Comics

On the Cheap Listings

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Listings compiled by Caitlin Donohue. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com. For further information on how to submit items for the listings, see Picks.

WEDNESDAY 15

Smack Dab open mic Magnet, 4122 18th St., SF. www.magnetsf.org. 8pm, open mic sign-up starts at 7:30pm, free. Magnet, the Castro’s neighborhood health clinic hosts this open mic for all ages and genders. Lewis DeSimone, author of Chemistry and The Heart’s History, will be the night’s featured reader but everyone is welcome to bring in up to five minutes of shareable words.

Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. www.hemlocktavern.com. 6-8pm, $10. The San Francisco debut of LA’s sexy comic showdown, this installation of CEFF brings 10 comics to the stage to share their fan fic-themed smut. Some even take audience suggestions in their creative process, so bring your dirty minds.

THURSDAY 16

Ruben Martinez The Booksmith, 1644 Haight, SF. (415) 863-8688, www.booksmith.com. 7:30pm, free. The Western plains of the United States that once were home to Native American tribes and later, roaming cowboys, are now the scene of an entirely different wild frontier. Post-colonial author Martinez reads from his time spent researching Marfa, Texas; the banks of the Rio Grande; and the Tohono O’odham reservation in his research for Desert America: Boom and Bust in the New “New West.”

“Discover the Birds of Honduras” Northbrae Community Church, 941 The Alameda, Berk. (510) 843-2222, www.northbrae.org. 7-9pm, free. The Golden Gate Audubon Society sponsors this talk by Robert Gallardo, who has opened butterfly farms and spent 12 years as a bird guide. Today, Gallardo presents some of the 750 bird species of Honduras, home to nearly 10 percent of the planet’s winged species.

Squeeze This! A Cultural History of the Accordion in America Accordion Apocalypse, 255 10th St., SF. www.accordionapocalypse.com. 7pm, free. Author Marion Jackson penned this look at our country’s relationship with the squeezebox. Should you be inspired to tickle the ivories yourself, you can buy an accordion of your own from the lecture’s gracious hosts.

San Jorocho Festival Brava Theater, 2781 24th St., SF. (415) 641-7657, www.brava.org. 8pm, $6-$35. Brava’s celebration of the Veracruz region of Mexico kicks off tonight with filmmaker Marcos Villalobos presenting his documentary on three Son Jorocho musicians. Son Siglos looks at the cross-border translation of culture – particularly pertinent to this Northern Cali look at Mexican tradition.

SATURDAY18

Street Food Festival Folsom between 20th and 26th Sts. and some other streets, SF. www.sfstreetfoodfest.com. 11am-7pm, free. Some of SF’s hautest eateries and best food entrepreneurs take to the Mission streets for this foodie heaven: hundreds of dishes for $8 and under from across the world, not to mention bars selling artisan cocktails and more.

Balboa Park grand re-opening San Jose and Sgt. Young Drive, SF. www.tpl.org. 11am-2pm, free. The Balboa Park playground has a fresh new look, and the whole neighborhood’s invited to come out and give it a swing. The Trust for Public Land and SF Rec and Parks will be hosting and providing snacks, music, and activities.

Haute Pool Show Chambers at Hotel Phoenix, 601 Eddy, SF. www.hautepoolshow.eventbrite.com. 1-8pm, $5-$15. Shop local fashion by the pool at the city’s rock ‘n’ roll pool while DJs like Omar from Popscene and Brandon Arnovick from Rondo Brothers spin. 30 independent clothesmakers will be participating – the perfect stop-off if you’re looking for weekend threads.

Tell Your Tattoo Story video shoot Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts, 2868 Mission, SF. (415) 671-0507, www.sfiaf.org. 6:30pm, free. RSVP necessary. The new play Placas (part of the SF International Arts Festival this fall) centers around street gangs and the implications of tattoo removal – but that doesn’t mean that those involved in the production are anti-ink. Sign up to show off your tats and explain their provenance. Footage will be shown as a companion piece when the play debuts.

Alamo Square Flea Market South side of Alamo Square Park, SF. www.alamosquare.org. 9am-3pm, free. Sidestep the Full House-house-seeking tour buses and search for your own vision of superlative San Francisco – the 29th year of this neighborhood-sponsored flea market will feature clothes, housewares, dogs for adoption from Rocket Dog Rescue, and much more.

Pedalfest Jack London Square, Broadway and 1st St., Oakl. www.pedalfestjacklondon.com. 11am-8pm, free. Bikes for days! Art bikes, acrobatic bikes, stunt bikes, foldable bikes, kids bikes, food for bikes – okay, maybe just food for riders, who will also enjoy live music and cavorting with their two-wheeled community. The East Bay Bike Coalition also sponsored last year’s Pedalfest, which attracted over 18,000 attendees.

SUNDAY 19

SF Mime Troupe Yerba Buena Gardens, Mission and Fourth St., SF. www.sfmt.org. 2pm, free. Check out the Bay’s historic radical theater troupe in the rolling hills of downtown’s greenest field. This year’s production is called The Last Election. Shall we reflect on a world without political monkeying about? At least electoral shenanigans birthed a spectacular community theater troupe.

Indie Mart Wisconsin between 16th and 17th Sts., SF. www.indie-mart.com. Noon-7pm, free. Because you know somebody that deserves an August handmade gifty, this regularly-occurring craft fair is coming to Potrero Hill with 100 of the city’s finest makers. Thee Parkside is included in the festivities, so grab some tots and a Bloody before you shop – pricetags will go down way easier.

 

On the Cheap Listings

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Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com. For further information on how to submit items for the listings, see Picks.

WEDNESDAY 25

Grey Panther picnic Live Oak Park, 1301 Walnut, Berk. (510) 548-9696. 1:30-3pm, free. Come hang with the older radical set at this summer fun time – music, poetry, politics welcome.

Bollywood Nights after-hours at the Conservatory of Flowers Golden Gate Park, 100 JFK Drive, SF. www.conservatoryofflowers.org. 6-10pm, $5. Non Stop Bhangra fills the humid air with Punjabi folk notes at this gorgeous greenhouse – learn how to dance bhangra with the group and grab a free cup from the Chai Cart afterwards, with a snack from the Curry Up Now food cart to boot. 

KQED free film screening Roxie Theater, 3117 16th St., SF. www.kqed.org. 8pm, free. Two stories of San Francisco take the stage in this free double feature: A Brush With the Tenderloin, the story of muralist Mona Caron’s ode to the neighborhood, and Stage Left, which looks at the San Francisco Actor’s Workshop and its effect on the city’s theater community, starting in 1952. 

THURSDAY 26

SF International Poetry Festival Various SF locations and times. www.sfipf.org. Through Sun/29. Readings with bards from around the world take place across SF this weekend – from North Beach to Civic Center Plaza, Amiri Baraka to poets from Sweden and the Phillipines. Check out a stanza or stay for a neighborhood-wide poetry crawl.

“The Berkeley You Didn’t Know” Berkeley Fellowship of Unitarian Universalists, 1924 Cedar, Berk. www.bfuu.org. 7pm, donations suggested. Three Berkeley historians – including the first black woman to serve on the town’s city council – talk about radical traditions in their city. The event is part of this year’s LaborFest (www.laborfest.net), and was organized to provide food for thought for this era’s activists. 

FRIDAY 27

Gilroy Garlic Festival Christmas Hill Park, Gilroy. www.gilroygarlicfestival.com. Also Sat/28 and Sun/29. 10am-7pm, $17 one-day admission. Whoever the genius was that snagged the breath mint sponsor of this year’s garlic cook-off: clap, clap. Come for the entertainment (rockabilly to mandolin), stay for the pageant (Miss Gilroy Garlic!), eat garlic-graced snacks from icecream to salmon throughout the day. 

“The Culture of Beer” San Francisco Art Institute, 800 Chestnut, SF. (415) 437-1357, www.sfai.edu. 3-9pm, free with pre-registration. Hans Winkler turns the SFAI campus into a beer garden, complete with suds-themed readings, hard-to-find German pints, and originally-designed coasters.

SATURDAY 28

Ohlone basket ceremony Oakland Museum of California, 1000 Oak, SF. www.museumca.org. 1-3pm, free museum admission. Myriad are the issues involved in exhibiting Native Peoples’ crafts, which oftentimes were never meant to live in a sterile museum environment. That’s what makes this ceremony welcoming Ohlone scholar Linda Yamane’s specially-commissioned basket to the museum – it was made to be here. In honor of the 20,000-stitch, 1,200-bead work, the whole family’s invited for storytelling circles, and performances.  

Graffiti panel discussion and BBQ 941 Geary, SF. www.941geary.com 2-5pm, free. Local graf artist Apex and the president of aerosol spray can company Montana Colors are among those on this panel looking at graffiti and the environment. Before the chat, get loose with BBQ and beer sponsor Trumer Pils. 

Beer Olympics Impala, 501 Broadway, SF. Celebrate the opening of the London 2012 Olympics at Impala’s Beer Olympics. Come wearing a unitard of your choosing – triple “country shots” will be available for the flag of your elected homeland, a perfect warmup for the beer pong, flip cup, and relays that will take place throughout the evening. 

“Hotter Than July” bellydance extravaganza La Peña Cultural Center, 3105 Shattuck, Berk. www.lapena.org. 1pm, $10-$25 suggested donation. Undulate your way through Saturday at this showcase of Bay belly beauties. The cost of your admission goes to supporting Girls Raks Bellydance, a program that improves young girls’ body image through lessons in a judgement-free dance form.

World Naked Bike Ride Justin Herman Plaza, SF. www.worldnakedbikeride.org. 11am, free. Protest global oil dependency by cycling in the buff through town – you’ll be joined by eco-nudes all over the world at the concurrent events in other cities. 

Berkeley Kite Festival Cesar E. Chavez Park, 11 Spinnaker Way, Berk. (510) 235-5483, www.berkeleykitefestival.com. Also Sun/29. 10am-6pm, free. A Japanese kite team, ginormous animal flyers, and ample opportunities to make your own creation take center stage at the 27th year of this festival. Soar in for kites, snacks, and a bouncy house for the kiddos. 

“No Straight Lines: Four Decades of Queer Comics” Pegasus Book, 2349 Shattuck, Berk. (510) 649-1320, www.pegasusbookstore.com. 7:30pm, free. Justin Hall visually presents the new compilation he edited of LGBT cartoons going back four decades. The book includes Dan Savage’s early work, not to mention Alison Bechdel, Howard Cruse, and Ralf Konig. 

SUNDAY 29

Up Your Alley Dore Alley between Howard and Folsom, SF. www.folsomstreetfair.com/alley. 11am-6pm, $7 suggested donation. Each year before the world descends on San Francisco for the leather mania of Folsom Street Fair, Up Your Alley takes place for a slightly more local, intimate, kink street fair. The Folsom-Dore production company donates thousands of dollars each year to small nonprofits, so feel real good about being real bad here. 

MONDAY 30

A Million Heavens McSweeney’s book launch party Amnesia, 853 Valencia, SF. www.amnesiathebar.net. 6:30-8:30pm, free. A piano savant in a coma, a wolf on the porowl, a motley vigil in the New Mexico winter. Learn more about the plot of – and raise a glass in this tiny, soju cocktail-endowed Mission venue — John Brandon’s latest novel at this release party. 

TUESDAY 31

Stories in the Sand: Sunset District 1847-1964 reading St. Philip’s Catholic Church, 725 Diamond, SF. 7pm, $5. Author Lorri Ungaretti reads from her new book on the early to mid-20th century pioneers who settled the sand dunes of the Sunset. The event is free for members of the SF History Association, which is hosting the event. 

Like an Eric Andre in a china shop

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What’s to be anticipated when Adult Swim’s most degenerate program hits the road? On Monday night, a sold-out crowd filled the Rickshaw Stop, ready for just about anything short of a Mitt Romney endorsement.

A love letter to the Reddit-surfing, bong-ripping, Flying Lotus-bumping demographic, The Eric Andre Show stampedes through its weekly, 15-minute time-slot with reckless abandon and utter perversity, hanging onto its “talk-show” descriptor by a single Funyun. If Pete & Pete, Hype Williams, and Gary Busey invested in a sleazy public-access channel, transmitted from the bowels of Suave Ben’s house in Blue Velvet, The Eric Andre Show would be its flagship broadcast.


MF Doom’s Special Herbs played over the soundsystem as the doors opened, aptly reflecting the intoxicated, Bohemian crowd shuffling in. The show kicked off with three stand-up routines, starting with co-host and Andre-sidekick Hannibal Buress, followed by local comics Stroy Moyd and Chris Garcia.

Buress was by far the funniest, transitioning from scrambled eggs to Eddie Griffin without the slightest thread of contrivance. Moyd’s set, while mostly successful, was hindered by a sense of forced confrontation, while Garcia uncannily recalled every schtick-dependent, guitar-equipped comedian you’ve ever seen on Comedy Central at 1am.

After a short break, Andre stormed the stage impolitely and unapologetically, ketchup and mustard bottles in hand, dousing the feverish crowd in red and yellow corn-syrup sludge, with GWAR-like contempt for social etiquette. After plopping down behind his big-kahuna desk, Andre invited Buress on stage, trading quips like Letterman and Paul Shaffer all fucked up on Ween’s Scotchgard.

Despite its chaotic pretense, the show barreled forward with an astute sense of rhythm and timing, flipping between stand-up bits, video clips, live music from the delightfully inept house band, and fake celebrity appearances, in a fast-paced spectacle, tailor-made for the goldfish-like attention spans of Adult Swim’s viewership.

The audience was treated to guest appearances from Tatyana Ali (Will Smith’s little cousin from Fresh Prince, remember?) and a very fake Russell Brand. Counterfeit TV commercials were shown, the most memorable of which involved Andre, dressed as Ronald McDonald, slamming whiskey and sobbing uncontrollably. In the most gut-bustingly hilarious moment of the night, a clown of the childrens’-parties variety took the stage, fashioning balloon animals with Seal’s “Kiss From a Rose” playing seductively in the background.

After the unrestrained, brain-frying energy of Andre’s set, acclaimed Oakland hip-hop duo Main Attrakionz cooled things down beautifully with their balance between rugged, hard-boiled lyricism and luminous, electronic soundscapes. Taking the stage with great authority, Squadda B and Mondre delivered a steadily compelling set that, at a short-and-sweet 30 minutes, never overstayed its welcome.

Sauntering back onto Fell Street, with mustard-caked belongings, the audience was visibly gratified, and for good reason. Given the scarcity of live events that merge stand-up comedy, live hip-hop, and whatever the hell Eric Andre does, Monday night’s show was as satisfyingly complete as it was totally unpredictable.

The good old days in Rock Rapids, Iowa, the Fourth of July, 1940-1953

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(Note: In July of 1972, when the Guardian was short a Fourth of July story, I sat down and cranked out this one for the front page on my trusty Royal Typewriter. I now reprint it each year on the Bruce blog, with some San Francisco updates and postscripts.)

Back where I come from, a small town beneath a tall standpipe in northwestern Iowa, the Fourth of July was the best day of a long, hot summer.

The Fourth came after YMCA camp and Scout camp and church camp, but before the older boys had to worry about getting into shape for football. It was welcome relief from the scalding, 100-degree heat in a town without a swimming pool and whose swimming holes at Scout Island were usually dried up by early July. But best of all, it had the kind of excitement that began building weeks in advance.

The calm of the summer dawn and the cooing of the mourning doves on the telephone wires would be broken early on July Fourth: The Creglow boys would be up by 7 a.m. and out on the lawn shooting off their arsenal of firecrackers. They were older and had somehow sent their agents by car across the state line and into South Dakota where, not far above the highway curves of Larchwood, you could legally buy fireworks at roadside stands.

Ted Fisch, Jim Ramsey, Wiener Winters, the Cook boys, Hermie Casjens, Jerry Prahl, Elmer Menage, and the rest of the neighborhood gang would race out of  their houses to catch the action. Some had cajoled firecrackers from their parents or bartered from the older boys in the neighborhood: some torpedoes (the kind you smashed against the sidewalk); lots of 2 and 3-inchers, occasionally the granddaddy of them all, the cherry bomb (the really explosive firecracker, stubby, cherry red, with a wick sticking up menacingly from its middle; the kind of firecracker you’d gladly trade away your best set of Submariner comics for).

Ah, the cherry bomb. It was a microcosm of excitement and mischief and good fun. Bob Creglow, the most resourceful of the Creglow boys, would take a cherry bomb, set it beneath a tin can on a porch, light the fuse, then head for the lilac bushes behind the barn.

“The trick,” he would say, imparting wisdom of the highest order, “is to place the can on a wood porch with a wood roof. Then it will hit the top of the porch, bang, then the bottom of the porch, bang. That’s how you get the biggest clatter.”

So I trudged off to the Linkenheil house, the nearest front porch suitable for cherry bombing, to try my hand at small-town demolition. Bang went the firecracker. Bang went the can on the roof. Bang went the can on the floor. Bang went the screen door as Karl Linkenheil roared out in a sweat, and I lit out for the lilacs behind the barn with my dog, Oscar.

It was glorious stuff – not to be outdone for years, I found out later, until the Halloween eve in high school when Dave Dietz, Ted Fisch, Ken Roach, Bob Babl, and rest of the Hermie Casjens gang and I made the big time and twice pushed a boxcar loaded with lumber across Main Street and blocked it for hours. But that’s another story for my coming Halloween blog.

Shooting off fireworks was, of course, illegal in Rock Rapids, but Chief of Police Del Woodburn and later Elmer “Shinny” Sheneberger used to lay low on the Fourth. I don’t recall ever seeing them about in our neighborhood and I don’t think they ever arrested anybody, although each year the Rock Rapids Reporter would carry vague warnings about everybody cooperating to have “a safe and sane Fourth of July.”

Perhaps it was just too dangerous for them to start making firecracker arrests on the Fourth – on the same principle, I guess, that it was dangerous to do too much about the swashbuckling on Halloween or start running down dogs without leashes (Mayor Earl Fisher used to run on the platform that, as long as he was in office, no dog in town would have to be leashed. The neighborhood consensus was that Fisher’s dog, a big, boisterous boxer, was one of the few that ought to be leashed).

We handled the cherry bombs and other fireworks in our possession with extreme care and cultivation; I can’t remember a single mishap. Yet, even then, the handwriting was on the wall. There was talk of cutting off the fireworks supply in South Dakota because it was dangerous for young boys. Pretty soon, they did cut off the cherry bomb traffic and about all that was left, when I came back from college and the Roger boys had replaced the Creglow boys next door, was little stuff appropriately called ladyfingers.

Fireworks are dangerous, our parents would say, and each year they would dust off the old chestnut about the drugstore in Spencer that had a big stock of fireworks and they caught fire one night and much of the downtown went up in a spectacular shower of roman candles and sparkling fountains.

The story was hard to pin down, and seemed to get more gruesome every year – but, we were told, this was why Iowa banned fireworks years before, why they were so dangerous and why little boys shouldn’t be setting them off. The story, of course, never made quite the intended impression; we just wished we’d been on the scene My grandfather was the town druggist (Brugmann’s Drugstore, “Where drugs and gold are fairly sold, since 1902″) and he said he knew the Spencer druggist personally. Fireworks put him out of business and into the poorhouse, he’d say, and walk away shaking his head.

In any event, firecrackers weren’t much of an issue past noon – the Fourth celebration at the fairgrounds was getting underway and there was too much else to do. Appropriately, the celebration was sponsored by the Rex Strait post of the American Legion (Strait, so the story went, was the first boy from Rock Rapids to die on foreign soil during World War I); the legionnaires were a bunch of good guys from the cleaners and the feed store and the bank who sponsored the American Legion baseball team each summer.

There was always a big carnival, with a ferris wheel somewhere in the center for the kids, a bingo stand for the elders, a booth where the ladies from the Methodist Church sold homemade baked goods, sometimes a hootchy dancer or two, and a couple of dank watering holes beneath the grandstand where the VFW and the Legion sold Grainbelt and Hamms at 30¢ a bottle to anybody who looked of age.

Later on, when the farmboys came in from George and Alvord, there was lots of pushing and shoving, and a fist fight or two.

In front of the grandstand, out in the dust and the sun, would come a succession of shows that made the summer rounds of the little towns. One year it would be Joey Chitwood and his daredevil drivers. (The announcer always fascinated me: “Here he comes, folks, rounding the far turn…he is doing a great job out there tonight…let’s give him a big, big hand as he pulls up in front on the grandstand…”)

Another year it would be harness racing and Mr. Hardy, our local trainer from Doon, would be in his moment of glory. Another year it was tag team wrestling and a couple of barrel-chested goons from Omaha, playing the mean heavies and rabbit-punching their opponents from the back, would provoke roars of disgust from the grandstand. ( The biggest barrel-chest would lean back on the ropes, looking menacingly at the crowd and yell, “ Aw, you dumb farmers. What the hell do you know anyway? I can beat the hell out of any of you.”   And the crowd  would roar back in glee.)

One year, Cedric Adams, the Herb Caen of Minneapolis and the Star-Tribune, would tour the provinces as the emcee of a variety show. “It’s great to be in Rock Rapids,” he would say expansively, “because it’s always been known as the ‘Gateway to Magnolia.” (Magnolia, he didn’t need to say, was a little town just over the state line in Minnesota which was known throughout the territory for its liquor-by-the-drink roadhouses. It was also Cedric Adams’ hometown: his “Sackamenna.”) Adams kissed each girl (soundly) who came on the platform to perform and, at the end, hushed the crowd for his radio broadcast to the big city “direct from the stage of the Lyon County Fairgrounds in Rock Rapids, Iowa.”

For a couple of years, when Rock Rapids had a “town team,” and a couple of imported left-handed pitchers named Peewee Wenger and Karl Kletschke, we would have some rousing baseball games with the best semi-pro team around, Larchwood and its gang of Snyder brothers: Barney the eldest at shortstop, Jimmy the youngest at third base, John in center field, Paul in left field, another Snyder behind the plate and a couple on the bench. They were as tough as they came in Iowa baseball.

I can remember it as if it were yesterday at Candlestick, the 1948 game with the Snyders of Larchwood. Peewee Wenger, a gawky, 17-year-old kid right off a high school team, was pitching for Rock Rapids and holding down the Snyder artillery in splendid fashion. Inning after inning he went on, nursing a small lead, mastering one tough Larchwood batter after another, with a blistering fastball and a curve that sliced wickedly into the bat handles of the right-handed Larchwood line-up.

Then the cagey Barney Snyder laid a slow bunt down the third base line. Wenger stumbled, lurched, almost fell getting to the ball, then toppled off balance again, stood helplessly holding the ball. He couldn’t make the throw to first. Barney was safe, cocky and firing insults like machine gun bullets at Peewee from first base.

Peewee, visibly shaken, went back to the mound. He pitched, the next Larchwood batter bunted, this time down the first base line. Peewee lurched for the ball, but couldn’t come up with it. A couple more bunts, a shot through the pitcher’s mound, more bunts and Peewee was out. He could pitch, but, alas, he was too clumsy to field. In came Bill Jammer, now in his late 30’s, but in his day the man who beat the University of Iowa while pitching at a small college called Simpson.

Now he was pitching on guts and beer, a combination good enough for many teams and on good days even to take on the Snyders. Jammer did well for a couple of innings, then he let two men on base, then came a close call at the plate. Jammer got mad. Both teams were off the bench and onto the field and, as Fred Roach wrote in the Rock Rapids Reporter, “fisticuffs erupted at home plate.” When the dust cleared, Jammer has a broken jaw, and for the next two weeks had to drink his soup through a straw at the Joy Lunch. John Snyder, it was said later, came all the way in from center field to throw the punch, but nobody knew for sure and he stayed in the game. I can’t remember the score or who won the game, but I remember it as the best Fourth ever.

At dusk, the people moved out on their porches or put up folding chairs on the lawn. Those who didn’t have a good view drove out to the New Addition or parked out near Mark Curtis’ place or along the river roads that snaked out to the five-mile bridge and Virgil Hasche’s place.

A hush came over the town. Fireflies started flickering in the river bottom and, along about 8:30, the first puff of smoke rose above the fairgrounds and an aerial bomb whistled into the heavens. BOOM! And the town shook as if hit by a clap of thunder.

Then the three-tiered sky bombs – pink, yellow, white, puff, puff, puff. The Niagara Falls and a gush of white sparks.

Then, in sudden fury, a dazzling display of sizzling comets and aerial bombs and star clusters that arched high, hung for a full breath and descended in a cascade of sparks that floated harmlessly over the meadows and cornfields. At the end, the flag – red, white and blue – would burst forth on the ground as the All-American finale in the darkest of the dark summer nights. On cue, the cheers rolled out from the grandstand and the cars honked from the high ground and the people trundled up their lawn chairs and everybody headed for home.

Well, I live in San Francisco now, and I drive to Daly City with my son, Danny, to buy some anemic stuff in gaudy yellow and blue wrapping and I try unsuccessfully each year to get through the fog or the traffic to see the fireworks at Candlestick. But I feel better knowing that, back where I come from, everybody in town will be on their porches and on the backroads on the evening of the Fourth to watch the fireworks and that, somewhere in town, a little boy will put a big firecracker under a tin can on a wood porch, then light out for the lilacs behind the barn.

P.S. Our family moved in l965 from Daly City to a house in the West Portal area of San Francisco. There are, I assure you, few visible fireworks in that neighborhood. However, down at the bottom of Potrero Hill, the professional and amateur action is spectacular.

 From any Potrero Hill height, you can see the fireworks in several directions: the waterfront fireworks in the city, fireworks on the Marin side of the Golden Gate bridge, fireworks at several points in the East Bay, fireworks along the Peninsula coast line.

And for the amateur action, parents with kids, kids of all ages, spectators in cars and on foot, congregate after dusk along Terry Francois Boulevard in San Francisco along the shoreline between the Giants ballpark and Kellys Mission Rock restaurant.

The action is informal but fiery, fast,  and furious: cherry bombs, clusters, spinning wheels, high flying arcs, whizzers of all shapes and sizes. The cops are quite civilized and patrol the perimeter but don’t bother anybody. I go every year. I think it’s the best show in town. B3.

Art breakthroughs and country music with Sonny Smith

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Sonny Smith’s dedicated yet freewhelin’ attitude towards life and art have brought him to his ninth record release this week, Longtime Companion (Polyvinyl Records), with his band the Sonny & the Sunsets. Yes, amid traveling to Central America, undertaking the sprawling “100 Records” art project, writing and performing monologues, and providing scripts for theater and film, Smith found the time to record yet another album.

A longtime San Francisco music scene fixture, Smith is now giving the North Bay a try, specifically San Rafael, with his 8-year-old son. That said, Smith is nowhere near slowing down on his prolific cycle of creativity. His new record has a diverse, country edge. The title track from Longtime Companion features enough flute-work to feel reminiscent of Nick Drake, while the track “Year of the Cock” has a straight-up Johnny Cash vibe.

I spoke to Smith over the phone about his album release, songs as comics, and how having a family has changed his outlook as an artist. Sonny & the Sunsets play Amoeba Music San Francisco tonight:

SFBG How did your time in Central America affect your songwriting and creative influences?

Sonny Smith It was the first time I had my own breakthrough. I wrote a screenplay. I was sitting around playing guitar, trying out songs, and the screenplays became songs. I began writing songs that were linear stories with characters and plots and that stuck with me for years – it started there.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WV70ZV0bX1w

SFBG I read in an interview that after your “100 Records” project ended, you were interested in undertaking another huge project called “Record Plant” – are you still planning to get back to that?

SS Yes I have been thinking about that but it’s morphed into a project called “Protest Factory.” People would come make protest signs, like posters, and musicians would make songs to go with the signs. I would like the poster-making to be open to the public, not just artist friends such as musicians.

SFBG Do you visualize your songs in images, like the record covers musicians made for your project? Or is storytelling your main focus?

SS They go together: sometimes I draw comic panels first for a song idea, like a storyboard. It is like making a little mini movie, I draw it out and fit it all together. Sometimes in the end I discover it’s actually not a song, it’s a visual thing. It is a strange, weird process.

SFBG Did the recording process of the new album feel like a breeze compared to the “100 Records” project?

SS It was very casual, with a couple of friends, when we had time. Actually the “100 Records” project was pretty spread out, so it was fairly casual as well. This time around it was definitely beer cans and afternoons, no uptight studios and all that shit.

SFBG Do you make a point of creating theme albums or does a vibe just strike you as you write?

SS It’s organic. I don’t set out to make a themed record, but songs do come in groupings. It’s natural that you write a few songs and they all share a kind of theme. After around five or six songs, you start to see what it is, and that can inform the rest of the record a little bit.

I didn’t set out to make a country record, but since three or four country songs came out, once I had enough, I said ‘Oh yeah, this is definitely a country record.’ Then I decided to work on more country songs because then I knew I had a record. It was not preconceived – it’s midway through that you start to notice a theme.

SFBG How do you decide what will become a script, and what will become a song?

SS You embark on something, and at some point it reveals itself as what it really is and should be – a lot of things change midstream. For example, recently I started out trying to make a novel, and then I realized it just wasn’t meant to be a book; at some point I couldn’t force it, I could see that is what it is.

I did a play-monologue type thing this year. At first it began as comic books, but at some point I realized it was more of a monologue. I try not to deny it too much, and instead let it be what wants to be. My work does change a lot – if a song does not work for whatever reason, for example, then often I realize it is meant to be a poem. On the other hand, if a poem does not translate into a song, then I let it be what it is.

SFBG How did you end up working with Miranda July?

SS I met her when she was making her first movie [Me, You and Everyone We Know] and she read this cool story over music for a project I was working on. We only worked together for an afternoon and sent a few emails back and forth. You can’t really say you know someone or that it was much of an experience from that amount of interaction – well except we did go to Africa together for a brief love affair. [laughs]

SFBG Any other artists you’d love to work with?

SS One person I was thinking of recently is basically an intangible goal: when I was watching Moonrise Kingdom I was thinking that if I met Wes Anderson, I would see if he wanted to make a sci-fi movie with me. It’s unlikely, but you never know!

SFBG What is one really memorable moment of inspiration or just something that really stands out over your career so far?

SS There are great moments where you feel like you have broken through something – a personal breakthrough, where you did something you had in mind. If I happen to be with other people when that happens, it is exciting. When I was in Central America it was a pivotal moment where I said ‘What is being made here? This is really cool!’

The “100 Records” project came about because the visual artists – that ended up making the record covers –  were making covers that were going to be sketches inside a book. Then the art eclipsed the book idea. It was scary, I thought ‘Oh man, I have to do this?!’ Exciting too. I think it’s good to get in over your head, so you have to hike out, as long as it’s not too hard.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTxChvAp47U

SFBG Do you have a particular place where you’ve enjoyed performing most out of all your travels thus far?

SS
The Make-Out Room feels like home. [Also,] we have played at a grocery store in Portland, right next to the broccoli. There was no sound system or stage, I just know the manager and we enjoyed playing there.

SFBG What made you choose San Francisco as your home base, and what’s your take on the current Bay Area music scene?

SS I was born here and left for a while – but when I came back, it was more like coming home. I don’t know if I would be staying for as long if it wasn’t for my 8-year-old girl. I try not to think about it too much. It’s an exciting music scene – but I think it has always been exciting and always will be, some years it just gets more attention than others.

SFBG
How has having a family changed your approach to making art?

SS In the earlier years before they go to school, you have to exploit the little bit of time you have to yourself. It can help in a way, because once you have obstacles it actually makes your brain synapses work – you create solutions. If I was rich and lived in some pad and could sleep in until noon every day and lounge around a pool, that would not be conducive to being creative. Maybe that’s why often when people make that much money, they’re not as creative anymore. You need a balance. Kids are creative and much more free, so if you let that rub off on you at all then you’ll be effective.

Sonny & the Sunsets
Fri/29, 6pm, free
Amoeba Music SF
1855 Haight St.
(415) 831-1200
www.amoeba.com

Our Weekly Picks: May 9-15, 2012

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WEDNESDAY 9

Lotus Plaza

Lotus Plaza soaks innocent, introspective lyrics in bright, ambient noise. Its sound is somewhat of an Animal Collective meets Real Estate phenomenon, as repetition, staccato, washed out haze, and subtle, ’60s-inspired surfy guitar riffs predominate. Lotus Plaza — the solo project of Deerhunter’s guitarist Lockett Pundt — released its sophomore LP, Spooky Action at a Distance, early last month. You’ll get lost in this album’s consuming drone and echoing vocals, which focus on escape, living with yourself, and the future. Pundt has cited influences ranging from Stereolab to My Bloody Valentine to Gary Numan, so listen up! (Mia Sullivan)

With Wymond Miles, Mirror Mode

7:30pm, $12

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com

 

THURSDAY 10

“Plantosaurus Rex: Prehistoric Plants at the Conservatory of Flowers”

If you thought exotic nature sightings in Golden Gate Park were limited to bison, swans, and the occasional coyote, it’s time to put on your Jeff Goldblum sunglasses and stroll over to the Conservatory of Flowers. Not only does “Plantosaurus Rex,” which opens today, host life-sized model dinosaurs — including a baby Stegosaurus chillin’ in the foliage, and a toothy Tyrannosaurus poking its head through the Conservatory roof — it also features an evolutionary journey through prehistoric plant life, some of which might look familiar (if oddly-proportioned): huge ferns, giant seed pods, etc. Good fun for pint-sized budding paleontologists and full-grown botany nerds alike. (Cheryl Eddy)

Through Oct. 21

Tue-Sun, 10am-4pm, free–$7

Conservatory of Flowers

100 John F. Kennedy, Golden Gate Park, SF

www.conservatoryofflowers.org

 

 

“Barbary Coast and Beyond”

You hear “Gold Rush” and a stream of shimmering images pan across your mind’s eye; you hear “Barbary Coast” and the raucous calls of drunken sailors and ladies of the night fill your mental ear. But what of the actual music of this period, when Caruso was carousing the City by the Bay and tinny saloon pianos were banging out civic-pride singalongs like “California, Here I Come” and “Hello, Frisco, Hello”? The SF Symphony is hopping into the sepia-toned wayback machine to bring to life the astonishingly fertile local musical milieu of the period from the Gold Rush to the Panama-Pacific Exhibition, full of tunes brought to SF by famous old-time performers like Ole Bull and Luisa Tetrazzini. The journey is narrated by beloved Beach Blanket Babylon emeritus Val Diamond. (Marke B.)

Also Fri/11 and Sat/12. 8pm, $35–$140

Davies Symphony Hall

201 Van Ness, SF

(415) 864-6000

www.sfsymphony.org

 

Dead Milkmen

With its humorous and unorthodox take on punk rock back when hardcore was the norm, The Dead Milkmen set itself apart in the scene when it first formed in Philadelphia in 1983, gradually earning a following with fan-favorite tunes such as “Bitchin’ Camaro,” “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies,” and what would become its biggest mainstream success, “Punk Rock Girl.” After a 13-year break up and the passing of original bassist Dave Schulthise, the band reunited in 2008, and released The King In Yellow last year, bringing back its joyously clever songs and sound for fans to dance around and sing-along with like the old days. (Sean McCourt)

With Terry Malts

9pm, $23

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255-0333

www.slimspresents.com

 

FRIDAY 11

“The Last Drive-In Presents: 16mm Movie Night”

Benefiting Lost Weekend’s Cinecave, this event was set up by a couple of former rep house projectionists, screening so-bad-they’re-good (to mock) 16mm movies complete with classic trailers and snack bar reels to recreate the drive-in experience. (Without, I guess, the car and the crappy metal speakers to hang on the window.) The UK sci-fi double for the night includes The Crawling Eye (1958), which has been described as a surprisingly good picture…until the appearance of the remarkably bad feature creature, and the illogically titled, They Came from Beyond Space (1967). (Ryan Prendiville)

7pm, $5–$10 suggested donation Alley Cat Books 3036 24th St., SF (415) 824-1761

Facebook: AlleyCatBooks

 

Black Moth Super Rainbow

The mysterious TOBACCO flings heavy, analog-laden funk tracks that spark parties and haunt listeners in their dreams. But the progenitor of modern psychedelic-pop brings sunniness (slightly) as the lead of Black Moth Super Rainbow. Compared to TOBACCO’s dark and stormy skies, BMSR is a tehnicolor-saturated spring day. Listeners float in fuzzy synths, retro distortions, and vocoded TOBACCO vocals, while a current of punchy beats carries them along. TOBACCO scrapped a BMSR album slated for release in 2011, but fans should be excited that a new album is in the works. (Kevin Lee)

With Lumerians, Gramatik, Flako, Zackey Force Funk, Mophone, Annalove, DJ Dials, DJ Sodapop

10pm, $20

103 Harriet, SF

(415) 932-0955

www.1015.com

 

Savoy

This Boulder, Colo.-based “electro dubstep rock” trio remixes hits from the likes of Chromeo, Dire Straights, and the Beastie Boys with synthesizers and a drum kit. The result is a palpable wall of bass-heavy, dance-your-ass-off-worthy electronic sound. DJs Ben Eberdt and Gray Smith and drummer Mike Kelly have been going at it since their undergrad days at the University of Colorado. Savoy’s influences range from French house music to Phish, and the group has made inroads in the festival scene this year. (It played SXSW and is on the bill for Wakarusa.) Expect a dizzying light show, a high-energy dance party, and ecstasy in all of its forms. (Sullivan)

With Redeye, Robot.Mafia, Cutterz

9pm $16

Great American Music Hall

859 O’Farrell, SF

(415) 885-0750

www.slimspresents.com

 

SATURDAY 12

Cyro Baptista

Cyro Baptista’s collaboration list reads like a very compelling who’s who in the music industry — Herbie Hancock, Yo-Yo Ma, Serge Gainsbourg, Paul Simon, and John Zorn are among the greats who have worked with the Brazilian composer and percussionist. Born and raised in São Paulo, Baptista floats between jazz and world music. His eye-catching Beat the Donkey project was a multicultural percussion and dance show, featuring Baptista banging on some PVC pipe and buckets. New project Banquet of the Spirits, featuring bassist Shani Blumenkrantz and fingerstyle guitarist Tim Sparks, explores some of Zorn’s previous work dedicated to the Jewish Diaspora, with twists of Brazilian and Middle Eastern styles. (Lee)

With Tim Sparks and Shanir Blumenkrantz

8pm, $25

Swedish American Hall

2174 Market, SF

(415) 861-5016

www.sfjazz.org

 

Eskmo

Local producer Brendan Angelides creates electronica that somehow manages to sound both tightly produced and expansive at the same time. The easy but fair comparison is to Ninja Tune labelmate Amon Tobin, and the two have collaborated under the guise Eskamon on Angelides’ own Ancestor record label. Many electronic listeners will know Angelides through his alias Eskmo and his multi-layered post-hip hop on 2010’s Eskmo EP, but new work under the moniker Welder is just as provocative. On last fall’s Florescence, classical strings and pianos intertwined with Angelides’ intricate beat production, like a symphony embarking on a mellow jazz jam session. (Lee)

With Love & Light, DJ Dials, U9Lift

9pm, $15

Mezzanine

444 Jessie, SF

(415) 625-8880

www.mezzaninesf.com

 

SUNDAY 13

How Weird Street Faire

How do you know the summer festival season has truly sprung? Follow the breakdancing purple fuzzy dude through the rabbithole of deepest SoMa, choose the third key (probably) and enter a musical and artistic wonderland where the spirit number is 13 — not the unlucky 13, the brilliantly Bizarro 13 signifying 13 writhing blocks of neon freakiness and 13 stages pumping ravey local sounds. This is also the thirteenth How Weird Faire (on May 13!), celebrating 13 moons with the costume theme “Time,” which may or may not have something to do with galactic tones or Mayan glyphs, but definitely with “good times” in general. Jam out to the likes of the Sunset, Forward, Pink Mammoth, and tons of other DJ crews, peruse many Vendors from Beyond the Cosmic Edge, and revel in our delightful homegrown insanity. (Marke B.)

Noon-8pm, $10 donation requested

Howard and Second Street, SF

www.howweird.org

 

MONDAY 14

Herman Dune

Fans of Jonathan Richman, David Berman, Stephin Merritt, or anyone else who expertly blurs the line between twee earnestness and winking sarcasm will find plenty to love about Herman Dune. Recently boiled down to its core as a two-piece, the Parisian group is touring in support of 2011’s Strange Moosic, its latest batch of quirky anti-folk and bouncy indie-pop. Nearly every song in the band’s now impressively deep catalogue contains at least one endearing or sly lyrical gem courtesy of lead singer David-Ivar Herman Dune’s charming vocal delivery. Check out single “Tell Me Something I Don’t Know” and its Jon Hamm-starring music video to get a sense of the feel-good world the duo creates. (Landon Moblad)

With the Sam Chase, DJ Britt Govea

8pm, $14

Independent

628 Divisadero, SF

(415) 771-1421

www.theindependentsf.com

 

TUESDAY 15

“Celebrating 35 Years of Star Wars Comic Books: An Evening with Howard Chaykin and Steve Leialoha”

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away… more specifically 1977 New York, representatives from LucasFilm contacted Marvel Comics about creating an adaptation of their upcoming sci-fi flick Star Wars, which of course, went on to be one of the most successful film franchises of all time, but also a beloved and long-running comic title. Artists Howard Chaykin and Steve Leialoha, who worked on those early issues, will be on hand tonight for a 35th anniversary celebration of all things Sith and Jedi in the comic realm, along with a discussion and presentation about their work hosted by comedians Michael Capozzola and Joe Klocek. (McCourt)

7-9pm, $7

Cartoon Art Museum

655 Mission, SF

(415) CAR-TOON

www.cartoonart.org

 

Ana Tijoux

When the title track from Chilean rapper Ana Tijoux’s 1977 played over a montage of perpetual fuckup Jesse Pinkman riding shotgun with Mike the Cleaner on the latest season of AMC’s Breaking Bad, it was the type of moment that TiVo was made for, or maybe just sent viewers to their phones, trying to figure out who was responsible for that particularly cinematic song. Tijoux — who was born in France during Pinochet’s reign — has an infectiously cool flow and a conscious, no bullshit attitude that comes across in any language. Both political and personal Tijoux now returns with the album La Bala featuring “Shock,” a response to the recent student movements in Chile. (Prendiville)

With Los Rakas, Raw G

8pm, $15

Independent

628 Divisadero, SF

(415) 771-1421

www.theindependentsf.com

 

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Cartoonist confidential

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VISUAL ART Daniel Clowes draws eyes that are eerily human. Dotting the pages of his well-regarded graphic novels, they are by turns embittered, despairing, and vulnerable. So it’s fitting that the Clowes’ first major retrospective is at the Oakland Museum of California. Oakland is an underdog city, and Clowes — a longtime resident — champions underdogs.

After its Bay Area run, the exhibition will go on to major cities in the U.S. and Europe. It spans his career to date, with panels from Ghost World and Wilson, as well as work for the New York Times and the New Yorker. A book, The Art of Daniel Clowes: Modern Cartoonist, was recently published in conjunction with the show, and is already in reprint.

I recently spoke with Clowes about the dream-like experience of seeing his subconscious from 20 feet away.

San Francisco Bay Guardian Comic book art goes through cycles of popularity. Where do you think we’re at right now?

Daniel Clowes It’s always like I’m at the eye of the hurricane. I can’t see what the zeitgeist is in terms of how comics are being taken by the public, you know? The feeling that people are going to inherently dismiss comics because they’re comics seems to be evaporating. People who 20 years ago would have nothing but disdain or horror if you told them that you drew comics are now sort of interested and see that as a viable means of expression. But I can’t tell if we’re in a bubble and it’s all going to disappear, or if it’s just going to get bigger.

SFBG Do you experience your own art differently at the museum?

DC I never see my artwork from a distance. The farthest I can get from my artwork in my studio is like 10 feet at the most, and I wouldn’t even do that. And so to see it on a wall, you see it in a very different way. You see the way it works compositionally. It’s just an abstract grouping of black shapes on a page. If I were intending work to go on a wall, I would do it very differently: it would be all about making those black shapes appealing from 20 feet away. And now it’s just sort of luck if that happens or not. It doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m trying to do.

SFBG The panels get larger as you progress through the show from the early work to the later work. They seemed more dense with subtext but with fewer lines.

DC That’s something I’m working toward. A certain kind of efficiency. I feel like any extra line distracts from the reading of a comic. I really want the reader to feel immersed in the story. I think the reason why the artwork got bigger over the years is, when I started, I couldn’t afford the paper. I had to try to squeeze like four pages onto one big sheet of paper. Also I used to have to send my artwork to the publisher — this was all before scanning. And so, if the artwork was really big it would cost a lot more money to send and it would get bent in half in the mail.

SFBG What’s the process you go through when you draw the eyes of your characters?

DC That’s always the last thing I do on a drawing. I leave the eyes blank. And people have come over and seen my work on the drawing board and found it very disconcerting and very weird that there are these faces with no eyes. But [the eyes are] the key to the drawing. That’s by far the most important part. And the eyes have to show some humanity behind them — even if they’re very simple circles. That’s how you can tell if a character is alive or not. It’s not something you can consciously do. I don’t really know what the secret to that is, except you have to sort of believe that they’re alive.

SFBG How do you feel about having your work preserved in a museum?

DC I think of the museum iteration of this work as being a temporary thing. I don’t see that as being where this work would end up. I would hope that [in the distant future] it would end up in book form, that people [will] still knew how to manipulate the pages of books and read them.

SFBG Has anything about the show surprised you?

DC Walking into that room was a strange experience. I really felt claustrophobic, like I was trapped in my own brain somehow. It was very dream-like. Last week was the most dream-like week I’ve had. Right after I went to the opening the other night, I came home and my son and I were out on our porch and we saw a car going 90 miles an hour. It hit the median right in front of the house, flew through the air, turned upside-down, and landed on its roof. It was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen. And then, miraculously — there were little kids [inside], and [they] crawled out of this broken car. The next day I was like, was all that a dream? I was in a room with all my artwork and then I saw a car fly through the air. It was just so odd.

SFBG It was the same week as that thunderstorm.

DC Yes, it was all that stuff. It was very surreal. *

MODERN CARTOONIST: THE ART OF DANIEL CLOWES

Through Aug. 12

Oakland Museum of California

1000 Oak, Oakl.

(510) 318-8400

www.museumca.org

On the Cheap Listings May 2-8, 2012

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On the Cheap listings are compiled by Soojin Chang. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com. For further information on how to submit items for the listings, see Picks.

WEDNESDAY 2

Thee Oh Sees Public Works, 161 Erie, SF. (415) 932-0955, www.publicsf.com. 9pm, free with RSVP. The FADER and Captain Morgan are hosting a free show tonight featuring San Francisco’s most delightfully chaotic psych-rock band.

Photobooth film basics workshop Photobooth, 1193 Valencia, SF. (415) 824-1248, www.photoboosf.com. 7pm-9pm, free. Bring that seemingly useless analog camera you scavenged at the bottom of the sales bin at a thrift store and learn just how to put Instagram to shame. Classes fill up quickly so reserve your spot by sending an email to classes@photoboothsf.com.

THURSDAY 3

Guacamole Mash-Off NextSpace SF, 28 2nd St., SF. (415) 514-0456, www.nextspace.us. 6:30pm-8:30pm, $5 to attend; free if you compete. What does the perfect guacamole taste like? We are all more than happy to be the guinea pigs for this experiment. Bring an appetite and avocado expertise — NextSpace will supply the fresh ingredients and free beer.

FRIDAY 4

Amoeba Art show 2928 Telegraph, Oakl. (510) 549-1125, www.amoeba.com. 6pm-11pm, free. Amoebites not only know every record known to humankind in exquisite detail, but also make art themselves. Check out the creative works of the music store’s staff while noshing on vegan baked goods by Fat Bottom Bakery. Live DJs will be spinning all night, and if you need to step outside for some air, Oakland Art Murmur will be outside to greet you.

“The Dick Show” visual art exhibit of penises Center for Sex and Culture, 1349 Mission, SF. (415) 902-2071, www.sexandculture.org. 6pm-9pm, free. Which side is the penis’ best side? What makes a penis better than a dildo? What would life be like without penises? Participating artists have tackled such questions head on, and have expressed their enlightened answers in the form of a collective art show.

“First Friday Follies” burlesque and creepy puppet show Stork Club, 2330 Telegraph, Oakl. (510) 444-6174, sfburlesque.blogspot.com. 9pm, free. Sultry dancing accompanied by sinister dolls bring to mind the words “blissful terror.” Come see how sexy strange can be at Oakland Art Murmur’s most confusingly seductive after party. You won’t be able to peel your eyes away.

SATURDAY 5

Moonlight hike Sports Basement Presidio, 610 Old Mason, SF. (800) 869-6670, www.sportsbasement.com. 6:30pm-9:30pm, free. If you feel like you haven’t seen a clear night sky in a while or have started to unconsciously accept building lights as stars, it’s time to take a walk away from the city. Attendance is limited and is on a first-come, first-served basis.

Filmmaking open house and free margarita party Bay Area Video Coalition, 2727 Mariposa, SF. (415) 861-3282, www.bavc.org. 12:30pm-6pm, free. Take a workshop on DSLR cinematography, learn about the latest innovations in the world of Adobe, and talk with professionals about the nuances of the tech and film industries — all while working your way around the salt rim of your celebratory margarita.

Vagabond Indie Craft Fair Urban Bazaar, 1371 9th Ave, SF. (415) 664-4442, vagabondsf.wordpress.com. Through Sunday 6. Noon-7pm, free. Independent craftspeople are like vagabonds or gypsies in a sense, because they travel around selling their art and don’t rely on factory-made consumer culture. In Urban Bazaar’s backyard garden this weekend, you will find free sewing classes taught by local talent, bake sales benefiting high school art programs, and enough handmade gems to gift to friends for years.

Free Comic Book Day 2012 In various participating comic stores. Comic Experience, 305 Divisadero, SF; Neon Monster, 901 Castro, SF; Mission: Comics and Art, 3520 20th St., SF; Jeffrey’s Toys, 685 Market, SF; Fantastic Comics, 2026 Shattuck, Berk. www.freecomicbookday.com. All day, free. For one day a year only, participating stores give away comic books absolutely free of charge to whoever walks through their doors.

SUNDAY 6

Urban Air Market Octavia at Hayes, SF. www.urbanairmarket.com. 11am-6pm, free. Urban Air Market is a curated fashion festival featuring 150 independent designers — all of whom were carefully chosen based on their originality, quality, and method of sustainability in design. Live music will be playing all day as you mosey around the market’s impressive collection of handcrafted jewelry, one-of-a-kind clothing, and unique home décor.

MONDAY 7

SFMade Week Open Factories: Ritual Coffee Roasters Ritual Coffee, 1050 Howard, SF. (415) 641-1024, www.sfmadeweek.org.1pm-2pm, $10. SFMade Week is a weeklong touring extravaganza that celebrates San Francisco’s manufacturing sector. Learn about the crafty techniques and detailed science that precede every perfectly smooth cup of Ritual coffee from their roastery team in SOMA.

Beatles Karaoke Night Cafe Royale, 800 Post, SF. (415) 441-4099, www.caferoyale-sf.com. 8pm, free. Ditch the droning, flat audio and the creepy screen playing completely unrelated videos. It’s just you, the live pianist, and “Michelle” tonight.

TUESDAY 8

“Raise the Macallan” scotch tasting benefit event for Charity Water The Regency Ballroom, 1300 Van Ness, SF. (415) 673-5716, www.raisethemacallan.com. 8pm, $5. Drinking scotch to benefit a charity for water (www.charitywater.org) is a bit strange. But who cares? From time to time you have to revel in the beautiful contradictions that make up life — especially the ones that involve whisk

Why free Muni for youth makes sense

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Supervisor Scott Wiener has gone out of his way to dis the plan to let kids ride Muni for free. His oped in the Chron April 9 argued that the city just doesn’t have the money ($8 million):

We need to increase access to transportation for low-income youth, but a new and expensive obligation for Muni – at a time when Muni cannot pay for its basic operational needs and is expanding parking meters and increasing parking fines – is a bad idea.

But that misses the point — and People Organized to Win Employment Rights is mounting a petition campaign to get Wiener back on track.

The Municipal Transportation Agency, which oversees Muni, failed to approve the plan the first time around, but the vote was tied with Commission Chair Tom Nolan absent, so it’s still possible to move it forward. And on April 17, Sup. David Campos, who proposed the plan, and his allies will try again.

Yes, Muni is (perpetually) broke, and yes, deficits and cuts mean declines in service. But Campos has identified money to pay for the program without damaging operating and maintenance funds. Oh, and the parking meters get dragged in again:

The understandable public perception is that Muni is expanding parking meters to Sundays, adding new meters, and raising ticket prices not to pay for improvements to the system but rather to fund free Muni for all youth, even those who don’t need the subsidy.

And the problem with that is … what? People with cars ought to subsidize transit riders — young, old and everything in between. It’s really not that expensive to park at a meter in San Francisco, and now that most of them take credit cards, you don’t have to carry $5 in quarters around with you. I drive a car myself, to ferry my kids around. I have no sympathy for people who pay to have a large motor vehicle in a transit-first city and don’t want to pay for the impacts.

(Besides, what are all those religious people complaining about — nobody pays to park for Sunday church anyway. They just park in the middle of the street.)

But put all of that aside for a minute and think about this: San Francisco spends all kinds of money, directly and indirectly, trying to convince people to ride Muni instead of driving. And one of the best ways to get new riders is to get kids started as transit users as soon as their parents decide they’re old enough to get on the bus.

For us, that was sixth grade, when we bought my son a clipper card and told him we weren’t leaving work early to pick him up (in the car) after school any more. I showed him how to find the Muni map on the web, showed him how to connect to NextBus on his phone, gave him a pat on the head (not really) and sent him off to explore the wonders of San Francisco public transit. It’s worked like a charm: He takes the bus to his martial arts class, takes the bus to Cards and Comics to buy Magic Cards, takes the bus to the mall and to visit friends … and now he knows more about the system than I do. He can navigate on his own anywhere in town — and he loves it. It’s freedom. Suburban kids have to wait until they’re 16 and can get a driver’s license to even begin to get that sense that they don’t need parents in tow to go where they want to go.

Most of the teenagers I know in this city don’t bother to learn to drive any more. They bike and they take the bus. That’s a wonderful thing — and San Francisco should do everything possible to encourage it.

And a great way to start is to invest a modest amount of money — less than one percent of Muni’s budget — in training kids that the way to travel is by bus and train. Make it easy; make it free. Hell, half the middle-school kids who ride Muni never pay the fare anyway; they go in the back door and pocket the money that their parents gave them for bus fare so they can buy something they aren’t supposed to have. It’s the way of the world.

This isn’t just a subsidy for kids who can’t afford Muni, although that’s a great thing and I’m all in favor. It’s an investment in the future, a cheap step toward a future day when turning 16 isn’t all about going to the DMV, and travel doesn’t mean car travel — and the streets of San Francisco are cleaner, safer, less crowded and better for all of us. Isn’t that worth the money?

Come on, Tom Nolan; you’re the swing vote. Make this happen.

 

 

Fact: your heart will go on if you skip ‘Titanic 3D’

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We already made fun of Titanic 3D last week (spoiler alert: Kate aged better than Leo), and the only other big Hollywood cheese opening this week is American Reunion (spoiler alert: Alyson Hannigan‘s career has aged better than Jason Biggs‘).

Of slightly more urgent, politically relevent, Celine Dion-less note, check out Sam Stander’s review of This Is Not a Film, a movie by embattled filmmaker Jafar Panahi that was literally smuggled out of Iran on a flash drive hidden in a cake. It opens Fri/13 at the SF Film Society Cinema (a zone soon to be taken over by the upcoming San Francisco International Film Festival, kicking off April 19).

If you’re an artist yourself, possibly one who looks spiffy in a pair of chaps, the Folsom Street Fair (which has a new date this year!) has put out a call to independent filmmakers interested in working on a planned documentary on “the grandaddy of all leather events.” From the Folsom Street Events press release:

“Demetri Moshoyannis, Executive Director, said, ‘As Folsom Street Fair approaches its 30th anniversary, Folsom Street Events is seeking an independent filmmaker to help document our rich, diverse, and sometimes salacious history. With so much film talent in California, across the U.S., and even abroad, we believe that the development of Folsom Street Fair is a compelling story that must be shared.’ Jacob Richards, Board President, added, ‘The Board of Directors has agreed to provide support for the project in the form of a very modest grant (if requested), fundraising appeals to its donor base, access to historical documents and agency contacts, and more. We are hoping to receive a broad range of proposals from diverse filmmakers.'”

Head to www.folsomstreetevents.org for more info.

And if you’re simply looking for a new movie to see (The Hunger Games has grossed $373,330,642 worldwide … so far. Katniss Everdeen, you’ll never go hungry again!), you can geek out with Morgan Spurlock‘s fun doc Comic-Con IV: A Fan’s Hope; check out Moroccan filmmaker Ismaël Ferroukhi’s latest, Free Men; see a couple of American Reunion cast members moonlight in the hockey flick Goon; and learn more about the recently-in-the-news-for-hopeful-reasons-for-once country of Myanmar in doc They Call it Myanmar: Lifting the Curtain. Reviews follow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZN41gXXUlLI

Comic-Con IV: A Fan’s Hope When what is now known as the San Diego Comic-Con International launched in 1970, attendance consisted of a couple hundred comic-book fans. Now, it’s a huge event thronging with hundreds of thousands of geek-leaning movie, TV, video game, and — oh, yeah — comic-book fans; it’s also become an essential part of the hype-building machine for every major pop-culture property. Super Size Me (2004) director Morgan Spurlock’s lively doc examines the current state of Comic-Con with input from those who’ve ridden the nerd train to fame and fortune (Joss Whedon, Guillermo Del Toro, Stan Lee) — but the film’s most compelling sequences zero in on a handful of ordinary folks obsessed with the event for a variety of reasons. There’s the proprietor of a Denver comics shop, a 38-year Comic-Con veteran, faced with the chilling prospect of having to sell his most valuable (and most beloved) comic in order to keep his business afloat; the Carrie Brownstein look alike who spends the entire year crafting incredibly detailed costumes for Comic-Con’s annual masquerade contest; the soldier and family man who dreams of drawing comics for a living; and the sweetly dorky young man nervously planning to propose to his girlfriend … during a Kevin Smith panel. To its credit, Comic-Con IV never mocks its subjects, and it manages to infuse its many storylines with surprising emotional depth. Extra points for the clever, comics-inspired transitions, too. Director Spurlock appears in person for post-film Q&As Sun/8 at 5 and 7:30pm shows. (1:26) Vogue. (Cheryl Eddy)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bXghcORxHo

Free Men Amid moderate hoopla for Casablanca‘s 70th anniversary, it’s a good time for something that was a whole lot more common back then — a wartime drama not about battle or victimization, but espionage intrigue crossing the lines between military, diplomatic, and civilian sectors. Arrested for participating in the black market in the occupied Paris of 1942, North African émigré Younes (Tahar Rahim from 2009’s A Prophet) evades prison or deportation by agreeing to spy on a local mosque suspected by the Nazis of harboring and smuggling out Jews. His clumsy efforts are quickly found out by a visiting imam (Michael Lonsdale), with the result that Younes — whose brother (Farid Larbi) is already a committed fighter in the Resistance underground — winds up playing double-agent, pretending to serve the police and SS while actually working against them. En route he becomes entangled in the disparate agendas of others including Leila (Lubna Azabal), who’s secretly involved in the Algerian liberation movement, and Salim (Mahmud Shalaby), an apolitical, bisexual singer whose career ambitions blind him to the personal dangers he risks. Ismaël Ferroukhi’s handsome, twisty drama won’t have you white-knuckling the armrests, but it’s an intelligent, satisfying throwback to the colorful characters and narrative intricacies of another era’s cinematic melodramas — with the welcome update of making non-white players our protagonists rather than “exotic” support players. (1:39) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Dennis Harvey)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sytVoTYFT08

Goon An amiable Massachusetts bar bouncer who’s the odd one out within his highly-educated, high-achieving Jewish family (led by Eugene Levy), Doug Glatt (Seann William Scott) can punch your lights out as easily — and with as little malice — as he’d flip a light switch. That skill looks useful to a local hockey team in need of an enforcer to disable relevant members of the opposing team when needed, then sit in the penalty box. Soon “Doug the Thug’s” burgeoning reputation brings him to the relative big leagues of Halifax, where his main job for the Highlanders is protecting a star (Marc-André Grondin) who’s been skittish since his serious bruising at the hands of “Ross the Boss” (Liev Schreiber), our hero’s veteran equivalent. Based very loosely on Doug “The Hammer” Smith’s memoir, this latest from director Michael Dowse (2004’s It’s All Gone Pete Tong) and co-scenarist Jay Baruchel (who also plays Doug’s incredibly crass best friend) is a cut above most Canadian hockey comedies — which, trust me, is not saying much. But it is indeed rather endearing eventually as an exercise in rude, pretty funny yet non-loutish humor about oafish behavior. A lot of its appeal has to do with Scott, who is arguably miscast and somewhat wasted as this “Hebrew Dolph Lundgren” — the actor’s forte being manic, impulsive, near-lunatic rather than slow-witted characters — yet who helps Goon maintain a no-foul friendliness in inverse proportion to its face-mashing action on ice. The writing could be sharper, but apparently there is only room for one smart hockey satire in our universe, and that spot was taken by Slap Shot 35 years ago. (1:30) Lumiere. (Harvey)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPDbdEN-XcM

They Call it Myanmar: Lifting the Curtain Recent elections signal that Myanmar’s status as “the second-most isolated country on the planet,” per Robert H. Lieberman’s doc, may soon be changing. With that hopeful context, this insightful study of Myanmar (or Burma, depending on who’s referring to it) is particularly well-timed. Shot using clandestine methods, and without identifying many of its fearful interviewees — with the exception of recently-released-from-house-arrest politician Aung San Suu Kyi, a Nobel Peace Prize winner — They Call it Myanmar offers a revealing look at a country largely untouched by corporate influences and pop culture. Myanmar’s military dictatorship is the opposite of a cult of personality; it’s scarier, one subject reflects, because “it’s a system, not an individual,” with faceless leaders who can be quietly be replaced. The country struggles with a huge disconnect between the very rich and the very poor; it has a dismal health care system overrun by “quacks,” and an equally dismal educational system that benefits very few children. Hunger, disease, child labor — all prevalent. Surprisingly, though the conditions that surround them are grim, Myanmar’s people are shown to be generally happy and deeply spiritual as they go about their daily lives. A highlight: Lieberman’s interactions with excited Buddhist pilgrims en route to Kyaiktiyo Pagoda, with an up-close look at the miraculously teetering “Golden Rock.” (1:23) Bridge. (Eddy)

And if none of the above are weird or insane enough for your tastes, the new series at the Vortex Room, “Starship Vortex,” will not, we repeat not, in no way, shape, or form, let you down. Blast off!

On the Cheap

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On the Cheap listings are compiled by Soojin Chang. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com. For further information on how to submit items for the listings, see Picks.

WEDNESDAY 4

“Mexico’s National Emergency and the Role of the United States” University of San Francisco, McLaren Conference Center, 2130 Fulton, SF. (415) 422-6919, www.usfca.edu. 5:30pm-7pm, free. Since the gang-related murder of his son last year, poet and journalist Javier Sicilia has not ceased in speaking out against the drug crises of Mexico. He is planning a protest caravan from San Diego to Washington D.C. this summer, and this Wednesday, he will be at USF to share his insight on Mexico’s current social injustices.

THURSDAY 5

After Dark: Gastronomy-themed activities and demonstrations Exploratorium, 3601 Lyon, SF. (415) 561-0360, www.exploratorium.edu. 6pm-10pm, $15 regular museum admission. Lucky for us, we are living through a period of rapid technological advancement. We’re even more blessed when these innovations trickle in to the culinary world, making our dining experience deliciously transformative. Come taste the spirit of modernist cuisine and discover the latest ways technology and food are intersecting.

“Snow White” author book signing and pastries San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, 151 Third St., SF. (415) 357-4000, www.sfmoma.org. Book signing at 6pm; Cake cutting at 8pm, free. Camille Rose Garcia gives the Disney princess a vintage punk makeover, and sets the classic Grimm’s tale in a tragically beautiful wasteland. As if this wasn’t a treat enough, pastry chef Dante Nuno of Fire and Icing will be serving his Snow White-inspired cake.

“Spring into Spring NightLife” seasonal produce extravaganza California Academy of Sciences, 55 Music Concourse, Golden Gate Park, SF. (415) 379-8000, www.calacademy.org. 6pm-10pm, $12. Spring means delectable fruits, fresh herbs, and mouthwatering honey. Revel in the lusciousness of the season by talking (and tasting) with Urban Bee SF, then meander over to Earl’s Organic Produce to snack on Earl’s fresh-picked strawberries. In between tasting succulent treats and grooving to the tunes of DJ Sleazemore, make a pit stop at Cocktail Lab to learn how to make a seasonally fresh cocktail drink from the night’s mixologists.

“Behind the Scenes: The Art and Craft of Cinema” Landis Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, Berk. (510) 642-1412, www.bampfa.berkeley.edu. Through April 6. 7pm, $9.50 for one program; $13.50 for double bills. Harrison Ford would not have been Indiana Jones without his brown fedora and distressed leather jacket. And Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” would not have been nearly as dazzling without his unforgettable crimson, wing-shouldered jacket. Meet the crafty hands that tailored the defining personalities of many films and iconic performances, as their owner discusses the vital role costuming plays in storytelling.

FRIDAY 6

Jimi Hendrix poetry remix 50 Mason Social House, 50 Mason, SF. (415) 433-5050, www.50masonsocialhouse.com. 7pm-10pm, free. Copus is a rap-jazz fusion ensemble that infuses spoken word with piano, flute, bass, and percussion. Come hear the band take apart the poetry of Jimi Hendrix and bring the chromatic words together to their own beat.

SATURDAY 7

“Drink Beer. Solve Autism.” Pyramid’s new beer release tasting Pyramid Alehouse, 901 Gilman, Berk. (510) 528-9880, www.pyramidbrew.com. 1pm-4pm, $20. Enjoy a relaxing afternoon of live music, snacks, and unlimited samples of Pyramid Breweries’ newest beer. 100 percent of proceeds benefit Ales for Autism.

Lomography film canister hunt Lomography Gallery Store, 309 Sutter, SF. (415) 248-0096, www.lomography.com. 1pm-4pm, $10. To prep for the chocolate-filled egg hunts happening tomorrow, hop on over to Lomography SF and get ready to search every nook and cranny for a gift-filled film canister. They’re scattered all around downtown and are packed with sweet analogue prizes like Lomography products, free film, and workshop admissions.

Titanic Anniversary Ball San Mateo Masonic Lodge Ballroom, 100 N. Ellsworth, San Mateo. (510) 522-1731, www.peers.org. Dance lessons at 7pm; dancing at 8pm, $15 adv.; $20 at door. There are two good things that came out of RMS Titanic sinking: an awesomely dramatic movie, and a chance to have an epic ball to commemorate the tragedy’s centennial in all its submerged beauty. Relive the glorious, pre-iceberg moments of the Titanic as Bangers and Mash plays Edwardian waltzes, polkas, and ragtime hits throughout the night. Meet us on the Titanic. It’s going down.

“Cartoonist in Residence: Mike Reger” meet and greet Cartoon Art Museum, 655 Mission, SF. (415) 227-8666, www.cartoonart.org. 1pm-3pm, free. Mike Reger is a San Francisco cartoonist whose eclectic comics touch on everything from local politics to satirical takes on the city’s drug culture. He also does work at Mission Minicomix, a group that arose out of the ’90s punk scene in the Mission. Come pick his cartoonist brain and check out his latest projects.

SUNDAY 8

“Pumps and Circumstance” The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence Easter celebration Dolores Park, 18th St. and Dolores, SF. (415) 820-9697, www.thesisters.org. 11am-4pm, free. Celebrate the Sisters’ 33rd birthday at their annually indulged Easter celebration. The morning will commence with face paintings and an egg hunt, and the afternoon will continue with Easter bonnet and hunky Jesus contests. The Sisters promise to have you partying like it’s 1979 again.

21st Annual Union Street spring celebration and Easter parade Union between Gough and Fillmore, SF. (800) 310-6563, www.SRESproductions.com. 10am-5pm, free. The wonderfully wacky street fair boasts a petting zoo, pony ride, climbing wall, inflatable bounces, and live entertainment from local musicians. When you’re passed by a roller-blading cows or a self-propelled mini-float, you’ll know the parade’s begun.

MONDAY 9

“Best Sex Writing 2012” Rachel Kramer Bussel and Susie Bright explore erotic literary work The Booksmith, 1644 Haight, SF. (415) 863-8688, www.booksmith.com. 7:30pm, free. Sex columnist Rachel Kramer Bussel and commentator Susie Bright are this year’s eyes and ears in collecting the most alluring and insightful work on the seemingly limitless topic of sex for the always rewarding Best Sex Writing series. Put on your slutty-librarian reading glasses and open up the enticing anthology of the latest political sex scandals, impassioned debates over circumcision, SlutWalks, female orgasm workshops, and many more sensual affairs.

TUESDAY 10

San Francisco Film Society presents “Beyond Film School” Roxie Theater, 3117 16th St., SF. (415) 863-1087, www.roxie.com. 7:30pm, $10. Those first muddled years after film school is quite a murky transition. But for some artists, this daunting passage produces some of their most resounding works. The forum showcases student-produced films and will be followed by a panel discussion on the sustainability of Bay Area-based film careers.

Film Listings

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Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Max Goldberg, Dennis Harvey, Lynn Rapoport, and Matt Sussman. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock.

OPENING

American Reunion Care for yet another helping of all-American horn dogs? The original American Pie (1999) was a sweet-tempered, albeit ante-upping tribute to ‘80s teen sex comedies, so the latest in the franchise, the older, somewhat wiser American Reunion, is obliged to squeeze a dab more of the ole life force outta the class of ‘99, in honor of their, em, 13th high school reunion. These days Jim (Jason Biggs) is attempting to fluff up a flagging postbaby sex life with wife Michelle (Alyson Hannigan). Kevin (Thomas Ian Nicholas) yearns to get in touch with his buried bad boy. Oz (Chris Klein) has become a sportscaster-reality competition star and is seemingly lost without old girlfriend Heather (Mena Suvari). Stifler (Seann William Scott) is as piggishly incorrigible as ever—even as a low-hanging investment flunky, while scarred, adventuring biker Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas) seems to have become “the most interesting man in the world.” How much trouble can the gang get into? About as much of a mess as the Hangover guys, which one can’t stop thinking about when Jim wakes up on the kitchen floor with tile burns and zero pants. Half the cast — which includes Tara Reid, John “MILF!” Cho, Natasha Lyonne, and Shannon Elizabeth — seems to have stirred themselves from their own personal career hangovers, interludes of insanity, and plastic surgery disasters (with a few, like Cho and Thomas, firmly moving on), and others such as parental figures Eugene Levy and Jennifer Coolidge continuing to show the kids how it’s done. Still, the farcical American franchise’s essentially benign, healthy attitude toward good, dirty fun reads as slightly refreshing after chaste teen fare like the Twilight and High School Musical flicks. Even with the obligatory moment of full-frontal penis smooshing. (1:53) California, Four Star, Piedmont. (Chun)

*Comic-Con IV: A Fan’s Hope When what is now known as the San Diego Comic-Con International launched in 1970, attendance consisted of a couple hundred comic-book fans. Now, it’s a huge event thronging with hundreds of thousands of geek-leaning movie, TV, video game, and — oh, yeah — comic-book fans; it’s also become an essential part of the hype-building machine for every major pop-culture property. Super Size Me (2004) director Morgan Spurlock’s lively doc examines the current state of Comic-Con with input from those who’ve ridden the nerd train to fame and fortune (Joss Whedon, Guillermo Del Toro, Stan Lee) — but the film’s most compelling sequences zero in on a handful of ordinary folks obsessed with the event for a variety of reasons. There’s the proprietor of a Denver comics shop, a 38-year Comic-Con veteran, faced with the chilling prospect of having to sell his most valuable (and most beloved) comic in order to keep his business afloat; the Carrie Brownstein look alike who spends the entire year crafting incredibly detailed costumes for Comic-Con’s annual masquerade contest; the soldier and family man who dreams of drawing comics for a living; and the sweetly dorky young man nervously planning to propose to his girlfriend … during a Kevin Smith panel. To its credit, Comic-Con IV never mocks its subjects, and it manages to infuse its many storylines with surprising emotional depth. Extra points for the clever, comics-inspired transitions, too. Director Spurlock appears in person for post-film Q&As Sun/8 at 5 and 7:30pm shows. (1:26) Vogue. (Eddy)

*Free Men Amid moderate hoopla for Casablanca’s 70th anniversary, it’s a good time for something that was a whole lot more common back then — a wartime drama not about battle or victimization, but espionage intrigue crossing the lines between military, diplomatic, and civilian sectors. Arrested for participating in the black market in the occupied Paris of 1942, North African émigré Younes (Tahar Rahim from 2009’s A Prophet) evades prison or deportation by agreeing to spy on a local mosque suspected by the Nazis of harboring and smuggling out Jews. His clumsy efforts are quickly found out by a visiting imam (Michael Lonsdale), with the result that Younes — whose brother (Farid Larbi) is already a committed fighter in the Resistance underground — winds up playing double-agent, pretending to serve the police and SS while actually working against them. En route he becomes entangled in the disparate agendas of others including Leila (Lubna Azabal), who’s secretly involved in the Algerian liberation movement, and Salim (Mahmud Shalaby), an apolitical, bisexual singer whose career ambitions blind him to the personal dangers he risks. Ismaël Ferroukhi’s handsome, twisty drama won’t have you white-knuckling the armrests, but it’s an intelligent, satisfying throwback to the colorful characters and narrative intricacies of another era’s cinematic melodramas — with the welcome update of making non-white players our protagonists rather than “exotic” support players. (1:39) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Goon An amiable Massachusetts bar bouncer who’s the odd one out within his highly-educated, high-achieving Jewish family (led by Eugene Levy), Doug Glatt (Seann William Scott) can punch your lights out as easily — and with as little malice — as he’d flip a light switch. That skill looks useful to a local hockey team in need of an enforcer to disable relevant members of the opposing team when needed, then sit in the penalty box. Soon “Doug the Thug’s” burgeoning reputation brings him to the relative big leagues of Halifax, where his main job for the Highlanders is protecting a star (Marc-André Grondin) who’s been skittish since his serious bruising at the hands of “Ross the Boss” (Liev Schreiber), our hero’s veteran equivalent. Based very loosely on Doug “The Hammer” Smith’s memoir, this latest from director Michael Dowse (2004’s It’s All Gone Pete Tong) and co-scenarist Jay Baruchel (who also plays Doug’s incredibly crass best friend) is a cut above most Canadian hockey comedies — which, trust me, is not saying much. But it is indeed rather endearing eventually as an exercise in rude, pretty funny yet non-loutish humor about oafish behavior. A lot of its appeal has to do with Scott, who is arguably miscast and somewhat wasted as this “Hebrew Dolph Lundgren” — the actor’s forte being manic, impulsive, near-lunatic rather than slow-witted characters — yet who helps Goon maintain a no-foul friendliness in inverse proportion to its face-mashing action on ice. The writing could be sharper, but apparently there is only room for one smart hockey satire in our universe, and that spot was taken by Slap Shot 35 years ago. (1:30) Lumiere. (Harvey)

*They Call it Myanmar: Lifting the Curtain Recent elections signal that Myanmar’s status as “the second-most isolated country on the planet,” per Robert H. Lieberman’s doc, may soon be changing. With that hopeful context, this insightful study of Myanmar (or Burma, depending on who’s referring to it) is particularly well-timed. Shot using clandestine methods, and without identifying many of its fearful interviewees — with the exception of recently-released-from-house-arrest politician Aung San Suu Kyi, a Nobel Peace Prize winner — They Call it Myanmar offers a revealing look at a country largely untouched by corporate influences and pop culture. Myanmar’s military dictatorship is the opposite of a cult of personality; it’s scarier, one subject reflects, because “it’s a system, not an individual,” with faceless leaders who can be quietly be replaced. The country struggles with a huge disconnect between the very rich and the very poor; it has a dismal health care system overrun by “quacks,” and an equally dismal educational system that benefits very few children. Hunger, disease, child labor — all prevalent. Surprisingly, though the conditions that surround them are grim, Myanmar’s people are shown to be generally happy and deeply spiritual as they go about their daily lives. A highlight: Lieberman’s interactions with excited Buddhist pilgrims en route to Kyaiktiyo Pagoda, with an up-close look at the miraculously teetering “Golden Rock.” (1:23) Bridge. (Eddy)

*This Is Not a Film See “The Necessity of Images.” (1:15) SF Film Society Cinema.

Titanic 3D It’s baaack. (3:14) Metreon.

ONGOING

*The Artist With the charisma-oozing agility of Douglas Fairbanks swashbuckling his way past opponents and the supreme confidence of Rudolph Valentino leaning, mid-swoon, into a maiden, French director-writer Michel Hazanavicius hits a sweet spot, or beauty mark of sorts, with his radiant new film The Artist. In a feat worthy of Fairbanks or Errol Flynn, Hazanavicius juggles a marvelously layered love story between a man and a woman, tensions between the silents and the talkies, and a movie buff’s appreciation of the power of film — embodied in particular by early Hollywood’s union of European artistry and American commerce. Dashing silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin, who channels Fairbanks, Flynn, and William Powell — and won this year’s Cannes best actor prize) is at the height of his career, adorable Jack Russell by his side, until the talkies threaten to relegate him to yesterday’s news. The talent nurtured in the thick of the studio system yearns for real power, telling the newspapers, “I’m not a puppet anymore — I’m an artist,” and finances and directs his own melodrama, while his youthful protégé Peppy Miller (Bérénice Béjo) becomes a yakky flapper age’s new It Girl. Both a crowd-pleasing entertainment and a loving précis on early film history, The Artist never checks its brains at the door, remaining self-aware of its own conceit and its forebears, yet unashamed to touch the audience, without an ounce of cynicism. (1:40) California, Castro, 1000 Van Ness. (Chun)

*The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye Once dubbed “the wickedest man in the world”, shock artist and cofounder of seminal industrial music pioneers Throbbing Gristle Genesis Breyer P-Orridge has softened somewhat with time. Her plunge into pandrogyny, an ongoing artistic and personal process embarked upon with the late Jacqueline “Lady Jaye” Breyer P-Orridge, is an attempt to create a perfectly balanced body, incorporating the characteristics of both. As artists, the two were committed to documenting their process, but as marriage partners, much of their footage is sweetly innocuous home video footage: Genesis cooking in the kitchen decked out in a little black dress, Lady Jaye setting out napkins at a backyard bar-b-que or helping to dig through Genesis’ archives of COUM Transmissions and Throbbing Gristle “ephemera,” the two wrapped in bandages after getting matching nose jobs. “I just want to be remembered as one of the great love affairs of all time,” Jaye tells Genesis. This whimsical documentary by Marie Losier will go a long way toward making that wish a reality. (1:12) Roxie. (Nicole Gluckstern)

*Boy Apparent in his 2007 film Eagle vs. Shark and his brief turns writing and directing The Flight of the Conchords, filmmaker Taika Waititi seems to embody a uniquely Polynesian sensibility, positioned at a crossroads that’s informed by his Te-Whanau-a-Apanui heritage and his background in the Raukokore area of New Zealand, as well as an affection of global pop culture and a kind of keeping-it-real, keeping-it-local, down-home indie sensibility. All of which has fed into Boy, which became the highest-grossing New Zealand film of all time when it was released in its homeland in 2010. Its popularity is completely understandable. From the lush green inlands and stunning beaches of Waihau Bay to its intimate, gritty and humorous sketch of its natives, this affectionate, big-hearted bildungsroman is a lot like its 11-year-old eponymous hero — eminently lovable and completely one of a kind. Despite the tragedies and confines of his small-town rural life, Boy has a handle on his world: it’s 1984, and his pals spend their time hanging out at the snack shop and harvesting weed for one deadbeat biker parent. Boy’s brother Rocky (Te Aho Aho Eketone-Whitu) believes he has superpowers and is scarred by the fact that his birth was responsible for their mother’s death, and Michael Jackson has just been crowned the king of pop. Then, while his grandma’s away, Boy’s own deadbeat dad, Alamein (Waititi) appears on the scene, turning an extended family of small children on its head — and inspiring many a Thriller dance-slash-dream sequence. Waititi finds his way inside Boy’s head with Crayola-colorful animated children’s drawings, flashbacks, and the kind of dreamy fluidity that comes so naturally during long, hot Polynesian days, all while wonderfully depicting a world that far too few people have glimpsed on screen. (1:30) Smith Rafael. (Chun)

*Casa de mi Padre Will Ferrell’s latest challenge in a long line of actorly exercises and comic gestures — from his long list of comedies probing the last gasps of American masculinity to serious forays like Stranger Than Fiction (2006) and Everything Must Go (2010) — is almost entirely Spanish-language telenovela-burrito Western spoof Casa de mi Padre. Here Ferrell tackles an almost entirely Spanish script (with only meager, long-ago high school and college language courses under his belt) alongside Mexican natives Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna and telenovela veteran Genesis Rodriguez. This clever, intriguing, occasionally very funny, yet not altogether successful endeavor, directed by Matt Piedmont and written by Andrew Steele, sprang from Ferrell’s noggin. Ferrell is nice guy Armando, content to stay at home at the ranch, hang with his buddies, and be dismissed by his father (Pedro Armendáriz Jr.) as a dolt. The arrival of his sleazy bro Raul (Luna) and Raul’s fiancée Sonia (Rodriguez) change everything, bringing killer narco Onza (Bernal) into the family’s life and sparking some hilariously klutzy entanglements between Armando and Sonia. All of this leads to almost zero improvisation on Ferrell’s part and plenty of meta, Machete-like spoofs on low-budget fare, from Sergio Leone to Alejandro Jodorowsky. Casa punctures padre-informed transmissions of Latin machismo, but it equally ridicules the idea of a gringo actor riding in and superimposing himself, badly or otherwise, over another country’s culture. (1:25) Metreon, Shattuck. (Chun)

*The Deep Blue Sea Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, filmmaker Terence Davies, much like his heroine, chooses a mutable, fluid sensuality, turning his source material, Terence Rattigan’s acclaimed mid-century play, into a melodrama that catches you in its tide and refuses to let go. At the opening of this sumptuous portrait of a privileged English woman who gives up everything for love, Hester (Rachel Weisz) goes through the methodical motions of ending it all: she writes a suicide note, carefully stuffs towels beneath the door, takes a dozen pills, turns on the gas, and lies down to wait for death to overtake her. Via memories drifting through her fading consciousness, Davies lets us in on scattered, salient details in her back story: her severely damped-down, staid marriage to a high court judge, Sir William (Simon Russel Beale), her attraction and erotic awakening in the hands of charming former RF pilot Freddie Page (Tom Hiddleston), her separation, and her ultimate discovery that her love can never be matched, as she hazards class inequities and ironclad gender roles. “This is a tragedy,” Sir William says, at one point. But, as Hester, a model of integrity, corrects him, “Tragedy is too big a word. Sad, perhaps.” Similarly, Sea is a beautiful downer, but Davies never loses sight of a larger post-war picture, even while he pauses for his archetypal interludes of song, near-still images, and luxuriously slow tracking shots. With cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister, he does a remarkable job of washing post-war London with spots of golden light and creating claustrophobic interiors — creating an emotionally resonant space reminiscent of the work of Wong Kar-wai and Christopher Doyle. At the center, providing the necessary gravitas (much like Julianne Moore in 2002’s Far From Heaven), is Weisz, giving the viewer a reason to believe in this small but reverberant story, and offering yet another reason for attention during the next awards season. (1:38) Embarcadero, Piedmont, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Chun)

Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax (1:26) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck.

Footnote (1:45) Clay.

*Friends With Kids Jennifer Westfeldt scans Hollywood’s romantic comedy landscape for signs of intelligent life and, finding it to be a barren place possibly recovering from a nuclear holocaust, writes, directs, and stars in this follow-up to 2001’s Kissing Jessica Stein, which she co-wrote and starred in. Julie (Westfeldt) and Jason (Adam Scott) are upper-thirtysomething New Yorkers with two decades of friendship behind them. He calls her “doll.” They have whispered phone conversations at four in the morning while their insignificant others lie slumbering beside them on the verge of getting dumped. And after a night spent witnessing the tragic toll that procreation has taken on the marriages of their four closest friends — Bridesmaids (2011) reunion party Leslie (Maya Rudolph), Alex (Chris O’Dowd), Missy (Kristen Wiig), and Ben (Jon Hamm), the latter two, surprisingly and less surprisingly, providing some of the film’s darkest moments — Jason proposes that they raise a child together platonically, thereby giving any external romantic relationships a fighting chance of survival. In no time, they’ve worked out the kinks to their satisfaction, insulted and horrified their friends, and awkwardly made a bouncing baby boy. The arrival of significant others (Edward Burns and Megan Fox) signals the second phase of the experiment. Some viewers will be invested in latent sparks of romance between the central pair, others in the success of an alternative family arrangement; one of these demographics is destined for disappointment. Until then, however, both groups and any viewers unwilling to submit to this reductive binary will be treated to a funny, witty, well crafted depiction of two people’s attempts to preserve life as they know it while redrawing the parameters of parenthood. (1:40) Four Star, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Rapoport)

*House of Pleasures Set in a fin de siècle French brothel, Bertrand Bonello’s lushly rendered drama is challenging and frequently unpleasant. Bonello sees the beauty and allure of his subjects, the many miserable women of this maison close, but rarely sinks to sympathy for their selfish and sometimes sadistic clients. Bound as they are by their debts to their Madame, the prostitutes are essentially slaves, held to strict and humiliating standards. All they have is each other, and the movie’s few emotional bright spots come from this connection. The filmmaking is wily and nouvelle vague-ish, featuring anachronistic music and inventive split-screen sequences. Additionally, there is a spidery complexity to the film’s chronology, wherein certain scenes repeat to reveal new contexts. This unstuck sense of newness is perhaps didactic — this could and does happen now as well as then — but it also serves to make an already compelling ensemble piece even richer and more engaging. (2:02) SF Film Society Cinema. (Sam Stander)

Hugo Hugo turns on an obviously genius conceit: Martin Scorsese, working with 3D, CGI, and a host of other gimmicky effects, creates a children’s fable that ultimately concerns one of early film’s pioneering special-effects fantasists. That enthusiasm for moviemaking magic, transferred across more than a century of film history, was catching, judging from Scorsese’s fizzy, exhilarating, almost-nauseating vault through an oh-so-faux Parisian train station and his carefully layered vortex of picture planes as Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield), an intrepid engineering genius of an urchin, scrambles across catwalk above a buzzing station and a hotheaded station inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen). Despite the special effects fireworks going off all around him, Hugo has it rough: after the passing of his beloved father (Jude Law), he has been stuck with an nasty drunk of a caretaker uncle (Ray Winstone), who leaves his duties of clock upkeep at a Paris train station to his charge. Hugo must steal croissants to survive and mechanical toy parts to work on the elaborate, enigmatic automaton he was repairing with his father, until he’s caught by the fierce toy seller (Ben Kingsley) with a mysterious lousy mood and a cute, bright ward, Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz). Although the surprisingly dark-ish Hugo gives Scorsese a chance to dabble a new technological toolbox — and the chance to wax pedantically, if passionately, about the importance of film archival studies — the effort never quite despite transcends its self-conscious dazzle, lagging pacing, diffuse narrative, and simplistic screenplay by John Logan, based on Brian Selznick’s book. Even the actorly heavy lifting provided by assets like Kingsley and Moretz and the backloaded love for the fantastic proponents at the dawn of filmmaking fail to help matters. Scorsese attempts to steal a little of the latters’ zeal, but one can only imagine what those wizards would do with motion-capture animation or a blockbuster-sized server farm. (2:07) Metreon. (Chun)

The Hunger Games Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) is a teenager living in a totalitarian state whose 12 impoverished districts, as retribution for an earlier uprising, must pay tribute to the so-called Capitol every year, sacrificing one boy and one girl each to the Hunger Games. A battle royal set in a perilous arena and broadcast live to the Capitol as gripping diversion and to the districts as sadistic propaganda, the Hunger Games are, depending on your viewpoint, a “pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice” or a brutal, pointless bloodbath involving children as young as 12. When her little sister’s name comes up in the annual lottery, Katniss volunteers to take her place and is joined by a boy named Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson), with whom she shares an old, unspoken bond. Tasked with translating to the screen the first installment of Suzanne Collins’s rabidly admired trilogy, writer-director Gary Ross (2003’s Seabiscuit, 1998’s Pleasantville) telescopes the book’s drawn-out, dread-filled tale into a manageable two-plus-hour entertainment, making great (and horrifying) use of the original work’s action, but losing a good deal of the narrative detail and emotional force. Elizabeth Banks is comic and unrecognizable as Effie Trinket, the two tributes’ chaperone; Lenny Kravitz gives a blank, flattened reading as their stylist, Cinna; and Donald Sutherland is sufficiently creepy and bloodless as the country’s leader, President Snow. More exceptionally cast are Woody Harrelson as Katniss and Peeta’s surly, alcoholic mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, and Stanley Tucci as games emcee Caesar Flickerman, flashing a bank of gleaming teeth at each contestant as he probes their dire circumstances with the oily superficiality of a talk show host. (2:22) Balboa, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Rapoport)

*The Hunter Shot and set during Iran’s contentious 2009 Presidential campaign, The Hunter starts as a Kafka-esque portrait of quiet desperation in a cold, empty Tehran, then turns into a sort of existential thriller. The precise message may be ambiguous, but it’s no surprise this two-year-old feature has so far played nearly everywhere but Iran itself. Ali (filmmaker Rafi Pitts) is released from prison after some years, his precise crime never revealed. Told that with his record he can’t expect to get a day shift on his job as security guard at an automotive plant, he keeps hours at odds with his working wife Sara (Mitra Haijar) and six-year-old daughter Saba (Saba Yaghoobi). Still, they try to spend as much time together as possible, until one day Ali returns to find them uncharacteristically gone all day. After getting the bureaucratic runaround he’s finally informed by police that something tragic has occurred; one loved one is dead, the other missing. When his thin remaining hope is dashed, with police notably useless in preventing that grim additional news, Ali snaps — think Peter Bogdanovich’s 1968 Targets. He’s soon in custody, albeit in that of two bickering officers who get them all lost in the countryside. Pitts, a long-ago child performer cast here only when the actor originally hired had to be replaced, makes Ali seem pinched from the inside out, as if in permanent recoil from past and anticipated abuse. This thin, hunched frame, vulnerable big ears, and hooded eyes — the goofily oversized cap he wears at work seems a deliberate affront — seems so fixed an expression of unhappiness that when he flashes a great smile, for a moment you might think it must be someone else. He’s an everyman who only grows more shrunken once the film physically opens up into a natural world no less hostile for being beautiful. (1:32) Roxie. (Harvey)

Intruders Despite his aptitude for filling a tux nicely with a loaded, Don Draper-esque suaveness, Clive Owen has a way of dominating the screen with his rage — a mad man more likely to brawl than deliver biting ad lines — so it’s hard for Intruders to escape the specter of his role in 2010’s Trust, as a dad futilely attempting to protect his daughter from an online predator. Consider Intruders the dark-fantasy offspring of that film and 2006’s Pan’s Labyrinth. A nightmare appears to be materializing for two children in Spain and England: Juan (Izan Corchero) is being tormented by a shadowy figure who creeps into his room at night, and his mother (Pilar López de Ayala) and priest (Daniel Brühl) seem unable to stop the visitations or exorcise the demon that resembles a grand inquisitor in a hoodie. Meanwhile, Mia (Ella Purnell) discovers that the terrifying faceless figure she’s been writing about for her school fiction class is becoming a reality for both her and her protective papa (Owen). Is it a figment of their imagination — a case of folie à deux (and along with Apart, the second hitting the theaters in the last month) — or something potentially more terrifying, like the imaginative power of a child’s mind? 28 Weeks Later (2007) director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo attempts to sustain the mystery throughout, but that calculated juggling act only succeeds in making the final “gotcha” ending — involving, yes, wronged angry dad Owen — seem like a bit of a cheat. (1:40) Metreon. (Chun)

The Iron Lady Curiously like Clint Eastwood’s 2011 J. Edgar, this biopic from director Phyllida Lloyd and scenarist Abi Morgan takes on a political life of length, breadth and controversy — yet it mostly skims over the politics in favor of a generally admiring take on a famous narrow-minded megalomaniac’s “gumption” as an underdog who drove herself to the top. Looking back on her career from a senile old age spent in the illusory company of dead spouse Denis (Jim Broadbent), Meryl Streep’s ex-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher steamrolls past hurdles of class and gender while ironically re-enforcing the fustiest Tory values. She’s essentially a spluttering Lord in skirts, absolutist in her belief that money and power rule because they ought to, and any protesting rabble don’t represent the “real England.” That’s a mindset that might well have been explored more fruitfully via less flatly literal-minded portraiture, though Lloyd does make a few late, lame efforts at sub-Ken Russell hallucinatory style. Likely to satisfy no one — anywhere on the ideological scale — seriously interested in the motivations and consequences of a major political life, this skin-deep Lady will mostly appeal to those who just want to see another bravura impersonation added to La Streep’s gallery. Yes, it’s a technically impressive performance, but unlikely to be remembered as one of her more depthed ones, let alone among her better vehicles. (1:45) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

*The Island President The titular figure is Mohamed Nasheed, recently ousted (by allies of the decades long dictator he’d replaced) chief executive of the Republic of Maldives — a nation of 26 small islands in the Indian Ocean. Jon Shenk’s engaging documentary chronicles his efforts up to and through the 2009 Copenhagen Climate Summit to gather greater international commitment to curbing greenhouse gas emissions. This is hardly do-gooderism, a bid for eco-tourism, or politics as usual: scarcely above sea level, with nary a hill, the Maldives will simply cease to exist soon if waters continue to rise at global warming’s current pace. (“It won’t be any good to have a democracy if we don’t have a country,” he half-jokes at one point.) Nasheed is tireless, unjaded, delightful, and willing to do anything, at one point hosting “the world’s first underwater cabinet meeting” (with oxygen tanks, natch) as a publicity stunt. A cash-strapped nation despite its surfeit of wealthy vacationers, it’s spending money that could go to education and health services on the pathetic stalling device of sandwalls instead. But do bigger powers — notably China, India and the U.S. — care enough about this bit-part player on the world stage to change their energy-use and economic habits accordingly? (A hint: If you’ve been mulling a Maldivian holiday, take it now.) Somewhat incongruous, but an additional sales point nonetheless: practically all the film’s incidental music consists of pre-existing tracks by Radiohead. (1:51) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Jeff, Who Lives at Home The failure-to-launch concept will always thrive whenever and wherever economies flail, kids crumble beneath family trauma, and the seduction of moving back home to live for free with the parental units overcomes the draw of adulthood and individuation. Nevertheless brotherly writing and directing team Jay and Mark Duplass infuse a fresh, generous-minded sweetness in this familiar narrative arc, mainly by empathetically following those surrounding, and maybe enabling, the stay-at-home. Spurred by a deep appreciation of Signs (2002) and plentiful bong hits, Jeff (Jason Segel) decides to go with the signals that the universe throws at him: a mysterious phone call for a Kevin leads him to stalk a kid wearing a jersey with that name and jump a candy delivery truck. This despite the frantic urging of his mother (Susan Sarandon), who has set the bar low and simply wants Jeff to repair a shutter for her birthday, and the bad influence of brother Pat (Ed Helms), a striving jerk who compensates for his insecurities by buying a Porsche and taking business meetings at Hooters. We never quite find out what triggered Jeff’s dormancy and Pat’s prickishness — two opposing responses to some unspecified psychic wound — yet by Jeff, Who Lives at Home‘s close, it doesn’t really matter. The Duplass brothers convince you to go along for the ride, much like Jeff’s blessed fool, and accept the ultimately feel-good, humanist message of this kind-hearted take on human failings. (1:22) California, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

Jiro Dreams of Sushi Celebrity-chef culture has surely reached some kind of zeitgeist, what with the omnipresence of Top Chef and other cooking-themed shows, and the headlines-making power of people like Paula Deen (diabetes) and Mario Batali (sued for ripping off his wait staff). Unconcerned with the trappings of fame — you’ll never see him driving a Guy Fieri-style garish sports car — is Jiro Ono, 85-year-old proprietor of Sukiyabashi Jiro, a tiny, world-renowned sushi restaurant tucked into Tokyo’s Ginza station. Jiro, a highly-disciplined perfectionist who believes in simple, yet flavorful food, has devoted his entire life to the pursuit of “deliciousness” — to the point of sushi invading his dreams, as the title of David Gelb’s reverential documentary suggests. But Jiro Dreams of Sushi goes deeper than food-prep porn (though, indeed, there’s plenty of that); it also examines the existential conflicts faced by Jiro’s two middle-aged sons. Both were strongly encouraged to enter the family business — and in the intervening years, have had to accept the soul-crushing fact that no matter how good their sushi is, it’ll never be seen as exceeding the creations of their legendary father. (1:21) Embarcadero, Piedmont, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

John Carter More or less an adaptation of Tarzan author Edgar Rice Burroughs’ 1917 sci-fi classic A Princess of Mars, John Carter is yet another film that lavishes special effects (festooned with CG and 3D) on a rote story filled with characters the viewer couldn’t give two craps about. Angry Civil War veteran John Carter (Taylor Kitsch, more muscleman than thespian) mysteriously zips to Mars, a planet not only populated by multiple members of the cast of HBO’s Rome (Ciarán Hinds, James Purefoy, and the voice of Polly Walker), but also quite a bit of Red Planet unrest. Against his better judgment, and with the encouragement of a comely princess (tragic spray-tan victim Lynn Collins), Carter joins the fight, as red people battle blue people, green four-armed creatures pitch in when needed, and sinister silver people (led by Mark Strong) use zap-tastic powers to manipulate the action for their amusement. If you’re expecting John Carter to be a step up from Conan the Barbarian (2011), Prince of Persia (2010), etc., because it’s directed by Andrew Stanton (the Pixar superstar who helmed 2008’s Finding Nemo and 2010’s WALL*E), eh, think again. There’s nothing memorable or fun about this would-be adventure; despite its extravagant 3D, it’s flatter than a pancake. (2:17) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness. (Eddy)

*The Kid with a Bike Slippery as an eel, Cyril (Thomas Doret) is the bane of authorities as he tries to run away at any opportunity from school and a youth home — being convinced that the whole adult world is conspiring to keep his father away from him. During one such chase he literally runs into hair-salon proprietor Samantha (Cécile De France), who proves willing to host him on weekends away from his public facility, and is a patient, steadying influence despite his still somewhat exasperating behavior. It’s she who orchestrates a meeting with his dad (Jerémié Renier, who played the child in the Dardennes’ 1996 breakthrough La Promesse), so Cyril can confront the hard fact that his pa not only can’t take care of him, he doesn’t much want to. Still looking for some kind of older male approval, Cyril falls too easily under the sway of Wes (Egon Di Mateo), a teenage thug whom everyone in Samantha’s neighborhood knows is bad news. This latest neorealist-style drama from Belgium’s Dardenne Brothers treads on very familiar ground for them, both in themes and terse execution. It’s well-acted, potent stuff, if less resonant in sum impact than their best work. (1:27) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Mirror Mirror In this glittery, moderately girl-powery adaptation of the Snow White tale (a comic foil of sorts to this summer’s gloomier-looking Snow White and the Huntsman), Julia Roberts takes her turn as stepmom, to an earnest little ingenue (Lily Collins) whose kingly father (Sean Bean) is presumed dead and whose rather-teeny-looking kingdom is collapsing under the weight of fiscal ruin and a thick stratum of snow. Into this sorry realm rides a chiseled beefcake named Prince Alcott (Arnie Hammer), who hails from prosperous Valencia, falls for Snow White, and draws the attentions of the Queen (Roberts) from both a strategic and a libidinal standpoint. Soon enough, Snow White (Snow to her friends) is narrowly avoiding execution at the hands of the Queen’s sycophantic courtier-henchman (Nathan Lane), rustling up breakfast for a thieving band of stilt-walking dwarves, and engaging in sylvan hijinks preparatory to deposing her stepmother and bringing light and warmth and birdsong and perennials back into fashion. Director Tarsem Singh (2000’s The Cell, 2011’s Immortals) stages the film’s royal pageantry with a bright artistry, and Roberts holds court with vicious, amoral relish as she senses her powers of persuasion slipping relentlessly from her grasp. Carefully catering to tween-and-under tastes as well as those of their chaperones, the comedy comes in various breadths, and there’s meta-humor in the sight of Roberts passing the pretty woman torch, though Collins seems blandly unprepared to wield her power wisely or interestingly. Consider vacating your seats before the extraneous Bollywood-style song-and-dance number that accompanies the closing credits. (1:46) Balboa, Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, Sundance Kabuki. (Rapoport)

*Pina Watching Pina Bausch’s choreography on film should not have been as absorbing and deeply affecting of an experience as it was. Dance on film tends to disappoint — the camera flattens the body and distorts perspective, and you either see too many or not enough details. However, improved 3D technology gave Wim Wenders (1999’s Buena Vista Social Club; 1987’s Wings of Desire) the additional tools he needed to accomplish what he and fellow German Bausch had talked about for 20 years: collaborating on a documentary about her work. Instead of making a film about the rebel dance maker, Wenders made it for Bausch, who died in June 2009, two days before the start of filming. Pina is an eloquent tribute to a tiny, soft-spoken, mousy-looking artist who turned the conventions of theatrical dance upside down. She was a great artist and true innovator. Wenders’ biggest accomplishment in this beautifully paced and edited document is its ability to elucidate Bausch’s work in a way that words probably cannot. While it’s good to see dance’s physicality and its multi dimensionality on screen, it’s even better that the camera goes inside the dances to touch tiny details and essential qualities in the performers’ every gesture. No proscenium theater can offer that kind of intimacy. Appropriately, intimacy (the eternal desire for it) and loneliness (an existential state of being) were the two contradictory forces that Bausch kept exploring over and over. And by taking fragments of the dances into the environment — both natural and artificial — of Wuppertal, Germany, Wenders places them inside the emotional lives of ordinary people, subjects of all of Bausch’s work. (1:43) Four Star, Shattuck. (Rita Felciano)

*The Raid: Redemption As rip-roaring as they come, Indonesian import The Raid: Redemption (from, oddly, a Welsh writer-director, Gareth Huw Evans) arrives to reassure genre fans that action films are still being made without CG-embellished stunts, choppy editing, and gratuitous 3D. Fists, feet, and gnarly weapons do the heavy lifting in this otherwise simple tale of a taciturn special-forces cop (Iko Uwais) who’s part of a raid on a run-down, high-rise apartment building where all the tenants are crooks and the landlord is a penthouse-dwelling crime boss (Ray Sahetapy). Naturally, things go awry almost immediately, and floor-to-floor brawls (choreographed by Uwais and co-star Yayan Ruhian, whose character is aptly named “Mad Dog”) comprise nearly the entirety of the film; of particular interest is The Raid‘s focus on pencak silat, an indigenous Indonesian fighting style — though there are also plenty of thrilling gun battles, machete-thwackings, and other dangerous delights. Even better: Redemption is the first in a planned trilogy of films starring Uwais’ badass (yet morally rock-solid) character. Bring it! (1:40) California, Metreon, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Safe House Frankly, Denzel Washington watchers are starved for another movie in which he’s playing the smartest guy in the room. Despite being hampered by a determinedly murky opening, Safe House should mostly satisfy. Washington’s Tobin Frost is well-used to dwelling into a grayed-out borderland of black ops and flipped alliances — a onetime CIA star, he now trades secrets while perpetually on the run. Fleeing from killers of indeterminate origin, Tobin collides headlong with eager young agent Matt (Ryan Reynolds), who’s stuck maintaining a safe house in Cape Town, South Africa. Tasked with holding onto Tobin’s high-level player by his boss (Brendan Gleeson) and his boss’s boss (Sam Shepard), Matt is determined to prove himself, retain and by extension protect Tobin (even when the ex-superspy is throttling him from behind amid a full-speed car chase), and resist the magnetic pull of those many hazardous gray zones. Surrounded by an array of actorly heavies, including Vera Farmiga, who collectively ratchet up and invest this possibly not-very-interesting narrative — “Bourne” there; done that — with heart-pumping intensity, Washington is magnetic and utterly convincing as the jaded mouse-then-cat-then-mouse toying with and playing off Reynolds go-getter innocent. Safe House‘s narrative doesn’t quite fill in the gaps in Tobin Frost’s whys and wherefores, and the occasional ludicrous breakthroughs aren’t always convincing, but the film’s overall, familiar effect should fly, even when it’s playing it safe (or overly upstanding, especially when it comes to one crucial, climactic scrap of dialogue from “bad guy” Washington, which rings extremely politically incorrect and tone-deaf). (2:00) SF Center. (Chun)

*Salmon Fishing in the Yemen In Lasse Hallström’s latest film, a sheikh named Muhammed (Amr Waked) with a large castle in Scotland, an ardent love of fly-fishing, and unlimited funds envisions turning a dry riverbed in the Yemeni desert into an aquifer-fed salmon-run site and the surrounding lands into an agricultural cornucopia. Tasked with realizing this dream are London marketing consultant Harriet Chetwode-Talbot (Emily Blunt) and government fisheries scientist Alfred Jones (Ewan McGregor), a reluctant participant who refers to the project as “doolally” and signs on under professional duress. Despite numerous feasibility issues (habitat discrepancies, the necessity for a mass exodus of British salmon, two million irate British anglers), Muhammed’s vision is borne forward on a rising swell of cynicism generated within the office of the British prime minister’s press secretary (Kristin Scott Thomas), whose lackeys have been scouring the wires for a shred of U.K.-related good news out of the Middle East. Ecology-minded killjoys may question whether this qualifies. But putting aside, if one can, the possible inadvisability of relocating 10,000 nonnative salmon to a wadi in Yemen — which is to say, putting aside the basic premise — it’s easy and pleasant enough to go with the flow of the film, infected by Jones’s growing enthusiasm for both the project and Ms. Chetwode-Talbot. Adapted from Paul Torday’s novel by Simon Beaufoy (2009’s Slumdog Millionaire), Salmon Fishing is a sweet and funny movie, and while it suffers from the familiar flurried third-act knotting together of loose ends, its storytelling stratagems are entertaining and its characters compellingly textured, and the cast makes the most of the well-polished material. (1:52) Albany, Embarcadero, 1000 Van Ness, Piedmont, Presidio, Sundance Kabuki. (Rapoport)

*The Salt of Life Gianni Di Gregorio is both a triumph over and cautionary illustration of the aging uomo, racking up decades of experience yet still infantilized by that most binding tie. He’s a late bloomer who’s long worked in theater and film in various capacities, notably as a scenarist for 2008’s organized crime drama Gomorrah. That same year he wrote and directed a first feature basically shot in his own Rome apartment. Mid-August Lunch was a surprise global success casting the director himself as a putz, also named Gianni, very like himself (by his own admission), peevishly trying to have some independence while catering to the whims of the ancient but demanding mother (Valeria De Franciscis) he still lives with. Lunch was charming in a sly, self-deprecating way, and The Salt of Life is more of the same minus the usual diminishing returns: the creator’s barely-alter ego Gianni is still busy doing nothing much, dissatisfied not by his indolence but by its quality. But his pint-sized, wig-rocking, nearly century-old matriarch has now moved to a plush separate address with full-time care — and Salt‘s main preoccupation is Gianni’s discovery that while he’s as available and interested in women as ever, at age 63 he is no longer visible to them. While Fellini confronted desirable, daunting womanhood with a permanent adolescent’s masturbatory fantasizing, Di Gregorio’s humbler self-knowledge finds comedy in the hangdog haplessness of an old dog who can’t learn new tricks and has forgotten the old ones. (1:30) Opera Plaza, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

*A Separation Iran’s first movie to win Berlin’s Golden Bear (as well as all its acting awards), this domestic drama reflecting a larger socio-political backdrop is subtly well-crafted on all levels, but most of all demonstrates the unbeatable virtue of having an intricately balanced, reality-grounded screenplay — director Asghar Farhadi’s own — as bedrock. A sort of confrontational impartiality is introduced immediately, as our protagonists Nader (Peyman Moadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami) face the camera — or rather the court magistrate — to plead their separate cases in her filing for divorce, which he opposes. We gradually learn that their 14-year wedlock isn’t really irreparable, the feelings between them not entirely hostile. The roadblock is that Simin has finally gotten permission to move abroad, a chance she thinks she must seize for the sake of their daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi). But Nader doesn’t want to leave the country, and is not about to let his only child go without him. Farhadi worked in theater before moving into films a decade ago. His close attention to character and performance (developed over several weeks’ pre-production rehearsal) has the acuity sported by contemporary playwrights like Kenneth Lonergan and Theresa Rebeck, fitted to a distinctly cinematic urgency of pace and image. There are moments that risk pushing plot mechanizations too far, by A Separation pulls off something very intricate with deceptive simplicity, offering a sort of integrated Rashomon (1950) in which every participant’s viewpoint as the wronged party is right — yet in conflict with every other. (2:03) Albany, Lumiere. (Harvey)

*The Secret World of Arrietty It’s been far too long between 2008’s Ponyo, the last offering from Studio Ghibli, and this feature-length adaptation of Mary Norton’s children’s classic, The Borrowers, but the sheer beauty of the studio’s hand-drawn animation and the effortless wonder of its tale more than make up for the wait. This U.S. release, under the very apropos auspices of Walt Disney Pictures, comes with an American voice cast (in contrast with the U.K. version), and the transition appears to be seamless — though, of course, the background is subtly emblazoned with kanji, there are details like the dinnertime chopsticks, and the characters’ speech rhythms, down to the “sou ka” affirmative that peppers all Japanese dialogue. Here in this down-low, hybridized realm, the fearless, four-inches-tall Arrietty (voiced by Bridgit Mendler) has grown up imaginative yet lonely, believing her petite family is the last of their kind: they’re Borrowers, a race of tiny people who live beneath the floorboards of full-sized human’s dwellings and take what they need to survive. Despite the worries of her mother Homily (Amy Poehler), Arrietty begins to embark on borrowing expeditions with her father Pod (Will Arnett) — there are crimps in her plans, however: their house’s new resident, a sickly boy named Shawn (David Henrie), catches a glimpse of Arrietty in the garden, and caretaker Hara (Carol Burnett) has a bit of an ulterior motive when it comes to rooting out the wee folk. Arrietty might not be for everyone — some kids might churn in their seats with ADD-style impatience at this graceful, gentle throwback to a pre-digital animation age — but in the care of first-time director Hiromasa Yonebayashi and Ghibli mastermind Hayao Miyazaki, who wrote co-wrote the screenplay, Arrietty will transfix other youngsters (and animation fans of all ages) with the glorious detail of its natural world, all beautifully amplified and suffused with everyday magic when viewed through the eyes of a pocket-sized adventurer. (1:35) Metreon, Shattuck. (Chun)

*Shame It’s been a big 2011 for Michael Fassbender, with Jane Eyre, X-Men: First Class, Shame, and A Dangerous Method raising his profile from art-house standout to legit movie star (of the “movie stars who can also act” variety). Shame may only reach one-zillionth of X-Men‘s audience due to its NC-17 rating, but this re-teaming with Hunger (2008) director Steve McQueen is Fassbender’s highest achievement to date. He plays Brandon, a New Yorker whose life is tightly calibrated to enable a raging sex addiction within an otherwise sterile existence, including an undefined corporate job and a spartan (yet expensive-looking) apartment. When brash, needy, messy younger sister Cissy (Carey Mulligan, speaking of actors having banner years) shows up, yakking her life all over his, chaos results. Shame is a movie that unfolds in subtle details and oversized actions, with artful direction despite its oft-salacious content. If scattered moments seem forced (loopy Cissy’s sudden transformation, for one scene, into a classy jazz singer), the emotions — particularly the titular one — never feel less than real and raw. (1:39) Opera Plaza. (Eddy)

*Tim and Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie It’s almost impossible to describe Adult Swim hit Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!, but “cable access on acid” comes pretty close. It’s awkward, gross, repetitive, and quotable; it features unsettling characters portrayed by famous comedians and unknowns who may not actually be actors. It all springs from the twisted brains of Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim, now on the big screen with Tim and Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie. The premise: Tim and Eric (amplified-to-the-extreme versions of Heidecker and Wareheim) get a billion to make a movie, and the end result is a very short film involving a lot of diamonds and a Johnny Depp impersonator. On the run from their angry investors (including a hilariously spitting-mad Robert Loggia), the pair decides to earn back the money managing a run-down mall filled with deserted stores (and weird ones that sell things like used toilet paper) and haunted by a man-eating wolf. Or something. Anyway, the plot is just an excuse to unfurl the Tim and Eric brand of bizarre across the length of a feature film; if you’re already in the cult, you’ve probably already seen the film (it’s been On Demand for weeks). Adventurous newcomers, take note: Tim and Eric’s comedy is the ultimate love-it-or-hate-it experience. There is no middle ground. There are, however, some righteously juicy poop jokes. (1:32) Roxie. (Eddy)

*21 Jump Street One of the more pleasant surprises on the mainstream comedy landscape has to be this, ugh, “reboot” of the late-’80s TV franchise. I wasn’t a fan of the show — or its dark-eyed, bad-boy star, Johnny Depp — back in the day, but I am of this unexpectedly funny rework overseen by apparent enthusiast, star, co-writer, and co-executive producer Jonah Hill, with a screenplay by Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010) co-writer Michael Bacall. There’s more than a smidge of Bacall’s other high school fantasy, Project X, in the buddy comedy premise of nerd (Hill’s Schmidt) meets blowhard (Channing Tatum’s Jenko), but 21 Jump Street thankfully leapfrogs the former with its meta-savvy, irreverent script and har-dee-har cameo turns by actors like Ice Cube as Captain Dickson (as well as a few key uncredited players who shall remain under deep cover). High school continues to haunt former classmates Schmidt and Jenko, who have just graduated from the lowly police bike corps to a high school undercover operation — don’t get it twisted, though, Dickson hollers at them; they got this gig solely because they look young. Still, the whole drug-bust enchilada is put in jeopardy when the once-socially toxic Schmidt finds his brand of geekiness in favor with the cool kids and so-called dumb-jock Jenko discovers the pleasures of the mind with the chem lab set. Fortunately for everyone, this crew doesn’t take themselves, or the source material, too seriously. (1:49) Marina, Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

Wrath of the Titans Playing fast and loose with Greek myths but not agile enough to kick out a black metal jam during a flaming underworld power-grab, Wrath of Titans is, as expected, a bit of a CGI-crammed mess. Still, the sword-and-sandals franchise has attracted scads of international actorly talent — the cast is enriched this time by Édgar Ramírez (2010’s Carlos), Bill Nighy, and Rosamund Pike — and you do get at least one cool monster and paltry explication (Cerberus, which bolts from earth for no discernible reason except that maybe all hell is breaking loose). Just because action flicks like Cloverfield (2008) have long dispensed with narrative handlebars doesn’t mean that age-old stories like the Greek myths should get completely random with their titanic tale-spinning. Wrath opens on the twilight of the gods: Zeus (Liam Neeson) is practically groveling before Perseus (Sam Worthington) — now determined to go small, raise his son, and work on his fishing skills — and trying to persuade him to step up and help the Olympians hold onto power. Fellow Zeus spawn Ares (Ramírez) is along for the ride, so demigod up, Perseus. In some weird, last-ditch attempt to ream his bro Zeus, the oily, mulleted Hades (Ralph Fiennes) has struck a deal with their entrapped, chaotic, castrating fireball of a dad Cronus to let them keep their immortality, on the condition that Zeus is sapped of his power. Picking up Queen Andromeda (Pike) along the way, Perseus gets the scoop on how to get to Hell from Hephaestus (Nighy playing the demented Vulcan like a ’60s acid casualty, given to chatting with mechanical owl Bubo, a wink to 1981 precursor Clash of the Titans, which set the bar low for the remake). Though there are some distracting action scenes (full of speedy, choppy edits that confuse disorientation for excitement) and a few intriguing monsters (just how did the Minotaur make it to this labyrinth?), there’s no money line like “Release the Kraken!” this time around, and there’s way too much nattering on about fatherly responsibility and forgiveness —making these feel-good divinities sound oddly, mawkishly Christian and softheaded rather than mythically pagan and brattily otherworldly. Wasn’t the appeal of the gods linked to the fact that they always acted more like outta-hand adolescents than holier-than-thou deities? I guess that’s why no one’s praying to them anymore. (1:39) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness. (Chun) *

 

Image Comic Expo showcases new stars and the old guard

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Comic cons serve a variety of functions. They can be press junkets, costume parties, swap meets, social retreats, even museums. Comics writer Warren Ellis has a habit of referring to San Diego’s huge Comic Con as “nerd prom,” which perfectly captures the glow of excitement for mass socialization in funny costumes. By contrast, this year’s Image Comic Expo was more like a nerd Sadie Hawkins dance – a deliberate reversal of the standard hierarchy, where creator-owned books are championed over the widely beloved DC and Marvel franchises that sometimes seem to oversaturate the comics market. It was also a little less garish and hectic than some larger cons, but the sense of community and pride was still richly evident.

The event coincided with two historic peculiarities – the twentieth anniversary of Berkeley-based Image Comics and the migration of San Francisco’s WonderCon to Anaheim this year. And, fittingly, there was no shortage of Image worship over the con’s three days. In the center of the convention floor like a hub was the main Image vendor, which sold books, distributed tickets to panels and workshops, and hosted signings, all in the shadow of a massive edifice with Image book covers on one side and images from Robert Kirkman’s Skybound imprint on the other.

Local vendors were well-represented on the con floor, with Berkeley’s Fantastic Comics (shout-out to my hometown comic book guys and gals) and Escapist Comic Bookstore, and San Francisco’s Two Cats Comic Book Store, among others. The “artist alley” was rife with independent artists and creators selling their wares and producing sketches, while several Image creators, including Jonathan Hickman (Red Wing), Nick Spencer (Morning Glories), and the MAN OF ACTION gents, got their own booths around the con.

As for the sort of crowd the Image Expo attracted, based entirely on my casual observations, there was a notable diversity of age, gender, and ethnicity. There were strikingly few cosplayers, though I spotted one full-blown Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender, a group of ladies in anime-inspired dress (I made out one Sailor suit), and two young’uns dressed as Batgirl (or a female Batman) and Captain America. Among con guests, the Skybound booth featured an Atom Eve cosplayer, and the comedians of Dipstick Swagger sported a variety of disguises including their own mascot, Luchacat.

By virtue of the con’s Image-centric organization, the panels which ran through Saturday and Sunday were occasionally redundant, with guests like Kirkman, Joe Casey, and Brian K. Vaughan each appearing in multiple places. But breaking announcements and a sense of fan enthusiasm for these beloved creators’ upcoming work kept it all going. Among the exciting announcements at Friday night’s keynote speech by Image publisher Eric Stephenson: the long-awaited sequel to Howard Chaykin’s Black Kiss, a third volume of Phonogram from Gillen/McKelvie, a collaboration between Grant Morrison and Darick Robertson called Happy, and several other new titles.

The most enjoyable panels were the ones that featured folks with a less-established fanbase, who were in a position to introduce new readers to their ideas. The inaugural Saturday panel, moderated by G4’s Blair Butler, focused on the forthcoming Kickstarter-funded collection Womanthology, a showcase for comics by female creators. The panel featured Trina Robbins, Mariah Huehner, Nicole Sixx, Fiona Staples, and Bonnie Burton, all of who contributed in various capacities. The audience, though smallish, was enthusiastic about both the cause and the content, and discussions of such exasperating issues as the “brokeback pose” (slightly NSFW tumblr here) drew applause and thoughtful questions.

Also engrossing was Sunday’s “Image Introduces…” panel, with a slate of recently recognized creators whose series are still in their early issues, including Joe Keatinge (Glory, Hell Yeah), S. Steven Struble and Sina Grace (Li’l Depressed Boy), Daniel Corey (Moriarty), Jim Zub (Skullkickers), Brandon Seifert (Witch Doctor), and Kurtis J. Wiebe (Peter Panzerfaust). It was a joy to see their pride in their creations and their genuine pleasure at getting to share their work with potential new fans.

But let us not forget the old guard: at the “Twenty Years of Independence” panel, the founders of Image told their story and the audience got a chance to witness controversial icons like Todd McFarlane and Rob Liefeld; the “Stories and Scripts: Writing Comics” panel featured Image’s hottest properties, including Jonathan Hickman, Ed Brubaker, Nick Spencer, John Layman, Joe Casey, Steven T. Seagle, and Brian K. Vaughan, who basically all teased each other and had a grand old time.

Since it was an Image-minded convention, creators came first, which is always refreshing, especially for less iconic newcomers with a lot to offer, but the apotheosis of one publisher might wear thin if the convention continues in subsequent years. With a bit of expansion, though, an East Bay comics event might differ enough from WonderCon to hold an audience.

All photos by Taryn Erhardt

 

Our Weekly Picks: February 22-27

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WEDNESDAY 22

Way Behind the Music

Famous rockers may have a way with riffs, but their grammar and syntax can often prove cringe-worthy. And yet, their inflated egos and turmoil-filled musings within literary efforts provide insight into worlds otherwise unknown. This, my friends, is the perfect set-up for an evening of music obsessed over-sharing. At the return of Litquake and Noise Pop’s collaborative event, Way Behind the Music, a collection of esteemed local musicians and writers will read from the autobiographies of Ozzy Osbourne, Sammy Hagar, Jewel, Slash, Ted Nugent, Marianne Faithfull, Angela Bowie, Jim Hutton (boyfriend of Freddie Mercury), and Christopher Ciccone (brother of Madonna). The group on stage — which includes Penelope Houston, Carletta Sue Kay, Jennifer Maerz, and more — will extract tales of Olympic-level drug use, epic bands fights, and rock star trials and tribulations, giving the audience just a taste of that wild ride to infamy. (Emily Savage)

7 p.m., $15

Make-Out Room

3225 22nd St., SF

(415) 647-2888

www.makeoutroom.com

 

THURSDAY 23

Big Black Delta

Big Black Delta is the solo project of Los Angeles maestro Jonathan Bates, lead singer of lo-fi rock band Mellowdrone. Legend has it Bates launched BBD after buying a used laptop off frequent Nine Inch Nails collaborator Alessandro Cortini and using it to create electronic soundscapes. Good thing too, because BBDLP1 is a crafty compilation made up of equal parts power and panache. “Huggin & Kissin” sounds so aggressive, it’s as if Depeche Mode’s synths decided to take steroids and beat up little kids. On the flip side, “Dreary Moon” with Morgan Kibby (the Romanovs, M83) has all the ethereal, vocal playfulness of an Air track. Bates brings in dueling drummers Mahsa Zargaran and Amy Wood for the live show. (Kevin Lee)

With New Diplomat, Aaron Axelsen & Nako 9 p.m., $10–<\d>$12 Rickshaw Stop 155 Fell, SF (415) 861-2011 www.rickshawstop.com

 

FRIDAY 24

“More Light”

If you’re up for a dose of reifying pessimism, check out “More Light” —a joint exhibition featuring new works by Francesco Deiana and Lafe Harley Eaves. In an effort to explore how society diverts humans from primordial joys, Deiana creates ballpoint pen drawings and images on photographic paper that juxtapose society’s adulterating tendencies with natural beauty (e.g. a drawing of an impenetrable brick wall flushed with a photograph of the ocean). Eaves, who’s said he views the world as “one dark joke after another,” makes line and pattern narratives that delve into the occult, religion, and the psychedelic. He also focuses on illustrating human duality and the uncertainty of relationships. (Mia Sullivan)

7 p.m. opening reception, free

Park Life

220 Clement, SF

(415) 386-7275

www.parklifestore.com

 

Image Comic Expo

With San Francisco’s WonderCon moving to Anaheim while Moscone Center South undergoes renovation, Image Comic Expo in Oakland is the primary destination for Bay Area comic book nerdery this season. Instead of focusing on Marvel and DC — the comics industry’s “Big Two” — the Expo bills itself as a “celebration of creator-owned comics.” Exhibitors include a number of independent publishers besides Berkeley-based Image Comics. Guests include Image luminaries Rob Liefeld, Todd McFarlane, and Robert Kirkman (The Walking Dead), plus fan favorites Jonathan Hickman (FF, Pax Romana), Joe Casey (Gødland), Brian K. Vaughan (Y: The Last Man, ABC’s Lost) and Blair Butler. (Sam Stander)

Fri/24, 3-8 p.m.; Sat/25, 10 a.m.-6 p.m.; Sun/26, 10 a.m.-5 p.m., $20–$150

Oakland Convention Center 550 10th St., Oakl.

www.imagecomicexpo.com

 

Dave Holland Overtone Quartet

English bassist Dave Holland came to the United States at the request of the legendary Miles Davis and became part of music lore as part of the quartet that birthed jazz fusion and its opus, Bitches Brew (Columbia). Holland has since worked with a number of jazz masters including Herbie Hancock, Stan Getz, Thelonious Monk and Chick Corea. When Holland was coming into his own as a musician in the 1970s, the rest of the Overtone Quartet were just entering into the world. But saxophonist Chris Potter (a frequent Holland collaborator), drummer Eric Harland (a SFJazz Collective performer) and pianist Jason Moran (a MacArthur Fellowship “Genius”) have established themselves as potent forces in their own right. (Lee)

8 p.m., $25–$65

Palace of Fine Arts

3301 Lyon, SF

(415) 567-6642

www.sfjazz.org

 

“Oracle and Enigma”

For a while, thanks to a series of festivals organized by producer Brechin Flournoy, San Francisco was the place in the country to see Butoh. The excitement and puzzlement surrounding the art has died down as it has simply become another form of international dance. So it should be good to again see one of its original practitioners, the Kyoto-born Katsura Kan who in 1997 moved to Thailand and has since become one of those peripatetic choreographer-dancers who takes inspiration from wherever he alights. As part of his winter residency at CounterPULSE, Kan and Shoshana Green will present “Oracle and Enigma” which they describe as “a journey towards the celestial horizon”. Sounds like Butoh . (Rita Felciano)

Fri/24-Sat/25, 8 p.m., $18–<\d>$20

CounterPULSE

1310 Mission, SF

(800) 350-8850

www.counterpulse.org

 

SATURDAY 25

Monster Jam

A stampede of horsepower comes thundering into the Bay Area today with the Monster Jam series of monster truck races and events, featuring 16 ground-shaking custom creations such as the long-running fan favorite “Grave Digger,” which is celebrating its 30th anniversary this year. Fans can get up close and personal with the burly behemoths during the afternoon “Party In The Pits” before the night’s main events, where the 10,000 pound muscle machines will fly through the air at distances up to 130 feet, reach heights up to 35 feet in the air, and of course, gloriously smash a series a puny regular cars. (Sean McCourt)

3-6 p.m. pit party, 7 p.m. main event; $12.50–<\d>$32, $125 for total access pass

O.co Coliseum

7000 Coliseum Way, Oakl.

(800) 745-3000

www.monsterjam.com

 

“Cum and Glitter: A Live Sex Show”

Perhaps you’re one of those people — that yes, do exist — left nonplussed by your standard strip club experience. Let’s face it, fried chicken buffets and atrocious choreography amplified by glitter platform heels don’t do it for us all. For you, then, queer pornographer Maxine Holloway’s new monthly sex show. Holloway, a vintage-loving local coquette, has bolstered her sex industry chops heading Madison Young’s women’s only POV website and used her connections to line up a crack cast for Cum and Glitter’s opening night: Kitty Stryker, Courtney Trouble, and Annika Amour among other superlative sex workers. Live cello music. Specialty cocktails named after the performers. Class. (Caitlin Donohue)

9 p.m., $30–$55 individuals, $50 couples

RSVP for location

www.cumandglitter.com

 

SUNDAY 26

“Up the Oscars!”

For a particular breed of movie fiend, the Academy Awards are more like a sporting event than a glamorous celebration of Hollywood. You know the type: catcalling the screen like they’re giving a blind ref the business (2006 flashback: “Crash? Are you fucking kidding me? Brokeback Mountain forever!”) This year’s ceremony will no doubt evoke its own array of passionate responses to awkward presenters and awkward gowns, omissions from the Tribute to the Dead, faux-surprised winners who unfurl pre-scripted lists of people to thank (“My agent! My masseuse!”), etc. The Roxie’s annual “Up the Oscars!” bash is aimed squarely at those who enjoy cheering and jeering the gold man in equal measure. D.I.Y. drinking games optional. (Cheryl Eddy)

3:45 p.m., $15

Roxie Theater

3117 16th St., SF

www.roxie.com

 

Stardust Sunday

Cover band? Try cover cult. The First Church of the Sacred Silversexual takes all the Christ allusions David Bowie made with The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and The Man Who Fell to Earth, exorcising one little bit — Jesus. The resulting mass is a blasphemous celebration of the 65-year-young rock God’s music. With as many members as Bowie has personas, all fully embracing their deity’s love of costume, the Church’s service has the campy theatricality of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and all the sparkle of a Ken Russell movie. (Ryan Prendiville)

With Space Cowboys DJs Mancub and 8Ball

8 p.m., $5

Public Works

161 Erie, SF

(415) 932-0955

www.publicsf.com

 

The Dodos

Listening to the Dodos kind of makes you feel like you’re part of a drum march that’s heading down a sunny country road via Brooklyn. Logan Kroeber, who’s been known to play a drum kit sans bass and to tape a tambourine to his foot, creates catchy rhythms that compel you to dance frenetically (really, it’s unavoidable), while lead vocalist Meric Long finger-picks an acoustic guitar and traverses the octaves with deep, introspective lyrics you can’t help Googling. This San Francisco-based indie folk duo most recently released fourth album, No Color (Frenchkiss) last year, and is closing out Noise Pop this year with what will likely be a memorable performance. (Sullivan)

With Au, Cannons and Clouds, Here Here

7 p.m., $20

Great American Music Hall

859 O’Farrell, SF

(415) 885-0750

www.gamh.com

 

MONDAY 27

Leslie and the LY’s

Long known for her 1980s-esque minimal dance-pop numbers encased in stretchy gold lame (referred to in “Gold Pants”), and even longer for her extensive bejeweled sweater collection (ahem, “Gem Sweater”), Leslie of Leslie and the LY’s boasts a newish additional talent to add to the mix: wedding officiant. The Ames, IA-based confetti-puke performance artist began officiating weddings when Iowa voted yes on gay marriage in 2009. The weddings she oversees are said to twinkle with her typical megawatt star quality — there’s even a documentary about one affair called Married in Spandex — and Mother Gem performs a personalized dance number for each lucky couple. While she may not be hosting any impromptu weddings during her appearance at Rickshaw this week, the world just feels more glamorous knowing that she could (for this, we listen to “Power Cuddle”). (Savage)

With Pennyhawk, Ramona & the Swimsuits

8 p.m., $13

Rickshaw Stop

(415) 861-2011

155 Fell, SF

www.rickshawstop.com

 

TUESDAY 28

Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks

Following 2010’s high profile Pavement reunion tour — which gave fans of the ’90s alternative rockers a chance to see the group live for the first or last time (as well as reportedly giving some of the members funds to pay off some financial debts) — leader Stephen Malkmus returned to the studio with his band the Jicks to record an album with Beck on board as producer. The result, Mirror Traffic, carries over the tour’s energy, and is the closest thing to a Terror Twilight follow-up to date. And as showcased by the Jicks’s all-too-short performance at the last Treasure Island Music Festival, Malkmus remains the slacker king of the nonchalant guitar solo. (Prendiville)

With Nurses

8 p.m., $20

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255-0333

www.slimspresents.com 

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Film Listings

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Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Max Goldberg, Dennis Harvey, Lynn Rapoport, and Matt Sussman. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. Due to the Presidents’ Day holiday, theater information was incomplete at presstime.

INDIEFEST

The 14th San Francisco Independent Film Festival runs through Thurs/23 at the Roxie Theater, 3117 16th St, SF. For tickets (most films $11) and schedule info, visit www.sfindie.com.

OPENING

Act of Valor Action movie starring real-life, active-duty Navy SEALs. (1:45)

*Bullhead Michael R. Roskam’s Belgian import scored an unexpected Best Foreign Language Film Oscar nomination this year. Unexpected, because it’s daring, disturbing, and a lot of other things that Foreign Language Film nominees usually are not (heartwarming, yes — gasp-inducing, no). The five-second description of this film, which is about a cattle farmer who injects both his livestock and his own body with illegal hormones, doesn’t do it justice. Who knew there was such a thing, for instance, as a “hormone mafia underworld”? While some of Bullhead‘s nuances, which occasionally pivot on culture-clash moments specific to its Belgium setting, will inevitably be lost on American viewers, the most important parts of the movie come through loud and clear, and you won’t soon forget them. (2:04) (Eddy)

*Dizzy Heights: Silent Cinema and Life in the Air The film medium’s first, sound free decades coincided with a sense of hurtling modernization throughout first-world society like nothing before or since — centuries of history had scarcely prepared for the sudden reality of such concepts as “world war” or “skyscraper.” Aviation in particular was such a fascinating wonder its potential seemed limitless, though commercial air travel was as yet many years and dollars from the average citizen’s reach. Curated by Patrick Ellis, this Pacific Film Archive series brings together some of the era’s most fanciful depictions of progress and peril in the skies. It includes 1918’s goofy, ambitious Danish A Trip to Mars, whose intrepid (if in-fighting) Earthlings land to promptly horrify the Red Planet of Peace’s entire vegetarian populace by shooting fowl and throwing a grenade. The influence of Isadora Duncan weighs heavily on the ensuing lessons learned, as wreath-bearing, toga clad peaceniks (“Come with me and look at the dance of chastity”) exhort our heroes to return home and preach pacifism — a very timely message, then. The 1929 British “disaster flick” High Treason more realistically depicts a very Jazz Age near future pushed away from the Charleston towards more catastrophic military conflict by unscrupulous war profiteers. Julien Duvivier, a director at the beginning of a long, sometimes pedestrian career in the French cinematic mainstream, was young and feckless when he made 1927’s Mystery of the Eiffel Tower, a long, antic conspiracy thriller that directly inspired the Tintin comics. This long weekend of rarities also includes a program of shorts encompassing animation from Disney and McKay, trick photography and Mack Sennett slapstick. Pacific Film Archive. (Harvey)

Gone A woman (Amanda Seyfried) who escaped a serial killer fears he has retaliated by kidnapping her sister. (1:34)

*In Darkness See “The War at Home.” (2:25)

*Khodorkovsky Russia today is a so-called “managed democracy.” Flawed a system as democracy is, though, it’s something you either live in or don’t — put a qualifier on the term, and it becomes something else. This particular something else is a nation where a popular, populist leader like Vladimir Putin can maintain an economically successful (at least for many) status quo and his own power by squelching any political opposition via decidedly un-democratic means. One of the most conspicuous such cases in recent years has been the imprisonment of Mikhail Khodorkovsky, former owner of oil company Yukos and the most fabulously wealthy “oligarch” to emerge from Russia’s post-Soviet move toward capitalist privatization. Though initially considered as corrupt as any in that privileged class, he realized after a fashion that transparency actually encouraged investment, becoming a noted respecter of oft-abused minority shareholder rights and a sort of poster child for ethical business practice. This transition coincided with increased friction between him and Putin, who had given Khodorkovsky and others like him relatively free rein so long as they “stayed out of politics.” On the day before the latter was arrested in 2003 — returning against all advice from an overseas trip where he’d been expected to become another wealthy “political emigrant” — he continued to align himself with the reformist anti-Putin opposition by telling a TV host “As long as our country isn’t fully a civil society, no one is safe from the people with handcuffs.” Conviction on questionable charges, Stalinesque detention in remote Siberia, and still-ongoing excuses for sentence elongation have ensued. The subject of Cyril Tuschi’s documentary (finally interviewed directly at the end) is certainly not innocent of arrogance, incaution, and possibly more prosecutable crimes; but he has also clearly chosen the hardest path against an intractable, grudge-keeping foe on moral principal. How many billionaires would even consider losing their freedom, comfort, and wealth for such an abstract? Khodorkovsky the movie has its character flaws, too — but you can forgive a filmmaker some of those when he’s working on a subject, and from a perspective, that has gotten more than a couple fellow journalists “mysteriously” poisoned to death. (1:51) (Harvey)

*Roadie Michael Cuesta’s first film as both director and writer (again co-authoring with brother Gerald) since 2001’s startling debut feature L.I.E. is also his best work since then. After nearly a quarter-century spent schlepping equipment for Blue Oyster Cult — the arty metal band (“Don’t Fear the Reaper,” i.e. “more cowbell!”) that was already sliding from the spotlight when he signed on — Jimmy Testergross (Ron Eldard) is fired, the reasons unknown to us. With nowhere else to go, he lands on the doorstep of his childhood home in Queens, where he hasn’t been seen in at least 20 years. Mom (Lois Smith) is going senile, though somehow her disapproval comes through with perfect clarity (and hasn’t changed in all that time). Seeking a liquid solace at a bar, our hero instead runs into Randy (Bobby Cannavale), who bullied him mercilessly way back when — and is now married to “Jimmy Testicle’s” still-hot former girlfriend Nikki (Jill Hennessey), who has rock-star aspirations of her own. Taking place over less than 24 hours’ span, Roadie is a very small character study, but a well-observed one. “Developmentally stunted by rock ‘n’ roll,” as one character puts it (when it emerges 40-something Jimmy has never learned to make coffee for himself), its protagonist is the kind of likable boy-man loser usually found in Fountains of Wayne songs, an aging lifelong air guitarist pining over good old days that probably weren’t even that good. His nostalgia is as touchingly hapless as his dubious future. (1:35) SF Film Society Cinema. (Harvey)

*Straight Outta Hunters Point 2 See “Back to the Point.” (1:20) Roxie.

Tyler Perry’s Good Deeds Director Tyler Perry puts aside the Madea drag to star as a man torn between Gabrielle Union and Thandie Newton. (1:51)

Wanderlust Paul Rudd and Jennifer Aniston star in this David Wain-directed, Judd Apatow-produced comedy about a New York City couple who move to a commune. (1:38)

ONGOING

*The Artist With the charisma-oozing agility of Douglas Fairbanks swashbuckling his way past opponents and the supreme confidence of Rudolph Valentino leaning, mid-swoon, into a maiden, French director-writer Michel Hazanavicius hits a sweet spot, or beauty mark of sorts, with his radiant new film The Artist. In a feat worthy of Fairbanks or Errol Flynn, Hazanavicius juggles a marvelously layered love story between a man and a woman, tensions between the silents and the talkies, and a movie buff’s appreciation of the power of film — embodied in particular by early Hollywood’s union of European artistry and American commerce. Dashing silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin, who channels Fairbanks, Flynn, and William Powell — and won this year’s Cannes best actor prize) is at the height of his career, adorable Jack Russell by his side, until the talkies threaten to relegate him to yesterday’s news. The talent nurtured in the thick of the studio system yearns for real power, telling the newspapers, “I’m not a puppet anymore — I’m an artist,” and finances and directs his own melodrama, while his youthful protégé Peppy Miller (Bérénice Béjo) becomes a yakky flapper age’s new It Girl. Both a crowd-pleasing entertainment and a loving précis on early film history, The Artist never checks its brains at the door, remaining self-aware of its own conceit and its forebears, yet unashamed to touch the audience, without an ounce of cynicism. (1:40) (Chun)

*Chico and Rita This Spain-U.K. production is at heart a very old-fashioned musical romance lent novelty by its packaging as a feature cartoon. Chico (voiced by Eman Xor Oña) is a struggling pianist-composer in pre-Castro Havana who’s instantly smitten by the sight and sound of Rita (Limara Meneses, with Idania Valdés providing vocals), a chanteuse similarly ripe for a big break. Their stormy relationship eventually sprawls, along with their careers, to Manhattan, Hollywood, Paris, Las Vegas, and Havana again, spanning decades as well as a few large bodies of water. This perpetually hot, cold, hot, cold love story isn’t very complicated or interesting — it’s pretty much “Boy meets girl, generic complications ensue” — nor is the film’s simple graphics style (reminiscent of 1970s Ralph Bakshi, minus the sleaze) all that arresting, despite the established visual expertise of Fernando Trueba’s two co directors Javier Mariscal and Tono Errando. When a dream sequence briefly pays specific homage to the modernist animation of the ’50s-early ’60s, Chico and Rita delights the eye as it should throughout. Still, it’s pleasant enough to the eye, and considerably more than that to the ear — there’s new music in a retro mode from Bebo Valdes, and plenty of the genuine period article from Monk, Mingus, Dizzy Gillespie, Chano Pozo and more. If you’ve ever jones’d for a jazzbo’s adult Hanna Barbera feature (complete with full-frontal cartoon nudity — female only, of course), your dream has come true. (1:34) Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

*The Descendants Like all of Alexander Payne’s films save 1996 debut Citizen Ruth, The Descendants is an adaptation, this time from Kaui Hart Hemmings’ excellent 2007 novel. Matt King (George Clooney) is a Honolulu lawyer burdened by various things, mostly a) being a haole (i.e. white) person nonetheless descended from Hawaiian royalty, rich in real estate most natives figure his kind stole from them; and b) being father to two children by a wife who’s been in a coma since a boating accident three weeks ago. Already having a hard time transitioning from workaholic to hands-on dad, Matt soon finds out this new role is permanent, like it or not — spouse Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie, just briefly seen animate) will not wake up. The Descendants covers the few days in which Matt has to share this news with Elizabeth’s loved ones, mostly notably Shailene Woodley and Amara Miller as disparately rebellious teen and 10-year-old daughters. Plus there’s the unpleasant discovery that the glam, sporty, demanding wife he’d increasingly seemed “not enough” for had indeed been looking elsewhere. When has George Clooney suggested insecurity enough to play a man afraid he’s too small in character for a larger-than-life spouse? But dressed here in oversized shorts and Hawaiian shirts, the usually suave performer looks shrunken and paunchy; his hooded eyes convey the stung joke’s-on-me viewpoint of someone who figures acknowledging depression would be an undeserved indulgence. Payne’s film can’t translate all the book’s rueful hilarity, fit in much marital backstory, or quite get across the evolving weirdness of Miller’s Scottie — though the young actors are all fine — but the film’s reined-in observations of odd yet relatable adult and family lives are all the more satisfying for lack of grandiose ambition. (1:55) (Harvey)

The Help It’s tough to stitch ‘n’ bitch ‘n’ moan in the face of such heart-felt female bonding, even after you brush away the tears away and wonder why the so-called help’s stories needed to be cobbled with those of the creamy-skinned daughters of privilege that employed them. The Help purports to be the tale of the 1960s African American maids hired by a bourgie segment of Southern womanhood — resourceful hard-workers like Aibileen (Viola Davis) and Minny (Octavia Spencer) raise their employers’ daughters, filling them with pride and strength if they do their job well, while missing out on their own kids’ childhood. Then those daughters turn around and hurt their caretakers, often treating them little better than the slaves their families once owned. Hinging on a self-hatred that devalues the nurturing, housekeeping skills that were considered women’s birthright, this unending ugly, heartbreaking story of the everyday injustices spells separate-and-unequal bathrooms for the family and their help when it comes to certain sniping queen bees like Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard). But the times they are a-changing, and the help get an assist from ugly duckling of a writer Skeeter (Emma Stone, playing against type, sort of, with fizzy hair), who risks social ostracism to get the housekeepers’ experiences down on paper, amid the Junior League gossip girls and the seismic shifts coming in the civil rights-era South. Based on the best-seller by Kathryn Stockett, The Help hitches the fortunes of two forces together — the African American women who are trying to survive and find respect, and the white women who have to define themselves as more than dependent breeders — under the banner of a feel-good weepie, though not without its guilty shadings, from the way the pale-faced ladies already have a jump, in so many ways, on their African American sisters to the Keane-eyed meekness of Davis’ Aibileen to The Help‘s most memorable performances, which are also tellingly throwback (Howard’s stinging hornet of a Southern belle and Jessica Chastain’s white-trash bimbo-with-a-heart-of-gold). (2:17) (Chun)

Hugo Hugo turns on an obviously genius conceit: Martin Scorsese, working with 3D, CGI, and a host of other gimmicky effects, creates a children’s fable that ultimately concerns one of early film’s pioneering special-effects fantasists. That enthusiasm for moviemaking magic, transferred across more than a century of film history, was catching, judging from Scorsese’s fizzy, exhilarating, almost-nauseating vault through an oh-so-faux Parisian train station and his carefully layered vortex of picture planes as Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield), an intrepid engineering genius of an urchin, scrambles across catwalk above a buzzing station and a hotheaded station inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen). Despite the special effects fireworks going off all around him, Hugo has it rough: after the passing of his beloved father (Jude Law), he has been stuck with an nasty drunk of a caretaker uncle (Ray Winstone), who leaves his duties of clock upkeep at a Paris train station to his charge. Hugo must steal croissants to survive and mechanical toy parts to work on the elaborate, enigmatic automaton he was repairing with his father, until he’s caught by the fierce toy seller (Ben Kingsley) with a mysterious lousy mood and a cute, bright ward, Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz). Although the surprisingly dark-ish Hugo gives Scorsese a chance to dabble a new technological toolbox — and the chance to wax pedantically, if passionately, about the importance of film archival studies — the effort never quite despite transcends its self-conscious dazzle, lagging pacing, diffuse narrative, and simplistic screenplay by John Logan, based on Brian Selznick’s book. Even the actorly heavy lifting provided by assets like Kingsley and Moretz and the backloaded love for the fantastic proponents at the dawn of filmmaking fail to help matters. Scorsese attempts to steal a little of the latters’ zeal, but one can only imagine what those wizards would do with motion-capture animation or a blockbuster-sized server farm. (2:07) (Chun)

The Iron Lady Curiously like Clint Eastwood’s 2011 J. Edgar, this biopic from director Phyllida Lloyd and scenarist Abi Morgan takes on a political life of length, breadth and controversy — yet it mostly skims over the politics in favor of a generally admiring take on a famous narrow-minded megalomaniac’s “gumption” as an underdog who drove herself to the top. Looking back on her career from a senile old age spent in the illusory company of dead spouse Denis (Jim Broadbent), Meryl Streep’s ex-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher steamrolls past hurdles of class and gender while ironically re-enforcing the fustiest Tory values. She’s essentially a spluttering Lord in skirts, absolutist in her belief that money and power rule because they ought to, and any protesting rabble don’t represent the “real England.” That’s a mindset that might well have been explored more fruitfully via less flatly literal-minded portraiture, though Lloyd does make a few late, lame efforts at sub-Ken Russell hallucinatory style. Likely to satisfy no one — anywhere on the ideological scale — seriously interested in the motivations and consequences of a major political life, this skin-deep Lady will mostly appeal to those who just want to see another bravura impersonation added to La Streep’s gallery. Yes, it’s a technically impressive performance, but unlikely to be remembered as one of her more depthed ones, let alone among her better vehicles. (1:45) (Harvey)

Margaret Lisa Cohen (Anna Paquin) is an Upper West Side teen living with her successful actress mother (J. Smith-Cameron, wife to writer-director Kenneth Lonergan) — dad (Lonergan) lives in Santa Monica with his new spouse — and going through normal teenage stuff. Her propensity for drama, however, is kicked into high gear when she witnesses (and inadvertently causes) the traffic death of a stranger. Initially fibbing a bit to protect both herself and the bus driver (Mark Ruffalo) involved, she later has second thoughts, increasingly pursuing a path toward “justice” that variably affects others including the dead woman’s friend (Jeannie Berlin), mom’s new suitor (Jean Reno), teachers at Lisa’s private school Matt Damon and Matthew Broderick), etc. Lonergan is a fine playwright and uneven sometime scenarist who made a terrific screen directorial debut with 2000’s You Can Count On Me (which also featured Ruffalo, Broderick and Smith-Cameron). He appears to have intended Margaret as a pulse-taking of privileged Manhattanites’ comingled rage, panic, confusion, and guilt after 9-11. But if that’s the case, then this convoluted story provides a garbled metaphor at best. It might best be taken as a messy, intermittently potent study of how someone might become the kind of person who’ll spend the rest of their lives barging into other people’s affairs, creating a mess, assuming the moral high ground in a stubborn attempt to “fix” it, then making everything worse while denying any personal responsibility. Certainly that’s the person Lisa appears to be turning into, though it’s unclear whether Lonergan intends her to be seen that way. Indeed, despite some sharply written confrontations and good performances, it’s unclear what Lonergan intended here at all — and since he’s been famously fiddling with Margaret‘s (still-problematic) editing since late 2005, one might guess he never really figured that out himself. (2:30) SF Film Society Cinema. (Harvey)

My Week With Marilyn Statuette-clutching odds are high for Michelle Williams, as her impersonation of a famous dead celebrity is “well-rounded” in the sense that we get to see her drunk, disorderly, depressed, and so forth. Her Marilyn Monroe is a conscientious performance. But when the movie isn’t rolling in the expected pathos, it’s having other characters point out how instinctive and “magical” Monroe is onscreen — and Williams doesn’t have that in her. Who could? Williams is remarkable playing figures so ordinary you might look right through them on the street, in Wendy and Lucy (2008), Blue Valentine (2010), etc. But as Monroe, all she can do is play the little-lost girl behind the sizzle. Without the sizzle. Which is, admittedly, exactly what My Week — based on a dubious true story — asks of her. It is true that in 1956 the Hollywood icon traveled to England to co-star with director Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) in a fluff romance, The Prince and the Showgirl; and that she drove him crazy with her tardiness, mood swings, and crises. It’s debatable whether she really got so chummy with young production gofer Colin Clark, our wistful guide down memory lane. He’s played with simpering wide-eyed adoration by Eddie Redmayne, and his suitably same-aged secondary romantic interest (Emma Watson) is even duller. This conceit could have made for a sly semi-factual comedy of egos, neurosis, and miscommunication. But in a rare big-screen foray, U.K. TV staples director Simon Curtis and scenarist Adrian Hodges play it all with formulaic earnestness — Marilyn is the wounded angel who turns a starstruck boy into a brokenhearted but wiser man as the inevitable atrocious score orders our eyes to mist over. (1:36) (Harvey)

The Vow A rear-ender on a snowy Chicago night tests the nuptial declarations of a recently and blissfully married couple, recording studio owner Leo (Channing Tatum) and accomplished sculptor Paige (Rachel McAdams). When the latter wakes up from a medically induced coma, she has no memory of her husband, their friends, their life together, or anything else from the important developmental stage in which she dropped out of law school, became estranged from her regressively WASP-y family, stopped frosting her hair and wearing sweater sets, and broke off her engagement to preppy power-douchebag Jeremy (Scott Speedman). Watching Paige malign her own wardrobe and “weird” hair and rediscover the healing powers of a high-end shopping spree is disturbing; she reenters her old life nearly seamlessly, and the warm spark of her attraction to Leo, which we witness in a series of gooey flashbacks, feels utterly extinguished. And, despite the slurry monotone of Tatum’s line delivery, one can empathize with a sense of loss that’s not mortal but feels like a kind of death — as when Paige gazes at Leo with an expression blending perplexity, anxiety, irritation, and noninvestment. But The Vow wants to pluck on our heartstrings and inspire a glowing, love-story-for-the-ages sort of mood, and the film struggles to make good on the latter promise. Its vague evocations of romantic destiny mostly spark a sense of inevitability, and Leo’s endeavors to walk his wife through retakes of scenes from their courtship are a little more creepy and a little less Notebook-y than you might imagine. (1:44) (Rapoport)

W.E. Madonna’s first directorial feature, 2008’s Filth and Wisdom, was so atrocious, and the early word on this second effort so vitriolic, that there’s a temptation to give W.E. too much credit simply for not being a disgrace. Co-written by Madge and Alek Keshishian, it’s about two women in gilded cages. One is Wallis Simpson (the impressive Andrea Riseborough), a married American socialite who scandalized the world by divorcing her husband and running about with Edward, Prince of Wales (James D’Arcy), who had to abdicate the English throne in order to marry her in 1936. The other is fictive Wally Winthrop (Abbie Cornish), a childless Manhattan socialite in the late 1990s who’s neglected by her probably-unfaithful husband (Richard Coyle). Over-eagerly intertwined despite their trite-at-best overlaps (the main one being Wally’s obsession with Wallis), these two strands hold attention for a while. But eventually they grow turgid. We’re presumably meant to be carried away by their True Love, but the film doesn’t succeed in making Wallis and Edward seem more than two petulant, shallow snobs who were fortunate to find each other, but didn’t necessarily make one another better or more interesting people. (It also alternately denies and glosses over the couple’s fascist-friendly politics, which became an embarrassment as England fought Germany in World War II.) Meanwhile, Wally is a mopey blank too easily belittled by her spouse, and too handily rescued by a Prince Charming, or rather “Russian intellectual slumming as a security guard” (Oscar Isaac) working at Sotheby’s during an auction of the late royal couple’s estate. As is so often the case with Madonna, she seems to be saying something here, but precisely what is murky and probably not worth sussing out. Likewise, the attention to showy surface aesthetics — in particular Arianne Phillips’ justifiably Oscar-nominated costumes — is fastidious, revealing, and to an extent satisfying in itself. Somewhat ambitious and in several ways quite well crafted, the handsomely appointed W.E. isn’t bad (surely it wouldn’t have attracted such hostility if directed by anyone else), but the flaws that finally suffocate it reach right down to its conceptual gist. There is, however, one lovely moment toward the end: Riseborough’s Wallis, a well-preserved septuagenarian, dancing an incongruous yet supremely self-assured twist on request for her bedridden husband. (1:59) (Harvey)

Riding the ‘Dark Wave’: Jay Howell comes home for a zine release

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Jay Howell may have left us for the palm trees in Silverlake, but that doesn’t mean that he’s gone forever. 

You may know Howell for his zine Punks Git Cut, his drawings of people with neon faces on vintage book pages, or as that really tall guy you always used to see in the coffeeshop. Upon moving to sunny (and smoggy) Los Angeles, Howell has gotten a car, finished up doing the character development for Bob’s Burgers, and is currently working as the art director for a show on Nickelodeon. He returns to San Francisco on Sat/18 for an art show at Fecal Face Dot Gallery to celebrate the release of his new zine The Dark Wave — a 50-page comic book about the lead singer of a death metal band and his existential journey to the ocean.

On a rainy Monday afternoon, the Guardian called up Howell – who was more than likely basking beneath the Southern Californian sun – for a phone interview about writing The Dark Wave and his obsession with Harlequin romance novels: 

San Francisco Bay Guardian: Hey Jay. How’s life in Los Angeles? 

Jay Howell: LA is awesome. I love the weather. I like beach-sunny-California style stuff. It’s really cheesy but I love it. I’ve been drawing more beach themes and things like that. I moved here to work on Bob’s Burgers and then around the same time got offered a pilot deal for Nickelodeon. Our show is just about completed and I think it’s the most favorite thing I’ve ever made.

SFBG: We’re excited to have you back this weekend for your show. What’s Dark Wave all about anyways? 

JH: The lead singer of a death metal band has a panic attack on stage and runs in to the night. He runs in to the forest and finds surfing somehow. It’s pretty weird. He basically falls asleep in an empty coffin, then a flash flood spills him out of the coffin, and then the coffin lid comes off and turns in to a surfboard. There’s some writing, but the pictures mostly tell the story. I drew everything in pieces with Rapidograph pens and used Photoshop to put it all together. 

THE DARK WAVE from Eighty Four Films on Vimeo.

SFBG: Is the story all in the course of one night?

JH: It’s a wild night.

SFBG: Does this guy have a name? And are there other characters? 

JH: I just call him the singer. There are other people in the beginning but it’s usually just him and his surfboard. [The story] is all about this guy’s weird journey. He just wants to keep running and see what happens. 

SFBG: What prompted your panic attack?

JH: I don’t know. I get them all the time too. Probably living too much outside of your mind and then wondering where the hell you are.

SFBG: Why death metal and why a coffin? 

JH: I was drawing and I thought it would be really funny to have black metal dudes surfing. You know, like really morose surfers. And then I just started writing a story in my head about it. [The singer] never turns in to a happy dude, but he takes up surfing the only way that suits him. 

SFBG: You usually ditch the canvas and opt for pages off of books for your artwork. Do you have specific books that you use? 

JH: I generally buy the same brand of book every time. They’re called Harlequin novels and they have a romance series. I was in a thrift store maybe six months ago and I noticed that the titles in these books were just so funny. I was doing all these drawings about people reading books with funny titles [because] I really like making up fake names and fake book titles. Then I saw those books and it was just so perfect. It turned out that there were hundreds and hundreds of these books published in the 1970s and ‘80s. So I bought them on eBay 40 or 50 at a time. 

SFBG: Back to Dark Wave. Is it much different from Punks Git Cut

JH: Definitely. It’s way more of a comic book. I’ve been reading tons of comic books lately and I’ve been doing some comics myself. I’m moving away from the zine format a bit and I’m even working on a full, proper comic book right now. I just kind of want to get more in to that kind of stuff.

SFBG: I noticed that a lot of your usual humor was toned down for television. What can readers expect from Dark Wave?

JH: Dark Wave is all about sex and drugs. Yeah, it’s nasty. It’s definitely an adult comic for sure. I’m really excited for people to see it. My buddy Scott – he’s in a death metal band in San Diego – even wrote a theme song for it.

“Midnight on the Sun” zine release and art show

Sat/18 6-9 p.m., free.

Fecal Face Dot Gallery

2277 Mission, SF

(415) 500-2166

www.ffdg.net 

 

Shorts: More top picks from Noise Pop

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SNOB THEATER

Noise Pop isn’t all studied, somber plucking, ethereal soundscapes, or morose, twisting in the night song lyrics; there are solid yucks to be had. Kata Rokkar and Noise Pop are presenting another installment of Snob Theater at the Noise Pop-Up Shop pre-main events. Hosted by comedian-music blogger Shawn Robbins, it’s a mashup of indie rockers and indie comics, a real giggle fest for the musically-inclined. Brendon Walsh (Comedy Central, Jimmy Kimmel), Dave Thomason (SF Sketchfest), Janine Brito (Laughter Against The Machine), and Chris Thayer (Bridgetown Comedy Festival) bring the comedy, rockers the Ferocious Few and Bobby Ebola and the Children MacNuggits bring the raucous tunage. (Emily Savage)

Feb. 17, 8 p.m., $10

Noise Pop-Up Shop

34 Page, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

DIE ANTWOORD

 The chances that this South African freak-hop duo will roll onstage with LED-tricked wheelchairs, wearing onesies that make flat-topped emcee Ninja and devil-pixie singer Yo-Landi Vi$$er look like plushies are not high — the two already worked that look for the “Umshini Wam” video, accessorizing with a telescope-sized joint and firearms. No matter, this hot-ticket sell-out show will have a gonzo pack of hipsters twerking to the weird-ass lyrics like there’s no tomorrow. Die Antwoord, like most hip-hop groups these days, is plagued by questions of authenticity (it reps for South Africa’s working-class demographic that its members may not actually hail from), but the performative aspect of its schtick makes it a cultural artifact regardless of where Ninja went to high school. Hot tip for those that dig a long shot: keep one eye peeled for Celine Dion. Die Antwoord’s pegged her as their dream collaborator. Weirdos. (Caitlin Donohue)

Feb. 22, 7 p.m., sold out

Regency Ballroom

1300 Van Ness, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

HIT SO HARD: THE LIFE AND NEAR-DEATH STORY OF DRUMMER PATTY SCHEMEL

Along with Last Days Here, currently screening as part of the San Francisco Independent Film Festival, Hit So Hard is one of the most inspiring rock docs in recent memory. Patty Schemel was the drummer for Hole circa Live Through This, coolly keeping the beat amid Courtney Love’s frequent Lollapalooza-stage meltdowns after Kurt Cobain’s 1994 death. Offstage, however, she was neck-deep in substance abuse, weathering several rounds of rehab even after the fatal overdose of Hole bandmate Kristen Pfaff just months after Cobain (who appears here in Schemel’s own remarkable home video footage). P. David Ebersole’s film gathers insight from many key figures in Schemel’s life — including her mother, who has the exact voice of George Costanza’s mother on Seinfeld, and a garishly made-up, straight-talking Love — but most importantly, from Schemel herself, who is open and funny even when talking about the perils of drug addiction, of the heartbreak of being a gay teen in a small town, and the ultimate triumph of being a rock ‘n’ roll survivor. If you miss Hit So Hard at Noise Pop, it’ll be back around for a San Francisco theatrical run starting April 27. (Cheryl Eddy)

Feb. 22, 9 p.m., $10

Artists’ Television Access

992 Valencia, SF

2012.noisepop.com/film

 

GRIMES

After listening to Grimes on heavy rotation for the past couple years I still find myself mesmerized by Claire Boucher’s voice. It leaps and falls, circles words in repetitive motions, ciphering their sonic texture and tone into a perpetual undoing of sound. Grimes consistently induces this siren effect, inhabiting that mysteriously seductive threshold somewhere between waking life and dream world. Its third full-length, Visions (Arbutus/4AD), is no different. It continues to draw resources from spectral pop wherever it can, from the processed rhythms underpinning a constellation of electronic dance genres, to the gushing melodies of New Age cassette tapes and 1990s R&B, and even disparate psychedelic folk from across the globe. What holds Grimes’s aesthetic together though is, simply put, mood: whirling awfully close to planetary rapture. (Michael Krimper)

Feb. 22, 8 p.m., $10, sold out

Grimes and oOoOO

With Born Gold, Yalls

Rickshaw Shop

155 Fell St., SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

THE BUDOS BAND

Few bands working within the new wave of funk revivalism during the past decade are as tight as The Budos Band. The Brooklyn-based outfit has released all three of their records, each simply self-titled and numbered, on Daptone Records, home to powerhouse soulstress, Sharon Jones. But The Budos Band has a bit more of a worldly spectrum than other Daptone releases firmly rooted in 1960s R&B. They take influence ultimately from the funk diaspora launched by James Brown: Fela Kuti’s afrobeat jams and the Latin soul of Fania, to the psychedelic ethio-jazz culled by Mulatu Astatke. The drums are deep in the pocket, wah-wah guitars get gritty, and the horn section hits hard, all with the frenetic urgency of a score straight out of a Melvin Van Peebles’ blaxpoitation flick. (Michael Krimper)

Feb. 23, 7:30 p.m., $20

With Allah-Las, Pickwick, Big Tree

Independent

628 Divisadero, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

JOLIE HOLLAND

This longtime San Franciscan (and seventh-generation Texan) may call the road her home — with brief pauses for righteous swimming holes — but we’ll always think of her as a perfectly impure product of the Bay’s musical bohemia, the latest in long line of city songsmiths succored on prog politics, cultural patchwork, and high times. Whether Holland’s warbling about her mind reeling, blood bleeding on “Black Stars,” that wicked good “Old Fashioned Morphine,” or real-world psychic vampires (referenced in the title of her latest long-player, Pint of Blood (Anti), she taps a deep vein of blues —one related to a familial history steeped in Texas swing and her own soulful explorations here and abroad. This waltz around, she alights in trio form, playing with Carey Lamprecht and Keith Cary. Long may she ramble and roam. (Kimberly Chun)

With Will Sprott of the Mumlers, Dreams, and Emily Jane White

Feb. 24, 7 p.m., $16.50–$18.50

Swedish American Hall

2174 Market, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

MATTHEW DEAR

Matthew Dear has a talent for surprisingly rewarding detours. With Asa Breed (Ghostly) in 2007, he departed from the pure percussive bliss of minimal techno and house, which occupied the scope of his previous efforts, in favor of pop song structures and vocal stylings in the spirit of Brian Eno. My favorite winding road came with 2010’s Black City (Ghostly): a record prefaced by bubbly vocals and rhythms, whose lightness quickly disperses into an orgiastic sort of density typical of film noir’s crowded urban landscapes, and the lustful encounters they tend to prompt. Last month’s Headcage EP (Ghostly) marks the most recent tangent into drum patterns that glide and skitter, but if Matthew Dear’s past wanderings are any indication, it promises yet another fruitful pathway in the ever expanding multiverse of his sound production. (Michael Krimper)

Feb. 24, 8 p.m., $16

With Maus Haus, Exray’s, Tropicle Popsicle, DJ Mossmoss

Public Works

161 Erie St., SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

VERONICA FALLS

There are a lot of great bands returning to the Bay Area this year during Noise Pop, but one in particular hasn’t made it yet. Veronica Falls was originally scheduled for its debut SF performance at the Brick and Mortar Music Hall last September, when an issue with visas forced the UK quartet of indie pop morbid romantics to cancel at the last minute. At the time of the cancellation the group was also releasing its first self-titled LP on Slumberland Records, so on the plus side there’s been extra time for anyone awaiting Veronica Falls’s appearance to take in the music. It’s an album that delivers on the promise of early singles “Beachy Head” and “Found Love in a Graveyard” — a hauntingly retro British sound with layered vocals led by the bittersweet Roxanne Clifford, laid on top of the classic combination of jangled guitar rhythms and a punchy back beat. (Ryan Prendiville)

Feb. 24, 8 p.m., $14

With Bleached, Brilliant Colors, Lilac

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

UPSIDE DOWN: THE CREATION RECORDS STORY

Danny O’Connor’s doc about legendary British indie label Creation Records is named both for the Jesus and Mary Chain single that helped launched the imprint — and the go-for-broke attitude shared by many of the freewheeling characters involved in its story. Most of them chime in to help tell the tale, including founder Alan McGee, a Scot whose thick accent is among many collected here that may make Americans long for subtitles. And, of course, what a tale — filled with colorful encounters, drugs, major-label wooing, drugs, “shockingly out of control” behavior, drugs, and all of the expected trappings of music-biz stardom. The soundtrack is filled with Creation’s many alt-rock, acid house, shoegaze, and Brit-pop success stories, including Primal Scream, My Bloody Valentine, Ride, Swervedriver, Teenage Fanclub, and Oasis. Where were you while they were gettin’ high? Director O’Connor appears in person for a Q&A after the screening. (Cheryl Eddy)

Feb. 25, 7 p.m., $10

 Roxie Theater

3117 16th St., SF 

2012.noisepop.com/film

All the noise

0

 

SNOB THEATER

Noise Pop isn’t all studied, somber plucking, ethereal soundscapes, or morose, twisting in the night song lyrics; there are solid yucks to be had. Kata Rokkar and Noise Pop are presenting another installment of Snob Theater at the Noise Pop-Up Shop pre-main events. Hosted by comedian-music blogger Shawn Robbins, it’s a mashup of indie rockers and indie comics, a real giggle fest for the musically-inclined. Brendon Walsh (Comedy Central, Jimmy Kimmel), Dave Thomason (SF Sketchfest), Janine Brito (Laughter Against The Machine), and Chris Thayer (Bridgetown Comedy Festival) bring the comedy, rockers the Ferocious Few and Bobby Ebola and the Children MacNuggits bring the raucous tunage. (Emily Savage)

Feb. 17, 8 p.m., $10

Noise Pop-Up Shop

34 Page, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

DIE ANTWOORD

The chances that this South African freak-hop duo will roll onstage with LED-tricked wheelchairs, wearing onesies that make flat-topped emcee Ninja and devil-pixie singer Yo-Landi Vi$$er look like plushies are not high — it already worked that look for the “Umshini Wam” video, accessorizing with a telescope-sized joint and firearms. No matter, this hot-ticket sell-out show will have a gonzo pack of hipsters twerking to the weird-ass lyrics like there’s no tomorrow. Die Antwoord, like most hip-hop these days, is plagued by questions of authenticity (it reps for South Africa’s working-class demographic that members may not actually hail from), but the performative aspect of its schtick makes it a cultural artifact regardless of where Ninja went to school. Hot tip for those that dig a long shot: keep one eye peeled for Celine Dion. Die Antwoord’s pegged her as their dream collaborator. Weirdos. (Caitlin Donohue)

Feb. 22, 7 p.m., sold out.

Regency Ballroom

1300 Van Ness, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

HIT SO HARD: THE LIFE AND NEAR-DEATH STORY OF DRUMMER PATTY SCHEMEL

Along with Last Days Here, currently screening as part of the San Francisco Independent Film Festival, Hit So Hard is one of the most inspiring rock docs in recent memory. Patty Schemel was the drummer for Hole circa Live Through This, coolly keeping the beat amid Courtney Love’s frequent Lollapalooza-stage meltdowns after Kurt Cobain’s 1994 death. Offstage, however, she was neck-deep in substance abuse, weathering several rounds of rehab even after the fatal overdose of Hole bandmate Kristen Pfaff just months after Cobain (who appears here in Schemel’s own remarkable home video footage). P. David Ebersole’s film gathers insight from many key figures in Schemel’s life — including her mother, who has the exact voice of George Costanza’s mother on Seinfeld, and a garishly made-up, straight-talking Love — but most importantly, from Schemel herself, who is open and funny even when talking about the perils of drug addiction, of the heartbreak of being a gay teen in a small town, and the ultimate triumph of being a rock ‘n’ roll survivor. If you miss Hit So Hard at Noise Pop, it’ll be back around for a San Francisco theatrical run starting April 27. (Cheryl Eddy)

Feb. 22, 9 p.m., $10

Artists’ Television Access

992 Valencia, SF

2012.noisepop.com/film

 

GRIMES

After listening to Grimes on heavy rotation for the past couple years I still find myself mesmerized by Claire Boucher’s voice. It leaps and falls, circles words in repetitive motions, ciphering their sonic texture and tone into a perpetual undoing of sound. Grimes consistently induces this siren effect, inhabiting that mysteriously seductive threshold somewhere between waking life and dream world. Its third full-length, Visions (Arbutus/4AD), is no different. It continues to draw resources from spectral pop wherever it can, from the processed rhythms underpinning a constellation of electronic dance genres, to the gushing melodies of New Age cassette tapes and 1990s R&B, and even disparate psychedelic folk from across the globe. What holds Grimes’s aesthetic together though is, simply put, mood: whirling awfully close to planetary rapture. (Caitlin Donohue)

Feb. 22, 8 p.m., $10, sold out

Grimes and oOoOO

With Born Gold, Yalls

Rickshaw Shop

155 Fell St., SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

THE BUDOS BAND

Few bands working within the new wave of funk revivalism during the past decade are as tight as The Budos Band. The Brooklyn-based outfit has released all three of their records, each simply self-titled and numbered, on Daptone Records, home to powerhouse soulstress, Sharon Jones. But The Budos Band has a bit more of a worldly spectrum than other Daptone releases firmly rooted in 1960s R&B. They take influence ultimately from the funk diaspora launched by James Brown: Fela Kuti’s afrobeat jams and the Latin soul of Fania, to the psychedelic ethio-jazz culled by Mulatu Astatke. The drums are deep in the pocket, wah-wah guitars get gritty, and the horn section hits hard, all with the frenetic urgency of a score straight out of a Melvin Van Peebles’ blaxpoitation flick. (Michael Krimper)

Feb. 23, 7:30 p.m., $20

With Allah-Las, Pickwick, Big Tree

Independent

628 Divisadero St., SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

JOLIE HOLLAND

This longtime San Franciscan (and seventh-generation Texan) may call the road her home — with brief pauses for righteous swimming holes — but we’ll always think of her as a perfectly impure product of the Bay’s musical bohemia, the latest in long line of city songsmiths succored on prog politics, cultural patchwork, and high times. Whether Holland’s warbling about her mind reeling, blood bleeding on “Black Stars,” that wicked good “Old Fashioned Morphine,” or real-world psychic vampires (referenced in the title of her latest long-player, Pint of Blood (Anti), she taps a deep vein of blues —one related to a familial history steeped in Texas swing and her own soulful explorations here and abroad. This waltz around, she alights in trio form, playing with Carey Lamprecht and Keith Cary. Long may she ramble and roam. (Kimberly Chun)

With Will Sprott of the Mumlers, Dreams, and Emily Jane White

Feb. 24, 7 p.m., $16.50–<\d>$18.50

Swedish American Hall

2174 Market, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

 

MATTHEW DEAR

Matthew Dear has a talent for surprisingly rewarding detours. With Asa Breed (Ghostly) in 2007, he departed from the pure percussive bliss of minimal techno and house, which occupied the scope of his previous efforts, in favor of pop song structures and vocal stylings in the spirit of Brian Eno. My favorite winding road came with 2010’s Black City (Ghostly): a record prefaced by bubbly vocals and rhythms, whose lightness quickly disperses into an orgiastic sort of density typical of film noir’s crowded urban landscapes, and the lustful encounters they tend to prompt. Last month’s Headcage EP (Ghostly) marks the most recent tangent into drum patterns that glide and skitter, but if Matthew Dear’s past wanderings are any indication, it promises yet another fruitful pathway in the ever expanding multiverse of his sound production. (Michael Krimper)

Feb. 24, 8 p.m., $16

With Maus Haus, Exray’s, Tropicle Popsicle, DJ Mossmoss

Public Works

161 Erie St., SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

 

VERONICA FALLS

There are a lot of great bands returning to the Bay Area this year during Noise Pop, but one in particular hasn’t made it yet. Veronica Falls was originally scheduled for its debut SF performance at the Brick and Mortar Music Hall last September, when an issue with visas forced the UK quartet of indie pop morbid romantics to cancel at the last minute. At the time of the cancellation the group was also releasing its first self-titled LP on Slumberland Records, so on the plus side there’s been extra time for anyone awaiting Veronica Falls’s appearance to take in the music. It’s an album that delivers on the promise of early singles “Beachy Head” and “Found Love in a Graveyard” — a hauntingly retro British sound with layered vocals led by the bittersweet Roxanne Clifford, laid on top of the classic combination of jangled guitar rhythms and a punchy back beat. (Ryan Prendiville)

Feb. 24, 8 p.m., $14

With Bleached, Brilliant Colors, Lilac

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

2012.noisepop.com

 

 

UPSIDE DOWN: THE CREATION RECORDS STORY

Danny O’Connor’s doc about legendary British indie label Creation Records is named both for the Jesus and Mary Chain single that helped launched the imprint — and the go-for-broke attitude shared by many of the freewheeling characters involved in its story. Most of them chime in to help tell the tale, including founder Alan McGee, a Scot whose thick accent is among many collected here that may make Americans long for subtitles. And, of course, what a tale — filled with colorful encounters, drugs, major-label wooing, drugs, “shockingly out of control” behavior, drugs, and all of the expected trappings of music-biz stardom. The soundtrack is filled with Creation’s many alt-rock, acid house, shoegaze, and Brit-pop success stories, including Primal Scream, My Bloody Valentine, Ride, Swervedriver, Teenage Fanclub, and Oasis. Where were you while they were gettin’ high? Director O’Connor appears in person for a Q&A after the screening. (Cheryl Eddy)

Feb. 25, 7 p.m., $10 Roxie Theater 3117 16th St., SF 2012.noisepop.com/film

Film Listings

0

Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Max Goldberg, Dennis Harvey, Lynn Rapoport, and Matt Sussman. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock.

OPENING

Albert Nobbs The titular character in Rodrigo Garcia’s film is a butler of ideal bone-stiff propriety and subservience in a Dublin hotel whose well-to-do clients expect no less from the hired help. Even his fellow workers know almost nothing about middle aged Albert, and he’s so dully harmless they don’t even notice that lack. Yet Albert has a big secret: he is a she, played by Glenn Close, having decided this cross dressing disguise was the only way out of a Victorian pauper’s life many years ago. Chance crosses Albert’s path with housepainter Hubert (Janet McTeer), who turns out to be harboring precisely the same secret, albeit more merrily — “he” has even found happy domesticity with an understanding wife. Albert dreams of finding the same with a comely young housemaid (Mia Wasikowska), though she’s already lost her silly head over a loutish but handsome handyman (Aaron Johnson) much closer to her age. This period piece is more interesting in concept rather than in execution, as the characters stay all too true to mostly one-dimensional types, and the story of minor intrigues and muffled tragedies springs very few surprises. It’s an honorable but not especially rewarding affair that clearly exists mostly as a setting for Close’s impeccable performance — and she knows it, having written the screenplay and produced; she’s also played this part on stage before. Yet even that accomplishment has an airless feel; you never forget you’re watching an actor “transform,” and for all his luckless pathos, Albert is actually a pretty tedious fellow. (1:53) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Declaration of War See “The Best Medicine.” (1:40) Lumiere, Shattuck.

The Flowers of War Based on the novel The 13 Women of Nanjing by Geling Yan (Xiu Xiu: The Sent Down Girl), Flowers of War sees director Zhang Yimou probing the still-painful wounds of the Nanjing Massacre. Here, he gets to pull out his customary sensuous fascinations — jewel-tone colors that pop unexpectedly amid gray wartime rubble, reams of floating textiles, and girls, girls, girls — to intriguing if patchy effect. The touch-and-go quality of the production is understandable considering the clash of acting styles generated by our players: crass good-old-boy American-in-China mortician John (Method-ically played by Christian Bale), and the clutch of look-alike Catholic school girls and cadre of call girls, the latter headed up by slyly Veronica Lake-ish vamp Yu Mo (Ni Ni). John has been called to bury a priest at the Nanjing cathedral, smack in the middle of the Japanese invasion, and despite the corpses littering the street, all he seems to care about is getting paid and running off. Somehow the sweet little helpless schoolgirls convert him into a believer, enough to make him don the priest’s garb and try to protect them from crazed Japanese soldiers intent on literally carrying out the Rape of Nanjing. Meanwhile the ladies of the evening, hiding out in the basement against everyone’s wishes, work their wiles to get him to help them escape. Armed with a budget that makes this the most expensive film in Chinese history, Zhang embraces this collision of soldiers, cultures, contemporary Western war movies, and popular Chinese entertainments in the stylized mode of a archetypal Chinese melodrama. Though it’s far from his best work, Flowers still draws you in while imparting the horrors of an ugly war that pulled the most innocent — and beautifully decadent — civilians into its wake. (2:21) Smith Rafael. (Chun)

The Grey Suicidally depressed after losing his spouse, Ottway (Liam Neeson) has to get pro-active about living in a hurry when his plane crashes en route to a oil company site in remotest Alaska. One of a handful of survivors, Ottway is the only one with an idea of the survival skills needed to survive in this subzero wilderness, including knowledge of wolf behavior — which is fortunate, given that the (rapidly dwindling) group of eight men has landed smack in the middle of a pack’s den. Less fortunate is that these hairy, humongous predators are pretty fearless about attacking perceived intruders on their chosen terrain. Director and co-writer Joe Carnahan (2010’s The A-Team, 2006’s Smokin’ Aces) labors to give this thriller some depth via quiet character-based scenes for Neeson and the other actors (including Frank Grillo, Dallas Roberts and Dermot Mulroney) in addition to the expected bloodshed. The intended gravitas doesn’t quite take, leaving The Grey and its imposing widescreen scenery (actually British Columbia) in a competent but unmemorable middle ground between serious, primal, life-or-death drama and a monster movie in wolf’s clothing. (1:57) (Harvey)

Man on a Ledge Sam Worthington plays escaped convict Nick Cassidy, a former cop wrongly accused of stealing a very big diamond from a ruthless real estate mogul (Ed Harris) against the backdrop of 2008’s financial disasters. Having cleared the penitentiary walls, many a man might have headed for the nearest border, but Nick’s fervent desire to prove his innocence leads him to climb out the window of a 21st-floor Manhattan hotel room and spend most of the rest of the movie pacing a tiny strip of concrete and chatting with hung over NYPD crisis negotiator Lydia Mercer (Elizabeth Banks), who’s also nursing some PTSD after a suicide negotiation gone bad. After a while, the establishing shots panning up 21 floors or across the city grid to Nick’s exterior perch begin to feel extraneous — we know there’s a man on a ledge; it says so on our ticket stub. More involving is the balancing act Nick performs while he’s up there — keeping the eyes of the city glued on him while guiding the suspensefully amateur efforts of his brother (Jamie Bell) and his brother’s girlfriend (Genesis Rodriguez) to pull off an unidentified caper in a nearby high-rise. Ed Burns, Anthony Mackie, and Kyra Sedgwick costar. (1:42) (Rapoport)

*Miss Bala You want to look away, but aided and abetted by director-cowriter Gerardo Naranjo’s sober, elegant perspective on the ugly way that innocents get pulled into the Mexican drug wars, you must see it through. That’s the case with Laura Guerrero (Stephanie Sigman), a naive Tijuana beauty contestant who signs up for the Miss Baja pageant with a friend, who almost immediately decides to game the system by partying with the police and DEA agents who could possibly help their chances of winning. Laura instantly falls into the hands of Lino (Noe Hernandez), a mafia boss in the process of crashing the party, and with his gang, killing all assembled. Desperately trying to find her friend, Laura takes a wrong turn that lands her back in the arms of Lino, who vows to help the would-be beauty queen and entangles her in his increasingly closed-in criminal world. Naranjo’s cool-headed, almost stately compositions come as almost blessed relief as he pans slowly from the shadows, where you really don’t want to know what’s going on, to a girl, almost completely out of the frame, desperately wedging herself out a second floor window. His detachment undercuts the horror, while angel-faced, perpetually anguished-looking lead actress Sigman simultaneously compels and frustrates with her fatal errors in judgement as she grows more complicit and is literally caught in the crossfire between the rough gangsters who terrorize her and the government soldiers unafraid mete out punishment. The toughest part is watching Sigman’s infuriatingly passive protagonist be used like a sexual puppet, but this raw and yet refined film — loosely based on the story of 2008’s Miss Sinaloa, Laura Zuniga — doesn’t pull many punches in indicting the pageant machine and the corrupt system that supports it. (1:53) (Chun)

One for the Money Katherine Heigl stars as bounty hunter Stephanie Plum in this adaptation of Janet Evanovich’s best-selling mystery novel. (1:46)

Sing Your Song It’s easy to be cynical about do-gooding celebrities. Like, does superstar X really care about that charity or cause, or is he or she merely doing a public-image polish? This is not a concern with Harry Belafonte, who — when not charming audiences with tunes like “The Banana Boat Song” — has spent most of his 84 years personally battling injustice. If he wasn’t such an American treasure (World War II veteran, courageous challenger of Hollywood racism, vocally pro-labor union amid anti-Commie hysteria, etc.), Sing Your Song might feel as if it were progressing in an almost comedically heroic manner: Harry befriends Martin Luther King, Jr; Harry teaches JFK and RFK about civil rights; Harry champions Nelson Mandela; Harry protests the Vietnam War; Harry devotes himself to Africa (cue “We Are the World”). But it all really happened (with historical footage and photographs to prove it), and most of it at a time when his views were seen as radical by mainstream America. Belafonte’s accomplishments are undeniable, and Sing Your Song is, perhaps unavoidably, a textbook hagiography — even as his children from multiple marriages, one of whom co-produced the film, make vague yet forgiving references to Belafonte’s frequent absentee-dad status. Otherwise, Sing Your Song is solely concerned with singing Belafonte’s praises — admirable, but kinda one-note. (1:44) Roxie. (Eddy)

Sleeping Beauty Australian novelist turned director Julia Leigh’s first feature arrives affixed with a stamp of approval from no less than Jane Campion; though Sleeping Beauty treads in Campion-style edgy feminism, its ideas are not quite fully formed, rendering a film that’s not entirely satisfying. It is gorgeously shot, however, with long (occasionally overly so) shots that coolly observe the life of Lucy (pillow-lipped Emily Browning, star of 2011’s Sucker Punch), a college student struggling to make ends meet with an array of minimum-wage gigs. Her housemates hate her; the only friend she has is a shut-in drug addict. She gets her kicks picking up random men at yuppie bars — until she’s offered a gig working for an exclusive purveyor of kink to elderly clients, first as a lingerie-clad serving girl, and later as a “sleeping beauty:” she’s given knockout drugs and handed over to customers (“no penetration” is the only rule, but yes, it’s still creepy). Sleeping Beauty is too chilly to be titillating, and while Browning is lovely, Lucy is affectless to the point of being, well, pretty boring, even with her clothes off. I read one review that suggested watching the film as if it were intended to be a comedy; lines like “Match your lipstick to the color of your labia” certainly support this thesis. (1:44) SFFS New People Cinema. (Eddy)

Warren Ellis: Captured Ghosts The Roxie screens Patrick Meaney’s latest loving portrait of a comics innovator, following in the footsteps of his 2010 effort, Grant Morrison: Talking With Gods. The film captures Warren Ellis’ career as a writer of tenacious and idiosyncratic futurist sci-fi, but it also tries to get a grasp on his outsized internet persona. Other comics professionals, bloggers, and assorted celebrity friends reflect on his effect on their lives in genial if typically worshipful interviews. Ellis, a self-styled curmudgeon, is painted as the “sweetest person in the world” — the love his friends and followers have for him is genuine. Perhaps not a fitting starting point for anyone completely unfamiliar with his writing (you’d be better off picking up a collection of Planetary or Transmetropolitan), but Captured Ghosts makes a solid case for the Brit’s creative legacy, and looks to his future with optimism, tempered by Ellis’ self-critical humility. (1:30) Roxie. (Sam Stander)

ONGOING

*The Artist With the charisma-oozing agility of Douglas Fairbanks swashbuckling his way past opponents and the supreme confidence of Rudolph Valentino leaning, mid-swoon, into a maiden, French director-writer Michel Hazanavicius hits a sweet spot, or beauty mark of sorts, with his radiant new film The Artist. In a feat worthy of Fairbanks or Errol Flynn, Hazanavicius juggles a marvelously layered love story between a man and a woman, tensions between the silents and the talkies, and a movie buff’s appreciation of the power of film — embodied in particular by early Hollywood’s union of European artistry and American commerce. Dashing silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin, who channels Fairbanks, Flynn, and William Powell — and won this year’s Cannes best actor prize) is at the height of his career, adorable Jack Russell by his side, until the talkies threaten to relegate him to yesterday’s news. The talent nurtured in the thick of the studio system yearns for real power, telling the newspapers, “I’m not a puppet anymore — I’m an artist,” and finances and directs his own melodrama, while his youthful protégé Peppy Miller (Bérénice Béjo) becomes a yakky flapper age’s new It Girl. Both a crowd-pleasing entertainment and a loving précis on early film history, The Artist never checks its brains at the door, remaining self-aware of its own conceit and its forebears, yet unashamed to touch the audience, without an ounce of cynicism. (1:40) California, Embarcadero, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Piedmont, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

Beauty and the Beast 3D (1:24) 1000 Van Ness..

Carnage Nancy (Kate Winslet) and Alan (Christoph Waltz) have arrived in the apartment of Penelope (Jodie Foster) and Michael (John C. Reilly) to discuss proper follow-up to a playground incident in which one of their children went ballistic on another. But this grownup discussion about conduct between children quickly degenerates into a four-way living room sandbox melee, as the couples reveal snobbish disdain toward one another’s presumed values and the cracks in each marriage are duly bared. Roman Polanski’s unnecessary screen translation of Yasmina Reza’s play remains awkwardly rooted to the stage, where its contrivances would have seemed less obvious, or at least apt for the medium. There’s some fun to be had watching these actors play variously self-involved, accusatory Manhattanites who enact a very lite Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? amid way too much single-malt Scotch ingestion. But the text gets crudely farcical after a while, and its critiques of the characters’ shallow materialism, bad parenting, knee-jerk liberal empathy, privileged class indifference, etc. would resonate more if those faults weren’t so cartoonishly drawn. In the end, Carnage‘s high-profile talent obliterates rather than illuminates the material — it’s like aiming a bazooka at a napkin. (1:20) Bridge, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Contraband A relative gem among the dross of January film releases, Contraband works best when it doesn’t take itself too seriously, and flounders when it does. Directed by Baltasar Kormákur, the man behind much of Iceland’s popular filmography (2006’s Jar City, 2002’s The Sea, 2000’s 101 Reykjavik), this no-frills genre picture stars Mark Wahlberg as Chris Farraday, an ex-smuggler-turned-family-man who must give the life of crime another go-round when his wife (Kate Beckinsale) and brother-in-law (Caleb Landry Jones) find themselves in thrall to a nasty, drug-addicted criminal (an especially methy-looking Giovanni Ribisi). If you’ve seen any of these One Last Heist movies, you won’t be surprised that Chris’ operation goes completely awry — in Panama, on a cargo captained by J.K. Simmons, no less. Ribisi is as simpering and gleefully evil a caricature as they come, and as Chris’ best friend, brooding Ben Foster’s unexpected about-face in the film’s last third is pretty watchable. I’m not exactly saying you should go and see it, but I’m not stopping you, either. (1:49) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Ryan Lattanzio)

A Dangerous Method Cool and chatty (unsurprisingly, given its subject matter and the fact that it’s based on a play and a novel), David Cronenberg’s latest begins in 1904 Zurich as a shrieking patient (Keira Knightley) is escorted into the care of psychiatrist Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender). Dr. Jung, an admirer of Sigmund Freud, tests the “talking cure” on the woman, who turns out to be the fiercely intelligent and conveniently beautiful Sabina Spielrein. An attraction, both intellectual and sexual, soon develops, no matter that Jung is Sabina’s doctor, or that he happens to be married to a prim wife whose family wealth keeps him in boats and lake houses. Meanwhile, Jung and Freud (an excellent Viggo Mortensen) begin corresponding, eventually meeting and forming a friendship that’s tested first when Sabina comes between them, and later when Jung expresses a growing interest in fringe pursuits like parapsychology. The scenes between Freud and Jung are A Dangerous Method‘s most intriguing — save those brief few involving Vincent Cassel as a doctor-turned-patient who advises Jung to “never repress anything” — but the film is mostly concerned with Jung’s various Sabina-related dramas. Pity that this is a tightly-wound Fassbender’s least dynamic performance of the year, and that Knightley, way over the top in Sabina’s hysterical scenes, telegraphs “casting mistake” from the get-go. (1:39) Albany, Lumiere. (Eddy)

*The Descendants Like all of Alexander Payne’s films save 1996 debut Citizen Ruth, The Descendants is an adaptation, this time from Kaui Hart Hemmings’ excellent 2007 novel. Matt King (George Clooney) is a Honolulu lawyer burdened by various things, mostly a) being a haole (i.e. white) person nonetheless descended from Hawaiian royalty, rich in real estate most natives figure his kind stole from them; and b) being father to two children by a wife who’s been in a coma since a boating accident three weeks ago. Already having a hard time transitioning from workaholic to hands-on dad, Matt soon finds out this new role is permanent, like it or not — spouse Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie, just briefly seen animate) will not wake up. The Descendants covers the few days in which Matt has to share this news with Elizabeth’s loved ones, mostly notably Shailene Woodley and Amara Miller as disparately rebellious teen and 10-year-old daughters. Plus there’s the unpleasant discovery that the glam, sporty, demanding wife he’d increasingly seemed “not enough” for had indeed been looking elsewhere. When has George Clooney suggested insecurity enough to play a man afraid he’s too small in character for a larger-than-life spouse? But dressed here in oversized shorts and Hawaiian shirts, the usually suave performer looks shrunken and paunchy; his hooded eyes convey the stung joke’s-on-me viewpoint of someone who figures acknowledging depression would be an undeserved indulgence. Payne’s film can’t translate all the book’s rueful hilarity, fit in much marital backstory, or quite get across the evolving weirdness of Miller’s Scottie — though the young actors are all fine — but the film’s reined-in observations of odd yet relatable adult and family lives are all the more satisfying for lack of grandiose ambition. (1:55) California, Piedmont, Presidio, SF Center. (Harvey)

*Drive Such a lovely way to Drive, drunk on the sensual depths of a lush, saturated jewel tone palette and a dreamlike, almost luxurious pacing that gives off the steamy hothouse pop romanticism of ’80s-era Michael Mann and David Lynch — with the bracing, impactful flecks of threat and ultraviolence that might accompany a car chase, a moody noir, or both, as filtered through a first-wave music video. Drive comes dressed in the klassic komforts — from the Steve McQueen-esque stances and perfectly cut jackets of Ryan Gosling as the Driver Who Shall Remain Nameless to the foreboding lingering in the shadows and the wittily static, statuesque strippers that decorate the background. Gosling’s Driver is in line with Mann’s other upstanding working men who hew to an old-school moral code and are excellent at what they do, regardless of what side of the law they’re working: he likes to keep it clear and simple — his services as a wheelman boil down to five minutes, in and out — but matters get messy when he falls for sweet-faced neighbor Irene (Carey Mulligan), who lives down the hall with her small son, and her ex-con husband (Oscar Isaac) is dragged back into the game. Populated by pungent side players like Albert Brooks, Bryan Cranston, Ron Perlman, and Christina Hendricks, and scattered with readily embeddable moments like a life-changing elevator kiss that goes bloodily wrong-right, Drive turns into a real coming-out affair for both Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn (2008’s Bronson), who rises above any crisis of influence or confluence of genre to pick up the po-mo baton that Lynch left behind, and 2011’s MVP Ryan Gosling, who gets to flex his leading-man muscles in a truly cinematic role, an anti-hero and under-the-hood psychopath looking for the real hero within. (1:40) Opera Plaza. (Chun)

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close Director Stephen Daldry is no stranger to guiding actors to Oscars; his previous two films, 2008’s The Reader and 2002’s The Hours, both earned Best Actress statuettes for their stars. So it’s no surprise that Sandra Bullock’s performance is the best thing about this big-screen take on Jonathan Safran Foer’s 2005 novel, which is otherwise hamstrung by twee, melodramatic elements that (presumably) translated poorly from page to screen. One year after 9/11, a Manhattan mother (Bullock) and her nine-year-old son Oskar (newcomer Thomas Horn, a youth Jeopardy! champ) are, unsurprisingly, still mourning their beloved husband and father (Tom Hanks), who was killed on “the worst day.” But therapy be damned — Oskar takes to the streets, knocking on the doors of strangers, searching for the lock that will fit a mysterious key his dad left behind. Carrying a tambourine. Later befriending an elderly man (Max von Sydow) whose true identity is immediately obvious, despite the fact that he writes pithy notes instead of speaking. In its attempts to explore grief through the eyes of a borderline-autistic kid (“tests were inconclusive,” according to Oskar), Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is so forced-quirky it makes the works of Wes Anderson look like minimalist manifestos; that it bounces its maudlin, cliché-baiting plot off the biggest tragedy in recent American history is borderline offensive. Actually offensive, however, is the fact that Daldry — who also knows from young thespians, having helmed 2000’s Billy Elliot — positions the green Horn (ahem) in such a complex role. The character of Oskar is, as written, nauseatingly precocious; adding shrill and stridently unsympathetic to the mix renders the entire shebang nigh-unwatchable, despite the best efforts of supporting players like Viola Davis and Jeffrey Wright. Congrats, Kodi Smit-McPhee, child actor who single-handedly dismantled 2009’s The Road — you now have some company at the kid’s table in the literary-adaptation hall of shame. (2:09) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Fullmetal Alchemist: The Sacred Star of Milos There’s probably no reason to venture out to see Fullmetal Alchemist: The Sacred Star of Milos unless you’re already a fan of the Fullmetal Alchemist manga (and/or its many offshoots, including an anime series that’s aired stateside on the Cartoon Network). That’s not to say Milos is a crappy movie; it just depends an awful lot on foreknowledge about its mythical world and main characters, a pair of young brothers named Ed and Al. Their mastery of “alchemy” (a.k.a. Harry Potter-style zapping skills) has earned them government status but also cost them various body parts — Al, whose voice suggests he’s a pre-teen, exists only as a robot-like metal suit attached to the boy’s human soul. Their adventures in steampunk mischief lead them to a country called Milos that’s been repressed by the world’s superpowers; there, they meet a young girl who’s determined to restore her homeland to grandeur using what’s alternately called “the star of fresh blood,” “the stone of immortality,” or “the philosopher’s stone” to either “open the doorway of truth” or “use the alchemy of the holy land.” Or something. Mumbo-jumbo-y plot points aside, Milos is more or less a fast-paced triumph-of-the-underdog story, with pants-wearing giant wolves and other magic-with-a-k flourishes. Fun if you’re into that kind of thing. (1:50) SFFS New People Cinema. (Eddy)

*The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo The meeting of Stieg Larsson’s first “Millennium” book and David Fincher promised fireworks, as he’s a director who can be equally vivid and exacting with just the elements key to the series: procedural detail, obsession, violence, tweaked genre conventions, mind games, haunted protagonists, and expansive story arcs. But perhaps because this possible franchise launch had to be rushed into production to ride the Larsson wave, what should have been a terrific matchup turns out to be just a good one — superior in some stylistic departments (notably Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ pulsing score), but overall neither an improvement nor a disappointment in comparison to the uninspired but effective 2009 Swedish film version. Daniel Craig plays Mikael Blomkvist, the muckraking Stockholm journalist whose public disgrace after a failed expose of a suspect corporate tycoon makes him the perfect candidate for an unexpected assignment: staying sequestered in the wealthy, warring Vanger clan’s island home to secretly investigate a teenage girl’s disappearance and presumed murder 40 years ago. His testy helpmate is the singular Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), antisocial hacker, researcher, and ex-mental patient par excellence. Nearly three hours long, the compressed, slightly altered (get over it) storyline nonetheless feels rushed at times; Fincher manages the rare feat of making mostly internet research exciting in filmic terms, yet oddly the book’s more shocking episodes of sex and/or mayhem don’t have the memorable impact one might expect from him. The leads are fine, as is the big support cast of recognizable faces (Christopher Plummer, Stellan Skarsgård, Robin Wright, etc.) But the knockout suspense, atmosphere, and urgency one hoped for isn’t present in this intelligent, not entirely satisfying treatment. On the other hand, maybe those who’ve already read the books and seen the prior films have already had so much exposure to this material that a revelatory experience is no longer possible. (2:38) Marina, 1000 Van Ness, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

Le Havre Aki Kaurismäki’s second French-language film (following 1992’s La Vie de Boheme) offers commentary on modern immigration issues wrapped in the gauze of a feel good fairy tale and cozy French provincialism a la Marcel Pagnol. Worried about the health of his hospitalized wife (Kaurismäki regular Kati Outinen), veteran layabout and sometime shoe shiner Marcel (Andre Wilms) gets some welcome distraction in coming to the aid of Idrissa (Blondin Miguel), a young African illegally trying to make way to his mother in London while eluding the gendarmes. Marcel’s whole neighborhood of port-town busybodies and industrious émigrés eventually join in the cause, turning Le Havre into a sort of old-folks caper comedy with an incongruously sunny take on a rising European multiculturalism in which there are no real racist xenophobes, just grumps deserving comeuppance. Incongruous because Kaurismäki is, of course, the king of sardonically funny Finnish miserabilism — and while it’s charmed many on the festival circuit, this combination of his usual poker-faced style and feel-good storytelling formula may strike others as an oil-and-water mismatch. (1:43) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

*Haywire Female empowerment gets its kung-fu-grip thighs around the beet-red throat of all the old action-heroes. Despite a deflated second half — and director Steven Soderbergh’s determinedly cool-headed yet ultimately exciting-quelling approach to Bourne-free action scenes — Haywire is fully capable of seizing and demanding everyone’s attention, particularly that of the feminists in the darkened theater who have given up looking for an action star that might best Angelina Jolie’s Lara Croft. Former pro mixed martial arts fighter Gina Carano, who plays it as studiedly intense and charismatic as crossover grapplers Lee, Norris, and Seagal before her, is that woman, with convincingly formidable neck and shoulder muscles to distract from her curves. Her Mallory Kane is one of the few women in Haywire‘s pared-down, stylized mise-en-scene — the lone female in a world of men out to get her, starting with the opening diner scene of a watchful Mallory confronted by a man (Channing Tatum) playing at being her boyfriend, fed up with her shit, and preparing to pack her into the car — a scenario that doubtless many rebel girls can relate to until it explodes into an ultraviolent, floor-thrashing fight scene. Turns out Mallory is an ex-Marine and Blackwater-style mercenary, ready to get out of the firm and out of a relationship with her boss, Kenneth (Ewan McGregor), when she learns, the bruising way, that she’s been set up. The diner scene sets the tone for rest of Haywire, an otherwise straightforward (albeit flashback-loaded) feminist whodunit of sorts, limned with subtextual currents of sexualized violence and unfolding over a series of encounters with men who could be suitors — or killers. (1:45) California, Four Star, 1000 Van Ness. (Chun)

The Iron Lady Curiously like Clint Eastwood’s 2011 J. Edgar, this biopic from director Phyllida Lloyd and scenarist Abi Morgan takes on a political life of length, breadth and controversy — yet it mostly skims over the politics in favor of a generally admiring take on a famous narrow-minded megalomaniac’s “gumption” as an underdog who drove herself to the top. Looking back on her career from a senile old age spent in the illusory company of dead spouse Denis (Jim Broadbent), Meryl Streep’s ex-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher steamrolls past hurdles of class and gender while ironically re-enforcing the fustiest Tory values. She’s essentially a spluttering Lord in skirts, absolutist in her belief that money and power rule because they ought to, and any protesting rabble don’t represent the “real England.” That’s a mindset that might well have been explored more fruitfully via less flatly literal-minded portraiture, though Lloyd does make a few late, lame efforts at sub-Ken Russell hallucinatory style. Likely to satisfy no one — anywhere on the ideological scale — seriously interested in the motivations and consequences of a major political life, this skin-deep Lady will mostly appeal to those who just want to see another bravura impersonation added to La Streep’s gallery. Yes, it’s a technically impressive performance, but unlikely to be remembered as one of her more depthed ones, let alone among her better vehicles. (1:45) Albany, Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

Hugo Hugo turns on an obviously genius conceit: Martin Scorsese, working with 3D, CGI, and a host of other gimmicky effects, creates a children’s fable that ultimately concerns one of early film’s pioneering special-effects fantasists. That enthusiasm for moviemaking magic, transferred across more than a century of film history, was catching, judging from Scorsese’s fizzy, exhilarating, almost-nauseating vault through an oh-so-faux Parisian train station and his carefully layered vortex of picture planes as Hugo Cabret (Asa Butterfield), an intrepid engineering genius of an urchin, scrambles across catwalk above a buzzing station and a hotheaded station inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen). Despite the special effects fireworks going off all around him, Hugo has it rough: after the passing of his beloved father (Jude Law), he has been stuck with an nasty drunk of a caretaker uncle (Ray Winstone), who leaves his duties of clock upkeep at a Paris train station to his charge. Hugo must steal croissants to survive and mechanical toy parts to work on the elaborate, enigmatic automaton he was repairing with his father, until he’s caught by the fierce toy seller (Ben Kingsley) with a mysterious lousy mood and a cute, bright ward, Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz). Although the surprisingly dark-ish Hugo gives Scorsese a chance to dabble a new technological toolbox — and the chance to wax pedantically, if passionately, about the importance of film archival studies — the effort never quite despite transcends its self-conscious dazzle, lagging pacing, diffuse narrative, and simplistic screenplay by John Logan, based on Brian Selznick’s book. Even the actorly heavy lifting provided by assets like Kingsley and Moretz and the backloaded love for the fantastic proponents at the dawn of filmmaking fail to help matters. Scorsese attempts to steal a little of the latters’ zeal, but one can only imagine what those wizards would do with motion-capture animation or a blockbuster-sized server farm. (2:07) 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck. (Chun)

Joyful Noise As heartfelt and anodyne as the singing underdogs at its center, Joyful Noise offers a spirited if ultimately hamstrung spin on a familiar set-up (anyone seen 1993’s Sister Act 2?). Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton (returning to the screen after a two decade hiatus) do most of the heavy lifting as working-class single mother Vi Rose Hill and flashy widow G.G. Sparrow, respectively, who find themselves locking horns as they strategize how to take the small-town Georgia church choir they both sing in to the big-time Gospel competition that gives the film its title. There’s also the matter of G.G.’s city-slicked grandson’s aggressive courting of Vi Rose’s precocious teenage daughter, who, it turns out, like many of the supporting players here, can out-belt most American Idol finalists. Writer-director Todd Graff’s script works in some genial digs at Parton’s fabulous artifice (“Who cares if I’ve had a few little nips and tucks? God didn’t make plastic surgeons so they could starve!” she proudly declares), but Parton’s singing often provides the emotional expressiveness that her face now has trouble conveying. Latifah’s performance is the biggest surprise in a movie that seems all but hatched from a Disney channel writers meeting: Vi Rose radiates both light and heat, tempering Joyful Noise’s steady stream of homespun treacle with some much-needed righteousness and fury. (1:58) 1000 Van Ness. (Sussman)

*Melancholia Lars von Trier is a filmmaker so fond of courting controversy it’s like he does it in spite of himself — his rambling comments about Hitler (“I’m a Nazi”) were enough to get him banned from the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year, where Melancholia had its debut (and star Kirsten Dunst won Best Actress). Oops. Maybe after the (here’s that word again) controversy that accompanied 2009’s Antichrist, von Trier felt like he needed a shocking context for his more mellow latest. Pity that, for Melancholia is one of his strongest, most thoughtful works to date. Split into two parts, the film follows first the opulent, disastrous, never-ending wedding reception of Justine (Dunst) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgard), held at a lavish estate owned by John (Kiefer Sutherland), the tweedy husband of Justine’s sister, Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg). Amid the turmoil of arguments (John Hurt and Charlotte Rampling as Justine and Claire’s divorced parents), pushy guests (Stellan Skarsgard as Justine’s boss), livid wedding planner (Udo Kier, amazing), and hurt feelings (Michael is the least-wanted groom since Kris Humphries), it’s clear that something is wrong with Justine beyond just marital jitters. The film’s second half begins an unspecified amount of time later, as Claire talks her severely depressed, near-catatonic sister into moving into John’s mansion. As Justine mopes, it’s revealed that a small planet, Melancholia — glimpsed in Melancholia‘s Wagner-scored opening overture — is set to pass perilously close to Earth. John, an amateur astronomer, is thrilled; Claire, fearful for her young son’s future and goaded into high anxiety by internet doomsayers, is convinced the planets will collide, no matter what John says. Since Justine (apparently von Trier’s stand-in for himself) is convinced that the world’s an irredeemably evil place, she takes the news with a shrug. Von Trier’s vision of the apocalypse is somber and surprisingly poetic; Dunst and Gainsbourg do outstanding work as polar-opposite sisters whose very different reactions to impending disaster are equally extreme. (2:15) Lumiere. (Eddy)

Midnight in Paris Owen Wilson plays Gil, a self-confessed “Hollywood hack” visiting the City of Light with his conservative future in-laws and crassly materialistic fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams). A romantic obviously at odds with their selfish pragmatism (somehow he hasn’t realized that yet), he’s in love with Paris and particularly its fabled artistic past. Walking back to his hotel alone one night, he’s beckoned into an antique vehicle and finds himself transported to the 1920s, at every turn meeting the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates), Dali (Adrien Brody), etc. He also meets Adriana (Marion Cotillard), a woman alluring enough to be fought over by Hemingway (Corey Stoll) and Picasso (Marcial di Fonzo Bo) — though she fancies aspiring literary novelist Gil. Woody Allen’s latest is a pleasant trifle, no more, no less. Its toying with a form of magical escapism from the dreary present recalls The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985), albeit without that film’s greater structural ingeniousness and considerable heart. None of the actors are at their best, though Cotillard is indeed beguiling and Wilson dithers charmingly as usual. Still — it’s pleasant. (1:34) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol No world landmark (the Kremlin, the Burj Khalifia) is too iconic and/or freaking tall for uber-adrenalized Impossible Missions Force agent Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) and his team (Jeremy Renner, Paula Patton, Simon “Comic Relief” Pegg) to infiltrate, climb, assume false identities in, use as a home base for unleashing futuristic spy technology that seems almost plausible (with the help of lots of iPads), race a BMW through, etc. One kind of gets the sense that Cruise and company sat down with a piece of paper and were like, “What stunts haven’t we done before, and how many of them can I do with my shirt off?” Celebrated animation director Brad Bird (2004’s The Incredibles) is right at home with Ghost Protocol as his first live-action effort — the film’s plot (set in the present day, it involves a positively vintage blend of Russians and nukes) and even its unmemorable villain take a back seat to Cruise’s secret-agent shenanigans, most of which take the form of a crazy plan that must be altered at the last minute, resulting in an even crazier plan, which must be implemented despite the sudden appearance of yet another ludicrously daunting obstacle, like, say, a howling sandstorm. For maximum big dumb fun, make sure you catch the IMAX version. A warning, though: any time the movie screeches to a halt to explore emotions or attempt characterization … zzz. (2:13) 1000 Van Ness. (Eddy)

My Week With Marilyn Statuette-clutching odds are high for Michelle Williams, as her impersonation of a famous dead celebrity is “well-rounded” in the sense that we get to see her drunk, disorderly, depressed, and so forth. Her Marilyn Monroe is a conscientious performance. But when the movie isn’t rolling in the expected pathos, it’s having other characters point out how instinctive and “magical” Monroe is onscreen — and Williams doesn’t have that in her. Who could? Williams is remarkable playing figures so ordinary you might look right through them on the street, in Wendy and Lucy (2008), Blue Valentine (2010), etc. But as Monroe, all she can do is play the little-lost girl behind the sizzle. Without the sizzle. Which is, admittedly, exactly what My Week — based on a dubious true story — asks of her. It is true that in 1956 the Hollywood icon traveled to England to co-star with director Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) in a fluff romance, The Prince and the Showgirl; and that she drove him crazy with her tardiness, mood swings, and crises. It’s debatable whether she really got so chummy with young production gofer Colin Clark, our wistful guide down memory lane. He’s played with simpering wide-eyed adoration by Eddie Redmayne, and his suitably same-aged secondary romantic interest (Emma Watson) is even duller. This conceit could have made for a sly semi-factual comedy of egos, neurosis, and miscommunication. But in a rare big-screen foray, U.K. TV staples director Simon Curtis and scenarist Adrian Hodges play it all with formulaic earnestness — Marilyn is the wounded angel who turns a starstruck boy into a brokenhearted but wiser man as the inevitable atrocious score orders our eyes to mist over. (1:36) Clay, Presidio, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Pariah A teenage girl stands stock-still in a dark nightclub, gazing with desire and fear at the half-naked female dancers on the stage. Later, riding home on the bus, she slowly removes the layers of butch that held her together in the club, stripping down to some version of the person her parents need to see when she walks in the door. Nearly wordlessly, the opening scenes of Dee Rees’s Pariah poignantly depict the embattled internal life of Alike (Adepero Oduye), a 17-year-old African American girl living in Brooklyn with her family and struggling both to be seen as she is and to determine what that might look like. The battles are being waged externally, too, between Alike’s adoring father (Charles Parnell), living in willful ignorance, and angry, rigid mother (Kim Wayans), desperately enforcing a feminine dress code and steering Alike away from openly butch friend Laura (Pernell Walker). Rees’ script beautifully conveys a household of landmines and chasms, which widen as husband and wife and daughter struggle and fail to communicate, asking the wrong questions, fearfully skirting the truth about Alike’s sexuality and her parents’ crumbling marriage. And the world outside proves full of romantic pitfalls and the tensions of longtime friendship and peer pressure. The poems in which the talented Alike takes solace and makes her way toward a more truthful existence are beautiful, but at a certain point the lyricism overtakes the film, forcing an ending that is tidy but less than satisfying. (1:26) Embarcadero. (Rapoport)

*Pina Watching Pina Bausch’s choreography on film should not have been as absorbing and deeply affecting of an experience as it was. Dance on film tends to disappoint — the camera flattens the body and distorts perspective, and you either see too many or not enough details. However, improved 3D technology gave Wim Wenders (1999’s Buena Vista Social Club; 1987’s Wings of Desire) the additional tools he needed to accomplish what he and fellow German Bausch had talked about for 20 years: collaborating on a documentary about her work. Instead of making a film about the rebel dance maker, Wenders made it for Bausch, who died in June 2009, two days before the start of filming. Pina is an eloquent tribute to a tiny, soft-spoken, mousy-looking artist who turned the conventions of theatrical dance upside down. She was a great artist and true innovator. Wenders’ biggest accomplishment in this beautifully paced and edited document is its ability to elucidate Bausch’s work in a way that words probably cannot. While it’s good to see dance’s physicality and its multi dimensionality on screen, it’s even better that the camera goes inside the dances to touch tiny details and essential qualities in the performers’ every gesture. No proscenium theater can offer that kind of intimacy. Appropriately, intimacy (the eternal desire for it) and loneliness (an existential state of being) were the two contradictory forces that Bausch kept exploring over and over. And by taking fragments of the dances into the environment — both natural and artificial — of Wuppertal, Germany, Wenders places them inside the emotional lives of ordinary people, subjects of all of Bausch’s work. (1:43) Shattuck, Smith Rafael, Sundance Kabuki. (Rita Felciano)

Red Tails History (and the highly-acclaimed 1995 TV film, The Tuskeegee Airmen) tells us that during World War II, African American fighter pilots skillfully dispatched Nazi foes — while battling discrimination within the U.S. military every step of the way. From this inspiring true tale springs Red Tails, an overly earnest and awkwardly broad film which matches lavish special effects (thank you, producer George Lucas) with a flawed script stuffed with trite dialogue (thank you, “story by” George Lucas?), an overabundance of characters, and too many subplots (including a romance and a detour into Hogan’s Heroes). The movie would’ve been much stronger had it streamlined to focus on the friendship between the brash Lightning (David Oyelowo) and the not-as-perfect-as-he-seems Easy (Nate Parker); the head-butting between these two supplies the film’s only genuine moments of tension. Otherwise, there’s not much depth, just surface-to-air heroics. (2:00) 1000 Van Ness. (Eddy)

*A Separation Iran’s first movie to win Berlin’s Golden Bear (as well as all its acting awards), this domestic drama reflecting a larger socio-political backdrop is subtly well-crafted on all levels, but most of all demonstrates the unbeatable virtue of having an intricately balanced, reality-grounded screenplay — director Asghar Farhadi’s own — as bedrock. A sort of confrontational impartiality is introduced immediately, as our protagonists Nader (Peyman Moadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami) face the camera — or rather the court magistrate — to plead their separate cases in her filing for divorce, which he opposes. We gradually learn that their 14-year wedlock isn’t really irreparable, the feelings between them not entirely hostile. The roadblock is that Simin has finally gotten permission to move abroad, a chance she thinks she must seize for the sake of their daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi). But Nader doesn’t want to leave the country, and is not about to let his only child go without him. Farhadi worked in theater before moving into films a decade ago. His close attention to character and performance (developed over several weeks’ pre-production rehearsal) has the acuity sported by contemporary playwrights like Kenneth Lonergan and Theresa Rebeck, fitted to a distinctly cinematic urgency of pace and image. There are moments that risk pushing plot mechanizations too far, by A Separation pulls off something very intricate with deceptive simplicity, offering a sort of integrated Rashomon (1950) in which every participant’s viewpoint as the wronged party is right — yet in conflict with every other. (2:03) Embarcadero. (Harvey)

*Shame It’s been a big 2011 for Michael Fassbender, with Jane Eyre, X-Men: First Class, Shame, and A Dangerous Method raising his profile from art-house standout to legit movie star (of the “movie stars who can also act” variety). Shame may only reach one-zillionth of X-Men‘s audience due to its NC-17 rating, but this re-teaming with Hunger (2008) director Steve McQueen is Fassbender’s highest achievement to date. He plays Brandon, a New Yorker whose life is tightly calibrated to enable a raging sex addiction within an otherwise sterile existence, including an undefined corporate job and a spartan (yet expensive-looking) apartment. When brash, needy, messy younger sister Cissy (Carey Mulligan, speaking of actors having banner years) shows up, yakking her life all over his, chaos results. Shame is a movie that unfolds in subtle details and oversized actions, with artful direction despite its oft-salacious content. If scattered moments seem forced (loopy Cissy’s sudden transformation, for one scene, into a classy jazz singer), the emotions — particularly the titular one — never feel less than real and raw. (1:39) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Eddy)

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows Maybe Guy Ritchie should’ve quit while he was ahead. Thanks to strong performances from Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, the British director’s first Holmes flick proved surprisingly fun. Two years later, it’s clear that Ritchie’s well of creatitivity has run dry. Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows is cliched and overlong, burying a few good ideas under an avalanche of tired action movie stalwarts gone steampunk. To be fair, the set design and art direction are still sumptuous, creating a hyperbolic, detailed vision of Victorian Europe. New cast additions Jared Harris (as Moriarty, maliciously polite) and Stephen Fry (as Mycroft, eccentric and nude) do well with limited material. Noomi Rapace, playing a helpful gypsy, is superfluous. Downey Jr. and Law are still game for some amusing PG-13 homoeroticism, but it’s the former’s disinterested performance that ensures the movie’s downfall. Forced to make do without witty quips or interesting deductions, the Holmes of A Game of Shadows is part bruiser, part buffoon. The game’s a flop, Watson. (2:09) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Ben Richardson)

The Skin I Live In I’d like to think that Pedro Almodóvar is too far along in his frequently-celebrated career to be having a midlife crisis, but all the classic signs are on display in his flashy, disjointed new thriller. Still mourning the death of his burn victim wife and removed from his psychologically disturbed daughter, brilliant-but-ethically compromised plastic surgeon Robert (played with smoldering creepiness by former Almodóvar heartthrob Antonio Banderas) throws himself into developing a new injury-resistant form of prosthetic skin, testing it on his mysterious live-in guinea pig, Vera (the gorgeous Elena Anaya, whose every curve is on view thanks to an après-ski-ready body suit). Eventually, all hell breaks loose, as does Vera, whose back story, as we find out, owes equally to 1960’s Eyes Without a Face and perhaps one of the Saw films. And that’s not even the half of it — to fully recount every sharp turn, digression, and MacGuffin thrown at us would take the entirety of this review. That’s not news for Almodóvar, though. Much like Rainer Werner Fassbinder before him, Almodóvar’s métier is melodrama, as refracted through a gay cinephile’s recuperative affections. His strength as a filmmaker is to keep us emotionally tethered to the story he’s telling, amidst all the allusions, sex changes and plot twists torn straight from a telenovela. The real shame of The Skin I Live In is that so much happens that you don’t actually have time to care much about any of it. Although its many surfaces are beautiful to behold (thanks largely to cinematographer José Luis Alcaine), The Skin I Live In ultimately lacks a key muscle: a heart. (1:57) Opera Plaza. (Sussman)

*Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy Tomas Alfredson (2008’s Let the Right One In) directs from Bridget O’Connor and Peter Straughan’s sterling adaptation of John le Carré’s classic spy vs. spy tale, with Gary Oldman making the role of George Smiley (famously embodied by Alec Guinness in the 1979 miniseries) completely his own. Your complete attention is demanded, and deserved, by this tale of a Cold War-era, recently retired MI6 agent (Oldman) pressed back into service at “the Circus” to ferret out a Soviet mole. Building off Oldman’s masterful, understated performance, Alfredson layers intrigue and an attention to weird details (a fly buzzing around a car, the sound of toast being scraped with butter) that heighten the film’s deceptively beige 1970s palette. With espionage-movie trappings galore (safe houses, code machines), a returned-to flashback to a surreal office Christmas party, and bang-on supporting performances by John Hurt, Mark Strong, Colin Firth, Toby Jones, and the suddenly ubiquitous Benedict Cumberbatch, Tinker Tailor epitomizes rule one of filmmaking: show me, don’t tell me. A movie that assumes its audience isn’t completely brain-dead is cause for celebration and multiple viewings — not to mention a place among the year’s best. (2:07) 1000 Van Ness, Piedmont, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Underworld Awakening (1:30) 1000 Van Ness.

*War Horse If the idea of watching heroic horses getting slaughtered amid the brutal trench warfare of World War I fills your heart with disgust, then you might want to applaud Steven Spielberg and his relatively sensitive touch with that material in the heartrending War Horse. The PG-13 rating also gives you some idea that the director will be hewing to the movie’s origins as a children’s book. Spielberg paints this tale about loss of innocence, be it in the fields of the farm or the battle, in broad strokes, but here, you might feel a bit less manipulated by his prowess as a crowd-pleasing storyteller, less conscious about the legacy he draws on, and more immersed in a story that stays as close as it can to its animal protagonist’s point of view, short of pulling a Mr. Ed. War Horse opens with Joey’s birth and follows him as he’s sold to a struggling English farm run by traumatized war veteran Ted (Peter Mullan), his spunky wife Rose (Emily Watson), and his animal-loving son Albert (Jeremy Irvine). Circumstance — and an unyielding landlord (David Thewlis) — sends Joey off to the so-called Great War, first into the care of an honorable captain (Tom Hiddleston), later a French girl (Celine Buckens), and worst, into the arms of the German enemy, where he toils as a disposable beast of burden charged with hauling the literal machines of war uphill. Spielberg shields viewers both young and old from the more explicit horrors, though gracefully imparts war’s terrors, sending fresh chills through a viewer when, for instance, a child riding a horse disappears over a ridge and fails to return. No one’s immune from tears, and you have to wonder how much healing is actually possible at War Horse‘s conclusion, despite its stylized, symbolism-laden beauty. Nonetheless cinephiles will glean a certain pleasure from images that clearly nod to the blood-red skies of Gone With the Wind (1939), the ominous deep focus of Orson Wells, and the too-bright Technicolor clarity-slash-artifice of National Velvet (1944). (2:26) Shattuck. (Chun)

*Young Adult We first meet Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron) passed out next to last night’s bar pickup, whose name she won’t remember upon waking. You get the feeling this scenario happens a lot to Mavis — she’s the aging Manhattan model who seems like a trophy until the guy realizes she’s an even bigger asshole than he is. Plus, she’s in Minneapolis, on a house-grade scotch budget, where the denizens of the Midwestern home town she’s long abandoned assume she’s living a relatively glittering existence as swinging single and published author (albeit ghost author, of a petering-out tween fiction franchise). But no, her life is empty. Save your sympathy, however — Mavis might feel she’s missing something, but her consumerist values and incredible selfishness aren’t going to be sacrificed in finding it. After getting a courtesy baby announcement from old boyfriend Buddy (Patrick Wilson), she makes a determination as arbitrary as it is adamant: they were always meant to be together, and she needs to reclaim him so they can re-live their glory as King Jock and Queen Bitch of high school. Never mind that Buddy is quite happy where he is — let alone that new baby, and a wife (Elizabeth Reaser) less glam but cooler than Mavis will ever be. Acting as her confidant on this kamikaze mission is ex-classmate Matt (Patton Oswalt), who wants to reverse time about two decades for very different reasons. This reunion for the Juno (2007) duo of director Jason Reitman and writer Diablo Cody puts the latter’s facile wit to more complex, mature, organic use — though this ruthless yet quiet black character comedy is no uptempo crowd-pleaser. Rather, it’s an insidious, incisive commentary on such entertainments, as well as on juvie fiction like Sweet Valley High, whose adaptation is what Cody was developing before this tangent trumped it. It’s a surprisingly nervy movie, more like a 20-years-later sequel to Heathers (1988) than to Juno. (1:34) Shattuck. (Harvey)

A Bay Area kind of stand-up: Frankie Quinones of For the People Comedy

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Common knowledge states that if you’re serious about becoming a stand-up comedian on the West Coast, you move to Los Angeles. But Frankie Quinones created the diversity of For the People Comedy here in San Francisco and despite his rising star on the stand-up scene, he’s sticking around for the moment.

Maybe that’s because Carmelita lives here. “She’s taken on a whole thing of her own, her own career,” says the Ventura County native of his sassed-up, club-going Latina sexpot. “Carmelita’s got her own list of things to do in 2012.” You can check out Quinones — and possibly Carmelita or his popular “Cholo Whisperer” skit — at the next For the People event at Cobb’s on Thu/19. 

Carmelita was created back in 1996 in Quinones’ high school improv class. She hails from Quinones’ stable of characters inspired by – well, what else – the people he sees on an everyday basis. In Carmelita’s case that’s his female family members, mixed with Quinones’ own mannerisms. “She’s really confident, but not really conceited,” he says. 

Her star vehicle was “Eh-So Eh-Spicy,” in which she half-dishes, half-raps about men looking at her tits in line at the store and courts suitors in a San Francisco bar. You’re definitely laughing at her, but somehow, Quinones escapes reducing the brash Carmelita into a stereotype like so many other male comedian’s female alter egos. Carmelita shares set time with a host of Quinones’ other personas, including a hippie character named Sun Diamond whose mannerisms are culled from the patchouli-scented denizens of our fair city.

Quinones is proud of being a Latino comic, part of a tradition that also includes his personal role models Gabriel “Fluffy” Iglesias and Paul Rodriguez, who his parents used to watch on TV when he was young. He often performs at Latino comedy nights in Los Angeles, but in San Francisco — where successful Latino comics are well-known for relocating quickly down south when fame beckons — he’s used to being the only Hispanic name on otherwise all-black and all-white bills.

His comedy often dances along the edge of racial tensions, ultimately resolving them in a feel-good way. In “Cholo Whisperer,” a upper-middle class suburban couple hires an expert to deal with the shanking, 40-drinking gangster (played by Quinones) they’ve adopted after being charmed by their neighbor’s cholo. The cholo whisperer, who walks with a mystic’s bauble-topped scepter but dresses in everyday street wear and a blue bandana, teaches the white husband how to be “the jefe,” a role that mainly involves puffing out his chest and barking short orders. 

“Some people think I’m stupid for not moving to LA already,” says Quinones, drinking a Negra Modelo in front of his combination plate on a sidewalk tables at the Valencia Street Puerto Alegre. “But I feel like I’m doing something for the San Francisco comedy scene.” You can check out For the People’s new monthly gig every last Wednesday at SoMa’s Sofa nightclub on Eighth Street and Minna. Quinones crafts the program for these nights with the newbie comedy fan in mind — usually they’ll feature stand-ups from all kinds of backgrounds, even a live DJ for musical interludes. 

“I’ve always been that fool in my family, like ah, fucking Frankie,” Quinones laughs. “People in my life are not surprised that I’m a stand-up comedian.”

Maybe that’s why they’ve been so supportive. “I have a good team of homies that believe in this as much as I do,” says Quinones, who says the word of mouth hype his group of friends give him is invaluable in promoting his shows – indeed, a word from a mutual friend was how I heard about his work. “Our brand of comedy is like, this is all of us, together. It’s like, I’m no better than you because I’m on stage. I try to create a family vibe so that when people come in they feel a part of it.”

Just don’t heckle him – that positivity has its limits. “If somebody heckles me that’s the green light,” he laughs forbodingly, for a moment seeming like the snarky comedians we’re used to from network television and BET. That impression doesn’t last long before we’re back to the group experience: “But my goal is to make it funny for everyone.”

 

For the People Comedy

Thu/19 8 p.m., $15

Cobb’s Comedy Club

915 Columbus, SF

(415) 928-4320

www.cobbscomedyclub.com