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Dustin Lance Black and his mother, Anne

“MAMA’S BOY” My rating: A-  (HBO Max)

102 minutes | No MPAA rating

Dustin Lance Black won an Oscar for writing the screenplay for “Milk,” was crucial to the HBO hit “Big Love,” and most recently created the HULU miniseries “Under the Banner of Heaven,”about a murder in Mormon country.

His professional life is impressive.

But his personal saga, as chronicled in the documentary “Mama’s Boy,” is even more flabbergasting.  Indeed, one could easily see Black’s family chronicle becoming yet another knockout miniseries.

No kidding folks, at least three times I had to stop the movie because it had put me into emotional overdrive. This is powerful, inspiring stuff.

Laurent Bouzereau’s film begins with Black’s acceptance speech at the 2008 Academy Awards.  He spoke not about the movies, but about being gay, about the impact of the life of queer icon Harvey Milk, and he issued a promise that in the near future the full rights of homosexuals would be recognized by the federal government.

Then Black, our onscreen narrator, takes us on the 60-year journey of his mother Anne. She was born to sharecroppers in rural Louisiana, crippled by polio as a child (she underwent several ghastly surgeries and spent the rest of her life in leg braces and on crutches), and converted to Mormonism as a young woman.

She married a Mormon man who clearly wasn’t ready for the responsibility…he abandoned her with and their three boys (she’d been advised not to get pregnant but wasn’t about to let medical realities stifle her dreams). 

To keep the family afloat the church dropped off monthly envelopes of cash (a act of charity Black recalls fondly); then arranged for Anne to marry a divorced Mormon who, unbeknownst to the family, had tired to kill his first wife (a deliberate omission Black cannot forgive).

This monster physically abused his wife and her sons; Anne divorced him while he was on a job overseas, then worked her way up through the civil service,  launching a career as a laboratory technician. She also married for a third time…we meet this fellow and he’s pretty wonderful.

Anne was by any one’s reckoning an amazingly brave, resourceful woman.

While all this is happening young Dustin Lance (“Lancer” to his mother) was suppressing his own sexual identity. He realized early on that girls didn’t do it for him, but the Mormon Church left little doubt about what happens to sexual sinners.

Moreover, the one person whose approval he most wanted — his mother Anne —was fiercely conservative.

“Mama’s Boy” throws a wide net, dealing not only with Dustin Lance’s early life in Hollywood and his reluctant coming out as a gay man, but also pulling into the story his two brothers (one of whom dealt with his own tragedy).

Ultimately, “Mama’s Boy” is a tale of healing.  On a rare visit to  her son in L.A. Anne attended a party filled with Lancer’s gay friends. Something inside her clicked.  So much so that when she accompanied her boy to his big Oscar night, she wore on her dress a white ribbon signifying support for gay marriage.

One thing I didn’t realize about Black…in the wake of the passage of California’s Prop 8, which banned gay marriage,  he suspended his movie career for several years to work on undoing  that law.  He wrote a play, “8,” to dramatize the issue; it was performed more than 400 times around the country.

|Robert W. Butler

Zac Efron

“THE GREATEST BEER RUN EVER”  My rating: B+ (Apple +)

126 minutes | MPAA rating: R

I put off watching Apple +’s “The Greatest Beer Run Ever” because…well, because it sounded kind of cheesy.

Notwithstanding that it is based on actual events, this yarn — about a good ol’ boy New Yorker who in 1968 smuggled himself into Vietnam to deliver American-made brews to the neighborhood guys fighting Charlie — sounded just a little too flip and insubstantial for my tastes.

I couldn’t have been more off the mark.

Directed and co-written by Peter Farrelly (who has evolved from the grossout yuks of “There’s Something About Mary” and “Dumb and Dumber” to substantial fare like “Green Book”) this film walks a fine line between shaggy dog comedy and an essentially serious look at a subject the movies often get wrong.

Not having served I cannot testify to the accuracy of the movie’s war scenes.  But I have never seen a film that so accurately captured the conflicts the war generated in our civilian population.  The attitudes of the characters are absolutely right on.

That “…Beer Run” also gives us Zac Efron’s best performance yet is just icing on the cake. 

Chickie Donohue (Efron) is a U.S. Merchant Marine who spends his time between voyages sleeping late and getting drunk at his neighborhood bar.  He’s essentially directionless and irresponsible; politically he’s of the “my country, right or wrong” persuasion, which puts him perennially at odds with his younger sister, a regular at anti-war rallies.

Realizing he’s doing nothing for the cause, Chickie comes up with the idea of loading a duffel bag with beer and signing up as an oilman on a Vietnam-bound cargo ship.  Once there he’ll make an extensive side trip to visit his childhood buddies who are stationed around the country.  To each he will present a beer or two, a little gift of appreciation from the folks back home.

Russell Crowe, Zac Efron

It’s a genuinely dumb-ass idea, but Efron masterfully sells Chickie’s enthusiasm and naivete.  His pals in uniform are amazed to see him in ‘Nam — pleased with the beer but incredulous that anyone who doesn’t have to be there would come voluntarily.

The screenplay (co-written by Brian Hayes Currie and Pete Jones) balances farcical elements with more somber revelations.

For example, Chuckie finds he can get military transport anywhere he wants by implying that he’s working for the CIA. And he has the head-slapping habit of stumbling across his old running buddies in the midst of war’s chaos.

At the same time, we see his his growing realization that most everything he believes about the war is wrong. The film finds our man being shot at while delivering suds at a far-flung fire base. At one point he sees a suspected Viet Cong tossed out of an airborne ‘copter during an interrogation.  And he’s on hand to witness the notorious Tet Offensive, when the Cong struck at the heart of Saigon during the Asian New Year celebration.

Now I have no idea how much of this the real Chickie experienced and how much was invented for the film. Indeed, many may conclude that the filmmakers have a fairly heavy hand in dealing anti-war sentiments in the movie’s latter stages.

But it works. “The Greatest Beer Run Ever” is fueled equally by its far-fetched silliness and its growing sense of sadness — if not outrage — over the war’s toll.

Toss in a couple of fine supporting performances — Bill Murray as the New York bar owner whose jingoism sets the plot in motion, and Russell Crowe as a war correspondent through whose lens Chickie gets an education in real-world violence — and you’ve got a film that will stand up under repeated viewings.

| Robert W. Butler

Lily Collins, Connie Nielsen, Chace Crawford

“INHERITANCE” My rating: C (Netflix)

111 minutes | No MPAA rating

Netflix’s thriller “Inheritance” is marked by not just one but TWO cases of what appears to be major miscasting.

The first big gulp comes when we discover that Lily Collins, she of the impossibly cute “Emily in Paris” (i bailed on Season Two), has been cast as the hard-driving Manhattan District Attorney.  

No, I didn’t buy it, either.

The second involves the casting of Simon Pegg, usually just the fellow to provide light comic relief, in the heavy-duty dramatic role of…well, let’s let that sit for a minute.

Here’s the setup:  After the heart attack death of her filthy rich banker daddy Archer (Patrick Warburton, in and out so fast you might not recognize him), DA Lauren Monroe (Collins) learns from the family lawyer that the old man has entrusted to her his most deeply-hidden secret.

Not some sort of business fraud, although Archer obviously played loosely with the SEC regs. And  not the mistress he kept in the city unbeknownst to his wife (Connie Nielsen). Not even  the illegitimate child he had with her. 

Nah, all that stuff is standard issue for a rich mover and shaker.

Following cryptic clues left behind by Daddy, Lauren uncovers an old bunker (must have been a  fallout shelter) in the woods on the family’s estate. Inside she discovers a bearded, hairy man chained by the neck in a dark cell.   He tells the shocked Lauren that he has been imprisoned by her late Papa for more than 30 years.

This modern-day Ben Gunn  is played by Pegg, and what with all the hirsute prosthetics and a sepulcher-appropriate voice he’s virtually unrecognizable.  It took me about 10 minutes before I exclaimed “Holy shit!  Simon Pegg!”

Simon Pegg

The woeful tale this poor soul relates involves an accidental death, a gravesite deep in the forest and Archer’s fear that a witness to his perfidy could nip his financial career in the bud. Unwilling to commit murder, he instead becomes a jailor, visiting his prisoner just often enough to keep him stocked in protein powder and toilet paper.

Which leaves Lauren with a moral dilemma.  Should she free the man, thus risking not only her career but that of her brother (“The Boys’” Chace Crawford), a Congressman in the middle of a tough re-election campaign?

Should she keep him alive and in chains…but for how long?  

That “Inheritance” works at all is due to Pegg’s canny balancing act.  His prisoner is by turns tearful, pathetic, manipulative and threatening.  We want to be sympathetic but, like Lauren, we wonder how much of his story to believe. The dude seems sane and rational, but after decades in the dark mightn’t he be, well, a bit off?

It makes for a couple of tasty scenes.

Alas, in the third act Matthew Kennedy’s screenplay devolves into thriller-film cliches…and it cannot outrun the many improbabilities we’re asked to swallow to keep the yarn moving. Vaughn Stein’s direction is functional but style-less.

| Robert W. Butler

Sinead O’Connor

“NOTHING COMPARES” My rating: B (Showtime)

97 minutes | No MPAA rating

One of the best indicators of the effectiveness of a music documentary is when after watching it you cannot wait to listen to the artist involved.

After viewing “Nothing Compares,” the new documentary about Irish singer/songwriter Sinead O’Connor, I immediately turned to my old copy of her greatest hits LP.

And then for good measure i went online and began a Sinead buying spree of other tunes from her repertoire.

Directed by Kathryn Ferguson and written by Fergusoon, Eleanor Emptage and Michael Mallie, “Nothing Compares” is less an analysis of O’Connor’s music than a deep dive into her background and personality.

Even those who aren’t particularly familiar with her work instantly recognize her on sight…the shaved head, the huge soulful eyes, and that voice, which one admirer said was capable of “going from a whisper to a scream in half a second.”

Nobody sounds or looks like her; few artists have her burning sense of social justice,  on display even when — as is shown in the film’s opening moments — she has to endure several minutes of booing before beginning a concert.

Often narrated in first person by the now 55-year-old O’Connor (we don’t see her as she looks today until the very end of the movie) “Nothing Compares” depicts a termifying childhood with a mentally ill mother — the singer calls her “a beast” — who abused the child in just about every way a child can be abused.  One of her tricks was to exile her the 8-year-old to live night and day in the family garden.

She grew up “stupidly religious” and was eventually sent to a church-run school for troubled girls; it was affiliated with the notorious Magdalene Laundry system that virtually imprisoned thousands of young Irish women who had children out of wedlock.

This was still a time when the Irish government served as an arm of the  Catholic Church.  O’Connor at one point compares her homeland to an abused child.

As a teen she fell in love with Bob Dylan, specifically the religious-themed “Slow Train Coming” LP; at the same time O’Connor became enamored of drag culture, which pretty much had to lay low in ‘70s Ireland.

Once she launched her singing career, she specialized in writing her own autobiographical songs, as well as covering work by other artists. Who would have expected her to reach the charts with Broadway’s “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina”?  And then there’s her biggest hit, a brilliant version of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U.” (We’re told in the closing credits that Prince’s estate denied the filmmakers’ request to use the song in the documentary. What’s with that?)

Despite controversy, O’Connor has always insisted on wearing her conscience (and anger) on her sleeve.  She caused a flap in the U.S. when she banned a venue from its usual practice of starting a concert with a rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner.” 

And then’s there’s her notorious”Saturday Night Live” appearance in which she ended her a capella rendition of Bob Marley’s “War” by shredding a photo of Pope John Paul II.

She never apologized, never backed down.

“They tried to bury me,” O’Connor says. “They didn’t know I was a seed.”

| Robert W. Butler

Emily Watson

“GOD’S CREATURES” My rating: B (At the Glenwood Arts, VOD)

100 minutes | MPAA rating: R

A blanket of Celtic fatalism drapes over “God’s Creatures,” rendering even a sunny day wan and gray.

Set in an economically-challenged Irish fishing village, this entry from co-directors Sale Davis and Anna Rose Holmer (“The Fits”) centers on a middle-aged wife and mother who out of love makes a seriously bad decision.

Aileen O’Hara (Emily Watson, sinking her teeth into her meatiest role in ages) is a crew chief at a seafood processing plant. She and her husband Con (Declan Conion) seem to more or less share the same space, brought together mostly by their first grandchild, born to their daughter.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Aileen’s son Brian (Paul Mescal) appears after spending seven uncommunicative years in Australia.  Aileen is overjoyed to have her boy back in the fold. Her husband less so…it’s all he can do to shake Brian’s hand. What’s that about?

At first glance Brian is a handsome charmer.  But his behavior raises questions  He left home suddenly (why?) and rarely communicated with his family during his long absence.  Now he’s back (again, why?) ready to take over the long-unattended oyster beds owned by his uncle.

Aileen is too thrilled having her firstborn back under her wing to dwell on such business. But within weeks of his return Brian is accused of sexually assaulting his old girlfriend Sarah (Aisling Franciosi of “The Nightingale”), one of Aileen’s co-workers.

Interviewed by the police, Aileen lies, providing Brian with an alibi. She does so automatically, almost without thinking.

But in the aftermath her conscience begins gnawing.  She senses something disquieting beneath her boy’s outward magnetism.  Worse, Sarah sticks to her accusation and becomes a pariah in their tiny community.

Viewers who demand that everything be spelled out for them will find little solace in “God’s Creatures.”  The film’s narrative approach is elliptical; there’s all sorts of suggestion but little solid information.

Uncertainty seeps through Fodhia Cronin O’Reilly and Shane Crowley’s screenplay and is reflected in the carefully contained performances.  Watson suggests Aileen’s torn loyalties not with bit speeches but through her eyes.  Similarly, Mescal — who made a big splash as the overwhelmingly decent leading man of Hulu’s “Normal People” — cannily uses his good-guy image to disguise Brian’s true nature.

No doubt many will find the film’s understated approach too remote. And the denouement of Brian’s story arc is borderline ridiculous, a deus ex machina  moment comes out of left field.

On the plus side, the film works extremely well as a study of working class life, with its economic uncertainties and demeaning situations.

| Robert W. Butler


Ana de Armas as Norma Jeane/Marilyn

“BLONDE” My rating: B- (Netflix)

166 minutes | MPAA rating: NC-17

“Blonde” left me feeling…well, ambivalent.

I don’t regret giving 2 1/2 hours to Andrew Dominick’s film. But I’m not eager to see it a second time.

It’s  extremely well-made, and  leading lady Ana de Armas’ turn as Marilyn Monroe goes terrifyingly deep (an Oscar seems likely).

But while I found it interesting, I rarely found it compelling.

What does “Blonde” tell us about the iconic movie star that we didn’t already know?  

What point is Dominik (whose earlier films “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford” and “Killing Them Softly” I loved) trying to make?

This is  not a traditional biopic. It is based on a work of fiction (the novel by Joyce Carol Oates) and as such is a brew of historic fact and pure invention. At any given moment it’s hard to know if what we’re seeing ever actually happened.  

We get real events like Monroe’s marriages to Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller (listed in the credits as the Ex-Athlete and The Playwright) and re-creations of scenes from her films. This is  interspersed with pure fantasy (a talking embryo, dream sequences). 

In the end  it all comes down to de Armas, who downplays Marilyn’s sexuality in favor of her sensitivity and vulnerability. The film’s major conceit is that Marilyn Monroe never actually existed.  She was the onscreen creation of Norma Jeane, a fatherless girl who was used/abused by men who acknowledged her beauty but not her intelligence or talent.

So, yeah, “Blonde” is a downer.

Little Norma Jeane has a crazy mom (Julianne Nicholson) who fills her daughter’s head with dreams about an absent father — allegedly a bigwig in the movies — who will one day come to rescue them both.  (Small wonder the grown Norma Jeane refers to her husbands as “Daddy.”) At least once Mama tries to drown the girl in a bathtub.

Norma Jeane is sexually assaulted by the movie producer who gets her into the industry (the film ignores Monroe’s first marriage and her affair with her first agent), and is sexually degraded by a President of the United States. She is coerced into an abortion. 

Based on that description you might expect “Blonde” to be a sad saga of victimization.  And in fact the film has been accused of peddling abuse porn. (The film has been rated NC-17, though what you see is relatively tame…the worst abuse takes place just out of camera range.)

Well, I’d agree except for the way in which de Armas infuses her character with beauty.  Not physical beauty (though there are times in the right light and with the right body language that you find yourself gasping in recognition) but with a tender and desperate need to love and be loved.

This side of Norma Jeane is beautifully exposed in the film’s Arthur Miller segment.  Like the playwright (very well played by Adrian Brody), we find ourselves falling for this woman’s combination of unexpected intelligence and childlike openness.  There’s a genuinely sweetness to these moments that is matched by nothing else in the film.

Instead we get ambiguity.  This is reflected even in Domiik’s technical choices. The movie drifts between color and black-and-white passages…but I’m damned if I can figure out what either signifies.  If all the dream sequences, say, were in black-and-white you could sense what the director is going for. But, no, it all seems terribly arbitrary.

My bottom line: A great heartfelt performance anchoring a half-baked film.

| Robert W. Butler

Sigourney Weaver, Kevin Kline

“THE GOOD HOUSE” My rating: B(In theaters)

114 minutes | MPAA rating: R

“The Good House” is a prime example of cinematic bait and switch…you get sucked into thinking it’s one kind of movie and along the way it becomes something quite different.

That’s the sort of thing that might alienate moviegoers. Except that “The Good House” features Sigourney Weaver in one of her more seductive performances. Who says there are no good roles for women of a certain age?

Weaver plays Hildy Good, a divorced grandmother with her own residential real estate biz in a picturesque seaside New England burg where her family roots go back 300 years (she has descended from one of the Salem witches).

Almost immediately the screenplay (by Thomas Bezucha, Wallace Wolodarsky and director Maya Forbes) lets us in on Hildy’s inner life. While her work requires her to exhibit a gift for schmoozing, our leading lady is in fact a font of sharp-tongued snarkiness who often speaks directly to the audience to diss and dish dirt on her fellow citizens.

Hildy’s outward show of bon homie and civic uprightness and her inner sarcasm provides much of the flim;s dramatic juice. Sardonicism on this level is bracing; when it comes from an older woman it’s damn near celebratory. Not to mention laugh-out-loud funny.

A good chunk of “The Good House” is devoted to a character study of Hildy as she copes with her struggling business (a former assistant has broken away and is now beating Hildy at her own game), a long-ago high school squeeze (Kevin Kline) who over decades has become a blue-collar millionaire (he’s a scuzzy-looking coot who owns a fleet of snow plows, garbage trucks and home renovation vans) and her children and grandchildren.

The film’s real subject sort of sneaks its way in. Hildy, you see, likes her wine. She tells herself (and those of us watching) that she’s totally in control of her intake and that the hand-wringing of her family and friends is just so much do-gooder excess.

Basically “The God House” is about her gradual realization that she’s a first-class alcoholic. At that point the film isn’t so amusing any more.

Now this hardly breaks new cinematic ground; the film works because Weaver is so entertaining and because the ranks of her fellow townspeople have been filled with the likes of Morena Baccarin, Rob Delaney, Kathryn Erbe, Beverly D’Angelo and David Rasche.

All that talent helps compensate for some narrative choices that smack of cheap melodrama. The late-in-life romance with Kline’s character works well enough, but some other subplots involving a neighbor’s autistic child and an extramarital affair being conducted by the local psychiatrist feel underdeveloped and superfluous.

The further the film strays from its central theme — a woman coming to grips with the lies she’s been telling herself — the less effective it becomes.

| Robert W. Butler

Essie Davis, Thomasin McKe3nzie

“THE JUSTICE OF BUNNY KING”  My rating: B (On demand)

101 minutes | No MPAA rating

Thanks to cable’s popular “Miss Fisher” mysteries and her knockout turn in the horror entry “The Babadook,”  Aussie actress Essie Davis has been working her way toward name recognition with American audiences.

In “The Justice of Bunny Fisher” the versatile actress slips effortlessly (or so it seems) into the skin of a homeless woman battling personal demons and a system that seems designed to grind her down.

We meet the title character of Gayson Thavat’s ashcan drama (his feature directing debut) on the streets of a New Zealand burg.  The middle-aged woman is equipped with squeegee and bucket; with a crew of fellow jobless citizens she picks up a few bucks washing the windshields of motorists waiting for the lights to change.

Despite her circumstances Bunny puts up a positive front (no doubt she’s learned that a happy facade results in bigger tips) — at least until she pays a visit to a shelter where her two children (a 14-year-old boy and a 6-year-old girl) are being housed.

Bunny, you see, has a criminal record. The government has doubts about her ability to care for her children.  And it’s not just a question of means…Bunny’s mental health is an iffy thing.

Thavat’s film, co-written with Sophie Henderson and Gregory King, follows Bunny’s determined efforts to be reunited with her kids.  But it’s just one damn thing after another.

Bunny has been crashing with her sister and brother-in-law (Angus Stevens). a creep with a thing for teenage girls and an eye for his stepdaughter Tonyah (the great Thomasin McKenzie). When things go south with her relations Bunny lands on the couch of one of her fellow windshield wipers…briefly, at least, she can bask in the warm vibes of the guy’s big Maori household.

We see her hitting the thrift shops, looking for an ensemble that will allow her to pass for semi-solvent.  But  the never-ending maze of bureaus and regulations she must navigate would prove daunting even for a mom with major resources. How’s Bunny supposed to pull it off?

With its social conscience on its sleeve, sympathetic depiction of working-class life and semi-documentary style (mostly handheld cameras and a real eye for detail), “…Bunny King” bears more than a little resemblance to the films of Brit rabble rouser Ken Loach.

And like a typical Loach effort, the film puts us through some majorly disheartening moments that are made endurable by the terrific acting, which discovers human truths that transcend the misery.

Eventually the film settles down to a situation recalling “Dog Day Afternoon.” Our heroine goes on the run with her willing niece (technically, it’s kidnapping) and the film’s final segment is a tense nail-biter. A happy ending does not seem to be in the cards.

Davis’ performance here is jaw-droopingly nuanced.  Beneath Bunny’s maternal drive we sense a woman who is simultaneously furious and frantic, who makes astonishingly bad decisions for the right reasons, who earns our respect and our pity.

Breathtaking stuff.

| Robert W. Butler

June Smollett, Allison Janney

“LOU” My rating: C (Netflix)

107 minutes | MPAA rating: R

As a general policy it’s wise to see every movie in which Allison Janney appears.  Even in a small role she can can be the difference between dreck and a watchable experience.

“Lou,” though, pushes that thesis to the edge.

Not that Janney isn’t good.  In fact, she is more than effective in what I’m pretty sure is her first attempt to join the ranks of bad-ass action women.

It’s just that the movie around her is pretty sketchy.

Her Lou is a semi-hermit living deep in the woods on an island off the Washington coast.  She’s tall and gray-haired and makeup free (this performance is utterly without vanity) and silently misanthropic.

Lou hunts deer with her dog (often out of season…she doesn’t care) and has a survivalist thing going…a freezer full of meat and, we learn, a small fortune in cash buried out behind the house. Not to mention her familiarity with weapons.

Her closest neighbors are Hannah (Jurnee Smollett) and her adorable little girl Vee (Ridley Asha Bateman).  They rent a mobile home from Lou, who exhibits  little sympathy for the plight of a single working mom.  When the rent is due, it’s due. Period.

Vee’s AWOL father, we learn, was a Green Beret who turned to the dark side — going rogue, killing civilians, stealing and extorting.  That’s when he wasn’t beating Hannah. He may be dead.

Or not.  

“Lou” kicks into gear when Vee is abducted.  The perpetrator leaves behind a bomb in Lou’s car; obviously, the kidnapper is the girl’s father, Phillip (Logan Marshall-Green).  

But we soon learn that Phillip isn’t the only the government-trained killer in the neighborhood.  Lou has skills that could only have been honed in the service of the CIA.

The chase is on.

Director Anna Foerster (among her credits are an “Underworld” feature and episodes of “Outlander”) has turned in a good-looking movie (the lush Northwest forest is hauntingly beautiful) and she delivers a nice action sequence set in a cramped cabin in which Lou goes toe to toe with a couple of Phillip’s nefarious ex-military buddies.

The problem is the screenplay by Maggie Cohn and Jack Stanley, which grows increasingly forced and phony. A little over halfway through they drop a big surprise reveal that elicited from me not a gasp but a shrug.

Marshall-Green can’t do much with his cut-and-paste psycho-soldier role.  Faring better are Janney and Smollett, who become female action buddies. They’re fun to watch even as the movie falls apart around them.

| Robert W. Butler

Creedence in concert: (left to right): Tom Fogerty, Stu Cook, Doug Clifford, John Fogerty

“TRAVELIN’ BAND: CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL AT THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL” My rating: B (Netflix)

89 minutes | No MPAA rating

For weeks at a time in the late 1960’s  and early ‘70s Creedence Clearwater Revival was the biggest band in the world.

Talk about a seemingly unending stream of hits…the pen of singer/guitarist John Fogerty churned out memorable tunes with startling regularity (“Proud Mary,” “Bad Moon Rising,””Fortunate Son,” “Green River,” “Down on the Corner,” “Who’ll Stop the Rain“…and that’s only brushing the surface),

But the thing about Creedence was that they were damn near image free.  The musicians (Fogarty, bassist Stu Cook, guitarist Tom Fogerty, drummer Doug Clifford) did not exude big personalities. Moreover they were squeaky clean by Summer of Love standards — no issues with drugs, violence, offstage misadventure. 

Guys like Jim Morrison and John Lennon got all the press.  CCR was content to play good music and cash the check.

As a result relatively little mythology has grown up around the group. Aside, of course, from the number of excellent songs/recordings they left behind.

That’s rectified in rock documentarian Bob Smeaton’s “Travelin’ Band.” 

The last hour of this 90-minute effort is the full concert Creedence gave in 1970 at London’s Royal Albert Hall.  For decades the footage was rumored to exist, but this is its first public exposure.

The doc’s first 30 minutes give a crash course in CCR history.  Jeff Bridges narrates.

 I learned that far from being an overnight success the band had been around for a decade before scoring (they guys were high school pals from suburban San Francisco).

All four were enamored of black r&b (Ray Charles and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins were big influences), and John Fogerty began writing songs reflecting his fascination with Cajun culture and New Orleans rock.  Amazingly, the guy who gave us “Born on the Bayou” and “Bad Moon Rising” never ventured south of the Mason-Dixon line until after those songs were hits.  It’s a testament to his imagination.

Another reason for the band’s relatively low profile was the simplicity of their style.  No studio magic.  No overdubs.  Just four instruments.

Interestinly enough, that simplicity affected Creedence as a stage band, since they were able to almost perfectly reproduce their recordings in a live setting. Yes, Fogerty occasionally gets to cut loose on an unexpected guitar solo (see the show’s finale, “Keep On Chooglin’ “), but mostly they stuck to the sound fans expected.  

But while the live show was light on surprises, the tightness of the band was hard to beat.  I was especially impressed by Clifford’s drumming…it never struck me as all that special on the records but, dang, watching that guy pound out an inexhaustible beatreedence Clearwater Revival is hypnotic.

| Robert W. Butler