This Dark Material

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FILM REVIEW: Love and Saucers

David Huggins comes from a humble background. Raised on a farm in rural Georgia, he left behind the limited prospects and abusive parents of his home at age nineteen. Now in his seventies, David lives in New Jersey where he works part-time at a deli and paints. He is divorced with one son and collects VHS tapes. Nothing in his outward appearance or manner suggests that David differs from the crowd in any significant way. To believe this, however, would be a mistake. Ever since his childhood David has said that extra-terrestrial beings visit him. All of his paintings are memories from these encounters, including a romantic relationship with a female named Crescent. And that VHS collection? All science fiction and horror titles, many of them centered on alien landings or abductions. Brad Abrahams’ documentary Love and Saucers lays out the entirety of David’s story, leaving its final interpretation to the viewer.

He claims his first encounter with extra-terrestrials occurred in 1952 when he was 8 years old. A small, hairy creature with glowing eyes appeared to him on the farm, frightening him. Each successive encounter introduces him to new creatures: a praying mantis-like alien, stereotypical “little grey men”, and Crescent. David says that he lost his virginity to her at seventeen; later he discovered they had many children together. These visits continue even after he moves to New Jersey, although by the 1970’s they’ve stopped long enough for David to marry and have a (human) son. With time, he claims, the memories faded but then returned, leading to the break-down of his marriage. His paintings are a way of working through the memories, sorting and recalling them, preserving a period of his life that David cherishes greatly.

Stories of alien abduction most commonly garner rolled eyes and audible scoffs, but David exudes such a warm familiarity whenever he talks, that one must concede at least he believes in the truth of his experiences. Most of those around him do too, including his son and his boss. (His ex-wife declined to be interviewed.) Abrahams’ attempts to maintain his neutrality throughout, but he is even more careful to shield Huggins from ridicule. The only academic featured is neither a doctor nor a psychologist, one of whom might provide alternative interpretations of David’s memories, but Dr. Jeffrey Kripal, a professor of religion. Far from a skeptic, Dr. Kripal claims to have had a transcendental experience of his own, naturally inclining him to credulity.

This lack of skepticism ultimately works because of Huggins. He is neither a snake oil salesman nor a conspiracy theorist. Although he believes in events that many others would deem impossible, his personal belief and those memories suffice. He seems like a delightful man and there are far worse stories to spend an hour’s time listening to. Director Abrahams presents more of an enigma, though. His next project on cryptozoology (think: “Big Foot and Nessie are real!”) has already been announced. Shedding some light on the eccentrics of the world can prove amusing, or even educational. One only hopes that he isn’t a card-carrying member of the club.

RATING: ★ ½

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The Rape of Recy Taylor is Timely, Important But Flawed

As a documentary, The Rape of Recy Taylor suffers from some noticeable journalistic flaws. These shortcomings do not diminish the gravity of its subject, nor should they serve as an excuse to overlook the account of a crime commonly committed and rarely punished in the Jim Crow South: the assault of a black woman by a white man. Walking home from church with a friend and her son, twenty-four year old Recy Taylor was abducted and raped by several young white men in Abbeville, Alabama in 1944. Justice did not move slowly for Recy; it failed to move at all. Despite the friend’s son immediately reporting her kidnapping and Recy’s own statement detailing the crime once she was recovered, no arrests were made and no charges were ever filed in the case because the boys claimed what happened was consensual. They also slandered Mrs. Taylor’s reputation, falsely claiming she worked as a prostitute.

This refusal to act sparked national outrage in the black community. Newspapers in Chicago covered the saga; civil rights activists staged a rally at a popular Harlem hotel. A young Rosa Parks, already active in the NAACP but not yet famous for her civil disobedience on a Montgomery bus, traveled to Abbeville to lend her assistance. Under her leadership a Committee for Equal Justice was formed in support of a fair and unbiased investigation. Despite the support from as far away as the Midwest and New England, two (exclusively white and male) grand juries refused to indict any of the accused. It was an all-too-common failure of justice that reinforced the deeply entrenched racist attitudes held throughout the American South.

The Rape of Recy Taylor brings one woman’s story out from the shadows of our recent history and places it in the growing spotlight being shone on sexual predators. For that alone it deserves commendation and should be viewed by as wide an audience as possible. But it is not without flaws that require acknowledgement, too. The footage onscreen is dominated by clips of race films—movies produced for a black audience, with a cast that was predominantly or exclusively black—and drifting shots of an indeterminate countryside. The contemporary clips are used so frequently that they begin to feel like pseudo-reenactments, although they are never captioned as such; the rural scenes are never given context to lend them meaning, or else a great deal of time is spent lingering on roads and pastures which have nothing to do with Recy or her town. Soul and gospel music often plays a little too loudly over any narration, implying that the audience cannot find the material sufficiently moving without external prompting. These choices all contribute to a lackadaisical tone which, considering the significance and timeliness of Recy’s story, is an unfortunate one to adopt.

The appearance of a self-styled local historian also baffles. He wrongly claims that some sexual relations between slaves and their owners were consensual but the comment, and others that carry a suggestion of racism, are allowed to pass without comment. Other, more educated commenters on Recy Taylor’s case note that the organizational activity around it provided an early spark to the Civil Rights Movement. This hints at a rich and deep history that the film barely touches upon. Director Nancy Buirski missed an opportunity to seize at the larger narrative unfolding in the years leading up to the Civil Rights Movement, but her efforts at shining a light on the terrible joining of misogyny and racism that continues to this day deserve our gratitude and, most importantly, our attention.

RATING: ★★

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Dalida Takes an Uneven Approach to Fame

Iolanda Cristina Gigliotti, known professionally as Dalida, enjoyed international fame as a singer and actress before her suicide in 1986. The latest biopic from writer-director Lisa Azuelos follows the dovetailing stories of Dalida’s professional success and personal tragedy, by way of a rather convoluted structure. We are first introduced to Dalida (Sveva Alviti) checking in to a Parisian hotel for a suicide attempt. She fails, and during her recovery her childhood and early career are told in flashback to the physician treating her. Ex-husband Lucien Morisse (Jean-Paul Rouve) relates his discovery of Dalida at a singing competition. Their affair caused Lucien to abandon his previous wife, yet by the time of their marriage Dalida had become disillusioned with the relationship, upset over her fiancé’s prioritization of her career over children and a family. Her brother Orlando (Riccardo Scamarcio) reveals details about their youth in Egypt. Dalida thought herself ugly because of the glasses she wore and the teasing they garnered from her schoolmates. She also suffered an early trauma when their violinist father was arrested and detained during World War II. 

A former lover, Jean Sobieski (Niels Schneider) brings both the audience and the doctor up to present day. His affair with Dalida began shortly after her marriage, then quickly fell apart when she moved on to budding singer Luigi Tenco (Alessandro Borghi). Tenco had recently committed suicide after a poor reception at a competition, and it is this loss that the men believe has brought on Dalida’s current depression. Following this revelation Dalida churns forward linearly, although it does not entirely abandon flashbacks. Starting in media res hampers the entire film, though. For a project with women in the roles of lead actress, as well as writer/director/producer, it’s disappointing that for the first hour Dalida is unconscious, her life story related instead by the men who have observed it.

Recovering from her attempted suicide, Dalida enjoys a rejuvenation of her career with Orlando as her new manager. Her hunger for romantic and domestic satisfaction, however, still figures prominently. An affair with a university student leads to pregnancy and a secret abortion with, she later learns, renders her sterile. A relationship with socialite Richard Chanfray (Nicolas Duvauchelle) has a promising start, but turns tumultuous and abusive over time. There are additional suicides and eating disorders, an almost surreal level of melodrama that presages the singer’s tragic end.

Sveva Alviti bears an uncanny resemblance to her subject and brings a carefully controlled melancholy to her portrayal. It’s a warm and nuanced performance, held back by some questionable choices in the script (the male-driven first half, along with a mirror-Dalida who voices the singer’s silent thoughts out loud only once and is never seen again). Alviti does not appear to do any of her own singing: the soundtrack credits Dalida’s recordings, and in some instances the lip syncing is quite apparent. Rouve’s ex-husband adds a touch of smarm at the start, while Scamarcio toes the line between selfless brother and self-interested talent manager.

Dalida is sumptuously shot by cinematographer Antoine Sanier, who captures all the luxurious, colorful details of a celebrity’s life from the 1950’s through the 1980’s. Azuelos’ writing and direction are both uneven, their periods of strength undermined by ineffective choices early on. Strong performances from Alviti and her co-stars go a long way towards buoying an inconsistent script, yet by the film’s end Dalida still feels just slightly out of reach, a diva sequestered behind the stage lights while we can only sit and watch in the front row.

RATING: ★ 1/2

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Shadowman Shows the Darker Side of Art

Mention street art nowadays and most will picture the enigmatic Banksy: a little girl with a heart-shaped balloon or a protester about to hurl a bouquet instead of a Molotov cocktail, painted on the side of a building. His art often has a subversive undercurrent yet it intends to inspire conversation, rather than fear. But in New York City in the 1980’s, when the street art movement had just begun with artists like Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat, one of his predecessors was forging a lucrative career with decidedly darker images.

Oren Jacoby’s new documentary Shadowman tells the story of Richard Hambleton, a formally-trained painter turned street artist who first came to the public’s attention in the late 70’s with his “Mass Murder” series that stretched across the United States and Canada. Using his friends as models, Hambleton would paint out chalk outlines of a fictitious victim, splattering the scene with carmine paint. Passerby were often unaware of the artistic nature of what they’d just walked over, looking for non-existent police tape or sidestepping eerily realistic pools of blood. In the 1980’s he gained notoriety for his “Shadowmen”, hulking outlines splashed on the walls of side streets and dark alleys, crude and rough-edged as only the most meticulously envisioned art can be. They gave the impression of urban predators ready to pounce and often gave pedestrians a start. In 1984 he painted several of these Shadowmen on the Berlin Wall and enjoyed international recognition for much of the decade. By all accounts his star was in its ascendancy.

The success would not last, though. What began as a retrospective on the emergence of an innovative new artist shifts into a woeful portrait of addition and those who enable its continuance. Despite his paintings selling in the tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars, Hambleton bled cash. Drug abuse cost him a supportive girlfriend and eventually relegated him to semi-homelessness, living on the street or squatting in between charitable offers from his admirers. Their goodwill, however, often looks suspiciously like thinly concealed avarice. Collectors and gallery owners would put Hambleton up in apartments or luxury hotels, all expenses covered; in exchange, he agreed to provide new artwork for them at regular intervals. After a few months, these arrangements would inevitably fall apart.

Although these well-heeled benefactors fancy themselves “patrons” their benevolence does little to foster success. Hambleton no longer scrapes by, true, but he’s still an addict, now with access to large sums of money. Several of these patrons sit down for interviews in Shadowman. Many of them, when addressing the end of their financial involvement with Hambleton, bemoan how what they did was never enough. How he failed to produce the agreed-upon works, regardless of the support provided. He was, in short, beyond their help. But was he? Luxury suites and large checks are waved around like magic wands, yet no one even alludes to attempts at professional intervention. Perhaps Hambleton was a lost cause no matter what; by the time of his re-emergence in 2009, he had been struggling with addiction for nearly 30 years. Or perhaps, with the right support, he stood a fighting chance; with Hambleton’s passing last month, it’s a “what if?” left regrettably to the past.

Hambleton doesn’t lack self-awareness. His contemporaries Haring and Basquiat both passed away young. He seems resigned to his addiction and its consequences: “I was alive when I died,” he flatly tells the camera. His former girlfriend, Mette Madsen, posits that maybe the turmoil and the art are inextricably linked. To banish one would be to banish the other as well.  Witnessing Hambleton’s slow deterioration, it’s left to the audience to decide whether the steep cost of genius is justified.

RATING: ★★ 1/2

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Bjarke Ingels Experiences Highs and Lows in Big Time

There is a very particular delight in listening to a master explain his or her field of study with an approach that is both enthusiastic and readily understandable to the layman. Director Kaspar Astrup Schröder takes full advantage of this by placing his subject, eminent architect Bjarke Ingels, at a broad drafting table. Whether he sketches out his own designs for a new apartment block or the famous silhouette of Sydney’s opera house, Ingels walks you through the conception and execution of each building by way of his personal working philosophy. It’s a lovely technique often deployed in Big Time (a play on the name of Ingels’ firm and his professional success); those unfamiliar with the field of architecture will not find themselves lost in a maze of technical jargon, while the more informed among us will find no shortage of insights.

Big Time follows a seven year period in Mr. Ingels’ career, from 2009 to 2016. During this time Ingels focuses on the international expansion of his firm BIG, particularly into the American market. He opens a second office in New York City, the site of his residential project VIA 57 West as well as the firm’s redesign of Two World Trade Center. Periods of such rapid growth can alternatively be viewed as a time of increased turmoil, which certainly holds true for Ingels. While we follow his successful inroads to the world of Manhattan property development, made possible in part due to Ingels’ acquaintance with Douglas Durst, chairman of the Durst Organization and brother to the ominously hiccupping Robert Durst, we’re privy to the slow unraveling of BIG’s Copenhagen branch.

Without Bjarke’s physical presence the firm loses bidding wars for lucrative contracts, depriving them of much-needed funds while the NYC office continues its expansion. At one point (the passage of time remains hazy throughout the film) Ingels suffers a health scare that threatens to deprive him of an architect’s most important asset: his mind. With a tendency towards reservedness, Ingels does not indulge in any hand-wringing on camera. He does, however, provide a brief history of other architects who passed away at the zenith of their careers.

If there is a shortfall to Big Time, it is in a relaxed narrative structure directly at odds with Ingels’ modern precision. Predicaments like Bjarke’s medical concern or the growing pains of his business, naturally possessed of urgency, lose some of their edge when presented outside a sense of time. As the focus of Big Time, however, Bjarke Ingels makes for a fascinating subject. He has all the affable warmth of your favorite college professor without the artificial sheen of grandstanding. The documentary is a little less revealing than it claims—we meet his family for a brief time at the film’s start, and his girlfriend slips in right at the end with no backstory given—and ends a little abruptly. Perhaps in keeping with its more lax approach, Big Time does not wrap up on any central thesis or lesson. Yet the passion and quiet charisma, not to mention the considerable achievements, of Ingels are reason enough for its production, which will hopefully serve to reinvigorate a similar sense of enthusiasm in viewers.

RATING: ★★★

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Mr. Roosevelt Embodies ATX’s Quirky Charm

“Shot on Kodak Motion Picture Film”: it’s not a vanity card you see often at the movies nowadays. Whether a choice grounded in aesthetics or budget, it serves as apt foreshadowing of the quirky-cute attitude on display throughout Mr. Roosevelt. Writer-director Noël Wells stars as Emily, a struggling comedienne who moved to Los Angeles, leaving behind her boyfriend Eric (Nick Thune) and their cat in search of the mythical big break. Two years later Emily is still struggling and Eric is now her ex. When he calls to warn that the presidential feline might not have long to live she catches the next flight to Austin. Once there, the bad news comes in a deluge: Mr. Roosevelt has died, Eric has a new girlfriend, Celeste (Britt Lower), and the two of them live in the house she used to share with him.

Celeste’s perpetually tranquil outlook and composure only salt the wound. Invited to stay in the guest room until Mr. Roosevelt’s ashes are ready, Emily takes a few more steps deeper into the picturesque new life her ex now inhabits. The entire home is an homage to the copper, white, and millennial pink palette popularized by Instagram and Pinterest. Celeste always looks effortlessly chic in a minimalist wardrobe whose simplicity surely comes at great expense. Eric, to her shock, fits in well. He’s given up his graphic tees and his guitar sits abandoned in the backyard shed; dreams of a successful band permanently roost on the backburner, superseded by the need for a “real” career.

Once Emily takes up temporary residence with Eric and Celeste some customary hijinks ensue, most of them still funny in spite of their expectedness. Beneath the situational humor of two exes thrown together, however, beats a sincere heart. Two years is ample time for a person to grow and change. Watching Emily come to terms with how different yet familiar her former beau feels, alongside with the stagnant inertia of her own life, reflects one of the painful lessons of early adulthood. These changes don’t invalidate either Eric’s past or present self: the two are simply different. Ms. Wells draws out a brash self-centeredness in Emily that slowly emerges in subtler ways from her two co-stars. As Eric, Mr. Thune acquits himself nicely, but it’s Ms. Lower’s Celeste that sparks the most interest. Her warm demeanor toes the line between sincerity and saccharine put-on, finally settling into a realistic middle ground that elevates her well above the stereotypical replacement harpy.

While far from the focus of the plot, from time to time Mr. Roosevelt will glance over slyly at the hand-wringing over the changes in Austin in recent years. Emily embodies the classic feel of the city, weird and proud of it; Celeste and her friends favor the “new Austin”, trendy in a safe sort of way. Neither one of these is necessarily right nor best, a conclusion supported on both personal and broader levels.

The impetus for Mr. Roosevelt’s plot might lie in the death of a pet, but film does not focus on grief. Instead it zeroes in on the lurching changes of early adulthood, whatever their impetus may be. It can be a period of uncertainty and insecurity where even the most put-together are winging it more often than they’d have you think. None of us escape this life alive—even those blessed with nine lives. Mr. Roosevelt shows us that stasis and change can be good in their own way, so long as either is approached with a little kindness and a hearty dose of humor.

RATING: ★★★

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A Murder in Mansfield Looks Beyond the Crime

Collier Landry was only eleven years old when his mother Noreen disappeared in December 1989. Less than a month later her body was discovered in a shallow grave under the concrete floor of the family’s basement and his father, Dr. John Boyle, was arrested for her murder. The evidence against him was damning: Collier testified that he heard several loud thumps from his parents’ room the night Noreen went missing, and his three year old adoptive sister, who often slept beside their mother, told detectives she saw Boyle hit Noreen and wrap her up “like a mummy”. A pregnant mistress, Noreen’s divorce petition the month before, and a jackhammer rental in the days before her death all helped secure a conviction that has seen Boyle imprisoned ever since.

Documentarian Barbara Kopple’s A Murder in Mansfield introduces Collier and his family through the use of purely archival footage from the trial and surrounding media coverage in its opening minutes. Residents of the small Ohio town describe Boyle’s trial as exciting and like a scene from the movies. Collier, now twelve, takes the witness stand with more poise than most adults, staring down his father as he describes their non-existent relationship. He’s just as articulate 25 years later. Now a cinematographer in California, Collier wants to return home in search of the closure he never found in his adolescent years. For years Boyle maintained his innocence; in the early days of his incarceration, he and Collier exchanged combative letters over his refusal to confess. Collier intends to read one letter, returned unopened, to his father now.

Before visiting Boyle in prison, Collier revisits the places and people that rose to importance after his mother’s death. It’s a sad unfolding of the collateral damage left behind in her absence. Collier lost his father and family home, as well as his adopted sister, whose new family changed her name and slowly lost contact. He grew close to Lt. Dave Messmore, the lead investigator in his mother’s case, and found stability in the home of his adoptive family, the Zeiglers.

Unlike some recent pop culture phenomena, A Murder in Mansfield is not a whodunit. The mystery of Noreen Boyle’s death, insofar as the courts and Collier Landry are concerned, was solved in 1990. Instead Kopple focuses on the effects of that childhood trauma on Collier and his efforts as an adult to move past them. The film’s greatest weakness comes from an unanticipated place. The composure that rightfully earned so much praise for Collier as a boy feels counterproductive as he works to delve into the past. His natural tendency towards eloquence lends a rehearsed feel to most conversations and robs scenes of the raw emotion that makes a good documentary great. This becomes glaringly clear in the staged conversations between Collier and his therapist. Moments of emotional power do peek through, though. When viewing pictures from his mother’s case file for the first time, Collier’s wordless expressions of grief convey more than any speech.

A Murder in Mansfield takes a quieter approach to the true crime genre, although it still doesn’t entirely avoid the theatricality of its flashier counterparts. With few exceptions the tragedy and its ramifications feel as if they are held at arm’s length from the audience, meant for our perusal but not our personal engagement. If the process brings closure and peace for Collier then it should be applauded, but the combination of detachment and staginess makes for an uneven viewing experience.

RATING: ★ 1/2

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Just Say ‘Goodbye’ to Hello Again

Hollywood has had a lot of success, critical and commercial alike, mining Broadway for content over the years. While a strong effort from the cast and crew is essential, it can’t be denied that the best movie musicals pretty much all start out with stellar source material. So what happens when the inspiration is lackluster? In the case of Hello Again, one is left with a numbingly repetitive look at a century’s worth of unsatisfying sexual encounters that wears out its welcome before it ever settles in.

Based on Arthur Schnitzler’s play La Ronde, Hello Again follows a daisy-chain of encounters that span from 1901 to present day, one character from each scene progressing into the next with a new partner. Because the scenes don’t unfold in chronological order the only real connection between each vignette is a musical motif…and the crushing ennui suffered by each successive pair of participants. On display is a revolving door of misery, degree being the only variable. With no catharsis in sight, Hello Again quickly falls victim to the law of diminishing returns. You can only be beaten down by the message of man’s fundamental isolation for so many scenes before apathy or irritation inevitably sets in.

(It should also be noted that in the majority of these encounters, one person must persuade or cajole the other into intercourse. The musical premiered in 1993 and the filmmakers certainly can’t control current events, but nonetheless that behavior adds a considerable layer of discomfort when viewed in light of the recent accusations against Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, and others.)

The diverse ensemble have varying degrees of singing experience; some (Jenna Ushkowitz as the Nurse, Audra McDonald as the Actress) make the most of their appearances, while others fall resoundingly flat (Sam Underwood as the Whore, Nolan Gerard Funk as the Soldier). Minimal choreography accompanies the songs, and what little does occur suffers from so many jump cuts that no two consecutive steps are contained in the same shot.

Ultimately, however, no vocal talent or flashy dance moves can distract from the sub-par material at the foundation of Hello Again. Schnitzler’s play wasn’t performed until 1920, twenty years after its publication. Attitudes towards sex differ greatly between then and now, making the intimate encounters across social boundaries feel much less transgressive now than they did at the turn of the 20th century. Even when minor tweaks to the original story or conscious casting decisions create couples who are not exclusively heterosexual and white, those changes feel expected, or even overdue. Hello Again wants to shock and provoke with its dour outlook; instead it bores. If only art had better imitated life, intermixing gratifying relationships in with those less so, it could have added a great deal more poignancy to both.

RATING: Zero stars

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Strad Style is Kooky and Endearing Look at One Man’s Passion

We’ve all overpromised and underdelivered at some point in our lives. Yet rarely does one tilt at such a large windmill as the one Daniel Houck attempts to conquer when he sets himself the task of replicating an old master’s violin for an emerging modern star. Strad Style is a bit of a misnomer; although a phrase used by Houck, the instrument he sets out to build is instead a facsimile of Paganini’s Il Cannone (“the Cannon”), which was crafted by an equally revered contemporary of Stradivarius, Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri. Houck embraces his numerous eccentricities. His interests extend beyond lutherie to lowriders, tattoos, and candle magic. He lives frugally on a farm on the outskirts of a small Ohio town, borrowing money from friends to cover the expense of woodworking equipment while one of his cars remains at the mechanic due to unsettled bills. Houck’s main connection to the world beyond his house comes from social media. It’s through Facebook that he connects with violinist Razvan Stoica and makes the astonishingly confident offer to create a Cannone replica for a recital next summer.

Through the course of the film it becomes quite clear that Houck possesses an abundance of passion coupled with a surprising level of skill for an amateur. However, his financial situation provides no shortage of obstacles. All the best tools come second- or third-hand; the new additions are Harbor Freight’s most affordable options. Tis entire house, which goes unheated in the frigid Midwestern winter, constitutes his workshop, and we often see Houck slouched on the sofa or in his bed as he works. Depression over his situation—low income, isolation, restlessness—also takes its toll. Stress ratchets up as the calendar counts down to Stoica’s concert in Amsterdam. If Houck succeeds, it will mark his first international trip. With the deadline drawing nearer, you’re struck by the absurdity of the situation: how crazy must this professional musician be to put so much trust in a stranger, and how naïve was Houck to make such an attempt as this?

Without spoiling the outcome in too much detail, suffice to say the end result is immensely satisfying to witness. Director Stefan Avalos focuses more on how the project impacts Houck than the details of construction. Were Houck not oddly charming it would be a shortcoming, because as the violin takes shape one can plainly see the artistry behind it, yet we’re generally left to marvel at the mystery of how all those particulars came to be. As it stands, there is great satisfaction in watching Houck plow forward. Strad Style never descends into proselytizing, but the message is clear: your circumstances in life can become an excuse, or motivation to excel. One guess as to which approach Daniel Houck chooses.

His quirks might be wholly unique, but there’s a relatability to Houck and his dreams that should appeal to every viewer. Strad Style gives us the pleasure of watching those dreams unfold while reminding us of the power of passion and perseverance working in tandem, with a touch of (candle) magic at its heart.

RATING: ★★★

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Daguerrotype Provides More Snores Than Scares

For the unfamiliar, daguerreotypy was an early form of photography in which a chemically treated silver plate was exposed in a camera obscura (or “dark chamber”) for a period of time, then treated a second time with mercury and other chemicals to reveal and preserve an image on its surface. Other photographic techniques quickly surpassed the Daguerreotype technique but it enjoyed a brief period of popularity in the mid-nineteenth century. Images captured in this fashion could record a great level of detail and had the unique characteristic of shifting from negative to positive when the silver plate was tilted, producing an effect similar to the security holograms in use today.

This bygone technique lies at the heart of Daguerrotype, Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s first French-language film. Photographer Stéphane (Olivier Gourmet) has walked away from the fashion industry to create life-sized daguerreotypes of his daughter Marie (Constance Rousseau) in their decaying mansion nestled in a Paris suburb. Joining them is new assistant Jean (Tahar Rahim), inexperienced but intrigued by the work. Stéphane remains preoccupied with his wife’s unexpected death and his new portraits of Marie bear an eerie resemblance to smaller versions featuring her mother.

Time-worn signs of the supernatural plague our characters from the start. Doors open and shut of their own accord, while a shadowy figure who may or may not be Marie in her period dress wanders the halls. To term Daguerrotype a horror film risks the ire of many genre fans, though. There is no gore, nor are there cheap jump scares. In fact, it’s refreshing to note that Grégoire Hetzel’s score fades to silence for every ominous passage. In these moments the beauty of cinematographer Alexis Kavyrchine’s work ably carries the brunt of responsibility for mood and tone. The closest genre approximation would be gothic horror, although Kurosawa’s approach veers so subtle that it often settles into insipidness.

A tragic accident near the halfway mark serves as a catalyst to more than the characters. It transforms an understated modern gothic into a haphazard mélange of genres. A minor subplot involving the sale of Stéphane’s land surges into prominence, mixed in with financial scheming and a dash of lovers-on-the-run, while also doubling down on the supernatural mystery present from the start. Even with this new momentum the dialogue remains stilted and the characters delivering it too flimsy to elicit much empathy. By the end, the question of reality versus hallucination doesn’t matter nearly as much as it should.

Kurosawa has had great success with past films like Pulse and Creepy. As the first half of Daguerrotype demonstrates, he can finely control the timbre and rising tension of a scene with staging and light. Yet in the latter portion he overreaches, abandoning an elegant simplicity in favor of disjointed thrills. The end result lacks the charisma and detail of the gleaming silver plates that are the cause of so much anguish at its center, instead mimicking the quick satisfaction of a candid Polaroid.

RATING:  ★

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Jane Explores the Early Career of a Much-Celebrated Scientist

The numerous accomplishments of primatologist Jane Goodall have been extensively covered before. What distinguishes the new National Geographic documentary Jane is the rediscovery of over 100 hours of video footage from her first research excursion to the Gombe Stream National Park in Tanzania in 1960. Supplemented by modern-day interviews with Goodall, we learn about discoveries both scientific and personal, gaining perspective on the early career of a woman whose mere presence in the field was revolutionary.

When Jane Goodall first traveled to Africa, working under funding obtained by Louis Leakey to observe chimpanzees, she had no formal scientific training at the university level. An animal lover all her life, Jane’s objective was to gain acceptance by the little-studied primates in the hopes that their behavior might provide clues about our own early ancestors. Her lack of training meant that certain prejudices of the time—ideas that only humans had “minds” or could fashion tools—would not influence the research. While some of her methods were unorthodox (naming each individual, rather than assigning impartial numbers, for example) Goodall’s early discoveries on chimp behavior cemented a decades-long career and her reputation as one of the foremost authorities on chimpanzees.

Admirers of Dr. Goodall will likely find little in the way of new information in Jane, although that isn’t to say the documentary is any less of a treasure. The footage shot by Hugo van Lawick, regarded as one of the finest nature photographers and Jane’s husband of ten years, is breathtaking. Van Lawick died in 2002 yet his presence can be felt in every frame. Although much of the footage comes from his early career one gets the sense it comes a developing artist and naturalist in equal measure, as he knows not only what to capture but how best to film it as well. A fanciful soundtrack by Philip Glass, with his characteristic ebbs and flows, conveys the child-like wonder and glee Goodall often describes when spending time at Gombe.

Seamlessly interwoven with anecdotes about her research is the story of how Jane and Hugo fell in love, ultimately having a son together who spent much of his early life on assignment with his parents in Africa. To call it a non-traditional upbringing would be a massive understatement, and to hear Jane explain how her studies deepened her feelings on motherhood, which in turn influenced her understanding of the chimpanzees at Gombe, is quite touching.

Given only cursory mentions when compared to her professional accomplishments and personal life, some details surrounding Jane’s work and its reception should earn some rueful chuckles. Despite being twenty-six for the first Gombe expedition, Jane was required to take a chaperone with her into the camp (she chose her mother). Much of the press coverage also embellished beyond the facts in ways one doubts her male counterparts encountered; frequently referred to as a “girl” or “blond”, Jane oftentimes had to read through descriptions of her trim figure before articles addressed any scientific results. (Taking it all in good humor, Jane says she didn’t mind the attention, since it helped ensure continued funding!)

In an old interview, a reporter asks Jane how long she’ll be working with chimpanzees. “I would say, at a rough guess, until I die,” replied Jane. “But I can’t tell you how many years that will be.” She’s already dedicated more than 55 years to chimpanzees, Africa, and nature conservation, proving an inspiration to generations of young girls and boys. Jane is a lovely testament to all that Dr. Goodall has accomplished and what she still hopes to achieve.

RATING: ★★★

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My Uncle Gloria Has An Astonishing Tale To Tell

Described by his nephew as a “nasty, greasy, homophobic junkyard bulldog”, Butch Rosichan embodied the concept of hypermasculinity for the first part of his life. Nasty divorce proceedings over twenty years ago led to a stint in jail and killed his auto-wrecking business. When a second incarceration seemed likely, Butch chose to wait out his civil arrest warrant by living as a woman. It’s the beginning of an astonishing transformation. Inspired by Gloria Estefan and Gloria Steinem, Butch remakes himself as “Gloria Stein” with all the thoroughness and dedication once spent restoring classic cars. Home videos provide glimpses of Gloria settling on her new voice and style, then later follow her decision to undergo a sex change operation.

Gloria has led an unapologetically colorful life, yet by the end of My Uncle Gloria a disconnect between her story and the viewer lingers. She touches on her time as a dominatrix, an unpleasant decision to make financial ends meet, as well as the far more fulfilling work she does now as an advocate for transgender people. Neither experience suffers from much examination; in fact, many of the milestones in Gloria’s life come across more like footnotes to the grandiose character she’s become. More compelling is the story of her partner, Dan Friedman. Born into an Orthodox Jewish family as Debra Freidman, he only fully came out to his family after the death of a grandparent. Dan’s recollections of his adolescence capture the uncertainty and fear experienced by so many transgender youths, and his honesty belies not just an admirable grace when facing those struggles, but also the difficulty of maintaining that poise.

While the inclusion of Dan is not only necessary, but welcome, his presence draws attention to inconsistencies in Gloria’s story that go unaddressed by director Robyn Symon and her team. When we first hear her account of Butch’s early cross-dressing days the experience comes across as an elaborate prank; by the end of My Uncle Gloria, however, she talks as though there had always been a feeling of discontent in her previous life. Because the interviews are undated this shift could be due to the passage of time and Gloria’s growing acceptance of herself. However, that this and other disparities are allowed remain unexamined creates an off-putting distance between the subject and audience.

An attempted reconciliation with Gloria’s two sons is tacked on near the end; she has not had a relationship with them in years and it clearly causes her pain. Their absence, as well as that of Butch’s ex-wife Shirley, is never addressed. (Were they not invited to participate and share their perspective? Or did they decline or ignore any offer?) It’s a gaping hole in Gloria’s story and one that gives My Uncle Gloria a lopsided tone. Time and again the film provides glimpses of an experience worthy of understanding and respect, before shying away from details that carry with them the discomfort of an ambiguous reality. It’s a regrettable unevenness, but one that is made up for at times by the compellingly human presence of Dan.

RATING: ★ 1/2

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Tragedy Girls Never Quite Comes Together

Horror, perhaps more than any other film genre, captures the prevailing fears and attitudes of its time. With the encroachment of technology into our lives, storytellers have to find new ways of scaring an audience accustomed to the instant global connectivity allowed by cell phones and ubiquitous Wi-Fi hotspots. In recent years, they’ve moved beyond the terror of rural areas with no phone service and made social media a primary actor in the show. Tyler McIntyre’s Tragedy Girls eschews the “haunted computer” conceit of his predecessors and keeps the evil based in flesh and blood while parodying the most narcissistic and self-promoting side of social media.

High school seniors Sadie (Brianna Hildebrand) and McKayla (Alexandra Shipp) hope to leverage their brand “Tragedy Girls”, an online show about serial killers, into wider fame. Rather than react to criminal incidents around them, the girls concoct a plan to capture a murderer-at-large (Kevin Durand) and apprentice under him in order to craft the perfect killing spree and their exclusive online coverage of it in tandem. Foibles of a typical teenager’s life soon interfere; love interests, rivals, prom committee, and uncooperative captives all form road blocks and threaten to drive a wedge between the aspiring murderesses. Before long, Sadie and McKayla have to choose their victims out of necessity, as their involvement in the crime spree risks discovery.

The script by McIntyre and Chris Lee Hill opens on a promising note: two teens parked on a lovers’ lane and a malevolent presence lurking in the shadows collide in an unexpected way. Unfortunately, the larger story fails to unfold in equally satisfying fashion. Much of the dialogue comes across as if Diablo Codey had written Scream, little more than a mish-mash of non-sequitur humor and heavy-handed meta winks at the audience. For our two leads they cast off any aspiration towards nuance in favor of clunky stereotypes. Tragedy Girls is in no way an insightful parody of the unhealthy obsession with fame fostered in some young adults. Instead it lands as an overly broad, derisive statement against an online culture that the creators likely learned about secondhand.

Hildebrand and Shipp outperform the material, which bodes well for future endeavors (more likely to be helped along by their participation in Marvel’s expanding cinematic universe). Kevin Durand provides the right touch of manic camp to serial killer Lowell, a rare instance of the parody succeeding more than it fails. While his performance is adequate, Jack Quaid looks old enough compared to his costars that he should have aged out of high school by now. Josh Hutcherson fits in better, although his self-absorbed bad boy gets regrettably limited screen time.

It’s a common shortfall in horror for a promising idea to stumble somewhere in its execution. An unfunny and unsurprising script hobbles the performances in Tragedy Girls and defangs any social commentary from the start. While the lead performances may make it easier to sit through for some, the struggle for a scary and intelligent look at our online lives continues in Hollywood.

RATING: 1/2 star

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A Family History is (Partially) Revealed in Aida’s Secrets

The horrors of the Holocaust continue to echo through the decades. Around six million Jews were murdered, family lines were extinguished and, in the case of those fortunate enough to survive, family histories were irrevocably gone. A loss of such magnitude in some ways defies quantification or comprehension, even as survivors and their descendants continue to live with its consequences daily. Aida’s Secrets hones in on the story of one such family, separated and complex, as two brothers piece together the fragments of their shared history.

Izak was born in the Bergen-Belsen displaced persons camp in 1945 and sent to Israel for adoption two years later. As a boy he learns the truth about his adoptive family, eventually meeting his birth mother Aida, who had immigrated to Canada. During this visit she reveals to several family members, but not Izak, that she had a second son while living in Bergen-Belsen. Izak only learns about his younger brother when in his late sixties; with the help of his nephews Alon and Saul Schwarz (who co-direct) and Yad Vashem, a Holocaust remembrance organization, he tracks down his brother Shep, who was raised and continues to reside in Canada.

The meeting of the two brothers opens a Pandora’s Box of secrets, all of which revolve around their mother, now 90 years old and living in a nursing facility. Shep grew up with his father Griza (who passed away in 2008) and stepmother, another woman Griza met in the DP camp. Unlike with his brother, Aida made no attempt to locate or reconnect with her second child, which understandably causes him pain. She greets him with affection when they finally meet but responds to every inquiry, gentle or blunt, about her decision so many years ago with a failing memory. Aida remembers clearly how it felt to abandon Izak, how happy she was to see him again, yet even the simplest details of Shep’s infancy are lost behind a chorus of “I don’t remember, I don’t remember”. It’s left to the viewer to speculate whether Aida has genuinely forgotten or if, for personal reasons more compelling than her son’s, she wishes to keep her memories secret forever.

Each investigation begets another. Griza’s behavior as a womanizer and black market profiteer in the DP camp is uncovered. The question of shared paternity between Izak and Shep is answered. Near the end of the film, the brothers discover that their family tree may even have more branches than originally believed. The answers they fail to find are as emotionally charged as those they do, although the process of searching helps to build the fraternal bond denied to them as children. It’s a journey heart-wrenching and fascinating in turns, unfolding steadily throughout the film. As one of the Schwarz nephews observes in voiceover, so much time has passed that some of the details so fervently desired by Izak and Shep may always lie out of reach now. Simply finding one another has healed a lingering wound, though, and made one family a little more whole. Beneath the heartbreak and frustration, there’s a comforting warmth at the heart of Aida’s Secrets.

RATING: ★★★

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Only the Brave is a Fitting Tribute

There are those who worry that Only the Brave, the latest film by director Joseph Kosinski, hits theaters at an inopportune time. Natural disaster films tend to heavily feature…well, natural disasters, milking destruction and personal loss for as much drama as possible. Given the current news out of California, no one requires another reminder of fire’s destructive power. Only the Brave follows a different path and showcases what the firefighters of the Granite Mountain Hotshots save, more so than what wildfires destroy. It’s a heartfelt and straightforward look at how much the men and their families give back to communities all over the Southwest, with a welcome touch of restraint in the telling of a true story.

We meet the group before they’ve certified as an elite hotshot crew and follow them for several fire seasons leading up to the fatal Yarnell Hill Fire in 2013. Although all twenty firefighters are represented in the cast—no omissions or combining of several real-life figures into one character—the primary focus stays on superintendent Eric Marsh (Josh Brolin), his wife Amanda (Jennifer Connelly), and rookie Brendan McDonough (Miles Teller). Jeff Bridges, James Badge Dale, and Taylor Kitsch are the most prominent members of the supporting cast. The script by Ken Nolan and Eric Warren Singer prioritizes interpersonal moments between the crew and their loved ones and sets a good pace using significant fire events as markers of time rather than empty set pieces in an action film.

McDonough joins the team at a pivotal moment, before their certification and while he attempts to reform from his youth as a ne’er-do-well, jolted into responsibility by an unplanned pregnancy. Teller, who tends to be cast in abrasive and cocky roles, displays refreshing depth as the earnest, work-in-progress rookie. Brolin brings understatement and more than a touch of hubris to “the Supe”, a reminder that the Granite Mountain hotshots were both heroes and regular men who could struggle with the demands of their job and the needs of a life that extended beyond it. Jennifer Connelly impresses as Amanda Marsh and in many instances proves the heart of the film. More than once she calls out a double standard of self-reliance and dependence that her husband can indulge, buffing away some of the romantic sheen of a loving protector who spends much of his time helping others.

The seriousness of the lives of these men and women is balanced by the perfect amount of humor. In a feature length film that doesn’t have enough time to feature each firefighter, the banter between crew members helps to quickly build a sense of cohesion and brotherhood among all twenty men. When we do see them in action (and each fire event is stunning in both scope and quality of special effects), that camaraderie shines as adrenaline and a meticulous attention to detail must coexist in a deadly environment.

Films “based on a true story” usually take the skeleton of real life events to construct a more dramatic narrative. The bravery and sacrifice of Arizona’s Granite Mountain Hotshots on display in Only the Brave avoids unnecessary Hollywood window dressing and gets to stand on its own instead. It finds the rare and welcome balance between the small moments and the large, shaping up as a worthy tribute to the men and their families who gave up so much.

RATING: ★★★ 1/2

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Tom of Finland Veers Vanilla

Oftentimes historical dramas have the bittersweet task of reminding us not only of the progress we’ve made, but of the distance we have yet to travel. Dome Karukoski’s biopic Tom of Finland examines the adult life of Touko Laaksonen (Pekka Strang), whose stylized erotic drawings had a significant impact on twentieth-century LGBT culture. Much of the film takes place in his native country, where homosexuality is looked down on as both a crime and a curable ailment. It is only after a visit to California, where Touko’s art has been published under the pseudonym “Tom of Finland”, that he finds any public acceptance of his true self.

There are two fascinating experiences that bookend Laaksonen’s life. As a young man he was conscripted into the Finnish army near the end of the Winter War and served through World War II. The dual stresses of a return to civilian life and concealing his sexuality combine to provide much of the drive behind his early drawings. In the last decade of his life, Laaksonen visited California at the behest of a fan who helped arrange for exhibitions of his work and later became his business partner. Los Angeles, with its thriving gay community, turned into a welcome second home after so many years of overt and covert discrimination. Regrettably, the film capitalizes on neither period and generally drifts through Laaksonen’s life without much momentum. It makes what must have been a colorful, revolutionary life feel tepid on-screen.

Despite the poor translation from flesh to celluloid, Strang does an excellent job capturing the largely wordless way Laaksonen could live and express himself. In a country where homosexual acts are outlawed, intent can only be expressed through glances, and Touko does not always interpret them correctly. Strang also excels as Laaksonen ages; the silence of Touko’s youth shifts in tone from repression to discretion once he finds the regular freedom afforded by his westward journeys. Taisto Oksanen is underutilized as a military commander who offers understanding and assistance to Touko at several times throughout his life, and Lauri Tilkanen provides emotional balance as Veli, Laaksonen’s partner of nearly 30 years.

Karukoski and cinematographer Lasse Frank make Tom of Finland a lovely film to watch. It’s disappointing that strong direction and performances don’t quite compensate for an unsuitably sedate script. With six separate contributors given writing credits, this may be a case of too many voices trying to do too much in one story. Nonetheless, if their efforts help share the story of an important artist and influencer in the LGBT community, then Tom of Finland should be counted as a success.  

RATING: ★ 1/2

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Mark Felt Stands Unsteadily When Alone

There have been American political scandals as long as there have been officials serving in American political offices. In today’s climate of twenty-four hour news and instant access to information, any misstep by a public servant gets billed as the next calamity. Out of the countless lies and mistakes accrued over the last two hundred-odd years (more than) a few scandals distinguish themselves, with Richard Nixon’s Watergate debacle looming as one of the largest of all. Watergate cemented the journalistic careers of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein and led to the resignation of a president, its unraveling requiring an effort that spanned more than two years and included the contributions of numerous players.

The identity of one key informant—dubbed “Deep Throat” by Washington Post reporters Woodward and Bernstein—remained a mystery until, three years before his death in 2008, Mark Felt admitted to his role in revealing the conspiracy. Serving as deputy director of the FBI at the time of the Watergate break-in, he leaked information about the Bureau’s investigation to the Post, Time, and other publications. Based on Felt’s own writings, the film portrays him as a man loyal to the Bureau as both an organization and an ideal. He possesses an encyclopedic knowledge that mirrors Hoover’s penchant for secret-gathering and pursues the truth behind the Watergate break-in with a relentlessness in no way connected to the jockeying for position that came after J. Edgar’s death. According to Mark Felt, at least, Mark Felt was the consummate lawman.

Mark Felt divides its attention between the political and bureaucratic machinations of the Watergate scandal and the personal life of its subject (played by Liam Neeson), focusing heavily on the former. Mr. Felt serves as the spider to the investigation’s web, not just a key player— the key player. It’s a simplification that detracts from, rather than enriches, the story. The scenes concerned with Watergate unfold like a knock-off John Le Carré spy story and as the leading man Mr. Neeson plays up his reliably gravelly voice and glowering stares to great effect. He manages to make threats sound complimentary, a lingering reminder of Hoover’s vast influence. Yet too often it feels as though writer/director Peter Landesman is just going through the paces; he knows the story and so does his audience, which apparently absolves him of an effort to present the material in a thrilling way. Stylistically, with its antiseptic cyan tones and quietly thrumming score by Daniel Pemberton, Mark Felt leans heavily on a House of Cards vibe to establish tension.

The scattered scenes revolving around Felt’s personal life only exacerbate the anemia. When the story begins his daughter Joan (Maika Monroe) has been absent for a year, living in a commune that may or may not have ties to the militant Weather Underground organization. This causes both he and his wife (Diane Lane) anguish, but with so little time spent on the Felt family dynamics each new development in his search for Joan feels more like a distraction than additional depth. To their credit, Ms. Lane and Ms. Monroe both acquit themselves well considering the dearth of material.

Mark Felt was an important piece in a very large puzzle and his is a compelling story not accessible at the time of Alan Pakula’s All the President’s Men. Yet to hone in so finely on his role while ignoring the greater context in which it existed ultimately diminishes the sprawling tale of Watergate. Mark Felt unwisely divides its attention between the scandal that catapulted him to anonymous fame and the personal life that humanized a devoted Bureau agent. It would have done better to choose one and leave the audience with some future food for thought.

RATING: ★