The November Man

**Spoiler Alert**
Director: Roger Donaldson/Starring: Pierce Brosnan, Luke Bracey, Olga Kurylenko and Will Patton

The problem with The November Man is that I can't recall the names of the other movies whose plots it mimics, re-works or merely robs. Strangely enough, it didn't evoke a yawn and thanks to Pierce Brosnan's magnetism, it proved to be mostly digestable.

The film resuscitates the elder-agent-trains-a-protege-who-is-one-day-asked-to-liquidate-his-father-figure/teacher-thereby-causing-angst-doubt-and-trepidation-for-the-former-student plot that has been given a workout in recent years. If that seems like one too many dashes for you, know I spared you many more.

Pierce Brosnan plays Peter Devereaux, a former CIA agent now living in Switzerland sans the occupational hazards he faced in his former life. In the film's opening scene, we watch Devereaux in action during a past operation in Montenegro which took place five years before. Devereaux's protege is the young, handsome David Mason (Luke Bracey), who is warned about getting involved with women after the callow agent shares an intimate moment with a waitress in an outdoor cafe.
Not long after, the two men are part of a task force assigned to protect an ambassador. During the Ambassador's public speech, Mason mans a sniper rifle inside a hotel room, monitoring the crowd for potential targets. When a shooter reveals himself, Mason's gunfire not only strikes his target but a small child as well. The incident casts a dark cloud of failure as a mentor on Devereaux and is supposed to serve as an harbinger of future conflict between the two men.

In present-day Switzerland, Devereaux is coerced out of retirement by a former fellow CIA colleague. His mission is to pull an agent working close to a Russian politician named Arkady Federov (Lazar Ristovski), out of the country before her identity and mission are exposed. The CIA wants information on Arkady, which concerns an incident in his past that is sure to cripple his Presidential ambitions if brought to light. The agent working close to Arkady is a woman we learn is Devereaux's ex-lover, Natalia Ulanova (Mediha Musliovic), who is also the mother of his child. Mason, who is now a veteran CIA operative, leads a mission which works at cross-purposes with Devereaux's, as he is assigned the task of eliminating Ulanova. During a high speed pursuit, Ulanova's car crashes, leaving her exposed to Mason, who picks her off with his sniper rifle. Before Devereaux can escape, Mason identifies him, which brings him to the attention of Mason's superiors at Langley.

The story shifts to Belgrade, Serbia, where a young woman named Alice, (Ukrainian actress Olga Kurylenko) who operates a refuge for former prostitutes, becomes a target of Federov. The Russian presidential-hopeful is hell-bent on eliminating everyone from his past who may know something about his nefarious, mysterious deed, including Alice. Federov's assassin, a nasty piece of work named Alexa (played with venom and malice by Amila Terzimehic) is on Alice's trail, as is Mason, who has also been assigned the task of killing Devereaux for obstructing the CIA operation in Moscow. Devereaux becomes Alice's protector from all who want her eliminated. Get all that?

We eventually learn what dark, devastating secret both the CIA, Federov and Alice are concealing. Mixed into this tangle of a plot is the cat and mouse game between Devereaux and Mason, which becomes an uninteresting narrative thread but one Donaldson must pursue obligatorily to its end.

The story holds one's interest for most of the film. Donaldson is a seasoned pro with thrillers and is able to keep the byzantine plot from bogging down in confusing details. The problem with the plot, which is supposed to be the film's narrative centerpiece; is the dual between Devereaux and Mason. Their conflict interrupts the momentum of Federov/Alice story, which is the film's plot strength. It also burdens the movie with some implausible moments, like Devereaux seeking out Mason in his apartment, where he holds a knife to his girlfriend's throat. If the scene is supposed to ratchet up the tension between the two it comes off more as a head-scratcher. Why seek out your would-be assassin and give him an opportunity to kill you to make a point that seems nebulous at best? It hobbles the narrative and creates a lapse in logic that causes the movie to stumble.

The Devereaux/Mason melee is also just not very interesting. Though Bracey learns Devereaux gave him a failing grade on a CIA trainee assessment report, we never feel he overcomes his mentor's assessment. I wish Mason were as intriguing as Alexa, whose lethal single-mindedness made her a more formidable character.

So we have a former Bond and a former Bond girl (Kurylenko) together onscreen again. Devereaux is less suave than Bond but he's just as indestructible.

The film exceeded my low expectations, but didn't budge any further than that. It was an acceptable excuse to escape a warm and steamy afternoon. It didn't lull me into REM sleep but if you ask me about the film next weekend, I may have trouble recalling any details. If pressed, I'll say I remember Brosnan, an exotic Ukrainian woman and some dull American actor as the film's co-stud. I might even remember...er...uh--wait a minute, what were we talking about?

20,000 Days on Earth

Director: Iain Forsyth, Jane Pollard/With Nick Cave, Ray Winstone, Kylie Minogue and Blixa Bargeld

You may or may not be familiar with Australian rock legend Nick Cave and his band The Bad Seeds but one response the film 20,000 Days on Earth might elicit is a hunger to know more about him and his music.

How to categorize the film is problem. Is it a documentary? A docu-drama? A narrative film? What clouds the issue is the writing credit, which reads: written by Nick Cave, Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard, which suggests not all of the film is objective (if that term really applies to any film). But as we see in the film, a kind of narrative shares space with that which is documentary.

Nick Cave's career spans some 35 years and though his formitive musical years could be classified mostly as punk, other styles have crept into his sound, like blues and jazz.

Much of the film is set in Brighton, England, where we see Cave recording songs for an album in both a studio and in a house.

We also see what is a deliberately contrived interview which might also function as therapy session, with Cave answering questions posed by someone who could be a journalist or a therapist. When the interviewer/therapist asks Cave what he fears most, the musician cites the loss of memory. Remembrances and memory figure prominently in the film. While sitting with the interviewer, Cave recalls a time in his early childhood, where his sisters dressed him up in girl's clothing. After seeing his son parading around the house, Cave's bewildered father admonishes him about becoming a man.

But remembrances aren't relegated to a single interview; bandmates and friends in Cave's life also share memories, such as his guitar player Warren Ellis. In one scene, Cave and Ellis volley enchanting stories about their experiences with singer Nina Simone. Before a performance, the singer asks Cave--in a manner that can hardly be called amicable--to introduce her. He descibes her as being particularly nasty but is keen to mention her powerful, spellbinding performance.

One of the film's many eccentricities are several separate conversations between Cave and friends in his car. Among the interlocutors are British actor Roy Winstone, Cave's fellow country person Kylie Minogue and Bad Seeds guitarist Blixa Bargeld. As Cave drives, each conversation sheds light on some aspect of his artistic past and his creative methodology. The camera first frames both Cave and the respective friend as they chat, then only Cave. When the camera returns to both conversationalists, we see only an empty seat beside him or behind him. The here-then-gone-again effect creates a startling illusion, as if the conversations only exist as memory rather than what we perceive in the moment. The camera trick fogs the drama/documentary boundary; leaving us with something fascinatingly surreal

As Cave sings in the studio, we hear some of his lyrics, which are darkly poetic. Later, when we see him perform the songs live, we are able to see how his words, music and performance merge to create a hypnotic effect on the viewer and listener. Abetting his performance is Cave's signature look; suits that suggest a Elvis/Aleister Crowley cross-breed, characteristic jet black hair and a brow that gives him an angry, malevolent appearance.

At another point in the film we see archivists combing through Cave's collection of photos and clippings from his career and life. Photos from the bands early days mingle with several from his youth. It is particularly amusing to see Cave in a boyhood photo; his characteristic, furrowed brow already apparent, while what look like disgust and contempt are communicated in a snarl.

When discussing his reasons for choosing Brighton as a place in which to record, Cave talks about the mercurial weather; its unusual variations; meteorological phenomena he hasn't seen elsewhere. When he talks about how he feels his moods control the weather he says "the weather can be controlled; it's my mind that can't."

We finally see some of his live performances late in the film; how he entrances an audience-- especially young women--while the effect is no less mesmerizing on the movie audience.

The 20,000 days in the title refer to the number of days Cave has been alive. To him, the significance of the number relates to the precious few he's lived. The number also serves to inspire; to discourage him (and maybe us) from frittering life away.

It is almost a relief to see Cave arrive home one day to sit with his children, eat pizza and watch Scarface on television. The scene lightens the broody film with a moment wonderfully mundane; a refreshing counterpoint to his shadowy stage personality and music.

We might be tempted to say we've learned much about Cave but it would be foolhardy to do so. It is quite apparent the man has chambers and passages in his psyche and soul we could forever explore without ever detecting a border.

Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard--as well as Cave himself--have given us a sketch of a fascinating human being; one presented as both narrative and documentary. I left the film wondering why I hadn't troubled myself to know more about him more before. I had better make haste in doing so because as the film title subtly suggests; the ephemera in our lives are hopelessly measured in a paucity of days.

If I Stay

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: R.J. Cutler/Starring: Chloe Grace Moretz, Mireille Enos, Jamie Blackley, Joshua Leonard and Stacy Keach

Based on the novel by Gayle Forman, If I Stay is a tardy arrival in the Summer movie season but not too late to provide teen movie audiences a needle full of sentimental syrup with a supernatural chaser to top off the fix. I avoided a blogpost for The Fault in Our Stars; the Summer's other teary bacchanalia featuring teens dealing with loss. I found it an unchallenging target though R.J. Cutler's film is pretty weak prey too. I figured I couldn't let both films escape my clutches.

I came expecting a movie but got an ABC Family drama instead. Nothing in the film is terribly upsetting; any 6-year-old could watch the film with his or her sleep patterns undisturbed and intact.

The story is rather simple. Mia Hall (Chloe Grace Moretz) is a promising cellist hoping to study music after high school. Her parents (annoyingly played by Mireille Enos and Joshua Leonard), who are irritatingly hip and maniacally supportive of her musical dreams, gave up their own respective musical dreams to marry and raise a family.

Chloe meets the heartthrob of her school, named Adam (Jamie Blackley). He is first seen walking through a school hallway in slo-mo as the female students swoon and cast coquettish looks his way. Mia is surprised to find herself being wooed by the young Adonis.

The fact that Adam fronts an rock band with big time ambitions is supposed to be a sharp contrast to Mia's passion for classical music. As one might divine from the plot description, the couple's disparate musical aspirations cause friction, which tests their relationship and their career goals.

A dramatic plot wrinkle unfolds on a snowy day as Mia's family are critically injured in a car accident. Mia finds herself wandering frantically around the accident site, trying to learn the fate of her family, only to find she is now a spirit. She sees her unconscious body being wheeled into an ambulance, which she follows to the hospital. As she learns the devastating news about her parents and brother, family friends and relatives arrive at the hospital to lend support.

The story then becomes a will-she-or-won't-she-survive weepy while narrowing its narrative focus to her relationship with Adam.

I can't say I was bored with the film but I was hardly sitting wide-eyed and attentive. The film really boils down to a half dozen or so confrontations between Mia and Adam in flashback, which are supposed to lend the movie a kind of urgency that never really feels all that urgent.

If I Stay is a film that allows female teens a romantic escape; one that asks would my dreamboat visit me on my deathbed and risk his dreams of stardom for little old moi? I wish the film had the fire of The Spectacular Now, which felt true to teen life with all its awkwardness, doubt and confusion. Cutler's film bears some of those qualities but they feel artificial and forced.

This is Cutler's first feature film. He is better known for his documentaries The September Issue and The World According to Dick Cheney. He brings a documentarian's matter-of-fact narrative approach to the film, which is by no means bad but the film never frees itself from the chains of straight-forwardness and stubborn attachment to emotional surfaces.

I found it implausible that someone who just lost her entire family in an auto accident (sorry about that disclosure) would be so concerned about her loverboy's presence in the hospital.

I also found it puzzling that someone like Stacy Keach would be cast in such a one-dimensional role as a grieving grandpa. He was recently seen in Sin City: A Dame to Kill For as one of the city's slithery creeps. I wished I could have switched his character in that film for his character in If I Stay. Wouldn't that give the film just a dash of delicious darkness and danger? No? Oh, well.

The film concludes with some more of that hokey, divine light stuff, which should comfort movie-goers who find If I Stay emotionally harrowing (a demographic I wouldn't care to meet). I think I liked Chloe Grace Moretz more as an ass-kicker in Kick-Ass and as Stephen King's Carrie. She will have better roles and better opportunities to flower as an actress. For now, let's forget about this one, shall we?

Al's Omniflick at 100: The Pantheon of the Overrated, the Overpraised and the Oppressively Empty-headed

I find myself at a blog milestone with my 100th posting. To celebrate, I thought I would carve up some sacred cows and question the sanity of those who unjustly heap mountains of praise on film history's undeserving.

You might ask about my criteria in making my selection and all I can say is that I chose those who came readily to mind and who have tormented me the most. You may notice I only chose five targets because one must be careful not to overindulge oneself in temple desecration. Five seemed liked a reasonable number. I realize readers might be rankled by my selections and although that isn't necessarily my aim, it's an inevitable hazard I risk. Everyone has their own list they keep inside their heads; mine merely escaped the fortress of unexpressed thoughts to go on a gleeful rampage.

As always, feel free to comment and provide a list of your own if you too feel the itch.

The following are listed in no particular order or ranking:

1. Meryl Streep
This feels like a no-brainer. 18 Oscar nominations for either Best Actress or Best Supporting Actress with several wins under under her belt, which doesn't include the numerous Golden Globe or BAFTA nominations showered upon her. If it seems like I've made an egregious error in judgement after that opening comment, trust me, I haven't.

If anyone has bothered to really watch Streep at her so-called best, they will notice an actress who, as Pauline Kael once put it, "hides behind accents." Aside from that criticism, her performances tend to be the movie rather than an integral part of it. Her roles also tend to crowd out the story and other performances one might otherwise notice and appreciate. Case in point: The Iron Lady, one of Streep's Oscar-nominated performances. The movie isn't really about Margaret Thatcher, England's first female Prime-Minister, it's about Streep's accent and her ability to mimic Britishness. I can't honestly recall the rest of the cast or specific scenes, only Streep's circus-stunt acting. It's almost as if she puts on the affectation along with the make-up.

Streep isn't a bad actress and in fact, she can manage a solid performance now and then but come now, does her acting merit all the praise, attention and award nominations? She can be interesting when she isn't doing impersonations, but even at her most intriguing, she doesn't awe me. In 2011 and 2012, Jessica Chastain had a streak of terrific roles, including Take Shelter, Tree of Life, The Help, Zero Dark Thirty and only a month into 2013, she was in the horror film Mama. When one considers the richness of her acting choices and her terrific performances in each, it's easy to appreciate a talent that has yet to find full flower. I couldn't imagine Streep taking on any of these roles in her youth without a gimmicky affectation to buttress her acting.
And I haven't even mentioned how Streep's acting ability suffers in comparison to her peers across the pond. Helen Mirren, Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson are but a few examples.

One can even visit the recent past to sample her hamminess. In the recent August: Osage County her over-the-top performance as the cynical family matriarch is an acting seminar in scene-chewing, as Streep sprays the walls with her broad character-interpretation.

Coincidentally, I was looking over the NY Times T.V. section this morning when I came across a listing for the film Proof, which mentioned Streep's role as the Catholic School nun/Principal. The blurb contained an exerpt of critic Manohla Dargis' review, in which she says of director John Patrick Shanley and Streep:

"His work with the actors is generally fine, though it's a mystery what he thought Ms. Streep, with her wild eyes and an accent as wide as the Grand Concourse, was doing. Her outsize performance has a whiff of the burlesque, but she's really just operating in a different register from the other actors, who are working in the more naturalistic vein of modern movie realism. She's a hoot, but she's also a relief, because, for some of us, worshiping Our Lady of Accents is easier on the soul than doing time in church."

No, it isn't; and I despise church.

2.The Nouvelle Vague
Or as it is commonly known in America; The French New Wave.
I include this with strong reservations because I admire the French New Wave for its revolutionary techniques and its tremendous impact on American movie-making in the 70s'. I even find some of the movement's films to be classics, like Breathless, A Band Apart, The 400 Blows and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. But Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Éric Rohmer, Claude Chabrol, Jacques Rivette, Agnès Varda, Jacques Demy have also been worshipped all out of proportion, especially when one considers their respective bodies of work. The German Expressionists and the Italian Neo-realists have a considerable portfolio of great, watchable films but aside from The New Wave's ground-breaking techniques, what would compel one to to watch their films? Even in the 60s', Godard's heyday, he made some films that were nigh unwatchable. After the 60's he has a catalogue of films that aren't watchable at all. The other directors have fared better. The group has managed to make some terrific films the past twenty years, like Rivette's La Belle Noiseuse, Chabrol's La Ceremonie, and a few Rohmer films but as a group, I find them outrageously overrated. Of course my opinion of the Nouvelle Vague is susceptible to revision. I feel really guilty including the movement in this group but maybe tomorrow I won't. It wouldn't take much to convince me I messed up here.

3.Casablanca
Like the Nouvelle Vague, I feel some regret targeting Casablanca, the American public's selection for Best-Film-of-All-Time. Though I really like the film, to me it is preposterous to regard it as the best American film. I don't even consider it my favorite Humphrey Bogart movie. I enjoy The Maltese Falcon and The African Queen more and I still hold dozens of American films in higher esteem, like Citizen Kane, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Chinatown and Nashville. Don't get me wrong, Casablanca belongs in such an august assemblage; just not at as lofty a perch as many might place it. It is beautifully shot, acted and it has an urgency that is WWII-compatible but it doesn't stand head and shoulders above America's best cinematic efforts and it certainly doesn't fare any better when we factor the best foreign films into the mix.

4.Forrest Gump
Zemeckis' film falls into the category of the Oppressively Empty-Headed. Not only is the film about a simpleton, it appears that it was written by one too. I find the line "Life is like a box of chocolates..." so vexatious to my ears it gives me vertigo. The film's message seems to be that good-natured innocence and feeble-mindedness make a virtuous amalgam or if you're dumb but nice enough, success is all but assured.

I can't adequately express the intensity of my contempt for this film. Its brain-dead optimism and sickly-sweet cuteness are only a few of the film's unforgivable shortcomings. That the AFI included the film on its list of greatest films should alert one to the institute's suspect suitability as arbiters of greatness. How it beat out Pulp Fiction for a Best Picture Oscar might be the most mind-boggling conundrum in movie history.

Salvador Dali once said that whenever someone asked him his Zodiacal sign, he never phoned that person again. I feel the same about people who say they like Forrest Gump. I think Dante set aside the nether-most circle of hell for those who like Zemeckis' movie. May they simmer in a scalding cauldron there for all eternity. 'Nuff said.

5.The Sound of Music
I thought about dozens of actors and films that could have made this list but one film that caused a throbbing in my temple was The Sound of Music. Though it isn't as loathsome as Forrest Gump it isn't far behind. Everything about the von Trapp family makes me ill. I realize the story is based on historical fact and that the von Trapps narrowly escaped the Nazis but somehow even that doesn't make me abominate the film any less. The family is annoyingly chirpy and though the family's escape from the Third Reich's clutches is harrowing, I find myself rooting for the Nazis. I truly hope I never have to sit through the movie again.

As I mentioned earlier, I could have included more on the list but maybe we'll leave some for a future posting. Thank you for taking the time to read my Pantheon and for helping me celebrate my 100th post. Looking forward to more.

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Frank Miller, Robert Rodriguez/Starring: James Brolin, Eva Green, Mickey Rourke, Joseph Gordon Levitt, Rosario Dawson, Bruce Willis, Jessica Alba, Powers Boothe, Stacy Keach and Dennis Haysbert

The creeps, grotesqueries, femme fatales and ghoulish denizens of Sin City are back in all their black and white rendered seediness. Adapted from Frank Miller's graphic novel series, the Sin City films own their own distinctive comic book look, where colors only make cameo appearances; accentuating physical characteristics, like eyes, hair or lips or blood.

The film is essentially a multi-threaded narrative with overlapping characters. In one story, a young card-stud named Johnny (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) takes on the evil Senator Roark (Powers Boothe)--a powerful Sin City low-life who is more crime-lord than public servant--in a high stakes card game. In another, a city tough known as Dwight (Josh Brolin) tries to free himself from the seductive snares of Ava (an equally seductive Eva Green); who was once his lover but is now married to a man of wealth whose death she plots. Protecting Ava is a stalwart named Manute (Dennis Haysbert, on loan from Allstate), a dangerous tough who thrashes Dwight when he catches him trying to invade Ava's home.

In yet another story is the stripper Nancy (Jessica Alba); who is haunted by the death of her lover Hartigan (Bruce Willis). A very welcome return character is Marv (Mickey Rourke); Sin City's biggest bad-ass, who doesn't have a story of his own but who allies himself with Dwight more as a means to kill boredom than as an act of altruism. That Marv tends to back the underdog and the sympathetic characters makes him an appealing figure in a city of human landfill.

As the film-noirish story-lines cross or skim one another, we meet many other colorful citizens, such as Gail (a very vamped Rosario Dawson), whose team of killer vixens reside in the most dangerous part of the city and who come to Dwight's aid. Another is Wallenquist (Stacy Keach), Ava's associate, who could be Jabba-the-Hut's sibling with his bloated face and unsightly skin.

True to noir, everyone in the film seems to be tormented by something or someone from their past save for good ol' Marv, who can't seem to stay the menacing clutches of ennui. Also, true to noir, much of the film's narration is told in voice-over by the characters themselves.

And what good would a Sin City flick be without copious servings of sex and grisly killings? As in Frank Miller's other 2014 comic book adaptation; 300: Rise of an Empire, Eva Green generously offers her nude body for audience delectation. In Sin City, there is much more of her to ogle at. The deluge of blood in the film is confined to white splashes, though some gruesomeness manages to follow Marv around, including an eyeball freshly harvested from an eye socket. That Marv, he's such a card.

My favorite line from the film was uttered by Dwight in voice-over during a scene he shares with Eva. Demonstrating an unwillingness to swallow some of Eva's lie-saturated chatter, he says, "I was born at night, but not last night." It gave me a good chuckle.

Like the first film, the second is fun in a way that's mentally undemanding which doesn't necessarily mean it's dumb. It relies heavily on style, exaggerating the pulp qualities of detective novels and the hard-boiled elements of film noir.

I enjoyed the film but I noticed its charms faded some near the end. I suppose another installment is an inevitablilty, and as I'm wont to ask rhetorically about all movie franchises: how much inspiration remains and how much tolerance do we have for more? When one considers how much skin the sirens of Sin City bear and how delightful it is to watch Marv decorate the streets with broken bones and swaths of blood, I can honestly say I wouldn't mind at least one more serving. But maybe only one.

The Expendables 3

**Spoiler Alert--wait a minute, is this really necessary, what exactly will I spoil?**

Director: Patrick Hughes/Starring: Sylvester Stallone, Jason Statham, Antonio Banderas, Harrison Ford, Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Mel Gibson, Wesley Snipes, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, Randy Couture, Kelsey Grammer, Terry Crews, Victor Ortiz, Ronda Rousey, Kellan Lutz and anyone who happened to visit the studio during filming

I was thinking of creating a separate post for the cast list but oh well. I seriously thought about skipping The Expendables 3 because I had already invested enough time and money in the first two movies, which were mildly fun but very disposable. But I reconsidered; after all, I managed to see all the Harry Potter movies in theaters and perplexed myself by doing the same with the Twilight series, so why not the Expendables?

There is something about the movie that renders it impervious to any criticism. It's inherently dumb and all involved are well aware it's a farce so how can one possibly pan it? That said, I can say I didn't come to bury it but I also won't recommend the movie unless one's Verizon Fios is on the fritz, you have nothing to read, your iPad has lost its charge, Seven Samurai can't be found on any movie channel, you're too lazy to play frisbee at the park (do people still do that?), you finished digging a trench for a sprinkler system, or it's just too early to turn in. Then maybe I'd recommend The Expendables 3, but only at matinee prices.

The Expendables 3 begins with a daring rescue by the core members of the Expendable team: Barney Ross (Sylvester Stallone), Lee Christmas (Jason Statham), Gunnar Jensen (Dolph Lundgren), Caesar (Terry Crews) and Toll Road (Randy Couture) as they break into a maximum security prison in some third world country to rescue a fellow member who has been incarcerated for 7 years. The feat is accomplished in true Expendables fashion by commandeering a train and crashing through the doors of a concrete fortress. The liberated member is Doc (Wesley Snipes); a former Expendables medic and like Lee, a bad-ass knife-wielder.

The team is hired by a government suit named Drummer (Harrison Ford) for a mission involving a Somali port, but are thwarted by a former associate of Ross' named Stonebanks (Mel Gibson), who is now an arms dealer operating outside the purview of international law. Stonebanks manages to escape but not before wounding Caesar by sniping at him from a helicopter--an act meant to humiliate Ross.

Irked by Ross' failed mission, Drummer offers him a redemptive opportunity to lead a mission to capture Stonebanks, who is holed up in a third world despot's stronghold somewhere on the Asian continent.

Feeling his group has aged beyond optimum functionality and afraid to imperil their lives in another mission, Ross dismisses his group. They naturally reject his edict but Ross is adamant, brooking no objections.

While his former unit lick their emotional wounds, Ross searches for a new group; assisted by a whizbang recruiter named Bonaparte (Kelsey Grammer). The new unit comes with a specific array of skills but also a she-tough named Luna (MMA Fighter Ronda Rousey). The youngsters manage to get themselves captured by Stonebanks and his client's army in a rubble-strewn, cold war-esque complex. Stonebanks then goads Ross into rescuing the unit.

The rest of the story is hardly mysterious. You know Christmas, Doc, Jensen, and Road will find a way to re-join Ross, which will provide them a means to show their testosteronic (my word) virility. And of course everyone in the cast will have his allotted time onscreen.

You might be delusional if you think E3 offers any narrative surprises. Seeing the film is like a visit to McDonald's--one expects nothing but the traditional fare. It would be unseemly to complain about the absence of McFoie Gras in the chain's gustatory offerings. The same can be said for E3. What you see and titter at in the first film is precisely what fatigues your eyes in the third, so why expect more?

Sure, the movie is ferociously meat-headed and only a smidgen less cartoonish than a computer game, but with its phonebook cast and bloodless mayhem (I think I saw more people bleed in The Hundred-Foot Journey), it all went down like a bag of Cheetos. At least The Expendables 3 has a sense of humor, which prevented its fall into the abyss of self-serious tedium.

Does the franchise have one more bullet in its chamber? Is Expendables 4 a possibility? If so, I would like the producers to cast some of the few people on the planet who haven't appeared in the franchise. I would like to see Judy Dench play a blood-thirsty MI6 operative with demolition expertise who returns from Ross' past to liquidate him after steamy hot-tub sex. Maybe Julie Andrews and Dame Maggie Smith could make appearances too...in the hot-tub.
That's all.

The 78 Project Movie

Director: Alex Steyermark/Producer: Lavinia Jones Wright

Based on the acclaimed web series, The 78 Project Movie documents director Alex Steyermark and producer Lavinia Jones Wright's quest to capture performances of American musicians using a vintage, 1930′s era Presto direct-to-acetate disk recorder. The small, mobile but relatively heavy recording machine allows one to record a phonographic record on location, using a black lacquer disk.

Inspired by Alan Lomax, the famed ethnomusicologist and folklorist who combed the American hinterlands recording folk songs sung by local denizens, Steyermark and Wright attempt the same, though with a different approach and a set of parameters not unlike those encountered by musicians from the first half of the 20th century.

Musicians were asked to choose an American song from the nation's past; not of the hit parade variety but ones known and sung by local cultures. They were allowed to choose a recording site, indoor or out with only one take in which to record. The pressure-intensive conditions not only posed an exciting challenge to the musicians, but to Steyermark himself, as he had only one take in which to capture the performances on film. Adding drama to the proceedings were the mechanical limitations and idiosyncracies of the Presto recorder; a machine we learn much about in the course of the film. The performers were also to use only one microphone (of a vintage variety); a technological crudity Lomax's musicians also endured.

The unwieldy Presto's innards were subject to frequent maintenance, which made it necessary sometimes for Steyermark to disassemble the machine, replace tubes or such, then reassemble. It was also necessary during recording for Wright to apply a brush to the disk to keep the black lacquer shavings produced by the stylus from accumulating; a hazard that threatened every recording.

As we see Steyermark and Wright recording in various locations around the country, we hear some startling performances. The musicians often discuss how they first heard the song they've selected and a little of its history. One performer mentions the 18th century origins of the song she performs and, providing food for thought, comments on how the song was only heard when one person performed it for another until the advent of recording. The performances are often as hauntingly beautiful as the archival recordings, which suggests the timelessness of song and its ability to move people decades or centuries removed from one another. We also see and hear the musicians themselves react to the playback of the songs on the disks, which they often find startling and wonderful.

Between locations and songs, we learn the history of the Presto recorder from experts; its attributes and shortcomings. We also hear from musical archivists at the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian, who lovingly (I can't stress that word enough) care for the immense collection of acetate and vinyl recordings made and collected by people like Alan Lomax. It is fascinating to see samples of the collection, whose sleeves bear the scribblings of those who presided over the recordings. Information about the singers and musicians is often scant, which carries a whiff of the tragic. Equally so is the knowledge that our country's musical heritage is kept preciously--and precariously on acetate, a material not entirely suited to longevity. Some of the musicians seen in the film have their own collections--which are also precious and culturally priceless.

Steyermark is also keen to show us a plant where acetate disks are manufactured; making his subject thoroughly informative.

He gives us a touching experience; one that carries the subtle, disquieting notion that much of our country's musical heritage--one very much vital and alive--is stored in boxes and shelves, demanding our attention and care. Efforts are being made to transfer the music digitally but will something be lost in the transfer? As the film demonstrates, the first recordings were pretty much a one shot deal, with no margin for error or the luxury of multiple takes, which makes the manner of recording as immediate as the performances. This is mind-boggling to consider. Everything was of the moment. Digital storage means the music will be preserved--a very good thing--but will we forget the beauty of the ephemeral; the painstaking efforts to record the music in its moment and time? As we hear the lovely, sometimes dark sentiments in songs that expressed the common man's laments and joys, we get the sense that what moved someone one or two hundred years ago or what moves one today is immutable, as demonstrated in all the performances. It is quite possible that someone in the year 2114 will be just as affected by an old folk or blues tune as are the performers in the film.

The 78 Project Movie is a synergistic alliance of music, technology and history, which makes for a terrific documentary; one that could conceivably spawn sequels, for the subject matter is rich and worthy of further exploration.

Steyermark and Wright's project is a labor of passion and one I hope they continue to pursue. I also hope the film finds the audience it so richly deserves.

What If

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Michael Dowse/Starring: Daniel Radcliffe, Zoe Kazan, Megan Park, Adam Driver and Rafe Spall

Based on a play by T.J. Dawe called Toothpaste and Cigars, director Michael Dowse gives us What If, a romantic comedy featuring a young cast (there's scarcely anyone over thirty in the film) and two leads with a stockpile of quirky charm.

It shouldn't be difficult for a director or screenwriter to pen a romantic comedy these days. If a writer demands a clean break from the genre's monolithic nature, all he or she need do is sample the offerings from Hollywood and the independent realm from the past two decades then proceed to uncharted and unexplored territories. Sounds like a logical approach, right? Unfortunately for What If, it staggers out of the starting gate with the typical meet-cute stuff then has the Sisyphean task of trying to recover. What could have been a charming and offbeat story becomes a museum tour of romantic-comedy cliches and character archetypes. If one were to make a checklist of the hackneyed elements of the genre, What If could facilitate the task quite nicely.

As a young man named Wallace (Daniel Radcliffe), recovers from a break-up, he meets a young woman named Chantry (Zoe Kazan) at a party while arranging the word magnets on a refrigerator. They share a conversation that is too pat for patter then meet again in the street after the party. Wallace and Chantry walk to her front steps. Wallace expects a romantic gesture on her part only to learn she has a boyfriend waiting for her inside. The crestfallen young man agrees to be her friend and after some chance encounters, the friendship deepens.

At this point, all the familiar elements of the romantic comedy have been trotted out. One being the colorful best friend to the hero, who is obnoxious but confident with women. Said friend is either teasing the hero for his lack of romantic success or urging him on. In this case, the friend, Allan (Adam Driver), manages to hook up with a woman at the party where Wallace meets Chantry.

If the hero must have the jerky best friend, the heroine must have her version, or for this film's purposes, a sister as the off-beat friend who also serves as counsel and the voice of reason. This part would normally be played by Judy Greer in most films of this ilk but here it is Megan Park as Dalia; a young woman with romantic adversity of her own.

And we must have the hero sit on the roof of his sister's house, staring wistfully at the city lights, which for this film, is Toronto. Why romantic comedies always have to feature city-skylines is beyond me. Can't romance germinate in rural areas?

So you have most of the elements of the romantic comedy save for the comedy, which is typically absent--but that too is another indispensable trait of the genre.

I don't think I need to say much more about the plot, which is boy meets girl, boy pines for girl, girl begins to think of boy as lover material, girl and incumbent boyfriend's relationship begins to show signs of strain, etc. You can extrapolate the rest.

I can say a few positive things about the film. Zoe Kazan and Daniel Radcliffe are not the most obvious casting choices but if credit can be given for making the movie watchable, it's the two actors'. Both have the ability to make the material and situations seem fresh but they are ultimately defeated by the rules and conventions of the genre. If only the actors had had better, wittier dialogue rather than diner conversations about the fecal content of Elvis' bowels (I won't explain; you'd have to see the movie), it might have been a joyful romp. If I may beat the romantic-comedy cliche horse some more, the chatter that makes up the first half hour of the film is irritating and exhausting but most directors and writers feel it necessary to have conversational noise-pollution.

If the ending is a given, then why does everything else about the movie have to be too? Why not give us something different; people we haven't seen and dialogue unheard before? Was the play this lackluster?

It's the middle of August now and for cinephiles like myself, it means dreary, Summer movie-spectacles are receding into the background while the promise of better movie fare awaits us in the Fall and Winter. To be fair, I did see a few gems in June and July, but they may seem better than they are, given the low ambitions of their competitors.

Seeing the juicy, highly seductive coming attractions for the Fall made me impatient and induced momentary amnesia, as in "wait a minute, what did I come to see today? Oh, yeah, it's What If." The movie will slowly fade from screens, find its way to cable, then fall into the great maw of oblivion.
Is it Fall yet?

The Giver

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Phillip Noyce/Starring: Jeff Bridges, Meryl Streep, Brenton Thwaites, Alexander Skarsgard, Katie Holmes, Taylor Swift and Odeya Rush

All one need know when seeing The Giver are the plots of The Hunger Games and Divergent and if one is familiar enough with both films, then the story from director Phillip Noyce's latest can be traced like a subway map, though it might not be as interesting.

In a future time, society overcomes many of the problems that nearly caused its demise, like war, racism and inequality and in an attempt to prevent further catastrophe, it effectively erases all differences between people. A homogenous society arises, where everyone wears identical clothes and lives in identical homes. Memory of the past and all its horrors has been essentially erased. I guess minorities suffered the same fate, for I don't remember seeing one the entire film. Did society missplace them? Turn them into Soylent Green?

As in Divergent, one is assigned to a career path following one's teen years; each according to his or her attributes. And like the aforementioned flick, one stands before a great hall of bland, almost faceless citizens, who applaud each graduate after their role is designated by the Chief Elder (played by Meryl Streep, who is burdened with a ridiculous hairstyle).

At this point my eyes were nearly rolling out of their sockets at the cornball attempt to depict one more dystopian society onscreen, which unfortunately resembles every other of its kind this year.

And wouldn't you know it, our hero Jonas (Brendon Thwaites) is the last to receive his assignment, which causes much anxiety among his two best friends and his family. And would it surprise you to learn he has all the prized attributes rather than just one? Because Jonas is so unique, his given role is that of a kind of archivist, whose duty it is retain the history of mankind, which the people are expressly forbidden to know.

Jonas reports to a mysterious, bearded man whose library lies inside a building at the periphery of what is essentially an island in the sky; where all the inhabitants of this society reside. Below the island and beneath the cloud cover, one can see the surface of the earth, which is off limits to everyone.

In said building is The Giver (Jeff Bridges); an elderly keeper of civilization's memory. In his hall of books, The Giver takes on Jonas as his eventual successor and in doing so, subjects him to memories from Earth's violent past. As the old man grasps Jonas' arms, the young man sees two soldiers in Vietnam under intense sniper fire. He also has a vision of a sled and a log cabin in the snow, which he doesn't understand--its meaning is revealed later.

Returning to his community and friends, Jonas shares what he has seen and learned (an act prohibited by the authorities) with his friends and in doing so, subjects himself to the long reach of the oppressive big brother. Can you see where this is all going? Jonas becomes a fugitive, placing family and friends at risk and imperils himself in the process. Do you think he might discover the whereabouts of his predecessor; a young woman who vanished into the surface world and was never seen again? Where will Jonas eventually end up, I wonder? (Please note my rhetorical sarcasm).

In addition to being unoriginal and lethally dull, The Giver offers not one surprise or moment of suspense, though it tries. I had to fight like a demon to overcome the drowsies all through the film. It wasn't that I was tired; it was more that I was overcome with the somnolence I tend to feel when I know precisely where the story will go and how it will arrive there. And what were Streep and Bridges doing in this tedium? Bridges has an excuse as a producer but what about Streep? Must have been a favor. It seems fitting a fluff-pixie like Taylor Swift would be in this stale silliness.

The sled, one of the film's visual motifs, is so Rosebud its another eye-roller. And what Jonas discovers at the film's end is so unbearably asinine it may as well be a Budweiser commercial. You'll know what I mean if you bother to see this tripe.

I think what is unforgivable about a film like The Giver isn't its over-familiar setting and story but its creative exhaustion. Ripping off other movies isn't necessarily a crime--especially in Hollywood--but if your story lacks its own identity, then at least offer an exciting clone. I tried to care about the characters but they mostly came across as styrofoam apparitions. If my regard for this film were any more feeble, I might be arrested for a hate crime.

While online today, my eye caught an ad for the film that read "It's like no other movie you've seen before."--People Magazine. If that's really the reviewer's conviction, he or she might think about taking up another line of work, like writing menu descriptions for Chili's. Let my Good Samaritan deed for the month be my saving you money better spent on a better movie. Like no other movie you've seen before, eh? Please.

The Hundred-Foot Journey

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Lasse Hallstrom/Starring: Helen Mirren, Om Puri, Manish Dayal and Charlotte Le Bon

I have to admit; when I first watched the trailer for Lasse Hallstrom's film, I winced like I just tasted an excruciatingly sweet slice of cake topped by treacle, powdered sugar and mashed gummy bear gravy. I thought geez, all the sweets in Willy Wonka's factory seem postively bitter next to producers Oprah Winfrey and Steven Spielberg's joint cinematic confection.

I could the understand the duo adapting author Richard C. Morais' novel, which might appeal to their occasional taste for fluff. It even made sense for them to hire the writer to co-adapt his novel. I could even understand the two producers recruiting Hallstrom, who is no stranger to light as a whisper cinema (Chocolat) but I was downright mystified by their choice to co-adapt the novel: Steven Knight. If that name faintly rings a bell, it's because said co-screenwriter is none other than the writer-director of the darkly offbeat Locke, which briefly flickered on movie screens sometime back in the spring. Whatever inspired an unlikely choice like Knight can probably be attributed to the smarts that have made Winfrey and Spielberg colossi in the entertainment world.

Believe me when I tell you, I came to the film bearing fangs and wielding sharp objects, expecting to slice and rend flesh. I expected to slash the film as a Great White tears surfers with its lethally-sharp rows of dental death. Not only did I expect to loathe the film, I wanted to detest and abominate it too.

But to my surprise, the film slowly disarmed me; overcoming me with its seductive and irresistible (and I don't use that word casually) charm. I was lulled into what felt like a sweet stupor, as if I had toked an opium pipe in the theater.

The story of a restaurant-owning, Indian family who are forced to flee their Mumbai home and their country for the politically safe environs of Europe seems more like the overture to something provocative and tragic. But as the tight-knit family wanders the European continent, a harrowing incident involving failed brakes leads them to a beautiful French village, one almost improbably so. By avoiding death by failed brakes, the family makes the acquaintance of a stunning, young woman named Marguerite (an almost impossibly lovely Charlotte Le Bon) who just happens to work as a sous chef in an exceptional village restaurant. The Indian father (a terrific Om Puri) is immediately taken by the idyllic surroundings, while his son Hassan (Manish Dayal) is taken by Marguerite's beauty.

Marguerite offers the family a place to stay for the night, which the itinerant family eagerly accepts. While resting from their travels, Marguerite offers them a plate of bread, cheeses and vegetables, all lovingly spread and all delicious.

While wandering through the village the next day, the father sees what looks like a house sitting directly across the street from a renowned French restaurant. Undaunted by the restaurant's presence, the father envisions setting up his own in the vacant property; a place much like the one the family lost when they were forced to flee their homeland. The family is skeptical about the father's plan but knowing Hassan is a superb cook, they go along with the idea.

The father's restaurant venture doesn't go unnoticed by Madame Mallory, the snobby owner of the restaurant across the street, who watches through her curtains as the family slowly transforms their newly acquired property into an Indian restaurant called Maisson Mumbai. She regards the restaurant and the food with something akin to contempt. While crossing the street one day to turn off the loud music, Madame Mallory crosses verbal sabers with the father, which leads to expressions of mutual disdain for their respective cuisines. As a romance between Marguerite and Hassan begins to flicker, the relationship creates a conflict of interest, as the young woman is on Madame Mallory's staff.

A viewer would have to have the intellect of one of the sea anemones Hassan enjoys to not know the story's course or to not know the character vectors. But a few unexpected suprises arise in the story, like Madame Mallory recognizing Hassan's superlative cooking talent and taking him under her wing. This development seems very improbable but to quibble over realism in a movie like The Hundred Foot Journey is like demanding scientific proof for Glenda the Good Witch's magic.
One can also see the obvious conflict that will arise when Marguerite's culinary aspirations are suddenly thwarted by the appointment of Hassan to the head chef position on Madame's staff.

As the father works to establish his restaurant's viability, Madame Mallory's dream of earning stars for her restaurant in the prestigious Michelin guide dovetails with her desire to hire Hassan as her head chef--a move vigorously opposed by the father.

As all these dramas play out to a predictable end, Hallstrom gives us something intoxicating to behold. Linus Sandgren, the director of photography on American Hustle, paints the French countryside with a colorful radiance, both blissful and edenic. I also don't know that I've seen Paris captured so rapturously since the water-skiing-on-the-Seine scene in Leo Carax's Lovers on the Bridge.

I can rhapsodize as much for the performances. No matter how often one marvels at Helen Mirren's acting, she continues to enchant and beguile. As does Om Puri, whose presence provides the perfect counterweight to Mirren. Much of the film's charms can be credited to these two fine actors. Manish Dayal and Charlotte Le Bon are the pleasing eye-candy who generate some romantic heat.

The Hundred-Foot Journey is the fourth film I've seen this year with a strong food theme. In The Lunchbox, food is a kind of a galvanizing agent; in Chef; a means to repair a relationship; in Le Chef a way out of obscurity and the commonplace and in Hallstrom's film; it is a a culinary treaty between cultures. Nothing profound but for this frothiness, it works.

I was somewhat annoyed by the film's tacit view that French cuisine is superior to that of India's. I'm sure the curries and spices in Indian food predate France's existence by more than a millenium, so why the condescension? Does it not take as much passion to make a great curry as a great sauce? Maybe most food critics and foodies would find my rhetorical questions naive.

Is The Hundred-Foot Journey a great film? Hardly. Is it an artistic success? Don't think so. Well, what is it? It's fun, it's heady and it's charming. It's all a fairy-tale, to be sure, with only a tenuous, connective thread to the real world, but I found it futile to resist. If anyone claims the film is something more, tell them they're full of cheese. And if they ask what kind, tell them the French have 629 varieties from which to choose, so take your pick. For me, the film was a good cheddar, because like the French, I too enjoy a little cheese.

My Old Lady

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Israel Horovitz/Starring: Maggie Smith, Kevin Kline and Kristin Scott Thomas

Theater scribe Israel Horovitz dresses up his play of the same name for the big screen while appointing some considerable talent to key roles.

Kevin Kline plays Mathias Gold, a newly-arrived New Yorker to Paris, who is in the city to claim an apartment his father has willed to him. Upon entering his inheritance, he finds an elderly lady named Mathilde Girard, a British ex-patriate; who has been occupying the residence for decades. To Mathias' horror, he learns the apartment is a viager; an odd, french real-estate term that refers to a life-annuity a buyer pays to the seller until the latter's death. Although one can occupy said home, he or she cannot claim ownership until the seller passes away (I think I got that right).

Mathias discovers his father (who he was estranged from in life and whom he despised), hasn't left him with clear ownership, which he finds to be a kind of posthumous jab from the grave.

Broke and without a reason to return to New York, Mathias relies on the future sale of the house--a modest-looking but very pricey piece of Parisian real-estate--to fully emancipate himself financially. Mathilde allows him to stay until he can get handle on his situation.

Learning Mathilde is ninety-years-old, he visits her doctor, hoping to ascertain the old woman's physical status. The doctor's distaste for his visit is eloquently written in a scowl. To Mathias' dismay, the doctor smugly informs him Mathilde is a robust ninety and could conceivably live beyond one-hundred. The doctor also informs him Mathilde is her english teacher, which subtly conveys her allegiance to the old woman.

While Mathias hatches a plan to sell the apartment to a shady real-estate creep, he gets to know Mathilde and she him. He divulges details of his pathetic life; failed marriages, unpublished books and a friendless middle-age, while Mathilde mentions a former marriage and having a husband (now deceased)--who loved to hunt.

While lying in bed one day, surrounded by Mathilde's former husband's hunting trophies, Mathias rises from the bed to visit the bathroom, only to encounter a middle-age woman, who turns out to be Mathilde's daughter Chloe (Kristin Scott Thomas). The two are immediate adversaries. Mathias is seen as an unlawful intruder by Chloe, while he sees the two women as an obstacle to estate liquidation.

While spying on Chloe and her lover in the street one day, he watches as a mortifying incident unfolds. As Chloe approaches her lover, she notices his wife and kids sitting in an outdoor cafe, watching her. While her lover coaxes her to leave, the wife glares, humiliating Chloe, which lays the groundwork for her imminent break-up with her lover. Mathias uses the incident as a means to a moral high-ground but also as a way to dispel the superciliousness Chloe feels toward him.

The conflict between Chloe and Mathias becomes incendiary; concealing sparks of romance as both learn their present lives were shaped by identical, tragic pasts involving his father.

Though I feel I've seen Paris more than any other city in movies this year, its visual charms never falter. It also seems to be a place where those seeking to repair their lives or relationships find illumination or closure, such as Le Weekend. The same can be said for Horovitz's film, where the City of Lights acts as a sort of agent of reconciliation and rapprochement.

I thought the characterization offered surprises. Mathias, Mathilde and Chloe show their nuanced colors in the form of emotional frailties and unsympathetic behaviour.

But I had problems with the film. While Smith and Thomas always nail their character's jumble of pain and anxiety, which reach like tentacles from the past, Kline has never convinced me he can manage drama effectively. He can be hammy and unnatural and his transitions from the antic to the solemn are never seamless.

Like most films adapted from stage plays, My Old Lady is hobbled by theatrical conventions of narrative: plot exposition followed by dark revelations, then crisis then neat resolution. Another problem with play adaptations is that they feel like theater rather than cinema. Some directors can erase the barrier but more often than not, such films tend to be un-cinematic. One might come away from Horovitz's film entertained and appreciative of--if not enchanted by--the performances. But a weary indifference might also trail after one on the way to one's vehicle. One might be surprised by the film's lack of resonance, given the setting, the cast and the director's writing credentials but one may not care that one is surprised, which is another problem.

Harlem Street Singer

Directors: Simeon Hutner and Trevor Laurence

If you're like me, you might not have ever heard of the blues guitarist Reverend Gary Davis, who most likely would have remained unknown to the world if not for the efforts of legendary folkie Pete Seeger. But after seeing Harlem Street Singer, which is only now making its way to select theaters across the country, you may feel ashamed you haven't.

Scouring the world for footage, photographs and any history of the relatively unknown musician, directors Simeon Hutner and Trevor Laurence's exhaustive efforts pay handsome dividends; for their film falls into that relatively new documentary category of artistic genius unearthed. Films like Searching for Sugarman and the recent Finding Vivian Maier are powerful, fascinating portraits of artists rescued from near-obscurity by the indefatigable efforts of documentary filmmakers who recognized their uncelebrated genius. The Reverend Gary Davis joins those ranks though, unlike Rodriguez and Maier, he did experience limited success and acclaim in his lifetime.

Born in South Carolina in 1896, Davis' early life was shackled by the adamantine chains of poverty. Making an already difficult life more so, Davis' congenital blindness was a challenge but not an obstacle to his inchoate musical skills. Seeking any audience for his music, Davis would often play to the animals roaming the yard of his home.

Given to his grandmother by his parents to raise, Davis sometimes aroused her ire by turning her pots and pans into instruments. Demonstrating resourcefulness and a firm resolve to play an instrument, we see a guitar he fashioned from a pan, a makeshift fretboard and tuning pegs--pretty impressive for someone without sight--and monetary means to secure the real thing.

As Davis matured, he played where he could, mostly busking in the street, developing his talent and an expansive repertoire that allowed him to play for audiences with diverse tastes.

Later Davis moved to Durham, North Carolina, where he would often play in the tobacco warehouses for the buyers and sellers who would congregate after every harvest. His musical diversity proved an asset, for Davis could play tunes with a country flavor for the white crowds and blues for black listeners in his neighborhood.

Davis also became an ordained minister, hence his title. It is stated that he could be an effective congregation-leader, as his sermons and music could often be moving.

As one might expect from a blues-man, Davis' women troubles could sometimes be a source of emotional bitterness and in one case--quite bizarre as we learn his first wife left him him for another blind man.

Davis' relocation to New York had a tremendous impact on his life and music. The thriving New York folk scene of the late 50s' and early 60s' allowed Davis to play in clubs and audiences, which drew the interest of folk musicians--particularly Pete Seeger. Seeger's efforts to bring attention to the blues guitarist's music proved beneficial to Davis' career, as street performances gave way to cafe gigs and festival dates.

As Davis songs and distinctive picking technique attracted admirers and adherents, he also began teaching guitar. Many of his students not only became musicians in their own right but also a surrogate family to a man who sired no children.

Davis' new-found exposure allowed him to perform before larger audiences, like the 1965 Newport Folk Festival and shows in the UK. Unfortunately his death in the early 70s' cut short a career that had only begun to blossom.

Many talking heads, featuring former students such as renowned guitarist Woody Mann (also the producer of the film), folk legends like Ramblin' Jack Elliot and rock notables like Jorma Kaukonen of Jefferson Airplane and Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead, all weigh in on Davis' unique and considerable musicianship as well as his powerful songwriting. Kaukonen recalls seeing Davis' distinct playing style reinterpreted in Weir's playing.

Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary also contributes to the story, as we see and hear the group cover a Davis' classic "If I Had My Way." In an extraordinary display of integrity, generosity and respect, the legendary folk group insisted the blues guitarist be payed royalties for their cover of Davis' song. The subsequent windfall, as someone is keen to point out, may have been the first time Davis earned any substantial pay for his songwriting. The money allowed Davis the means to buy his first home in Queens.

We learn from Davis's students just how profound his influence was on their respective careers. They speak of his generosity and tireless efforts to share what he knew. As guitarist Woody Mann points out, Davis' impact on his career was considerable but it was the father and son relationship the two shared that transcended the music. Referring to other young musicians under his instruction, Davis was reported to have said, "I didn't have children but I had many sons."

Davis' musical legacy is considerable. It gives us the opportunity to explore and to feel awe and wonder. We're lucky we have recordings of his music for posterity and we're just as lucky to have Hutner and Laurence's film; a revelation if there ever was one.