Film Review

South Dakota Tone Poem

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 03 Jul 2025 21:08:44 +0000

South Dakota Tone Poem Chet Kozlowski July 3, 2025 - 17:08

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Fall is a Good Time to Die looks terrific. The images—from vast South Dakota landscapes to small spaces packed with specific details —are crisp and well-composed. Dalton Coffey did the cinematography.

Its pace is unhurried yet gripping. The editor was Dalton Coffey.

Its guitar score girds the action well, unobtrusive yet driving the film. Dalton Coffey did the music.

The script is full of surprising setups and convincing dialogue. You guessed it: Dalton Coffey wrote and directed it, too.

Multitasking is not uncommon today. Many new directors are getting their first shots and have auteurist ambitions. Dalton Coffey is different: he shows such taste and restraint in this film that it stands as the strong work of a singular vision.

The premise of Fall Is a Good Time to Die is a familiar one: a convict is released from prison, and someone sets out to find him and settle a score. The idea is simple, and in Fall Is a Good Time to Die, the delivery is confident and original.

A young cowboy named Cody is surprised that his estranged aunt appears one day to tell him Jason White is back at large. White was in prison because he raped and killed Cody’s sister. Cody makes his way across the vast landscape of South Dakota to avenge her death.

Meanwhile, a local peace officer wrestles with her own demons. Her work oppresses her, and her marriage has dissolved because of an act some deem heroic. Eventually, she, Cody, and White come together in a final reckoning.

Joe Hiatt plays Cody as a boy about to take adult matters into his own hands. He is fresh-faced and an interesting choice of protagonist. Jennifer Pierce Mathus embodies middle-aged angst as Jane, the deputy sheriff who must live up to her reputation. And it’s a real treat to see Joey Lauren Adams—Amy of Chasing Amy—in a rare turn as Trista, Cody’s meddling aunt.

Fall is a Good Time to Die trods ground similar to Hell or High Water and any number of modern Westerns. The difference is that Mr. Coffey approaches his material with deliberation and a sense of his own limits. His approach is direct and lyrical. He shows off a bit in his use of space and time, as scenes repeat, mixing past and present, sometimes within the same shot. His storytelling is linear to that point, and the change jolts until you understand what he’s up to. The technique is inventive and mostly works, but is a little unclear, ultimately, about what happens when.

But these are quibbles. Fall is a Good Time to Die is an engrossing open plains potboiler and a good sign that we’ll see even better work from Dalton Coffey in the future.

________________________________

Fall is a Good Time to Die. Directed by Dalton Coffey. 2025. From Buffalo 8. Runtime 90 minutes. On VOD and digital platforms.

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Mondo Dogg (It's A Dogg's World)

Gary Lucas — Tue, 01 Jul 2025 22:59:06 +0000

Mondo Dogg (It's A Dogg's World) Gary Lucas July 1, 2025 - 18:59

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"Sittin' on a cornflake
Ridin' on a roller skate
Too late to hesitate
Or even meditate
Always looking up what's down
They've come to get me from the lost and found
But believe me, I'm feeling fine
To the world I'll throw some wine"- Swamp Dogg, "Total Destruction to Your Mind"

Goofy and entertaining new documentary about the legendary R&B artist and songwriter who began his lengthy career as "Little Jerry Williams" and morphed into psychedelic trickster/funkmeister Swamp Dogg in 1970. After years on the fringes of the more trad R&B scene and watching Black music world go all patchouli oil-scented paisley-colored (witness the emergence of The Temptations's Psychedelic Shack, Miles Davis's Bitches Brew, Muddy Waters's Electric Mud, most anything by Sly and the Family Stone, and of course the baddest and boldest of them all, Jimi Hendrix) Williams defiantly changed his image and his sound with his landmark 1970 album Total Destruction to Your Mind. Released nearly simultaneously with George Clinton's 1970 cutting-edge outing Funkadelic (you have to wonder who was zooming who here), Swamp is depicted sitting on a garbage bin in an alley, which started the ball rolling for his prodigious and unclassifiable subsequent album forays into the wacky.

This doc captures Williams in all his imperious glory (he had hits in Nashville writing cross-over country classics!)—and his ragtag coterie (esp. Guitar Shorty and MoogStar) are nearly as colorful and larger than life as the guy himself in this kitchen-sink melange of vintage clips, outtakes, animation, bloopers and studio sweepings. Suppose Ryan Coogler's Sinners posits a Fear of White Musical Appropriation of a Black-created idiom (da Blooze) by the stage-Irish vampiric folk troupe who wander into frame out of nowhere (for me, the weakest part of an otherwise powerful film). In that case, Swamp Dogg Gets His Pool Painted celebrates Williams' musical miscegenation in Nashville with the likes of John Prine. Highly recommended (although sad to say, I was the ONLY attendee at the 2:30 PM show two days after it opened in the big theatre at the IFC, WTF).

Best sequence: Swamp Dogg releases an album of various dogs barking, The Beatles' Greatest Hits, under the name The Barkers.

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The Things We Do For Love

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 30 Jun 2025 15:22:34 +0000

The Things We Do For Love Chet Kozlowski June 30, 2025 - 11:22

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drama

The displacement of passion and the vagaries of mature love are the themes of the absorbing new French film Let Me Go.

Claudine is a seamstress in a small town in France. Her son Baptiste, a handsome young adult, is mentally disabled. She dotes on him, bathes and feeds him, and reads to him letters sent from his globetrotting father, absent but for his sentiments.

In truth, her husband left her decades ago, when he learned of Baptiste’s condition. The cards are actually the words of her anonymous lovers. Claudine approaches strangers, asks where they’re from, and if she finds their answers lyrical, beds them. Their words end up in letters addressed to Baptiste. She accepts no money but is keenly intent on her own pleasure.

It’s a complex web of actions and emotions, and director Maxime Rappaz handles it with subtlety. He sets a rich tableau, yes, and his wisdom is remarkable given that Mr. Rappaz is all of 39 years old. This is his first feature film.

Its success is wholly dependent on the amazing performance by Jeanne Balbar. Claudine, as portrayed by Ms. Balbar, is a woman well into middle age, unapologetic in her devotion and sacrifice, and in addressing her own needs.

Eventually, inevitably, one of Claudine’s trysts touches her. She finds herself falling in love with a gentle bear of a man named Michael. And this forces a crucial decision regarding her son.

Just try to look away from Ms. Balbar’s elegant and expressive face. It seduces, it morphs, and it makes you gasp. It flies, it falls, it crumbles. The look she gives Michael upon her final decision is heartbreaking. And watch the business with her scarf. It’s so much a shade of Claudine’s character you might miss it, but the way she ties it and what it represents goes to Mr. Rappaz’s astute narrative sense (he co-wrote Let Me Go with Marion Vernoux and Florence Seyvos). Mr. Rappaz knows what he’s after, and Ms. Balbar delivers it with grace.

Other symbols overreach, however. Mirrors are everywhere, ostensibly to illuminate Claudine’s identity, but Ms. Balbar’s acting does that just fine. Baptiste’s idealization of Princess Diana (the action is set before her death) is ultimately a facile subplot. Let Me Go works best as a simple, quiet contemplation.

Kudos also go to editor Caroline Detournay and cinematographer Benoit Servaux. The cast includes Thomas Sarbacher as Michael, in an impressively understated performance; Pierre-Antoine Dubey plays Baptiste as an awkward naif, surrogate/recipient of Claudine’s repressed fervency; Véronique Mermoud’s role as Chantal, housekeeper and Baptiste’s nurse, is Claudine’s foil, who understands her employer’s predilections all too well. “I’m a woman myself, you know,” she says by way of validation.

It's all very French. Watching the film, I tried to imagine an American version of Let Me Go (the original title, Laissez-Moi, translates in French to “Leave Me”). Claudine responds to life in a way we would judge differently, I think, mired as we are in correctness and virtue signaling. I can’t recall when I’ve seen a more perceptive and intelligent take on the elemental desires of a woman. But I’m sure when I saw it, it was French.

___________________________

Let Me Go (Laissez-Moi). Directed by Maxime Rappaz. 2023. From M-Appeal. French with English subtitles. Runtime 92 minutes. On VOD and digital platforms.

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We Need to Talk About Isaac

Chet Kozlowski — Tue, 24 Jun 2025 01:06:31 +0000

We Need to Talk About Isaac Chet Kozlowski June 23, 2025 - 21:06

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horror

What’s a cult to do with somebody like Isaac?

The leaders have tried everything. They’ve punished him. They’ve slapped him around. They’ve forced him to swallow pills and glug vinegar. They’ve thrown him in a cell. He’s “acidic,” you see. And if he keeps this up, expounding impure thoughts, he won’t ascend in the Rapture with everybody else.

Worse still, he’s no breeder. Give him a comely female supplicant to impregnate, and Isaac can’t seal the deal.

When we first meet Isaac, he’s alone in a cell. The bare walls are festooned with primitive crucifixes. Isaac is dressed Amish style—collarless shirt, pants with suspenders—and is suffering terrible visions of ancient rites: people wearing animal masks performing a human sacrifice. He bolts awake, unsure if what he’s witnessed is real.

Soon he’s released from his dark cell into the sunshine. The location is a lavish mansion, surrounded by majestic mountains against a stunning blue sky. It’s an idyllic scene: maidens in similarly modest dress sing traditional songs and merrily cavort. They all serve at the pleasure of the Wentworths, a husband-and-wife team who command the cult. They work hard to keep their flock “clean” despite the immoral excesses of the outside world.

And so it goes in the new film Dirty Boy. Think of it as a stew of Midsomer seasoned with The Handmaid’s Tale and a dash of Wicker Man. It was shot in the ‘Ausseerland/ Saltzkammergut’ in Austria, the same location as The Sound of Music.

Dirty Boy writer/director Doug Rao is known mostly for TV work. Here he plays with an intriguing notion: is Isaac’s condition religious fervor or mental illness

Dirty Boy has an impressive cast. Graham McTavish (you’ll know him from Games of Thrones) plays Walter Wentworth, the patriarch. Walter’s done up in furs and very droll, and when not ravishing maidens has lines like “If God is always watching, the least we can do is be interesting.” Mr. McTavish could’ve been used to better effect; we see him either propped in his chair or unbuckling. Susie Porter plays Walter’s wife, Verity Wentworth, who sure loves her some baptizing. Her mission is to cleanse Isaac of the “acidic signs of Satan,” inclinations toward pornography, the internet, and hedonism.

Stan Steinbichler plays Isaac to the hilt. He’s gaunt and wired, resembling a young Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates. The women in the flock are named for virtues, and he’s ably aided by Hope (Honor Gillies, who looks like she’s stepped out of a Bouguereau painting) in his defiance of the order. Olivia Chenery is fashion-model legs and cheekbones as the sinister psychiatrist.

Mr. Rao and cinematographer Ross Yeandle make the most of their widescreen by mixing stunning panoramas (those mountains are the Alps) with sequences of sharp shadows and a limited color palette. All are well-blocked; particularly an expository scene midway through the runtime with Isaac and the maidens that perfectly sums up the stakes.

The scenario is divided into parts—Lamentations, Revelation, Genesis, and Exodus—though they don’t serve much purpose. Isaac confronts his demons, one in particular named Frankie, and tries to clear his name; he’s been accused of those ritual murders from his nightmares. Dirty Boy uses an ironic voiceover which may have been included to fill plot holes but actually puts a unique spin on the proceedings.

Dirty Boy combines my primary complaints about recent films: it has a misleading title—which in this case trivializes its themes—and a facile climax that results in carnage or deus ex machina. Poor Isaac has nowhere to go, narratively or story-structurally. The outside world isn’t a factor until the denouement (which further reinforces the Psycho connection). Isaac can’t escape. Where’s he going to go? He was born on the compound and has never left—so he deals predictably with his situation.

Too many good dystopias are wasted by ending them and neutering their allegorical sting. A climax commodifies; the tale is no longer cautionary. It’s a completed dramatic unit, so can be put away and ultimately forgotten.

Dirty Boy works itself into a corner and chooses to fight its way out. Too bad: when it works, Dirty Boy showcases some fine performances and raises some interesting questions about insanity and divinity.
_________________________________
Dirty Boy. Directed by Doug Rao. 2024. From Mystic Dream/Stone Hill/Saint Halo. Runtime 97 minutes.

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Tonight At Noon

Gary Lucas — Tue, 17 Jun 2025 15:11:00 +0000

Tonight At Noon Gary Lucas June 17, 2025 - 11:11

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documentary

Jason Robards in “The Day After” (1983, d. Nicholas Meyer)

Television Event–a documentary about the 1983 nuclear holocaust film The Day After

I walked into the lobby of a nearly deserted Film Forum yesterday at noon here in NYC to purchase a ticket to a screening of the documentary Television Event, concerning the watershed anti-nuclear war made-for-TV film The Day After.

I say watershed because this film, depicts the hyper-realistic effects of a nuclear attack on the American populace and its hideous aftermath (and actually pulls its punches in that regard, avoiding any mention of “nuclear winter,” which pretty much would spell the end of all life on earth) was seen by a record 100 million horrified people on Nov. 20th, 1983 when it was first televised on ABC as a two-hour special.. Using state-of-the-art for the day non-CGI effects, audiences bonded closely with the humdrum quotidian life of the appealing cross-section of characters in the first hour and then were pummeled into shocked and awed submission in the devastating second hour, which details the actual attack (who started the war is never made clear) and its ghastly denouement. Never before had the total devastation of nuclear warfare ever been brought so graphically into the living rooms of America. It was an especially traumatizing television event, as the film is set in a typical American town, Everytown, USA, the heartland city of Lawrence, Kansas (so placid and normalized that William Burroughs eventually retired there in 1981 after his tumultuous years in Manhattan).

The brainchild of visionary ABC network exec Brandon Stoddard in 1981, the film was realized over several years with director Nicholas Meyer (Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan) at the helm, a script by veteran tv writer Edward Hume, and outstanding performances by Jason Robards and then relative unknowns Steve Guttenberg, John Lithgow, Amy Madigan, John Cullum and JoBeth Williams. The film still packs a tremendous wallop today (oy) and caused such a publicity furor in the run-up to its broadcast that a special warning was given at the outset for parents to consider not allowing their children to watch the two-hour broadcast. This is nothing next to the public hue-and-cry in the wake of the actual broadcast itself.

Lithgow is especially effective as Professor Joe Huxley, his last name most likely screenwriter Humes’s nod to Aldous Huxley’s bleak 1948 anti-nuclear war book, Ape and Essence. At the conclusion of the final hour of The Day After’s bruising no-redemption narrative where many poignant storylines and characters have either been terminated, cut short, or trailed off into oblivion in the glare of atomic annihilation, the film fades to black with Huxley's urgent, plaintive appeal over his makeshift short-wave radio (a device possibly inspired by Steely Dan's memorable 1973 song "King of the World"):

“Hello? Is anybody there?? Anybody at all???”

To which there is no response.

This 126-minute film—probably the most shocking film to come out of Lawrence, Kansas, since Herk Harvey’s immortal Carnival of Souls (1962)—was brought to you by Orville Redenbacher’s Popcorn. The Day After was not exactly a “popcorn movie,” but what the hey—ABC had great difficulty finding any commercial sponsors at all for their broadcast. Popcorn abounded, though, except for the last hour when the missiles began to fall, which was tactfully shown without commercials.

This was followed by a statement from then-Secretary of State George Shultz, who gamely attempted to reassure the nation that the current US nuclear policy of deterrence would sensibly prevent such a nightmare scenario from ever unfolding. This attempt at a rebuttal was aimed at the very crux of the film (whose message is basically "No More Nukes”)–and was followed by a special discussion panel chaired by Ted Koppel featuring a shaken and clearly disturbed panel of worthies including Eli Wiesel, Carl Sagan, William F. Buckley Jr., Lt. Gen. Brent Scowcroft, and Robert McNamara, who look like they’d all just peered into the Abyss.

A scowling Buckley typically denounced the film as “debilitating propaganda” and essentially anti-American and called into question screenwriter Humes’s motives and ABC’s 7 million dollar investment in the film (a pretty big Bang for the Buck back in the day, come to think of it–mere peanuts by today’s scale of the economy—7 million being the cost now of booking a 30-second spot on the Super Bowl). Planetary scientist and astronomer Sagan sagely pointed out that an actual nuclear war would have much more severe and catastrophic consequences worldwide than those depicted in the film (hard to imagine, as the movie pretty much ends with everyone dead or dying). Author Elie Wiesel, having lived through the actual Holocaust, sounds the most effective and heart-breaking note as to the film’s potential to bring humanity together once and for all.

The film went on to be the biggest “water-cooler” television event of the year. I duly watched it when it aired—and like everybody else was thoroughly terrified by its (literally) ashen-faced denouement. I recall how intensely the film was discussed and debated not only in the media but by my immediate circle of friends. It was eventually shown in 40 countries, and in 1987 was actually broadcast in the then-Soviet Union, the producers demanded it be translated into Russian exactly according to its script and be shown uninterrupted without commentary. In any case, The Day After so disturbed and depressed then-President Ronald Reagan at a White House screening the month before ABC's broadcast that he began to re-think his support for the concept of nuclear deterrence–which eventually led to the 1987 INF Treaty (Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty) co-signed by Mikhail Gorbachev, which banned all ground-launched ballistic missiles and cruise missiles with ranges between 500 and 5,500 kilometers.

I have not revisited The Day After since it first aired in 1983, but this Australian-American doc Television Event, produced and directed by Jeff Daniels, pretty much brings it all back home, with out-takes, production drawings, interviews with many of the principals involved, and snippets of scenes from the film in question. What is thoroughly striking is the fact that no matter what pressures came to bear on the network to edit the film and basically tone things down, the film still resonates as a mass-bummer experience. The passion and righteous conviction of the production team to pull the curtain back and reveal the terrifying outcome of a nuclear war in living color is pretty strong meat still. Some of the production drawings on view look like nothing so much as the explicitly gory and insanely violent 1962 Mars Attacks trading card series inked by Wally Wood and Norman Saunders, which amongst other things depict humans (and cattle and dogs) being rendered into fiery skeletons by the death rays of the atomic weapon-wielding Martians. (Check out those cards here.)

Over the years, the spirit-destroying reality of atomic warfare has been shoved conveniently onto the back burner of consciousness. It is just too much for the human mind to comprehend the sheer finality of it for very long.

There had been warnings from Hollywood previously, of course. The whole grim business, but with an optimistic twist at the end, had been depicted on the big screen in 1962’s Panic in Year Zero!—A survivalist punch to the gut directed by and starring the great Ray Milland. Before that, there was the cheesy red-scare optics of Alfred E. Green’s 1962 Invasion, U.S.A. Most recently, in Christopher Nolan’s 2023 70mm epic Oppenheimer posited the concept of “reaping the whirlwind,” ie, Oppenheimer supposedly quoted the Sanskrit aphorism “Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds” when the Trinity test blast he has successfully masterminded finally goes off.

And, of course, there was the singular jape of Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 Dr. Strangelove, referred to in Television Event, which burlesqued the entire concept of Cold War atomic paranoia courtesy of Kubrick collaborator screenwriter Terry Southern. What could be more cartoonishly ridiculous AND chilling than the indelible image of rodeo cowboy Slim Pickens waving his ten-gallon hat, whooping it up all his yee-hawing glory astride the Bomb as it plummets downwards? This staggering shot, followed by a montage of possibly every atomic bomb test blast ever registered to film, set to the tune of Vera Lynn’s wartime anthem "We’ll Meet Again," renders the whole notion of atomic warfare and arms race militarism absurd. Absurdity is our default mode whenever we ponder the concept of nuclear annihilation. An ironic chuckle is how we deal with it.

"Immediately in the event of a nuclear attack, bend over...

Put your head between your legs…

And then kiss your ass goodbye!"

And so we laugh and move on. Because buried deep inside us is the knowledge that if we dwell upon this subject too long, and truly think through all of its implications, it will probably drive us mad (“mutually assured destruction” a.k.a. MAD).

But The Day After—as glimpsed in the rearview mirror of Television Event—is no joke.

The mood in the Film Forum lobby last Friday was somber. News of Israeli bombs falling on Tehran had been broadcast that morning, and the inevitable retaliation from Iran was heading Israel’s way.

A close friend blurted out to me yesterday: “I can’t believe this war has started. We’re sitting ducks here in New York!” NYC is most likely Ground Zero in the event of a nuclear attack.

An article in the NY Times Magazine, April 10th, 2025, claims that 1/3 of all adult Americans are currently prepping for a Doomsday scenario involving the construction of fortified bunkers—basically, fall-out shelters.

POSTSCRIPT:

About a week ago, I had a very vivid dream.

It’s a sunny summer day in NYC, and I’m walking up the west side of 6th Avenue towards 11th Street with CultureCatch founder, Dusty Wright.

We arrive at that corner, and I point to a grocery store across the street.

“Wait, let’s ask Jima (pronounced Jeema, as in Iwo Jima, don’t ask me why this particular name came to mind, it was only a dream) to go across the street and get supplies for us at the market.

Suddenly, I hear a roar behind me.

I wheel around and look up into the cloudless blue sky over the treetops of leafy 11th Street.

In the center of the empty sky is a huge yellow fireball—a star burning brighter than a thousand blazing suns.

The realization of what’s going down–instant karma, if you will–hits me hard.

And in our last moments together, I shout to Dusty:

“SNEAK ATTACK ON NEW YORK!!”

And then I wake up.

“All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.”

—Edgar Allan Poe

Call it an unpleasant premonition.

But the dream was too real—and given the events of recent days, I just cannot shake it.

In conclusion, this doc should be required viewing by every person on planet Earth who has ever seriously contemplated the fantasy of “nuking” the Other.

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One for the Road, Man

Chet Kozlowski — Sat, 14 Jun 2025 10:18:40 +0000

One for the Road, Man Chet Kozlowski June 14, 2025 - 06:18

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Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a sweet surprise, a late-stage rumination on a joint (no pun intended) career that had its highs (pun intended) and lows. Cheech and Chong are old now. In their heyday, their name was synonymous with a brand of stoner comedy that rode the first wave of improv. Their Last Movie takes us back to a tumultuous time.

The film is not plot-driven. It’s two guys driving through the desert, laughing and arguing and reminiscing. Their meanderings thread through a collage of newsreels, live shows, talking heads, interviews, and animations. They also dip into their private stash of never-before-seen footage. We ride along as they careen through the 1960s and 70s, political slash social revolution, Motown, the draft years, hippie culture, Hollywood, MTV and, finally, redemption.

Richard “Cheech” Marin grew up being the only Chicano in school, where he was popular because of his uniqueness. He used humor as self-defense against an overbearing father, who one acquaintance called “the most even-tempered man I ever met: always angry.” Cheech took up pottery, kicked around Canada and wrote for Poppin magazine, their Rolling Stone.

Tommy Chong was born to Chinese and Canadian parents. In his early 20s, he married Maxine and had a family, settling into domesticity. “That’s where I spent my time: raising kids and being happy.” Chong played guitar with Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers, which led to Motown, popular recordings and eventually ownership of a stripper bar that he turned into an improv club.

That’s where Cheech and Chong’s destinies converged. Comedy albums and live shows came next, then the hit movie Up in Smoke. The rest is history. More risks, more movies, Grammys, worldwide fame.

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a lot of miles to cover. We zip by the likes of Stokely Carmichael and David Harris, marvel at an adolescent Michael Jackson, give LSD guru Timothy Leary a part in a movie, and get grilled by Geraldo Rivera (these interviews are a revelation: in contrast to the oblivious characters they play, we see two confident, ambitious strivers who are clearly enjoying their moment). Ghosts from the past appear in the backseat of their car, like Tommy’s wife, Maxine, and music impresario Lou Adler.

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is directed by David Bushell, whose previous documentary was I Needed Color, about Jim Carrey. He produced Sling Blade and, with Judd Apatow, Get Him to the Greek. Here he works with editor Brett Mason and animator James Blagden.

While Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie is a celebration, it doesn’t shy away from the failures and disappointments, the raging egos, bad business deals, and embarrassments, like their bid for film legitimacy, the satire of Dumas’ The Corsican Brothers, after what Cheech calls the “amiable messes” of their earlier movies.

Cheech and Chong’s story is a classic tale of rise and fall, and success built on luck and hubris. They were the perfect comedy voice for the counterculture. And just like the counterculture, they couldn’t last.

The title Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie can be read as a eulogy. It’s poignant to see the two old guys on the shoulder of the highway, bickering, and spot a roadside bar in the middle of nowhere. They walk in arm in arm, two amigos. The place is called The Joint.

Pun intended.

______________________________

Cheech & Chong’s Last Movie. Directed by David Bushell. 2025. Runtime 120 minutes.

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Bigfoot and Then Some

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 12 Jun 2025 18:48:05 +0000

Bigfoot and Then Some Chet Kozlowski June 12, 2025 - 14:48

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In this age of fake news and life-altering events, the mockumentary genre has taken a hit. How do you apply absurdity as a comic device when the ordinary life around you is increasingly absurd? But filmmakers keep trying. From This is Spinal Tap to TV’s The Office and What We Do in the Shadows, the irony comes from the point of view of a well-meaning film crew.

A few recent mocks have deserved attention, and one is Found Footage: The Making of the Patterson Project. The premise is fun: novice movie makers set out into the woods to make a horror film about Bigfoot and get more than they bargained for. While there are some hilarious bits, that conceit ends up taking a backseat to more conventional scares.

The story concerns Chase Bradner (Brennan Keel Cook), a film nerd who has several shorts to his credit, with titles like “Tongue Tied” and “Locked in the Closet.” Chase collects film memorabilia (like the plastic bag from American Beauty and items thrown by Bullseye in Daredevil) and is now ready to realize a more expansive vision. Mr. Clark’s sharp features, precise comic timing, and Irish setter shock of red hair make Chase an appealing protagonist.

Chase’s first feature will be called The Patterson Project, after the photographer who first captured the blurry image of the creature known as Bigfoot. The filming will be recorded by a French documentarian, Rochelle Dupont (Marie Paquim), for Le Musée d’Orange (all of them made-up names treated with deadpan austerity). Chase’s project is a complicated one. While he’s being filmed, he will film a story being filmed by the lead actor. So Found Footage is a movie about a movie about a movie. You can’t get much more meta than that.

Chase’s crew includes his bubbly girlfriend Natalie (Erika Vetter), who offers her parents’ timeshare cabin as a location, his earnest best friend Mitch (Chen Tang), and his nervous financier Frank (Dean Cameron), for whose furniture outlet stores Chase has shot commercials. Some funny confusion is milked about Chase thinking he’s signed Daniel Radcliffe to star and Alan Rickman being cast to appease an elderly investor, despite his being deceased. We follow the creation of the Bigfoot suit, but it’s replaced by a character whose face is covered in mo-cap (motion capture) dots for reasons that would ruin the joke if I described them here.

If it isn’t obvious, Found Footage’s humor is pretty esoteric, but for those who get the in-jokes, it’s fun. The plot tangentially involves the Bigfoot quest, but becomes morbid in a Blair Witch Project sort of way. The issue is the creepy cabin, a sealed room, and a book of satanic incantations that lead us in a new direction. Evil Dead 2 fans will be on familiar ground, but the publicity and poster aren’t necessarily aimed at them. The generalized title and film stills of Chase in the Bigfoot suit might leave some viewers feeling baited and switched. It’s a little like ordering salad and getting goulash.

Found Footage is directed by Max Tzannes, who, like Chase, is a maker of shorts, and whose previous feature Et Tu (2023) is similarly about observing observers. He works from a script co-written with David San Miguel, who also supplies the music.

For the most part, Found Footage works. The setups are well-conceived and get solid laughs. The characters are endearing and poignant as we get to know them. All the ensemble is worth noting, but standouts include Rachel Alig (Daniella), Del Alan Murphy (Pete), Christian T. Chan (Alan), and Chelsea Gilson (Sarah Susan). They are so endearing as characters that some might find their fate disturbing.

________________________________

Found Footage: The Making of the Patterson Project. Directed by Max Tzannes. 2025. From Radio Silence Productions. Runtime 100 minutes.

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There’s An App for That

Chet Kozlowski — Wed, 04 Jun 2025 12:14:54 +0000

There’s An App for That Chet Kozlowski June 4, 2025 - 08:14

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action thriller

I almost titled this review Tacky Driver—never waste a good pun—but I decided it would be too cheeky and untrue to the material. Turns out Self Driver is a clever, original film made on a shoestring budget that deserves your attention.

A character identified only as “D” is at wit’s end. He has a new baby, lots of expenses, and relies on an Uber-ish ride-share app called VRMR to bring in money. He drives a shitty car (bad AC), works ridiculous hours, and must contend with an array of eccentric passengers. The faceless, soulless app doesn’t care. An agent just tries to get him to upgrade. Then one day, a slick passenger named Nic offers D a chance to sign on to a new app, promising fast money. D demurs at first. “A libertarian,” Nic chuckles. “I like it.” Pretty soon a party girl pukes in D’s back seat. That’s the last straw. D calls Nic.

The new app, Tonomo, has great pay-outs but strict rules. D stands to make a lot of money as long as he follows the prompts. If he doesn’t ask questions, and does everything the app tells him to, he can make a lot more money than with the app he’s been using. Nic tells D that the more “offers” he accepts, the more he makes. But if he refuses an offer, he loses money and possibly the whole gig. “Lastly, and most importantly,” D. stresses, “you have fun.”

Then things go really wonky. D is tasked to pick up all manner of shady characters clearly involved in the commission of crimes. One tosses him a wrapped gun-shaped package and mysterious pink sugar cubes as a “pick me up.” D realizes he is driving what is essentially a getaway car. The electronic prompts become more demanding and personal. “Discard the bag,” it intones. “Move to the back.” And it isn’t long before Tonomo is instructing D to do the crimes himself.

Director Michael Pierro keeps it all in close. His movie embodies what he calls its “guerilla spirit:” most of the time his camera is trained on D’s increasingly concerned face or action draped in shadows. As director, writer, and editor, Mr. Pierro brings a manic energy to the proceedings. Under it all is Antonio Naranjo’s playful yet ominous score.

As D, Nathanael Chadwick maintains a steady gaze and impatiently clicking tongue as he monitors the goings-on in the backseat. We see his passengers in a funny, rapid-fire montage: they bicker, they complain, they pontificate, they try to get out of the fare. Other cast members stand out: Adam Goldhammer as Nic, Catt Filippov as Angel, Reece Preesley and Lauren Welchner as a pair of traffickers. Stone-faced Harold Tausch’s bit ends with his blood on the backseat.

Self Driver is a techno nerd’s dream of a thriller. What could be a gimmicky contrivance is, in fact, a small, ambitious film that would make a good watch on a Saturday night at home.

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Self Driver. Directed by Michael Pierro. 2024. From Cinephobia Releasing. Runtime 89 minutes.

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Tough Enough

Chet Kozlowski — Fri, 30 May 2025 13:29:32 +0000

Tough Enough Chet Kozlowski May 30, 2025 - 09:29

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Film Review

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drama

Moviegoers expecting the Irish film Swing Bout to be a violent boxing movie will instead find a gripping ensemble drama with sharp writing and strong performances. The violence is in the hearts of men (and women) who are working toward their own desperate ends. FYI: A “swing bout” is a filler boxing match, which happens on short notice, when the main event ends prematurely. Swing Bout is in keeping with that: most of the action takes place in locker rooms, toilets, and offices. Fighters train and preen and wait for a chance that may not come.

Everybody’s got an angle in Swing Bout. Everybody wants something, be it fame or fortune or simply to survive. All the players, those gloved-up and otherwise, spew sweat, vitriol, and self-doubts.

The boxing ring is run by two brothers: coke-snorting Jack (Ben Condron) and beleaguered Micko (Frank Prendergast) who have run afoul of gangsters. They have much riding on the outcome of the fights. New fighter Toni (Ciara Berkeley) is anxious to prove her pugilistic gifts against all contenders. “I’m gonna be world champ,” she crows to her manager, the sexy and duplicitous Emma (Sinead O’Riordan). Emma replies, “Everyone’s going to be world champ until the real world champ starts punching their face in.” Toni’s next fight is against her dreadlocked nemesis Vicki (Chrissie Cronin) and Emma tells her to take a fall in round two. Toni objects: “I’m better than this.” Emma’s reply: “We are nobodies. We’re swing bout fighters.” But Emma complicates matters by being in cahoots with Gary (Gerard Kearney) after carrying on with Micko while fucking Jack… well, you get the picture.

Having this many balls in the air requires control, and director Maurice O’Carroll is up to the task. He keeps his camera steady, either gliding along next to characters or rooted midlevel, filming the various clashes in one-shots, heightening the you-are-there authenticity. These scenes expertly ratchet up the tension and subvert the clichés of the genre. Mr. O’Carroll is part of a wave of new Irish films. He’s worked as an editor in TV series and shorts, and his penchant for the long take lays the film’s foundation. This is his first feature.

Swing Bout centers on Toni, played by Ciara Berkeley. Ms. Berkeley is tall and elegant, more suited to Downton Abbey than the ring. Her ferocity as Toni comes as a surprise. Toni punches the air incessantly and blots out noise with big headphones. She bolsters herself with a motivational tape: “The one who looks outside dreams; the one who looks inside awakes,” intones the recorded voice of the Guru (Jack Connors). Toni is dismissed by one character as “a criminal.” To her, boxing is the path to redemption.

But the story isn’t just Toni’s. This is a true ensemble, with many standout performances. Ben Condron is electric as Jack, peacocking in a shiny suit and new cowboy boots. Mary Malicious (Megan Haly) is an able foil. She’s addlebrained from a fight, suffering the blows that we anticipate for Toni. Chrissie Cronin brings bravado and vulnerability to Vicki, who spits and growls but wants most to not disappoint her father and manager Bomber (Johnny Elliot), once a boxer himself. Flann (Baz Black) is a totally tattooed fighter insisting on his shot; his short scene sets the stakes and lingers in the mind.

Swing Bout resembles a stage play in its economy of space while packing a real wallop. And yet, no real fisticuffs come until the climax, despite the constant drone of muffled cheers and blow-by-blow commentary of the fights in the other room.

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Swing Bout. Directed by Maurice O’Carroll. 2024. From Orion Productions. Runtime 90 minutes. On digital platforms.

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Passion Play-ed Out

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 26 May 2025 13:28:11 +0000

Passion Play-ed Out Chet Kozlowski May 26, 2025 - 09:28

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Film Review

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drama

The new film Electra wants to join the ranks of the Deceitful Guest Crashing the Party genre established in films like The Talented Mr. Ripley, Saltburn (which is really just Ripley), and Performance.

It starts off sassy: stylish graphics in the opening credits, characters introduced with freeze frames and name labels. The staging is clever, and there’s an ersatz music video. We watch pretty rich people living decadent lifestyles in Rome. Electra promises a romp with polyamorous couplings.

Journalist Dylan (if that’s his real name) and “girlfriend/third eye” Lucy meet up with celebrity Milo in Rome for an interview. Milo is charming, foppish, and flaky. He has a partner with benefits, Francesca. The pair is all over each other in a restaurant. They invite Dylan and Lucy for a weekend at Milo’s country estate.

What Milo and Francesca don’t know is that Dylan is not who he claims to be. He has an agenda: a heist. He’s there to steal a valuable painting of a unicorn sitting on a chair. “Only a true, pure soul can be a unicorn,” says Milo. “Like me,” says Francesca. What they don’t know is that Dylan is also there to avenge a woman named Electra.

The film Electra wants to be kinky, but runs out of steam. Or nerve. Innuendos are cast, games are played, and beds are swapped. So why, looking back at its many antics, do I only remember the characters sitting down, talking?

The proceedings wind down as the film goes on. Even an eleventh-hour LSD trip doesn’t liven things up. What starts out as sturdy and confident filmmaking, putting us right in the middle of extravagant experience, ends up in long shot, timidly observing. At the end, the most flash it can muster is (spoiler alert) the screen going red when somebody is stabbed.

The actors are appealing. Daryl Wein as Dylan is a convincing Everyman: his confusion masks a deeper avarice. As Milo, Jack Farthing has a sinewy rock star charm. The women fare less well: Maria Bakalova’s Francesca displays a surprise prudery, while Abigail Cowen plays Lucy as a superficial flake. Her role is underwritten, and maybe unnecessary.

Electra is the first feature by director Hala Matar, who is listed as one of three writers in the screenplay, besides Paul Sado and Daryl Wein. Looks like they plotted it out to be an impressive first feature, but had trouble pulling all the threads. They plant clues (the sexual libertines have a painting of a unicorn; get it?), Milo makes furtive phone calls, Francesca whirls around Lucy, donning masks and enticing her to cavort topless in the backstreets of Rome.

But all those are just red herrings, distracting us from the illogic and incoherence of the plot. Sadly, for all its promise, Electra falls short of a passion project.

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Electra. Directed by Hala Matar. 2024. From Level 33 Entertainment. Runtime 86 minutes. Available on VOD.