Style

Can the ban

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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3
Can the ban

superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO Don’t blame it on the rave. You may have heard about the tragic deaths of two men, ages 23 and 25, who overdosed on ecstasy during the humongous Etd.POP 2010 party at the Cow Palace over Memorial Day weekend. (Eight other people were hospitalized.) Now state Sen. Leland Yee and San Mateo County Supervisor Adrienne Tissier are calling for a ban on raves at the Cow Palace. Must this tired anti-rave misguidedness pop up again?

Here are the facts. The Etd.POP thing is an annual affair, drawing up to 16,000 people, ages 16-plus. Two people died at a similar party in 2003. According to CBS 5, 73 people, mostly from out of town, were arrested this year on drug-related charges. The promoters, Skills DJs, enforced a strict no-drug policy and even, somewhat creepily but understandably, welcomed undercover cops into the venue. They immediately made a sympathetic statement after the hospitalizations and are cooperating fully with authorities.

There’s no evidence that the adults who died took tainted drugs. According to the Chronicle, a spokesperson for SF General, where the injured were treated, said those affected “were suffering injuries consistent with someone taking drugs, dancing, and not getting enough water and of being in a hot, closed environment.” I’ve been to the Cow Palace during megaraves, and it gets hot as blazes. This year several people complained about the heat online, and even headline trance DJ Armin Van Buuren tweeted that it was “really warm.” As for water, it needed to be much more available. Skills sent me the venue map they handed out at the entrance, and it gives directions to two water fountains and two beverage vendors, all outside the main arena. Not enough, folks. The three most important words when throwing parties of any size: Free. Water. Everywhere. Yes, there’s also a danger of overhydration, but even the non-Eing can collapse in a “hot, closed environment.” If you can’t afford to give out water, then why are you flying some DJ in from Amsterdam?

Look, as a matter of personal musical taste, I’m all in favor of banning raves at the Cow Palace. And please bust dealers who target kids. But beyond that, hysterical rave-banning is bullpucky. Newsflash from 1968: some people take drugs at (more likely before) parties. These adults are responsible for their own choice. Force the Cow Palace to get better ventilation. Require promoters to hand out free water on the dance floor. But don’t deny the thousands of drug-free young kids getting together to dance — rather than, say, ethnically cleanse Uzbekistan — their opportunity to have some electronically fueled, and by now old-fashioned, fun. You can blame rave for a lot of things, but it doesn’t kill people.

 

THE LEAK

Tired of disco? Unphased by wave? At last, the backlash against our dance-floor obsession with the past has begun. The LOWSF crew is dedicating this monthly to recently released bangers and jams only. Get fresh at the weekend.

Fri/18, 10 p.m., $3. Showdown, 10 Sixth St., SF. www.lowsf.com

 

1994

OK, but here’s more of the past — in an irresistibly goofy vein. The delirious 1994 party returns, with revisionist fashion shows, questionable tunes, and tipsy sing-alongs aimed at a new generation of beer-goggled nostalgists. Slap bracelets!

Sat/19, 9 p.m., $10. Paradise Lounge, 1501 Folsom, SF. www.club1994.com

 

MEGA-TETRIS

How can you resist? Multimedia artist Bryan Von Reuter is turning the Lab into a giant game of Tetris, projecting that old-school video game — the key to the world, really — onto the walls and letting you play, mega-style. Tunes by DJ Middle D stack the blocks.

Sat/19, 8 p.m., $5–$15. The Lab, 2948 16th Street, SF. www.thelab.org

 

LARRY HEARD

It’s been a long time since Larry Heard, a.k.a. Mr. Fingers, helped invent the quintessential Chicago house sound — heck, he’s even based in Tennessee these days — but the soul shivers still rain down when he lets his decks do the walking.

Sat/19, 9 p.m.-4 a.m., $25. SOM, 2925 16th St., SF. www.som-bar.com

Ironside

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Ironside

paulr@sfbg.com

DINE When the Giants opened their new baseball stadium on China Basin 10 years ago, an improvement in ballpark food was immediately noted. You could have ahi tuna while watching Barry Bonds, and this was — at least for some, at least for a time — an ethereal combination. The ballpark even had a fancy restaurant attached, Acme Chophouse, but the shift in food culture rippled beyond the stadium proper into the surrounding blocks, which were rapidly becoming residential.

Because baseball is the core of all-Americana, it isn’t surprising that baseball-influenced food has a definite American flavor. Yes, in many ways San Francisco is the least American of American cities, and we love our ahi tuna, but we like mac ‘n’ cheese too. And no place I’ve been to lately in the environs of the baseball park more nicely captures in food this complex sense of city and country than Ironside.

The restaurant opened last autumn on Second Street, just a half-block or so from the ballpark. And if you sit at a window table on a mild evening, watching the crowd either assembling or dispersing, you have the pleasant sense of peeking in on a Fellini film: faces, body shapes, clothes, shoes, conversations, emotional fields, all drifting past like fish in a huge aquarium.

Not that the inside is hard on the eyes. It’s a handsome confection of wood, brick, glass, and stainless steel, the blending of rustic-industrial and über-urban that at its best, as here, is simultaneously minimal and warm. The look is a cozier version of nearby Zuppa’s. The food, though, is another story — a lovable hodgepodge executed with verve and presented with exuberance.

In the American grain we have the mac ‘n’ cheese ($9), made with Gruyère and (for aromatic effect) smoked cheddar cheese — just enough style to be distinctive but not so much as to become an overwrought mess. Also: meatballs ($8), in a spicy tomato sauce and presented with elegant but semi-useless points of toasted baguette. Incidentally, are meatballs American, Italian-American, Italian, or Swedish?

Salads (for me) seldom command much interest, but Ironside’s arugula salad ($10) is a modest masterpiece: a green carpet of baby leaves dotted with chunks of crispy prosciutto, ribbons of shaved fennel, spicy pecans, and sections of blood orange. The binding agent is nominally a white balsamic vinaigrette, but really it’s the lovely balance of salty, tart, sharp, and crunchy. To get the full reaction you have to be sure to get a bit of each constituent in every bite, which can be tricky.

Flammenkuchen ($10) is the German word for the Alsatian flatbread known in French as tarte flambée. I haven’t seen one of these on a local menu since the demise of mc2 in the dot-com crash of nine years ago. Ironside’s toppings — of bacon, beer-braised scallions, and crème fraïche — are pretty much the traditional ones. We liked the light, crispy crust but found that the pie as a whole needed a bit of salt, maybe because crème fraïche isn’t as salty as cheese.

Bigger plates are at greater risk for becoming dull than are their smaller siblings, probably because a main dish in our culture is usually a big chunk of flesh that tends to overwhelm everything around it. A seared filet of bluenose sea bass ($19) the size of a bar of soap is a sizable piece of protein, but at Ironside it isn’t permitted to take over the dish. In fact, it could almost be seen as an accompaniment or condiment to the large, colorful heap of shelling beans on one side of the plate and the berm of crispy kasha on the other, with a cordon of luminous carrot beurre blanc — a wonderful, simple idea — to sew things up.

Such a final saucing flourish would have helped at least one of the desserts, the brownie and banana sundae ($7), which was really more of a big — and chewy and moist — brownie flanked by banana halves and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and some whipped cream, than a sundae, which, strictly speaking, would be ice-cream-centric. The drizzling of chocolate sauce seemed unequal to the task of holding all this together.

Our handsome young server could have been an extra from Milk. I hadn’t seen such evocative facial hair since those long-ago days when actual clones roamed the earth. He thanked us profusely for everything. As Joan Crawford might have put it, just whom is thanking whom here?

IRONSIDE

Lunch: Mon.–Fri., 11 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

Dinner: Tues.–Sat., 5:30–10 p.m.

680A Second St., SF

(415) 896-1127

www.ironsidesf.com

Beer and wine

Mc/V

Noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Love streams

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Love streams

arts@sfbg.com

DANCE Dance Continuum SF’s artistic directors José Ivan Ibarra and Peter Litwinowicz danced and studied with Bay Area José Limón disciples Gary Masters and Cheryl Chaddick. Though they are their own men, the lineage shows. Limón’s weighted yet luminously airy style and his taking on of momentous topics without a whiff of irony is not much in fashion these days. So the old man would have approved when the four year-old company called its June 11-13 concert “Life, Love and Rituals.”

To a contemporary viewer, the ability to translate emotionally resonant material into movement language that communicates clearly and simply is refreshing. No wonder Continuum has attracted a group of beautifully trained dancers who seem to thrive in this capacious environment. They are, in addition to the choreographers: Blane Ashby, Kyla Farrow, Heather Glabe, Lindsay Shapiro, and Jennifer Wright.

The ambitious program featured five world premieres. Of the two choreographers, Ibarra has the more theatrical bent. Sometimes his movement language can look a little facile, but it doesn’t unduly undermine his expressive intent; Ibarra creates solid dramatic structures. With the dark Picasso Blue, he turns commedia dell’arte inside out. Starting out lightheartedly, he tightens the screws until Harlequin’s (Ibarra) heart is broken; Columbina has gone mad; and Pantalone (Ashby), the old fool, turns out to be a devilish manipulator. The puppetry’s mechanism is awkwardly conceived and the double duets looked unbalanced. Still, despite the oddly chosen Brahms quartet, my heart wound up in my throat.

In the trio Love Shirley, Ibarra’s lover/pimp character gets his comeuppance from Farrow and Glabe’s entertainers/hookers. The piece’s ambivalent relationships strike a note of disease. But even as you root for the women, it’s disconcerting to watch how Ibarra evokes the insidiousness of shifts in power. It makes you sit up.

Perhaps the lyrics in the finely crafted Café o Canela anchor its three sections too literally, but the piece plausibly portrays a disintegrating relationship. Listening to Ashby’s icy self involvement, after having watched Farrow’s plangently but strongly danced solo about marital loneliness, is chilling. The two call up the memory of a perfect love (Ibarra and Glabe in Mexican costumes) observed on their honeymoon. The lovey-dovey duet looks charming, but also like a saccharine projection of “native” life. In the climactic tango-inspired duet, Ashby and Farrow elastically drift and float until they finally cut the thread.

Litwinowicz’ two premieres, Rituals and Lonely, but not always alone make their own statements about what it means to be alive. In the simple but pristine Rituals (Farrow, Glabe, and Shapiro) different-colored scarves suggest the time passing of time and changed circumstances. Their fluid usage also evoke continuity within familiarity. Making excellent use of stage space, the dancers’ dissolving and reconfigured unisons, gentle canons and the periodic solos flow on top of a bed of constancy of, at the very least, purpose.

Lonely is one of the best dance/video works I can remember. The two media interlock tightly yet with flourish. Dancers on stage lusciously express — and sometimes shape — the thoughts and dreams of their video counterparts until Glabe reverses direction. Individually, in its distinct episodes and as an accumulation, Lonely convinces because it is smart, funny, and poignant.

Voters are pissed

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Voters are pissed

By Guardian News Staff

news@sfbg.com

After spending more than $70 million, two big corporations failed to convince Californians to vote their way. After spending nearly $70 million, the former head of a big corporation easily convinced Californians to vote her way. And that outcome is not as schizophrenic as it sounds.

On one level, the outcome of the June 8 election was a sign of the anti-corporate anger seething through the California electorate. “BP, Goldman Sachs, PG&E — anything that seems connected to a big corporation is in serious trouble right now,” one political insider, who asked not to be named, told us.

Yet two candidates who were very much corporate icons — Meg Whitman and Carly Fiorina — won handily in the Republican primaries and now have a real chance to become the state’s next governor and junior senator. What’s happening? It’s fascinating. The voters in the nation’s most populous state are pissed off — at big business, at government, at the oil spill, at 10 percent unemployment, at Washington, at Sacramento, at Wall Street. It’s an unsettled electorate, uncertain about its future and looking for something new, and definitely despising power.

There’s a populist fervor out there, and it’s going to define this fall’s expensive, dirty, and high-stakes battle for California’s future.

 

THE MAYOR GOES STATEWIDE

Addressing a crowd of supporters gathered at Yoshi’s San Francisco on election night, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom — who easily beat opponent Janice Hahn to claim the Democratic nomination for lieutenant governor — said he was excited to be part of a crucial political year for the Golden State.

“We’re very proud to be in a position to be the Democratic nominee and to work with the other Democratic nominees,” Newsom told supporters. He lavished praise on the Democratic nominee for governor, Jerry Brown — the man who just last year he was trying to beat in a primary — telling stories about his father’s long relationship with the former governor and expressing his admiration. “I couldn’t be more proud to quasi- be on a ticket with Jerry Brown,” he said.

The race for lieutenant governor may prove one of the most interesting this election season — and not just because a victory for Newsom would transform San Francisco politics. Newsom’s opponent is Abel Maldonado, a moderate Republican who enjoys popularity among the growing, influential Latino community, and who Newsom’s team said will be a formidable challenge.

The campaign could revolve around an intriguing question. At a time when the Republican Party has been taken over by virulent anti-immigrant politicians — Whitman and Fiorina have both made harsh statements about illegal immigrants and vowed never to support “amnesty” (that is, immigration reform) — will Latino voters go for a white Democrat over a Latino Republican?

“You talk to them about all the same issues you talk to all voters about: jobs, education, and health care,” Newsom political strategist Dan Newman said when asked whether Newsom could win over Latino voters. “Latinos, like all voters, will appreciate someone with a proven record of success.”

Pollster Ben Tulchin also downplayed the trouble Newsom could encounter in winning the Latino vote. “With what’s going on in Arizona, they are very wary of Republicans,” Tulchin said, but then added: “We don’t want to underestimate the challenge we have. There’s never been a moderate Latino on the statewide ballot.”

Newsom sounded another alarm. If Whitman decides to help Maldonado, the race will get even tougher. “We’re running against Meg Whitman’s checkbook,” the mayor said.

“Expect to see Meg and Abel together a whole lot in the next few months,” one consultant predicted.

If Newsom wins, San Francisco will get a new mayor a year early — and the district-elected Board of Supervisors will choose the person to fill out the last year of Newsom’s term. Technically, the current board will still be in office then, but the task may well fall to the next board — which makes the local November elections even more important.

“Everyone is gaming this out and trying to figure out what happens,” political consultant Alex Clemens said during a post-election wrap-up at the San Francisco Planning and Urban Research Association office. “There will be a lot of dominoes to fall and deals to be cut.”

Meanwhile, Newsom’s nomination for lieutenant governor places many San Franciscans in an uncomfortable position, one that was illustrated well by Newsom’s victory speech, in which he proudly rejected taxes. Although most San Francisco progressives are disenchanted with their fiscally conservative mayor, few would rather vote for Maldonado.

Tim Paulson, the SF Labor Council president, was at the Newsom event gritting his teeth as he talked about the opportunity progressives now have to work with “a mayor of San Francisco we have issues with.” Now, he noted, “There is going to be a real campaign around this man. It could establish a narrative for what California is about.”

 

POWERFUL WOMEN

At Delancey Street on election night, San Francisco District Attorney Kamala Harris talked about getting “tough and smart on crime,” addressing gang-related criminal activity but also focusing on corporate criminals. She talked about cracking down on predatory lenders, supporting health care reform, and protecting California’s environment. And she made a point of dragging in BP.

“It must be the work of the next attorney general to ensure that the disaster and tragedy that happened in the Gulf of Mexico never happens in California,” she said, warning of attacks on AB 32, which set California’s 2020 greenhouse gas emissions reduction goal into law in 2006.

Of course, Harris now has to take on her southern counterpart, Los Angeles DA Steve Cooley, who is a moderate but comes in with much stronger law enforcement support. If Harris wins, it will go a long way to prove that opposition to the death penalty isn’t fatal in California politics, and that voters are finally ready for a women of color as the top law enforcement official — a first in state history.

But she and Newsom will both have to overcome likely attacks for the San Francisco’s crime lab scandal, one of many hits to be magnified by the size of Whitman’s war chest.

Whitman, who trounced opponent Steve Poizner in the primary, is riding the crest of a new wave of Republican-style “feminism,” starring her, Fiorina, and Fox news pundit Sarah Palin as female champions of the right-wing agenda. A few short months ago, it looked as if Brown was in serious trouble. But that was before Whitman and Insurance Commissioner Steve Poizner got into an $85 million bloodbath that left the winner of the GOP primary badly wounded. Whitman wants to play off the populist uprising by portraying herself as an outsider running against a career politician; Poizner gave her a huge scare by hammering her ties to Goldman Sachs.

That Wall Street narrative is one Democrats will push against Whitman and Fiorina. “I think it is stunningly politically tone deaf to nominate two Wall Street CEOs to the top of the ticket,” Newman said. Voters will decide whether they are fresh voices with new ideas or corporate hacks who laid off Californians and made fortunes with dubious stock market deals.

Brown leads in the polls — narrowly — but he’s vulnerable. He’s taken so many stands over so many years and Whitman’s fortune will hammer any openings they see. Brown is only slowly getting into campaign mode, but it’s no secret what he has to do. If the campaign is about Jerry Brown, unconventional politician, against Meg Whitman, Wall Street darling, then he wins.

But to take advantage of that, Brown has to offer some concrete solutions to the state’s problems — and he has to start acting like the progressive he once was. “If I were him, I’d run hard to the left,” a consultant who isn’t involved in any of the gubernatorial campaigns said.

The conventional wisdom had Barbara Boxer in trouble, too — but she’s a savvy campaigner who has beaten the odds before. And while the senator appears ripe for attack — almost 30 years in Washington, a voting record perhaps a bit more liberal than the state as a whole — her opponent, Fiorina, has baggage too.

For starters, Fiorina’s entire pitch is that she — like Whitman — would bring business-world savvy to politics. But as CEO of HP, “she was about perks and pink slips,” Newman said. “She laid off Californians and shipped those jobs overseas while enriching herself.”

Her own primary pushed her far to the right (at one point, in an embarrassing sop to the National Rifle Association, she actually argued that suspected terrorists on the federal no-fly list should be able to buy handguns). And speaking of feminist values, her anti-abortion positions won’t help her in a decidedly pro-choice state.

 

PROP. 16 GOES DOWN

The defeat of Proposition 16 will go down in history as one of the most remarkable campaigns ever. It was, Sup. Ross Mirkarimi noted, “a righteous win:” The No on 16 campaign spent less than $100,000 and still captured 52 percent of the vote. Another narrow corporate-interest measure, Mercury Insurance’s Prop. 17, faced a similar fate.

One reason: PG&E’s $50 million campaign backfired, making voters suspicious of the company’s propaganda. Another: it lost overwhelmingly in its own service area, the company rejected by those who know it best.

Now PG&E CEO Peter Darbee, who pushed to mount the expensive campaign, must return to his shareholders empty-handed — and that’s going to cause problems. “I assume the leadership of PG&E will be called to task,” Clemens said. “They truly rolled the dice.”

The day after the election, PG&E shares dropped 2.2 percent, a possible sign of shaken investor confidence. Mindy Spatt of the Utility Reform Network (TURN), a nonprofit that worked on the No on 16 effort, described the situation succinctly. “Peter Darbee’s got egg on his face,” she said. “Big-time.”

Mirkarimi has witnessed other battles with PG&E, and said this probably wouldn’t be the last. “PG&E, every time we want to have a seat at the table, tries to take us out, like assassins,” he said. “If they were smart, they would take us up on what we asked many years ago, and that is to abide by peaceful coexistence.”

On the statewide level, the bold and expensive deceptions pushed by PG&E and Mercury Insurance were countered by only a handful of super-committed activists and a broad cross-section of newspaper editorials, a reminder that newspapers — battered by the economy and technological changes — are neither dead nor irrelevant.

One of the wild cards of the election was Prop. 14, which will eliminate party primaries for state offices — and potentially shake up the state’s entire political structure. “This is a big deal even if we don’t know how it’s going to play out,” consultant David Latterman said at the SPUR event.

Interestingly, the only two counties that voted No on 14 were the most progressive — San Francisco — and the most conservative, Orange.

Progressives did well in San Francisco, expanding their majority on the Democratic County Central Committee. “In an environment where it was about hundreds of millions of dollars from PG&E and Meg Whitman and Chris Kelly outspending us, we showed that San Francisco is San Francisco and we support San Francisco values,” DCCC chair Aaron Peskin told us.

Money used to define the debates in San Francisco, but the dominant narratives are now being written by the coalition of tenants, environmentalists, workers, social justice advocates, and others who backed a progressive slate of DCCC candidates, which took 18 of the 24 seats on a body that makes policy and funding decisions for the local Democratic Party.

“This time it was the coalition that really made the difference,” DCCC winner Michael Bornstein said on election night. “Frankly, our people worked harder.”

Board of Supervisors President David Chiu agreed, telling us, “For the Central Committee, the message is people power wins.”

The lesson from this election is that people are starting to get wise to corporate deceptions. And they’re realizing that with hard work and smart coalition-building, the people can still prevail.

Steven T. Jones, Rebecca Bowe, Sarah Phelan, and Tim Redmond contributed to this report.

 

On the Cheap listings

David Talbot
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0

On the Cheap listings are compiled by Paula Connelly. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com.

THURSDAY 17

Another Science Fiction Get Lost Travel Books, 1885 Market, SF; (415) 437-0529. 7pm, free. San Francisco author and archivist Megan Prelinger will discuss and show images from her new book, Another Science Fiction: Advertising the space race 1957-1962, where she presents 100s of advertisement images from a time that marked the beginning of space research as well as the golden age of science fiction writing.

FRIDAY 18

FINKTOONS Element Lounge, 1028 Geary, SF; (415) 440-0111. 10pm, free if you say "FINKTOONS" at the door. What do you get when you cross sketch comedy, horror movies, cartoons, and bizarre short films? FINKTOONS, of course. Enjoy a night of never before seen sketches and cartoons, including a live performance by the project’s co-creators Brandon Fink and Tyler Moazed.

Giants County Fair McCovey Cove, Giants Lot A, behind AT&T Park, SF; www.sfgiants.com/fair. Fri./11-Sun/20, free. This old-fashioned county fair with a San Francisco spin features games, fair food, music, a CUESA urban farming tent dedicated to cooking and gardening, and over 20 carnival rides, including a Ferris wheel, bumper cars, super-swings, and more. $5 per ride or $20 for unlimited rides. The fair will overlap with six Giants games, including the Bay Bridge Series against the A’s.

SATURDAY 19

Breaking Ground San Francisco County Fair Building, 9th Ave. at Lincoln, Golden Gate Park, SF; (415) 750-5110. 9am-1pm, free. This urban gardening youth conference is open to all Bay Area high school students featuring youth led, hands on workshops, information about jobs and paid internship opportunities, food and entertainment, tours of some of San Francisco’s coolest gardens, and more.

Mission Community Market 22nd St. between Mission and Bartlett, SF; http://missioncommunitymarket.blogspot.com. 4pm-8pm, free. Attend the kick off to this weekly summer outdoor market that celebrates the Mission by promoting healthy eating, locally owned businesses, community programs, public space, and live music in the street. Proceeds from all food bought at Lolo’s, Café Revolution, and Escape from New York Pizza will be donated to the MCM Fund. All market profits will be reinvested into public space improvements. Featuring live music by Seth Augustus, Diana Gameros, Santos Perdidos, and King City and live performances from Abada Capoeira, Danza Azteca, and Sirron Norris.

"Obviously You’re Not a Golfer" Kokoro Studio, 682 Geary, SF; (415) 400-4110. 7pm, free.

The Flat Earth Collective presents this literary event featuring readings by Tom Andes, David Holler, Erica Lewis, and Sara Mumolo and dramatic performances of new work by Sarah Ciston and Tavia Stewart-Streit.

StreetSmARTS African American Art and Culture Complex, 762 Fulton, SF; www.sfartscommission.org/streetsmarts. 6pm, free. Celebrate StreetSmARTS pilot-program murals, a program that connects established muralists with San Francisco private property owners to create vibrant art based on visual concepts reflecting the fabric of the neighborhood and make property less likely to be vandalized. Festivities to feature live muraling, film screenings, speakers, DJs, and a break-dance contest. A StreetSmARTS art exhibition will be unveiled at midnight.

Tetris Tournament II The Lab, 2948 16th St., SF; (415) 864-8855. 8pm, $5-$15 sliding scale. Test your skills with the world’s most popular puzzle game at this karaoke-style arcade competition. Musician, media artist, and performer Bryan Von Reuter rigged it so the highest scoring players will reap all the glory on a jumbo-tron projected screen and score board with DJ Middle D spinning records all night.

SUNDAY 20

Cardboard Tube Fighting League Hayes Valley Farm, 450 Laguna, SF; www.tubeduel.com. 3pm, free. Come in your best cardboard armor attire, bring food to participate in the picnic potluck, and vie for a chance to win a legendary cardboard sword. Prizes also awarded for best cardboard costume. If you need a costume go to the free Cardboard Amor Building Workshop Sat/19 3pm at Hayes Valley Farm. Bring scissors, glue, twine, and anything you think you might need to build righteous armor.

Rock the Bike Valencia and 24th St., SF; www.projectsoundwave.com. The ongoing green sound festival, Project Soundwave, teamed up with Rock the Bike to bring you this unique free environmental music event at the Mission District Sunday Streets program featuring the acoustic punk sounds of Kemo Sabe brought to you by pedal powered mics, amps, and instruments.

MONDAY 21

BAY AREA

Summer Solstice Celebration Muir Beach, Golden Gate National Recreation Area, Route 1, Marin; (415) 388-2596. 6pm, free. Celebrate the longest day of the year at this bonfire solstice party featuring storytelling and songs. Dress warmly and bring a mug for hot drinks. No reservations required.

Ubiquity Anniversary Exhibit Guerilla Art Café, 1620 Shattuck, Berk.; (510) 845-CAFÉ. 6pm, free. Attend the opening of this art exhibit celebrating the 20th anniversary of Bay Area funk and soul from Ubiquity Records with paints of, and inspired by, Darondo, Eugene Blacknell, Sugarpie Desanto, and Twilight. The opening will feature Guerilla Café art collective and Ubiquity artists live painting and creating a video montage. Throughout the show, Guerilla will host guest appearances by the musicians and DJ sets playing their music.

For Lit, Talks, and Benefits listings, visit the Pixel Vision blog at

Film listings

David Talbot
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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. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. For first-run showtimes, see Movie Guide.

FRAMELINE34

The 34th San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival runs June 17-27 at the Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Roxie, 3117 16th St, SF; Victoria, 2961 16th St, SF; and Rialto Cinemas Elmwood, 2966 College, Berk. Tickets (most shows $8-15) can be purchased at www.frameline.org. All times pm unless otherwise noted.

THURS/17

Castro The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister 7. Off World 10.

FRI/18

Castro The Real Anne Lister noon. "Curious Thing" (shorts program) 1:45. Sasha 4:30. The Owls 7. Grown Up Movie Star 9:30.

Roxie "Hustlers and Exhibitionists: Andy Warhol Retrospective" 7. "Bi Request" (shorts program) 9:30.

Victoria 8: The Mormon Proposition 7. Open 9:30.

SAT/19

Castro "Fun in Boys’ Shorts" (shorts program) 11am. "Fun in Girls’ Shorts" (shorts program) 1:30. Elvis and Madona 4. I Killed My Mother 6:45. A Marine Story 9:30.

Roxie Mississippi Queen 11am. On These Shoulders We Stand 1:30. Postcard to Daddy 4. Hooters 6:30. "Sex, Leather Jackets, and Hustlers: Andy Warhol Retrospective" 9:30.

Victoria "Trans Francisco" (shorts program) 11am. The Adonis Factor 2. "Gay Aesthetics and Iconography in the Films of Andy Warhol" (illustrated talk) 4:15. Arias With a Twist 6:30. The Man Who Loved Yngve 9:30.

SUN/20

Castro "Dottie’s Magic Pockets Live!" 11am. We Were Here: Voices From the AIDS Years in San Francisco 1. The Topp Twins: Untouchable Girls 3:45. The Four Faced Liar 6:30. The Consul of Sodom 9:30.

Roxie Mountains That Take Wing 11am. "Skinnyfat" (shorts program) 1:45. "Generations: Youth and Elders Making Movies" (shorts program) 4:15. Bear Nation 6:45. Out of the Blue 9:30.

Victoria Beyond Gay: The Politics of Pride 11am. Paulista 1:30. "F**king Traditional Values: Queer Women of Color Shorts" (shorts program) 4:15. William S. Burroughs: The Man Within 7. The Queer X Show 9:30.

MON/21

Castro Dzi Croquettes 11am. Swimming with Lesbians 2. Off World 4. The Last Summer of La Boyita 7. Brotherhood 9:30.

Roxie New York Memories 7. "Are You Krazy?" (shorts program) 9:30.

Victoria Riot Acts: Flaunting Gender Deviance in Music Performance 7. My Normal 9:30.

Elmwood The Sea Purple 7. Plan B 9:30.

TUES/22

Castro The Motionless 11am. Sex in an Epidemic 1:15. Is It Just Me? 3:45. Undertow 7. Baby Jane? 9:45.

Roxie Gayby 7. One Night 9:30.

Victoria The Sisters 7. Eyes Wide Open 9:30.

Elmwood William S. Burroughs: The Man Within 7. The Fish Child 9:30.

OPENING

Bluebeard Writer-director Catherine Breillat returns to her 2001 Fat Girl‘s motifs of troubled sisterhood and the adolescent female imagination in this stealthy adaptation of Charles Perrault’s pathological fairy tale. Bluebeard‘s parable of murder coiled around marriage resonates rather obviously with Breillat’s own signature themes, but she avoids obviousness by serving the punishing logic of Perrault’s story chilled. That Breillat is concerned with how the fairy tale is experienced, and specifically the adolescent desires it awakens, is clear from the frame narrative in which two sisters (named autobiographically) ritualistically read "Bluebeard," both of them knowing it (and each other’s reactions) by heart. Their dualities mirror those of the sisters trapped inside the story, the younger of whom, prone to romantic fantasies of castles and marooned by her father’s death, joins Bluebeard in unholy matrimony. Marie-Catherine (Lola Créton) may be a sprite next to the titular ogre (Dominique Thomas), but never underestimate the appetite of a younger sibling. Breillat’s visual style is unassuming in its tableaus, but her mastery of point-of-view and restricted narration brings great insight to the mechanisms of the fairy tale. Créton conjures the younger girl’s familiar mix of confidence and innocence with something like joy, while Thomas plays Bluebeard as a tender foil. He appears nearly forlorn when he uncovers his young wife’s fateful act of disobedience and realizes he will now and forever carry out the terrible deed we expect of him. A sharp turn provides a different moral than we might expect, and while it’s not so self-consciously shocking an ending as Fat Girl‘s, it inscribes the birth of a storyteller named Catherine with far greater piquancy.(1:20) Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. (Goldberg)

*Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky Revered for the innovative fashion house that set the bar for style and was always knocked off but never cut prices for the real deal (and still sniffs at online clothing sales), Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel gets her second biopic, as an artist on par with composer Igor Stravinsky in this rhapsodically sensuous love letter to an unlikely romance. It opens with the designer and future branding legend (depicted with burning eyes and pantherine mystery by Anna Mouglalis) attending the controversial, riot-starting 1913 premiere of Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring in Paris. Recognizing Stravinsky (a viral avant-garde stud-muffin in the hands of Mads Mikkelsen, last in deadlocks and warrior face in Clash of the Titans) as a simpatico radical spirit, Chanel lends her house to the composer. He comes with considerable baggage: a slew of children and a consumptive wife, Katarina (Elena Morozova). Morozova’s performance as the angel-faced earth mother scorned, so blatantly disrespected by the rad lovers madly getting down on the music-room carpet, almost steals the show, but then the house-porn fabulosity of the recreated Chanel villa in Garches — a symbol of their hermetic attraction and shot like a seductive, claustrophobic, black-and-white deco womb — takes over, and we’re back in the thick of CoGor’s somewhat inexplicable affair once again. (1:55) Shattuck. (Chun)

Gravity Was Everywhere Back Then Before it was torn down by a new landowner, multimedia artist Brent Green went to visit the house built by late Kentucky hardware store clerk Leonard Wood — a poor man’s Winchester Mystery House, endlessly elaborated with newly knocked-down walls and weird handmade detailing. This obsessive one-man construction effort was commenced as a hopeful "healing machine" for its other resident, his beloved wife Mary, and continued after her death from cancer. Green built his own backyard replica of the house for this experimental first feature, a sort of live-action stop motion movie whose characters like move like puppets in stuttering frame jumps, with animation, dubbed occasional dialogue, crude intertitles, and some gently fantastical imagery adding to its dreamlike aura. Mary (played by Donna K.) makes a curious living breeding and selling wild bird eggs; Leonard (Michael McGinley), among his other callings, composes and records droning minimalist "church music." They met, purportedly, in a car crash. Green’s strangle-voiced blank verse narration and filmic folk-art affectations can sometimes make Gravity just sit there — certainly it feels longer than its 75 minutes. But it also has an off-center lyricism that in the end serves honorably this story of profound love between two very odd people. The director (who currently has an installation across the street at the Berkeley Art Museum) will appear at this one-night Pacific Film Archive screening. (1:20) Pacific Film Archive. (Harvey)

Jonah Hex Josh Brolin and Megan Fox star in this Wild West-set graphic novel adaptation. (1:81) Elmwood.

Lovers of Hate Living out of his car after being dumped by Diana (Heather Kafka), perpetually dour Rudy (Chris Doubek) can hardly find a place to take a shower. In stark contrast to his desperate situation, Rudy’s brother Paul (Alex Karpovsky) is a successful children’s fantasy writer, holed up in a borrowed mansion in Utah to work on his next book. Rudy decides to pay his bro an unwelcome surprise visit, but he arrives just behind Diana, who has come to have a serious chat (and also some sex) with Paul. Still in love with Diana, Rudy skulks unnoticed through the tremendous house, playing vengeful voyeur to the new couple’s already rather weird relationship. Lovers of Hate‘s central trinity are not especially nice people, but neither are any of them evil; writer-director Bryan Poyser balances pity and disgust at their painfully human actions, without necessarily making a case for why we care. (1:33) Roxie. (Sam Stander)

*The Oath Laura Poitras’ disturbing documentary is a portrait of two men closely bound to al Qaeda, though only one is interviewed. That would be Abu Jandal, a husband, father, current Yemen taxi driver, erstwhile jihadist operating from Bosnia to Afghanistan, and former chief bodyguard to Osama bin Laden. The off-camera one is his brother-in-law Salim Hamdan, a Guantanamo Bay prisoner from late 2001 whom he’d recruited as bin Laden’s driver-mechanic. Was Salim merely a for-hire worker with no knowledge of the 9/11 conspiracy or other terrorist actions? Was his lengthy imprisonment an example of the War on Terror’s flaunting of legal conventions? (After Hamdan won a Supreme Court victory, Congress invented a whole new kind of charge — "material support to terrorism" — to keep him in custody.) These are questions more pondered than answered here. We do, however, get a big close-up dose of Jandal, who laments the harm he might have done his bro-in-law while still counseling young Muslim Yemenites and his own barely-past-toddler son in jihadist righteousness, not excluding justification of killing Western civilians. He comes off as dangerous and charming, a hustler and braggart. Offering further insight into what makes up (or sculpts) a terrorist mindset is a pre-9/11 clip of an elegant, prissy bin Laden — a salt pillar of airless judgment
sure he’s channeling the intentions of Allah. (1:36) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Harvey)

The Sun Behind the Clouds In this doc, the Dalai Lama comments on the 2008 Tibetan demonstrations against Chinese rule. (1:19) Opera Plaza, Shattuck.

Toy Story 3 Somehow, it’s terrifying that in this installment, the toy-owning kid is heading off to college. (1:49) Cerrito, Marina.

*Winter’s Bone See "True Grit." (1:40) California, Embarcadero.

ONGOING

The A-Team Why was the original A-Team the most popular band of mercenaries on TV? The estimable chemistry and comedic skills of Mr. T; legit Breakfast at Tiffany‘s star George Peppard; conservative commentator Dwight Schultz; and Dirk Benedict, fresh from his role as the original Starbuck on Battlestar Galactica, played a major part, as did the quasi-anti-authoritarian, boyish, blow-’em-up-real-good tone, making it more of a cartoonishly violent kin to MASH than First Blood (1982). The cheeky humor and snappy writing were the real key to The A-Team‘s popularity — the reason impressionable protein units like yours truly tuned in. Director Joe Carnahan (2006’s Smokin’ Aces) and cast seem to have sussed out a bit of that magic, especially when the sun-roasted Bradley Cooper as Faceman and Sharlto Copley as Murdock roll with the what-the-hell non-sequiturs (less sure is the star of last year’s District 9‘s grip on exactly what accent he’s been charged with). But the cinematic version won’t be rehabbing the public’s view of guns-for-hire like Blackwater anytime soon. Liam Neeson lacks the cigar-chomping paternal bravado of Peppard, Quinton "Rampage" Jackson is tasked with the unenviable job of following T time, and the script, complete with the ludicrously elaborate plans and a spark-challenged romance between Cooper and Jessica Biel, is just a rough excuse to watch boys and their toys. (1:57) Cerrito, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center. (Chun)

*Babies Thomas Balmes’ camera records the first year in the lives of four infants in vastly different circumstances. They’re respectively born to hip young couple in Tokyo’s high-tech clutter; familiar moderately alterna-types (the father is director Frazer Bradshaw of last year’s excellent indie drama Everything Strange and New) in SF’s Mission District; a yurt-dwelling family isolated in the vast Mongolian tundra; and a Namibian village so maternally focused that adult menfolk seem to have been banished. Yes, on one level this is the cutest li’l documentary you ever saw. But if you were planning to avoid thinking that is all (or most) of what Babies would be like, you will miss out big time. Void of explanatory titles, voice-over narration, or subtitle translations, this is a purely observatory piece that reveals just how fascinating the business of being a baby is. There’s very little predictable pooping, wailing, or coddling. Instead, Balmes’ wonderful eye captures absorbing moments of sussing things out, decision-making, and skill learning. While the First World tykes firstborns both — are hauled off to (way) pre-school classes, the much less day planned Third Worlders have more complex, unmediated dealings with community. Those range from fending off devilish older siblings to Mongol Bayarjargal’s startlingly casual consorting with large furry livestock. (Imagine the horror of parents you know were their baby found surrounded by massive cows — a situation that here causes no concern whatsoever for adults, children, or bovines.) So accustomed to the camera that it doesn’t influence their behavior, the subjects here are viewed with an intimacy that continually surprises. Babies is getting a wider-than-usual release for a documentary, one cannily timed to coincide with Mother’s Day. But don’t be fooled: this movie is actually very cool. (1:19) Presidio, Shattuck, Smith Rafael, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

*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) Shattuck. (Harvey)

*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) Lumiere, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Sussman)

*The Father of My Children Grégoire Canvel (Louis-Do de Lencquesaing) is a perpetual motion machine: a Paris-based veteran film producer of complicated multinational whose every waking moment is spent pleading, finessing, reassuring, and generally putting out fires of the artistic, logistic, or financial kind. But lately the strain has begun to surpass even his Herculean coping abilities. Debtors are closing in; funding might collapse for a brilliant but uncommercial director’s already half-finished latest. After surviving any number of prior crises, Gregoire’s whole production company might finally dissolve into a puddle of red ink and lawsuits. He barely has time to enjoy his perfect family, with Italian wife Sylvia (Chiara Caselli) and three young daughters happily ensconced in a charming country house. Something’s got to give — and when it does, writer-director Mia Hansen-Love’s drama (very loosely based on the life of a late European film producer) drastically shifts its focus midway. Her film’s first half is so arresting — with its whirlwind glimpse at a job so few of us know much about, yet which couldn’t be more important in keeping cinema afloat — that the second half inevitably seems less interesting by comparison. Still, for about 55 minutes The Father of My Children offers something you haven’t quite seen before, an experience well worthwhile even if the subsequent 55 are less memorable. (1:50) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

*The Full Picture The unusually high proportion of non-native San Franciscans not only underlines our living in a "destination" city, but also suggests that many of us were eager to leave something behind. Certainly it’s no accident The Full Picture’s fraternal protagonists both chose to live here. Yes, it’s a lovely place. It also happens to be 3,000 insulating miles from where they were raised, and where the dragon still dwells. Unfortunately, she can fly: sensible heels clacking militaristically across airport tarmac first clue us to the personality of monster-mother Gretchen Foster (Bettina Devin), who sweetly announces she’s off to visit "my boys" in SF, then breathes fire when that charm fails to secure a first class upgrade. Clearly it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Jon Bowden’s first feature is based on his original play, and this screen incarnation doesn’t entirely leave the whiff of stagecraft behind. It’s smart, fluid, funny, and biting, as well as a nice addition to the roster of movies that really do convey something about living here. (1:20) Roxie. (Harvey)

Get Him to the Greek At this point movie execs can throw producer Judd Apatow’s name on the marquee of a film and it’s a guaranteed blockbuster. It’s hard to say whether this Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008) spin-off benefits from the Apatow sign of approval or if it would be better off standing on its own, but it definitely doesn’t benefit from comparisons to its predecessor. Russell Brand returns as the British rock star Aldous Snow, and Jonah Hill, playing a different character this time, is given the task of chaperoning the uncooperative Snow from London to LA in 48 hours. Despite a great cast, including a surprisingly animated P. Diddy, the story is pretty bland and can’t match the blend of drama and comedy that Marshall achieved. Of course, none of that matters because the movie execs are right: if you like Apatow’s brand of humor, you’re going to have a good time anyway. (1:49) Empire, Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Peter Galvin)

*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) Clay, Piedmont, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

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) Four Star. (Chun)

Holy Rollers Holy Rollers isn’t a movie — it’s a headline stretched out to 90 minutes. Yes, the set-up is worthy of adaptation: Hassidic Jewish kid begins importing ecstasy from Amsterdam. And it’s based on a true story! But the film is far too matter-of-fact, never delving into the important questions that might elevate it past a glorified reenactment. That’s not to say the performances aren’t good. Jesse Eisenberg continues to prove he can do well in leading roles, while supporting actors Justin Bartha and Ari Graynor are both charming, in their own ways. The problem is the material. What is Holy Rollers saying about the war on drugs, or organized religion, or the desire to live above one’s means? Nothing, really. The tone is equally problematic, as it repeatedly fails to find the right blend of comedy and drama. The movie’s major selling point is that it will make you want to visit Amsterdam — you know, if you didn’t already. (1:29) Lumiere, Shattuck. (Peitzman)

*Iron Man 2 Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) returns, just as rich and self-involved as before, though his ego his inflated to unimaginable heights due to his superheroic fame. Pretty much, he’s put the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing on the back burner, exasperating everyone from Girl Friday Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow); to BFF military man Rhodey (Don Cheadle, replacing the first installment’s Terrence Howard); to certain mysterious Marvels played by Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlett Johansson; to a doofus-y rival defense contractor (Sam Rockwell); to a sanctimonius Senator (Garry Shandling). Frankly, the fact that a vengeful Russian scientist (Mickey Rourke) is plotting Tony’s imminent death is a secondary threat here — for much of the film, Tony’s biggest enemy is himself. Fortunately, this is conveyed with enjoyable action (props to director Jon Favreau, who also has a small role), a witty script (actor Justin Theroux — who knew? He also co-wrote 2008’s Tropic Thunder, by the way), and gusto-going performances by everyone, from Downey on down. Stay for the whole credits or miss out on the geek-gasm. (2:05) California, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

*Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work 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. (1:24) Bridge, Embarcadero. (Harvey)

The Karate Kid The most baffling thing about The Karate Kid is its title: little Dre Parker (Jaden Smith) never actually learns karate. He practices kung-fu, an entirely different form of martial arts — you know, from a different country. There’s something obnoxious and absurd about the misnomer: the film seems to suggest that if you’ve seen one Asian culture, you’ve seen them all. That aside, it’s not a bad movie. Smith is mostly pretty likeable, and there’s a definite satisfaction to seeing him grow from bullied weakling to kung-fu star. And Jackie Chan gets to exercise his dramatic chops — he even gets a crying scene! But Karate Kid is a "reboot," the preferred term for the endless stream of unnecessary remakes Hollywood keeps churning out. You can’t help but think about the superior 1984 version. Jaden Smith is no Ralph Macchio, Jackie Chan is no Pat Morita, and kung-fu is no karate. Don’t even get me started on the "jacket on, jacket off" crap. Which, if you say it quickly, sounds a little adult for a PG movie. (2:20) SF Center, Sundance Kabuki. (Peitzman)

Killers (1:40) 1000 Van Ness.

Letters to Juliet If you can stomach the inevitable Barbara Cartland/Harlequin-romance-style clichés — and believe that Amanda Seyfried as a New Yorker fact-checker — then Letters to Juliet might be the ideal Tuscan-sunlit valentine for you. Seyfried’s Sophie is on a pre-honeymoon trip to Verona with her preoccupied chef-restaurateur intended, Victor (Gael Garcia Bernal), who’s more interested in sampling cheese and purchasing vino than taking in the romantic attractions of Verona with his fiancée. Luckily she finds the perfect diversion for a wannabe scribe: a small clutch of diehard romantics enlisted by the city of Verona to answer the letters to Juliet posted by lovelorn ladies. They’re Juliet’s secretaries — never mind that Juliet never managed to maintain a successful or long-term relationship herself. When Sophie finds a lost, unanswered letter from the ’50s, she sets off sequence of unlikely events, as the letter’s English writer, Claire (Vanessa Redgrave), returns to Verona with her grandson Charlie (Christopher Egan), in search of her missed-connection, Lorenzo. Alas, Lorenzo’s long gone, and the fact-checker decides to help the warm-hearted, hopeful Claire find her lost lover. Unfortunately Sophie’s chemistry with both her matches isn’t as powerful as Redgrave’s with real-life husband Franco Nero — after all he was Lancelot to her Guenevere in 1967’s Camelot and the father of her son. Still, Redgrave’s power as an actress — and her relationship with Nero — adds a resonance that takes this otherwise by-the-numbers romance to another level. (1:46) SF Center. (Chun)

*Looking for Eric Eric Bishop (Steve Everts) is a single dad, frustrated at his inability to bond with his teenage sons and heartbroken over his failed marriage to Lily (Stephanie Bishop), the woman he walked out on 20 years ago but never managed to get over. Just when things are looking dire, Eric is delivered in surprising, magical fashion by hallucinatory visitations from Eric Cantona, his favorite soccer player, a philosophical Frenchman who was as renowned for his inscrutable press conferences as he was for his scintillating goals. Cantona plays himself, and passes pensive joints with Bishop as they slowly piece his shattered life back together. American viewers might be have trouble deciphering the intricacies of soccer culture or the molasses-thick Mancunian accents, but at its heart the movie (by Brit director Ken Loach) is an amusing, tautly crafted fable of middle-aged alienation giving way to hope and gumption. (1:57) Smith Rafael. (Richardson)

Marmaduke (1:27) 1000 Van Ness.

Micmacs An urge to baby-talk at the screen underlines what is wrong with Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s new film: it is like a precocious child all too aware how to work a room, reprising adorable past behaviors with pushy determination and no remaining spontaneity whatsoever. There will be cooing. There will be clucking. But there will also a few viewers rolling their eyes, thinking "This kid rides my last nerve." It’s easy to understand why Jeunet’s movies (including 2001’s Amélie) are so beloved, doubtless by many previously allergic to subtitles. (Of course, few filmmakers need dialogue less.) They are eye-candy, and brain-candy too: fantastical, hyper, exotic, appealing to the child within but with dark streaks, byzantine of plot yet requiring no close narrative attention at all. The artistry and craftsmanship are unmissable, no ingenious design or whimsical detail left unemphasized. In Micmacs, hero Bazil (Dany Boon) is a lovable misfit who lost his father to an Algerian landmine, then loses his own job and home when he’s brain-injured by a stray bullet. He falls in with a crazy coterie of lovable misfits who live underground, make wacky contraptions from junk, and each have their own special, not-quite-super "power." They help him wreak elaborate, fanciful revenge on the greedy arms manufacturers (André Dussollier, Nicolas Marié) behind his misfortunes, as well as various human rights-y global ones. So there’s a message here, couched in fun. But the effect is rather like a birthday clown begging funds for Darfur — or Robert Benigni’s dreaded Life is Beautiful (1997), good intentions coming off a bit hubristic, even distasteful. (1:44) Embarcadero, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (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) Four Star, Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

*Ondine You want to believe in mermaids, leprechauns, tooth fairies, and Father Christmas — and director Neil Jordan plays with those hopes, and fears, in this unabashedly romantic fable set in a Irish fishing village. Mullet-ed fisherman Syracuse (Colin Farrell), dubbed "Circus," thanks to his days as a drinking fool, is the butt of everyone’s jokes till he happens to catch a mysterious girl (Alicja Bachleda) in his net. She calls herself Ondine, shies away from people, and sings in an unknown tongue to the sea, drawing salmon, lobster, and fortune to the fisherman otherwise down on his luck. His precocious daughter, Annie (Alison Barry), is in need of a kidney transplant — and a measure of hope — and she grows convinced that her father’s hidden-away water baby is a selkie, a mythical Celtic sea creature that can shed its seal skin, bond with humans, and make wishes come true. Unfortunately believing in magic doesn’t always make it so, though Ondine gracefully limns that space between belief and reality, squeezing small moments of pleasure and humor from its rough, albeit attractive, characters and absolutely stunning landscapes in scenes beautifully lensed by onetime Wong Kar Wai cinematographer Christopher Doyle. (1:43) Albany, Piedmont, Opera Plaza. (Chun)

*Please Give Manhattan couple Kate (Catherine Keener) and Alex (Oliver Platt) are the proprietors of an up-market vintage furniture store — they troll the apartments of the recently deceased, redistributing the contents at an astonishing markup — and they’ve purchased the entire apartment of their elderly next-door neighbor (Ann Guilbert). As they wait for her to expire so they can knock down a wall, they try not to loom in anticipation in front of her granddaughters, the softly melancholic Rebecca (Rebecca Hall) and the brittle pragmatist Mary (Amanda Peet). Filmmaker Nicole Holofcener has entered this territory before, examining the interpersonal pressures that a sizable income gap can exert in 2006’s Friends with Money. Here she turns to the pangs and blunderings of the liberal existence burdened with the discomforts of being comfortable and the desire to do some good in the world. The film capably explores the unexamined impulses of liberal guilt, though the conclusion it reaches is unsatisfying. Like Holofcener’s other work, Please Give is constructed from the episodic material of mundane, intimate encounters between characters whose complexity forces us to take them seriously, whether or not we like them. Here, though, it offers these private connections as the best one can hope for, a sort of domestic grace accrued by doing right, authentically, instinctively, by the people in your immediate orbit, leaving the larger world to muddle along on its axis as best it can. (1:30) Elmwood, Lumiere, Piedmont. (Rapoport)

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time It takes serious effort to make a movie with a story dumber than the video game it’s based on. Director Mike Newell somehow accomplishes this feat with Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, a Disneyfied flop that flails clumsily in the PG-13 demilitarized zone, delivering sanitized violence, chaste romance, and dreary drama. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Dastan, an urchin boy — one jump, ahead of the bread line — adopted by the king and raised to be the wise-cracking black sheep in a family of feuding princes. He’s got Middle East ninja skills — one swing, ahead of the sword — and his infiltration of a sacred city nets him the magical Dagger of Time, a gilded rewind button coveted by his evil uncle Nizam (Ben Kingsley), who wants to use it for, well, evil, and Princess Tamina (Gemma Arterton), who’s sworn to protect it. Pressing a button on the dagger’s hilt allows its wielder to undo past events. If you have the misfortune of seeing this movie, you’ll want one for yourself. (2:10) California, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Richardson)

Robin Hood Like it or not, we live in the age of the origin story. Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood introduces us to the outlaw while he’s still in France, wending his way back to Albion in the service of King Richard III. The Lionheart soon takes an arrow in the neck in order to demonstrate the film’s historical bona fides, and yeoman archer Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe) — surrounded by a nascent band of merry men — accidentally embroils himself in a conspiracy to wrest control of England. The complications of this intrigue hie Robin to Nottingham, where he is thrown together with Maid Marion (Cate Blanchett), a plucky rural aristocrat who likes getting her hands dirty almost as much as she likes a bit of smoldering Crowe seduction. A lot of hollow medieval verisimilitude ensues, along with a good bit of slow-mo swordplay, but the cumulative effect is tepid and rote. (2:20) 1000 Van Ness. (Richardson)

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

Sex and the City 2 Sex and the City 2 couldn’t be anymore brazenly shameless, dizzyingly shallow, or patently offensive if it tried. This is aspiration porn, pure and simple, kitted out in the Orientalist trappings of a Vogue spread and with all the emotional intelligence of a 12 year-old brat. As the first SATC film nearly made short work of any shred of nuance or humanity that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda carried over from their televised selves, SATC 2 fully embraces the bad pun-spewing, couture-clad clichés the girls have hardened into. Sure they have kids, husbands, career changes, and menopause to deal with, but who cares about those tired signposts of middle age when there is more shit to buy, more champagne to swill, private airlines to fly on, $22,000-a-night luxury suites to inhabit, Helen Reddy songs to butcher, and whole other peoples — specifically, the people of Abu Dhabi, who speak funny, dress funnier, and have craaazy notions about what it means to be "one of the girls" — to alternately boss around, offend, and pity? (Fun SATC2 fact: did you know that in the "new Middle East" women secretly wear designer duds underneath their abayas?) Oh, that one tiny pang of sympathy you feel during the tipsy confessional between Charlotte and Miranda in which they bond over how being a mother and giving up one’s life ambition is difficult? A mirage. Because really, the greater concern is flying back to JFK first class or bust. And let’s not even get into the few bones the film tosses to the homos, such as the opening set piece: a gay wedding only a straight man could’ve thought up, replete with a shopworn Liza Minnelli having her Gene Kelly-in-Xanadu moment. But seriously, Michael Patrick King, don’t get it twisted: Stanford may call it such, but it’s not "cheating" if you’re already in an open relationship. Then again, if being a foil for your straight BFF’s insecurities about the luxe confines of monogamy gets you a gift registry at Bergdorf’s, why not? The laughs are cheaper this time around, but SATC 2‘s fuckery is strictly price-upon-request. (2:24) Castro, Empire, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Sussman)

Shrek Forever After 3D It’s easy to give Dreamworks a hard time for pumping out a fourth sequel to a film that never really needed a sequel in the first place. But Shrek Forever After isn’t all that bad — it’s mostly just irrelevant. The film does begin on an interesting note, with Shrek discovering the consequences of settling down with a wife and kids: serious ennui. It’s refreshing to see a fairy tale in which "happily ever after" is revealed to be rather mundane. But soon there are wacky magical hijinks that spawn an alternate universe, a cheap way to inject new life into tired old characters. (You like Puss in Boots? Well, he’s fat now.) Luckily, the voice actors are still game and the animation remains top-notch. The 3D effects are well used for once, fleshing out Shrek’s world rather than providing an unnecessary distraction. The end result is a mildly entertaining addition to the franchise, but like the alternate universe in which Shrek finds himself stranded, there’s no real reason it should exist. (1:33) 1000 Van Ness. (Peitzman)

Solitary Man Consider this another chapter in a larger recession-era cinematic narrative: a kind of corollary to Up in the Air and another dispatch from the flip side of the American dream — namely, American failure. Wheeling, dealing, disgusting, and charming in turns, Michael Douglas manages the dubious achievement of making a hungry and lecherous BMW dealership honcho compelling, even as we roll our eyeballs in disgust. His Ben Kalmen was once at the top of the world, a fairy-tale self-made star whose luxury auto commercials were all over TV, a sharp-tongued wife (Susan Sarandon) and tenderly tolerant daughter (Jenna Fischer) by his side. After his career lands in the crapper, Ben begins a long climb up, trading favors with his girlfriend Jordan (Mary-Louise Parker) and taking her daughter Allyson (Imogen Poots) to his alma mater for her college interview. During this trip down memory lane he renews his ties with old pal Jimmy (Danny DeVito) and befriends budding schlub Daniel (Jesse Eisenberg), all while making some very bad, reflexively womanizing choices. If you can stomach its morally bereft, perpetually backsliding yet endearingly honest protagonist, you’ll be rewarded with on-point dialogue and a clear-eyed yet empathetic character study concerning the free fall of a self-sabotaging, old-enough-to-know-better prick, individualistic to the core and even more. Is Ben as worthy of a bailout, or a second chance, as the American auto industry? The answer remains up in the air. (1:30) Empire, Piedmont, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

*Splice "If we don’t use human DNA now, someone else will," declares Elsa (Sarah Polley), the brash young genetic scientist bent on defying the orders of her benign corporate benefactors in Vincenzo Natali’s pseudo-cautionary hybrid love child, Splice. From that moment on, it’s pretty clear that any ethical conundrums the movie raises aren’t really worthy of debate: what Elsa wants to do in the name of scientific progress — splice human DNA into gooey muscle masses to provide said corporation with proteins for gene therapy — is, you know, deranged. Elsa bucks both corporate policy and sound moral judgment and does it anyway, much to the horror of her husband and fellow hotshot research scientist, Clive (Adrien Brody). Her genetic tinkering soon results in the dramatic birth of something akin to a homicidal fetal chick crossed with a skinned bunny. It grows at an alarming rate, and when human characteristics become apparent, Elsa clings to it with the instinctual vigor of a tigress protecting her cub. When Elsa and Clive are forced to hide their creation at Elsa’s abandoned family farmhouse to escape detection from prying corporate eyes, Splice evolves into another kind of hybrid: a genetically engineered Scenes from a Marriage (1973) crossed with the DNA of The Omen (1976) and grafted onto the most very special My So-Called Life episode ever. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Splice may be a ludicrous, cut-rate exercise in Brood-era David Cronenberg — but it’s a damned entertaining one. (1:45) 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Devereaux)

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) Smith Rafael. (Galvin)

Women Without Men Potent imagery has always been at the forefront of photographer and installation artist Shirin Neshat’s explorations of gender in Islamic society, and her debut feature Women Without Men certainly has its share. Loosely based on Shahrnush Parsipur’s novel of the same name, the film follows four Iranian women (down from the novel’s original five) — Fakhri, an upper-class military wife who longs to reconnect with an old lover; Zarin, a traumatized prostitute who escapes captivity; Munis, a housebound young woman reborn as a political dissident; and her friend, Faezeh, who longs to marry Munis’ domineering brother — in the days leading up to the 1953 coup d’etat that overturned democracy and restored the Shah to power. From the suicidal leap — filmed so as to suggest flight as much as falling — which opens the film, to the mist-shrouded groves of a rural orchard that becomes a refuge for the women, each shot is as striking for its beauty as it is uneven in conveying the allegorical significance behind all the lushness. The casts’ largely stilted performances don’t help much in this regard either. "All that we wanted to was to find a new form, a new way," says Munis in voiceover. As a creative act of mourning for Iran’s short-lived experiment in democracy — a moment, Neshat acknowledges in the film’s postscript, that clearly resonated with last year’s Green revolution — Women Without Men ambitiously attempts, albeit with mixed success, to envision just that. (1:35) Elmwood. (Sussman)

Leno bill would limit PG&E political spending

Zelda Bronstein
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Leno bill would limit PG&E political spending

State Senator Mark Leno is introducing a bill that could stop Pacific Gas and Electric Company from spending ratepayer money on political campaigns.


The bill, which doesn’t yet have a number, would put a serious crimp in the private utility’s ability to launch another effort like Prop. 16 — the $50 million campaign to block public power in California.


The bill wouldn’t stop PG&E from spending money on politics — that might fly in the face of the Supreme Court’s rulings on corporations and campaign finance. It just says that no ratepayer money can be spent — and since PG&E gets the vast majority of its money from ratepayers, the measure would at the very least significantly limit the company’s political efforts.


And since PG&E is a regulated utility, the state of California has every right to control how much money PG&E collects from its customers — and where that money goes.


Not only would the bill ban PG&E from running its own Prop. 16-style statewide campaign, it could block the company from spending tens of millions of dollars to oppose public-power efforts. The bill states that any gas and electric utility with more than three million customers in California (and there’s only one such company)


“shall not spend funds received from ratepayers as authorized revenues on political and public affairs related to state or local governments. For purposes of this section, political and public affairs spending includes any activities involving, directly or indirectly, advocacy of the election or defeat of political candidates and of the adoption or defeat of ballot measures, through the actions of the corporation or through a third party.”


A few years ago, a bill like this would have had little chance in the state Legislature, where PG&E spent lavishly and was relatively popular. But under CEO Peter Darbee, the company has done nothing but piss off legislators. Not one state lawmaker endorsed Prop. 16. It’s safe to say that today, PG&E doesn’t have many friends.


More details to come as I get them.


UPDATE: Here’s Leno’s comment, from a press release I just got:


“PG&E launched a dangerous and misleading political campaign – with ratepayer funds – that had only one goal, to preserve the corporation’s monopoly. The state’s largest electrical and gas company should not be able to use ratepayer-generated profits to write special rules into the state constitution protecting it from competition. This measure ensures that local communities across the state have the ability to launch their own municipal power agencies, which will in turn encourage competition and help keep our rates low.”


UPDATE TWO: I just spoke with Leno, and he noted that the bill has a decent chance, since PG&E at this point “would be hard pressed” to find any friends in Sacramento. “The bill is to protect ratepayers,” Leno said. “It requires the California Public Utilities Commission, when it hears PG&E’s rate cases, to disallow any spending on political campaigns.”


 

Appetite: Persian Pub Grub paired beer and wine with Iranian bar food

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Persian Pub Grub paired beer and wine with Iranian bar food

It’s joy when our city’s food and drink greats team up to form something unique. Such was Zaré at Flytrap‘s three nights of Persian Pub Grub, as envisioned by Zare’s chef/owner, Hoss Zaré, and Monk’s Kettle‘s Sayre Piotrkowski and Ryan Corbett.

The exuberant, hospitable Hoss created a menu lovingly melding traditional elements of his home country of Iran with creative expressions. Though Hoss admits that “Pub Grub doesn’t really exist in Iran” (nor would the alcohol pairings), he dreams up a Persian dinner as it might look in a modern, hypothetical Iranian Gastropub. Each course was happily far from typical, and most were downright heartwarming. My two favorites ended up being Caspian Seafood Stew, a smoky, saffron-heavy broth (enhanced by black garlic aioli and sour, pickled grapes) loaded with plump calamari, octopus, mussels and smoked sturgeon with a dollop of caviar. The other? A brilliant take on traditional Ghormeh Sabzi, an Iranian herb stew and national dish, one Hoss says would win your sweetheart’s affection if you perfect in Iran. This Persian Chili was redolent of herbs, paprika, harissa, and a spicy, crumbled lamb sausage mixed with organic kidney beans. I could not get enough.

Certified Cicerone, Piotrkowski, and his equally passionate-about-beer co-worker, Corbett, paired a stellar list of beers with Hoss’ food, facing off directly with wine pairings from Zare’s Wine Director, Mario Nocifera. At two convivial communal tables, we debated which paired best with any given course. I can honestly say there were no afterthoughts on either side. The final score? In my book, it’s two for two.

Beer, wine, and chicken wings with pomegranate sauce. Photo by Virginia Miller

My two favorite wines were the impressively elegant, layered acidity of Niepoort Codega‘s 2006 “Tiara” white from Branco, Portugal, and an earthy, dark berry/pepper, mineral, but balanced, 2008 Borsao Garnacha, “Tres Picos”, from Campo de Borja, Spain (quite a value at $14.99 a bottle at K&L).

On the beer front, though I was delighted to see Hitachino’s “XH” and Midas Touch for dessert, I was blown away by grapefruit brightness in Stone Brewing Co.’s dark, bitter Sublimely Self-Righteous, and the Belgian-style, caramel-y but bone dry Goose Island “Pere Jacques.”

Hoss has hosted other special Persian dinners and I hope will throw plenty more. Check their website’s event page for future dinners. Or go for dinner or lunch to sample Hoss’ heartwarming cooking paired with Reza Esmali‘s Middle Eastern-influenced cocktail menu (there’s a classic cocktail list, too) or Nocifera’s wine list. Monk’s Kettle is thankfully always ready to pour one of these fine or other equally exciting, and often, rare, beers.

Here was the Persian Pub Grub menu ($75 per person, including all pairings):

Sumac Couscous Salad with Dungeness Crab
Victory, “Prima” Pilsner, US| Yarden, Brut Traditional, Galilee Israel 
Caspian Seafood Stew with Mussels, Cod, Sturgeon and Black Garlic aioli
Hitachino “XH” Ibaraki Japan | Niepoort Codega “Tiara”, Blanco, Portugal
Chicken Wings “Fessenjoon” with Pomegranate Walnut Sauce
Stone, “Sublimely self-righteous” Ale, US | Coroa Godello, Valdeorras, Spain     
Persian Chili “Ghormeh Sabzi” with Spicy Lamb Sausage
Goose Island, “Pere Jacques” Belgian Style Ale, US | Borsao Garnacha “Tres Picos”, Campo de Borja, Spain
“Faloodeh” Lime Sorbet with Rice Noodles and Pistachios
Dog Fish Head, “Midas Touch” Ancient Ale, Milton US

www.zareflytrap.com

Film listings

David Talbot
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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. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. For first-run showtimes, see Movie Guide.

OPENING

The A-Team Is nothing sacred? (1:57) Presidio.

The Full Picture See "Mama Drama." (1:20) Roxie.

Holy Rollers Holy Rollers isn’t a movie — it’s a headline stretched out to 90 minutes. Yes, the set-up is worthy of adaptation: Hassidic Jewish kid begins importing ecstasy from Amsterdam. And it’s based on a true story! But the film is far too matter-of-fact, never delving into the important questions that might elevate it past a glorified reenactment. That’s not to say the performances aren’t good. Jesse Eisenberg continues to prove he can do well in leading roles, while supporting actors Justin Bartha and Ari Graynor are both charming, in their own ways. The problem is the material. What is Holy Rollers saying about the war on drugs, or organized religion, or the desire to live above one’s means? Nothing, really. The tone is equally problematic, as it repeatedly fails to find the right blend of comedy and drama. The movie’s major selling point is that it will make you want to visit Amsterdam — you know, if you didn’t already. (1:29) Contemporary Jewish Museum, Lumiere, Shattuck. (Peitzman)

*Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work 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. (1:24) Embarcadero. (Harvey)

The Karate Kid Is nothing sacred? (2:20)

Kinatay See Trash. (1:45) Yerba Buena Center for the Arts.

9500 Liberty 9500 Liberty spins off co-directors Eric Byler and Annabel Park’s YouTube series of "interactive documentary" footage surrounding a recent immigration policy struggle in Prince William County, Virginia. The Board of County Supervisors passed a resolution in 2007 mandating that police perform an immigration status check on any individual they had "probable cause" to believe was an illegal alien. The filmmakers emphasize the significance of new media in this local battle, as both sides mobilize through aggressive blogging. And you heard the part about how this movie is based on YouTube videos, right? The filmmakers’ sympathies are clear, as they reveal the hateful rhetoric of the anti-illegal immigration forces, but their emotional appeal hardly seems irresponsible — it serves to highlight the humanity often obscured by reductive xenophobia. The film apparently predates the recent Arizona immigration strife, but as the story unfolds, the parallels are both eerie and hopeful. (1:21) Lumiere. (Sam Stander)

*Ondine You want to believe in mermaids, leprechauns, tooth fairies, and Father Christmas — and director Neil Jordan plays with those hopes, and fears, in this unabashedly romantic fable set in a Irish fishing village. Mullet-ed fisherman Syracuse (Colin Farrell), dubbed "Circus," thanks to his days as a drinking fool, is the butt of everyone’s jokes till he happens to catch a mysterious girl (Alicja Bachleda) in his net. She calls herself Ondine, shies away from people, and sings in an unknown tongue to the sea, drawing salmon, lobster, and fortune to the fisherman otherwise down on his luck. His precocious daughter, Annie (Alison Barry), is in need of a kidney transplant — and a measure of hope — and she grows convinced that her father’s hidden-away water baby is a selkie, a mythical Celtic sea creature that can shed its seal skin, bond with humans, and make wishes come true. Unfortunately believing in magic doesn’t always make it so, though Ondine gracefully limns that space between belief and reality, squeezing small moments of pleasure and humor from its rough, albeit attractive, characters and absolutely stunning landscapes in scenes beautifully lensed by onetime Wong Kar Wai cinematographer Christopher Doyle. (1:43) Albany, Clay, Piedmont. (Chun)

*Perrier’s Bounty Not about sparkling water, director Ian Fitzgibbon and writer Mark O’Rowe’s giddy Irish crime tale is this year’s In Bruges (2008): a crass, self-consciously clever, amusingly characterful, and twisty take on Brit gangster tropes, with double-plus good actors and very scenic widescreen photography. Cillian Murphy — convincingly scruffy now that he’s aging out of excessive prettiness — plays a Dublin reprobate whose debt to some shady types is overdue. His attempts to neutralize that situation rapidly envelope the best-friend neighbor he’s secretly sweet on (Jodie Whittaker, Peter O’Toole’s protégée in 2006’s Venus) and the coke addict father (Jim Broadbent) he’s generally estranged from. Perrier’s Bounty
remains crafty and jaunty even as foretold "brutal and tragic events" unfold. Of course it’s contrived — but well contrived, with performances (including Brendan Gleeson as the titular crime boss) and piled-up incidents alike quite enjoyable. (1:28) Opera Plaza. (Harvey)

ONGOING

*Babies Thomas Balmes’ camera records the first year in the lives of four infants in vastly different circumstances. They’re respectively born to hip young couple in Tokyo’s high-tech clutter; familiar moderately alterna-types (the father is director Frazer Bradshaw of last year’s excellent indie drama Everything Strange and New) in SF’s Mission District; a yurt-dwelling family isolated in the vast Mongolian tundra; and a Namibian village so maternally focused that adult menfolk seem to have been banished. Yes, on one level this is the cutest li’l documentary you ever saw. But if you were planning to avoid thinking that is all (or most) of what Babies would be like, you will miss out big time. Void of explanatory titles, voice-over narration, or subtitle translations, this is a purely observatory piece that reveals just how fascinating the business of being a baby is. There’s very little predictable pooping, wailing, or coddling. Instead, Balmes’ wonderful eye captures absorbing moments of sussing things out, decision-making, and skill learning. While the First World tykes firstborns both — are hauled off to (way) pre-school classes, the much less day planned Third Worlders have more complex, unmediated dealings with community. Those range from fending off devilish older siblings to Mongol Bayarjargal’s startlingly casual consorting with large furry livestock. (Imagine the horror of parents you know were their baby found surrounded by massive cows — a situation that here causes no concern whatsoever for adults, children, or bovines.) So accustomed to the camera that it doesn’t influence their behavior, the subjects here are viewed with an intimacy that continually surprises. Babies is getting a wider-than-usual release for a documentary, one cannily timed to coincide with Mother’s Day. But don’t be fooled: this movie is actually very cool. (1:19) Piedmont, Presidio, Shattuck, Smith Rafael, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

*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) Opera Plaza, Shattuck. (Harvey)

*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, Sundance Kabuki. (Sussman)

*The Father of My Children Grégoire Canvel (Louis-Do de Lencquesaing) is a perpetual motion machine: a Paris-based veteran film producer of complicated multinational whose every waking moment is spent pleading, finessing, reassuring, and generally putting out fires of the artistic, logistic, or financial kind. But lately the strain has begun to surpass even his Herculean coping abilities. Debtors are closing in; funding might collapse for a brilliant but uncommercial director’s already half-finished latest. After surviving any number of prior crises, Gregoire’s whole production company might finally dissolve into a puddle of red ink and lawsuits. He barely has time to enjoy his perfect family, with Italian wife Sylvia (Chiara Caselli) and three young daughters happily ensconced in a charming country house. Something’s got to give — and when it does, writer-director Mia Hansen-Love’s drama (very loosely based on the life of a late European film producer) drastically shifts its focus midway. Her film’s first half is so arresting — with its whirlwind glimpse at a job so few of us know much about, yet which couldn’t be more important in keeping cinema afloat — that the second half inevitably seems less interesting by comparison. Still, for about 55 minutes The Father of My Children offers something you haven’t quite seen before, an experience well worthwhile even if the subsequent 55 are less memorable. (1:50) Embarcadero. (Harvey)

Get Him to the Greek At this point movie execs can throw producer Judd Apatow’s name on the marquee of a film and it’s a guaranteed blockbuster. It’s hard to say whether this Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008) spin-off benefits from the Apatow sign of approval or if it would be better off standing on its own, but it definitely doesn’t benefit from comparisons to its predecessor. Russell Brand returns as the British rock star Aldous Snow, and Jonah Hill, playing a different character this time, is given the task of chaperoning the uncooperative Snow from London to LA in 48 hours. Despite a great cast, including a surprisingly animated P. Diddy, the story is pretty bland and can’t match the blend of drama and comedy that Marshall achieved. Of course, none of that matters because the movie execs are right: if you like Apatow’s brand of humor, you’re going to have a good time anyway. (1:49) Empire, Four Star, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck. (Peter Galvin)

*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) Bridge, Piedmont, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

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) Four Star. (Chun)

*Iron Man 2 Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) returns, just as rich and self-involved as before, though his ego his inflated to unimaginable heights due to his superheroic fame. Pretty much, he’s put the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing on the back burner, exasperating everyone from Girl Friday Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow); to BFF military man Rhodey (Don Cheadle, replacing the first installment’s Terrence Howard); to certain mysterious Marvels played by Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlett Johansson; to a doofus-y rival defense contractor (Sam Rockwell); to a sanctimonius Senator (Garry Shandling). Frankly, the fact that a vengeful Russian scientist (Mickey Rourke) is plotting Tony’s imminent death is a secondary threat here — for much of the film, Tony’s biggest enemy is himself. Fortunately, this is conveyed with enjoyable action (props to director Jon Favreau, who also has a small role), a witty script (actor Justin Theroux — who knew? He also co-wrote 2008’s Tropic Thunder, by the way), and gusto-going performances by everyone, from Downey on down. Stay for the whole credits or miss out on the geek-gasm. (2:05) California, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Killers (1:40) Empire, Marina, 1000 Van Ness.

Letters to Juliet If you can stomach the inevitable Barbara Cartland/Harlequin-romance-style clichés — and believe that Amanda Seyfried as a New Yorker fact-checker — then Letters to Juliet might be the ideal Tuscan-sunlit valentine for you. Seyfried’s Sophie is on a pre-honeymoon trip to Verona with her preoccupied chef-restaurateur intended, Victor (Gael Garcia Bernal), who’s more interested in sampling cheese and purchasing vino than taking in the romantic attractions of Verona with his fiancée. Luckily she finds the perfect diversion for a wannabe scribe: a small clutch of diehard romantics enlisted by the city of Verona to answer the letters to Juliet posted by lovelorn ladies. They’re Juliet’s secretaries — never mind that Juliet never managed to maintain a successful or long-term relationship herself. When Sophie finds a lost, unanswered letter from the ’50s, she sets off sequence of unlikely events, as the letter’s English writer, Claire (Vanessa Redgrave), returns to Verona with her grandson Charlie (Christopher Egan), in search of her missed-connection, Lorenzo. Alas, Lorenzo’s long gone, and the fact-checker decides to help the warm-hearted, hopeful Claire find her lost lover. Unfortunately Sophie’s chemistry with both her matches isn’t as powerful as Redgrave’s with real-life husband Franco Nero — after all he was Lancelot to her Guenevere in 1967’s Camelot and the father of her son. Still, Redgrave’s power as an actress — and her relationship with Nero — adds a resonance that takes this otherwise by-the-numbers romance to another level. (1:46) SF Center. (Chun)

Living in Emergency Filmmakers follow four volunteers of Médecins Sans Frontiéres (MSF) in Liberia and the Congo, from the initial shock of a first-timer to the overwhelming exhaustion of a veteran. Morally ambiguous decisions have left many of them arrogant and bitter and it’s apparent that these people are not the inflated heroes that we might wish, but normal people who were drawn to test themselves in circumstances of little hope. Some fail. Living in Emergency is an interesting glimpse into a provocative world, and the morally icky stuff is sometimes worse than the blood and death on screen. But a glimpse is all it is. The filmmakers clearly have an agenda that doesn’t include time for exploring the lives of any of the doctors, patients or procedures, and they leave the audience wondering whether there might be more lurking beneath the surface. (1:33) Opera Plaza. (Galvin)

*Looking for Eric Eric Bishop (Steve Everts) is a single dad, frustrated at his inability to bond with his teenage sons and heartbroken over his failed marriage to Lily (Stephanie Bishop), the woman he walked out on 20 years ago but never managed to get over. Just when things are looking dire, Eric is delivered in surprising, magical fashion by hallucinatory visitations from Eric Cantona, his favorite soccer player, a philosophical Frenchman who was as renowned for his inscrutable press conferences as he was for his scintillating goals. Cantona plays himself, and passes pensive joints with Bishop as they slowly piece his shattered life back together. American viewers might be have trouble deciphering the intricacies of soccer culture or the molasses-thick Mancunian accents, but at its heart the movie (by Brit director Ken Loach) is an amusing, tautly crafted fable of middle-aged alienation giving way to hope and gumption. (1:57) Smith Rafael. (Richardson)

Marmaduke (1:27) 1000 Van Ness.

Micmacs An urge to baby-talk at the screen underlines what is wrong with Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s new film: it is like a precocious child all too aware how to work a room, reprising adorable past behaviors with pushy determination and no remaining spontaneity whatsoever. There will be cooing. There will be clucking. But there will also a few viewers rolling their eyes, thinking "This kid rides my last nerve." It’s easy to understand why Jeunet’s movies (including 2001’s Amélie) are so beloved, doubtless by many previously allergic to subtitles. (Of course, few filmmakers need dialogue less.) They are eye-candy, and brain-candy too: fantastical, hyper, exotic, appealing to the child within but with dark streaks, byzantine of plot yet requiring no close narrative attention at all. The artistry and craftsmanship are unmissable, no ingenious design or whimsical detail left unemphasized. In Micmacs, hero Bazil (Dany Boon) is a lovable misfit who lost his father to an Algerian landmine, then loses his own job and home when he’s brain-injured by a stray bullet. He falls in with a crazy coterie of lovable misfits who live underground, make wacky contraptions from junk, and each have their own special, not-quite-super "power." They help him wreak elaborate, fanciful revenge on the greedy arms manufacturers (André Dussollier, Nicolas Marié) behind his misfortunes, as well as various human rights-y global ones. So there’s a message here, couched in fun. But the effect is rather like a birthday clown begging funds for Darfur — or Robert Benigni’s dreaded Life is Beautiful (1997), good intentions coming off a bit hubristic, even distasteful. (1:44) Embarcadero, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (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) Shattuck. (Harvey)

*Please Give Manhattan couple Kate (Catherine Keener) and Alex (Oliver Platt) are the proprietors of an up-market vintage furniture store — they troll the apartments of the recently deceased, redistributing the contents at an astonishing markup — and they’ve purchased the entire apartment of their elderly next-door neighbor (Ann Guilbert). As they wait for her to expire so they can knock down a wall, they try not to loom in anticipation in front of her granddaughters, the softly melancholic Rebecca (Rebecca Hall) and the brittle pragmatist Mary (Amanda Peet). Filmmaker Nicole Holofcener has entered this territory before, examining the interpersonal pressures that a sizable income gap can exert in 2006’s Friends with Money. Here she turns to the pangs and blunderings of the liberal existence burdened with the discomforts of being comfortable and the desire to do some good in the world. The film capably explores the unexamined impulses of liberal guilt, though the conclusion it reaches is unsatisfying. Like Holofcener’s other work, Please Give is constructed from the episodic material of mundane, intimate encounters between characters whose complexity forces us to take them seriously, whether or not we like them. Here, though, it offers these private connections as the best one can hope for, a sort of domestic grace accrued by doing right, authentically, instinctively, by the people in your immediate orbit, leaving the larger world to muddle along on its axis as best it can. (1:30) Lumiere, Piedmont, Shattuck. (Rapoport)

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time It takes serious effort to make a movie with a story dumber than the video game it’s based on. Director Mike Newell somehow accomplishes this feat with Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, a Disneyfied flop that flails clumsily in the PG-13 demilitarized zone, delivering sanitized violence, chaste romance, and dreary drama. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Dastan, an urchin boy — one jump, ahead of the bread line — adopted by the king and raised to be the wise-cracking black sheep in a family of feuding princes. He’s got Middle East ninja skills — one swing, ahead of the sword — and his infiltration of a sacred city nets him the magical Dagger of Time, a gilded rewind button coveted by his evil uncle Nizam (Ben Kingsley), who wants to use it for, well, evil, and Princess Tamina (Gemma Arterton), who’s sworn to protect it. Pressing a button on the dagger’s hilt allows its wielder to undo past events. If you have the misfortune of seeing this movie, you’ll want one for yourself. (2:10) California, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Richardson)

Robin Hood Like it or not, we live in the age of the origin story. Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood introduces us to the outlaw while he’s still in France, wending his way back to Albion in the service of King Richard III. The Lionheart soon takes an arrow in the neck in order to demonstrate the film’s historical bona fides, and yeoman archer Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe) — surrounded by a nascent band of merry men — accidentally embroils himself in a conspiracy to wrest control of England. The complications of this intrigue hie Robin to Nottingham, where he is thrown together with Maid Marion (Cate Blanchett), a plucky rural aristocrat who likes getting her hands dirty almost as much as she likes a bit of smoldering Crowe seduction. A lot of hollow medieval verisimilitude ensues, along with a good bit of slow-mo swordplay, but the cumulative effect is tepid and rote. (2:20) 1000 Van Ness. (Richardson)

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

Sex and the City 2 Sex and the City 2 couldn’t be anymore brazenly shameless, dizzyingly shallow, or patently offensive if it tried. This is aspiration porn, pure and simple, kitted out in the Orientalist trappings of a Vogue spread and with all the emotional intelligence of a 12 year-old brat. As the first SATC film nearly made short work of any shred of nuance or humanity that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda carried over from their televised selves, SATC 2 fully embraces the bad pun-spewing, couture-clad clichés the girls have hardened into. Sure they have kids, husbands, career changes, and menopause to deal with, but who cares about those tired signposts of middle age when there is more shit to buy, more champagne to swill, private airlines to fly on, $22,000-a-night luxury suites to inhabit, Helen Reddy songs to butcher, and whole other peoples — specifically, the people of Abu Dhabi, who speak funny, dress funnier, and have craaazy notions about what it means to be "one of the girls" — to alternately boss around, offend, and pity? (Fun SATC2 fact: did you know that in the "new Middle East" women secretly wear designer duds underneath their abayas?) Oh, that one tiny pang of sympathy you feel during the tipsy confessional between Charlotte and Miranda in which they bond over how being a mother and giving up one’s life ambition is difficult? A mirage. Because really, the greater concern is flying back to JFK first class or bust. And let’s not even get into the few bones the film tosses to the homos, such as the opening set piece: a gay wedding only a straight man could’ve thought up, replete with a shopworn Liza Minnelli having her Gene Kelly-in-Xanadu moment. But seriously, Michael Patrick King, don’t get it twisted: Stanford may call it such, but it’s not "cheating" if you’re already in an open relationship. Then again, if being a foil for your straight BFF’s insecurities about the luxe confines of monogamy gets you a gift registry at Bergdorf’s, why not? The laughs are cheaper this time around, but SATC 2‘s fuckery is strictly price-upon-request. (2:24) Castro, Empire, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Sussman)

Shrek Forever After 3D It’s easy to give Dreamworks a hard time for pumping out a fourth sequel to a film that never really needed a sequel in the first place. But Shrek Forever After isn’t all that bad — it’s mostly just irrelevant. The film does begin on an interesting note, with Shrek discovering the consequences of settling down with a wife and kids: serious ennui. It’s refreshing to see a fairy tale in which "happily ever after" is revealed to be rather mundane. But soon there are wacky magical hijinks that spawn an alternate universe, a cheap way to inject new life into tired old characters. (You like Puss in Boots? Well, he’s fat now.) Luckily, the voice actors are still game and the animation remains top-notch. The 3D effects are well used for once, fleshing out Shrek’s world rather than providing an unnecessary distraction. The end result is a mildly entertaining addition to the franchise, but like the alternate universe in which Shrek finds himself stranded, there’s no real reason it should exist. (1:33) 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Peitzman)

Solitary Man Consider this another chapter in a larger recession-era cinematic narrative: a kind of corollary to Up in the Air and another dispatch from the flip side of the American dream — namely, American failure. Wheeling, dealing, disgusting, and charming in turns, Michael Douglas manages the dubious achievement of making a hungry and lecherous BMW dealership honcho compelling, even as we roll our eyeballs in disgust. His Ben Kalmen was once at the top of the world, a fairy-tale self-made star whose luxury auto commercials were all over TV, a sharp-tongued wife (Susan Sarandon) and tenderly tolerant daughter (Jenna Fischer) by his side. After his career lands in the crapper, Ben begins a long climb up, trading favors with his girlfriend Jordan (Mary-Louise Parker) and taking her daughter Allyson (Imogen Poots) to his alma mater for her college interview. During this trip down memory lane he renews his ties with old pal Jimmy (Danny DeVito) and befriends budding schlub Daniel (Jesse Eisenberg), all while making some very bad, reflexively womanizing choices. If you can stomach its morally bereft, perpetually backsliding yet endearingly honest protagonist, you’ll be rewarded with on-point dialogue and a clear-eyed yet empathetic character study concerning the free fall of a self-sabotaging, old-enough-to-know-better prick, individualistic to the core and even more. Is Ben as worthy of a bailout, or a second chance, as the American auto industry? The answer remains up in the air. (1:30) Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Chun)

*Splice "If we don’t use human DNA now, someone else will," declares Elsa (Sarah Polley), the brash young genetic scientist bent on defying the orders of her benign corporate benefactors in Vincenzo Natali’s pseudo-cautionary hybrid love child, Splice. From that moment on, it’s pretty clear that any ethical conundrums the movie raises aren’t really worthy of debate: what Elsa wants to do in the name of scientific progress — splice human DNA into gooey muscle masses to provide said corporation with proteins for gene therapy — is, you know, deranged. Elsa bucks both corporate policy and sound moral judgment and does it anyway, much to the horror of her husband and fellow hotshot research scientist, Clive (Adrien Brody). Her genetic tinkering soon results in the dramatic birth of something akin to a homicidal fetal chick crossed with a skinned bunny. It grows at an alarming rate, and when human characteristics become apparent, Elsa clings to it with the instinctual vigor of a tigress protecting her cub. When Elsa and Clive are forced to hide their creation at Elsa’s abandoned family farmhouse to escape detection from prying corporate eyes, Splice evolves into another kind of hybrid: a genetically engineered Scenes from a Marriage (1973) crossed with the DNA of The Omen (1976) and grafted onto the most very special My So-Called Life episode ever. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Splice may be a ludicrous, cut-rate exercise in Brood-era David Cronenberg — but it’s a damned entertaining one. (1:45) California, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Devereaux)

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) Smith Rafael. (Galvin)

Women Without Men Potent imagery has always been at the forefront of photographer and installation artist Shirin Neshat’s explorations of gender in Islamic society, and her debut feature Women Without Men certainly has its share. Loosely based on Shahrnush Parsipur’s novel of the same name, the film follows four Iranian women (down from the novel’s original five) — Fakhri, an upper-class military wife who longs to reconnect with an old lover; Zarin, a traumatized prostitute who escapes captivity; Munis, a housebound young woman reborn as a political dissident; and her friend, Faezeh, who longs to marry Munis’ domineering brother — in the days leading up to the 1953 coup d’etat that overturned democracy and restored the Shah to power. From the suicidal leap — filmed so as to suggest flight as much as falling — which opens the film, to the mist-shrouded groves of a rural orchard that becomes a refuge for the women, each shot is as striking for its beauty as it is uneven in conveying the allegorical significance behind all the lushness. The casts’ largely stilted performances don’t help much in this regard either. "All that we wanted to was to find a new form, a new way," says Munis in voiceover. As a creative act of mourning for Iran’s short-lived experiment in democracy — a moment, Neshat acknowledges in the film’s postscript, that clearly resonated with last year’s Green revolution — Women Without Men ambitiously attempts, albeit with mixed success, to envision just that. (1:35) Opera Plaza. (Sussman)<\!s>

Get your kicks

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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1
Get your kicks

culture@sfbg.com

SPORTS The Olympics may get the most props for bringing sports fans of all nationalities together in (mostly) friendly competition. But as futbol fans know, a simple “gooooaaaallll!” translates thrillingly into any language. Like millions of World Cup soccer enthusiasts around the globe, I’ll be parking my particulars in front of the biggest screens in town for this year’s spectacle (June 11-July 11). And fortunately, no matter where you are in the city, you should be able to do the same. Here’s a short list of some of the best places to go and check out a match or 10. Too numerous to list are the many sports bars and Irish/English pubs that will undoubtedly be open (Bus Stop, Kezar Pub, the Phoenix, Mad Dog in the Fog, Balompie Café — here’s looking at you!), but you’ll find them easily enough on your own. Just follow the sounds of “ole, ole, ole, ole” wafting in the breeze, grab a stripy scarf, and plunge into the fray.

Civic Center: If you can’t force your soccer-loving employees to come to work during the big matches, at least you can cut down on their commute by installing a giant 13-by-18-foot screen in front of City Hall and inviting the neighbors ’round. Jens-Peter Jungclaussen, the “teacher-with-the-bus” who almost single-handedly wrangled 10,000 people to a screening of the 2006 final at Dolores Park, is helping spearhead the city’s ambitious 2010 operation, with 10 days of screenings including all quarterfinal, semifinal, and final matches, and a corresponding youth soccer tournament organized by America SCORES.

1 Dr. Carlton B. Goodlett Place, SF. www.worldcupsf.com, www.teacherbus.com

AT&T Park: “Take me out to the ballgame” gets a brand new meaning at AT&T Park where they’ll be screening the big USA-England match on June 12 for free. Open from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., the ballpark expects 5,000 fans to show up. If you ever wanted to give soccer hooliganism a try, this might well be the place. Just try not to get all Bill Buford about it.

24 Willie Mays Plaza, SF. (415) 972-2000

Goethe Institute: Even though the games aren’t being played in the vaterland this year, native German-speakers and we amis who love them will be gathering at the institute to watch the Germany-Australia game on June 13, and the Germany-Ghana match on June 23. Kickoff time for both games is 11:30 a.m., more screenings will be announced presuming Germany progresses to the next levels.

530 Bush, SF. (415) 263-8760, www.goethe.de/sanfrancisco

Mercury Lounge: Who would have thought that a relatively innocuous den of SoMa-style iniquity would decide to open its doors to the rough-and-tumble world of footie fandom? If you can get through the somewhat self-indulgent event webpage, you’ll come away pretty excited about the prospect of seeing matches every day from 6 a.m., with drink specials, breakfast menu, and (ick) bar-staff “eye candy”. Don’t get me started on that, but do expect to see me put in an appearance or two for half-volleys and hash browns.

1582 Folsom, SF. (415) 551-1582, www.sfworldcup2010.com

Horatius: The proprietor of this Potrero Hill café, Horacio Gomes, has thrown down the “best place to watch the World Cup” gauntlet by promising to be open for every single match — including those that start at 4:30 a.m. — and screening simultaneous games when they occur. Plus, the venue boasts a 15-by-15-foot projection screen that you won’t find at your run-of-the-mill sports bar and a capacity for up to 300 people. Free coffee will be served during the early morning matches, and light breakfast at 6 a.m.

350 Kansas, SF. (415) 252-3500, www.horatius.com

Steps of Rome Caffe: This North Beach stronghold is also planning to be open for every game — including those 4:30 matches that only the most diehard fans would consider attending (New Zealand vs. Slovakia anyone?). If you’re not yet a diehard fan, this might be the place that turns you into one, what with all that Italian coffee, pizza, and overseas-bred enthusiasm for the world’s greatest game flowing like a robust house red.

348 Columbus, SF. (415) 397-0435, www.stepsofromecaffe.com

Our Weekly Picks: June 9-15, 2010

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0

WEDNESDAY 9

EVENT

Jim Woodring

Seattle-based cartoonist Jim Woodring just released the latest in his two-decade run of comics featuring Frank, a character somewhat resembling a 1930s animation-style cat. But Frank is probably the most realistic entity on display in Weathercraft, a wordless graphic novel that features a constant barrage of mytho-psychedelic abominations ranging from what Woodring calls a “two-mouthed fear cow” to an amorphous giant ear-creature taking notes with its paw. His drawing style is stunningly detailed, and he’ll be “showing” his work at two Bay Area bookstores — a fitting approach since he can hardly present a reading of his complex but text-less explorations. (Sam Stander)

7:30 p.m., free

Pegasus Books Downtown

2349 Shattuck, Berk.

(510) 649-1320

www.pegasusbookstore.com

Also Thurs/10, 7:30 p.m., free

Booksmith

1644 Haight, SF

(415) 863-8688

www.booksmith.com

MUSIC

Ferocious Few

The Ferocious Few is one of the most exciting rock bands in the Bay Area, and still relatively obscure. Locally renowned for its ability to command a street corner as if it’s Wembley Stadium, the Few traffics in the kind of hard-edged, twangy blues-rock that never goes out of style. Having just returned from a West Coast tour in support of its debut LP Juices, the band is poised to explode into national prominence (at least within the indie circuit) any second now. This show could be the last chance you’ll ever get to say “I saw them before they got huge.” (Zach Ritter)

With the Generals and Eugene and the 1914

9 p.m., $8

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF

(415) 621-4455

www.bottomofthehill.com

THURSDAY 10

STAGE

Gutenberg! The Musical!

In the grand tradition of theater about theater, Beards Beards Beards: A Theatre Company is producing Scott Brown and Anthony King’s Gutenberg! The Musical! But don’t expect a reliable primer on Johann Gutenberg and his fabulous printing press. Instead, Gutenberg! traces two Broadway hopefuls, Doug Simon and Bud Davenport, who are pitching their rather absurd musical concept to any producers who might be listening. If their YouTube trailer is to be believed, the production will feature deliberately groan-worthy choreography and several hats. And possibly Dragonball-inspired posing. Beards Beards Beards was cofounded by SF State grad Amanda Dolan, who is directing, and Joey Price, who costars as Bud. (Stander)

8 p.m., $20

Exit Stage Left

156 Eddy, SF

(949) 742-2365

www.beardsbeardsbeards.com

MUSIC

Stiff Little Fingers

Northern Irish punk outfit Stiff Little Fingers was never as critically acclaimed or commercially successful as its late-1970s contemporaries The Clash and the Sex Pistols, but it damn well should’ve been. In a just world, the opening riff from “Alternative Ulster” alone would be enough to secure an eternal spot in the proto-punk pantheon. The Fingers made its bones amid the political disquiet of post-troubles Belfast, wielding barbed lyrics and razor-sharp guitars against the grim partisans on both sides of Ireland’s ethnic conflict. The band broke up in 1982, but five years later it returned, like Arthur out of Avalon, to resume battle against the world’s injustices. Slim’s, with its cramped-basement aesthetic and battered barstools, is the perfect venue for these guys — bring a fist to pump, a foot to stomp, and all the righteous outrage you can muster. (Ritter)

With Culann’s Hounds

9 p.m., $20

Slim’s

333 11th St., SF

(415) 255-0333

www.slims-sf.com

STAGE

Die Walküre

Following its production of Das Rheingold in 2008, San Francisco Opera is offering Die Walkre, the second installment in Richard Wagner’s notorious operatic tetralogy. Baritone Mark Delavan continues from Das Rheingold as Wotan, head of the Norse pantheon of gods (a role he will reprise in SF Opera’s production of the entire Der Ring des Nibelungen cycle next summer). Whether you’re an Apocalypse Now fan in for “Ride of the Valkyries,” an epic fantasy lover seeking squabbling gods, or just someone who likes a bit of weird incest with your German musical theater, SF Opera’s take on this classic work of Romantic intensity promises to be … intense. Francesca Zambello directs and Donald Runnicles conducts. (Stander)

Also Sun/13, June 19, 22, 25, and 30

7 p.m., $20–$325

War Memorial Opera House

301 Van Ness, SF

(415) 864-3330

www.sfopera.com

FRIDAY 11

FILM

“Midnites for Maniacs: She-Roes”

Smack-dab in the middle of the Castro’s inexplicably long Sex and the City 2 booking comes “Midnites for Maniacs: She-Roes,” a trio of films that celebrate women in less shrill, less shoe-obsessed ways. First up is Penny Marshall’s 1992 ode to World War II-era women’s baseball, A League of Their Own, featuring one of Madonna’s least cringe-worthy acting turns. Several film stars will be in attendance — most notably Lori “Tank Girl” Petty. Then, polarizing feminist/femi-not horror film Jennifer’s Body (2009) begs you to give it a second chance, with the added bonus of Oscar-winning, slang-slinging screenwriter Diablo Cody in person. Finally, invincible Midnites for Maniacs fave The Legend of Billie Jean (1985) returns. Holding out for a She-Ro? Look no further. (Cheryl Eddy)

A League of Their Own, 6:30 p.m., $13 (for one or all three films)

Jennifer’s Body, 9:30 p.m.

The Legend of Billie Jean, 11:59 p.m.

Castro Theatre

429 Castro, SF

(415) 621-6120

www.castrotheatre.com

VISUAL ART

“Pony Up, Bot”

Do you like ponies? Robots? Trippy whimsy? If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, then I suggest you check out “Pony up, Bot,” an exhibition of new work by artists Adrianna Bamber and Eric Nichols. (If you answered no to all of them, then yours must be a gray existence indeed.) Bamber’s mind-warping-yet-adorable watercolors are what you get when you spill Ralph Steadman all over your Dr. Seuss. And Nichols? According to the Design Guild, his pieces “showcas(e) a postapocalyptic existence where PartyBot interacts with endless nights while remaining the sole resistance to annoying evil scum.” Now you can be forgiven for not being able to wrap your head around all that since it is, admittedly, insane. But admit it — “PartyBot”? Whoever he is, you know he’s up to something brain-meltingly awesome. This show is your opportunity to feel like a kid again — if you were the kind of kid who did tons of mescaline. (Ritter)

Through July 1

7 p.m. (opening), free

Design Guild San Francisco

427 Bryant, SF

(415) 462-6303

www.designguildsf.com

DANCE

San Francisco Moving Men

In the professional dance world, the male dancer is a rare and coveted entity. Thus a contemporary dance company consisting solely of men, like Joe Landini’s San Francisco Moving Men, should be treated with awe and appreciation. If graceful, athletic boys aren’t enough to win your admiration, Landini’s provocative choreography certainly will. In Dancing @ The Garage, part of the National Queer Arts Festival, the Men run up walls, bounce off artificial turf, duck flying tennis balls, and disco on a three-by-five shag rug. The show also features Christine Cali’s dance company Cali & Co. (Katie Gaydos)

Through June 26

Fri.–Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m., $20

Garage

975 Howard, SF

(415) 518-1517

www.sfmovingmen.org

EVENT

thread | bare

Why shop at the boring ol’ mall when you can support local designers — and see the clothes in a runway show populated by local performers, including the fabulous Fauxnique? Plus, not for nothing is “thread | bare” dubbed “a striptease fashion auction,” since you can bid on, and get your mitts on, outfits as soon as they come down the catwalk. If you can’t make tonight’s festivities, which also feature a performance by all-male burlesque troupe SF Boylesque, stop by the Lab to peruse the goods during the weekend-long trunk show. Designs include the “neo-couture” of Miss Velvet Cream, graphic tees by Turk and Taylor, dresses by Invisible Hero Clothing, and more, plus several artists who work with repurposed materials, including Kittinhawk, Mittenmaker, and Ghetto Goldilocks. Recycling is fierce! (Eddy)

7–10 p.m., $10–$20

Trunk show Sat/12-Sun/13, noon-6 p.m., free

The Lab

2948 16th St., SF

(415) 864-8855, www.thelab.org

SATURDAY 12

FILM

Burning Man Film Festival

Want to visit the playa without all the dust? Whether you’re a seasoned burner or a wide-eyed newbie, the Burning Man Film Festival is sure to offer a thought-provoking perspective on Black Rock City. In honor of Burning Man’s 25th anniversary, the film festival traces the past and present of BM and examines how various aspects of the event have changed over time. Saturday’s four shows center around BM footage shot from 1991 to 2003, while Sunday’s three shows feature films shot from 2002-10. (Gaydos)

Sat-Sun, 2 p.m., $10

Red Vic Movie House

1727 Haight, SF

www.burningman-filmfest.com

SUNDAY 13

MUSIC

Real Estate

Though the real estate market’s down, you can go see the band Real Estate for a measly cost. Martin Courtney and his cohorts offer plenty in the way of sun-soaked pop hooks and dreamy lyricism to match our cold SF summer. With a self-titled debut that garnered critical raves in 2009, Real Estate is sort of like the Beach Boys on downers. Opening for the band is the SF-based Young Prisms, your standard roughly hewn, unpolished indie band. But like the night’s other act, All Saints Day, it’s harmless, catchy fun. Real Estate, on the other hand, is fun with brains. No escrow required. (Ryan Lattanzio)

8 p.m., $14

Independent

628 Divisadero, SF

(415) 771-1421

www.theindependentsf.com

MONDAY 14

MUSIC

Jenny Owen Youngs

Female adult alternative is a frequently snubbed genre, probably due to its proximity to the Lilith Fair. But these two shouldn’t necessarily be yoked, especially for East Coast darling Jenny Owen Youngs. She wears humility on the sleeves of her boyish duds, revealing she’s neither starlet nor simpleton. Like Youngs herself, the songs are blunt and oddly sexy. And she’s far more than just a girl and her guitar, especially since she spiked the placid drawl of her first EP with a cover of Nelly’s “Hot in Herre.” That song was probably written for a dive as small as Bottom of the Hill, so it feels right that Youngs is playing here again. (Lattanzio)

With April Smith and the Great Picture Show, William Tell

8 p.m., $12

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St. SF

(415) 621-4455

www.bottomofthehill.com

TUESDAY 15

EVENT

Bret Easton Ellis

American literary psycho Bret Easton Ellis reprises his nihilist vision of L.A. and the wilting of once sprightly youths, along with their brain-dulling drug use, in Imperial Bedrooms. The sequel to 1985’s cult classic Less Than Zero, a novel you should read in that first winter break of freshman year, this new book revisits the same milieu of users and losers. But now they’re all middle-aged and having much less sex. A notorious asshole among the contemporary literati, Ellis continues to probe the surface of social mores — with a hot, poison-dipped poker. It’s smart of his press to host this event (a conversation with book critic Tom Barbash) on the book’s release date. If you read it before, you might not be inclined to show up. (Lattanzio)

6 p.m., $20

Commonwealth Club

595 Market, SF

(415) 597-6700

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

 

Bucharest calling

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Bucharest calling

arts@sfbg.com

FILM In the five years since Cristi Puiu’s improbable epic, The Death of Mr. Lazarescu (2005), a small group of philosophically-inclined filmmakers who were still young during the last days of Ceausescu have been disproportionately responsible for the minor masterpieces of world cinema. None of the Romanian films at Cannes (including Puiu’s follow-up, Aurora) nabbed a prize this year. But the three features in the Pacific Film Archive’s “Tales from the Golden Age: Recent Romanian Cinema” series — Lazarescu, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days (2007), and Police, Adjective (2009) — were all heavily garlanded. They gain power when seen in series, where their common syntax comes into focus.

All three films unfold as underground odysseys. A character is tested in a series of trials flowing, directly or indirectly, from the state. In Lazarescu, the eponymous figure is sent upon a Styx-like course of hospitals, accompanied first by reproachful neighbors and then a willful medic. By the time the doctors correctly diagnose his original complaint of the stomach and head, his neurological condition has deteriorated to the point that he can no longer form the words himself. In 4 Months, we trace a young woman’s movements through the city as she ensures a safe course for her friend’s illegal abortion (the film is set two years before Ceausescu’s fall). As more and more is asked of her promise, the film’s handheld style comes to seem charged by irreversibility. In Police, Adjective, we watch a quiet young detective trail a dead-end case: he’s been assigned to gather evidence for a uselessly punitive drug bust of a few teenaged hash-smokers. When he finally refuses to order a raid, he gets an unexpected linguistics lesson from his chief (played with appalling charisma by Vlad Ivanov, the abortionist in 4 Months; in both films he seems the very embodiment of the banality of evil) who dismantles the detective’s logic word by word.

With narratives like case histories, peeling back a social situation until its very marrow is exposed, these films take no shortcuts to empathy. Morality is specifically broached, and each centers on protracted, tangled negotiations carried off by wonderful acting. The apparent detachment of the long-take style is deceptive. In fact, the films’ scenarios are rigorously worked out to express moral quandaries with concern for those on the receiving end. The ostensible real time of the long take is easily distended by exigent circumstances; the decision not to cut gives a taste of the agony, powerlessness, and tension that meet the characters. Indeed, the observational camera is an insinuation, drawing us into the complex ethical mechanics at the level of action and plot. They induce the presence of mind required to dislodge a nasty splinter. It’s difficult to imagine an American documentary taking on health care with an unblinking intransigence on par with Lazarescu, and this, more than the formal style, accounts for critics using the language of ethics and truth to describe the film.

By positioning individual characters at the margins of a centralized bureaucracy, the Romanian films certainly do illuminate untruths. Several of the broad shorts in the new omnibus film, Tales from the Golden Age, threaten to turn the gnomic quality of the Romanian films into shtick, but in the context of the PFA series, these “urban legends from the Ceausescu era” put a gentle historical spin on some of the leitmotifs of the earlier features. The best by far is The Legend of the Air Sellers, a tender 4 Months-meets-John Hughes film in which a teenage girl joins up with a scruffy older guy for a decidedly low-tech scam: they take bottles from local residents under the premises of collecting water and air samples for the state and then redeem the glass for change. The con is revealing of a central paradox of the period: that citizens could be frustrated by the state of things while at the same time credulous that the state would fix them. The girl is a natural capitalist, farming out bottle collecting to unwitting landlords; the boy, for his part, only really wants to watch VHS tapes on a prized video player.

Harun Farocki and Andrei Ujica’s found footage essay-film, Videograms of a Revolution (1992), is the outlier of the series both in terms of age and form, but in its methodical analysis of the Romanian Revolution of 1989 as a paradigmatic modern event, the film draws very close to the social relevance of the recent Romanian films — much closer than the nostalgia-tinged episodes of Tales from the Golden Age. Two sequences in Videograms loom large for the Romanian films in the PFA series. In the first, Ujica’s voice-over identifies an initial spark for the revolution in a moment of intercessional static, when an official camera trained upon Ceausescu’s scripted reality pans to observe a disturbance in the crowd, “more out of curiosity than resolve.” Then there are those bundled shots depicting newly victorious revolutionaries dug in at the political headquarters and TV station (an important location for Police, Adjective director Corneliu Poumboiu’s 2006 film, 12:08 East of Bucharest). Attempting to forge their initial reforms, they flail at the deeply ingrained restraints of institutional language.

Toward the end of Videograms, we watch dramatic embedded footage of ragtag revolutionaries and other civilians taking cover from sniper fire coming from one of the oppressive high-rise buildings that play such a prominent part in the Romanian cinematic imagination. Ujica’s voice-over takes analytical measure of the scene: that the belief in an enemy is a binding legacy, a “recollected habit,” and that the unspoken fear so long deployed by Ceausescu’s regime as “internal tactic of deterrence” will not simply vanish. The new Romanian cinema was surely born in the shadows of this phantom fighting.

TALES FROM THE GOLDEN AGE: RECENT ROMANIAN CINEMA

June 11–June 27, $5.50–$9.50

Pacific Film Archive

2757 Bancroft, Berk.

(510) 642-5249

www.bampfa.berkeley.edu

Whirl trade center

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Whirl trade center

arts@sfbg.com

VISUAL ART In 2005, then-struggling Atlanta artist Fahamu Pecou presented “Arts, Beats and Lyrics” at Atlanta’s High Museum of Art. The oversize paintings were blinged-out-mack-daddy-baller self-portraits showing the artist on the covers of well-known and respected magazines. Within two years, his work had been reviewed and featured in numerous publications, including Art In America, Harper’s, NY Arts, Mass Appeal, and The Fader. The sheer voodoo of this act makes Pecou a formidable creative force, and coupled with his knack for spectacle, his opening at Shooting Gallery this month is rumored to be the most vainglorious of the season. I caught up with him recently on the phone.

SFBG I’m amazed by your earlier work because it seems to me that you used sympathetic magic to approach fame. You placed yourself within the context of celebrity and became a celebrity. Was that your original intention?

Fahamu Pecou It’s funny. It was kind of like the law of attraction. You can write your own narrative by believing in the messages you put out. I started doing this marketing campaign because I was frustrated with the way my career was going at the time. I really just wanted to get my name out there. Just my name. I wanted to make sure that when my name came across the desk of curator or gallery owner, they’d say, “I’ve seen this name before, maybe I should learn more about this person.” It was really sort of a joke. As it started to grow and people began to talk about it, it took on a life of its own.

SFBG Did you anticipate that it would go beyond Atlanta and become international?

FP No. It was just a clever, catchy inside joke among me and my friends. The minute I started putting out stickers and posters that said “Fahamu Pecou Is The Shit,” it was a hit. People were jumping on it. It was good that it happened that way because it allowed me to grow with it. Whether I can directly relate it to a specific style, I’ll leave that for people to write about.

SFBG Why did you call your latest show “Whirl Trade”?

FP The theme came from the idea of cultural exchanges between Africans on the continent of Africa and the rest of the African diaspora around the world, and how a lot can be lost and misconstrued when taken out of the original cultural context. We look back and forth at each other, and we do what we think is our best impression of “the other.” It comes out a twisted up and strange simulation.

I was in South Africa for residency on the Eastern Cape and spent some time in Capetown. I had a friend from Detroit with me, and a few friends from Capetown. We were coming out a restaurant and this homeless guy heard me and my homeboy talking. He said, “You guys are from America? You guys are the real niggas.”

We were both like, “Naw man, we aren’t niggers, we’re brothers.” And he said, “No. No, you guys are niggas, and I want to be a nigga too.” He was going on and on about how being a nigga was a good thing, not like these guys who come in from Nigeria and other places thinking they’re real niggas. We were the real deal. And here we are, trying to explain to him how being a nigga is not a good thing. Nobody wants to be a nigga. My Capetown friends were telling me that being a nigga is not a bad thing anymore. I started wondering, where did this come from? That’s what “Whirl Trade” is about: the cultural export of hip-hop culture and the impact it has on the rest of the world. We have this great stage, this platform, where we have the ear of the world. What are we saying? A lot of what’s being said and heard is a lot of nothing, especially when taken out of cultural context.

The response has been great and has sparked a lot of conversation around how we view ourselves and each other. What kind of impression we are making of ourselves to other cultures and, deeper still, what kind of impression do I have about African culture through this same context and my own experience? I couldn’t ask one question without asking the other. I try to be cautious about this in my work. I’m not trying to accuse or ridicule any group so much as begin to ask questions and start a dialogue between groups who think they know each other but don’t.

SFBG You do performances at your gallery shows. Costumes and everything. How does fashion play into your work?

FP In the beginning, it was more about capturing fashion that reflected a whole lifestyle. I patterned it after 50 Cent, who was the catalyst for my whole campaign. I was watching how he was packaged and wondering why a visual artist was never marketed that way. My whole fashion was based on that and Puff Daddy. Then I added my own touches with ascots and blazers and stuff like that.

With “Whirl Trade,” I’m looking at contemporary African fashion. Right now, African street fashion is a mashup of textiles and patterns, colors that almost seem disparate but come together beautifully. That and photographs of Malik Sadibe inspired me to bring in many different patterns and contrasts. It wasn’t that I was trying to copy a style as much as capture the cultural exchange between what Africans think African Americans dress like, and what African Americans think Africans dress like.

SFBG Though you reference hip-hop, I don’t really see you as a hip-hop artist. I sense a cynicism in your approach. Are you disillusioned with hip-hop?

FP I just found myself not so connected to what was being presented in early 2000s. A lot of media-made hip-hop stars came out. It stopped being so much about talent as it was marketing. It became about who was willing to come out and say they sold these drugs or did this killing. At one point that was legitimate, rappers came from the street, but then came these media guys who just said that shit to be famous, just for credibility and that’s what started hurting the integrity of the form.

It stopped being how fresh, how clever or how innovative an artist could be. It became how violent, how misogynistic, how violent a person could be. Extremes of everything — people ended being blaxploitation characters.

I’m talking about that in my next work, called “Hard To Death” — about the evolution of black manhood, and how there’s a lack of visual representation of that evolution beyond a certain point. Most of the images we see are reflections of hip-hop culture, which captures the black male between the ages of 18-25, just when many young men are working things out. It has become one of the only representations of black masculinity, which is very frustrating. My next piece is devoted to accurately portraying the evolution of black men. I’m seeing more established artists like Common and Jay-Z who have grown beyond that dangerous time.

Since my son was born, I’ve been really driven to addressing these issues around black masculinity and black manhood. I feel a sense of responsibility there because my work crosses the lines between popular culture and hip-hop culture, and I see that there’s a lack of responsible voices. My voice can work as a catalyst to start a conversation. I started a blog (passageofright.wordpress.com) to begin talking about creating systems for some kinds of rites of passage for young black boys. I didn’t grow up with a father or a whole lot of role models, so most of what I’ve learned about being a man is from the school of hard knocks. I want to prevent the continuation of that kind of awakening.

WHIRL TRADE: NEW WORKS BY FAHAMU PECOU

Reception Sat/12, 7–11 p.m.;

Through July 3

Shooting Gallery

839 Larkin, SF

(415) 931-1500

www.shootinggallerysf.com

www.fahamupecouart.com

Appetite: Celebrating Sailor Jerry, tattooist and rum

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Appetite: Celebrating Sailor Jerry, tattooist and rum

What do tatooing and rum have to with each other? Well, there’s a rum named after one of the most legendary tattoo artists of all time, Sailor Jerry. It’s his own personal recipe, distilled in the U.S. Virgin Islands, and is truly a beaut. Bracingly strong at 92 proof, it’s got a spiced, caramel burn that goes down smooth on its own as it does in a cocktail (Dark & Stormy, anyone?) It lingers pleasantly while also delivering a punch. Kind of like the colorful Jerry himself?

This Saturday, June 12, marks the anniversary of Sailor Jerry’s death, a Northern California native (Ukiah, to be exact), born in 1911, making his name as a tattoo artist in Honolulu post-WWII, influenced by and fascinated with all things Asian. (He also harbored some extreme right-wing, libertarian leanings.) American flags mix with dragons and naked women in what a colleague describes as his “balls-forward, old school” tattoo style.

Celebrations for Sailor Jerry’s life are going on this week in four cities: Portland, Austin, LA and our own. RSVP for free screenings of the award-winning documentary, Hori Smoku Sailor Jerry, at the Roxie on June 9th or 10th, written and directed by Erich Weiss. Watching the 73 minute film is certainly entertaining, intriguing, and often hilarious. With rare interviews of many legendary tattoo artists, protégés and contemporaries, you witness not only the history of tattooing, but a different kind of elderly crowd: foul-mouthed, rough-and-tumble, covered in tats, full of lively stories of early days in tattooing’s U.S. popularity. Particularly engaging is the uber-crusty Eddie Funk, who’s scratchy voice and incessant swearing represent the kind of crowd that knew the paradoxical Sailor Jerry (aka Norman K. Collins) best.

Collins was ahead of his time, wandering the country pre-Beatnik, pre-Keroauc, finding his bliss in Hawaii by creating innovative tattoo art, closely mirroring Japanese tattoo masters (called Horis), earning him the moniker ‘Hori Smoku’. No surprise such a unique character created his own rum, the bottle embellished with his artwork (a hula girl strumming on a ukulele)… and it’s a fine rum at that.

Free but must RSVP at:
http://horismokumovie.com/sanfran_screening
Wed, 6/9; 6:45pm and 10pm
Thu, 6/10; 6:45pm and 10pm
ROXIE THEATER, 3117 16th Street
www.sailorjerry.com

Hot air: The passion and Hot Lixx of air guitar

John Elberling
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Hot air: The passion and Hot Lixx of air guitar

By Zach Ritter

Someday, an enterprising cultural archivist is going to compile a history of air-musicianship. I’ve got to assume that the phenomenon long predates the headbanging era. Maybe it’s just because I get a kick out of imagining top-hatted fops sawing away on invisible violins, but the instinct to mime an instrument just seems so natural that I have to assume people have been doing it for centuries. I mean, nobody teaches you air guitar. When you hear a sufficiently righteous riff, the hands just take over.

Which is why, at first, the idea of a national Air Guitar Championship seems so counterintuitive. Air guitar’s not supposed to be something you practice. You do it when you’re drunk at a concert, between shouts of “Freebird.” You do it in front of your bedroom mirror, with the door securely locked.

But at the same time, there’s a certain brilliance to the idea of formalized, stadium-centric air guitar performances. Air guitar is rock and roll stripped down to its pure, unpretentious essence — it’s the ultimate triumph of style over substance, swagger over scales. So bear that in mind when you go to the Sat/5 SF round of the US Air Guitar Championships at the Fillmore. The airy axmen and axwomen who’ll be competing are, in a very real sense, the true descendents of Page and Hendrix. With apologies to Don Mclean, these people believe in rock and roll, and that music can save your mortal soul. Prepare accordingly.

Hot Lixx Hulahan, the 2008 Air Guitar World Champion and current top contender in the nationals:

 

Delorean is pulling for Rafa

John Elberling
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1
Delorean is pulling for Rafa

Soon I’ll be posting my interview with Ekhi Lopetegi of the Barcelona group Delorean, whose new album Subiza might be the year’s most resplendent. Lopetegi had things to say about luminsecent atmosphere, building songs from vocal samples, the greatness of Prefab Sprout, the rewards and dangers of love, and the rude brilliance of New Order, as well as the looseness of Barcelona’s community of musicians. But for the sake of timeliness, I’m posting his thoughts on Rafael Nadal, before Nadal faces his arch-nemesis and the only player to have beaten him at Roland Garros, Robin Soderling, in the Sunday final of the French Open.

Clay-court tennis brings out nationalistic partisanship. When I interviewed the Björn Borg-influenced Swedish-born electronic duo Tennishero, they made their antipathy for Nadal clear, and Soderling, an entirely different style of player from Borg’s homeland, is now on the brink of wresting control of the clay courts away from Nadal and Spanish dominance. But Lopetegi’s thoughts were a bit more reflective.

SFBG Are you rooting for Nadal to win the French? Do you like him?

EKHI LOPETEGI I was just doing an interview in which the guy asked if I wanted him to win. I definitely was pretty sad when Nadal got injured and struggled for a while and couldn’t find his game. His playing — I like the way he plays, it’s pretty raw, strong and intense. He needs to master his energies better and he has been working on that.

Federer is very classy, like a ballet dancer. Nadal is like a working class player.

I like sports. It’s not just about people competing, it’s something else as well. We’re big soccer fans, and Barcelona and Madrid represent two completely different styles and ideas of what soccer means.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vrm436HtZQ

 

alt.sex.column: Eek! Eels in my …

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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alt.sex.column: Eek! Eels in my …

Dear Andrea:

My girlfriend asked me to demonstrate my most unorthodox masturbation techniques, and one of my inventions is the Fly on the Island. Catch a small, lively fly. Carefully remove the wings and put it into a pill bottle. Draw a hot bath and get in.

Make your Johnson a bit hard and maneuver it so just the head rises above the surface of the water. Now is the time to introduce the fly to the island. The ideal fly has no wings so he can’t fly away but is small and sprightly enough to run franticly around the island looking for a way off. When I demonstrated this, my girlfriend said I was being mean to the fly. Is this masturbatorial creativity or animal cruelty?

Dear Readers:

Every once in a while I wonder why so few people write in anymore with ridiculous, Penthouse Forum-style stories or claims of extremely unusual fetishes or practices. Fewer jackasses seem to feel the need to try to trick what they hope are earnest or unwary advice-givers into accidentally granting the desired exposure. I kind of miss them. So I can’t blame this guy for trying. Plus, he did a really good job with the details. And — he got me to run it. At any rate, it’s not nearly as gross or horrible as the story about the Chinese eel that made the rounds of my sex-geek posse last week.

It seems a gentleman was brought in, dying, to a Sichuan hospital where it took the doctors a surprisingly long time to discover the eel lodged where no eel was meant to go. Though dead, it had been alive when inserted, and eels have teeth.

The likely cause was eventually established — he had apparently been drinking with friends and had passed out. His friends had decided it would be amusing to insert a live eel into his anus while he was comatose.

I suppose it’s churlish to chide the guy after his agonizing death and all, but it does occur to me that we do get to choose our friends and one criterion we might consider while doing so is this: does this individual seem like the kind of person who would wait for me to get plastered and then stick a live eel up my ass?

No, I don’t believe this really happened, any more than I believe the fly guy. The eel story has yet to show up on Snopes, but it bears all the hallmarks of an urban legend — no names, no dates, an exotic setting that renders it unverifiable, many uses of “apparently” and “it seems.” It seems one ought not to believe everything one reads, since, apparently, much of what one reads is nonsense.

I’d like to think I’ve done a sort of public service by passing these two disgusting stories on to you, my beloved readers. Anything else you’re likely to encounter today — stepped-in dog poop, a hair in your soup — will seem positively wholesome by comparison. No need to thank me!

Love,

Andrea

Got a question? Email Andrea at andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Hot sexy events June 2-8

Andrew Lam
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0

I once took a memoir writing class that ended up being all women. One of the most powerful, if slightly cringe-inducing pieces that was read aloud was one from a fifty-something lady who’d just taken her first pole dancing class, a course which culminated in an amateur night at a local tattoo-and-piercing style strip club. This lady was absolutely, deep breathingly, tear jerkingly, blown away by the power surge of arousal that she got from trotting out her decidedly un-pinup lady parts on the floor. It made me wish that all moms got a gift certificate for stripper class upon their last child’s exodus from the family home. Gosh, and what if they all got to check out a Vagina Jenkins show (Fri/4)! Do you like? If you do, check out Slinky Productions’ little how-to on Sun/6. Sure, at $149 it’s spendy, but at what cost sexy?

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Kinky Relationships

Just bridging that gap from vanilla to kinky with your naughty hottie? Learn to navigate the difference between “conventional” and pervy love – festish, BDSM – in addition to identifying who’s a good play mate for tonight, and who’s a keeper for tomorrow.

Thurs/3 7:30-10:30 p.m., $15-25 sliding scale

SF Citadel

1277 Mission, SF

(415) 626-1746

www.sfcitadel.org

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Rebel Girl

‘Member the days when all it took to get known was a penchant for sharing personal stories… and scissors and a glue stick instead of quick index fingers and a smart phone? Them were the zine days, and they rocked it when it came to sexual revelation. Here to remind us about why they rocked are some of the sassiest queer zine scenesters everr. Don’t worry, zines themselves, and cupcakes of course, will be on sale for those voracious readers among us. The event’s a part of the National Queer Arts Festival, which is out and out awesome this year.

Thurs/3 8 p.m., $12-20

African-American Art and Culture Complex

762 Fulton, SF

www.queerculturalcenter.org

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Bent

This month’s theme for the kinky youth play party is “Working Stiff,” which in Bent’s case means you’re going to have “The Office XXX” playing all night, sexy secretary strip teases, and a lot of jokes about “billable hours.” Tip from me: absolutely ignore them and please don’t turn in a time card for your floggings on Monday.

Fri/4 9 p.m.- 2 a.m., $20

SF Citadel

1277 Mission, SF

(415) 626-1746

www.stefanosandchey.com/bent

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Exotic Dance Smorgasbord

They break the class schedule down pretty well for you: three kinds of hip gyrations, two “booty shows” (oh my!), three pole dance moves-swings, a lap dance routine and a floorshow routine await you here. And if that’s not a lot of pizazz to fit into six hours, I don’t know what is.

Sun/6 12-6 p.m., $149

Center for Sex and Culture

1519 Mission, SF

www.slinkyproductions.com

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Make Sundae Nasty!

Kick off Pride month (if you haven’t by now, geez you’ve had five days already!) with this sexy, sexy ice cream bar at Renegade’s, the only leather and Levis gay bar in San Jose. Soak your cherries in vodka, smother your body in whipped cream, lick your lips — and if the paddle somehow found its way into your purse, well that’s okay, too.

Sun/6 3-7 p.m., free

Renegades Bar

501 W Taylor, San Jose

(408) 275-9902 

www.renegadesbar.com

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Different Strokes

“About as fun as a hand job,” has been a good chum’s mantra when it comes to the lame and frictive events he’d rather miss. Ah, the much maligned hand job. Would that one of this gentleman’s partners had partook in this class, which promises a smooth rubdown from the ball sac massage to the triumphant fountain finish.

Mon/7 8-10 p.m., $25-30

Good Vibrations

2504 San Pablo, Berkl.

(510) 841-8987 

www.goodvibes.com

Appetite: Giant legs and Willy Wonka — adventures at the Manhattan Cocktail Classic

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
Appetite: Giant legs and Willy Wonka — adventures at the Manhattan Cocktail Classic

I was one of the lucky ones, spending eight days in NY, my old stomping grounds, for the first annual Manhattan Cocktail Classic, which highlights and celebrates the art of the cocktail and its greatest talents. Or so I thought… I won’t gripe too much, though I will say that despite the stunning transformation of the already gorgeous New York Public Library for the opening gala, a scene rife with cocktail luminaries like Dale DeGroff, Audrey Saunders and Dave Wondrich, along with some of the country’s best bartenders, the crowds were not quite the cocktailians I expected, while some events were far from what was advertised. For example: at the May 17 “contest” at Keen‘s, the competition and notable judges had completely wrapped up and left by the listed START time of the event, leaving only a few cocktails to sample and the incomparably cool, old school Keen’s space to stand around in. I could have spent the same money with more exciting results at any of NY’s great bars.

Let’s recap a few of the best and worst moments of the racous week that was the 1st annual Manhattan Cocktail Classic:

WORST

1. Starvation : At the opening gala, despite spotting Mario Batali, the guy who had supposedly cooked up something special for the night, I never once saw his food. Every other whiff of food was devoured by the time I got near it, mainly in the one air-conditioned room in all of the NYPL, where beloved Fatty ‘Cue served up giant legs of meat, an odd “cocktail party” choice, but hilarious to watch others gnaw on a leg with drink delicately in hand. Once I finally got to the last table with any food, the line was so long it wasn’t worth the wait, despite food-less hours endured with sips of multiple drinks (many of the fruity, vodka, soda, flavorless kind)… a bite never came until I hit a diner at 2am.

A wasteland of unfinished drink & chewed-up meat at Opening Gala. Photo by Virginia Miller.

2. Non-Cocktailian Crowds at the opening gala: I expected a slew of the country’s and NY’s most hardcore drink fans, the kind that mix Jerry Thomas recipes at home, await Mud Puddle book releases, and value craft and taste above a “scene”. Um, try drunken carousers breaking glasses and leaving trash lying around in the historical NYPL? What about having your photo taken with vodka models? Seriously: you, a bottle of vodka, and sexy models in a brightly lit, LA-style photo shoot. Or maybe I’m still just creeped out by the Oompa Loompas or the giant Queen Victoria towering over us in the Hendricks’ Gin area (at least there was Charlotte Voisey mixing cocktails below the Queen).

3. Events not as advertised: I’ve already mentioned the misleading representation of the cocktail competition at Keen’s and the drunken, packed-to-the-gills mayhem of the opening gala where check-in, getting a drink or even entering a room, meant yet another 15 minute wait. And where were the fine cocktails? Several came from our San Francisco crew who manned a number of tables (negronis!), or the playful Willy Wonka-themed candy counter, but there were few even tolerable out of four floors of cocktails.

BEST

1. Astor Center bar and bartenders from around the country: The Astor Center was ground zero for many of MCC’s daily events, panels and classes. The best part was having bartenders from all over New York and the country cover varying shifts. I met mixologists from St. Louis, LA, San Fran, and NY bars like Employees Only, Clover Club and Rye House. Not only did these guys whip up some of the better drinks of the entire event, but they were friendly, chatty, engaging, making the Astor Center feel like your favorite watering hole.

The respite of the Virgin Room. Photo by Virginia Miller.

2. The Virgin Room at the opening gala: What is normally NYPL’s staid, lovely Periodicals Room became the Virgin Room, a detox refuge in the midst of the body-to-body storm of revelers, ego-tripping bodyguards and completely frazzled staff. Coolers were stocked with energy drinks while the latest copies of Interview magazine lined the tables. Never mind that one couldn’t find a bit of water anywhere. At least I could read about Madonna staying sexy in her ’50’s via lamplight.

3. Gin Masters: Let’s call this third one a tie between the gracious English class and knowledge of master distillers, Desmond Payne (of Beefeater Gin) and Sean Harrison (of Plymouth Gin), at the English Gin Seminar on May 16.

4. The Stork Club: At the opening gala, one could catch a welcome respite from the oppressive heat of the rest of the building in the rarely seen NYPL basement, dubbed the Stork Club for the night. Thanks, Diageo, for turning the room into a relaxed but funky party with brassy Budos Band and proper cocktails, including a Bulleit Bourbon Mint Julep and a Mary Pickford made with Zacapa 23 year rum.

In the cut

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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0
In the cut

arts@sfbg.com

FILM "If we don’t use human DNA now, someone else will," declares Elsa (Sarah Polley), the brash young genetic scientist bent on defying the orders of her benign corporate benefactors in Vincenzo Natali’s pseudo-cautionary hybrid love child, Splice. From that moment on, it’s pretty clear that any ethical conundrums the movie raises aren’t really worthy of debate: what Elsa wants to do in the name of scientific progress — splice human DNA into gooey muscle masses to provide said corporation with proteins for gene therapy — is, you know, deranged.

A hipster Dr. Frankenstein with mommy issues, Elsa bucks both corporate policy and sound moral judgment and does it anyway, much to the horror of her husband and fellow hotshot research scientist, Clive (Adrien Brody). (His name is a sideways reference to Mary Shelley’s titular mad scientist, played by Colin Clive in 1931’s Frankenstein; hers recalls 1935’s notoriously electro-coiffed Bride of Frankenstein, Elsa Lanchester.) But the potential scientific discoveries prove too seductive even for Clive, who reluctantly plays Elsa’s sad-eyed Igor. After all, these are the type of science weirdos who can gaze upon genetically engineered mounds of unarticulated, writhing flesh and coo, "She’s perfectly formed!" Um, yeaahh.

Elsa’s genetic tinkering soon results in the dramatic birth of something akin to a homicidal fetal chick crossed with a skinned bunny. Clive is horrified by this affront to nature and suggests killing it, but Elsa wants to study its life cycle for posterity. It grows at an alarming rate, and when human characteristics become apparent, Elsa clings to it with the instinctual vigor of a tigress protecting her cub. She gives her female laboratory spawn the name "Dren" ("Nerd" backward, after the acronym for their research facility) and outfits her in oddly anachronistic Holly Hobbie-style dresses. Clive remains largely unconvinced. "None of her animal components have predatory characteristics," Elsa assures him. "Well, there is the human element," he quips.

In a matter of days, Dren develops from a shy child into a precocious teen (French newcomer Delphine Chanéac) with a typically adolescent itch to rebel. The mute, atavistic Dren is like a gorgeous autistic Minotaur, bounding around on incredibly powerful gazelle-like legs while clinging to her stuffed teddy bears and batting her doe eyes in wonder, existential confusion, and (soon enough) quizzical animal lust.

When Elsa and Clive are forced to hide Dren at Elsa’s abandoned family farmhouse to escape detection from prying corporate eyes, Splice evolves into another kind of hybrid: a genetically engineered Scenes from a Marriage (1973) crossed with the DNA of The Omen (1976) and grafted onto the most very special My So-Called Life episode ever. Eventually the movie gets downright lascivious — a particularly cringe-inducing plot twist comes to mind — but a few small moments toy with the transcendent, like Dren’s discovery of her wings on a snow-laden rooftop. Both Brody and Polley seem to be gamely slumming, and their casting does add an aura of respectability to the proceedings. But make no mistake. Splice‘s genetic imprint is pure genre-pulp sleaze and cheese.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Splice may be a ludicrous, cut-rate exercise in Brood-era David Cronenberg — Natali has clearly orchestrated an homage to his fellow Canadian’s enduring obsession with body horror — but it’s a damned entertaining one. It’s also a curious entry considering Natali’s earlier efforts, notably 1997’s relatively austere exercise in Kubrickian Big Think sci-fi nuance, Cube. The only Kubrick evidenced in Splice comes in the form of Clive’s large collection of vinyl hipster toys.

Perhaps this about-face fits somewhere comfortably between Cube and Natali’s rumored next project: a remake of Wes Craven’s Swamp Thing (1982). Splice in some Craven and pretty soon Natali’s DNA will be such a bouillabaisse of sci-fi horror tropes he’ll give his Frankenstein-aping heroine Elsa a run for her money.

SPLICE opens Fri/4 in Bay Area theaters.

Quick Lit: June 2-June 8

David Talbot
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Quick Lit: June 2-June 8

Literary readings, book tours, and talks this week

Maude Barlow, the female farming revolution, Babylon Salon, Mahnaz Afkhami, The Art of Baseball, Nerd Nite, and more.

Wednesday, June 2

Mahnaz Afkhami
Afkhami, exiled from Iran under threat of death during the Iranian Revolution, has worked as a leading advocate for women’s rights internationally for more than three decades. Hear her discuss some of the most pressing issues for women in the Middle East today.
6 p.m., $25
Omni Hotel
500 California, SF
RSVP at 415-543-4669 ext. 27, or email events@imow.org

Talk Softly
Author Cynthia O’Neal reads from her inspiring memoir.
7:30 p.m., free
Books Inc. Castro
2275 Market, SF
(415) 864-6777

Thursday, June 3

The Art of Baseball
Author and journalist Jeff Gillenkirk will read from his novel, Home, Away, about the evolving relationship of a father and his formerly estranged son, that develops at odds with the father’s multi-million dollar contract to pitch for the Colorado Rockies.
6 p.m., free
George Krevsky Gallery
77 Geary, SF
(415) 397-9748

Maude Barlow
Barlow is the Senior Advisor on Water to the President of the UN. Hear talk about how California’s misuse of water may actually be changing the hydrological cycle and contributing to global warming.
8 p.m., $20
Herbst Theater
401 Van Ness, SF
www.cityboxoffice.com

Nancy’s Theory of Style
Author Grace Coopersmith discusses her book that shows that happiness and love, like fashion, aren’t about playing it safe.
7 p.m., free
Books Inc. Berkeley
1760 4th St., SF
(510) 525-7777

Nerd Nite
Gather with other nerds to discuss nerdery of all sorts at this meet-up featuring talks “I Was  a Teenage Ichthyologist” with Bart Bernhardt, “It’s Not Its Size, But How You Work It” with Brady Burgess, and “Is It Fake Money If You Can Buy Real Hookers With It?” with Jennifer Russel.
8 p.m., $10
Rickshaw Stop
155 Fell, SF
www.nerdnite.com

79th Annual California Book Awards
Watch as gold medals are presented to D.A. Powell (Chronic) for poetry, Rebecca Solnit (A Paradise Built in Hell) for nonfiction, Lori Ostlund (The Bigness of the World) for first fiction, Yiyun Li (The Vagrants) for fiction,  Susan Patron (Lucky Breaks) for juvenile, Sherri Smith (Flygirl) for young adult Daniel C. Matt (Translation and Commentary, The Zohar Pritzker Edition, Volume Five ) for contribution to publishing, and Elaine Elinson and Stan Yogi (Wherever There’s a Fight) for Californiana. Silver medal awards will also be given out.
6 p.m., $20
Commonwealth Club
2nd floor
595 Market, SF
(415) 597-6700

Friday, June 4 

Farmer Jane: Women changing the way we eat
Featuring stories about over 30 women farmers, chefs, policy wonks, and educators, author Temra Costa celebrates women’s role in changing how we eat and farm for the better. Hear local food stories, taste delicious foods, and meet the author.
7 p.m., free
Green Arcade
1680 Market, SF
(415) 431-6800

Long Time Passing
Author Susan Galleymore began interviewing mothers across The U.S. and the Middle East about war and its consequences after her son was deployed to Afghanistan in 2003. Hear her read and discuss her book, Long Time Passing: Mothers speak out about war and terror.
7:30 p.m., free
St. Joseph the Worker Church Chapel
1640 Addison, Berk.
(510) 499-0537

Saturday, June 5

Babylon Salon
This installment of the reading and performance series presents poet Rusty Morrison, the true keeps calm biding its story and Whethering, and novelist Tom Barbash, The Last Good Chance and On Top of the World: Candor Fitzgerald, Howard Lutnick, and 9/11, along with writers Deborah P. Bloch, N.A. Jong, and more.
7:30 p.m., free
Cantina SF
580 Sutter, SF
www.babylonsalon.com

The Glorious World Cup
Alan Black presents this guide to the World Cup, filled with tales of the teams, fans, goals, saves, divas, divers, myths, and madness.
3 p.m., free
Borders
400 Post, SF
(415) 399-1633

Jim Nisbet
Hayes Valley resident, sailor, and author Nisbet celebrates his new book, Windward Passage, and the re-issue of his cult classic novel, Lethal Injection.
7 p.m., free
Green Arcade
1680 Market, SF
(415) 431-6800

Monday, June 7

A Soft Place to Land
Susan Rebecca White discusses her new book about sisters whose relationship becomes complicated by resentment, anger, and jealousy.
7:30 p.m., free
Books Inc. Marina
2251 Chestnut, SF
(415) 931-3633

Peter Allen
Hear the Green Party candidate for California Attorney General discuss energy policy as it relates to the tragic oil spill happening in the Gulf of Mexico, and what the spill can teach us when discussing nuclear energy.
7 p.m., free
Green Arcade
1680 Market, SF
(415) 431-6800

Second Nature: The inner lives of animals
Author Jonathan Balcombe, joined by the Berkeley Humane Society, presents his book that shakes human supremacy and opens the door to the inner lives of animals.
7 p.m., free
Books Inc. Berkeley
1760 4th St., SF
(510) 525-7777

Tuesday, June 8

The Accordionist’s Son
Stanford scholar and author Bernardo Atxaga will give a literary reading and discussion. Atxaga is a Basque novelist known for writing in Euskera, a language forbidden in Spain by the Franco regime. He will discuss his early experiences writing in a suppressed language and his identity as both a Spanish and Basque writer.
12:30 p.m., free
111 Minna Gallery
111 Minna, SF
(415) 974-1719‎

“Giacomo Puccini’s The Girl of the Golden West”
Join the San Francisco Opera and the California Historical Society for this presentation on Puccini’s opera about the California Gold Rush.
6 p.m., free
California Historical Society Museum
678 Mission, SF
RSVP at (415) 357-1848, ext. 229, or email kjacobson@calhist.org

The Golden Game: Writers on Soccer
Alon Raab will read and discuss his co-edited book of soccer stories. Share your own soccer stories and legends in celebration of the 2010 World Cup.
6 p.m., free
Unversity Press Books
2430 Bancroft, Berk.
(510) 548-0585

“How to Ride Anywhere and Fix a Flat”
Attend this cycling skills and basic maintenance class that will provide helpful instructions for people who bike in the city and want to learn more about urban cycling.
6:30 p.m., free
REI
840 Brannan, SF
www.sfbike.org

Missing Mentor
Mary Stutts wil discuss her book, Missing Mentor: Women advising women on power, progress, and priorities.
7:30 p.m., free
Books Inc. Alameda
1344 Park, Alameda
(510) 522-2226

The More I Owe You
Hear author Michael Sledge discuss his new book about the beloved poet Elizabeth Bishop, including her life in Brazil and her relationship with her lover Lota de Macedo Soares.
7 p.m., free
Books Inc. Laurel Village
3515 California, SF
(415) 221-3666

Peepshow
Author Joshua Braff will read and discuss his book about a 17 year old boy who chooses to help his father run a porn theater in New York’s Times Square instead of embracing his mother’s Hasidic Jewish sect.
7:30 p.m., free
Booksmith
1644 Haight, SF
www.booksmith.com

Writing on My Forehead
Nafisa Haji presents his bestselling book that meditates on the meaning of family, tradition, and the ties that bind.
7 p.m., free
Books Inc. Opera Plaza
601 Van Ness, SF
(415) 776-1111

On the Cheap listings

David Talbot
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0

On the Cheap listings are compiled by Paula Connelly. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com.

THURSDAY 3

Craft Bar Museum of Craft and Folk Art, 51 Yerba Buena Lane, SF; (415) 227-4888. 6pm; $5 includes gallery admission and craft supplies. Explore your crafty creative process at this outdoor craft garden featuring crochet fabric appliquéd jewelry, Asian pop culture emporium Giant Robot launching their new pop-up store, a free-form stitch and bitch area, live music, and refreshments from Trumer Pilsner.

Divisadero Art Walk Divisadero between Geary and Haight, SF; divisaderoartwalk.blogspot.com. 5pm-midnight, free. Spend the night enjoying the best of the Divisadero corridor with art openings, food and drink specials, extended hours for galleries and retails stores, and more.

“Hipster Apocalypse” Café Royale, 800 Post, SF; (415) 441-4099. 8pm, free. Artists Megan Wolfe, Teppei Ando, Kevin Buckley, Mario Delgado, Albert Nguyen, Tamar Solomon, Marcus Thiele, and David Young V imagine a world where alternative culture is pop culture and are showcasing paintings and drawings that focus on the rise of hipster culture in the mainstream and challenge it’s very survival as a culture based on opposing the mainstream. Oh, the irony.

SpaceCRAFT CELLspace, 2050 Bryant, SF; www.cellspace.org. 7pm, free. Check out new works by CELLspace resident artists at this monthly reception featuring performance artists, music, dance, food, and drinks.

FRIDAY 4

SF Underground Market SomArts, 934 Brannan, SF; www.foragesf.com. 11am-Midnight, $2. Taste and purchase food that is being produced in backyards and home kitchens in the Bay Area at this market with live music, food and drinks. The market helps producers without the cash for a commercial kitchen tap into a “homemade community” to get some exposure.

BAY AREA

Oakland Under $100 Temescal Art Center, 511 48th St., Oakl.; (510) 923-1074. 7pm, free. Shop for affordable local art at this community event happening in conjunction with the monthly Oakland Art Murmur featuring local musicians and work by artists Mark Peterson, Allyson O’ Brien, Terrence Dowd, Hollyce Jones, Rachel Hubbard, Alice Worland, and more.

SATURDAY 5

Mujeres Unidas y Activas Family Festival Dolores Park, above the tennis courts, Dolores at 18th St., SF; (415) 621-8140, ext. 310. 1pm, free. Cheer for the participants in the Latino Food Contest, enjoy delicious food, and take part in fun activities for the whole family at this Taste of MUA Family Festival.

National Parks Free Days Participating National Parks in California, for a full list of participating parks, visit www.nps.gov/findapark/feefreeparks. Sat.-Sun, regular park hours. All weekend, the National Park Service is waiving entrance fees, tour fees, and transportation entrance fees on select parks across the United States. Participating California parks include Muir Woods National Monument, San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park, Yosemite National Park, Joshua Tree National Park, Sequoia National Park, and many more.

Nature Fan Fest SF Botanical Garden Recreation Room, Golden Gate Park, SF; RSVP at heydayooks.com. 2pm, free. Celebrate Bay Area nature and the work of John “Jack” Muir Laws at this informational session and party featuring presentations on how to get involved with local organizations like Tree Frog Treks, Bay Nature, and Golden Gate Raptor Observatory, Teacake Bake Shop cupcakes, buttons, books, and more.

Union Street Fair Union between Gough and Steiner, SF; 1-800-310-6563. 10am-6pm, free. Enjoy arts and crafts booths, gourmet food vendors, live music, bistro style cafes, and more at this year’s eco-urban themed Union Street Fair featuring two blocks of green exhibitors, educational displays, and sustainable art.

BAY AREA

Chocolate and Chalk Art Festival Sidewalks along North Shattuck, Berk.; www.anotherbullwinkleshow.com. 10am, free. Sign up for free to be assigned an area of sidewalk to create your best chalk drawing and to be entered to win prizes or purchase a packet of tickets ($10) to sample chocolate treats from participating businesses in the area.

East Bay Open Studios Artist Studios across the East Bay. For more info and to get a map, visit www.proartsgallery.org/ebos. Sat-Sun, various times; free. Gain access to over 400 artists’ studios around the East Bay and peek into the creative process of local artists, socialize with other art lovers, and get a chance to buy works directly.

La Peña Day Prince and Shattuck, Berk.; (510) 849-2568. Noon-6pm, free. Enjoy this street fair and carnival to celebrate La Peña’s 35th anniversary as an open space for community action through the arts featuring cultural dance and music performances that showcase the talents of it’s diverse community, food, art, vendors, and more.

SUNDAY 6

Indie Mart Design & DIY Street Fair Thee Parkside, Wisconsin between 16th and 17th St., SF; www.indie_mart.com. Noon-6pm, $3 suggested donation. Indie Mart is back and bigger than ever with over 100 vendors bringing you locally made and designed, unique goodies, art, and baked treats, live music with Music for Animals, Jonesin’, Magic Magic Roses, and Red, White, and Drunken, stiff drinks, cheap beers & fresh BBQ from Thee Parkside, a demo station brought to you by Workshop, San Franpsycho live printing, Heavy Metal Aerobics, DJs, and more.

BAY AREA

Oral History Project: Our Elders’ Stories Berkeley Fellowship of Unitarian Universalists, 1924 Cedar, Berk.; (510) 841-4824. 2pm, free. Join member of your community for good food and to hear some of recorded stories from the Oral History Project and enjoy the accompanying photo exhibit of participating elders paired with quotes from the project. The recordings will be transferred into the UC Bancroft Library.

 

Film listings

David Talbot
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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. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock. For first-run showtimes, see Movie Guide. Due to the Memorial Day holiday, theater information was incomplete at presstime.

OPENING

*Best Worst Movie See "Green is Good." (1:33)

Get Him to the Greek At this point movie execs can throw producer Judd Apatow’s name on the marquee of a film and it’s a guaranteed blockbuster. It’s hard to say whether this Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008) spin-off benefits from the Apatow sign of approval or if it would be better off standing on its own, but it definitely doesn’t benefit from comparisons to its predecessor. Russell Brand returns as the British rock star Aldous Snow, and Jonah Hill, playing a different character this time, is given the task of chaperoning the uncooperative Snow from London to LA in 48 hours. Despite a great cast, including a surprisingly animated P. Diddy, the story is pretty bland and can’t match the blend of drama and comedy that Marshall achieved. Of course, none of that matters because the movie execs are right: if you like Apatow’s brand of humor, you’re going to have a good time anyway. (1:49) (Galvin)

Killers Katherine Heigl and Ashton Kutcher star in this comedy about marriage and hired assassins. (1:40)

Living in Emergency Filmmakers follow four volunteers of Médecins Sans Frontiéres (MSF) in Liberia and the Congo, from the initial shock of a first-timer to the overwhelming exhaustion of a veteran. Morally ambiguous decisions have left many of them arrogant and bitter and it’s apparent that these people are not the inflated heroes that we might wish, but normal people who were drawn to test themselves in circumstances of little hope. Some fail. Living in Emergency is an interesting glimpse into a provocative world, and the morally icky stuff is sometimes worse than the blood and death on screen. But a glimpse is all it is. The filmmakers clearly have an agenda that doesn’t include time for exploring the lives of any of the doctors, patients or procedures, and they leave the audience wondering whether there might be more lurking beneath the surface. (1:33) (Galvin)

Marmaduke Big. Talking. Dog. (1:27)

Micmacs See "Cute Is What He Aims For." (1:44) Smith Rafael.

*Ran Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 historical epic Ran brings the old adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely to life with such veracity and ambition, such magnificence and devastation, that its like has never been equaled since. Storyboarded by Kurosawa in paintings a decade prior to filming and equipped with the largest budget for a Japanese film up until that time, Ran is gorgeous to behold (in no small part to Emi Wada’s Oscar-winning costumes and thousands of extras) and harrowing to experience. Kurosawa fuses the premise of Shakespeare’s King Lear with historical accounts of Warring States-era general Mori Motonari to tell the tragedy of Lord Hidetora (Tatsuya Nakadai), the senile patriarch of the once powerful Ichimonji clan who erroneously decides to divide his kingdom among his three sons. Like his Shakespearean counterpart, Hidetora is certainly a fool, but unlike Lear, he’s also a merciless despot who learns firsthand, as his empire crumbles around him and he sinks further into dementia, that bloodshed can only be repaid with further bloodshed. Nakadai, his face made up to resemble the furrowed intensity of a Noh mask, turns out a performance as resplendent as it is terrifying, equaled only by Mieko Harada’s turn as the Lady MacBeth-like Lady Kaede, who welcomes Hidetora’s downfall with vengeful relish.Catch this 35mm restored print while you can, since no home entertainment system, no matter how pimped out, can truly do Kurosawa’s late masterpiece justice. (2:42) (Sussman)

Solitary Man Michael Douglas has a (post?) midlife crisis. (1:30)

*Splice See "In the Cut." (1:45)

*Trash Humpers What is Trash Humpers? Is it filmmaker Harmony Korine’s rage against his experiences making 2007’s Mister Lonely? Despite being characteristically bizarre, with tales of celebrity impersonators and flying nuns, Mister Lonely was Korine’s most technically polished (i.e., expensive-looking) film to date. By contrast, Trash Humpers, shot on the quick and mega-cheap, literally looks like "an old VHS tape that was in some attick [sic] or buried in some ditch," per the film’s charmingly lo-fi press kit. There’s also Trash Humpers’ rather, uh, subversive content. Basically, it’s 78 minutes of shenanigans, starring a trio of ne’er-do-wells who are either wearing elderly-burn-victim masks or are actually supposed to be elderly burn victims. The creepy crew and their pals cavort through an unidentified Nashville, smashing TVs, slipping razor blades into apples, guzzling booze, spanking hookers, setting off firecrackers, cracking racist and/or homophobic jokes, eating pancakes doused in dish soap, and humping trash cans. Lots of trash cans. Primitive video technology (the film was edited on two VCRs) makes everything look even worse, if that’s even possible. Now, if you or I submitted Trash Humpers, the programmers at the Toronto International Film Festival would chuckle condescendingly and fling it into the nearest (humpable) trash bin. But you have to consider the source: Salon recently dubbed Korine "the most hated man in art-house cinema," which if true is probably the director’s most cherished triumph. (1:18) Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. (Eddy)

Women Without Men Potent imagery has always been at the forefront of photographer and installation artist Shirin Neshat’s explorations of gender in Islamic society, and her debut feature Women Without Men certainly has its share. Loosely based on Shahrnush Parsipur’s novel of the same name, the film follows four Iranian women (down from the novel’s original five) — Fakhri, an upper-class military wife who longs to reconnect with an old lover; Zarin, a traumatized prostitute who escapes captivity; Munis, a housebound young woman reborn as a political dissident; and her friend, Faezeh, who longs to marry Munis’ domineering brother — in the days leading up to the 1953 coup d’etat that overturned democracy and restored the Shah to power. From the suicidal leap — filmed so as to suggest flight as much as falling — which opens the film, to the mist-shrouded groves of a rural orchard that becomes a refuge for the women, each shot is as striking for its beauty as it is uneven in conveying the allegorical significance behind all the lushness. The casts’ largely stilted performances don’t help much in this regard either. "All that we wanted to was to find a new form, a new way," says Munis in voiceover. As a creative act of mourning for Iran’s short-lived experiment in democracy — a moment, Neshat acknowledges in the film’s postscript, that clearly resonated with last year’s Green revolution — Women Without Men ambitiously attempts, albeit with mixed success, to envision just that. (1:35) (Sussman)

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 eye shadows). 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) (Eddy)

*Babies Thomas Balmes’ camera records the first year in the lives of four infants in vastly different circumstances. They’re respectively born to hip young couple in Tokyo’s high-tech clutter; familiar moderately alterna-types (the father is director Frazer Bradshaw of last year’s excellent indie drama Everything Strange and New) in SF’s Mission District; a yurt-dwelling family isolated in the vast Mongolian tundra; and a Namibian village so maternally focused that adult menfolk seem to have been banished. Yes, on one level this is the cutest li’l documentary you ever saw. But if you were planning to avoid thinking that is all (or most) of what Babies would be like, you will miss out big time. Void of explanatory titles, voice-over narration, or subtitle translations, this is a purely observatory piece that reveals just how fascinating the business of being a baby is. There’s very little predictable pooping, wailing, or coddling. Instead, Balmes’ wonderful eye captures absorbing moments of sussing things out, decision-making, and skill learning. While the First World tykes firstborns both — are hauled off to (way) pre-school classes, the much less day planned Third Worlders have more complex, unmediated dealings with community. Those range from fending off devilish older siblings to Mongol Bayarjargal’s startlingly casual consorting with large furry livestock. (Imagine the horror of parents you know were their baby found surrounded by massive cows — a situation that here causes no concern whatsoever for adults, children, or bovines.) So accustomed to the camera that it doesn’t influence their behavior, the subjects here are viewed with an intimacy that continually surprises. Babies is getting a wider-than-usual release for a documentary, one cannily timed to coincide with Mother’s Day. But don’t be fooled: this movie is actually very cool. (1:19) Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

*Big River Man Some people are just larger than life. Martin Strel is 53-year-old overweight, alcoholic, endurance swimmer from Slovenia who has made it his calling to swim the world’s longest rivers. Borut Strel, his son and primary publicist, might say his father does it to increase awareness about pollution or, in the Amazon’s case, deforestation, but we quickly see that there is a deeper compulsion that goes into Martin’s swims. Big River Man chronicles Martin’s descent down the Amazon river, from Peru to Brazil, as he scoffs at piranhas and alligators, all while drinking two bottles of wine a day. Martin is definitely a funny guy and he helps make Big River Man a funny film, but most impressive is the subtle shift from quirky human interest documentary to Heart of Darkness-style thriller when too many days in the sun cause Martin to lose his grip on reality. (1:34) Roxie. (Peter Galvin)

*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) (Harvey)

The City of Your Final Destination In James Ivory’s latest literary adaptation, Omar (Omar Metwally), an Iranian American graduate student of Latin American literature, precipitously descends on a rural estate in Paraguay, hoping to petition the relatives of deceased writer Jules Gund for authorization to write his biography. Numbering among the somewhat complicated ménage are Gund’s widow, Caroline (Laura Linney), his mistress, Arden (Charlotte Gainsbourg), their child, Portia (Ambar Mallman), the author’s brother, Adam (Anthony Hopkins), and Adam’s lover, Pete (Hiroyuki Sanada), a household that the film depicts as caught in a sedative isolation obstructing any progress or flourishing or change. But where Gund’s violent suicide has failed to produce a cataclysmic shift, the somewhat hapless Omar manages to interrupt their idle routines and mobilize them, stirring up sentiment and ambition. The notion of redirected fate is telegraphed by the title, but what the film does best is show the calm before the storm (really more of a heavy downpour) — and showcase the fineness of Hopkins’s and Linney’s dramatic abilities. In the final act, we see the characters being moved about rather than moved, and the sound of screeching brakes applied as the film reaches its conclusion undoes much of the subtlety invested in their performances. (1:58) (Rapoport)

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) (Eddy)

*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) (Sussman)

*The Father of My Children Grégoire Canvel (Louis-Do de Lencquesaing) is a perpetual motion machine: a Paris-based veteran film producer of complicated multinational whose every waking moment is spent pleading, finessing, reassuring, and generally putting out fires of the artistic, logistic, or financial kind. But lately the strain has begun to surpass even his Herculean coping abilities. Debtors are closing in; funding might collapse for a brilliant but uncommercial director’s already half-finished latest. After surviving any number of prior crises, Gregoire’s whole production company might finally dissolve into a puddle of red ink and lawsuits. He barely has time to enjoy his perfect family, with Italian wife Sylvia (Chiara Caselli) and three young daughters happily ensconced in a charming country house. Something’s got to give — and when it does, writer-director Mia Hansen-Love’s drama (very loosely based on the life of a late European film producer) drastically shifts its focus midway. Her film’s first half is so arresting — with its whirlwind glimpse at a job so few of us know much about, yet which couldn’t be more important in keeping cinema afloat — that the second half inevitably seems less interesting by comparison. Still, for about 55 minutes The Father of My Children offers something you haven’t quite seen before, an experience well worthwhile even if the subsequent 55 are less memorable. (1:50) (Harvey)

*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) (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) Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

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) (Chun)

How to Train Your Dragon (1:38)

The Human Centipede (First Sequence) Director Tom Six had a vision, a glorious dream of surgically connecting three human beings via their gastro-intestinal systems, or as Kevin Smith would say — "ass to mouth." When two girlfriends on a road trip across Europe get a flat tire, they stumble upon the home of a mad doctor (Dieter Laser) with a similar dream, who drugs them and ties them up in his basement laboratory. The Human Centipede is an entry into the torture porn arena, but it feels especially icky because you just know that the girls have zero chance of escaping the "100 percent medically accurate!" surgery. Once hooked up, there’s nowhere for the film to go and two out of three actors can’t talk because they are sewn to someone else’s anus. Still, as one-note as The Human Centipede is, I think we’d do well to encourage more films to be as batshit insane as this one. (1:30) (Galvin)

*Iron Man 2 Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) returns, just as rich and self-involved as before, though his ego his inflated to unimaginable heights due to his superheroic fame. Pretty much, he’s put the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing on the back burner, exasperating everyone from Girl Friday Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow); to BFF military man Rhodey (Don Cheadle, replacing the first installment’s Terrence Howard); to certain mysterious Marvels played by Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlett Johansson; to a doofus-y rival defense contractor (Sam Rockwell); to a sanctimonius Senator (Garry Shandling). Frankly, the fact that a vengeful Russian scientist (Mickey Rourke) is plotting Tony’s imminent death is a secondary threat here — for much of the film, Tony’s biggest enemy is himself. Fortunately, this is conveyed with enjoyable action (props to director Jon Favreau, who also has a small role), a witty script (actor Justin Theroux — who knew? He also co-wrote 2008’s Tropic Thunder, by the way), and gusto-going performances by everyone, from Downey on down. Stay for the whole credits or miss out on the geek-gasm. (2:05) (Eddy)

Just Wright (1:51)

*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) (Galvin)

Kites As randomly exuberant, shamelessly cheesy, and as garishly OTT as an amalgam of Bollywood song-and-dance flash and ’80s Hollywood blockbuster can get, Kites is a lovable mutt through and through — ready for its stateside close-up with by way of a forthcoming Brett Ratner English-language "remix" treatment. But first the two-hour original: J (Hrithik Roshan) is a poor but studly, V-chested dance teacher who hits the jackpot in Vegas with Gina (Kangna), his besotted student and the daughter of a powerful and deadly casino owner. Their dance competition number — jumpily cut like a hybrid of Dancing With the Stars, Saturday Night Fever (1977), and Fame (1980) — lands J in the bosom of Gina’s family, where he meets her sadistic bro, Tony (Nick Brown), and his fiancée, Natasha (Barbara Mori), an illegal immigrant from Mexico. But J and Natasha have met briefly before, when she hired him to marry her for a green card. How can a connected, killer family possibly get in the way of true love — between two leads who resemble a youthful, performance-enhanced, manically happily Nicolas Cage and Megan Fox? Smoothly integrating the dance numbers into the predictable narrative, Kites has polished off any possible edge from its high-energy Bollywood riff on the movies of Michael Bay and Ridley Scott, but that doesn’t mean you can tear your eyes from the screen, or stop the music. (1:30) (Chun)

Letters to Juliet If you can stomach the inevitable Barbara Cartland/Harlequin-romance-style clichés — and believe that Amanda Seyfried as a New Yorker fact-checker — then Letters to Juliet might be the ideal Tuscan-sunlit valentine for you. Seyfried’s Sophie is on a pre-honeymoon trip to Verona with her preoccupied chef-restaurateur intended, Victor (Gael Garcia Bernal), who’s more interested in sampling cheese and purchasing vino than taking in the romantic attractions of Verona with his fiancée. Luckily she finds the perfect diversion for a wannabe scribe: a small clutch of diehard romantics enlisted by the city of Verona to answer the letters to Juliet posted by lovelorn ladies. They’re Juliet’s secretaries — never mind that Juliet never managed to maintain a successful or long-term relationship herself. When Sophie finds a lost, unanswered letter from the ’50s, she sets off sequence of unlikely events, as the letter’s English writer, Claire (Vanessa Redgrave), returns to Verona with her grandson Charlie (Christopher Egan), in search of her missed-connection, Lorenzo. Alas, Lorenzo’s long gone, and the fact-checker decides to help the warm-hearted, hopeful Claire find her lost lover. Unfortunately Sophie’s chemistry with both her matches isn’t as powerful as Redgrave’s with real-life husband Franco Nero — after all he was Lancelot to her Guenevere in 1967’s Camelot and the father of her son. Still, Redgrave’s power as an actress — and her relationship with Nero — adds a resonance that takes this otherwise by-the-numbers romance to another level. (1:46) (Chun)

*Looking for Eric Eric Bishop (Steve Everts) is a single dad, frustrated at his inability to bond with his teenage sons and heartbroken over his failed marriage to Lily (Stephanie Bishop), the woman he walked out on 20 years ago but never managed to get over. Just when things are looking dire, Eric is delivered in surprising, magical fashion by hallucinatory visitations from Eric Cantona, his favorite soccer player, a philosophical Frenchman who was as renowned for his inscrutable press conferences as he was for his scintillating goals. Cantona plays himself, and passes pensive joints with Bishop as they slowly piece his shattered life back together. American viewers might be have trouble deciphering the intricacies of soccer culture or the molasses-thick Mancunian accents, but at its heart the movie (by Brit director Ken Loach) is an amusing, tautly crafted fable of middle-aged alienation giving way to hope and gumption. (1:57) Smith Rafael. (Richardson)

MacGruber Mudflaps, moptops, box-office flippity-flops, such is the sad transition Saturday Night Live skits make to the big screen. Handicapped as such MacGruber also has a very specific demographic in mind: the Gen-Xers who popularized the use of MacGyver as a verb and harbor a picture-tube-deep ironic affection for the lousy ’80s TV action shows of their youth. Does anyone younger — or older — than that population get MacGruber‘s interest in Howard Stern-style transgressive humor, its "Cunth"/dick/poop/butt jokes, and its shameful identification with badly dated hair styles? That said, MacGruber isn’t half bad if one keeps expectations nice ‘n’ low, much like its hero’s brow, and one enjoys a comic antihero who uses his buds as human shields and can’t MacGyver a weapon out of a tennis ball and rubber-band to save his life. Laughs can be had — as long as your bad Gen-X self is still in touch with your inner 13-year-old. MacGruber won’t make the Bay Area-born-and-bred Will Forte a superstar, but at least it gives Kristen Wiig fans another, if somewhat inexplicable, chance to glimpse their heroine in action, with little to do — someone get this smart, likable actress into a Nicole Holofcener comedy ASAP. (1:39) (Chun)

*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) (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) Roxie. (Harvey)

Mother and Child Adoption advocates who railed against Orphan (2009) should turn their sights on Mother and Child, a ridiculous melodrama with a thoroughly vile message. I’d wager writer-director Rodrigo García didn’t set out to make an anti-adoption film: this is a movie about the relationship between mothers and daughters. But the undertones are impossible to miss. Annette Bening plays Karen, a miserable woman consumed by regret for putting her daughter up for adoption 37 years ago. That biological daughter is Elizabeth (Naomi Watts), who — despite having been adopted at birth — speaks dismissively of her "adoptive" parents as though they were never really hers. She’s cold and manipulative, sleeping with her boss and married neighbor because she can. Mother and Child offers no real explanation for why these women are so unpleasant, so we’re forced to conclude it’s the four decades-old adoption. Despite a stellar cast, which also includes Kerry Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, and S. Epatha Merkerson, the film’s misguided politics are too distracting to ignore. (2:06) (Peitzman)

*OSS 117: Lost in Rio The Cold War heated up a public appetite for spy adventures well before James Bond became a pop phenomenon. In fact, Ian Fleming hadn’t yet created 007 in 1949, when Jean Bruce commenced writing novels about Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath, a.k.a. Agent OSS 117. This French superspy was ready-made to join the ranks of umpteen 007 wannabes, appearing in somewhere between six and 11 films (it’s unclear whether all involved de La Bath, or were just Bruce-based) through 1970, played by at least four actors. The series remained well-known enough to get a new life in 2006 when director Michel Hazanavicius and top French comedy star Jean Dujardin sought to spoof 1960s espionage flicks a la Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997). That was a big hit, so now we’ve got a sequel. OSS 117: Lost in Rio isn’t as fresh or funny as the preceding Cairo, Nest of Spies. But it’s still a whole lot fresher and funnier than Austin Powers Nos. two (1999) and three (2002). Dujardin’s de La Bath is the very model of jet-set masculinity, twisting the night away at a ski chalet with umpteen soon-to-be-machine gunned "Oriental" lovelies in the opening sequence. Of course such pleasure pursuits take place strictly between car chases, shootouts, and karate fights. Agreeably silly, Lost in Rio doesn’t go for Hollywood-style slapstick and gross out yuks. Instead, its biggest laughs are usually droll throwaways, as when 117 explains a shocking sudden costume change with the unlikely declaration "I sew," or during an LSD-dosed hippie orgy proves quite willing to go with the flow — even when that involves another guy’s groovy finger breaching security up the pride of French intelligence’s derriere. (1:37) (Harvey)

*Please Give Manhattan couple Kate (Catherine Keener) and Alex (Oliver Platt) are the proprietors of an up-market vintage furniture store — they troll the apartments of the recently deceased, redistributing the contents at an astonishing markup — and they’ve purchased the entire apartment of their elderly next-door neighbor (Ann Guilbert). As they wait for her to expire so they can knock down a wall, they try not to loom in anticipation in front of her granddaughters, the softly melancholic Rebecca (Rebecca Hall) and the brittle pragmatist Mary (Amanda Peet). Filmmaker Nicole Holofcener has entered this territory before, examining the interpersonal pressures that a sizable income gap can exert in 2006’s Friends with Money. Here she turns to the pangs and blunderings of the liberal existence burdened with the discomforts of being comfortable and the desire to do some good in the world. The film capably explores the unexamined impulses of liberal guilt, though the conclusion it reaches is unsatisfying. Like Holofcener’s other work, Please Give is constructed from the episodic material of mundane, intimate encounters between characters whose complexity forces us to take them seriously, whether or not we like them. Here, though, it offers these private connections as the best one can hope for, a sort of domestic grace accrued by doing right, authentically, instinctively, by the people in your immediate orbit, leaving the larger world to muddle along on its axis as best it can. (1:30) (Rapoport)

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time It takes serious effort to make a movie with a story dumber than the video game it’s based on. Director Mike Newell somehow accomplishes this feat with Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, a Disneyfied flop that flails clumsily in the PG-13 demilitarized zone, delivering sanitized violence, chaste romance, and dreary drama. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Dastan, an urchin boy — one jump, ahead of the bread line — adopted by the king and raised to be the wise-cracking black sheep in a family of feuding princes. He’s got Middle East ninja skills — one swing, ahead of the sword — and his infiltration of a sacred city nets him the magical Dagger of Time, a gilded rewind button coveted by his evil uncle Nizam (Ben Kingsley), who wants to use it for, well, evil, and Princess Tamina (Gemma Arterton), who’s sworn to protect it. Pressing a button on the dagger’s hilt allows its wielder to undo past events. If you have the misfortune of seeing this movie, you’ll want one for yourself. (2:10) (Richardson)

Princess Kaiulani Well-meaning and controversial (the independent’s first title, Barbarian Princess, and the tragic events it depicts has distressed some native Hawaiians) in its own inoffensive way, Princess Kaiulani is unfortunately overshadowed by star Q’orianka Kilcher’s first film, 2005’s The New World, in which she portrayed Pocahontas. The Hawaii-raised Kilcher appears to be getting typecast as a tragic, romanticized native royal. Still, if you can get past director Marc Forby’s weak attempts to match New World director Terrence Malick’s searingly poetic montages and the clunky History Channel-by-the-numbers screenplay, you might give a little credit to the makers for bringing to the screen the tale of Hawaii’s last intelligent, beautiful, and accomplished princess — a young woman determined to fight an overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy and battle its annexation against the white land owners and descendents of missionaries who tried to block the voting rights of native Hawaiians. Kilcher possesses some of the noble charisma claimed by the real Kaiulani, but the obligatory romance superimposed on the narrative and the neglect of some of genuinely promising threads, such as Kaiulani’s friendship with Robert Louis Stevenson, make Princess Kaiulani feel as faux as those who pretended to Hawaii’s rule. (2:10) (Chun)

Robin Hood Like it or not, we live in the age of the origin story. Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood introduces us to the outlaw while he’s still in France, wending his way back to Albion in the service of King Richard III. The Lionheart soon takes an arrow in the neck in order to demonstrate the film’s historical bona fides, and yeoman archer Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe) — surrounded by a nascent band of merry men — accidentally embroils himself in a conspiracy to wrest control of England. The complications of this intrigue hie Robin to Nottingham, where he is thrown together with Maid Marion (Cate Blanchett), a plucky rural aristocrat who likes getting her hands dirty almost as much as she likes a bit of smoldering Crowe seduction. A lot of hollow medieval verisimilitude ensues, along with a good bit of slow-mo swordplay, but the cumulative effect is tepid and rote. (2:20) (Richardson)

The Secret in Their Eyes (2:07)

Sex and the City 2 Sex and the City 2 couldn’t be anymore brazenly shameless, dizzyingly shallow, or patently offensive if it tried. This is aspiration porn, pure and simple, kitted out in the Orientalist trappings of a Vogue spread and with all the emotional intelligence of a 12 year-old brat. As the first SATC film nearly made short work of any shred of nuance or humanity that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda carried over from their televised selves, SATC 2 fully embraces the bad pun-spewing, couture-clad clichés the girls have hardened into. Sure they have kids, husbands, career changes, and menopause to deal with, but who cares about those tired signposts of middle age when there is more shit to buy, more champagne to swill, private airlines to fly on, $22,000-a-night luxury suites to inhabit, Helen Reddy songs to butcher, and whole other peoples — specifically, the people of Abu Dhabi, who speak funny, dress funnier, and have craaazy notions about what it means to be "one of the girls" — to alternately boss around, offend, and pity? (Fun SATC2 fact: did you know that in the "new Middle East" women secretly wear designer duds underneath their abayas?) Oh, that one tiny pang of sympathy you feel during the tipsy confessional between Charlotte and Miranda in which they bond over how being a mother and giving up one’s life ambition is difficult? A mirage. Because really, the greater concern is flying back to JFK first class or bust. And let’s not even get into the few bones the film tosses to the homos, such as the opening set piece: a gay wedding only a straight man could’ve thought up, replete with a shopworn Liza Minnelli having her Gene Kelly-in-Xanadu moment. But seriously, Michael Patrick King, don’t get it twisted: Stanford may call it such, but it’s not "cheating" if you’re already in an open relationship. Then again, if being a foil for your straight BFF’s insecurities about the luxe confines of monogamy gets you a gift registry at Bergdorf’s, why not? The laughs are cheaper this time around, but SATC 2‘s fuckery is strictly price-upon-request. (2:24) Castro. (Sussman)

Shrek Forever After 3D It’s easy to give Dreamworks a hard time for pumping out a fourth sequel to a film that never really needed a sequel in the first place. But Shrek Forever After isn’t all that bad — it’s mostly just irrelevant. The film does begin on an interesting note, with Shrek discovering the consequences of settling down with a wife and kids: serious ennui. It’s refreshing to see a fairy tale in which "happily ever after" is revealed to be rather mundane. But soon there are wacky magical hijinks that spawn an alternate universe, a cheap way to inject new life into tired old characters. (You like Puss in Boots? Well, he’s fat now.) Luckily, the voice actors are still game and the animation remains top-notch. The 3D effects are well used for once, fleshing out Shrek’s world rather than providing an unnecessary distraction. The end result is a mildly entertaining addition to the franchise, but like the alternate universe in which Shrek finds himself stranded, there’s no real reason it should exist. (1:33) (Peitzman)

Survival of the Dead George A. Romero’s 2007 Diary of the Dead was a surprise hit, and with an eye toward delivering similar results, Survival of the Dead spins off one of its predecessor’s minor characters. Amid a zombie attack that already seems like old news by movie’s start, a disaffected soldier (Alan Van Sprang) goes AWOL with a few comrades and a teenage drifter they meet along the way. A possible refuge from the undead presents itself in the form of Plum Island, which despite being in the United States is populated by two extremely Irish families with a long-standing hillbilly-style feud that simply won’t be mended, zombies be damned. Props to Romero for finding a way to make movies on his own terms; the horror legend is back to working with a small budget and enjoying the kind of creative control that shaped his earliest films. But Survival of the Dead is tonally uneven, and its Western-inspired story veers into the ridiculous (surprise twins?!) End result: there’s more human drama than zombie fun. (1:30) (Eddy)

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) Smith Rafael. (Galvin)

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