wasn’t just diehard indie folk fans that wanted to eat “Once’s” two characters alive. Everyone of every temperament, style and taste loved “Once’s” stripped-down approach to the musical, the lack of grandiose dance numbers and groan-inducing punnery in its songs; even the notorious cranks at the Village Voice called it “one of the greatest musicals of the modern age.” It was a slice-of-life musical, a movie about two down-on-their-luck people writing songs on the spot, harmonizing them and then falling in love through developing them, but—in typical jaded indie cinema verite fashion—they remain too meek and earnest to act on their love.

As for me, on first inspection of Glen Hansard plucking away in some public square in Dublin, I wanted to strangle him; I live in New York, and you can’t walk twenty feet in Williamsburg without bumping into one of Hansard’s bearded, gentle, sensitive, self-important ilk. Once the positively adorable Marketa Inglova—a sort of pudgier, Slavic-accented Debra Winger—sets her sights on Hansard, and the two real-life musicians/lovers start to write duets, I softened a little. But I was still put-off by the film’s cutesy gimmicks—the characters are called “Guy” and “Girl,” the Guy explains his recent break-up by improvising a song on a public bus—not to mention the characters’ endless self-pitying. And the bummer of an ending seemed clichéd and forced in the same way that a traditional rom-com’s upbeat ending is—there was no reason except self-imposed malaise for Guy and Girl to stay apart.

Ironically, the real-life Hansard and Inglova stayed boyfriend and girlfriend, through the making of “Once” and the unexpected hysteria and fame that formed around it, and through their three years of touring with their band The Swell Season. Directors Nick August-Perna, Chris Dapkins and Carlo Mirabella-Davis, whose “The Swell Season” is a document of that tour, have made a film with ten times the candor and poignancy of “Once.” Unhampered by clumsy fictional devices, the film not only makes us fully grasp Hansard and Inglova’s talent; it makes us root for them to stay together. And the directors get unprecedented access to the usually private matter of a fraying relationship, capturing every wounding argument in deep close-up.

The musical footage is electrifying. Annoying as Hansard’s anguished tics might be, he has undeniably solid pipes—bellowing, eyes-a-flutter, he appears to be summoning every demon in his soul and, ignoring his diaphragm altogether, spewing them out of his throat, with no flat notes whatsoever. Inglova is the shyer, sweeter angel on his shoulder. It’s easy to see why these two won an Oscar and continue to sell out clubs all over the world.

But what makes “The Swell Season” so superior to “Once” is that it doesn’t beckon the audience to love every sheepish grin and humble quip of this couple. Much screen time is devoted to their moments of pettiness and petulance, such as Inglova’s unease with fan photos, which forces Hansard to deal with fans alone. And, in the film’s best scene, Hansard explains to Inglova how his scoffing at the experience of receiving an Oscar upsets his mother, who is truly proud of his achievement. He regrets hurting his mother, he explains, to which Inglova—no stranger to discomfort with fame—quietly erupts. “Why can’t you just be happy?” she barks. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Hansard, instead of taking this advice—which all of the audience will surely concur with—bristles at her words, calling her insensitive. This is the truest account, since perhaps “Annie Hall,” of how oversensitivity could be the biggest cause of a breakup next to verbal abuse. These two are perhaps too humble, and too humbly talented, to handle not only the pressures of celebrity but each other.

“The Swell Season” also excels for its moments of raw, biting humor. Some of Hansard’s temper tantrums are as charming as they are infantile (“They completely changed the photo! They made me more handsome!” he screams at the mishandling of a promotional poster for “Once.”) And Hansard’s bewildered parents, both delighted and fed-up with their son, are a scream. In one scene, Hansard’s father—who sadly drank himself to death before the film was completed—barks four simple words at his son, summarizing more or less what I felt for stretches of “Once,” and what many people impatient with Hansard’s self-loathing may feel at times during “The Swell Season:” “I’m sick of ya!”

TOM MCCARTHY GETS CUDDLY

2011-04-25T15:05:00.011-04:00

"Win-Win," starring Paul Giamatti, Amy Ryan and Bobby Cannavale. Directed by Tom McCarthy.

By ARTHUR TIERSKY - April 26, 2011

After the affably quirky "Station Agent" and the quietly heartbreaking "The Visitor," writer-director (and, outside his own movies, actor) Thomas McCarthy takes a mildly disappointing step backward with "Win Win," a conventional family dramedy that can best be described as cuddly.

Paul Giamatti, doing his quite familiar lovable curmudgeon shtick, plays a struggling small-town lawyer and family man (married to the invaluable Amy Ryan) who spots a way to make a few extra bucks from the state by volunteering guardianship for an aging client (Burt Young) and then dumping him in a retirement home. Shortly and conveniently after this, the old man's teenage grandson Kyle (newcomer Alex Shaffer), a soft-spoken Emo type with bleach blonde hair, shows up hoping to stay with Gramps, having run away from his irresponsible mom.

Guilt-ridden and seeing no other alternative, Giamatti takes the kid in, and even more conveniently, Kyle turns out to be a state champion wrestler (as Shaffer actually is), which Giamatti coaches as a sideline. Predictably, Kyle gradually ingratiates himself with his new family, and yet more predictably, evil, money-grubbing Mom (Melanie Lynskey, who it's just nice to see working) shows up at the opportune moment to disrupt everything, awfully reminiscent of the cartoonish family scumbags who show up at Hillary Swank's bedside in "Million Dollar Baby." In fact, Margo Martindale, who played one of them, is cast here as Lynskey's lawyer, as if begging for the comparison.

The film's only surprise is a lack of one: McCarthy hasn't got much up his sleeve and seems to have no higher ambition beyond generating a few smiles and nods. The sole signs of his signature quirkiness come from the always amusing Bobby Cannavale as Giamatti's bumbling pal, who eagerly bullies his way onto the coaching staff and into a rivalry with fellow coach Jeffrey Tambor, in a role that wastes his wondrous gifts so much that his character eventually just evaporates. All of this is well-intentioned and diverting enough; it's the sort of movie you can take your parents to. It wisely declines to build to the obligatory climactic wrestling match, but then again, it doesn't really build to much of anything, only to leave us with a completely baffling coda that just screams screenwriting laziness. It's harmless enough, far more tolerable than the previous Giamatti-as-ueberschlub vehicle, the atrocious "Barney's Version," but McCarthy fans (and Giamatti's) will be left wanting more. Let's call "Win Win" a tie.

TFF'11: BEING MAYOR IS AWESOME SAYS JÓN GNARR

2011-04-25T04:25:00.008-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 26, 2011

Gaukur Úlfarsson's documentary "Gnarr" follows the efforts of Jón Gnarr, an Icelandic comedian/TV show actor/perpetual goofball, to become Mayor of Reykjavik. A brief prologue provides a glimpse, as did "Inside Job," into the 2008 financial crisis in Iceland, in which the country's three largest banks collapsed and were subsequently nationalized, leading to a still ongoing recession. The government took its fair share of the blame, and Iceland, it seems, is holding out for a hero.

In 2009, Gnarr launched his own platform, the Best Party, initially as a joke. In promotional webcasts, in TV ads, even at public forums, he called for a variety of reforms that wouldn't normally be prioritized by "serious" politicians. Among them: instead of shooting stray polar bears, put them in the zoo; build a Disneyworld at the airport; and don't allow anyone into politics that hasn't seen "The Wire" in its entirety. Amazingly he was elected for mayor in May 2010.

Gnarr, with his ruddy pig nose, spiky blonde hair and high-pitched seal laugh, represents a taller, more clean cut Lars Ulrich. Like Ulrich, he is endlessly self-promoting, endlessly cracking up at his own jokes—even when his street team isn't—and endlessly charming the young and hip citizens of his fan base. His "Best Party" isn't so much meant as a satiric, barbed attack on the powers-that-be; it's a call for joy and fun to return to doomed Reykjavik. Admitting up front his inexperience ("I should be the Mayor because I have a truck license and I worked in a psych ward," he chuckles during the film's intro), he behaves at all times—despite being a forty-something family man—like the class clown falling asleep in the back of the classroom.

Intermittently funny, sometimes frustratingly myopic and finally grating, "Gnarr" is a little bit too infatuated with its subject. Gnarr is well-meaning and smart—who wouldn't want a fun-loving comedian as their Mayor over a group of penny-pinching fossils? Some of his off-the-cuff remarks are hilarious, delivered with expert timing ("Get rid of that airport!" he shouts, when a flight taking off disrupts his interview). And he's a wonderfully inventive campaigner in terms of advertising—the Best Party's theme song is set to Tina Turner's "Simply the Best," for instance.

But his political ideas, amusing as they are, come across as too quirky, too fey, to really upset a long-standing establishment. The most trenchant critique of his opponents that Gnarr can manage is "They're so boring!" Aside from mishandling the banking crisis, we never really get a sense of why they are so out of touch, and why the city would really be in better hands with this self-satisfied jokester.

The most fascinating part of "Gnarr" isn't Gnarr himself, but the staggering lack of controversy and disdain that surrounds his campaign. Sure, a few older politicians and journalists mildly deride his being unfit for Mayor, but seconds later they are completely worked over by him, whether or not his jokes or ideas are all that clever. And of course, the teenagers and young adults wholeheartedly support a candidate who once played backup for Bjork (in the band the Sugarcubes). Whether or not American audiences find Gnarr ingratiating, the film makes you long for a candidate that fun-loving and happy to run for office—and for the public to accept it with that much ease.

Currently showing at the Tribeca Film Festival.

TFF'11: DASHED DREAMS AND DOPE SHENANIGANS IN "TREATMENT"

2011-04-24T12:26:00.007-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 24, 2011

"Treatment" is the funniest, most energetic film yet to come out of the mumblecore movement, which has proven to be as incestuous as it is prolific. Its star, Joshua Leonard (whose beak nose and shaggy charm resemble Owen Wilson's), and director/producer Steven Schardt were also involved with 2009's “Humpday." That movie's co-star Mark Duplass was the co-director of 2008's “Baghead”; Duplass' wife, Katie Aselton, directed, wrote, and starred in last year's “The Freebie,” which also featured Leonard. Some of the troupe—Duplass and Greta Gerwig, most notably—have paved their way into mainstream films.

Until now, these mumblecore films have retained a depressing, stilted sameness. They are small in scale, taking about a week or so to shoot in one or two settings, and hew to the mumblecore style of stammering dialogue, tight close-ups and an endlessly shaky camera, all in the service of achieving so-called realism. The stories are relatively one-note, throwing banal characters into “wouldn't it be crazily awkward if...” situations: two straight guys get duped into shooting a gay porn movie, a couple agrees to a night of infidelity, etc. The films seem more like cloying improv class exercises than actual fleshed-out stories.

“Treatment” has a similarly jokey plot: a struggling screenwriter (Leonard) pretends to be a heroin addict in order to be admitted to a high-class rehab center, where he tries in vain to pitch his ideas to a narcissistic, A-list action film star named Gregg D (Ross Partridge). It also has moments of shoddiness; the camera goes in and out of focus, and certain small characters' monologues seem thrown in arbitrarily.

But “Treatment” happily abandons most of the other annoying traits of mumblecore. Schardt and co-director/co-star Sean Nelson (the former singer for one-hit-wonder Harvey Danger) actually keep the camera steady for most of the movie, allowing the actors' deadpan approach to shine through without distraction. And rather than building a whole movie around reticent people, Schardt and Nelson fill the characters with absurd, loopy charisma. As a result, “Treatment” isn't just more amusing than this team's previous efforts; it's also less claustrophobic and more ambitious. That it falls apart in the end from an unwarranted shift in tone—from lighthearted satire to poignant melodrama—doesn't detract from this significant improvement.

The first half of “Treatment” is dotted with hilarious misadventures. Leonard first attempts to recruit Partridge in a dive bar’s mens room where he promptly gets pissed on. Embarrassed, the drunken Partridge cleans Leonard off, then tells him to come to his table and discuss movie ideas. Some ten seconds later, Partridge has disappeared, and the next day, he's admitted to Wingspan, a rehab center set up like a resort, complete with equestrian sports, a sundae bar and a hysterically gauche promotional video promising all the inhabitants perfection.

In desperation, Leonard convinces his put-upon best friend (Nelson) to con his older brother into funding the rehab's entry fee, and then, in the film's funniest scene, Nelson and Leonard drive around inner-city Los Angeles looking for drugs.

For a while, "Treatment" is a timely satire of the feel-good condescension employed at rehab centers (Dr. Drew, anyone?). Chris Caniglia is a comic marvel as the unctuous, jargon-spouting head doctor. There's also plenty of sharp digs at how ridiculously easy it is for rich addicts to smuggle drugs into rehab.

The friendship between Leonard and Nelson is developed nicely. Nelson, looking like a no-nonsense collie with his plump, beady-eyed, hangdog face and Z.Z. Top beard, brings out the perfect mixture of exasperation and tenderness. And Leonard isn't afraid to display his hapless character's maddeningly self-centered delusions of grandeur. You like him as much as you want to smack him, and when he does finally get slapped by a caring but militant counselor (Jessica Makinson), it is no less than he deserves.

But "Treatment" fumbles when it suddenly takes a serious, overwrought turn, as Leonard actually becomes addicted to painkillers. Leonard's gradual redemption, as he realizes that the goal of recruiting Gregg D is a futile, self-important dream, provides enough dramatic tension on its own. The drug addiction subplot seems thrown in to allow for neat little camera tricks, as well as for tacking on an all-too-familiar message about the consequences of drug experimentation.

Overall, though, "Treatment" is a promising step forward for the mumblecore pack, and it's likely that Leonard, Schardt and crew will do even better next time.

Currently showing at the Tribeca Film Festival; visit the festival's site for ticket purchase and screening information.

TFF'11: MAKING MOVIES IN COMMUNIST-ERA YUGOSLAVIA

2011-04-23T06:42:00.007-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 23, 2011

“Cinema Komunisto” is an exquisitely detailed, heartfelt look at the former Soviet Federal Republic of Yugoslavia’s thriving yet little-known film industry, circa post-WWII to 1980. Josip Broz Tito, the celebrated war hero, Prime Minister and eventually president-for-life during this time period, was a lover of grand-scale Hollywood films, which began to be shown in Yugoslavia after the country’s break from Stalin’s Eastern Bloc, and in turn Soviet influence, in the late 1940s.

Armed with newfound independence and chutzpah, Tito—who screened at least one movie a day, privately, for the next thirty-two years of his life—decided to make Yugoslavia a cinematic empire. The state-financed Avala Film studios would go on to produce ‘partisan films,’ insanely self-aggrandizing war movies that depicted Yugoslavia as an unstoppable, Nazi and Soviet-defeating force. (“A lot of these movies were absolutely terrible,” the actor Bata Zivojinovic admits; “I’m just killing Germans from start to finish.”) An Avala Film rep, Steva Petrovic, was hired to promote the studio around the globe, and gradually, foreign capital poured in, allowing international productions starring the likes of Yul Brynner, Kirk Douglas and Orson Welles to be shot in Yugoslavian countryside. In the 1973 pic “Sutjeska,” Tito demonstrated the full extent of his superiority complex by insisting he be portrayed, for the first time on film, by Richard Burton—who looks nothing like Tito.

Director Mila Turajlic took years to compile an exhaustive, undoubtedly hard to recover series of newsreels and film clips, and her passion for the subject is felt in every frame. While the war films themselves seem silly and jingoistic today, they retain an undeniable authenticity. Real tanks and ammunition left over from WWII were pushed into rivers and ditches, and in one epic, 1969’s “Battle on the Neretva,” an actual bridge was detonated—a bridge that still dangles into the Neretva river today. It is endearing watching Zivojinovic, Petrovik and other crucial figures from that period boasting, eyes a-twinkle, about how no Hollywood film could achieve such realistic war footage.

There were, unsurprisingly, tyrannical sides to Tito’s involvement in Yugoslavian cinema—he edited every script furiously, discouraged even the slightest spin on events and eventually, as shadier figures were allowed into the industry, ruined the careers of anyone who dared criticize his regime. But it is clear from watching these candid, poignant interviews—particularly the ones with Tito’s personal projectionist, Leka Konstantinovic—that Tito’s general love of film, his kinship with artists, his pride for Yugoslavia—is sorely missed in what remains of the country today. Turajlic, amazingly, was granted access to Avala Film, which is now an abandoned, soot-filled, cobweb-ridden albatross; a wardrobe room and boxes of scripts are the only traces of its existence, and soon all of the land will be auctioned off. She also visits the once-booming Metropol Hotel in Belgrade just before its closing in 2007, and the remnants of Tito’s mansion, bombed by NATO in 1999. The swelling music and teary-eyed narrative in these scenes would feel manipulative in a piece of fiction, but this is the real death of a movement we are seeing here, the sheer dissolution of a country.

“Cinema Komunisto” could go on for three more hours and still not tell its whole story. The final portion, documenting the erosion of the film industry following Tito’s death in 1980, seems rushed and unfocused. While clearly Tito is the centerpiece of the cinema’s heyday, it would be fascinating to see how the movement crumbled between his death and the series of ethnic wars that broke the country apart in 1991; how did the people in charge of the film studio let it go to waste; and what became of the filmmakers and actors whose careers were suddenly ended? But “Cinema Komunisto” is still one of the most riveting, well-researched, elegantly-rendered chronicles of a fallen era to ever be captured on film—and a must-see for film aficionados.

Currently screening at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York.

TFF'11: JAMES WESTBY'S RID OF ME

2011-04-22T03:09:00.000-04:00

By SAM WEISBERG - April 22, 2011

At the beginning of James Westby's “Rid of Me,” a frowning, diminutive thirty-something woman—rendered alarmingly feline by bursts of Goth makeup—and an icy blonde princess stride past each other, in slow motion, in a supermarket. “You bitch,” the blonde mutters under her breath. Upon which, the Goth girl, without breaking a sweat, jams her hands down her skirt and smears menstrual blood all over the blonde's face.

This prologue is, like much of the rest of “Rid of Me,” jarringly funny yet punishingly shrill. Westby has a great deal of malicious, playful energy; his sheer joy at making this movie electrifies almost every frame. But though you share in his enthusiasm at times, Westby is ultimately hampered by the same hyperkinetic overconfidence that marred “Run Lola Run” and similar movies; it confuses breathlessness with boldness. The movie needs a massive dose of Ritalin.

After the intro, “Rid of Me” flashes back to an earlier incarnation of the same Goth character. Meris (Katie O'Grady) is slim, petite, pretty in a sort of prim way, married to a bland but nice-enough beefcake named Mitch (John Keyser). When Mitch gets a job offer from an old friend, they relocate from California to Mitch's hometown, a quaint stretch of Portland, Oregon, and their serene marriage starts to disintegrate before they've wiped their feet on the welcome mat. Mitch's childhood friends throw him a surprise party in their unfurnished new home, and quickly prove themselves to be the most obnoxious, unwelcoming snobs in perhaps all of screen history. Little by little, Mitch gives in to their not-so-subtle attempts to drag him away from Meris—she's shy and enjoys boring stuff like gardening and cooking organic food for hubby—and into the arms of his old sweetheart, Briann (Storm Large), the same blonde from the opening scene.

In interviews, Westby admits that he drew on his own bad experiences with friends of former girlfriends, and at times he strikes richly comic notes of empathy. Who hasn't felt uncool, lame, even hopeless, trying to impress unlovable people that are nonetheless important to the one you love? And in terms of physical features, the casting here is perfect. It's not only Mitch and his jocular male friends that tower over Meris; the girls in the group are all big-boned, voluptuous, Amazonians.

But Westby is an unflinching embracer of overkill. Not only are these friends chilly towards Meris; the first time they meet her, they outright blame her for Mitch's falling out of touch with them. Not only are they un-P.C.--and oddly yuppie-ish for lifelong Oregonians—they're overtly racist, trashing Meris' Arabic neighbors. Not only are they openly prurient; they're also humorless and oversensitive when Meris makes a sex joke at their expense. Admittedly, it's a very off-color joke, about a touchy subject, but would it really offend all of these louts so deeply?

The exaggeration doesn't stop at the content level. Westby shoots most of the film like its own preview: dialogue from one scene played over a wordless adjoining scene, pounding Gothic piano notes every time something awkward happens, hastily edited montages of crying, dancing, cooking. The story is clearly personal to Westby, yet he insists on amplifying even the quieter scenes to a smothering point. We sympathize with Meris' isolation but there isn't any room for her character to breathe and in turn, there isn't a chance for us to fully take her in.

Until, that is, a few beautifully-handled scenes that unfold once Meris has officially split from Mitch, in which Westby proves he has a real capacity for restraint. Finally, the camera stays still; it lingers on Meris as she grieves in private, as she quietly observes her new co-workers at a thankless candy store job (Rita Parrish, who plays the plump, stridently by-the-book co-worker, is a comic marvel). In the funniest bad sex scene since “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” O'Grady shifts through an actress' field day of emotions. Pissed off that her friend is having mind-blowing sex one room over, she gives in to her practically comatose date, alternately bored, amused and horrified as he does the deed, runs to the bathroom and promptly collapses on the floor.

O'Grady is vulnerable and captivating and alive in this portion of the film, embodying everything that might be sexy about a pale, sad wallflower. And once we've watched her character reverberate to some degree, it's devastating watching her regress into the repugnant Goth we saw in the first scene. In these harrowing sequences, Westby deftly emphasizes how, in the past ten years or so, the Goth lifestyle has come to look desperate rather than bold.

If “Rid of Me” ended here, with Meris blindly believing that adolescent aggression is the way to heal from a break-up, it would be raw and affecting enough to recover from its earlier flaws. But Westby cops out with an outro as synthetically happy as the intro was synthetically macabre. Using the same flashy editing tricks and off-kilter soundtrack, Westby means to leave us celebrating all that is great and wholesome and wonderfully kitschy about West Coast hipsters—hipsters, no doubt, like him—but the self-congratulatory theatrics leave a sour taste.

THERE'S SOMEONE AT THE DOOR

2011-04-21T02:35:00.006-04:00

Starring Lucy Hale, Shenae Grimes, Neve Campbell and Dane Farwell. Directed by Wes Craven.

By ERIC ISAAC - April 21, 2011

The saying goes, “There are no more original ideas”. Whether you agree or not, there are still films that push boundaries, tell original stories and, especially in the horror genre, scare the hell out of us. Wes Craven continues his Scream saga by stating the obvious – these films rehash the same story line and really aren’t that scary. Then he presents us with exactly that. "Scream 4" is essentially a remake of the original with a few minor changes. Craven at least has the decency to make fun of the franchise in the first ten minutes of the film but that could be more to his own benefit--it comes off as more of a copout than a clever plot device.

Sidney is back, this time healed of her mental and physical wounds and ready to move on to the next phase in her life with a new book she has just published. She makes a little pit stop on her book tour back to her hometown. Deputy Dewey is now Sherriff Riley, more serious now but still just as clumsy. Gail Weathers is now Gail Weathers-Riley, bored as hell and ready for some reporting action, which is good for her because another Ghostface copycat is on the loose. The formula from here on out is just about the same – high school kids get killed, a couple of comedic moments, discuss the “new” rules of the horror genre with the horror-obsessed cinephile geeks running film club, and then the killer is revealed. That moment is not so much “wow” as it is "meh"

"Scream 4" ends much in the same way as it always ends, save for a few brilliant horror films that don’t follow the conventional rules of Hollywood Horror filmmaking––franchising, merchandising, box-office appeal. This works fine for a conditioned audience use to half-asked, rehashed drivel. And why wouldn’t they be? It has been a long time since Hollywood hasn’t churned out something that wasn’t a sequel or a reboot, a great term for an industry content with the old saying that there are no more original ideas. It is more likely that, in Hollywood, there are no more original people.

NEW ROBERT REDFORD COURTROOM DRAMA SMACKS OF MILITANTISM

2011-04-19T17:10:00.007-04:00

"The Conspirator," starring Robin Wright, Evan Rachel Wood, James McAvoy, and Alexis Bledel. Directed by Robert Redford.

By SAÏDEH PAKRAVAN - April 20, 2011

Robert Redford is a good man. He is earnest and decent and his heart is in the right place. He is also an essential figure in cinema as he has single-handedly probably done more for cinema—with the Sundance Festival and Sundance channel and other film-related ventures—than anyone else in the history of this art. The late Henri Langlois, one of the founders of the Paris Cinémathèque and its head for many years, also left a major legacy but he was part of an institution and responsible for the preservation of cinema history whereas Redford has done it all by himself, giving wings to independent cinema and encouraging countless talents that would have had no way to express themselves without his support. But as an actor and a director, he does have annoying tics, particularly two. I would call the first the all-the-president’s-men syndrome, meaning that he has never quite stopped being Bob Woodward. He’s still on the side of right rather than righteous (and can I sympathize with that!) but this square-jawed attitude can pall when taken to extremes, as it does in the newest film he directs, “The Conspirator.” The second tic is what I would call the a-river-runs-through-it lighting syndrome, meaning that everything is glimmering, glittering, dust motes dance in shafts of sunlight, and figures left in darkness are outlined by brilliant back lighting. Viewing “The Conspirator” can be truly irritating at times, making one long for sharp, crisp images.

The story is that of the military trial of one of the people arrested after the Lincoln assassination of April 1865, Mary Surratt. She ended up becoming the first woman executed in this country despite some evidence that she may not have been as much involved in the conspiracy as charged. In showing the bias of the military tribunal, Redford seems to draw unfair parallels to Bush-era all-out attacks on civil liberties and some of his depiction of the treatment of the hooded and shackled prisoners remind us of the abuse at Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib. How Redford tells the story is his privilege but his heavy-handedness does a disservice to a history that was strong enough to stand on its own without having to convey a political credo. The acting is remarkable throughout. Of the two major characters, Robin Wright’s Mary Surratt is dignified and stoic, though with some inconsistencies, but it’s McAvoy who owns the film. He plays Aiken, the Union war hero who becomes the accused woman’s lawyer in a judicial proceeding where her fate seems predetermined. The actor is probably more likable than the character he portrays but his performance is far more subtle and layered than in his bland roles in “Last King of Scotland” or “Atonement.” All in all, “The Conspirator” is a highly enjoyable experience, an epic reminding us once again of the terrible shock it was, in a country torn by the ending Civil War, to lose to an assassin’s bullet one of its most extraordinary Presidents. That arbitrary decisions were made lest mayhem follow was unfortunate but possibly inevitable.

MIRACLES DO HAPPEN. DON'T THEY?

2011-04-17T16:19:00.008-04:00

"Atlas Shrugged: Part I," starring Taylor Schilling, Paul Johansson, Michael O'Keefe. Directed by Paul Johansson.

By ARTHUR TIERSKY - April 18 2011

Much to my surprise, the matinee at which I saw “Atlas Shrugged, Part I” drew a pretty sizable crowd, considering that it was a beautiful day and life is short. The intended audience for this film is apparently larger than I thought, and I'll confess that I suspect I'm not among it. I have not read the arboricidal tome on which it is based, nor anything else by Ayn Rand. Beyond that, there's the project's troubled back-story itself.

For the uninitiated: John Aglialoro (who received both producer and co-writer credit), one of the ten richest executives in the country, bought the rights to the book almost two decades ago, envisioning it as a star-studded blockbuster, but when that never came together and his rights were about to lapse he rushed this no-star version into production. Now generally, movies made just to beat a rights deadline don't turn out all that stellar, but hell, if you find just the right director, you can then replace him two weeks before shooting with the fifth-billed guy from “One Tree Hill,” and who knows, miracles could happen.

So just to nutshell it: rushed into production, directed by an actor, starring no-name actors, and adapted by a non-writer cadre from a novel by a sociopath. What could go wrong?

Actually, here's a correction: adapted from the first-third of a novel by Rand. Apparently, Aglialoro envisioned his baby as being spread out over three or four films rather than--as any sane person would have envisioned such a long, low-budget, talky and uncinematic niche project--as a basic cable network series. So one could argue that it's not entirely fair to even assess the film's story, or lack thereof, since technically we're really only to the quarter-mark at this point, and perhaps we should withhold judgment until the trilogy or quadrilogy is completed and can be judged in its entirety. On the other hand, the likelihood of Part II being made is about on par with that of the “Remo Williams” adventure being given a reboot.

“Atlas Shrugged” is a difficult film to summarize, partly because it's hard to follow all the plotlines and relationships and, because it's all so dull and flaccid, harder still to care.

It's 2016. Not in the real universe, but in some alternate one where oil has become so scarce that trains have become the prominent form of mass transportation, and everyone is forced to speak in complete, stilted sentences. Dagny Taggart (Taylor Schilling, who clearly trained for months to shed all excess personality), runs a big railroad company that has just made a deal with a steel company owned by Hank Rearden (Grant Bowler, think Tim Daly, only more jacked and less interesting) who has just invented a new form of steel that is twice as strong but half the weight of ordinary steel, which naturally has many people dubious of it. It's like the Sweet n' Low of steel. Rearden is married to a horrible woman with even more horrible friends and relatives, as evidenced by this scene (released, I guess, in hopes of stirring up buzz, if you can believe that), in which Hank is roundly jeered for giving his wife a bracelet made from his new-fangled steel. (“The intention is pure selfishness it seems to me,” one character quips. “ Another man would have given his wife a diamond bracelet if he wanted to give her a gift. For her pleasure, not his.”

Anyway. So Dagny and Hank become friendly and exchange a lot of longing looks as the new railways are installed (seriously, this is a movie about the installation of new railways), and meanwhile some bad guys are trying to stop him, for some reason, and they are played by Michael Lerner and Jon Polito, who I'd like to think spent time between takes fondly reminiscing about their “Barton Fink” days as they get good and drunk to kill the pain of the present. Lerner plays a character named “Wesley Mouch”, and oops, I just spoiled the best thing in the movie. Other villains include Hank's brother Phillip, whose great sin (again, watch the clip) is mooching money from his brother for a liberal cause, and there's Dagny's brother James, who wants to increase profits by––horror of horrors––trading favors with the villainous government, who keeps passing nonsensical laws like ones that prevent anyone from owning more than one company at a time. To which the owners respond by brainstorming for loopholes, lighting up cigars and laughing until their stomachs hurt. No! That's what you'd think they'd do. But keep in mind, this is the alternate universe, where all laws are strictly obeyed, and the real villain is that damned Evil Government, which just can't stop shoving its oppressive boot in White Billionaire's face.

And beyond this, there's Francisco D'Arconia, a former lover of Dagny's, who...well, this is where I should perhaps confess that I spent a significant portion of the film having no idea what was going on. Part of the problem is that most of the scenes consist of people chatting in offices and lounges and living rooms, while most of the actual “story” plays out in the form of montages of TV news clips and close-ups of headlines. My favorite: “Ragnar the Pirate strikes again!” (Randophiles, I've just got to know: Do we eventually meet Ragnar the Pirate? If not, why not? Why isn't he the main character? Even I would have ve read an 1,100 page-book about Ragnar the Pirate.).

So D'Arconia does, I think, something oil-related to piss off Dagny and Hank, and then promptly disappears from the movie, as do several other characters after running into a mysterious figure (and by “mysterious” I mean, he always moves in such a way that the camera can't quite see his face, which is devilishly clever) named John Galt. Even those of you unfamiliar with the book have undoubtedly heard the catch-phrase, “Who is John Galt?” Well, basically, John Galt is a dude whose M.O. is to approach a successful businessman and introduce himself as “someone who knows what it's like to work for himself and not let others feed off the profits of his energy.” He's kind of like the Shadow, if the Shadow talked too much. So he approaches these people, and then a screen graphic appears to inform us that they've gone missing. Who is he and what's with all the screen graphics?

Rest assured, Part I does not answer any of this, unless you count the end credits listing of the director himself, Paul Johansson, as playing the role. But there's the plot for you: railways being replaced, successful businessmen being kidnapped, government sticking it to The Man, and in the course of all this tumult two incredibly bland people falling in love. And yes, there's a love scene, if you can call it that, but by the time we get there, the movie has already shot its wad on its emotional climax, which is when Dagny and Hank take the inaugural ride on the new railway. Seriously, this is the tear-jerking high point, by far, of the entire one hundred minutes: two people sit, staring blankly forward, riding a train, as the music soars--I'm not making this up.

Does all this sound kind of boring? If so, I must apologize, for in fact, it's stupifyingly boring, to such a degree that it's almost fascinating. It's not merely a matter of not being entertained by it, it's sitting there wondering who could possibly be entertained by something so limp and lifeless and static, other than the book's rabid fans who've been idly wondering what Dagny Taggart would look like in real life (Answer: Like an icier Cheryl Ladd). Rarely has there been a film where so much is going on, yet so little happens. And yet, at the screening I attended, the film's conclusion (SPOILER ALERT: “End of Part I”) drew a hearty round of applause. Apparently, the theme of “Atlas Shrugged” still resonates to this day, the theme being (as articulated by Dagny): “What is it with the altruism? It's not charitable, and it's not fair!”

Indeed! Totally not fair. Effing altruism. Bringing me to a final note to the producers: If you do manage to get Part II off the ground, a) Good luck with that; and b) you might want to think about trading up in casting for the leads. My suggestions, take 'em or leave 'em...

KIDS A-GUNNIN'

2011-04-17T09:01:00.011-04:00

"Hanna," starring Saoirse Ronan, Eric Bana, and Cate Blanchett. Directed by Joe Wright.

By ERIC ISAAC - April 18, 2011

In 1994 Luc Besson directed “The Professional,” a stark drama about a contract killer who befriends a preteen rebel. In that movie a young Natalie Portman wielded her gun for about fifteen seconds but the distorted image was a memorable one, and the ploy was used in other movies like “Kick Ass” and, most recently, in “Hanna,” directed by Joe Wright. Our gun-toting, gravity defying, ass-kicking heroine is a little older this time and played by Saoirse Ronan, a waiflike and lovely actress who has been making strides in Hollywood in independent and big-budget productions, alike.

Alas, “Hanna” is a room temperature-good action film which unevenly matches dramatic heft with suspense. Meet Marissa (played by Cate Blanchett), a government cadre chasing the product of an abandoned experiment (Hanna) with fury--Blanchett is dead-on in that role. Eric Bana camps the supporting role of Hanna’s father and trainer, a performance that’s passable but uninspiring, unfortunately. Hanna is the product of an experiment in human genetic modification gone awry--she's the one that got away, which is going to complicate things for some people.

Although a feast visually speaking “Hannah” is like a meatless rib-eye steak sandwich– next to nothing is revealed about what makes Hanna tick or Marissa tick. These characters are wafer-thin in personality and therefore of no real consequence. And so life carries on in Hanna land, people die, people live, they move on--who really cares? At least, “The Professional” engaged us with two characters--a loner who becomes a father figure to a prepubescent misfit—who have an implicit lust for life. In “Hanna” we get a diminutive glance inside the life of an assassin and his trainee, shortcut to simmering violence and then slide toward an anti-climactic ending. Explosions are cool, but convincing characters and the connections that exist between them are more meaningful. “Hanna” is merely a good watered-down action movie for the PG-13 set—it could have been more.

"Hanna" features an original score by The Chemical Brothers. Watch the featurette and trailer here

VENTRILOQUISTS GOT TO HUSTLE TOO: NEW DOC 'DUMBSTRUCK' IS PROOF OF IT

2011-04-16T11:02:00.008-04:00

By LITA ROBINSON - April 17, 2011

If you’re anything like me, when someone mentions "ventriloquist" the first thing your mind conjures is that priceless scene in “Best in Show” in which Christopher Guest does an unconvincing routine in the back of an RV. At just the right moment, the dummy’s eyes look at Guest seemingly of their own accord and the effect is hilarious. Now imagine watching a similar scene but having it be not only serious, but true.

“Dumbstruck” follows a variety of ventriloquists (“vents” for short) as they take their acts on what they hope is the road to fame and fortune. The film centers on the annual “Vent Haven” competition in Kentucky, and features performers very young, very strange and very successful (exhibit A: Terry Fator, winner of “America’s Got Talent,” who now has a $100 million contract and his own theater at a Las Vegas hotel).

The film does a good job of building the profile of its subjects and gives an especially in-depth picture of what the ventriloquism industry—such as it is—is really like. We meet one female performer who refers to her dummies as her “children,” and dreams of performing on a cruise ship. Another subject does, in fact, perform on cruise ships for a living, and over the course of the film his marriage unravels because of it. There’s a young boy with an uncomfortable father who auditions (unsuccessfully) for a circus company, a very odd older woman on the brink of homelessness, and Mr. Fator, the standout, who goes from rags to riches in what must be the unlikeliest way possible.

What the film lacks is a willingness to debate the pros and cons of the trade; the performers’ foibles and circumstances are presented totally uncritically, even when it would really enrich the film if these things were fleshed out (why, for instance, does the young white boy choose a to use a black dummy?). It’s clear that ventriloquism—like professional magic, or any other unorthodox performance art—is a magnet for people who feel disenfranchised from mainstream society. That the film displays this fact so clearly and yet doesn’t do anything with it is something of a disappointment. Hearing Terry Fator and his dummy sing the Etta James classic “At Last,” however, never gets old.

Releases in NYC April 22 at Cinema Village; for release dates in other cities, click here:

CANNES FILM FESTIVAL UNVEILS SELECTION

2011-04-14T16:40:00.007-04:00

By ALI NADERZAD - April 15, 2011

Now the world knows what us festival-goers will be seeing at the next Cannes Festival. The secret is out. I did not attend this year’s press conference at Le Grand Hotel—I was there last year—but got the press release delivered to my inbox. At first glance, and even second, this year’s selection looks a lot like the previous years’. Nuri Bilge Ceylan, the contemplative (and eerily quiet) Turkish filmmaker will show another very slow movie and Paolo Sorrentino will be back on the Croisette. Last year at the press conference in Paris we felt deflated at the announcement of that year’s programming. Programmer Thierry Frémeaux explained that the economic realities of the time made it so that the film industry had been impacted, alluding to the fact that not as many movies were being pushed through the production cycle, others took longer to be finished (or preferred to sit the year out altogether). I remember a journalist standing up last year and asking about Terrence Malick’s “Tree of Life," which was hotly anticipated in 2010. It wasn’t ready on time, he was told. But Malick is here now, and “Tree of Life,” which stars Brad Pitt, will have its day.

One of the things I like the most about the Cannes Festival is star wattage. If there aren’t enough stars going up the red carpet every night, I am not happy. With Robert De Niro officiating as Jury President, Cannes is gaining some Hollywood cachet (and thank God Frémeaux and Jacob are Hollywood-crazy, otherwise what a bore this would all be). With Carla Bruni-Sarkozy making a cameo appearance in Woody Allen’s “Midnight in Paris,” which is opening the festival out of competition, maybe French president Nicolas Sarkozy will be there. What a strange stir this might cause.

The great news was also that Lars Von Trier will be back with a sci-fi movie called “Melancholia” which clocks in at one hundred-and-thirty minutes. It's a BYOP screening--bring your own Paxil. Also presenting a film this year in Cannes will be Almodovar (“La piel que habito”), the Dardennes brothers (“Le Gamin au vélo”), Radu Mihaileanu (“La source des femmes”), Takashi Miike (“Ichimei”), Aki Kaurismäki (“Le Havre”) and two newcomers, Julia Leigh (“Sleeping beauty”), and Markus Schleinzer (“Michael”) who must be as thrilled to have a film accepted at Cannes as we are to discover them (Thierry Frémeaux, programmer of the Cannes Festival--photo credit: Olivier Vigerie © AFFIF)

STEVE COOGAN TURNS UP THE FUN

2011-04-14T02:49:00.005-04:00

By ERIC ISAAC - April 14, 2011

Michael Winterbottom’s latest feature, “The Trip” which stars Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon (a BAFTA-nominated actor who's very popular in Great Britain), makes for brilliant improvisational comedy. The film is set largely in restaurants throughout northern England and is a hilarious take on the conversations between two comedians as they attempt to outdo each other in celebrity impressions, a key element that should make the film a hit with American audiences.

Playing a narcissistic version of himself, Coogan, who has recently split from his girlfriend, sets out on assignment with his friend (Brydon). On the road, Coogan struggles to chase success with his London and U.S. agents, his ex-girlfriend and his child from a previous marriage in between bedding innkeepers, improvisational sketches with Brydon and trying to find a signal in the desolate countryside. Brydon, on the other hand, is a devoted husband and father, who spends his evenings talking dirty to his wife on the phone.

The chemistry between Coogan and Brydon is undeniable. They improvise well together as they did in Winterbottom’s last feature with the duo – “Tristam Shandy, A Cock and Bull Story.” Coogan is typically hit or miss with American audiences--his comedy is an acquired taste--and judging by the lack of success of “Hamlet 2” might be a hard sell across the pond. Luckily, “The Trip” has already enjoyed success in the U.K. as it originally started off as a series for BBC. The theatrical version at Tribeca this year is an edited version of that series.

Amid the many moments of hilarity between the duo at the table are interwoven bits of back of the house preparation of the food and beautifully presented dishes, which, incidental as they are, definitely add a sliver of beauty to "The Trip." The film ends on a rather sad note as the two depart from their journey, back to their own lives. Coogan’s is rather pathetic and lonely and not typically how comedies end. It is perhaps a less philosophical take on “My Dinner with Andre”, updated for an audience content with just a good meal and a few laughs.

HENRY'S CRIME

2011-04-11T02:44:00.007-04:00

Starring Vera Farmiga, Keanu Reeves, and Judy Greer. Directed by Malcolm Venville.

By ERIC ISAAC - April 11, 2011

In limited release this week is “Henry’s Crime,” a bank heist comedy starring James Caan, Vera Farmiga and Keanu Reeves. Provoked by his cellmate’s (Caan) dream lecture, Henry Smith, a lackluster hero who has just served three years for a robbery he didn’t commit, discovers his dream: he's going to commit the very bank robbery for which he was wrongly convicted three years ago. With the help of his former cellmate, he devises a plan to break into the bank via the theater across the street, but in order to do that he must join the theatre’s cast in their production of Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard”--whose narrative that seems to parallel Henry’s own.

Reeves is playing the character he was born to play: a pathetic but stoic figure who blends in perfectly with the sullen backdrop of a rusty Buffalo, NY. Unfortunately, it seems like this is the only role Reeves can play and his lack of range really brings his comedic elements to a screeching halt. Caan is the real genius of this film, absurdly funny as the confidence man who gets paroled for the thrill of the heist even though he really likes prison. Farmiga is tearing it up this year with the release of two films in the last two weeks and her directorial debut at Sundance and Tribeca this year. Unfortunately her talent is wasted in this film, but she plays her role very well.

”Henry’s Crime” makes for a fun movie nonetheless, dragged down by insincere acting on Reeves’ part and a story that gives the appearance of originality but ultimately lacks anything that an audience hasn’t already seen before. It’s predictable from start to finish and you’ll figure out how it ends halfway through the film--but at least you’ll be laughing as you get there.

SIDNEY LUMET DIES TODAY IN NEW YORK

2011-04-09T16:40:00.003-04:00

By ALI NADERZAD - April 9, 2011

The words still resonate. Attica, Attica, Attica.

The film arts lost a great man. Sidney Lumet, who died today at age 86 at his Manhattan home, was a documentarian of urban life in all its facets: race relations (“12 Angry Men”), social misfits who turn into bank robbers (“Dog Day Afternoon,” which is included in our One Hundred Years of Must-See Films list in sidebar) and corruption in the police department (“Serpico”). Whoever hasn’t seen any of these three titles would do well to watch them. They are essential to understanding American moviemaking legend. That scene in “Dog Day Afternoon” (sidebar clip) has got to be one of the ten best movie scenes of all time. After hearing the din of the crowd standing outside the bank he’s just robbed, Al Pacino walks out, defiantly, knowing that the cops won’t shoot at him. He sees people are turning against the police, making him a hero. Or he’s foreseen it. And then he shouts ‘Attica,’ several times to rile up the crowd. Oh what a scene!

What I liked about Lumet is that he was defiant himself. He staunchly remained a New Yorker (he was born in Philadelphia, however, but spent all his adult life in New York), even though he frequently worked with Hollywood studios and could’ve moved to Los Angeles just as easily. But he was no ass-kisser, which, as Kristen Coates of The Film Stage notes, was maybe the reason why Lumet never won a best director’s award even though he was nominated four times.

Lumet reached the studios’ door by way of the theatre and later television. As early as age 4 Lumet was appearing alongside his dad on stage at New York’s Yiddish theatre. He appeared in several Broadway shows after that. Later, he would turn Eugene O’Neill’s “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” into a screen adaptation. In the Fifties he joined CBS where he directed TV dramas that were noticed and gained him recognition.

Lumet’s last film was “Before the devil knows you’re dead” (2007) His body of work spans almost sixty years, making him likely our most prolific filmmaker.

The movie world lost a magnificent filmmaker.

(for further reading see Alex Simon’s excellent 1997 interview with Sidney Lumet)

ON TAP AT TRIBECA FEST: FIRE IN BABYLON

2011-04-09T09:16:00.004-04:00

By ERIC ISAAC - April 9, 2011

It’s not often that you’ll find me watching a documentary on a subject that I know very little about. And it is even less likely that you’ll find me walking into a documentary about sports. But “Fire in Babylon” is so much more than a sports film, and you don’t have to know anything about cricket to understand this Tribeca Festival-offered documentary about how a West Indies Cricket Team adopted and subsequently dominated the sport created by a country they had only recently won their independence from.

“Fire in Babylon” mixes interviews with former cricketers and musicians, archival footage and photographs, and reggae music and examines how the struggle to be accepted into the Cricketing society is likened to the Civil Rights Movement of the Sixties. During a time of great civil unrest the small team from the Caribbean Islands watched as South Africa was torn apart by Apartheid while they struggled to make a name for themselves in this white-dominated sport. Inferior players at first, they head to Australia for a test match in which they are humiliated. They come back the following year, fierce and competitive and end up dominating the sport for years to come. This success tends to anger the old-boy league and leads to much degradation and racism towards the all black team that in addition to being skilled, built a reputation for being uncompromisingly brutal bowlers.

Director Stevan Riley’s previous film “Blue Blood” was a hard-hitting documentary about the annual Oxford/Cambridge Boxing match that premiered at The Tribeca Film Festival in 2006. “Fire In Babylon” premieres at Tribeca this year as part of the ESPN Sports Film Festival – a partner of the Tribeca Film Festival.