War Archives — Page 18 of 117 — San Francisco Bay Guardian Archive 1966

To The Valiant That Served

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May 27, 2013

Let’s take a moment out of our day to salute the men and women that gave all in defense of our homeland. Memorial Day’s purpose is just that (although its actual origins may surprise you).

For me, the people that had it the hardest were those who, after agonizing reflection, realized that their war effiorts were best served by not serving at all. Like:

Richard Bruce Cheney–VP–he got five student deferments until successfully impregnating his bride. Would have been more than willing to slog through Vietnam’s jungles, but said “I have other priorities”.

Willard “Mitt” Romney–sat out Vietnam War and opted for the brutal battle along the Seine in Paris. As Paris itself had been at peace (minus demonstrations) for over 20 years at the time, his religious mission must have been a lot more satisfying than getting his magical underpants ventilated by VC landmines.

Theodore Nugent–The Motormouth City Madman decided it would be wiser to remain in Michigan rather than the Mekong Delta and spent a week or so shitting himself to stay out of draft. Also used student deferments and has of late raised the “I was making too much money as a musician at the time to waste my prime years”. Now that’s patriotism.

George W. Bush/Dan Quayle: America’s shores protected by these national guardsmen in “champagne units”, that is the scions of the powerful keeping themselves bulletproof via nepotism. The former found his time in the NatGuard too trying and appears to have disappeared in his last year there. Playing cards in Alabama being mentally and physically exhausting and all.

Ronald Reagan: Single handedly won the “Battle Of Culver City” in WW2. And believed and spoke of his war adventures as if they weren’t on film but real. And this is an icon.

Lest you think I am picking on the chickenhawk crew that cheerleads slaughters they have no intention of being a part of, let’s take time out to thank some really brave politicians named Hillary, John Edwards and John Kerry, whose votes on Iraq made solely with presidential ambition in mind led to the worst debacle in American history. And to Obama’s presidency.

Last but not least, a salute to the fearless Internet Infantry who brave thumb sprains and carpal tunnel to valiantly back America’s war efforts from the dingey bunker known as “mom’s basement”. You will never be forgotten, assuming anyone remembers you in the first place.

Happy holidays and drive safe!

Memorial Day: Remembering the good old days in Rock Rapids, Iowa, circa 1940s to 1950s

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May 26, 2013

2

Bruce B. Brugmann

(Reprinted and updated by popular demand)

When I was growing up in my hometown of Rock Rapids, Iowa, a farming community of 2,800 in the northwest corner of the state, Memorial Day was the official start of summer.

We headed off to YMCA camp at Camp Foster on West Okiboji Lake and Boy Scout camp at Lake Shetek in southwestern Minnesota. The less fortunate were trundled off to Bible School at the Methodist Church.

As I remember it, Memorial Day always seemed to be a glorious sunny day and full of action for Rock Rapids. The high school band in black and white uniform would march down Main Street under the baton of the local high school band teacher (in my day, Jim White.) A parade would feature floats carrying our town’s veterans of the First and Second World wars, young men I knew who suddenly were wearing their old uniforms. And there was for many years a veteran of the Spanish American War named Jess Callahan prominently displayed in a convertible. Lots of flags would be flying and the Rex Strait American Legion Post and Veterans of Foreign Wars would be out in force. We never really knew who Rex Strait was, except that he was said to be the first Rock Rapids boy to die in World War I and the post was named after him.

After the parade, we would make our way to our picture post card cemetery, atop a knoll just south of town overlooking the lush green of the trees and the fields along the lazy Rock River.A local dignitary would give a blazing patriotic speech. A color guard of veterans would move the flags into position and then at the command fire their rifles off toward the river. I remember this was the first time I ever saw a color guard in action, with a sergeant who moved his men with rifles into position with strange “hut, hut, hut” commands.

After the ceremony, everyone would go to the graves of their family and friends and people they knew and look at the flowers that would be sitting in bouquets and little pots by the headstones. The cemetery was and is a beautiful spot and many of us who are natives have parents, friends, and relatives buried here. It is one of the wonderful things that connects us to the town, no matter where we end up.

And so this year I got my annual telephone call from Dorothy Bosch, at the Flower Village florist in Rock Rapids, reminding me about the flowers I always place on Memorial Day on the graves of my relatives in the Brugmann plot. I always get a kick out of doing business with Flower Village because it once was in the Brugmann Drugstore building on Main Street that had housed our family drug store. (“C.C. Brugmann and Son, where drugs and gold are fairly sold, since 1902.”) Flower Village later moved across the street to the building that once housed the Bernstein Department store and is now known as Home-ology. Dorothy always fills me in on the latest Rock Rapids news, which is particularly important this year because I will be back in Rock Rapids on June 14th for my 60th high school class reunion of the dream class of 1953.

I always ask Dorothy to get the most colorful flowers of the season and she then sees that they are displayed near the headstones in the Brugmann plot a couple of days ahead of Memorial Day. This year, I called Pauline Knobloch to pick up the flowers and put them in her garden. Pauline and I go back to 1947, when she was a young clerk, just in from Lester, in the store. I started clerking at age 12 that year, selling stamps and peanuts in the front of the store. Pauline and I worked together all my school years and she continued on until my dad sold the store in the late 1970s. Pauline is still going strong, as they say in Rock Rapids.

Ours is an unusual plot, because it holds the graves of my four grandparents, my parents, my aunt and uncle and someday my wife and I. My grandfather C.C.Brugmann and my father C.B.Brugmann spent their entire working lives in Brugmann’s drugstore, which my grandfather started in l902. My father (and my mother Bonnie) came into the store shortly after the depression.
My grandfather A. R. Rice (and his wife Allie) was an eloquent Congregational minister who had parishes throughout Iowa in Waverly, Eldora, Parkersburg, and Rowan. He retired in Clarion. My aunt Mary was my father’s sister and her husband was her Rock Rapids high school classmate, Clarence Schmidt. He was a veterinarian and a reserve army officer who was called up immediately after Pearl Harbor and ordered to report to Camp Dodge in Des Moines within 48 hours. He did and served in Calcutta, India, as an inspector of meat that was flown over the hump to supply the Chinese forces under Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek.

Through the years, Elmer “Shinny” Sheneberger, the police chief when I was in school, would say to me, “Well, Bruce, you and I have to get along. We’ll be spending lots of time together someday.” I never knew what he meant until one day, visiting the Brugmann plot, I noticed that the Sheneberger family plot was next to the Brugmann plot. Every Memorial Day, Shinny took pictures in color of the flowers on the Brugmann and Sheneberger family graves and would send them to me in San Francisco. I would them on to my sister Brenda in Sun City, Arizona, and the families of the three Schmidt boys John in Cedar Falls, Iowa, and Conrad and Robert in Worthington, Minnesota. Well, Shinny died two years ago and alas I no longer get his annual batch of pictures. But he was right. We will be together for a long, long time.

Every year the rep from our American Legion Post puts a small American flag on the grave of every person buried in the cemetery who served in the Armed Forces. Chip Berg, who was three years ahead of me in school, performed this chore every year. My uncle gets one. And, Chip assured me, I will get one someday. I earned it, I am happy to report, as an unhappy ROTC soldier for two years at the University of Nebraska at Lincoln (1953-55), as a cold war veteran (1958-60), as an advanced infantryman at Ft. Carson, Colorado, as a survivor of two weeks of miserable winter bivouac in the foothills of the Rockies, and as bureau chief of the Korea Bureau of Stars and Stripes (carrying my favorite byline: SP5 Bruce B. Brugmann, S and S Korea bureau, Yongdongpo, Korea.) I am proud of the flag already. B3, who never forgets how lucky he is to come from the best small town in the country.

P.S. As the years went by, I became more curious about how my uncle Schmitty, as he was known, could leave his three young boys and his veterinary practice in nearby Worthington, Minnesota, and get to Camp Dodge so fast and serve throughout the entire war. I asked him lots of questions. How, for example, did he handle his veterinary practice? Simple, he said, “my partner just said let’s split our salaries. You give me half of what you make in the Army and I’ll give you half of what I make in veterinary practice.” And that’s what they did and that’s how the veterinary practice kept going throughout the war. Schmitty returned to a healthy practice, retired in the 1960s, and turned it over to his second son Conrad.

P.S. 1: Confession: I was not drafted. I enlisted in the federal reserve in the summer of 1958, which amounted to the same thing. Two years of active duty, two years of active reserve, and two years of inactive reserve. I did this maneuver so that I could formally say that I beat Elmer Wohlers. Elmer was the local draft board chief who had spent a little time in World War I, “the big one,” as he would say. The word around town was that he never got out of Camp Dodge in Des Moinesm but you would never know it by his rhetoric. He had a bit of black humor about his job and we had a running skirmish for years.

Whenever he would see me on the street in Rock Rapids, he would say, ” Bruce, I’m going to get you, I’m going to get you.” And I would reply, “No, no, Elmer, you’ll never get me.” I think he was particularly annoyed when I escaped his grasp and went off for a year to graduate school at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism in New York City. I would send him cards through the years, from an ATO fraternity party at the University of Nebraska, or from my hangout bar in New York City (the West End Bar, across from the Columbia Journalism building.) I would write in effect, but with elegant variations, “Elmer, having a wonderful time. Keep up the good work. Wish you were here.” When I was in town and we would spar on the street, I would invite Elmer over to the Sportsmen’s Club for a martini, but he always refused, most testily.

And so I joined the federal reserve and ended up with the initials FR instead of US on my dog tags that hung around my neck for two years. I was officially FR17507818 and rose from lowly recruit in the 60th infantry at Ft Carson, Colorado, to the lofty position of E-5 and bureau chief of the Korea edition of Stars and Stripes bureau. But my big accomplishment was that Elmer didn’t get me. I still feel good about beating Elmer at his own game.

P.S. 2: Here’s how things work in Rock Rapids. One year, in sending my annual Memorial Day drill in an email note to Rock Rapids alumni of my era, I recounted the Shinny anecdote and placed the Brugmann and Sheneberger plots in the southeastern corner of the cemetery. I promptly got an email note back from Joanne Schubert Vogel (class of ’49). She wrote that she had sent my note to her brother Dale Schubert in Rock Rapids (class of ’55, who was a halfback when I was a quarterback on the celebrated Rock Rapids Lions football team. Dale called her and said that I had made an error and that the Brugmann and Sheneberger plots were in the southwestern corner of the cemetery, not in the southeast corner. Amazing. He was right and I was wrong. Joanne softened the blow by saying she was sure that this was the first error I had ever made.

(Bruce B. Brugmann, or B3 as he signs his emails and blogs, writes and edits the Bruce Blog on the Guardian website at SFBG.com He is the editor at large of the San Francisco Bay Guardian and the editor and co-founder and co-publisher of the Bay Guardian with his wife Jean Dibble, 1966-2012, now retired. He can be contacted at Bruce@sfbg.com.)

Solomon: Obama in Plunderland: Down the corporate rabbit hole

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May 25, 2013

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Solomon: Obama in Plunderland: Down the corporate rabbit hole

By Norman Solomon
Norman Solomon is co-founder of RootsAction.org and founding director of the Institute for Public Accuracy. His books include “War Made Easy: How Presidents and Pundits Keep Spinning Us to Death.” He writes the Political Culture 2013 column.

The president’s new choices for Commerce secretary and FCC chair underscore how far down the rabbit hole his populist conceits have tumbled. Yet the Obama rhetoric about standing up for working people against “special interests” is as profuse as ever. Would you care for a spot of Kool-Aid at the Mad Hatter’s tea party?

Of course the Republican economic program is worse, and President Romney’s policies would have been even more corporate-driven. That doesn’t in the slightest make acceptable what Obama is doing. His latest high-level appointments — boosting corporate power and shafting the public — are despicable.

To nominate Penny Pritzker for secretary of Commerce is to throw in the towel for any pretense of integrity that could pass a laugh test. Pritzker is “a longtime political supporter and heavyweight fundraiser,” the Chicago Tribune reported with notable understatement last week, adding: “She is on the board of Hyatt Hotels Corp., which was founded by her family and has had rocky relations with labor unions, and she could face questions about the failure of a bank partly owned by her family. With a personal fortune estimated at $1.85 billion, Pritzker is listed by Forbes magazine among the 300 wealthiest Americans.”

A more blunt assessment came from journalist Dennis Bernstein: “Her pioneering sub-prime operations, out of Superior Bank in Chicago, specifically targeted poor and working class people of color across the country. She ended up crashing Superior for a billion-dollar cost to taxpayers, and creating a personal tragedy for the 1,400 people who lost their savings when the bank failed.” Pritzker, whose family controls Hyatt Regency Hotels, has a vile anti-union record.

Commerce Secretary Penny Pritzker? What’s next? Labor Secretary Donald Trump? SEC Chairman Bernie Madoff?

The choice of Penny Pritzker to run the Commerce Department is a matched set with the simultaneous pick of Tom Wheeler — another mega-fundraiser for candidate Obama — to chair the Federal Communications Commission.

With crucial decisions on the near horizon at the FCC, the president’s nomination of Wheeler has dire implications for the future of the Internet, digital communications and democracy. For analysis, my colleagues at the Institute for Public Accuracy turned to the progressive former FCC commissioner Nicholas Johnson, who called the choice “bizarre.”

“There is no single independent regulatory commission that comes close to the impact of the FCC on every American’s life,” Johnson said. “That’s why Congress, in creating it, characterized its mission as serving ‘the public interest’ — an expression used throughout the Act.

But with countless billions of dollars at stake, the corporate fix was in. As Johnson pointed out, “Wheeler’s background is as a trade association representative for companies appearing before the Commission, a lobbyist in Congress for other FCC customers, and a venture capitalist investing in and profiting from others whose requests he’ll have to pass on. He has no record, of which I am aware, of challenging corporate abuse of power on behalf of consumers and the poor.”

But wait. There’s more. “Nor does Wheeler’s membership on the president’s Intelligence Advisory Board bode well for those who believe Americans’ Fourth Amendment privacy rights should be getting at least as much attention as the government’s perceived need to engage in even more secret snooping.”

To urge senators to reject the nominations of Pritzker and Wheeler, click here.

Meanwhile, at the Securities and Exchange Commission, Obama’s recent appointment of Wall Street insider Mary Jo White as SEC chair is playing out in predictable fashion. Days ago, in an editorial, the New York Times faulted her role in an SEC decision on regulating the huge derivatives market: “Last week, in her first commission vote, Ms. White led the commissioners in approving a proposal that, if finalized, could leave investors and taxpayers exposed to the ravages of reckless bank trading.”

We need to ask ourselves how the forces of corporate capitalism have gained so much power over government, to the extreme detriment of people who aren’t rich. Humpty Dumpty’s brief dialectical exchange with Alice is on point

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, “it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.”

“The question is,” Alice replied, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.””The question is,” Humpty Dumpty responded, “which is to be master — that’s all.

Denunciations and protests against the dominant power structure are essential. And insufficient. For the body politic and the potential of democracy, accommodating to the Democratic Party leadership is a deathly prescription. So is failure to fight for electoral power by challenging that leadership, fielding genuinely progressive candidates and organizing to win.

Norman Solomon is co-founder of RootsAction.org and founding director of the Institute for Public Accuracy. His books include “War Made Easy: How Presidents and Pundits Keep Spinning Us to Death.” He writes the Political Culture 2013 column.

(The Bruce Blog is written and edited by Bruce B. Brugmann, editor at large of the San Francisco Bay Guardian, and co-founder and editor and co-publisher with his wife Jean of the Bay Guardian, 1966-2012, now retired.)

Enough already

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May 23, 2013

106

The gruesome and sordid attack in Woolwich, UK has alarmed and horrified that nation and a fair amount of the world. An unprovoked beheading by cleaver of the 25 year old Afghanistan war vet has stunned London and in the wake of the killing, reprisals have been carried out against Muslims in the UK as well. There have been heroes in this story as well, but it is impossible to imagine that anything would balance off this lunatic brutality.

As has become almost rote in the wake of these events, both sides in this battle are already fully engaged. I don’t mean the British military and local terrorists. I mean the dildos and dildettes of the Net, who regard every news story no matter what it is as vindication or repudiation of their cause.

When it became clear that the attackers were Muslims, you could almost hear the Pamela Geller’s and Steven Emerson’s of the world climaxing in sexual ecstasy over the intertubes. Their “opposition”, the people that trot out Tim McVeigh as the “white Christian terrorist” by way of “everyone does it” when these attacks occur were silent–they’d lost this one. Better luck next time, I suppose.

Which isn’t quite as sickening as the violence itself, but shit: What is wrong with these people? A dad had his head lopped off and for all the expressed sorrow by Islamophobes, they were actually pretty jazzed. Whether they admit it or not, what’s one dead dude you never met compared to the thrill of rubbing it in some “dumb lib’s” face? You were right and what’s better than that? Nothing!

It’s just as bad when it’s some white supremacist asshole and the “I told you so” palaver comes from the left.

Thing is, the idea that “my team won, yay!” over this story and other negates the painfully obvious. This is a complex issue. It doesn’t boil down to “see, I told you the Islamofascists were crazy/No, they aren’t”. Imperialism, propping up bogus sheikdoms, coups, invasions, nationalism–a melange of those plus the asymetricality of terrorism is complicated. Nobody wants to delve too deeply into the actual cause. They just wanna be the “right person at the water cooler this morning”. To which I say enough already. Really.

Week One

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May 22, 2013

79

I took this gig a week ago—multiple posts a week, basically a news-based version of what I did for the SFBG in the 90’s. It’s already kicking my ass, as the old “PISSED” columns were once a week and based in music. This is way tougher and way more gratifying. Thanks.

But I have to admit that, as much as I love doing this gig, the last 7 days have brought back to me one of the most vexing and confounding quandaries I have ever pondered, one that’s baffled me for the last 30 years or so. One that is as bizarre as any aspect of human nature or psychology is anywhere, one that makes less sense than a Soundgarden lyric: Why on God’s green earth do people with barely a pot to piss in go to war with the same ferocity as the Navy Seals went after Bin Laden on behalf of their actual enemies, the wealthy?

In every blog post, be they Redmond’s, mine, Steve’s–whomever’s–the valiant members of the 82nd Chairborne Divison swing into battle on behalf of San Francisco’s–or the world’s–landed gentry. And always up against (and with corresponding vitriol) people that are pretty much exactly like them. The dispossessed are generally screwed by the powerful. Their allegiance should be to Occupy or even to moderate mainstream pols, but instead goes to the folks whose machinations lead to tax breaks and bailouts and favors for “the private sector” or directly fuck them over even worse by pricing them out of SF’s whopping 49 square miles and leading to exhorbitant rents or mortgages and as such, exodus to the wilds of Stockton, Modesto or Lodi.

You’d think that something as benign as rent control would have the full thumbs up from people who really don’t want to have to pull up stakes when their neighborhoods become the Pacific’s Manhattan. Or that the idea that the City make deals with the Facebook/Twitters of the world that means that the city’s tax base is strained rather than expanded would enrage them. But a cursory scan of these pages reveal that the commenter’s target for ire isn’t that whose boot is aimed straight at their asses, but at the handful of people bucking a trend that began in the early 80’s–people that point out (and mildly at that) that quality of living in SF is endangered when the City devolves into a playpen for rich software developers that don’t want to pay for the City’s perks. Actually, the inchoate rage is aimed at anyone that suggests that “all it takes is pulling oneself up by the bootstraps/poor people are lazy” is one of the most painfully naive worldviews in history.

Even more incredible is the reflexive defense of the non-renewable energy industry and their toxic twin (sorry Steve/Joe), the insurance business. As if by divine right and a Mt. Sinai-esque proclamation from Jehovah himself, these allegedly private (but completely government dependent entities) businesses may as well graze on the banks of the Ganges according to the website’s keyboard commandos, because these people “create wealth” and “give people good jobs”. Neither of those are true–the plutocrats of today remove wealth and as far as a job being a gift, if the gift in question tends to be a mind numbing, stress laden drag, where’s the return window? Wealth creation comes from “velocity of money” and a job is a contract fulfillment by a party that agrees to do something for money that the money bearer doesn’t wanna do.

But anything–anything that remotely resembles a rebuke aimed at today’s version of Jay Gould–gets an immediate slapdown from people whose endless online activity suggest marginal employment at best and a free ride from family or government at worst. The sheer silliness of this can never be understated, much like a wage earner hating a labor union and siding with the same boss that keeps their pay low, hours long and blood pressure astronomical from fear–but as anyone with a grasp of history recognizes, the terrified serf or Tory is always easy prey from a feudal lord or aristocrat. The demon you know beats the one you don’t. And so it goes.

My boss ain’t my friend. He or she is my boss. Kissing up to them isn’t gonna pry love, respect or (most importantly) cash out of them–me defending their avarice or skeeviness isn’t gonna make them regard me as an ally, but as a sucker. Doesn’t seem right that all that affection that you bestow upon them is never reciprocated, but as the great poet D Byrne said in 1980, “same as it ever was”.

Love, Johnny.

Tour of duty

Andrew Lam

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May 21, 2013

0

arts@sfbg.com

THEATER Audience members entering the drill court of the Mission Armory and climbing the bleachers to their seats do so amid the buzzing drone of Highland music and an eager swarm of searchlights, all of it punctuated by booming pre-show announcements over the PA. When silence falls at last, a solitary man in jeans and leather jacket emerges a bit sheepishly from a doorway at the far end of the stage. Appearing small and inconsequential against the stadium-like surroundings and the preceding pomp and circumstance, he stutters a few opening lines before returning to his element — the local pub in Scotland’s Fife. There he assumes wholly different proportions, as he and his friends relay their own perspectives on the spectacle of war.

In Black Watch, the touring revival of a site-specific 2006 production by the National Theatre of Scotland (currently being presented by American Conservatory Theater), writer Gregory Burke and director John Tiffany set out to present a spectacle grounded in real lives. To that end, they blend fictionalized scenes with the accounts of young Fife veterans who served in Iraq as part of Scotland’s famed 300-year-old Black Watch regiment.

Meanwhile, the show employs a hybrid theatrical form that draws equally on the conventions of the music hall, the docudrama, and physical theater. The stage is a wide and busy corridor running between two tall banks of seats, with scaffolding on either end where actors also play, video monitors flicker, and large video projections are sometimes cast.

This is the production’s fourth international tour, remarkably. But despite its continued popularity abroad, little in it seems especially surprising or penetrating. There’s a lot of brash dialogue (hyper-macho, casually chauvinistic, expletive-laden soldierly banter in slightly toned-down Scottish brogues); some muscular dance routines (with the martial drills the most interesting); a sometimes affecting, sometimes overbearing musical score; and a few flashy staging ideas (including an eerily unexpected entrance in the barroom).

But whether the play is offering gritty realism or stylized interpretation, the message is generally and familiarly on-the-nose: war seems glamorous to the young man back home, and hell to the soldier in the field; soldiers are sold out by politicians; and soldiers don’t fight for their country or some high ideal, but for less abstract ties and especially for their fellow soldiers. The lies, illegality, and massive unpopularity surrounding the Iraq War is also hardly new ground in itself — though one line rings with unintended irony in the Armory setting (where Kink.com has been in residence since 2007) when a Scottish officer (Stephen McCole) jokingly admits the war is being waged for “petrol and porn.”

The narrative toggles between the aforementioned pub — where Cammy (Stuart Martin) and his fellow vets somewhat grudgingly and aggressively divulge their experiences to a timid middle-class Writer (Robert Jack) — and a flashback to the daily drudgery and danger of Iraq in 2004, where the company’s assignment in support of devastating American military assault on Fallujah leads to the death of three Scottish soldiers in a suicide car bombing. There’s also a segue into a somewhat silly if historically relevant recruitment scene at the outset of World War I, which further convolutes a narrative already burdened with details about political machinations at home and distress over “amalgamation” (the British government’s ill-timed decision to dissolve the Black Watch and fold it into a single, cheaper Royal Scottish Regiment).

The play never represents Iraqi lives or perspectives, nor is there more than passing sympathy for them among the characters; this is instead a work focused squarely on the Scottish soldier’s experience and, most significantly, the molding of that experience by a state reliant on a voluntary military. In a world of limited and dispiriting options, the military opportunistically and very successfully offers young men a seeming basis for pride in themselves and in an inflated (or degraded) masculine ideal. Black Watch is itself successful in those rare moments where sentimental spectacle gives way to images that register the profound, uneasy, and complex implications of this fact.

BLACK WATCH

Through June 16

Tue-Sat, 8pm (also Wed and Sat, 2pm); Sun, 2pm, $100

Drill Court, Armory Community Center

333 14th St, SF

www.act-sf.org

The meaning of Manning

Andrew Lam

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May 21, 2013

8

marke@sfbg.com

OPINION And so Pride has come to this: what began as a ragtag, radical potluck of perverts, fairies, and criminals (which is what we were in the early 1970s), celebrating the grassroots uprising that birthed the gay rights movement, is now a sleek, corporate-sponsored, multimillion dollar mega-event that refuses to engage with its own community.

From Stonewall to stonewalling. From protesting the Vietnam War and police oppression to “protecting” the military from any symbolic statement about its conduct or mismanagement during Iraq and Afghanistan. What’s going on?

“I live in a bubble, I guess I was naive when it came to how badly and inappropriately the Pride Board would react,” Joey Cain, the Radical Faerie elder and former Pride Community Grand Marshal who nominated Bradley Manning for the position, told me. (The full backstory of Wikileaker Manning’s election to grand marshal and the resulting firestorm? Here you are.) “Of course, I knew he was controversial — I hoped to bring more attention to him in the community at large and celebrate what he did. This is San Francisco, I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“When I heard he’d been elected, I smiled, shrugged, and went on with my day. I had no idea it would blow up like this,” said Tom Temprano, young president of the progressive Harvey Milk Democratic Club, whose monthly meeting last week became a de facto forum on Pride’s rescission of Manning’s election, after the Pride Board announced via Facebook that it was cancelling its scheduled public meeting and that “the discussion of that matter is closed for this year.”

Indeed, Pride’s own utter ineptitude in handling this situation would be hilarious if it didn’t smack so much of outright disdain for the community it represents. It’s as if Pride board president Lisa Williams and CEO Earl Plante, specifically hired to repair Pride’s nagging budgetary and communication problems, have clumsily ripped a page from the “War on Terror,” or the BP oil spill, or Too Big To Fail. Press lockouts, media blackouts, decision by fiat, a complete lack of transparency, internal investigations, contested elections, massive flip-flops, a widely known but officially unnamed staffer fired and bound by contract not to speak about the incident…. add to all that surreptitiously deleted Facebook comments and a wacky story about Plante disappearing for days throughout the whole controversy due to “hitting his head,” and you pretty much have Borat in the Bush War Room.

Calm down honeys, it’s just Pride. Pour yourself a Bud Light and chill.

Manning’s election probably would have been celebrated by most of San Francisco in the Wikileaks heyday of late ’00s, when the tech scene was still streaked with misfit visionaries and data libertarians, our mayor was given to spouting utopian pronouncements that caused national headscratching, and the anti-war protest energy of the Bush era hadn’t been completely subsumed by domestic economic concerns (or whatever happened to that energy).

And maybe a majority of locals don’t have any objection to Manning, a queer person who did something, being honored at Pride, if they know who Manning is. Yet to the rest of the country — and to some gay military organizations perhaps still traumatized by Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, who reportedly flooded Pride with calls demanding that Pride rescind the Manning election — the advances we’ve made in terms of assimilation and tolerance are like a fragile egg that must be protected at all costs.

Fear, not pride, is still the major motivator for many in the fight for gay rights. It’s as if any whiff of controversy, or as Pride put it in its initial statement rejecting Manning’s election “even the hint of support for someone [like Manning]” will immediately turn the clock back and we’ll all be thrown in jail for cross-dressing. This narrative of fear has certainly pervaded the national media. Even before I had heard of Manning’s election, I was fielding calls from nervous relatives who saw the news on CNN, saying the gay community “didn’t need all this bad press and in-fighting right now.”

But the fact that the national news was paying attention at all underscored our development in the media from a single gay stereotype that plays nice in order to get rewarded with “rights” into a diverse mass of individuals roiling with differing viewpoints. It also reinforced the radical potential of Pride: Hey, Bradley Manning was back in the news. Can we nominate Guantanamo next?

The rumblings about Pride becoming a corporatized, assimilationist machine have divided the queer community for years, with organizations like Gay Shame formed specifically to protest what they saw as Pride’s estrangement from its original purpose. On the other side, there was the constant clutching of pearls about what Pride’s images of “outrageous” drag queens, breast-baring Dykes on Bikes, and grinding, chaps-clad leathermen (how dare we embrace sex as part of our sexual orientation!) were projecting to the world, and how they were endangering our potential for broader acceptance.

And yet, every year, there they were: the leather daddy twirling his flags behind the PFLAG grandma from Punxsutawney, the thriftstore-diving queer activist booing the oily, shirtless muscle queens on the Stoli float, the half-naked, mohawked baby dyke grinning at the button-down Log Cabin Republican, all in one spot, representing every color of the LGBTMNOPQ rainbow. And here we are in 2013: Twelve states with legal gay marriage, gays serving openly in the military, a president pushing for the overturn of DOMA, and gay rights the cause célèbre du jour.

Haven’t both our outrageous courage to live outspoken lives and our touching familiarity as neighbors and fellow human beings been equal partners in our recent history?

“This is the first time that I know of that Pride has put its foot down and said to members of its own organization and community: ‘You are not welcome. Your choice is not valid,'” Cain said. “Even when they arrested members of Gay Shame [for rushing Gavin Newsom’s car at Pride 2003], the Pride Board went to the police and said, ‘Hey, you need to let these people go.’

“That’s what made Pride what it is today, the notion of radical inclusivity. That yes, we’re all different, and of course we don’t agree. We should be free to elect Bradley Manning, just as others should be free to elect someone some of us think should be hanged for treason, or what have you.” (One wonders what the reaction would have been if, say, gay-marriage advocate Dick Cheney had been elected Community Grand Marshal.)

“But we’re all somehow in the same boat,” Cain went on. “And that’s how we can continue to have these debates that drive us forward while celebrating the incredible diversity in the community.”

With the recent actions of the Pride board, however — and especially now that the military ban is lifted, same-sex marriage is within our grasp, and “gay” is becoming just another flavor of Americana — I have to wonder: are we still all in the same boat?

Rep Clock

Andrew Lam

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May 21, 2013

0

Schedules are for Wed/22-Tue/28 except where noted. Director and year are given when available. Double and triple features marked with a •. All times pm unless otherwise specified.

ARTISTS’ TELEVISION ACCESS 992 Valencia, SF; www.atasite.org. Free-$6. "CCSF Directing Students Showcase," Thu, 8. "Shorts from SFSU’s Cinema Department," Fri, 7. "Other Cinema:" "New Experimental Works," Sat, 8:30.

CASTRO 429 Castro, SF; (415) 621-6120, www.castrotheatre.com. $8.50-13. Milk (Van Sant, 2008), Wed, 2, 4:30, 7, 9:30. •Black Swan (Aronofsky, 2010), Thu, 7, and Dancer in the Dark (von Trier, 2000), Thu, 9:05. Grease (Kleiser, 1978), presented sing-along style, Sun-Mon and June 1-3, 2:30, 8. This event, $10-15; advance tickets at www.ticketweb.com.

CHRISTOPHER B. SMITH RAFAEL FILM CENTER 1118 Fourth St, San Rafael; (415) 454-1222, www.cafilm.org. $6.75-$10.25. In the House (Ozon, 2012), call for dates and times. Midnight’s Children (Mehta, 2012), call for dates and times. The Reluctant Fundamentalist (Nair, 2012), call for dates and times. Renoir (Bourdos, 2012), call for dates and times. Stories We Tell (Polley, 2012), call for dates and times. Frances Ha (Baumbach, 2012), May 24-30, call for times. "Shorts in Brief: Quality Films For Young Children," Sun, 11am. This event, $5.

DAVIES SYMPHONY HALL 201 Van Ness, SF; www.sfperformances.org. $40-65. "San Francisco Performances presents:" Koyaanisqatsi (Reggio, 1982), Sun, 7. With live performance by Philip Glass and the Philip Glass Ensemble.

DELANCEY STREET SCREENING ROOM 600 Embarcadero, SF; lastwarcrime.com/tickets_SF.php. Free (donations accepted; RSVP at web site). The Last War Crime (the Pen, 2012), Sat, 6, 8.

FIRST UNITED METHODIST CHURCH 9 Ross Valley, San Rafael; www.mitfamericas.org. $5-10. The Sixth Sun: Mayan Uprising in Chiapas (Landau, 1995), Fri, 7:30.

NEW PARKWAY 474 24th St, Oakl; www.thenewparkway.com. $6-10. "New Parkway Classics:" Heathers (Lehmann, 1988), Thu, 9. "Thrillville:" Plague of the Zombies (Gilling, 1966), Sun, 6.

"PLAYGROUND FILM FESTIVAL" Various Bay Area venues; playground-sf.org/filmfest. $10-25. Showcasing Bay Area filmmakers and writers and their short work. Through May 25.

PACIFIC FILM ARCHIVE 2575 Bancroft, Berk; (510) 642-5249, bampfa.berkeley.edu. $5.50-9.50. PFA closed through June 5.

ROXIE 3117 and 3125 16th St, SF; (415) 863-1087, www.roxie.com. $6.50-11. "I Wake Up Dreaming 2013:" •Bluebeard’s Ten Honeymoons (Wilder, 1960), Wed, 6, 10, and Death of a Scoundrel (Martin, 1956), Wed, 7:45; •The Crooked Way (Florey, 1949), Thu, 6:10, 9:45, and Criss Cross (Siodmak, 1949), Thu, 8. Sun Don’t Shine (Seimetz, 2012), Wed-Thu, 7:15. Upstream Color (Carruth, 2013), Wed-Thu, 9. "Sex Worker Film Festival," Sat, 2. More info at www.sexworkerfest.com. D Tour (Granato, 2009), Mon, 7:30.

SF JAZZ CENTER 201 Franklin, SF; gc.ajws.org/rsvpmaker/film-screening-god-loves-uganda. Free (limited seating; RSVP required). God Loves Uganda (Williams, 2013), with community forum about homophobia and Uganda to follow, Wed, 6.

YERBA BUENA CENTER FOR THE ARTS 701 Mission, SF; www.ybca.org. $8-10. "Girls! Guns! Ghosts! The Sensational Films of Shintoho:" Death Row Woman (Nakagawa, 1960), Thu, 7:30; •Yellow Line (Ishii, 1960), Sun, 2, and Revenge of the Pearl Queen (Shimura, 1956), Sun, 3:30. "San Francisco Performances presents:" Beauty and the Beast (Cocteau, 1946), Thu-Sat, 8. With live performance by the Philip Glass Ensemble. This event, $40-65; tickets at www.sfperformances.org.

Music listings

Andrew Lam

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May 21, 2013

0

Music listings are compiled by Emily Savage. Since club life is unpredictable, it’s a good idea to call ahead or check the venue’s website to confirm bookings and hours. Prices are listed when provided to us. Visit www.sfbg.com/venue-guide for venue information. Submit items for the listings at listings@sfbg.com. For further information on how to submit items for the listings, see Picks.

WEDNESDAY 22

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Atriach, Wild Hunt, Lycus, Caffa Thee Parkside. 8pm, $10.

Belle Noire, Great Work, Soonest Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.

Boris, deafheaven Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $18.

Matthew Dear Mezzanine. 8:30pm, $20.

Quinn DeVeaux Rite Spot. 8:30pm.

Gunshy Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

Hanzel and Gretyl DNA Lounge. 8pm, $13.

Jason Marion vs Susan Johnny Foley’s Dueling Pianos. 10pm, free.

Mortar and Pestle, Visibles, Great Spirits Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 9pm, $8.

Nick Moss Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $20.

Shout Out Louds Great American Music Hall. 8pm, $19.

Slippery Slope, Lady Elaine, Easy Reader Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; (415) 981-9177. 8pm, free.

Speck Mountain Hemlock Tavern. 8:30pm, $7.

Twin Trilogy, Tomb Weavers, Andrew Graham and Swarming Branch Elbo Room. 9pm, $7.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Big Bones Royal Cuckoo, 3203 Mission, SF; www.royalcuckoo.com. 7:30-10:30pm, free.

Dink Dink Dink, Gaucho, Eric Garland’s Jazz Session Amnesia. 7pm, free.

Terry Disley Burritt Room, 417 Stockton, SF; www.burrittavern.com. 6-9pm, free.

29th Swingtet Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 9:30pm.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Quinn DeVeaux Rite Spot Café. 8:30pm.

Jesse y Joy Regency Ballroom. 8pm, $27.50-$40.

DANCE CLUBS

Booty Call Q-Bar, 456 Castro, SF; www.bootycallwednesdays.com. 9pm. Juanita MORE! and Joshua J host this dance party.

Cash IV Gold Double Dutch, 3192 16th St, SF; www.thedoubledutch.com. 9pm, free.

Coo-Yah! Slate Bar, 2925 16th St, SF; www.slate-sf.com. 10pm, free. With Vinyl Ambassador, DJ Silverback, DJs Green B and Daneekah

Full-Step! Tunnel Top. 10pm, free. Hip-hop, reggae, soul, and funk.

Hardcore Humpday Happy Hour RKRL, 52 Sixth St, SF; (415) 658-5506. 6pm, $3.

Jukebox Baby Monarch. 9pm, $8. With Actually, Silent Pictures, DJ Johnny the Boy, Jungle Sniff.

Martini Lounge John Colins, 138 Minna, SF; www.johncolins.com. 7pm. With DJ Mark Divita.

Stay Sick Monarch. 9pm, free. With DJ Omar.

Timba Dance Party Bissap Baobab, 3372 19 St, SF; www.bissapbaobao.com. 10pm, $5.

THURSDAY 23

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Beets, Fine Steps, Tiaras Hemlock Tavern. 8:30pm, $8.

Black Cobra, Ken Mode, Judgement Day Thee Parkside. 9:30pm, $10.

Bobby Joe Ebola and the Children Macnuggits, Water Tower, Tornado Rider, Mystic Knights of the Cobra Great American Music Hall. 8pm, $16.

Cold War Kids, SUPERHUMANOIDS Regency Ballroom. 8pm, $25.

Craig and Meredith Rite Spot. 8:30pm.

Detroit Cobras, Pangea, Chaw Slim’s. 9pm, $16-$18.

Front Country, Laura Cortese, Mariel Vandersteel, Valerie Thomas, Roosevelt Dime Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 9pm, $10.

Infernoh, Permanent Ruin, Merdoso, Effluxus Knockout. 10pm, $8.

Sonny Landreth Yoshi’s SF. 8pm, $26.

Dave Moreno and Friends Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

Jackie Payne Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $20.

Sir Sly, JMSN, Dresses Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $10.

Sons of Fathers, Builder and the Butchers Café Du Nord. 8pm, $10.

Susan vs Jason Marion Johnny Foley’s Dueling Pianos. 10pm, free.

Ted Tones Chapel, 777 Valencia, SF; www.thechapelsf.com. 9pm, free.

Victoria and Vaudevillians, Unwoman, Blah Boutique DNA Lounge. 8pm, $13.

Youngblood Hawke, Pacific Air, popscene DJs Rickshaw Stop. 9:30pm, $13-$17.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Craig and Meredith Rite Spot Café. 8:30pm.

Spencer Day Feinstein’s at the Nikko, 222 Mason, SF; www.ticketweb.com. 8pm, $55-$75.

Jack Curtis Dubowsky Ensemble: Current Events Luggage Store Gallery, 1007 Market, SF; www.outsound.org. 8pm, $6-$10.

Chris Sibert Royal Cuckoo, 3203 Mission, SF; www.royalcuckoo.com. 7:30-10:30pm, free.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Gigi Amos Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 9pm.

DANCE CLUBS

Afrolicious Elbo Room. 9:30pm, $5. DJs Pleasuremaker and Señor Oz spin Afrobeat, Tropicália, electro, samba, and funk.

All 80s Thursday Cat Club. 9pm, $6 (free before 9:30pm). The best of ’80s mainstream and underground.

Foxy Monarch Lounge. 9pm, free. With DJ Kizmiaz.

Pa’lante! Bissap Baobab, 3372 19 St, SF; www.bissapbaobao.com. 10pm, $5. With DJs Juan G, El Kool Kyle, Mr. Lucky.

Pompeya, DJ Mykill, Matt Haze Monarch. 9pm, $8.

Psymbionic Mighty. 10pm, $10.

Ritual Temple. 10pm-3am, $5. Two rooms of dubstep, glitch, and trap music.

Tropicana Madrone Art Bar. 9pm, free. Salsa, cumbia, reggaeton, and more with DJs Don Bustamante, Apocolypto Sr. Saen, Santero, and Mr. E.

FRIDAY 24

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Black Moth Super Rainbow, Hood Internet, Oscillator Bug Fillmore. 9pm, $19.50.

Ian Franklin and Infinite Frequency Simple Pleasures, 3434 Balboa, SF; www.ianfranklinmusic.com. 7:30pm.

Inc., Dam Funk Mezzanine. 9pm, $15-$17.

Imperial Teen, Churches, Gone to Ground Bottom of the Hill. 10pm, $12.

Kinski, Phil Manley Life Coach Hemlock Tavern. 9:30pm, $10.

Gino Matteo Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $20.

Presidents of the United States of America Independent. 9pm, $20.

Sea Lions, Still Flyin’, Burnt Palms Café Du Nord. 9:30pm, $10.

Sole Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

Stornway Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 7pm, $15.

Tainted Love, Stung Bimbo’s. 9pm, $25.

TSOL, VKTMS, Rush and Attack Thee Parkside. 9pm, $13.

This Charming Band, Purple Ones, Jean Genies Slim’s. 9pm, $15.

Twin Shadow, Elliphant Great American Music Hall. 9pm, $23-$25.

Greg Zema, Susan, Jason Marion Johnny Foley’s Dueling Pianos. 10pm, free.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Audium 1616 Bush, SF; www.audium.org. 8:30pm, $20. Theater of sound-sculptured space.

Spencer Day Feinstein’s at the Nikko, 222 Mason, SF; www.ticketweb.com. 8pm, $55-$75.

Dyadic Resonance: New Music by Zachary James Watkins Center for New Music, 55 Taylor, SF; www.centerfornewmusic.com. 7:30pm, $15.

Hammond Organ Soul Jazz, Blues Party Royal Cuckoo, 3203 Mission, SF; www.royalcuckoo.com. 7:30-10:30pm, free.

James Moore Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco Chapel, 1187 Franklin, SF; www.tangentguitarseries.com. 7:30pm, $15.

Diana Reeves SF Jazz Center, 201 Franklin, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 7:30pm, $30-$70.

Peter White Yoshi’s SF. 8pm, $29; 10pm, $22.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Sambada Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 10pm, $10.

Sinister Dexter Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 9pm.

DANCE CLUBS

Fag Fridays DNA Lounge. 10pm, $10. Monthly gay dance party with Quentin Harris and David Harness.

Joe Lookout, 3600 16th St.,SF; www.lookoutsf.com. 9pm. Eight rotating DJs, shirt-off drink specials.

Night Moves: Lazarao Casanova Monarch. 9pm, $10.

Old School JAMZ El Rio. 9pm. Fruit Stand DJs spinning old school funk, hip-hop, and R&B.

120 Minutes Elbo Room. 10pm, $15. With Mater Suspiria Vision, How I Quit Crack, S4NtA MU3rTE, Chauncey CC.

Paris to Dakar Little Baobab, 3388 19th St, SF; (415) 643-3558. 10pm, $5. Afro and world music with rotating DJs including Stepwise, Steve, Claude, Santero, and Elembe.

SATURDAY 25

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Blue Diamond Fillups Riptide. 9:30pm, free.

BOAT, Gold Bears, Surf Club Hemlock Tavern. 9:30pm, $8.

Bobby Love and Sugar Sweet Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

Mikal Cronin, Audacity, Michael Stasis Rickshaw Stop. 9pm, $10-$12.

Gentlemen’s Heroes, Who Does That?, Red Shift Thee Parkside. 3pm, free.

Kylesa, Blood Ceremony, White Hills, Lazer, Wulf Slim’s. 8pm, $16.

Presidents of the United States of America Independent. 9pm, $20.

Sudor, Kurraka, Replica El Rio 10pm, $7.

Susan, Jason Marion Johnny Foley’s Dueling Pianos. 10pm, free.

Tainted Love, Minks Bimbo’s. 9pm, $25.

Tera Melos, TTNG, Evkain Bottom of the Hill. 9:30pm, $14.

Earl Thomas and the Blues Ambassadors Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $24.

Twin Shadow, Elliphant Great American Music Hall. 9pm, $23-$25.

Warbringer, Hatchet, Vektor, Apothesary Thee Parkside. 9pm, $15.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Audium 1616 Bush, SF; www.audium.org. 8:30pm, $20. Theater of sound-sculptured space.

Spencer Day Feinstein’s at the Nikko, 222 Mason, SF; www.ticketweb.com. 7pm, $55-$75.

Hammond Organ Soul Jazz, Blues Party Royal Cuckoo, 3203 Mission, SF; www.royalcuckoo.com. 7:30-10:30pm, free.

North Beach Brass Band Brunch Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 1:30pm.

Diana Reeves SF Jazz Center, 201 Franklin, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 7:30pm, $35-$85.

Lavay Smith and her Red Hot Skillet Lickers, Big Bones Yerba Buena Gardens, Mission between Third and Fourth Streets, SF; www.ybgfestival.org. 1-2:30pm.

Voicehandler and Zeek Sheck Center for New Music, 55 Taylor, SF; www.centerfornewmusic.com. 7:30pm, $15.

Peter White Yoshi’s SF. 8pm, $29; 10pm, $25.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Cradle Duende and Safiya Red Poppy Art House. 8pm, $10-$20.

Sambada Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 10pm, $10.

DANCE CLUBS

Bootie SF: Mashup Prom DNA Lounge. 9pm, $10-$15. With DJ Tripp, Faroff, Dada, Smash-Up Derby.

Claptone, Steve Huerta, Bells and Whistles Monarch. 9:30pm, $10.

Lights Down Low Seventh Anniversary Mezzanine. 9pm, $18-$22. With Azari and III, Lee Foss, Todd Terry, LDL DJs, BT Magnum.

Paris to Dakar Little Baobab, 3388 19th St, SF; (415) 643-3558. 10pm, $5. Afro and world music with rotating DJs.

Temptation Cat Club. 9:30pm. $5–<\d>$8. Indie, electro, new wave video dance party.

SUNDAY 26

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Big Long Now, Adult Dude Hemlock Tavern. 9pm, $7.

Dave Moreno and Friends Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

Goh Nakamura, Jane Lui, Paul Dateh Café Du Nord. 7:30pm, $10.

Tropical Popsicle, Bixby Knolls, Panic is Perfect Bottom of the Hill. 9:30pm, $9.

Qwel and Maker, Rec League, Genie, DJ Mr. Bean, Johnny 5 Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 9pm, $15.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Gospel Gators of San Francisco State University Yoshi’s SF. 7 and 9pm, $25.

Diana Reeves SF Jazz Center, 201 Franklin, SF; www.sfjazz.org. 7:30pm, $30-$70.

Lavay Smith Royal Cuckoo, 3203 Mission, SF; www.royalcuckoo.com. 7:30-10:30pm, free.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Brazil and Beyond Bissap Baobab, 3372 19 St, SF; www.bissapbaobao.com. 6:30pm, free.

Marshall Law Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 4-7pm, free.

Silver Threads, Sevon and the Lovesick Ramblers Thee Parkside. 4pm, free.

DANCE CLUBS

As You Like It Monarch. 9pm, $15. With Magic Mountain High, Move D, Dave Anju, Mossmoss, Rich Korach.

Beats for Brunch Thee Parkside. 11am, free.

Creeme Fraiche ft. Mrs. Blythe Monarch Lounge. 9pm, free.

Dub Mission Elbo Room. 9pm, $10. With Twilight Circus Dub Sound System.

Espirit du Monde Bissap Baobab, 3372 19 St, SF; www.bissapbaobao.com. 9pm, $5. Carnival after-party with DJs Cecil, Orfeu Negro, Son of Son.

Jock Lookout, 3600 16th St, SF; www.lookoutsf.com. 3pm, $2.

Stompy and Sunset, DJ Deep Café Cocomo, 650 Indiana, SF; www.cafecocomo.com. 2pm, $10-$20.

Trannyshack: Madonna Tribute DNA Lounge. 9:30pm, $15. With Heklina, Becky Motorlodge, Exhibit Q, Raya Light, Cookie Dough, and more.

MONDAY 27

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Better Maker, An Isotope, Jordan River Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 9pm, $9.

Damir Johnny Foley’s. 10pm, free.

“Shit Kickin’ Memorial Day” El Rio. 4pm, $10. With 77 El Deora, Evangenitals, Kit and the Branded Men, Patsychords.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Seva Kirtan Palace of Fine Arts Theater, 3301 Lyon, SF; www.seva.org. 7pm, $40-$150.

Slowpoke Tupelo, 1337 Grant, SF; www.tupelosf.com. 9pm.

DANCE CLUBS

Crazy Mondays Beauty Bar, 2299 Mission, SF; www.thebeautybar.com. 10pm, free. Hip-hop and other stuff.

Death Guild DNA Lounge. 9:30pm, $3-$5. With Decay, Joe Radio, Meltin Girl.

DJ Jules, Jacob, Alden Monarch. 8pm, free.

M.O.M. Madrone Art Bar. 6pm, free. DJs Timoteo Gigante, Gordo Cabeza, and Chris Phlek playing all Motown every Monday.

Soul Cafe John Colins Lounge, 138 Minna, SF; www.johncolins.com. 9pm. R&B, Hip-Hop, Neosoul, reggae, dancehall, and more with DJ Jerry Ross.

Vibes’N’Stuff El Amigo Bar, 3355 Mission, SF; (415) 852-0092. 10pm, free. Conscious jazz and hip-hop with DJs Luce Lucy, Vinnie Esparza, and more.

TUESDAY 28

ROCK/BLUES/HIP-HOP

Asad Messiah, Burning Monk, Ironwitch, DJ D’sasster Knockout. 9:30pm, $6.

Big K.R.I.T., Smoke DZA DNA Lounge. 8pm, $24.

Fat Tuesday Biscuits and Blues. 8 and 10pm, $15.

Grouper, Danny Paul Grody, Irwin Swirnoff Hemlock Tavern. 8:30pm, $8.

Kids, Bodies, Neon Piss, Re-Volts, Cyclops Thee Parkside. 8pm, $12.

Whitney Myer, Lindsey Pavao, Odd Owl, Mad Noise Brick and Mortar Music Hall. 8pm, $8.

Radiation City, Cuckoo Chaos Rickshaw Stop. 8pm, $10-$12.

David Ramirez, Jay Nash, Max Porter Café Du Nord. 9pm, $10-$12.

Suuns, Wymond Miles, Foli Bottom of the Hill. 9pm, $12.

JAZZ/NEW MUSIC

Terry Disley Burritt Room, 417 Stockton, SF; www.burrittavern.com. 6-9pm, free.

sfSoundSalonSeries: Maggi Payne, Varese, John Ingle, sfSound Center for New Music, 55 Taylor, SF; www.centerfornewmusic.com. 7:30pm, $7-$10.

FOLK/WORLD/COUNTRY

Balkan Brass Elbo Room. 9pm, $3.

Toshio Hirano Rite Spot. 8:30pm.

DANCE CLUBS

DJ4AM Laszlo, 2526 Mission, SF; www.laszlobar.com. Boom bap hip-hop, beats, and dub.

Level Vibes Monarch. 9pm, free. With Now Time DJs.

Soundpieces Monarch. 10pm, $5. With Zeno, El Diablo.

Stylus John Colins Lounge, 138 Minna, SF; www.johncolins.com. 9pm. Hip-hop, dancehall, and Bay slaps with DJ Left Lane.

Takin’ Back Tuesdays Double Dutch, 3192 16th St,SF; www.thedoubledutch.com. 10pm. Hip-hop from the 1990s.

ZouKizomba Bissap Baobab, 3372 19 St, SF; www.bissapbaobao.com. 8pm, $5-$10.

Film listings

Andrew Lam

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May 21, 2013

0

Film listings are edited by Cheryl Eddy. Reviewers are Kimberly Chun, Dennis Harvey, Lynn Rapoport, and Sara Maria Vizcarrondo. For rep house showtimes, see Rep Clock.

OPENING

Elemental Even those suffering from environmental-doc fatigue (a very real condition, particularly in the eco-obsessed Bay Area) will find much to praise about Elemental, co-directed by Gayatri Roshan and NorCal native Emmanuel Vaughan-Lee (who also co-composed the film’s score). This elegantly shot and edited film approaches the issues via three “eco-warriors,” who despite working on different causes on various corners of the planet encounter similar roadblocks, and display like-minded determination, along the way: Rajendra Singh, on a mission to heal India’s heavily polluted Ganges River; Jay Harman, whose ingenious inventions are based on “nature’s blueprints”; and Eriel Deranger, who fights for her indigenous Canadian community in the face of Big Oil. Deranger cuts a particularly inspiring figure: a young, tattooed mother who juggles protests, her moody tween (while prepping for a new baby), and the more bureaucratic aspects of being a professional activist — from defending her grassroots methods when questioned by her skeptical employer, to deflecting a drunk, patronizing Robert F. Kennedy Jr. at a big-ticket fundraiser — with a calm, steely sense of purpose. (1:33) Opera Plaza. (Eddy)

Epic Animated fantasy about a teenager who finds herself drawn into a conflict between warring forest creatures. Features the voices of Amanda Seyfried, Colin Farrell, Beyoncé, and Christoph Waltz. (1:42) Balboa, Presidio.

Fast and Furious 6 Just FYI, part seven has already been announced. (2:10)

Frances Ha See “Let’s Dance.” (1:26) Embarcadero, Piedmont, Shattuck, Smith Rafael.

The Hangover Part III The bros reunite for another ill-advised Las Vegas trip. (1:40) Four Star, Marina, Shattuck.

The Painting Veteran animator Jean-François Laguionie’s French-Belgian feature is a charming and imaginative fable whose characters live in the worlds of an elusive artist’s canvases. It begins in one particular picture, a fanciful landscape in which society is strictly stratified in terms of how “finished” the figures in it are. At the top of the heap are the Alldunns, elitist castle-dwelling snobs who look down on the semi-completed Halfies. Everybody shuns the Sketchies, pencil preliminaries come to life. When members of each group get chased into the Forbidden Forest, they discover they can actually exit the frame entirely and visit other paintings in the artist’s studio. As a parable of prejudice and tolerance it’s not exactly sophisticated, and the story doesn’t quite sustain its early momentum. But it’s a visual treat throughout, nodding to various early 20th-century modern art styles and incorporating some different animation techniques (plus, briefly, live action). Note: the last screenings of each day will be in the film’s original French language, with English subtitles; all others offer the English-dubbed version. (1:18) Opera Plaza, Shattuck. (Harvey)

A Wedding Invitation Already a hit in China, this romantic drama directed by Korea’s Oh Ki-hwan follows a young couple (Eddie Peng, Bai Baihe) as they break up to pursue careers in Beijing and Shanghai, making a pact that they’ll reunite in five years if they’re both still single. (1:45) Metreon.

What Maisie Knew In Scott McGehee and David Siegel’s adaptation of the 1897 Henry James novel, the story of a little girl caught between warring, self-involved parents is transported forward to modern-day New York City, with Julianne Moore and Steve Coogan as the ill-suited pair responsible, in theory, for the care and upbringing of the title character, played by Onata Aprile. Moore’s Susanna is a rock singer making a slow, halting descent from some apex of stardom, as we gather from the snide comments of her partner in dysfunctionality, Beale (Coogan). As their relationship implodes and they move on to custody battle tactics, each takes on a new, inappropriate companion — Beale marrying in haste Maisie’s pretty young nanny, Margo (Joanna Vanderham), and Susanna just as precipitously latching on to a handsome bartender named Lincoln (True Blood‘s Alexander Skarsgård). The film mostly tracks the chaotic action — Susanna’s strung-out tantrums, both parents’ impulsive entrances and exits, Margo and Lincoln’s ambivalent acceptance of responsibility — from Maisie’s silent vantage, as details large and small convey, at least to us, the deficits of her caretakers, who shield her from none of the emotional shrapnel flying through the air and rarely bother to present an appropriate, comprehensible explanation. Yet Maisie understands plenty — though longtime writing-and-directing team McGehee and Siegel (2001’s The Deep End, 2005’s Bee Season, 2008’s Uncertainty) have taken pains in their script and their casting to present Maisie as a lovely, watchful child, not the precocious creep often favored in the picture shows. So we watch too, with a grinding anxiety, as she’s passed from hand to hand, forced to draw her own unvoiced conclusions. (1:38) Albany, Embarcadero. (Rapoport)

ONGOING

At Any Price Growing up in rural Iowa very much in the shadow of his older brother, Dean Whipple (Zac Efron) cultivated a chip on his shoulder while dominating the figure 8 races at the local dirt track. When papa Henry (Dennis Quaid) — a keeping-up-appearances type, with secrets a-plenty lurking behind his good ol’ boy grin — realizes Dean is his best hope for keeping the family farm afloat, he launches a hail-mary attempt to salvage their relationship. This latest drama from acclaimed indie director Ramin Bahrani (2008’s Goodbye Solo) is his most ambitious to date, enfolding small-town family drama and stock-car scenes into a pointed commentary on modern agribusiness (Henry deals in GMO corn, and must grapple with the sinister corporate practices that go along with it). But the film never gels, particularly after an extreme, third-act plot twist is deployed to, um, hammer home the title — which refers to prices both monetary and spiritual. A solid supporting cast (Kim Dickens, Heather Graham, Clancy Brown, Red West, newcomer Maika Monroe) helps give the film some much-needed added weight as it veers toward melodrama. (1:45) SF Center. (Eddy)

The Big Wedding The wedding film has impacted our concepts of matrimony, fashion, and marital happiness more than all the textbooks in the world have affected our national testing average; but it’s with that margin of mediocrity I report from the theater trenches of The Big Wedding. With this, the wedding movie again peters to a crawl. Susan Sarandon (an actress I love with a loyalty beyond sense) is Bebe, the stepmother/caterer swept under the rug by the selfishness of her live in lover Don (De Niro), his ex-wife/baby momma Elle (Diane Keaton) and their racist wackjob future in-laws. When Don and Elle faced the end of their marriage, they tried to rekindle with a Columbian orphan. Cue Ben Barnes in brownface. Alejandro is set to wed Amanda Seyfried and when his mother ascends from Columbia for the wedding, he decides Don and Elle have to act like their marriage never ended &ldots; which makes Bebe a mistress. Surprise! A decade of caring selflessly for your lover’s kids has won you a super shitty wedding you still have to cater! To give you a sense of the conflict management on display, Bebe — the film’s graceful savior —drops a drink on Don before fleeing the scene in her Alfa Romeo; she’s the one character not determined to act out her more selfish urges in the style of an MTV reality show. Despite some less imaginative conflicts and degrading “solutions,” this blended family still speaks some truth about the endearing embarrassment of the happy family. (1:29) SF Center. (Vizcarrondo)

The Croods (1:38) Metreon.

Disconnect (1:55) SF Center.

Evil Dead “Sacrilege!” you surely thought when hearing that Sam Raimi’s immortal 1983 classic was being remade. But as far as remakes go, this one from Uruguayan writer-director Fede Alvarez (who’d previously only made some acclaimed genre shorts) is pretty decent. Four youths gather at a former family cabin destination because a fifth (Jane Levy) has staged her own intervention — after a near-fatal OD, she needs her friends to help her go cold turkey. But as a prologue has already informed us, there is a history of witchcraft and demonic possession in this place. The discovery of something very nasty (and smelly) in the cellar, along with a book of demonic incantations that Lou Taylor Pucci is stupid enough to read aloud from, leads to … well, you know. The all-hell that breaks loose here is more sadistically squirm-inducing than the humorously over-the-top gore in Raimi’s original duo (elements of the sublime ’87 Evil Dead II are also deployed here), and the characters are taken much more seriously — without, however, becoming more interesting. Despite a number of déjà vu kamikaze tracking shots through the Michigan forest (though most of the film was actually shot in New Zealand), Raimi’s giddy high energy and black comedy are replaced here by a more earnest if admittedly mostly effective approach, with plenty of decent shocks. No one could replace Bruce Campbell, and perhaps it was wise not to even try. So: pretty good, gory, expertly crafted, very R-rated horror fun, even with too many “It’s not over yet!” false endings. But no one will be playing this version over and over and over again as they (and I) still do the ’80s films. (1:31) SF Center. (Harvey)

42 Broad and morally cautious, 42 is nonetheless an honorable addition to the small cannon of films about the late, great baseball player Jackie Robinson. When Dodgers owner Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford) declares that he wants a black player in the white major leagues because “The only real color is green!”, it’s a cynical explanation that most people buy, and hate him for. It also starts the ball curving for a PR shitstorm. But money is an equal-opportunity leveling device: when Robinson (Chadwick Boseman) tries to use the bathroom at a small-town gas station, he’s denied and tells his manager they should “buy their 99 gallons of gas another place.” Naturally the gas attendant concedes, and as 42 progresses, even those who reject Robinson at first turn into men who find out how good they are when they’re tested. Ford, swashbuckling well past his sell-by date, is a fantastic old coot here; his “been there, lived that” prowess makes you proud he once fled the path of a rolling bolder. His power moves here are even greater, but it’s ultimately Robinson’s show, and 42 finds a lot of ways to deliver on facts and still print the legend. (2:08) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Sundance Kabuki. (Vizcarrondo)

The Great Gatsby Every bit as flashy and in-your-face as you’d expect the combo of “Baz Luhrmann,” “Jazz Age,” and “3D” to be, this misguided interpretation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic tale is, at least, overstuffed with visual delights. For that reason only, all the fashion-mag fawning over leading lady Carey Mulligan’s gowns and diamonds, and the opulent production design that surrounds them, seems warranted. And in scenes where spectacle is appropriate — Gatsby’s legendary parties; Tom Buchanan’s wild New York romp with his mistress — Luhrmann delivers in spades. The trade-off is that the subtler aspects of Fitzgerald’s novel are either pushed to the side or shouted from the rooftops. Leonardo DiCaprio, last seen cutting loose in last year’s Django Unchained, makes for a stiff, fumbling Gatsby, laying on the “Old Sports” as thickly as his pancake make-up. There’s nothing here so startlingly memorable as the actor and director’s 1996 prior collaboration, Romeo + Juliet — a more successful (if still lavish and self-consciously audacious) take on an oft-adapted, much-beloved literary work. (2:22) California, Four Star, Marina, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, SF Center, Sundance Kabuki, Vogue. (Eddy)

The Iceman Methody-y changeling Michael Shannon is pretty much the whole show in The Iceman, about a real-life hitman who purportedly killed over 100 people during his career. Despite some scarily violent moments, however, Ariel Vromen’s film doesn’t show much of that body count — he’s more interested in the double life Richard Kuklinski (Shannon) leads as a cold-blooded killer whose profession remains entirely unknown for years to his wife, daughters, and friends. The waitress he marries, Deborah (Winona Ryder), isn’t exactly a brainiac. But surely there’s some willful denial in the way she accepts his every excuse and fake profession, starting with “dubbing Disney movies” when he actually dupes prints of pornos. It’s in that capacity that he first meets Roy Demeo (Ray Liotta), a volatile Newark mobster who, impressed by Kuklinski’s blasé demeanor at gunpoint, correctly surmises this guy would make a fine contract killer. When he has a falling out with Demeo, Kuklinski “freelances” his skill to collaborate with fellow hitman Mr. Freezy (Chris Evans), so named because he drives an ice-cream truck — and puts his victims on ice for easier disposal. For the sake of a basic contrast defined by its ad line — “Loving husband. Devoted father. Ruthless killer.” — The Iceman simplifies Kuklinski’s saga, making him less of a monster. The movie only briefly suggests Kuklinski’s abused childhood, and it omits entirely other intriguing aspects of the real-life story. But Shannon creates a convincing whole character whose contradictions don’t seem so to him — or to us. (1:46) Embarcadero, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Harvey)

In the House In François Ozon’s first feature since the whimsical 2010 Potiche, he returns somewhat to the playful suspense intrigue of 2003’s Swimming Pool, albeit with a very different tone and context. Fabrice Luchini plays a high school French literature teacher disillusioned by his students’ ever-shrinking articulacy. But he is intrigued by one boy’s surprisingly rich description of his stealth invasion into a classmate’s envied “perfect” family — with lusty interest directed at the “middle class curves” of the mother (Emmanuelle Seigner). As the boy Claude’s writings continue in their possibly fictive, possibly stalker-ish provocations, his teacher grows increasingly unsure whether he’s dealing with a precocious bourgeoisie satirist or a literate budding sociopath — and ambivalent about his (and spouse Kristin Scott Thomas’ stressed gallery-curator’s) growing addiction to these artfully lurid possible exposé s of people he knows. And it escalates from there. Ozon is an expert filmmaker in nimble if not absolute peak form here, no doubt considerably helped by Juan Mayorga’s source play. It’s a smart mainstream entertainment that, had it been Hollywood feature, would doubtless be proclaimed brilliant for its clever tricks and turns. (1:45) Smith Rafael. (Harvey)

Iron Man 3 Neither a sinister terrorist dubbed “the Mandarin” (Ben Kingsley) nor a spray-tanned mad scientist (Guy Pearce) are as formidable an enemy to Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) as Tony Stark himself, the mega-rich playboy last seen in 2012’s Avengers donning his Iron Man suit and thwarting alien destruction. It’s been rough since his big New York minute; he’s been suffering panic attacks and burying himself in his workshop, shutting out his live-in love (Gwyneth Paltrow) in favor of tinkering on an ever-expanding array of manned and un-manned supersuits. But duty, and personal growth, beckon when the above-mentioned villains start behaving very badly. With some help (but not much) from Don Cheadle’s War Machine — now known as “Iron Patriot” thanks to a much-mocked PR campaign — Stark does his saving-the-world routine again. If the plot fails to hit many fresh beats (a few delicious twists aside), the 3D special effects are suitably dazzling, the direction (by series newcomer Shane Black) is appropriately snappy, and Downey, Jr. again makes Stark one of the most charismatic superheros to ever grace the big screen. For now, at least, the continuing Avengers spin-off extravaganza seems justified. (2:06) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Jurassic Park 3D “Life finds a way,” Jeff Goldblum’s leather-clad mathematician remarks, crystallizing the theme of this 1993 Spielberg classic, which at its core is more about human relationships than genetically manufactured terrors. Of course, it’s got plenty of those, and Jurassic Park doesn’t really need its (admittedly spiffy) 3D upgrade to remain a thoroughly entertaining thriller. The dinosaur effects — particularly the creepy Velociraptors and fan-fave T. rex — still dazzle. Only some early-90s computer references and Laura Dern’s mom jeans mark the film as dated. But a big-screen viewing of what’s become a cable TV staple allows for fresh appreciation of its less-iconic (but no less enjoyable) moments and performances: a pre-megafame Samuel L. Jackson as a weary systems tech; Bob Peck as the park’s skeptical, prodigiously thigh-muscled game warden. Try and forget the tepid sequels — including, dear gawd, 2014’s in-the-works fourth installment. This is all the Jurassic you will ever need. (2:07) 1000 Van Ness. (Eddy)

Kon-Tiki In 1947 Norwegian explorer and anthropologist Thor Heyderdahl arranged an expedition on a homemade raft across the Pacific, recreating what he believed was a route by which South Americans traveled to Polynesia in pre-Columbian times. (Although this theory is now disputed.) The six-man crew (plus parrot) survived numerous perils to complete their 101-day, 4300-mile journey intact — winning enormous global attention, particularly through Heyderdahl’s subsequent book and documentary feature. Co-directors Joachim Roenning and Espen Sandberg’s dramatization is a big, impressive physical adventure most arresting for its handsome use of numerous far-flung locations. Where it’s less successful is in stirring much emotional involvement, with the character dynamics underwhelming despite a decent cast led by Pal Sverr Hagen as Thor (who, incredibly, was pretty much a non-swimmer). Nonetheless, this new Kon-Tiki offers all the pleasures of armchair travel, letting you vicariously experience a high-risk voyage few could ever hope (or want) to make in real life. (1:58) Albany, Embarcadero, Piedmont. (Harvey)

Love is All You Need Copenhagen hairdresser Ida (Trine Dyrholm) has just finished her cancer treatments — with their success still undetermined — when she arrives home to find her longtime husband Leif (Kim Bodnia) boning a coworker on their couch. “I thought you were in chemo” is the closest he comes to an apology before walking out. Ida is determined to maintain a cheerful front when attending the Italian wedding of their daughter Astrid (Molly Blixt Egelind) — even after emotionally deaf Leif shows up with his new girlfriend in tow. Meanwhile brusque businessman and widower Philip (Pierce Brosnan), the groom’s father, is experiencing the discomfort of returning to the villa he once shared with his beloved late wife. This latest from Danish director Susanne Bier and writing partner Anders Thomas Jensen (2006’s After the Wedding, 2004’s Brothers, 2010’s In a Better World) is more conventionally escapist than their norm, with a general romantic-seriocomedy air reinforced by travel-poster-worthy views of the picturesque Italian coastline. They do try to insert greater depth and a more expansive story arc than you’d get in a Hollywood rom com. But all the relationships here are so prickly — between middle-aged leads we never quite believe would attract each other, between the clearly ill-matched aspiring newlyweds, between Paprika Steen’s overbearing sister in-law and everyone — that there’s very little to root for. It’s a romantic movie (as numerous soundtracked variations on “That’s Amore” constantly remind us) in which romance feels like the most contrived element. (1:50) Opera Plaza, Shattuck. (Harvey)

Midnight’s Children Deepa Mehta (2005’s Water) directs and co-adapts with Salman Rushdie the author’s Booker Prize-winning 1981 novel, which mixes history (India’s 1947 independence, and the subsequent division of India and Pakistan) with magical elements — suggested from its fairy-tale-esque first lines: “I was born in the city of Bombay, once upon a time.” This droll voice-over (read by Rushdie) comes courtesy of Saleem Sinai, born to a poor street musician and his wife (who dies in childbirth; dad is actually an advantage-taking Brit played by Charles “Tywin Lannister” Dance) but switched (for vaguely revolutionary reasons) with Shiva, born at the same moment to rich parents who unknowingly raise the wrong son. Rich or poor, it seems all children born at the instant of India’s independence have shared psychic powers; over the years, they gather for “meetings” whenever Saleem summons them. And that’s just the 45 minutes or so of story. Though gorgeously shot, Midnight’s Children suffers from page-to-screen-itis; the source material is complex in both plot and theme, and it’s doubtful any film — even one as long as this — could translate its nuances and more fanciful elements (“I can smell feelings!,” Saleem insists) into a consistently compelling narrative. Last-act sentimentality doesn’t help, though it’s consistent with the fairy-tale vibe, I suppose. (2:20) Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

Mud (2:15) California, Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Piedmont, Sundance Kabuki.

Oblivion Spoiler alert: the great alien invasion of 2017 does absolutely zilch to eliminate, or at least ameliorate, the problem of sci-fi movie plot holes. However, puny humans willing to shut down the logic-demanding portions of their brains just might enjoy Oblivion, which is set 60 years after that fateful date and imagines that Earth has been rendered uninhabitable by said invasion. Tom Cruise plays Jack, a repairman who zips down from his sterile housing pod (shared with comely companion Andrea Riseborough) to keep a fleet of drones — dispatched to guard the planet’s remaining resources from alien squatters — in working order. But Something is Not Quite Right; Jack’s been having nostalgia-drenched memories of a bustling, pre-war New York City, and the déjà vu gets worse when a beautiful astronaut (Olga Kurylenko) literally crash-lands into his life. After an inaugural gig helming 2010’s stinky Tron: Legacy, director Joseph Kosinski shows promise, if not perfection, bringing his original tale to the screen. (He does, however, borrow heavily from 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, 1996’s Independence Day, and 2008’s Wall-E, among others.) Still, Oblivion boasts sleek production design, a certain creative flair, and some surprisingly effective plot twists — though also, alas, an overlong running time. (2:05) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness. (Eddy)

Pain & Gain In mid-1995 members of what became known as the “Sun Gym Gang” — played here by Mark Wahlberg, Dwayne Johnson, and Anthony Mackie — were arrested for a series of crimes including kidnapping, extortion, and murder. Simply wanting to live large, they’d abducted one well-off man (Tony Shalhoub) months earlier, tortured him into signing over all his assets, and left him for dead — yet incredibly the Miami police thought the victim’s story was a tall tale, leaving the perps free until they’d burned through their moolah and sought other victims. Michael Bay’s cartoonish take on a pretty horrific saga repeatedly reminds us that it’s a true story, though the script plays fast and loose with many real-life details. (And strangely it downplays the role steroid abuse presumably played in a lot of very crazy behavior.) In a way, his bombastic style is well-suited to a grotesquely comic thriller about bungling bodybuilder criminals redundantly described here as “dumb stupid fucks.” There have been worse Bay movies, even if that’s like saying “This gas isn’t as toxic as the last one.” But despite the flirtations with satire of fitness culture, motivational gurus and so forth, his sense of humor stays on a loutish plane, complete with fag-bashing, a dwarf gag, and representation of Miami as basically one big siliconed titty bar. Nor can he pull off a turn toward black comedy that needs the superior intelligence of someone like the Coen Brothers or Soderbergh. As usual everything is overamped, the action sequences overblown, the whole thing overlong, and good actors made to overact. You’ve got to give cranky old Ed Harris credit: playing a private detective, he alone here refuses to be bullied into hamming it up. (2:00) Metreon. (Harvey)

Peeples (1:35) Metreon, 1000 Van Ness.

The Place Beyond the Pines Powerful indie drama Blue Valentine (2010) marked director Derek Cianfrance as one worthy of attention, so it’s with no small amount of fanfare that this follow-up arrives. The Place Beyond the Pines‘ high profile is further enhanced by the presence of Bradley Cooper (currently enjoying a career ascension from Sexiest Man Alive to Oscar-nominated Serious Actor), cast opposite Valentine star Ryan Gosling, though they share just one scene. An overlong, occasionally contrived tale of three generations of fathers, father figures, and sons, Pines‘ initial focus is Gosling’s stunt-motorcycle rider, a character that would feel more exciting if it wasn’t so reminiscent of Gosling’s turn in Drive (2011), albeit with a blonde dye job and tattoos that look like they were applied by the same guy who inked James Franco in Spring Breakers. Robbing banks seems a reasonable way to raise cash for his infant son, as well as a way for Pines to draw in another whole set of characters, in the form of a cop (Cooper) who’s also a new father, and who — as the story shifts ahead 15 years — builds a political career off the case. Of course, fate and the convenience of movie scripts dictate that the mens’ sons will meet, the past will haunt the present and fuck up the future, etc. etc. Ultimately, Pines is an ambitious film that suffers from both its sprawl and some predictable choices (did Ray Liotta really need to play yet another dirty cop?) Halfway through the movie I couldn’t help thinking what might’ve happened if Cianfrance had dared to swap the casting of the main roles; Gosling could’ve been a great ambitious cop-turned-powerful prick, and Cooper could’ve done interesting things with the Evel Knievel-goes-Point Break part. Just sayin’. (2:20) Opera Plaza, Shattuck, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

The Reluctant Fundamentalist Based on Pakistani novelist Mohsin Hamid’s award-winning 2007 novel, and directed by the acclaimed Mira Nair (2001’s Monsoon Wedding, 2006’s The Namesake), The Reluctant Fundamentalist boasts an international cast (Kate Hudson, Martin Donovan, Kiefer Sutherland, Liev Schreiber, Om Puri) and nearly as many locations. British-Pakistani actor Riz Ahmed (2010’s Four Lions) stars as Changez Khan, a Princeton-educated professor who grants an interview with a reporter (Schreiber) after another prof at Lahore University — an American citizen — is taken hostage; their meeting grows more tense as the atmosphere around them becomes more charged. Most of the film unfolds as an extended flashback, as Changez recounts his years on Wall Street as a talented “soldier in [America’s] economic army,” with a brunette Hudson playing Erica, a photographer who becomes his NYC love interest. After 9/11, he begins to lose his lust for star-spangled yuppie success, and soon returns to his homeland to pursue a more meaningful cause. Though it’s mostly an earnest, soul-searching character study, The Reluctant Fundamentalist suddenly decides it wants to be a full-throttle political thriller in its last act; ultimately, it offers only superficial insight into what might inspire someone’s conversion to fundamentalism (one guess: Erica’s embarrassingly bad art installation, which could make anyone hate America). Still, Ahmed is a compelling lead. (2:08) Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

Renoir The gorgeous, sun-dappled French Riviera setting is the high point of this otherwise low-key drama about the temperamental women (Christa Theret) who was the final muse to elderly painter Auguste Renoir (Michel Bouquet), and who encouraged the filmmaking urges in his son, future cinema great Jean (Vincent Rottiers). Cinematographer Mark Ping Bin Lee (who’s worked with Hou Hsiao-hsein and Wong Kar Wai) lenses Renoir’s leafy, ramshackle estate to maximize its resemblance to the paintings it helped inspire; though her character, Dédée, could kindly be described as “conniving,” Theret could not have been better physically cast, with tumbling red curls and pale skin she’s none too shy about showing off. Though the specter of World War I looms in the background, the biggest conflicts in Gilles Bourdos’ film are contained within the household, as Jean frets about his future, Dédée faces the reality of her precarious position in the household (which is staffed by aging models-turned-maids), and Auguste battles ill health by continuing to paint, though he’s in a wheelchair and must have his brushes taped to his hands. Though not much really happens, Renoir is a pleasant, easy-on-the-eyes experience. (1:51) Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf’s This glossy love letter to posh New York City department store Bergdorf Goodman — a place so expensive that shopping there is “an aspirational dream” for the grubby masses, according to one interviewee — would offend with its slobbering take on consumerism if it wasn’t so damn entertaining. The doc’s narrative of sorts is propelled by the small army assembled to create the store’s famed holiday windows; we watch as lavish scenes of upholstered polar bears and sea creatures covered in glittering mosaics (flanking, natch, couture gowns) take shape over the months leading up to the Christmas rush. Along the way, a cavalcade of top designers (Michael Kors, Vera Wang, Giorgio Armani, Jason Wu, Karl Lagerfeld) reminisce on how the store has impacted their respective careers, and longtime employees share anecdotes, the best of which is probably the tale of how John Lennon and Yoko Ono saved the season by buying over 70 fur coats one magical Christmas Eve. Though lip service is paid to the current economic downturn (the Madoff scandal precipitated a startling dropoff in personal-shopper clients), Scatter My Ashes is mostly just superficial fun. What do you expect from a store whose best-selling shoe is sparkly, teeteringly tall, and costs $6,000? (1:33) Clay. (Eddy)

Star Trek Into Darkness Do you remember 1982? There are more than a few echoes of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan in J. J. Abrams’ second film retooling the classic sci-fi property’s characters and adventures. Darkness retains the 2009 cast, including standouts Zachary Quinto as Spock and Simon Pegg as comic-relief Scotty, and brings in Benedict “Sherlock” Cumberbatch to play the villain (I think you can guess which one). The plot mostly pinballs between revenge and preventing/circumventing the destruction of the USS Enterprise, with added post-9/11, post-Dark Knight (2008) terrorism connotations that are de rigueur for all superhero or fantasy-type blockbusters these days. But Darkness isn’t totally, uh, dark: there’s quite a bit of fan service at work here (speak Klingon? You’re in luck). Abrams knows what audiences want, and he’s more than happy to give it to ’em, sometimes opening up massive plot holes in the process — but never veering from his own Prime Directive: providing an enjoyable ride. (2:07) Balboa, Metreon, 1000 Van Ness, Presidio, Sundance Kabuki. (Eddy)

Stories We Tell Actor and director Sarah Polley (2011’s Take This Waltz) turns the camera on herself and her family for this poignant, moving, inventive, and expectation-upending blend of documentary and narrative. Her father, actor Michael Polley, provides the narration; our first hint that this film will take an unconventional form comes when we see Sarah directing Michael’s performance in a recording-studio booth, asking him to repeat certain phrases for emphasis. On one level, Stories We Tell is about Sarah’s own history, as she sets out to explore longstanding family rumors that Michael is not her biological father. The missing piece: her mother, actress Diane Polley (who died of cancer just days after Sarah’s 11th birthday), a vivacious character remembered by Sarah’s siblings and those who knew and loved her. Stories We Tell‘s deeper meaning emerges as the film becomes ever more meta, retooling the audience’s understanding of what they’re seeing via convincingly doc-like reenactments. To say more would lessen the power of Stories We Tell‘s multi-layered revelations. Just know that this is an impressively unique film — about family, memories, love, and (obviously) storytelling — and offers further proof of Polley’s tremendous talent. (1:48) Embarcadero, Shattuck, Smith Rafael. (Eddy)

Sun Don’t Shine Prolific indie producer and actor (Upstream Color) Amy Seimetz’s debut as feature writer-director is a intriguingly ambiguous mumblecore noir about a couple on the run, à la Bonnie and Clyde. Crystal (Kate Lyn Sheil) and Leo (Kentucker Audley) are driving south through Florida — a state that seemingly always relaxes demands on intelligence and legality — with a handgun, innumerable anxieties, and something problematic hidden in the trunk. We gradually realize she’s unstable, though to what extent remains unclear. Seimetz’s refusal to spell out that and other basic narrative elements lends her film a compelling aura of mystery, one that heightens some striking, tense sequences but also can prove somewhat frustrating in the long run. (A little more insight would have made it easier to understand why the seemingly level-headed Leo has hitched his wagon to the increasingly off-putting Crystal.) Overall, though, it’s the kind of first feature that makes you eager to see what she’ll come up with next. (1:20) Roxie. (Harvey)

Upstream Color A woman, a man, a pig, a worm, Walden — what? If you enter into Shane Carruth’s Upstream Color expecting things like a linear plot, exposition, and character development, you will exit baffled and distressed. Best to understand in advance that these elements are not part of Carruth’s master plan. In fact, based on my own experiences watching the film twice, I’m fairly certain that not really understanding what’s going on in Upstream Color is part of its loopy allure. Remember Carruth’s 2004 Primer? Did you try to puzzle out that film’s array of overlapping and jigsawed timelines, only to give up and concede that the mystery (and sheer bravado) of that film was part of its, uh, loopy allure? Yeah. Same idea, except writ a few dimensions larger, with more locations, zero tech-speak dialogue, and — yes! — a compelling female lead, played by Amy Seimetz, an indie producer and director in her own right. Enjoying (or even making it all the way through) Upstream Color requires patience and a willingness to forgive some of Carruth’s more pretentious noodlings; in the tradition of experimental filmmaking, it’s a work that’s more concerned with evoking emotions than hitting some kind of three-act structure. Most importantly, it manages to be both maddening and moving at the same time. (1:35) Roxie. (Eddy)