Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody has been Ruined

GOING CLEAR: SCIENTOLOGY AND THE PRISON OF BELIEF (2015)
Reviewed by Jerry Saravia 

The real question in "Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief" is if Scientology is a religion or a cult, or both. I would say both, but I beg to differ that it is much of a religion. Alex Gibney's forceful, scarily provocative documentary "Going Clear" sees Scientology as a tax-exempt institution of physical and emotional abuse, neglect, and downright stupidity. One can argue that the religion offers comfort for those who want a world of joy and no war, and one can also argue that its stringent methods against those who wish to leave or stay are of a cult of personality.

The late science-fiction author, L. Ron Hubbard (who wrote "Dianetics," the foundation behind Scientology), is depicted as an abusive lout of a man who threatened suicide if his first wife left him. During his tumultuous marriage where he even kidnapped their baby, he decided to create a religion that would be tax-exempt, thus allowing him to charge people high rates for joining the religion, The Church of Scientology (which had its roots in Camden, New Jersey). Eventually, the church grew and expanded to Los Angeles and around the world, attracting many people including celebrities such as John Travolta and the virtual spokesman himself, actor Tom Cruise. 

People who are indoctrinated are subjected to audits where they are interviewed in a therapy session and their emotional responses are measured by an "E-meter." Any traumatic past memories are brought to the table and examined, and re-examined and re-examined, until the subject is free and "clear." What is noteworthy is that, according to actor Jason Beghe, an ex-Scientologist, these audits would continue on and on. When a Scientologist would reach a certain level called an OT level, a briefcase would be deployed containing references to Xenu, the galactic overlord of 75 millions years ago who had brought alien souls to Planet Earth and that humans inhabit their souls, or some such thing. It is what I always thought - aliens have always been here and Tom Cruise is a supernatural alien being indeed.

Based on Lawrence Wright's book, there are sections of "Going Clear" that made me laugh and other moments that made me cringe and feel a tinge of horror. Watching Tom Cruise in an audience of thousands salute a picture of L. Ron Hubbard is both laughable and scary at the same time - what is with this military salute? Even the top-level Scientologists are shown in military uniforms that look like they are ready to conquer Poland. Ex-top-level Scientologist Marty Rathbun explains the torment he had to suffer by the hand of David Miscavige (the current leader), how he had to spy on the SP's (Suppresive Persons, those who leave and criticize the religion), set Tom Cruise up with a girlfriend (that remains the creepiest episode) and even tap Nicole Kidman's phone! Most telling is writer-director Paul Haggis ("Crash") who had been a member for 35 years yet when he learned of the mythology surrounding it, he laughed and could not take it seriously. Still, during those 35 years, how long did it take to reach that OT level where you say, "What in God's name is going on here?" 

"Going Clear" has already been deemed as anti-Scientology propaganda by, you guessed it, spokespersons of the Scientology movement (no current members were interviewed for the documentary). But it is hard to believe that ex-Scientologists, who have decided to take a stand and inform the public of this pseudo-religion, are untrustworthy or have an ax to grind. How can one disbelief that members perform menial jobs for 40 cents an hour? How can one disbelief that people who leave the religion are spied on, and for what purpose exactly? How can one disbelief that Travolta and Cruise are two superstar celebrities who are in too deep to ever just willingly walk away, thanks to endless audits that are far too personal and possibly damaging to their reputations? One aspect I walked away with from this stunningly edited and extremely eerie documentary is that if you are going to start a religion, make sure you fight tooth and nail to keep the IRS out of your backyard. The war is over for them, but the war on this most damaging religion has just begun. That, and now this film has ruined Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" for me. 

No Free Ride

 TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS (2012)
Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

A movie about a young woman cutting herself to feel something, or to escape from her own fake reality, might be not be fitting for average viewers. I always preferred Roger Ebert's truthful statement about cinema where the most depressing movie is usually a bad one. Surprisingly, for a gritty independent film, "To Write Love On Her Arms" is not a depressing movie and hardly an unremittingly bleak one. It is not exactly upbeat but it does have the spunky attitude of Kat Dennings to carry the movie on her shoulders and give it a piercing heart. 

Based on the true story of Renee Yohe and the global movement her story spurred, Dennings tackles the Renee role, playing a woman who has two close, devoted friends, Jesse and Dylan (Juliana Harkavy and Mark Saul) who watch over her. Sometimes, Renee is sucked into the world of partying with people who do not have her best interests at heart. She ingests cocaine, ecstasy and imagines a creative world where a drug dealer is sprouting wings! She envisions wondrous sights and has pastoral visions and imagines high-school students dancing and singing along to her favorite songs - any and everything to demolish her inner demons. Renee is sometimes photographed as an princess with a glow to mask her darkness, and other times she is reclusive, hiding beneath her hoodie and her headphones in a cold, brutal harsh world. 

"To Write Love on Her Arms" eventually segues into the rehab world where Renee has to struggle with ending her drug addictions and making the right choices. Can she lift herself up from her doldrums, from her inability to cope with what's gnawing at her? Remarkably, and thankfully, the movie never settles on a resolution nor is she willing to accept that her story should have initiated a movement. Jamie Tworkowski (played with a winsome beat by Chad Michael Murray) sees Renee as a dominant force that others can look up to. He writes a blog about her story and a movement is born. In a tricky and powerful scene, we see Renee's confusion after getting out of rehab and seeing Jamie again who now has a girlfriend - one surmises that she hoped for a romantic relationship with Jamie. The scene does not end the way we expect - Kat Dennings consistently keeps us on our toes and we hope she doesn't keep injuring herself when things don't go her way.

The film ably swings from dark tones to far darker recesses of Renee's fantasy world (she imagines cracks forming in her bedroom mirror) to a supposedly sunnier disposition, at least visually when Renee is shown in sun-drenched, rosier images. Dennings starts to look less inhibited and less willing to hide from herself but these are still baby steps. Swiftly directed by Nathan Frankowski, the film never sugarcoats rehab or addiction. When Renee can't work up the enthusiasm to read emails from those who have suffered like her, she is more willing to help another recovering addict, David (Rupert Friend), a stressed-out band manager who lets her stay in his loft provided she stays clean for five days prior to rehab entry. The heartbeat and soul of "To Write Love On Her Arms" is that a recovering addict with bipolar disorder has looked outward as well inward. Renee develops compassion and freedom and it isn't a free ride. 

"To Write Love On Her Arms" occasionally preaches its message with religious underpinnings. Dennings makes it down-to-earth and real. It is a struggle for the movie, but definitely a struggle we can stand to hear about more often.

I can win this case!

 THE VERDICT (1982)

An Appreciation by Jerry Saravia

"The Verdict" is Sidney Lumet's greatest film, an absolutely keen, sharply observed and absorbing character study of a troubled man who is ready to give up. It takes a lot for this drunk pathetic man, Frank Galvin (Paul Newman), to finally call it quits. He was once a prominent Boston lawyer who became an alcoholic ambulance chaser. The alcohol from day to day is all it takes for him keep living, not necessarily to keep living with any purpose. Frank frequents the same bar every day, has a beer with an  egg in it and keeps moving, but to what end. It isn't clean living.

What is of paramount greatness in "The Verdict" is that the court case itself, which is a stunningly layered, fascinating case, could have been excised from the David Mamet script and just have focused on Frank Galvin. Frank's life is one of ruin, working out of a disheveled office with gray, scratched walls, an old burgundy red couch he can sleep on, and a desk with filing cabinets. His home life is not without discoloration or messiness - bars are on his windows, as if to keep himself shut out of life's miseries. Frank frequents a bar and plays the pinball machine and, in the opening title sequence, he is practically shrouded in darkness with the daylight barely illuminating him or the machine. An outside park is shown with few pedestrians (a similar shot later on where Frank is victorious at the pinball shows one person walking by). Director Sidney Lumet intended on having a Caravaggio-based, chiaroscuro look with a single source of light filling in the interior rooms such as the bar, the courtroom, etc. But whatever victory is in Frank's life involving the case of a comatose woman who was given the wrong anesthetic by two different doctors may be short-lived. Frank is a bit scared, a little unprepared for this case and rather than taking an enormous payout from the Archdiocese, he opts to go to trial and go up against the wealthy defending attorney Ed Concannon ("The Prince of Darkness" as played wonderfully and wittily by the great James Mason). Concannon plays tough, utilizing media and newspapers at his disposal along with a major research team of lawyers while Frank only has  his former legal partner/mentor, Mickey Morrissey (absolutely brilliant and sympathetic work by Jack Warden) to help win the case. This dichotomy shows that finances have little regard when it comes to the little guy who can stand up for what is right. 

The ending can be seen for miles but it is not just a victory for Frank as an able lawyer again, it is a victory for him to rise above his liquor-drenched ashes and return to his former glory (his past was already tainted when he allegedly was involved with jury tampering). Frank is like a phoenix rising yet writer Mamet and director Lumet never stray from his alcohol-binging - a drink and a smoke at his favorite bar is his pastime. When he confronts the seductive Laura (Charlotte Rampling, alluring as a quietly effective femme fatale of sorts) who has an affair with Frank and he ends it (after finding out she works for Concannon) with physical violence, it is further proof that he is reawakened to how many lies there are in the search for justice - never trust anyone and that is his true redemption. Frank still believes in justice and we still believe he may have a drink in the future but he will try to remain sharp, hopefully avoiding funeral homes for potential clients. Justice may be blind but he's not. 

Charming with a well of tears to fill Niagara Falls

 SNOOPY COME HOME (1972)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Watching the Peanuts gang, including Charlie Brown, Peppermint Patty, Linus with that silly blanket and everyone else, cry with repetition at the prospect of losing Snoopy, their precious beagle, to his former owner is a bit of an endurance test for the average viewer. Kids will still enjoy because Snoopy and Woodstock make a good pair.

As an animated feature, "Snoopy Come Home" is not as much fun as 1969's "A Boy Named Charlie Brown" yet there's still sufficient enjoyment to be had. Snoopy is who he is, always sleeping belly up atop his doghouse as opposed to sleeping in it - he loves to play on the beach and loves to annoy his owner, Charlie Brown, whom he communicates via his typewriter. After our trusty beagle receives a letter from his previous owner named Lila (this always came as a shock to me), who is sick in the hospital, Snoopy takes off with the ever-trusting best friend, a tiny yellow bird named Woodstock of course (this was his film debut). Meanwhile Charlie Brown, Lucy and the whole gang wonder where Snoopy is, and they mope around waiting for his arrival.

My one gripe is that the Peanuts gang are not as well-characterized as they were previously in "A Boy Named Charlie Brown." Snoopy and Woodstock are the stars of this film, and there are several humorous touches such as Snoopy getting into some ruckus with a girl named Clara who wants him as a pet! They run around, back and forth, as they enter and exit several rooms in her house. I also love how Woodstock is somehow obsessive-compulsive about walking on each divider of a subway grate. Snoopy and Woodstock steal the show yet we are then saddled with the gangs' crying fits and excessive sobbing about Snoopy leaving Charlie for Lila (of course, you know this will not stand for long) and the beagle receives many parting gifts. This section simply goes on for too long - their tears would fill the Niagara Falls. Still, "Snoopy Come Home" is such a charming film with so much humanity and love that it is easy to see why we all love Peanuts.  

Sahara via Mayan Myth

 FATA MORGANA (1971)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Expansive, repetitious and sometimes mind-numbingly dull, "Fata Morgana" is not for all tastes nor will it be for all Werner Herzog devotees. An experimental film dealing with Mayan-creation myths coupled with the vastness of the Sahara Desert could have worked but I find Herzog doesn't have the knack to know when to quit. There are flashes of brilliance though.

Separated in three sections accordingly, the first is "Creation," the second is "Paradise" and the third is "The Golden Age." Peculiarity doesn't begin to this describe this visual odyssey of desert landscape, some of it quite breathtaking. However, I could have lived without the narration by Lotte Eisner (a German film critic and Herzog's mentor) to bring forth what was initially a science-fiction story that looks mostly like a travelogue of the Sahara and other parts of Africa. There are shots of mutilated animals, half-eaten remains of camels, kids dragging small dogs with a rope leash and posing for the camera or pointing to the sand by the beach, half-finished construction sites, sea turtles, hungry lizards, and many mirages of vehicles and buses and people in the horizon. 

The "Creation" episode is soporific without enough spatial desert scenes beyond endless tracking shots. In fact, this section starts with planes landing in an airfield, one after another until they become "mirages." Once we get past this major lull, "Paradise" and "The Golden Age" become far more engaging because we see the inhabitants of this arid region amidst broken down cargo planes and cars. The narration carries on and most of it is not analogous to the images, perhaps purposefully so (“In Paradise, you quarrel with strangers to avoid making friends.”). A brothel stage with a man humming a tune wearing goggles while the madam is at the piano feels like something out of a David Lynch film (no context is provided for this scene, which is only something I came across in my research. For all I knew, this could have been some musical act at a ramshackle bar). 

I wish Herzog let the images speak for themselves rather than choosing a religious context but one has to remember that he shot what he could for a different kind of film and chose another avenue. I have no idea what any of it means (and I much prefer Godfrey Reggio's "Koyaanisqatsi") and, though it can be a tough slog to get through its 79 minutes, I still found it sort of semi-alluring. 

I, Madman

WOYZECK (1979)
Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Klaus Kinski's penetrating, unblinking (literally and otherwise) eyes are like a force of nature that will eviscerate your soul. When Kinski appears in a Werner Herzog film, attention must be paid because both leading actor and director are madmen who chew up the silver screen with wild, audacious tales of madmen - Madmen making madmen movies. That has been their stock in trade and whether it was the lyrical, deadeningly brilliant "Nosferatu" or the creeping-to-a-crawl intensity and inevitability of "Aguirre: The Wrath of God," Kinski rose to the task of Herzog's demands. "Woyzeck" is a creepy curiosity that has themes of jealousy and madness in equal measure and Kinski gives the performance equivalent of cracked glass that will eventually shatter.

Based on an unfinished play by author Georg Büchner, Franz Woyzeck (Kinski) is a military private who doesn't function well as a rifleman (in the opening title sequence, he is in training mode and keeps failing at his exercises). The bullied, punished private is in the unenviable task of being a barber to his superior (Wolfgang Reichmann), a strict Captain who senses and communicates the lack of morals and lack of goodness in Woyzeck. Woyzeck is no dummy and waxes on philosophically about whatever moral stature he does possess (often startling the Captain) - he may or may not be virtuous but he's still a good man, in his own eyes. Woyzeck has a mistress (Eva Mattes), more frightened by him than anything else, and bore an illegitimate child with her and, though he provides for his family, he knows she is not a saint. And when his Captain and his doctor (Willy Semmelrogge), who uses the willing private as an experiment, imply that she is sleeping around, Woyzeck is deeply unsettled by this and probably a steady diet of peas doesn't help.

It is inevitable what will happen next and the foreshadowing is obvious with dialogue that is shoehorned a little too neatly. Still, "Woyzeck" is often darkly brilliant and completely absorbing. That is a testament to Herzog's masterful direction and perfectly framed compositions - he apparently shot this film in 18 days not long after he completed "Nosferatu." The town itself is bathed in tan-colored tones that paint a colorless community where not much happens, other than some dancing and a lot of drunkenness (in the open greener pastures, Woyzeck assumes something unnatural is about to happen). It is only a matter of time before something brutal threatens it. As for Klaus Kinski, he haunts us and is unforgettable and unshakable. His eyes pierce our soul.  

Happiest of Turkey Days

 PLANES, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES (1987)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

For my collective upbringing during the 1980's, writer-director John Hughes was synonymous with "Sixteen Candles" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and other teen angst flicks. Whenever someone brought up the name John Hughes, I instantly thought of my teen crush on Molly Ringwald from "Sixteen Candles" and "The Breakfast Club." Now that I have reached the age of 51, "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" is what I think of first (a close second is the vastly underrated "Only the Lonely") and there is good reason to - there are no teenagers in it and it is all about two grown, mature adults who can act immaturely yet both are living adult lives. What's even better is that it is one of the funniest, most energetic and fun-filled comedies of the 1980's and easily would make my list of the ten best comedies of all time. Even better than that, it has Steve Martin at his most obscenely hilarious and John Candy giving us the warmest, most humane performance of his career who still manages to tickle your bone.

Almost immediately there is tension in the air. Neal Page (Steve Martin) is part of a marketing team and the boss can't decide which model photo to use, which makes Neal worried since he has to catch a flight from New York to Chicago and be home for Thanksgiving. If a character like Neal, as played by Steve Martin, would make it home in a jiffy, this movie would be a disappointment. Not so. Neal can't catch a cab without being outrun by none other than Kevin Bacon as a hurried passenger. When a cab is available, it is inadvertently stolen by Del Griffith (John Candy), a boisterous shower curtain ring salesman. It is a case of the dependable running gag for most of the film as Neal keeps running into Del Griffith, whether it is an airport or near one. At first it is on the same flight to Chicago but trouble brews when every flight is cancelled. They stay at a cheap motel where the money from their wallets are stolen! The bathrooms becomes a sloppy mess of wet towels and floor puddles, thanks to Del Griffith. Neal and Del Griffith reluctantly share the same bed where Del Griffith has spilled a lot of beer on the mattress and makes loud gurgling noises to help himself sleep. Then there is the dramatic moment where Neal shares everything he can't stand about Del Griffith - the moment of truth that does hurt Del Griffith who can't help but be who he is. This scene should be studied and revered in master classes on sublime comedy. 

Everything I have described is just the beginning of this chaotic and touching road comedy. There are too many classic, inspired pieces of comedy, too many great scenes. And just when the movie could veer into cartoonish extremes (like Candy as a vision of the Devil, or the faces of Martin and Candy seen as skeletons as their car veers between two incoming 18 wheelers), the drama settles back to earth. "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" has one of the most sidesplitting scenes Steve Martin has ever performed on film as he launches an expletive-laden attack on a car-rental agent (a very memorable Edie McClurg) but that scene does not run on too long and that is the mastery of John Hughes - initially a 3 hour long cut, Hughes and his skillful editor Paul Hirsch ("Star Wars" for which he won and shared the Best Editing Oscar) shape every scene with just enough rhythm before cutting to the next comical moment - brevity is comedy's friend. Nothing feels forced and every scene is maximized by the two genuine talents of comedy for humor and ample dramatic effect. You feel compassion for both men and hope they make it out of their hapless predicaments. Already a staple of required Thanksgiving viewing, "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" is John Hughes at his zaniest, most hysterical and most human.