Lost in the art of discovering America

ROAD SCHOLAR (1993)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

(Originally written in 1999)

Time and again, someone tries to discover America and its nether regions, hoping to make the definitive cultural statement about this country. The problem is that no one can make the definitive statement when America continually grows from one generation to the next. Even the state I live in, New Jersey, is full of stories and historical backgrounds, going back several decades and centuries (read the cult magazine "Weird N.J." for a better perspective). The narrator of the film "Road Scholar" even states how times have changed in America in the last twenty years. "Now Spanish is spoken as much as English," the narrator observes.

The narrator is Andrei Codrescu, a Romanian-born Jew who became an American citizen in 1981. He is best known as an NPR commentator for the program, "All Things Considered," and is a well-known poet. He is witty, urbane, sarcastic, and shrewd. Andrei uses his satiric prose and poetic sensibilities to come up with his own interpretation of America by way of a cross-country road trip. He gets a driver's license, and is off in a cherry-red '68 Cadillac convertible to explore America. Andrei comes up against a community of Christian Communists in upstate New York, accustomed to poverty on the margins despite a profitable business; New Age mysticism, religious militant groups and Native American habitats in New Mexico; the virtually empty, economically ravaged city of Detroit; homeless, crack-addicted Haitian immigrants in New York City; last-minute marriages in Las Vegas (including drive-thru marriages!); a Vietnamese author in San Francisco who is aching to go back to his homeland; an artist who lawfully places a car in her lawn proclaiming it as a piece of art; and so on.

"Road Scholar" has enormous fun in arriving at these different locales and points of interest in America, and it is continuously absorbing in investigating different patterns of life. My major complaint is that certain vignettes could have benefited from more screen time, such as the Detroit artists who place shoes and sneakers on the streets as a reminder of people who once populated a sparsely populated, poor neighborhood. There is also too much time invested on New Mexico mystics and healers - I used to live in Santa Fe and have had enough exposure to them. They are pure "kitsch," as Codrescu often refers to certain aspects of life or to the Statue of Liberty. Other moments show the loss of innocence in America, as in the traveling bus of peace-loving denizens who want to bring back the 60's free love ideals and such without benefit of drugs. I also found a strangely melancholic passage in the depiction of lost dreams in Detroit. One example is the movement of Motown sound from Detroit to the big leagues and how it affected an entire community who felt the music was theirs. In fact, the Detroit section of the film is the most astute as one gathers understanding of how America can let go of one of their cities in times of economic hardships.

If this were just an ordinary documentary about America in the 90's, it would have worked just fine with its look at people of different nationalities. Alas, using Andre as a witty commentator on the scene enlivens the proceedings enormously - he is sometimes sardonic but he also identifies with most of the people, particularly the immigrants who came to this country in hopes of fulfilling their dreams. Some did, and many did not. Andre became a poet and wrote books, and was allowed to have the power of freethinking without getting arrested. His story is just as insightful, and proves just as entertaining. He also recognizes, as reminded to him by the late poet Allen Ginsberg, that America is "an Indian thing." For a relatively fast-paced, inspirational tour of America, you can do no better than "Road Scholar."

You make this room look bad

CRAZY HEART (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

At its best when I listen to it, country music is often about heartbreak. I am no fan of the music (I am partial to Johnny Cash, who wasn't all country) but after watching and listening to "Crazy Heart," I am a bigger fan of the inspirations, which include Merle Haggard, and of the unsung actor Jeff Bridges. Bridges is in every single scene and he brings heartbreak to his performance in all its country glory.

Bridges is the alcoholic, 57-year-old Otis "Bad" Blake, a country singer who reluctantly plays at bowling alleys and bars throughout New Mexico. He is drunk offstage and onstage. In a scene that could have been far more cringe-worthy, he is almost ready to sing until he splits from the stage, vomits outside, and then comes back just as the song is finished by his pick-up band. The audience still applauds because Bad Blake has a charisma that offsets any flaws. That scene is at the heart of "Crazy Heart" because nobody in this film, aside from a doctor at a Santa Fe hospital, tells Blake to stop drinking altogether - just dial it down a few notches. The screenplay dodges and spares us the cliches that normally accompany a has-been singer - this is not the excessively inebriated singer you might have seen in "The Rose," which starred the brilliant Bette Midler. Bad Blake is a middle-of-the-road alcoholic who can stop drinking but wishes not to. He smokes and drinks but the drinking keeps his mind from writing down new lyrics which he improvises on the fly.

Blake meets a young journalist, Jean (ever the effervescent actress, Maggie Gyllenhaal), who wants to write an article about him. They develop a relationship but she knows where to draw the line in the sand when it comes to fathering her four-year-old son, Buddy (Jack Nation). Jean knows instinctively what Blake is all about and there are moments where it is clear that she doesn't know what sort of future he might have with her.

"Crazy Heart" has a few surprises in store for the viewer who has seen this sort of tale before. The cliches are excised and the screenplay wisely chooses to focus on Blake's own forging ahead with his career, despite his drinking and truck accident. Bad Blake won't settle for any old gig - he nearly turns down an arena of 14,000 people in attendance where a supposed rival, a young hotshot country singer named Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell) is performing. "Crazy Heart" settles for something redemptive in Bad Blake towards its conclusion. I am not always a fan of a redemption in a character, particularly a drunk, but I realized that Jeff Bridges sells the character so well that a change of heart seems true and honest  (especially in the similar drunk Bridges played in "The Fisher King"). And let us say that not everything that occurs is as expected.

Robert Duvall (co-producer of the film and star of the similar film, "Tender Mercies") is always a welcome presence in any film as a former alcoholic who tends bar and keeps an eye on Blake. Colin Farrell, an actor I do not always care for, also brings authenticity to his role - it is not played as an egotistical new talent who can outsell Blake's own records sales but as someone who admires Blake. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a genuine treasure playing a woman who holds her own fort. She could've played the character as shrill or even conniving - she genuinely cares for Blake but sees his shortcomings.

It is an inescapable fact that Jeff Bridges somehow fits his persona into his characters invisibly, thus we never catch him acting. His portrayal of the alcoholic Bad Blake (which he deservedly won the Oscar for) is stunning to watch because he is subtle and underplays beautifully, just as Jeff Bridges always has. "Crazy Heart" is near-great (I would have preferred more time with Duvall's character myself) but it is Jeff Bridges who burns a hole through your heart.

New York's Dishonest Car Dealer

SOLITARY MAN (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Having recently rewatched "The China Syndrome" and seen "Solitary Man," my conclusion is that Michael Douglas is not as interesting or as charismatic as he once was. This is far from an ageist comment - Douglas simply can't carry himself playing an unlikable boor as he does in "Solitary Man" (the Douglas of the 70's and 80's might have). Maybe it is not in his nature to play such a character but, as written in this film, he is more ruthless and diabolical than human. Not even Gordon Gekko was this bad, and that character is one of the great, colorful characters of all time.

At the start of "Solitary Man," Douglas's character, Ben Kalmen, is told by his doctor he might have some sort of heart problem. Flash forward to several years later and we see a Ben who sleeps with women half his age (including his girlfriend's daughter!); is losing his profitable New York car dealership due to some illegal financial wheeling and dealing that not even Gordon Gekko would approve of; has money problems to the point that he works in a deli near the university where his girlfriend's daughter attends; is not punctual when it comes to his grandson's birthday; and is slowly losing touch with his impatient daughter (Jenna Fischer) whom he has the audacity to ask for money loans. Meanwhile, Ben sleeps with women, attends college parties where he tries to school a student (Jesse Eisenberg) on seducing women, and so on.

I grew tired by the fast-talking Ben because the character is simply a salesman no matter what he does - his addiction is not drugs but simply being able to lie and sneak his way into doing anything he wishes. I recall Harvey Keitel playing a smooth con-man in the little-seen and underappreciated "Imaginary Crimes," and in that film, we had some measure of sympathy because Keitel was playing a real person who loved his family and did what he could to provide and protect. Douglas essentially plays a con-man (not to suggest all salesmen are con-men) as a selfish, uncaring, irresponsible bastard who can't and won't care about anyone or anything except money. I admire Michael Douglas for playing such a risky part (and he has played his share) but he seems barely there - more like a mirage than a character and Douglas mostly alleviates the part with a low buzz. When you saw Douglas in "Wall Street" or in the slimy husband roles he played in heightened mediocre thrillers like "Fatal Attraction" or "Disclosure," he did it with brio and charisma and some measure of humanity (not to mention a leathery, reptilian voice) that you cheered for the man you love to hate. He wanted to be loved, and the audience knew it, despite his indiscretions. Douglas doesn't bring any of those qualities and the screenplay by Brian Koppelman and David Levien (both co-directed) doesn't allow for them either. Ben Kalmen is a one-dimensional cretin.

Douglas is, however, surrounded by an energetic and superb cast. Mary Louise Parker is absolutely brilliant as Douglas's rich, no-nonsense girlfriend - her scene in a car where she outlines how Ben needs to get out of her life is sublime. Danny DeVito is also at his restrained best as Ben's old pal who runs the university deli. Jesse Eisenberg easily steals the film from Douglas, giving us a character far more mature than Ben who sees through Ben and his ways. Kudos also go to Susan Sarandon in the brief and lively role of Ben's ex-wife.

"Solitary Man" is awkwardly paced and seems to take an eternity to get nowhere fast. The final shot of the film is purposely ambiguous but it left me cold and empty. Sometimes I like that feeling if the film carries weight, but Ben Kalmen is someone I'd rather not get that feeling from.

The World According to Ramona

RAMONA AND BEEZUS (2010)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I am still a sucker for a sweet, sentimental family film that aims to tug the heartstrings and show that normal, happy, functional families still exist. Well, not entirely - I'm not because many of them are as sappy and artificial as aspertame ("Bye Bye Love" comes to mind). But if it works, it is worth checking out and we shouldn't leave it entirely to Hallmark to make it a genre of its own. "Ramona and Beezus" is an exceptional treat that never gets too thickly syrupy or sweet to render one with diabetes. No, in fact, the film is a Splenda-sweetened and gentle ride that doesn't render everything on screen as hokey or sappy. Thanks goodness for that.

"Ramona and Beezus" is based on the books by Beverly Cleary, which I've never read but, as a side note, my wife has read them and feels the film captures the flavor of the books nicely. So, back to the movie. Ramona (Joey King) is the imaginative and accident-prone 9-year-old heroine who lives in a house on Klickitat Street in Portland, Oregon with her 15-year-old sister, Beatrice (Selena Gomez) whom Ramona refers to as Beezus, and her parents, Robert (John Corbett) and Dorothy (Bridget Moynahan). Robert the Dad, who had artistic aspirations (before starting a family), has lost his job in management while construction for a new room is taking place in their home. Ramona wants to make Dad's life easier by earning money, but she delivers more mischief than cash. She helps to hose down the Range Rover of her best friend's Uncle Howie for, ahem, almost 100 dollars! It pays more than the lemonade stand. The problem arrives when the vehicle is accidentally drenched in vivid colors of paint! The uncle, Uncle Howie (Josh Duhamel), by the way, is Ramona's Aunt Bea's (Ginnifer Goodwin) ex-boyfriend. 

As I've said, the movie version of "Ramona and Beezus" is not uncomplicated about real issues we can identify with, such as losing your job and possibly your home. Ramona is klutzy but so kind-hearted and not too bratty, and by the end of the film, she has helped to save the day (SPOILER ALERT: all is forgiven in the finale). I do not dislike the picture and it is what it is...but something gnaws at me. Maybe it is because it romanticizes the idea of complications. Maybe it is hard to distinguish Ramona's fantasies from the real world. Or maybe I am not the intended audience for this movie. But I do enjoy films like this as long as the sentiment is not laid too thickly over the proceedings. 

"Ramona and Beezus" works and it is a charming, entertaining picture. The filmmakers could not have found a better Ramona than the bright and bouncy charm of Joey King. All the other actors snuggly fit into their roles. Perhaps there is that side of me that wishes the movie didn't end with such tidy resolutions. Still, I am not too critical without knowing that, yes, we may need more films like this. 

Blustering and wearying 'Informer'

THE INFORMER (1935)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Victor McLaglen plays one of the great boisterous drunks of all time in John Ford's "The Informer." Not only does Victor play a drunk, he is also an Irish drunk. And he is inebriated throughout this movie, and so much so that it grows tedious. Yep, too tedious to the point of not caring. As I said, he plays a great drunk but he also plays it too well, and the movie's final scenes will make you tear your hair out, albeit for all the wrong reasons.

Set in Dublin in the 1920's, an Irish rebel named Frankie McPhillip (Wallace Ford) is on the run. The Irish drunk and ex-IRA member, Gypo Nolan (Victor McLaglen), informs on his friend, Frankie, to the British Army. Frankie is located, gunned down, and now Gypo collects a reward, feels a smidgeon of guilt, gives himself away at Frankie's wake to some suspicious IRA members, and spends the rest of the movie drinking, spending most of his reward money and cavorting with other drunks and some prostitutes.

"The Informer" never quite addresses the insights into Gypo's guilt. As directed by John Ford (who has made some clunkers and some terrific pictures), the movie settles for the drunken stupor of Gypo to give us a grand, wicked caricature of a giant Irish drunk who can still punch with great velocity (in one scene, he knocks out a policeman). Gypo is guilty of being an informant and he knows it, yet he points to an innocent tailor (Donald Meek, in the most restrained performance in the movie) as the informant. Once the tailor is cleared, the ensnaring of Gypo becomes tighter but the movie never establishes enough tension to make it palatable. Frankly, I was hoping Gypo was going to be found guilty sooner than the story allows. Since we never get caught up in his misfortune and sense of guilt, it is hard to feel any remorse.

Victor plays it to the hilt, one-hundred percent (he won the Oscar for Best Actor), but there is not enough to draw empathy from his occasionally one-note performance. It is a shame and the ending, involving Una O'Connor (one of the great character actresses of her time) as Frankie's mother, feels tacked-on and inconsistent. "The Informer" lacks drive and passion yet it boasts some spectacular black-and-white photography by Joseph August, who purposely echoes German Expressionism in its foggy look (Max Steiner's haunting music score is also a plus and evokes dread). A minor failure by John Ford is more worthwile than most other films that do less, but I do not think Ford's heart was in the world of film noir or this half-hearted tale of snitching.

Grossest and Nastiest Film of all time!

PINK FLAMINGOS (1972)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia 

Baltimore native John Waters has helmed some of the most outrageous and disgusting films of the 20th century. He began in the 1970's spewing some underground cult films such as "Multiple Maniacs," "Mondo Trasho," "Female Trouble," and the notably perverse "Pink Flamingos." "Hairspray," a film from the late 80's and the last to star Divine, is comparably his most restrained film. 1997 marked the 25th anniversary of "Pink Flamingos" (and 2012 will mark the fortieth anniversary), a film of such execrable taste that I defy anyone to find a more repugnant film bearing the title "Grossest Film of All Time." This film is disgusting, shocking, nauseating, uneven, among many other things, but it is also funny in a demented sort of way. In other words, you must see it because you'll never see anything like it again.

The flamboyant, hilarious Divine plays herself (sort of), a 300-pound trailer park woman, alias Babs Johnson, who lives with her son Cracker (Danny Mills) who is obsessed with killing chickens while having sex. The other members of this household include Divine's equally obese mother (Edith Massey) who's obsessed with eggs, and an apparently normal blonde roommate named Ms. Cotton (Mary Vivian Pierce). Divine is ecstatic when she hears that she's the filthiest person alive as claimed by a tabloid paper called "Midnight." Divine is also a murderer, cannibal and a lesbian, and proud of it. 

A wacky couple, Connie and Raymond Marbles (Mink Stole and David Lochary with blue hair), are envious of Divine's filthy status and vow for revenge; they claim to be the filthiest people alive. Actually, they are not so much filthy as they are evil. For example, Connie runs an illegitimate adoption agency where her servant kidnaps women to have sex with so they can have babies to sell for adoption to lesbian couples!

"Pink Flamingos" benefits greatly from Divine's performance, and she is a real riot to watch. She's gracious, garish, flamboyant, and sheerly outrageous. She wears elongated black eyelashes and tight, multicolored skirts, and prances and preens to the camera with excessive mugging - it's a great, trashy performance that gives the cast of "Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" a run for their money. Except for Mink Stole, the rest of the cast is amateurish and uninteresting at best. Divine is clearly the star of the show. Her lines are delivered with a no-nonsense mentality. Here are some dialogue examples:

"Kill everyone. Filth is my life. Eat sh--"

"I find you guilty on all counts of first-degree stupidity."

What else can be said about this film? It is repulsive and idiotic but always entertaining to a degree. There's cannibalism, torture, numerous deaths, sexual innuendos bordering on pornography, butt-synching to "Surfin' Bird," and Divine performing all kinds of distasteful acts, including the famous shot of Divine eating dog excrement. Most of the film is cartoonish and unbelievable but the excrement sequence is definitely real making her, as the narrator puts it, the filthiest actress alive.

I'll simply say that the ads are true - this film is simply an exercise in bad taste. I did say back in 1997 that "Pink Flamingos" is not filmmaking and it is not art. Well, it is not art as in an Ingmar Bergman film or any of the other cinema gods we hold in high esteem, but it does qualify as gutter, trash art. John Waters wrote, directed and filmed this trash - thankfully, he acquired cinematographers later on because he has no clue how to hold a camera or compose a shot. There are jump cuts galore and much bad dubbing. None of this matters, though, because Waters had one thing in mind: to make a film as filthy and distasteful as possible. He has succeeded. Since 1972, no other director has come close, including Waters.

State of Hysteria in Montana

STATE OF MIND (1992)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

From the late night school of preternatural David Lynch weirdness, "State of Mind" is an abhorrent mess. It has little to recommend it, aside from featuring actors like Lisa Gaye (in a top-billing role for once), Fred Williamson, Jill Schoelen, among others. It's so jumbled, incoherent and maddeningly confused from one scene to the next that I am not sure there is much to make of it. The filmmakers themselves don't even like the film and find it just as confusing. What does that tell you?

A strange, forlorn woman named Barbara (Manouk van der Meulen), a former nurse, is living in Montana in a house that looks more like a castle that Boris Karloff might have lived in. She takes in two survivors of a horrific car crash (Lisa Gaye and Don Hannah), keeps them drugged and practically comatose, lies to the inquiring police detectives with matching white turtlenecks (Fred Williamson and Jill Schoelen), and the whole situation triggers traumatic memories for Barbara, even some incestual ones. Why Barbara keeps them prisoner is not explained, though she may be just lonely and looking for company.

"State of Mind" has a story that I typically find intriguing (isolation and cabin fever hysteria) but it never develops its ideas into feature-length interest. Manouk carries a singular expression of sterile blankness; Lisa Gaye seems stoned throughout until the climactic twist; Don Hannah also seems stoned beyond recognition; the late Paul Naschy (the Spanish equivalent of Lon Chaney) appears in the opening sequence only to be killed off; and Jill Schoelen looks like a pallid robot with none of the charisma of her earlier roles. Fred Williamson seems to be in his element as he smokes his trademark cigar (he apparently never wears makeup when he is in front of the camera, according to the filmmakers) but he is needed on planet earth when the film dovetails back into that stoned house of horrors.

This Belgian-French-Dutch production almost took eight years before it saw any sort of distribution, courtesy of Troma productions. I don't know why anyone bothered because "State of Mind" is a curious misfire that is haphazardly directed, acted and edited by a crew who seem to have no idea how to make a suspense film. Belgium stands in for a very European-looking Montana, poor Don Hannah (Daryl's brother) is mostly wiggling while standing or writhing in pain and screaming when digging through holes or sealed-up crates (not one line of dialogue seems to have been written for him), and Lisa Gaye seems ready to break out of the doldrums to give it a lift yet, when she does, it is too damn late. I get a certain chill from seeing Lisa Gaye trying to strangle Jill Schoelen (and to be fair, there are one or two scenes that chill the bone), but that is not enough to visit this mangled dreck of mindless waste from David Lynch wannabes.