Rock Star Cinema | NED ROCK

January 2, 2015

Duets

Duets (112 minutes) 2000/Rated R – starring Gwyneth Paltrow, Paul Giamatti, Andre Braugher, Maria Bello, Huey Lewis, Scott Speedman, Steve Oatway, John Pinette, and Angie Dickenson. Directed by Bruce Paltrow. Released through Hollywood Pictures (currently in theatres).

When singing duet with a partner, it’s always smart to make sure both members are keyed to complementing tones. Otherwise the song will sound wildly uneven. Tone is seriously uneven in the new film “Duets.” And I’m not talking about the songs. They’re just fine. Actually, they’re the best thing about the film. It’s the scenes which surround each musical showcase that seem to warble off pitch.

The cathartic rush of singing your heart out before a roomful of strangers, in this case, karoake competitions, serves as the common denominator in the lives of six characters searching for a way to discover themselves. Gwyneth Paltrow plays an innocent, babe-in-the-woods, Vegas showgirl who yearns to make a connection with her long-lost dad after her mother passes away. The father, Huey Lewis, is a hustling karoake singer (do these guys exist?) who travels the country, pulling a Fast Eddie Felson on anyone stupid enough to challenge him to a sing-off competition. Couple number two consists of Maria Bello as a trashy, recalcitrant West Virginia waitress eager to fellate her way west to a dreamy life as a California recording star, and reluctant Scott Speedman, a down-on-his-luck, jilted, Cincinnati cabbie she’s coerced into chauffeuring her. The final duo comes together when frazzled sales exec Paul Giamatti melts down and leaves his “perfect” suburban Arizona life and snaps up heart-of-gold, ex-con Andre Braugher hitching on a lonely Utah highway. The three sets of lost souls will eventually converge on a $5,000 karoake competition in Omaha, Nebraska by film’s end.

The catchphrase that is uttered constantly (battered to death I should say) by the Giamatti/Braugher team is that there’s been “an error in judgement” in their lives. In their case it’s Braugher’s life of crime and Giamatti’s over-the-top rebellion from his complacent life. This, of course, translates to the other two pairs as well (i.e. Lewis not having made contact with his little girl all those years, and Bello basically selling her soul to achieve a dream). The problem with this set-up is that we can see the resolutions coming for everybody about 15 minutes into the film. There are virtually no surprises or curve balls to spice up the mix. The picture would have been far more interesting had all six of these characters been thrown together in a plot situation early on which would have forced some unpredictability to the storyline.

As it is, the Giamatti/Braugher scenes are the most compelling, yet they eventually fall completely out of whack in tone with the other pairs’ scenes. Giamatti has a bug-eyed charm that elicits laughs as he initially unleashes his wild side. His coming-out solo rendition of Todd Rundgren’s “Hello It’s Me,” and his duet with Braugher on “Try A Little Tenderness,” are truly showstoppers (Paltrow’s much-heralded duet with Lewis on Smokey Robinson’s “Cruisin’” doesn’t generate quite as much heat). But as Giamatti’s antics become more violent, we’re left wondering what happened to the charm? After he and Braugher murder a convenience store clerk, the tone lurches into “dark” territory, even though director Bruce Paltrow (Gwyneth’s dad) doesn’t seem to understand this. Braugher, and particularly Giamatti, barely register the cold-bloodedness of their deed because the story demands they have a message-laden, ludicrous climax at the ol’ karoake main event.

As for the other principals, Maria Bello chews up her scenes with Speedman, almost as if he’s a ghost she’s walking through. His character is insignificant and barely worthy of screen time. As for Paltrow and Lewis, there’s only wisps of genuine emotion between them, and it’s mostly, sorry to say, the fault of Lewis. While both characters are fairly one dimensional, Gwyneth is able to convey some depth of feeling with her smile and her pout. Lewis, who’s supposed to be distant, nevertheless, gives us no clue as to how his character is feeling through his reactions and actions. Even during the obligatory, emotional, “I-just-want-your-love-Daddy” scene that occurs before the conciliatory duet, Lewis stands still, absolutely fossilized, like he has for the entire film, never letting us see a genuine human character inside.

The recommendation to see “Duets” lies in its duets. For if it’s carefully-crafted, people-pleasing, top-forty favorites you want to hear in THX surround sound with your date by your side, “Duets” is able to deliver on that front.

January 2, 2015

Eye of the Beholder

Eye of the Beholder (101 minutes) 1999/Rated R – starring Ewan McGregor, Ashley Judd, Patrick Bergin, k.d. lang, Jason Priestley, and Genevieve Bujold. Written and Directed by Stephen Elliott. Released through Columbia/Tri-Star Home Video.

This film was thrashed by every critic in the country when it came out in theaters. So let me state up front, it wasn’t that bad. It had some snappy visual transitions between scenes, such as the use of little snow-domes to show the next locale our protagonists would wind up in. There was some actual thought put behind sound design, with whisps of smoke having the aural characteristic of ghostly gasps, and street ambience fading completely to footsteps as McGregor pursues Ashley Judd in Chicago. Some nice scenery was shot in San Francisco, Death Valley, and Pennsylvania. Let’s see, oh yeah, and Chrissie Hynde’s song over the end credits was lush and evocative. That’s all I can think of. Now here’s what’s wrong.

The whole film is a dysfunctional mess. There’s nothing wrong with having your two main characters as screwed-up individuals who you’re supposed to follow for an hour and a half. “Bonnie and Clyde” was great entertainment. “Badlands” brought a kind of pastoral feel to the isolated delinquency of Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek. But when you really don’t ‘buy’ into dysfunction of the characters, such as is the case in this movie, the psychological angle the filmmakers so dearly want you to identify with becomes rather moot.

Ashley Judd plays a woman of many identities, whose primary goal in life is to meet men with money, kill them, take some bucks or jewels, and move on to the next location. Because she lost her Daddy when she was younger and hooked up with quack counselor Genevieve Bujold, who taught her how to ‘survive’ against all odds, we’re supposed to empathize with her homicidal La Femme Nikita approach to getting ahead. Ewan McGregor’s character is an even greater head-scratcher. He plays a kind of British spy for a consulate (the espionage ‘headquarters’ is so laughably low-key, I thought the scene was cutting to the reservation desk at the Alexandria Hilton), whose trail tailing a rich kid scamming a trust fund leads him to cross paths with the lethal Ms. Judd. While listening and eyeballing Judd through high-tech gadgetry, he’s suffering from delusions of his little long-lost daughter, who crops up beside him to have a nice chat and encourage him to keep following the psycho woman.

Yes, the two main characters both lead very ‘insulated’ lives, which we’re to assume drives Ashley to kill rich guys and eventually, leads McGregor to rescue her from pursuing cops and feds. But neither is someone we particularly care for. Ashley’s stabbing and drowning fellows who don’t really deserve being dispatched, and McGregor’s endangerment of bystanders when he fires on police, just don’t add up to empathy for this guy who’s protecting a gal who should have a permanent room at Bellevue Hospital. By the time the ending arrives (rather hastily I might add), we have learned virtually nothing about their humanity; their effect on other’s lives, no commentary on society’s ills that might have contributed to who they are, or any attempt to alter their destructive ways. The two leave as the ciphers they were presented as when the first frame flickered.

k.d. lang is the one thespian who, along with the two leads, hangs around throughout the course of the picture. She told JAM Showbiz regarding her part in this movie, “I would never want to think I was taking roles away from actors because of my celebrity.” No need to worry, k.d. Donning a headset and talking to a computer screen for the entire movie doesn’t exactly foster envy in more accomplished actors clamoring to land your role. Ms. lang comes across a bit stilted, having no one to share a scene with, and therefore, her line delivery is just that, delivering her lines. There was no nuance or feeling to them nor any additional bit of character development she brought to the part. Sadly, it’s very evident that her role, as well as those scenes involving the ridiculous spy headquarters, were totally unnecessary in propelling what little plot this film had.

January 2, 2015

Falling From Grace

Falling From Grace (101 minutes) 1992/Rated PG-13 – starring John Mellencamp, Mariel Hemingway, Claude Akins, Dub Taylor, Kay Lenz, Larry Crane, Brent Huff, Kate Noonan, Deidre O’Connell, John Prine. Directed by John Mellencamp. Released through Columbia/Tri-Star Home Video.

Some people work out their problems by seeking a qualified therapist and pay top dollars to divest themselves of their woes. Others turn to a spiritual concept or doctrine to help lift the burdens from their souls. And a handful of folks, perhaps in the heartland of the good ol’ United States, have a tendency to climb inside a steel chicken cage tied to the back of a pickup truck and ride around in a spark-filled, whiskey-fueled, stupor to work out their demons. At least that’s what John Mellencamp’s character resorts to when the façade of his down-home, good-times demeanor shatters over a month’s period while visiting his family in the film “Falling From Grace.”

In 1984, Mellencamp collaborated with Pulitzer-prize winning author Larry McMurtry (“Lonesome Dove,” “Terms of Endearment,” “The Last Picture Show”) on a screenplay tentatively titled “Ridin’ The Cage.” Warner Bros. was interested in the project for awhile, but as with many development deals in the land of celluloid, Mellencamp’s labor of love went into “turnaround.” In 1988, he returned the favor to his writing partner by producing an album called “Too Long In The Wasteland” by new recording artist James McMurtry, Larry’s son. By July 1990, after 8 long years, Columbia Pictures finally gave the script the green light, and Mellencamp began filming his project, now titled “Souvenirs,” in and around his hometown of Seymour, Indiana.

The film tells an almost parallel life to the one John Mellencamp led. An Indiana musician named Bud Parks hails from a big family whose members have fallen into the temptations and the despair small town life serves up like a slow-cooking fondue pot. Bud’s half-brother Ramey (Mellencamp’s bandmate, guitarist Larry Crane) is a hard-scrabble chicken hand at the family’s poultry ranch. Bud’s more successful brother Parker (Brent Huff) resents how the fortunate and wealthy Bud returns to town and tries to act like one of the locals. Parker’s wife, P.J. (Kay Lenz), had wanted Bud to marry her before he left for his life in the big-time music world, but since that didn’t happen, she settled on his brother, the only catch left in town. And Bud’s father, Speck (Claude Akins), after it is revealed that he is having an affair with P.J., is the catalyst by which Bud is forced to face his own inner drives and esteem, leading him to chuck away all he has accomplished on a self-destructive path.

Mellencamp grew up in a big family and fled at an early age to initially make his musical mark in New York City and London. He, too, like Bud, after he found success, returned to his hometown to hang out with his family and high school friends. His uncle, like Claude Akins character in the film, was a womanizer and was loathed by much of the townsfolk, for his abusive, snarling behavior, and it was through an examination of this relative’s defects, Mellencamp, like Bud in the film, determined not to pattern his life in that fashion.

The film is an intelligent, insightful, slice-of-life examination of how difficult it is for a wealthy celebrity to “go home” and sort out the dysfunctions of his past. Although this topic has been covered many times before, the script (credited to McMurtry) handles the theme with a measured maturity and attention to detail. Mellencamp’s assured direction allows the scenes to “breathe,” without fancy camerawork, in his choice of simple pans and slow dolly shots. The actors inhabit their roles with an authenticity that perfectly settles in with the quiet Indiana nights, filled with cigarettes and beer, that are portrayed on the screen. The dialogue is economically to the point, and yet, its brevity holds more power and candor than most films that try to cover the same territory.

As an actor, Mellencamp captures the attention of the viewer and has remarkable presence. The story calls for him to be upbeat and amiable for the first third of the narrative. Mellencamp’s chuckles, grins, and sincere backslaps help draw the viewer into admiring Bud as he tries to fit in with his “common” family and friends. When the wind is taken out of his sails, after he learns P.J. is sleeping with his father, Mellencamp makes the shift in character, subtly, to a more conceited, moody, and introspective nature with appropriate believability. As well-received as this film was by most (worthwhile) critics in 1992, it’s a shame we haven’t seen John’s talents used again in the arena of feature-length filmmaking. “Falling From Grace” is a smart, sure-handed debut.

January 2, 2015

Girl on a Motorcycle

Girl On A Motorcycle (92 minutes) 1968/Rated R – starring Marianne Faithfull, Alain Delon, Roger Mutton, Marius Gornig, Catherine Jourdan, Jean Leduc, Jacques Marin. Photographed & Directed by Jack Cardiff. Released through Anchor Bay Entertainment Home Video.

As Rebecca, the girl on the motorcycle, Marianne Faithfull awakens one morning, taking a look at her placid life in a small French village with an ordinary, meek schoolteacher and thinks, “I’ve been stultified. And the bike is waiting. Chomping at the bit.” With that, having dreamed of flying birds, she alights on her motorcycle, taking flight to Heidelberg, Germany, back to the arms of her lover, Alain Delon.

This ‘60s time capsule comes complete with Jean Luc-Godard-like philosophical musings, a groovy brass/tambourine jazz-rock score, and optical negative coloring courtesy of cameraman/director Jack Cardiff. It also prominently features the lithe female form of singer Faithfull, both in her birthday suit and in a leather jumpsuit. The leather fixation, in fact, is so heavy-handed that border cops suggestively pat it down, German diner patrons ogle it, and her lover caresses every inch of the garment muttering “your body’s like a violin in a vinyl case.” It’s no wonder the American release of this picture was retitled “Naked Under Leather.”

Released during the period Marianne was living with Mick Jagger, pregnant with their child, “Girl On A Motorcycle,” even though it is based on a French novel called “La Motorcyclette,” could very well be a veiled allegory of Faithfull’s own liberating sexual path. Just like she left her nice-guy, art student husband, John Dunbar, for a musical/carnal/drug-littered sojourn with party boy Jagger in real life, Faithfull’s character leaves her nice-guy, schoolteacher husband in the film for the “free-love” espousing, no-commitment wiles of university philosopher, Alain Delon. As she simply sums up her dissatisfaction about her film husband, “It’s his bloody kindness that’s killing me.” The love scenes with dashing Alain are awash in pulsating synthesizer chords and a red-tinted, liquified look. It sort of resembles making love inside a lava lamp.

The story is threadbare. The whole plot could truly have been told in about 15 minutes. We see glimpses of how Delon and Faithfull began their affair, but the majority of the film is spent fetishistically tracking the leather-clad Marianne in long wide shots across the French and German countryside. Most of her dialogue is looped in as her “thoughts,” so Marianne is not given much to do other than look detached, sad, and also, achingly happy. Her big, bright smile comes across so forced that the subtext reads “why am I on a motorcycle for 3 months?,” and “what they’re paying me is nowhere near enough” (reportedly 20,000 pounds).

Like most of the “statement” films of the late ‘60s, this one ends a-la-“Easy Rider,” with Marianne in blissful anticipation of reuniting with her lover, suddenly smacking her bike into a car on the highway and doing a nasty header through a windshield. Of course, in real life, shortly after this film was released, Marianne’s fate turned just as bleak when Jagger dumped her after she miscarried and years of heroin abuse kicked in. Thankfully, Marianne cleaned up her act and has become, over the years, an inspiration to other female rockers who envy her smoky-voiced singing and hard-edged songwriting. Originally released in an R-rated cut on Monterey Bay Home Video in the Eighties, “Girl On A Motorcycle” can now be found in it original, glorious, uncensored, widescreen European version on Anchor Bay Entertainment Home Video.

January 2, 2015

Harry Tracy

Harry Tracy (111 minutes) 1983/Rated PG – starring Bruce Dern, Helen Shaver, Michael C. Gwynne, Gordon Lightfoot, Jacques Hubert, Daphne Goldrick, Lynne Kolber, Alex Willows. Directed by William A. Graham. Originally released through Vestron Video.

“I never drew down on another man unless he had a fair chance,” the outlaw says to the nervous citizen. About how many westerns have you watched where you heard a line like that? Have you got a digit in your head? Now multiply that figure by 500 and you’ll know the number of times throughout the course of watching “Harry Tracy” where you’ll be able to spot the next cliched scene or piece of dialogue coming around the bend.

First of all, who is Harry Tracy? The film tells us he was a gentleman outlaw who robbed banks and trains and wound up dying somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. As played by the Mr. Sardonicus-smirking character actor Bruce Dern, Tracy comes across as an oddball hobo instead of the charming bandit the filmmakers would like you to see him as. To put it in perspective, picture yourself standing in a bank line today and in walks Dern waving a gun. The first thoughts to spring into your head as he sweet-talked you would not be, ‘oh, what a lovable, crooked-smiling thief with a heart of gold,’ but instead you’d scream, ‘somebody get a bead on this friz-haired, psycho-grinning nutjob before he does a creepy ‘Coming Home’ flashback and empties his carbine into the old guard’s temple!’ Needless to say, the casting choice of Dern, however admirably against type, does not serve the movie well.

When the film gets underway, in 1899, Harry is on the lam from a vigilant federal marshal. He falls mysteriously, head-over-heels, in love for a society woman (Helen Shaver), whom he follows and eventually beds in the forests of Oregon. Their romance is supposed to tenderize our heartstrings, but it feels as if the damp northwest woods, through which they flee the law, would provide more sparks than anything Dern and Shaver espouse to each other on the screen. Along the way, they pick up Dave Merrill (Michael C. Gwynne), a painter-turned-Harry-Tracy admirer, and with no other purpose than to fill space in a three-shot — a character so devoid of a goal — Gwynne keeps himself occupied by trying to outcreep even Dern.

Canada’s Bob Dylan, folk-rock performer Gordon Lightfoot, takes to the screen in the role of the marshal. Having scored a number one album in June 1974 with “Sundown” and acclaimed for his 1976 true-life chronicle “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” Lightfoot’s career around the time of “Harry Tracy” was in a dry period. As a lawman who knows his nemesis well enough to chat with him like old chums, Lightfoot, unfortunately, was not written a dynamic role that effectively spotlighted this unique relationship with the bandit. With monotone delivery and very stiff body language, (I’m not sure I even saw his head tilt or turn) there’s arguably more animation in a single cell of “Steamboat Willie” than in Mr. Lightfoot’s performance for this film.

Although Allen Daviau’s photography is impeccable with its vistas of snow-laden mountain terrain and fog-shrouded woodlands (mostly filmed in British Columbia, Canada), the famed cinematographer of “E.T.,” “The Color Purple,” and “Bugsy” can’t breathe life into a script that is uneven and wholly routine. The tone for the piece is appropriately dour by the time Tracy meets his demise, but up until that point, it’s gratingly slapstick in an unsophisticated, distracting manner (unlike the masterful shifts in tone found in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”). Cartoony shenanigans such as Dern making a quick change of clothes, and calling out to the bumbling railway guards that the bandits went ‘that-a-way,’ bring the cornpone action, with its requisite jew’s-harp twanging score, down to the level of “H. R. Pufnstuf.” Which, of course, is not too far off the mark. ‘Pufnstuf’ creators Sid and Marty Krofft executive-produced this scrappy tale of an outlaw I still don’t know very much about.

January 2, 2015

Head

Head (86 minutes) Rated G/1968 – starring Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork, Victor Mature, Annette Funicello, Timothy Carey, Sonny Liston, Ray Nitschke, Logan Ramsey, Carol Doda, Terri Garr, and Frank Zappa. Directed by Bob Rafelson. Released through Rhino Home Video.

The Monkees film “Head” is very dated. It has moments of silly, slapstick humor that are stale with age. The supporting actors like Victor Mature and Annette Funicello make it feel like a B-grade endeavor. But taken as a whole, “Head” is one of the most trenchant, intriguing, and oftentimes very slyly-witted time capsules ever to come out of cinematic history. Sure the Monkees’ television show was just an innovative, amped-up kiddie show. And while this G-rated film has the wacky underpinnings of its broadcast cousin, the tone and subtext are refreshingly adult and very insightful.

“Head” begins with the foursome interrupting a bridge dedication, scrambling through the honored ceremony, and jumping, seemingly, to their death into the harbor below. Thus begins a series of “sketches,” smoothly transitioning from one to the other, with each lasting no more than five minutes or less at a stretch. There is no linear narrative. Don’t look for a main plot. The scenes that make up the film are commentaries on the state of the world and where the Monkees fit in. And it’s not a very positive picture.

The screenplay was a result of a brainstorming weekend between the Monkees and writers Bob Rafelson and Jack Nicholson. It’s no secret that the session was enhanced by a little narcotics usage, and the film certainly has a ‘druggy’ feel to it, what with all the flash editing, slow motion sequences and solarization techniques (shots in which the film negative is colorized). The Monkees spotlight drug allusions in scenes where they smoke from opium pipes in a harem, and when Mike Nesmith finds a giant joint inside a huge vacuum cleaner they’ve been sucked into (“See now, this isn’t one of your standard brands,” he says). The film’s title could allude to how they’re out to mess with the audience’s mind, or it might be a reference to the types of drug paraphernalia shops prevalent during the late ‘60s.

The Monkees don’t shy away from satirizing the problems of their day. The Vietnam War is spoofed in an effective, dry humor sequence in which the boys are pinned down in a foxhole by enemy fire. Peter Tork is sent to retrieve more ammo, and as he runs for a neighboring foxhole, a man with a camera steps in front of him, exclaiming, “Hold it! This is for Life!” Suddenly, Peter’s image is captured on the cover of the famed magazine. It’s random, yet wickedly revealing in the way it shows how media coverage of the war tried to sway national opinion. When Peter leaps into the adjacent foxhole, he’s hammered continuously by professional football linebacker Ray Nitschke, who’s sporting a jersey with the numeral one on it. It’s as if to say America, that football-lovin’ country, was trying to pummel their soldiers into winning one for the Gipper.

What is truly unique is that the film nakedly tries to tear down the public’s perception of their Monkee idols and shows us how much they seemed to hate their personas. A waitress at a studio commissary greets them by saying, “Well if it isn’t God’s gift to the 8-year olds!” She ribs drummer Micky, “Are you still paying tribute to Ringo Starr?” Annette Funicello cries for heartthrob lead singer Davy Jones in a tender scene, but then we see a makeup person applying fake droplets to her cheek. Gorgeous women fans are ignored with disdain by the guys, and yet, on the flip side, when one female admirer samples kisses from all four of the Monkees, she simply exits, quite unimpressed. After a live concert performance, in which the boys sing the rousing “Circle Sky,” fans rush onto the stage to tear at them, only to discover the group is made up of mannequins. When Mike is given a surprise birthday party, complete with groovy, adoring fans, he is disgusted and angry, unhappy to be thrown a celebration. A burly, almost zombie-like man with a noose around his neck steps forward and wails, “Attaboy, Mike!”

In fact, the Monkees never appear at peace or in good spirits throughout the entire picture. Their remarks are always cutting, without the relief of empathy or good-naturedness about them. This is a very calculated decision in the overall way they convey their disconnection to the trappings of pop-star life. The only time they seem content is during a “pastoral” vignette midway through the movie, played to the excellent Carole King/Gerry Goffin song, “As We Go Along.” In this sequence, the four Monkees are isolated in beautiful nature settings, simply walking about, free of their celebrity baggage.

The blessed moment doesn’t last long. Throughout the rest of the picture, the quartet keep winding up in a big, barren, black box. No matter how many times they try to escape it, they get dropped back into it. Even when they make their final break, and subsequently, return to where they once started, back to leaping from a bridge to a watery death, they wind up stuck inside a watery box. It’s as if they can’t escape the box their producers, their fans, and the medium of television itself has put them in. All very heady stuff indeed.

January 2, 2015

Kurt & Courtney

Kurt & Courtney (93 minutes) Rated R/1998 – a documentary by Nick Broomfield. Features an appearance by Courtney Love and covers the demise of Kurt Cobain. Released through BMG Independents Home Video.

Did Courtney Love have anything to do with the death of her Nirvana-hubby Kurt Cobain? That’s the question scruffy, affable British documentarian Nick Broomfield sets out to answer in this meandering, yet intriguing film. He doesn’t quite nail it. Like a low-budget Oliver Stone, Broomfield attempts to throw a lot of theories circling around a murder conspiracy onto the screen and hopes you’ll be able to draw some sort of conclusion about it. What we’re left with is just a thumbnail peek into the complex life of a great musician and a lot of unanswered speculations about motive, logistics, and pardon the dark pun, execution of a nefarious plot.

Broomfield centered his work primarily around the findings of a private investigator, Tom Grant, who was ostensibly hired by Courtney to find Kurt shortly after he disappeared from the Southern California rehab clinic and days before the discovery of his shot-gunned corpse. Grant’s contention that Kurt and Courtney were on the outs and that money would have easily been the motive for Courtney wanting her husband killed is barely examined in all its Machiavellian chess moves. Much of what Grant has alleged in his interviews and particularly on his website raises some serious question marks on the whole tragedy, yet he comes across in the film as a bit creepy in his overly-dedicated fixation on the matter. It leaves the viewer with a doubt about his ulterior motives.

The other interview subjects that cross Broomfield’s path are all either character witnesses to Kurt and Courtney’s personalities or individuals tied to the Grant conspiracy theory. Hank Harrison, Courtney’s biological father, greets Broomfield for the first time proudly showing off the galleys to his new book capitalizing on the sensational suicide of Cobain. Harrison is pure hucksterism, bellowing out his views on Courtney’s “well-documented violent outburst pattern” with such gusto that he could sell Hibachis with the same tone as insinuating his daughter is a cold-blooded conspirator. A has-been punker and former lover of Courtney’s is featured in a long, errant interview that progresses hilariously from adulation to outright vitriol towards the mysterious woman. The only person who comes close to exuding a sense of discernment and stability is Kurt’s aunt Mari. She is seen playing tapes of Cobain as a toddler, giggling and singing into a microphone, tearing away the curtain that Broomfield has chosen to keep pretty much in place on Kurt’s character throughout the film.

As for Courtney herself, needless to say, the movie doesn’t present her in a favorable light. Her desire to iron over her drug-addled past is exhibited in a tension-filled “Today” show interview when she bitterly threatens to walk off the set if the line of narcotic questioning is not extinguished. An especially chilling moment occurs during Broomfield’s interview with author Victoria Clark, who wrote a book about Nirvana during the early ‘90s. Clark lets us listen in on an answering machine message she recorded of Courtney threatening to kill her. Indeed, Broomfield lets us know that Courtney’s vast array of lawyers hounded him at every turn in coercing his financiers to pull out of the funding of the film and in prohibiting the use of any Nirvana music in the piece. Courtney’s legal assault was apparently persuasive enough to have this film banned from its initial Sundance Festival premiere.

As a viewing experience, “Kurt & Courtney” is hit and miss. Since Broomfield was only able to talk to Courtney once (haphazardly outside of an ACLU function) and was only able to scratch the surface of the murder conspiracy, the film, as investigative journalism, leaves much to be desired. But the charm of a Broomfield documentary is the fact that the movie is just as much about him and his take on the subject as it is about the person(s) he is trying to document. While he doesn’t insinuate himself into the action as much as he did with his previous two outings in “Heidi Fleiss: Hollywood Madam” and “Fetishes,” there are some hilarious moments when we get to see his deadpan, befuddled looks while chatting with eccentric Kurt and Courtney acquaintances. The pinnacle in absurdity is reached when the pimp for Divine Brown (she of Hugh Grant fame) escorts Broomfield out to meet El Duce, a squinty-eyed, loopy lead singer of a death-S&M metal band who claimed Courtney offered him “50 grand to whack Kurt Cobain.” The look of amiability and unease on Broomfield’s face is priceless.

Perhaps the only succinct conclusion to the swirling innuendoes and assumptions regarding Courtney’s part in Kurt’s death can be found in the testimony of the film’s Watergate-style ‘Deep Throat’ character. Midway through the documentary, a mysterious note is left on Broomfield’s car requesting a clandestine meeting. We are soon introduced to a drug-slurred woman named Chelsea and her friend who was supposedly Kurt & Courtney’s last nanny. She leaves us with the obvious, yet eternally tragic theme of the movie when she sums up the Cobain suicide. “If he wasn’t murdered, he was driven to murdering himself.”

January 2, 2015

Liar’s Poker

Liar’s Poker (93 minutes) 1999/Rated R – starring Richard Tyson, Paul Sloane, Jimmy Blondell, Flea, Neith Hunter, Pamela Gidley, Amelia Heinle, Colin Patrick Lynch. Written and Directed by Jeff Santo. Released through Third Row Center Films Home Video.

To be sure, mavericks like John Cassavettes, Melvin Van Peebles, John Sayles, heck, even Russ Meyer, opened the door to the world of ‘independent’ production, oftentimes, presenting intriguing views counter to the rest of Hollywood’s mold of the world. Unfortunately, by the time home video firmly took root in 1984, and modern-day mavericks like Steven Soderburgh, Spike Lee, and Quentin Tarantino made the line between Hollywood and ‘independent’ practically non-existent, we, the viewing public, have been inundated with useless wastes of celluloid ever since, from every hack who can score funding for their one shot at being offered a future bungalow on the studio lot.

Which brings us to “Liar’s Poker.” You’ve seen it, even if you haven’t seen it. Guys with guns, women as decoration, a murder or two, some ‘twists’ you can easily spot just from glancing at the pictures on the video box, and limited, boring settings due to budget constraints. Director Santo, with the benevolent financial aid of some family named Savino (there’s about five Savinos listed as producers on this thing), slapped together a viewing experience so tedious it may prompt you to distract yourself with a diverting, small chore, like, reupholstering the couch you’re sitting on.

Richard Tyson is a wealthy, hard-edged owner of a car dealership, a bar, and other assorted establishments. The people who work for him at the bar have been altering the books to make up for a little embezzlement. Tyson would like to know who’s behind it. He takes his serfs on a fishing excursion to Cancun, Mexico (which, for all we saw, could’ve been a Hilton off the Jersey Turnpike with a little river on its property) to sniff out the rat. What follows is so by-the-numbers, you find yourself screaming at the end of these straight-to-video features for the very breath and eardrum/pupil usage you have expended to magically be returned to you.

It takes about 45 minutes before you can even sort out which walking zombie in the picture is which. From the looks of the actors’ numb, flatline performances, it’s a plausible deduction to wonder if Santo even called “Action” to them when the camera was turned on. Tyson, Paul Sloane, and Jimmy Blondell glare, stare, glare a little more, and then grunt out dumb-guy bruiser lines like Tyson’s comment about his wife, “Can’t she do anything but spend money?” Of the three, Sloane comes across the most absurdly, with his long Fabio locks and stone-face readings. He makes Charles Bronson look like Nathan Lane. There are so many long, needlessly-brooding pauses, along with forced cross-cutting, to establish a “cool mood.” “Mood” is so pathetically irksome if there is no reason for a story to be told in the first place. Chop out all the ‘neat-o’ pauses in this film, and the movie would run the length of an Al Roker segment on the “Today” show.

For the most part, the one player who actually looks like he’s in it for the acting gig is Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. As the loyal simpleton sidekick to Tyson, his take on the ‘man-servant’ character consists of a humble Harvey Keitel impression mixed with the subtle shadings of Shemp from The Three Stooges. Basically, he’s called upon to be a doof, which he plays rather well. However, during one scene where he places a panicked call to 911, Flea shows he can handle a tense moment (the only few seconds that have a pulse in this somnambulant snoozefest) with believability and a sense of pacing.

Finally, the one element that prevents this endeavor from being a complete wash is the funky-rock score by Peter Himmelman. Find a way to isolate the driving songs off the optical track and burn them on a CDR. That is the only way you will be able to justify losing an hour and half of your life to this bottom-feeder flick.

January 2, 2015

Corrupt

Corrupt (99 minutes) 1984/Rated R – starring Harvey Keitel, John Lydon, Nicole Garcia, Leonard Mann, Carla Romanelli, Sylvia Sidney. Directed by Roberto Faenza. Originally released through Thorn/EMI Home Video.

In 1992, actor Harvey Keitel starred in an over-the-top performance as a New York detective who spirals into chaos and degradation when he investigates the rape of a nun. Hopped up on drugs, procuring free services from hookers, planting evidence on innocent suspects, he was out of control in the NC-17-rated “Bad Lieutenant.” The movie “Corrupt,” which he acted in almost a decade earlier, was his warm-up to the raucous “Bad Lieutenant” role.

In “Corrupt,” as Lieutenant Fred O’Connor, Keitel has scammed serious money out of his police department and invested it in a posh $400,000 Central Park West apartment. Although unfurnished, he gets to lounge about in its inherent luxury, smoking cigars and playing his country music whenever he wants. Meanwhile, a cop killer is loose amongst the citizens of New York, and it’s Harvey’s job to catch him. Amidst this backdrop, John Lydon invades Keitel’s perfectly corrupt life, and a psychological game of cat-and-mouse ensues.

Lydon, having shed his Johnny Rotten moniker from his Sex Pistols days, had formed Public Image Ltd. in late 1978, although by 1983, this band had already gone through total personnel changes and was on shaky ground. He took time out to star in this gritty independent feature and brought the project a menacing, slightly psychotic undertone, based on his previous exploits in the public eye. As a rich kid who supposedly feels guilty for being wealthy, Lydon’s character has periodically confessed in the past to crimes, such as rape and assault, which he has not committed. He has targeted Keitel, showing up at the Lieutenant’s apartment and claiming that he, Lydon, is the cop killer Keitel is now seeking. Keitel is more concerned that the kid knows about the posh apartment he illegally has leased and doesn’t buy the fact that the kid might just be the killer. Keitel trusses up Lydon, and beats and abuses the kid into telling him all that he’s discovered about Keitel’s schemes. From this launching point, another murder takes place, involving both men, and by the film’s conclusion, role reversals of power have taken a sharp turn.

The entire storyline has a subtle homoerotic dance with S&M undertones which is conveyed when Keitel goes to Lydon’s house and spots bondage photographs prominently displayed in the boy’s bedroom. Keitel starts out very definitely in the “master” role, pummeling and humiliating Lydon, making him eat from a dog bowl. But, then, the two begrudgingly work briefly as partners. Eventually, the roles shift again, and Lydon becomes the dominant and Keitel is his slave. By the end, the macho, hostile Keitel has been effectively rendered powerless. Religious subtext is introduced as well into this environment (as it was in “Bad Lieutenant”), as Lydon appears to be suffering for the sins of the most corrupt cop he could find.

Keitel’s performance in “Corrupt” is actually better modulated and effective than his overwrought and overly-praised work in “Bad Lieutenant.” John Lydon deserves more screen roles if one is to form an opinion of his acting chops solely on this performance. He gives a creepy, calm delivery in his submissive state and becomes appropriately menacing and commanding when he begins ordering Keitel around. It actually appeared as if Keitel was really landing punches on Lydon’s torso and pulling his hair in the film’s very dramatic scenes. No coddled movie-star, stuntman-stand-in, perks for Johnny Rotten!

Since the movie was financed and produced by a mostly-Italian crew, it has the look and feel, unfortunately, of a dubbed foreign film. The Ennio Morricone score is sometimes funky and driven, but oftentimes overblown. Yet, forgive these slight drawbacks, and the viewer will experience an early “Reservoir-Dogs”-kind of effort. This film was released briefly as “Cop Killer” and in a 113-minute version called “Order of Death” (the same name of the novel by Hugh Fleetwood, from which it was adapted). However, it was released to most theaters as “Corrupt” and can currently be found in the $9.99 bins of most mall video stores under that name.

January 2, 2015

B.U.S.T.E.D.

B.U.S.T.E.D. (102 minutes) 1998/Rated R – starring Goldie, Andrew Goth, David Bowie, Sarah Bird, Rachel Shelley, Clint Dyer, David Baker, and Graham Bryan. Written and directed by Andrew Goth. Released through Sterling Home Entertainment.

Originally titled “Everybody Loves Sunshine” and having played the festival circuit, “B.U.S.T.E.D.” didn’t see much theatrical exposure. For average gangster-style plotting, with a British spin, the film is, however, intriguingly satisfying in the performances of its three leads. The locations, which were filmed on the Isle of Man, lend a cold, working class feel that is rarely captured in a genre littered with flashy urban settings. The photography is more than adequate, showcasing the brick-laden rows of non-descript homes in the Pepperhill Estates area, and the techno soundtrack drives the pace of the plotting in a fervent gallop.

Writer/director Andrew Goth, a Manchester filmmaker, based a lot of the characterizations on his experiences around the gang life of local friends in his home city. Terry (techno dance/funk performer Goldie) and his cousin Ray (Goth) are released from prison and find that their gang’s operation has been overrun by a local Chinese triad organization. With the steady hand of their finance man, Bernie, (David Bowie) guiding them, the two argue about their future in criminal life. Ray wants out of the thug life, preferring to perform in a techno dance band, while Terry wants to wipe out their Asian adversaries and claim himself the king of the city once again. As sure as you can already recite the plot points, the two wind up as adversaries by film’s end.

As mentioned, it’s the actors’ commitment to their characters that give this effort a cut-above qualification. Goldie, with his display of shiny gold teeth and pitbull sneer, ably portrays the out-of-whack Terry, a jacked-up container of nitro just waiting to get pushed too far. Andrew Goth’s Ray is, at first, as hardened as his cousin, with a droopy-eyed stare that cuts through anyone trying to reason with him, but as the film progresses, he deftly allows us to warm to the changes he is wrestling with. And for my money, this is one of Bowie’s best performances in a long time. He is the voice of calm, quietly sewing a handkerchief, peering over his spectacles, but keeping a keen sense of awareness of the situation going on around him. He’s particularly effective in a scene where Goldie confronts him at gunpoint, accusing him of a doublecross, and Bowie cooly counters with a hidden knife to Goldie’s throat. What’s particularly noteworthy about this, otherwise Tarantino-like scene, is that Bowie allows himself to shake with fear after the confrontation has been diffused.

Like most buddy gangster pictures, where the guys have a very close bond, there’s always an element of homoerotic subtext lingering beneath the surface. From Butch and Sundance to the boys of Good Fellas, this film doesn’t stray from that underlying notion. Terry pleads and begs Ray not to leave, causing havoc amongst the Asian alliance to draw Ray back in, as well as, finally resorting to beating up Ray’s girlfriend. Other cliché gangster elements used in this film involve the drive-by, indiscriminate spray of gunfire on the opposing gang, and an innocent friend of the hoodlums being drawn into the crossfire of calamity. A very controlled and intense scene involves Terry and an entire hilltop of his gun-toting comrades squaring off against the Chinese organization in an open field.

The main drawback to the movie concerns Ray’s desire to join his friends in a techno dance band, with scenes that sometimes come across like outtakes from “Krush Groove.” But for a standard gang action picture, “B.U.S.T.E.D.” manages to adequately deliver on the requisite story points.

Categories ‐ Rock Star Cinema