Next Screening? “Night School”

Kevin Hart and Tiffany Haddish co-star in this comedy, and with the way audiences treat comics as if they have expiration dates, there’s no telling how well this will do, even if it’s great. And the trailers aren’t selling that, thus the “stunt” in this one.

Hart’s had a great, long run, a Will Ferrell not Adam Sandler (where you see the comic stop caring, right there on screen) career arc. He leaves it all up there, and much respect for that. No phoning it. Yet.

Haddish? She has three films out this fall. If she’s burning through her 15 minutes, it’s going to happen with one or more of these three. “Girls Trip Sequel” in the works, a cable series she’s mad about being underpaid for, over-exposed for the sort of comic she is.

It has five credited screenwriters and a 1:51 running time, long for a comedy.

But I’m looking for laughs from these two and hoping for the best from “Night School.”

 

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Netflixable? “Roxanne Roxanne” wrote the book on “Love & Hip Hop”

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The desperation is palpable, the pitfalls predictable and the road rough in “Roxanne Roxanne,” one rapper’s rise during the early years of New York hip hop.

Michael Larnell’s flinty and uplifting film of the early days of Lolita “Roxanne Shanté” Gooden, the Queen of Queensbridge, a mid-80s fury who became a years-in-the-making “overnight success” and role model, lives on grit and heart and some terrific performances by Chanté Adams, Nia Long and Oscar winner Mahershala Ali.

It started early — VERY early — with little best friend Ranita (Olivia Bucknor) hyping street battle tween Shante (Taliyah Whitaker) with “The CHAMP is here, the CHAMP is here.”

Shante’s already a local legend, brushing off challengers and dismissing pretenders at will, demanding more and more just to participate in these one-on-one rhyme-offs.

Her mom (Long, in her fiercest role in years and best performance in ages) is strict and protective, counting that cash money when it comes in, saving for the day they can get out of The Projects.

Then her man (Curtiss Cook) skeedaddles with her savings (cliche alert), Mom crawls into a bottle and teen Shante’ (newcomer Chante’ Adams) is just hustling (shoplifting for hire) and battling just to keep her and her three little sisters afloat.

“If you touch me…I won’t rest ’til you in a grave or hearse. You the worst and this is LADIES first.

“I’m the best and I don’t care what the rest think…I ain’t rhymin’ no more cuz your breath stink.”

Her big break is an offhand track (“Roxanne Roxanne”) for a neighbor (Kevin Phillips) with a bedroom recording set-up, and “Roxanne Shante'” is born, fame and fortune hers for the taking.

Except it isn’t. Larnell takes us deeper and deeper into the dark side. And booze hound or not, her mother saw it coming, warned her even as she was giving her “the only braces in the projects.”

Man after man lets her down, assaults her, steals from her. And bitter Mom, gossiping with the other single moms of the projects, knows that girls have to learn “to be disappointed by a man at an early age.”

“Take this as a lesson,” she says when the girls wait for an Easter Sunday pickup from their absentee father. “This is what happens when you think they love you and they don’t.”

Shante’ gets on the radio, and suddenly dubious older men pf every stripe are courting her favor. They’re all gifts of bling and promises, “I got you. “I’m always gonna be right there.” “Can I be your man?” “You gonna need protection.”

We hope she’s keeping a wary eye for the dangerous ones, a dismissive snort to the inept ones. But she’s green.

Ali, showing the same cagey blend of good-bad man that won him the Oscar for “Moonlight,” comes on smooth, sentimental and absurdly inappropriate. He talks about wanting “family” in his life, but he’s just another brutalizing pimp — the meanest among many.

Shante”s already been assaulted and cheated — she’s 16. She can’t see it.

Larnell lets us have the uplift of “You’re on the RADIO!” and sudden, hard-earned glory. Club bouncers demand, “Lemme see your teeth.” Can’t have that damned kid with the braces in here wrecking our rap battles.

He has Long carry the comic weight, a woman determined to have something better for her kids even as life derails her hopes. Those braces cost money.

“Get your damn thumb out of your mouth.”

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The journey may be an over-familiar one, the tale of a “somebody you don’t know, but you should” if you love hip hop.

Props to Ali for and Long signing on to get it made, and a tip of the hat to Netflix for grabbing a story — even a worn one — about a population underserved by cinema.

And Ms. Adams? We’re all going to be keeping an eye on you.

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MPAA Rating: TV:MA

Cast: Chanté Adams, Nia Long, Mahershala Ali, Taliyah Whitaker

Credits: Written and directed by Michael Larnell. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:40

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Movie Review: “Chasing the Blues” back to the “Crossroads”

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With all the emphasis we put on “plot” in the movies, novelty in the setting, situations and obsessions of the characters, it’s a shame when a comedy comes along that can’t make the most of a good one.

Record collecting is a tried and true movie character’s obsession. Blues history, with its “deal with the Devil” mythology, is has been fertile ground since Ralph Macchio was the Blues Kid in “Crossroads,” way back in the last millennium.

So there’s promise in the set-up, the situations and the characters of “Chasing the Blues,” an indie variation on a “Crossroads” theme. Good ideas are frittered away in the execution and the casting, not all of which can be attributed to “They didn’t have the money to do it right.”

It’s a period piece set in three periods. In the 2007 “present,) an Illinois prison inmate, played by former child actor Grant Rosenmeyer (TV’s “Oliver Beene”) is finishing up his twenty year or so sentence when he’s visiting by a drawling, smarmy Southern lawyer (Jon Lovitz). Lawyer Groome is from outside of Baton Rouge, and he has this record collection a dead client had in storage that Alan (Rosenmeyer) might be interested in.

It seems Alan’s in prison for something to do with his mania for rare blues records, way back in TV’s “L.A. Law” era.

The suggestion is, Alan never got over that. The movie’s silliest conceit is, Alan has to be 40something, because he is presented as a high school teacher in that fictive past — the 1980s.

Alan has to get out of the joint, get on a bus and meet a pretty and smart-assed young singer-guitarist (Chelsea Tavares of TV’s “Just Jordan” and “Unfabulous”). For some reason, she’s into guys with prison allegedly written all over their faces (and dated wardrobe).

“I’m gonna tell you a really good story,” Alan says, eventually. Actually, it’s two stories interconnected, and “really good” is actually not an inaccurate description.

He takes us back to his teaching/collecting days, and his youthful search for record collecting’s Holy Grail — the never-released Jimmy Kane Baldwin recording of “Death Where is Thy Sting?”

Don’t Google the song or Jimmy Kane B. They made it up.

Back in 1938, Baldwin cut this shellac 78 at Chicago’s Cicero Records (“SNL” vet Tim Kazurinsky is the recording engineer) while he was on the run from the law in Mississippi. Seems he’d murdered his woman before fleeing north.

They cut four takes of the tune, but when they finally play it back for Baldwin, he flips out. He hears screams in the background, the cries of his dying beloved. The legend is, “Only people with murder in their hearts can hear it.” And if they do, they die.

Alan, whose only references to his own crime are “I didn’t do it,” stumbled across the record in an old lady’s collection back in the 1980s. Trouble was, Alan wasn’t the only guy “tipped” about Mrs. Walker’s (Anna Maria Horsford) huge stash.

Ronald L. Conner of Showtime’s “The Chi” is Paul, owner of the neighborhood Blues Island record store. He is Alan’s nemesis and the life of the movie. Their 1980s “war” over this priceless, legendary recording dominates “Chasing the Blues, gives it what life it has, and its funniest situations and lines.

Because these two are blood rivals. Paul is not just a competitor, poaching Alan’s tips, trying to foil him at every turn.

“You collect to keep OTHER people from having it,” he says. “You hate the fact that you can’t FEEL the music.”

Yeah, he’s playing the race card. No, “cultural appropriation” wasn’t in common use back then.

Alan? He’s not hearing it. He’s an aficionado, a historian and Mr. Jheri Curls doesn’t know how many times Alan has to school the Philistines who feed him (paid) tips about record hoards.

Are you into Led Zeppelin at all?

“More into Lead BELLY.”

“A blues snob is an oxymoron! ” Paul shouts, because Paul has all the best lines. “A WHITE blues snob just a moron!”

They stumble into elderly Mrs. Walker’s apartment in the middle of a heat wave, and wait. And wait some more. She’s got to hear from her son from Down South before disposing of her late husband’s collection.

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Steve Guttenberg shows up as one of Alan’s music-collecting confidantes. It’s a pity writer-director Scott Smith didn’t dig deeper into this subculture, because a lot of people dabble in collecting and a lot more are intrigued by it.

Nothing save for this middle-acts war of wills is properly developed, and while it’s fun, the inevitable return to the fictive present lets all the air out of the balloon. Smith contorted his film to shoehorn young Rosenmeyer (a younger, less interesting Shia LaBeouf) into the part.

The ungainliness of this shoehorning is obvious in all these scenes between Rosenmeyer and Tavares. There’s a little chemistry, but there’s supposed to be this much larger age difference than the casting makes clear. So. Ick.

Better to park somebody older in the lead role and a 30-40ish folkie as leading lady to underline the years sacrificed to this fool’s errand, the life it has scarred. Just making Alan a teen as the collector who then does time (shorter time) for an “I didn’t do it” crime connected with the record would have worked. Alan doesn’t need to be a teacher. He probably does need to be more charismatic than Rosenmeyer.

The ending feels like an abrupt afterthought, unsatisfying as well as illogical. The “names” in the cast don’t have enough to do, save for Conner.

There’s a movie in “Chasing the Blues,” just not the movie Smith got out of it.

1half-star

 

MPAA Rating: gun violence, profanity

Cast:  Grant RosenmeyerRonald L. ConnerChelsea Tavares ,Jon Lovitz, Steve Guttenberg

Credits:Directed by Scott Smith, script by Scott Smith, Kevin Guilfoile. A Fulton Market release.

Running time: 1:18

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Documentary Review: A most political artist has the last word in “Matangi/Maya/M.I.A.”

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Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam, the Brit-Sri Lankan rapper, designer and filmmaker known M.I.A., is even more fascinating as a person than she is as an artist.

Daughter of a leader of the Tamil Tigers, an ethnic Sri Lankan minority that started a civil war to win civil rights, a war that devolved into terrorism against civilians and a defeat the U.N. and much of the world acknowledged turned into genocide, she is outspokenly political, distinctly South Asian in dress, music influences and dance. She took global pop culture by storm in the mid-2000s, earning Grammy and Oscar nominations (a song in “Slumdog Millionaire”), status as “the only Tamil in the Western media” and a place at a Super Bowl Halftime Show, where she flipped off America and was sued by the NFL for it.

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Performing with Madonna, dueting with XTina, Bjork/Madonna/Timbaland and Missy Elliot-influenced, she had me at “flipped off the NFL.”

Her British art school/film school mate Stephen Loveridge shadowed her, filmed her and collaborated with “Maya” on “Matangi/Maya/M.I.A.,” a quick-take career, personal life and activism and art documentary about the now-40something global icon.

It plays like a self-portrait — arriving in Britain at 10 with her mother and siblings, fleeing the civil war her father is fighting, dancing (“Music was my medicine.”), dealing with racism (If you’re brown, “you’re a Paki.”), art school where she learned to make documentaries, and then the fateful backstage meeting with Justine Frischmann at an Elastica concert.

That was Maya’s entre’ to the music business, filming the band and directing videos. But she looked at the crowds Elastica was pulling, saw their “access to a microphone,” and wondered, “Why don’t you SAY something?”

Hearing hip hop beats had turned her own ears to America and rap. When she mixed her own music and cooked up her own rhymes, the singing had an immigrant’s ear for Cockney filtered through Missy Elliott’s under-enunciation — vocals as bleeting sound and beat. The music and dance that accompanied it? Distinctly, defiantly South Asian.

And as her fame and power grew, return visits to Sri Lanka radicalized her even as she was making music videos there, Third World flavor with a hip hop beat. Something about her story, her politics and her only-one-of-her-kind looks clicked, and next thing you know she’s at Coachella, in Lollapalooza, a sea of American white kids fist-pumping her act.

Her style, smart outspokenness, controlling her image and art, are a wonder to behold. Directing videos for herself and others, co-writing with Madonna and others, endless magazine covers, her music in every hip film or TV show, “album of the year” and “artist of the decade” honors from Rolling Stone — being into M.I.A. was the in-thing to be.

And then controversy — her politics dismissed (Bill Maher) or edited out of interviews (CNN), her metaphoric videos about the Tamil genocide yanked from Youtube, a sloppy, ethically suspect hatchet-job profile by Lynn Hirschberg in The New York Times Sunday Magazine. A lot of stuff led up to the big flip-off moment, we can see.

And if the champion of the poor and oppressed couldn’t see how hooking up with a famous producer (Diplo) who then made her career, and taking up with another of the Seagrams-rich Bronfmans looked, maybe she isn’t as smart as we think.

Odd tunes waft through the background, music she hears which others are playing on their boom boxes in her London flat, in Sri Lanka — Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille,” Dylan’s “Mozambique.” Real musicians are awash in music, almost drowning in influences.

Loveridge is there for the aftermath of the Super Bowl (a cell-phone recorded not-quite-confrontation backstage, a BIG laugh back in the hotel suite), the lawsuit (settled)  — “OK, we’ve done THAT.”

It’s sad to see she’s soured on America, where as the song says, “every generation throws a hero up the pop charts,” which we in the media then chip away at and tear down.

She’s over 40 and a single mom, her cause has had to morph into something less specific than a genocide that, as she marvels, is quickly put in the past (a New York Times travel piece on “hot vacation spots” lists post-civil war Sri Lanka and sets her off).

But self-aggrandizing hagiography that it is, “Matangi/Maya/M.I.A.” leaves you wondering where her ever-evolving (Industrial, lyrical reggae blues rock rap?) music will take her next, and how she’ll channel her fame in the future, and even if that fame will last past her white-hot notoriety.

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MPAA Rating: unrated

Cast: M.I.A. (Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam ), Diplo, Bill Maher

Credits:Directed by Stephen Loveridge. A Cinereach release.

Running time: 1:32

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Tonight’s Screening, “Chasing the Blues,” about record-collecting, prison, and the long-awaited Jon Lovitz comeback

The trailer has hints of “Crossroads,” that Ralph Macchio/Walter Hill classic about looking for a lost Robert Johnson blue classic.

This is about that preoccupation of hedonistic hipsters, vinyl collecting. And it looks cute. Opens in Oct.

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Preview, “Vita & Virginia” captures the upper class romance of Sackville-West and Woolf

Vita Sackville-West was upper class, pronounced “kloss,” to the core, a celebrated socialite and successful author.

Virginia Woolf was a legend in the making, one of the great writers of the 20th century.

Period piece. Torrid gay romance. “Vita & Virginia” touches all the “awards season” bases.

Gemma Arterton, Elizabeth Debecki, Rupert Penry-Jones (The most English name…ever?) and Isabella Rossellini star in this ever-so-posh pic, due out before year’s end in the UK, probably 2019 in North America.

 

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Documentary Review: Uncovering the life lived at “306 Hollywood” in Newark

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The nature of memory, its organization and how we hang onto recollections of lost loved ones is what “306 Hollywood” is about.

It’s an almost insufferably esoteric documentary made by two siblings, dissecting, digging and reconstructive the life of their late grandmother by plumbing the depths of what she held onto in her house, 306 Hollywood Avenue, Newark New Jersey.

Elan Bogarin and her brother Jonathan Bogarin visited this home for decades growing up. As adults Elan took to filming interviews with their grandmother every year for the last eleven years of her grandmother, Annette Ontell’s, life.

A week after their grandmother’s death, they helped their mother start to clean out the house. And that’s how their movie began. In the humdrum detritus of broken but not tossed out vacuum cleaners, drawers of hosiery, a rainbow of toothbrushes, out of date Gefilte fish and stacks of re-purposed BandAid boxes, they saw a life.

And as they’d heard (allegedly) from their funeral director that they had eleven months to make contact, to get her spirit to “manifest itself” in the house where she’d lived. they got to digging.

“Somehow, what she says makes some sense,” Elan narrates.

No, it doesn’t.

Jonathan notes “another strange thing that happened…a portal opened in her kitchen.” No, not literally. Just a trick of memory, and a way for Jonathan to humbrag about studying art history in Rome. He gets a mention of his marriage in Japan in, too.

With reenactments and recreations, a scale-model doll house and endless tracking shots through rooms and closeups of false teeth and girdles, furnishings and photos, they set out to burn into memory — or digital video — their grandmother, who lived in this very house from 1944 to 2011.

“I used to love to eat big chunks of butter — that’s vitamin A!” Annette blurts out, at one point. She tells tales and anecdotes and answers, over the years of interviews, dozens of questions.

“Grandma, are you vain?”

“Oh YES.”

Her granddaughter talks of Annette as “a fashion designer,” although dressmaker seems closer to the mark. She created one-off dresses for the unnamed “wealthy,” and made copies of each dress for herself with the leftover pricey fabric. A one point, a chorus line of dancers parades her simple, sometimes elegant designs on Annette’s former front lawn, women in girdles dancing and holding up the dresses. At another, Elan enlists her mother Marilyn to squeeze Grandma into one of those old dresses, hysterically funny to Marilyn, kind of “Whose grandmother would DO this?” to anybody else.

We see a lifetime of paperwork, Elan sitting legs splayed on the floor with a shredder between her knees, destroying decades of letters, cards, canceled checks and tax returns, even Annette’s personal phone book.

A physicist they talk to says “a house is a universe, an entire world.”

A fashion conservator describes the past she can summon up just by going over Annette’s dresses. An archaeologist discusses “digging” and an archivist talks of “cataloging,” the first step in that line of work’s role in remembering the past.

Archaeologists reconstruct the past of what they can find of it. Archivists decide what from the past is most important, most telling and worth preserving.

As the siblings, co-narrators, ponder the problem of “scale,” off “big history and small history,” we see them cataloging to beat the band, and pondering the details of this life and its place within their family.

But what ruins the film for me is what they aren’t doing  — archiving. There’s little selecting, singling out. This is an unremarkable life. And as much as their potty-mouthed mother, Marilyn, cackles and curses on camera about the ridiculousness of their film enterprise, you wish to heaven there’d been a nihilist in the family. Where’s that one voice saying “It’s all nothingness. Memory is fleeting. Sell the damned house and move on.”

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I appreciate the exercise, the craft of lip-synched reenactments, the production design. But find the execution here grating. The universal truths are banal, the narcissistic navel gazing in this episode of “Hoarders” just inspires eye rolling.

“306 Hollywood” is a home movie best left to the home it was shot in.

1half-star

MPAA Rating: unrated, profanity

Cast: Elan Bogarin, Jonathan Bogarin, Annette Ontell

Credits: Written and directed by  Elan BogarinJonathan Bogarin. An El Tigre release.

Running time: 1:33

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Netflixable? “Take Me” puts Taylor Schilling in bondage…again

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It’s no stretch to think of “Orange is the New Black” star Taylor Schilling as a kidnapping victim who has little trouble turning the tables on her captor.

She plays native cunning well, and carries herself, even in a show about prison, with the confidence of a pretty blonde.

But “Take Me” takes that tables-turning thing to a new extreme. A darkly comic pre #MeToo riff on dominance/submission games and control, it’s got enough twists (barely, it’s quite predictable) and laughs (ditto) to get by, largely thanks to Schilling lording it over her would-be kidnapper, played by Pat Healy of “Cheap Thrills” and “Compliance.”

Healy directs and stars in this comedy, and he’s an amusingly deadpan, hapless-but-doesn’t-realize-it lead.

Adorned with a terrible toupee that makes him look like John Michael Higgins, we meet Ray as he’s making his pitch to a bank loan officer.

“I run a business based on one idea, helping people.”

This business requires the use of a rusted Chevy van, rope, duct tape, stocking caps and threats. He kidnaps people who hire him to do it. And his pitch to the lender for expanding “Kidnap Solutions, LLC,” his “simulated experience of high stakes abduction” service, is a lulu. It can be therapeutic.

Want to lose weight and cut out the junk food? Nothing like the terror of being a hostage and having fast food shoved down your throat to fix that.

But everybody who hires him has a different motive, which he doesn’t go too deep into. No sense offending the prudes, you know. And that little lawsuit in Atlantic City? Learning curve for the business, nothing more.

Ray doesn’t get the loan, but at his most desperate, he gets a client. “Anna” calls, wants more than the “eight hour” standard experience, and is willing to pay handsomely for it. She asks to be slapped around, the works. Ray, a mild-mannered soul in spite of his choice of profession, has to be talked into it.

But he is and she’s his — for the weekend, grabbed in her LA consulting firm’s parking lot, stuffed into the trunk of her Mercedes and spirited off to his basement.

Anna (Schilling) is taken aback, taken utterly by surprise. But is she…terrified? We wonder. Ray isn’t much of an actor. Maybe he’s just not menacing enough.

“Are…are you wearing a wig?”

But as she begs not to be shoved in the trunk and weeps just enough upon their arrival, as she flings a bar of soap at him in one escape attempt and stabs him in another, we wonder exactly what we’re supposed to wonder.

Is Anna actually in on it, or has guileless, inept Ray been tricked into kidnapping a woman who isn’t actually a client?

The whole movie hangs on Schilling’s ability to con us, and Ray, repeatedly and that’s a little lacking.

What she’s good at is being the mean “victim” — correcting Ray’s grammar, questioning his intelligence, mocking his toupee.

The whole slapping thing? “You hit like a GIRL.”

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Healy is funniest at his most hapless, coaching himself in the mirror before making fresh threats to his “victim,” lying on the fly to cops who show up at the door, coping with the sister (Alycia Delmore) who disapproves of what he does for a living, but not enough to free Anna or call the cops.

The mystery evaporates too quickly, but the war of wills — or war of will vs. wuss — has a few laughs in it as Ray takes a licking from the tough blonde tied to a lawn chair.

And there are a couple of cute twists that pay off. The Duplass Brothers produced this, and while “Take Me” doesn’t have the edge or scruffy, improvised energy of their best work, it’s on a par with their lesser early “mumblecore” efforts, which at least have their moments.

The stars? They’re game, which considering  the film’s subject matter, says something. It’s not nearly as out there as it looks, not remotely as alarming as it might have been (Alicia Silverstone’s “Excess Baggage” went further, and it was just a lightweight rom-com).

But “Take Me” tickles just often enough to be worth its 84 minutes, not something I’d trek out to see at the cinema, but perfectly Netflixable.

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MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast: Taylor Schilling, Pat Healy, Alycia Delmore

Credits:Directed by Pat Healy, script by Mike Makowsky. An Orchard release.

Running time: 1:24

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Documentary Review: Joan Jett explains her “Bad Reputation”

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Little Joan Marie Larkin saw the rock quartets on TV in the 60s and early 70s, and decided she just HAD to have a Sears Silvertone electric guitar for Christmas.

“I can’t be the only girl who wants to do this,” she later remembered thinking.

She wasn’t. As Joan Jett, she crashed the boys-only rock guitarist club, faced sexism, critical dismissal and rock fan and music label abuse..And before she was through — and she’s not done yet — she’d formed two iconic bands, had a decade of hits, dominated MTV and crunched and crashed her way into the Rock’n Roll Hall of Fame.

It’s no surprise that the story of rock’s original female badass makes for a gritty, inspiring documentary. “Bad Reputation” arrives as the Queen of Rock Guitar turns 60 (Sept. 22), and filmmkers Kevin Kerslake and Joel Marcus give the tenacious feminist icon her due in this thorough and thoroughly entertaining look at her career and life.

She burst out of the “post-Stonewall” glam-rock era, getting her start in feminist LA in the mid-70s. She met drummer Sandy West and started piecing together the “all girl” band of her dreams, with producer/impresario Kim Fowley recruiting Jackie FoxLita Ford and Cherie Currie as lead singer. Badgered by Fowley, Jett and Currie concocted their most famous song, “Cherry Bomb,” in mere minutes.

And as they rehearsed, he’d throw things at them, prepping them for the reception that the mostly-male rock club crowd would give him, scenes memorably recreated for the movie “The Runaways.” Jett remembers those sessions as “our boot camp.”

With its lead singer blonde and performing in a corset and fishnet stockings, The Runaways created a stir. But the rock establishment — record companies, critics and Rolling Stone, Cream and Crawdaddy magazines — weren’t having them. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein of Blondie appear in the documentary, expressing dismay at their treatment.

As “The Runaways” movie was in pre-production, I interviewed producer Art Linson and we shared memories of how the band was dismissed. The rare Rolling Stone piece on them claimed there were teen boys jerking off in the front row of their shows. That’s the way  Jann Wenner’s magazine covered them.

But they were out there, and they didn’t back down.

“Tell me I can’t do something and that’s something I’m sure to do,” Jett (who took her mother’s maiden name as her stage name) declares.

To underscore that, the film shares DECADES of sexist TV and radio interviews, laugh out loud funny to see now, but grating for a driven performer leading a band that wanted to be about more than sexuality. Fowley, whom Iggy Popp describes as “like Frankenstein’s monster, but if Frankenstein’s monster was on acid,” molded their image and invented their notoriety.

The band became legend.

“There were a lot of girls who didn’t want to be Joni Mitchell,” Iggy says. “They wanted to rock and roll. And then along came The Runaways.”

“Bad Reputation” gives us a glimpse of The Runaways’ peak-then-flameout moment, a Beatles-like reception in Japan, where Fowley’s last manipulations (financial and personal) broke them up.

We see Jett’s spiral into near-suicidal despair, friends intervening because she was self-destructing with booze and drugs, “hanging out with Sid Vicious, Stiv Bators, all these guys who’re dead, now.”

And then she met her musical soulmate — songwriter/producer Kenny Laguna. A self-described “bubble gum” music master, Laguna and others make the case that bubblegum was the precursor to punk, and that’s the kind of punk he envisioned for Joan — creating a Blackheart band and record label partnership that endured anonymity, self-released LPs and decades of bad to indifferent record deals and then sudden, hard-earned fame and glory.

Most of her/their hits were covers — “I Love Rock’n Roll,” “Crimson and Clover,” “Do You Wanna Touch Me,” but she could co-write tunes just as gritty and anthemic and popular — “Bad Reputation” and “I Hate Myself For Loving You.”

Kristen Stewart remembers Joan’s edict for playing her in “The Runaways,” to remember to “pussy the guitar” onstage. Michael J. Fox recounts her acting technique in “our rock’n roll cancer film” “Light of Day,” as “scary,” and gives as much of a clue about her sexuality as Jett herself does, that “She doesn’t care what you think” her sexual orientation is.

No, she still doesn’t discuss her sexuality. Never has. But the fact that she covered “Crimson and Clover,” and was a producer and supervisor of her legacy on the film biography of her breakout band, “The Runaways,” answered that better than any revelation she might be saving for a late-life book.

Debbie Harry declares Joan the very definition of “Rock and roll animal.”

Billie Joe Armstrong marvels at how she led the way, creating her own record label and own success, a model for all the punk, grunge and metal bands that followed.

We see Jett playing for the troops and hear United Nations Ambassador Nikki Haley hail her as her icon.

But mostly what we see and hear, in interviews old and new, is a musician who made it all about the music, fighting to do it her way, clawing at stardom, fading from fame and coming back to the Warped Tour, arena tours, back to state fairs and small clubs, mop-topped, close-cropped blonde or bald, working up a sweat and leaving it all onstage.

Yeah, she used sexuality, just like the guys. But here’s someone who made it to “icon” one show, one power chord at a time, and who never ever sold out along the way. 3half-star

MPAA Rating: R for language, sexual references, some drug use and brief nudity

Cast: Joan Jett, Miley Cyrus, Michael J. Fox, Kristen Stewart, Billie Joe Armstrong, Rodney Bingenheimer, Debbie Harry

Credits:Directed by Kevin Kerslake, script by Joel Marcus. A Magnolia release.

Running time: 1:33

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BOX OFFICE: “Clock” ticks over to $27, “Simple Favor” holds audience, “Life Itself,” “Fahrenheit” and “Assassination” bomb

box1One of the rules of thumb concerning box office prognostication is the way movies for kids are consistently under-estimated. You just never know how many parents are anxious enough to get the children out of the house and make an impulse trek to the cinema.

And whatever tally is gathered Friday, Deadline.com is always ALWAYS sure to under-guess on what Saturday will be for a kids’ film.

“The House with a Clock in its Walls” has been pegged as a mid-$20s opening weekend “hit” (it cost mid-$40s, all of the money going to effects and the two adult leads). A BIG Saturday now tells us that $27 million is within its reach (Kiddie movie Sundays are usually better than the norm, too).

Even Box Office Mojo was thinking “$23” after a middling Thursday night and Friday performance.

“Life Itself,” opening just as wide, will not earn $2 million, or barely hit that disastrous mark. Heads should be rolling at Amazon Studios and their outsourced Three Blind Mice marketing for this one. 

Deadline.com thinks “Fahrenheit 11/9” should have opened in a platform release, which makes more sense than throwing an unmarketed, underpromoted and mislabeled (“Michael Moore’s Trump Movie”) doc into 1700+ theaters. I’d agree. Doing talk shows alone isn’t going to get the word out, and this thing isn’t managing $3 million, maybe a tad more.

Neon should never have released “Assassination Nation” as wide either. It’s a one or two screens per market “specialty house” picture with limited appeal and exploitation potential. It’s going to make everything it was ever going to make this weekend, and they’ll have spent all this money putting it on all those screens all at once, and that’s money wasted. I saw it with one other soul on Saturday afternoon in Orlando. Not bad, but not everybody’s cup of B-.ot bad, but not everybody’s cup of  B negative.

“A Simple Favor” is holding audience and looking like a picture built for the long run. Finally nudged past “The Nun” ($100 million+ by midnight) and “Predator” (close to $40 by midnight). “Favor” will be in the mid $30s when the weekend is done.

 

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