Review

Lackluster finish to case that made serious political charges

Sasha Cuttler
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Lackluster finish to case that made serious political charges

A jury awarded the City and County of San Francisco $24,498 yesterday following its deliberations of a complicated civil case filed by the city in 2003 against a minority-owned computer services company accused of fraud and breach of contract, a company that countersued with a claim of being harmed by top city officials.

But that paltry sum and the jury’s verdict of shared responsibility in failing to root out corruption in city government belied the more politically significant accusations made through depositions in the case that Mayor Ed Lee and former Mayor Willie Brown overrode city staff to give contracts to a “fraudulent” yet politically connected company, which proved to be a tangential issue that was left largely unexplored at trial.

In CCSF vs. Cobra Solutions, the jury found that both the city and Cobra Solutions failed in their responsibilities to prevent a former Department of Building Inspection information technology manager, Marcus Armstrong, from fraudulently bilking the city out of at least $482,000 between 1999 and 2001. An alleged Armstrong accomplice, Government Computer Sales, Inc. – which witnesses said Brown and Lee improperly certified, and which they say they don’t remember – fled and was never brought to justice.

Cobra Solutions, which was awarded master contract status in 1998, was bound by a provision in its agreement with the city that required Cobra to “supervise” sub-contractors. The allegation of fraud against Cobra, however, was effectively dropped from the city’s complaint, but not until the end of the trial when consideration of fraud was omitted from the city’s closing arguments.

The award to the city was the difference between the monies paid by the city to Cobra Solutions ($269,739.93) and the monies paid by Cobra Solutions to Armstrong’s phony companies ($245,241.93), or the markup Cobra Solutions received from the city following the submission of several fraudulent invoices from two phony sub-contractor companies, Monarch Enterprises and Mindstorm technologies, set up by Armstrong.

Following the verdict announcement, a juror who did not want to be identified, said there wasn’t a single piece of evidence that was most compelling, but that, “the city proved its case. Cobra failed to prove its case.” The “vast majority” of jurors shared that opinion, the juror said. “It wasn’t even close.”

“The jury thought there was obviously a failure to supervise,” the juror continued. “[Cobra Solutions] took on work without even knowing who the party was that was working for them. Who was Monarch?”

Several invoices from Armstrong’s phony companies contained different addresses that the juror described as “a bit of a red flag.”

“If I’m in business, I’m not going to have someone working for me who I don’t know, and I’m not going to be paying them checks,” the juror said.

“The city also bore responsibility” in its failure to detect Armstrong’s kickback scheme, the juror said, mirroring the same sentiment echoed by then-City Controller Ed Harrington, who took the stand and conceded the city’s internal controls – as well as those of Cobra Solutions – failed to detect Armstrong’s kickback scheme.

Cobra had sought damages for breach of contract (the city’s failure to pay monies owed Cobra) and due process violations in connection with the city’s alleged debarment of Cobra from doing further business with the city.

“I’m disappointed,” said Cobra Solutions founder and president James Brady. “Life goes on. We’ll continue to move forward and repair our damaged reputation, raise our grandchildren, and focus on our families.”

Asked about the issue of sub-contractor supervision, Brady said, “I don’t think anybody could supervise a con man and the city was negligent in hiring this guy – they wouldn’t even bring him in the courtroom – so it’s just betrayal. And it’s a sad day that you hire con man and you won’t take any responsibility for his actions and you blame the small business. That’s not the American way.”

On the jurors finding that Cobra was not intentionally or defacto debarred from doing further business with the city, Brady said, “I think they got it wrong. I have no doubt about that.”

“The jury missed a lot of important facts,” said Mr. Brady’s wife, Deborah Brady, a co-founder of Telecon, the parent company of Cobra Solutions. The city had originally sued Telecon in its case-in-chief, but pursued no claims against Telecon at trial. “I don’t know how they missed them, but they missed them.”

Ms. Brady said the city gave another company, Desktop, the opportunity to defend itself against debarment, but “they never gave us that opportunity.”

“Judith Blackwell, she told the whole story in terms of Monique Zmuda saying they wanted us out, that we’re crooks,” Ms. Brady continued. “They accused us… and never gave us the opportunity to respond, ever.” Monique Zmuda is the deputy City Controller.

“I feel really betrayed by a city that I used to really love and [City Attorney] Dennis Herrera, who is our private attorney, betrayed us,” a tearful Ms. Brady said. “Ed Lee, who claims he barely knew us, betrayed us. Ed Harrington? I don’t know what that was all about, or Monique Zmuda… but Ed Lee and Dennis Herrera, they let down really good people who used to live in this city and loved this city and did all that we could to do good in the community and this city. “

“So I pretty much call it, ‘The City of Betrayal.’”

Cobra’s lead counsel in the case, Whitney Leigh, told us, “The jury made its decision. We’re concerned that the jury was allowed to find that Cobra could have breached the contract by refusing to submit to an audit by the City Attorney. So we believe there are some issues that need to be researched, so we’ll be looking at those issues.”

Asked if there would be post-trial motions, Leigh said, “Post trial motions and/or appeal.”

“Obviously we’re disappointed,” Leigh added, “but we’ll review the transcripts and see what options are available.”

Because of the possibility of an appeal, Herrera was unable to comment on the verdict or to discuss city’s costs in trying the case, said Herrera spokesperson Matt Dorsey.

 

NATHANIEL BLUMBERG, 1922-2012

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NATHANIEL BLUMBERG, 1922-2012

Nathan Blumberg, a great journalist who insisted on meeting deadlines, wrote his own obituary so that he would not miss his final deadline,  on Valentine’s Day, in 2012, when he died of complications from a stroke in Kalispell, Montana. Below is his obit,and his final byline, updated and corrected by Wilbur Wood, his former student and former city editor of the Guardian in the late 1960s.  Wood said that  Nathaniel wrote his own obit to insure that it would be complete and accurate. Nathaniel’s critique of mainstream journalism, and his  vision of independent journalism, were a major influence in the founding of the Guardian and the alternative press.

Nathaniel Blumberg was a World War II combat veteran, Rhodes Scholar, investigative reporter, national press critic, novelist, visiting professor and lecturer at major universities, dean and professor during his 35-year tenure at the University of Montana, and a man devoted to Montana for the last 55 years of his life.

He died February 14, 2012, at the age of 89 in Kalispell, Montana, where he had been hospitalized since a stroke February 8 in his home near Big Fork.     

Born April 8, 1922, in Denver, Colorado, Nathaniel Bernard Blumberg was the eighth and last child of Dr. Abraham Moses and Jeanette Blumberg. His father was a country doctor in Siebert, Colorado, for many years and had moved to Denver with his family to serve as superintendent of a tuberculosis sanitarium.

Nathaniel grew up in the west side of Denver with his four brothers and three sisters in a vibrant home filled with newspapers, magazines, books, music and long discussions of current events at the dinner table. He was graduated from East Denver High School after covering the city’s high school sports for the Rocky Mountain News while a senior.

His education at the University of Colorado was interrupted by the attack on Pearl Harbor and in August, 1942, he enlisted in the Army. After basic training, he was sent to the Army Specialized Training Program in Logan, Utah, and then to Camp Bowie in Texas. He was assigned to the forward observation team of Battery C of the newly formed 666th Field Artillery Battalion, a 155mm howitzer non-divisional unit trained to change mission on short notice. The Triple Sixes entered the war during one of the coldest winters of the century in Belgium against elite German SS troops in the Battle of the Bulge, the largest land battle in the history of the United States Army. The battalion then drove across the Roer river and the Rhine, through the heart of Germany and into occupation in Austria. He earned three battle stars and a Bronze Star in combat. 

Shortly after VE Day in 1945, he published the first history of a unit in World War II, “Charlie of 666,” which he had begun writing when the battalion was formed in 1944. With his poker winnings and combat pay, he published the 32-page booklet in a German print shop and distributed it to members of his battery to send home.

After the war he returned to the University of Colorado, was named editor of the student newspaper and received a bachelor of arts in journalism and a master of arts in history. He was awarded a Rhodes Scholarship for two years of study at Oxford University, where he earned a doctorate in modern history under the tutelage of the internationally known and controversial historian, A.J.P. Taylor. He was a starting guard for Oxford in the first Oxford-Cambridge basketball game ever played in 1949.

Nathaniel was an assistant professor of journalism at the University of Nebraska from 1950 to 1955, when in 1954 the University of Nebraska Press published his “One-Party Press?,” the first significant study of press performance in a presidential election. He went to Michigan State University for a year as an associate professor and in 1956 at the age of 34 he was brought to the Universty of Montana by President Carl McFarland to become dean and professor of the School of Journalism. He served under four presidents and two interim presidents during his 12 years as dean.

He established the annual Dean Stone Night in 1957 to honor the founder and first dean of the School of Journalism, to present awards to outstanding students and to bring a prominent journalist to lecture on the campus, a tradition still followed.

He formed the Department of Radio-Television in 1957 and brought in Phil Hess to put KUFM on air Jan. 31, 1965, six years before National Public Radio was begun in 1971. He has been called on air “the grandfather of Montana Public Radio, a public service of the University of Montana.”

With Mel Ruder of the Hungry Horse News, president of the Montana Newspaper Association, Nathaniel installed the Montana Newspaper Hall of Fame in the School of Journalism in 1958.

Also in 1958, he founded the Montana Journalism Review, the first journalism review in the United States, three years before the Columbia Journalism Review. It is still going.

Shortly after the inauguration of President Kennedy in 1961, the U.S. State Department asked him to serve as an “American Specialist” in Thailand for the summer. Three years later, under President Johnson, he again served in the same capacity for the summer in Trinidad, Guyana, Surinam and Jamaica.

He was elected vice president of the American Association of Schools and Departments of Journalism in 1962, declining to run for president because it meant he would be sponsoring a national journalism competition he and his faculty regarded as unethical. He was elected national chairman of the accreditation committee of the American Council on Education for Journalism in 1967 and national president of Kappa Tau Alpha, the society honoring scholarship in journalism, in 1969.

He was a member of the Rhodes Scholarship state selection committee from 1956 to 1987, including seven years as state secretary. He served six times on the western seven-state Rhodes regional selection committee.

Nathaniel was a staff writer for the Denver Post, associate editor of the Lincoln (Neb.) Star and assistant city editor of the Washington Post. He accepted invitations to serve as a visiting professor at Pennsylvania State University for fall quarter of 1964, Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism for the 1966-67 year and the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley in 1970.

He married Lynne Stout in 1946 and they had three daughters, Janet Leslie, Jenifer Lyn and Josephine Laura. They divorced in 1970 but remained a close family. Their children and grandchildren gathered in Missoula on many occasions and spent long summers on the east shore of Flathead Lake.

Starting a new life in 1970, Nathan took the full name of Nathaniel on his birth certificate. In 1973, he married Barbara Farquhar, a college English professor and a widely published poet, who came to Missoula with her daughter, Nina. Barbara introduced him to Newfoundland dogs and they shared their 34 years together with seven Newfies (and a wolf with a touch of dog in her from the Helena hills). They enjoyed traveling together to beaches and fishing villages in the Canary Islands, Morocco, Spain, Portugal, Nova Scotia, and frequently to Florida, Mexico, Costa Rica, Orcas Island and the central Oregon coast. They balanced these adventures with quiet periods of writing in the cabin they designed and helped build near Big Fork.

In 1980 he established WoodFIREAshes Press to publish books which he hoped to write, edit and design without commercial publishers, editors or agents. He crafted “The Afternoon of March 30, A Contemporary Historical Novel” in l984, which centered on facts never reported by mainstream newspapers or on television about the attempted assassination of President Reagan by John W. Hinckley Jr. It received many warm reviews except for the Missoulian reviewer who didn’t care for the book although he termed the chapter on Hinckley’s trial “riveting.” Bud Guthrie wrote that he had “written a pretty bad novel but a forceful and persuasive book.” Doris Lessing, years before she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, wrote Nathaniel, “I have read ‘The Afternoon of March 30’ with fascination. I really could not put it down, once I had started. If you ever come to London – and why should you, if you live in Montana, which I understand from friends of mine is one of the special places – then do let me know.”    
 
Nathaniel rarely spoke of his part in World War II until 19 survivors of his artillery battery gathered for a reunion in 1992 and urged him to write the uncensored story of their time at war. He returned to Belgium and Germany three times, including a three-day meeting with 32 German veterans of the Ardennes battle. In 2000 he published “Charlie of 666, a Memoir of World War II,” which included his 1945 history and his recollections on the war 55 years later. It was nominated for the 2002 Distinguished Book Award of the Society of Military History.

From 1991 to 1999 he published 20 issues of the “Treasure State Review, A Montana Periodical of Journalism and Justice.” Many of his graduates contributed to the 12-page newsletter. It served as his commentary on that decade of Montana history.

He wrote many articles for magazines, but he was most proud of his coverage of the “March on the Pentagon” in 1967 and his long essay, “Chicago and the Press,” based on his time on the streets and in the parks covering the protesters during the chaotic week of the 1968 Democratic National Convention. He was co-editor with Warren Brier of “A Century of Montana Journalism” and editor of the two-volume “Mansfield Lectures in International Relations.”

He was a demanding teacher with high standards who encouraged his students to live up to the highest principles of the journalism profession, to treat their native language with accuracy and affection, to always be skeptical but never cynical, and to remember that “sacred cows make the best hamburgers.” He was teacher, friend and counselor to hundreds of his students and took great pride in their professional success, their contributions to journalism in Montana and the nation, and their strong sense of public service in their chosen careers. They have written an extraordinary number of books. Scores of his graduates became lifelong friends.

Nathaniel was outspoken and had strong opinions. When he was honored by the Montana Newspaper Association along with Mel Ruder of the Hungry Horse News and Hal Stearns of the Harlowtown Times as the first three Master Editor/Publishers in 1991, he told a cheering audience of weekly journalists that “I am just as proud of the kind of people who don’t like me as I am of the kind of people who love me.” At the 25th anniversary of the Montana Constitutional Convention in Helena in 1997, his critique of the Montana daily press drew the longest standing ovation of the meeting.

His beloved Barbara Ann died of a stroke on the Autumnal Equinox, Sept. 21, 2007, a few days before her 73rd birthday. He also lost his youngest daughter, Josephine Loewen, in a tragic accident on Jan. 7, 2001, at the age of 46.

Survivors include his daughters, Janet Leslie Blumberg of Bothell, Wash., Jenifer Blumberg of Charlo, and stepdaughter Nina Gutierrez and husband Miguel of Ciudad Colon, Costa Rica; grandchildren Caleb Knedlik and wife Janine of Philadelphia, Pa., Asher Loeb of San Francisco, Ariel Diaz and husband Victor of Phoenix, Aram Loeb of Dayton, Ohio, Laramie and Kiam Loewen of Missoula, Adam Loewen of Portland, and Helen, Valerie and Sofia Gutierrez of Ciudad Colon, Costa Rica; numerous nieces and nephews and his first wife, Lynne Blumberg in Missoula.

He spent his last years in his cabin working on a book, including a chapter on “My 30 Years With John W. Hinckley, Jr.” in which he named Neil and Sharon Bush as co-conspirators in the attempt to assassinate President Reagan.

He requested no formal services and that his ashes be scattered with those of Barbara among the trees around their home near Big Fork.

Sundance Diary, volume eight: the final countdown

Sue Vaughan
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Sundance Diary, volume eight: the final countdown

In a series of posts, Midnites for Maniacs curator-host and Academy of Art film-history teacher Jesse Hawthorne Ficks reports on the 2012 Sundance Film Festival. Check out his first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh entries.
 
No film at this year’s festival encountered as much controversy as Craig Zobel’s Compliance. At the first public screening, an all-out shouting match erupted, with an audience member yelling “Sundance can do better!” You can’t buy that kind of publicity. Every screening (public and press) that followed was jam-packed with people hoping to experience the most shocking film at Sundance, and the film does not disappoint. (Beware: every review I have happened upon has unnecessarily spoiled major plots in the film, which is based on true events.)

What is so impressive about Zobel’s film is how it builds up a sense of ever-impending terror. In fact, I would go as far as to say that the film steps into Psycho (1960) terrain, specifically in the final act of the film. Compliance aims to confront a society filled with people who are trained to follow rules without questioning them. Magnolia Pictures, which previously collaborated with Zobel on his debut film Great World of Sound (which premiered at Sundance in 2007), picked up the film for theatrical release; if you dare to check it out, prepare to be traumatized. You’ll be screaming about one of the most audacious movies of 2012 — and that’s exactly why the film is so brilliant.

Before moving on, the short film that screened before Compliance needs a special mention for being one of the best films at Sundance 2012. Nash Edgerton’s follow up to last year’s brilliantly dark short Spider is an 11-minute short entitled Bear. Not only did it catch me completely off guard every step of the way, it’s the kind of slick, quick fix that had me panting at the idea of him creating a feature-length film.

Back to horror now. Rodney Ascher’s first feature, Room 237, explores the dozens of theories that fans all over the world have regarding Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980). Ascher, who debuted at Sundance with his masterful short The S from Hell (2010) — about how the 1964 Screen Gems logo gave people nightmares for years … no, really! — has brought the same sort of enthusiasm towards this cinephilia fantasy.

Investigating theories about Kubrick’s methods vs. his madness, Ascher’s film uncovers just as many details that will give you goosebumps all the way home as it reveals some of the most outlandish speculations you could ever eavesdrop on. Which is why the film is so damn addictive! Just by putting this much time and energy into deconstructing a film that many 1980 audiences felt was inessential art, you realize how important critical thought truly is. Not only should this film be taught in cinema studies classes in hopes to crack Kubrick’s specific codes in The Shining, it’s the concept behind Room 237 (don’t look in the bath tub!) that deserves to be celebrated.

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks’ Sundance 2012 Top Ten
1. Rick Alverson’s The Comedy (USA)
2. Craig Zobel’s Compliance (USA)
3. Katie Aselton’s Black Rock (USA)
4. Matthew Akers’s Marina Abramović: The Artist is Present (USA)
5. Benh Zeitlin’s Beasts of the Southern Wild (USA)
6. Gareth Evans’s The Raid (Indonesia)
7. Spike Lee’s Red Hook Summer (USA)
8. Rodney Ascher’s Room 237 (USA)
9. Nash Edgerton’s Bear (Austrailia)
10. Ben Lewin’s The Surrogate (USA)

Local control of cops

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Local control of cops

news@sfbg.com

Sup. Jane Kim has introduced legislation to the Board of Supervisors calling for a re-examination of the San Francisco Police Department’s participation in some aspects of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, which was created by the Federal Bureau of Investigations to do domestic surveillance.

The proposed ordinance would prohibit the SFPD from working with the JTTF to collect intelligence on individuals in the absence of criminal wrongdoing, which has been a concern of civil libertarians since last year when a secret memo revealed that local officers were under FBI command and not bound by local and state restrictions on such surveillance (see “Spies in blue,” 4/26/11).

Kim said the ordinance was necessary to ensure the “requirement of reasonable suspicion before we do any type of investigation of criminal activity. And we don’t base it on ethnic identification or religious practice as some of the members of the community have been experiencing the last couple of years.

“Our office is sponsoring this because many members of the Arab, Asian and the Muslim community worship in the district and own many small businesses,” she said.

Critics of the relationship between local and federal law enforcement agencies, facilitated through participation in the JTTF, have long raised concerns about racial profiling and unnecessary spying ordered at the federal level, and carried out by SFPD inspectors assigned full time to the task force.

Federal regulations governing FBI intelligence gathering are weaker than standards set by San Francisco and California’s Constitution. In 1990, the San Francisco Police Commission established rules requiring that intelligence-gathering involving any First Amendment activity be based on reasonable suspicion of significant criminal activity. Those rules reflect the California Constitutional requirement of an “articulable criminal predicate” before law enforcement agencies engage in intelligence-gathering activity.

However, because the SFPD inspectors assigned to the JTTF work under the direction of the FBI, the local regulation and control of law enforcement is effectively limited in JTTF investigations.

“It’s important that a clear prohibition against policing based on race, ethnicity, national origin, or religion applies to all of our officers, all of the time,” said John Crew, police practices expert for the Northern California chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union. The ACLU is one of more than 30 civil rights and community organizations participating in the Coalition for Safe SF, which helped develop the proposed ordinance.

According to the coalition, current rules prevent the SFPD from barring its inspectors assigned to the JTTF from joining FBI agents in collecting intelligence on San Franciscans without any “particular factual predication.”

“The purpose of this legislation is to restore local control, civilian oversight, and transparency over the SFPD’s participation in FBI intelligence-gathering,” stated attorney Nasrina Bargzie of the Asian Law Caucus, which is part of the coalition.

The coalition was a major participant in the San Francisco Human Rights Commission hearing in 2010 on the issue of baseless spying and racial profiling in JTTF investigations. The result was a comprehensive report, endorsed by the Board of Supervisors last spring.

But in 2011, the ACLU and Asian Law Caucus learned that key protections for civil liberties — including civilian oversight of intelligence activity and safeguards to limit intrusive tactics — were thrown out the window and replaced by a secret Memorandum of Understanding with federal law enforcement in 2007.

Under the MOU, SFPD paid officers work out of the local FBI office. The secure nature of their work means they must seek federal permission to even talk to their superiors in the SFPD about their work, effectively removing them from the local chain of command. Despite mandated requirements on local law enforcement, the MOU does not allow for any civilian oversight of the work of officers assigned to the JTTF.

San Francisco Chief of Police Greg Suhr said he believes that the concerns have already been addressed. In his first days in office, Chief Suhr issued a binding Bureau Order #2011-07 setting forth the requirement that officers comply with local standards.

An excerpt of the order reads, “SFPD officers shall work with the JTTF only on investigations of suspected terrorism that have a criminal nexus. In situations where the statutory law of California is more restrictive of law enforcement than comparable federal law, the investigative methods employed by SFPD officers working on JTTF investigations shall conform to the requirements of such California statutes.”

“With this Bureau Order, the language of the 2007 Memorandum of Understanding no longer applies and SFPD personnel are bound by the provisions of the 2011 Order,” SFPD Public Information Officer Albie Esparza told the Guardian.

But Crew said that as long as the MOU between the SFPD and federal law enforcement remains in place, Suhr’s order at best creates contradictory policy. “The Memorandum of Understanding is a binding legal contact with the federal government. Which do you think will take legal precedence when it comes up against a local police chief’s departmental order?” said Crew, who urged the department to clarify the matter by withdrawing from the MOU, a step the SFPD has thus far been unwilling to take.

A letter from Sept. 28 of last year to Coalition for Safe SF from FBI Special Agent Stephanie Douglas regarding the contradiction clarifies the matter. “I do retain the right to assign FBI JTTF cases,” states Douglas, who goes on to assert it is she who makes the confidential judgment of which cases fall afoul of the state and city rules and which do not.

After years of intelligence-gathering authorized under a secret memorandum, public mistrust in the SFPD’s relationship to federal law enforcement persists. Kim says she believes the proposed ordinance will still help make San Francisco safer. “It increases the trust of the community members that are working with public safety in reporting, and in cooperating around many of the actual criminal activities that might be going on in the city,” she said.

The proposed legislative approach of regulating the scope of local participation in federal JTTF work is not unprecedented. The city has the option of terminating the MOU with 30 days notice, a step that the city of Portland, Oregon has taken to prevent its police force from spying on citizens in violation of local and state law.

In December, the city of Berkeley suspended its agreement with the Northern California Regional Intelligence Center (an arm of the Joint Terrorism Task Force) as part of a broad review of that city’s relationship to other local and federal law enforcement agencies (see “Policing the police,” 12/13/11).

“What this is about is maintaining local control of law enforcement and ensuring the civil liberties of the people of San Francisco,” Crew said. “Don’t San Franciscans deserve the same protection of their civil liberties as the people of Portland?”

Kim was joined by Sups. David Compos and John Avalos in sponsoring the ordinance. Supervisors are expected to vote on the whether to adopt the ordinance this spring after the measure is heard by the city’s Public Safety Committee following the normal 30-day hold. The measure seems to have the support it needs to pass the Board of Supervisors, but it remains unclear whether Mayor Ed Lee, who did not answer our inquiries, will sign it.

Twisted misters

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Twisted misters

cheryl@sfbg.com

FILM This year’s San Francisco Independent Film Festival kicks off with a film that knows exactly what time it is: 4:44 Last Day on Earth.

Abel Ferrara’s latest imagines what the end of the world might be like for a volatile Lower East Side couple — he’s an ex-junkie (Ferrara favorite Willem Dafoe), she’s a young painter (Shanyn Leigh, Ferrara’s real-life companion). The film’s title refers to the predicted instant that an environmental catastrophe will completely dissolve the ozone layer, but 4:44 is mostly set indoors, specifically within the headspace of Dafoe’s character. It’s a gritty film that veers between self-indulgence and stuff that honestly seems pretty practical (sure, there’s a lot of Skyping, but if the world were ending, wouldn’t you?); as far as inward-looking disaster movies go, anyone planning an apocalypse film festival could double-bill 4:44 nicely with 2011’s Melancholia.

IndieFest is not an apocalypse film festival, per se. You could choose to have a jolly old time; there’s a power ballad sing-along, and even a flick called I Like You. But the selections for sick puppies are truly, truly outstanding this year. Personally, I recommend going as dark as you can possibly stand.

Start your journey with Michael R. Roskam’s Bullhead, a Belgian import that just scored a Best Foreign Language Film Oscar nomination. 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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fvLVNlMvus

Also memorable is Snowtown, another standout Australian crime film on the heels of Animal Kingdom (2010). While Snowtown — whose vérité shooting style recalls Andrea Arnold’s films about desperate living amid Britain’s council estates — isn’t quite as exportable as Animal Kingdom, it is just as uncomfortably tense, and features a teenage protagonist struggling to survive amid close-to-home evil. It’s based on the real-life case of Australia’s worst serial killer, and follows the gruesome facts quite closely. The film has a lot of characters that come and go without much explanation or introduction, which starts to seem deliberate after awhile. Fortunately, the core cast is magnetic. Remember 2005’s Wolf Creek? Snowtown is just as intense.

Still have a lust for blood? Of course you do. British director Ben Wheatley made a splash with 2009 gangster drama Down Terrace; he’s back with much buzz surrounding Kill List, with a review in the IndieFest catalog citing it as “the number one horror film of the year.” I’d hate to hand out that accolade so early in 2012, but this hired-killer-down-the-rabbit-hole tale is indeed worth considering.

Of course, there’s more to horror than guts and torture; if you need a reminder as to why, check out the festival’s pair of home-is-where-the-creepy-is films from Austria, Beside My Brother and Still Life. Beside My Brother‘s set-up — an emotionally disturbed father pretends his twin sons are the same person, and forces them to live as such, a practice they maintain into adulthood — is more promising than its payoff. Remember how in Dead Ringers (1988), the doppelganger bros were gynecologists? Here, they’re painters, and pretty bland ones at that. Far more harrowing is Still Life, about the irrevocable damage wrought by a father’s single, horrible revelation. First-time feature director Sebastian Meise manages to distill the complete crumbling of a seemingly normal-ish family into a slender, wrenching 77 minutes.

Speaking of harrowing, there’s nothing scarier in all of IndieFest than the early scenes of documentary Last Days Here, made by Don Argott and Demian Fenton (directors of 2009’s excellent The Art of the Steal). The film alights upon Bobby Liebling, dubbed the “godfather of doom” for his forty-plus year stint fronting legendary band Pentagram, as a fiftysomething crack addict living in his parents’ basement. Last Days Here is both heartfelt and gloves-off; it’s also blessed with having one of the most unbelievable comeback stories at its core (not a spoiler if you keep abreast of Bay Area concerts; Pentagram’s played here several times in recent years). It, like many of the films discussed here, has a distributor and will be coming around after IndieFest, but I implore you not to sleep on this one — even if you don’t love heavy metal, but especially if you do.

Less successful but no less intriguing is Atlanta oddity Snow On Tha Bluff, which is somewhere between an old-school ethnographic film — like, Robert Flaherty old — and self-aware product of the YouTube generation. The opening and closing scenes are obviously staged, as a drug dealer named Curtis Snow steals a video camera and decides he’ll make an autobiographical movie from the footage he collects. What’s between those bookends is what appears to be an authentic record of life in Snow’s crime-infested neighborhood, complete with drive-by shootings, home invasions, run-ins with the police, copious drug use, etc. Why any of the involved would allow their faces to be shown on camera while, say, firing a non-street legal weapon into a rival’s home is the film’s biggest mystery; its biggest accomplishment is obscuring the obvious lines of demarcation between what’s real and what’s not.

To end your IndieFest experience on a slightly uplifted note, you will have to die — or at least be cool with hanging out with the ghosts in Finisterrae, the first feature from Catalan artist Sergio Caballaro.

Expressing themselves via droll, post-production “dialogue” (in Russian, subtitled in English), the newly-deceased, sheet-wearing duo decides they would like to live again. A-journeying they go, following the wind and encountering an array of strange characters, including enough taxidermied animals to make Chuck Testa‘s head spin. Finisterrae starts slow but builds to glorious, gorgeously filmed and supremely weird heights. Hippies beware.

SAN FRANCISCO INDEPENDENT FILM FESTIVAL

Feb. 9-23, most films $11

Roxie Theater

3117 16th St., SF

www.sfindie.com

 

Alerts

Andrew Lam
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yael@sfbg.com

THURSDAY 9

Occupy Oakland Forum on Police Actions

Oakland’s Citizen Police Review Board had been planning a forum on the Oakland Police and Occupy Oakland for months — until they announced at the last minute that it was canceled. In response, the Occupy Oakland Forum Committee is hosting essentially the same forum, and inviting the same speakers, including Jim Chanin, civil rights lawyer from the Oakland Riders case, and Police Chief Howard Jordan. They hope to give the community a chance to respond to the recent controversy surrounding treatment of Occupy Oakland by police.

6:15 p.m., free

Grand Lake Theater

3200 Grand, Oakl.

oakland@occupyreport.org

 

Reelect David Campos

District 9 Sup. David Campos and his re-election campaign are throwing their first fundraiser event in the Mission. It will include drinks, appetizers, and a chance to talk with the man himself.

6 p.m., free

Blue Macaw

2565 Mission, SF

(415) 920-0577

 

FRIDAY 10

Kenneth Harding benefit

A star-studded night of music to benefit the Kenneth Harding Jr. Foundation. Support the foundation created after Harding, an unarmed black 19-year-old, was killed by SFPD officers in an incident spurred by an unpaid $2 train fare. The night’s line-up includes Fly Benzo, BVHP neighborhood resistance leader, emcee and City College student, who faces four years in prison on multiple counts including “videotaping the police” for his responses to the shooting.

9 p.m., $12

330 Ritch, SF

www.330ritch.com/calendar

 

SUNDAY 12

Move to Amend

David Cobb, spokesperson for the Move to Amend campaign, will speak about corporate personhood. Move to Amend is an effort to amend the constitution to abolish corporate personhood, which saw a large turnout on its national day of action on Jan. 20. Cobb is also a former Green Party presidential candidate.

7 p.m., $5-10

Berkeley Fellowship of Unitarian Universalist’s Hall

1924 Cedar, Berk.

(510) 841-4824

www.movetoamend.org

 

Harlem is Nowhere

Hear author Sharifa Rhodes-Pitts and organizer Alicia Garza talk about the history and meaning of Harlem as a center for black politics and culture, the effects of gentrification, and the geography of building power for people of color. This event is part of an ongoing “authors in conversation” series at the Museum of the African Diaspora. Rhodes-Pitts is the author of Harlem is Nowhere: A Journey to the Mecca of Black America, and Garza is the co-executive director of People Organized to Win Employment Rights (POWER) in San Francsico.

2 p.m., free

Museum of the African Diaspora

685 Mission, SF

www.moadsf.org/visit/calendar.html

Appetite: Alchemical delights at Science of Cocktails 2012

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Although the Science of Cocktails event may be on hiatus next year due to the Exploratorium‘s big move to the Embarcadero, this year’s party is worth highlighting. Attending since the inaugural event three years ago (check out my previous review here), I enjoy Science of Cocktails more each year.

I’m not sure if the new VIP area added much other than a bird’s-eye view from above with a few additional (but minimal) bites and drinks, the bulk of food being downstairs. Options were more enticing than ever in the ideal museum space, where one can interact with exhibits, kid-free, cocktails in hand. The cavernous space easily holds hundreds of people without feeling packed.

Drinks were poured by some of the Bay’s best bartenders and distillers, sporting white lab-coats, delivering concoctions from test tubes, beakers and hand-crafted contraptions. Cocktails were served in pre-bottled, liquid nitrogen, jello, even powdered forms. (Let us not forget the shiny, porcelain toilet spouting Speakeasy beer).

The biggest treat of the night was a special barrel from distiller Dave Smith at St. George Spirits in collaboration with bartenders Darren Crawford (Bourbon and Branch) and Russell Davis (Rickhouse). The three of them call the endeavor the Manhattan Project, a tribute to Frank Oppenheimer, founder of the Exploratorium — whose brother Robert was scientific director of the Manhattan Project that produced the first atomic bomb.

No bombs here. however. Only fine whiskey. Using St. George’s new Breaking and Entering Bourbon (B&E), the dynamic trio aged Manhattan cocktails with their own precise blend of vermouths (Punt E Mes, Dolin Rouge, Carpano Antica), serving a balanced, aged Manhattan. The unexpected came when they followed that up with a pour of B&E bourbon finished in the barrel used to age the Manhattan.

The first whiskey aged in a cocktail barrel, whispers of spice and bitters from the Manhattan up the B&E experience. This beauty won’t be for sale but you might just see the like of it at special drink events such as this.

My favorite cocktail of the night was Christina Cabrera’s (Michael Mina) Roses Foxtrot. Made with Four Roses bourbon, Calvados apple brandy, Gran Classico, Benedictine, Angostura bitters, and her own cardamom pear syrup and coffee tincture, the pièce de résistance was a thick absinthe foam and gently fried sage leaf Cabrera topped the drink with. Lush and light, the absinthe foam endowed a creamy crown and anise spirit to the cocktail. I could eat the foam and softly sugared sage leaves all on their own (and did). As a whole, the drink melded into a textural, breezy pleasure.

Other highlights included Jennifer Colliau’s (Slanted Door) mocktails using her own unmatched Small Hand Foods http://smallhandfoods.com/ line of gum syrups, grenadine and the like. Leave it to skilled hands to make some of the best drinks of a cocktail event sans alcohol (I was in love with her coconut water/orgeat drink).

It’s a long wait until 2014, but here’s to many more years of Science of Cocktails in the new Exploratorium.

Subscribe to Virgina’s twice-monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot, www.theperfectspotsf.com

Film Listings

Andrew Lam
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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

Big Miracle Three gray whales trapped beneath the Beaufort Sea ice near the tiny town of Barrow, Alaska become an international cause célèbre through the uneasily combined efforts of an Anchorage reporter (John Krasinski), a Greenpeace activist (Drew Barrymore), a group of chainsaw-toting Inupiaq fishermen, a Greenpeace-hating oilman (Ted Danson), a Reagan-administration aide (Vinessa Shaw), a U.S. Army colonel (Dermot Mulroney), a pair of Minnesotan entrepreneurs (James LeGros and Rob Riggle) with a homemade deicing machine, and the crew of a Soviet icebreaking ship. The magical pixie dust of Hollywood has been sprinkled liberally over events that did indeed take place in 1988, but the media frenzy that blossoms out of one little local newscast is entirely believable. Everyone loves a good whale story, and this one is a tearjerker — though the kind that parents can bring their kids to without worrying overly much about subsequent weeks of deep-sea-set nightmares and having to explain terms like “critically endangered Western North Pacific gray whale” if they don’t want to. The film makes clear that the weak-on-the-environment Reagan administration and Danson’s oilman stand to gain some powerfully good PR from this feat, with potentially devastating ecological results down the line, and Barrymore’s character gets to recite a quick litany of impending oceanic catastrophes. But this kind of talk is characterized as less useful than a nice, quick, visceral pull on the heartstrings, and while offering us the pleasurable sight of whales breaching in open water, the film avoids panning out too much farther, which may be why the miracle looks so big. (2:03) (Rapoport)

*Carol Channing: Larger Than Life See “Hello, Carol!” (1:27) Opera Plaza, Shattuck.

Chronicle A group of teens develop superpowers — fun times, until one of them turns to the dark side — in this sci-fi film shot in the ever-popular “found footage” style. (1:23)

*Come Back, Africa See “On the Township.” (1:24) Roxie.

*Coriolanus For his film directing debut, Ralph Fiennes has chosen some pretty strong material: a military drama that is among Shakespeare’s least popular works, not that adapting the Bard to the screen has ever been easy. (Look how many times Kenneth Branagh, an even more fabled Shakespearean Brit on stage than Ralph, has managed to fumble that task.) The titular war hero, raised to glory in battle and little else, is undone by political backstabbers and his own contempt for the “common people” when appointed to a governmental role requiring some diplomatic finesse. This turn of events puts him right back in the role he was born for: that of ruthless, furious avenger, no matter that now he aims to conquer the Rome he’d hitherto pledged to defend. The setting of a modern city in crisis (threadbare protesting masses vs. oppressive police state) works just fine, Elizabethan language and all, as does Fiennes’ choice of a gritty contemporary action feel (using cinematographer Barry Ackroyd of 2006’s United 93 and 2008’s The Hurt Locker). He’s got a strong supporting cast — particularly Vanessa Redgrave as Coriolanus’ hawkish mother Volumnia — and an excellent lead in one Ralph Fiennes, who here becomes so warped by bloodthirst he seems to mutate into Lord Voldemort before our eyes, without need of any prosthetics. His crazy eyes under a razored bald pate are a special effect quite alarmingly inhuman enough. (2:03) Embarcadero. (Harvey)

Domain This moody French drama about the co-dependent relationship between a middle-aged-yet-still-glamorous alcoholic (Béatrice Dalle) and her just-coming-out teenage nephew, Pierre (Isaïe Sultan), had the distinction of topping John Waters’ list of favorite movies in 2010 (Enter the Void was number two; Jackass 3D was number six). It’s unclear if the Bordeaux-set Domain (released in 2009) would be hitting theaters now without Waters as its champion, but first-time feature director Patric Chiha — who wrote the screenplay especially for Dalle, a cult favorite for her role as a mentally disturbed beauty in 1986’s Betty Blue — keeps the melodrama to a minimum, instead relying on subtle hints that cool, sophisticated Aunt Nadia’s life is slowly disappearing into a bottle of white wine. Sultan is a little one-note, but Dalle proves heartbreaking as a good-time gal who doesn’t quite have the strength to face her illness. (1:48) SF Film Society Cinema. (Eddy)

*The Innkeepers Horror fans who haven’t yet discovered writer-director Ti West (2009’s The House of the Devil) best get on it — this is a guy with an offbeat sense of humor who recognizes that formulaic stories and crappy CG are not necessary scary-movie ingredients. His latest concerns a rambling, Victorian-relic hotel about to shut its doors after one last weekend in business. Staffers Claire (Sara Paxton) and Luke (Pat Healy) are soon to be jobless, but they’re more concerned with compiling evidence that the inn is haunted — as suggested by local legend and Luke’s paranormal-themed website. Though there are some familiar tropes here (why is there always a creepy basement, and why won’t scary-movie characters stay the hell out of it?), The Innkeepers does deliver a handful of genuine frights. Its main pleasure, though, is its tone, which is neither too jokey nor trying to take itself too seriously. Alongside the slacker duo played by Paxton and Healy are Kelly McGillis (last seen fighting zombies in 2010’s Stake Land), who lends gravitas as a cranky psychic; and indie darling Lena Dunham (2010’s Tiny Furniture), who has a brief but funny cameo as a neurotic barista. (1:42) Lumiere. (Eddy)

The New Metropolis Andrea Torrice’s pair of half-hour docs explore an important yet oft-overlooked topic: America’s “first suburbs,” communities that sprang up just outside large cities in response to the post-war baby boom. Now that these towns are aging, and in need of infrastructure repair, they’re finding that states would rather fund brand-new “inner rim suburbs” — where homebuyers reap the tax benefits of government-subsidized roads, for example, while enjoying their pre-fab McMansions. Both parts of the made-for-PBS doc offer hopeful solutions, particularly part two, The New Neighbors, which studies a multi-racial New Jersey community that is working together to insure “stable integration” in its neighborhoods. The results are remarkable, and inspiring. Both docs screen as part of a free event, “The New Metropolis: Building a Sustainable and Healthy Bay Area in the Age of Global Warming,” featuring a post-film dialogue that frames issues raised by the films in a local context. Panelists include filmmaker Torrice; El Cerrito Councilmember Janet Aelson, a transit policy expert; regional design specialist Carl Anthony; and other community leaders. For more info and to register, visit el-cerrito.org/eqc/newmetropolis. (:54) Cerrito. (Eddy)

Norwegian Wood Haruki Murakami’s global best-seller — a melancholic, late-1960s love story — hits the big screen thanks to Tran Anh Hung (1993’s The Scent of the Green Papaya). Kenichi Matsuyama (2011’s Gantz, 2005’s Linda Linda Linda) and Rinko Kikuchi (2006’s Babel) play Watanabe and Naoko, a young couple who reconnect in Tokyo after the suicide of his best friend, who was also her childhood sweetheart. There’s love between them, but Naoko is mentally fragile; she flees town suddenly after they sleep together for the first time. Meanwhile, Watanabe meets the vivacious Midori (Kiko Mizuhara) — who is also already involved, though not quite so deeply as he — and they spark, though he’s devoted to Naoko, and visits her at the rural hospital where she’s (sort of) working through her emotional issues. Tran is an elegant filmmaker, and Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood contributes an appropriately moody score. But amid all the breathless encounters, the uber-emo Norwegian Wood drags a bit at over two hours, and the film never quite crystallizes what it was about Murakami’s book that inspired such international rapture. (2:13) Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

The Right to Love: An American Family This earnest doc springboards off the YouTube fame of the adorable, Star Wars-obsessed Leffew family, who started beaming videos from their Santa Rosa home (channel name: “Gay Family Values”) as a response to attacks on marriage equality. Director Cassie Jaye wisely uses quite a bit of Bryan and Jay’s own footage, which depicts a loving family going about their business under normal (family dinners) and special-occasion (excitedly plotting to leave tooth fairy loot under their young daughter’s pillow) circumstances. But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows, with the ugly reality of Prop 8 and, most troublingly, Bryan’s own family members, staunchly set in their disapproval of same-sex marriage despite the highly functional example in their midst. This world-premiere Castro screening features in-person appearances by The Right to Love‘s director and subjects; visit www.R2Lmovie.com for additional information on the event. (1:30) Castro. (Eddy)

The Woman in Black Daniel Radcliffe plays a lawyer turned ghost buster in this Hammer Films thriller, adapted from Susan Hill’s best-selling (and previously-adapted for stage and screen) novel. (1:36) Shattuck.

ONGOING

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) Shattuck. (Harvey)

*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, 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) 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, Shattuck. (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) Balboa, California, Piedmont, Presidio, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

*Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone This doc offers a lively, revealing look at SoCal ska-punk rockers Fishbone, a band that formed circa 1979 in a San Fernando Valley junior high newly filled with bussed-in South Central kids. In its heyday, Fishbone enjoyed cult success with hits like “Party at Ground Zero” and the tune that gives the film its title; Everyday Sunshine speaks to Fishbone’s broad appeal, as famous faces chime in to reminisce (and longtime fan Laurence Fishburne narrates), but it also illuminates some of the reasons its members never became megastars. Codirectors Chris Metzler (a San Francisco resident best-known for 2004’s Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea) and Lev Anderson spent months on the road with the band, capturing the infectious energy of its live shows in addition to behind-the-scenes tension. Past members add their voices, but the main protagonists are bassist-vocalist Norwood Fisher and lead vocalist-saxophone player Angelo Moore. Their intertwining stories offer a poignant portrait of creative soulmates who’ve weathered many storms (personality conflicts, legal and money troubles, an industry that didn’t know how to categorize them) without once giving up on their music. In addition to its compelling story, the film’s quirkier stylistic choices, including animation, lift Everyday Sunshine above the crowded field of traditional music docs. (1:47) Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

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. (2:09) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

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) Four Star. (Chun)

*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)

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) 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (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, 1000 Van Ness. (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) Shattuck. (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, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (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) Balboa, 1000 Van Ness. (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 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) Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

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) Presidio, Shattuck. (Harvey)

One for the Money (1:46) 1000 Van Ness.

*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)

*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) Four Star, 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) SF Center. (Ben Richardson)

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) SF Film Society Cinema. (Eddy)

*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) Four Star, 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) 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck. (Chun)

 

Whatever happened to Baby Jaymes?

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Whatever happened to Baby Jaymes?

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC One day in November 2004, my then-girlfriend returned to our Oakland apartment all excited. “I just heard this on KMEL,” she said. She handed me a CD, Baby Jaymes, Ghetto Retro (Underground Soul), while she unwrapped the included Ghetto Retro EP and cued up “Nice Girl.” “He sounds like Prince,” she enthused—we were Prince geeks—”but he’s from East Oakland!”

Something in the way the vocals were layered, the tasty guitar and bass details under aloof keyboards, and the idiosyncratic, non-pimp, non-player personality that disclosed itself seemed to justify the comparison, particularly as we moved on to the LP. The hidden track “Ev’ry Nuance,” for example, could be a Lovesexy outtake, even as its more lo-fi aesthetic seemed to allude knowingly to 1999-era bootlegs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJrO8GoozIE

Comparisons to Prince would be made in nearly every review of Ghetto Retro, though the insistence was a little misleading. While Prince is definitely an influence, BJ — as he’s known — isn’t especially well-versed in the Purple One’s catalog. Some of the resemblance stems from the common influence of 1960s and ’70s soul; Motown, particularly Smokey Robinson, and Stax loom much larger for Baby Jaymes, and in many ways, the similarly pint-sized singer is the anti-Prince, possessing no conventional technical musical ability, depending on collaborators to translate the melodies and arrangements he hears in his head.

In 2007, I had the experience of watching him cajole a string trio from blank incomprehension into a soaring, unscripted overdub reminiscent of a Paul Riser classic. Yet I’ve also seen the comparatively simple matter of a guitar overdub founder for want of a common vocabulary.

“It’s all about energy to me,” BJ says, “but I can’t always articulate it in a way that musicians understand. But if I articulate it emotionally they might be like, yes! and we’re there. I used to knock myself out because I can’t play, but that’s part of my gift. I’ve gotten to the place where I’m ok with that.”

The other major difference is the difference between Minneapolis and East Oakland, for while Prince has profoundly influenced hip-hop, he’s never known what to do with it, whereas it’s second nature to BJ, hailing from the notorious Rollin’ 100s (99th and MacArthur, to be exact).

Much of Ghetto Retro is built on heavily manipulated samples, augmented with instruments, and though he’s the furthest thing from a thug — I’ve never heard him cuss, though I have heard him say “my goodness” and even “golly”—Baby Jaymes sounds entirely natural with Turf Talk on his 2008 single “The Bizness” or The Jacka on his new EP, Whatever Happened to Baby Jaymes?, released late last year on Hiero-imprint Clear Label Records.

THE SHIFT

The EP’s title, BJ admits, was the brainchild of Souls of Mischief and Hieroglyphics member and Clear Label head Tajai Massey, both punning off the Bette Davis film and nodding to the seven-year wait since Ghetto Retro. BJ initially resisted.

“I disappeared,” he admits. “But I don’t want people to think I wasn’t doing anything.”

“I was bummed out with the artist thing,” he continues. “People remember me — which is a good thing. But I couldn’t imagine life not having anonymity. To this day I can’t go anywhere in the Town without seeing at least one person that knows me. It can be overwhelming.”

BJ’s local profile, elevated by airplay on KMEL, national press from Fader and XLR8R, and even a 2005 GOLDIE, was complicated by the chronic difficulty of making money as a Bay Area urban artist. In the mid-’00s, besides longstanding major label distinterest, Bay Area independent artists suddenly saw their financial foundations crumble with the decline of CD sales.

“You have to preserve your mystique,” he says, “but you don’t have money to be that guy all the time. I might really be on the bus and you see me on the bus and it just kills my whole thing for you. So I decided I just wanted to make music, not make music to be famous.”

Instead BJ moved to L.A. to pursue licensing deals in movies and TV. Even before Ghetto Retro, he’d already tapped into Hollywood money, writing a song (“Without a Daddy” by Touché) that appears in Oliver Stone’s Any Given Sunday (1999). (His own version appears on Ghetto Retro as “Black Girl/White Girl.”) Since relocating, he’s racked up an oddball assortment of screen credits, from a few seconds of music in a Nicole Kidman vehicle (2007’s The Invasion) to production work on Fox’s intro to the 2008-09 NFC Championship broadcast (apparently Cleatus the Robot’s first foray into hip-hop).

More recently NCIS used a snippet “so small and incidental, you can barely hear it,” but this brings in incomparably more money than dropping a Bay Area hip-hop soul classic. Essentially BJ makes the bulk of his modest income off five song placements and would like to bring that number up to around 40 reliable ones, which he estimates would bring in a comfortable enough existence to fulfill his artistic ambitions.

 

THE PROVERBIAL RETURN

For, despite his earlier discomfort, Baby Jaymes’s artistic ambitions remain, and Tajai was able to induce him to sign to Clear Label to record a new album, for which the seven-song Whatever Happened is simply a calling card. Still, after so long a hiatus, the EP is a joy to hear. I’d wondered if BJ and long-time collaborator, producer Marc Garvey, would shy away from the sound they’d crafted in favor of something more obviously commercial, but instead they’ve dug deeper, returning to the samples-plus-hip-hop-drums core that makes Ghetto Retro feel so warm and timeless.

The single, “Heart & Soul,” captures the throbbing drama of a kind of vintage R&B that concerns matters of deeper import than Bentleys and Belvedere, serving by turns as a declaration of love and an artistic manifesto. Yet BJ also shows off a new swag with an inventive reimagining of 50 Cent’s “21 Questions” over a live band, co-produced by Ledisi mastermind Sundra Manning.

This more than anything else gives a foretaste of the album to come, judging from the unreleased tracks he played me, all of which featured live instrumentation. This is a far more expensive way to make a record, but he hopes to have complete and release it sometime in 2012.

“Honestly, if Tajai hadn’t said, ‘We should do a record, I’ll help you pay for it,’ I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it,” he says, clearly relishing the new material. “I do it for the love of music, nothing else.” *

 

Film Listings

Andrew Lam
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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

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)

Legal, not legal

Andrew Lam
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Legal, not legal

caitlin@sfbg.com

HERBWISE It’s been a weird year to start a marijuana column. Shortly after we started Herbwise, which was intended to be our weekly look at marijuana culture and events, politics reared its ugly head, rendering it necessary to go to hearings at the State Building, call up California Assembly members, and occasionally wade through seas of legalese. Such is the state of cannabis under ongoing federal prohibition, but it’s been a particularly dramatic year.

And in some moments, news and culture reporting melded together in the marijuana world. Take, for example, the case of Oakland’s Harborside Health Center, which is often called the largest dispensary in the world (it is certainly the largest in California). After years of painstakingly crafting a working relationship with city government, the business was heavily audited by the IRS. The federal agency decided Harborside — and 40 other California dispensaries — fell under the jurisdiction of Section 280E of the Internal Revenue Code, which denies the right for businesses involved in illegal drug trafficking to claim standard business expenditures. The collective now owes $2.4 million in back taxes, an amount that founder Steve DeAngelo asserts will bankrupt it if his business is forced to pay up.

Despite the ever-growing acceptance of the plant in the United States — a Gallup poll put the number at 50 percent in the fall of 2011 — medical marijuana is under attack by the federal government. Last fall, US Attorney for Northern California Melinda Haag sent out letters to the landlords of roughly a dozen Bay Area dispensaries threatening them with civil forfeiture, or possibly four decades in prison, if they failed to move this “trafficking” off their property within 45 days. The letters targeted dispensaries considered to be in a school zone.

Most left without a fight. In San Francisco, the Tenderloin’s Divinity Tree Patients Wellness Cooperative, the Market Street Collective on Upper Market, and the Mission District’s Medithrive and Mr. Nice Guy were among the businesses that shut their doors, some completely and some to transition into delivery-only services. [UPDATE: Attorney Matt Kumin tells the Guardian that Divinity Tree and Medithrive have filed a “coordinated federal lawsuit” through his office in protestation of the closures]

Fairfax’s sole dispensary, Marin Alliance for Medical Marijuana, was forced to close after 15 years of legal operation overseen by long-time cannabis activist Lynette Shaw. The 7,500-person Marin County berg’s town council passed a resolution supporting the Alliance, which served as a symbol of popular support for legal cannabis in a county beset with some of the highest breast cancer rates in the country.

Assemblymember Tom Ammiano and Sen. Mark Leno have been the most outspoken California politicians in coming out against the federal government’s meddling with the state’s cannabis. At a press conference at San Francisco’s State Building in October 2011, Ammiano announced his frustration that the feds would “upset the will of the people” by curtailing safe patient access. Proud to be an elected gay official, he promised to continue to crusade for an issue that he says disproportionately affects the LGBTQ community.

One of the steps Ammiano took was to meet with Haag to discuss what could be done to assuage her concerns with the industry. “That was very, very disappointing,” Ammiano commented on this initial talk. In a recent phone interview with the Guardian, he remembered that Haag implied that the order was coming from above, from high up in the Obama Administration.

Ammiano doubts her assertion that she had little discretion in the matter. “She said she was only doing what the boss was telling her to do. We had a hard time with that.”

He does think that the Obama Administration is sending its attorneys mixed messages — case in point, US Attorney General Eric Holder’s repeated comments that federal interference in state-legal marijuana operations would be “a low priority.” Ammiano also makes the connection between the attacks on cannabis and the self-sustaining industries behind the War on Drugs. “The DEA, some of the diehards, this is like a jobs program for them,” he said.

His meeting with California Attorney General Kamala Harris went more smoothly. Ammiano says Harris, who voiced cautious support for the industry last fall, was eager for a more comprehensive regulatory system to be put into place, but she supported Proposition 215 — the 1996 measure that legalized medical marijuana in California — on principle.

Faced with an ambiguous future, medical cannabis’ proponents — politicians, activists, entrepreneurs, and patients — are putting forth plans for just such a system. This year will be the playing field for a passel of campaigns to take medical marijuana out of the under-supervised arena in which it’s found itself.

Three ballot initiative campaigns seek to address the issue. Two — Regulate Marijuana Like Wine and Repeal Prohibition — would legalize cannabis use for adults across the board. Another, which has perhaps the most likely chance to succeed in the $2 million process of getting onto the ballot, is being put forth by patient advocacy group Americans for Safe Access, the United Food and Commercial Workers (the union that represents many cannabis workers in California), and marijuana collectives. It’s called the Medical Marijuana Regulation, Control, and Taxation Act.

“We decided to focus on medical because we figured that taking that further step at this point is unwise given the federal government’s actions over the last months,” said attorney George Mull, who is part of the team that proposed the measure. If passed, the initiative would establish a 21-member state regulatory board comprised of doctors, industry folk, patients, activists, government officials, and others. A state supplemental tax on cannabis would be levied and local governments would be required to allow one dispensary per 50,000 residents. Ammiano said that he and Leno were also working on proposing legislation that would provide regulations.

But the future of medical marijuana in California remains somewhat cloudy. “I’m worried that even if we come up with the regulations, the feds will find something else,” said Ammiano. Complicating the matter, the California Supreme Court moved unanimously on Jan. 18 to review the power that cities and counties have to make their own laws concerning cannabis accessibility — plus, it plans to look at the old disconnect between state and federal law on the matter..

So much for the politics of marijuana in 2012. Away from the headlines, it’s plain to see that the plant is increasingly accepted in popular culture. On a local level, East Bay YouTube stoner Coral Reefer continues to tweet to thousands of followers every time she sparks a bowl, and on the national stage, Miley Cyrus admits to smoking “way too much fucking weed,” after seeing the birthday cake friends had gotten her. (It had Bob Marley’s face on it.)

On television, the United States is learning about Harborside’s travails — but not just from the news shows. Discovery Channel shot a season of reality TV following DeAngelo and his staff, telling the stories of patients and about the reality of running a dispensary for a show they entitled Weed Wars even before the final $20 million IRS ruling. As the collective is being persecuted by the feds, its fan base across the country grows.

Will Discovery Channel renew Weed Wars for a second season? Regardless of the network’s views on the protagonists’ profession, if the cameras are kept rolling they’re sure to capture another year of interesting times for California cannabis.

 

Staying on track

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Staying on track

steve@sfbg.com

After weeks of attacks from critics of the high-speed rail system now being built in California — a campaign that even came home to San Francisco City Hall last week, when Sup. Sean Elsbernd challenged Mayor Ed Lee on the issue and called for a hearing — Gov. Jerry Brown and other supporters have stepped up efforts to keep the train from being derailed.

With seed money from a $10 billion bond measure that California voters approved in 2008 and an initial federal grant of $3.3 billion to help build the Central Valley section of the track, the California High Speed Rail Authority is working on construction of a bullet train that would carry riders from San Francisco to downtown Los Angeles in about 2.5 hours, traveling at speeds of up to 220 mph. That project is slated to cost nearly $100 billion, and the next phase would extend service to Sacramento and San Diego.

But Republicans in Congress and the California Legislature began to balk at funding the project last year. Earlier this month, a report by the California High-Speed Peer Review Group recommended that the Legislature indefinitely delay issuing $2.7 billion in rail bonds, citing the uncertainty of future funding sources and problems with the project’s business plan.

“It does not take a rocket scientist to see the future of high-speed rail is in serious doubt,” Elsbernd said at the Jan. 10 Board of Supervisors meeting, where he used the monthly mayoral question time to ask Lee, “What is Plan B with Transbay Terminal if the high-speed rail money does indeed go away? What do we do?”

The Transbay Terminal is now being rebuilt downtown. The first phase includes a $400 million “train box” being built with high-speed rail funds, and the next phase will require billions of dollars more to build train tunnels into the station from the current Caltrain terminus at 4th and King streets.

“I’m committed to seeing the full implementation of high speed rail, which includes having a northern terminus at the Transbay center,” Lee replied, refusing to entertain the idea that the bullet trains won’t be coming into San Francisco, a stand he communicated to state officials in a recent letter. “I want to state my unwavering support for the notion of high-speed rail. It is the future of transportation in this state.”

Lee acknowledged that cost estimates for the project have gone up and there are uncertainties over future funding, but he said the state will need to make the investment either way. “California is growing and those people need to move up and down the state. The question is do we make transportation investments on bigger, wider highways and airport runways? I’d say no, that this perpetuates a car-dependent culture.”

Instead, Lee says the state must find a way to build high-speed rail, whatever the obstacles. But Elsbernd called for a hearing on the issue before the Board of Supervisors, telling the Guardian that he supports the project, “but high-speed rail is in trouble and we need to acknowledge that.”

Meanwhile Gov. Brown — who has rejected calls to delay issuing the rail bonds — was working behind-the-scenes to get the project back on track. Sources say he asked for CHSRA Executive Director Roelof van Ark and CHSRA Board Chair Tom Umberg to resign, which they did at the Jan. 12 meeting, with Brown appointee Dan Richard becoming the new chair.

Richard and fellow new Brown appointee Mike Rossi spearheaded the creation of a proposed new business plan for the project that was unveiled in November. While it addresses some of the criticisms of the project, it raises fresh concerns about whether the bullet trains will arrive in Transbay Terminal.

In fact, it calls for high-speed rail service to end in San Jose, where S.F.-bound riders would have to transfer to Caltrain, largely to placate citizens and politicians on the peninsula who have objected to trains rocketing through their communities and filed lawsuits challenging the project.

“That business plan is unrealistic and unreasonable,” said Quentin Kopp, the former state senator from San Francisco who authored of the original legislation to create high-speed rail and has helped shepherd the project. He said having to transfer twice from S.F. to L.A. would discourage riders and hurt the project.

Kopp isn’t a fan of the Transbay Terminal rebuild, which he derides as “a real estate project” because its funding plan relies on significant private residential and commercial development; he’s called for the trains to stop at the current Caltrain station for financial reasons. But Elsbernd — who also chairs the Peninsula Corridor Joint Powers Authority, which operates Caltrain — wants to ensure the Transbay project is completed and worth the investment.

“I’m terrified that we continue moving along and then we end up with that being just a big, beautiful bus terminal,” he told us.

Adam Alberti, a spokesperson for the TJPA, said California needs to have improved rail service to handle a growing population and the Transbay Terminal is being build to accommodate that, whether it be Amtrak, Caltrain, or high-speed rail trains coming into the station.

“We are steadfast in our belief that it makes sense to have high-speed rail in California,” he said. “When it does happen, we will have the infrastructure already in place to receive it.”

Furthermore, he expects that the CHSRA business plan, which is the subject of a public comment period that ends Jan. 17, will extend the service beyond San Jose. “They’ll lose significant ridership and revenues if they don’t bring it into San Francisco,” Alberti said.

Sen. Mark Leno, who chairs the Senate Budget Committee, also expressed confidence that current efforts to derail high-speed rail won’t be successful.

“What is the alternative if we don’t do this? California will grow by 10-20 million people in the next decade. There’s no way we could build enough freeways and airport expansions to handle that,” Leno told us. “I don’t think we have the option not to make this work.” Leno also said he was pleased to see top political leaders stepping up to defend the project: “I’m impressed by the governor’s steadfastness, as well as President Obama’s stand. Leadership from the top is important, particularly during difficult times like this.”

Our Weekly Picks: January 18-24

Andrew Lam
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WEDNESDAY 18

“Four Samurai Classics”

Forget Tom Cruise’s preposterous The Last Samurai (2003) — if you haven’t already. The only true samurai films come from Japan, not Hollywood, and the classics of the genre all emerged during the country’s post-World War II rebuilding years. With their tales of collapsing empires, and themes of corruption and courage, the films simultaneously addressed both historical and present-day struggles (and tended to star legendary actor Toshiro Mifune). The San Francisco Film Society unfurls four classics, starting with Masahiro Kobayashi’s Harakiri (1962) and followed by three of Mifune’s 16 collaborations with director Akira Kurosawa: 1961’s Yojimbo, 1962’s Sanjuro; and 1954’s epic Seven Samurai. (Cheryl Eddy)

Wed/18-Thurs/19, $10–$11

SFFS | New People Cinema

1746 Post, SF

www.sffs.org


“Rock ‘N’ Sock Hop for Jonathan Toubin”

On Dec. 8 of last year a taxi crashes through the first floor bedroom of a Portland, Ore. motel. A man is found pinned under the car then taken to a hospital in critical condition. Just a few days earlier, Jonathan Toubin was DJing at the Knockout as New York Night Train, spinning 45s and running his wild and sweaty Soul Clap and Dance-Off. Hailing from NYC but with followers and fans in many places, Toubin is in stable condition but on a slow road to recovery. A number of friends have come together to raise money for his hospital bills. This SF benefit includes support from soul brother and Oldies Night hero DJ Primo, Ty Segall, and Shannon and the Clams. (Ryan Prendiville)

With Hank IV, Lenz, and more

8 p.m., $10

Mezzanine

444 Jessie, SF

(415) 625-8880

www.mezzaninesf.com


THURSDAY 19

John Stanley

On the entertainment beat for the San Francisco Chronicle from the 1960s through the early ’90s, John Stanley scored rare, one-on-one interviews with legendary actors and performers such as Clint Eastwood, Jane Russell, Lauren Bacall, James Stewart and plenty more. The local writer — who also hosted the TV show Creature Features on KTVU — has combed through his extensive files and archives and compiled some of them into his new book The Gang That Shot Up Hollywood (Atlas Books), a treasure trove of film history that Bay Area movie buffs are sure to devour. (Sean McCourt)

7 p.m., free

Books Inc., Opera Plaza

601 Van Ness, SF

(415) 776-1111

www.booksinc.net


“Nameless forest”

The line between performance and performer, audience and artist, is an ongoing concern of much contemporary work. It’s maybe all the more salient in the wake of the Occupy Wall Street eruption —where habitual passivity gives way to spontaneous popular action and organic community. The divide between art and social action comes in for some more suggestive blurring as YBCA presents the West Coast premiere of choreographer Dean Moss’s cross-disciplinary, cross-cultural collaboration with Korean sculpture artist Sung-Myung Chun (set design), six dancers, and maybe a dozen audience members (the last invited onstage at the outset to join in the proceedings). The games, stories, movements, and meanings that follow are framed by Moss’s three-part conceit, but also very much in collective hands. (Robert Avila)

Through Sun/21, 8 p.m.; Thurs., $5, Fri-Sat., $20–$25

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2728

www.ybca.org


Jesse & Aaron of Brazilian Girls

The rhythm section of Brazilian Girls, drummer Aaron Johnston and bassist Jesse Murphy, will blend live instrumentation with Djing at the Mighty, which should be very easy to dance to, considering some of the low-slung groovelines the band is know for. The collaborators are part of a band that broke through in 2005 with dynamic party music created by multi-instrumentalist Didi Gutman, Johnston, and Murphy, along with the sultry singing of Sabina Sciubba; you may have heard that “Good Time” track on commercials for a certain, non-heavy Dutch beer. Lately, the band has unofficially been on hiatus as members have been pursuing their own personal projects but a reunion may be in the works. (Kevin Lee)

With Dylan McIntosh of BLVD

9 p.m., $15–$20

Mighty

119 Utah, SF

(415) 762-0151

www.mighty119.com


FRIDAY 20

The Meters

Talented artists like the Meters manage to maintain careers spanning decades. Consider the fact that mainstream audiences might not be able to identify one of their songs, and yet the Meters have been playing their own brand of jazz and funk since the ’60s, and have performed with the likes of James Brown and Paul McCartney. The group’s music never goes out of style. High energy, sensual, groovy, these masters of soul and syncopation have left a lasting impression. Go see them before it’s too late. Last year, they hit Outside Lands, this week, Brick & Mortar Music Hall. The soul train keeps moving for all rhythm lovers ready to board. (Courtney Garcia)

With Korty & Friends feat. Members of Vinyl & The Monophonics

9 p.m., $25

Brick & Mortar Music Hall

1710 Mission, SF

(415) 800-8782

www.brickandmortarmusic.com


Passion Pit DJ Set

Yes, Passion Pit has this sweet electropop sound when it plays live as a band. And a lot of Passion Pit remixes on tracks from Bruno Mars, Phoenix, Tegan and Sara, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs keep in that same vein, with soaring melodies and catchy hooks. But Passion Pit: The DJ extravaganza (my title, not theirs) features the band’s remixer and synthesizer specialist Ayad Al Adhamy opting for less sugar and more bass. Passion Pit tracks are sure to get some love (hit track “The Reeling” will likely make an appearance in one form or another), but with this event, Al Adhamy and gang show they are not afraid of delving into some electro house, techno and maybe even an oldie or two. (Lee)

With White Mike, Derrick Love, Nisus, Kool Karlo, Ant-1, DJ Drome

10 p.m., $10–$15

1015 Folsom

(415) 762-0151

www.1015folsom.com


SATURDAY 21

“LevyDANCE’s Salon”

The muses must have been with Ben Levy when he was looking for a home because he found it in a hidden-gems alley (8th Street between Folsom and Harrison) and, appropriately, named it Studio Gracia. The place is elegant, spacious and grass green; so why not call his annual January party/performance events “The Salon?” Sounded classy, perhaps a little decadent, but highly intriguing. No need to dress up, however, for this fun mix of socializing, dance watching, and a DJ dance party. In the middle of the evening (9 p.m.), ten choreographers — from quasi-famous to neophyte — will showcase five-minute snippets of works of their own choosing. You’ll get a whiff of just how rich in contemporary dance this ol’town is. (Rita Felciano)

8 p.m., $10

Studio Gracia

16 Heron, SF

(415) 701-1300

www.studiogracia.com


The Screwtape Letters

Recent film versions of C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia tales have hooked the Jesus fish pretty hard, but even atheists can appreciate the author’s vivid imagination and talent for fantasy storytelling. J.R.R. Tolkien’s homeboy was also unafraid to embrace darker themes (and satire), as evidenced by his 1942 novel The Screwtape Letters — about a bureaucratic demon advising his nephew on the fine art of tempting, with the end goal of securing a particular man’s soul. Touring company Fellowship for the Performing Arts touches down with its award-winning theatrical adaptation, featuring lead demon Screwtape (Max McLean) re-imagined as “Satan’s chief psychiatrist.” How’s that for evil? (Eddy)

Sat/21, 4 and 8 p.m.; Sun/22, 3 p.m., $29–$59

War Memorial Opera House

301 Van Ness, SF

(415) 394-4400

www.screwtapeonstage.com


SUNDAY 22

“Undercover Presents: Nick Drake’s Pink Moon“

Before he died from an antidepressant overdose at the age of 26, English songwriter Nick Drake recorded Pink Moon, an intense, lugubrious album that’s evidence of his immeasurable talent, and that keeps you in a state of wretched astonishment listen after listen. Arising from similar events with Doolittle and The Velvet Underground & Nico, “Undercover Presents: Nick Drake’s Pink Moon” enlists a ragtag group of local musicians — a whopping 50 of them — to honor and reinterpret the monument that is Pink Moon. With the event’s music director Darren Johnston, and artists like the Real Vocal String Quartet (who recorded on Feist’s Metals), jazz singer Kally Price, and the Balkan Romani band Brass Menažeri, you’ll hear idiosyncratic covers all night. (James H. Miller)

With Kapowski, David Boyce, Pocket Full of Rye, and more

7:30 p.m., $20

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com


WhoMadeWho DJ set

In theory, Denmark’s WhoMadeWho is a rock band. (Named after an AC/DC song, after all.) But in practice, it’s pitched for the club, and approaches both kinetic live shows and disco/electro infused records more like DJs, with a clear feeling for progression and mood. The trio is set to release its latest album (and second album in 12 months,) Brighter, in February on Kompakt, but to get a sense of what to expect from this DJ set, give a listen to drummer Tomas Barfod’s killer Killing Time With Dancing mixtape, featuring their own tracks, a seriously stellar reworking of Siriusmo’s “Nights Off,” and (personal favorite) Connan Mockasin’s “Forever Dolphin Love.” (Prendiville)

With Sleazemore (Lights Down Low), Nolan Haener (Re:Body)

9 p.m., $5–$8

Public Works

161 Erie, SF

(415) 932-0955

www.publicsf.com


MONDAY 23

Wolves in the Throne Room

With Celestial Lineage (Southern Lord, 2011), the most recent full-length release from Wolves in the Throne Room, the venerable Olympia, Wash. band continues to explore the weird Lovecraftian depths and textures immanent to the black metal genre. The new record is the group’s most sonically defined, but the pervading sense of mystery, the exploration of a gnarly sonic wilderness that made Wolves’ lo-fi output so thrilling permeates the album. Live, Wolves are ferocious, a raw tidal wave of blast beats and cascading guitars, and massive slabs of tone that wash over venue. The effect is as hypnotic as it is awe-inspiring. The band returns to San Francisco Monday night at Slim’s. (Tony Papanikolas)

With Worm Ouroboros, Ash Borer

8 p.m., $16

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

415-255-0333

www.slimspresents.com


TUESDAY 24

Greil Marcus

Music critic Greil Marcus wrote a notorious review of Bob Dylan’s Self-Portrait for Rolling Stone Magazine in 1970. It began with four words: “What is this shit?” He’s published definitive books and essays on Dylan, Elvis, Van Morrison, the Band, and dozens of others since then. His latest book, The Doors: A Lifetime of Listening to Five Mean Years, takes a swing at the popular ’60s band (its music, not its lead singer). “‘Fire’ — it’s a door swinging open in the wind, seen from a distance,” he writes in the prologue, musing on a bootleg recording of “Light My Fire” (that revered and abhorred song). It sounds like a line from Rainer Maria Rilke. And indeed, it takes somebody with the vision of a poet to say something new about the Doors. (Miller)

7:30 p.m., free

Booksmith

1644 Haight, SF

(415) 863-8688

www.booksmith.com 

 

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Film Listings

Andrew Lam
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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 Martin Luther King, Jr. Day holiday, theater information was incomplete at presstime.

OPENING

Addiction Incorporated Charles Evans Jr.’s documentary revisits the history of the tobacco industry’s deceptions, machinations, and other nefarious feats of profit-shielding through the story of Victor DeNoble, an industry scientist turned whistle-blower who was hired by Philip Morris in 1980 to help create a “safer” cigarette — i.e., one that didn’t contain nicotine. The material upsides of developing a product not then known to cause 138,000 strokes and heart attacks a year were clear enough — as one scientist puts it, “dead people don’t buy cigarettes.” But when DeNoble and his colleagues, in the course of their research, developed definitive proof that nicotine has “reinforcing” — a.k.a. “addictive” — properties, the company’s executives and legal counsel recognized a risk to the bottom line that far outweighed the benefits. The lab was shut down, DeNoble lost his job, and the literature generated by the project was stifled. These and subsequent events are related by a long, winding parade of talking heads broken up by archival footage; reenactments; a series of animations featuring hybridized rat-human addicts floating on a river of dopamine; and — as we enter the mid-’90s and the tobacco companies become a target of the FDA, the media, Congress, and a mammoth alliance of 51 law firms — footage from press conferences and hearings before the House Subcommittee on Health and the Environment. The film’s narrative has some gaping holes, but given recent legal setbacks to the FDA’s attempts to regulate the industry, it’s a good reminder that the tobacco behemoth can only be corralled through the energetic efforts of a conscientious, vigilant media and political bodies courageous and committed enough to use and hone the regulating tools at their disposal. (1:42) (Rapoport)

*Coriolanus For his film directing debut, Ralph Fiennes has chosen some pretty strong material: a military drama that is among Shakespeare’s least popular works, not that adapting the Bard to the screen has ever been easy. (Look how many times Kenneth Branagh, an even more fabled Shakespearean Brit on stage than Ralph, has managed to fumble that task.) The titular war hero, raised to glory in battle and little else, is undone by political backstabbers and his own contempt for the “common people” when appointed to a governmental role requiring some diplomatic finesse. This turn of events puts him right back in the role he was born for: that of ruthless, furious avenger, no matter that now he aims to conquer the Rome he’d hitherto pledged to defend. The setting of a modern city in crisis (threadbare protesting masses vs. oppressive police state) works just fine, Elizabethan language and all, as does Fiennes’ choice of a gritty contemporary action feel (using cinematographer Barry Ackroyd of 2006’s United 93 and 2008’s The Hurt Locker). He’s got a strong supporting cast — particularly Vanessa Redgrave as Coriolanus’ hawkish mother Volumnia — and an excellent lead in one Ralph Fiennes, who here becomes so warped by bloodthirst he seems to mutate into Lord Voldemort before our eyes, without need of any prosthetics. His crazy eyes under a razored bald pate are a special effect quite alarmingly inhuman enough. (2:03) (Harvey)

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) (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)

Haywire Mixed martial arts star Gina Carano ascends to action hero status in genre chameleon Steven Soderbergh’s latest. (1:45)

Pina See “In the Realms of the Unreal.” (1:43)

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) (Eddy)

A Separation See “Conflict Revolution.” (2:03)

Underworld Awakening Vampires and werewolves, still goin’ at it. (1:30)

*The Viral Factor Dreamy Taiwanese megastar Jay Chou — last seen playing second banana (as if) to Seth Rogen in 2011’s The Green Hornet — reclaims center stage in Hong Kong director Dante Lam’s latest blockbuster action flick. Chou plays Jon, a supercop tasked with protecting a scientist in possession of a new and deadly smallpox strain, highly sought-after by villains who lust after its possibilities as a chemical weapon. Unbeknownst to Jon, his long-lost older brother, Yeung (dreamy HK megastar Nicholas Tse) is up to his neck on the wrong side of the law; when clean-cut bro meets hipster-mullet-and-tattoo’d bro, screeching car chases and epic fist- and gunfights soon melt away in favor of begrudging family bonding. That doesn’t mean all of the other bad guys (corrupt cops, Jon’s evil ex-partner, an arms dealer, etc.) go soft, of course — The Viral Factor very seldom stops for a breath during its chockablock two hours, what with all the bullets, grenades, and rocket launchers busting up half the globe (Kuala Lumpur gets the worst of it). The fact that Jon has one of those only-in-the-movies ticking-clock head injuries (two weeks to live! Better make it count!) ups The Viral Factor‘s already sky-high stakes; big-name salaries aside, it’s pretty clear most of the film’s $200 million budget went into special effects of the go-boom variety. Can’t argue with that. (2:00) Metreon. (Eddy)

ONGOING

*The Adventures of Tintin Producer Peter Jackson and director Steven Spielberg join forces to adapt the work of Belgian comic creator Hergé, using performance-capture 3D animation (and featuring that new technology’s most prominent performer, Andy Serkis, in a key role). Hergé wrote over 20 volumes following the globe-trotting exploits of intrepid young reporter Tintin (Jamie Bell) and his canine companion, Snowy; The Adventures of Tintin draws from a trio of books dating from the early 1940s, tweaking the tales a bit but retaining the series’ ebullient energy and sharp humor. After he impulsively buys a model ship, Tintin is sucked into a mystery involving a long-lost pirate treasure sought by the sinister Sakharine (Daniel Craig) and, eventually, newfound Tintin ally Captain Haddock (Serkis). Fan favorites Thompson and Thomson (Simon Pegg and Nick Frost — frequent compadre Edgar Wright co-wrote the script) and a certain “Milanese Nightingale” make appearances in a story that careens between exotic locales and high-seas battles, and is packed with epic chase scenes that would leave Indiana Jones breathless. And in case you were worried, Tintin boasts the least creepy, least “uncanny valley” performance-capture animation I’ve seen to date. (1:47) (Eddy)

*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)

*Battle for Brooklyn Posed as neither a left nor a right issue (though George Will does drift into view at one improbable moment), Michael Galinsky’s powerful documentary does the exhaustive, long-haul work of charting the fight between residents and business owners in Brooklyn’s Prospect Heights as they oppose the condemnation of their property — oh-so-inconveniently in the way of the proposed Atlantic Yards, a mammoth Frank Gehry-designed development involving a basketball arena for the New Jersey Nets and more than a dozen skyscrapers. The scrappy residents and activists, led in part by graphic designer Daniel Goldstein, face seemingly unbeatable forces: developer Forest City Ratner, which looks to Eminent Domain to seize a community’s land, whether it likes it or not; a complicit and corrupt state and city government; and other members of a diverse, divided community who are clamoring for the jobs that Ratner’s PR machine promises. Galinsky imparts the impact of the project — and its devastating effects on the neighborhood, despite alternate proposals and the recent real estate bust — over the course of eight years, with hundreds of hours of footage, time-lapse images, and a fortunate focus on one every-guy hero: Goldstein, who loses a fiancé and finds love at the ramparts, while his home is shorn away, all around him. Along the way, the viewer gets an education on the infuriating ways that these sorts of boondoggles get pushed through all opposition — the corollaries between this struggle and, say, the building of the 49ers stadium in Santa Clara are there for the viewer to draw. (1:33) Roxie. (Chun)

Beauty and the Beast 3D (1:24)

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) (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) (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) (Eddy)

The Darkest Hour (1:29)

*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 Devil Inside (1:27)

*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) Roxie. (Chun)

*Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone This doc offers a lively, revealing look at SoCal ska-punk rockers Fishbone, a band that formed circa 1979 in a San Fernando Valley junior high newly filled with bussed-in South Central kids. In its heyday, Fishbone enjoyed cult success with hits like “Party at Ground Zero” and the tune that gives the film its title; Everyday Sunshine speaks to Fishbone’s broad appeal, as famous faces chime in to reminisce (and longtime fan Laurence Fishburne narrates), but it also illuminates some of the reasons its members never became megastars. Codirectors Chris Metzler (a San Francisco resident best-known for 2004’s Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea) and Lev Anderson spent months on the road with the band, capturing the infectious energy of its live shows in addition to behind-the-scenes tension. Past members add their voices, but the main protagonists are bassist-vocalist Norwood Fisher and lead vocalist-saxophone player Angelo Moore. Their intertwining stories offer a poignant portrait of creative soulmates who’ve weathered many storms (personality conflicts, legal and money troubles, an industry that didn’t know how to categorize them) without once giving up on their music. In addition to its compelling story, the film’s quirkier stylistic choices, including animation, lift Everyday Sunshine above the crowded field of traditional music docs. (1:47) Roxie. (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) (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) (Harvey)

*Hipsters Though it might misleadingly draw a horde of Hipster Bingo look-alikes, the title of this goofy, passionate, generous-hearted Russian musical is fully earned. Director Valery Todorovsky’s let’s-put-on-a-show gumption, twinkly earnestness, and clownish costumes are likely drive today’s too-cool-for-schoolies out the theater, but if they stick around, the razzle-dazzle charm and cinematic flair that the filmmaker applies to this adaptation of Yuri Korotkov’s book, Boogie Bones, should win them over. The dateline is Moscow, 1955, and the scene is a West Side Story-style showdown between the hard-partying, rebellious boogie-woogie stilyagi, or hipsters, in love with American jazz and culture, and the terribly serious, grayed-out Communist hardliners who equate flashy fashion with individualistic decadence. Yet one comrade, Mels (Anton Shagin), finds himself crossing party lines after an encounter with fetching “Good Time” Polly (Oksana Akinshina of 2002’s Lilya 4-Ever) and slowly begins to assemble the look, the moves, the music, and the bad reputation that come with life as a hipster. A few of the film’s plot turns may be a bit tough to swallow, and some details, such as the music, don’t adhere strictly to era, but the affection Todorovsky feels for his characters, their plight, and musicals (particularly Baz Luhrmann’s) gleams through, especially when the director tracks alongside his freedom-loving protagonists as they occupy the streets with their subcultural kin of yesterday and today. (2:05) Smith Rafael. (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)

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)

In the Land of Blood and Honey The grudging, occasionally outright hostile tone some critics, culture vultures, and fan types have taken toward In the Land of Blood and Honey points toward a fundamental problem most of them have, though few admit it: the belief that Angelina Jolie is just too damn famous, too much a figure of public speculation and private fantasy, to be taken seriously — let alone to make a movie about rape and genocide during the Balkans Wars. But the fact is, her narrative debut as writer and director would probably be getting reviews in the respectable-to-rave range if created by anyone else. It’s certainly gotten some of those, but you’d be hard-pressed not to glimpse a certain “Who does she think she is?” resentment behind others who see the film as heavy-handed do-gooderism from a chick who should leave cinematic commentary about profoundly tragic historical events to people who are less … er, sexy. Not that Blood and Honey doesn’t have its genuine faults. There’s contrivance in the way that young Muslim painter Ajla (Zana Marjanovic) and Serb cop Danijel (Goran Kostic) have a first date just as the war reaches 1992 Sarajevo, then intersect again when she’s a POW and he’s an officer in the Serbian Army. This allows him to save her from the regular rapes other women prisoners suffer at the hands of guards, and eventually to set her up as his protected mistress, a breach of code that is unwelcome news to the ears of his powerful father General Nobosjsa (Rade Serbedzija), a fanatical “ethnic cleanser.” This premise is typical movie exceptionalism, even if it’s still a good step above the usual device of casting a Western character-star as our guide in unpleasant foreign affairs. While not a great movie, Blood and Honey is a very good one; an honorable achievement, not just a vehicle for honorable intentions. Of course the point is nothing more complicated than “War is hell,” but how often do movies actually punch that across, as opposed to pouting a bit while making war look exciting? (2:07) (Harvey)

J. Edgar The usual polished, sober understatement of Clint Eastwood’s directing style and the highlights-compiling CliffsNotes nature of Dustin Lance Black’s screenplay turn out to be interestingly wrong choices for this biopic about one of the last American century’s most divisive figures. Interesting in that they’re perhaps among the very few who would now dare viewing the late, longtime FBI chief with so much admiration tempered by awareness of his faults — rather than the other way around. After all, Hoover (played by Leonardo DiCaprio) strengthened his bureau in ways that, yes, often protected citizens and state, but at what cost? The D.C. native eventually took to frequently “bending” the law, witch-hunting dubious national enemies (he thought the Civil Rights movement our worst threat since the bomb-planting Bolshevik anarchists of half a century earlier), blackmailing personal ones, weakening individual rights against surveillance, hoarding power (he resented the White House’s superior authority), lying publicly, and doing just about anything to heighten his own fame. A movie that internalized and communicated his rising paranoid megalomania (ironically Hoover died during the presidency of Nixon, his equal in that regard) might have stood some chance of making us understand this contradiction-riddled cipher. But J. Edgar is doggedly neutral, almost colorless (literally so, in near-monochrome visual presentation), its weird appreciation of the subject’s perfectionism and stick-to-it-iveness shutting out almost any penetrating insight. (Plus there’s Eastwood’s own by-now-de rigueur soundtrack of quasi-jazz noodling to make what is vivid here seem more dull and polite.) The love that dare not speak its name — or, evidently, risk more than a rare peck on the cheek — between Hoover and right-hand-man/life companion Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer, very good if poorly served by his old-age makeup) becomes both the most compelling and borderline-silly thing here, fueled by a nervous discretion that seems equal parts Black’s interest and Eastwood’s discomfort. While you might think the directors polar opposites in many ways, the movie J. Edgar ultimately recalls most is Oliver Stone’s 1995 Nixon: both ambitiously, rather sympathetically grapple with still-warm dead gorgons and lose, filmmaker and lead performance alike laboring admirably to intelligent yet curiously stilted effect. (2:17) (Harvey)

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) (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) (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) (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) (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) (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) (Rapoport)

*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) (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) (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) (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) (Eddy)

*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) (Chun)

We Bought A Zoo “If you could choose between animals or humans or animals, which would you choose?” is a standard question among passionate critter lovers, and Cameron Crowe and company go out of their way to outline which side of the divide they stand on. The result won’t please animal-centric fans of, say, Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Reporter Benjamin Mee (Matt Damon) has just lost his beloved wife and is so overwhelmed by all the solo dad time he’s had with his two cute kids, Dylan (Colin Ford) and Rosie (Maggie Elizabeth Jones), that he’s ready to do something rash. Despite the advice of his brother (Thomas Haden Church), he quits his newspaper job and throws his lot in with the ultimate child’s amusement: he buys a ramshackle zoo in the boonies and tries his darnedest to fix it. Coming with the property is the fetching if brusque zookeeper Kelly (Scarlett Johansson, slightly bushier of eyebrow — read: homelier — than usual) and a mixed bag of kooky workers (including Elle Fanning and Crowe fave Patrick Fugit). The challenge for Ben is to get the zoo up to speed, with zero previous experience and limited lucre. Unfortunately Crowe takes the human vs. animal choice to heart and errs on the side of the humanoids: there’s way too few animals here and far too little about the zoo itself. Much like an overbearing zookeeper, the filmmaker protects us from this semi-tame kingdom, when really a viewer wants to know is, when are we going to get more stories about the animals? Can we have a real tour of the grounds? Even the comic efforts of Haden Church and J.B. Smoove as Ben’s realtor aren’t enough to whisk away one’s impatience (or the unsettling feeling that Ben’s affinity for a elderly ailing tiger will end with an SF Zoo-style arm removal) with all these damn people standing between us and the creatures, like a crowd of gawkers hogging the view of the lions. (2:03) (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) (Harvey)

The Performant: Power to the people

Andrew Lam
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The Performant: Power to the people

Mugwumpin’s deconstructive history of Tesla electrifies

It is one day and 69 years after prolific inventor and notable oddball Nikola Tesla died of a heart attack, yet in the raw, unfurnished basement of the Old Mint, he stands quite alive before a contingent of captive theatre-goers, explaining his views on solitude.

“Be alone. That is the secret of invention,” he assures us, smiling in the manner of a man who knows he is about to be disagreed with. He has a lot of opportunities to display that same tight-lipped countenance throughout Mugwumpin’s “Future Motive Power,” as being disagreed with is one of the most recurring themes of Tesla’s biography. A man of compulsive and erratic habits and stubbornly-held views on the future impact of his own inventions, Tesla’s indomitable personality could be as hard to fathom as his scientific contributions were impossible to discredit. Channeled by Mugwumpin artistic director Christopher W. White, he alternates — in a manner akin to his most famous electrical system — between comedic mania and tragic inflexibility, as the patterns of his life entwine literally and figuratively with those of his dearest-held principles and hard-won triumphs.

As kinetic as White’s performance is, the attention is grabbed initially by a trio of players: Misti Boettiger, Natalie Greene, and Rami Margron, who personify, among other things, electrical forces, rotating magnetic fields, flocks of pigeons, and Greek choruses of skeptics and admirers, buzzing and zapping across the stage or encircling Tesla with a web of cables or a Kabbalistic variety of diagrams chalked out on the bare concrete floor. Founding company member Joseph Estlack plays a rough-necked, cigar-chomping Thomas Edison — one of Tesla’s main rivals — with gusto, parroting banal platitudes while swaggering around the stage. (Read Guardian writer Robert Avila’s review here.)

“Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration,” he boasts to Tesla with a wink, to which Tesla responds dryly that he certainly does seem to sweat a lot. A disagreement over money and methods is further exacerbated by an aggressive game of catch with a leather ball, and a charged scene involving the first execution by electric chair gives Edison the opportunity to assert that death by “electricide” should bear Tesla’s name, just as the unfortunate guillotine bears the name of its own well-meaning champion.

Like many site-specific performances, part of the pleasure of the production lies within its use of space, especially a space as intriguing as the Old Mint, and about three-quarters of the way through the piece, we are split into two groups and given brief reign to explore the warren of small brick rooms and an oppressively weighted corridor that take up the rest of the lower level. Eventually reunited, we are led to the end of the hall by a frail, geriatric Tesla, who lies on a single bed, surrounded only by his beloved pigeons. “Never mind my absence in body,” he assures before his dying, “it is no consequence. I am with you in spirit.” And when the lights come back on for the curtain call, in a blaze of AC glory, you see exactly what he means.

 

“Future Motive Power”

Through Jan. 29

8 p.m., $15-$30

Old Mint

Mission and Fifth St., SF

(415) 967-1574

www.mugwumpin.org

 

Film Listings

Andrew Lam
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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

*Battle for Brooklyn Posed as neither a left nor a right issue (though George Will does drift into view at one improbable moment), Michael Galinsky’s powerful documentary does the exhaustive, long-haul work of charting the fight between residents and business owners in Brooklyn’s Prospect Heights as they oppose the condemnation of their property — oh-so-inconveniently in the way of the proposed Atlantic Yards, a mammoth Frank Gehry-designed development involving a basketball arena for the New Jersey Nets and more than a dozen skyscrapers. The scrappy residents and activists, led in part by graphic designer Daniel Goldstein, face seemingly unbeatable forces: developer Forest City Ratner, which looks to Eminent Domain to seize a community’s land, whether it likes it or not; a complicit and corrupt state and city government; and other members of a diverse, divided community who are clamoring for the jobs that Ratner’s PR machine promises. Galinsky imparts the impact of the project — and its devastating effects on the neighborhood, despite alternate proposals and the recent real estate bust — over the course of eight years, with hundreds of hours of footage, time-lapse images, and a fortunate focus on one every-guy hero: Goldstein, who loses a fiancé and finds love at the ramparts, while his home is shorn away, all around him. Along the way, the viewer gets an education on the infuriating ways that these sorts of boondoggles get pushed through all opposition — the corollaries between this struggle and, say, the building of the 49ers stadium in Santa Clara are there for the viewer to draw. (1:33) Roxie. (Chun)

Beauty and the Beast 3D Disney’s “tale as old as time” returns in spiffy 3D form. Dancing candelabra in yo’ face! (1:24)

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) Balboa, Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Cleanflix See Trash. (1:32) Roxie.

Contraband A former smuggler (Mark Wahlberg) comes out of retirement to chase one last score. Don’t they always? (1:49)

*Hipsters Though it might misleadingly draw a horde of Hipster Bingo look-alikes, the title of this goofy, passionate, generous-hearted Russian musical is fully earned. Director Valery Todorovsky’s let’s-put-on-a-show gumption, twinkly earnestness, and clownish costumes are likely drive today’s too-cool-for-schoolies out the theater, but if they stick around, the razzle-dazzle charm and cinematic flair that the filmmaker applies to this adaptation of Yuri Korotkov’s book, Boogie Bones, should win them over. The dateline is Moscow, 1955, and the scene is a West Side Story-style showdown between the hard-partying, rebellious boogie-woogie stilyagi, or hipsters, in love with American jazz and culture, and the terribly serious, grayed-out Communist hardliners who equate flashy fashion with individualistic decadence. Yet one comrade, Mels (Anton Shagin), finds himself crossing party lines after an encounter with fetching “Good Time” Polly (Oksana Akinshina of 2002’s Lilya 4-Ever) and slowly begins to assemble the look, the moves, the music, and the bad reputation that come with life as a hipster. A few of the film’s plot turns may be a bit tough to swallow, and some details, such as the music, don’t adhere strictly to era, but the affection Todorovsky feels for his characters, their plight, and musicals (particularly Baz Luhrmann’s) gleams through, especially when the director tracks alongside his freedom-loving protagonists as they occupy the streets with their subcultural kin of yesterday and today. (2:05) Lumiere, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (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. (Harvey)

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) (Sussman)

*Kill All Redneck Pricks: A Documentary About the Band Called KARP An isolated instance of gonzo male adolescent noise in the forest of Beat Happening-type indie twee and riot grrliness that dominated Olympia, Wash.’s fertile early 1990s music scene, KARP (originally known by this documentary’s moniker) was composed of three nerdy middle-school friends from bleak neighboring Tumwater. Granted purpose by the majestic sludge of the Melvins, they dropped out of high school to become primitive sound-alikes, then gradually found their own voice in heavy, aggressive music with some pop chops and silly attitude. (At one point they adopted wrestling superhero personae, including a drag one.) “So dark and so clowny at the same time,” this “really earnest-ridiculous teenage explosion” made a name for itself touring tirelessly and recording occasionally over the decade’s course. In classic rock-doc bio fashion, however, nothing ended happily ever after: Alcoholism, drug addiction, a suicide attempt, and yea greater tragedy in time befell these kids who were pretty much born to play with each other. Even if you’ve never heard (or heard of) KARP before, William Badley’s excellent feature — packed with performance footage and scenester recollections — will make you wistful for the band’s loss. (1:25) Roxie. (Harvey)

ONGOING

*The Adventures of Tintin Producer Peter Jackson and director Steven Spielberg join forces to adapt the work of Belgian comic creator Hergé, using performance-capture 3D animation (and featuring that new technology’s most prominent performer, Andy Serkis, in a key role). Hergé wrote over 20 volumes following the globe-trotting exploits of intrepid young reporter Tintin (Jamie Bell) and his canine companion, Snowy; The Adventures of Tintin draws from a trio of books dating from the early 1940s, tweaking the tales a bit but retaining the series’ ebullient energy and sharp humor. After he impulsively buys a model ship, Tintin is sucked into a mystery involving a long-lost pirate treasure sought by the sinister Sakharine (Daniel Craig) and, eventually, newfound Tintin ally Captain Haddock (Serkis). Fan favorites Thompson and Thomson (Simon Pegg and Nick Frost — frequent compadre Edgar Wright co-wrote the script) and a certain “Milanese Nightingale” make appearances in a story that careens between exotic locales and high-seas battles, and is packed with epic chase scenes that would leave Indiana Jones breathless. And in case you were worried, Tintin boasts the least creepy, least “uncanny valley” performance-capture animation I’ve seen to date. (1:47) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio. (Eddy)

Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chip-wrecked (1:27) 1000 Van Ness.

*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, 1000 Van Ness, Piedmont, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

The Conquest Yet another entry in the relatively new, burgeoning genre of mostly comic biopics portraying political figures still or at least recently in office, Xavier Durringer’s film chronicles conservative Nicolas Sarkozy’s rise to the French presidency. As cannily impersonated by Denis Podalydès, Sarkozy (a.k.a. the Midget, to his detractors) is a Napoleon complex-afflicted shark whose need for perpetual careerist motion cancels out enjoyment even for his triumphs — save, perhaps, a momentary gloat over enemies left trampled. At the start he’s already neared the top of the government ladder, albeit not nearly near enough. Several years’ further upward scrambling are framed by flash-forwards to 2007, when he’s on the verge of finally becoming president, albeit at the cost of “top advisor” and long-suffering first wife Cécilia (Florence Pernel) jumping ship. Her earlier lament “Our life has become a TV show” has been ignored by a spouse quite happy living an almost entirely public, media-hounded life. (Although as his popularity continues to sink, Sarkozy almost certainly doesn’t feel that way now.) Without depiction of or insight into the main figure’s background, The Conquest becomes an entertaining but superficial, near-farcical enterprise providing little insight into what makes him tick. But then, that’s the problem with instant biographies — it’s a lot easier to grasp a significant figure’s complexities when enough time has passed for hindsight to clear the immediate fog of scandal, spectacle, and grotesquerie. (1:45) Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

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, Embarcadero, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

The Darkest Hour (1:29) 1000 Van Ness.

*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, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

The Devil Inside (1:27) 1000 Van Ness.

*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) Lumiere. (Chun)

*Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone This doc offers a lively, revealing look at SoCal ska-punk rockers Fishbone, a band that formed circa 1979 in a San Fernando Valley junior high newly filled with bussed-in South Central kids. In its heyday, Fishbone enjoyed cult success with hits like “Party at Ground Zero” and the tune that gives the film its title; Everyday Sunshine speaks to Fishbone’s broad appeal, as famous faces chime in to reminisce (and longtime fan Laurence Fishburne narrates), but it also illuminates some of the reasons its members never became megastars. Codirectors Chris Metzler (a San Francisco resident best-known for 2004’s Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea) and Lev Anderson spent months on the road with the band, capturing the infectious energy of its live shows in addition to behind-the-scenes tension. Past members add their voices, but the main protagonists are bassist-vocalist Norwood Fisher and lead vocalist-saxophone player Angelo Moore. Their intertwining stories offer a poignant portrait of creative soulmates who’ve weathered many storms (personality conflicts, legal and money troubles, an industry that didn’t know how to categorize them) without once giving up on their music. In addition to its compelling story, the film’s quirkier stylistic choices, including animation, lift Everyday Sunshine above the crowded field of traditional music docs. (1:47) Roxie. (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) Four Star, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki, SF Center. (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)

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, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

In the Land of Blood and Honey The grudging, occasionally outright hostile tone some critics, culture vultures, and fan types have taken toward In the Land of Blood and Honey points toward a fundamental problem most of them have, though few admit it: the belief that Angelina Jolie is just too damn famous, too much a figure of public speculation and private fantasy, to be taken seriously — let alone to make a movie about rape and genocide during the Balkans Wars. But the fact is, her narrative debut as writer and director would probably be getting reviews in the respectable-to-rave range if created by anyone else. It’s certainly gotten some of those, but you’d be hard-pressed not to glimpse a certain “Who does she think she is?” resentment behind others who see the film as heavy-handed do-gooderism from a chick who should leave cinematic commentary about profoundly tragic historical events to people who are less … er, sexy. Not that Blood and Honey doesn’t have its genuine faults. There’s contrivance in the way that young Muslim painter Ajla (Zana Marjanovic) and Serb cop Danijel (Goran Kostic) have a first date just as the war reaches 1992 Sarajevo, then intersect again when she’s a POW and he’s an officer in the Serbian Army. This allows him to save her from the regular rapes other women prisoners suffer at the hands of guards, and eventually to set her up as his protected mistress, a breach of code that is unwelcome news to the ears of his powerful father General Nobosjsa (Rade Serbedzija), a fanatical “ethnic cleanser.” This premise is typical movie exceptionalism, even if it’s still a good step above the usual device of casting a Western character-star as our guide in unpleasant foreign affairs. While not a great movie, Blood and Honey is a very good one; an honorable achievement, not just a vehicle for honorable intentions. Of course the point is nothing more complicated than “War is hell,” but how often do movies actually punch that across, as opposed to pouting a bit while making war look exciting? (2:07) Opera Plaza, SF Center. (Harvey)

J. Edgar The usual polished, sober understatement of Clint Eastwood’s directing style and the highlights-compiling CliffsNotes nature of Dustin Lance Black’s screenplay turn out to be interestingly wrong choices for this biopic about one of the last American century’s most divisive figures. Interesting in that they’re perhaps among the very few who would now dare viewing the late, longtime FBI chief with so much admiration tempered by awareness of his faults — rather than the other way around. After all, Hoover (played by Leonardo DiCaprio) strengthened his bureau in ways that, yes, often protected citizens and state, but at what cost? The D.C. native eventually took to frequently “bending” the law, witch-hunting dubious national enemies (he thought the Civil Rights movement our worst threat since the bomb-planting Bolshevik anarchists of half a century earlier), blackmailing personal ones, weakening individual rights against surveillance, hoarding power (he resented the White House’s superior authority), lying publicly, and doing just about anything to heighten his own fame. A movie that internalized and communicated his rising paranoid megalomania (ironically Hoover died during the presidency of Nixon, his equal in that regard) might have stood some chance of making us understand this contradiction-riddled cipher. But J. Edgar is doggedly neutral, almost colorless (literally so, in near-monochrome visual presentation), its weird appreciation of the subject’s perfectionism and stick-to-it-iveness shutting out almost any penetrating insight. (Plus there’s Eastwood’s own by-now-de rigueur soundtrack of quasi-jazz noodling to make what is vivid here seem more dull and polite.) The love that dare not speak its name — or, evidently, risk more than a rare peck on the cheek — between Hoover and right-hand-man/life companion Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer, very good if poorly served by his old-age makeup) becomes both the most compelling and borderline-silly thing here, fueled by a nervous discretion that seems equal parts Black’s interest and Eastwood’s discomfort. While you might think the directors polar opposites in many ways, the movie J. Edgar ultimately recalls most is Oliver Stone’s 1995 Nixon: both ambitiously, rather sympathetically grapple with still-warm dead gorgons and lose, filmmaker and lead performance alike laboring admirably to intelligent yet curiously stilted effect. (2:17) Opera Plaza, Shattuck. (Harvey)

King of Devil’s Island When teenaged Erling (Benjamin Helstad) arrives at Bastøy Prison — more labor camp than reform school — he’s more worldly than many of the other boys there, especially Olav (Trond Nilssen), though the newcomer and long-time inmate bond over a shared fascination with seafaring life. That’s about the only happy thing that happens in Bastøy; set in 1915, King of Devil’s Island is based on the Norwegian island prison’s troubled past, and a rebellion that erupts when the boys reach the breaking point. Surprisingly, it’s not the exhausting work (hauling rocks and trees as rain and snow whip across gloomy fjords) that leads to unrest — it’s the failure of the camp’s strict-but-not-sadistic overseer (go-to stern Scandinavian Stellan Skarsgård) to remove a “housefather” with rapey tendencies. An overlong running time enables a few too many climaxes (though the big uprising is well-earned, and cathartic), but director Marius Holst avoids melodrama, and powerful performances, particularly by the glowering Helstad, elevate the grim King above typical hell-is-for-children fare. (1:54) SFFS New People Cinema. (Eddy)

*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, Shattuck. (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) Shattuck. (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, Presidio. (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) Balboa, Clay, Marina, 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)

*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) Bridge, 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, Sundance Kabuki. (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)

*Sutro’s: The Palace at Land’s End Filmmaker Tom Wyrsch (2008’s Watch Horror Films, Keep America Strong and 2009’s Remembering Playland) explores the unique and fascinating history behind San Francisco’s Sutro Baths in his latest project, an enjoyable documentary that covers the stories behind Adolph Sutro, the construction of his swimming pools, and the amazingly diverse, and somewhat strange collection of other attractions that entertained generations of locals that came to Land’s End for amusement. Told through interviews with local historians and residents, the narrative is illustrated with a host of rarely-seen historic photographs, archival film footage, contemporary video, and images of old documents, advertisements and newspapers. The film should appeal not only to older viewers who fondly remember going to Sutro’s as children, and sadly recall it burning down in 1966, but also younger audiences who have wandered through the ruins below the Cliff House and wondered what once stood there. (1:24) Balboa. (Sean McCourt)

*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)

*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) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

We Bought A Zoo “If you could choose between animals or humans or animals, which would you choose?” is a standard question among passionate critter lovers, and Cameron Crowe and company go out of their way to outline which side of the divide they stand on. The result won’t please animal-centric fans of, say, Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Reporter Benjamin Mee (Matt Damon) has just lost his beloved wife and is so overwhelmed by all the solo dad time he’s had with his two cute kids, Dylan (Colin Ford) and Rosie (Maggie Elizabeth Jones), that he’s ready to do something rash. Despite the advice of his brother (Thomas Haden Church), he quits his newspaper job and throws his lot in with the ultimate child’s amusement: he buys a ramshackle zoo in the boonies and tries his darnedest to fix it. Coming with the property is the fetching if brusque zookeeper Kelly (Scarlett Johansson, slightly bushier of eyebrow — read: homelier — than usual) and a mixed bag of kooky workers (including Elle Fanning and Crowe fave Patrick Fugit). The challenge for Ben is to get the zoo up to speed, with zero previous experience and limited lucre. Unfortunately Crowe takes the human vs. animal choice to heart and errs on the side of the humanoids: there’s way too few animals here and far too little about the zoo itself. Much like an overbearing zookeeper, the filmmaker protects us from this semi-tame kingdom, when really a viewer wants to know is, when are we going to get more stories about the animals? Can we have a real tour of the grounds? Even the comic efforts of Haden Church and J.B. Smoove as Ben’s realtor aren’t enough to whisk away one’s impatience (or the unsettling feeling that Ben’s affinity for a elderly ailing tiger will end with an SF Zoo-style arm removal) with all these damn people standing between us and the creatures, like a crowd of gawkers hogging the view of the lions. (2:03) 1000 Van Ness. (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) California, Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, Vogue. (Harvey) *

 

Looks good off paper

Andrew Lam
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Looks good off paper

culture@sfbg.com

CAREERS AND EDUCATION According to the Princeton Review, that bicep-straining tome of college rankings responsible for many a young adult’s breakdown, most of the perennially popular majors (psychology, economics, communications, political science) are still alive and kicking. But plenty of alternative, even radical fields of study are blossoming that meld academic inquiry with tangible work towards change. From crafting tables for an Oakland school library to restoring native California plants, many students around the Bay are getting academic credit for innovative contributions towards a sustainable future. 

CHILD AND ADOLESCENT DEVELOPMENT WITH A CONCENTRATION IN YOUTH WORK AND OUT OF SCHOOL TIME

Ah, to be young… kind of. The adolescent years are rarely anyone’s favorites, which makes SFSU’s Youth Work and Out of School Time concentration in its child and adolescent development bachelor’s degree all the more important. Its students learn to directly address the needs of young people in trouble. Internship-heavy and based on first-hand experience, the program trains students to work with youth in after school programs, the justice system, social services, and beyond.

San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway, SF. (415) 338-1111, www.sfsu.edu

NUTRITIONAL SCIENCE AND TOXICOLOGY

The Bay Area is not only a gourmand’s nirvana, it’s also at the forefront of food-based activism. Cal’s nutrition-oriented bachelor’s program offers three degrees (physiology and metabolism, dietetics, and molecular toxicology) in addition to courses in “pesticide chemistry and toxicology,” “nutrition in the community,” and “human food practices.” We hope the studies will enable the next generation of food scholars to make a tangibly tasty difference.

UC Berkeley, 103 Sproul Hall, Berk. (510) 624-3175, www.berkeley.edu

AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE

A degree in ASL is perfect for those gunning for a career as an interpreter for the hearing-impaired, and this associate’s degree or certificate from Berkeley City College is a great place to get started. Classes provide both practical and theory-based knowledge opportunities for intrepid future signers. Courses in the history and culture of deaf people in the United States augment the study of the language itself.

Berkeley City College, 2050 Center St., Berk. (510) 981-2800, www.berkeleycitycollege.edu

WOMEN’S STUDIES

One of the first such programs in the county, City College’s Women’s Studies department has been feminist-ing since 1971. It schools students in sexual violence prevention, HIV and STI outreach, and the complexities and politics of domestic relationships. Students can study for an associate’s degree, but the sexual health educator certificate programs also a notable thing to walk away with.

San Francisco City College, Ocean Campus, 50 Phelan, SF. (415) 239-3000, www.ccsf.edu

COMMUNITY ARTS

Calling all activist-artists, California College of the Arts’ community arts program is comprised of classes that study and build upon the relationships that creative types forge with their community. Students work aggressively for social change through community interaction. Past projects have revolved around designing furniture for an Oakland school and crafting nesting modules for roosting coastal birds.

California College of the Arts, 1111 Eighth St., SF. (415) 703-9523, www.cca.edu

POLITICAL, LEGAL, AND ECONOMIC ANALYSIS

Fittingly, considering that Mills College is home to less than 1,000 undergrads (all female), students in this popular bachelor’s program can rely on lots of individual attention. Students can choose to concentrate on a political, international, or economic focus, prepping themselves, for instance, for future work in public policy or crusading against the death penalty.

Mills College, 5000 MacArthur Blvd., Oakl. (510) 430-2255, www.mills.edu

ENVIRONMENTAL STEWARDSHIP

Crikey. De Anza’s restoration-geared associate’s degree program trains future stewards in wildlife tracking, ecological management, and conservation work. Less alligator wrestling as much as bird-tagging (in Bay Area, anyway), this major arms eco-warriors with courses with names like “Blueprint for Sustainability” and “Community-Based Coalitions and Stakeholders,” and pushes students to spend quality time out in the field.

De Anza College, 21250 Stevens Creek Blvd., Cupertino. (408) 864-5400, www.deanza.edu

Review: Keep it couch-side for Courtney Trouble’s latest Live Sex Show

Andrew Lam
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The phrase “live sex show” invokes a history of glitzy spectacle designed for the viewer eager to escape the intimate, nuanced relationships of home. But a recently released film from director Courtney Trouble turns that idea on its head. Filmed at the Center for Sex and Culture’s annual Masturbate-A-Thon, every scene from Trouble’s Live Sex Show (Trouble Films) takes places on and around a grand green couch – and the live sex that takes place is as intimate and nuanced as it gets.

The sex in the film range from peeks that make the viewer feel voyeristic,  to fourth-wall breaking performative coupling, and actors seem to be having tons of fun playing with these varying approaches. 

Jolene Parton and Peter Devries fuck in a way that feels unaltered from if they had been on a couch in their living room. They switch between positions naturally, and do not strain to “open up” for the camera as mainstream porn actors are taught to do. Nonetheless, the scene delivers super-sexy shots of tits, ass, genitals, and sweaty orgasms – not to mention hot cuddling action after climax. 

Tina Horn and Roger Wood power-play their way through a spanking and strap-on scene, screaming and grunting with a gusto that straddles the line between “real sex” and “performance.”  In one nice moment, their movements end naturally and morph into a bow that is greeted with cheers from the audience. When the two realize they’re not being yanked with a cane, however, they shrug and keep fucking. 

This show’s indisputable main attraction is a scene with legendary porn star and sex positive crusader Nina Hartley and the young, wildly popular Jiz Lee. These two play to the audience, delivering a wonderful comedy routine-anatomy lesson-crash course in how tell your partner what you want during sex. 

Their scene does with joy and ease what the sex workers’ rights movement has been working on for years; it makes it clear that porn actors are workers who spend time having sex on camera, but who are also complete human beings with real lives and real desires. It’s sexy and exciting when, faced with Lee’s dripping pussy and smiling face Hartley exclaims, “I love my job!”

It’s also unashamedly political. Ditto Hartley’s expert dirty talk—“you’re so tight, so slick, so strong,” she moans to Lee during the fisting. Commenting on the strength of vaginal muscles is almost as unexpected as the scene’s end, with Hartley asking Lee about college majors. 

One of the ideas of queer porn is that it is made by and for people who have been oppressed and not considered part of the sexual “norm”—those with nonwhite, trans, queer, hairy, natural bodies, among others. 

People like this are often in mainstream porn, but framed as fetishes. Watching lesbians, strap-on, trans people, interracial sex is considered kinky. 

Like all good queer porn, Live Sex Show shows that when not “normal” people have sex, it’s about their own enjoyment; not who’s watching.  Wood fucks Horn with a strap on, and both parties are clearly having a blast. Lee can’t get enough of the fact that great sexcapade with icon Hartley, and brags about it to the audience. When the audience whoops and cheers, you can tell it’s because they’re just that pleased to see hot performers having such a great time.

In the immortal words of the Lady Gaga parody that went viral on YouTube, “Queer Porn this Way”: “Porn that humanizes is so hot, you’ll want that shit on DVD.” 

Yeah, you probably will.

Pick up your copy of Live Sex Show at www.courtneytrouble.com/films

The Bay Guardian respects all gender identities and preferred pronouns. This post was updated per Jiz Lee’s request to be referred to as ‘they.’

Our Weekly Picks: January 4-10

Andrew Lam
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WEDNESDAY 4

Starfucker

Reptilians, the latest LP from Portland, Ore.’s Starfucker, shows a clear obsession with death. But, you might not realize it from the opening track, “Born,” which takes a Flaming Lips style approach and brings some rock skuzz to a child-like stare into the abyss. This band keeps getting bigger (as does its audience — this Oakland date was added after two scheduled shows this week sold out,) and now with five touring members, the sounds gotten more expansive: euphoric electronica, Australian/Minogue-ish pop, 8bit arpeggios, Pixies’ bass lines, plus the signature Alan Watts samples. It could be a little much for a synth rock group, but for now, considering impending annihilation, Starfucker doesn’t seem to give a fuck. (Ryan Prendiville)

With Painted Palms, and Feelings

9 p.m., $20–$23

New Parish

579 18th St., Oakl.

(415) 371-1631

www.thenewparish.com

 

Week End

Yes, there was a standout 2011 movie called Weekend — Nottingham guy meets bound-for-America Nottingham guy for a one-night stand that turns out to be something more — but this screening is of another film with a very similar name, 1967’s Week End. Pro-tip: add Weekend to your Netflix queue and add Week End to your weekend plans. Jean-Luc Godard’s surreal, prescient satire of our ever-declining civilization, featuring cinema’s most epic (and most epically-filmed) traffic jam, unspools on the big screen in the form of a brand-new 35mm print. Oui-kend! (Cheryl Eddy)

Fri/6-Sun/8, 7 and 9:15 p.m. (also Sat/7-Sun/8, 2:30 and 4:45 p.m.), $7.50–<\d>$10

Castro Theatre

429 Castro, SF

(415) 621-6120

 

Grass Widow

Celebrate the first Friday of 2012 in Oakland with a free performance by San Francisco’s popular harmonizing punk trio, Grass Widow. Traipse through forward-thinking art instillations at nearby galleries as part of Art Murmur, then pop into the Uptown for an early start — doors are at 6 p.m. so there’s ample drinking time before bands. And those bands are high quality. Every time I see Grass Widow live, I’m smacked with its sheer blistering force; last catching the act upon its return from tour at a Public Works show featuring the resurgent Erase Errata, I was again swept up by the pummeling skills of guitarist Raven Mahon, drummer Lillian Maring, and bassist Hannah Lew. Art, drinks, and cheap-o rock’n’roll, it’ll be a solid First Fridays escape from reality. (Emily Savage)

With Culture Kids, Churches, and Wave Array

9 p.m., free

Uptown 1928 Telegraph, Oakl.

(510) 451-8100

www.uptownnightclub.com

 

Stripmall Architecture

The video for Stripmall Architecture’s “Radium Girls” features a neon-painted Rebecca Coseboom making weird “come hither” faces as she sings into the camera. It’s trippy and alluring, and it’s precisely how I would describe the local quartet’s dark-tinted pop music. Though Stripmall Architecture might be somewhat under your radar, founding couple Rebecca and Ryan Coseboom have worked with DJ Shadow, and Cocteau Twins guitarist Robin Guthrie, and toured the country with Bob Mould. The group wails on guitars and synthesizers, but Rebecca’s angelic voice is the driving force of its sound. After watching “Radium Girls,” I found a bunch of clips of the freaky light show the band puts on for live performances. So, you should probably check them out. (Frances Capell)

With Return to Mono and TIGERcat

9 p.m., $10

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com


FRIDAY 6

Frank & Tony

Francis Harris (a.k.a. Adultnapper) has a gift for building minimal tracks. One of the best songs of the last year, “Idiot Fair (feat. Black Light Smoke)” was a restrained bit of deep tech house released on Berlin’s Poker Flat Recordings. A steady bump with a little shake and some alternating clipped keys and snares for five minute — it didn’t slow build, it pleasantly idled — until a pair of brooding, stressed male vocals dropped into play. While Scissor and Thread — a Brooklyn-based label Harris started with players including French DJ (Tony) Anthony Collins — bills itself as an independent rather than dance imprint, the releases so far from Harris and Black Light Smoke sound quite promising. (Prendiville)

With Adnan Sharif (Forward), Michael Perry (Fedora)

9:30 p.m., $10–$15

Public Works

161 Erie, SF

(415) 932-0955

www.publicsf.com

 

The Proud

Local playwright Aaron Loeb’s previous work was entitled Abraham Lincoln’s Big, Gay Dance Party and featured a chorus line of dancin’ beardos in stovepipe hats. His latest, The Proud, workshopping at Dance Brigade’s Dance Mission Theater, features a more serious subject matter (presented in collaboration with Iraq Vets Against the War, the play is about post-traumatic stress disorder) — but a no less memorable chorus, in the form of Dance Bridgade’a formidable drummers and dancers. The Proud is drawn from interviews with Bay Area veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, focusing on both PTSD and — in keeping with Dance Brigade’s commitment to feminist themes — the treatment of women in the military. Even in “staged reading” form, The Proud promises to be powerful stuff. (Eddy)

Sat/7, 8 p.m.; Sun/8, 6 p.m.; Mon/9, 5 p.m., free

Dance Mission Theater

3316 24th St., SF

(415) 826-4441

www.dancemission.com


SATURDAY 7

“Primo”

What gentle vibrations run through a family that produces a plural of career artists? Somewhere back in the generations was a genetic seed planted, later blooming into progeny given to walking the world with paint-spattered paws and dreamy gazes fixed on rooftops or the curvature of a cat’s cheekbones? Pending a scientific conclusion, we can look to the new art exhibition by cousins Hugh and David D’Andrade for clues. Budding geneticists will find comparisons of the two’s bodies of work — Hugh’s illustrative dream world most recently featured on an iconic Occupy flier, David’s sweeps of pigment that seem almost sculpture-like — to be catnip for the dabbler in DNA studies. (Caitlin Donohue)

Through Feb. 18

Opening reception: 6-9:30 p.m., free

a.Muse gallery

614 Alabama, SF

(415) 279-6281

www.yourmusegallery.com


“Accordions with Love II”

This event is actually a double whammy, two full shows of squeezebox pride. First, there’s the early show, “Accordion Babes Review” which kicks off at happy hour and includes accordion-filled sets by Yeti, Amber Lee & the Anomalies, Luz Gaxiola & Circus Finelli, Vagabondage, and more. Next up, there’s “The Big Squeeze,” the nighttime show beginning at 9 p.m. This one features Mark Growden, Gabrielle Ekedal & Angus Matin, Eggplant Casino, and yes, even more. It’s a packed lineup, one that should envitably lead to your perfect come-on for the night, “My, how your accordion bellows.” (Savage)

5 p.m. and 9 p.m., $10 per show

Amnesia

835 Valencia, SF

(415) 970-0012

www.amnesiathebar.com

Phonte and 9th Wonder

It’s a little hard to wrap my head around the notion that Charity Starts At Home, released in September, is the debut solo album from North Carolina Justus League rapper Phonte. One of the most straight-talking, artistically varied artists around, Phonte has done practically everything but a solo album: classic underground records with the group Little Brother, the electronic R&B project Foreign Exchange with Dutch producer Nicolay (hip-hop’s answer to the Postal Service), and alter-egos like Tigallo and the hilariously authentic old school soul singer, Percy Miracles. Among it’s highlights, Charity sees the MC once again collaborating (after a 6 year break) with top-tier producer and former Little Brother member 9th Wonder. (Prendiville)

With Median, Rapsody

9 p.m., $22-40

New Parish

579 18th St., Oakl.

(415) 371-1631

www.thenewparish.com


SUNDAY 8

The Future of Motive Power

Nikola Tesla died at the New Yorker Hotel in 1943, alone and without a cent to his name. In the last years of his life, the “electric wizard” behind wireless communication and the induction motor had been promoting a death ray, subsisting on vegetable potions, and obsessing about pigeons (he claimed to love one pigeon like “a man loves a woman”). Future Motive Power, a play by the local performance ensemble Mugwumpin, is inspired by the inventor-wizard’s life, its peculiarities and myths, and the science that lives in its wake. Created specifically for the historic Old Mint, it’s a self-proclaimed “performative fever dream.” (James H. Miller)

8 p.m., $30 includes drinks and hors d’oeuvres

Old Mint

88 Fifth St., SF

(415) 967-1574

www.mugwumpin.org


MONDAY 9

Soft White Sixties

A congregant at the church of classic, mind-reeling Seventies rock, Soft White Sixties once described its sound as “Rock ‘n’ roll, heavy on the roll, dipped in soul.” This audio-fanatic show is particularly fitting for SWS and its followers for it’s part of Communion, a live music forum began in the UK by Mumford & Sons’ Ben Lovett, Kevin Jones, and noted producer Ian Grimbl. Established in 2006 London, Communion began as a monthly showcase for emerging singer-songwriters, a modern-day creative salon. It came to San Francisco near the end of last year, and continues to produce unique lineups and fanciful collaborations monthly at Cafe Du Nord. (Savage)

With Zane Carney, Big Eagle, Gabriel Kelly, and Amy Blashkie

8:30pm, $12.

Cafe Du Nord

2170 Market, SF

(415) 861-5016

www.cafedunord.com


TUESDAY 10

Thee Cormans

In the grand tradition of costumed surf punk bands that straddle rock’n’roll and comedic timing (Phantom Surfers, Mummies), here comes Thee Cormans, a green-skinned, gorilla-masked, bug-eyed gang of wily monster motorcyclists in ripped vests riding curling waves of reverb. And like its rowdy foreparents, this fuzzed out Southern California based band has a live show that puts tender mumbling indie acts to shame. That exuberance also fits in neatly with Thee Cormans’ label, In the Red, which itself is making waves for a future-retro mishmosh output of eccentric weirdos, cultured punks, and generally genre-less acts. Viva costumery. (Savage)

With the Shrouds, the Khans, and Swiss Family Skiers

8:30 p.m., $6

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk, SF

(415) 923-0923

www.hemlocktavern.com 

The Guardian listings deadline is two weeks prior to our Wednesday publication date. To submit an item for consideration, please include the title of the event, a brief description of the event, date and time, venue name, street address (listing cross streets only isn’t sufficient), city, telephone number readers can call for more information, telephone number for media, and admission costs. Send information to Listings, the Guardian Building, 135 Mississippi St., SF, CA 94107; fax to (415) 487-2506; or e-mail (paste press release into e-mail body — no text attachments, please) to listings@sfbg.com. Digital photos may be submitted in jpeg format; the image must be at least 240 dpi and four inches by six inches in size. We regret we cannot accept listings over the phone.

Shining season

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Shining season

virginia@sfbg.com

APPETITE In its opening weeks, AQ in SoMa* reminds me of lauded Commonwealth and Sons and Daughters. At all three restaurants, precision marries inventiveness — at a reasonable cost. AQ’s starters are $9 or $13, while entrees are $24. After dining in cities the world and country over, I can vouch that it is rare to see this level of skill and creativity at this price.

Seasonal menus are a dime a dozen here, but how often do you see seasonal trees and plants with seasonal bar glassware, and a seasonally changing bar top? As AQ’s bar morphs from copper to Italian marble for the winter and fall leaves enliven, the space exudes celebratory beauty. There’s exposed brick, funky whisk lighting, open kitchen, and a ridiculously cool basement lounge with mid-century lamps and couches viewable from a mini-bridge walkway at the restaurant’s entrance.

Then there’s the food. Owner-executive chef Mark Liberman combines New York and San Francisco sensibilities with Mediterranean and French influences. But when it comes to style and ingredients, he’s decidedly Californian. (Liberman has cooked on both coasts, as well as in France and Napa, and with Daniel Boulud and Joël Robuchon in Vegas). Nuance prevails without getting mired in overwrought fussiness. Starters are small, but entrees are as filling as they are complex.

All this comes into focus when you taste Monterey squid and charred avocado ($9). Parsnips and grapefruit add brightness, while black sesame char over silky avocado ushers in a dish rich, earthy, unusual. A delicate starter, it is rife with flavor.

I adore boudin noir (blood sausage or black pudding, depending on if you’re from the US or UK-Ireland) and Liberman’s version is a thrill. A warm, spiced pile of tender meat (not in a sausage casing) is companion to chestnuts done three ways ($9): raw, confit, and as a cream sauce. With quince and sorrel, the dish pops. At this point, I’m catching my breath at the level of detail and sapidity, recalling countless basic salads or sandwiches I’ve had for the same price.

Not as revelatory as the charred avocado or boudin noir, a toasted barley and Dungeness crab dish ($13) tossed with mushrooms and Douglas fir, still pleased, as did the cauliflower ($9) in various iterations from charred to raw, doused in vadouvan spices with golden raisins. In the Autumn spirit, roasted pumpkin ($10) sits alongside carrots, ancho cress greens, with a heaping scoop of mascarpone cream. Even a little gem salad in buttermilk dressing ($10) fends off typicality with poppy seeds, watermelon radish, and cured sardines.

On the entree front, one witnesses Liberman’s range in a juicy, utterly satisfying slow-cooked veal breast (all entrees $24), subtly candied in orange, accompanied by unfried, plump sweetbreads and broccoli. He does not leave vegetarians in the shadows with Kohlrabi “Bourguignon.” Kohlrabi, a brawny German turnip, stands stoically in the center of the plate, a root sprouting from the dish with flair. Notes of horseradish and star anise peek out, but it’s the red wine sauce that must be lapped up.

Desserts ($8) are equally expert in detail but didn’t wholly captivate. I enjoyed ginger cake with Asian pear and salted toffee, cooked in Amaro Montenegro, and a devil’s chocolate cake dusted in coffee and smoked streusel, with shavings of roasted white chocolate — although I could have used more smoked streusel to bring out the earthiness of the cake.

A winning team of talented bartenders, helmed by Timothy Zohn, is worth a visit alone and should be a new go-to for cocktailians. (All menu cocktails are $10.) Winter’s chill diminishes when sipping a New Amsterdam # 1: raisin-infused Bols Genever, maple syrup, Old Fashion bitters, and a splash of apple cider. Head south with Mexican Piano: Espolon blanco tequila, huckleberry syrup, lime, and tarragon, topped with a torched bay leaf. The menu contains lovely aperitif and digestif cocktails, many amaro based, with a section of classics given seasonal treatment, like a sazerac of date-infused Russell’s Reserve Rye, sugar, and Peychaud’s winter bitters. (The vintage glassware is gorgeous)

Already, AQ feels like “the whole package.”

AQ

Mon.-Sun. 5:30 p.m.-11 p.m., Sunday brunch 11 a.m.-2 p.m.,

1085 Mission, SF.

(415) 341-9000

www.aq-sf.com

MC/Visa

Full bar

Subscribe to Virgina’s twice-monthly newsletter, The Perfect Spot, www.theperfectspotsf.com

*Due to an editing error, AQ’s location was misstated in the paper as being in the Mission. Since the time of this review, AQ has since discontinued the lunch service referred to in the paper edition. 

 

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