Joe Bendel – Page 208 – LFM: Libertas Film Magazine

LFM Reviews Adore (or Whatever It’s Titled Today)

By Joe Bendel. English language Nobel laureates for literature have complicated relationship with cinema. Arguably, Steinbeck has fared the best, providing the source material for masterworks from John Ford and Elia Kazan. Ernest Hemingway films have been a radically mixed bag, including some gems and some clunkers. Faulkner films have generally been an iffy proposition. However, director Anne Fontaine and screenwriter Christopher Hampton will drastically lower the curve with their smarmy adaptation of Doris Lessing’s Two Grandmothers, now known as Adore for its New York opening this Friday.

Lessing’s original title, The Grandmothers, obviously does not sound very sexy. Hence, Fontaine’s film was known as Two Mothers at Sundance, where my colleagues in the press corps took the bullet to inform the world this was no art movie. Six months or so later, it was re-titled Adore, right up there at the top of the alphabet, presumably to be VOD friendly. No matter what it’s called, this film is sure to disappoint.

Lil’s husband never was much, so when he dies, she is able to carry-on raising her son Ian well enough on her own, with the help of her BFF Roz. Roz also has a son, Tom, and a perfectly serviceable husband, Harold, who just does not seem to be the sort of doofus she wants anymore. For most of the summer, the lads surf, while their mother booze it up on the shore, drinking up their lean frames. Eventually, Ian puts the moves on Roz and Tom follows suit with Lil.

Oh gee, how scandalous. At least, that is how the filmmakers would like us to react. Frankly, it is not worth getting worked up over. Never before has cougar-boy toy sex been so boring. In lieu of substance, we get an interminable surfeit of morning after shots, following the characters walking on the beach, staring off into the horizon. Yet, by far the gravest sin of Adore (Fontaine’s dubious English language debut) is Hampton’s ridiculous dialogue. There is no way real people would ever talk like this. However, it probably looked great on the page, eliciting all sorts of “edgy” compliments from Hampton’s screenwriter colleagues.

Indeed, there is a cynical laziness to Adore that assumes it merely needs to deliver the promised quota of taboo sex for critics and viewers to be intimidated by “provocative” nature. The truth is there is no there there. The characters are paper thin and not once do their reactions ring true. Anyone who can tell Xavier Samuel’s Ian apart from James Frecheville’s Tom should win a cigar from exhibiting theaters. Naomi Watts and Robin Wright have a few nice moments together, but evidently Fontaine and Hampton believe the world already had enough films about friendships between middle aged women.

Yes, Adore addresses sexual relations, but never with any kind of intelligence or maturity. In truth, it lacks the depth and insight of an average Pia Zadora movie. Slow, smug, and shallow, Adore is an absolute waste of the talents of Fontaine (whose The Girl from Monaco is far sexier and emotionally complicated), Watts, Wright, and the normally reliable Ben Mendelsohn. Not recommended, especially for those who think it might hold guilty pleasures, Adore opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

LFM GRADE: F

Posted on September 5th, 2013 at 9:11am.

Johnny Cash & His Manager: LFM Reviews My Father and the Man in Black

By Joe Bendel. Hallmark ought to start making Manager’s Day cards. The dealings between big name entertainers and their managers are often complex. Saul Holiff was a difficult father, but he managed Johnny Cash’s career with fierce dedication, until the day he tendered his resignation. Discovering his father’s archive, Jonathan Holiff would gain tremendous insight into his father’s relationships with his legendary client as well as himself. Holiff draws upon that trove of primary sources for his documentary, My Father and the Man in Black, which opens this Friday in New York.

As a father, Saul Holiff was often dismissive and demeaning. As a result, his son’s response to his suicide was rather confused. Sometime later, his father’s storage locker came to light. There the younger Holiff would hear his father tell his story, in his own words, left for posterity on his reel-to-reel diary. A born salesman, Saul Holiff fell into promoting concerts in his native Canada. That was how he met the young and relatively unknown Johnny Cash.

Holiff was there, trying his best to cover Cash’s back during the worst of his years of drug-fueled chaos. He was also the one who brought Cash together with June Carter when Holiff recruited a female vocalist for a package tour. However, Cash’s embrace of Evangelical Christianity in the 1970’s clearly chafed Holiff on some level. Still, he did his duty, even appearing as Pontius Pilate in Cash’s Gospel Road, sort of a precursor to Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. (This could be a moving experience for those who watch it start to finish, but the clips Holiff includes suggest it ought to be playing at midnight screenings for lubricated heathens.)

While Holiff the filmmaking son obviously did not set out to burnish Cash’s image, his intimate examination of the Cash-Holiff dynamic might still interest the singer’s fans. To an extent, the doc functions as the revisionist alternative to Walk the Line, but in terms of filmmaking, it is a wildly mixed bag, featuring dubious dramatic re-enactments and far too much of Holiff fils.

Nonetheless, despite the stylistic and editorial missteps, there is an awful lot to engage with throughout My Father. Holiff addresses big picture themes – like paternal legacy, the significance of Judaism for secular Jews such as his father, and the nature of show business – with considerable time and insight.

Eventually, Holiff the filmmaker comes to general terms with Holiff the father. While it is not exactly a rosebud moment, it ends the film in a forgiving spirit. In fact, the film’s messy humanistic vibe is unexpectedly potent. As a film more for documentary watchers than music fans, it might have trouble finding a natural audience, but it has a bit of staying power. Recommended more for those concerned with its issues of family and identity than backstage revelations, My Father and the Man in Black opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

LFM GRADE: B-

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:17pm.

Alain Delon vs. The French Connection: LFM Reviews Frank Riva; Now Available on DVD

By Joe Bendel. He is a narc of Dickensian dimensions. After undercover detective Frank Riva dealt a staggering blow to the French Connection, he had to permanently disappear. Dead to the world, he retired to his own island paradise. However, he is recalled back into service to investigate a case that hits very close to home in the French television series Frank Riva, now available in a complete DVD collection from MHz Networks.

Riva was his mother’s maiden name. The not-so ex-copper adopted it while infiltrating the Loggia mafia clan and kept it during his exile. He was always very close to two fellow officers: Marc-Antoine Rezzoni and Xavier Unger. The latter is now the Chief Commissioner of Police, whereas the former has just been shot, probably fatally, while leading an off-the-books operation. Intimately aware of Rezzoni’s backstory, Riva will take over his squad to investigate the shooting. It will get complicated quickly.

Many of Riva’s former underworld associates are quite surprised to see him. So is his ex, Catherine Sinclair. She also has one for him—he’s a father. Not with her, but with one of the Loggia family’s professional women, whom Riva became involved with as part of his cover. Essentially growing up an orphan, Nina Rizzi only had Sinclair looking out for her, as a way to feel closer to her vanished father. Unfortunately, the young woman still got mixed up with Maxime Loggia, the possessive nephew and presumptive heir of the recently deceased Loggia godfather. As one might expect, the succession within the rebounding Loggia clan turns out to be a trickier matter that will have repercussions throughout the series—as will the circumstances surrounding Sofia Rizzi’s murder.

Series writer-creator Philippe Setbon sensitively conveys a sense of lives interrupted and time lost, which differentiates Frank Riva from the field of other gangbuster shows. While this occasionally leads to the odd melodramatic excess (largely in during the second season), Setbon and series director Patrick Jamain balance the micro and macro stories relatively well. Riva is a compelling noir-ish character, precisely because he always seems to have one foot out the door.

Indeed, this is a perfect TV gig for associate producer, Alain Delon. The contrast between the older, weathered Delon and pictures of his 1960’s dashing self (circa Joy House and Le Samurai) add further poignancy. While certainly still distinguished looking, his Clint Eastwood-like power to attract much younger women seems somewhat dubious. Evidently, it is good to be the star and producer.

Regardless, Delon is appropriately steely in the lead. Riva is also notable for re-teaming him with Mireille Darc (co-star of Godard’s Le Weekend) with whom he had formerly been personally and professionally associated. After a rather overwrought introduction, her Sinclair eventually evolves in mature and convincing ways.

Boasting quite a cinematic cast, regular Costa-Gavras collaborator Jacques Perrin goes toe-to-toe with Delon, painfully expressing many of the series’ themes of regret and the corrupting power the past. Frankly, the series actually picks up some of its best supporting characters as it goes along, including Jimmy Esperanza, a Colombian cop assigned to Riva’s unit, played with hardboiled understatement by Eric Defosse. Géraldine Danon also lends the proceedings a striking corporate femme fatale presence as Swiss mob lawyer, Alberta Olivieri.

Setbon’s compulsive need to romantically match-up Riva’s subordinates stretches credulity, but one can understand the impulse. Whether or not it is wholly believable, Frank Riva ends with a sense of family and shared experience. Although it is a French series, it has a pronounced Italian flavor (for obvious reasons) that should widen its appeal. Regardless, it is just great to see Delon doing his thing. Yet the music might be nearly as cool. Largely consisting of variations on Julien Chirol and Pierre-Luc Jamain’s title trumpet theme composed, it has a funky but lyrical sound that could have been inspired by “Time After Time” era Miles.

Tightly focused, there are no one-off cases in Riva. Setbon usually has at least one big revelation for each episode that often drops just before the credits roll. It pulls viewers in quickly and builds steadily, making it a good candidate for holiday weekend binge viewing. Recommended for fans of Delon and double-crossing police dramas, Frank Riva is now available on DVD from MHz Networks.

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:14pm.

The End of Days in Washington Heights: LFM Reviews 36 Saints

By Joe Bendel. According to mystical Judaic teachings, the Tzadik are thirty-six righteous men with no desire to sin, whom G*d loves so much, he spares the rest of the sinful world for solely for their sake. Technically, they are not part of the Christian tradition, but Lilith is still out to get them. If her minions murder each of the thirty-six in the manner their name saints were martyred, it will bring about the victory of darkness over light. However, it seems she could use a remedial theology course for her attempt to bring on a boneheaded apocalypse in Eddy Duran’s 36 Saints, which opens this Friday in New York.

There have been some rather disturbing murders in Washington Heights. Father Esteban is bludgeoned to death in the subway around the same time young Jesus Ochoa is crucified in his parish church. It quickly becomes apparent the victims are connected to an ill-fated youth group that perished in an airline accident (quick, name the twenty-some saints who were martyred in plane crashes). Ochoa and a handful of his friends survived that day, because they chose to attend an award ceremony honoring their public service instead. A year later, Lilith is finally mopping up loose ends.

Evidently, poor Mother Theresa was just wasting her time with all that ministering to the sick rigmarole. Merely patronizing the hipster nightclubs of Washington Heights is sufficiently saintly for the survivors of Ochoa’s youth group. Two cops will try to protect the Holy Club Kids, but Joseph and Michael are distinctly passive investigators, spending most of the film drinking coffee as they wait for more bodies to be discovered.

In terms of narrative, 36 Saints is beyond messy. Its third act has the sort of logical cohesion one typically sees when faded big name stars die while filming ultra low budget movies and the producers hack together the shards of a story around the scenes they managed to complete. Particularly problematic is the manner one of Lilith’s “shocking” sleeper servants recklessly kills people in very public ways that surely would reveal his identity, yet he somehow maintains his cover. Seriously, he isn’t even using a silencer.

When it comes to theology, 36 Saints is also a train wreck. Strictly speaking, Eve is not a saint and she certainly was not martyred by eating a poisoned you-know-what. Perhaps screenwriters Jeffrey De Serrano and Joey Dedio had her confused with Snow White, who is not a saint either. Or maybe they were thinking of Eva Marie Saint, who is not a saint in the sacred sense (as least not yet), or even an “Eve,” but she made vastly better movies than 36 Saints.

Regardless, considering the breadth of the Catholic world (growing by leaps and bounds in China and Africa), it seems rather puzzling each and every saint would be hidden in Washington Heights. Talk about gentrification. This definitely constitutes a case of putting all the world’s eggs in one basket. At least stash a few in Inwood. There is no way Lilith would ever go up there—it just takes forever on the A train.

For some reason, Donna McKechnie, the original Cassie in A Chorus Line, appears in 36 as the club kids’ teacher, Ms. El (a suspiciously made-up looking name, if ever there was one), lending some presence to the otherwise drab film. It just does not seem right to call out the young cast for not bringing their empty characters to life, but that does not leave viewers much to work with. 36 probably sounds kind of cool, like the sort of religiously themed horror films Max von Sydow or Jürgen Prochnow used to turn up in, but it is a profound disappointment. Not recommended for anyone, 36 Saints opens this Friday (9/6) in New York at the AMC Empire.

LFM GRADE: F

Posted on September 3rd, 2013 at 12:10pm.

LFM Reviews The Newly Restored Enter the Dragon @ BAM Cinematek’s Wing Chun Classic Film Series

By Joe Bendel. It is the first true martial arts film selected for the Library of Congress’s National Film Registry. Bruce Lee’s first Hollywood star vehicle and his final fully completed film represents kung fu cinema at its most cross-overiest, yet it is still legit to the bone. In honor of Ip Man and Wong Kar Wai’s The Grandmaster, Bruce Lee & director Robert Clouse’s Enter the Dragon begins a week of restored DCP screenings today, as part of BAM Cinematek’s Wing Chun classic film series.

Lee’s namesake is a Hong Kong Shaolin standard bearer knocking on the door of complete martial arts enlightenment. While glory in the ring hardly interests him, he agrees to compete in the triannual martial arts tournament sponsored by Han, an international vice lord and general megalomaniac. Sent in by British Intelligence sans back-up, Lee is to reconnoiter around Han’s pleasure palace and hopefully fight his way out of any trouble he might encounter. It is not much of a plan, but it will suffice.

The stakes turn out to be unexpectedly personal for Lee. Shortly before embarking, he learns Han’s thugs were responsible for the death of his sister, Su Lin. As one might expect of Lee’s kin, she put up a heck of a fight. Han’s chief enforcer O’Hara still bears his scars from the encounter. He is due for some more pain. However, Lee will meet some friendly Americans en route, such as the well heeled Roper, who is looking to hustle some action to pay off his gambling debts, like a kung fu Fast Eddie Felson. In contrast, Roper’s former Army buddy Williams seems more interested in hedonistic pleasures supplied nightly to the fighters.

Enter might not sound earthshakingly original, but that is partly a function of how widely imitated it has been, especially the iconic hall of mirrors climax. Scores of movies have copied its general template of the ostensibly upright kumite going on above ground, while armies of henchmen in color-coded gis labor towards nefarious ends below. Without it, there is no way we would have guilty pleasures like the Steve Chase beatdown, Kill and Kill Again, which is a thoroughly depressing thought to contemplate.

All the elements come together, but there is still no question this is Lee’s show. Almost supernaturally intense and charismatic, Lee was clearly at the peak of his powers throughout Enter. It is a massively physical performance (featuring some impressive acrobatic feats), yet Lee still takes care to convey the philosophical side of Wing Chun. The restored print includes more scenes of Lee as a spiritual teacher that work quite well.

Even with Lee’s overpowering presence, Enter is the film that really put Jim “Black Belt Jones” Kelly on the map. As Williams, he contributes attitude and energy that further distinguished Enter from its genre predecessors. In fact, the cast is loaded with notables, including John Saxon, hamming it up with relish as Roper. Fans often wonder why so little was subsequently heard of Betty Chung, but she has some nice rapport with Lee as Mei Ling, a fellow undercover operative.

There are also plenty of established and future action stars, most notably Angela Mao absolutely crushing Su Lin’s brief but pivotal flashback scene. Bolo Yeung also appears in exactly the sort of role that would make him famous. Sammo Hung has a briefer turn as a Shaolin martial artist who fairs poorly against Lee—but not nearly as badly as blink-and-you-missed-him Jackie Chan, whose meat-for-the-grinder henchman gets his neck snapped by our hero.

But wait there’s more, including a classic funky eastern fusion soundtrack by Lalo Schifrin that opened up a lot of ears up to the Argentinean composer and former Dizzy Gillespie sideman. Without question, this is a historically and culturally significant film, well worthy of being selected for the National Film Registry. Logically, it anchors BAM’s Wing Chun series in honor of Lee’s revered master, Ip Man. Highly recommended beyond martial arts enthusiasts, Enter the Dragon begins a week long run (8/30-9/5) today at the BAM Rose Cinemas.

LFM GRADE: A

Posted on August 30th, 2013 at 1:24pm.

Wargames: LFM Reviews I Declare War

By Joe Bendel. War—what is it good for? At least it gets these brats out of the house. That will be a blessing for their parents. Unfortunately, the youngsters will have to endure the ridiculously simplistic tactics of allegorical cinema in Jason Lapeyre & Robert Wilson’s I Declare War, which opens today at the Alamo Drafthouse Yonkers.

Completely free of adult supervision, a group of kids play regular capture the flag war games in the forest near their exurban homes. PK is a young war movie junkie who has always commanded his troops to victory. He finally thinks he has met a worthy opponent in Quinn, who clearly shares PK’s understanding of military strategy, until the promising general is fragged by his own troops. Having captured PK’s best friend Kwon, the resentful Skinner is not about to squander an opportunity for some score-settling.

Initially, we see the kids trudging about with crude makeshift stick-and-twine guns, but soon they are replaced with very real looking assault weaponry. They sound like the real deal too, but no actual blood is shed during their skirmishes, aside from their grenades (balloons filled with red paint). However, there is nothing imaginary about the pain Skinner inflicts on Kwon.

Yes, it is jarring to watch young kids toting assault rifles and blasting away at each other, allowing fantasies to intrude on ostensive reality, but after half an hour or so, we just so get the point already. Frustratingly, the film does not really have anything left in reserve after these initial shocks. Arguably, it might have been a more engaging film if Lapeyre and Wilson had embraced the story of a truly epic capture the flag contest rather than tried to remake Lord of the Flies again.

To their credit, Declare’s young ensemble is completely credible and fully committed to their roles. On the downside, their characters are never very well fleshed out. Basically, we have PK, the slight of stature general with a Napoleon complex, Kwon, the loyal best friend, their resentful loser nemesis, as well as the scheming chick, the annoying kid, the other annoying kid, and the other other annoying kid.

Declare is a compelling example of detailed world building at the child’s eye level. It sort of resembles what it might look like if Full Metal Jacket broke out in the middle of Moonrise Kingdom. Despite the strength of its ground game, the film is still saddled by the clunkiness of its teaching moments and the blandness of most of its characters. For those intrigued by the provocative imagery, I Declare War opens today (8/30) at select Alamo Drafthouses nationwide, including Yonkers in New York and Littleton in Colorado.

LFM GRADE: C

Posted on August 30th, 2013 at 1:21pm.