Straight Outta Compton

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: F. Gary Gray/Starring: Paul Giamatti, O'Shea Jackson Jr., Corey Hawkins, Jason Mitchell, Neil Brown Jr. and Aldis Hodge

Back in the mid-to-late 80s' and early 90s', a hip-hop group known as N.W.A. emerged as a force in the music industry. Out of Compton, California, the group's hard-hitting, gritty lyrics about the dangerous life of the streets and their crude denunciation of police brutality and intimidation stimulated record sales but also earned them notoriety and the enmity of law enforcement nation-wide. In spite of the group's relatively brief existence, their legendary status has helped make them the subject of director F. Gary Gray's electrifying new film Straight Outta Compton.

The story begins in the mid-80s', when the Crips and Blood gangs waged mutual war in Compton and other black neighborhoods in L.A. The violence was further escalated by the L.A. police, who bullied and brutalized blacks with impunity.

In this seething cauldron of hostility were a group of young Compton men: Eric Wright, A.K.A Easy-E, Andre Young, A.K.A. Dr. Dre, Antoine Carraby, A.K.A. DJ Yella, O'Shea Jackson, A.K.A. Ice Cube and Lorenzo Patterson, A.K.A. MC Ren, who came together to form the rap group N.W.A. (Niggaz Wit Attitude). Prior to the group's formation, the individual members performed locally at clubs. Dr. Dre honed his DJ'ing skills in dance clubs while Ice Cube wrote and performed his own material.

As the various talents joined creative forces, the N.W.A nucleus coalesced with Dr. Dre's DJ expertise, Ice Cube's lyrics and Easy-E's on-stage presence. In time, N.W.A. drew the attention of businessman Jerry Heller (an excellent Paul Giamatti), who cajoled Easy-E into becoming the band's manager.

Heller is soon made privy to the discrimination blacks suffered from L.A. police. In a particularly affective scene, we see the group standing on the sidewalk, outside the studio where they've taken a break from recording their first album. A cop car pulls up, followed by another. The cops harass the group; asking them why they happen to be in the neighborhood. The group explains themselves, to no avail, until the police humiliate them by making the group lay on the pavement. Heller steps out to see the ugly scene developing and protests vigorously. The cops, unconcerned with basic civic rights violations, force the group back into the studio after Heller threatens legal action. It is plain to see how the group's antipathy for law enforcement, which is entirely justifiable, fueled their lyrics.

Following the release of N.W.A.'s landmark hip-hop album; Straight Outta Compton the band seizes on their nation-wide popularity to embark on a tour. Their controversial song; Fuck the Police, draws criticism from law enforcement and the media, who accuse the group of fomenting anti-police sentiment. In a particularly stirring scene, we see the group sitting before members of the Detroit police force before a concert. The head of the police warns--threatens--the group that a performance of their song will result in arrests. In an inspired act of disobedience, the group says-in unison-"Fuck the police." Anticipating trouble, members of the police stand in the audience. Ice Cube (portrayed by the Ice Cube's son O'Shea Jackson Jr; hence the uncanny resemblance), rails against police harassment before the band kicks into a rousing version of their song. The concert soon devolves into chaos as the police approach the stage, seeking arrests while the band escape to their tour buses, only to be met by the rest of the Detroit police force.

In another scene, we see the group sitting before the press corps, answering questions about N.W.A.'s putatively violent lyrics. Ice Cube defends the band's lyrics; contending the violence is merely a reflection of what they see everyday.

But the film isn't merely about the social conditions that inspired N.W.A.'s message; the film is also about the problems that plague most musical groups when they find success; namely, mutual distrust, jealousy and resentment. As Easy-E (Jason Mitchell) and Heller form a close working relationship, Dr. Dre (Corey Hawkins), Ice Cube, DJ Yella (Neil Brown Jr.) and MC Ren (Aldis Hodge) find their chummy business partnership suspect. Further cracks in the foundation form when Suge Knight (R. Marcos Taylor), the group's bodyguard, becomes involved in N.W.A. affairs.

Before long, Ice-Cube leaves the group; his frustration with Jerry and the group having reached its peak, and sets out on his own. Confident Ice-Cube's solo venture will fail, N.W.A. forges on, secure in their belief that they can manage without his biting lyrics. To N.W.A.'s dismay, Ice-Cube's album is a success and his alienation from his former group prompts the remaining members to snipe at him in their songs, which prompts a swift reprisal.

But Ice-Cube's success doesn't come without its own problems, for he discovers the head of the record company has cheated him on royalties. A subsequent scene where Ice-Cube makes an eloquently aggressive plea with a baseball bat in the executive's office is both amusing and a little scary.

Meanwhile, Dr. Dre and Suge Knight form the infamous Death-Row Records; a successful venture that netted talent such as D.O.C, the legendary Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg. But trouble is always nigh, for Dr. Dre discovers that Suge Knight has created a culture of violence around the label. We see their offices become a haven for dog-fighting and all manner of boisterous revelry, which tries Dr. Dre's patience. Dr. Dre also learns that Suge himself is given to violent episodes. When Suge discovers a man has parked in his space, he beats him savagely; much to the horror of Dr. Dre, who witnesses the assault. Suge's thuggish behavior extends to the business world, where he and his associates beat-up Easy-E in an effort to coerce him into releasing Dr. Dre and the other N.W.A members from their contracts.

In time, Easy-E realizes that Jerry Heller is less than trust-worthy and dissolves their partnership. In financial free-fall, Easy-E hatches a plan to reunite the members of N.W.A., which other members of the group agree to eagerly. But before the plan bears fruit, Easy-E learns he is HIV; a diagnosis that carries a swift death sentence.

I found F. Gary Gray's film to be quite compelling. He keeps the drama simmering when it doesn't boil and it is easy to be drawn into a story told so well. Of course a powerful story like N.W.A.'s needs screen-scribes who know their way around the material, which writers Jonathan Herman and Andrea Berloff handle with aplomb. This isn't a lurid, VH-1 Behind the Music melodrama but a film that reaches for authenticity. The violent world N.W.A. raps about is never far from their doorsteps, which the film effectively dramatizes. The Rodney King incident, which seems inevitable, given the L.A. police's history of brutality, is an issue the film doesn't shy away from. The harassment we see in the film also has a unsettling resonance when we think about the number of black men shot down by cops the last few years.

As is always the case with films about black culture, Straight Outta Compton is getting limited screen time at the local multiplexes. I suppose we should be pleased that it's being distributed at all when one considers the unbreakable grip of the white-dominated American movie industry. This is a film that needs more attention, which I supposed it will attract on demand and on DVD. Suburban audiences might avoid it, thinking the film might be a celebration of violence. What Gray's film is exceptionally good at is giving us a sense of how such a violent, bigoted culture might produce something as angry and moving as N.W.A.

Mistress America

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Noah Baumbach/Greta Gerwig, Lola Kirke, Matthew Shear and Michael Chernus

If you were feeling cheated that director Noah Baumbach had only one film to dislike in 2015, then let me mollify your disappointment. His new release of the insufferable and grating Mistress America quickly follows on the heels of While We're Young; which failed to dazzle audiences back in the early spring. His earlier film, though hardly great, wasn't gag-inducing. His new film, which he co-wrote with his muse and girlfriend Greta Gerwig, pulls out all the stops to be irritating and hellishly unfunny.

The problems with this film could roll out endlessly on an assembly line conveyor belt. Aside from unfunny characters and dialogue, its major flaws are its two female leads: Greta Gerwig and Lola Kirke, who quickly become ear-sores. Gerwig has fast become one of the more annoying actresses in cinema and that's saying a lot. You have to be ferociously industrious to be more of an irritant than Keira Knightley and Cameron Diaz. The last Baumbach/Gerwig character creation: Frances Ha was commensurately annoying.

Baumbach and Gerwig, in conceiving Brooke, were aiming for complexity in creating a character who is supposed to be infuriating, narcissistic, egotistical, ambitious, petty, manic but also redeemably charming. That approach to character design is sound but Baumbach and Gerwig fall well short of their ambition. Gerwig's Brooke not only makes one wish she would shut up for one second and not express all her ridiculous ideas and thoughts, but suffer exile; preferably somewhere in war-torn Syria.

When the film begins, we see a lonely, socially-awkward and romantically-challenged young Barnard student named Tracy (Lola Kirke). It doesn't help that her writing ambitions, which involve having a story accepted by the snootily exclusive school literary journal are temporarily dashed when they refuse one of her submissions. A fellow student, writer and potential boyfriend; Tony (Matthew Shear), recognizes her talent and is quick to deem it superior to his own. Tracy's hopes for a romantic union with Tony are squelched when she discovers he has taken up with a needy, jealous drag named Nicolette (Jasmine Cephas Jones).

Not long after, Tracy receives a phone call from a woman named Brooke, who is to become her step-sister. The two agree to meet in Times Square.

When Tracy first sees her step-sister-to-be, Brooke is making her way down brilliantly red bleachers set up in the Square. The striking red is a visual cue that Brooke is someone colorful and exciting, which she seems to be when she exuberantly descends the steps to meet Tracy.

Tracy learns quickly (as does the audience) that Brooke is an ambitious woman with many irons-in-the-fire. She hopes to open a restaurant with the help of her Greek boyfriend and investor; the sole source of seed money.

Brooke is the kind of person who dominates every conversation with her favorite topic: herself, and never waits for an answer to any question she directs rhetorically to anyone around her. Her mind and mouth motor along at a breakneck pace, which are supposed to be amusing quirks. She tells Tracy; "I'm an autodidact. It means I'm self-taught; it's a word I self-taught myself." This is Baumbachian wit, which means it might elicit a grin from a viewer but hardly a chuckle.

Brooke bears a long-standing grudge against her former friend Mamie-Claire (Heather Lind) who once stole a t-shirt idea of hers before profiting from it. Feeding the grudge is Brooke's former relationship with Mamie-Claire's husband, Dylan (Michael Chernus).

When funding for Brooke's restaurant falls through; she desperately seeks out the help of Dylan, which means driving out to his and Heather's lush home in Connecticut. In tow are Tracy, Tony and Nicolette.

When the group arrives at Dylan's home, they are greeted by Mamie-Claire, who is less than enthused to see Brooke. When Mamie-Claire tells the group Dylan isn't home, Brooke insists they wait. Walking through the swank surroundings, Brooke and company encounter Mamie-Claire's book-group of expectant mother's, who are deep into a discussion of Faulkner.

Before long, Brooke and Mamie-Claire begin airing out their past grievances while the Nicolette-Tony-Tracy triangle reaches some kind of boiling point. This scene seemed quite ear-splitting to me. The constant, inane chatter--mostly generated by Brooke, whose voice becomes unbearably strident, and the glaring absence of witty repartee almost caused me to yell at the screen "will you all just shut the f*** up?" The sequence is hardly improved by the arrival of Dylan, who, to Mamie-Claire's dismay, is not only sympathetic to Brooke's restaurant idea, but titillated by her presence.

Brooke manages to finally make a formal business proposal to Dylan in the form of a monologue she presents to the entire group on a stage-like platform in the living room. Her proposal is supposed to be inspiring, which earns her not only applause but a few tears from the listeners. What the speech actually is is just more of Brooke's asinine verbalizing, which is anything but inspiring.

Dylan, concerned with Brooke's inability to follow through on anything, discourages the restaurant idea but offers to give her money in compensation for Mamie-Claire's t-shirt idea theft. Brooke sadly rejects his offer.

The Connecticut house scene is also supposed to be significant for Tracy, who incurs Brooke's wrath when it comes to light that her current story is entirely based on Brooke. A kind of anti-Tracy tribunal forms in the living room, led by Brooke, who denigrate her for her supposed treachery. The scene is ridiculous. I can't imagine any group of people would care so much about Tracy's ethical breach. It seemed like one more excuse for Baumbach's characters to spew drivel.

Back in New York City, Tracy manages to be accepted by the literary journal but quits them to form her own, in which she enlists Tony, who has also suffered the slings and arrows of the journal staff's snobby exclusiveness.

And of course the unfinished business between Brooke and Tracy is dealt with in a somewhat predictable manner. A final meeting between the two commences just as Brooke is about to leave for L.A.

There have been many movies this year, like summer blockbusters, that I've disliked but otherwise felt indifferent to. Baumbach's film is the only one in recent memory that I've actually DESPISED. If you can stand the company of a loathsome group of people who can't even be troubled to be endearingly loathsome, this is the flick for you.

Director Whit Stillman (Metropolitan, Last Days of Disco) made characters like those found in Baumbach's Mistress America fun to watch and to listen to. They were no less self-absorbed and highly-educated but Stillman's characters were also witty and charming in their own idiosyncratic ways. You might want to strangle them, but they might also make you laugh and if you couldn't always identify with their hyper-educated arrogance, they were nevertheless intriguing and fun company (oddly enough, Gerwig is in Stillman's Damsels in Distress). Baumbach and Gerwig's characters are just plain dull though they behave as if they're fascinating.

Greta Gerwig seems to play the same character in every film, which wouldn't be so bad if the characters were worth our attention. I saw one silly, critical comparison of her character to Holly Golightly. Being that I can't stand Holly Golightly either, this doesn't ring as a compliment. But I can tolerate Holly; Brooke I cannot.

Lola Kirke bears some of the blame for this dreariness with her barely-above-monotone line readings. It's hard to believe a person who seems so intellectually lifeless would be able to write something a school literary journal would consider readable. Kirke's performance could hardly be called acting. I've heard waitresses read off evening specials with more verve and conviction than Kirke expresses her lines. Her character is a drip only Baumbach could love.

I hope Baumbach doesn't take the initiative to release another film before the year's end; that would be horrifying. I've had my fill of his world of self-absorbed jerks, who seem to populate every one of his movies. If Gerwig and Baumbach continue on this track, look out; you may just have a series of one-note characters and excruciatingly unfunny situations and dialogue flooding your local theaters. If I see another of their collaborations, I'll be sure to wear ear-plugs. Maybe their movies play better that way?

Al's Omniflick at 250: The Pantheon of the Overrated, the Overpraised and the Oppressively Empty-headed II

I thought I would celebrate another blog milestone--my 250th posting--by doing a follow-up to my successful Pantheon of the Overrated, the Overpraised and the Oppressively Empty-headed. This posting is kind of incongruent in that it's denigrative AND celebratory; I compile another short list of people and movies that irritate, or, in the case of Wes Anderson, mildly disappoint me while also expressing elation. You might think Al is praising himself while knocking others. If you get that impression, I apologize; that isn't my intention. In a future iteration of The Pantheon, I'll be sure to not have two, mutually antagonistic concepts collide.

But here we are again. I didn't really spend days and weeks fuming over this list. It didn't take me long to think of things that vex me in the movie world. If somebody or some film you like is on this list, I apologize in advance but I couldn't suppress my antipathy. I hope you'll see my reasoning behind my choices but if not; it can't be helped. As always, feel free to make comments and add or subtract from my list. I hope you enjoy.

NOTE: It is possible that some personalities included herein could lose their Pantheon status if their future cinematic endeavors convince me they don't belong. As for others, they're stuck here and will suffer eternal unpleasantness in perdition. More on them later.

1. Diablo Cody/Screenwriter: The Overpraised
I recently lambasted screenwriter Diablo Cody for her lackluster Ricki and the Flash script in my review of the film but this isn't the first time the Oscar winner has gotten my goat. I still find her Academy Award for Juno undeserving and bewildering. Jennifer's Body was no better though Young Adult wasn't half-bad. I guess if she wasn't regarded as the reincarnation of Paddy Chayefsky, you wouldn't hear boo from me. Could I change my mind about her? If she has more Young Adults and fewer Ricki and the Flashes, anything is possible.

2. Julia Roberts/Actress: The Overpraised
You might wonder why I would categorize Julia Roberts as overpraised. Let's be clear on this; I'm not referring to her acting, as she is universally regarded (I think) as a mediocre actress ( or at least by me), but to the almost universally accepted notion that Ms. Roberts is the most beautiful woman to ever breathe on this four-billion-year old planet. Why should something so silly rankle me? When considering some otherworldly beauties that have appeared on the silver screen since its inception, I feel compelled to pose the question: can this chick's supposed comeliness really compare to the likes of Greta Garbo, Louise Brooks, Ingrid Bergman, Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn? The fawning media, who seem to be unable to refer to her as anything but stunning, beautiful, gorgeous, etc, seem to think so. I realize one's opinions on beauty are highly subjective, but really folks, is she really all that? I'm sorry, but that weird mouth and that nose that could open envelopes just don't do it for me. If you think I'm being mean, remember she remains impervious to criticism and still retains her outsized popularity. Her estimated wealth of $140 million should also act as a salve for any wounded feelings (like she would actually read this blog or care what I think).

3. Jules and Jim/Director: Francois Truffaut: The Overrated and The Overpraised
I've never been able to sit through this movie without drowsiness assaulting me viciously. I think Truffaut made some fine films, like The 400 Blows and Day for Night but Jules and Jim is often regarded as one of his masterworks, which is laughable. The story of a love triangle between two dullards and a woman who is as interesting as petri dish mold (in spite of the fact that the great Jeanne Moreau plays said woman) is criminally dull and seemingly endless though it has a relatively lean running time at 105 minutes. The film has no reason not to be interesting, especially since the story is partly a period piece. I know my assessment of Jules and Jim is mostly a minority opinion but some fellow cinephiles have admitted to me that they too find it to be a brick. Good thing Truffaut has better, more praiseworthy work in his oeuvre.

4. Titanic/Director: James Cameron: The Overpraised and The Oppressively Empty-headed
11 Academy-Awards. Think about that. Goodfellas, a far superior film, won 1 award (Best Supporting Actor for Joe Pesci) 6 years earlier. 11 awards for what? Actually, I can understand it garnering technical awards; I have no qualms about that but Best Picture? At least Cameron didn't get nominated for best screenplay. The dialogue and story are so subservient to the theme-park effects one wonders why Cameron bothered with characters and a narrative. He could have just as easily started the movie with the sinking of the ship. I haven't seen the movie since it was released but at the time I saw it twice. I saw it a second time to be sure it was as moronic as it appeared the first time. The dialogue is so bad (listen to the nonsense DiCaprio has to utter in the dining room scene) and so much of the story is glaringly anachronistic yet this film dazzled critics and made a billion dollars at the box office worldwide. I will forever hold L.A. Times film critic Kenneth Turan in the highest esteem for being one of the few reviewers to see the creakiness behind the film's Disney World ambitions. Turan believed the film to be so bad "it almost makes you weep in frustration." I can't imagine what the movie might look like now; I don't have the stomach to revisit it. Oh God of Oblivion, please grant this film what it truly deserves...

5. Miranda July/Director/Screenwriter: The Overpraised
Who is Miranda July, you might ask? She came to minor (very minor) indie prominence in this century with two films: Me and You and Everyone We know and The Future; two odd films that eschew traditional narrative conventions and embrace surreal imagery. I have no problem with that; in fact, I welcome those approaches to film-making. My real problem with July and her films is the fulsome praise awarded her by the entertainment media every-time she releases a new film. Her films aren't bad. They have their moments but they are easy to forget. After an hour of her feature films, I'm usually thinking; okay, this is pleasantly weird but when will it end? I remember a piece on July that appeared just before the release of The Future in the New York Times Magazine. I can't remember who wrote the article but it was full of excessive praise and outlandish awe usually reserved for the behemoths of cinema. I haven't heard of any works in progress but you'll know when the next film arrives; the clouds will part to allow blinding shafts of celestial light to bathe the Earth. Miranda July will then descend in a golden chariot; her newest film held aloft in a golden canister for all us unworthy moviegoers to behold with our unworthy eyes.
Then we'll all have trouble recalling what the film was about the next day.

6. American Beauty/Director: Sam Mendes: The Overrated and The Oppressively Empty-headed
The only film in Sam Mendes' filmography that I actually liked is Skyfall; the last James Bond installment. For a director who has lofty, artistic ambitions (none that he has ever realized), this is highly peculiar. How did Mendes earn an unearned reputation (it has probably vanished now after a string of dreary dramas) for being a serious filmmaker? Why, it was due to a risible bit of nonsense he directed back in last months of the old century called American Beauty, which fooled critics and moviegoers alike into believing the movie and director were serious business. The movie; a story about suburban discord and unhappiness, claimed artistic distinction. But hammy performances (two of which were Annette Bening and Kevin Spacey's, no less) and one infamously self-conscious shot of a swirling plastic bag (director Todd Solondz satired this shot beautifully in Storytelling), not to mention a hoot of a line uttered by Wes Bentley: "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in," made it difficult not to roll one's eyes. I think the movie has been mercifully forgotten though in 1999 one might have thought Mendes and his movie had been granted Shakespearian stature by national film critics.

7. Wes Anderson/Director/Screenwriter: Overpraised.
I don't think Anderson really belongs in the Pantheon. I've liked a few of his films and he may well impress me again in the future but he mostly disappoints me. His last three feature films have been showcases for his shtick, which I'm tiring quickly of. Make no mistake, Anderson is a talented director but I feel he wastes a lot of time with silly trifles, like The Grand Budapest Hotel; which was a wonderful, visual conception but self-consciously and tiresomely zany. This criticism could also be leveled at the two films prior to Grand Budapest; Moonrise Kingdom and The Darjeeling Limited. I refuse to give up on Anderson; I feel a masterpiece is somewhere in his future. I hope so. Until that happens, I'll see whatever he makes. Forgive me, Wes, for your appearance on this list; you don't really deserve it.

So there you have it, folks. I hope you enjoyed visiting the Pantheon. Thanks for helping me celebrate my landmark posting. I also want to thank those who revisit my blog on a regular basis: all three of you.

See you soon.

Listen to Me Marlon

Director: Stevan Riley

The first images we see in Stevan Riley's captivating documentary on Marlon Brando are of a digital image made of the legendary actor when he was alive. As the image turns and rotates, we see the mouth move and Brando's voice emanating from the computer-generated head. We hear him mention how images such as his will become the norm in entertainment; words that may prove to be prophetic, I'm sure. Brando's synthetic image resembles a classically sculpted bust; Greco-Roman, which is entirely appropriate, given his monumental stature as an actor on stage and screen. In spite of a troubled life and spotty career--his taste in scripts were sometimes less than equal to his outsized talent--the man and his work remain a subject whose depths have yet to fully plumbed.

Wedding archival video and film footage to audio commentary from a vast collection of recordings Brando made throughout his life, Riley's Listen to Me Marlon is a hypnotic tapestry of biography and filmography. We learn so much about someone we think we know yet the film leaves us with so much more to explore and films to assess or reassess.

In Brando's words, which serve as the film's narration, we hear about his early life in Omaha, Nebraska while photos of his childhood appear onscreen. Brando speaks of his father being a terrible man; abusive to his mother and unloving toward his son. Later, we see a successful Brando and his father during an interview. Though smiles appear onscreen, the lack of father-son love is palpable. So virulent was Brando's disdain for his father that we hear him later in the film speak of his effort to keep his children away from him. We see photos of Brando as a child with his mother, of whom he speaks more fondly though he is also candid about her flaws, which include her alcoholism.

The misery of school is also documented in photos and audio, as is Brando's early days on stage in New York and his tutelage under Stella Adler; the famed acting instructor. In one among many self-analytical moments, Brando discusses a plausible reason for his becoming an actor when he says when someone is unwanted, one looks for an identity that is acceptable.

He recalls feeling like a million bucks after an excellent night on Broadway. Of course his thoughts on playing Stanley Kowalski are rife and often revealing. He talks about how people expected him to be Stanley in person but Brando makes it clear he was nothing like the character when he says he hated that guy. In discussing Terry Malloy from On the Waterfront, Brando attributes the audience's sympathy for his character's every-man appeal when he says everyone in the audience feels they could have been a contender.

Brando's choice of political material is addressed as is his social activism; including his participation in civil rights marches. He acknowledges that he too risked his life; his fame would have hardly spared him the violence visited on so many.

Valuable commentary accompanies the more commonly known aspects of his life; his decampment to a Polynesian island, his troubled marriages, his torrid affairs, his professional decline and his triumphant return to box office glory and critical acclaim for his roles in The Godfather and The Last Tango in Paris, which netted him an Oscar for best actor. We hear a few words about the infamous Oscar acceptance speech by a Native American woman named Little Feather and later, in a tragic turn, the trial of his son Christian for the murder of his half-sister Cheyenne's boyfriend. Excerpts of the trial, in which Brando himself testified, are seen in all their luridness. If his son's predicament wasn't enough, his daughter Cheyenne's suicide half-a-decade after his son's arrest was another tragedy that must have sorely tried his sanity.

Everything we learn in Riley's film is hardly new. Every part of his life and career addressed therein is common knowledge. What makes Listen to Me Marlon something beyond the beaten path are Brando's audio-diaries, which had never been heard before. How Riley gained access to said tapes is information I'm not privy to but it hardly matters. The fact that they exist and Riley put them to effective use is all I need to know.

Other than Albert Maysles' film on Brando; which we see a few clips of in Riley's film, I can't remember seeing such a moving documentary on his life and career. Though Riley's film is hardly the definitive documentary on Brando, where else has the man been allowed to tell his story in his own words, save for his autobiography: Brando: Songs My Mother Taught Me?

Of course there is more to the story; many details about films and failed relationships and Brando's difficulties with other actors on sets, as well as his dalliances, are explored in greater detail elsewhere but where else have we seen a digitized Brando? Listen to Me Marlon is a very satisfying documentary; one to be considered among the year's best. Eleven years after Brando's death and sixty-four years after his groundbreaking performance in A Streetcar Named Desire, there seems to be no end to our fascination with the man and his career. I'm sure Riley's film, though exceptional, is hardly the last we will hear about him. Let this film be one that others are measured against.

American Ultra

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Nima Nourizadeh/Jesse Eisenberg, Kristen Stewart, Connie Britton, Topher Grace, John Leguizamo, Bill Pullman and Walton Goggins

American Ultra is a movie that adopts a personality that is all wrong for its premise then tries to sell that shortcoming as a strength. Said premise; a stoner convenience store clerk who realizes he was actually once a highly-trained CIA operative could have been quite funny if Director Nima Nourizadeh and writer Max Landis (yes, son of director John Landis) had run wild with the comedic aspects of the story rather than veering into a serious, hyper-violent, narrative cul-de-sac. I was looking for the Jeff Lebowski-as-government-contract-killer character the trailer promised but got another Jason Bourne instead. What has become a stock character in CIA agent movies; I-guess-I-forgot-I'm-a-CIA-trained-lethal-field-operative; is ripe for comic plunder. Unfortunately Nourizadeh's film loses its way early on; settling for violence and a self-serious story rather than following a more humorous course. The story did occasionally threaten to be loopy but again, earnestness won out.

Jesse Eisenberg plays Mike Howell, a long-haired slacker who spends his days smoking weed and maintaining the sorriest convenience store you ever seen in a sorrier-looking town in West Virginia. When not manning the counter in the store, Mike co-habits with his girlfriend Phoebe Larson (the lovely Kristen Stewart); a she-slacker who works in a bail bonds office. Their shabby existence is redeemed not only by their mutual love and affection but Mike's cartooning, which he works on at all hours of the day; at work and at home. Drawings and storyboards of his astronaut gorilla character decorate the walls of their bedroom and in one scene, the two lay in bed while Mike tells Phoebe about his character's latest development.

A trip to Hawaii, where Mike was to present Phoebe with an engagement ring, is aborted when his gripping phobia of flying leaves him self-imprisoned inside a bathroom stall. Disappointed, Phoebe manages to forgive him though not without a little resentment.

One day, while behind the counter, Mike sees a woman (Connie Britton) in a trench-coat and sunglasses meandering about the aisles. She approaches the counter and utters what sounds like spy patter, which Mike's stoner mind fails to understand and grasp. The scene should be more amusing than it plays but it isn't bad.

Not knowing what the woman is on about, she leaves the store. Later, Mike sees two men messing with his car in the parking lot. When he approaches them and asks them to stop, they attack him, but not before Mike inexplicably unleashes a violent defense; utilizing impressive martial arts skills. He stabs one in the neck with a spoon, then dispatches the other. Dumbfounded by what he's done, he calls Phoebe for help. She arrives shortly thereafter but both are arrested when the police show up.

We learned in an earlier scene that the woman in the trench-coat; Victoria Lasseter, is a top-ranked CIA agent and Mike is a former operative who was trained years before in a program called Wise-Men. The program entailed giving repeat criminals opportunities to be trained as field operatives, of which Mike was a participant. We also learn his memory of his service was wiped clean while he was placed in an area of the country he might do little harm. It comes to light that Mike is Victoria's project but she discovers he is slated for liquidation by an agent who usurped her named Adrian Yates (Topher Grace, as a jerk he is peerless at playing). Unable to deter Adrian from pursuing Mike's life, she shows up at the convenience store to warn him. Hell-bent on killing Mike, Adrian mobilizes a team of assassins.

After the assassins arrive at the county jail where Mike and Phoebe are being held in a cell, they set about killing police officers. Mike and Phoebe manage to escape and in time they discover the plot against him and his past as an operative.

Again, humor should be liberally sprinkled about the story but oddly enough, this doesn't happen. Gruesome violence abounds; Mike manages to fend off assassins with all manner of creative lethality and with all manner of weapons, including a shovel and a frying pan.

As Victoria defies Adrian and the agency by aiding Mike, Phoebe's former involvement as a CIA operative comes to light. The revelation; an absurd twist that should be plumbed for all its comedic potential, is played straight. The news causes a rift between she and Mike. When Mike proves to be highly capable of resisting the assassins, Adrian captures Phoebe, thereby removing his partner.

Because the filmmaker's are unaware that the movie is and should be a comedy, the movie rushes headlong toward a conventional showdown that isn't played for laughs or a wink.

Though multiplexes hardly need another movie with covert intelligence agents running about (Mission Impossible and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. are both in theaters right now), the screens suddenly have space for one more. Sometimes the actors are unaware they are in a movie that is essentially a comedy, in spite of itself. Someone forgot to tell Kristen Stewart not to take the material too seriously; her explosive performance seems wildly at odds with the premise. Jesse Eisenberg plays his character with some sense of silliness but not enough. The same can be said for Connie Britton, Topher Grace and Bill Pullman. John Leguizamo is the only actor in the film who interpreted his character with a light spirit.

I wouldn't say American Ultra is tiresome but its like being in the company of someone who doesn't have a sense of humor and won't go along with a gag. What is particularly frustrating about it is its stubborn refusal to be funny when it should. It hardly works as an action thriller so where does that leave us as an audience? Twelve bucks poorer and 95 minutes older, I suppose. Let my impression of the movie spare you both. Can't you feel yourself a slightly bit richer and more youthful already?

Meru

Directors: Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi

The central peak on Meru mountain in India has been a mountaineer's bane and was formerly deemed unscalable, which prompted three American mountain-climbers: Conrad Anker, Jimmy Chin and Renan Ozturk to make a repeat attempt on the summit in 2011 after having already failed in their initial effort. Though Meru's size is hardly formidable by mountaineering standards (21,850 ft), its unique geological feature, nicknamed the Shark's Fin, poses a daunting challenge to even the most seasoned mountain-climbers. Many of the best had tried and failed to negotiate its massive granite face but in spite of its frightening obstacles, Anker, Chin and Ozturk forged ahead with their own attempt. Their endeavor is the focus of Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi's superb documentary Meru, which opens nation-wide in September.

What distinguishes Meru from other compelling films on mountaineering is its first-person photographic and cinematographic documentation. Chin and Ozturk, accomplished adventure photographers and cinematographers, used their considerable experience to capture footage of their historic ascent. Their breathtaking camera work helps tell an equally breathtaking story. Meru is something special; a thrilling film that offers more than death-defying thrills, it also tells the stories of the climbers themselves, who overcame mind-boggling adversity to make their mark in mountaineering lore.

A standard narrative device in mountaineering films is to introduce the unclimbable mountain. In the opening scenes, we see footage of the three climbers in their tent, hanging from 20,000ft. Waiting out a storm, their faces express exhaustion. Another narrative device is to back-track; to show how the mountaineers arrived at this place and in this predicament.

As the story retraces the steps, we learn about the origins of the first attempt but we also get biographical background on the subjects. We get to know Conrad Anker, who is regarded as one of the world's best mountaineers. We also learn about his mentoring of Jimmy Chin. Chin discusses his early years and his parent's disappointment in his chosen passion, which also serves as his vocation. Also part of biographical background are Chin and Ozturk's photographic assignments, which sometimes involve extreme skiing and following world class snowboarders in harrowing descents.

As we watch the mountaineers pursue their prize, we discover their lives-before the ascent are often as fascinating as their alpine exploits. Anker's story alone could be a feature film. His climbing under the mentorship of legendary mountaineer Mugs Stump plays a significant role in his formative training while his friendship with his friend and climbing partner Alex Lowe was no less vital to his career. Both Stump and Lowe met unfortunate ends on mountains, which Anker recounts in tearful detail. An unforeseen development in his life was falling in love with Lowe's widow, who he subsequently married before adopting her (and Alex's) children. Mentioned in the film but not explored is how Anker achieved international fame for discovering the body of George Mallory; the famed British mountaineer whose disappearance on an Everest climb in 1924 became a mystery.

Chin also achieved a degree of fame for his miraculous survival of an avalanche, which he discusses in harrowing detail. No less miraculous is Ozturk's recovery from an accident while on assignment covering Chin and two snowboarder's adventures on the slopes. The accident which left Ozturk with a cracked skull, broken vertebrae and dangerously reduced blood-flow in his brain not only jeopardized his life, but his ability to walk. The near-tragedy became a source of guilt for Chin, who claims responsibility for Ozturk's mishap. Ozturk's furious determination to return to mountaineering and an attempt on Meru is only one more unbelievable story in a film saturated with such stories.

Interspersed among phenomenal climbing footage are talking head interviews with the climbers and their families. Commentary and insights from famed mountaineering author Jon Krakauer contributes excitement and color to the proceedings.

Captured in heartbreaking footage is the first attempt on the Shark's Fin. A dangerous shortage of food and extended, unforeseen exposure to the elements denied the trio the summit. We see the video of the summit, agonizingly in reach, and feel the climber's crushing disappointment in having to abandon their climb.

Thinking the attempt a one-time effort, Anker learns of another climber's failed designs on Meru, which leaves him determined to try again. A severe wrinkle in the expedition is Ozturk's injury. He is warned that the diminished blood flow in his brain could result in a stroke at high altitudes. Undeterred, we see his herculean determination to join Anker and Chin on the second attempt.

The second attempt, like the first, is well-documented on film. Every minor setback, like an episode of Ozturk's worrisome, stroke-like incoherence, is captured in sight and sound. A storm that held up the group for four days on the first attempt, which dangerously reduced their rations, is mercifully absent on their second attempt. What transpires next is for film-goers to discover for themselves.

In a year of terrific documentaries, Meru claims distinction as an elite entry. It is never less than riveting and the bonds of faith and trust that form between men in a death-courting pursuit is thoroughly explored and touchingly conveyed. Though Chin's wife and co-director, Elizabeth Chai Vasherhelyi, helped mold the footage and interviews into a powerful documentary, it is Chin and Ozturk's superlative camera work on the mountain that merits a share of the praise. The panoramic vistas of the mountain range and the stunning beauty of the imposing Shark's Fin from aerial shots and the foot of the mountain reflect an artist's eye--a skill uncommon among mountain climbers.

The technical details of the climb are made fascinating to the lay person. To hear Chin and Anker discuss the dangers in climbing the granite face; of large chunks of rock separating from the wall, is enough to give one pause. I was also fascinated to learn that a climber attempting Meru must be skilled in several sub-disciplines of climbing; rock-climbing, alpine, etc.

Of course the human element is always at the forefront of the story. Being an excellent risk-assessor and being trustworthy are attributes highly-praised by the climbers, which Chin and Anker emphasize greatly.

I think Meru is one of the year's best films. It is exciting, sometimes heartbreaking and always moving. The men at the center of the story are as amazing as any subjects you will see in film this year; documentary or narrative.

If you think you've seen enough films on mountaineering, you will be pleased to know the genre has room for one more excellent specimen. It is a film you won't forget and one you may want to experience in multiple viewings.

The End of the Tour

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: James Ponsoldt/Starring: Jason Segel, Jesse Eisenberg, Mamie Gummer and Joan Cusack

Movies about writers must be a challenge to promote because 1)There aren't a lot of great movies about writers (I'm trying hard to think of one) 2)Your audience(s) is/are already limited and 3)An anti-intellectual nation such as America is hardly literate, which means Americans would rather not see a movie about a writer it doesn't or won't read. Even one of our country's great scribes; David Foster Wallace, isn't likely to draw an Avengers sized audience (if we only lived in that kind of country!). I'm always naive enough to believe people who pick up a book at least ten times a year (a small number I know, but most Americans can't manage even that) will have read Wallace.

Director James Ponsoldt's film was one of the summer releases I anticipated the most. I thought the idea of making a film about David Foster Wallace quite audacious. The task is unenviable; ardent fans (like myself) are sure to feel most of what they see or hear is wrong. But the fact that Ponsoldt's film is based on author Dave Lipsky's book about Wallace: Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip With David Foster Wallace ; I was confident about accuracy.

But The End of the Tour isn't a biopic, so facts about Wallace are less important to Lipsky and Ponsoldt than the more banal aspects of his life.

Lipsky is played by the nervously intelligent Jesse Eisenberg while Jason Segel inhabits the role of Wallace wonderfully.

An author in his own right, Lipsky joined the staff of Rolling Stone in the 1990s'. Aware of the furor caused by Infinite Jest, Lipsky approaches the editor about writing a piece on Wallace rather than "teen boy bands." Securing his consent, Lipsky travels to Wallace's home in rural Illinois to join him on what is the final leg of a book tour, which concludes in Bloomington, Minnesota.

Lipsky, though initially skeptical about Wallace prior to his reading of Infinite Jest, recognizes his brilliance immediately afterward. His awareness of Wallace's immense talent hangs over the interviews and their casual time together like a Blue whale.

The initial meeting at Wallace's house is low-key and conversational, unlike an interview. With the bandana on his head, Segel bears a scary resemblance to the genuine article and I often forgot during the movie that I wasn't watching Wallace himself.

Lipsky and Wallace become comfortable in the other's presence and after a diner dinner, both writers probe and fish for information. On the way home, the two stop at a convenience store for gobs of junk food, which Wallace heaps on the counter. Lipsky uses his Rolling Stone stipend to pick up the tab.

The conversations occasionally drift into writing and literature and Wallace's authorial goals but somehow the mundane often creeps into the chats. A poster of Alanis Morrisette in Wallace's kitchen is a source of puzzlement for Lipsky. Wallace explains his reason for putting the poster on his wall; citing not only her sex appeal but also her regular person charm. Her regular-person appeal fits into one of the film's themes, which deals with Wallace's self-conscious effort to appear as a regular person too, in spite of Lipsky's doubts about his sincerity.

As Lipsky accompanies Wallace to his bookstore appearances, their friendly rapport is often interrupted by Rolling Stone article imperatives. So often, Lipsky's hand-held recorder comes out, becoming an intrusive presence in otherwise relaxed situations.

Wallace introduces Lipsky to two attractive blonde women; one of whom he dated in graduate school. Wallace begins to grow suspicious of Lipsky's passively flirtatious manner with his ex-girlfriend, which festers until the two men become mutually suspicious and mutually hostile. The tension quite naturally complicates the interview process.

Sensitive questions regarding Wallace's alcoholism and his depression meet with tentative but ultimately forthright answers and at moments, questions about his writing make their way back into interviews. We learn something about his neuroses, like his acute fear of offending people and his quirks, like his addiction to T.V. and his regular dancing at a local church; past-times we hardly attribute to the writer of Infinite Jest.

Though literature is the background against which the story unfolds, the film's real focus is the relationship between Lipsky and Wallace and how the makings of a friendship blossoms from what is ostensibly an interview. In the end, Lipsky's piece never saw the pages of Rolling Stone but based on the film's epilogue, the impact of the experience became significant.

Ponsoldt's film is odd in that it isn't a portrait of a great writer but a glimpse of an ordinary time in an extraordinary man's life; witnessed by a man who realizes he is in the presence of greatness.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film and found the interplay between Segel and Eisenberg to be quite absorbing. In retrospect, one could say the film is an answer to My Dinner With Andre. Conversations make up the drama and essentially carry the film. We want to get inside Wallace's head and know what the man was like. If the movie stumbles, it is in its depiction of Wallace himself for we see so much of his taste for junk culture but none of his taste for literature. In interviews, Wallace does come across as an every-guy albeit with a keen intellect and a superior grasp of the English language. We get a lot of the every-guy part but not so much of the latter. In over-humanizing their subject, Ponsoldt and Lipsky suppress that which made Wallace great. Nevertheless, I found everything about the movie beguiling.

But, as aforementioned, the film will only appeal to those who are more than a little familiar with Wallace and his writing. For those who find the man and his work compelling, The End of the Tour is a rewarding experience and also a tragic one.

Breathe

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Melanie Laurent/Starring: Josephine Japy, Lou de Laage, Roxane Duran and Isabelle Carre'

Melanie Laurent, renowned for her performances in front of the camera, steps behind it again for her directorial effort Breathe; which she adapted from the French novel of the same name. Laurent's compositional skills are highly conspicuous, as is her ability to coax some fine performances from her female characters. Breathe is an intriguing psychological drama; a story of head-games between two teens whose intense friendship skews toward contempt rather than mutual love and affection.

Josephine Japy plays Charlie; a student in a French high school who seems pretty much like her teen peers. Her mother and father are separated and are often engaged in rancorous displays which Charlie witnesses on a regular basis. She also sees how her mother Vanessa (Isabelle Carre') is reduced to pawn status before her father's Svengali-esque control.

In Charlie's literature class, we hear a discussion about whether passion is destructive. Many great minds are quoted, particularly Nietzsche, who once said that passion is easier to end than control. This being a French film, we know the subject of passion and its perilous effects will become a major theme in the story.

Into Charlie's life comes Sarah (Lou de Laage), a new student who immediately insinuates herself not only into the high school social life but more importantly, Charlie's. Sarah mentions to the class that her mother is in Nigeria doing charity work for an NGO, which gives her a sheen of worldliness that impresses the other kids.

As Charlie's affection for Sarah simmers and boils, she begins to ignore her best friend Victoire (Roxane Duran). Charlie and Sarah become inseparable but before long, the friendship enters darker territory. Sarah incurs her friend's ire when she joins Charlie's boyfriend on a plane ride; an act that leaves Charlie callously disregarded. Sarah also becomes thick with Charlie's friends, which begins to rankle her. The romantic stories Sarah tells of her own life begin to annoy the untraveled and innocent Charlie. Particularly vexing are Sarah's stories of sexual conquest, which she uses to humiliate her virginal friend.
As the story progresses, Sarah's unkind and edgier nature emerges.
The friendship takes an even darker turn when Charlie follows Sarah home one night. Suspicious about Sarah's stories about her mother's charity work, Charlie discovers her friend has been concocting wild stories to mask an ugly truth. She finds Sarah lives in a run-down apartment building and peeking through the window, she learns her friend lives with an abusive, alcoholic mother. The scene is exceptional for the slow pan of the the apartment windows, where we see the violent drama inside pass into different rooms until the camera comes to rest on the outside of the building, where the grim revelation plays on Charlie's face. The profound truth about Sarah's life and her need to deceive Charlie and her friends is captured in this one, inventive shot.

When Charlie exposes Sarah's deception, we see the friendship come undone in psychologically-corrosive intricacy. Even after Sarah begins to spread vicious rumors about her friend's sex life; going so far as to scribble scurrilous graffiti on the school walls, Charlie maintains a bizarre loyalty; as if reconciliation is a possibility.
It's easy to see how Charlie's parent's relationship is mirrored in her own. As her mother always sacrifices personal dignity for the sake of having her husband's attention and affection, Charlie is willing to sacrifice her own for the sake of earning Sarah's love.

We can finally see how Nietzsche's words echo truthfully: ending a passion is easier than controlling it.

It isn't surprising how the story ends but it is nonetheless shocking and almost inevitable. Though the story is tremendously sympathetic to Charlie, we see in the end that she is more complicated than she appears and less the passive victim she portrays to the world.

I've always believed the French are masters at psychological character studies. Only a French director could have written and directed a film like Breathe. Comparisons have been made to Blue is the Warmest Color but though that film entered the realm of erotica, Laurent's story only suggests latent sexuality between Charlie and Sarah.

Japy and Laage's performances compliment Laurent's excellent direction. Both women have few difficulties exploring the seemingly endless shadows their characters conceal and expose.

Throughout the film, we see Charlie use an inhaler to combat her virulent asthma. It is interesting to see that her asthmatic episodes seem connected to her relationship with Sarah. The attacks almost seem to be a symptom of the relationship. This idea is strongly supported in the final scene, which I won't reveal here. Charlie's passion for Sarah is so powerful as to literally and figuratively rob her of breath.

Breathe tells us that we should expect great things from Laurent. Her film, like her character who gasps for air, leaves one breathless. If only American teen movies were as fascinating and richly observed as this film. In American teen films, we get weepy characters with cancer or in the case of the insipid Paper Towns; this summer's multiplex teen drama, high school kids are as deep as tortillas. Unfortunately, Laurent's film will play on fewer screens in America than the forthcoming Maze Runner sequel or the final installment of The Hunger Games. Too bad, Laurent's film is more challenging and is certainly more deserving of the attention that is squandered on those glossy wrecks.

Tangerine

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Sean Baker/Starring: Kitana Kiki Rodriguez, Mya Taylor, Karren Karagulian, Mickey O'Hagan, James Ransone and Clu Gulager

What visual limitations might there be for a movie filmed entirely on 3 iPhone 5s' with a meager budget of $100K? After seeing director Sean Baker's Tangerine, I think the answer might be: none, if imagination and a solid visual sense serve the filmmaker. Baker seems to possess both attributes in abundance and deploys them expertly. If one can glean any lessons from watching the endless parade of obesely-budgeted superhero movies this summer season, it is that big money, space-age effects and marquee actors seldom deliver quality entertainment. Unlike corporate Hollywood's bloated productions, Baker's film is fun, funny, touching and populated with characters who are fascinatingly real.

Set in the gritty streets of present day L.A., Tangerine tells the story of two transgender prostitutes named Sin-Dee (Kitana Kiki Rodriguez) and Alexandra (Mya Taylor), who spend their days hustling on the city streets, which also means avoiding the police and sometimes hateful attacks. When the story begins, Sin-Dee and Alexandra are having a spirited conversation on Christmas Eve morning, inside a fast-food place. Sin-Dee, volatile and irascible, talks about Chester, the man she loves but who has been fooling around with a woman who she learns is named Dinah. While Sin-Dee's rage and wounded pride become catalysts for a cross-town odyssey to find Chester, Alexandra walks the street distributing flyers for a show she is to perform on Christmas Eve. A parallel narrative involves an Armenian cab-driver named Razmik (Karren Karagulian) whose offbeat and colorful clients sometimes try his patience, particularly two revelers who vomit in his cab. Another amusing fare involves a white man who waxes volubly about his Cherokee ancestry (Clu Gulager, who I've not seen in many years).

How the two transgender prostitutes and Razmik are connected isn't immediately obvious but as the story progresses, we see that Razmik has a passion for hustlers like Sin-Dee and Alexandra, in spite of having a wife at home. In one scene, Razmik propositions a prostitute, only to find she is a woman, leading to her immediate ejection from the vehicle.

Meanwhile, a man picks up Alexandra for a quick assignation. The scene becomes comical when the man reveals he only has forty dollars. The situation escalates into an argument, which spills out into the street. Their noisy fracas brings the unwanted attention of two cops sitting in their car, one of whom is quite familiar with Alexandra.

Meanwhile, Sin-Dee's furious search for Chester leads her all about town and into the company of pimps, drug-dealers and fellow transgenders.

Razmik manages to find Alexandra; we see the easy rapport the two share. The meeting quickly becomes a carnal transaction, which takes place inside a car-wash. What follows is one of the most visually-imaginative and beautifully-conceived scenes I've seen in a film in awhile. The windshield with soapy and watery cascades is so subtly sexual; it's clever without being self-consciously so.

Sin-Dee manages to track down Dinah (Mickey O'Hagan), who she finds inside a dirty, cheap motel room serving as an ad hoc brothel. We see Sin-Dee's prey; a young, emaciated blonde whose appearance speaks of ferocious drug-use and prostitution. Sin-Dee drags her (literally) out of the motel and across town in search of Chester and in the process Dinah becomes almost complicitous in her abduction.

In another scene, we see Razmik's home-life; a halcyon picture of holiday festivity as his mother-in-law, wife and daughter share a holiday meal with relatives. Eager to leave to attend Alexandra's show at a local nightclub, he fabricates a story about having to work. His departure draws protests from the gathering, particularly his mother-in-law, who suspects infidelity.

Razmik searches for Alexndra after missing her show but finds her at the doughnut shop where Sin-Dee confronts Chester. And while Razmik's presence has a negative impact on the proceedings, the situation is worsened when his mother-in-law shows up after her suspicions rouse her to action. This scene, where all the characters converge, is both absurd and humorous but takes a serious turn as Sin-Dee learns of Alexandra's fling with Chester while Razmik confronts not only his meddling mother-in-law but his wife and daughter, who also show up at the doughnut shop.

A film like Tangerine could have derailed early but Baker trusts in his actors and the material to ensure the story stays on its spellbinding course. Kitana Kiki Rodriguez and Mya Taylor, real-life transgender actors, have few problems with authenticity. I really liked Karren Karagulian's performance as the Armenian immigrant whose taste in amorous partners is at cross purposes with his seemingly traditional family life.

As previously stated, Baker's visual aesthetic is in no way inhibited by technology. In fact, the lack of conventional film-making media may have been a boon. To not have had a solid story and characters would have reduced his guerrilla film-making venture to a clever trick.

Even days after having seen the film, I find Tangerine has resonance and charm. I'm still chuckling, remembering the funny scenes and how life-like many characters seem. I was surprised to learn Mickey O'Hagan is actually a drama-school alumnus. Seeing her in the film, I was convinced she is the character she portrays. It is often hard to distinguish the actors from the denizens of L.A.'s underbelly; who appear often in Baker's film.

The meaning of the title remains opaque, though we see Alexandra give Razmik a tangerine-scented air-freshener for his cab to combat the reek left by his vomiting passengers. Is the air-freshener a metaphor for society's fruitless attempt to suppress what it regards as American life's seamier side; the transgender culture?

Tangerine is another summer surprise; one whose very existence is a welcome affront to so-called Hollywood movie-making professionalism. Baker conducts a clinic on how to make a compelling film with a device no bigger than one's palm and with a miniscule budget that couldn't match a minor character's pay in The Avengers. This is indie film-making at its best.

What do you have for us next, Mr. Baker?

Best of Enemies

Director: Robert Gordon and Morgan Neville

The sociopolitical climate during the Republican and Democratic conventions in 1968 was highly combustible and it is safe to say that the tensions surrounding the respective events reflected that which was gripping the nation. With the Vietnam War raging, a galvanized and committed counter-culture movement vigorously protested the conflict, while an equally committed conservative establishment voiced its contempt for the left's anti-war protests and sentiments.

In this seething atmosphere came a series of debates, aired by ABC T.V. during its coverage of both conventions, that stand as the most famous in American television history.
We learn from directors Robert Gordon and Morgan Neville's excellent documentary, The Best of Enemies, that ABC was regarded as something of a joke and an also-ran among the other networks at the time. As a boost to its convention coverage, the network held a series of ten on-air debates between two towering intellects; Gore Vidal; author, screenwriter and knight of the American left and William F. Buckley Jr., editor of the conservative magazine The National Review and paladin for the right.

Gordon and Neville's film explores the debate's impact on television but also, and maybe more significantly, on the two combatants themselves. Even decades later, the debates left Vidal and Buckley's nerves a little tender, which the film effectively conveys.

Gordon and Neville's film skillfully blends debate footage with commentary from a variety of sources, including Dick Cavett, the late Christopher Hitchens, Buckley's brother F. Reid Buckley; all who provide valuable insights. In F. Reid's case; familial perspective proves to be insightful and objective. Weighing in and providing embellishment are Vidal and Buckley biographers, who are never short of incisive analysis and facts.

An indisputable fact, made abundantly clear by both Buckley and Vidal and by commentators alike is the intense loathing both men bore for the other. As stated in the film, both felt the other represented something dangerous and threatening to the nation. Those interviewed are quick to place emphasis on the fierce intellects and the almost peerless use of language both men made their specialty. With eloquence and saber-sharp wit at their disposal, Vidal and Buckley's debates were looked upon as an intellectual prize-fight. Both contestants were expected to be brutal and merciless.

Biographical territory is also covered in the film. We learn that both men were well-educated and privileged; their respective backgrounds very similar. While Buckley pursued higher education, Gore wrote his first novel at nineteen, thus beginning a prolific, authorial career.

The film wastes little time showing the debates, which are divided appropriately by rounds. Though what we see and hear is hardly surprising, given both men's antipathy for his opponent's politics, it is still quite fascinating to listen as they verbally jab and parry. A Buckley biographer speaks of his ability to effectively dismantle an argument, piece by piece, while Vidal's weapons of choice were razor-sharp witticisms, which he could deploy to devastating effect.

But it is the final round, the 10th debate, where the harshest words were exchanged; inappropriately ad hominem but seemingly inevitable. After the near-violent exchange, where Vidal goaded Buckley into fisticuffs, the conservative leader made bigoted comments he would live to regret. One of the insults pointedly targeted Vidal's sexuality; a subject the film could hardly sidestep. The fact that Buckley's own sexuality was suspect makes his outburst all the more peculiar and intriguing.

The latter half of the film deals with the debate's aftermath and its impact on both men into their elder years. We learn that in the 80s', the shame Buckley felt for his outburst was still acute. When an interviewer mentioned having seen the debate, a bewildered Buckley expressed his surprise that the tapes hadn't been destroyed.

We also see how the debates helped spawn news program point/counterpoint commentary.

It is easy to become absorbed in Gordon and Neville's documentary, which captures a time that seems so alive and yet so quaint. Given the shrill, venomous nature of ubiquitous, political diatribes today, one can appreciate the Vidal/Buckley debates as an extinct form of political melee; where eloquent arguments were as highly regarded as facts and statistics. But the film is as much about the adversaries as it is the debates and the state of the nation in the late 60s'.

Best of Enemies is a terrific film and a fascinating time-capsule. Both men have passed on this new century, but like warriors of Homeric lore, they've achieved a legendary status; as nemeses and as intellects.

Ricki and the Flash

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Jonathan Demme/Starring: Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline, Mammie Gummer, Rick Springfield and Audra McDonald

Ricki and the Flash comes with a compliment of Oscar-celebrated talent: Director Jonathan Demme, Oscar-winner and oft-nominated Meryl Streep and Oscar-winning screenwriter Diablo Cody, so my question is: how can an assemblage of so much talent collaborate on what is essentially monumental, ghastly junk? I can understand Streep and Cody's significant contributions to this manure (see my diatribe on Streep in my blogpost; The Pantheon of the Overrated, Overexposed etc., and my forthcoming follow-up, in which Cody will figure prominently); both being honorary citizens of that unfortunate nation known as Mediocrystan, but Jonathan Demme? Demme, whose given us cinematic gold with Stop Making Sense, Something Wild and Silence of the Lambs, now smudges his impressive oeuvre with what is essentially a tepid, timid drama heated to scorching temperatures. Blame can almost be distributed evenly: Demme's sub-standard direction and Streep's tiresome hamming shoulder much of the blame but the biggest culprit may be Cody's script, which, like much of her other work, is uneven, sloppy and lazily conceived. What did Demme and Streep see in this story? A vanity project for Streep, who gets to sing and mimic a rock musician? An opportunity for Demme to make a musical narrative to bookend his numerous music docs? Let's leave the rhetorical questions and move on.

Streep plays Ricki Rendazzo, an aging, failed rock musician who, with her band The Flash, are the house-band at a shabby bar in a small town in California. Ricki's look is all rock star: long, partially-braided hair, heavy black eye-liner and funky, skinny jeans or tight black leather with black boots and towering heels. Her band is comprised of ragged-looking musicians (played by real-life rockers Joe Vitale, Rick Rosas and Rick Springfield) who look like they've played on one-too many roadhouse stages.

Her band is forced to pander to the bar crowd by belting out rock standards like Tom Petty's American Girl and more contemporary pop like Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. When not performing onstage, Ricki works in the check-out lane at the local health-food super market.

Ricki's quasi-romance with the lead guitarist of the Flash, Greg (Rick Springfield) is impeded by her reluctance to be in a relationship and a little of her self-loathing, which tries his patience.

Ricki receives grim news from her ex-husband Pete (Kevin Kline, in a dull, hyper-under-imagined role) in Indiana, who informs her that their daughter Julie's (Streep's real-life daughter, Mamie Gummer, in a role that is mostly extreme emoting) husband has left her. Though Ricki has been an absentee mother; having left the family when Julie was a child, Pete insists her presence might rescue their daughter from her steep, emotional decline.

Ricki gathers her guitar case and flies to Indianapolis. She shows up at Pete's home; a palatial spread that eloquently reflects his success. Ricki's rock musician appearance, which never changes, is a dramatic contrast to Pete's stiff, professional attire, which is matched by his demeanor. The script's shortcomings are immediately apparent. In no way can we imagine that Pete and Ricki were once a couple nor can we imagine--given her lifestyle and appearance--how she might have been attracted to such a straight-laced corpse, or he her. It seems like one of those Diablo Cody-esque touches that rings false from the get-go.

Pete is hardly surprised to find that Ricki doesn't have money for the taxi nor money for lodging, which makes it necessary for him to put her up. The fact that Pete's wife is away tending to her father is convenient for Ricki.

As Ricki marvels at the posh, comfortable surroundings, she learns more about her daughter's situation, which isn't good. Just as Ricki begins to settle in, Julie makes a noisy, dramatic entrance; essentially attacking her mother for her bad motherness. Seeing Julie in her wildly disheveled hair and bathrobe makes her an irritating rather than a sympathetic presence.

Over the course of a few days, Julie's combative behavior begins to subside when Ricki becomes a calming influence. Before that is accomplished, Ricki attends a dinner with Pete and Julie (who doesn't change out of her bathrobe and pajamas), where they meet up with Ricki's sons. One is engaged, with his fiance in attendance and the other is a young, gay man who is uncomfortable with sharing his personal life with his mother. Ricki's views on her son's preferences are decidedly reactionary but the given fact that she is an unabashed Bush supporter with a Don't Tread on Me tattoo on her back (ostensibly a symbol of her rebellion but really just dumb); we can acknowledge her consistence.

Julie blurts out inappropriately that her brother doesn't want Ricki to attend the wedding. The whole scene is meant to be awkward and a jarring reminder to Ricki how estranged she is from her children's lives but it mostly comes across as a mechanical contrivance that accomplishes little but to move an already flagging story forward. The family's noisy airing out of grievances attracts the unwanted attention of the upscale restaurant's patrons, who can't help but stare. Whether their stares are prompted by the family's momentary lack of social grace or their tediousness isn't immediately obvious.

Before Ricki returns to California, she makes a breakthrough with her daughter but Pete's wife Maureen (Audra McDonald) returns home; setting up what is supposed to be another awkward confrontation. Maureen has been the de facto parent of Ricki's kids, which of course is an incendiary bone of contention between the two.

Ricki returns home and though it feels as if the second act has just played before our eyes, nothing one could call rich, real conflict has taken place. Ricki accomplishes her mission without much resistance from her daughter. One would think a lifetime of resentment and anger might take years to resolve or reconcile but in this story, it's accomplished in less than twenty minutes of screen-time.

When Ricki returns to her gigging and Greg, more screen-time is filled with an overly generous portion of performance footage. Of course part of the film's draw is the promise of hearing and seeing Streep and band perform but it also serves as time-filler.

Ricki and Greg seem to work out their relationship without much storm and stress. When Ricki receives an invitation to the wedding she didn't expect to attend (from Maureen; a gesture of reconciliation), she tells Greg she can't afford to go, which inspires in him a self-less sacrifice.

The film's third act is the wedding, where predictability becomes the watchword. Aside from a couple of character developments, it isn't difficult to determine if and how Ricki might make peace with her family.

I got what I expected from Ricki and the Flash, which wasn't much. The sad fact that it didn't make much of an effort to challenge my expectations is one of its glaring flaws. But I guess something can be said for the film not being a story about a rock musician's one-last-chance-at-stardom who is rescued from obscurity by a record company scout.

That Ricki sacrificed her life with a family for her music and lifestyle isn't as much a problem as her lack of remorse or regret for having done so.

I will give Diablo Cody credit for writing lead roles for woman. She tends to enjoy conceiving female train-wrecks who are their own worst enemy, which is fine, but other than her script for Young Adult, her characters and screenplays always seem half-written.

Demme, whose resume is filled with music-themed documentaries, can't seem to make the music in the film anything more than listenable.

Demme can't seem to tease out one decent performance from anyone in the cast. Even the Empress of Fine Acting (as she is regarded in the civilized world) can't do much more than affect an attitude. The Tea Party tattoo on her back is more fully nuanced than her character. We get to see Streep play a rock and roller and belt out a few rock classics but so what?

Ricki sacrifices so much in her life for her music but how does she feel about it? What is there about it that would make her essentially give up three children?

This is a movie where nothing much happens and the characters--one and all (save for the real-life musicians in the band)--are people I didn't care to know or want to know more. I can't think of one character I wouldn't want to push out of a plane, including Ricki.

In the final reckoning, the movie seems like an excuse for an aging actress to play an aging rock musician though here Streep plays one without much conviction or fiery spirit. Both Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart were better at playing rock and rollers in The Runaways. Stewart seemed more like Joan Jett than Joan Jett.

I'm glad the film is behind me. I hope to fully forget it before the onrush of better fall films. It shouldn't be too difficult. In fact, it may only take the weekend.

Heaven Adores You

Director: Nickolas Dylan Rossi

I'm ashamed to admit that I came to first-time director Nickolas Dylan Rossi's Heaven Adores You knowing little about his subject; the legendary singer/songwriter Elliott Smith (1969-2003), whose tragic suicide still haunts friends and family today. I was familiar with the name during his brief, incandescent career but hadn't heard much of his music. Even today, his songs don't get much airplay, which is unfortunate; because after seeing Rossi's film, one may feel compelled to go out and buy all of Smith's music.

But as we see early in the film, Elliot had a strange, brief moment on the national and international stage when he appeared on the 1997 Oscar telecast to sing his best song nominee Miss Misery, which appeared in Gus Van Sant's Good Will Hunting. I honestly can't recall his performance; not because the song or Smith's performance weren't memorable but because the Oscar stage, with its movie star imperatives, was an inappropriate venue with which to fully appreciate Smith's talent.
We hear in a recorded interview what his thoughts were about performing in the telecast, which weren't necessarily negative. He seemed to bear an amused regard for the appearance and later mentions how his moment on the red carpet was overshadowed by Madonna, who happened to be near him in queue.

We hear Smith, in his own words, talk about how fame and popularity were all wrong for him. Based on what we see and hear in footage, recordings and interviews from family, friends, band-mates and former managers, nothing could be closer to the truth.

We see photos of a smiling, young Smith in his childhood in Dallas, Texas. A younger half-sister tells of his troubled relationship with his stepfather. But we hear in Smith's own words about the musical atmosphere at home and his mother's encouragement. A childhood friend, who competed with Smith for class-clown status, ultimately formed a band with him in their early teen-years. Listening to his friend, we glean some insights into Smith's precocious approach to songwriting.

A startling development in Smith's life was his move from Dallas to Portland in his early teens. The fact that the move was undertaken without his family speaks volumes about a home-life he is reluctant to talk about when a viewer broaches the subject.

In Rossi's film, where Smith happens to be geographically is as vital to his story as his music.

Hearing his music, which often betrays a wisp of melancholy, the rainy gloom of Portland seems an ideal place for Smith's music to burgeon and bloom. How Smith made his way in Portland as a young teen and able to finish high school is unclear; details are sketchy. But Rossi focuses on the city's emerging music scene, which was helped along by Seattle's monumental grunge movement.

Interviews with friends who became Smith's band-mates tell of Portland's vibrant, local musical community, which, like Austin, was sympathetic to itinerant musicians.
Smith and a few friends formed a band called Heatmiser; a loud punkish band that made a name for itself in the local music scene. But though the band garnered acclaim from Portland fans, Smith longed to move beyond the band's loud, raucous, musical sound. He found the songs he wrote for the band to be a modest approximation of what he intended them to be. Before long, Smith ventured out on his own. Record deals with small labels ultimately lead to signing with Dreamworks.

Smith's popularity in Portland reached a fever pitch. He caused a bit of an uproar when he decided to leave his adopted home for New York City. Though the motivations are vague, the film suggests the relocation was inspired by a personal need to move on and a failed relationship.

Musically, Smith also moved on; breaking ground with the solo releases; Roman Candle in 1994 and Either/Or in 1995. Both were received well by critics.
With Smith's Oscar appearance came a larger audience; one that expanded internationally.

Later we see footage of Smith in L.A.; his new home of choice. We learn that Smith hardly slowed down in his new digs. Members of Smith's band mention his prolific, musical output.

The subject of drug addiction begins to creep into the story. How it begins to take a toll on his life and career seems like a development we've seen in countless rock biographies. We hear from band-mates about erratic performances, Smith's acute paranoia and the declining standards of his shows. His former manager's painful recollection of the times includes an account of her quitting after Smith became hostile.

Near the end of the film, subtitles tell us of Smith's suicide; a brutal act accomplished by two knife-thrusts to his chest.

The film's upbeat epilogue, which contains footage of a musical celebration of Smith's music in 2013, reminds us of his musical legacy and the undiminished love and respect for his life and work.

Heaven Adores You is Rossi's first film as a director. The hypnotic imagery we see in the film betray the cinematographer's craft, which Rossi practiced extensively before making his own film.

Rossi lets Smith tell some of his own story in recorded interviews, which are complimented with terrific recollections and reminiscences. Though the film is his inaugural, directorial effort, his storytelling instincts are assured and robust.

If the film has a weakness, its in its inability to fill in vital details where needed. We can appreciate Rossi's efforts to focus on the music rather than tabloidy, narrative inessentials. But details such as Smith's move from Dallas to Portland are fuzzy, as are his relationships with women. We learn nothing about his relationship with Jennifer Chiba, who was with Smith at the time of his death.

But my quibbles are minor. Rossi communicates Elliott Smith's artistry beautifully. The uninitiated, like myself, are left wanting more. Seeing Heaven Adores You, it's sad to realize Smith's career didn't span even a decade. Thank goodness we have a film like Rossi's; one that reminds us of what modern music lost. But the film also inspires us to learn more and maybe more importantly; hear more.

Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Christopher McQuarrie/Starring: Tom Cruise, Simon Pegg, Rebecca Ferguson, Jeremy Renner, Ving Rhames, Sean Harris, Simon McBurney, Alec Baldwin and Tom Hollander

One might expect a movie franchise like Mission Impossible to be staggering about and sputtering after its many iterations over a twenty-year span. Every installment has taken its sweet time making its way to the silver screen. Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation is only the fifth incarnation in what's become a very durable and very dependable action series. Like The Fast and the Furious films, which simply refuse to become dull and formulaic, Mission Impossible has remained a thrilling heart-thumper and shows no signs of slowing down (or coming to any foreseeable end). Director Christopher McQuarrie, the helmsman of the very unfortunate Jack Reacher, redeems himself with this latest MI film, which is aided considerably by a tight script and of course, the considerable charms of the IMF, or the Impossible Missions Force, as it is commonly known in the films.

Tom Cruise reprises his role as IMF's super operative Ethan Hunt, who, when the story begins, is knee-deep in a mission. As a cargo plane loaded with chemical weapons makes its way down a runway, Hunt manages to run onto the wing before hanging from the side door. IMF's computer whiz, Benji Dunn (the highly entertaining Simon Pegg) tries desperately to hack the plane's computer to open the side door before Hunt is undone by altitude and ferocious wind-currents. That the sequence was accomplished without CGI and a stunt double is truly amazing. Whether one feels Tom Cruise has taken leave of his senses for attempting a dangerous stunt for the sake of authenticity or dedicated professionalism, the fact remains; the scene is truly spectacular.

Meanwhile, the CIA director Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin), appeals vigorously to a government committee for the IMF's dismantling; believing the covert group has gone rogue. The IMF's subsequent outlaw status makes Hunt a fugitive, which prompts a CIA, seize and capture operation. While Hunt is on the run, his key colleagues in the IMF; Dunn and William Brandt (Jeremy Renner) lay low as CIA employees; providing their colleague valuable intelligence. Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames), the other member of Hunt's group is virtually incommunicado; keeping his whereabouts secret.

While the CIA searches for Hunt, he is captured by a shadowy organization known as The Syndicate; a network of spies responsible for terrorist acts worldwide. Their leader, Solomon Lane (a delightfully sinister Sean Harris), is a former British intelligence operative who believes his organization can right the wrongs of the world by overturning the status quo. The Syndicate has few qualms about killing and doing so en masse to satisfy their amoral agenda.

Lane's thugs manage to capture Hunt, who is well aware of the Syndicate's destructive aims. While Hunt is tied up in a cell, a Syndicate butcher known as Janik Vinter (Jens Hulten) administers a beating before unveiling his array of tools meant to inflict painful and potentially lethal wounds. Before Vinter can begin, a woman working with The Syndicate helps Hunt to free himself before they escape together. Before he can learn her identity, she runs off while Hunt dodges bullets en route to his own freedom.

In time, with the help of Dunn, who plays video games at his desk in a London CIA field office when his supervisor isn't around, Hunt learns about a Syndicate operation targeting the Austrian Chancellor.

An exciting cat and mouse sequence in the Vienna Opera House finds Hunt and Dunn trying to find Syndicate operatives who are planning an assassination of the Austrian Chancellor. Hunt uncovers a tangle of would-be snipers. Among them is the woman who helped Hunt escape. Though she helped Hunt before, her actions always seem to be at cross-purposes with the IMF team. When the attempt on the Chancellor succeeds, Hunt and Dunn are aware that their presence will only incriminate them, which necessitates a hasty escape abetted by none other than the mysterious woman. Hunt learns she was actually trying to save the Chancellor and when questioned further, he learns she is Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) a erstwhile member of MI6, who has joined The Syndicate in order to stop Lane.

Hunt, Dunn and Faust learn Lane is interested in obtaining encrypted information held in a digital vault in Morocco, inside a maximum security complex. Hunt and company discover the information they need is securely stored inside a water tank, which is accessible only by a dangerous dive and a formidable swim, which involves holding one's breath under water for several minutes. The sensitive and highly sophisticated alarm systems, which are triggered by the presence of metal, disqualify the use of oxygen tanks, which would compromise the mission. The break-in comes with its own perils, which hardly end with Hunt's harrowing dive into the water tank and his near drowning but with a hair-raising motorcycle chase through Moroccan hills.

Not long after, when Brandt and Stickell join Hunt and Dunn, the group learns the information they've stolen can only be accessed by the British Prime-Minister's retinal-scan, palm print and voice-recognition, which presents one more "impossible" mission they must accomplish. The contents of the stolen disc are of vital importance to The Syndicate but also to Hunt and the IMF. The data on the disc would prove the existence of the Syndicate, which Hunley and the CIA dismiss as a fiction crafted by Hunt.

Showdowns are inevitable and though we don't doubt the various outcomes, it is deliriously entertaining to watch the plot unfold.

One of the wonders of MI: Rogue Nation is Tom Cruise. How a 53-year-old man can manage the stunts and run about if he were still in his mid-thirties is mind-blowing but he does it all with dazzle. Rebecca Ferguson holds her own, engaging in intricately choreographed fight scenes without sacrificing her onscreen sex appeal.
Sean Harris makes an excellent, spy-movie villain. His whispery, raspy voice is a nice touch and his fashion sense is classic movie-bad guy couture; very impeccable and highly stylish.

I think the addition of Simon Pegg to the MI films has proven to be one of the best casting moves in the series. Pegg's natural, comedic flair compliments Cruise's tough-guy, onscreen persona. His levity also keeps the film from becoming mired in earnestness and self-seriousness.
McQuarrie demonstrates he can direct an action film; keeping its pace kinetic and action white-hot. Jack Reacher left much for he and Cruise to atone for.

I thought this might be the last Mission Impossible installment but the film and the filmmakers seemed to have avoided any conspicuous closure, which means we may see more in the future. Or will we? I guess that all depends on whether Cruise can meet the physical demands. But based on his physique, which looks as toned and muscled as everybody else's in the movie, he may be playing Ethan Hunt well into his 80s'.

MI: Rogue Nation is a treat. In a year where Liam Neeson's tough guys have put audiences to sleep and other actors have joined the CIA-trained-bad-ass bandwagon, Cruise's Ethan Hunt outclasses the amateurs by kicking tail convincingly. His character belongs on the super-spy Mt. Olympus, with Jason Bourne and 007.

At last, we have a summer thriller that actually features thrills, rather than just incoherent mayhem. I guess we'll have to wait and see if we see more of the IMF. More wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. Or at least another round.