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“McQUEEN”  My rating: B-  

111 minutes | MPAA rating: R

That designer Alexander McQueen was an artistic genius is beyond debate.

The question posed — and only partially answered — by the new documentary “McQueen” is: “Just how screwed up was he?”

McQueen hanged himself in 2010 on the eve of his mother’s funeral. During his two decades in fashion he had gone from impeccably tailored Saville Row suits for men to bizarre runway shows that often were more about performance art — and indulging his own  obsessions — than about creating a sellable line.

He was a rebel and a disruptor. One of his most notorious shows — 1995’s Highland Rape — featured disheveled models who seemed to have stumbled away from a sexual assault. The fashion world was appalled and many condemned the young designer as a misogynist.

Ian Bonhomie and Peter Ettedgul’s film dispels that notion — women were among McQueen’s best friends and most loyal collaborators — but it never does nail the sources of their subject’s neuroses and inspirations.

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Scotty Bowers

“SCOTTY AND THE SECRET HISTORY OF HOLLYWOOD” My rating: B

98 minutes | No MPAA rating

Scotty Bowers is dismissed by some as the film industry’s premiere pimp. In their eyes he is scum, a man who in ’50s Hollywood fixed up closeted gay actors with hunky young studs and then, decades later, wrote a tell-all memoir exposing their peccadilloes.

That’s one way of looking at him. Another is that Bowers is a benevolent erotic pioneer who never took money for his matchmaking and believes that sexual expression –whatever one’s orientation — is as vital to a good life as anything addressed in the Bill of Rights.

Watching “Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood” a viewer zig-zags between those two extremes. Is Scotty a hero or a shameful libertine? A creep or a charming raconteur? All of the above?

As  Matt Tyrnauer’s documentary begins, Bowers is celebrating his 90th birthday (his cake is shaped like a huge penis) and the publication of Full Service, his pull-no-punches sexual tell-all.

A veteran of the Iwo Jima invasion, Bowers came to LA in the late ’40s and opened a gas station at 5777 Hollywood Boulevard. He hired his Marine buddies to work there. Little by little the place became one-stop-shopping for closeted stars and businessmen looking to score.

Bowers installed a peep hole in the men’s room and had a mobile home parked nearby for quickie trysts. “That’s what you call business, baby!” he gleefully chortles.

Half of the film’s running time concentrates on Bowers’ eyebrow-raising memories. He recalls setting up dates for the likes of Walter Pigeon and Charles Laughton, Tom Ewell and J. Edgar Hoover. He claims to have procured willing couples for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and to have enjoyed three ways with both Cary Grant and Randolph Scott and Ava Gardner and Lana Turner.

He only curtailed his activities with the rise of AIDs…he didn’t want to be responsible for spreading the disease.

Of  his omnivorous sexuality the white-haired Bowers replies “I’m everything.” Indeed, he has been sexually active since childhood (furiously dismissing any suggestion that he was the victim of abuse — “I did what I did because I wanted to do it!”). Even before shipping off to the Pacific he had been one of Alfred Kinsey’s subjects for his 1948 landmark Sexual Behavior in the Human Male.

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Henry Golding, Constance Wu

“CRAZY RICH ASIANS” My rating: C

120 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13

“Crazy Rich Asians” is an utterly conventional and largely indifferent wedding-weekend rom-com made noteworthy by just one thing:

It’s the first Hollywood movie since who-knows-when to feature Asian actors in virtually every speaking role.

Culturally speaking, this is a step forward.  Artistically it’s dead in the water.

Jon M.  Chu’s film centers on Rachel (Constance Wu), a professor of economics at Columbia University in a deepening romance with Nick (Henry Golding), a Singapore citizen of Chinese descent who works in finance.

What Rachel doesn’t realize is that Nick is the heir to one of the biggest family fortunes in Asia.  The Youngs own real estate, hotel chains, you name it (if you think Trumpism with all its attendant tackiness, you’re not too far off the mark). But Nick has kept all this from Rachel; he wants to be loved for himself, not his staggering wealth.

Once in Singapore to attend the nuptials of one of Nick’s many cousins,  the secret is out.

Rachel is stunned by the display of unfettered prosperity before her.  “Crazy” in the case of this film means wildly profligate, for the Youngs are not shy about parading their buying power, from vast estates surrounded by a private army to a wedding ceremony in a church decorated to look like a jungle complete with running stream through which the bride wades to meet her groom.

The big problem, though, is less about money than about cultural prejudice.  The Young clan — especially Nick’s mother Eleanor (Michelle Yeoh) — cannot conceived of an outsider joining their ranks. Thus Rachel is targeted for humiliation and alienation initiated by aunties and cousins who at first seem civil and even friendly but who are just waiting the opportunity to pounce.

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“BLACKkKLANSMAN” My rating: B-

145 minutes | MPAA rating: R

As confirmed by the six-minute standing ovation it received at May’s Cannes International Film Festival, Spike Lee’s “BlackKKlansman” is the right movie at the right time.

The film so effectively punches certain cultural hot buttons, so taps into the current political zeitgeist that it takes an hour of its 145-minute running time to realize that as drama it’s pretty weak stuff.

Based on the real story of Ron Stallworth, a black police detective in Colorado Springs who in the late ’70s infiltrated and even joined the Ku Klux Klan, the film is an uneasy melding of suspense, liberal uplift and  satire in which every element — performances, writing, pacing — is subservient to the delivery of a political message.

I’m down with that message. The film opens with a 50s-era “educational” film in which a eugenicist (Alec Baldwin) rants against the threat posed by race mingling. It closes with news footage of neo-Nazis marching last year in Charlottesville VA (and President Trump giving them a pass).

Even so, the movie (Lee co-wrote the screenplay with Charlie Wachtel, David Rabinowitz  and K.U. teacher and filmmaker Kevin Willmott) is notably heavy handed. Yeah, today’s audiences haven’t much use for subtlety, but even so…

We encounter Stallworth (John David Washington…Denzel’s son) when he applies to become the first black officer on the Colorado Springs force.  He’s warned by the Chief (Robert John Burke) that he’ll have to have a Jackie Robinson-level of tolerance for abuse.  It’ll come at him not just from the public but from  his fellow officers.

But Stallworth is ambitious. So when Civil Rights activist Stokely Carmichael is booked to address African American students at a local college,  the department’s sole black cop jumps at the chance to go undercover. He’s assigned to attend the rally and report back on Carmichael’s speech (the activist was long a target of Hoover’s FBI).

The fallout from the event is considerable.

First, Stallworth exhibits his value as a plainclothes officer, leading to his elevation to the rank of detective.

Second, he meets and eventually falls for Patrice (Laura Harrier), the student activist who organized the event — although it will be some time before he confesses that he’s one of the “pigs” she so despises.

Third, he finds himself unexpectedly inspired by Carmichael (Corey Hawkins), whose message of black pride/power hits hard. But did Lee really have to punctuate this scene with artsy montages of young black faces transformed by the speech? Aren’t Carmichael’s words powerful enough?

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Sarah Adler, Tim Kalkhof

“THE CAKEMAKER” My rating: B (Opens Aug. 10 at the Tivoli)

113 minutes | No MPAA rating

The movies have long recognized the link between food and eroticism (“Tom Jones,” “Like Water for Chocolate,” “Eat, Drink, Man, Woman” and countless more).  Usually it’s played for laughs or swooning romance.

The Israeli “The Cakemaker”  aims for the mysterious and the melancholy.

Ofir Raul Graizer’s feature debut is  a study in carefully calibrated yearning that centers on a young man whose motives and inner thoughts are carefully guarded. It takes nearly all of the film’s two hours for his true self to emerge.

In the movie’s opening minutes an Israeli man visits a Berlin bakery. Oren (Roy Miller) is an engineer whose work brings him to Germany several times a year.  Waiting on him is the shop’s baker, Thomas (Tim Kalkhof).

In what seems like only seconds, writer/director Graizer depicts the men’s romance over several months. There’s no scene of courtship or getting to know one another…the narrative jumps from casual conversation to passionate kiss.

After one such visit Oren returns to his wife and young son in Israel. Thomas never hears from him again, despite repeated calls to his lover’s cell phone number. After many weeks Thomas shows up in Israel.

He has learned that Oren died in a car accident. Now he begins observing (or is it stalking?) Oren’s widow, Anat (Sarah Adler) and son Itai (Tamir Ben Yehuda).

Anat operates a hole-in-the-wall cafe; without mentioning that  he knew her late husband, Thomas takes a job there and soon is cranking out delicious cookies, cakes and pies (though he does run afoul of Kosher laws, which ban a non-Jew from operating the oven in a Kosher kitchen). Continue Reading »

Mike Zahs

“SAVING BRINTON” My rating B-

90 minutes | No MPAA rating

By most calculations,  rural Iowan Mike Zahs is a hoarder — which is to say he suffers from a disorder recognized by the American Psychiatric Association.

The retired teacher — who sports a beard worthy of an Old Testament prophet — has a house (two of them actually) packed floor to ceiling with items that might be precious or worthless. Apparently he has his own mental filing system that allows him to locate certain items in all the confusion. His wife can only roll her eyes.

Thing is, Zahs is terrifically articulate, which helps ease our concerns that he may just be another wack job.

And it turns out that Zahs’ towering mountain of junk contains some real treasures. Nearly 30 years ago Zahs took responsibility for the long-abandoned home of fellow townsman William Franklin Brinton, who in the early years of the 20th century traveled the Midwest putting on magic lantern shows and projecting early motion pictures to audiences of farmers and small towners.

Amidst this collection of yellowing posters, ancient projectors and other paraphernalia of old-timey entertainment,  Zahs has discovered a reel of nitrate film, a hand-colored short by the great French cinema pioneer Georges Melies.  It is, in fact, the only known copy of this particular film.  (Melies’ life and art was was the inspiration for Martin Scorsese’s 2011  “Hugo” in which Ben Kingsley portrayed the great magician of early film.)

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Disgraced hedge fund manager Florian Homm

“GENERATION  WEALTH”  My rating: C

106 minutes | MPAA rating: R

As Bruce Springsteen so astutely observed:

Poor man wanna be rich

Rich man wanna be king

And a king ain’t satisfied ’til he rules everything.

“Generation Wealth” finds photojournalist Lauren Greenfield taking on America’s obsession with wealth. As you might guess, she doesn’t think this is a good thing.

One of her subjects describes contemporary Americans as “hamsters in a diamond-studded gold wheel.”

Greenfield has some experience in this subject, having had an arthouse hit with “The Queen of Versailles,” her 2012 doc about a Florida condo king and his wife attempting (and failing) to build the USA’s biggest private residence.

“…Wealth” starts out promisingly enough.  In narration Greenfield describes her own upbringing in Los Angeles and her education in a posh private school. She announces that she’s going to interview her old classmates to see how they’re getting on as adults after being raised in an environment where 8th graders routinely carried $100 bills for lunch money.

Rather quickly, it appears, she realized these folk didn’t have a whole lot of interesting things to say. (“You want people to look at you. It’s about power.”) So “Generation Wealth” casts its net wider, going after topics as diverse as crazed careerism, the obsession of many women with designer handbags,  a woman who put off having a child and now is spending a fortune on medical procedures that will help her get pregnant.

Bret Easton Ellis, whose novels often deal with cultural narcissism, talks about cultural narcissism.

Fairly early on “Generation Wealth” takes a throw-it-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach.  Whatever game plan Greenfield had going into the project is abandoned. The result is an unorganized hodgepodge of ideas and impressions.

Even so, the film has some fascinating things. Like Florian Homm, a Harvard classmate of Greenfield’s who spent years as a ruthless hedge fund manager and now lives in Germany where he can avoid extradition to the U.S.  While smoking a big fat stogie Homm sits back in a fancy settee and rails against a society that places wealth above all other values.

But one has to wonder if Homm’s newfound disdain for greed isn’t almost exclusively the result of being indicted for security fraud. A subsequent interview with his adult son suggests that Dad simply may be good at covering his ass. (Home is such a fascinating/repellant figure you wish the film had been just about him.)

Greenfield takes a moment to consider the Kardashian effect (wealth and fame with no visible talent). We meed a recent Chinese millionaire who lives in a full-size reproduction of the White House and looks out his window to see a manmade Mt. Rushmore.  Russian oligarchs whose homes have vast libraries of volumes that no one is allowed to touch, much less crack open and read.

The “pornificiation” of American culture is touched upon. We meet an adult film actress and follow women who spend every cent they can borrow on plastic surgery. A participant in kiddie beauty pageants.

And at some point the film becomes Greenfield’s own story. She interviews her high school-age son, who reduces her to tears by finally expressing his  resentment that her journalism career made her an absentee parent.

“We’re dying in the same ways other civilizations have died throughout history,” says one talking head. “The difference is when we go down we take the planet with us.”

An interesting and troubling thought. Wish the rest of the film carried that sort of punch.

| Robert W. Butler

 

 

Pooh, Ewan McGregor

“CHRISTOPHER ROBIN” My rating: C- 

104 minutes | MPAA rating: PG

Few moviegoing experiences are as disheartening as the film that aspires to the whimsical and charming but instead falls flat on its boring face.

Welcome to “Christopher Robin,” Disney’s ill-conceived live-action (mostly) fantasy about the adult life of the little boy who used to play with Pooh, Piglet and the other animals in the Hundred Acre Woods.

Unlike last year’s “Goodbye Christopher Robin,” which was a loose biography of Pooh creator A.A. Milne and his son, Christopher Robin Milne, this new effort from director Marc Forster unfolds in an alternative universe in which Milne and the Pooh books don’t exist (although the movie opens with animated versions of the famous book illustrations by E.H. Shepard…so you can be forgiven if you’re confused).

In a prologue little Christopher Robin (his first name is Christopher, his last Robin) says goodbye to his toy companions as he prepares for boarding school.  Pooh and the others — rendered in what appears to be a combination of puppetry and computer effects — are left behind to mourn the loss of their human friend.

In a montage we see the grown Christopher Robin (Ewan McGregor) meet and marry Evelyn (Hayley Atwell), go off to World War II and become a father to young Madeline (Bronte Carmichael).  By now he’s all but forgotten his childhood companions; he’s up to his neck in troubles as a middle manager at a London luggage company on the verge of bankruptcy. Christopher is so consumed by business woes that he’s alienating his wife and child.

And then one day — tah DAH — Pooh uses a magic portal (in a tree) to come to London to look for his old friend. The harried businessman spends a day back in the Hundred Acre Woods, slowly getting back in touch with his childhood self.

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Elsie Fisher

“EIGHTH GRADE” My rating: A-

94 minutes | MPAA rating: R

Middle school means isolation, mortification and general angst. Such was the case even before cell phones and the internet upped the ante on  peer pressure.

Bo Burnham’s “Eighth Grade” perfectly captures that indefinable sense of adolescent unease.  You may find yourself looking away from the screen as his 14-year-old heroine undergoes yet another wince-inducing humiliation. This film is so true in its harrowing honesty, so aching in its inarticulate yearning that it is almost too much to bear.

But stick with it. With its savagely dead-on sense of humor, its unflinching depiction of pubescent peril and a star-making performance by young Elsie Fisher, the film slowly sucks us in, leaving us wiser, more sympathetic and superbly entertained.

The film follows Kayla (Fisher), a 14-year-old enduring her last week of eighth grade before summer break.  She wants desperately to be somebody — from her bedroom she launches a chirpy daily videocast (“Hi, guys, it’s Kayla back with another video!?”) in which she dispenses advice to her fellow 8th graders. She suspects, though, that nobody  is watching.

And there’s more than a little irony when she tells her possibly nonexistent viewers that  it’s important to be themselves.  As if she has a clue as to her own essence.

It’s not that the other kids are mean to Kayla.  Most of them — like the deb-in-training Kennedy (Catherine Oliviere) — don’t  even acknowledge her existence. That anonymity is both infuriating and suffocating.

All this has made Kayla a very prickly young lady, and she takes out most of her anger and anxiety on her single dad (Josh Hamilton), a chipper optimist whose transparent efforts to instill in his daughter hope and self-worth only fill her with eye-rolling contempt.

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Timothee Chalamet

“HOT SUMMER NIGHTS” My rating: C

107 minutes | MPAA rating: R

For his feature writing/directing debut Elijah Bynum has assembled an impressive cast (including “Call Me By Your Name’s” Oscar-nominated Timothy Chalamet) and delivered a stylish and great-looking movie.

Too bad it can’t overcome the script’s near-fatal shortcomings.

Basically this is a coming-of-age story, but while most such efforts mine the lighthearted and comedic, “Hot Summer…” veers into serious, even deadly territory.

Daniel (Chalamet) is a grumpy teen whose single mom sends him off to spend the summer with a (unseen) relative on Cape Cod.  There the kid is exposed to the dual worlds of the rich vacationing “summer birds” and the blue collar townies.

Almost from the first frame Bynum announces he’s going to push the envelope.  The opening sequences are narrated by a 13-year-old boy (we never get his name) who lives year-round on the Cape and describes (“I  can’t swear to every last detail…”) how this particular summer (1991) saw the birth of a local legend.

Early on Daniel falls under the influence of Hunter Strawberry (Alex Roe), a sort of James Dean-ish heartthrob who wears a black leather jacket on hot summer days and still manages to look cool.

Hunter is a shady but charismatic character whom the local kids believe to have committed a murder (we get a montage of talking-head youngsters attesting to his awesomeness). That claim seems doubtful, but  the local law certainly would love to nail him for peddling weed to the summer birds.

Hunter and Daniel contract with Dex, a local marijuana wholesaler (Emory Cohen), to distribute ever-bigger shipments of grass.  Daniel is the instigator of this rapid expansion; he has cousins all over the East Coast who become his ground-level dealers.

Pretty soon Daniel and Hunter are rolling in green.

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