Scene Archives — Page 82 of 128 — San Francisco Bay Guardian Archive 1966

North Beach and Chinatown lift forks for Noodlefest 2010

Andrew Lam

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April 28, 2010

North Beach and Chinatown lift forks for Noodlefest 2010

I do love me some noodles. As do we all — just ask the cooks carving them from a solid, gyro like block of pasta at the Seattle Chinese restaurant I once blissfully attended, or the happy fettuccine eaters at the sidewalk cafes on Columbus Avenue. The world would be a better place if we could all put down our weapons and pick up our forks and spoons.

Which is roughly what is happening at this weekend’s Noodlefest 2010 (Sun/2). Sure, the days of armed warfare between North Beach and Chinatown may be safely behind us (were they ever in existence), but the two adjacent neighborhoods rarely come together to plan community happenings. Harken to the candlelit dinner scene in The Lady and the Tramp — it takes a pasta strand to break the ice, and bring you snout to snout.

But why eat a strand when you can sample six different pasta meals? Entry to Noodlefest gets you a taste of three steaming mountains of Chinatown noodles, and three from North Beach, in addition to live noodle making demonstrations and entertainment of all stripes.

So grab a fork. And to reinforce what this peaceful coexistence of culinary traditions signifies in the history of our city, two long time residents of the neighborhoods, Reverend Norman Fong of the Chinatown Community Development Center, and Dan Macchiarini of the North Beach Merchants’ Association, sent us their memoirs of growing up in the city’s historically Chinese and Italian ‘hoods. If the following tales of downtown SF life in the ‘50s and ‘60s don’t make you feel all noodley inside, then I don’t know what will.

Noodlefest 2010
Sun/2 3-7pm, $15
Grant, between Pacific & Vallejo, SF
www.chinatowncdc.org
———————-

The yin and yang of Chinese-Italian relationships
By Reverend Norman Fong, Chinatown Community Development Center

During the 1950s and 1960s, it wasn’t all fine and dandy growing up in Chinatown and North Beach, although I wouldn’t trade my life experience for anything. In my younger elementary school years, I was a Chinatown kid; all my classmates were Chinese-Americans.

Then I had to cross Washington Square to head to Francisco Jr. High, where I learned about other races. I remember having a crush on one very cute girl who lived in North Beach but I was too shy to ever ask her out and there weren’t too many cross-cultural relations back then. I also remember some very negative moments when groups of Italian boys would harass me.

One time I was chased by these boys who screamed “let’s get the Chinaman” and they tied me to the fence near St. Peter & Paul and they threw water balloons at me. I went home and I told my mom “I hate italians” and explained what happened.

My mom said life was about balance. “Did you know our landlord is Italian? He only charges us $90 rent and never raised the rent?” I didn’t fully understand at the time just how much that meant, but I do now. Years later, when I was about 18 years old, we were evicted from our home — by a Chinese landlord who bought the building.

Life is about balance, the Yin and Yang of life. Dan Macchiarini and Kathleen Dooley of the North Beach Merchants Association are friends because we shared the same block at the Chinatown Community Development Center office at 1525 Grant. I bought my Valentine’s Day flowers from Kathleen for my wife a number of years.

This Noodlefest is not just about noodles, spaghetti versus chow mein… It’s about relationships… and building cultural bridges… and “balance.”

Fireworks and noodles
By Dan Macchiarini, North Beach Merchants’ Association

Back in the day of the day, back when I was around 9 years old in the early 1960’s, I was among a bunch of kids my age from North Beach and Chinatown who would regularly play pick up games of football in Washington Square. Park Saturdays, Sundays, and whenever we could during the summer. We would have played baseball but the adults using the park wouldn’t let us and we could only play softball down at the Joe DiMaggio playground.

This was also a time when there were no real playgrounds at all in Chinatown, so a lot of the Chinese kids would come across Broadway to play in North Beach at Washington Square Park with us Italian kids. Some kids from Chinese ancestry lived in North Beach already. We got along fairly well too, considering the nonsensical historic animosity between a lot of our parents from our two distantly different racial and ethnic backgrounds.

We also hung out and played tennis dodge ball in the alley streets in both communities. These alleys during the day were very safe and were the kind of the place where car drivers looked out for and expected us kids to be. Chinatown and North Beach both share a network of smallish streets and alleys. We made these “kids turf” when we weren’t in the park.

However, the most fun time for us was around mid February every year. It was always rainy and cold but this is the time of Chinese New Year. None of us Italian kids, even on the fourth of July, had access to fire works like the Chinese kids did. This made for a great trading relationship between us, everything from baseball cards to candy and sometimes even money changed hands for us to get the fireworks and use them. We had great contests blowing up tin cans, setting off stings of fire crackers to see how much noise and smoke we could make, until we got nailed by our parents who would attempt to restrict our alley pyrotechnics antics, commerce and careers on both sides of the ethnic divide.

The Chinese kids seemed to be at greater liberty to get and use these fireworks than we Italian kids were. It didn’t seem fair to me. I asked my father why this was. He said it was part of their culture and explained the “lunar new year.” He and my mother regularly took us to the Chinese New Year parade during the late 1950s and early 1960s. There were massive fireworks and firecrackers there, mostly still in the rain but spectacular at night during the parade of dragons and lions.

Before the parade, my parents would take my sister and I to dinner in their favorite Chinese restaurant and they would order all kinds of exotic dishes. The restaurant, still there, was up Washington Street just off Grant Ave., three block off of Broadway and, literally, under the building. You walk down concrete steps to the doorway. Very “old school” Chinatown. My father knew all the waiters and the owner would greet us with broad smile. Somehow, they knew each other back in their day, the 1930s, when everyone was struggling just to survive. So we got the VIP treatment there.

The food was incredibly good, although as a nine year old, I was somewhat picky — which my father had a VERY low tolerance for. I loved the Chinese noodles, all the chow mien dishes, and was okay with the rice dishes, but I had a lot of trouble with egg fu yung types; they tasted runny and raw to me. My mother insisted that my sister and I “try everything” they ordered, and my father would cuff me in the head to get my attention and tell me to “eat all your food.” I evolved a plan through; it involved a conspiracy with my sister because she loved egg fu yung. When my parents were distracted and not looking, we would change plates under the table. This all worked out fairly well until one time when we dropped one of the plates we were exchanging under the table. The food hit the floor and my father hit the ceiling. I was good at ducking, though. Luckily, the waiters and the owner were in fits laughter over this so my father’s temper cooled off fast but my mother made us kids sit through the rest of the meal without ANY more food as well as having to help the waiters picked up the mess.

I complained to my father, asking him why I couldn’t just eat the chow mien, like the pasta we made and ate at home. He told me that he brought me out to a Chinese restaurant so “you can learn” the taste of the way other people make food — and beside, the Chinese invented pasta too.

He said it was part of history, that about 800 years ago Marco Polo, an Italian merchant, went to China from Europe to Asia along the silk road to trade — and brought the idea of pasta to Italy and Europe (along with gunpowder).

He went on about this history, lecturing about how food was part of culture and we, as kids, should experience all kinds of food to learn about all kinds of cultures. This lasted about ten minutes, but it still didn’t get me to like egg fu yung — although a thought pushed itself into my nine year old mind that those Chinese kids I played and “traded” with in the alleys of North Beach and Chinatown for fireworks were my “Silk Road,” and going between North Beach and Chinatown was truly great adventure.

ENDORSEMENTS: State ballot measures

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 27, 2010

8

PROPOSITION 13

LIMITS ON PROPERTY TAX ASSESSMENT FOR SEISMIC RETROFITS

YES

The primary sponsor of Prop. 13 is Republican Sen. Roy Ashburn, who dominated the news for several days after he was arrested for drunk driving on his way home from a Sacramento gay bar. Needless to say, Ashburn’s dramatic coming out has whipped up far more attention than his noncontroversial ballot initiative.

We’re generally opposed to anything that gives tax cuts or tax deferrals to property owners; thanks to a 1978 measure also called Prop. 13, much of the commercial and residential property in California is badly under assessed. And Prop. 13, 2010 style, is indeed a tax break. But it’s probably justified.

Buildings in this state are typically reassessed for property taxes after they’ve been modified with new construction, except in cases where the modifications are made to comply with earthquake-safety standards. While most buildings that undergo seismic retrofitting are exempt from reassessment until the property is transferred to a new owner, the exemption for unreinforced masonry buildings is limited to 15 years. Prop 13 would remove that 15-year cap.

The fiscal impact on cities is likely to be pretty minor, and the measure might encourage both commercial and residential landlords to bring their buildings up to standard. Vote yes.

PROPOSITION 14

OPEN PRIMARIES

NO

At the height of a royal mess last year when the state budget was long overdue and the two-thirds majority needed to pass it was still out of reach by one vote, Republican Sen. Abel Maldonado struck a deal with Democrats. He said he’d support the budget — if the majority party would meet a few of his demands. One thing he insisted on was Prop. 14 — a ballot measure that would effectively remove political parties from the primary elections process, allowing all voters to cast ballots for any candidate regardless of party affiliation.

Under Maldonado’s plan, all candidates would run on a single primary ballot, and the top two vote-getters would face off in the general election. Heavily funded by the California Chamber of Commerce and marketed by the same spin doctors and corporate lawyers who are rolling in Yes on 16 campaign money, Prop. 14’s backers say it will result in more centrist elected officials.

There are plenty of pitfalls here, the most worrisome being that it would drive up the cost of elections and give more moneyed (and corporate-allied) candidates a sharper competitive edge while elbowing out progressives. It would allow Republicans to play a role in what would normally be Democratic primaries (and vice versa.) The measure would also make it nearly impossible for smaller parties — the Green Party, for example — to offer candidates in the November elections.

Bad idea, bad process, Vote no.

PROPOSITION 15

FAIR ELECTIONS ACT

YES

California desperately needs electoral reform. Corporate campaign spending and lobbyists have poisoned the decision-making process and muzzled the voice of the people. Something radical needs to be done — and while this measure is only a small, measured step in the right direction, it’s an important and promising experiment.

Prop. 15 would create a pilot public financing program for the 2014 and 2018 races for California Secretary of State — and the program would be funded by a tax on lobbyists. Right now lobbyists pay only $12.50 per year to register with the state. This measure would increase that fee to $350 annually and use the money to create a fund of about $6 million that candidates for the crucial office overseeing elections in the state could tap after demonstrating their popular support by gathering a number of small contributions. All candidates who qualify would be given the same amount of money and left to compete on the issues. Ideally this public financing program would prove successful and eventually be expanded to other offices. Public financing of election campaigns, which is currently working well in Arizona and Maine, is certainly worth a try in California. Vote yes.

PROPOSITION 16

MONOPOLY PROTECTION FOR PG&E

NO! NO! NO!

The deceptively titled “Taxpayer’s Right to Vote Act” was dreamed up and funded entirely by Pacific Gas and Electric Co., the monopolistic utility that is worried it could face actual competition here in San Francisco (and elsewhere) from municipal electricity programs that would offer customers a greener energy mix and more accountability than PG&E executives will ever demonstrate.

Rather than accept some healthy competition, this sleazy corporation has opted to spend some $35 million to exterminate all possibilities of municipal electricity programs cropping up anywhere in the state in a bid to preserve its octopus-like grip on the energy market in Northern California. Prop. 16 would require a two-thirds majority vote at the ballot before any community choice aggregation (CCA) program — or any attempt at creating or expanding a public-power system — could move forward. That’s an extreme hurdle — -and PG&E knows it.

In effect, PG&E is trying to buy public policy here, trying to pass a law that will protect its own monopoly interests.

In San Francisco, the CCA being proposed would offer customers 51 percent renewable power by 2017, which means it would blow PG&E out of the water in the green arena and mark S.F. as taking greater strides toward combating climate change than any other major U.S. city. This example could set a precedent for others, which, in turn, could create favorable market conditions for green energy startups that want to harness wind, solar, biomass, geothermal, tidal, and energy efficiency alternatives.

The very existence of Prop. 16 is already threatening the San Francisco CCA; the city’s Public Utilities Commission is trying to delay a final contract until after the June 8 vote on the measure (see editorial, page 5)

Vote no on Prop 16. Not just because it’s an example of a big business single-handedly trying to alter the state constitution for its own economic benefit by pouring millions of dollars into a deceptive advertising campaign. Not just because a two-thirds majority vote requirement is anti-democratic. Not just because there were reports that the signature gatherers who got people to sign on in support of placing Prop. 16 on the ballot were telling people that its purpose was to limit PG&E expansion or encourage solar power. Not just because Senate Pro Tem Darrell Steinberg and a half dozen members of the Legislature sent a letter rebuking PG&E CEO Peter Darbee for disrespecting the democratic process by going straight to the ballot to undermine legislation it initially supported that enabled the creation of CCA programs. Not just because PG&E is using $35 million of ratepayer dollars (that’s the check you wrote them for your electricity bill!) to put out slick TV ads for this campaign when it should have been repairing the pipelines under those manholes that keep exploding and messing up your morning commute. Not even just because with CCA, you already have the right to vote whether or not you want to be part of it, a choice PG&E will never give you. And not just because PG&E keeps trying to raise rates, which is much more difficult for municipal energy agencies to do.

If for no other reason, vote no because Prop. 16 flies in the face of everything environmentalists stand for. It’s a measure that will thwart progress on fighting climate change, brought to you by the company that practically invented green-washing. PG&E is a huge nuclear power player; it purchases coal from mountaintop-removal coal mines in West Virginia that are completely devastating biodiverse landscapes in Southern Appalachia and screwing over poor people by tainting their drinking water; and it’s in the process of building fossil fuel-fired power plants in poor communities of color in California. The CCA programs at least represent a glimmer of hope for an alternative model; Prop. 16 kills off that possibility with one fell swoop motivated by pure greed. For the love of justice, democracy, and the planet, vote no on Prop 16.

PROPOSITION 17

CAR INSURANCE SCHEME

NO, NO, NO!

Mercury Insurance sponsored this measure and is campaigning for it with tens of millions of dollars, betting it can fool voters and make hundreds of millions of dollars in profits by doing so. And if the company is right, insurance rates will skyrocket for new drivers and those who haven’t had continuous insurance coverage, which experts say will increase the number of uninsured drivers on the roadways and end up increasing insurance rates for everyone.

Mercury and its founder George Joseph have been truly malevolent players in California, exploiting their customers to make billions of dollars in profits, attacking California’s landmark insurance reform measure Prop. 103 with lawsuits and corrupting campaign contributions over more than 20 years, and flouting insurance regulators in such brazen fashion that even Insurance Commissioner Steve Poizner, a conservative Republican, recently chastised the company for its “lengthy history of serious misconduct” (see “Buying power,” March 17).

Now, however, the company is hoping its promise to cut the insurance premiums of drivers who have maintained continuous coverage by “as much as $250 per year” will buy their votes and that they’ll overlook the myriad negative impacts of increasing everyone else’s premiums by $1,000 per year or more, based on Mercury’s own estimates.

Think about that. If you’re a driver who missed an insurance payment by even one day, or a soldier returning from boot camp, or someone with a low-income getting insurance for the first time or after ditching your car for a while, what are you going to do when you discover already-expensive car insurance comes with a $1,000 annual surcharge?

Many Californians, those who share our roads, will choose to drive without insurance. Then they’ll be more likely to leave the scene of accidents or declare bankruptcy rather than paying out-of-pocket for their accidents, both of which increase the cost of insurance for everyone else.

That’s how insurance works. If someone pays less, someone else pays more; and the only entity guaranteed to really make money over the long term is the insurance company. Don’t fall for this scam. Vote no on 17.

Murder, he filmed

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 27, 2010

0

arts@sfbg.com

Get your shit peeled/ Check the murder rate, the shit’s real. —Eddi Projex, "Straight from Oakland"

MUSIC/FILM I first met Pretty Black, a member of Yukmouth’s Regime crew, in 2005 at the Mekanix’ studio in Oakland. He arrived with Husalah of the Mob Figaz to record. Goofing off, Hus urged me to get on the song, so I recorded an intro in mangled French, dubbing the pair "les hommes mobs." Black loved the pronunciation (moeb) and thus began one of my least likely rap-world friendships.

For even by rap standards, Black was a live wire. The 25-year-old always had a pistol on him, was always ready to fight, and, with his Range Rover and Lamborghini, clearly made his money off the street, though I didn’t inquire how. He was an angry young man, not someone to piss off. Yet according to Husalah, he had another side.

"Outside the circle, he seemed like the coldest dude on earth," Hus says. "But inside, you knew he was real compassionate. He provided for his niggas. And if you needed something, he was very resourceful."

"Plus," he adds, "if someone tried to fuck with you, he already knocked ’em out before you could even react."

Born in Chicago, Black was christened Ayoola Matthew Odumuyiwa by his Nigerian immigrant parents. When he first came to the Bay, he was known as Verstyle, but soon adopted the more in your face Pretty Black, a pun on the pimp sense of "pretty" (a "gorgeous" man) and his very dark skin. Like albino Jamaican rapper Yellowman, Black transformed a perceived negative — his color placing him on the lowest rung of our country’s caste system — into a defiant positive.

In 2008, on my birthday, May 25 (not, as sometimes reported, on May 30), Black was shot to death at an apartment complex where his relatives lived, a planned assassination. In other words, not random violence or robbery. Except for the killers, no one knows why. I was shocked because, while I could imagine someone wanting to kill him, I’d never known a murder victim. It’s like a candle flame being blown out: one second, fully here; the next, gone. I recalled, too, the last time I’d seen him, at a show featuring the Jacka. As we were catching up, he said, apropos of nothing, "Remember when we met and recorded that song? That was cool. Le moeb!" While ordinary at the time, this circling back to the night we met took on a retrospective uncanniness, as did one of his last songs, also recorded with the Mekanix, on which Black, playing both parts of a phone call, tells himself, "Don’t go outside, nigga. They’re trying to kill you."

BACK TO BLACK

I’ve been thinking about Black lately, in large part due to Land of the Homicide: The Murders in Oakland, CA (HookerBoyFilmz/HBO), a documentary DVD by Oakland filmmaker Dame Hooker. Brought into the game by veteran director Kevin Epps and multimedia journalist JR, Hooker has manned the cameras since 2001, releasing his first DVD, an overview of the local rap scene called The Bay Got Game (HookerBoy), in 2006. He’s also notched artist-oriented flicks like Mistah FAB’s Prince of the Bay (HookerBoy/InYoFace, 2007), among numerous other projects. Camera on shoulder, he’s a ubiquitous presence at any significant function, constantly accumulating footage of anything from a performance to a sideshow to an ass-whupping in high definition.

"I had a camera, but I was just shooting around the hood," Hooker recalls. "I didn’t know how to edit or anything. But FAB, Stalin, Shady Nate — I watched those dudes grow up. I started going to all their shows and they wanted the footage, so I learned how to edit just by watching TV or watching somebody else. Current TV on HBO showed me a lot about how to put it in a format."

Indeed, he nailed the format so well that Current TV licensed some of his footage and hired him and Epps to make content for the program’s Web site, which proved to be the genesis of the Land of the Homicide project.

"We did a pod, a little five-minute segment for Current TV," Hooker says. "It was called Popped in Oakland. I went around to my friends and was like, tell me how you got shot, and they was showing their wounds. HBO wanted me to extend it, and I was doing that already."

Some of the wounds are pretty grisly. One man pulls up a sleeve to display an arm that got sprayed with an AK. The arm is functional but it looks like a tree root, all twisted and gnarled, a permanent symbol of the gun problem in Oakland — which frequently leads the nation in homicides — not to say the entire country. Hooker himself hasn’t been immune to the violence. He shows me some of his own wounds.

"You got to know how to maneuver around here," he says grimly. "You can get shot just by looking at someone wrong. I got shot five times. Somebody thought I looked at them funny. I didn’t have no money on me or nothing."

RANDOM TARGETS

As Hooker’s own story suggests, Oakland’s gun violence often has a random quality to it. People get shot, sometimes killed, by mistake, in addition to intended victims like Pretty Black. One of the more notorious accidental murders was Jesse "Plan Bee" Hall, founder of the classic 1990s crew Hobo Junction, who was shot in 1992 while sitting next to the intended target. Among the interviewees are Plan Bee’s parents, his sister, and his younger brother, Bobby "Blu-Nose" Hall, as Hooker provides an unflinching look at the family’s devastation and grief. Before the end of the film, however, he winds up returning to the Hall residence as Blu-Nose himself is murdered, seemingly, like his brother, a random target.

"I got a large family. None of my family members have passed away like that," Hooker says. "Except my first cousin — we was real close — and my uncle, [and] two uncles, on my mother’s side. All the rest have been friends, but my friends be like my family."

Ordinarily, Blu-Nose’s death would raise a question like what are the odds of someone speaking on camera about gun violence being killed by gun violence shortly afterward? But this being Oakland, the question is: what are the odds of this occurring three times in quick succession? Because this is exactly what happens with Land of the Homicide, separating it from similarly-themed hood documentaries. Another of the main interviewees, a rapper from the East Oakland’s 70s named Hennessey who had many previous wounds to display, is also murdered. Though I hadn’t heard his music, I’d already begun to hear Hennessey’s name here and there; he’d just signed to Thizz for his first major project shortly before his death, and the contrast between his on-camera gregariousness and the extremely dapper corpse we see at his funeral makes a more emphatic argument against the legality of guns than any commentary could.

Pretty Black is the third victim. Although he didn’t have prior wounds himself, Black bumped into Hooker during the filming and agreed to lend his perspective as someone who knew the street life all too well.

"I was going around getting their opinion about the stuff," Hooker recalls. "Most of them was trying to help people, trying to get their hood right. I don’t know if it was a curse doing the DVD or what, but they all died back to back. It was supposed to be about the lives taken in Oakland, but it turned out to be the people that was interviewed."

I don’t think there’s a word for Hooker’s experience here. Obviously the tragic series of murders gives his DVD an authority and authenticity most documentaries couldn’t buy. But the price is not something he would have willingly paid.

"Land of the Homicide, that’s based on really good friends," he said. "DVDs, those don’t matter when it’s someone you know."

From Cleveland with love

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 27, 2010

2

johnny@sfbg.com

MUSIC Baby Dee is not your generic person in a band, with dull quotes about the process of recording an album. Baby Dee has something to say, and she says it with light power, ever so occasionally punctuating a comment with a machine-gun laugh that’s love-at-first-hearing. Some would say Baby Dee’s music is more of an acquired taste, but the new A Book of Songs for Anne Marie (Drag City) strips her musicality down to its essence, and the result, while owing a generative debt to German Lieder, is crystalline in a manner that trumps more affectation-laden contemporaries like Joanna Newsom and the musician most often compared to Dee, her friend Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons. Mabel Mercer comes to mind. On the eve of Dee’s SF visit, I got her on the horn, and the result was good enough that I didn’t want to write or talk around it. So here it is — 100-proof Baby Dee.

On the use of the Baby Dee song “Cavalry” in Joao Pedro Rodrigues’ movie To Die Like A Man: “He told me [it was the heart of the film] when I met him and I thought he was just blowing smoke up my ass. But so many reviews have said that he lavished all his gifts on that one scene.

How truly wonderful. Most people get a song in a movie and just an inconsequential fragment is playing in the background, but here the whole movie stops and everyone listens to the song — you can’t ask for more than that.

On her hometown: “I love Cleveland. It took me a long time to love Cleveland. I hated it all the time growing up. I left when I was 18 years old like a bullet out of a gun and never went back for more than a day at a time for almost 30 years.

The house I actually live in now, my recurring nightmare was to walk into the front door of that house. That was my end-of-the-world dream, instead of a holocaust or a great tsunami.

About ten years ago I went back there and ended up staying because my parents were in such bad shape. I was just experimenting with good behavior. [Laughs]

When they died I was stuck there, I’d lost my apartment in New York. I quit music and had a tree business. Then I woke up one morning and realized that I liked Cleveland. But it took me a lifetime. I’ve loved it ever since.

I never really toured the states, I’d toured Europe, and seeing what the rest of America is like made me love Cleveland. In Cleveland there is zero attitude at all. Nobody is cool in Cleveland, and if they are, it sure as hell isn’t because they live in Cleveland. The cool cities in America are New York, New Orleans — or what’s left of it — and San Francisco. In it’s own crazy way Vegas is cool. And maybe Niagara Falls.

New York is the city that never sleeps. I used to call Cleveland the city that shits the bed.”

On Marc Almond: “I adore, I worship Marc Almond. He’s one of the greatest people in the world in addition to being a great singer. People tend to think he’s a sweetheart, but in his case it’s absolutely true — he’s as good as gold. And we’ve got history — I gave him reasons to not be as good as gold to me. [Laughs] He’s just a prince.”

On German Lieder and classical music: “It had its influence on me, but in strange ways. When I grew up, I would leave the room when people would play Schubert. I couldn’t take it. It was an irrational hatred, and I haven’t had many musical ones. But there was history there — we took piano lessons, and my father had sort of been cast [by life] in the role of the Erl King with the dying child. Ooo, oogedy-boogedy, don’t go there! That kind of thing. We had to play some simple child’s version of Schubert’s Der Erlkönig, and my father was really into it without even having self-awareness why. He’d say “Play that one again” over and over, not even realizing it was about the death of his own soul. Hideous.

I was more at home with really, really old music. As a matter of fact I avoided the entire 19th century. It isn’t that there wasn’t beautiful music — Chopin, Beethoven — but I avoided the whole thing. I discovered Bach and went backwards from there. I was fascinated by Gregorian music and I finally got as a far as the Renaissance and became obsessed with [Giovanni Pieruigi da Palestrina] and the Spanish composer [Juan Evo] Morales [Ayma] and [Tomas Luis de] Victoria.”

On Joey Arias: “It’s not like Joey Arias is underrated. He might be the most beloved living drag singer. But he’s sort of ghettoized, very unfairly. I think he’s one of the greatest vocalists alive. If you’ve ever heard Joey get serious, there’s no greater heartbreaker.”

On her relation to the New York club scene: “The whole time cool things were happening in New York, I was in some dusty old piano loft in the South Bronx playing Palestrina on an organ.”

On her drink of choice: “It depends on when and where. If it’s before dinner, J&B Scotch on the rocks. If it’s after, it would definitely be Armagnac.”

BABY DEE

With Karl Blau, Jeffery Manson

Fri/30, 9 p.m., $12

Amnesia

853 Valencia, SF

(415) 970-0012

www.amnesiathebar.com

Film listings

David Talbot

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April 27, 2010

0

Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Michelle Devereaux, Max Goldberg, Dennis Harvey, Johnny Ray Huston, Erik Morse, Louis Peitzman, Lynn Rapoport, Ben Richardson, and Matt Sussman. The film intern is Peter Galvin. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. For first-run showtimes, see Movie Guide.

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL

The 53rd San Francisco International Film Festival runs through May 6 at Sundance Kabuki Cinemas, 1881 Post, SF; Clay Theatre, 2261 Fillmore, SF; Castro Theatre, 429 Castro, SF; and the Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, SF. Tickets (most shows $12.50) are available by calling (925) 866-9559 or by visiting www.sffs.org. All times p.m. unless otherwise noted.

WED/28

Kabuki Yellow Sheep River 12:30. Work in Progress: Joann Sfar Draws From Memory 1:30. Morning 1:45. Gainsbourg (Je T’Aime … Moi Non Plus) 3. Russian Lessons 3:15. You Think You’re the Prettiest, But You Are the Sluttiest 4:30. Nymph 4:45. Father of My Children 6. Way of Nature 6:30. "Founder’s Directing Award: Walter Salles: In Search of On the Road (A Work in Progress)" 6:45. Cairo Time 7. The Oath 9. Cold Weather 9:15. Soul Kitchen 9:30. Domain 9:30.

PFA Around a Small Mountain 6:30. Susa 8:20.

THURS/29

Kabuki Russian Lessons 12:30. Colony 1:30. My Queen Karo 1:45. "Master Class: Walter Salles" 2:30. "Pirate Utopias" (shorts program) 3:15. Cargo 3:30. Yellow Sheep River 3:45. Linha de Passe 4:15. Pianomania 6. Everyone Else 6:15. Wild Grass 6:45. Cairo Time 7. Rejoice and Shout 9. Shirley Adams 9:15. White Material 9:30. The Famous and the Dead 9:45.

PFA Senso 6:30. Woman on Fire Looks for Water 8:50.

FRI/30

Castro "Peter J. Owens Award: Robert Duvall: Get Low" 7:30.

Clay Animal Heart 4. Father of My Children 6:30. Northless 9:30.

Kabuki Vengeance 12:45. Nenette 1:45. Life 2.0 3. Gainsbourg (Je T’Aime … Moi Non Plus) 3:15. Restrepo 3:45. Night Catches Us 4:15. Winter’s Bone 6. Susa 6:30. Mugabe and the White African 6:45. Shirley Adams 7. Ordinary People 9. Air Doll 9:15. The Invention of Dr. Nakamats 9:30. Wake in Fright (Outback) 9:45.

PFA Linha de Passe 6:30. Tehroun 9:15.

SAT/1

Castro The Music Room 2:30. "Mel Novikoff Award: An Evening with Roger Ebert: Julia" 5:30. All About Evil 10:45.

Clay Susa 3:15. The Oath 6. To Die Like a Man 9.

Kabuki The Peddler 12:30. "Kanbar Award: James Schamus: Ride With the Devil (Director’s Cut)" 1. La Pivellina 1:15. 14-18: The Noise and the Fury 2. Littlerock 3:30. The Portuguese Nun 4. Nenette 5. Russian Lessons 6:15. Happythankyoumoreplease 6:30. The Famous and the Dead 6:45. Colony 7. Empire of Silver 9. "Pirate Utopias" (shorts program) 9:15. Alamar 9:30. Simonal: No One Knows How Tough It Was 9:45.

PFA Constantin and Elena 2. Marwencol 4:10. Son of Babylon 6:30. My Dog Tulip 8:50.

SUN/2

Castro Senso 12:30. I Am Love 3:30. Bodyguards and Assassins 6:45. The Loved Ones 10:30.

Clay A Brand New Life 12:15. La Pivellina 3. Wake in Fright (Outback) 6. Animal Heart 9:15.

Kabuki "Member Screening" 10am. Life 2.0 1. Pianomania 1:15. Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno 1:45. "Conversation: Logging Off: Is Online Gaming Addictive?" 3. Yellow Sheep River 3:15. Presumed Guilty 3:30. Lourdes 4. My Queen Karo 4:15. Air Doll 6. Alamar 6:15. Seducing Charlie Barker 6:30. Marwencol 6:45. The Wind Journeys 8:45. Lebanon 9. Cyrus 9:15. Garbo the Spy 9:30.

PFA Budrus 2. Restrepo 4:15. The Music Room 6:15. Last Train Home 8:30.

MON/3

Clay Woman on Fire Looks for Water 1:45. Tehroun 4:30. The Day God Walked Away 6:45. You Think You’re the Prettiest, But You Are the Sluttiest 9:30.

Kabuki To Die Like a Man 12:15. The Invention of Dr. Nakamats 1:30. The Portuguese Nun 3:15. Mugabe and the White African 3:30. Garbo the Spy 3:45. Colony 4:15. Animal Heart 6. Last Train Home 6:15. Night Catches Us 6:30. The Practice of the Wild 6:45. Winter’s Bone 8:45. Rodrus 9:15. "Porchlight: True Stories from the Frontiers of International Filmmaking" 9:45.

PFA Presumed Guilty 6:30. Ordinary People 8:55.

TUES/4

Castro "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea with Stephin Merritt" 8:30.

Clay Garbo the Spy 3:30. Seducing Charlie Barker 6:45. "Sneak Preview of a New Film by Francois Ozon" 9:30.

Kabuki Simonal: No One Knows How Tough it Was 3:15. Making Plans for Lena 3:45. The Day God Walked Away 4. Marwencol 4:15. To Die Like a Man 6:15. The Peddler 6:30. A Brand New Life 6:45. Tehroun 7. Last Train Home 9. Restrepo 9:30. Cyrus 9:45.

PFA Nenette 6:30. The Wind Journeys 8.

OPENING

*Birdemic: Shock and Terror This underlit, out-of-focus, and erratically-edited film is America’s newest cult obsession, recently booking theaters on the back on some impressive press coverage and a thumbs-up from Adult Swim superstars Tim and Eric. It’s the story of a freak eagle attack on Half Moon Bay, and there’s no pussyfooting around the reality that Birdemic is an amateur work. Searching for whimsy in a poorly-made film can be an infuriating struggle of highs and lows, a pitfall Birdemic avoids by being laughably inept in every frame. Thank goodness that Birdemic is so devoted to its deficiencies, or it might have been disappointing to find that the first half is eagle-free. We awkwardly meet Rod (Alan Bagh), a big-shot salesman with enough cash flow to drive a blue Mustang that "gets a 100 em-pee-gee’s," and Rod awkwardly meets Nathalie (Whitney Moore), a model who loves cats. Naturally, the pair is drawn to each other and falls passionately in love, but their first night together is interrupted by a screaming eagle blitzkrieg. No one actor in Birdemic has the inverse charisma of Tommy Wiseau, director and actor of that 2003’s cult classic The Room, but the CG eagles come close. They look like clip art, hovering in the air accompanied by a grating, looped cawing sound, before divebombing houses and causing them to explode into flames. Are they enraged by global warming? If the terrorizing birds are eagles, are they a metaphor for America? Birdemic poses a number of heavy questions, but the one on the tip of my tongue is whether or not it’s rude to heap praise on the film for being bad. It’s pretty clear that director James Nguyen didn’t set out to make a comedy, but his straight-faced seriousness is much of what makes Birdemic so funny. (1:30) Roxie. (Galvin)

The Cartel Ex-Bloomberg TV anchor Bob Bowdon hosts this documentary about the rampant corruption in America’s school systems. Because Bowdon lives in New Jersey and had little outside funding for the majority of his project, most of the footage distractingly revolves around the corruption in New Jersey schools alone. Set up like a local news segment, Bowdon’s arguments are black and white — school administrations are corrupt, school boards are money-hungry, unions are short-sighted and charter schools and vouchers are the future — and his assertions remain persuasive thanks to layperson explanations of complicated subjects. Balancing the fact-dispensing with emotional interview footage of unhappy teachers and students, The Cartel is a convincing exposé of a nationwide system designed to favor school officials over students. If you don’t have a problem watching what is essentially a 90-minute 20/20 episode, I’d say you might learn something. (1:33) Opera Plaza. (Galvin)

*Dancing Across Borders The transformation of the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s Sokvannara Sar from a gifted 16-year-old performer of traditional Cambodian dance into a promising American ballet dancer is a story of hard work, persistence, and luck. Dancing Across Borders also shows what talent, money and resources can accomplish. In 2000 dance philantropist-filmmaker Anne Bass happened to see young Sy, to use his American name, perform in Angkor Wat. She recognized his gift and brought him to the US where he received an exceedingly rigorous training at the School of American Ballet. The rest is not just history, but a charming film that traces the young dancer’s metamorphosis into a ballet dancer and his gradual acculturation to American life. It’s an astounding transformation — today he barely speaks with an accent in either his kinetic or verbal speech. Still, it’s heartwrenching to see him back home performing for his well-wishing but uncomprehending family and friends. Even under the best of circumstances the prize of emigration is high. While interviews with American teachers, particularly Pacific Northwest’s Peter Boal, excellently illuminate the intricacies of ballet, at times the film becomes bogged down in its efforts to verbally explain what the images make abundantly clear. (1:28) Opera Plaza, Shattuck. (Rita Felciano)

Furry Vengeance Brendan Fraser stars in this live-action comedy about a real estate developer who gets the smackdown from cunning woodland critters. (1:32) Shattuck.

Harry Brown Shades of Dirty Harry (1971) for the tea cozy and tweed set: elegantly rendered and very nicely played, Harry Brown might be the dark, late-in-the-day elder brother to 1971’s Get Carter, in the hands of eponymous lead Michael Caine. He’s a pensioner mourning the passing of his beloved wife, his mysterious life as a Marine stationed in Northern Ireland firmly behind him. Then his chess-playing pal Leonard (David Bradley) is terrorized and killed by the unsavory gang of heroin dealing hoodlums who lurk near their projects in a tunnel walkway like gun-toting, foul-mouthed, sociopathic trolls. Harry Brown is, er, forced to forsake a vow of peace and go commando on the culprits’ asses, triggering some moments of ultraviolence that are unsettling in their whole-hearted embrace of vigilante justice. Like predecessors similarly fixated on vengeance in their respective urban hells, a la Hardcore (1979) and Taxi Driver (1976) (Harry Brown echoes key moments in the latter, in particular — see, for instance, its keenly tense, eerily humorous gun shopping scene), Harry Brown is essentially an arch-conservative film, if good looking and even likable with Caine meting out the punishment. The overall denouement just might make some seniors feel very, very good about the coiled potential for hurt embedded in their aging frames. (1:42) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Chun)

A Nightmare on Elm Street If this remake sucks, all involved better not fall asleep. (1:42)

Touching Home Hometown boys (Logan and Noah Miller) make good in this based-on-a-true-story tale of identical twins who must divide their time at home between training for major league baseball and looking after their alcoholic father. The brothers, who also wrote and directed the film, aim for David Gordon Green by way of Marin, but fall short of mastering that director’s knack for natural dialogue. Ed Harris is, unsurprisingly, compelling as the alcoholic father, but the actors in the film who are not named Ed Harris tend to contribute to the script’s distracting histrionics. Touching Home has some amazing NorCal cinematography, and I could see how family audiences might enjoy its "feel bad, then feel good" style of melodrama. But while it’s awkward to say that someone’s real-life experiences come off as trite, there are moments here that feel as clichéd as a Lifetime movie. (1:48) Embarcadero, Smith Rafael. (Galvin)

ONGOING

Alice in Wonderland Tim Burton’s take on the classic children’s tale met my mediocre expectations exactly, given its months of pre-release hype (in the film world, fashion magazines, and even Sephora, for the love of brightly-colored eyeshadows). Most folks over a certain age will already know the story, and much of the dialogue, before the lights go down and the 3-D glasses go on; it’s up to Burton and his all-star cast (including numerous big-name actors providing voices for animated characters) to make the tale seem newly enthralling. The visuals are nearly as striking as the CG, with Helena Bonham Carter’s big-headed Red Queen a particularly marvelous human-computer creation. But Wonderland suffers from the style-over-substance dilemma that’s plagued Burton before; all that spooky-pretty whimsy can’t disguise the film’s fairly tepid script. Teenage Alice (Mia Wasikowska) displaying girl-power tendencies is a nice, if not surprising, touch, but Johnny Depp’s grating take on the Mad Hatter will please only those who were able to stomach his interpretation of Willy Wonka. (1:48) Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Eddy)

The Back-Up Plan (1:40) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio.

The Bounty Hunter There’s a real feeling of impotence in reviewing a movie whose ad was pasted on the side of the bus you took to the screening. This thing is determined to be seen, and that’s a true shame. Those who heed the call of the ubiquitous marketing campaign will have to sit through a dull parade of contrivances concerning a bounty hunter (Gerard Butler) whose latest catch is his court-skipping ex-wife (Jennifer Aniston). She’s a hotshot city journalist who’s forced to continue her investigation of a police cover-up while handcuffed to a car door and bickering with her old flame. The trajectory of the plot is obvious enough, but there’s so little chemistry between the two actors that the inevitable reconciliation practically constitutes a twist ending. Aniston saw fit not to whine her way through this role, which is something, but nothing nearly as complimentary can be said about Butler. He emotes in lurches, with the presence of a guy who’s not sure acting is the right direction for his life but still really wants to give it a go. If "This. Is. Sparta!" weren’t burned into my brain I would swear the man had never been in front of a camera before. (1:50) SF Center. (Jason Shamai)

*City Island The Rizzo family of City Island, N.Y. — a tiny atoll associated historically with fishing and jurisdictionally with the Bronx — have reached a state where their primary interactions consist of sniping, yelling, and storming out of rooms. These storm clouds operate as cover for the secrets they’re all busy keeping from one another. Correctional officer Vince (Andy Garcia) pretends he’s got frequent poker nights so he can skulk off to his true shameful indulgence: a Manhattan acting class. Perpetually fuming spouse Joyce (Julianna Margulies) assumes he’s having an affair. Daughter Vivian (Dominik García-Lorido) has dropped out of school to work at a strip joint, while the world class-sarcasms of teenager Vinnie (Ezra Miller) deflect attention from his own hidden life as an aspiring chubby chaser. All this (plus everyone’s sneaky cigarette habit) is nothing, however, compared to Vince’s really big secret: he conceived and abandoned a "love child" before marrying, and said guilty issue has just turned up as a 24-year-old car thief on his cell block. Writer-director Raymond De Felitta made a couple other features in the last 15 years, none widely seen; if this latest is typical, we need more of him, more often. Perfectly cast, City Island is farcical without being cartoonish, howl-inducing without lowering your brain-cell count. It’s arguably a better, less self-conscious slice of dysfunctional family absurdism than Little Miss Sunshine (2006) — complete with an Alan Arkin more inspired in his one big scene here than in all of that film’s Oscar-winning performance. (1:40) Lumiere, Piedmont, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Clash of the Titans The minds behind Clash of the Titans decided their movie should be 3D at the last possible moment before release. Consequently, the 3D is pretty janky. I don’t know what the rest of the film’s excuse is. Clash of the Titans retreads the 1981 cult classic with reasonable faithfulness, though Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion effects have been (of course) replaced with CG renderings of all the expected monsters, magic, gods, etc. Liam Neeson and Ralph Fiennes — as other reviews have pointed out: Schindler’s List (1993) reunion! — glow and glower as Zeus and Hades, while Sam Worthington (2009’s Avatar) once again fills the role of bland hero, this time as a snooze-worthy Perseus. You might have fun in the moment with Clash of the Titans, but it’s hardly memorable, and certainly nowhere near epic. (1:58) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Eddy)

Date Night By today’s comedy standards, Date Night is positively old-fashioned: a case of mistaken identity causes a struggling married couple (Steve Carell and Tina Fey) to be tangled in a ransom plot for a stolen flash drive that belongs to a local mob boss. Unfussy plots are par for the course for films belonging to the all-but-lost "madcap all-nighter" genre, and in this case the simplicity of the set-up becomes Date Night‘s greatest asset, allowing Carell and Fey free reign to joke and ad lib lines. Like it or loathe it, the pair’s trademark senses of humor are the movie, and they arrange some pretty gleefully entertaining bits on the fly. Toss in a bunch of cameos from the likes of Ray Liotta and Mark Wahlberg and you’ve got yourself a bona fide movie-film, but it’s difficult not to see what Date Night might have been with just a smidge more effort. (1:27) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio. (Galvin)

Death at a Funeral Less than three years since its stateside premiere, indie Brit hit Death at a Funeral (2007) arrives as a surprising choice for a mainstream American makeover. In both versions the death of a family patriarch brings family from far and wide to a wake, where the eldest son struggles to keep things together amidst the strains of blackmail and a rogue bottle of hallucinogenic pills. But, by replacing all those stuffy British actors with the likes of Chris Rock, Martin Lawrence, and Tracy Morgan, director Neil LaBute succeeds in creating a completely different tone for what is mostly a shot-for-shot reconstruction of the original script. The impossibly quick-moving plot is organized with a deftness that reflects LaBute’s dual career as a playwright, keeping the film even-tempered during screwball moments like Tracy Morgan getting covered in Danny Glover’s doo-doo. (1:33) 1000 Van Ness. (Galvin)

*Exit Through the Gift Shop Exit Through the Gift Shop is not a film about the elusive graffiti-cum-conceptual artist and merry prankster known as Banksy, even though he takes up a good chunk of this sly and by-no-means impartial documentary and is listed as its director. Rather, as he informs us — voice electronically altered, face hidden in shadow — in the film’s opening minutes, the film’s real subject is one Thierry Guetta, a French expat living in LA whose hangdog eyes, squat stature, and propensity for mutton chops and polyester could pass him off as Ron Jeremy’s long lost twin. Unlike Jeremy, Guetta is not blessed with any prodigious natural talent to propel him to stardom, save for a compulsion to videotape every waking minute of his life (roughly 80 percent of the footage in Exit is Guetta’s) and a knack for being in the right place at the right time. When Guetta is introduced by his tagger cousin to a pre-Obamatized Shepard Fairey in 2007, he realizes his true calling: to make a documentary about the street art scene that was then only starting to get mainstream attention. Enter Banksy, who, at first, is Guetta’s ultimate quarry. Eventually, the two become chummy, with Guetta acting as lookout and documenter for the artist just as the art market starts clambering for its piece of, "the Scarlet Pimpernel of street art," as one headline dubs him. When, at about three quarters of the way in, Guetta, following Banksy’s casual suggestion, drops his camcorder and tries his hand at making street art, Exit becomes a very different beast. Guetta’s flashy debut as Mr. Brainwash is as obscenely successful as his "art" is terribly unimaginative — much to the chagrin of his former documentary subjects. But Guetta is no Eve Harrington and Banksy, who has the last laugh here, gives him plenty of rope with which to truss himself. Is Mr. Brainwash really the ridiculous and inevitable terminus of street art’s runaway mainstream success (which, it must be said, Banksy has handsomely profited from)? That question begs another: with friends like Banksy, who needs enemies? (1:27) Embarcadero, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Sussman)

*The Ghost Writer Roman Polanski’s never-ending legal woes have inspired endless debates on the interwebs and elsewhere; they also can’t help but add subtext to the 76-year-old’s new film, which is chock full o’ anti-American vibes anyway. It’s also a pretty nifty political thriller about a disgraced former British Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan) who’s hanging out in his Martha’s Vineyard mansion with his whip-smart, bitter wife (Olivia Williams) and Joan Holloway-as-ice-queen assistant (Kim Cattrall), plus an eager young biographer (Ewan McGregor) recently hired to ghost-write his memoirs. But as the writer quickly discovers, the politician’s past contains the kinds of secrets that cause strange cars with tinted windows to appear in one’s rearview mirror when driving along deserted country roads. Polanski’s long been an expert when it comes to escalating tension onscreen; he’s also so good at adding offbeat moments that only seem tossed-off (as when the PM’s groundskeeper attempts to rake leaves amid relentless sea breezes) and making the utmost of his top-notch actors (Tom Wilkinson and Eli Wallach have small, memorable roles). Though I found The Ghost Writer‘s ZOMG! third-act revelation to be a bit corny, I still didn’t think it detracted from the finely crafted film that led up to it. (1:49) Four Star, Lumiere, Piedmont, Presidio, Shattuck. (Eddy)

*The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo By the time the first of Stieg Larsson’s so-called "Millennium" books had been published anywhere, the series already had an unhappy ending: he died (in 2004). The following year, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo became a Swedish, then eventually international sensation, its sequels following suit. The books are addicting, to say the least; despite their essential crime-mystery-thriller nature, they don’t require putting your ear for writing of some literary value on sleep mode. Now the first of three adaptive features shot back-to-back has reached U.S. screens. (Sorry to say, yes, a Hollywood remake is already in the works — but let’s hope that’s years away.) Even at two-and-a-half hours, this Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by necessity must do some major truncating to pack in the essentials of a very long, very plotty novel. Still, all but the nitpickingest fans will be fairly satisfied, while virgins will have the benefit of not knowing what’s going to happen and getting scared accordingly. Soon facing jail after losing a libel suit brought against him by a shady corporate tycoon, leftie journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist) gets a curious private offer to probe the disappearance 40 years earlier of a teenage girl. This entangles him with an eccentric wealthy family and their many closet skeletons (including Nazi sympathies) — as well as dragon-tattooed Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace), androgynous loner, 24-year-old court ward, investigative researcher, and skillful hacker. Director Niels Arden Oplev and his scenarists do a workmanlike job — one more organizational than interpretive, a faithful transcription without much style or personality all its own. Nonetheless, Larsson’s narrative engine kicks in early and hauls you right along to the depot. (2:32) Albany, Embarcadero, Piedmont, Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

The Greatest Lofty title aside, there’s nothing particularly extraordinary about The Greatest. In many ways, it’s your standard grief porn, in that it focuses on a group of characters mourning a dead teenager for an hour and a half. On the other hand, the cast is tremendous — Susan Sarandon and Pierce Brosnan are solid as the parents of the broken Brewer family, but the young actors give the most memorable performances. Fresh off her Oscar nomination for An Education (2009), Carey Mulligan continues to mingle precociousness and naiveté. The Greatest also showcases the very talented Johnny Simmons, whose past films — Hotel for Dogs (2009) and Jennifer’s Body (2009) — haven’t exactly earned him exposure. For its genre, then, The Greatest is actually quite good. It has plenty of charm mixed with moments of genuine emotion, often marked by much welcome restraint. But even with a slight twist on the convention (Mulligan’s Rose is pregnant with the dead kid’s baby), it’s still just a well-made tearjerker. (1:36) Smith Rafael. (Peitzman)

Greenberg Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) is 40, and you might think he’s going through a midlife crisis — if he hadn’t been in pretty much this same crisis for 15 years or more. Still very edgy and fragile after a nervous breakdown-sparked institutional stay, he’s holing up at the comfortable Hollywood home of a big-deal brother while the latter and family are on vacation in Vietnam. (The implication being that Roger is most welcome here when no one else actually has to endure his prickly, high maintenance company.) While in residence he reconnects with old friends including the ex-girlfriend (Jennifer Jason Leigh) he dumped yet never quite got over — though clearly she did — and the ex-bandmate (Rhys Ifans) he burned by wrecking their one shot at a major-label deal. He also gets involved, kinda-sorta, with big bro’s personal assistant Florence (mumblecore regular Greta Gerwig), whose passivity and low self-esteem make her the rare person who might consider a relationship with someone this impossible. Like all Noah Baumbach films, especially the slightly overrated Squid and the Whale (2005) and vastly underrated Margot at the Wedding (2007), his latest pivots around a pathologically self-absorbed and insensitive protagonist who exasperates anyone unlucky or blind enough to fall into his or her orbit. Working from a story co-conceived by spouse Leigh, Baumbach’s script sports his usual sharp dialogue, penetrating individual scenes, and narrative surprises. But it also gets stuck in dislikable Roger’s rut, finding conflict easily but stubbornly resisting even the smallest useful change. For all its amusing and uncomfortable moments, Greenberg emerges a dual character slice with no real point. Neither Roger or Beth reward long scrutiny (least of all as a hapless potential couple), while the few screen minutes Ifans and Leigh get make you wish their roles had hijacked the focus instead. (1:40) Four Star, Presidio, SF Center. (Harvey)

*Hot Tub Time Machine How can you hate a movie called Hot Tub Time Machine? Even those who pooh-pooh poop jokes have to admire a movie so unapologetically upfront about its ludicrous storyline. A group of friends who’ve drifted apart (Rob Corddry plays the maybe-suicidal asshole; Craig Robinson, the emasculated never-did-nothing; John Cusack, the recently-dumped workaholic) reunite for a ski weekend at the resort that hosted the most debaucherous party of their youth. Along for the ride, which soon includes a trip back to 1986 courtesy of you-know-which device, is Cusack’s character’s internet-obsessed nephew (Clark Duke), whose terror over leaving the plugged-in 21st century is soon superceded by his realization that any disruption of the past will likely erase his very existence. Hot Tub Time Machine‘s 80s nostalgia (Chevy Chase cameo!) enfolds an homage to the Back to the Future films (Crispin Glover cameo!), as well as Cusack’s early career (see: immortal 1985 ski-slope classic Better Off Dead), but it’s very much a movie of our times. See it now while the Twitter and Tiger jokes are still timely, and before the next R-rated comedy comes along to up the ante on dick jokes. (1:55) Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio. (Eddy)

How to Train Your Dragon (1:38) 1000 Van Ness.

*The Joneses David Duchovny has been enjoying a nice career renaissance since designing his embarrassing-old-guy shtick for Californication, and the shtick continues to deliver in The Joneses. Duchovny plays the father of a family of four who move into a well-off suburban neighborhood and set about inserting themselves in every marketable aspect of the town’s culture. I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by telling you that the family is not really a family at all, even if The Joneses does play the dynamic as a mystery for a good 20 minutes. In fact, the four are un-related members of a stealth marketing firm hired to sell products by living a desirable lifestyle. Trouble inevitably arises when the line blurs between the lie they’ve created and who they really are. It’s about as predictable and simple-minded as it sounds but The Joneses is endearing anyway, thanks to a few solid laughs and the believable will-they-or-won’t-they between Duchovny and pretend-wife Demi Moore. (1:33) Empire, SF Center, Shattuck. (Galvin)

*Kick-Ass Based on a comic book series by Mark Millar, whose work was also the model for 2008’s Wanted, Kick Ass is a similarly over-the-top action flick that plays up its absurdity to even greater comedic effect. High school nerd Dave (Aaron Johnson) decides to become the world’s first real superhero. Donning a green wetsuit he bought on the internet and mustering some unlikely courage, he takes to the streets to avenge wrongdoing. Unsurprisingly, Dave is immediately beaten almost to death because he’s just a kid who has no idea what he’s doing, but Kick-Ass‘ greatest achievement is knowing exactly how to subvert audience expectations. Scenes that marry the film’s innocent story with enormously exaggerated violence enhance the otherwise Superbad-lite high-school comedy unfolding around them, and a parallel plot-line involving Nicolas Cage instructing his 12-year-old daughter to commit grievous murders will probably end up being the most gratifying aspect of the film. Though too much set-up and spinning gears mars the middle act, it’s hard to fault the film for competently setting up one of the most crowd-pleasing endings in recent memory. (1:58) California, Empire, Marina, 1000 Van Ness. (Galvin)

The Losers If films like The Dark Knight (2008) and Watchmen (2009) elevated the comic book movie to a more evolved state, The Losers regresses back to the dark ages. Not every flick has to be high art — that’s why we have words like "flick" — but this isn’t even enjoyably over-the-top. The Losers is gleefully stupid, and no amount of explosions or eye-gougings can distract from that. Watchmen‘s Jeffrey Dean Morgan plays Clay, the leader of an elite Special Forces team that finds itself framed for murdering a bunch of Bolivian children. Clay’s team, with the assistance of Zoe Saldana’s Aisha, go after the real culprit — a supervillain by the name of Max. Not feeling threatened yet? Wait till you find out he’s played by Jason Patric. His evil shtick is mildly amusing but impossible to take seriously: there’s never any real threat. And so we follow the bouncing boobs and bombs toward an absurd and shrug-worthy conclusion. Or we roll our eyes and wait for a movie that’s stupid and loud — but good. (1:38) California, 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Peitzman)

*Mid-August Lunch Gianni Di Gregorio’s loose, engaging comedy is about an aging bachelor still living with his ancient mum in their Rome flat. When his landlord offers to forgive some debts in return for briefly taking in his own elderly ma, Gianni (played by the director himself) soon finds himself in cat-herding charge of no less than five old ladies who delight in one another’s company while running him ragged. Gomorrah (2008) screenwriter Di Gregorio used nonprofessionals to play those parts in this semi improvised miniature, which is as light and flavorful as a first course of prosciutto and mozzarella. It’s a solid addition to the canon of palate-pleasing culinary flicks such as Big Night (1996) and Babette’s Feast (1987), as opposed to the repulsive ones like Super Size Me (2004) or Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life (1983). (1:15) Bridge, Shattuck. (Harvey)

La Mission A veteran S.F. vato turned responsible — if still muy macho — widower, father, and Muni driver, fortysomething Che (Benjamin Bratt) isn’t the type for mushy displays of sentiment. But it’s clear his pride and joy is son Jess (Jeremy Ray Valdez), a straight-A high school grad bound for UCLA. That filial bond, however, sustains some serious damage when Che discovers Jes has a secret life — with a boyfriend, in the Castro, just a few blocks away from their Mission walkup but might as well be light-years away as far as old-school dad is concerned. This Bratt family project (Benjamin’s brother Peter writes-directs, his wife Talisa Soto Bratt has a supporting role) has a bit of a predictable TV-movie feel, but its warm heart is very much in the right place. (1:57) Empire, Opera Plaza, Marina, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Oceans Dried-out, just-the-facts types who like to wallow in verbiage can stay home — Oceans instead welcomes children, poetic-minded nature fiends, and opera lovers eager for sea spray and giant morays. In fact co-director Jacques Perrin considers Oceans — the second film from Disneynature, which produced 2007’s Earth — a "wildlife opera," and Perrin and co-director Jacques Cluzaud cram their marine fantasia with so many remarkable images you can’t believe they got what they did without the help of computer animation: hundreds of dolphins race through South African waters to trap a so-called bait ball of herring, while jillions of sea birds dive into the action, alongside sharks and whales — a sequence that genuinely boggles the imagination. There’s the effortless wit of a marine iguana crawling the Galapagos shore and the surreal mien of the pudding-profiled Asian sheepshead wrasse. A mother walrus cradles her cub in a heart-tugging embrace that would bring tears to Walt’s eyes. The images stream on — sans much obvious structure, explication, or preaching, though the directors obviously hope to plant the seed of activism in viewers’ minds. In the meantime, one simply marvels at the animals the filmmakers and their crew glimpsed over the course of a four-year shoot, which took them on 75 excursions, tipped by fishermen, environmentalists, divers, marine biologists, and other humanoids who love or rely on the sea. (1:40) 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck. (Chun)

The Runaways In Floria Sigismondi’s tale of the rise and fall of a 1970s all-girl band, LA producer Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon) proclaims that the Runaways are going to save rock and roll. It’s hard to gauge the sincerity of this pronouncement, but you can certainly hear, in songs like "Cherry Bomb" and "Queens of Noise," how the band must have brightened a landscape overrun by kings of prog rock. Unfortunately, a handful of teenagers micromanaged by a sleazy, abusive nutcase proved not quite up to the task, though the band did launch the careers of metal guitarist Lita Ford (Scout Taylor-Compton) and, more famously, Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart). Sigismondi’s film entertainingly sketches the Runaways’ beginnings in glam rock fandom and gradual attainment of their own rabid fan base. We get Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning) lip-synching Bowie to catcalls at the high school assembly, Jett composing "Cherry Bomb" with Fowley, glamtastic hair-and-wardrobe eye candy, pills-and-Stooges-fueled intra-band fooling around, and five teenage girls sent off sans chaperone on an international tour with substantial quantities of hard drugs in their carry-on luggage. What follows is less pretty: a capsule version of the band’s disintegration after the departure of bottoming-out 16-year-old lead singer Currie. In a film darkened by Currie’s trajectory, Jett’s subsequent success is a feel-good coda, but it’s awkwardly attached and emblematizes one of The Runaways‘ main problems. When the band begins to fall apart, the film doesn’t know which way to turn and ends up telling no one’s story well. (1:42) 1000 Van Ness. (Rapoport)

The Secret in Their Eyes (2:07) Albany, Embarcadero.

The Square Sydney suburbanites Ray (David Roberts) and Carla (Claire van der Boom) are having a torrid affair while still mired in separate, stale, childless marriages. Upon discovering her husband Billy (Joel Edgerton) has hidden away a small fortune in presumably stolen cash — he keeps some pretty suspicious company — the lovers decide to nick it in order to run away and start anew. Stuntman-turned-director Nash Edgerton’s film, written by his brother Joel, follows that classic noir formula in which essentially good people try to do something mildly bad, which plan of course goes horribly wrong. Things then get wronger and wronger as bodies pile skyward under the hot (this being Australia) Yuletide sun.
Cleverly conceived, smartly acted and directed, The Square is a very plotty neonoir whose combination of the everyday and macabre suggests more than a little Coen Brothers influence. Its only problem is that we ultimately don’t care so much — all the ironic twists of fate befall characters who never quite transcend being narrative pawns. Unlike the Coens, the Edgertons aren’t yet comfortable letting style trump the substance they lack. So their movie ends up being both admirably precise and more easily shaken off than it should be. (1:41) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Vincere Given the talent involved, Vincere should be a better film that it is. Director Marco Bellocchio has a lengthy track record of successes, and star Giovanna Mezzogiorno is one of the biggest names in contemporary Italian cinema. The based-on-a-true-story plot is certainly worthy of being filmed: Mezzogiorno plays Ida Dalser, secret wife of Mussolini and mother of the dictator’s first-born son. When Ida begins to make trouble for Il Duce by publicly proclaiming their marriage, she is locked away in a mental hospital. But while Vincere‘s subject is compelling, the film as a whole falls flat. Moments of greatness are few and far between, and the rest of the movie gets by on mediocrity. It’s likely the fault lies with the script, which is too scattered and unfocused to maintain an audience’s focus. Why after almost two hours of watching Ida’s struggle are we suddenly left with her son’s descent into madness? How depressing that a film about a woman forgotten by history is, itself, mostly forgettable. (2:02) Opera Plaza, Smith Rafael. (Peitzman)

Music listings

David Talbot

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April 27, 2010

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Music listings are compiled by Paula Connelly and Cheryl Eddy. Since club life is unpredictable, it’s a good idea to call ahead to confirm bookings and hours. Prices are listed when provided to us. Submit items at listings@sfbg.com.

WEDNESDAY 28

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

*Aesop, Venture Capitalists, New Humans Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.

Fix My Head, This Runs on Blood, Useless Children, Gain to Lose Sub-Mission, 2183 Mission, SF; www.sf-submission.com. 9pm, $6.

*"Full Pink Moon Party" Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $10. With Sonya Cotton, Honeycomb, Jascha vs. Jascha, and Kris Gruen.

Japanther, Reaction, Dirty Marquee, Street Eaters Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $8.

Pomegranate, Fall Risk, Control-R Hotel Utah. 8:30pm, $6.

Chad Price, Michael Dean Damron, Micah Schabnel, Piss Pissdofferson Thee Parkside. 8:30pm, $5.

Stymie and the Pimp Jones Luv Orchestra, Funk Revival Orchestra Café du Nord. 9pm, $10.

Volker Strifler Band Biscuits and Blues. 8pm, $15.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Anoushka Shankar Palace of Fine Arts Theater, 3301 Lyon, SF; (415) 563-6504. 8pm, $25-$65.

DANCE CLUBS

Booty Call Q-Bar, 456 Castro, SF; www.bootycallwednesdays.com. 9pm. Juanita Moore hosts this dance party, featuring DJ Robot Hustle.

Club Shutter Elbo Room. 10pm, $5. Goth with DJs Omar, Nako, and Justin.

Hands Down! Bar on Church. 9pm, free. With DJs Claksaarb, Mykill, and guests spinning indie, electro, house, and bangers.

Machine Sloane, 1525 Mission, SF; (415) 621-7007. 10pm, free. Warm beats for happy feet with DJs Sergio, Conor, and André Lucero.

Mary-Go-Round Lookout, 3600 16th St, SF; (415) 431-0306. 10pm, $5. A weekly drag show with hosts Cookie Dough, Pollo Del Mar, and Suppositori Spelling.

RedWine Social Dalva. 9pm-2am, free. DJ TophOne and guests spin outernational funk and get drunk.

Respect Wednesdays End Up. 10pm, $5. Rotating DJs Daddy Rolo, Young Fyah, Irie Dole, I-Vier, Sake One, Serg, and more spinning reggae, dancehall, roots, lovers rock, and mash ups.

Synchronize Il Pirata, 2007 16th St, SF; (415) 626-2626. 10pm, free. Psychedelic dance music with DJs Helios, Gatto Matto, Psy Lotus, Intergalactoid, and guests.

Telephoned Harlot, 46 Minna, SF; www.harlotsf.com. 7pm. Mash-ups with DJ Sammy Bananas and singer Maggie Horn.

Yoruba Dance Sessions Bacano! Som., 2925 16th St, SF; (415) 558-8521. 9pm, free. With resident DJ Carlos Mena and guests spinning afro-deep-global-soulful-broken-techhouse.

THURSDAY 29

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Aquaserge, Casper and the Cookies, Grand Lake Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $10.

Arcadio, Guns for San Sebastian, Charles Gonzalez Café du Nord. 9pm, $10.

C-Mon and Kypski, Frequency, Sweet Snacks, DJ Mancub Independent. 9pm, $12.

A Day to Remember, August Burns Red, Silverstein, Enter Shikari, Go Radio Regency Ballroom. 6:45pm, $23.

Dunes El Rio. 8pm, $5.

Shane Dwight Biscuits and Blues. 8pm, $20.

Flood, Hashishian, Days of High Adventure Knockout. 10pm, $6.

49 Special, Big Nasty, TV Mike and the Scarecrowes Hotel Utah. 9pm, $7.

Emily McLean, Quinn DeVeaux, Street Sirens Red Devil Lounge. 8pm, $8.

Murs, Sick Jacken Fillmore. 8pm, $20.

Photo Atlas, Moog, Smile Radio Thee Parkside. 9pm, $8.

Spill Canvas, Tyler Hilton, AM Taxi, New Politics Slim’s. 7:30pm, $16.

Sugar and Gold, Nite Jewel, Baron Von Luxxury, DJ Loose Shus Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.

Sugar Butt Tiger, Bare Wires, Girl Band, MC Meathook and the Vital Organs, SF Rockstar Paradise Lounge. 9pm, $7. Proceeds benefit the Haight-Ashbury Street Fair.

Emily Jane White, Helene Renault, Chloe Makes Music Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $7.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Bluegrass and old-time jam Atlas Café. 8pm, free.

Jordan Carp Bollyhood Café. 8pm, free.

Jon Rubin with Cal Keaoola Bliss Bar, 4026 24th St., SF; (415) 826-6200. 8pm, free.

DANCE CLUBS

Afrolicious Elbo Room. 9:30pm, $8-10. DJs Pleasuremaker and Señor Oz mark their night’s third anniversary with a live performance by Aphrodesia.

Caribbean Connection Little Baobab, 3388 19th St, SF; (415) 643-3558. 10pm, $3. DJ Stevie B and guests spin reggae, soca, zouk, reggaetón, and more.

Drop the Pressure Underground SF. 6-10pm, free. Electro, house, and datafunk highlight this weekly happy hour.

Good Foot Yoruba Dance Sessions Bacano! Som., 2925 16th St, SF; (415) 558-8521. 9pm, free. A James Brown tribute with resident DJs Haylow, A-Ron, and Prince Aries spinning R&B, Hip hop, funk, and soul.

Koko Puffs Koko Cocktails, 1060 Geary, SF; (415) 885-4788. 10pm, free. Dubby roots reggae and Jamaican funk from rotating DJs.

Mestiza Bollywood Café, 3376 19th St, SF; (415) 970-0362. 10pm, free. Showcasing progressive Latin and global beats with DJ Juan Data.

Peaches Skylark, 10pm, free. With an all female DJ line up featuring Deeandroid, Lady Fingaz, That Girl, and Umami spinning hip hop.

Popscene 330 Rich. 10pm, $10. Rotating DJs spinning indie, Britpop, electro, new wave, and post-punk.

FRIDAY 30

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Aunt Kizzy’z Boyz Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $20.

David Baron, Dan Vickrey, Blackstone Heist, American Studies Hotel Utah. 9pm, $10.

Clipd Beaks, Sightings, Bill Orcutt Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $7.

Flexx Bronco, My Revolver, Bourbon Saints, Electric Sister Thee Parkside. 9pm, $6.

JFP, Cnote, Mack Misstress El Rio. 10pm, $5.

Kapakahi, Dogman Joe, Stranger Café du Nord. 9:30pm, $12.

Lemonade, Solid Gold, Active Child, DJ Aaron Axelsen Rickshaw Stop. 9pm, $10.

Lord T. and Eloise, Tenderloins, Hottub DJ Set Independent. 9pm, $14.

Ponys, Disappears, Spencey Dude and the Doodles Bottom of the Hill. 10pm, $12.

Rogue Wave, Man/Miracle Fillmore. 9pm, $19.50.

Joe Rut Great American Music Hall. 9pm, $14. With comedian Will Franken.

Shpongle, ADHK, Hallucinogen LIVE Regency Ballroom. 9pm, $30.

Shayna Steele Coda. 10pm, $10.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Audium 9 1616 Bush, SF; (415) 771-1616. 8:30pm, $15.

Black Market Jazz Orchestra Top of the Mark. 9pm, $10.

Chano Dominguez Flamenco Jazz Quartet featuring Tomasito Palace of Fine Arts Theare, 3301 Lyon, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 8pm, $25-60.

Dan Zemelmen Quartet with Kenny Washington Red Poppy Art House. 8pm, $12-15.

Eric Kurtzrock Trio Ana Mandara, Ghirardelli Square, 891 Beach, SF; (415) 771-6800. 8pm, free.

Fred Frith and Theresa Wong Meridian Gallery, 535 Powell, SF; www.meridiangallery.org. 8pm, $10.

Kenny Lattimore Yoshi’s San Francisco. 8 and 10pm, $38.

"A Night at Birdland" Deco Lounge, 510 Larkin, SF; (415) 346-2025. 9pm. With the MegaFlame Blue Band.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Eek-a-mouse Rock-it Room. 10pm, $22. With the Holdup and DJ Mr. E.

Lava, Mestizo, Carmen Milagro Slim’s. 8pm, $16.

Melees Socha Café, 3235 Mission, SF; (415) 643-6848. 8:30pm, free.

Stairwell Sisters Revolution Café, 3248 22nd St, SF; (415) 642-0474. 8:45pm, free.

DANCE CLUBS

Activate! Lookout, 3600 16th St, SF; (415) 431-0306. 9pm, $3. Face your demigods and demons at this Red Bull-fueled party.

Afrolicious Elbo Room. 9:30pm, $8-10. DJs Pleasuremaker and Señor Oz mark their night’s third anniversary with Chico Mann and guest DJ Similak Chyld.

Area Codes Element Lounge. 10pm, $10. With DJs Platurn, Doc Fu, and White Mike spinning Bay Area hip hop.

Blow Up Rickshaw Stop. 10pm, $10. With rotating DJs.

Exhale, Fridays Project One Gallery, 251 Rhode Island, SF; (415) 465-2129. 5pm, $5. Happy hour with art, fine food, and music with Vin Sol, King Most, DJ Centipede, and Shane King.

Fat Stack Fridays Koko Cocktails, 1060 Geary, SF; (415) 885-4788. 10pm, free. With rotating DJs Romanowski, B-Love, Tomas, Toph One, and Vinnie Esparza.

Gay Asian Paradise Club Eight, 1151 Folsom, SF; www.eightsf.com. 9pm, $8. Featuring two dance floors playing dance and hip hop, smoking patio, and 2 for 1 drinks before 10pm.

Good Life Fridays Apartment 24, 440 Broadway, SF; (415) 989-3434. 10pm, $10. With DJ Brian spinning hip hop, mashups, and top 40.

Hot Chocolate Milk. 9pm, $5. With DJs Big Fat Frog, Chardmo, DuseRock, and more spinning old and new school funk.

Look Out Weekend Bambuddha Lounge. 4pm, free. Drink specials, food menu and resident DJs White Girl Lust, Swayzee, Philie Ocean, and more.

M4M Fridays Underground SF. 10pm-2am. Joshua J and Frankie Sharp host this man-tastic party.

Meat Vs. Death Guild DNA Lounge. 8:30pm, $4-8. Industrial, gothic, EBM, and more with Decay, BaconMonkey, Joe Radio, and Melting Girl.

Quantic Mighty. 10pm, $12. With Disco Shawn and DJ Sake 1.

Rockabilly Fridays Jay N Bee Club, 2736 20th St, SF; (415) 824-4190. 9pm, free. With DJs Rockin’ Raul, Oakie Oran, Sergio Iglesias, and Tanoa "Samoa Boy" spinning 50s and 60s Doo Wop, Rockabilly, Bop, Jive, and more.

Suite Jesus 111 Minna. 9pm, $20. Beats, dancehall, reggae and local art.

Teenage Dance Craze Party Knockout. 10pm, $3. With DJ Sergio Iglesias, Russell Quann, and dX the Funky Gran Paw.

SATURDAY 1

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

*AC/Dshe, Total B.S., Honeydust Slim’s. 9pm, $14.

Antlers, Phantogram Independent. 9pm, $14.

Mike Beck and the Bohemian Saints Riptide. 9pm, free.

Broken Social Scene Fillmore. 9pm, $25.

Grand National, Bonafide, General Jones Hotel Utah. 9pm, $8.

JC Smith Band Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $16.

*Laudanum, Worm Ouroboros, Dispirit Hemlock Tavern. 9:30pm, $7.

Maus Haus, Rafter, White Cloud Bottom of the Hill. 10pm, $10.

Outernational Thee Parkside. 9pm, $10.

Plushgun, Music for Animals, Fake Your Own Death, Marissa Guzman Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $15.

Warren Teagarden, Collisionville, Charmless Kimo’s. 9pm, $7.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Audium 9 1616 Bush, SF; (415) 771-1616. 8:30pm, $15.

Eric Kurtzrock Trio Ana Mandara, Ghirardelli Square, 891 Beach, SF; (415) 771-6800. 8pm, free.

Hypnotic Brass Ensemble Palace of Fine Arts Theatre, 3301 Lyon, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 3 and 8pm, $5-25.

Kenny Lattimore Yoshi’s San Francisco. 8 and 10pm, $38.

Marlena Teich Quintet Savanna Jazz. 8pm.

Sanctuary Trio featuring Peter Apfelbaum and guests Coda. 10pm, $10.

Ricardo Scales Top of the Mark. 9pm, $15.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Boyd and Wain Socha Café, 3235 Mission, SF; (415) 643-6848. 8:30pm, free.

Evangenitals El Rio. 11:30pm, $7.

Gold Live Rockit Room. 9pm, $15. With Ce’Cile, Daddy Rolo, Empress I-Lexis, Danneekah.

Sour Mash Hug Band, Four Inch Pony, Janay Rose Mercury Café, 201 Octavia, SF; (415) 252-7855. 7pm, $5.

Red Hot Chachkas Red Poppy Art House. 8pm, $15.

Brazil Vox Revolution Café, 3248 22nd St, SF; (415) 642-0474. 8:45pm, free.

DANCE CLUBS

Bar on Church 9pm. Rotating DJs Foxxee, Joseph Lee, Zhaldee, Mark Andrus, and Niuxx.

Dead After Dark Knockout. 6-9pm, free. With DJ Touchy Feely.

Debaser Knockout. 9pm, $5. Alt-rock hits from the 90s with DJ Jamie Jams and Emdee of Club Neon.

Everlasting Bass 330 Ritch. 10pm, $5-10. Bay Area Sistah Sound presents this party, with DJs Zita and Pam the Funkstress spinning hip-hop, soul, funk, reggae, dancehall, and club classics.

Fire Corner Koko Cocktails, 1060 Geary, SF; (415) 885-4788. 9:30pm, free. Rare and outrageous ska, rocksteady, and reggae vinyl with Revival Sound System and guests.

Foundation Som., 2925 16th St., SF; (415) 558-8521. 10pm.

Gemini Disco Underground SF. 10pm, $5. Disco with DJ Derrick Love and Nicky B. spinning deep disco.

HYP Club Eight, 1151 Folsom, SF; www.eightsf.com. 10pm, free. Gay and lesbian hip hop party, featuring DJs spinning the newest in the top 40s hip hop and hyphy.

Kontrol Endup. 10pm, $20. With resident DJs Alland Byallo, Craig Kuna, Sammy D, and Nikola Baytala spinning minimal techno and avant house.

Leisure Paradise Lounge. 10pm, $7. DJs Omar, Aaron, and Jet Set James spinning classic britpop, mod, 60s soul, and 90s indie.

New Wave City DNA Lounge. 9pm, $7-12. Erasure tribute with Skip and Shindog and Andy T.

Rebel Girl Rickshaw Stop. 10pm, $5. "Electroindierockhiphop" and 80s dance party for dykes, bois, femmes, and queers with DJ China G and guests.

Saturday Night Soul Party Elbo Room. 10pm, $10. Sixties soul with DJs Lucky, Phengren Oswald, and Paul Paul.

So Special Club Six. 9pm, $5. DJ Dans One and guests spinning dancehall, reggae, classics, and remixes.

Social Club Lookout, 3600 16th St, SF; (415) 431-0306. 9pm. Shake your money maker with DJs Lee Decker and Luke Fry.

Soundscape Vortex Room, 1082 Howard, SF; www.myspace.com/thevortexroom. With DJs C3PLOS, Brighton Russ, and Nick Waterhouse spinning Soul jazz, boogaloo, hammond grooves, and more.

Spirit Fingers Sessions 330 Ritch. 9pm, free. With DJ Morse Code and live guest performances.

SUNDAY 2

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Eluvium, Benoit Pioulard Café du Nord. 8pm, $12.

Nymph, Three Leafs, Woom Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $6.

Shootin’ Lucy, Neutralboy, Steel Tigers of Death, Gunner Kimo’s. 5:30pm, $6.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Kenny Lattimore Yoshi’s San Francisco. 5pm, $5-38.

Raul Midon Palace of Fine Arts Theatre, 3301 Lyon, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 7pm, $25-55.

Ray Obiedo and the Urban Latin Jazz Project Coda. 8pm, $10.

*Kronos Quartet Herbst Theatre, 401 Van Ness, SF; www.performances.org. 11am, $8-15.

Rent Romus and the Emergency String Ensemble, Noertker’s Moxie Chamber Ensemble Musicians Union Hall, 116 Ninth, SF; www.noertker.com. 7:30pm, $10.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Damon and the Heathens, Graves Brothers Deluxe, Doc Holler Amnesia. 8:30pm, $7.

"Wanderlust at the Fillmore" Fillmore. 8pm, $25. With Rupa and the April Fishes, MC Yogi, and DJ Dragonfly.

DANCE CLUBS

Afterglow Nickies, 466 Haight, SF; (415) 255-0300. An evening of mellow electronics with resident DJs Matt Wilder, Mike Perry, Greg Bird, and guests.

Call In Sick Skylark. 9pm, free. DJs Animal and I Will spin danceable hip-hop.

DiscoFunk Mashups Cat Club. 10pm, free. House and 70’s music.

Dub Mission Elbo Room. 9pm, $6. Dub, roots, and classic dancehall with Vinnie Esparza and guest Spliff Skankin’.

FlashDance SF Glas Kat, 520 4th St., SF; www.flashdancesf.com. 6pm, $25.

Gloss Sundays Trigger, 2344 Market, SF; (415) 551-CLUB. 7pm. With DJ Hawthorne spinning house, funk, soul, retro, and disco.

Honey Soundsystem Paradise Lounge. 8pm-2am. "Dance floor for dancers – sound system for lovers." Got that?

Jock! Lookout, 3600 16th St, SF; (415) 431-0306. 3pm, $2. This high-energy party raises money for LGBT sports teams.

Kick It Bar on Church. 9pm. Hip-hop with DJ Zax.

Lowbrow Sunday Delirium. 1pm, free. DJ Roost Uno and guests spinning club hip hop, indie, and top 40s.

Religion Bar on Church. 3pm. With DJ Nikita.

Stag AsiaSF. 6pm, $5. Gay bachelor parties are the target demo of this weekly erotic tea dance.

MONDAY 3

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

"Felonious Presents Live City Revue" Coda. 9pm, $7.

Futurecop, Keith Masters Elbo Room. 9pm, $7.

Green River Ordinance, Matt Hires, Angel Taylor Café du Nord. 8pm, $12.

Garrison Starr, Joey Ryan, Cate Le Bon Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

AaronandJane Rockit Room. 8pm, free.

DANCE CLUBS

Bacano! Som., 2925 16th St, SF; (415) 558-8521. 9pm, free. With resident DJs El Kool Kyle and Santero spinning Latin music.

Black Gold Koko Cocktails, 1060 Geary, SF; (415) 885-4788. 10pm-2am, free. Senator Soul spins Detroit soul, Motown, New Orleans R&B, and more — all on 45!

Death Guild DNA Lounge. 9:30pm, $3-5. Gothic, industrial, and synthpop with Decay, Joe Radio, and Melting Girl.

M.O.M. Madrone Art Bar. 6pm, free. With DJ Gordo Cabeza and guests playing all Motown every Monday.

Manic Mondays Bar on Church. 9pm. Drink 80-cent cosmos with Djs Mark Andrus and Dangerous Dan.

Monster Show Underground SF. 10pm, $5. Cookie Dough and DJ MC2 make Mondays worth dancing about, with a killer drag show at 11pm.

Network Mondays Azul Lounge, One Tillman Pl, SF; www.inhousetalent.com. 9pm, $5. Hip-hop, R&B, and spoken word open mic, plus featured performers.

Skylarking Skylark. 10pm, free. With resident DJs I & I Vibration, Beatnok, and Mr. Lucky and weekly guest Djs.

TUESDAY 4

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Heartless Bastards, Hacienda, Amy Cook Independent. 8pm, $18.

*Lupe Fiasco, B.o.B. Warfield. 8pm, $40.

MC Frontalot, Brandon Patton, Edible Norris Café du Nord. 8pm, $12.

Mantles, Dimmer, Weekend Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $10.

Mudface, Great American Beast, Motogruv Elbo Room. 9pm, $6.

Needtobreathe, Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers, Seabird Great American Music Hall. 8pm, $19.
Rangers, Jon Porras, Radiant Husk, Centipede Eest Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $6.
Title Tracks, New Trust, Bye Bye Blackbirds Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.
Zweng, Frisky Disco, Parachute Musical, Winter Sounds Thee Parkside. 8pm, $6.
DANCE CLUBS
Alcoholocaust Presents Argus Lounge. 9pm, free. With DJs What’s His Fuck, Taypoleon, and Mackiveli.
Eclectic Company Skylark, 9pm, free. DJs Tones and Jaybee spin old school hip hop, bass, dub, glitch, and electro.
La Escuelita Pisco Lounge, 1817 Market, SF; (415) 874-9951. 7pm, free. DJ Juan Data spinning gay-friendly, Latino sing-alongs but no salsa or reggaeton.
Mixology Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, 133 Turk, SF; (415) 441-2922. 10pm, $2. DJ Frantik mixes with the science and art of music all night.
Rock Out Karaoke! Amnesia. 7:30pm. With Glenny Kravitz.
Share the Love Trigger, 2344 Market, SF; (415) 551-CLUB. 5pm, free. With DJ Pam Hubbuck spinning house.
Womanizer Bar on Church. 9pm. With DJ Nuxx.

Welcome to Elm Street: Part Four

Sue Vaughan

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April 27, 2010

0

In honor(?) of the new A Nightmare on Elm Street, we’re recapping all of the Elms so far. Find more on the Pixel Vision blog.

In the immortal words of the Fat Boys: are you ready for Freddy?

Well, duh. By 1988’s A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, everyone and their (human-faced) dog was ready for Freddy, whose status as a grinning, quotable pop culture icon would only be enhanced by his latest film. The Dream Master is the first of the Nightmare movies to basically do away with any semblance of a plot; instead, the film exists to provide variously surreal, outlandish, and repulsive nightmare sequences that inevitably end in the death of whatever character is chiefly involved.
And that ain’t such a bad thing. Though the behind the scenes credits are sorta impressive, actually — Renny Harlin, who’d go on to make Die Hard 2 (1990), Cliffhanger (1993), and Deep Blue Sea (1999), directed; Brian Helgeland, who shared a screenwriting Oscar with Curtis Hanson for 1997’s L.A. Confidential, and was later nominated for adapting 2003’s Mystic River, is among its co-writers — this movie is utterly ridiculous anytime Freddy’s not the center of attention.

Thankfully, that’s not often. As Louis described in his post on Nightmare 3, the remaining Elm Street kids/Dream Warriors — now more or less integrated into Springwood’s normal high school population — are the first to go, and they go fast. But wait, you say! Didn’t Freddy get buried in consecrated ground, etc. etc., at the end of Dream Warriors? Yeah, but no matter: before Kincaid (Ken Sagoes) dies, he dreams his dog, Jason (zing!), turns demonic and pees a fiery stream into Freddy’s junkyard grave. Naturally, Freddy comes back to “life,” except he was already dead, or undead, or something, to begin with, wasn’t he? “You shouldn’t have buried me. I’m not dead!” Whatever, he’s back.

Before you can sing a slo-mo jump rope rhyme, Kincaid gets gloved, and ever-horny Joey (Rodney Eastman) drowns in his waterbed. Kristen (now played by Tuesday Knight, who’s no Patricia Arquette) meets a fiery end, but not before courteously extending Freddy’s nightmare-entering capabilities beyond the Elm Street circle: she pulls innocent, mousy Alice (Lisa Wilcox) into her fatal dream. (Freddy’s response: “How sweet! Fresh meat!”) Logically, of course, this means Freddy can now terrorize Alice and all of her friends, including her kung fu-fighting brother, Rick (Andras Jones); asthmatic nerd Sheila (Toy Newkirk); bug-phobic workout-aholic Debbie (Brooke Theiss); and letter-jacketed love interest Dan (Danny Hassel).

The death scenes benefit from what appears to be a bigger special-effects budget than previous films, with Debbie’s transformation into a giant cockroach remaining my personal favorite. There’s also a nice bit where Alice gets pulled into a movie screen, and an attempt at near-artsyness when a scene repeats multiple times to slow Alice and Dan from saving one of their imperiled, snoozing friends. I’m also a huge fan of the scene where Freddy visits Alice’s workplace, the Crave Inn (zing!) diner. Seems Freddy, in a particularly sassy mood, has ordered himself a pizza. A pizza covered in heads! Screaming heads! Freddy spears a head-meatball with one of his claws and excitedly smacks his lips: “My faaaaavorite!” The chewing sounds are amazing.

Later, Alice turns Perseus and “kills” Freddy by showing him his reflection in a piece of stained glass (but not before Freddy reminds us that “I. Am. Eternal!”) And since Freddy has now become not just a slaughterer-of-the-sleeping, but a taker-of-souls (when and how did that happen, exactly?), his captives sail to freedom past Alice in a wash of white light, as if Zelda Rubenstein was showing them the way. Yeah, that’s the end of him, for sure! Er … one more thing about Dream Master is its determined-to-be “hip” soundtrack, with Sinead O’ Conner, Dramarama, Blondie, and other artists contributing tunes. But you can’t go wrong with the Fat Boys.

Welcome to Elm Street: Part Three

Sue Vaughan

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April 27, 2010

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In honor(?) of the new A Nightmare on Elm Street, we’re recapping all of the Elms so far. Find more on the Pixel Vision blog.

“Live together, die alone.” I stole that line from Lost, but it sums up A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987) all too well. The remaining Elm Street kids — you know, the ones whose parents enacted mob justice on Fred Krueger — find themselves locked in a psych ward. They’re not really crazy: they’re just having bad dreams. But these teens are (mostly) smarter than their predecessors, and they refuse to go down without a fight. The “dream warriors” pick up on two important facts: there’s safety in numbers, and you can do awesome shit when you’re dreaming. I believe The Simpsons’ Ralph Wiggum said it best: “Sleep! That’s where I’m a Viking.”
No Vikings in this bunch, sadly, but these kids do have pretty nifty powers and thus a fighting chance against Freddy. In case you’re planning on assembling your own team of dream warriors — and honestly, it’s not a bad idea — I thought I’d break down the pros and cons of part three’s heroes. Yes, most of them end up dead and those that don’t (spoiler alert) are offed in part four. But hey, it’s good to know what skills to look for and what faults to avoid when you’re trying to save your ass.

Presenting the dream warriors, in the order in which they bite it.

Phillip (Bradley Gregg)
Pros: Bitchin’ ‘80s hair.
Cons: Sleepwalker. First to die, with the most disturbing death scene by far. He really doesn’t have a lot going for him.

Jennifer (Penelope Sudrow)
Pros: Has a (somewhat painful) system for staying awake. Burning oneself with cigarettes shows serious motivation.
Cons: Smoker. Thinks she’s going to be an actress — yeah, she’s one of those. And, of course, the second to die. “Welcome to prime time, bitch.”

Taryn (Jennifer Rubin)
Pros: Stands her ground. That means not putting out for skeezy orderlies. Gets the best line of the movie: “In my dreams, I’m beautiful. And bad.” Switchblades.
Cons: Attitude. Really needs to comb that hair. Pesky heroin addiction, which Freddy exploits with terrifying fingerneedles.

Will (Ira Heiden)
Pros: Nerdy charm. In his dreams, he can walk — not to mention be the Wizard Master. That’s right, he can blow up evil wheelchairs with green lightning (in the name of Lowrek, Prince of Elves).
Cons: Even as a wizard master, he’s still just a dweeb. And eventually, a dead one.

Nancy Thompson (Heather Langenkamp)
Pros: She’s been here before. Check out that grey streak: it screams “survivor.” Prescription for Hypnocil. Won’t take getting killed lying down.
Cons: Lots of baggage. Dead friends, dead boyfriend, dead mom — rewatch the first Nightmare on Elm Street if you need a refresher. Kind of naïve, inevitably. You really thought ghost dad was legit?

Kristen (Patricia Arquette)
Pros: Good at art. Marvel at her popsicle stick recreation of Nancy’s house! Does flips. Can bring people into her dreams.
Cons: Can bring people into her dreams. Hey, that’s a bad thing when you’re trying to avoid getting murdered. Poor common sense. All the Freddy fan-art is asking for it, don’t you think?

Kincaid (Ken Sagoes)
Pros: Tells it like it is, which means more great lines: “Let’s go kick the motherfucker’s ass all over dream land!” “Yo, Freddy! Where you hidin’ at, you burnt-face pussy?” Also, dreams give him super strength!
Cons: Gets thrown in the quiet room a lot, so you know he’s bad news. Nasty habit of antagonizing Freddy Krueger.

Joey (Rodney Eastman)
Pros: Knows to wake up his friends when necessary. Dream scream can break mirrors and banish the boogeyman.
Cons: But mostly quiet. Too quiet. Ball of teenage hormones, which inspires him to follow the hot nurse from hell and get himself comatose.

Dr. Neil Gordon (Craig Wasson)
Pros: The only doctor who actually believes that his patients are being killed by Freddy Krueger. Master hypnotist. Sees dead people — or dead nuns, at least.
Cons: Not a teenager. Might we say he’s getting too old for this shit? Can’t even fight a skeleton.

So there you have it. Now you can — I’m so sorry for this — pick your own dream team. And if you’d like to recruit me as a dream warrior, you should know that I’ve seen countless horror movies and know how to survive relatively unscathed. On the other hand, I’m pee-my-pants frightened of Freddy, so let’s call it a draw.

Welcome to Elm Street: Part Two

Sue Vaughan

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April 26, 2010

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In honor(?) of the new A Nightmare on Elm Street, we’re recapping all of the Elms so far. Find more on the Pixel Vision blog.

A Nightmare on Elm Street, Part 2: Freddy’s Revenge (1985) is probably the most reviled of all the Nightmare movies. Which is silly, because it’s awesome. OK, there are serious continuity problems and an utter lack of interior logic. You could skip right to part three without missing a beat — in fact, maybe you should. Freddy’s Revenge works better outside the context of the series. You have to appreciate this movie for what it is: a campy, homoerotic comedy. Dark comedy, but still.

Nancy (Heather Langenkamp) has been replaced by adorkable dweeb Jesse (Mark Patton). Freddy (Robert Englund) doesn’t want to kill Jesse; he wants to—wait for it — get inside him. And if you’re wondering how this Freddy relates to the original, don’t bother. Part 2’s Freddy seems to be able to torment people who are awake. He doesn’t murder teens on his own: he has to work through Jesse’s body. Or something. Screw the plot — the fun of Freddy’s Revenge is noting all the queer subtext.

Here’s my list of the 14 gayest things in this movie.

1. Jesse’s uber-femme scream is way more piercing than Nancy’s. Now, I don’t want to make assumptions. I’m sure lots of straight boys scream like that. But in context, it’s suspect.

2. Jesse is terrible at sports. Again, not trying to play into stereotypes. Well, no more than the movie is.

3. Grady (Robert Rusler) queers things further when he pulls down Jesse’s pants. Then the boys start wrestling. Coach Schneider (Marshall Bell) offers the only appropriate response: “Assume the position.”

4. To borrow a line from Buffy, “the subtext is rapidly becoming text.” “Guy gets his rocks off like this,” Grady says. “Hangs out at queer S&M joints downtown. He likes pretty boys like you.” Smile, Jesse. Grady thinks you’re pretty.

5. Diagram of an ass on the chalkboard. Giant snake rubbing against Jesse’s face. Paging Dr. Freud!

6. Jesse’s dance routine evokes painful memories for gay men everywhere who recall similar embarrassments. Relatedly, I love his Lady Gaga glasses.

7. “Schneider’s always got a stick up his ass.” Cough.

8. Look, I’m not saying sleepwalking isn’t real. I’m just saying sleepwalking into the aforementioned gay S&M club is a little hard to swallow. No pun intended.

9. Coach Schneider’s death scene is where things get really interesting: he’s tied up, stripped, and ravaged in the shower. Need I mention the towel repeatedly slapping his ass? Or the fact that the showerheads are obviously penises?

10. Jesse’s beard/love interest Lisa (Kim Myers) insists that she wants to help him. I think she means “cure” him, but we all know that never works.

11. Once Jesse does try to hetero it up by making out with Lisa, he finds himself rudely interrupted. See, Freddy’s tongue is in his mouth.

12. Where does he run? To (shirtless) Grady’s room, of course. This leads to the film’s most surreal exchange yet: “Something is trying to get inside my body.” “Yeah, and she’s female and she’s waiting for you in the cabana. And you want to sleep with me.”

13. It doesn’t stop there. “He’s inside me,” Jesse whines. “I’m scared.” Just relax. “He’s inside me and he wants to take me again!” That Freddy — he’s insatiable!

14. Fast-forward to Lisa’s intervention. “I love you, Jesse,” she says. Then she has the audacity to kiss Freddy, and you better believe he freaks. (Ew, girls.)

So in the end, Lisa’s love destroys the evil (read: queer) Freddy. A sadly homophobic twist to this otherwise gay romp. How would I have ended Freddy’s Revenge? Krueger realizes he’s just a metaphor for repressed sexuality and scampers off to part three, where he can be legitimately scary again. Meanwhile, Jesse and Grady ride off into the sunset, and any further bodily penetration is completely consensual.

FEAST: 10 kick-ass brunches

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 23, 2010

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We here at the Guardian don’t survive on green buds and printer ink alone. We eat real food. Sometimes! But we do get up late and hungover. While we often forgo fancy brunch — unless we save our pennies for the amazing eggs-meet-legs “Sunday’s a Drag” buffet at Harry Denton’s (www.harrydenton.com) or dim sum nirvana at Yank Sing (www.yanksing.com) or Ton Kiang (www.tonkiang.net) — we’ll sure as shootin’ shell out for thrifty chilaquiles and bloody marys, especially the way the Bay makes ’em. Here are some of our dearest bleary-eyed, late-morning tummy fillers. (Marke B.)

BASHFUL BULL TOO

There are days when you wake up with a bladder full of Jameson’s and a fervent wish to sink into a salty, unglamorous world of egg and cheese. These are the mornings when bottomless mimosas and goat cheese frittatas sound like fightin’ words. Easy tiger, I got you — just slump into a booth at Bashful Bull Too, the most standard of Outer Sunset diners. There’s no live jazz band, no “scene” at all — just you and your greasy calories. Get down on their cheap plates of hash browns and bacon, or better yet, a burger. Slabs of ground beef are acceptable fare when, after all, you’re having breakfast at 2 p.m. (Caitlin Donohue)

3600 Taraval, SF. (415) 759-8112

BEAN BAG CAFÉ

In you’re from the Midwest, good brunch spots are distinguished by waitresses who call you “hon” and have your coffee waiting for you before you sit down. Become a regular at Bean Bag Café in the Western Addition, and they’ll do all that and more. Bean Bag’s extensive breakfast and lunch menu and progressive cooking staff means never having to decide if it’s too late for Goldilocks oatmeal (yep, it’s just right) or too early for pancakes and beer. Speaking of pancakes, the Bean Bag buttermilk, customized with bananas and caramelized walnuts on top, is a must-have. Pair it with scrambled eggs drenched in Tabasco, and you’re set until 3 p.m., when Bean Bag kicks off its happy hour with beer for $1.75. Other highlights: sunshine and a petting zoo of scruffy but wuvable dogs outside. (Diane Sussman)

601 Divisadero, SF. (415)-563-3634

CAFE DU SOLEIL

Lower Haight — known for its nicoise? C’est vrai! The salad nicoise at Cafe Du Soleil is a stunner, bursting with tender tuna, piquant greens, and enough fresh fixings to ensure some inner sunshine. But don’t stop there — or at the pastry case in front, with delectable goodies like croques madames and hazelnut chocolate croissants. Soleil’s salmon tortilla, a sort of deconstructed-quiche pyramid topped with lovely lox and drizzled with smoky romesco, is this laidback Parisian hang’s brunchtime piece de resistance. Bonus: hunky scruffsters and tattooed ladies. (Marke B.)

200 Fillmore, SF. (415) 934-8637. www.soleilsf.com

CHLOE’S

Let’s face it, one aspect of brunch — at least on a Sunday — is the wait. Chloe’s is no exception. The restaurant’s rep and tiny size mean that while weekdays are fine, on the weekend you will be waiting in a (loose) line. The upside is that Chloe’s is on a quiet corner of Church Street, so on a sunlit day, you’ll get fresh air and nothing noisier or more imposing than the people-watching pleasure of the J-Church sliding by. Once inside, indulge your sweet tooth: two highlights of the low-key menu are french toast made with croissants (served with strawberries and powdered sugar) and banana walnut pancakes, a Chloe’s specialty. Chloe’s offers some pleasant, simple variations on scrambled eggs, and the fresh fruit and white rosemary toast to compliment them. This may be Noe Valley, but the coffee is Twin Peaks good. (Johnny Ray Huston)

1399 Church, SF. (415) 648-4116

CHOW

The agony of brunch, since it allows for judgment-free consumption of lunch dishes or breakfast dishes, means having to choose between savory or sweet, sandwich or omelet, salad or hash browns. Ten minutes alone can be devoted to the age-old question of pancake or eggs benedict? Coffee or cocktail? Pancake or … This is where Chow ends the cycle of neurosis. At Chow, you can order one egg benedict and one pancake, accompanied by one cup of coffee and one wine mojito. Plus, Chow has two pancakes without peer: the blueberry with warm blueberry sauce and mascarpone cheese, and Marion’s ricotta pancake with lemon. Get one of each! Of course, if you want the chilaquiles or a cheesy scramble, Chow will happily oblige. Watch them start to emit a soft, warm glow when paired with a blushing bellini. (Diane Sussman)

212 Church and 1245 Ninth Ave. 415-552-2469; 415-665-9912, www.chowfoodbar.com

HOMEMADE CAFÉ

It’s Saturday morning-slipping-toward-noon, and there are few reasons to expend the effort to pick your fuzzball head up off the pillow it dropped onto in the after-party wee hours. Curled in your cocoon, there is but one comforting thought: breakfast! Few places can revive the soul and satisfy the belly as proficiently as Homemade Café. You’d be wise to choose the spinach, mushroom, and feta omelet. Sweet or spicy is a tough choice, though, since there are spectacularly fluffy blueberry pancakes to be had as well. It’s crucial that you remember this magical phrase: “Upgrade to Home-Fry Heaven.” They’ll arrive smothered in cheese, salsa, sour cream, and a choice of guacamole or pesto. You will feel alive again — at least until naptime. (Rebecca Bowe)

2454 Sacramento, Berk. (510) 845-1940

LIME

I love Lime. Not just because it offers a pretty good assortment of belly-filling foodstuffs on Sunday mornings or the hip and lively atmosphere — but because of the bottomless mimosas and bloody marys. Now, I could try to compare Lime’s eggs benedict to others I’ve eaten, but why bother? There are bottomless fucking mimosas and bloody marys, people! Who cares about the food when I can get stupid drunk with my friends at 11 a.m.? In fact, I can’t recall a time when we weren’t asked to leave, albeit very nicely by the wait staff. Just be careful, those drinks will knock you on your ass and give you a hangover by 4 p.m. Guaranteed. (Ben Hopfer)

2247 Market St., SF. 415.621.5256, www.lime-sf.com

LYNN & LU’S ESCAPADE CAFE

Lynn and Lu, I heart you. Snag a quaint table under an umbrella on Grand Avenue or find a spot on the back patio for a beautiful sunny brunch. The morning portions are fat, happy, and classic. Three-egg omelets come bursting with your filler of choice and arrive sitting next to a pile of yummy roasted potatoes. Those with stomachs bigger than their eyes will be relieved to see that the Escapade frittatas look more like a crowd-pleasing tower of peppers, veggies, and eggs than a paltry single serving — everyone will waddle away with a smile. The service is fabulous, the price is just right, and the food comes quick enough to whisk away any dream-soaked cobwebs. (Amber Schadewald)

3353 Grand Ave, Oakland, 510-835-5705

MAMA’S ROYAL CAFÉ

Imagine a John Waters time warp with rickety counter chairs, a napkin art gallery, and a suggestive painting of female softball players with a giant bat, and you’ve just about captured the quirkiness of Mama’s Royal Café. The home fries, hollandaise dishes, and rib-sticking omelets are consistently satisfying, but weekly specials also offer seasonal and delicious treats like lemon-ricotta pancakes with blood orange curd. The wait staff often serves on hipster time, which, quite frankly, works out perfectly since Mama’s is best enjoyed with friends on a lazy Sunday as you discuss, or help each other remember, last night’s misadventures. (Robyn Johnson)

4012 Broadway, Oakland. (510) 547-7600. www.mamasroyalcafeoakland.com

STACKS

After a recent multihour hike around the Presidio, I found myself ravenous. You know the feeling — fully prepared to combine breakfast, lunch, dinner, a multitude of snacks, and dessert into a single meal. Where better to do that than at Stacks, the San Francisco location of a mini-chain (others are in Menlo Park and Burlingame) that looks like a Denny’s that got an upscale makeover, with some of the biggest floral arrangements you’ll ever see. Speaking of gigantic, Stacks’ portions are robust, and their menu is a monster: over a dozen omelet choices; copious varieties of pancakes, crepes, and waffles; sandwiches and burgers; daily specials; and at least seven different smoothies. (Cheryl Eddy)

501 Hayes, SF. (415) 241-9011. www.stacksrestaurant.com

TAQUERIA LOS COYOTES

Being on a tight budget has forced me to get creative, and this underdog taqueria located on a block full of distracting alternatives has become my favorite spot for a weekend breakfast burrito. There are never any lines, the food is as cheap as it comes, and the egg and chorizo burrito with beans, cheese, and rice is guaranteed to soak up a whole weekend of leftover mischief hanging. It’s even big enough to share with any co-conspirators still hanging out as well. (Paula Connelly)

3036 16th St., SF. (415) 861-3708. www.taquerialoscoyotes.com

ZAZIE

Yes, there’ll be a wait — but it’s more than worth it at Zazie, a French bistro that is San Francisco’s best patio brunch spot. The heart of the menu resides in the poached egg dishes (my favorite is La Mer, with real Dungeness crab, avocado, and green onion), seven to choose from, each with a choice of one, two, or three perfectly poached eggs, wonderfully tangy hollandaise sauce, and a side of potatoes fried up with, get this, roasted garlic cloves. Yum! Everything on the brunch menu is awesome, from challah french toast to scrambled eggs Fontainebleau to the full-on trout du sud. C’est magnifique! (Steven T. Jones)

941 Cole Street, SF. (415) 564-5332, www.zaziesf.com

FEAST: Free crystal glass!

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 21, 2010

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culture@sfbg.com

Should ceaseless hangovers and clumsy, inebriated behavior ever sour you on the drinking scene, you could do worse than while away an evening in one of SF’s many pan-Asian dessert cafes. Cheap prices, pleasant late-night crowds, cultural cachet … the sole caveat being that, for the neophyte dabbler in casual Asian cuisine, menus can approach this side of incomprehensible. This thought came to me midway through ordering at Tapioca Express (1522 Fillmore, (415) 346-6600. www.tapiocaexpress.com). A whim had struck me for bubble tea, but in my naiveté, I had come unprepared for what lay ahead. A universe of flavors, forms, and toppings were at my fingertips — it’s not unusual for a café to feature more than 80 bubble tea options; variations on form, flavoring, and toppings (“free crystal glass,” which to me sounds like a great deal on street drugs). Even ignoring the savories, I was at a loss. But I squashed the disorientation and walked away with an avocado snow, a tapioca-beaded milkshake whose creamy taste will dispel any hesitation you have toward desserts made from nacho ingredients. Sitting with my prize and savoring the peaceful, nonalcoholic hum around me, I knew: I was hooked. I needed more dessert cafe. And thus it began, the adventures of a white girl in the land of taro, grass jelly, and tadpoles.

As if the culinary adventures at Creations Dessert House (5217 Geary, (415) 668-8812, www.creationsdessert.com) weren’t enough food for thought, the ambience, as in other specimens of its genre, strikes an odd balance between coffeehouse and sit-down restaurant. Rather than highlighting its bubble teas, the ginormous menu focuses on hearty snacks, from fast food-like “value boxes” to potato polenta-esque radish cakes topped with fish sauce, and elaborately plated desserts (bowls of cubed fruits and ice cream nestled neatly alongside each other, rather than the helter-skelter mix-up found on most Western plates). The waitress will bring you complimentary hot tea while you ponder your options.

An after-school crowd and a more fast food vibe prevails at Quickly (2116 Irving and various SF locations, (415) 665-3090, www.quicklyusa.com), a global megachain that provides a gateway to bubble tea from New Zealand to Singapore. I learned about Quickly’s ubiquity from the café’s helpfully excessive signage, which also alerted me to its “new healthy fashion food” with “fiber green milk tea, black rice, and colis milk.” Eschewing the fried mini octopi and hot grass jelly, a plant-based pudding treat, I opted for a saccharine sweet rose bubble tea. And, in a bit of providence, I tried the Hong Kong egg puff, which turned out to be a crispy, waffle-bubble wrap marriage. It’s folded into a paper envelope, which fit nicely into my heart. New favorite thing!

Imagine, then, my elation at discovering that this mysterious egg puff was not a solely corporate creation — that, in fact, a sojourn into the Outer Sunset (SF’s epicenter of Asian dessert pleasures) will reveal Eggettes (3136 Noriega, (415) 681-8818, www.eggettessf.com), whose specialty is the puff. Eggettes has the distinction of three flavors; original, chocolate, and honeydew, whose golden-brown crust cedes to a chewy green dough within. Eggettes features the usual phalanx of bubble teas, and for the packs of adolescents usually present, not just free wireless but free computers! Imagine! Should you go, try the rice rolls, flat noodles rolled into delicious chewy nuggets, accompanied by peanut and hoisin sauce.

The challenge of dessert cafes may be what relentlessly pulls us to them — the variety of their wares. After all, the menu at 37 Degrees Dessert Café (1155 Taraval, (415) 566-3887) is a solid 10 pages long, filled with evocative photos to guide your deliberations. Dare you try the Deep Sea, whose striated layers of sweet liquid and “coral jellies” resemble nothing more than the dentist office’s saltwater aquarium tank poured into a tall ice cream sundae glass? Will you opt for the crystal rolls at 100% Sweet Café (2512 Clement, (415) 221-1628), small rice paper sachets of sugary goo, fresh strawberries, and mangos that constitute the most difficult and slippery food item to eat ever?

All told, the dessert cafes made a distinct impression on me. Situated at a small table, plied with free hot tea, megalith menu in hand detailing lobster balls, black pearl barley, and cold tofu flakes curdled in a wooden bucket — it’s easy to lose a few hours contemplating the fact that one will never, ever know all there is to be eaten under the sun.

But a girl can try. Osmanthus jelly with a side of explosive eggs, please?

Reggie Watts is awesome, and I totally don’t get him

Andrew Lam

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April 21, 2010

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I’ve been a Reggie Watts aficionado for some time now — maybe since January. His video for “Fuck Shit Stack” was the most hilarious send up of hip hop culture I’ve seen in awhile, and one of the more visually creative videos. And I heard he was Seattle based, which got me very excited to see Pacific Northwest steez represented at his upcoming appearance at Conan O’Brien’s “The Legally Prohibited from Being on Television” tour stop, Thur/22 at the Nob Hill Masonic Center.

So I was stoked to get the chance to talk to the singer/beat boxer/comedian. Especially on 4/20. Interview dates don’t get much cooler. We’d straight kick it on the phone, giggle, talk about life, man. He says he’s in Seattle as we speak. What’s good in Northwest hip hop, Reggie?

“I haven’t lived in Seattle for over six years, and I’m not really a big hip hop guy,” says Watts. There is a medium sized pause as I mentally recalibrate, and feel out my new role as “reporter who doesn‘t get it.” Damn.

You’ll excuse me for being confused. Watts considers himself more of a comedic performer, but the majority of his work available online revolves around his prodigious musical talents that can be most readily understood in the language of hip hop. He’s been using a Line 6 DL4 delay box since the late nineties to concoct audio lasagnas of sound. And though the beats and bleats that come out of these largely improvised, layer cakes can borrow from retro commercial jingles and R&B hooks, the overwhelming impression they lay down is that of a super dope, low tech hip hop production.

I really like it. But, clearly, I don’t understand. So. Crap. But these things happen. What else can we talk about. Williamsburg? Blue Bottle coffee?

San Francisco Bay Guardian: How’s Brooklyn, Reggie?
Reggie Watts: Brooklyn’s cool. Really cool parties, great comedy scene. I live in Williamsburg, and there’s lots of photographers, visual artists, everything’s there.

SFBG: And really, you’re not into hip hop?
RW: I like the beats, but I don’t really follow it. It’s kind of like sports. Well no, because I don’t really like sports at all. I have friends that will play me stuff, but I don’t know a lot about it.

SFBG: (grasping, trying to salvage predetermined flow of interview) But… “Fuck Shit Stack”! Such incisive social commentary — you have such smart things to say about hip hop culture!
RW: I like real hip hop, that song to me is about that kind of stuff. There’s plenty of hip hop that’s more in the tradition of bohemian hip hop, poetic spoken style. I have a problem with the too cool, money money lifestyle. It’s been around for a long time.

SFBG: Can’t you say the same thing about all forms of music?
RW: I think more so now than any other time period. Communication and product placement, trying to sell things. The concept of money being given to people to perpetuate certain kinds of lifestyles. We see the direct effect in our hearts. When Nas came out with “Made you Look,” I was like oh shit, something’s going to happen, but it was kind of a one hit thing. I don’t mind materialism, as long as you use it creatively.

SFBG: Allright. So what will you listen to, left to your own devices?
RW: Techno, glitch, dub step. But I’m also really into… I don’t know, I enjoy the Carpenters, Seegar, Marvin Gaye — I pretty much really like everything. StereoLab I could listen to 24/7, Phoenix, I really like electronic music, ambient music.

SFBG: What are we going to see onstage at the show this week?
RW: 95% of what I do on stage is improvise, it’s up to the night and what’s going on. It’s usually me doing some really stupid shit for awhile, then I’ll do a song with the looping machine using really stupid lyrics. I’ll do a keyboard song, some more stupid bullshit.

SFBG: Are you excited to come to SF?
RW: Oh yeah, always a good time, I’ve got a lot of friends. And I’m excited for Blue Bottle coffee. We just got one in Brooklyn, I’m excited to see what it’s like out in SF.

SFBG: Oh yeah, we’ve got that Blue Bottle. It’s everywhere.
RW: It’ll fuck you up, in a good way.

Conan O’Brien’s “Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television” Tour feat. Reggie Watts

Thurs/22 8 p.m., $39.50-79.50

Nob Hill Masonic Center

1111 California, SF

(415) 776-4702

www.masonicauditorium.com

www.teamcoco.com

Top pic picks

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 20, 2010

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The White Meadows (Mohammad Rasoulof, Iran, 2009) This latest by the recently jailed Iranian director of Iron Island (2005) is a stark, visually striking allegory whose natural settings (the salt formations of Lake Urmia) could hardly be more surreal. Aging Rahmat (Hasan Pourshirazi) rows his little boat from one tiny island community to another, collecting tears from variably aggrieved locals so they can be absolved of their sins — just how, neither they or we know. During his latest travels he gains a teenaged stowaway, then a blind-struck painter as passengers; witnesses a couple of village rituals that prove fatal for their main participants; and experiences other curious events that scarcely prompt a raised eyebrow from him. As with so much modern Iranian cinema, Mohammad Rasoulof’s film carefully renders its political symbolism so abstract you can dig endlessly for hidden meanings, or simply lose yourself in the hypnotic black-and-white-in-color imagery of black-clad people on bleached landscapes. Fri/23, 6:30 p.m., Kabuki; Sat/24, 9:30 p.m., Kabuki; Sun/25, 8 p.m., PFA. (Dennis Harvey)

Nymph (Pen-ek Ratanaruang, Thailand, 2009) Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Girl cheats on boy with boss. Boy falls in love with tree. So are the broad strokes of Thai director Pen-ek Ratanaruang’s jungle-horror, Nymph, a city-to-country romance that deftly weaves strands of urban anomie, sexual dysfunction, and rural mythos into a dreamy, arboreal fantasia. One might be tempted to reference Lars von Trier’s Antichrist (2009) and fellow Thai helmer Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s 2004 breakout, Tropical Malady, as obvious points of reference, but that would derogate the potency and intensity of Ratanaruang’s singular, artistic design. The director of Last Life in the Universe (2003) and Ploy (2007) creates a tropical mise-en-scène that is less cinematic than immersive, developed largely by his use of tight, suspenseful close-ups, fluid camera work (including a 10-minute opening sequence that is practically gymnastic), and a transfixing ambient score. But unlike Tropical Malady, which leveraged much of its second-half’s novelty from overwrought, homoerotic tropes and a condescending nativism, Nymph‘s descent into the jungle is only the beginning of this powerful love story. Fri/23, 9 p.m., Kabuki; Sat/24, 4:30 p.m., Kabuki; April 28, 4:45 p.m., Kabuki. (Erik Morse)

Around a Small Mountain (Jacques Rivette, France/Italy, 2009) Around a Small Mountain (or 36 vues du Pic Saint Loup) is New Wave doyen Jacques Rivette’s return to the whimsy of 1984’s Love on the Ground, another exploration of theater staring eternal demoiselle Jane Birkin. In Mountain, Birkin plays Kate, a prodigal daughter who has returned to her deceased father’s circus after an unspecified trauma forced her into a 15 year absence. En route she encounters Vittorio (Sergio Castellitto), a peripatetic who instantly discovers in Kate a fellow improviser for his acrobatic feats of conversation. In hopes of learning her secret past, Vittorio follows Kate and her shabby troupe from performance to performance through the tiny towns of the Cevennes. Along the way, Rivette treats his audience to a mish-mash of sideshow sketches, enchanting dialogues and haunting soliloquies, all beneath the magical totem of the big top. The film is spellbinding ode to the theatre of everyday life and the actors who prance in and out of its cirque. Fri/23, 9:30 p.m., Kabuki; Sat/24, 4:15 p.m., Kabuki; April 28, 6:30 p.m., PFA. (Morse)

Way of Nature (Nina Hedenius, Sweden, 2008) Save for when Werner Herzog is doing the talking, documentaries about the natural world often benefit from a lack of voiceover narration. Nature’s seasons, cycles, and rhythms provide their own narrative structure, and simply, silently observing what happens can make for fascinating viewing. Nina Hedenius understands this. Her engrossing year-in-the-life portrait of Lisselbäcka Farm in northern Sweden is cut around creatures great and small — horses, cows, goats, chickens, dogs — and their routines. Although humans are part of the bucolic scene Hedenius so meticulously orchestrates (the sound editing is such that the film would be no less immersive if you watched it blindfolded), they are merely supporting actors. After watching, for the fourth time, another gangly offspring leap to its feet, minutes after being born, you start to realize the ways in which our species is quite helpless. If their keepers suddenly passed away, the animals of Lisselbäcka — domesticated though they may be — would probably manage to carry on. The way of nature is instinct, not mastery. Sat/24, 2 p.m., PFA; Sun/25, 3:45 p.m., Kabuki; Mon/26, 1 p.m., Kabuki; April 28, 6:30 p.m., Kabuki. (Matt Sussman)

Between Two Worlds (Vimukthi Jayasundara, Sri Lanka, 2009) Part vision quest, part historical allegory, Vimukthi Jayasundara’s lush and beguiling head-scratcher unfolds like the mutable folktale told between two fishermen in one of the film’s asides. A synopsis would go something like this: an unnamed South Asian man falls from the sky into an unspecified South Asian country (although the Sinhala the actors speak places us in Sri Lanka) under siege by revolutionaries intent on destroying all means of communication and killing any remaining young men. Fleeing a riot-ravaged city he winds up in the countryside where he reconnects with his sister-in-law, and undergoes several mysterious and mystical experiences at a nearby lake. “It’s possible that one can see today what has happened in the past,” cautions an old man to our protagonist, and Jayasundara — with an eye for arresting mise-en-scene, gorgeously photographed by Channa Deshapriya — attempts to offer a way to re-see the traumas of the civil war that ravaged Sri Lanka for over three decades. Like a freshly remembered dream, Between Two Worlds is as stubbornly oblique as it is hard to shake. Sat/24, 6:15 p.m., Kabuki; Sun/25, 9 p.m., Kabuki; Mon/26, 9:15, Kabuki. (Sussman)

Transcending Lynch (Marcos Andrade, Brazil, 2010) Picture it: everyone’s favorite psycho-thriller filmmaker and coffee retailer waxing beatific about peace, love, and “infinite bliss,” his American Spirit–stained teeth frozen in a perma-grin as he extols the virtues of the “unified field” of consciousness. At certain moments in Transcending Lynch, an exploration of infamous auteur David Lynch and his 35-year devotion to transcendental meditation, the director comes across as flakier than the celebrated piecrust at Twin Peaks‘ Double R diner. (At one point he even utters the phrase “Holy jumping George!”) For the irony-soaked, all the TM talk may be a little TMI, but for Lynch the practice is nothing short of the very source of his creative wellspring. Marcos Andrade’s documentary, which follows Lynch on a 2008 Brazilian book tour, won’t offer the mad-genius Eagle Scout’s more rabid followers much new insight. While the movie strives to be meditative, it’s more of an amalgam of trippy travelogue and pitch meeting. Even more frustrating, we get only teasing glimpses of how TM has directly informed and impacted the artist’s work. Lynch may be on the path to universal enlightenment, but when it comes to the man himself, the rest of us ignoramuses are still mostly in the dark. Sat/24, 6:30pm, Kabuki; Mon/26, 9pm, Kabuki; Tues/27, 12:30pm, Kabuki. (Michelle Devereaux)

14-18: The Noise and the Fury (Jean-Françoise Delassus, France/Belgium, 2009) Made for French TV, Jean-Françoise Delassus’ unclassifiable film would be arresting simply for cobbling together seldom-seen archival footage reflecting all aspects of the First World War, from its leaders to its trenches. But he and co-scenarist Isabelle Rabineau have shaped that footage into a narrative driven by the writings of a (fictional) French everyman soldier who somehow manages to survive and serve in most of its major conflicts. The result melds exquisite color tinting, first-person narration, clips from commercial films about the war (by D.W. Griffith and Chaplin as well as European directors), and ambient sound to create a brilliant kind of living history lesson that makes the events of nearly a century ago seem as immediate as yesterday’s. Mon/26, 4:30 p.m., Kabuki; May 1, 2 p.m., Kabuki; May 3, 9 p.m., Kabuki. (Harvey)

The Peddler (Eduardo de la Serna, Lucas Marcheggiano, and Adriana Yurkovich, Argentina, 2009) Daniel Burmeister is a traveling filmmaker. He drives his infirm jalopy from one small Argentine town to the next, hoping to set up camp for a month and make a movie with the locals. He’ll need food, a place to stay, and a camera. Whatever camera they can find. Usually the mayors are easy to convince, because Burmeister is essentially a regional attraction, a one-man circus they know about from the neighboring towns. It’s this strange repurposing of the filmmaking experience that makes the documentary so distinctive and special. And just watching the old man hustle from shot to shot with his bashful actors, working efficiently from one of the handful of scripts he’s been cycling through for years, is an absolute pleasure. Directors Eduardo de la Serna, Lucas Marcheggiano, and Adriana Yurcovich capture the jury-rigged process with unobtrusive admiration and an absence of condescension. As I watched it I kept thinking it was like the soul that was missing from Michel Gondry’s 2008 warmed-over DIY manifesto Be Kind Rewind. Mon/26, 6:30 p.m., PFA; May 1, 12:30 p.m., Kabuki; May 4, 6:30 p.m., Kabuki. (Jason Shamai)

Russian Lessons (Olga Konskaya and Andrei Nekrasov, Russia/Norway/Georgia, 2010) I remember watching the news two summers ago and feeling confused by the details of the Russia-Georgia War, the culmination of a dispute over the territory of South Ossetia. There seemed to be a haziness about who started what. Russian Lessons offers Olga Konskaya and Andrei Nekrasov’s version of what happened that summer and indicts Russian and mainstream international news organizations for exactly that failure to present a satisfactory chronology. Konskaya, a theater director and documentary producer, filmed events as they unfolded on the Northern end of the conflict while Nekrasov, a veteran documentarian, filmed in the South. The result is a collection of interviews with residents of recently bombed Georgian towns, confrontations with Russian soldiers, and investigations of still-smoldering battle sites. The filmmakers spend an equal amount of time scrutinizing source footage from the war and its antecedents, exposing how it was used to mislead the international community. It’s a disturbing and persuasive rebuttal to the Putin administration’s official side of the story. April 28, 3:15 p.m., Kabuki; April 29, 12:30 p.m., Kabuki; May 1, 6:15 p.m., Kabuki. (Shamai)

Restrepo (Tim Hetherington and Sabastian Junger, USA, 2010) Starting mid-’07, journalists-filmmakers Tim Hetherington and Sebastian Junger spent some 15 months off and on embedded with a U.S. Army platoon in Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley, a Taliban stronghold with steep, mountainous terrain that could hardly be more advantageous for snipers. Particularly once a second, even more isolated outpost is built, the soldiers’ days are fraught with tension, whether they’re ordered out into the open on a mission or staying put under frequent fire. Strictly vérité, with no political commentary overt or otherwise, the documentary could be (and has been) faulted for not having enough of a “narrative arc” — as if life often does, particularly under such extreme circumstances. But it’s harrowingly immediate (the filmmakers themselves often have to dive for cover) and revelatory as a glimpse not just of active warfare, but of the near-impossible challenges particular to foreign armed forces trying to make any kind of “progress” in Afghanistan. April 30, 3:45 p.m., Kabuki; May 2, 4:15 p.m., PFA; May 4, 9:30 p.m., Kabuki. (Harvey)

Animal Heart (Séverine Cornamusaz, France/Switzerland, 2009) This first feature by Séverine Cornamusaz has a story that would have fit just as well into the cinema of 1920 — or the literature of Thomas Hardy or George Eliot 50 years earlier. Paul (Olivier Rabourdin) is the gruff owner of family lands in the Swiss Alps, raising livestock whom he treats better than wife Rosine (Camille Japy). When he’s forced to hire a seasonal hired hand in the form of Eusebio (Antonio Bull), the easygoing Spaniard’s concern for ailing Rosine incites not Paul’s compassion but his brute jealousy. This elemental triangle set amid the severe elements of its spectacularly shot setting has a suitably blunt (but not crude) power; it leads not where you might expect but to a hard-won fadeout of audacious intimacy. April 30, 4 p.m., Clay; May 2, 9:15 p.m., Clay; May 3, 6 p.m., Kabuki. (Harvey)

Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno (Serge Bromberg and Ruxandra Medrea, France, 2009) A painstaking craftsman who left nothing to chance, French suspense master Clouzot (1955’s Diabolique, 1953’s The Wages of Fear) decided to push his own envelope a little in 1964. He cast Serge Reggiani as a resort innkeeper who becomes pathologically, paranoically possessive of his gorgeous wife (Romy Schneider). Convincing himself she’s having an affair, he gradually snaps tether — and the film itself would reflect that downward spiral by increasingly illustrating his mental stage in distortive image and sound. Unfortunately, the project also drove Clouzot mad in a way, as his grapplings at a new filmic language ran counter to the kind of creative discipline that normally storyboarded everything within an inch of its life. Shooting endless footage, spending endless money, he finally admitted defeat and abandoned ship. Never completed, the film’s surviving pieces were restored for this absorbing unmaking-of documentary — even if the original clips, daring then but now looking like psychedelic kitsch, suggest Inferno would likely have been no masterpiece but a fascinating, instantly-dated failure. May 2, 1:45 p.m., Kabuki; May 5, 6:15 p.m., Kabuki. (Harvey)

Presumed Guilty (Roberto Hernández and Geoffrey Smith, Mexico, 2009) A fan of true crime TV programming, I all but take for granted that little coda at the end of each episode reminding viewers that the suspects shown are innocent until proven guilty. I sometimes forget that such rights are not the case in all countries, such as in Mexico where the criminal justice system employs a reverse practice requiring the accused to prove themselves innocent. In Presumed Guilty, filmmakers, lawyers, and UC Berkeley students Roberto Hernández and Layda Negrete use rarely-seen, up-close footage of the Mexican trial process in their effort to exonerate a young Mexico City street vendor who is falsely accused of murder in 2005. The proceedings, which require the defendant to stand for hours on end and are performed sans jury, is riveting stuff for fans of those A&E true crime shows and is sure to ruffle the feathers of a few sympathetic humanitarians. May 2, 3:30 p.m., Kabuki; May 3, 6:30 p.m., PFA; May 6, 3:15 p.m., Kabuki. (Peter Galvin)

Lebanon (Samuel Maoz, Israel, 2009) “Das Boot in a tank” has been the thumbnail summary of writer-director Samuel Maoz’s film in its festival travels to date, during which it’s picked up various prizes including a Venice Golden Lion. On the first day of Israel’s 1982 invasion (which Maoz fought in), an Israeli army tank with a crew of three fairly green 20-somethings — soon joined by a fourth with even less battle experience — crosses the border, enters a city already halfway reduced to rubble, and promptly gets its inhabitants in the worst possible fix, stranded without backup. Highly visceral and, needless to say, claustrophobic (there are almost no exterior shots), Lebanon may for some echo The Hurt Locker (2009) in its intense focus on physical peril. It also echoes that film’s lack of equally gripping character development. But taken on its own willfully narrow terms, this is a potent exercise in squirmy combat you-are-thereness. May 2, 9 p.m., Kabuki; May 5, 9:30 p.m., Kabuki. (Harvey)

The Day God Walked Away (Philippe van Leeuw, France/Belgium, 2009) Director Philippe Van Leeuw states in the press materials that he made The Day God Walked Away in an attempt to understand how the assassins of the 1994 Rwandan genocide could do what they did and how others could stand by and watch. I walked away from Day with a better understanding of what might draw a person to choose defeatism over an unlikely survival. The film opens as a Tutsi housekeeper (Ruth Nirere) finds herself trapped in her Belgian employers’ house, fearing for her children and surrounded by gun-toting murderers. Light on scripted dialogue and featuring local actors, van Leeuw’s nonintrusive filming lends the film an authentic atmosphere that can be slow but is never boring. In lensing the film’s horrific scenes in a simple and matter-of-fact fashion, he eerily replicates the emotional separation that survivors of the massacre were forced to adopt in order to live. May 3, 6:45 p.m., Clay; May 4, 4 p.m., Kabuki; May 5, 4:15 p.m., Kabuki. (Galvin)

The Practice of the Wild (John J. Healey, USA, 2009) “The way I want to use ‘nature’ is to refer to the whole of the physical universe,” explains the poet Gary Snyder in John J. Healy’s succinct but penetrating documentary on the octogenarian poet, essayist, and environmental activist. Snyder’s expansive definition conjoins the two areas to which he has devoted his life and creative practice to better being at peace with: the terrestrial and the existential. Healey provides the back story — covering Snyder’s farmstead childhood, his discovery of his love for the outdoors, his association with the Beats and later immersion in Zen Buddhism, and his two marriages — told in part through the obligatory scan-and-pan photography and contextual talking heads. The film’s highpoints, however, are the many lively conversations Snyder engages in with his friend and fellow writer Jim Harrison, whose grizzled countenance and chirpy demeanor make him a character in his own right. May 3, 6:45 p.m., Kabuki; May 5, 1:30 p.m., Kabuki. (Sussman)

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg, USA, 2010) Whether you’re a fan of its subject or not, Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg’s documentary is an absorbing look at the business of entertainment, a demanding treadmill that fame doesn’t really make any easier. At 75, comedian Rivers has four decades in the spotlight behind her. Yet despite a high Q rating she finds it difficult to get the top-ranked gigs, no matter that as a workaholic who’ll take anything she could scarcely be more available. Funny onstage (and a lot ruder than on TV), she’s very, very focused off-, dismissive of being called a “trailblazer” when she’s still actively competing with those whose women comics trail she blazed for today’s hot TV guest spot or whatever. Anyone seeking a thorough career overview will have to look elsewhere; this vérité year-in-the-life portrait is, like the lady herself, entertainingly and quite fiercely focused on the here-and-now. May 6, 7 p.m., Castro. (Harvey)

THE 53RD SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL runs April 22–May 6 at Sundance Kabuki Cinemas, 1881 Post, SF; Clay Theatre, 2261 Fillmore, SF; Castro Theatre, 429 Castro, SF; and the Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, SF. Tickets (most shows $12.50) are available by calling (925) 866-9559 or by visiting www.sffs.org>.

Bring it back?

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 20, 2010

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UPDATE: Oh dear, the Talvin Singh show’s been cancelled. More Volcano fallout? Hopefully he’ll be back soon, tablas in hand.

superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO One thing I’ve noticed recently, with equal parts pleasure and mind-warping “oh jeez”-ness, has been the unashamed use of the terms electronica and trip-hop in party promotions. I know we’re in a moment of total 1990s nostalgia — and, yikes, rap-rock was the byword at Coachella, according to the New York Times — but can we finally chuff off the wallpaper blahs of these musty genres and renew them? This week sees a plethora of well-known older acts like Talvin Singh, Bonobo, Signal Path, and Bluetech coming to town — all with live instrumentation. Maybe the moment to reshine has arrived, live? Ping me when DJ Shadow steps up with the Dap-Kings or Boards of Canada melts into Mastodon. Or Owl City grows some Orbs.

TALVIN SINGH

It’ll be tablatastic when the British legend, who laced drum and bass with acoustic Asian-flavored classical effects (and took Indian dance music out of the bhangra and into the digital) with seminal album OK in 1998, brings his live act to town. Yes, he’s calling his sound tablatronica, and, yes, he has invented an electronic instrument called the Tablatronic. The future is here again. Tabla!

Wed/21, 8 p.m., $25. Bimbo’s 365 Club, 1025 Columbus, SF. www.bimbos365club.com

SIGNAL PATH

Montana — known for its live electronic musicians? For the past decade and change, Missoula duo Signal Path have been representing with a bop-worthy blend of live instrumentation and “computer-generated production.” (Think all kinds of wired hijinks plus live drums and guitar.) The effect is surprisingly free of pretension, almost jam-bandish, but without all that twirling patchouli. They’ll be joined by energetic SF groovers MO2 — no relation to Montana.

Thu/22, 9 p.m., $10. Boom Boom Room, 1601 Fillmore, SF. www.boomboomblues.com

BLOODY BEETROOTS

One thing about the last decade’s electro-filter explosion — the music may not survive, but future anthropologists will forever be puzzled by the profusion of masked DJs. Italian duo Bloody Beetroots are among the few big names standing in terms of ear-splitting squelch and spangle (and their original Bizarro Spider Man masks are still de rigueur), perhaps by expanding their onslaught to include quiet moments of finely sculpted beauty — and a live drummer. Plus, they quote Baudelaire on the MySpace.

Thu/22, 9 p.m., $20. The Independent, 628 Divisadero, SF. www.theindependentsf.com

BONOBO

I’ve seen trip-hopper Bonobo several times in his DJ guise, and while he pushes all the right sonic buttons for a toke-tastic night of bass-heavy sway, it always seemed his mind was more on mental trips than dance-floor hips. On new album Black Sands, he’s added live horns, strings, vocals, and percussion that allow his more cerebral compositions to take on fuller force and rumble. He’ll hit Mezzanine with the whole works.

Fri/23, 9 p.m., $25. Mezzanine, 444 Jessie, SF. www.blasthaus.com

SATORI SOCIAL

Set on expanding his musical palette beyond mere laptopping, Hawaii’s ambient wizard Bluetech has gone live with his new band Satori Social, adding a vocals, flute, horns, and percussion to his mellow glitching. Can a Burner-heavy crowd vibe on a little jazzy soul and reggae-ish sunshine? Whatever the answer, the question-wrestling should be a joy to watch and hear. Contempo Brit dubber Ott and hometown acid-crunky an-ten-nae open up.

Fri/23, 10 p.m.- 4 a.m., $15. 103 Harriet, SF. www.1015.com

A+D

Oh dear and good goddess, they’re back. DJs Adrian and the Mysterious D are two of our finest exports, delivering genre-defying bootlegs and monster mashups to needy hordes from Budapest to Hong Kong. They’re back from roving the world on a giant tour to helm once again their little famous party, Bootie, here at home. Will they be bringing back any Finnish death rock to pervert?

Sat/24, 9 p.m., $12. DNA Lounge, 375 11th St., SF. www.bootiesf.com

PRINCE KLASSEN

More striking disco re-edits on the scene, this time coming from Austin, Texas — and, oddly, from a member of the Fully Fitted crew that includes ho-hum hipster-electroids Amanda Blank and Pase Rock. Don’t let that scare you away. If you’re into warm, red classics made warmer and redder and no neon posing, Prince Klassen (not to be confused with Prince Language, the NYC re-edit master) can provide. Disco love is a drug.

Sat/24, 9 p.m.- 3 a.m., $5. Deco Lounge, 510 Larkin, SF. www.decosf.com *

Our Weekly Picks

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 20, 2010

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WEDNESDAY 21

EVENT/LIT

Yann Martel: Beatrice and Virgil

Yann Martel brought us The Life of Pi, an award-winning story about an Indian boy trapped on a life raft with a Bengal tiger in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. At www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca, Martel chronicles his vow to send a book every two weeks to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper to promote government arts funding. And now, Martel is back with Beatrice and Virgil, another folkloric tale. It’s about a writer working on a novel about the Holocaust, and it’s also the story of a donkey named Beatrice and a howler monkey named Virgil whose epic journey begins only after fate places them in a taxidermy shop run by an intriguing man. (Paula Connelly)

In conversation with Laura Fraser

7:30 p.m., $15 (21 and over)

Sundance Kabuki Theater

1181 Post, SF

www.booksmith.com

THURSDAY 22

MUSIC

Blank Dogs

It’s impossible to keep up with what Blank Dogs frontman Mike Sniper is up to at any given moment. In addition to being a tad shy — as evidenced by his wearing a mask or blanket to performances and publicity photo shoots — the Brooklyn native is also so prolific that he probably has another limited distribution EP or 7-inch scheduled for release by the end of this sentence. His brand of lo-fi new-wave is noisy and discordant, but ever familiar, like New Order or OMD heard through a tunnel with a blender running in the background. Sniper is emerging from his East Coast bedroom for a show at Eagle Tavern, and though his persona might not be the mystery it once was, his unique perversion of post-punk is always promisingly puzzling. (Peter Galvin)

With Bare Wires, Fresh and Onlys, Cosmetics

9 p.m., call for price

Eagle Tavern

398 12th St. , SF

(415) 626-0880

www.sfeagle.com

DINE

Wine Enthusiast’s Talk of the Town 2010

More than 500 varieties of wine and spirits — along with food from 30 great Bay Area restaurants — are on the menu for sampling at Wine Enthusiast’s Toast of the Town 2010, a classy affair taking place in the historic environs of the beautiful War Memorial Opera House. Live jazz provides the soundtrack for the evening’s indulgences, which benefit the San Francisco Food Bank, the venerable organization that needs a little help of its own right now to help people in our community. Raise a glass (or several) and know that this night of fun will also help to make someone’s day tomorrow when they sit down for a much-needed meal. (Sean McCourt)

7 p.m., $89 ($169 for 5 p.m. VIP tasting)

War Memorial Opera House

301 Van Ness, SF.

www.wineenthusiast.com

1-800-847-5949

MUSIC

Jrod Indigo

Jrod Indigo inspires comparisons to Michael Jackson, Robin Thicke, and Prince. Born in Chicago, raised in Atlanta, having spent some time in Seattle and now in the Bay Area, Jrod possesses musical versatility. He’s a polished songwriter who prefers to play with a live band. Layered harmonies, vintage synths, funky guitar riffs, and deeply-rooted soul incorporate different elements from the music of the cities where he has lived. He’s performed with Amel Larrieux, Martin Luther, Crown City Rockers, and others. Tonight he’s the headliner. (Lilan Kane)

With the Whooligan, Femi

9:30pm, $7

Coda Lounge

1710 Mission, SF

(415) 551-2632

www.codalive.com

MUSIC

Chicha Libre

Drink enough mugs of chicha, and you’ll get lifted like the ancients. The fermented corn drink has been imbibed since before the conquistadors launched their grand tour of bummer, and still plays a central role in the lives of indigenous Peruvians. Gets you all drunk and stuff. This age-old psychedelia inspires the chaps of Chicha Libre, a South American surf band that adds classic pop sounds from 1970s AM radio, sun-drenched Beach Boys guitar melodies, and a little cumbia shake to the Amazonian rhythms of their ancestors. Raise a glass. (Caitlin Donohue)

With the Cuban Cowboys, DJ Juan Data

8 p.m., $9.99

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(425) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com

FRIDAY 23

SPORTS

Harlem Globetrotters

They’re the only professional basketball team to play an entire game on ice skates (and ice, in Central Park) or go for an 8,000-game win streak: If you haven’t seen the Harlem Globetrotters do their thing, you’re missing out on the greatest American sports kitsch. From the get they’ve been showboaters — they actually got their start as a traveling team in Chicago, but dubbed themselves Harlem because it sounded more exotic. We forgive them because they can make half-court shots, have the most kick ass of theme songs, dribble like the devil, and clown on David Duchovny when he sits courtside. (Donohue)

7 p.m., $21–$109

Cow Palace

2600 Geneva, Daly City

(415) 404-4111

www.harlemglobetrotters.com

MUSIC

Around Amoeba in 180 Minutes with DJ Bearzbub

Amoeba is a colossal beast of a record store. With rows upon rows of vinyl, CDs, posters, and listening stations, it’s hard not to look for a specific record and leave with 10 other things. The infinite sound in the place can suck you in for hours. Today, however, DJ Bearzbub is your guide. He’ll show you what the store has to offer within a three-hour timespan. (Elise-Marie Brown)

6 p.m., free

Amoeba Music

1855 Haight, SF

(415) 831-1200

www.amoeba.com

DANCE

National Dance Week

National Dance Week is a kind of spring madness of lessons, mini-performances, workshop showings and rehearsal watching in SF, the North, South and East Bay. All of it is free. You won’t be able to take in all of the four hundred-plus offerings, but you can enjoy it today. Noon is kick-off time at Union Square with over a dozen showcases and — new this year — the first annual “One Dance” flash-mob event. Look out for solo dancer Fawole and musicians popping up throughout the city, and mini shows from a new generation of dancers at the Richmond District YMCA in the late afternoon. You can see Robert Moses at work. Or, in the evening, you can take a class in Afro-Cuban, Hula Hoop, Tango, Go Go Style, World Fusion or West Coast Swing. For details, go online or pick up a brochure at dance studios and selected coffee shops. (Felciano)

Noon (through May 2), free

Union Square, SF

(415)920-9181

www.bayareandw.org

MUSIC

J Rocc

In 1992, Stones Throw mainstay DH J Rocc founded the World Famous Beat Junkies with Melo-D and Rhettmatic. Since then, he’s been a dominating force in turntablism, releasing several mixtapes and producing different Stones Throw releases. He’s been a reliable force within Madlib’s live shows, and worked with Madlib again on Beat Konducta Vol. 5-6: A Tribute to J Dilla. He’s currently putting together a solo album, and this show should offer a taste. (Kane)

With DJ Apollo

10 p.m., $8–$10

Mighty

119 Utah

(415) 626-7001

www.mighty119.com

MUSIC

Bonobo

Since the success of his third album, 2006’s Days to Come, Bonobo — a.k.a. Simon Green — has refined his impressive sound. The evidence is on his latest effort, Black Sands. The combination of live instrumental arrangements and complex digital sounds in his work can be extraordinary. (A tip: if you want a taste of Bonobo’s live set but don’t have the $22 to get into Mezzanine, trek to the Haight and catch an earful at Amoeba Music at 5 p.m.) (Brown)

With Yppah and Mofnono

Mezzanine

444 Jessie, SF

(415) 625-8880

www.mezzaninesf.com

SATURDAY 24

THEATER

Tartuffe

Seems like lately, everything old is new again on the Bay Area theater scene. Current or recent local productions have updated The Diary of Anne Frank, Lysistrata, and The Seagull. San Francisco’s up-and-coming Generation Theatre isn’t aiming to alter to content of Molière’s classic comedy Tartuffe, as other productions have before (there’ve been versions that cast the main character as a televangelist, reset the action in India or during the Harlem Renaissance, and paid homage to the TV show Dallas.) Instead, Generation’s new translation by director Roland David Valayre arranges the play’s lines in alexandrine verse — which is to say, the 12-syllable format in which it was originally written. “Twelve-foot long laughter” is promised. (Cheryl Eddy)

8 p.m. (through May 16), $20–$25

Studio 205 at Off-Market Theater

965 Mission, SF

(415) 377-5882

www.generationtheatre.com

SUNDAY 25

COMEDY

Aqua Teen Hunger Force Live

Two of the more bizarrely brilliant and hilarious shows that appear on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim, Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Squidbillies, come to life tonight. As part of a national tour, ATHF cocreator Dave Willis (voice actor for characters including Meatwad and Carl) is joined by Dana Snyder, who voices Master Shake and Granny Cuyler. Expect zany script readings, screenings of clips, music, and more at an event that should be more exciting than drinking pine cone liquor and selling a house that oozes blood to Glenn Danzig. (McCourt)

8 p.m., $25

Regency Ballroom

1290 Sutter, SF

(800) 745-3000

www.theregencyballroom.com

www.aquateenlive.com

MONDAY 26

MUSIC

Audra MacDonald with the SF Symphony

After you win four Tony awards, you can pretty much do what you want when it comes to musical theater. Audra McDonald neatly illustrates the point. One of only three actresses to accomplish the triple Tony feat, the soprano has graduated from roles in Broadway productions like A Raisin in the Sun, Carousel, and Ragtime to solo performances backed by some of the greatest musical ensembles in the country. In this SF Symphony performance, McDonald takes on her favorite show tunes, as well as a few ditties written especially for her. When you’re this good — did we mention she has two Grammies stashed away? — people will compose music in the hopes you’ll sing it. (Donohue)

8 p.m., $15–$105

Davies Symphony Hall

201 Van Ness, SF

(415) 864-6000

www.sfsymphony.org

TUESDAY 27

EVENT

A Fresh Look: Observations on Artistic and Social Practices in Urban Farming

Mmmmm. If there’s any benefit of living in San Francisco, it’s the array of delicious food sold at the multiple farmers’markets throughout the city. But selling pesticide-free produce isn’t the only way to encourage sustainable farming. The San Francisco Art Institute is working to address the proper social practices of urban farming by launching a new underground market. Along with live music and a panel discussion, delicious treats will be sold: think homemade cookies, raw chocolate, quiche, marmalades and kombucha. (Brown)

4 p.m., free

San Francisco Art Institute

800 Chestnut, SF

(415) 771-7020

www.sfai.com

MUSIC

Liars

Liars has spent the better part of a decade refining a terrifyingly bestial art-metal, and its fifth album Sisterworld is the culmination of years spent concocting an unusual formula of chant-like vocals, ambient noise and sudden outbursts of sound. Whether anyone’s listening or not, the group is immensely proud of its weirdness — they reinforce high-concept songs about murder and witchcraft with just the right amount of traditional songwriting to draw in the unsuspecting. After all, if there wasn’t a good deal of brilliance behind that eerie atmosphere and brutal bluster, it’d just be another Tuesday night goth show. (Galvin)

With Fol Chen

8:30 p.m., $15

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255 0333

www.slims-sf.com

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Crime Bomb

Zelda Bronstein

-

April 20, 2010

1

Editors note: This story was originally published May 31, 2001.

They found Virginia Lowery lying in the garage of her Excelsior home, an electrical cord around her throat, an ice pick jammed through her skull — in one ear and out the other. For the next 11 years San Francisco homicide detectives made no progress on the case. Promising leads turned into dead ends. Theories collapsed. The cops assigned to the case retired. It looked like Lowery’s 1987 slaying would never be solved.

Then in April 1998, by pure chance, police found Robert C. Nawi. Or rather, they found his fingertips.

When Nawi, a 57-year-old carpenter, got in a shouting match in a North Beach watering hole, he was picked up by the cops on misdemeanor charges and shuttled to county jail, where he was fingerprinted and booked. The computer spat out some interesting news: Nawi’s digits, according to the database, resembled a fingerprint found at the scene of Lowery’s slaying.

Soon thereafter, police evidence analyst Wendy Chong made a positive print match, and the new suspect found himself facing murder charges and life in a cage.

Nawi’s fate, to be decided at trial next year, rests largely on police readings of his fingerprints, as well as some DNA gathered by the coroner. Which raises some questions: How, exactly, did the cops and their computers analyze the evidence? Did they get it right? Is anybody checking their work?

Making a match between the distinguishing ridges and whorls, often microscopic, of two fresh fingerprints is a relatively simple task for a print expert. However, cases like Nawi’s aren’t so clear-cut: the print collected in Lowery’s garage is faint, smudged, and missing in patches.

Michael Burt, the resident forensicscience guru at the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office, shows me an 8-by-10-inch enlargement of the print discovered at the murder scene; it’s blurry, grainy, and only about 60 percent complete. To my layperson’s eye, it bears little resemblance to the clear, fresh mark left by Nawi at his booking. “The one print is so washed out you can’t see anything,” says Burt, who is representing Nawi. “This is not science at all; it’s subjective and shouldn’t be allowed.”

Burt, a 22-year veteran defense lawyer known around the Hall of Justice for his trademark cart full of documents, has plenty of cause to doubt the cops’ evidence. Despite what you may have seen on Law and Order, fingerprint examiners can — and often do — get it wrong. Last year 141 of America’s top forensic labs were tested to see if they could accurately match two fingerprints: 39 percent failed; 11 labs made false IDs. San Francisco analysts are rarely, if ever, graded for accuracy.

Jim Norris, head of the San Francisco Police Department’s forensics division, argues that new computer imaging tools are making it possible to match even sketchy, partial prints. “When somebody shows a print that was originally collected at the crime scene, and it looks very difficult to deal with, what they’re not looking at is the image that has been [digitally] enhanced,” Norris explains. “It’s a lot easier to deal with.” Norris admits that the department has seldom tested its print examiners for accuracy, but he says their work is constantly checked by superiors.

According to Burt, in this particular instance analysts didn’t turn to computers but simply enlarged the prints before making the call. The district attorney’s DNA evidence against Nawi is equally flawed, he says. When coroner Boyd Stephens autopsied the corpse, he — per routine — snipped the woman’s fingernails with a household nail clipper and stuck them in an envelope. Unrefrigerated, the clippings slowly rotted for more than a decade, until, in the wake of Nawi’s arrest, prosecutor John Farrell had them tested for DNA.

When the crime lab got the evidence, in 1998, DNA analyst Alan Keel scraped all 10 nails with a single cotton swab, combined the scrapings into one tiny pile, and dropped them into a genetic-typing device. According to standard forensic procedure, each nail should’ve been swabbed and tested separately.

Now, Burt contends, the sample has deteriorated because of a lack of refrigeration and has been contaminated with the DNA of more than one person. “[Keel] says there are three, possibly four different individuals underneath her fingernails,” the lawyer says. “He’s trying to grab my client out of that mixture. There’s no scientific way to do that.”

Norris disagrees: “There are ways to deal with [DNA] mixtures; it’s not a common problem luckily, but it’s something that comes up — for example, in rape cases where there are multiple assailants. There are ways to deal with it.”

I run down the scenario for Dr. Simon Ford, a Ph.D. biochemist and DNA expert who heads up San Francisco–based Lexigen Science and Law Consultants. “That’s not good,” Ford tells me. “You should deal with each hand separately, at least, and probably each nail separately. I don’t think combining all the nails together is a good idea.”

The dispassionate examination of crime scene evidence — narcotics, fingerprints, hair and fibers, genetic material, firearms, and everything else — is a cornerstone of the American justice system. The work, which can mean the difference between life and death for a suspect, is carried out by more than 500 labs nationwide, most of them run by law enforcement agencies.

In the public imagination — as shaped by endless cops-and-lawyers TV shows — forensic science is a perfectly impartial arbiter of justice. Eyewitnesses get confused. Police may be corrupt. Lawyers can corkscrew facts. Juries, not always composed of the brightest lights, can be swayed by mob dynamics. But science doesn’t lie. If the analyst says the bullet came from the suspect’s gun, then it must have.

It’s a comforting thought.

There’s just one problem: All forensic science is performed by humans, and all people make blunders. They mislabel samples. They use malfunctioning equipment. They inadvertently drop a flake of skin in a vial of blood, thus adding their own DNA to the sample.

Subjectivity, too, plays a starring role in forensic science, much of which depends on human-made comparisons. In one case heard last year by San Francisco Superior Court Judge Robert Dondero, two DNA experts couldn’t agree on the meaning of a genetic sample.

In addition to honest mistakes born of incompetence and overwork, there are continuously uncovered examples of fraud: the lab analyst, believing that the verdict justifies the means, willing to lie on the stand or fake test results. While the scientific question of DNA accuracy has been hashed out extensively in court rooms and the media, the issue of police crime lab accuracy has gone ignored, both by press and government regulators.

Each year California cops make 1.5 million arrests. Each of the state’s 19 local crime labs — run by sheriffs, prosecutors, and cops — performs thousands of analyses annually. Each of those tests, if faulty, could put an innocent person behind bars, or set a guilty soul free.

And in the wild world of forensics there are precious few safeguards against human bias and error: Crime labs are almost entirely unregulated. There are virtually no federal laws governing their operation; no law that says, “Bullet comparisons must be done using the best, most accurate techniques”; no law that says, “DNA examiners must meet these basic educational criteria”; no requirement that crime labs be audited and inspected. In California only DUI-<\h>testing procedures are regulated by state law.

“There’s more regulation in whether some clinical lab can give a test for strep throat than there is on whether you can use a test to put somebody in the gas chamber,” public defender Burt says. “That to me seems backwards. The stakes are the highest in the criminal justice system. These people are deciding who lives or dies.”

The ramifications spread beyond individual cases. While billions of dollars have been poured into police departments and prisons over the past two decades, pols and badge wearers have shown little interest in adequately funding or regulating crime labs. California’s facilities need hundreds of millions of dollars in repairs and equipment upgrades. The idea of public oversight is off the radar entirely.

The nonprofit American Society of Crime Laboratory Directors (ASCLD) is the closest thing forensics has to a regulatory agency. Created in the early 1970s to “improve the quality of laboratory services provided to the criminal justice system,” the group runs a voluntary accreditation program for forensic facilities. To get the society’s stamp of approval, a facility must pass a 149-point inspection. (Sample question: “Are the procedures used generally accepted in the field or supported by data gathered in a scientific manner?”) To maintain the certification, a lab must be tested annually and be reinspected every five years.

Of the approximately 500 labs in the United States, a mere 187 are accredited by the ASCLD. Only 11 of California’s 19 local crime labs have the group’s seal of approval. The San Francisco police facility isn’t one of them. Neither is the Contra Costa sheriff’s lab. Nor the San Mateo sheriff’s forensic unit.

“Got dope?” asks the white-coated woman who opens the locked door to the SFPD crime lab. She’s expecting cops bearing drug-filled baggies, to be weighed and tested and filed away until the courtroom beckons. Crime lab chief Martha “Marty” Blake steps out of her windowless office to greet me.

A few months back, Blake and her 18-person team traded overstuffed quarters in the city’s central cop shop at Eighth Street and Bryant for expansive new $1.5 million digs out in the asphalt wastes of the Hunters Point shipyard. “I’m getting ready to apply for accreditation, hopefully by next spring,” she says, pointing to a file cabinet emblazoned with the ASCLD seal. “We couldn’t get accredited in that facility when we were downtown at the Hall of Justice. It was too cramped. There was no way we could guarantee there would never be any chance for any contamination of the evidence when we had four people crammed into a little room trying to look at clothing, for example.”

Blake’s operation has taken its lumps over the years. In 1994 analyst Allison Lancaster was canned after she was videotaped faking drug tests. Last year Superior Court Judge Dondero slammed the lab’s lead DNA expert for “engaging in shortcuts,” “performing missteps,” and harboring a questionable “degree of bias” against defendants. Defense lawyers like Burt continue to hammer the lab for its lack of credentials.

With her eyeglasses and graying hair Blake looks more like a schoolteacher than a cop. She pulls a xeroxed sheet of paper out of a drawer and eagerly places it in front of me. “We just switched to a new case review process. This is the sort of thing we have to implement for accreditation. Every case we produce has to go through a review by a supervisor,” she explains. “This wasn’t happening before; a review happened before, but you’d just glance over [the work] and say, ‘Hmm, looks good to me,’ and initial it. It was sort of lightweight.” Bolstered by an increased budget and a growing staff, the lab’s procedures are improving across the board, according to Blake.

Why should forensic labs, which can land someone on death row, go without government oversight? “I’d like to think we can do this ourselves,” Blake replies, noting that the state’s management of the DUI testing program has been less than stellar. “I’m a little nervous about other agencies getting involved in regulation,” she says, because they don’t “really know the science.”

Nationally, the accountability vacuum is producing a steady stream of scandals, raising unsettling questions about the way we administer justice in this locked-down nation. A small sampling:
• Let’s start with the trial of the century, wherein O.J.’s defense team put the forensic bunglings of the Los Angeles Police Department on display for “unacceptable sloppiness,” pointing out a dozen major instances of possible evidence contamination. After losing the Simpson trial, the lab promptly began a thorough overhaul.
• In 1993 the West Virginia Supreme Court found a police blood expert guilty of fabricating or misrepresenting evidence in a staggering 134 cases. The man, one Fred Zain — employed by the state cops during the 1980s — was put on trial for perjury, while the state freed several unjustly imprisoned death row inmates and paid out millions to people who had been wrongfully convicted. Bexar County, Texas, where Zain worked in the early ’90s, also prosecuted him for perjury.
• A few years later, in 1997, the reputation of the Federal Bureau of Investigation crime lab — at the time widely regarded as the pinnacle of forensic science — was shredded by the allegations of a whistle-blowing scientist. The bureau’s lab practiced shoddy science and regularly presented inaccurate, pro-prosecution testimony, charged Dr. Frederic Whitehurst, one of the agency’s top explosives experts. The FBI denied the allegations and tried to discredit Whitehurst, but a scathing 517-page report by the Justice Department’s inspector general corroborated many of the scientist’s major claims and recommended disciplinary action against five agents.

• An April 1997 front-page story in the Wall Street Journal brought more unflattering publicity to the FBI lab, scrutinizing the track record of agent Michael Malone, a hair and fiber analyst. The paper quoted three well-known forensic scientists who challenged Malone’s analyses (one labeled him a “fraud”), illustrated numerous cases where the agent seemed to be fudging the evidence — and noted that courts were busy overturning convictions obtained with his testimony. “The guy’s a total liar,” one defense lawyer told the Wall Street Journal.
• In 1998 San Diego jurors convicted a top county police DNA expert of embezzling $8,100 in cash seized as evidence in murder cases. That same year the San Diego Police Department embarked on a 10-month internal investigation into charges of sloppy work and missing evidence at its crime lab, and it admitted that it had lost crucial evidence in an unsolved homicide case.
• Last year a crime lab chemist in Prince George’s County, Md., claimed that the police department was using improperly calibrated drug analysis equipment. Defense lawyers promptly challenged some 100 pending drug cases.

California is one of the few states that has actually scoped the inner workings of its local crime labs. The results of that onetime review, performed in 1998 by the state auditor’s office, are disturbing. Quality control was lacking at most of the facilities. Many of the labs were using “outdated and improperly working equipment.” As in San Francisco, many didn’t make their scientists undergo regular proficiency testing.

Without quality assurance measures — minimal at 13 of the 19 labs — the potential for error shoots through the roof. California auditor Elaine Howel says the study raised serious questions. “There are several issues,” she says. “Is the evidence being handled appropriately so there’s no potential for contamination?” Labs, according to Howel, should “make sure they are consistently applying the methodology so one forensic examiner isn’t using one technique and someone is using a different technique to conduct the same type of testing. That ties back to the credibility of the results.”

Ten of the outfits were relying on “outmoded” technology that needed replacement. At the Huntington Beach Police Department lab, staffers worked up a Rube Goldberg–<\d>esque scheme to revive a broken arson analysis gadget. Sort of. “Because the laboratory does not have the funds to replace this equipment, staff found a creative way to cool the [machine] using hoses rigged to a faucet,” auditors found. But, they noted, “this method could negatively affect the analysis of the evidence processed by this instrument.”

Then there was the question of whether the analysts themselves were up to par. “We think forensic examiners need to be tested every year to make sure they’re maintaining competence in their ability to perform the forensic examinations they’re doing,” Howel tells me. Eight of the labs had no proficiency testing for their staffers.

“It helped us put our operation in perspective to the rest of the state,” says S.F. lab chief Blake, who thinks the audit was fair. “We did look like we were swamped. It helped us get our additional staff.”

Whitehurst, the former top explosives expert at the FBI, doesn’t like the term ‘whistle-blower.’ “We’re simply scientists, and we disagree with the type of science that’s being practiced — because it’s not science,” he told me. “Our forensic labs are dictating truth; they’re not discovering it.” Whitehurst says he constantly hears from irate crime lab scientists claiming their operations are riddled with improprieties.

The Ph.D. chemist spent eight years at the bureau combing the rubble of bomb blasts for clues. And complaining. During his tenure with the bureau, he made 237 written complaints concerning what he saw as a pattern of bunk science and bogus testimony on the part of his colleagues. The charges spurred an 18-month probe by the Justice Department, the phone-book-size results of which were made public in 1997, undoubtedly marking one of the FBI’s worst public embarrassments.

The special-inspection team, an international panel of renowned forensic scientists, had few kind words for the lab, finding “significant instances of testimonial errors, substandard analytical work, and deficient practices” in numerous investigations, including the Unabomber, Oklahoma City, and World Trade Center bombings. Among the skeletons in the bureau’s closet: “scientifically flawed reports”; examiners devoid of the “requisite scientific qualifications”; and five agents who couldn’t be trusted.

Whitehurst’s experiences have led him to believe that crime labs should be overseen by federal or state authorities, rather than by ASCLD and its voluntary certification program. “It’s a foregone conclusion; there’s no question in my mind in five years forensic labs will be regulated, and they will be audited,” said Whitehurst, who now lives in Bethel, N.C., and acts as an expert witness in criminal trials. “There’s too much discovery happening.”

Lab directors argue that their work is constantly reviewed by the courts — juries don’t have to believe a forensic expert; judges can overturn verdicts based on forensic evidence — making their profession among the most scrutinized.
Whitehurst disagrees, saying juries, defense lawyers, and judges are often baffled by the science presented to them. “Listen to this phrase: pyrolisis-gas chromatography/mass spectrometry,” he says. “Do you know what that is? Let’s try this one: fourier transform infrared spectrometry. I’ve got a doctorate in chemistry and a jurisdoctorate also. What I’m saying to you are completely foreign concepts. When I try to explain how a ultraviolet spectraphatometer works, or how a micro spectraphatometer works, just saying the words begins the glass-over of the eyes.”

The Alameda County Sheriff’s crime lab is housed in a two-story building in the foothills just off 150th Avenue in San Leandro. On the second floor, in a series of linoleum-tiled rooms connected by a cluttered hallway, the lab’s technicians scope the physical remnants of crime, putting bullets beneath microscopes, lifting latent fingerprints from knife handles, culling DNA strands from splattered blood.

Each year the operation, which analyzes evidence for most of the county’s police forces, handles some 200 “major” investigations, most of them murders and rapes. But drug cases (1,800 to 2,000) and DUIs (more than 4,700) make up the bulk of the work. There are only eight lab technicians to handle the massive load.

“Every analytical report has to be right on the mark,” said lab director Tony Sprague, who has worked at the facility for 30 years. “We have a huge responsibility to make sure all the results are accurate.”

Sprague guides me through the building, showing me a single lead particle, as magnified 10,000 times by a monstrous, $270,000 scanning electron microscope. Next door a white-<\h>coated technician sits glued to a conventional microscope, studying a handgun cartridge. Across the hall are the analysts’ personal workstations: on one of the wide-topped tables sit the innards of an auto; on another lie sheets of paper covered with boot prints.

Sprague is an amiable gearhead and explains in detail how each of the machines works. The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, an ovenlike slab of a machine, can detect the presence of gasoline or kerosene in air samples collected at the scene of a suspected arson fire. Another device uses infrared light to determine the chemical composition of a given substance — a bag of white powder for instance.

The lab’s ASCLD accreditation in June 1999 was a huge undertaking, according to Sprague. “It took us about two years [to get certified],” he says. “It was costly from the standpoint that you have to take dedicated staff time away from analytical work to get the paperwork done for the accreditation process. In our case we really didn’t change our ways of doing forensic science to meet accreditation standards. There was really no issue about doing things differently — the thing we had to do, we had to document all the policies, the procedures, all of our quality assurance records had to be brought up to a little bit higher level.”

Voluntary reviews by the nonprofit ASCLD are enough regulation for Sprague, who views government oversight as a losing proposition. “Some mandated federal program? I don’t know that that’s really the answer,” he says. “That would involve a huge bureaucracy. It would be a very difficult situation.”

Ralph Keaton, executive director of ASCLD’s accrediting board, agrees. “I think crime laboratories should have some kind of program to review the quality of the work being produced by the laboratory — and that’s the reason we came into existence,” he tells me via telephone from the organization’s headquarters in Garner, N.C. “It’s my opinion that no one can evaluate the type of work being done better than the actual practitioners of that discipline. Just like the oversight of the medical profession is best done by the doctors themselves.”

Speaking to me in his office library, Sprague tells me he is proud of the work his team does, proud to be acknowledged by his peers. But he admits to a certain frustration, saying that his lab is seriously short-staffed: “We’re about one-third the strength we should be at for what we’re doing.”

Crime Bomb

Zelda Bronstein

-

April 20, 2010

0

Editors note: This story was originally published in 2001.

They found Virginia Lowery lying in the garage of her Excelsior home, an electrical cord around her throat, an ice pick jammed through her skull — in one ear and out the other. For the next 11 years San Francisco homicide detectives made no progress on the case. Promising leads turned into dead ends. Theories collapsed. The cops assigned to the case retired. It looked like Lowery’s 1987 slaying would never be solved.
Then in April 1998, by pure chance, police found Robert C. Nawi. Or rather, they found his fingertips.
When Nawi, a 57-year-old carpenter, got in a shouting match in a North Beach watering hole, he was picked up by the cops on misdemeanor charges and shuttled to county jail, where he was fingerprinted and booked. The computer spat out some interesting news: Nawi’s digits, according to the database, resembled a fingerprint found at the scene of Lowery’s slaying.
Soon thereafter, police evidence analyst Wendy Chong made a positive print match, and the new suspect found himself facing murder charges and life in a cage.
Nawi’s fate, to be decided at trial next year, rests largely on police readings of his fingerprints, as well as some DNA gathered by the coroner. Which raises some questions: How, exactly, did the cops and their computers analyze the evidence? Did they get it right? Is anybody checking their work?

Making a match between the distinguishing ridges and whorls, often microscopic, of two fresh fingerprints is a relatively simple task for a print expert. However, cases like Nawi’s aren’t so clear-cut: the print collected in Lowery’s garage is faint, smudged, and missing in patches.
Michael Burt, the resident forensic-<\h>science guru at the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office, shows me an 8-by-10-inch enlargement of the print discovered at the murder scene; it’s blurry, grainy, and only about 60 percent complete. To my layperson’s eye, it bears little resemblance to the clear, fresh mark left by Nawi at his booking. “The one print is so washed out you can’t see anything,” says Burt, who is representing Nawi. “This is not science at all; it’s subjective and shouldn’t be allowed.”
Burt, a 22-year veteran defense lawyer known around the Hall of Justice for his trademark cart full of documents, has plenty of cause to doubt the cops’ evidence. Despite what you may have seen on Law and Order, fingerprint examiners can — and often do — get it wrong. Last year 141 of America’s top forensic labs were tested to see if they could accurately match two fingerprints: 39 percent failed; 11 labs made false IDs. San Francisco analysts are rarely, if ever, graded for accuracy.
Jim Norris, head of the San Francisco Police Department’s forensics division, argues that new computer imaging tools are making it possible to match even sketchy, partial prints. “When somebody shows a print that was originally collected at the crime scene, and it looks very difficult to deal with, what they’re not looking at is the image that has been [digitally] enhanced,” Norris explains. “It’s a lot easier to deal with.” Norris admits that the department has seldom tested its print examiners for accuracy, but he says their work is constantly checked by superiors.
According to Burt, in this particular instance analysts didn’t turn to computers but simply enlarged the prints before making the call. The district attorney’s DNA evidence against Nawi is equally flawed, he says. When coroner Boyd Stephens autopsied the corpse, he — per routine — snipped the woman’s fingernails with a household nail clipper and stuck them in an envelope. Unrefrigerated, the clippings slowly rotted for more than a decade, until, in the wake of Nawi’s arrest, prosecutor John Farrell had them tested for DNA.
When the crime lab got the evidence, in 1998, DNA analyst Alan Keel scraped all 10 nails with a single cotton swab, combined the scrapings into one tiny pile, and dropped them into a genetic-<\h>typing device. According to standard forensic procedure, each nail should’ve been swabbed and tested separately.
Now, Burt contends, the sample has deteriorated because of a lack of refrigeration and has been contaminated with the DNA of more than one person. “[Keel] says there are three, possibly four different individuals underneath her fingernails,” the lawyer says. “He’s trying to grab my client out of that mixture. There’s no scientific way to do that.”
Norris disagrees: “There are ways to deal with [DNA] mixtures; it’s not a common problem luckily, but it’s something that comes up — for example, in rape cases where there are multiple assailants. There are ways to deal with it.”
I run down the scenario for Dr. Simon Ford, a Ph.D. biochemist and DNA expert who heads up San Francisco–<\d>based Lexigen Science and Law Consultants. “That’s not good,” Ford tells me. “You should deal with each hand separately, at least, and probably each nail separately. I don’t think combining all the nails together is a good idea.”
Blinding them with science
The dispassionate examination of crime scene evidence — narcotics, fingerprints, hair and fibers, genetic material, firearms, and everything else — is a cornerstone of the American justice system. The work, which can mean the difference between life and death for a suspect, is carried out by more than 500 labs nationwide, most of them run by law enforcement agencies.
In the public imagination — as shaped by endless cops-and-<\h>lawyers TV shows — forensic science is a perfectly impartial arbiter of justice. Eyewitnesses get confused. Police may be corrupt. Lawyers can corkscrew facts. Juries, not always composed of the brightest lights, can be swayed by mob dynamics. But science doesn’t lie. If the analyst says the bullet came from the suspect’s gun, then it must have.
It’s a comforting thought.
There’s just one problem: All forensic science is performed by humans, and all people make blunders. They mislabel samples. They use malfunctioning equipment. They inadvertently drop a flake of skin in a vial of blood, thus adding their own DNA to the sample.
Subjectivity, too, plays a starring role in forensic science, much of which depends on human-<\h>made comparisons. In one case heard last year by San Francisco Superior Court Judge Robert Dondero, two DNA experts couldn’t agree on the meaning of a genetic sample.
In addition to honest mistakes born of incompetence and overwork, there are continuously uncovered examples of fraud: the lab analyst, believing that the verdict justifies the means, willing to lie on the stand or fake test results.
While the scientific question of DNA accuracy has been hashed out extensively in court rooms and the media, the issue of police crime lab accuracy has gone ignored, both by press and government regulators.
Each year California cops make 1.5 million arrests. Each of the state’s 19 local crime labs — run by sheriffs, prosecutors, and cops — performs thousands of analyses annually. Each of those tests, if faulty, could put an innocent person behind bars, or set a guilty soul free.
And in the wild world of forensics there are precious few safeguards against human bias and error: Crime labs are almost entirely unregulated. There are virtually no federal laws governing their operation; no law that says, “Bullet comparisons must be done using the best, most accurate techniques”; no law that says, “DNA examiners must meet these basic educational criteria”; no requirement that crime labs be audited and inspected. In California only DUI-<\h>testing procedures are regulated by state law.
“There’s more regulation in whether some clinical lab can give a test for strep throat than there is on whether you can use a test to put somebody in the gas chamber,” public defender Burt says. “That to me seems backwards. The stakes are the highest in the criminal justice system. These people are deciding who lives or dies.”
The ramifications spread beyond individual cases. While billions of dollars have been poured into police departments and prisons over the past two decades, pols and badge wearers have shown little interest in adequately funding or regulating crime labs. California’s facilities need hundreds of millions of dollars in repairs and equipment upgrades. The idea of public oversight is off the radar entirely.
The nonprofit American Society of Crime Laboratory Directors (ASCLD) is the closest thing forensics has to a regulatory agency. Created in the early 1970s to “improve the quality of laboratory services provided to the criminal justice system,” the group runs a voluntary accreditation program for forensic facilities. To get the society’s stamp of approval, a facility must pass a 149-point inspection. (Sample question: “Are the procedures used generally accepted in the field or supported by data gathered in a scientific manner?”) To maintain the certification, a lab must be tested annually and be reinspected every five years.
Of the approximately 500 labs in the United States, a mere 187 are accredited by the ASCLD. Only 11 of California’s 19 local crime labs have the group’s seal of approval. The San Francisco police facility isn’t one of them. Neither is the Contra Costa sheriff’s lab. Nor the San Mateo sheriff’s forensic unit.
Renewing the review process
“Got dope?” asks the white-<\h>coated woman who opens the locked door to the SFPD crime lab. She’s expecting cops bearing drug-filled baggies, to be weighed and tested and filed away until the courtroom beckons. Crime lab chief Martha “Marty” Blake steps out of her windowless office to greet me.
A few months back, Blake and her 18-person team traded overstuffed quarters in the city’s central cop shop at Eighth Street and Bryant for expansive new $1.5 million digs out in the asphalt wastes of the Hunters Point shipyard. “I’m getting ready to apply for accreditation, hopefully by next spring,” she says, pointing to a file cabinet emblazoned with the ASCLD seal. “We couldn’t get accredited in that facility when we were downtown at the Hall of Justice. It was too cramped. There was no way we could guarantee there would never be any chance for any contamination of the evidence when we had four people crammed into a little room trying to look at clothing, for example.”
Blake’s operation has taken its lumps over the years. In 1994 analyst Allison Lancaster was canned after she was videotaped faking drug tests. Last year Superior Court Judge Dondero slammed the lab’s lead DNA expert for “engaging in shortcuts,” “performing missteps,” and harboring a questionable “degree of bias” against defendants. Defense lawyers like Burt continue to hammer the lab for its lack of credentials.
With her eyeglasses and graying hair Blake looks more like a schoolteacher than a cop. She pulls a xeroxed sheet of paper out of a drawer and eagerly places it in front of me. “We just switched to a new case review process. This is the sort of thing we have to implement for accreditation. Every case we produce has to go through a review by a supervisor,” she explains. “This wasn’t happening before; a review happened before, but you’d just glance over [the work] and say, ‘Hmm, looks good to me,’ and initial it. It was sort of lightweight.” Bolstered by an increased budget and a growing staff, the lab’s procedures are improving across the board, according to Blake.
Why should forensic labs, which can land someone on death row, go without government oversight? “I’d like to think we can do this ourselves,” Blake replies, noting that the state’s management of the DUI testing program has been less than stellar. “I’m a little nervous about other agencies getting involved in regulation,” she says, because they don’t “really know the science.”
Beyond O.J.
Nationally, the accountability vacuum is producing a steady stream of scandals, raising unsettling questions about the way we administer justice in this locked-down nation. A small sampling:
• Let’s start with the trial of the century, wherein O.J.’s defense team put the forensic bunglings of the Los Angeles Police Department on display for “unacceptable sloppiness,” pointing out a dozen major instances of possible evidence contamination. After losing the Simpson trial, the lab promptly began a thorough overhaul.
• In 1993 the West Virginia Supreme Court found a police blood expert guilty of fabricating or misrepresenting evidence in a staggering 134 cases. The man, one Fred Zain — employed by the state cops during the 1980s — was put on trial for perjury, while the state freed several unjustly imprisoned death row inmates and paid out millions to people who had been wrongfully convicted. Bexar County, Texas, where Zain worked in the early ’90s, also prosecuted him for perjury.
• A few years later, in 1997, the reputation of the Federal Bureau of Investigation crime lab — at the time widely regarded as the pinnacle of forensic science — was shredded by the allegations of a whistle-<\h>blowing scientist. The bureau’s lab practiced shoddy science and regularly presented inaccurate, pro-<\h>prosecution testimony, charged Dr. Frederic Whitehurst, one of the agency’s top explosives experts. The FBI denied the allegations and tried to discredit Whitehurst, but a scathing 517-page report by the Justice Department’s inspector general corroborated many of the scientist’s major claims and recommended disciplinary action against five agents.
• An April 1997 front-page story in the Wall Street Journal brought more unflattering publicity to the FBI lab, scrutinizing the track record of agent Michael Malone, a hair and fiber analyst. The paper quoted three well-known forensic scientists who challenged Malone’s analyses (one labeled him a “fraud”), illustrated numerous cases where the agent seemed to be fudging the evidence — and noted that courts were busy overturning convictions obtained with his testimony. “The guy’s a total liar,” one defense lawyer told the Wall Street Journal.
• In 1998 San Diego jurors convicted a top county police DNA expert of embezzling $8,100 in cash seized as evidence in murder cases. That same year the San Diego Police Department embarked on a 10-month internal investigation into charges of sloppy work and missing evidence at its crime lab, and it admitted that it had lost crucial evidence in an unsolved homicide case.
• Last year a crime lab chemist in Prince George’s County, Md., claimed that the police department was using improperly calibrated drug analysis equipment. Defense lawyers promptly challenged some 100 pending drug cases.
Under the microscope
California is one of the few states that has actually scoped the inner workings of its local crime labs. The results of that onetime review, performed in 1998 by the state auditor’s office, are disturbing. Quality control was lacking at most of the facilities. Many of the labs were using “outdated and improperly working equipment.” As in San Francisco, many didn’t make their scientists undergo regular proficiency testing.
Without quality assurance measures — minimal at 13 of the 19 labs — the potential for error shoots through the roof. California auditor Elaine Howel says the study raised serious questions. “There are several issues,” she says. “Is the evidence being handled appropriately so there’s no potential for contamination?” Labs, according to Howel, should “make sure they are consistently applying the methodology so one forensic examiner isn’t using one technique and someone is using a different technique to conduct the same type of testing. That ties back to the credibility of the results.”
Ten of the outfits were relying on “outmoded” technology that needed replacement. At the Huntington Beach Police Department lab, staffers worked up a Rube Goldberg–<\d>esque scheme to revive a broken arson analysis gadget. Sort of. “Because the laboratory does not have the funds to replace this equipment, staff found a creative way to cool the [machine] using hoses rigged to a faucet,” auditors found. But, they noted, “this method could negatively affect the analysis of the evidence processed by this instrument.”
Then there was the question of whether the analysts themselves were up to par. “We think forensic examiners need to be tested every year to make sure they’re maintaining competence in their ability to perform the forensic examinations they’re doing,” Howel tells me. Eight of the labs had no proficiency testing for their staffers.
“It helped us put our operation in perspective to the rest of the state,” says S.F. lab chief Blake, who thinks the audit was fair. “We did look like we were swamped. It helped us get our additional staff.”
Busting the FBI
Whitehurst, the former top explosives expert at the FBI, doesn’t like the term ‘whistle-blower.’ “We’re simply scientists, and we disagree with the type of science that’s being practiced — because it’s not science,” he told me. “Our forensic labs are dictating truth; they’re not discovering it.” Whitehurst says he constantly hears from irate crime lab scientists claiming their operations are riddled with improprieties.
The Ph.D. chemist spent eight years at the bureau combing the rubble of bomb blasts for clues. And complaining. During his tenure with the bureau, he made 237 written complaints concerning what he saw as a pattern of bunk science and bogus testimony on the part of his colleagues. The charges spurred an 18-month probe by the Justice Department, the phone-book-<\h>size results of which were made public in 1997, undoubtedly marking one of the FBI’s worst public embarrassments.
The special-inspection team, an international panel of renowned forensic scientists, had few kind words for the lab, finding “significant instances of testimonial errors, substandard analytical work, and deficient practices” in numerous investigations, including the Unabomber, Oklahoma City, and World Trade Center bombings. Among the skeletons in the bureau’s closet: “scientifically flawed reports”; examiners devoid of the “requisite scientific qualifications”; and five agents who couldn’t be trusted.
Whitehurst’s experiences have led him to believe that crime labs should be overseen by federal or state authorities, rather than by ASCLD and its voluntary certification program. “It’s a foregone conclusion; there’s no question in my mind in five years forensic labs will be regulated, and they will be audited,” said Whitehurst, who now lives in Bethel, N.C., and acts as an expert witness in criminal trials. “There’s too much discovery happening.”
Lab directors argue that their work is constantly reviewed by the courts — juries don’t have to believe a forensic expert; judges can overturn verdicts based on forensic evidence — making their profession among the most scrutinized.
Whitehurst disagrees, saying juries, defense lawyers, and judges are often baffled by the science presented to them. “Listen to this phrase: pyrolisis-gas chromatography/mass spectrometry,” he says. “Do you know what that is? Let’s try this one: fourier transform infrared spectrometry. I’ve got a doctorate in chemistry and a jurisdoctorate also. What I’m saying to you are completely foreign concepts. When I try to explain how a ultraviolet spectraphatometer works, or how a micro spectraphatometer works, just saying the words begins the glass-over of the eyes.”
Understaffed in Alameda
The Alameda County Sheriff’s crime lab is housed in a two-<\h>story building in the foothills just off 150th Avenue in San Leandro. On the second floor, in a series of linoleum-<\h>tiled rooms connected by a cluttered hallway, the lab’s technicians scope the physical remnants of crime, putting bullets beneath microscopes, lifting latent fingerprints from knife handles, culling DNA strands from splattered blood.
Each year the operation, which analyzes evidence for most of the county’s police forces, handles some 200 “major” investigations, most of them murders and rapes. But drug cases (1,800 to 2,000) and DUIs (more than 4,700) make up the bulk of the work. There are only eight lab technicians to handle the massive load.
“Every analytical report has to be right on the mark,” said lab director Tony Sprague, who has worked at the facility for 30 years. “We have a huge responsibility to make sure all the results are accurate.”
Sprague guides me through the building, showing me a single lead particle, as magnified 10,000 times by a monstrous, $270,000 scanning electron microscope. Next door a white-<\h>coated technician sits glued to a conventional microscope, studying a handgun cartridge. Across the hall are the analysts’ personal workstations: on one of the wide-<\h>topped tables sit the innards of an auto; on another lie sheets of paper covered with boot prints.
Sprague is an amiable gearhead and explains in detail how each of the machines works. The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, an ovenlike slab of a machine, can detect the presence of gasoline or kerosene in air samples collected at the scene of a suspected arson fire. Another device uses infrared light to determine the chemical composition of a given substance — a bag of white powder for instance.
The lab’s ASCLD accreditation in June 1999 was a huge undertaking, according to Sprague. “It took us about two years [to get certified],” he says. “It was costly from the standpoint that you have to take dedicated staff time away from analytical work to get the paperwork done for the accreditation process. In our case we really didn’t change our ways of doing forensic science to meet accreditation standards. There was really no issue about doing things differently — the thing we had to do, we had to document all the policies, the procedures, all of our quality assurance records had to be brought up to a little bit higher level.”
Voluntary reviews by the nonprofit ASCLD are enough regulation for Sprague, who views government oversight as a losing proposition. “Some mandated federal program? I don’t know that that’s really the answer,” he says. “That would involve a huge bureaucracy. It would be a very difficult situation.”
Ralph Keaton, executive director of ASCLD’s accrediting board, agrees. “I think crime laboratories should have some kind of program to review the quality of the work being produced by the laboratory — and that’s the reason we came into existence,” he tells me via telephone from the organization’s headquarters in Garner, N.C. “It’s my opinion that no one can evaluate the type of work being done better than the actual practitioners of that discipline. Just like the oversight of the medical profession is best done by the doctors themselves.”
Speaking to me in his office library, Sprague tells me he is proud of the work his team does, proud to be acknowledged by his peers. But he admits to a certain frustration, saying that his lab is seriously short-staffed: “We’re about one-third the strength we should be at for what we’re doing.”<\!s>v

Film listings

David Talbot

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April 20, 2010

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Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Michelle Devereaux, Max Goldberg, Dennis Harvey, Johnny Ray Huston, Erik Morse, Louis Peitzman, Lynn Rapoport, Ben Richardson, and Matt Sussman. The film intern is Peter Galvin. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. For first-run showtimes, see Movie Guide.

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL

The 53rd San Francisco International Film Festival runs April 22-May 6 at Sundance Kabuki Cinemas, 1881 Post, SF; Clay Theatre, 2261 Fillmore, SF; Castro Theatre, 429 Castro, SF; and the Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, SF. Tickets (most shows $12.50) are available by calling (925) 866-9559 or by visiting www.sffs.org. All times p.m. unless otherwise noted.

THURS/22

Castro Micmacs 7.

FRI/23

Kabuki The Man Who Will Come 3:30. Moscow 4. Constantin and Elena 4:15. The White Meadows 6:30. Simonal: No One Knows How Tough It Was 6:45. Son of Babylon 7. "POV Award: Don Hertzfeldt: Life, Death, and Very Large Utensils" 7:30. Frontier Blues 8:45. Nymph 9. Around a Small Mountain 9:30. Cargo 10.

PFA Littlerock 6:30. Cold Weather 8:45.

SAT/24

Kabuki "Talkin’ Bout My Generation" (shorts program) 12:30. A Brand New Life 1:45. Rejoice and Shout 2. "A Conversation with Callie Khouri" (shorts program) 2:30. My Dog Tulip 2. Imperfect Unions 3:15. Around a Small Mountain 4:15. Nymph 4:30. "A Conversation with T Bone Burnett" (shorts program) 6. Between Two Worlds 6:15. Transcending Lynch 6:30. Moscow 6:45. Cracks 8. Littlerock 9. "Pirate Utopias" (shorts program) 9:15. The White Meadows 9:30. The Violent Kind 11.

PFA Way of Nature 2. Shirley Adams 4:15. The Famous and the Dead 6:40. "Something Like a Dream" (shorts program) 8:45.

SUN/25

Kabuki "Flights of Fancy" 10am. Constantin and Elena noon. Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky 12:30. Empire of Silver 12:45. "Solitude Standing" (shorts program) 12:45. Domain 3. Frontier Blues 3:15. Way of Nature 3:45. "State of Cinema Address: Walter Murch" 4. The Man Who Will Come 5:45. My Dog Tulip 6. Cold Weather 6:15. "The High Line" (shorts program) 6:30. Everyone Else 8:45. Between Two Worlds 9. Cracks 9:15. "Utopia in Four Movements" 9:30.

PFA Mugabe and the White African 2. Pianomania 4. Northless 6. The White Meadows 8.

MON/26

Kabuki Way of Nature 1. Between Two Worlds 3:15. The Man Who Will Come 3:30. Littlerock 3:45. 13-18: The Noise and the Fury 4:30. Morning 6:15. Cargo 6:30. Soul Kitchen 6:45. Port of Memory 7:15. Transcending Lynch 9. Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky 9:15. "A Drunken Evening With Derek Waters and Wholphin" 9:30. Wake in Fright (Outback) 9:45.

PFA The Peddler 6:30. Father of My Children 8:15.

TUES/27

Kabuki Transcending Lynch 12:40. Son of Babylon 12:45. Frontier Blues 2. Shirley Adams 3:15. Everyone Else 3:30. My Dog Tulip 4:15. Gainsbourg (Je T’Aime … Moi Non Plus) 6. Domain 6:15. Constantin and Elena 6:45. "Something Like a Dream" (shorts program) 7. Moscow 9. Port of Memory 9:30. Vengeance 9:45. The Violent Kind 9:45.

PFA White Material 6:30. The Oath 8:40.

OPENING

The Back-Up Plan The good thing is, once this opens you won’t have to see its wretched trailer any more. (1:40) Presidio.

The Harimaya Bridge The Harimaya Bridge might be the first film I’ve seen that portrays the American-Japanese culture clash so beloved by stateside filmmakers (see: 2003’s Lost in Translation) from the viewpoint of an African American man in Japan. The debut feature for short-film director Aaron Woolfolk, Bridge follows a retired man who travels to Japan after the death of his estranged son, with intentions to retrieve his son’s paintings for an art show. Likely based on Woolfolk’s personal experiences living in Japan, The Harimaya Bridge has both the look and feel of a short, an attribute that makes the otherwise agreeable film seem much too long and drawn-out. Or maybe, all along Woolfolk intended to replicate the dour melodrama and often glacial pacing of popular Japanese film. Meta-filmmaking? (2:00) Stonestown. (Galvin)

The Losers Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Zoe Saldana, and Chris Evans star in this action comedy. (1:38) California.

*Mid-August Lunch Gianni Di Gregorio’s loose, engaging comedy is about an aging bachelor still living with his ancient mum in their Rome flat. When his landlord offers to forgive some debts in return for briefly taking in his own elderly ma, Gianni (played by the director himself) soon finds himself in cat-herding charge of no less than five old ladies who delight in one another’s company while running him ragged. Gomorrah (2008) screenwriter Di Gregorio used nonprofessionals to play those parts in this semi improvised miniature, which is as light and flavorful as a first course of prosciutto and mozzarella. It’s a solid addition to the canon of palate-pleasing culinary flicks such as Big Night (1996) and Babette’s Feast (1987), as opposed to the repulsive ones like Super Size Me (2004) or Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life (1983). (1:15) Clay, Shattuck. (Harvey)

No One Knows About Persian Cats Playing themselves more or less (pretty stiffly), Negar Shaghaghi and Ashkan Koshanejad are Iranian indie rockers hoping to play a concert in London. But visas are hard to come by, and their other band members have quit; anyone drafted to replace them is likely to need expensive forged passports or other documents as well. Introduced to motormouthed hustler, illegal DVD dealer, and music fan Nader (a manic Hamed Behdad, the only professional actor here), they pin their hopes on his ability to make all necessary arrangements. Meanwhile he takes them around Tehran so they can meet fellow musicians and we can hear a variety of mostly underground sounds, from speed metal to rap to traditional folk. These songs are accompanied by music video-like montages of contemporary urban life. The real-life bands in question are, onscreen and off, continually dealing with the threat of jail, lost practice spaces, neighbors calling cops, etc. That aside, many of them look and act like twentysomething hipsters anywhere, complete with wall posters of St. Kurt and Brando. Filmed without permits or much hope of public screenings at home, the latest from Kurdish director Bahman Ghobadi (2000’s A Time for Drunken Horses, 2004’s Turtles Can Fly) is an almost documentary — based on real events, locations and people — allowing just enough fictive leeway so hopefully those involved won’t get arrested for participating. As narrative, it’s loosely structured at best and pretty ineffectual in its few stabs at actual drama. But it’s also the sort of movie that needn’t be very good to be important as document and political statement. As for the music, it’s sometimes very good, sometimes too derivative or poorly sung to be interesting — the worst offender being Ghobadi himself, whose tone-deaf bray turns one bluesy number into a joke he’s clearly not in on. (1:46) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

Oceans In a bit of clever marketing, this nature film opens on Earth Day. (1:40) Shattuck.

The Secret in Their Eyes This legal thriller from Argentina just won the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. (2:07) Albany, Embarcadero.

What Girls Want Takashi Shimizu (director of both the 2000 Japanese and 2002 American versions of The Grudge) compiled this ominbus film, featuring six stories about women made by different directors. (1:46) Four Star.

ONGOING

Alice in Wonderland Tim Burton’s take on the classic children’s tale met my mediocre expectations exactly, given its months of pre-release hype (in the film world, fashion magazines, and even Sephora, for the love of brightly-colored eyeshadows). Most folks over a certain age will already know the story, and much of the dialogue, before the lights go down and the 3-D glasses go on; it’s up to Burton and his all-star cast (including numerous big-name actors providing voices for animated characters) to make the tale seem newly enthralling. The visuals are nearly as striking as the CG, with Helena Bonham Carter’s big-headed Red Queen a particularly marvelous human-computer creation. But Wonderland suffers from the style-over-substance dilemma that’s plagued Burton before; all that spooky-pretty whimsy can’t disguise the film’s fairly tepid script. Teenage Alice (Mia Wasikowska) displaying girl-power tendencies is a nice, if not surprising, touch, but Johnny Depp’s grating take on the Mad Hatter will please only those who were able to stomach his interpretation of Willy Wonka. (1:48) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Eddy)

*Breaking Upwards The words no one ever wants to hear in bed — "Just
come. Really honey, it’s fine" — currently defining their sex life, native New Yorkers and Greenwich Village cohabiters decide to cure relationship torpor by "taking days off" from each other. This entails Daryl (Daryl Wein) moving back in with his parents three days a week, so he and Zoe (Zoe Lister Jones) can more effectively avoid all contact with each other, including phone calls. They are free to "see" other people, which for Zoe encompasses a sexy fellow actor (Pablo Schreiber) whose notions of character exploration easily extend to seducing his stage partner. Aspiring writer Daryl has his own temptations, notably two played by La Chanze and Olivia Thirlby. The queasiness of being in a committed relationship that seems to get less committed with every day "off" isn’t helped by our protagonists’ exasperating mothers, flipsides to the same wooden nickel: hers (Andrea Martin) is a wellspring of self-absorbsion and insensitivity passing as frankness, while his (Julie White) is a compulsive meddler whose ever-more-left-field opinions are like a form of maternal
Tourette syndrome ("Why can’t you be gay like your brother?"). Wein and Lister Jones co-wrote the screenplay with Peter Duchan, basing it on a dicey patch in their real-life relationship. Yet Breaking Upwards isn’t quasi-verite self-indulgence but a prickly, confident, well-observed Manhattan romantic comedy in the tradition of Annie Hall (1977). It’s a good date movie for those who can’t quite identify with Jennifer Aniston or Matthew McConaughey, whose hair and makeup expenses alone for a couple days’ shooting probably run higher than director Wein’s first-narrative-feature budget of a purported $15,000. (1:28) Lumiere. (Harvey)

*Breath Made Visible Ruedi Gerber’s documentary throws a sympathetic and fascinating light on the work of dance pioneer Anna Halprin. Weaving on-camera interviews with former collaborators, family members, and Halprin herself into excerpts from current and past work suggests decades and decades thoughtfully lived by an artist who had the guts to be herself. Again and again the camera returns to the now legendary The Deck, which husband and landscape architect Lawrence Halprin built so she could do her work while their children were growing. One of this film’s loveliest aspects is to see the deck changing just as Halprin does. Wisconsin-raised and East Coast-oriented, her moving to the California of the 1940s had isolated her from mainstream dance influences. But it also had opened vistas — to nature and through nature into herself — that she might not have able to achieve otherwise. The film may be conventionally structured but what emerges is a portrait of an anything but conventional woman, artist and thinker. (1:20) Smith Rafael. (Rita Felciano)

The Bounty Hunter There’s a real feeling of impotence in reviewing a movie whose ad was pasted on the side of the bus you took to the screening. This thing is determined to be seen, and that’s a true shame. Those who heed the call of the ubiquitous marketing campaign will have to sit through a dull parade of contrivances concerning a bounty hunter (Gerard Butler) whose latest catch is his court-skipping ex-wife (Jennifer Aniston). She’s a hotshot city journalist who’s forced to continue her investigation of a police cover-up while handcuffed to a car door and bickering with her old flame. The trajectory of the plot is obvious enough, but there’s so little chemistry between the two actors that the inevitable reconciliation practically constitutes a twist ending. Aniston saw fit not to whine her way through this role, which is something, but nothing nearly as complimentary can be said about Butler. He emotes in lurches, with the presence of a guy who’s not sure acting is the right direction for his life but still really wants to give it a go. If "This. Is. Sparta!" weren’t burned into my brain I would swear the man had never been in front of a camera before. (1:50) SF Center. (Jason Shamai)

*City Island The Rizzo family of City Island, N.Y. — a tiny atoll associated historically with fishing and jurisdictionally with the Bronx — have reached a state where their primary interactions consist of sniping, yelling, and storming out of rooms. These storm clouds operate as cover for the secrets they’re all busy keeping from one another. Correctional officer Vince (Andy Garcia) pretends he’s got frequent poker nights so he can skulk off to his true shameful indulgence: a Manhattan acting class. Perpetually fuming spouse Joyce (Julianna Margulies) assumes he’s having an affair. Daughter Vivian (Dominik García-Lorido) has dropped out of school to work at a strip joint, while the world class-sarcasms of teenager Vinnie (Ezra Miller) deflect attention from his own hidden life as an aspiring chubby chaser. All this (plus everyone’s sneaky cigarette habit) is nothing, however, compared to Vince’s really big secret: he conceived and abandoned a "love child" before marrying, and said guilty issue has just turned up as a 24-year-old car thief on his cell block. Writer-director Raymond De Felitta made a couple other features in the last 15 years, none widely seen; if this latest is typical, we need more of him, more often. Perfectly cast, City Island is farcical without being cartoonish, howl-inducing without lowering your brain-cell count. It’s arguably a better, less self-conscious slice of dysfunctional family absurdism than Little Miss Sunshine (2006) — complete with an Alan Arkin more inspired in his one big scene here than in all of that film’s Oscar-winning performance. (1:40) Embarcadero, Piedmont, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Clash of the Titans The minds behind Clash of the Titans decided their movie should be 3D at the last possible moment before release. Consequently, the 3D is pretty janky. I don’t know what the rest of the film’s excuse is. Clash of the Titans retreads the 1981 cult classic with reasonable faithfulness, though Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion effects have been (of course) replaced with CG renderings of all the expected monsters, magic, gods, etc. Liam Neeson and Ralph Fiennes — as other reviews have pointed out: Schindler’s List (1993) reunion! — glow and glower as Zeus and Hades, while Sam Worthington (2009’s Avatar) once again fills the role of bland hero, this time as a snooze-worthy Perseus. You might have fun in the moment with Clash of the Titans, but it’s hardly memorable, and certainly nowhere near epic. (1:58) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Date Night By today’s comedy standards, Date Night is positively old-fashioned: a case of mistaken identity causes a struggling married couple (Steve Carell and Tina Fey) to be tangled in a ransom plot for a stolen flash drive that belongs to a local mob boss. Unfussy plots are par for the course for films belonging to the all-but-lost "madcap all-nighter" genre, and in this case the simplicity of the set-up becomes Date Night‘s greatest asset, allowing Carell and Fey free reign to joke and ad lib lines. Like it or loathe it, the pair’s trademark senses of humor are the movie, and they arrange some pretty gleefully entertaining bits on the fly. Toss in a bunch of cameos from the likes of Ray Liotta and Mark Wahlberg and you’ve got yourself a bona fide movie-film, but it’s difficult not to see what Date Night might have been with just a smidge more effort. (1:27) 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, Sundance Kabuki. (Galvin)

Death at a Funeral Less than three years since its stateside premiere, indie Brit hit Death at a Funeral (2007) arrives as a surprising choice for a mainstream American makeover. In both versions the death of a family patriarch brings family from far and wide to a wake, where the eldest son struggles to keep things together amidst the strains of blackmail and a rogue bottle of hallucinogenic pills. But, by replacing all those stuffy British actors with the likes of Chris Rock, Martin Lawrence, and Tracy Morgan, director Neil LaBute succeeds in creating a completely different tone for what is mostly a shot-for-shot reconstruction of the original script. The impossibly quick-moving plot is organized with a deftness that reflects LaBute’s dual career as a playwright, keeping the film even-tempered during screwball moments like Tracy Morgan getting covered in Danny Glover’s doo-doo. (1:33) 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck. (Galvin)

*Exit Through the Gift Shop Exit Through the Gift Shop is not a film about the elusive graffiti-cum-conceptual artist and merry prankster known as Banksy, even though he takes up a good chunk of this sly and by-no-means impartial documentary and is listed as its director. Rather, as he informs us — voice electronically altered, face hidden in shadow — in the film’s opening minutes, the film’s real subject is one Thierry Guetta, a French expat living in LA whose hangdog eyes, squat stature, and propensity for mutton chops and polyester could pass him off as Ron Jeremy’s long lost twin. Unlike Jeremy, Guetta is not blessed with any prodigious natural talent to propel him to stardom, save for a compulsion to videotape every waking minute of his life (roughly 80 percent of the footage in Exit is Guetta’s) and a knack for being in the right place at the right time. When Guetta is introduced by his tagger cousin to a pre-Obamatized Shepard Fairey in 2007, he realizes his true calling: to make a documentary about the street art scene that was then only starting to get mainstream attention. Enter Banksy, who, at first, is Guetta’s ultimate quarry. Eventually, the two become chummy, with Guetta acting as lookout and documenter for the artist just as the art market starts clambering for its piece of, "the Scarlet Pimpernel of street art," as one headline dubs him. When, at about three quarters of the way in, Guetta, following Banksy’s casual suggestion, drops his camcorder and tries his hand at making street art, Exit becomes a very different beast. Guetta’s flashy debut as Mr. Brainwash is as obscenely successful as his "art" is terribly unimaginative — much to the chagrin of his former documentary subjects. But Guetta is no Eve Harrington and Banksy, who has the last laugh here, gives him plenty of rope with which to truss himself. Is Mr. Brainwash really the ridiculous and inevitable terminus of street art’s runaway mainstream success (which, it must be said, Banksy has handsomely profited from)? That question begs another: with friends like Banksy, who needs enemies? (1:27) Embarcadero, Shattuck. (Sussman)

*The Ghost Writer Roman Polanski’s never-ending legal woes have inspired endless debates on the interwebs and elsewhere; they also can’t help but add subtext to the 76-year-old’s new film, which is chock full o’ anti-American vibes anyway. It’s also a pretty nifty political thriller about a disgraced former British Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan) who’s hanging out in his Martha’s Vineyard mansion with his whip-smart, bitter wife (Olivia Williams) and Joan Holloway-as-ice-queen assistant (Kim Cattrall), plus an eager young biographer (Ewan McGregor) recently hired to ghost-write his memoirs. But as the writer quickly discovers, the politician’s past contains the kinds of secrets that cause strange cars with tinted windows to appear in one’s rearview mirror when driving along deserted country roads. Polanski’s long been an expert when it comes to escalating tension onscreen; he’s also so good at adding offbeat moments that only seem tossed-off (as when the PM’s groundskeeper attempts to rake leaves amid relentless sea breezes) and making the utmost of his top-notch actors (Tom Wilkinson and Eli Wallach have small, memorable roles). Though I found The Ghost Writer‘s ZOMG! third-act revelation to be a bit corny, I still didn’t think it detracted from the finely crafted film that led up to it. (1:49) Embarcadero, Piedmont, Presidio, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

*The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo By the time the first of Stieg Larsson’s so-called "Millennium" books had been published anywhere, the series already had an unhappy ending: he died (in 2004). The following year, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo became a Swedish, then eventually international sensation, its sequels following suit. The books are addicting, to say the least; despite their essential crime-mystery-thriller nature, they don’t require putting your ear for writing of some literary value on sleep mode. Now the first of three adaptive features shot back-to-back has reached U.S. screens. (Sorry to say, yes, a Hollywood remake is already in the works — but let’s hope that’s years away.) Even at two-and-a-half hours, this Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by necessity must do some major truncating to pack in the essentials of a very long, very plotty novel. Still, all but the nitpickingest fans will be fairly satisfied, while virgins will have the benefit of not knowing what’s going to happen and getting scared accordingly. Soon facing jail after losing a libel suit brought against him by a shady corporate tycoon, leftie journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist) gets a curious private offer to probe the disappearance 40 years earlier of a teenage girl. This entangles him with an eccentric wealthy family and their many closet skeletons (including Nazi sympathies) — as well as dragon-tattooed Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace), androgynous loner, 24-year-old court ward, investigative researcher, and skillful hacker. Director Niels Arden Oplev and his scenarists do a workmanlike job — one more organizational than interpretive, a faithful transcription without much style or personality all its own. Nonetheless, Larsson’s narrative engine kicks in early and hauls you right along to the depot. (2:32) Albany, Embarcadero, Piedmont, Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

The Greatest Lofty title aside, there’s nothing particularly extraordinary about The Greatest. In many ways, it’s your standard grief porn, in that it focuses on a group of characters mourning a dead teenager for an hour and a half. On the other hand, the cast is tremendous — Susan Sarandon and Pierce Brosnan are solid as the parents of the broken Brewer family, but the young actors give the most memorable performances. Fresh off her Oscar nomination for An Education (2009), Carey Mulligan continues to mingle precociousness and naiveté. The Greatest also showcases the very talented Johnny Simmons, whose past films — Hotel for Dogs (2009) and Jennifer’s Body (2009) — haven’t exactly earned him exposure. For its genre, then, The Greatest is actually quite good. It has plenty of charm mixed with moments of genuine emotion, often marked by much welcome restraint. But even with a slight twist on the convention (Mulligan’s Rose is pregnant with the dead kid’s baby), it’s still just a well-made tearjerker. (1:36) Smith Rafael. (Peitzman)

Green Zone Titled for the heavily-guarded headquarters of international occupation in Baghdad, Green Zone reunites director Paul "Shaky-Cam" Greengrass with star Matt Damon, the two having previously collaborated on the last two Bourne films. Instead of a super-soldier, this time around Damon just plays a supremely insubordinate one as he attempts to uncover the reason why his military unit can’t find any of Saddam’s WMDs. With the aid of the CIA, a Wall Street Journal reporter and a friendly Iraqi, Damon goes rogue in order to suss out the source of the misinformation. The Iraq War action is decent if scarce, but an overindulgence in (you guessed it) shaky-cam and political jargon cannot hide the fact that Green Zone‘s plot is simplistic and probably light on actual facts. Damon makes a fine cowboy-cum-hero, but the effectiveness of the mix of patriotism and Pentagon paranoia will vary based on your penchant for such things. Still, Green Zone moves fast enough that it remains worth a matinee for conspiracy thriller aficionados. (1:55) 1000 Van Ness. (Galvin)

Greenberg Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) is 40, and you might think he’s going through a midlife crisis — if he hadn’t been in pretty much this same crisis for 15 years or more. Still very edgy and fragile after a nervous breakdown-sparked institutional stay, he’s holing up at the comfortable Hollywood home of a big-deal brother while the latter and family are on vacation in Vietnam. (The implication being that Roger is most welcome here when no one else actually has to endure his prickly, high maintenance company.) While in residence he reconnects with old friends including the ex-girlfriend (Jennifer Jason Leigh) he dumped yet never quite got over — though clearly she did — and the ex-bandmate (Rhys Ifans) he burned by wrecking their one shot at a major-label deal. He also gets involved, kinda-sorta, with big bro’s personal assistant Florence (mumblecore regular Greta Gerwig), whose passivity and low self-esteem make her the rare person who might consider a relationship with someone this impossible. Like all Noah Baumbach films, especially the slightly overrated Squid and the Whale (2005) and vastly underrated Margot at the Wedding (2007), his latest pivots around a pathologically self-absorbed and insensitive protagonist who exasperates anyone unlucky or blind enough to fall into his or her orbit. Working from a story co-conceived by spouse Leigh, Baumbach’s script sports his usual sharp dialogue, penetrating individual scenes, and narrative surprises. But it also gets stuck in dislikable Roger’s rut, finding conflict easily but stubbornly resisting even the smallest useful change. For all its amusing and uncomfortable moments, Greenberg emerges a dual character slice with no real point. Neither Roger or Beth reward long scrutiny (least of all as a hapless potential couple), while the few screen minutes Ifans and Leigh get make you wish their roles had hijacked the focus instead. (1:40) Piedmont, Presidio, Shattuck, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

*Hot Tub Time Machine How can you hate a movie called Hot Tub Time Machine? Even those who pooh-pooh poop jokes have to admire a movie so unapologetically upfront about its ludicrous storyline. A group of friends who’ve drifted apart (Rob Corddry plays the maybe-suicidal asshole; Craig Robinson, the emasculated never-did-nothing; John Cusack, the recently-dumped workaholic) reunite for a ski weekend at the resort that hosted the most debaucherous party of their youth. Along for the ride, which soon includes a trip back to 1986 courtesy of you-know-which device, is Cusack’s character’s internet-obsessed nephew (Clark Duke), whose terror over leaving the plugged-in 21st century is soon superceded by his realization that any disruption of the past will likely erase his very existence. Hot Tub Time Machine‘s 80s nostalgia (Chevy Chase cameo!) enfolds an homage to the Back to the Future films (Crispin Glover cameo!), as well as Cusack’s early career (see: immortal 1985 ski-slope classic Better Off Dead), but it’s very much a movie of our times. See it now while the Twitter and Tiger jokes are still timely, and before the next R-rated comedy comes along to up the ante on dick jokes. (1:55) California, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio. (Eddy)

How to Train Your Dragon (1:38) Empire, 1000 Van Ness.

*It Came from Kuchar Bronx-born twins George and Mike Kuchar would have an honored place in screen history for title coinage alone — I Was a Teenage Rumpot (1960), Aqueerius (1980), et al. — but their endeavors are worth ever so much more. Starting out as Bronx teenagers in the 1950s, their no-budget expressions of purple melodrama goosed the nascent NYC experimental film scene, notably inspiring Andy Warhol and (later) John Waters. Working separately from the mid-60s onward, they scored underground hits (Mike’s 1965 Sins of the Fleshapoids, George’s 1966 Hold Me While I’m Naked and 1975 Thundercrack!, the latter a B&W gothic porno he wrote for fellow San Francisco transplant Curt MacDowell) but stubbornly refused to go overground. This documentary by Jennifer Kroot includes interviews with fellow former students of George’s highly idiosyncratic classes (Cory McAbee, Christopher Coppola), their variably surprising fans (Waters, Buck Henry, Guy Maddin, Atom Egoyan, Wayne Wang, Bill Griffith) and memorable recurrent "stars" (Donna Kurness, Marion Eaton). Plus of course the still very active brothers themselves, whose minds function in fashions at least as lovably eccentric offscreen as they do on. A feature-length compilation of clips from their voluminous, supremely excerptable oeuvres would be delightful enough, but Kroot has gone the extra mile and made a tribute that fully captures the subjects’ spirits in its own right. If you already know the Kuchars’ work, you’ll be thrilled; if not, you may experience out-of-body levels of revelatory giddiness. (1:26) Roxie. (Harvey)

*The Joneses David Duchovny has been enjoying a nice career renaissance since designing his embarrassing-old-guy shtick for Californication, and the shtick continues to deliver in The Joneses. Duchovny plays the father of a family of four who move into a well-off suburban neighborhood and set about inserting themselves in every marketable aspect of the town’s culture. I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by telling you that the family is not really a family at all, even if The Joneses does play the dynamic as a mystery for a good 20 minutes. In fact, the four are un-related members of a stealth marketing firm hired to sell products by living a desirable lifestyle. Trouble inevitably arises when the line blurs between the lie they’ve created and who they really are. It’s about as predictable and simple-minded as it sounds but The Joneses is endearing anyway, thanks to a few solid laughs and the believable will-they-or-won’t-they between Duchovny and pretend-wife Demi Moore. (1:33) Empire, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Galvin)

*Kick-Ass Based on a comic book series by Mark Millar, whose work was also the model for 2008’s Wanted, Kick Ass is a similarly over-the-top action flick that plays up its absurdity to even greater comedic effect. High school nerd Dave (Aaron Johnson) decides to become the world’s first real superhero. Donning a green wetsuit he bought on the internet and mustering some unlikely courage, he takes to the streets to avenge wrongdoing. Unsurprisingly, Dave is immediately beaten almost to death because he’s just a kid who has no idea what he’s doing, but Kick-Ass‘ greatest achievement is knowing exactly how to subvert audience expectations. Scenes that marry the film’s innocent story with enormously exaggerated violence enhance the otherwise Superbad-lite high-school comedy unfolding around them, and a parallel plot-line involving Nicolas Cage instructing his 12-year-old daughter to commit grievous murders will probably end up being the most gratifying aspect of the film. Though too much set-up and spinning gears mars the middle act, it’s hard to fault the film for competently setting up one of the most crowd-pleasing endings in recent memory. (1:58) California, Empire, Four Star, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Galvin)

La Mission A veteran S.F. vato turned responsible — if still muy macho — widower, father, and Muni driver, fortysomething Che (Benjamin Bratt) isn’t the type for mushy displays of sentiment. But it’s clear his pride and joy is son Jess (Jeremy Ray Valdez), a straight-A high school grad bound for UCLA. That filial bond, however, sustains some serious damage when Che discovers Jes has a secret life — with a boyfriend, in the Castro, just a few blocks away from their Mission walkup but might as well be light-years away as far as old-school dad is concerned. This Bratt family project (Benjamin’s brother Peter writes-directs, his wife Talisa Soto Bratt has a supporting role) has a bit of a predictable TV-movie feel, but its warm heart is very much in the right place. (1:57) Bridge, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

*Mother You can guarantee that a movie titled Mother is not gonna be a love fest, ever. And through the lens of The Host (2006) director-writer Bong Joon-ho, motherly love becomes downright monstrous — though altogether human. Much credit goes to the wonderful lead actress Kim Hye-ja as the titular materfamilias, who’s frantically self-sacrificing, insanely tenacious, quaintly charming, wolfishly fearsome, and wildly guilt-ridden, by turns. On the surface, she’s a sweetly innocuous herbalist and closet acupuncturist — happily, and a wee bit too tightly, tethered to her beloved son Yoon Do-joon (Won Bin). He’s a slow-witted, forgetful, and easily confused mop-top who flies into deadly rages when taunted or called a "’tard." When Do-joon is quickly arrested and charged with the murder of schoolgirl Moon Ah-jung (Mun-hee Na), Mom snaps into action with a panic-stricken, primal ferocity and goes in search of the killer to free her boy. But there’s more to Do-joon, his studly pal Jin-tae (Ku Jin), and Moon Ah-jung than meets the eye, and Mother discovers just how much she’s defined, and twisted, herself in relation to her son. Bong gives this potentially flat and cliched noirish material genuine lyricism, embedding his anti-heroine in a rural South Korean landscape like a penitent wandering in an existential desert, gently echoing filmmakers such as Ingmar Bergman and Abbas Kiarostami and beautifully transcending genre. (2:09) Opera Plaza. (Chun)

The Perfect Game You’re supposed to like The Perfect Game, a movie about a bunch of underdog Mexican kids making their way to the top of the Little League World Series. But those crowd-pleasing components — underdogs, kids, baseball — never coalesce into anything remotely interesting. The Perfect Game is lazy, cobbling together clichés from the dozens of similar films you’ve seen before. The movie never bothers to flesh out its characters, so we don’t bother caring. And there’s no dramatic tension: even if we didn’t know that this team wins the Little League World Series, which we do, we know they’re going to play the perfect game — because that’s the title of the damn movie. Somehow, The Perfect Game attracted notable talent (Cheech Marin, Frances Fisher, Louis Gossett Jr.), none of whom are able to save this mess. The usually likable Emilie de Ravin actually drags things down here, adopting a ’50s reporter accent that’s about as believable as her storyline on Lost. (1:53) 1000 Van Ness, SF Center. (Peitzman)

*A Prophet Filmmaker Jacques Audiard has described his new film, A Prophet, as "the anti-Scarface." Yet much like Scarface (1983), A Prophet bottles the heady euphoria that chases the empowerment of the powerless and the rise of the long-shot loner on the margins. In its almost-Dickensian attention to detail, devotion to its own narrative complexity, and passion for cinematic poetry, A Prophet rises above the ordinary and, through the prism of genre, finds its own power. The supremely opportunistic, pragmatically Machiavellian intellectual and spiritual education of a felon is the chief concern of here. Played by Tahar Rahim with guileless, open-faced charisma, Malik is half-Arab and half-Corsican — and distrusted or despised by both camps in the pen. When he lands in jail for his six-year sentence, he’s 19, illiterate, friendless, and vulnerable. His deal with the devil — and means of survival — arrives with Reyeb (Hichem Yacoubi), temporarily locked up before his testifies against the mob. Corsican boss Cesar Luciani (Niels Arestrup) wants him dead, and Malik is tagged to penetrate Reyeb’s cell with a blade hidden in mouth. After Malik’s gory rebirth, it turns out that the teenager’s a seer in more ways than one. From his low-dog position, he can eyeball the connections linking the drugs entering the prison to those circulating outside, as well as the machinations intertwining the Arab and Corsican syndicates. It’s no shock that when Cesar finds his power eroding and arranges prison leaves for his multilingual crossover star that Malik serves not only his Corsican master, but also his own interests, and begins to build a drug empire rivaling his teacher’s. Throughout his pupil’s progress, Audiard demonstrates a way with Henri Cartier-Bresson’s decisive moment, and when Malik finally breaks with his Falstaffian patriarch, it makes your heart skip a beat in a move akin to the title of the director’s last film. This Eurozone/Obama-age prophet is all about the profit — but he’s imbued with grace, even while gaming for ill-gotten gain. (2:29) Opera Plaza. (Chun)

The Runaways In Floria Sigismondi’s tale of the rise and fall of a 1970s all-girl band, LA producer Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon) proclaims that the Runaways are going to save rock and roll. It’s hard to gauge the sincerity of this pronouncement, but you can certainly hear, in songs like "Cherry Bomb" and "Queens of Noise," how the band must have brightened a landscape overrun by kings of prog rock. Unfortunately, a handful of teenagers micromanaged by a sleazy, abusive nutcase proved not quite up to the task, though the band did launch the careers of metal guitarist Lita Ford (Scout Taylor-Compton) and, more famously, Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart). Sigismondi’s film entertainingly sketches the Runaways’ beginnings in glam rock fandom and gradual attainment of their own rabid fan base. We get Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning) lip-synching Bowie to catcalls at the high school assembly, Jett composing "Cherry Bomb" with Fowley, glamtastic hair-and-wardrobe eye candy, pills-and-Stooges-fueled intra-band fooling around, and five teenage girls sent off sans chaperone on an international tour with substantial quantities of hard drugs in their carry-on luggage. What follows is less pretty: a capsule version of the band’s disintegration after the departure of bottoming-out 16-year-old lead singer Currie. In a film darkened by Currie’s trajectory, Jett’s subsequent success is a feel-good coda, but it’s awkwardly attached and emblematizes one of The Runaways‘ main problems. When the band begins to fall apart, the film doesn’t know which way to turn and ends up telling no one’s story well. (1:42) 1000 Van Ness. (Rapoport)

Secret of Kells The preceding year was such great one for feature animation that the 2010 Oscar category could have been credibly filled twice over. Four nominees were predictable major U.S. studio productions — but the fifth was neither another such, nor one of several terrific if slightly off-the-beaten-path titles like Ponyo, A Town Called Panic, or Sita Sings the Blues. Instead, it was this hitherto barely-seen European co-production vaguely inspired by Irish history and mythology. Orphaned Brendan, raised by stern uncle Cellach (voice of Brendan Gleeson) in a medieval monastery, is intrigued by the vast forest outside its walls (where he’s forbidden to roam) and by a visiting master illuminator’s work on a "magical" book. Though overall this first feature by co-directors Tomm Moore and Nora Twomey might look best on the small screen — its line-drawing character designs are as simple as those in a 60s "Fractured Fairy Tale" — it’s been justifiably praised for some bold color and minimalist design elements. However, Kells is so preoccupied with those abstract backgrounds (which will likely confuse children by bearing little resemblance to the intended locations) that there’s no attention paid toward basic story clarity and involvement. Villains supernatural ("The Dark One") and mortal (Viking invaders) are virtually interchangeable; after 75 minutes you might realize you still have no idea just what the book is, or why it’s so important. Though clearly targeted as an audience, kids are likely to grow bored fast, and so might you. (1:15) Shattuck. (Harvey)

Shutter Island Director Martin Scorsese and muse du jour Leonardo DiCaprio draw from oft-filmed novelist Dennis Lehane (2003’s Mystic River, 2007’s Gone Baby Gone) for this B-movie thriller that, sadly, offers few thrills. DiCaprio’s a 1950s U.S. marshal summoned to a misty island that houses a hospital for the criminally insane, overseen by a doctor (Ben Kingsley) who believes in humane, if experimental, therapy techniques. From the get-go we suspect something’s not right with the G-man’s own mind; as he investigates the case of a missing patient, he experiences frequent flashbacks to his World War II service (during which he helped liberate a concentration camp), and has recurring visions of his spooky dead wife (Michelle Williams). Whether or not you fall for Shutter Island‘s twisty game depends on the gullibility of your own mind. Despite high-quality performances and an effective, if overwrought, tone of certain doom, Shutter Island stumbles into a third act that exposes its inherently flawed and frustrating storytelling structure. If only David Lynch had directed Shutter Island — it could’ve been a classic of mindfuckery run amok. Instead, Scorsese’s psychological drama is sapped of any mystery whatsoever by its stubbornly literal conclusion. (2:18) 1000 Van Ness, Shattuck. (Eddy)

The Square Sydney suburbanites Ray (David Roberts) and Carla (Claire van der Boom) are having a torrid affair while still mired in separate, stale, childless marriages. Upon discovering her husband Billy (Joel Edgerton) has hidden away a small fortune in presumably stolen cash — he keeps some pretty suspicious company — the lovers decide to nick it in order to run away and start anew. Stuntman-turned-director Nash Edgerton’s film, written by his brother Joel, follows that classic noir formula in which essentially good people try to do something mildly bad, which plan of course goes horribly wrong. Things then get wronger and wronger as bodies pile skyward under the hot (this being Australia) Yuletide sun.
Cleverly conceived, smartly acted and directed, The Square is a very plotty neonoir whose combination of the everyday and macabre suggests more than a little Coen Brothers influence. Its only problem is that we ultimately don’t care so much — all the ironic twists of fate befall characters who never quite transcend being narrative pawns. Unlike the Coens, the Edgertons aren’t yet comfortable letting style trump the substance they lack. So their movie ends up being both admirably precise and more easily shaken off than it should be. (1:41) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Vincere Given the talent involved, Vincere should be a better film that it is. Director Marco Bellocchio has a lengthy track record of successes, and star Giovanna Mezzogiorno is one of the biggest names in contemporary Italian cinema. The based-on-a-true-story plot is certainly worthy of being filmed: Mezzogiorno plays Ida Dalser, secret wife of Mussolini and mother of the dictator’s first-born son. When Ida begins to make trouble for Il Duce by publicly proclaiming their marriage, she is locked away in a mental hospital. But while Vincere‘s subject is compelling, the film as a whole falls flat. Moments of greatness are few and far between, and the rest of the movie gets by on mediocrity. It’s likely the fault lies with the script, which is too scattered and unfocused to maintain an audience’s focus. Why after almost two hours of watching Ida’s struggle are we suddenly left with her son’s descent into madness? How depressing that a film about a woman forgotten by history is, itself, mostly forgettable. (2:02) Albany, Opera Plaza, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Peitzman)

*When You’re Strange The love comes through in this evocative music doc by director-writer Tom DiCillo (1995’s Living in Oblivion), dotted with rare, previously unseen footage of the Doors at play — and of course at toying with the crowd from chaotic stages. Imbued with hipster-priest narration by Johnny Depp, When You’re Strange doesn’t pretend to be objective, down to an end, my friend, that completely skips the chemical specifics — and the tangle of speculation — surrounding of Morrison’s death. DiCillo dissects the frontman’s lewd behavior felony conviction, which tripped up Morrison and the band’s live show, as best he can with stills, but he’s more interested in evoking the halcyon, sunbaked, and acid-steeped arch-Cali mood of the Doors and Morrison’s lyrics, though his dramatized moments of a Morrison lookalike driving through the desert are less successful than the actual footage from the day: of Morrison puckishly pretending to be a fan shopping for a program at his own headlining concert with the Who, the Doors toiling in the studio, the vocalist sunning himself shirtless by a swimming hole. Regardless, some of the best segments are already well-known — like the Doors’ 1967 performance of "Light My Fire" on The Ed Sullivan Show — and as a testament to the group’s art and Morrison’s mojo-roiling magnetism, they’ve lost little of their power. (1:30) Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

Why Did I Get Married Too? (2:01) Shattuck.

Youth in Revolt At first glance, Youth in Revolt‘s tragically misunderstood teenage protagonist Nick Twisp is typical of actor Michael Cera’s repertoire of lovesick, dryly funny, impossibly sensitive and meek characters, although his particularly miserable family life does ratchet up the pathos. The Sinatra-worshipping Nick spends his time being shuttled between his bitter, oversexed divorced parents (Jean Smart and Steve Buscemi), who generally view him as an afterthought. When Nick meets Sheeni Saunders (newcomer Portia Doubleday), a Francophile femme fatale in training, she instructs him to "be bad." Desperately in lust, he readily complies, developing a malevolent, supremely confident alter ego, François Dillinger. With his bad teenage moustache, crisp white yachting ensemble, and slow-burn swagger, François conjures notions of a pubescent Patricia Highsmith villain crossed with a dose of James Spader circa Pretty in Pink. While the film itself is tonally wobbly (whimsical Juno-esque animated sequences don’t really mesh with a guy surreptitiously drugging his girlfriend), Cera’s startlingly self-assured, deadpan-funny performance saves it from devolving into smarmy camp. In an added bonus, his split-personality character plays like an ironic commentary on Cera’s career so far — imagine Arrested Development‘s George-Michael Bluth setting fire to a large swath of downtown Berkeley instead of the family banana stand. (1:30) Lumiere. (Devereaux)

REP PICKS

*Side Street Not every noir star was a tough guy (or dame) — the genre had room for the likes of Farley Granger, a puppy-eyed San Jose native whose fledgling career got put on hold for World War II Army service, then finally got a break with Nicholas Ray’s 1948 They Live By Night. Another newcomer, Cathy O’Donnell, was helpless Bonnie to his victim-of-circumstance Clyde in that doomed fugitive romance, which was successful enough to get them paired again a year later. Another fine director about to graduate from B’s, Anthony Mann, handled this story about part-time mail carrier Joe (Granger) struggling along with a wife (O’Donnell) and a baby on the way. In a weak moment Joe steals what was supposed to be a couple hundred bucks from an empty office — but turns out to be a very hot $30,000 affiliated with gangsters and a blackmail ring. Meanwhile, police are investigating the death of a bad girl who wound up floating face down in the East River. Needless to say, the two strands are connected, and even — or particularly — once he decides to come clean ("I knew it was wrong! Crazy wrong!"), Joe is on a fast track to trouble sure to end in blood and tears. Granger (who at the time was living with writer Arthur Laurents while officially "linked" with various starlets) made Rope (1948) and Strangers on a Train (1951) for Hitchcock, among other things. But despite his good looks, Sam Goldwyn’s promotional efforts, and his knack for onscreen suffering, the actor’s fortunes soon slid downward — though the seeming downward step of having to take a job in Italy resulted in his starring in Senso, the 1954 Visconti classic whose restoration is part of this year’s San Francisco International Film Festival. Side Street is no classic, but it is a sharp little programmer distinguished by extensive outdoor shooting on NYC locations. (1:23) Mechanics’ Institute.(Harvey)

Stage listings

David Talbot

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April 20, 2010

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Stage listings are compiled by Guardian staff. Performance times may change; call venues to confirm. Reviewers are Robert Avila, Rita Felciano, and Nicole Gluckstern. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com.

THEATER

OPENING

Peter Pan Threesixty Theater, Ferry Park (on Embarcadero across from the Ferry Bldg); www.peterpantheshow.com. $30-125. Previews Tues/27 and April 29, 7pm; April 30-May 1, 7:30pm (also May 1, 2pm); April 28 and May 5, 2pm; May 2, 1 and 5pm. Opens May 8, 7:30pm. Runs Tues and Thurs, 7pm; Fri-Sat, 7:30pm (also Sat, 2pm); Wed, 2pm; Sun, 1 and 5pm. Through August 29. JM Barrie’s tale is performed in a specially-built 360-degree CGI theater.

Tartuffe Studio 205 at Off-Market Theater, 965 Mission; 377-5882, http://generationtheatre.com. $20-25. Opens Fri/23, 8pm. Runs Fri-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 3pm. Through May 16. Generation Theatre performs a new English translation of Molière’s classic, in Alexandrine verse.

BAY AREA

Oliver! Julia Morgan Center for the Arts, 2640 College, Berk; www.berkeleyplayhouse.org. $24-33. Opens Sat/24, 7pm. Runs Fri, 7:30pm; Sat, 2 and 7pm; Sun, 1 and 6pm. Through May 16. Berkeley Playhouse performs the Dickens-based musical.

ONGOING

An Accident Magic Theatre, Bldg D, Fort Mason Center, Marina at Laguna; 441-8822, www.magictheatre.org. $25-55. Opens Wed/21, 8pm. Runs Wed-Sat, 8pm (also Sat, 2:30pm); Sun, 2:30pm; Tues, 7pm. Through May 9. Magic Theatre closes their season with Lydia Stryk’s world premiere drama.

*…And Jesus Moonwalks the Mississippi Cutting Ball Theater, 277 Taylor; 1-800-838-3006, www.cuttingball.com. $15-30. Thurs/22-Sat/24, 8pm; Sun/25, 5pm. In this inspired poetical-historical counter-narrative from Bay Area playwright Marcus Gardley, Greek mythology, African American folklore, personal family history, and Christian theology are all drawn irresistibly along in a great sweep of wild and incisive humor, passion, pathos and rousing gospel music as buoyant and wide as the Mississippi — or rather Miss Sippi (the impressive Nicole C. Julien), personification of the mighty and flighty river. The Cutting Ball-Playwrights Foundation coproduction, lovingly directed by Amy Mueller, sports exquisite design touches from Cutting Ball regulars like Michael Locher, whose gorgeous plank-wood set serves as the ideal platform for a work both magnificently simple and eloquently evocative. (Avila)

Andy Warhol: Good For the Jews? Jewish Theatre, 470 Florida; 292-1233, www.tjt-sf.org. $15-45. Thurs-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 2 and 7pm. Through May 16. Renowned monologist Josh Kornbluth is ready to admit his niche is a narrow one: he talks about himself, and more than that, he talks about his relationship to his beloved late father, the larger-than-life old-guard communist of Kornbluth’s breakthrough Red Diaper Baby. So it will not be surprising that in his current (and still evolving) work, created with director David Dower, the performer-playwright’s attempt to "enter" Warhol’s controversial ten portraits of famous 20th-century Jews (neatly illuminated at the back of the stage) stirs up memories of his father, along with a close family friend — an erudite bachelor and closeted homosexual who impressed the boyhood Josh with bedtime stories culled from his dissertation. The scenes in which Kornbluth recreates these childhood memories are among the show’s most effective, although throughout the narrative Kornbluth, never more confident in his capacities, remains a knowing charmer. But the story’s central conceit, concerning his ambivalence over presenting a showing of "Warhol’s Jews" at San Francisco’s Contemporary Jewish Museum, feels somehow artificial. It’s almost a stylized rendition of the secular-Jewish moral quandary and neurotic obsession driving Kornbluth works of the past — or in other words, all surface, not unlike the work of another shock-haired artist, but less meaningfully so. (Avila)

The Diary of Anne Frank Next Stage, 1620 Gough; 1-800-838-3006, www.custommade.org. $10-28. Thurs-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 7pm. Through May 1. Custom Made performs Wendy Kesselman’s modern take on the classic.

"DIVAfest" Exit Theatre, 156 Eddy; 673-3847, www.theexit.org. Check website for dates and times. Through May 1. The ninth annual festival features plays and performances by women artists.

Eat, Pray, Laugh! Off-Market Theaters, 965 Mission; www.brownpapertickets.com. $20. Wed, 8pm. Through April 28. Off-Market Theaters presents stand up comic and solo artist Alicia Dattner in her award-winning solo show.

Frau Bachfeifengesicht’s Spectacle of Perfection Stage Werx Theatre, 533 Sutter; 1-800-838-3006, www.circusfinelli.com. $15-20. Fri/23-Sun/25, 8pm. San Francisco’s all-women clown troupe, Circus Finelli, performs their comedy show inspired by European circus acts and American vaudeville.

*Loveland The Marsh, 1074 Valencia; 826-5750, www.themarsh.org. $15-50. Sat/24, 8:30pm; Sun/25, 7pm. Starting May 8, runs Sat, 5pm and Sun, 2pm at the Marsh Berkeley, 2120 Allston, Berk. Through June 13. Los Angeles–based writer-performer Ann Randolph returns to the Marsh with a new solo play partly developed during last year’s Marsh run of her memorable Squeeze Box. Randolph plays loner Frannie Potts, a rambunctious, cranky, and libidinous individual of decidedly odd mien, who is flying back home to Ohio after the death of her beloved mother. The flight is occasion for Frannie’s own flights of memory, exotic behavior in the aisle, and unabashed advances toward the flight deck brought on by the seductively confident strains of the captain’s commentary. The singular personality and mother-daughter relationship that unfurls along the way is riotously demented and brilliantly humane. (Avila)

Macho Bravado Thick House, 1695 18th St; http://machobravado.eventbee.com. $15-25. Thurs/22-Sat/24, 8pm. Asian American Theater Company performs Alex Park’s drama about a Korean-American soldier dealing with life on the home front after fighting in the Middle East.

*Master Class New Conservatory Theatre Center, 25 Van Ness; 861-8972, www.nctcsf.org. $22-40. Wed-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 2pm. Through May 2. Terrence McNally’s lovingly clever and thoroughly engaging portrait-play about opera icon Maria Callas takes the inspired notion of post-career Callas (Michaela Greeley) teaching a Julliard master class of eager young singers, while naturally finding herself unable to resist dominating the stage once more. Through a set of arias performed to piano accompaniment (by Kenneth Helman) by a cast of actor-singers (Alyssa Stone, Holly Nugent, Gustavo Hernández), Callas’s unselfconsciously curt and even brutal interactions with the students finally evoke for this deeply proud yet insecure woman both past theatrical glories and backstage heartaches. The play receives an impressive, all-around satisfying production at New Conservatory Theatre under Arturo Catricala’s astute direction. Of course, even with decent to excellent work on and off stage by the entire production team — including a stately mood-setting scenic design by Kuo-Hao Lo — it would no doubt amount to little without a formidable lead actor to fill Callas’s elegant but slightly over-the-top shoes. Here a marvelously imposing yet charming Greeley delivers the part as if she were born to play it, and all goes swimmingly as a result. (Avila)

Pearls Over Shanghai Hypnodrome, 575 Tenth St.; 1-800-838-3006, www.thrillpeddlers.com. $30-69. Fri-Sat, 8pm; starting July 10, runs Sat, 8pm and Sun, 7pm. Extended through August 1. Thrillpeddlers presents this revival of the legendary Cockettes’ 1970 musical extravaganza.

The Real Americans The Marsh, 1062 Valencia; 826-5750, www.themarsh.org. $18-50. Wed-Thurs and May 28, 8pm; Sat, 5pm; Sun, 3pm. Through May 30. The Marsh presents the world premiere of Dan Hoyle’s new solo show.

SexRev: The José Sarria Experience Mama Calizo’s Voice Factory, 1519 Mission; 1-800-838-3006, www.therhino.org. $10-25. Previews Wed/21-Fri/23, 8pm. Opens Sat/24, 8pm. Runs Wed-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 2pm. Through May 2. Theatre Rhinoceros presents John Fisher’s musical celebration of America’s first queer activist.

Shopping! The Musical Shelton Theater, 533 Sutter; 1-800-838-3006, www.brownpapertickets.com. $27-29. Fri-Sat, 8pm. Ongoing. The musical is now in its fifth year at Shelton Theater.

Tell It Slant Southside Theater, Fort Mason Center, Bldg D, Marina at Laguna; www.tixbayarea.com. $20-40. Fri-Sun, 8pm (also Sun, 2pm; no 8pm show May 16). Through May 16. BootStrap Foundation presents Sharmon J. Hilfinger and Joan McMillen’s musical about Emily Dickinson.

"Wanton Darkness: Two Plays By Harold Pinter and Conor McPherson" Phoenix Theatre, 414 Mason; 335-6087. $24-28. Thurs-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 2pm. Through May 8. 2nd Wind Productions performs Ashes to Ashes and St. Nicholas in repertory.

What Mama Said About Down There Our Little Theater, 287 Ellis; 820-3250, www.theatrebayarea.org. $15-25. Thurs-Sun, 8pm. Through July 30. Writer-performer-activist Sia Amma presents this largely political, a bit clinical, inherently sexual, and utterly unforgettable performance piece.

BAY AREA

*East 14th: True Tales of a Reluctant Player Marsh Berkeley, 2120 Allston, Berk; www.themarsh.org. $20-35. Sun/25, 2pm; April 30 and May 7, 9pm; May 1 and 8, 8pm. Through May 8. Don Reed’s solo play, making its Oakland debut after an acclaimed New York run, is truly a welcome homecoming twice over. (Avila)

Equivocation Marin Theatre Company, 397 Miller, Mill Valley; (415) 388-5208, www.marintheatre.org. $34-54. Tues and Thurs-Sat, 8pm (also Sat/24 and May 1, 2pm; no show April 30); Wed, 7:30pm; Sun, 2 and 7pm. Through May 2. Marin Theatre Company presents playwright Bill Cain’s award-winning hit, a sparksy drama that steeps itself in the history of Shakespeare’s life, labors and times to, among other things, draw pointed references to a barbaric period of fear, witch-hunting and state-sponsored torture ("Politics is religion for people who think they’re god," as one character has it). As staged by artistic director Jasson Minadakis, the play is nervously kinetic and pitched rather high by a cast of first-rate actors delivering surprisingly lackluster performances. The fact is Cain also bites off quite a bit in Equivocation, including "Shagspeare"’s (Charles Shaw Robinson) fraught relationship with his morosely clever daughter (Anna Bullard), neglected twin of the beloved son he lost — which is perhaps why some of it seems only half chewed by the end. The play — set in designer J.B. Wilson’s metallic two-tiered semi-circle representing the storied Globe Theatre, where the Bard wrote and occasionally acted alongside his fellow King’s Men as co-proprietor — has also a wearying tendency to spell its morals in block letters. Some genuine insight into the plays and their meaning then and now lifts interest in the fictionalized action, which otherwise skirts by on mild amusement, somewhat strained dialogue and familiar post-9/11 indignation. (Avila)

Girlfriend Berkeley Repertory Theatre, Thrust Stage, 2025 Addison, Berk; (510) 647-2949, www.berkeleyrep.org. $27-71. Wed, 7pm; Thurs-Sat and Tues, 2pm (also Sat, 2pm); Sun, 2 and 7pm. Through May 9. If you like Matthew Sweet’s songs you’ll probably like the spirited renditions in this new boy-meets-boy musical, which borrows its title from Sweet’s famous 1991 album. The songs, backed by a solid band in a recessed fake-wood-paneled den at the back of the stage, underscore the fraught but exhilarating emotional bond between two Nebraska teens at the end of their high school careers and the cusp of an anxious, ambiguous independence. The performances and chemistry generated by actors Ryder Bach and Jason Hite under Les Waters’ sharp direction are marvelous, delivering perfectly the inherent honesty and feeling in Todd Almond’s book, while Joe Goode’s beautifully understated choreography adds a fresh, youthful insouciance to the staging. But the story is a small one, not just a small town story, and its short, predictable arc makes for a slackness not altogether compensated for by the evocative tension between the lovers. (Avila)

A History of Human Stupidity LaVal’s Subterranean Theatre, 1834 Euclid, Berk; (510) 499-0356, www.randt.org. $16-20. Thurs/22-Sat/24, 8pm; Sun/25, 7pm. Rough and Tumble presents a new play about an old subject, human folly. Actually, Andy Bayiates’ play — which under Cliff Mayotte’s direction takes the form of an out-to-the-audience physicalized history lesson before a blackboard wall — is less than comprehensive, leaping from a Dawn-of-Man slugfest to a familiar recounting of Western imperial history under an evolving definition of stupidity — initially, "a good idea gone bad." Performed unevenly by a five-member female cast, the wordier humor leans toward the quirky or goofy, while the slapstick lacks much of a punch, despite a fair amount of punching. In the end, the insights and irreverence are too pedestrian to sustain even those theoretically receptive to a wacky lecture on familiar themes. (Avila)

John Gabriel Borkman Aurora Theatre, 2081 Addison, Berk; (510) 843-4822, www.auroratheatre.org. $34-55. Tues and Sun, 7pm (also Sun, 2pm); Wed-Sat, 8pm. Through May 9. A former bank manager (James Carpenter) who did time for illegally speculating with customer accounts to the ruin of all now paces like a lone wolf (in the operative metaphor) in his upstairs study, planning a return to respectability, as his estranged wife (Karen Grassle) occupies the rooms below along with a testy housekeeper (Lizzie Calogero), where her sister (Karen Lewis) competes for the love and loyalty of the patriarch’s grown son (Aaron Wilton), who contrary to the designs of all his elders is determined to marry a charming widow (Pamela Gaye Walker) and "live," as he is compelled to reiterate. Ibsen’s play has an enduring topicality that is hard to miss of course, but Aurora’s production, directed by veteran hand Barbara Oliver, also inadvertently suggests why this leaden, slightly ridiculous work is so rarely produced, despite some solid acting, especially from an imposing yet slyly comical Carpenter in the title role. (Avila)

The Lysistrata Project Regent House, 2836 Regent, Berk; www.crowdedfire.org. $10-15. Thurs/22-Fri/23, 8pm. Crowded Fire presents Elana McKernan’s Aristophanes-inspired tale as part of its Matchbox Production development program for new works.

*A Seagull in the Hamptons Ashby Stage, 1901 Ashby, Berk; www.shotgunplayers.org. $15-30. Wed/21, 7pm; Thurs/22-Sat/24, 8pm; Sun/25, 5pm. Emily Mann’s free adaptation of Chekhov’s Seagull captures the essence of his early "comedy" — very much a human comedy, brimming with pain, turmoil and tragedy in equal measure with laughter, love and folly — and yet manages to be completely of its own (our own) time and place, so effortlessly as to seem a little miraculous. It helps, naturally, that director Reid Davis has assembled a very solid and enjoyable ensemble cast for this wonderfully tailored Shotgun Players production. (Avila)

To Kill a Mockingbird Mountain View Center for the Performing Arts, 500 Castro, Mtn View; (650) 463-1960, www.theatreworks.org. $27-62. Tues-Wed, 7:30pm; Thurs-Sat, 8pm (also Sat, 2pm); Sun, 2 and 7pm. Through May 9. TheatreWorks performs Christopher Sergel’s adaptation of Harper Lee’s literary masterpiece.

PERFORMANCE/DANCE

Alonzo King LINES Ballet Novellus Theater, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 700 Howard; 978-2787, www.linesballet.org. Wed-Thurs, 7pm; Fri-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 5pm. The company performs its 2010 spring season.

"Bay Area National Dance Week" Various locations; www.bayareadw.org. April 23-May 2. Over 400 free events, including performances and classes, hightlight this 12th annual celebration of dance.

"The Cat’s Pajamas" Make-Out Room, 2335 22nd St; www.makeoutroom.com. Mon, 8pm, $5. Cabaret show featuring a variety of acts under the theme "ModMambo."

"CubaCaribe Festival of Dance and Music" Dance Mission Theater, 3316 24th St; www.cubacaribe.org. Fri-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 7pm; Sun/25, 3pm. Through May 2. $12-22. The sixth annual fest showcases Cuban and Caribbean performers from the U.S. and abroad.

"Diaspora Tales #2: 1969" CounterPULSE, 1310 Mission; www.brownpapertickets.com. Fri-Sat, 8pm. $15. Asian Improv Arts, Asian Pacific Islander Cultural Center, and Oakland Asian Cultural Center collaborate on this interdisciplinary work.

"Evolution of a Kiss" Shotwell Studios, 3252-A 19th St; www.brownpapertickets.com. Fri-Sat, 8pm. Through May 1. $10-15. Cynthia Brinkman performs her solo show based on real-life accounts of first kisses.

"Kindergarde: Avant-Garde Poems, Plays, Stories, and Songs for Children" California College of Arts, 1111 Eighth St; www.sptraffic.org. Sun, 5:30pm, $5. Small Press Traffic presents this eclectic performance.

"Performance Art in Front of an Audience Ought to Be Entertaining" Marsh Studio Theater, 1062 Valencia; www.themarsh.org. Wed, 7:30pm. $10-20. Phillipe Coquet and Carla Pauli perform Sean Fletcher and Isabel Reichert’s drama set amid the 1980s avant garde art scene.

"La Semilla Caminante/The Traveling Seed" Intersection for the Arts, 446 Valencia; 626-2787. Fri-Sun, 8pm. $5-15. Intersection and Campo Santo present a new multimedia performance work by Celia Herrera Rodriguez, Cherrie Moraga, and Alleluia Panis.

"Springboard V" Meridian Gallery, 535 Powell; www.brownpapertickets.com. Fri-Sat, 8pm; Sun, 7pm. $10-25. Jump! Theater presents this staged reading of excerpts from plays by local writers.

Sabar dances for Bay Area art form

Andrew Lam

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April 20, 2010

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When Delina Patrice Brooks got the call to audition for the new movie about the Bay area African dance community, she didn’t have to think twice. “Anything that helps to promote, preserve and expose the beauty of African dance gets an easy “yes” from me,” says the local dancer and artist. She wound up in a supporting role in Sabar, a film which screens at the Museum of the African Diaspora Fri/23, and which highlights an important cultural movement in the Bay. “The film was very reflective of our community,” says Brooks, whose been an advocate of, and participant in, the traditional artistic form for over a decade.
Sabar’s creator and director, Nigerian filmmaker Chike Nwoffiah, initially set out to make a documentary on the local dance scene that captivated him with it’s vibrant sights and sounds. Flush with dance classes and performances, the Bay’s African dance — a form which has a subgenre known as “sabar” — culture is unprecedented in the US.

“African dance is huge in the Bay area,” says Eboni Hawkins, director of see.think.dance, which promotes connections between urban communities, artists and dance productions. “Out of all dance communities in the US, we [in the Bay] are really known for traditional dance.”

After hearing of the social connotations and intense spiritual communion that many African dancers take from their art, Nwoffiah, who at one point commented “my heart was bleeding sabar,” decided that his story could be best told in a dramatic arc.

Check out Sabar‘s trailer

The film he brought forth follows Aisha (played by the talented Bunmi DeRosario, a real life regular in the Bay’s traditional dance scene), a hip hop dancer who comes to sabar, a dance that originally comes from Senegal, more or less by accident. She’s surprised to find that the rhythms of the drums awaken within her some kind of rememberance — or is it destiny? — or excitement lacking in her modern world. She’s swept into the orbit of the dance, and the pattern of her daily life is forever changed.

For advocates of African dance, its not an unbelievable awakening. “There are people that come to dancing late in life, and they find that they become a part of something larger than themselves,” says Hawkins. “This is a really tight community, and it can be very welcoming.”

Watching Sabar, which has been screening across the world since its premiere at the 2009 Pan-African Film & Television Festival in Burkina Faso, you begin to understand the draw of traditional African dance; the bright fabrics, the clacking of cowries mixing with the bottomless reverberations of the djembe drums, the communal nature of multi dancer performances. The movie Sabar was honored with the best feature film and audience choice awards at the Urban Mediamakers Film Festival in Atlanta.

Hawkins calls Sabar a great “introductory point” for those unacquainted with the dance — and Brooks is quick to make the connection for those that like what they see. When asked what she would share with people about the making of the movie, she had an invitation to extend. “For anyone who enjoys moving their body, come dance with us! It’s intimidating at first — absolutely — but it’s invigorating.” She cited the workout potential of the art form, and finished up with an affirmation. “Just like in the film, the drums are captivating and the moves just — they just feel good.”

Fri/23 5 & 7:30 p.m., free with $10 museum admission
Museum of the African Diaspora
685 Mission, SF
(415) 358-7200
www.moadsf.org

SCENE: San Francisco

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April 19, 2010

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SanFolk Disco’s blazing neo-folk collision

Andrew Lam

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April 14, 2010

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JL Stiles would like it if we all just appreciated what we’ve got a little more.

“If you look at the new artists that have come out of San Francisco recently, we’re got some really innovative people. But in the belly of the beast, traction is not easy to come by. The great artists, someone discovers them and cashes out on their genius, and then they’re touring all over and just come back every once in awhile,” says the mathematician/musician/creator of the new neo folk concert series San Folk Disco, which kicks off Thur/15 at Café Du Nord.

The series will showcase three Bay area artists each month, with the intent to gather together three different kinds of folk sound, what the event’s website calls “three blazing comets of musical ice and fire.”

Stiles, himself an accomplished guitarist who attributes his musical acumen to a penchant for advanced mathematical theorems, has aspirations of becoming “a personal music scene.” Though he has taken pleasure in the aspects of SanFolk Disco he’s orchestrated, when it comes to event planning in general “I prefer that everybody else do it, and me be the source of it. I’m about what music is fundamentally; inspiration, profundity, a serious, magical thing. If it’s only about JL Stiles, it’s really small. If it’s about what music encompasses for humankind, it’s something to live your life for.”

Here’s the profundity going down at tomorrow night’s SanFolk Disco; Stiles opens (as he will each month), and from there the boundaries of folk, rock, and bluesy jam music will be explored. Sweet, jazzy Kasey Johansing’s ephemeral purrs are set to lay a nice, velvety groundwork for a more jingle-jangle, feel good sesh by Bart Davenport. “Bart’s the kind of guy that always leaves you with a smile on your face. He gets crowds dancing,” says Stiles.

Sounds like a fun night; support your local music scene while it still is local, hear a bunch of different artists’ interpretation of what folk music is today… strike a blow for personal connections in a rapidly digitizing social sphere? “It’s a civic duty to go out and take charge and participate in some way in peoples’ lives,” exhorts Stiles. “Do your civic duty, come out and party!”

SanFolk Disco feat. Bart Davenport, Kacey Johansing & JL Stiles

Thur/15 8 p.m., $10-12

Café Du Nord

2170 Market, SF

www.sanfolkdisco.blogspot.com

Our Weekly Picks

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

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April 13, 2010

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WEDNESDAY 14

MUSIC/CLUB

Nachtmusik

Pseudo Echo, Zwischenfall, Pluta Connexion, Gina X, Das Kabinette — you may not know who they are, but if you imagine them dressed in black sometime in the early ’80s, making cold, dark, catchy music with analog synthesizers and drum machines, then you get the gist. Nachtmusik is an intimate monthly club night for fans of forgotten dark wave, cold wave, and minimal synth styles and the artists who made them. (There’s a definite Liquid Sky rush from hearing these obscure retro tunes on a big soundsystem.) This month, DJs Omar, Justin, Goutroy, and Riegler dig up frigid gems and angular oddities. Dress in hot black, wet your lips, and the try out some electro-industrial moves on the floor. It’s pop for porcupines. (Marke B.)

10 p.m., $5

The Knockout

3223 Mission, SF

(415) 550-6994

www.theknockoutsf.com

MUSIC

The Whitest Boy Alive

If you don’t have the luxury of traveling down to Indio for Coachella this year, don’t fret. Many of the bands showcasing this year are heading up to the Bay Area, and the Whitest Boy Alive is no exception. After the release of 2009’s Rules, the Berlin-based band has been making waves with a new outgoing and upbeat record. The electro-dance quartet graces us with its presence as front man and Kings of Convenience crooner Erland Oye serenades the crowd with airy vocals over danceable tunes. (Peter Galvin)

With special guests

9 p.m., $16-18 (at the door)

Slim’s

333 11th Street, SF

415.255.0333

www.slims-sf.com

THURSDAY 15

DANCE

“Move(men)t”

The men are back. Joe Landini’s The Garage has picked up on a noble San Francisco tradition that had just about disappeared. Until the mid-nineties, the City regularly celebrated its male dancers in the Men Dancing festivals. Landini’s “Move(men)t,” now in its third year, gives voice to about as wide a variety of male choreographers as you will see on one program. Some have their own companies (Dance Theater/Shannon, David Herrera Performance Company, Labayen Dance/SF); others put ensembles together as needed: Kegan Marling, Jose Navarrete, Jorge De Hoyos and Folawo Oyinlola among them. The first two evenings show choreographed work; the last two are dedicated to improvisation. On Sat. from from 2 to 6 p.m., Cristine Cali will teach a free Men’s Improv Workshop, with the opportunity to perform that night. (Rita Felciano)

8 p.m. (through Sun/18), $10-20

The Garage

975 Howard St. San Francisco

(415) 885-4006

www.975.howard.com

FRIDAY 16

MUSIC

Wolves in the Throne Room

Wolves in the Throne Room plays a distinctive brand of enveloping, distinctively-American black metal, and the Olympia, WA group has matured before our eyes into a blast-beaten export that the Western United States can be proud to call its own. Founded by brothers Nathan and Aaron Weaver in their Olympian “farm-stronghold” (named “Calliope,” according to the band’s bio), Wolves draws on natural parallels between black metal’s nature-worshiping roots and the Weaver brothers’ headbanging brand of environmentalism. They share the stage Friday with their fellow Northwest iconoclasts, Seattle drone legends Earth. (Ben Richardson)

With Earth, Lori Goldston

9 p.m, $16

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255-0333

www.slims-sf.com

DANCE

LINES Ballet

Over the last quarter of a century, Alonzo King has developed a unique — angular, stretched and spacey — vocabulary for his LINES Ballet company. What makes his work so exciting these days is that he is venturing ever more daringly into new musical terrains. His collaborations with musicians such as saxophonist Pharoah Sanders and tabla player Zakir Hussein may have whetted his appetite. Bringing in jazz musician Jason Moran last year certainly resulted in a hot show, musically and choreographically. Stepping into western opera and art song, however, opens a huge landscape even for somebody as congenitally open-minded as King. For the still-untitled premiere, King enlists the help of Adler Fellows Sara Gartland (soprano), Maya Layhani (mezzo-soprano), Ryan Belongie (counter-tenor) and Austin Kness (baritone). They have chosen songs and arias from George Frideric Handel and Richard Strauss. In addition to lending their voices, the singers will also move with the dancers, based on their own physical reflections of what the music tells them. (Felciano)

8 p.m. (through April 25), $15-65

Novellus Theater

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

700 Howard, San Francisco

(415) 978-2787

www.ybca.org.

MUSIC

Love is All

Sweden must be just the cutest place in the world, to have carelessly bestowed Love is All with a force like Josephine Olausson. You could not be chastised for thinking that Olausson sounds like an raucous schoolgirl as she yelps and sputters through Two Thousand and Ten Injuries, the band’s third release. But after a few listens, that casually adorable bombast and tympani begins to feel like it comes from a very personal place, a distinction that was once an anomaly for any self-righteous noise pop band. I suppose we all seek to divert attention from our insecurities; not all of us are lucky enough to do it with a catchy melody and a dreamy set of pipes. (Galvin)

With Princeton, the Butterfly Bones

8:30 p.m., $12

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com/

SATURDAY 17

EVENT/FOOD

First Annual Goat Festival

Early spring got you feeling “goatish”? Don’t get your fetlocks in a twist. Hie thee down to the first annual Goat Festival, “A Celebration of All Things Goat,” to commune with your fellow capraphiles while sampling tasty tidbits of goat cheeses, kefirs, yogurts, and ice creams, checking out the cooking demos, and pestering local author and cheese whiz Gordan Edgar about gjetost. Plus, there will be baby goats gamboling about. (In a confined area, I presume, but still). BABY GOATS, people! There is nothing cuter. The merriment is co-hosted by “The Goat Girls” — the respective heads of Cypress Grove Chevre, Redwood HillFarm and Creamery, and Laloo’s Goat Milk Ice Cream — and CUESA, the Center for Urban Education about Sustainable Agriculture. (Nicole Gluckstern)

10 a.m.-1 p.m. free

Ferry Building,

Embarcadero, SF

www.cuesa.org

www.SuperGoat.org

EVENT

First Annual Bed Races

With the annual Folsom Street Fair, LovEvolution and the How Weird Street Fair in San Francisco, it’s hard to think of anything in the city as obscure or strange. So what’s special about the First Annual

Bed Races, you ask? Well just imagine a bunch of drunk college kids, business men and (one hopes) bona fide freaks pushing decked-out bed cars (think soap box derby) in a mad race to the finish line. Trust me, this race will put the Red Bull Soapbox Race to shame. Oh yeah, and proceeds benefit charity, so take that, Red Bull. (Elise Marie Brown)

10:30 a.m., free

Marina Middle School

3500 Fillmore Street, SF

(408) 374-1600

VISUAL ART

Avatar 4D

I have no clue what the Facebook description of this show is saying. Something about “a night of logarithms and viral glancing.” Where the title is concerned, Cameron’s 3D Avatar is being trapped in “utopian metamorphosis” while JstChillin’s (this show’s curators, who just wanna chillax in “a flow of existence between web and physicality”) 4D vision incorporates “collective re-embodiment” as seen and experienced through the ever-changing, always-schizophrenic, net and self. Okay, I think I get it now: The Internet is our avatar and these 17 artists — excuse me, these “reality hackers” — just wanna have fun with their Deleuze-ian Body without Organs. Or something like that. Either way, the spectacle of 17 net artists simultanteously performing in the same space sounds cooler than Cameron’s weak vision any day. (Spencer Young)

7–10 p.m., free

Noma Gallery

80 Maiden Lane, 3rd Floor, SF

(415) 391 0200

www.nomagallerysf.com

MUSIC

Collie Buddz, Devin The Dude

Collie Buddz has become a staple in the rising reggae and dub scene. Born in New Orleans but raised in Bermuda, he grew up trading lyrics in schoolyard clashes. He credits Bounty Killer and Beenie Man as his primary influences. Collie Buddz and his brother built a studio where he “trained,” developing his signature style. This will be a joint performance (pun intended) with well-known underground Houston hip-hop artist Devin The Dude. Both are respected for their lyrical and musical abilities. Be prepared to get elevated and educated. Other guests include Phife Dawg of Tribe Called Quest, and the Skaflaws. (Lilan Kane)

9 p.m., $10

The Independent

628 Divisadero, SF

415.771.1421

www.theindependentsf.com

MUSIC

Public Image Ltd.

After the Sex Pistols imploded onstage in San Francisco in 1978, John Lydon dropped his “Johnny Rotten” moniker and formed Public Image Ltd., an influential revolving band of musicians that centered around the often caustic and controversial yet always riveting front man. A showcase for Lydon’s trademark snarl that incorporated a host of styles, including dub bass, searing guitar rock, and electronic experimentation, PiL helped lay the foundation for a generation of post-punk bands to come. On its first American tour in 18 years, the group hits the city the day after performing an eagerly anticipated headlining slot at Coachella. (Sean McCourt)

9 p.m., $50–$53

Regency Ballroom

1290 Sutter St., SF

(800) 745-3000

www.theregencyballroom.com

SUNDAY 18

FILM

“So, You Wanna Fight!”

Before the days of Oscar De La Hoya and Manny Pacquiao, boxing was more about the physical sport than advertisers and HBO subscriptions. Film archivist and anecdotal master Dennis Nyback wants you to know that. Tonight, the cinema connoisseur presents classic boxing films of the 20th century, with a program that includes Joe Louis, Tex Avery and feisty fist-fighting 8-year-old Pam Sproul. After watching these films, you might even start pricing some boxing gloves and enroll in a class or two. (Brown)

2 p.m., $6-8

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787

www.ybca.org

MUSIC

Vader

Vader was created in 1983, born deep behind the Iron Curtain in Olsztyn, Poland. Though they struggled at first to even obtain proper musical equipment — the literal tools of their trade — the fall of Polish communism and the explosion of the death metal scene during the early 1990s gained them a dedicated cult following, both at home and abroad. Now approaching its third decade, the band is still adept at churning out thick, tremolo-picked riffs and grandiose arrangements, while simultaneously staying one step ahead of the legal eagles over at Lucasfilm, Ltd. (Ben Richardson)

With Overkill, God Dethroned, Warbringer, Evile, and Woe of Tyrants

6:30 p.m., $26.50

The Regency Ballroom

1300 Van Ness, SF

(415) 673-5716

www.theregencyballroom.com

TUESDAY 20

MUSIC

Gary Numan

After initial recognition as the singer and leader of Tubeway Army, especially with their single “Down In The Park,” Gary Numan exploded into succcess upon the release of his 1979 solo record The Pleasure Principal, which featured the hit single “Cars.” Inspiring untold new wave, industrial and goth bands with his sound and look over the ensuing years, Numan is enjoying a resurgence of late, finding himself on stage with groups such as Nine Inch Nails as a special guest. His appearance here performing The Pleasure Prinicipal in it’s entirety is another fine example of the joys of living in a major city close to the annual juggernaut that is Coachella; his only other U.S. gigs on the books this go round are the festival in Indio and another club show in L.A., so don’t miss out. (McCourt)

8 p.m., $27.50

The Fillmore

1805 Geary Blvd., SF

(415) 346-6000

www.thefillmore.com

******

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An MPC fiend at work

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks

-

April 13, 2010

0

arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC Few producers have pushed forward the aesthetic of West Coast underground hip-hop like Exile. His dynamic production style navigates a certain uneasiness at the heart of Californian reveries: warm pulses of boom-bap ride over blown-out bass lines and dirtied, jazz-strut melodies. Yet among the towering forces of Dr. Dre gangster pulp and Madlib beat tapes ad infinitum, Exile has been something of a submerged anonymity.

Exile (born Aleksander Manfredi) broke out into the Los Angeles scene at the brink of the millennium as part of the duo Emanon, formed in half by dexterous lyricist and singer Aloe Blacc. In reality, they had already been hustling an arsenal of cassettes since the mid-1990s, championing sun-bleached soundscapes and whimsical verses on the grind. It set the framework for Exile’s prodigious output during the last few years (holds breath): another decisive Emanon full-length, 2004’s The Waiting Room on Shaman Work; full production in the vein of Marley Marl for two freshmen rap debuts, Blu’s impassioned 2007 Below the Heavens on Sound in Color, and Fashawn’s solid 2009 Boy Meets World on One Records; a versatile 2006 beat conductor showcase, Dirty Science (also on Sound and Color); and the 2009 concept album Radio on Plug Research, which reworked a pastiche of sound bytes, vocals, and loops culled from Los Angeles’ AM/FM frequencies.

In any free time scrapped among those projects, Exile also helped spearhead a new form of live performance with the Akai MPC, a powerful drum machine and sampler tool henceforth used only for production. “The MPC is able to do almost anything any instrument can do if it’s programmed right,” Exile tells me over the phone. “Buttons allow you to trigger and manipulate sounds — and that’s exactly what music is.” No longer limited to mixing, scratching, and juggling prerecorded sounds on the turntables, the producer can build, layer, and freak music from its most basic building blocks. “The idea is to have your own instrument, made up of other instruments: a chopped up guitar, horn, bass line, and drums; then add some synth keys,” Exile says. “You have all these instruments at your fingertips and you can rework them.” Simply put, Exile brings a hip-hop producer’s analog studio to the stage.

Whether flipping robotic percussive breaks and lurching sub-bass that reach into your gut and pile-drive your sternum or reimagining Afrika Bambaataa with kindred spirit DJ Day, Exile continually impresses and body rocks the crowd in his live show. Sure, some talented laptop performers have incorporated similar techniques into their sets from behind glowing Apple computer screens, but it’s thrilling to see Exile openly at work in front of the audience. The visual aspect is key as he demonstrates unparalleled skills on the machine, tapping buttons in rapid-fire wizardry like a future-funked Thelonious Monk.

Exile invokes a natural musicality when playing the equipment. This makes his claims that the MPC is a real and serious instrument all the more convincing. “The first instrument I learned was an accordion, which has a lot of buttons,” he says, amused by the thought. “Then I picked up the keyboard and some drums. But I really learned to play the drums with the MPC.”

Exile was that kid in junior high finger-drumming syncopated rhythms on classroom desks and beat boxing in the hallways. Hooked on hip-hop and electronic jams, he was inspired to make programmed music with whatever tools he could find. “The first song I ever recreated was Tom Tom Club’s “Genius of Love” with a turntable and two-tape decks,” Exile recalls. “I recorded a two-bar section of a song, rewound so there were two bars of empty space, recorded two bars again, and then empty space again. Do that for three minutes, then go back and fill in the empty space, and add another tape onto that.” Repeat that DIY method until the sounds of a loving genius knock out of the speakers in full android glory.

This restless impulse to create took Exile down a long road experimenting with four-track recorders, Roland samplers, and even helium balloons before he laid his hands on the MPC. Now, he’s a certified fiend, transforming the way we see hip-hop as much as we hear it. And there’s much more to come.

EXILE

Fri/16, 9 p.m., $5–$10

Som SF

2925 16th St., SF

(415) 558-8521

www.som-bar.com