Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

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

Topics

Tags

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.

Add new comment

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

documentary

"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.

Add new comment

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

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.

Add new comment

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

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.

Add new comment

Tonight At Noon

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

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

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.

Add new comment

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

documentary

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.

Add new comment

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

Topics

Film Review

Tags

mockumentary

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.

Add new comment

Instant Ono!

Ian Alterman — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 21:08:24 +0000

Instant Ono! Ian Alterman June 9, 2025 - 17:08

Topics

Book Review

Tags

biography

[N.B. Ninety-five percent of this review is sourced directly from the book. The other 5% is sourced from two or three other authoritative books about the Beatles, which were necessary for one or two explications in the review.]

I cannot think of any woman in any profession -- from the arts to sciences, from politics to religion, and beyond -- more vilified, dismissed, denigrated, demeaned, and even outright hated than Yoko Ono. Sadly, all of this is the result of a toxic brew of ignorance (general, musical, historical, artistic) and racism. It is also borne of myths (and sometimes outright lies) that still remain remarkably broad-based despite an overwhelming body of facts and evidence to the contrary -- even when that evidence is provided by those to whom the myths and/or lies are ascribed. I have heard everything from "she broke up the Beatles" (a tick-like persistent myth) to "she can't sing worth a damn," to "she had no influence or particular fame in the art world" to "she was only ever famous because she married John." All of this, coming mostly from people who have no particularly deep knowledge of either music (beyond pop/rock) or art (at all), particularly vis-à-vis history, and even less knowledge of Yoko and her own life story.

Certainly, people have a right to like and listen to what they want, and to most Western (read American) ears, dissonance of any sort can be difficult, if not off-putting. So what has often been called Yoko's "caterwauling" vocals can be jarring to the Western ear, particularly when you are not a musician trained in theory and history and/or have little or no background in either -- particularly the various avant-garde music movements, primarily of the 50s, 60s, and 70s. For example, pick 50 random people on the street and I would bet a dollar to a dime that 49 of them have never heard of either 12-tone music or Arnold Schoenberg. Or John Cage. Or Edgar Varese. And names like Karlheinz Stockhausen, Iannis Xenakis, and Arvo Part would simply make them laugh.

That said, some of the modern composers who were aware of Yoko's vocalizations (even prior to her meeting John), recognized them as more than just "caterwauling" or "screaming," and understood them in the context of modern and avant-garde music include John Cage (with whom she worked several times), Philip Glass, Steve Reich, Arvo Part, and Brian Eno. Even Igor Stravinsky and Krzysztof Penderecki were aware of and appreciated the chance she was taking in bringing aleatoric (chance) elements to her vocalizing. And John came to understand this fairly early on as well (though it took the other Beatles much longer).

By the time she was recording albums with John (and then solo) some of the popular music artists who saw her as an inspiration, influence and/or a pioneer -- many of whom collaborated with her and/or covered songs from her albums -- include Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth (both of whom recognized the importance of what she was doing long before any other "pop/rock" music artists), Patti Smith, Laurie Anderson, Frank Zappa, Lady Gaga, RZA and Wu-Tang Clan, Kate Pierson and the B-52s (the background vocals in "Rock Lobster" are essentially what Yoko had been doing for years), David Byrne and Talking Heads, Lene Lovich, Ringo Starr, David Bowie, Elton John, Madonna, Roberta Flack, Harry Nilsson, Elvis Costello, Rosanna Cash, Cyndi Lauper, Joey Ramone, Lou Reed, The Melvins, Mike D and the Beastie Boys, Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, Courtney Love, Redd Kross, Eric Clapton, Jim Keltner, Klaus Voorman, Paul Simon, Peaches, Michael Stipe, Rufus and Martha Wainwright, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Savages, Boy George, Pussy Riot, Siouxsie Sioux, Marianne Faithful, Questlove, Death Cab for Cutie, Flaming Lips, US Girls, Sudan Archives, Japanese Breakfast, and Yo La Tengo. And that is not even an exhaustive list.

Even Paul McCartney -- after "getting over himself" (post-Beatles) and his concerns about having Yoko in the studio, and actually listening to and learning about what Yoko had been doing, by that time for decades -- came around. In a 2013 interview in Rolling Stone -- when asked about Yoko vis-à-vis both her music and her art -- his simple two-word answer was "She's badass!" McCartney, who had been a fan of modern composers (particularly John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen) since 1967, finally realized that what Yoko had been doing vocally was beyond even the Beatles' knowledge and understanding of music theory, music history, and the avant-garde movements she was either contributing to or helping to pioneer.

The average person has even less knowledge or understanding of the many avant-garde art movements, primarily of the 50s, 60s, and 70s, ranging from non-art to interactive art, from Dada to Primitivism, and from Imagism and Minimal Art to Fluxus and beyond.

Some of the artists who recognized the importance of Yoko's work -- and, again, some of whom considered her a pioneer in some of those avant-garde art movements, and many of whom either collaborated with her or participated in shared exhibitions -- include Victor Vaserely, Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol, Louise Nevelson, Keith Haring, Frank Stella, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Robert Mapplethorpe, Kenny Scharf, Ai Weiwei, Guerilla Girls, and Laura Bates. This, too, is far from an exhaustive list. It should also be noted that Yoko is listed among the 100 most important modern artists by Contemporary Art Magazine, in a grouping that includes Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, Nam June Paik, Richard Serra, Marcel Duchamp, David Hockney, Paul Klee, Joan Miro, Max Ernst, Alexander Calder, Damien Hirst, Cy Twombly, Claes Oldenburg, Louise Bourgeois, and Cindy Sherman.

The biography is written by friend and "insider" David Sheff, who was literally "in the room" beginning in September 1980 (just prior to John's assassination), and in, out, and/or around for almost the entirety of Yoko's life after John was killed. So he is perfectly positioned to write this book: he has no interest in the salaciousness, sensationalism, myth-making, or gossip of other books about John and/or The Beatles, particularly vis-à-vis Yoko. Rather, this is a beautiful, well-written, fair-minded, yet not fawning* portrait of a woman who has seen her share of heartache, accomplished extraordinary things in both music and art, adding to the lexicons of both, and yet has been vilified continuously for over 60 years. *(E.g., he takes her greatly to task for her reliance on divination, astrology, numerology, tarot, and other "occult" obsessions).

The book is separated into three parts. The first tells of Yoko's childhood and early life, up to the time she met John. It relates how she survived the bombing of Tokyo as a very young child; of having emotionally (and sometimes physically) distant parents; of having to not only engage in primary and continual self-care (as opposed to parental care), but also care of her younger brother, and many other (often depressing) aspects that made Yoko the quiet, mostly introverted, and seemingly inscrutable person she became. It was in her late single and early double digits that she first started (unwittingly) forming the philosophy that would guide her for the rest of her life: "imagine" -- a word and concept she used continuously throughout her life and art, long before she met John and he co-opted the word for the song. [N.B. John finally admitted that the song was not simply co-written by Yoko, but was inspired by her ideas, and for which Yoko was finally given official co-writing credit.] The explanation of her use of "imagine" as a broad-based life-long philosophy is not just a high point of the book, but arguably the single most important thing we learn about her art, music, and approach to life.

The second part takes us from her first meeting John in 1966 to his assassination in 1980. Not only does Sheff finally and absolutely debunk the myth of her "breaking up The Beatles," placing the blame for that primarily on John (for good and proven reasons), but also on the "bigger picture" of what was happening at the time among the Beatles -- musically, legally and otherwise.

As an aside, regarding the break-up of the band, Sheff "ups the ante" and makes a remarkably cogent case for Yoko having saved the Beatles -- and that, without her, we might not have had the White Album, Yellow Submarine, Let It Be, or Abbey Road. This is because John first began seriously considering quitting the group after the release of Magical Mystery Tour. This was when tensions in the band began to grow exponentially, and John was becoming increasingly morose in the studio during the writing and recording of the White Album (a fact confirmed by George Martin) -- an album that was less a collaboration of four musicians (though some songs were) than the Beatles serving as studio musicians for each others' songs. We learn that the only reason John was willing to remain in the band was that he had Yoko with him at all times, and that her love and calming presence (for him) overrode his greatly increasing unhappiness, dissatisfaction and frustration with the band and the growing tensions among them (those not related to Yoko's presence). In this regard, Sheff suggests, had she not been there (and rarely mentioned is that the first time she was present in the studio was not for the Let It Be sessions, but the "Fool on the Hill" session, almost two years before), it is entirely possible that John would have quit the Beatles in early 1968 -- leaving us without the group's last four albums.

So, Yoko not only did not cause the break-up of the band (and again, the facts show that the primary cause was John, even if Yoko was a quasi-catalyst), but may well have prevented it from breaking up for an additional two years by "preventing" John from leaving earlier.

Importantly, perhaps even critically, Sheff also provides an in-depth context of the growing relationship between John and Yoko that has been sorely missing from any published work about John. It is contradictorily simple and complex, with both enormous love and serious tensions, but with both of them always "erring" on the side of love, acceptance, and progression.

The third part is Yoko's life after John's death -- and is so much more interesting, informative, and eye-opening than I am guessing anyone could possibly…imagine. While focusing primarily on her art and music -- as well as her relationship with Sean, and her understandable ongoing heartbreak over John's death -- it also tells of death threats, thefts, betrayals by people close to her, and the hiring of bodyguards, among many other (sadly) necessary aspects of her post-John life.

But it is her growing contributions to music and art during this period -- and the growing realization by a much greater number of people (particularly those in the arts, but also the public at large) -- that continues to be the main point: she never stopped creating, never stopped experimenting, never stopped adding to the lexicons of both music and art. She was relentless in the face of sexism, racism, and any other "isms" that attempted to get in her way. In this regard, Paul McCartney was more correct than even he knows when he said: "She's badass!"

It's a damn shame that the people who really should read this book -- the Yoko-haters, those who still believe she "broke up the Beatles" (a myth that has been debunked countless times by everyone including the Beatles themselves, but simply refuses to die), those who believe that her vocals were nothing more than dissonant caterwauling, those who claim she made no contributions to the art world and only became famous because she was married to a Beatle, etc. -- are the very people who are not going to read it. And even if they did, it probably would not change very many minds -- so ingrained is their hatred, ignorance and/or racism -- nor would many (most?) understand the significant degree to which she contributed to both the art and music worlds -- in the latter case, both rock/pop and avant-garde -- and that she had been doing so for more than a decade before she met John Lennon.

David Sheff has written an informative, substantive, readable, and important biography of one of the 20th century's most wrongly maligned but most important and talented women -- a woman who never stopped creating and pushing artistic boundaries, and expressing love, peace, and acceptance even in the face of nearly continuous vilification and vitriol. A woman who combined art and activism, and in doing so progressed both into new and important places, and who refused to give in to the negativity that often surrounded her. Sheff has given us the Yoko we never knew -- the true, real, "exposed" woman of love, peace, and art -- but the Yoko we needed to know. And in doing so, he has done an enormous service; one that goes well beyond the printed words on the pages, sometimes even getting right to the soul of this sad but magnificent woman.

Add new comment

Louis Armstrong Lives!

Gary Lucas — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 14:49:26 +0000

Louis Armstrong Lives! Gary Lucas June 9, 2025 - 10:49

Topics

Theater Review

Tags

regional theater

Wali Jamal as Louis Armstrong in Satchmo at the Waldorf

SATCHMO AT THE WALDORF
by Terry Teachout
Schoolhouse Theater
Croton Falls, NY

"You know you can't play anything on a horn that Louis hasn't played."—Miles Davis.

I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Wali Jamal's towering one-man performance as Louis Armstrong in Terry Teachout's impressive distillation of the life of the iconic trumpet player in his powerful one-act play, Satchmo at the Waldorf, at the beautiful Schoolhouse Theater in Croton Falls, NY.

Marking the 40th anniversary of this venerable theater, the play was directed with skill and grace by Bram Lewis. I found Jamal riveting—his performance conveying all the pain and joy of the universe as Armstrong ruminates backstage before one his final performances on all the ups and downs and racial stigmas he had to overcome to eventually play at what some might conceive as one of the most prestigious gigs available to any musician anywhere, the tony Waldorf Astoria. Jamal not only nails Louis' tragicomic persona, he also does a neat turn playing two other characters who loomed large in the life of jazz master Armstrong—his longtime manager Joe Glaser, a wise-cracking mobbed up manager from Chicago who rescued Armstrong at one point from deep debt and helped grease the wheels of his later career by insisting he cover the Broadway standard "Hello Dolly" (which Armstrong hated, but whose recording of which knocked The Beatles for the first time off their #1 perch on the Billboard singles chart); and icy elegant shades-sporting Father of Cool Miles Davis, who praises Louis' astonishing playing but dismisses his onstage grinning persona as basically an act of minstrelsy designed to cater to the plantation fantasies of his mainly white audience.

That Wali Jamal can transition so fluently from one character's voice to another and inhabit the souls of all three individuals without missing a beat is astonishing. That he can so winningly convey all the contradictions that went into the making of the great Armstrong, who reacts and wrestles out loud with the voices of Glaser and Davis, revealing all the many complexities that went into the making of this American Jazz Master, makes for terrific theater. The late Terry Teachout, a formidable cultural critic, jazz buff, and author of several must-read biographies of Duke Ellington and Armstrong himself, proves himself a dramatist of the first rank in this compelling one-act and his play which encapsulates a lot of biographical detail in the service of the Armstrong's private backstage reveries is able to bring the audience to tears by the end.

All the bold statements, contradictions, turbulent emotions, and love/hate relationships that mark the steady rise and inevitable decline of a great artist are touched on here as Pops declaims his own oral history into an oversized prop tape recorder bearing witness to 50-plus years of consummate music-making.

Add new comment

Trust Issue

Millree Hughes — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 02:31:31 +0000

Trust Issue Millree Hughes June 8, 2025 - 22:31

Topics

Art Review

Tags

painter

"Pond with Early Snow III," 42" x 38"

Mary Temple: Rough in the Distant Glitter
Pamela Salisbury Gallery
Hudson, NY
May 17 - June 15, 2025

"Devoid of locus, there is nothing to objectify." Nagarjuna (2nd C)

It's another important time for painters. Digital Art, Photography, and Video Art have all suffered because of social media. We have endured so many ghastly lies and had so many useless products foisted on us that all remote artwork feels untrustworthy. Anything with a physical quality or that is as unlike a phone image as possible is true.

With a landscape painting, you feel as though you are witnessing a genuine response to a real place. You are looking at a different place, in a different time, asking yourself, "Whose eyes am I looking through?"

Temple mixes abstraction and figuration approaches together. Or rather, certain modes of abstraction are employed to convey space. Different artists and times come to your eye as you pass over the surface. A Whitten-like smear, an occluded Guston blodge, a treacley Mitchell line. Compactified dimensions whose works are revealed across a small surface.

It also happens along the Z axis. She situates the viewer a certain number of paces away from the painting—the place where it coalesces. The closer you get, the more it disintegrates into abstraction.

It's one of the many dualities of this show. Hot/cold, light/shadow, close/far. The blue and the orange. One representing the physical, the other representing light, the évanescent.

These landscape and seascape paintings are mostly empty. There are no obvious stand-ins for the figure, like a landform or a lone tree. Snowy branches bend ant-like arms, creating an empty frame.

"Pond with Early Snow III" increases the chromatic value of different parts to distract your attention from the whole. The snow obscures areas of the scene. The water, the land, and the sky share colours. Everything teeters on the edge. It's all part of dematerializing the subject.

Campfire in the Snow 1

Her "Campfire in Snow I" painting finally fills the space, acting as a mediator between the blue and the orange. You are no longer looking into a clearing but are focused on an object and an activity. The flame crackles in swathes of hot colour, melting the blue. The broken branches take on a broken figure appearance, like an abstracted body.

Mary's paintings work well on social media. They transform well into posts. But there are certain colours that are not photographable. The contrast is pushed for the phone image, which limits colour possibilities. Texture can't be seen either. You have to turn up because these are paintings that demand your presence.

Thank you Millree, this is…

Thank you Millree, this is so gorgeously written. 🙏🏼