Month: September 2013

The Man, the Myth, the Recluse: LFM Reviews Salinger

By Joe Bendel. There will be no movie adaptations of The Catcher in the Rye. The terms of J.D. Salinger’s literary trust are quite clear on that score. However, the eagerly anticipated documentary profile of Holden Caulfield’s creator might be the next closest thing, considering how legions of admirers often intimately intertwine the character with Salinger. Shane Salerno takes a remarkably even-handed look at the reclusive author and the events that shaped his life in the simply titled Salinger, which opens tomorrow in New York.

Essentially, most of what you have heard is true. Salinger did not stop writing in 1965. In conjunction with the documentary’s publicity campaign, news of five new Salinger works to be published beginning in 2015 has already been released. Yes, readers might recognize some of the characters, but there is still more to Salinger the man and the film than that.

There are two main threads to Salerno’s years-in-the-making documentary. One explores Salinger the recluse, arguing the author knowingly fueled the mystique that surrounded his withdrawal from public life. Concurrently, Salerno also documents Salinger’s life, including his formative years spent in the army during WWII. Experiencing D-Day, the liberation of Dachau, and the de-nazification campaign, Salinger saw real horrors that he never shook off.

To his credit, Salerno never seeks to defend or condemn Salinger. He simply explains. Given the context of his military experience and painful early romances, viewers can better understand how Salinger became such a figure of thorny complexity. By the same token, Salerno never excuses Salinger’s more problematic behavior, such as his history of pursuing highly impressionable and considerably younger women (girls, really), only to treat them with cool detachment once they commenced a relationship.

Despite the paucity of Salinger photos and video, Salerno constructs a fully balanced, multi-dimensional portrait of the author. He incorporates scores of talking head interviews, but most participants are heard from only briefly. However, Salinger’s former companions (or what have you) Joyce Meynard and Jean Miller have sufficient time to tell their very personal stories. Yet, perhaps the best sequences involve Salinger’s army buddies, with whom he remained on good terms throughout his life.

There are some over stylized flourishes to Salinger, but the early caper-like sequences capturing the attempts of both fans and journalists to track down the elusive writer effectively establish a mysterious mood, thereby setting the stage for the revelations to follow. Always highly watchable, Salerno’s Salinger never feels like it is trying to lead viewers to make any sort of conclusion regarding its subject. Informative and entertaining, Salinger is recommended both for fans of the author and those who appreciative a real life literary tale with a few twists. It opens tomorrow (9/6) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

LFM GRADE: B

Posted on September 5th, 2013 at 9:15pm.

LFM Reviews Adore (or Whatever It’s Titled Today)

From "Adore."

By Joe Bendel. English language Nobel laureates for literature have complicated relationship with cinema. Arguably, Steinbeck has fared the best, providing the source material for masterworks from John Ford and Elia Kazan. Ernest Hemingway films have been a radically mixed bag, including some gems and some clunkers. Faulkner films have generally been an iffy proposition. However, director Anne Fontaine and screenwriter Christopher Hampton will drastically lower the curve with their smarmy adaptation of Doris Lessing’s Two Grandmothers, now known as Adore for its New York opening this Friday.

Lessing’s original title, The Grandmothers, obviously does not sound very sexy. Hence, Fontaine’s film was known as Two Mothers at Sundance, where my colleagues in the press corps took the bullet to inform the world this was no art movie. Six months or so later, it was re-titled Adore, right up there at the top of the alphabet, presumably to be VOD friendly. No matter what it’s called, this film is sure to disappoint.

Lil’s husband never was much, so when he dies, she is able to carry-on raising her son Ian well enough on her own, with the help of her BFF Roz. Roz also has a son, Tom, and a perfectly serviceable husband, Harold, who just does not seem to be the sort of doofus she wants anymore. For most of the summer, the lads surf, while their mother booze it up on the shore, drinking up their lean frames. Eventually, Ian puts the moves on Roz and Tom follows suit with Lil.

Oh gee, how scandalous. At least, that is how the filmmakers would like us to react. Frankly, it is not worth getting worked up over. Never before has cougar-boy toy sex been so boring. In lieu of substance, we get an interminable surfeit of morning after shots, following the characters walking on the beach, staring off into the horizon. Yet, by far the gravest sin of Adore (Fontaine’s dubious English language debut) is Hampton’s ridiculous dialogue. There is no way real people would ever talk like this. However, it probably looked great on the page, eliciting all sorts of “edgy” compliments from Hampton’s screenwriter colleagues.

From "Adore."

Indeed, there is a cynical laziness to Adore that assumes it merely needs to deliver the promised quota of taboo sex for critics and viewers to be intimidated by “provocative” nature. The truth is there is no there there. The characters are paper thin and not once do their reactions ring true. Anyone who can tell Xavier Samuel’s Ian apart from James Frecheville’s Tom should win a cigar from exhibiting theaters. Naomi Watts and Robin Wright have a few nice moments together, but evidently Fontaine and Hampton believe the world already had enough films about friendships between middle aged women.

Yes, Adore addresses sexual relations, but never with any kind of intelligence or maturity. In truth, it lacks the depth and insight of an average Pia Zadora movie. Slow, smug, and shallow, Adore is an absolute waste of the talents of Fontaine (whose The Girl from Monaco is far sexier and emotionally complicated), Watts, Wright, and the normally reliable Ben Mendelsohn. Not recommended, especially for those who think it might hold guilty pleasures, Adore opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

LFM GRADE: F

Posted on September 5th, 2013 at 9:11am.

Johnny Cash & His Manager: LFM Reviews My Father and the Man in Black

By Joe Bendel. Hallmark ought to start making Manager’s Day cards. The dealings between big name entertainers and their managers are often complex. Saul Holiff was a difficult father, but he managed Johnny Cash’s career with fierce dedication, until the day he tendered his resignation. Discovering his father’s archive, Jonathan Holiff would gain tremendous insight into his father’s relationships with his legendary client as well as himself. Holiff draws upon that trove of primary sources for his documentary, My Father and the Man in Black, which opens this Friday in New York.

As a father, Saul Holiff was often dismissive and demeaning. As a result, his son’s response to his suicide was rather confused. Sometime later, his father’s storage locker came to light. There the younger Holiff would hear his father tell his story, in his own words, left for posterity on his reel-to-reel diary. A born salesman, Saul Holiff fell into promoting concerts in his native Canada. That was how he met the young and relatively unknown Johnny Cash.

Holiff was there, trying his best to cover Cash’s back during the worst of his years of drug-fueled chaos. He was also the one who brought Cash together with June Carter when Holiff recruited a female vocalist for a package tour. However, Cash’s embrace of Evangelical Christianity in the 1970’s clearly chafed Holiff on some level. Still, he did his duty, even appearing as Pontius Pilate in Cash’s Gospel Road, sort of a precursor to Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. (This could be a moving experience for those who watch it start to finish, but the clips Holiff includes suggest it ought to be playing at midnight screenings for lubricated heathens.)

While Holiff the filmmaking son obviously did not set out to burnish Cash’s image, his intimate examination of the Cash-Holiff dynamic might still interest the singer’s fans. To an extent, the doc functions as the revisionist alternative to Walk the Line, but in terms of filmmaking, it is a wildly mixed bag, featuring dubious dramatic re-enactments and far too much of Holiff fils.

Nonetheless, despite the stylistic and editorial missteps, there is an awful lot to engage with throughout My Father. Holiff addresses big picture themes – like paternal legacy, the significance of Judaism for secular Jews such as his father, and the nature of show business – with considerable time and insight.

Eventually, Holiff the filmmaker comes to general terms with Holiff the father. While it is not exactly a rosebud moment, it ends the film in a forgiving spirit. In fact, the film’s messy humanistic vibe is unexpectedly potent. As a film more for documentary watchers than music fans, it might have trouble finding a natural audience, but it has a bit of staying power. Recommended more for those concerned with its issues of family and identity than backstage revelations, My Father and the Man in Black opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

LFM GRADE: B-

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:17pm.

Alain Delon vs. The French Connection: LFM Reviews Frank Riva; Now Available on DVD

By Joe Bendel. He is a narc of Dickensian dimensions. After undercover detective Frank Riva dealt a staggering blow to the French Connection, he had to permanently disappear. Dead to the world, he retired to his own island paradise. However, he is recalled back into service to investigate a case that hits very close to home in the French television series Frank Riva, now available in a complete DVD collection from MHz Networks.

Riva was his mother’s maiden name. The not-so ex-copper adopted it while infiltrating the Loggia mafia clan and kept it during his exile. He was always very close to two fellow officers: Marc-Antoine Rezzoni and Xavier Unger. The latter is now the Chief Commissioner of Police, whereas the former has just been shot, probably fatally, while leading an off-the-books operation. Intimately aware of Rezzoni’s backstory, Riva will take over his squad to investigate the shooting. It will get complicated quickly.

Many of Riva’s former underworld associates are quite surprised to see him. So is his ex, Catherine Sinclair. She also has one for him—he’s a father. Not with her, but with one of  the Loggia family’s professional women, whom Riva became involved with as part of his cover. Essentially growing up an orphan, Nina Rizzi only had Sinclair looking out for her, as a way to feel closer to her vanished father. Unfortunately, the young woman still got mixed up with Maxime Loggia, the possessive nephew and presumptive heir of the recently deceased Loggia godfather. As one might expect, the succession within the rebounding Loggia clan turns out to be a trickier matter that will have repercussions throughout the series—as will the circumstances surrounding Sofia Rizzi’s murder.

Series writer-creator Philippe Setbon sensitively conveys a sense of lives interrupted and time lost, which differentiates Frank Riva from the field of other gangbuster shows. While this occasionally leads to the odd melodramatic excess (largely in during the second season), Setbon and series director Patrick Jamain balance the micro and macro stories relatively well. Riva is a compelling noir-ish character, precisely because he always seems to have one foot out the door.

Indeed, this is a perfect TV gig for associate producer, Alain Delon. The contrast between the older, weathered Delon and pictures of his 1960’s dashing self (circa Joy House and Le Samurai) add further poignancy. While certainly still distinguished looking, his Clint Eastwood-like power to attract much younger women seems somewhat dubious. Evidently, it is good to be the star and producer.

Regardless, Delon is appropriately steely in the lead. Riva is also notable for re-teaming him with Mireille Darc (co-star of Godard’s Le Weekend) with whom he had formerly been personally and professionally associated. After a rather overwrought introduction, her Sinclair eventually evolves in mature and convincing ways.

From "Frank Riva."

Boasting quite a cinematic cast, regular Costa-Gavras collaborator Jacques Perrin goes toe-to-toe with Delon, painfully expressing many of the series’ themes of regret and the corrupting power the past. Frankly, the series actually picks up some of its best supporting characters as it goes along, including Jimmy Esperanza, a Colombian cop assigned to Riva’s unit, played with hardboiled understatement by Eric Defosse. Géraldine Danon also lends the proceedings a striking corporate femme fatale presence as Swiss mob lawyer, Alberta Olivieri.

Setbon’s compulsive need to romantically match-up Riva’s subordinates stretches credulity, but one can understand the impulse. Whether or not it is wholly believable, Frank Riva ends with a sense of family and shared experience. Although it is a French series, it has a pronounced Italian flavor (for obvious reasons) that should widen its appeal. Regardless, it is just great to see Delon doing his thing. Yet the music might be nearly as cool. Largely consisting of variations on Julien Chirol and Pierre-Luc Jamain’s title trumpet theme composed, it has a funky but lyrical sound that could have been inspired by “Time After Time” era Miles.

Tightly focused, there are no one-off cases in Riva. Setbon usually has at least one big revelation for each episode that often drops just before the credits roll. It pulls viewers in quickly and builds steadily, making it a good candidate for holiday weekend binge viewing. Recommended for fans of Delon and double-crossing police dramas, Frank Riva is now available on DVD from MHz Networks.

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:14pm.

The End of Days in Washington Heights: LFM Reviews 36 Saints

By Joe Bendel. According to mystical Judaic teachings, the Tzadik are thirty-six righteous men with no desire to sin, whom G*d loves so much, he spares the rest of the sinful world for solely for their sake. Technically, they are not part of the Christian tradition, but Lilith is still out to get them. If her minions murder each of the thirty-six in the manner their name saints were martyred, it will bring about the victory of darkness over light. However, it seems she could use a remedial theology course for her attempt to bring on a boneheaded apocalypse in Eddy Duran’s 36 Saints, which opens this Friday in New York.

There have been some rather disturbing murders in Washington Heights. Father Esteban is bludgeoned to death in the subway around the same time young Jesus Ochoa is crucified in his parish church. It quickly becomes apparent the victims are connected to an ill-fated youth group that perished in an airline accident (quick, name the twenty-some saints who were martyred in plane crashes). Ochoa and a handful of his friends survived that day, because they chose to attend an award ceremony honoring their public service instead. A year later, Lilith is finally mopping up loose ends.

Evidently, poor Mother Theresa was just wasting her time with all that ministering to the sick rigmarole. Merely patronizing the hipster nightclubs of Washington Heights is sufficiently saintly for the survivors of Ochoa’s youth group. Two cops will try to protect the Holy Club Kids, but Joseph and Michael are distinctly passive investigators, spending most of the film drinking coffee as they wait for more bodies to be discovered.

In terms of narrative, 36 Saints is beyond messy. Its third act has the sort of logical cohesion one typically sees when faded big name stars die while filming ultra low budget movies and the producers hack together the shards of a story around the scenes they managed to complete. Particularly problematic is the manner one of Lilith’s “shocking” sleeper servants recklessly kills people in very public ways that surely would reveal his identity, yet he somehow maintains his cover. Seriously, he isn’t even using a silencer.

When it comes to theology, 36 Saints is also a train wreck. Strictly speaking, Eve is not a saint and she certainly was not martyred by eating a poisoned you-know-what. Perhaps screenwriters Jeffrey De Serrano and Joey Dedio had her confused with Snow White, who is not a saint either. Or maybe they were thinking of Eva Marie Saint, who is not a saint in the sacred sense (as least not yet), or even an “Eve,” but she made vastly better movies than 36 Saints.

Regardless, considering the breadth of the Catholic world (growing by leaps and bounds in China and Africa), it seems rather puzzling each and every saint would be hidden in Washington Heights. Talk about gentrification. This definitely constitutes a case of putting all the world’s eggs in one basket. At least stash a few in Inwood. There is no way Lilith would ever go up there—it just takes forever on the A train.

For some reason, Donna McKechnie, the original Cassie in A Chorus Line, appears in 36 as the club kids’ teacher, Ms. El (a suspiciously made-up looking name, if ever there was one), lending some presence to the otherwise drab film. It just does not seem right to call out the young cast for not bringing their empty characters to life, but that does not leave viewers much to work with. 36 probably sounds kind of cool, like the sort of religiously themed horror films Max von Sydow or Jürgen Prochnow used to turn up in, but it is a profound disappointment. Not recommended for anyone, 36 Saints opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the AMC Empire.

LFM GRADE: F

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:10pm.