I was excited when Season Two of "Somebody Somewhere" dropped (HBO Max). But I could barely watch the first two episodes. Season One had been all about alienation, exclusion, and then finding community. It was nominated for a plethora of queer and general television awards and scored 100% on the Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer. As Rebecca Nicolson (Guardian) said, “This is television that asks big questions on the sly.”
In Season One, Sam (Bridget Everett) returns to her small Kansas town to take care of her sister who dies. She is left grappling with her ailing parents and a judgmental married sister. Sam feels alone and alienated until she hooks up with a gay workmate Joel (Jeff Hiller), who introduces her to his choir of freaks, characters, and queers of various ilks. She re-discovers that she can sing and builds a new chosen family with Joel and his friends.
I knew Season Two had lost its way when Sam and Joel attend a singing concert at the middle school, and laugh and snicker at the recital of an awkward adult male. This contradicts everything we have learned about the friends. These two – having been bullied and ridiculed all their lives – turn around and act shitty to another “different” person?
When they get food poisoning and we are treated to the two of them having loud and explosive diarrhea while they talk on the phone to each other, I turned it off.
My conclusion (completely made up out of thin air): The first season was written by saavy cool women. The second season was written by adolescent boys drinking their first six-pack.
Boston area people: If you want a superb theatre experience, see if you can score tickets to “Seven Guitars” by the Actors’ Shakespeare Project, appearing at Roxbury’s Hibernian Hall.
All the best elements are here: spot-on direction by Maurice Emmanuel Parent, seven remarkable actors, perhaps the finest 20th Century playwright August Wilson, and an intimate community theatre in which every seat is a good seat.
One of Wilson’s ten “Century Cycle” plays set in subsequent decades, “Seven Guitars” starts with the funeral of Floyd “Schoolboy” Barton and then looks back at what led to this budding musician’s death. All the action takes place in the backyard of a house in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, where both August Wilson and I (two years later) were born.
This production perfectly catches every nuance and complication in Wilson’s incomparable writing. Hurry to experience this reasonably affordable, accessible night out (there’s an elevator and plenty of free nearby parking); this show ends March 5th.
The Live Action shorts are my favorites. There are also Animations and Documentaries, which are a treat as well. I always assume that the people involved with making shorts are less likely to have resources and support, and more likely to have a point of view that hasn’t been fully explored by big filmmakers.
In past years, I’ve been aggravated by Live Action shorts because they were violent, vicious, war-themed, crime-themed – in short, same ole, same ole.
This year, all five films have a humanity to them that made for both easy and interesting viewing. After I turned 75 I decided that I would allow myself not to finish a book or a film that did not have a single character I could give a shit about. I found myself empathetic to each of these stories.
THE ONE I THINK MIGHT WIN Eirik Tveiten’s “Night Ride (Nattrikken)” takes place on a Norwegian tram that has been hijacked by a Little Person when it was too cold to wait a half hour for the driver, on his break, to let her in. What starts as playing “driver,” ends up in a mad ride. She stops and picks up passengers, but when a transwoman rider is attacked by some dickheads, she has to make a daunting decision.
THE OTHER ONE THAT MIGHT WIN The Luxembourg film “The Red Suitcase,” directed by Cyrus Neshvad, is the most gripping of the films. A head-scarfed young Iranian woman stands alone at a baggage carousel watching her small red suitcase go around and around. She is terrified to exit into the main airport where an older man with red flowers is awaiting her. Her hesitation draws the attention of security and they search her bag which is full of drawings and art supplies. The man outside is getting increasingly pissed off as she attempts to escape him. This is a gripping, emotional film with little dialogue, but a plethora of punch.
THE MOST EXQUISITE AND PAINFUL ONE “Ivalu,” adapted from a Danish graphic novel by director Anders Walter, counterposes exquisite Greenland landscapes with excruciating abuse. Ivalu, one of two sisters, goes missing, and the other, Pipaluk, searches all of their private play spots – across fields of ice, craggy mountains, and dangerous fjords. Her terror for her sister dredges up memories she has been trying to exile. So many sweet girls around the world are experiencing the same devastating childhoods.
THE ONE I DOUBT WILL WIN Two Irish brothers, one with disabilities who has lived on the family farm with his mother, and one who is making a life for himself in the city, meet over their mother’s ashes in the country in “An Irish Goodbye” by Tom Berkeley and Ross White. This film is funny and fun, as the rural brother tries to convince the urban brother to stay on the farm with him, during their challenge to complete the mother’s 100-item bucket list.
THE ONE I DON’T WANT TO WIN Set in an Italian orphanage for girls during the 1940s, Alice Rohrwacher’s “Le Pupille” centers around the struggle between a little girl and a stern Mother Superior who dangles a luscious Christmas cake in front of the kids and then makes them “volunteer” to forgo a piece. The whole thing is rather predictable and in light of the heinous crimes of the Catholic Church to the children in their care, it’s a bit silly. I wasn’t surprised that Disney was behind this film. And that it was produced by the award-winning Alfonso Cuarón.
This is a review of the first hour of the choppy, repetitive film Elvis. Within minutes I was wondering why they hadn’t budgeted for a film editor. And was curious which accent Tom Hanks was aiming for. His makeup was cringe-making as well. Austin Butler is pretty, but the choreography was nothing like Elvis’ movements. There was no one to love; I felt no emotional connection amidst the multiple overlaid fragments. The jerkiness of what my friend called a “fever dream,” reminded me that life is too short for an unsatisfying movie that stretches to 2 hours and 40 minutes.
Take a slice of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, together with a large dollop of Black Panther, add to that the stunning physicality of 57-year-old Viola Davis and her young, emotional co-star Thuso Mbedu, and you get a sense of the power, speed, and martial beauty of The Woman King.
With women in the roles of writer, director, producer, and many more behind-the-camera positions, it is an action film like no other, based on a vision that is absent any male or white gaze. There is violence, but not the kind that makes you look away cringing – other than some flashbacks to abuse. There is love, but it is forged in sisterhood and solidarity. And there are massive fight scenes with a cast of multitudes, brilliantly choreographed and impressively executed.
Underlying it all is the story of a struggle against slavers in Africa and their collaborators. I know there is a debate about the veracity of the historical interpretation, but I’m not in any position to judge. What I do know is that this is a glorious, cinematic spectacle.
Nanisca (Viola Davis) leads the King’s guard of muscular, fierce women warriors. He chooses her as his Chief Advisor over his vain, beautiful, over-adorned wife. Other men aren’t even in the running. Through a mixture of discipline, training, and loyalty, her corps seems to become unstoppable, despite the harrowing challenges they face.
The 99% audience rating on Rotten Tomatoes hints at how exciting, meaningful, and luscious this film is. I was left breathless and electrified at the end.
I was disappointed to realize that Leonard Cohen isn’t the star of this film.
His song Hallelujah is the subject. We hear from a long string of musicians who more or less made their careers covering this song. We learn little new about Cohen himself, a conflicted, complicated artist. Instead, it’s all about the song’s journey as so many others reconfigured Hallelujah to suit their own needs. The ending was quite moving, when Cohen returns, broke, to the stage. And we get to hear KD Lang’s brilliant rendition of Hallelujah.
Yesterday I went to a matinee in a movie house for the first time in well over two years. Luckily, there were only three other people inside the theatre, which required masking. I went to see Pedro Almodóvar’s riveting “Parallel Mothers” starring the radiant Penélope Cruz.
As always, Almodóvar shows a deep understanding of women’s lives and loves. Janis (Cruz) and teenager Ana (Milena Smit) meet across generations and across the room in a maternity hospital. Their labor and birthings happen at the same time and the bond they mold is both enduring and multi-faceted.
Israel Elejalde, as Arturo, is satisfyingly handsome and sincere as Janis’ lover, and Aitana Sánchez-Gijón, as Ana’s mother Teresa, rings true as a conflicted parent who wants only to explore her acting career.
I have long been a fan of Almodóvar – whose queer sensibility is underpinned by more than a dollop of intelligence and a bountiful serving of empathy. His films are never boring.
This film’s framework is the search for truth about the Franco rule of fascism. Spain is a country which is fast forgetting its own history – so recent that I myself remember visiting Spain during the Franco regime. Franco only died in 1975, but already the younger generations are being deprived of their own past by a national denial.
Sorrows, secrets, sexualities, and passion mark “Parallel Mothers” – as they do all Almodóvar films. What better way to break yet another Covid barrier – in-person film viewing – than to see the work of this beloved director.
I sure have seen better films. Nicole Kidman’s version of Lucille Ball, famous for her physical comedy, is awkward and emaciated. Aaron Sorkin’s rat-a-tat dialogue and depiction of the writers’ room keep the film alive, although it’s too long at over two hours. Kudos to Javier Bardem for his sexy, graceful portrayal of Desi Arnaz. But (spoiler alert) in the end, it is Desi’s penis that provides the main tension and resolution of the film. He is a lying philanderer, but even worse, he gaslights Lucy throughout. It is infuriating that his banal dickery is more centered than her brilliance.
Ken Burns, his daughter Sarah Burns, and her husband David McMahon, were not the right people to make the lengthy documentary on Muhammed Ali for PBS. I felt the long series had a subtly hostile tone to Ali and a more explicit hostility to boxing. Despite having the resources to access piles of stunning archival footage and despite having a massive eight hours of airtime, the entire work was devoid of emotion. Muhammed Ali was a passionate, emotional figure, but this was not reflected in the deadpan commentary, not the least by the guy they presented as the biographer of Ali, who seemed barely conscious.
This is not to minimize the insights of the brilliant writer and Ali fan Walter Moseley, the inside view of Ali’s brother Rahman, and the expert blow-by-blow from former boxer (and now actor) Michael Bentt. In fact, if it weren’t for Bentt, the series would have been stumbling around the ring helplessly.
If you have been a fan of Ali, as I have been most of my life, then there isn’t much new in this chronological series – other than wonderful clips and images. I appreciated that Burns allowed the women in Ali’s life to talk about his obsessive cheating and need for conquest after conquest, while they provided a home, a haven, and a family. But I was irritated that Burns acted like he had single-handedly discovered that people get hurt boxing and that Ali could be mean during a fight. Burns brought no real insight into Ali’s relationship to Elijah Muhammed and the Nation of Islam. We see his involvement, we see his betrayal of Malcolm X (which he regretted his whole life), and we see that his connection with the group’s leader was a bit of a roller coaster. But Burns provided no depth, no clarity, no understanding of Ali’s experience of Islam. And then there was the way Burns twisted Ali’s unique charisma into some sort of manipulation, when in fact Muhammed Ali widely inspired love. I adored him myself.
The most profound deficit was a total lack of appreciation of boxing throughout the series. We were shown the worst moments of every fight, the blood, the broken noses, the pain. Thankfully, we were also shown some of the spectacular conditioning and training the pros went through. But the filmmakers seemed to have only the most rudimentary grasp of the degree to which Ali brought rhythm, motion, and dancing to the fight. No one ever moved in the ring the way he did. Before Ali, no one ever imagined the sweet beauty a fighter could bring to such a brutal sport. Before Ali, no other boxer floated like a butterfly.
I grew up following Ali, starting with his 1960 Olympic win when I was 13 and was just becoming aware of the civil rights movement. He was only 18 and won all four of his fights in Rome. Over the years, I kept my eye on him, as if we were growing up together. His later struggle against the war in VietNam meant everything to those of us fighting the cops in the streets to protest that vile war. His ability to connect oppressions – “I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong… No Viet Cong ever called me n****r.” – was an education for us, as was his example of civil resistance to the draft. And all the time he was the most fluid, graceful fighter we had ever seen.
My exposure to the fight game began early. My parents were big on sports, almost any sport that involved our hometown Pittsburgh. Once we got a black and white TV, we would eat dinner sitting around a card table watching Studio Wrestling on Saturday nights. It originated out of Pittsburgh, and we were as familiar with Killer Kowalski and his main antagonist local boy Bruno Sammartino as we were with our relatives. My dad knew Referee Izzy Moidel, a local ex-boxer. Each of the wrestlers had a schtick and a script – it was fake fighting. Obviously. But I got a taste for the give and take of the fight from those weekly broadcasts. (And went on to become a Tae Kwon Do master for my first career, but that’s another story.)
When Muhammed Ali turned up, he had his schtick too, but he was for real. Boxing was for real. Ali gave shape and meaning to one-on-one combat, not only by being brilliant in the ring, but also by being brilliant out of it. He harnessed his charisma and his pronouncements to his beliefs and became one of the most influential athletes in history.
The Burns group seemed to think that Ali was “interesting,” a celebrity, entertaining. But I didn’t feel the love. Of course, they pointed out his athletic and political contributions, but I was left wondering if they had any feel for the depth of his influence. They stayed, it felt, on an unexcited, slightly aloof level of exposition, more interested in the count than the fervor: one, two, three – Ali won the heavyweight championship three different times.
There’s been a lot of discussion about why Burns (white/male/straight) has the total indulgence of PBS, which for 40 years has broadcast some 200 hours of his work! Meanwhile, there are generations of filmmakers who can’t get their toe in the door, not the least directors of color and women. A long-term Boston PBS tv host, the racist, reactionary Emily Rooney (yes, the daughter of –nepotism is becoming a theme in this piece), retired from her show after her disgusting dismissal of the very idea that a filmmaker of color could reach the heights of Burns. Over 300 film and TV professionals wrote a complaint letter to PBS asking “How many other ‘independent’ filmmakers have a decades-long exclusive relationship with a publicly-funded entity? Your commitment to diversity at PBS is not borne out by the evidence.” The privileged position of the Burns group impacts everything about their work – and in the case of Muhammed Ali, makes them the wrong group of people for the job.
Want to get an intimate sense of Muhammed Ali? Do yourself a huge favor and watch Billy Crystal’s hilarious, moving 14-minute tribute at Ali’s funeral. I’ve seen it a dozen times and have never failed to tear up. Eight hours of Burns’ presentation and I never felt much other than annoyance.
Ifé Franklin has produced and directed this remarkable short film entitled The Slave Narrative of Willie Mae. These moving 20 minutes represent just three out of 17 scenes of the book, of the same title, on which it is based. The depth of the collaboration among multiple talented artists is impressive. Letta Neely, who edited Franklin’s volume of historical fiction (Wild Heart Press, 2018), also wrote the script for this film. The actors are riveting, not the least Qualina Lewis as Willie Mae, the young enslaved woman whom her mother, an elder aunt, and a sister field hand are preparing for escape. The multi-talented Michael Gordon Penn provides a frightening threat as the overseer. Their cooperative work together on this film mirrors the joint efforts of these women to save the youngest amongst them from the brutalities of Lenox Tobacco Plantation in 1852.
Ifé Franklin has combined community activism and a rich and outstanding variety of artistic expressions since high school, when she began to study photography. Over the years she has added many layers to her arts education and has produced an impressive range of installations and visual arts. Watch her short film here. Her hope is to bring the full story to the screen.
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