PTA MEETING

Opening this weekend:

One Battle After Another--The erotic power of revolutionary violence is the initial theme of Paul Thomas Anderson's latest. Set in a strife-torn, more or less contemporary U.S., it follows the exploits of "The French 75," an SLA-like cadre who liberate immigrant detainees and blow up communication towers and banks and the like.

A French 75 operative known as Perfidia Beverly Hills (the goddessy, imperious Teyana Taylor), finds political mayhem an aphrodisiac; she's desperately turned on whenever her sheepish explosives expert squeeze "Ghetto" Pat Calhoun (Leonardo DiCaprio) is about to blow something sky high. Her seditious salaciousness isn't limited to Calhoun, however, but also to her enemy, the reactionary Colonel Steven Lockjaw (Sean Penn)--there's a loathing sexual tension between them the second they meet, at gunpoint.

Anderson's strange saga, very loosely derived from Thomas Pynchon's Vineland (much like There Will Be Blood was vaguely inspired by Upton Sinclair's Oil!) soon fast-forwards seventeen years. The theme then shifts from uncontrolled libido to domestic complacency. Perfidia is long out of the picture, and Calhoun, now known as "Bob Ferguson," is living incognito and raising the teenaged Willa (Chase Infiniti) in an A-frame in Colorado.

Bob learns that he, and Willa, are again targets of the forces of Lockjaw, who's trying to gain membership in an order of wealthy old white guy racists, the "Christmas Adventurers." The French 75 start getting the band back together to protect Willa, but after years of sitting on the couch smoking weed, Bob finds his revolutionary chops are rusty. Besides, he's forgotten all the passwords.

A wild and blood-soaked cat-and-mouse game ensues across the west. Bob and Willa's allies range from radical nuns to a native tracker to Sergio, a relaxed but capable martial arts sensei and immigrant underground railroad conductor played by a scene-stealing Benicio del Toro. The action is often laugh out loud funny, and though the comedy is grim and splenetic, these characters are weirdly endearing.

Partly this is because DiCaprio, Penn, del Toro and others are about as good here as they've ever been. But it's also because Anderson puts them through standard action movie paces--gunfights, rooftop scrambles, interrogations, and one of the more original, woozily effective car chases in some time--but they execute them like real human beings, fumbling in uncertainty. "Tom Cruuuuuise!" Sergio crows at one point, trying to encourage Bob to some derring-do, and it's a funny yet rueful reminder of the contrast between what we're capable of and what the movies have taught us we should be capable of.

If there are real-life revolutionary groups in the style of The French 75 of any significance currently active in this country, I haven't heard about them. But One Battle After Another still has the ring of emotional truth. It all may seem crazy, but it sure doesn't seem nearly as outrageous and improbable as it would have, say, ten or twelve years ago.  Like Ari Aster's recent Eddington, this is a flailing, angry satirical portrait of where we are emotionally right now. But unlike Eddington, it gives us characters we can root for rather than just pity.

Eleanor the Great--Like last year's Between the Temples, this one is about an elderly woman connecting with a younger person, and preparing for a very belated Bat Mitzvah. June Squibb the Great plays the title character, a sassy 90-something widow who moves in with her daughter (Jessica Hecht) in New York after many years in Florida when her beloved longtime roommate Bessie (Rita Zohar) passes on. 

Eleanor accidentally wanders into a Survivors Support Group at the Jewish Community Center, and finds herself telling everyone about her experience during the Holocaust. Nina (Erin Kellyman), a young journalism student who's there observing, understandably latches onto it as a great story, and she and Eleanor quickly bond as friends. The trouble is that the story isn't really Eleanor's; it's Bessie's. Eleanor is from Iowa; she converted to Judaism when she married.

It's clear that Eleanor's impulsive act isn't just angling for attention; she's trying to keep Bessie's story, which she never told anyone else, from fading away. Nina is deeply bereaved over the recent death of her mother, and her father (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a famous TV journalist, has been distant from her since the loss. But he takes an interest in the story, and pretty soon poor Eleanor is in over her head.

This peculiar but painfully plausible comedy-drama marks the directorial debut of Scarlett Johansson. Her work is crisp and proficient, but the script, by Tory Kamen, is unsteady; the attempt to pull everything together toward the end doesn't quite come off. None of this, however, is an impediment to the indomitable Squibb, whose fearless, direct performance transcends any shortcomings in the material, as she did in last year's similarly uneven Thelma. And despite the unsavory tension behind the situation, her scenes with the excellent young Kellyman have a sweet hum.

The intriguing film programs at Scottsdale's Western Spirit Museum probably don't get as much notice as they should. The movies are free with museum admission; $10 for just the movie.

The current series is Robert Rodriguez: Sinema Sin Fronteras. The next selection by the Texas auteur, the charming Harryhausen-esque fantasy Spy Kids 2: Island of Lost Dreams, shows at 2 p.m. this Sunday, September 28. It's followed by Once Upon a Time in Mexico at 6 p.m. Wednesday, October 1; Spy Kids 3: Game Over at 2 p.m. Sunday, October 5; the vampire yarn From Dusk till Dawn at 6 p.m. Wednesday, October 8, and the bloody actioner Machete, starring Danny Trejo, at 6 p.m. Wednesday, October 22.  

The Spy Kids flicks are great for children; the evening Rodriguez movies are decidedly for grown-ups. Go to westernspirit.org for details.

CHIN GAME

Some recent movie schwag, the gifties given away by movie marketers in the shameless and often successful attempt to buy the goodwill of movie reviewers:

Even though I have a goatee, I was given a goatee, in connection with Leonardi DiCaprio's, at the screening for the upcoming One Battle After Another...

I wonder if this item reflects astonishment that DiCaprio, who once seemed so perennially boyish, can grow a goatee.

Whatever one thinks about The Roses, now playing, it must be admitted they certainly gave away first rate schwag, like this bag...

...this obsidian salt...

...and this truly yummy crab cookie...

CHESAPEAKE PERFORMANCE

Caught up with a couple over the weekend:

The Baltimorons--Appropriate for September or not, this one is a Christmas movie. It stars Michael Strassner as Cliff, an unemployed improv comic and recovering alcoholic with a single, inept suicide attempt to his credit. He's quite the sad sack, but he's sort of funny, and he's honestly been trying to get his act together for the sake of his worried girlfriend Brittany (Olivia Luccardi). 

Disaster strikes when he has a dental emergency on Christmas Eve. He manages to find a newly divorced dentist, Didi (Liz Larsen) willing if not happy to come into her office late in the day. By the time she's finished working on him, however, his car has been towed, so she wearily offers him a ride, and the two can't seem to shake each other's company after that. Wacky misadventures ensue.

Directed by Jay Duplass, who co-wrote the script with Strassner, this low-budget indie really might put you in the Christmas spirit, since it's about looking out for strangers when you probably would rather not. It's somewhat in the vein of odd couple road comedies like Planes, Trains and Automobiles or Due Date, but The Baltimorons rings true in a way those laboriously-carpentered films don't. Strassner's face, fleshy and boyish behind whiskers, wins our sympathy quickly, and Larsen shades her performance as Didi with great skill, taking her believably from harried irritability to seductive warmth.

It's also a love letter to the great city of Baltimore, through the holiday-empty streets of which the characters chase after cheer, to the accompaniment of Christmas jazz by Jordan Seigel in style of Vince Guaraldi's Peanuts music. We see the rowhouses and the Key Bridge, pre-collapse. At one point Cliff and Didi even do a little Christmas Eve crabbing.

If you hurry, you can catch this gem, still playing on a few screens here in the Valley through at least Thursday.

Also still playing in the multiplexes:

Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale--At this writing I have still never seen an episode of Downton Abbey (ITV; 2010-2015), but I saw the two previous feature films (2019 and 2022). I'm also a big fan of HBO's The Gilded Age, the other period series by Julian Fellowes about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, and their servants. Gilded Age is set in America, and thus is all vigorous drive and enterprise and new horizons.

Downton Abbey, by contrast, set mostly in rural England, is sedate and idyllic. Allowing for the limitations of their circumstances, the members of Crawley family, led by patriarch Hugh Bonneville, are decent enough sorts, befuddled at how difficult and expensive it is to keep the title pile of bricks in decent repair. By the time we've reached this last chapter, directed by Simon Curtis and set in 1930, the mood is all sunset melancholy and the wistful acceptance that the social system within which these people have always lived is swiftly receding.

The opulence of the setting notwithstanding, this Grand Finale doesn't feel particularly grand; as with the two earlier films, it's a relaxing, undemanding holiday, not only from our time and circumstances, but from any judgements we might have about what we're seeing. Grumbling about class implications in a story like this would be like complaining about the social order in Shakespeare or Sophocles, not because Fellowes is on the level of those writers (he's not) but because it's what must be accepted to access a story from that world.

Despite the much-acknowledged absence of the late Maggie Smith, the cast is full of veterans like Bonneville, Elizabeth McGovern, Jim Carter, Penelope Wilton, Dominic West, Paul Giamatti, Alessandro Nivola, Arty Froushan--as Noel Coward, who comes to dinner--Simon Russell Beale, Kevin Doyle, Joely Richardson and many others, all confident as ever. But as in the earlier films, Michelle Dockery, as Lady Mary, divorced and wryly put-out to find herself a figure of scandal, is the closest the ensemble has to a leading lady, and the source of much of the movie's fun.

Here's what a byword the very name "Robert Redford" once was for male beauty...

A group shot from the 1980 senior yearbook at Your Humble Narrator's dear old Harbor Creek High for the National Honor Society (I'm not in it, you'll observe): My friend Mike's thought balloon says "Eat your heart out Robert Redfert [sic]"; my friend Karen, in the row in front of him, is thinking "I'll take Bobby R."

Peace and joy eternal great man, and thank you for the memories.

TRUDGE MATCH

In theaters this weekend:

The Long Walk--In the late '70s and early '80s, the young and already prolific Stephen King, not wishing to glut the market with his name, published five pungently entertaining novels under the pseudonym "Richard Bachman." Only one of them, Thinner (1984), was a supernatural horror story; two of them were dystopian tales which seem disturbingly prescient in their anticipation of competitive "reality TV." One of these, The Running Man (1982), was filmed in 1987, and a remake is scheduled for release this November. The other, The Long Walk (1979), opens this weekend.

This harsh, bitter film looks like a period piece, set the '70s (it was filmed in Manitoba). But it's an alternative version of the '70s, in a shabby, impoverished America under the rule of "The Major" (Mark Hamill) a gravel-voiced and rather seedy-looking military dictator. It's unclear whether The Major is the ultimate power or just a regional tinpot, but he's the lord of the title competition, an odious annual death sport.

The event is simple: a cross-country walk down a rural road for young men--boys, really--accompanied by soldiers in vehicles. Participants must maintain a speed of three miles per hour; if they fall below this pace, they are given a series of warnings, and if they fail to keep moving after the third and final warning, they are shot dead. If they step off the course, they are shot without warning. Last man still walking wins a huge monetary prize, and the granting of an extravagant wish.

Our focus is on Ray (a fine everyman turn by Cooper Hoffman), a local favorite who gets dropped off by his anguished Mom (Judy Greer) like he's going to play high school football. Director Francis Lawrence, working from a generally faithful adaptation by JT Mollner, then keeps the movie on the literal straight and narrow; except for a very quick flashback or two, it's just Ray and his competitors, walking and talking, and occasionally getting their brains graphically blown out (we're also, in case you're wondering, shown how they manage their other bodily needs on the hoof).

Along the way, Ray bonds with Peter (David Jonsson, terrific here as he was as the guileless robot in Alien: Romulus) and they realize that they're true friends, not just allies of convenience. This is the emotional core of the film, and the intractable, ambiguous heart of its drama. The book, written in the shadow of the Vietnam war and its hideous squandering of young men, packed a punch; but it's possible the movie, despite its inevitable monotony and the morbid self-pity common to "young adult" fiction, is even more unsettling and troubling. The excellence and value of this ensemble cast adds to the weight of seeing the walkers senselessly slaughtered.

Most of the boys are supportive and encouraging of each other, despite the ultimate disadvantage of such behavior in the vile, survival-of-the-fittest nature of the competition. And even after years of Big Brother and Survivor providing non-lethal examples to the contrary, somehow I found this weird and generous-hearted esprit de corps believable, and touching. It's what makes The Long Walk not just horrific but genuinely tragic.

CURRENT EVENTS

Opening today:

The American Southwest--It's hardly breaking news that the American Southwest is full of breathtaking views. But The American Southwest, the generically-titled documentary opening here, is also full of breathtaking views. Written and directed by veteran nature photographer and filmmaker Ben Masters, the movie traces the route of the Colorado River from its source in the Rockies down through the Grand Canyon all the way to its now appallingly dry delta in Mexico.

The overarching point of the film is that humans have, in a very short time, screwed up this great waterway. "From its headwaters to the border, the Colorado is diverted, divided and dammed," says narrator Quannah Chasinghorse, in her measured, lulling tones. "Its water is impounded, evaporated and subjugated." We're also firmly reminded that "The seemingly limitless amount of snow [the source of the river's waters] is actually finite and quantifiable."

It's a compelling, even alarming message, and hopefully a call to arms, but happily The American Southwest isn't a downer to watch, partly because it isn't just gorgeous vistas; it has a lively cast of characters. Along the river's southerly route, Masters, working with partner organizations like American Rivers, Northern Jaguar Project and The Peregrine Fund, gives us passages of truly jaw-dropping wildlife footage.

We see beavers industriously creating their own dams; cuthroat trout struggling upstream to spawn like salmon; a young condor trying to get home after a tentative--and unintentional--early attempt at flight; jaguars marking their mating turfs. Some of these episodes have an amorous flavor: a hilariously frustrated, randy young elk tangling with a wily older rival; a romcom-like courtship between two Mojave rattlesnakes.

My favorite sequence depicted the lives of salmon-flies, swept downstream in their larval stage only to have to fly back upstream as adults to lay their eggs. The scenes of the larva, buffeted around helplessly by river currents beyond their control, may remind some of us of own lives.

Still in the multiplexes:

Caught Stealing--After trying to channel Elvis in 2022, Austin Butler played a beautiful love object with no discernible personality, on purpose, in 2023's The Bikeriders. It's nice to see him playing a guy, just a guy, in his latest, Caught Stealing. He has a nice sympathetic manner as a standard movie hero with a history in this blood-splattered crime yarn directed by Darren Aronofsky from a script by Charlie Huston, adapting his own novel.

Butler plays Hank, an East Village bartender in the late '90s. A functional alcoholic, Hank is haunted by a tragedy which ended his promising baseball career before it started. But he's not a bad sort. He talks by phone to his beloved mom every day as they follow their beloved San Francisco Giants; his sexy girlfriend Yvonne (Zoe Kravitz) is fascinated by him; and he agrees to cat-sit for his punky neighbor Russ (Matt Smith) when Russ tells him he has to go home to London for a family emergency.

This last kindness is what gets him in trouble; he soon finds himself targeted both by gangsters—Russian, Puerto Rican and Hasidic—and by the cops, in the form of an engaging NYPD detective (Regina King). Gruesome misadventures ensue, while Aronofsky evokes the period of mohawks and studded leather jackets and answering machines and pay phones and car cigarette lighters, and Shea Stadium.

The cast is strong, not just Butler, Kravitz, Smith and King but Griffin Dunne as Hank's boss and Liev Schreiber and Vincent D'Onofrio, impressively underplaying the deceptively mensch-y Hasidic triggermen. Even Carol Kane turns up briefly, which is usually enough for a recommendation all by itself.

Caught Stealing is ultimately just standard mayhem from the Robert Rodriguez or Guy Ritchie playbook, and I suppose my investment in it was weakened a little every time a likable character got killed off. Butler kept me rooting for him until the end, however. So did the cat.