Dennis Harvey

Imported cheese

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Imported cheese

CINE DE CULTO It’s impossible to undersell the extent to which everyone was space travel crazy from the 1950s through the early ’70s. Even nations not actively involved in the Cold War race for space “supremacy” shared the giddy thrill as U.S.S.R., then U.S. efforts successfully launched projectiles toward the cosmos. Those technological leaps and Cold War-fueled fears that the bomb could end life as we know it turned science fiction from an infrequent cinematic genre into a popular, prolific one.

Different nations put their own spin on this celluloid space race, the Soviets for instance treating it as territory of soberly scientific national pride. On the other end of the spectrum, Mexico did sci-fi wackier, cheaper, and often with more inspiration than its neighbor up north. These movies often ended up cut, retitled, and badly dubbed for U.S. consumption at kiddie matinees and on late-night creature feature shows, where they inevitably provoked howls of laughter.

Some camp value definitely remains, but next week’s Pacific Film Archive series “El Futuro Está Aqui: Sci-Fi Classics From Mexico” offers a rare chance to see several choice nuggets in their original-language form and in pristine prints. As a result, they seem more conspicuously well-crafted (on par with major studio Hollywood B movies of the ’50s), even — dare we say — dignified, than you’d expect. Which is not to say they aren’t frequently nuts as well.

Nothing says Mexploitation more succinctly than Santo vs. the Martian Invasion, a 1966 adventure that was one of the immortal masked wrestling hero’s last in B&W. Aliens in flying hubcaps — I mean flying saucers — seek to invade Earth by making people disappear with their ray-guns and interfering with TV transmissions. They also wear silver Mylar pants without shirts (dudes) or low-cut onesies (chicks). These Martians are hot. But they insist on world peace, so of course they must be stopped.

What could be more terrifying? Civilizations ruled by women, of course! In the prior year’s Planet of the Female Invaders, abducted Earthlings find themselves on Sibila, where that terrible reversal of the natural order has come to pass. But fear not: as lost visitors from the normal world soon discover, the women secretly long to be fussed over and told what to do by he-men.

Also in the PFA series are 1959’s lunatic The Ship of Monsters, which manages to encompass singing cowboys, Venusians in taped-on J-Lo dresses, vampires, and more. As for 1957’s The Aztec Mummy vs. the Human Robot, it involves … well, you figure it out. (Dennis Harvey)

EL FUTURO ESTÁ AQUI: SCI-FI CLASSICS FROM MEXICO

June 24–27, $5.50–$9.50

Pacific Film Archive

2575 Bancroft, Berk.

(510) 642-5249

www.bampfa.berkeley.edu

 

Get thee to the gym

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Get thee to the gym

arts@sfbg.com

FRAMELINE It’s a little-noted fact that the gay community is absolutely thick with twins. Not biological, but the kind that grow more identical when they take their shirts off.

Whoever said opposites attract clearly never went to the Folsom Street Fair, where every body type runs in packs of two (or several). Sure, mom said looks aren’t everything. But was she a gay man? It’s brutal out there. Combine a sophisticated, compartmentalized urban gay scene like San Francisco’s own with the Internet’s heightened judging-book-by-cover — no actual book reading implied — and you’ve got a recipe for looks obsessiveness that can snare even the safely off-market.

An older friend who said at 40 he’d eventually retire from gym habituation because “I don’t want to be a 50-year-old face on a 25-year-old body” is now a 60-year-old with a 35-year-old bodybuilder’s torso — plus the blown-out knees and other ailments decades of body-sculpting punishment have wrought. What for? Not for his committed partner, one assumes, but for the accustomed thrill of feeling the breeze shift from swiveling heads.

A number of films in Frameline’s 34th edition (Skinnyfat, BearCity, The Adonis Factor, Bear Nation) address the complicated landscape of gay male body image issues. They’re not always pretty — at least emotionally. Although it is generally also the business of people in movies to be pretty. It is also the business of these particular movies to question just what pretty is, and why the hell it has to be so important.

The topic is taken head-on — if also superficially, which is ironically apt — by The Adonis Factor. Its interviewees from various gay terrariums (SF, Palm Springs, West Hollywood) say things like “Gay men tend to have more of an appreciation for beauty in all aspects, whether it is other male bodies or just antiques.”

Leafing through relevant issues magazine-style, from circuit parties to surgery to eating disorders, Christopher Hines’ documentary ponders endemic, sometimes compulsive shallowness while providing a lot of eye candy. “If you’re gonna be gay, you’re just gonna have to experience the wrath of the A crowd,” one perfect 10 in search of an 11 attests. Some of us are just too allergic to house music to hazard that.

A mutable “culture of desire” has spawned myriad subdivisions based on body type, the greatest latest boom being bear-ish. But Malcolm Ingram’s documentary Bear Nation finds fissure in a movement supposedly all about including the excluded. One specialty magazine publisher bluntly insists “bear” means hairy, not big (save musculature), and who asked these fat fucks to the party anyway? If there was a fetish mag focused on the proudly obnoxious, he’d rate the cover.

Frameline34 — so old! who’d sleep with that?! — features a lot of films that in one way or another uphold a beauty standard. Among them are conventional gay romcoms like Is It Just Me?, whose John Cusack-y protagonist — torso more rectangle than triangle — is appalled by the looks-ist superficiality of the L.A. gay scene he’s just moved into. But of course there’s a selfless hunk who, amid Cyrano de Bergerac-inspired contrivances, is eager to love him for his mind.

Foreign films — like such excellent Frameline entries as Undertow, Children of God, or Francois Ozon’s Hideaway — tend to be less rigidly codified in terms of physical casting. Their protagonists are attractive but natural, not conspicuously pumped by hours of gym devotion. Still, their soft-pedaled sexy glamour seems contrite alongside the futurist masculinity line-blurring of Frameline flicks like tranny-band survey Riot Acts: Flaunting Gender Deviance in Music Performance. Or Jake Yerra’s Open, whose ethereal dramatic panoply encompasses a femmy boi in love with a pregnant FTM as well as an intersex couple undergoing surgery to become identical. “Being average in a world of physical perfection is the worst kind of gay purgatory,” a character says in Is It Just Me? Maybe worse: being slave to that sensibility.

FRAMELINE34: SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL LGBT FILM FESTIVAL

June 17–27, most shows $8–$15

Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Roxie, 3117 16th St., SF; Victoria, 2961 16th St, SF; Rialto Cinemas Elmwood, 2966 College, Berk.

Worst worst movie?

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Worst worst movie?

INTERNATIONAL CINEMA It wouldn’t be a Cannes Film Festival without scandals onscreen and off. The recent 63rd edition found international media struggling to come up with some — Jean-Luc Godard’s no-show, the generally feh quality of competition films. Pretty weak. Little incited righteous outrage over artistic license as before: think of prior provocations by Gaspar Noé, Carlos Reygadas, and Vincent Gallo.

But last year there was not only Lars von Trier’s polarizing Antichrist but a film Roger Ebert called "the worst film in the history of Cannes." Kinatay nonetheless won Brillante Mendoza a best director jury prize. This unwatchable piece of arty trash (per Ebert) premieres locally this weekend. Clearly, differences of opinion will prevail.

Kinatay — i.e. "butchery," so Tagalog speakers are forewarned — falls into that Cinema of Punishment category von Trier, Noé, and ever-increasing younger filmmakers seem inordinately fond of. The basic idea being to rub your nose in it, "it" being the soullessness of contemporary life as illustrated by some combination of cruelty, tedium, unpleasantly graphic content, and aesthetic onslaught. At worst, movies classifiable this way exist for nothing beyond their smug, empty shock value. At best, they really do shock you into a state of heightened … something. Sensitivity? Dismay?

Kinatay is not a vanity wank à la Gallo’s The Brown Bunny (2003). Nor does
it over-enjoy the sadism it’s decrying a la Noé. It is grueling, not just in content terms but the viewer effort required. But it’s also a work by a clearly gifted filmmaker, the Philippines’ leading indie talent, serious in intent if problematic.

Newlywed police trainee Peping (Coco Martin) needs extra cash. So he agrees to a shady mission whose purpose is only gradually gleaned, to his horror: riding along with corrupt fellow cops as they abduct, beat, rape, and murder prostitute Madonna (Maria Isabel Lopez), ostensibly to punish her large drug debt.

Peping’s long night of squirming empathy, inaction, and major disillusionment feels like it passes in real time. Yet there’s considerable craft in Mendoza’s aesthetic choices, not to mention an uncommonly rich sense of teeming, dangerous Manila street life in his opening scenes. I highly doubt Kinatay was the worst Cannes film of 2009, let alone ever.

Ebert, freshly anointed by San Francisco International Festival celebration and generally considered a "seventh art" angel, has a history of such pronouncements. Prior movies he’s been appalled by include Blue Velvet (1986), I Am Curious (Yellow) (1967), Pink Flamingos (1972), The Tenant (1976), and recent Australian horror Wolf Creek (2005). The latter was terrific (and a commercial bust) precisely because it made its characters’ serial-killer’d travails truly punishing to watch. Ebert isn’t infallible, and "worst ever" pronouncements are often fallible in the extreme.

KINATAY

Sat/12, 7:30 p.m.; Sun/13, 4:30 p.m., $6–$8

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787

www.ybca.org

Mama Drama

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Mama Drama

FILM 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.

Braced in fighting stance for mom’s arrival is Hal (Joshua Hutchinson). He’s got a wife named Beth (Heather Mathieson), a toddler, a compulsive wandering eye, and one very jaundiced view of Gretchen’s alleged victimized past and ditto good intentions.

On the other hand, Mark (Daron Jennings) always backed up ma’s side of the story. He sports the terrified geniality of someone who’s long kept the peace by living a lie that might explode at any moment. Live-in girlfriend Erika (Lizzie Ross) is everything mom is not: supportive, truthful, transparent. But the feelings he’s repressed leak out in martial commitment skittishness, not to mention an inability to prepare anxiety attack-prone Erika for the weekend boot camp of subtle evisceration she’s about to receive from her brand-new worst frenemy.

That weekend works through a minigolf obstacle course of logistical meal disasters, temporary sightseeing balm, withering “compliments,” ugly spousal conflict, and climactic reveals about dad’s long-ago departure. Through it all, Gretchen’s frosted Nancy Reagan coif remains as rigid as her revisionist family history. But the emotions she stirs up — not without backlash — grow very messy indeed.

The Full Picture is a small picture, but it would be a shame to let its genuine satisfactions pass you by. As writer, director, and producer, Bowden turns economy into crafty virtues, and his actors are inspired. Nothing here is wildly original, yet it feels fresh — especially the way so much nervous comedy leads to screaming catharsis, only to land on a slightly zen grace note. 

The Full Picture opens Fri/11 at the Roxie.

Cute is what he aims for

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Cute is what he aims for

FILM Cutie pie. Kissy face. Snuggle bunny. Aren’t you just the sweetest thing ever?

The above pull quote will likely not be showing up in Sony Classics’
ads for Micmacs. Nonetheless, 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 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. You can detect influences — Chaplin, Jacques Tati, Jan Svankmajer — but the unified vision is distinctively his.

Actually it was his and codirector Marc Caro’s, through 1995’s The City of Lost Children. That uneven but impressive fantasy greatly expanded on the template introduced by their early shorts and by 1991’s Delicatessen, a perfectly self-contained first feature contraption, a live-action cartoon of the genially macabre and puckishly romantic.

These were cult films, albeit big cult films. The point at which Jeunet supersized — in both popularity and in turning a few stomachs — was his first movie entirely without Caro, plucky-as-fuck Amélie (2001). It was the world’s most ornate cuckoo clock, an entire football field of dominoes falling toward an inevitable je t’aime. Whether it is also a testament to the perils of excessive storyboarding can be argued — but say that and it’s as if you had just kicked a dog. Or "an elf with big eyes," as Jeunet described his "perfect actress" Audrey Tautou. A Very Long Engagement (2004) suggested the limits of what they could do for each other, but at least it was a step away from circusy cuteness and contrivance.

Into which puddle of cuddle Micmacs leaps back with a vengeance. It took Jeunet five years to painstakingly construct a vehicle he could repeat himself this completely? Our 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." (His love interest is dubbed Elastic Girl — though it’s Julie Ferrier’s facial contortions that really alarm.) It’s like Santa’s Gallic Toyshop, populated by chimney-sweeps and organ grinders and mimes. 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. (It doesn’t help that the sole black characters here feel like racial caricatures dropped into Cirque du Soleil.) Of course the film’s all-important design aspects are impeccably wrought. And using old Max Steiner orchestral excerpts was a terrific idea — one of Micmacs‘ few simple, genuinely charming ones.

The actors make funny faces, some (like Boon, Jeunet regular Dominique Pinon, and the villains) amusingly, others laboriously. They’re just props in a series of Rube Goldbergian set-pieces that are showy, intricate yet somehow stale. If Amelie‘s pursuit of charm could feel incongruously elephantine — like a space shuttle chasing a feather — Micmacs likewise exerts way too much effort just trying to be cute and funny. It’s so overpoweringly delighted with itself that you don’t need to be.

MICMACS opens Fri/4 in Bay Area theaters.

Shoot ’em up

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Shoot ’em up

FILM Some people truly love movies, and love making movies, yet a legitimate question arises: for the greater good, should they be stopped? Or at least drastically slowed down?

That worry rumbles just under the surface of Clay Westervelt’s documentary Popatopolis, and the entire oeuvre of the filmmaker it’s about. Jim Wynorski is a onetime Roger Corman protégé who started making his own low-budget movies in the late 1980s, riding out the direct-to-video wave with a mix of sequels nobody was waiting for (1989’s Return of the Swamp Thing, 1994’s Ghoulies IV), the inevitable “erotic thrillers,” miscellaneous action trash, unintentionally funny horror flicks, unintentionally unfunny comedies, and so forth.

Somewhere around the millennium’s turn he started alternating between even cheaper cable softcore cheese (several Bare Wench Project flicks, 2009’s The Devil Wears Nada) and comparatively lavish exercises in genre clock-punching (2005’s Komodo vs. Cobra, 2004’s Sea Ghost). The latter were usually made under pseudonyms — because even the SyFy Channel knows the words “Jim Wynorski” raise a red flag that might send fussy viewers straight to bed with a book.

Popatopolis chronicles the creation of 2005’s The Witches of Breastwick, whose writer-director agreed to make it in just three days as an “experiment” — to the dismay of a cast and crew already fed up by incredible shrinking production schedules. One says Wynorski’s “problem is he keeps saying yes to everybody. If you keep lowering the bar of how quickly and cheaply you can make a film, it’s just not fun anymore.”

Wynorski typically gives actors one take to realize his vision — not that he actually explains what it is. By all accounts a dear man off-set, on the job he throws tantrums, cuts any corner — but does complete a million shots per day. Still, is being this prolific a virtue to anyone besides his financiers? Corman wistfully opines, “Jim is a better director than he thinks he is.” Wynorski counters, “I’m not Picasso. I’m more like the guy who paints Elvis on velvet.”

Well, not Elvis so much as black-light poster babes — the surgically enhanced bombshells he favors, some of them moonlighting hardcore “models.” The ones who aren’t lament the demise of real B movies like those Wynorski used to make, which featured quasi-stellar legitimate thespians like Antonio Sabato Jr., Ice-T, Shannon Tweed, two lesser Baldwins, and both Coreys. Even those folk wouldn’t do a Breastwick. Yet that shoestring epic makes enough cable deals to achieve the kind of profit margin mainstream Hollywood only dreams about.

Its sequel (plus five more features) were in the can before 2005 was out. “He’s like a machine that can only do one thing in the world,” a colleague observes. Popatopolis captures some golden moments you wouldn’t get in any ordinary making-of, as when a new actress says “Whoever wrote this script doesn’t like women very much,” and old-hand actress Julie K. Smith shrugs, “Jim Wynorski wrote it. A couple rum and Cokes, and the anger comes out.” Westervelt will be on hand to answer questions at the Oddball screening and to introduce Wynorski’s 1986 killer-robot epic Chopping Mall. 

POPATOPOLIS WITH CHOPPING MALL

Fri/21, 8 p.m., $10

Oddball Films

275 Capp, SF

(415) 558-8117

info@oddballfilm.com (RSVP required)

 

Whistling in the dark: Noir returns to the Roxie

Sue Vaughan
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Whistling in the dark: Noir returns to the Roxie

It’s hard to guess what fictive icons of popular culture will endure and which will evaporate from the collective memory. In the 1940s, probably few would have imagined kiddie heroes Batman or Superman retaining marquee value into the next century. Bigger bets would no doubt have been placed on the Shadow, the Saint, and the Whistler, long-running radio men of mystery with uncanny (but not exactly supernatural, or super-heroic) abilities to witness the moral misdeeds of mortal men, not to mention their inevitable comeuppance.

In fact, the S-men usually doled out that payback themselves. Even more evanescent than his compatriots, the Whistler was less hands-on, more a Greek chorus sardonically telling the tale of each episode’s protagonists, gloating over the impending arrival of their just desserts. He was never a participant — was even a He, or an otherworldly It? He was, simply, a gimmicked-up omniscient narrator, the storyteller’s own voice turned into a character slash-framing device.

As a result the Whistler probably didn’t seem natural movie material — what can you do with a character that isn’t seen and doesn’t interact with others? Yet the 13-year series’ popularity was such that Columbia Pictures took the plunge anyway. The result was eight films made between 1944 and 1948, six showing during the two weeks of “I Still Wake Up Dreaming!,” Elliot Lavine’s latest noir revival extravaganza at the Roxie — in restored 35mm prints struck for the occasion, yet. (The Whistlers will also play Berkeley’s Pacific Film Archive May 29-June 5.)

These “B” programmers were economical in budget and length. But on both levels they got a lot out of a little: benefiting fully from Columbia’s production gloss despite their humble status (destined for the lower half of double bills), often packing an almost epic narrative arc and tonal gamut into about 65 minutes. They weren’t great movies, but they were great examples of the solid craft and pulp entertainment value “golden era” Hollywood managed even (or even especially) when just churnin’ them out.

Each opens with a silhouette in trench coat and fedora floating along sidewalks and alley walls, uncredited actor Otto Forrest’s voice intoning “I am the Whistler … I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.” He then guides our attention to this particular case’s subject, who’s either planning something terrible or oblivious to the terrible something about to befall them.

If these central protagonists seemed oddly alike, that was because they were all played by one actor. Richard Dix was a big star of the 1920s and early 30s who was by then in his 50s, and looked it. He could credibly sport a tuxedo, bum’s rags, or murderous glare. Yet by and large he struck a placid, almost disinterested attitude throughout the series, despite his characters’ wildly varied circumstances. These included playing men who lose their identity (an amnesiac in 1945’s Power of the Whistler) or steal the wrong one (1944’s Mark of the Whistler); a terminally ill tycoon who marries a gold digger (1945’s Voice of the Whistler); or a gold digger sniffing inheritance dough (1946’s Secret of the Whistler, 1946’s The Mysterious Intruder).

The basic plot elements were interchangeable. But the particulars (often penned  by pulp masters like Cornell Woolrich) were complex — so many hitherto lawful characters turning homicidally venal on a dime — the support casts colorful, and execution snappy or moody as needed. (Directing four entries was William Castle, who’d turn to more garish thrills as the showman behind such gimmick-driven horror potboilers as 1964’s Strait-Jacket and 1965’s I Saw What You Did.)

There are a lot of other rarities in the Roxie fortnight, highlights including the entirely SF-shot 1949 cheapie Treasure of the Monte Cristo and Phil Karlson’s excellent 1953 99 River Street. Particularly fascinating are late entries showing in studio archive prints: 1958’s flop-sweaty NYC-set Cop Hater; 1963’s crazily cast (Mort Sahl! Sammy Davis Jr.! Pre-Bewitched Elizabeth Montgomery!), quite nasty mafioso meller Johnny Cool; and 1959’s The Fearmakers. The latter’s finger-waggling about “packaged politicians,” “well-heeled lobbyists,” and “phony front groups” muddying D.C. democracy played Red-scary then, but sure sound prescient in our post-Cold War now.
 
“I Still Wake Up Dreaming: Noir is Dead!/Long Live Noir!”
May 14-27, $5-9.75
Roxie, 3117 16th St, SF
(415) 863-1087, www.roxie.com 

Secret agent “homme”

David Talbot
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Secret agent “homme”

NEW-OLD MOVIE 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 — eventually more than 90 of them. When Bruce died (crashing his Jaguar — what a man!) in 1963, just as the screen Bond was taking off, his widow wrote another 143. Then her children wrote two dozen more, as recently as 1992.

Needless to say, 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, flashing a pearly, superconfident smirk at the neverending stream of multinational babes elsewhere, wowing them poolside with his top-of-the-mid-1960s-line male physique (nice, but don’t expect visible abs). Of course such pleasure pursuits take place strictly between car chases, shootouts, and karate fights.

Posing (badly) as a reporter to root out Hitlerites hiding in Brazil, our lone-gun hero is distressed to discover he has help from Israeli Mossad agents, one a mere chick. “Hunt down a Nazi with Jews?” he exclaims, complaining the target villain “will recognize them … their noses, obviously.” Beyond its pitch-perfect recreation of swinging ’60s cinema clichés (Naugahyde-lounge muzak, slightly feverish Technicolor, etc.), these films’ main joke is how cluelessly, casually racist, sexist, and xenophobic de La Bath is. The joke is on him, but his charm is remaining blissfully unaware.

Agreeably silly, Lost in Rio doesn’t go for Hollywood-style slapstick and grossout 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.

OSS 117: LOST IN RIO opens Fri/14 in Bay Area theaters.

 

“The Loved Ones:” the complete interview!

Sue Vaughan
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“The Loved Ones:” the complete interview!

Pegged by some as “Misery meets Pretty in Pink,” Sean Byrne’s instant horror mini-classic is by turns poignant, funny, grotesque, alarming, and finally very, very satisfying. It’s sure to be a hit again in the San Francisco International Film Festival‘s Late Show section. Between festival travels, Byrne was back home in Melbourne when he answered my email queries.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: The movie really throws you for a loop by spending the first stretch on serious psychological drama, then springing something entirely different.

Sean Byrne: Well, I needed [to establish] a hero who was uniquely qualified to survive hell. Someone who is conditioned to pain, who feels like they deserve to suffer. He’s a cutter or self-mutilator, someone who tries to block out emotional pain with physical pain. He’s a kid with a death wish who’s forced to endure a literal hell and in the process realizes he’s got everything to live for.

SFBG: Your central female character is more interesting than the usual horror movie villainness in that she’s so spoiled she thinks she’s a victim, which then excuses her behaving monstrously. Where did that come from?

SB: I was thinking about what could make a signature, iconic, highly marketable villain and I noticed how my five-year-old niece, along with almost every little girl, is obsessed with wearing pink. It’s part of the magic and fantasy stage of childhood, where they actually believe the Disney line “someday [my] prince will come.” So then I started thinking, well, what if our villain is a teenager with raging hormones but still somehow stuck in this spoiled, childish, pre-operational stage of development. I imagined “Princess” as a teenage version of that irritating kid in the supermarket who demands lollies and won’t stop screaming until she gets them!

SFBG: I like that her favorite song is self-pity anthem “Not Pretty Enough.” Has Kasey Chambers had any reaction to the film?

SB: I tried to stay within the horror genre but at the same time subvert the conventions, and having our troubled hero listen to heavy metal (the “devil’s music”) and our villain listen to a top-of-the-pops ballad like “Not Pretty Enough” was a way of doing that. As far as I know Kasey hasn’t seen the film. I’m dying to know how she’ll react.

SFBG: Did any particular films inspire you, in general or in making this film in particular?

SB: My filmic influences were a real mash up. Structurally the film is closest to Misery (1990) but tonally there are shades of Carrie (1976), Dazed and Confused (1993), Footloose (1984), The Terminator (1984), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974 original), The Evil Dead (1981), Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986), [and the works of directors] David Lynch, Gaspar Noe, Michael Haneke, John Hughes, and even Walt Disney. The way Tarantino juxtaposes violence and comedy was a big influence. I’m also a huge David Fincher and P.T. Anderson fan. Audiences may recognize some of the influences but hopefully the film, as a whole, will be a fresh experience.

SFBG: A difference between this movie and those associated with “torture porn” is that here both victims and perps are pretty complicated characters.

SB: I hope so. I did my research and tried to get inside the heads of these characters before I started writing. Characters in horror movies are often one-dimensional cardboard cutouts. But really great ones like The Shining (1980), The Exorcist (1973), and Rosemary’s Baby (1968) delve into the psychology of the moment. They answer the question: how do ordinary people react to extraordinary situations honestly? They explore our base instincts with emotional authenticity.

I’ve made a horror movie, so I don’t want to sound hypocritical, but in my opinion movies that focus on the stalking bogeyman are actually kind of immoral because as an audience we’re almost forced to barrack for the killer. We know they won’t die (because there’s always a sequel) and we know nothing about the people being hunted and what makes them tick. So the main point of interest becomes, how much bare flesh am I going to see and how inventively gruesome is the next kill going to be? To me that’s not real horror. Real horror is having a relationship with the dark, extreme side of human nature and getting inside the cruelest of minds then genuinely caring about the people who are trapped in this terrifying web.

SFBG: The film really does dish out some horrifying abuse, though — did you ever pull back on how graphic it would be?

SB: No. Never. I’m not a fan of PG-13 horror. The middle ground is pretty boring — that’s why it’s called the middle ground. But we’re a balls-to-the wall pop-horror movie and as a fan growing up loving horror movies, I know what I like and I think I know what other true horror fans like, and we like to be pushed. Audiences go to horror movies to be scared. The brief is to freak them out so why hold back?

SFBG: Did anyone suggest you take out the whole comedy subplot involving the best friend’s dream date with the school’s goth chick? Although it works — both on its own and to provide some relief from the main action, which might be unbearable to watch without some interruption.

SB: The first draft of the screenplay was basically confined to the farmhouse, where most of the horror plays out, but it began to feel a bit suffocating. Like Misery, The Loved Ones is a kind of claustrophobic horror and also like Misery, which cuts to the sheriff and his wife for light relief, there are moments when the audience needs to take a breath, wipe their sweaty palms and maybe even have a nervous chuckle before preparing for the next white-knuckle onslaught.

SFBG: It’s a good thing your lead actress has already done some other, very different things, since otherwise she might be typecast forever as the horror-movie Girl from Hell.

SB: Yes, Robin McLeavy is an incredibly well-respected theater actress. She recently played Stella opposite Cate Blanchett’s Blanche in Liv Ullmann’s version of A Streetcar Named Desire, and won a Hayes Award for her performance, which is Washington’s answer to the Tonys.

SFBG: Upcoming projects? Have you gotten any overtures from major studios/producers?

SB: I’m writing a home invasion thriller with a unique twist, am attached to a medical thriller, which is a modern reworking of the Jekyll and Hyde story, and I’m in discussions with major studios and producers about a couple of other projects that I’d better keep quiet about for now.

The Loved Ones
San Francisco International Film Festival
May 2, 10:30 p.m., Castro, 429 Castro, SF
May 6, 3 p.m., Kabuki, 1881 Post, SF
www.sffs.org

Love, guts, and glory

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Love, guts, and glory

arts@sfbg.com

SFIFF Though there were far starrier, more expensive films debuting in the Midnight Madness section of last year’s Toronto Film Festival, the category’s prize and foot-stomping audience favor was stolen by a low-budget Australian film that arrived with no fanfare, no name actors, and a writer-director who’d made no prior features.

Sean Byrne’s The Loved Ones focuses on small-town teenager Brent (Xavier Samuel), who’s severely depressed from a recent tragedy but rouses himself to attend the school prom — or would have, if he wasn’t hijacked instead for one of the most harrowing first dates in film history.

Pegged by some as "Misery meets Pretty in Pink," this instant horror mini-classic is by turns poignant, funny, grotesque, alarming, and finally very, very satisfying. It’s sure to be a hit again in the San Francisco International Film Festival’s Late Show section. Between festival travels, Byrne was back home in Melbourne when he answered my e-mail queries.

SFBG The movie really throws you for a loop by spending the first stretch on serious psychological drama, then springing something entirely different.

Sean Byrne Well, I needed [to establish] a hero who was uniquely qualified to survive hell. Someone who is conditioned to pain, who feels like they deserve to suffer. He’s a cutter or self-mutilator, someone who tries to block out emotional pain with physical pain. He’s a kid with a death wish who’s forced to endure a literal hell, and in the process realizes he’s got everything to live for.

SFBG Your central female character is more interesting than the usual horror movie villains in that she’s so spoiled she thinks she’s a victim, which then excuses her behaving monstrously. Where did that come from?

SB I was thinking about what could make a signature, iconic, highly marketable villain and I noticed how my five-year-old niece, along with almost every little girl, is obsessed with wearing pink. It’s part of the magic and fantasy stage of childhood, where they actually believe the Disney line "someday [my] prince will come." So then I started thinking, well, what if our villain is a teenager with raging hormones but still somehow stuck in this spoiled, childish, preoperational stage of development. I imagined "Princess" as a teenage version of that irritating kid in the supermarket who demands lollies and won’t stop screaming until she gets them.

SFBG I like that her favorite song is self-pity anthem "Not Pretty Enough." Has Kasey Chambers had any reaction to the film?

SB I tried to stay within the horror genre but at the same time subvert the conventions. And having our troubled hero listen to heavy metal (the "devil’s music") and our villain listen to a top-of-the-pops ballad like "Not Pretty Enough" was a way of doing that. As far as I know, Kasey hasn’t seen the film. I’m dying to know how she’ll react.

SFBG A difference between this movie and those associated with "torture porn" is that here both the victims and the perps are pretty complicated characters.

SB I hope so. I did my research and tried to get inside the heads of these characters before I started writing. Characters in horror movies are often one-dimensional cardboard cutouts. But really great ones like The Shining (1980), The Exorcist (1973), and Rosemary’s Baby (1968) delve into the psychology of the moment. They answer the question: how do ordinary people react to extraordinary situations honestly? They explore our base instincts with emotional authenticity.

SFBG The film really does dish out some horrifying abuse, though — did you ever pull back on how graphic it would be?

SB No. Never. I’m not a fan of PG-13 horror. The middle ground is pretty boring — that’s why it’s called the middle ground.

THE LOVED ONES

May 2, 10:30 p.m., Castro

May 6, 3 p.m., Sundance Kabuki


MORE ON SFBG.COM For an extended version of Dennis Harvey’s interview with Sean Byrne, visit www.sfbg.com/pixel_vision

Ghost, writers

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Ghost, writers

arts@sfbg.com

FILM Conor McPherson’s The Eclipse is not to be confused with that imminent third Twilight movie of (almost) the same name. But it, too, is a supernatural romance of sorts. Michael Farr (Ciarán Hinds) is a widower with two kids. From the wife’s post-chemo look in family photos scattered around the house, we glean she died of cancer. He once had writerly ambitions but is now a woodworking teacher. Since school’s out, he’s jobbing as a driver for the annual literary festival in their seaside town of Cobh, a County Cork location not far from where Irish revolutionary hero Michael Collins was born and killed.

It’s a driver’s task in such circumstances to take the bad with the good, as far as chauffeuring around celebrity authors goes. The good being London guest Lena Morelle (Iben Hjejle), a modest, attractive, and gracious scribe of purportedly nonfiction ghost stories. The bad being best-selling American novelist Nicholas Holden (Aidan Quinn), who hits the ground whining — his ride’s slight delay has forced him to endure the hotel-bar enthusiasms of actual fans, a prime target for his all-embracing condescension — and whose subsequent emotional displays run the unctuous to the apoplectic.

Excepting, that is, when he’s attempting to charm Lena, with whom he had a recent one-night-stand at a similar event. Cornered over lunch, Lena keeps a polite arm’s length from his renewed ardor, reminding him “I thought we were going to behave like nothing ever happened.” He is, after all, married. Nicholas rather too readily pipes that he doesn’t love his wife, and, anyway, even if they’re still officially together (he fibbed about that previously), he “never felt more separated” from her than when experiencing brief, torrid, probably drunken passion with Lena.

This is none of Michael’s business, and Lena wishes it wasn’t hers, but circumstances keep driver and guests colliding. Michael tours Lena around to all the terribly quaint and picturesque local sights, bonding over shared experiences (notably, both are under the strong impression that they’ve seen ghosts) and mutual frisson. Rubbing each the wrong way, meanwhile, is every ensuing encounter with Nicholas, who starts showing up plastered at Lena’s accommodations to howl at the moon and/or picks fight with Michael, whom he sneeringly calls “that stalker” — the others being too polite to point out his obvious hypocrisy.

So far, so good: The Eclipse‘s bulk mixes deft satire of literary ego and salesmanship with middle-aged romance in a travelogue setting (beautifully photographed by Ivan McCullough), plus enough domestic nuance to remind that no family life is perfect when a spouse and parent has recently died. But McPherson, better known here for his widely produced plays (The Weir, Shining City, The Seafarer), is not one to leave reality well enough alone. Instead he (helped by the abrupt crescendos of alarm in Fionnuala Ni Chiosain’s score) jars us with elements of the macabre. Michael is burdened with an angry, ailing father-in-law (Jim Norton) he’s turned over to a rest home. Perhaps as punishment, he suffers visions of a ghastly specter that look a whole lot like a zombiefied Jim Norton. These are, hopefully, just nightmares. But what do they mean?

It’s to McPherson’s credit (coadapting a short story by fellow Irish playwright Billy Roche) that his elegantly controlled movie gets away with not quite providing an answer while juggling a lot of mismatched elements with deceptive ease. In a less quirky film, Hinds, atypically cast as the nice guy (he played an arrogant literary prick himself in 2008’s Margot at the Wedding), would have swapped roles with Quinn. The gambit benefits them both, especially Quinn, who is terrific as the kind of tantrum-prone pretentious blowhard who’ll never be a grownup, but is just talented enough to get away with it — commercially if not socially. The Eclipse barely seems to have gotten going before it’s over, and no movie post-1970 should be ever allowed to end on a freeze-frame. Still, these 88 minutes are like some heavy (green of course) liqueur; just a thimbleful leaves you agreeably off-center, flushed, and a little spooked.

THE ECLIPSE opens Fri/16 in San Francisco.

Hey kids! It’s Panique time!

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Hey kids! It’s Panique time!

CULT DVD Alejandro Jodorowsky and Fernando Arrabal have overlapped their whole lives. The Chilean Jodorowsky and Spanish Arrabal arrived in Paris is the mid-1950s, eventually cofounding (with late, lesser remembered artist French artist Roland Topor) the Mouvement Panique — a post-surreallist group named after the god Pan and dedicated to “terror, humor, simultaneity.” The two initially focused on theatrical performance and have in subsequent decades created massive bodies of plays, poetry, novels, visual art (paintings for Arrabal, comic books for Jodorowsky), and more. Internationally, they’ve been most widely experienced as filmmakers of some notoriety whose sporadic work in that medium was busiest during the wide-open late 1960s and early ’70s.

Jodorowsky, of course, rates high on any cineaste’s list of cult idols for the blood-soaked spaghetti western Christ parable El Topo (1970) and mystical-baroque colossus The Holy Mountain (1973), both recently freed from decades of legal trouble for legitimate DVD release. Arrabal’s films have been even harder to see and have fallen into comparative obscurity, partly because they’re less “fun” despite sharing much in the way of striking, shocking, and frequently blasphemous imagery.

In 2005 Cult Epics brought out a collection comprising his first three features: Viva la muerte (1970) and The Guernica Tree (1975), two violently grotesque fantasias about the Spanish Civil War whose dead included his own assassinated painter father, a loyal Republican; plus I Will Walk Like a Crazy Horse (1972), a no-less surreal yet strangely touching love story of sorts between an urban playboy on the run and the three-foot-tall male desert hermit.

Given their penchant for full-frontal nudity, antifascist politics, desecration of religious iconography, and other MPAA-unratable themes, perhaps the weirdest overlap between the two most famous “Panique” insurrectionists is that each once strayed into the alien realm of family entertainment. (They no doubt seized this inapt moment as a respite from perpetual funding woes, which famously scuttled Jodorowsky’s ready-to-go Dune and his El Topo sequel.)

Unsurprisingly, the results did not send Disney into a market-dominance panique. In fact, Jodorowsky’s 1978 for-hire project Tusk was, at least until recently. one of the most infamously unseen movies ever made, a literally and figuratively elephantine India adventure deemed unwatchable for any audience. Check out the cruddy French-language dupe with Spanish subtitles on YouTube and see how far curiosity gets you.

Arrabal’s kid flick wasn’t quite so fully buried, but it too has remained an obscure object of completist desire. Fortunately his second and final DVD collection from Cult Epics just arrived to fill that need. Nominally released in 1982, French-Canadian coproduction The Emperor of Peru stars Mickey Rooney — there goes the scenery in one big chew — as a wuvvable wheelchair-bound eccentric found living in the forest by three children on summer holiday. A former steam train engineer, he teaches them to run an abandoned locomotive so they can take their Cambodian-refugee friend back home to his parents. Never mind that there’s probably not much rail linking the South of France and Phnom Penh, let alone that in 1982 the Khmer Rouge remained very active.

How many children’s films would have dialogue like “Father’s in a concentration camp”? Emperor‘s real raison d’être, in any case, is its myriad fantasy sequences, sprung from the childish imagination of Toby (Jonathan Starr). In his daydreams he’s a firefighter or astronaut whose heroic deeds are applauded by such bystanders as Napoleon Bonaparte. Amid the goofy, mostly innocuous proceedings are stray moments of unmistakable Arrabal — as when Rooney, in full Arabian Nights regalia, is surrounded at imperial court by dwarf attendants. (Arrabal has a thing for little people.)

The new collection also includes Car Cemetery, a 1983 New Wave “punk” pose fest with Gallic pop king Alain Bashing as a postapocalyptic rock star Christ (ouch indeed). Among other rarities are Arrabal’s delightful hour-long 1992 video Farewell, Babylon!, a collage of past works, impish narrative, and sampled New Yorkers including Spike Lee and Melvin Van Peebles.

Way out Middle East

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Way out Middle East

arts@sfbg.com

FILM One frontier in which Israel remains politically left-forward is that of gay rights. Civil marriage, military service, foreign-partner naturalization, and job discrimination issues are all much more progressively legislated than in the U.S. — let alone the rest of the Middle East, where flogging, prison, or even execution punish homosexual "crimes." Nonetheless, as in much of the world today, fundamentalist religious currents endanger progress already made and still being worked toward.

Three out of five films in the "Out in Israel" series at the Roxie deal with strife between gay and Orthodox religious communities. Copresented by San Francisco’s Jewish Film Festival, they’re all part of a larger lineup of April events assembled by the Israeli Consulate in honor of Israel’s Gay Pride Month.

The oldest feature here is from 1992, though it feels like 1972 — Amos Guttman’s 16mm-shot Amazing Grace has the technical simplicity and variably professional acting of early gay-themed movies from just about any nation, whatever their era. And like most such, it’s a downer in which everyone is depressed, isolated, and broke. Young Jonathan (Gal Hoyberger) is fed up, especially with his quarrelsome family and slutty ex-boyfriend, when he meets handsome new neighbor Thomas (Sharon Alexander). Unfortunately the New York City-returned older musician is more interested in using drugs than love to drown his HIV-positive self-pity.

Israel’s gay cinema pioneer, Guttman died of AIDS the following year at age 38 without achieving anything like the popular success that greeted Eytan Fox a decade later. Fox’s 2002 international breakthrough Yossi and Jagger, originally made for local TV, stars Ohad Knoller and Yehuda Levi as IDF officers stationed in a mountain bunker on the Lebanon border. They’re carrying on a giddy affair almost no one knows about till tragedy intervenes. But Avner Bernheimer’s astute screenplay is still only half done: the rest of Fox’s finest effort to date finds closeted grief exacerbated by psychological theft and stinging injustice.

Moving from secular to religious conflict, the remaining "Out in Israel" features focus on clashes with those who view homosexuality’s mere existence as an affront to God. Nitzan Giladi’s documentary Jerusalem Is Proud to Present (2007) opens with Jewish, Muslim, and Christian clerics — united at last — condemning the city’s planned hosting of the 2006 International World Pride Parade as "nothing less than the attempted spiritual rape of this holy city." Violent rioting by Orthodox sects, death threats to gay leaders, and more attempts to shut down the event before it happens, succeeding somewhat yet also prompting righteous obstinacy from the LGBT community. One can laugh queasily at the grandmotherly type who claims HIV infection will jump 300 percent because those gays "just grab people" for their "orgies." But you’ll want to sucker-punch the loudmouthed Brooklyn rabbi who flies in just to spew his smirking homophobia.

Two recent features illustrate the impasse between homosexuality and ultra-Orthodox values in intimate dramatic terms. Haim Tabakman’s debut feature, 2009’s Eyes Wide Open (the only series program with a ticket charge; all others are free), watches trouble brew when a kosher butcher (Zohar Shtrauss) grows dangerously fond of the alluring new assistant Ezri (Ran Danker), whose reputation as a "curse to righteous men" precedes him. While borderline mannered in its minimalist dialogue and direction, the film packs a potent
punch.

Contrastingly not at all interested in restraint is Avi Nesher’s The Secrets (2007), about two girls (Ania Bukstein, Michal Shtamler) discovering Sapphic love at a women’s seminary. They also embark on a secret program of ritual cleansings for a prison-released French murderess (Fanny Ardant, atypically hammy) dying of both cancer and heart disease. It’s too bad the series’ sole lesbian feature is so melodramatically over the top. Then again, it’s probably pretty tasteful by the standards of a director previously associated with schlock like 2000’s Raw Nerve (Mario Van Peebles meets Nicollette Sheridan!) and 2001’s Tales from the Crypt Presents: Voodoo.

OUT IN ISRAEL

April 8–29, free–$8

Roxie

3117 16th St, SF

All in the family

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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All in the family

arts@sfbg.com

FILM 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. Naturally, perpetually fuming spouse Joyce (Julianna Margulies) assumes he’s having an affair. Daughter Vivian (Dominik García-Lorido) is back home from “school” on “spring break,” quote marks required because in fact she’s dropped out to work at a strip joint nearby, an endeavor hinted at by her newly extra-perky breasts. The world class-sarcasms of teenager Vinnie (Ezra Miller) deflect attention from his own hidden life as an aspiring chubby chaser crushing on a plus-sized schoolmate and transfixed by the huge neighbor (Carrie Baker Reynolds) who’s a live webcam star among fanciers of BBW (Big Beautiful Women).

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. Tony (Steven Strait) is eligible for provisional parole, but since his mother (fondly recalled as “a drunk and a whore”) is deceased, he has no family to take him in.

Ergo, Vince brings him home, explaining to no one (Tony included) their wee biological link. But as dad spends increasing time “playing poker” — i.e. hanging out with fellow would-be thespian Molly (Emily Mortimer) and even scoring a Scorcese audition — vengefully-minded mom has time to notice that frequently shirtless new handyman Tony has a Body of Death. Their flirtation includes her sympathetic comment, “Being in prison and not being able to smoke? That’s like being in jail!”

City Island advance-screened last week a couple nights after Hot Tub Time Machine. While it will be lucky to make a small fraction of Hot Tub‘s multiplex dough, it offers cheering, contrasting evidence that not all American live-action movie comedy outside the Judd Apatow realm is by and for imbeciles. 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 (who knew Andy Garcia could be funny?), 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.

CITY ISLAND opens Fri/2 in San Francisco.

 

Breast intentions

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Breast intentions

CULT CINEMA The 2010 Academy Awards ceremony did indeed mark historic
firsts. Oh, not just the fact that a woman finally won Best Director.
I mean somebody (Alec Baldwin? Steve Martin? I forget) saying
"vagina" live to a bazillion people worldwide, some of them no doubt way short of both voting age and bedtime. Of course you can say fuckwad, fuckhole, and fuckety fuckelstein on cable. But this was network, and the Oscars besides. How community standards do change.

Turn the clock back 50 years or so, and you couldn’t even say "pregnant" — when Lucy Ricardo was "expecting" on I Love Lucy, no euphemism was quite delicate enough. Before audience-restrictive MPAA ratings arrived a few years later, big-screen movies had to be pretty circumspect too, no matter that fully clothed Jayne Mansfield was more obscenely suggestive than the plain old medical-grade v-word could ever be. (FYI, Best Use of the Term in a Porn Title: Big Trouble in Little Vagina.)

That was in the mainstream, where actual public nudity was as yet unthinkable. A few rungs down the cultural ladder, however, things were gradually loosening up. Art and smut conveniently blurred from the late 1940s onward, as certain European filmmakers (Ingmar Bergman among them) began pushing toward greater sexual frankness. This delighted U.S. grindhouse distributors, who wasted little time buying exploitable features, then cutting the offending hell out of them even as their ads promised shocking, adults-only content.

Such was the case with Night of Lust, a 1962 production by Casablanca-born French producer-director-scenarist Jose Bénazéraf. In 1965 American entrepreneur R. Lee Frost announced this feature, purportedly "BANNED all over the world!," could "at last be seen in the U.S. uncut, after three years in court!" He neglected to mention he’d trimmed nearly 20 minutes from it himself.

What remained in the barely-hour-long version playing the Red Vic this week was a lurid jumble that makes it difficult to figure out Bénazéraf’s original intentions, let alone why some then considered him an important Nouvelle Vague figure. (Critics abandoned him once he went into straight-up porn.) But with its continuity gaps, moralizing narrator, atrocious dubbed dialogue, and positively Freudian camera fixation on myriad bared breasts, this supposedly true crime story torn from "Interpol File 218" is campy fun, at least.

This isn’t the Paris of lovers, but Sicilians vs. Frogs fighting over millions in heroin, plus strippers, stranglers, kidnappings, and catfights. Not adding any romance either is an original free-jazz-combo score by no less than Chet Baker — his trumpet playing sometimes mimed by a musically inclined mob boss — who was then living his own European heroin crime saga. It would get him imprisoned in Italy, then deported from England and Germany. Whether those events too were sprinkled with random sightings of jiggling mammaries, we’ll never know. (Dennis Harvey)

NIGHT OF LUST

Wed/17-Thurs/18, 7:15 and 9:30 p.m. (also Wed/17, 2 p.m.), $6–$10

Red Vic

1727 Haight, SF

(415) 668-3994

www.redvicmoviehouse.com

Life after death

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Life after death

arts@sfbg.com

FILM By the time the first of Stieg Larsson’s so-called “Millennium” books had been published anywhere, the series already had an unhappy ending. Its author planned 10 volumes total, but only finished three (plus some work on a fourth) before he died in 2004, none printed during his lifetime. The following year The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo became a Swedish, then eventually international sensation, its sequels following suit (though the English-translated third won’t come out here till May).

The books are addicting, to say the least, and despite their essential crime-mystery-thriller nature, don’t require putting your ear for writing of some literary value on sleep mode. As a result, there’s a sense of frustration and injustice that Larsson isn’t around to finish the job — no doubt exacerbated by the rumors that have milled around his premature demise. Like his male protagonist, he was a well-known muckracking journalist specializing in exposing right-wing scandals (especially racist and white-power organizations), so his massive heart attack at an apparently very healthy age 50 naturally set the conspiracy theories rolling.

Then there’s the matter of what happened to his fabulous, ever-escalating posthumous “Millennium” wealth: he never married a longtime partner, since his nonfiction work had drawn death threats and registration as a legal couple might have led violent extremists to their door. Unfortunately, that meant the onetime Trotskyist journal editor’s fortune now flows directly to the conservative family he was largely estranged from. No doubt there will be eventual books and films about this real-life intrigue.

Meanwhile, 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 (600 pages), very plotty novel. Some significant relationships, back stories, subsidiary characters, most humor, and a lot of interesting detail are sacrificed; that paring down means some very disturbing violence (warning: the book’s Swedish title was Men Who Hate Women) now looms much larger.

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. She and Blomkvist eventually, uneasily team up to uproot what becomes a very nasty burial ground of old misdeeds.

Director Niels Arden Oplev (replaced on the two remaining films by Daniel Alfredson) and his scenarists do a workmanlike job — one more organizational than interpretive, a faithful transcription without much style or personality all its own. Mikael is straight man to Lisbeth’s wild card, yet Nyqvist is still duller than need be; Jacob Groth’s original score is downright cheesy at times. Nonetheless, Larsson’s narrative engine kicks in early and hauls you right along to the depot, with nary a dull moment, nor an overly formulaic one. And to think he wrote the series as a sort of hobby (supposedly basing Lisbeth on Pippi Longstocking!), doubtless never imagining in death he’d quite possibly take a turn as the world’s most popular author.

THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO opens Fri/19 in Bay Area. theaters.

 

My son, my son, what have ye done

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My son, my son, what have ye done

FILM Some of the best documentaries in recent years have been hijacked by their subject — or even by another subject the filmmaker wasn’t planning on. Prodigal Sons was supposed to be Kimberly Reed’s story about a high-school quarterback, basketball captain, class president, and valedictorian born to a family of Montana farmers, returning for a reunion 20 years later — albeit as a fully transitioned male-to-female transgender person attending with her female lover. This will definitely be news to most of Helena, Mont., especially those former classmates who once swooned with puppy love or envy over the jock prince who is no more.

That would have made for an interesting movie. What makes Sons a fascinating one is that Reed finds the camera focus — as director/producer/coeditor, her own camera — stolen almost right away by a crisis in progress. Its name is Marc, adopted “problem child” of the McKerrow family (Kimberly changed her surname post-op). It’s not so much that Marc grabs the spotlight out of a jealous need for attention, though that may be a factor. It’s that he’s still trapped in a sibling relationship that for her ceased to exist — at least in its original form — decades ago, and Kimberly’s presence stirs up all kinds of buried shit.

Marc’s living in the past isn’t mere self-pity or indulgence. Already stamped as a bit of a fuckup (held back in grade school, a high school dropout), he suffered a head injury at 21. That commenced an ordeal of seizures, brain surgeries, and complicated med cocktails. He’s married with a daughter, but emits toxic clouds of social awkwardness and discontent that sometimes erupt in violent mood swings, which here result in at least one police intervention.

“It’s not the real me” is his usual refrain afterward each such “episode.” While Kimberly looks to reconcile her successful new identity with a community she’d ago severed most ties to, Marc struggles to assert any cogent post-accident identity at all.

Running a gamut from harrowing to miraculous (not necessarily in that order), the remarkable Prodigal Sons grows stranger than fiction when abandoned-at-birth Marc discovers something jaw-dropping about his ancestry. Suffice it to say, this results in a trip to Croatia and biological link to some of Hollywood’s starriest legends.

If Kimberly’s story is about repression forcing a mentally healthy transformation, Marc wrests us away from that inspirational self-portrait. He renders Sons a challenging, head-on glimpse of mental illness with no easy answers in sight. Christianity, a well-adjusted gay third brother, conservative yet surprisingly adaptable parents, jail time, savant piano mastery, and other elements also factor into this wild ride of a documentary. Its narrative progress might be dismissed as over-the-top if it didn’t happen to be true. 

PRODIGAL SONS opens Fri/5.

Brick by brick

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Brick by brick

TOY-NAMATION Denmark has given us so much. In the past few decades alone it has gifted the world with live-sex club acts, Brigitte Nielsen, breakfast pastries, and Lars “Antichrist” von Trier. In 1969 it became the first country to legalize pornography, and two decades later did likewise for same-sex marriage. It is also currently designated the least corrupt nation on earth, with the greatest income equality.

But predating all these wonders was that cultural juggernaut we call Lego. Toymaker Ole Kirk Christiansen named his company that in 1934; 15 years later, he began producing interlocking plastic bricks, though it was not until 1958 that the perfected current design debuted. (Thus, 52-year-old blocks remain compatible with ones you could buy today.) In 1988, Lego Group’s last patent on its fortune’s literal building block expired, resulting in a rash of cheap imitations, most manufactured in (surprise) China. But a Lego is a Lego is a Lego. Like Kleenex, it is a brand name more familiar than the object’s literal description. What five-year-old wants his “interlocking plastic brick”?

This week sees the (direct-to-DVD) release of the first feature-length Lego movie. The first thing you notice about Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers is that there’s been some heinous error: how can this not be stop-motion animation, but CGI?! What’s the point if we’re not seeing actual crazy Legos-constructed figures moving around an all Lego-landscape?

That said, it does sport a certain blocky design theme, and the early-1980s Cars-type songs with handclaps and synths seem just right. Clutch is an all-American, thrill-seeking, planet-saving blowhard who learns the value of teamwork by being forced to cooperate with a girl (plucky!), musclehead (jerky!), and egghead (German!) on an intergalactic voyage to defeat an evil wizard and his army of skeleton warriors. There’s a little Indiana Jones here, a little Shrek there, a lotta Lord of the Rings hither and yon.

But these 82 innocuous minutes are just a blip in the ever-widening Lego cosmos, which includes umpteen subsidiary toy franchises, clothes, video games, books, theme parks, “Lego Serious Play” (for business consensus-building!), and independent uses that run from elaborate Lego reconstructions of live action movies to epic online biblical illustration The Brick Testament.

Legos are timeless and cool. The company is laudable, not just for inviting action and imagination from kids, but for being a good global citizen. Lego’s corporate responsibility bylaws regarding environmental impact, charitable contributions, and treatment of workers are the sort of “socialist” stuff that would be lobbied out of existence here in five seconds. Oh, those Scandinavians — when will they realize all their prosperity, public benefits, and high overall happiness index is really a living hell in sheep’s clothing? Surely they need an angry Tea Party movement to protest a society that actually takes care of its own. 

www.legoclutchpowers.com

Not such a cani-ball

Jesse Hawthorne Ficks
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Not such a cani-ball

NEW DVD Considering that it’s the most notorious case of its kind in North American history (cannibalism for survival as opposed to lunacy’s sake), and that movies have been less than shy about portraying flesh-eating in recent decades (at least the zombie kind), it’s a little strange that the Donner Party saga has occupied so little celluloid space to date.

You know the generalities: 19th-century wagon-train emigrants from the Midwest got caught by severe winter weather, ran out of provisions, and resorted to eating their dead. This occurred among a small group (of 87 original travelers, less than half finally survived) who’d struck out on snowshoes to cross the Sierra Nevada and hopefully raise a search party to rescue those left behind. A handful made it, but by the time four successive relief expeditions reached the camps — the last in April 1847 — many of the stranded pioneers had died, and some of the others had begun to eat their corpses as well.

Ric Burns — Ken’s brother — made a good PBS documentary about this history in 1992. But there have been surprisingly few dramatizations. A new direct-to-DVD arrival simply titled The Donner Party should, then, be welcome for filling a curious gap. Add the notion of Crispin Glover top-billed as an increasingly hysterical devout Christian who’s first to propose snackin’ on his comrades, and expectations naturally run high.

Alas, debuting writer-director T.J. Martin’s film is earnest, dull, and not even particularly devoted to the historical facts. Attempting to capture the desperation and tedium of starving and freezing to death in near-hopeless wilderness conditions is a noble cause of sorts, but Party emerges so enervated and uninvolving one wishes for a little lurid exploitation.

The film starts as the portion of the larger Donner Party who became convinced to take a “shortcut” route — dubbed the Hastings Cutoff after its promoter — is already trapped by snowstorms in abandoned or makeshift shelters, running out of supplies and with no game in sight. Those who decide to strike out include Glover’s moneyed trip financier and 24‘s Clayne Crawford as the hired guide who at this point considers it’s every man for himself. Among those playing eventual jerks are Sons of Anarchy‘s Mark Boone Jr. and Leverage‘s Christian Kane.

Shot on location, The Donner Party looks handsome, though not so much so to make a good argument for winter camping. Still, a chapter in U.S. history this grotesque ought to be more squirm-inducing. The scariest thing here is Glover leading the cast in prayer — admittedly an unnerving concept. But not one that one that ought to feel freakier than chowing down on your travel companions.

www.donnermovie.com

Plastique fantastique

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Plastique fantastique

FILM The 2009 Toronto Film Festival encompassed, as usual, much

of what would turn out to be the year’s major award bait: Up in the Air, Precious: Based On the Novel Push By Sapphire, A Serious Man, new ones by Herzog, Almodóvar, Haneke, etc. But probably the best, and certainly most enjoyable, movie seen there was well off the official radar of must-sees. Perhaps because it centered on the adventures of plastic toys?

Profound, it is not. But A Town Called Panic is perhaps more consistently hilarious than anything since 2006’s Borat (which is now forever tainted by the association with 2009’s gravely disappointing Brüno). Several viewings later, it remains a delight. Now you can share the joy in local theaters. It’s that rare movie for everybody — or at least those old enough to read subtitles and not too wrong-headedly “grown-up” to snub a cartoon.

Opening in New York City and L.A. just in time to qualify for 2009 Oscar nominations, Panic is a dark horse not just because it’s foreign, but because last year was an unprecedentedly good one for animation. Personal faves Sita Sings the Blues and Up might have more intellect and heart, respectively. But Panic is funnier — than any ’09 live action feature, too.

It’s a feature expansion of a Belgian “puppetoon” series originating in a film-school project in 1991. A decade later, fellow graduates Stéphane Aubier and Vincent Patar decided to turn it into a series of five-minute shorts that wound up on TV networks worldwide. You can find several dubbed English-language episodes on YouTube — but trust me, it’s somehow even more hilarious in the original French, with subtitles of course.

The titular town is an idyllic patch of cartoon countryside whose primary stop-motion residents are a couple of households on adjacent hills. On one abides tantrum-prone Farmer Stephen, his wife Jeanine, and their livestock. The other houses our real protagonists, Cheval (a.k.a. Horse), Indian, and Cowboy. All look like the kinds of not-so-high-action figures kids possessed in the first half of the 20th century, before TV commercials made the toy market explode.

Ergo, Cheval is a hollow plastic mold of classic chestnut-stallion design, maybe seven-by-five inches, while his pals are possibly rubber figures a couple inches high, standing on li’l oval bases easily glued into the scenery of your homemade 1948 model-train landscape.

Of course they’re animate, albeit in the most endearingly klutzy fashion imaginable — though A Town Called Panic the movie is, like 1999’s South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut, a significant visual upgrade from the broadcast version that nonetheless retains the air of cheerful crudity on which the concept’s charm largely rests.

Anyhoo, Cheval (voiced by Patar) is the responsible-adult minder to squeaky-voiced wards Cowboy (Aubier) and Indian (Bruce Ellison), who are like rambunctious five-year-olds — impulsive, well-intentioned, forever trying to haplessly hide the disasters they’ve accidentally caused. Having forgotten (once again) that it’s Cheval’s birthday, they have a bright idea that one wee computer keyboard whoopsie turns into a catastrophe for the whole village. But not before A Town Called Panic‘s most hysterical set piece: a birthday fete featuring breakdancing, a disco ball, Farmer Stephen passing out, and Cheval’s sexy slow dance with music-school teacher Mme. Longray (Jeanne Balibar) — his pink-maned, smoky-voiced romantic interest.

Subsequent adventures embroil our heroes in some undersea chase nonsense that feels less inspired, perhaps in part because of a sense that SpongeBob already owns the absurdist ocean floor. But at a hectic 75 minutes, Panic never lags long enough to let its energy or overall hilarity flag.

A TOWN CALLED PANIC opens Fri/22 in Bay Area theaters.

Year of the yahoo

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Year of the yahoo

CULT FILM The year of cinematic enlightenment was 1967, with movies as disparate as Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, I Am Curious (Yellow), The President’s Analyst, and Week End all proclaiming the dawn of a truly adult era. Of course, not everybody was on that page. Some quite possibly couldn’t make out the text if they tried.

Clinging to its own personal celluloid Dark Ages was Shanty Tramp, which flew under reviewers’ radar while making a tidy profit from drive-in and grindhouse patrons with zero use for Godard. One of those movies that, once seen, can never be forgotten (though some might wish they could), it’s steadily accrued a cult following, with a legit Sinister Cinema DVD release last year and one-off screenings like Thrillville’s at the Four Star this week.

Advertised “for mature adults only!” with tellingly ungrammatical lure “Crowds! Talk! Bold! Visual! Naughty! Action!” Shanty Tramp is lurid in the most immature ways possible. Like much pre-hardcore smut, it remains all the smuttier for coarsely suggesting while seldom showing more than an occasionally topless woman in a spotlessly white, low-cut cocktail dress.

This incongruous apparel is form-fitted to titular tramp Emily (Lee Holland), whose meanderings around her small Florida bayou burg one long hot night wreak no end of havoc. The tawdry melodramatics encompass motorcycle-gang rumblage, attempted rape, miscegenation, phony rape accusations, racist lynch mobs, public inebriation, incest, belt-whuppin’, car theft, murder, mobsters, parricide, and a bogus evangelical salvation that triggers one of the greatest closing lines in film history.

Actually, this movie is wall-to-wall quotable, whether it’s Emily telling her soused paw “Find yourself a nice warm place in the gutter and sleep it off” or a bit-part biker opining “Crazy like, man! Like me and my chick wanna find a dark corner someplace, daddy-o.” Yet for all its absurdity, the feature is scarcely less sophisticated in its chiding attitude toward Southern race relations than Oscar’s overrated 1967 Best Picture pick, In the

Heat of the Night.

Presented by exploitation king K. Gordon Murray’s loftily named Trans-International Films (distributor mostly of dubbed Mexican horror and European fairy-tale cheapies), Shanty Tramp isn’t just so-bad-it’s-good. It’s so bad it’s great. One senses at least some participants knew how trashy their Tramp was. It’s anyone’s guess whether the variably amateurish (but vivid) actors

were in on the joke, or its butt.

Despite its rising infamy, little is known about Shanty Tramp‘s creation. Whatever became of Holland or fellow cast members? Director Joseph P. Mawra made just three more movies, with titles like Savages from Hell (1968). Even the enterprising Murray was out of the biz by 1974, dying of a heart attack just five years later after the IRS seized all his film prints for tax evasion.

One Shanty Tramp resident did make it to the proverbial big time. Mawra’s assistant Bob Clark graduated to directing ’70s horror cult classics (including 1974’s Black Christmas), hit a gusher called Porky’s (1982), then spent two decades shinnying up the pay-pole and sliding down the integrity one. His career ended with double-whammies The Karate Dog and Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2 (both 2004). The comfortable retirement such labors had earned was cut short in 2007 by a drunk driver. Now that’s a trajectory even beyond K. Gordon Murray’s sordid imagination.

SHANTY TRAMP

Thurs/21, 8 p.m., $10

Four Star, 2200 Clement, SF

www.thrillville.net

Woodyland

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Woodyland

YEAR IN FILM The defining adjective for Woody Harrelson is hard to pin, but I’d nominate … limber. Not just because he’s a deft physical comedian — in The Late Henry Moss, a star-encrusted but not very good Sam Shepard play that premiered in San Francisco in 2000, he stole the show from the likes of Sean Penn, Nick Nolte, and Cheech Marin with a 20-minute bit as a cabbie stuck in a front door. But also because he undergoes gymnastic changes from one screen role to another without ever seeming to break a sweat, or lose

his essential congeniality.

He appears to be a laid-back guy, and he’s a certainly a laid-back actor — one never sees the heavy Actor Man gears rotating (unlike with Sean Penn). It all seems to be pure pleasure and/or instinct. Maybe because he makes it look so easy — and because he’s so good a goofball — Harrelson has seemed kinda taken for granted, a guy who lucked out in TV (Cheers), then movies. He’s had a haphazard career by the usual upwardly-mobile standards, mixing leads, support parts, cameos, mainstream and indie projects, network guest spots, heavy drama and low comedy. One suspects he takes work because he likes the people involved or it sounds like fun. No wonder he’s not the possessor of a screen image as carefully calibrated (and, at least until recently, lucrative) as Tom Cruise.

I’m sure there was no intentionality involved — dig the randomness of his 2008 output — but 2009 turns out a year that insisted attention be paid. Closet Harrelson fans (why would you hide that love?) emerged. How could they not? His conspiracy theorist was the sole spontaneous note in humungous idiot’s-delight 2012. He gave the sublime Steve Zahn a run for his scene-owning money in undervalued indie flop Management, as principal rival for Jennifer Aniston’s affections.

More significantly, he ruled as brokenhearted macho blowhards in two wildly different films. In Zombieland, his joyriding undead hunter has gorgeous comic rapport with Jesse Eisenberg’s shambling teen coward, improving their material considerably. That surprise box-office triumph was followed by underachiever The Messenger, in which Harrelson plays the officer who trains-partners Ben Foster in the terrible task — considered by many the military’s worst job — of informing home-front families their loved ones

have been killed.

Harrelson’s role in that was sarcastic, hostile, loutish, hilarious, tender, tragic — a tribute to director-coscenarist Oren Moverman, for sure, but especially to the actor he rightly figured as best possible choice. It’s a beautiful performance. But in a toss-up between that and Zombieland, I’d be hard-pressed to choose a favorite.

Yet even those movies don’t let Harrelson dominate as in Defendor, a 2009 Toronto International Film Festival premiere not due theatrically until next year. In that, he plays a near-homeless schizophrenic who imagines himself a superhero. That tricky role brings out nearly all his colors, especially the loopy, athletic, and pathos-driven ones.

It’s another small film in a career whose highlights are often under-the-radar, like his gay Southerner escort to Manhattan socialites in 2007’s The Walker; the quiet hired gun in 2007’s No Country For Old Men; guess-who in 1996’s The People vs. Larry Flynt; the grenade recipient in 1998’s The Thin Red Line; and so forth. Not to mention such funny-farm swerves as Natural Born Killers (1994), Kingpin (1996), Wag the Dog (1997), and (in drag) Anger Management (2003).

To his credit, Harrelson has also been a high-profile spokesman for hemp, veganism, and overall greening. At his Mill Valley Festival tribute in October, he was charmingly abashed by his own success and serious about attributing achievement to others. All this overcoming a most unfortunate familial background fictionalized in fellow-Texan-turned-local-playwright Octavio Solis’ brilliant Santos & Santos.

Will he age out? Unlikely — already straddling Steve Buscemi and Matthew McConaughey terrain, he can be our next Jeff Bridges for another 30 years.

Bridges abides

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Bridges abides

FILM “Oh, I love Jeff Bridges!” is the usual response when his name comes up every few years for Best Actor consideration, usually via some underdog movie no one saw, and the realization occurs that he’s never won an Oscar. (Unlike, say, Roberto Benigni.) It is often said with a guilty-sigh undertone otherwise reserved for neglected relatives or loyal but inconvenient friends — people you know you shouldn’t keep forgetting about.

The oversight is painful because it could be argued that no leading American actor has been more versatile, consistently good, and true to that elusive concept “artistic integrity” than Bridges over the last 40 years. When you think about more conspicuous “great” screen actors of his generation — DeNiro, Nicholson, Pacino, Hoffman — it’s hard to deny that they’ve long since fallen into shtick, caricature, and somnambulism in mostly unworthy vehicles, occasionally showing a flash of prime alertness.

Whereas Bridges never rested on his laurels, or lack thereof. Of course he had a great ’70s — who didn’t? — in movies widely acclaimed (1972’s Fat City, 1971’s The Last Picture Show), fascinatingly quirky (1976’s Stay Hungry, 1975’s Rancho Deluxe and Hearts of the West, 1974’s Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, 1979’s Winter Kills), or just lucky to have him (the ’76 King Kong, 1978 Farrah Fawcett vehicle Somebody Killed Her Husband).

But while other stars caved to the more formulaic commerciality of the 1980s and onward, Jeff Bridges managed his career as before, mixing rare commercial hits (1985’s Jagged Edge, 1991’s The Fisher King, and 1984’s Starman — in which he’s an alien sweeter and surely sexier than E.T.) with mainstream bunts (1996’s The Mirror Has Two Faces, 1996’s White Squall, 1982’s beloved TRON). Not to mention the many, variably unpopular, cult-accruing smaller films he’s spectacular in: Cutter’s Way (1981), American Heart (1992), Fearless (1993), The Big Lebowski (1998), Simpatico (1999), and The Door in the Floor (2004). All Oscar-worthy performances, but Oscar seldom embraces flops, sleepers, and critics’ case-pleadings — the latest of which would be Crazy Heart.

It’s rumored this movie was slotted for cable or DVD premiere, then thrust into late-year theater release in hopes of attracting Best Actor momentum within a crowded field. (It’s a much more paltry year for actresses, as usual). Lucky for us, this performance shouldn’t be overlooked. Bridges plays “Bad” Blake, a veteran country star reduced to playing bars with local pickup bands. His slide from grace hasn’t been helped by lingering tastes for smoke and drink, let alone five defunct marriages.

In Houston he meets Jean (Maggie Gyllenhaal), freelance journalist, fan, and single mother. They spark; though burnt by prior relationships, she’s reluctant to take seriously a famous drunk twice her age — even if he charms both mom and four-year-old tyke (the improbably named Jack Nation). Can Bad handle even this much responsibility?

Meanwhile, he gets his “comeback” break in the semi-humiliating form of opening for Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell) — a ponytailed, stadium-playing contemporary country superstar who was once Bad’s backup boy. Tommy offers a belated shot at commercial redemption; Jean offers redemption of the strictly personal kind.

Bridges and Farrell can both really sing. (The former has long been a singer-songwriter-guitarist, though a pretty dull one.) Robert Duvall can’t, but then as producer and excellent support player (Bad’s old barkeep friend), he’s allowed some self-indulgence.

There’s nothing too surprising about the ways in which Crazy Heart both follows and finesses formula. You’ve seen this preordained road from wreckage to redemption before. But actor turned first-time director Scott Cooper’s screenplay honors the flies in the windshield inherited from Thomas Cobb’s novel.

As does Bridges, needless to say. Here he’s fleshy, hairy, wheezy — well-intentioned, but charming and untrustworthy at once. He rules an otherwise ordinary film like Mickey Rourke did 2008’s The Wrestler. But here’s guessing the relative lack of flamboyance (or salvation from the skids) won’t do Jeff Bridges similar favors. Again.

CRAZY HEART opens Fri/25 in San Francisco.

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