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.

FORECASTING DIRECTOR

As prestige movie season approaches, Your Humble Narrator had the chance to chat about Oscar-bait movies with Lauren Gilger for this morning's edition of The Show on KJZZ...

You can listen to the interview here.

(CHRISTMAS) BREAK MASTER

Opening this weekend:

The Holdovers--Nobody does bitterness like Paul Giamatti. From his earliest noticeable roles, as "Pig Vomit" in the Howard Stern movie Private Parts or as a pit bull owner on Homicide: Life on the Streets, he made his mark as a vessel of bristling, eye-bugging, impotent rage, and this has carried over into his best lead roles, in American Splendor or Sideways, or even in his miniseries as John Adams.

His seething high dudgeon generally is played for comedy, but even then this great actor brings it a stinging, near-tragic undercurrent; he makes his pained ineffectuality moving. With this latest from Sideways director Alexander Payne, Giamatti gets another vehicle for splenetic, barely-contained fury and defeated disgust. It's one of his best.

The time is 1970; the setting is a blueblood boys' school in Massachusetts. Giamatti plays Paul Hunham, a brilliant, exacting Ancient History teacher. Paul is single and friendless in his personal life; in class he brims with acerbic, sarcastic contempt for his lunkheaded, entitled rich-kid students.

On the eve of Christmas break, Paul gets stuck with a miserable detail: supervising the "holdovers," the handful of students stranded on campus with nowhere to go for the holiday. Perhaps the unhappiest of this unhappy lot is Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa), a bright kid with a troubled past whose Mom has excluded him from her holiday plans with her new husband. Paul's only adult ally is Mary (Da'Vine Joy Randolph), the cafeteria manager and chef, who's in mourning for her son, recently lost in Vietnam.

It likely won't astonish you to learn that as this little group clash, and then get to know each other and their backstories better, bonding and compassion start to develop between them. Working from a script by David Hemingson, Payne shades this process carefully, generating genuine and plausible warmth without slipping into holiday-movie sentiment. Not only is the film set in 1970, Payne seems to be trying for the modest, unassuming style of a Hal Ashby or James Bridges flick of that period, right down to the opening rating card and production company logos (even the movie's trailer was crafted as a throwback to this time).

The Holdovers is perhaps a bit on the poky side; little in the story gives much urgency to the pace. But the actors bring their connections to life. Giamatti's initial bile is highly entertaining and his gradually rising empathy is touching. Tall and tousle-haired, with a look of stricken perplexity on his handsome features, Sessa has a pleasing, callow awkwardness as Angus. Carrie Preston gives the movie a lift in each of her couple of scenes as a sunny-natured school administrator. And as Mary, Randolph steers around any hint of overt pathos, and as a result makes the character heroic.

THE SPY'S THE LIMIT

Opening this weekend:

The Man From U.N.C.L.E.—The feature knockoff of I Spy back in 2002 would have been a lousy movie in any case, but it was the more galling if you had any affection for the original series. The same went for the 1999 version of Wild Wild West, and the 2008 version of Get Smart.

I was at an advantage when it came to the new movie version of The Man from U.N.C.L.E., directed by Guy Ritchie, and based on the hit espionage series which ran on NBC from 1964 to 1968. Unlike the aforementioned three shows, I hardly ever watched U.N.C.L.E. as a kid, and therefore had no particular nostalgic investment in it.

The show, you may recall, concerned an international agency (United Network Command for Law and Enforcement) in which spies from either side of the Cold War set aside their differences and cooperated to thwart the evil designs of T.H.R.U.S.H. (Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity). Two such agents were American Napoleon Solo (Robert Vaughn) and Soviet Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum), supervised by dry Brit Mr. Waverly (Leo G. Carroll).

I watched the old show a little in recent weeks in anticipation of the film. It’s on the slovenly and feeble side, but the acting, both of the regulars and the guest stars, was droll and good-natured, and so was some of the writing. If I had been a bigger fan, maybe I would be outraged by Ritchie’s film version. It’s a mixed bag, with style and panache in the directing and designs and acting thrown together with tiresome, even tasteless ideas. But for me, the style and panache won out.

It’s an origin story, about how Napoleon and Illya meet as enemies and are forced to work together to retrieve an atom bomb from some surviving Nazis, and for about the first half of the movie the two of them brawl and bicker. This is tedious, but not as tedious as the chase of all-terrain vehicles in the rain that climaxes the film. And the slightly campy tone taken toward a Nazi torturer feels a little queasy, too.

But Ritchie’s mastery of scrambling and de-scrambling strands of action through omniscient camera moves, split screens, chronology juggling and wild crosscutting give the film a lot of headlong momentum to get us past these missteps. So does a heavy dose of mid-‘60s period flavor from the cars and the fashions on the several beauties in the cast to the punchy, sexy soundtrack.

Probably the biggest upside, though, is the performance of Henry Cavill as Napoleon. Cavill seemed like a cipher to me as Superman, but here he has a grand time imitating the ironically stentorian cadences of Robert Vaughn, and he more or less carries the film.

Armie Hammer manages Illya’s accent well, but the anger issues with which the character is stuck here cheat him out of the chance to show his suave side. Hugh Grant comes into the story late as Waverly, and his line readings are a breath of fresh air, though it’s distressing to think that Grant is now old enough to play a Leo G. Carroll part.

Anachronism watch: The phrases “low tech” and “skill set” are spoken in this movie. Likely, in the mid-‘60s?

Straight Outta Compton—As to the historical accuracy of this chronicle of N.W.A., I’m certainly not hip hop historian enough to have an opinion. I was a fan of several of the guys from the seminal late-‘80s “gangsta rap” ensemble, but mostly on the basis of their movie work. I liked the music a lot, but didn’t think it provided the healthiest set of life influences, and I must say that little in this movie suggests to me that I was wrong about that.

Besides, to a white kid from rural Pennsylvania, it would have somehow felt oddly presumptuous buying those albums, like something I couldn’t pull off. I would have felt like a poseur (if all the white boys had felt that way back then, those guys would have gotten much less wealthy).

What I can say is that the movie, directed by F. Gary Gray, is juicy entertainment, full of terrific acting and music and laughs and heart. It follows the familiar show-biz-legend movie template—an insanely meteoric rise from rough origins, exhilarating success, too much too soon, conflicts and feuds and tragedy and reconciliation. It plays out against the backdrop of L.A. in the turbulent '80s/‘90s, with its constant threat of violence and terror, both from gangs and from the goonish occupying force of the CRASH-era LAPD.

Ice Cube and Dr. Dre were among the producers of Straight Outta Compton, and Gray directed the former in Friday and the latter in Set It Off, so it may not be surprising that these two—played by O’Shea Jackson, Jr. (Ice Cube’s real-life son, or possibly clone) and Corey Hawkins, are presented as the best artists. But the emotional center of the film is a little-known actor named Jason Mitchell as Eric “Eazy-E” Wright, the weed-dealing hustler who launched Ruthless Records, and, even though he was strained and unmusical, managed to make his mark as a performer as well. Mitchell has a touchingly pensive quality as Eazy-E; it’s not hard to believe it when he bonds with Ruthless manager Jerry Heller (the target of Ice Cube’s notorious anti-Semitic swipe in “No Vaseline”), played here by Paul Giamatti. They’re both fretters.

Nobody in the movie comes across as perfect, nor does anybody—except, maybe, for the baleful Suge Knight (R. Marcus Taylor)—come across like a villain. Everybody seems, rather, like they’re in over their heads, blindsided by the intensity and breadth of the reaction to their music and the fame and fortune it brought. The title, after all, is Straight Outta Compton, not Gradually Outta Compton.

GRAVE MATTERS

Opening this weekend:

Gravity—Sandra Bullock is a scientist from the Space Shuttle. She’s spacewalking, installing some sort of new gizmo, when a collision with some debris sends both her and hotshot astronaut George Clooney spinning untethered through the cosmos. It’s basically the same setup as Ray Bradbury’s 1949 short story “Kaleidoscope,” except the men flying away from each other in that tale knew they were lost, and their conversation was a poignant poetic elegy to life.

Gravity, however, is a no-let-up survival thriller. Clooney and Bullock struggle to get back to the wrecked Shuttle, and from there to the International Space Station. At some point they get separated, and Bullock must make a third extravehicular sojourn, this time to a Chinese space station with working escape pods.

Clooney has fun fitting his own persona into the archetypical squared-jawed, calm in the face of disaster astronaut, cracking dumb jokes and flirting with the terrified Bullock, partly to keep her spirits up, partly just because he’s a flirt. But it’s really Bullock’s movie, and she’s uncommonly touching as this melancholic woman with a dreadful tragedy in her past who still keeps fighting to survive.

The director is the excellent Alfonso Cuaron, of Y Tu Mama Tambien and Harry Potter and the…well, I can’t keep those titles straight, but the best and spookiest of the Harry Potter movies. He keeps the tension pulse-poundingly high in Gravity, and the otherworldly atmosphere beautiful yet hostile—the dramatic irony of sailing through the boundlessness of space and at the same time being oppressively trapped is not lost on him.

Gravity is so exciting, so close to a home run, that it seems ungrateful to nitpick, but there’s no way around it—the picture gets away from Cuaron in the end. The movie begins with a frightening sense of plausibility and realism, but as the story progresses its action also grows steadily more comic-book corny and improbable. It’s still entertaining, but it moves more into the realm of Hollywood hokum. Then, in the final minutes, as Cuaron piles more and more peril and obstacles onto poor Bullock’s plate, her plight begins to seem a little funny.

Another small grumble: The concussions which tear the spacecrafts apart happen, appropriately, with no sound at all, and the effect is weird and chaotic and chilling. But the filmmakers can’t resist piling on Steven Price’s brooding, ominous music, to cue us that something terribly dangerous is happening—and also, maybe, to reassure us that the sound system in the theater hasn’t malfunctioned. I can’t help but wonder if complete cosmic silence might have made these scenes even more disorienting and scary.

Parkland—The title refers to Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas, to which John F. Kennedy was taken after his motorcade passed Dealey Plaza in November 1963. He was already a goner by the time he got to the emergency room, and that’s the oddity of this film, directed by Peter Landesman—it’s all aftermath.

The main characters in Parkland are the likes of ER resident Jim Carrico (Zac Efron), or Abraham Zapruder (Paul Giamatti), who was shooting home movies when the motorcade passed, or FBI man James Hosty (Ron Livingston), who had gotten a threatening note from Lee Harvey Oswald weeks before the shooting, or Forrest Sorrels (Billy Bob Thornton) of the Dallas branch of the Secret Service—ordinary people remembered for their proximity to an iconic historical shocker. We also get a look at the Oswald family—maybe the two best of the film’s many strong performances are those of James Badge Dale as Lee Harvey’s brother Robert, and Jacki Weaver as their nutty mother.

While Landesman’s script is adapted from a book by Vincent Bugliosi that reportedly espouses the Oswald-acted-alone viewpoint, the movie takes no obvious position pro or con on the matter of a conspiracy. It sticks to what is more or less undisputed in the record.

This could legitimately lead to the question of what, exactly, is the value of one more retelling of this extremely familiar story. I‘d guess that the answer, aside from capturing uniformly fine ensemble acting, is to suggest that national hysteria, perhaps mixed with the celebrity worship of Jackie Kennedy, may have been more than sufficient to account for the irregularities in the case that, in retrospect, seem so suspicious.

The characters scramble around recklessly, and while the movie seems to suggest that they’re honestly doing their best, they’re too stunned to get it right. A coroner seems ghoulish when he demands that the President’s body be left behind for an autopsy, and the Secret Service agents seem goodhearted when, "for Jackie," they ignore his demand, but the result is that no autopsy was performed in the highest-profile murder case in U.S. history.

Whatever your view of that strange and indelible historical episode, nothing in Parkland is likely to change it. But I found the film absorbing from start to finish.