It’s “Die Hard” in a famed British soccer stadium, with Dave Bautista killing his way through Russians (the world agrees, the best villains, well MOST of the world) to get to Pierce Brosnan.
Playing a Russian.
Saban Films has “Final Score,” no firm release date yet. With “Guardians of the Galaxy” drifting into limbo thanks to James Gunn’s repellent old tweets, Dave wants to work.
“Never Goin’ Back” is a scruffy, raunchy and random farce about two broke girls who blow the rent money on a beach vacation “Because you deserve it, WE deserve it.”
And in America, we all get what we deserve, right?
Jessie (Camilla Morrone of “Death Wish”) is about to turn 17. Angela (Maia Mitchell of “The Fosters” and “Hot Summer Nights”) is just a few months older. They’ve quit their Texas high school to share a rental house with Jessie’s stoner brother (Joel Allen) and his fast food cook friend Brandon (Kyle Mooney of “SNL”), share waitressing duties at a nearby diner and share a bed — because that’s how broke they are.
If you’re aiming for “cult film,” creating space for the occasional early morning tickle-panties fight is a must. “Exploitation” and “cult” go hand in um, hand.
They’re too young to be at a dead end, but stuck in minimum wage jobs on Fort Worth, only earning enough for rent, food, weed, bus fare and laundromat change — they can see the dead end from there.
When Galveston is your “dream” vacation, it might be time to wake up.
“Never Goin’ Back” is about what gets in the way of that trip. Because “stoner” is a bit generous in describing brother Dustin. He’s an utter idiot, sharing his delusions of drug dealing wealth with loser-pals Tony (Kendal Smith) and Ryan (Matthew Holcomb), creating every obstacle the girls face before they can hit the sand.
Hard feelings among the doofus dudes ensue, with Tony revenge-robbing the house at dawn, the two under-dressed teen not-yet-strumpets cussing, flipping-off and waking the neighborhood as he does.
That attracts the cops, the cops sniff around, and that puts the robbery victims in jail for drug possession. Angela and Jessie’s jobs are on the line, the rent money they blew on the trip they’re about to take is still due, and Dustin the moron threw all his money at a busted dope deal.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, watching an aged hooker with envy, for instance.
“If you’re goin’ to go from man to man, might as well get paid for it.”
Robbery is contemplated, among other options.
“How illegal is blackmail?”
“Kinda medium…I think.”
You have to embrace the randomness to get anything out of “Never Goin’ Back.” It’s not “Spring Break” — no sex, no edge. It’s a bit “Dazed and Confused” meets “Three’s Company” and its spawn — “Two Broke Girls.” But the two stars are a stitch, and the dopes surrounding them can be laugh-out-loud funny.
Dustin’s one of those mini-mall Original Gangstas, absorbing stereotypical African American drug dealer speech because all the business schools tell you to master the vernacular of the profession you aspire to.
“Daddy GOT this!”
He’s nonplussed that his “friend” would rob him, he tells the cops. “We were hittin’ it off, I thought.”
“Are you homosexual, son?”
“No. Nooo. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…Love is love.” Read that “Seinfeld” line aloud like Napoleon Dynamite stoned and you get the vibe of the picture.
Over a two day span, the girls scramble to get their jobs back, struggle to launder their waitress uniforms to get those jobs back, accidentally imbibe the wrong brownies at the house of the dude who lets them use his washer, all while Jessie fails to evacuate her shy colon.
Somehow, they’re still irresistible. Somehow, they resist the crude adolescent-flavored advances of Brandon, the only gainfully-employed person they know, in his mid-30s, and looking it.
Writer-director Augustine Frizzell gives the duo their best laughs in tirades, curse-offs with their more competent diner colleagues, rants about how stupid Dustin is to his stupid face, and mumbled scheming in one memorable stoned-out-of-their-gourds scene.
She needed more funny stuff, though Mitchell and Morrone give the picture an unplanned, improvised feel and funny homoerotic buzz.
They make “Never Goin’ Back” a comedy about the journey, not the destination. Because who knows if these two nitwits will ever make it into their bikinis?
MPAA Rating: R for crude sexual content and language throughout, drug use and brief nudity – all involving teens.
Cast: Maia Mitchell, Camila Morrone, Joel Allen, Kendal Smith and Kyle Mooney
Credits: Written and directed by Augustine Frizzell. An A24 release.
Running time: 1:25
A student composer finds herself passed-over for a scholarship for playing it too safe with her music, abandoned by her boyfriend for being dull and naive and about to lose her New York apartment thanks to a rent hike.
She figures she can solve every single one of those problems just by becoming a sex worker. Who’s prim and demure and broke and uninspired now?
That pitch for “Her Composition” might point in a couple of promising commercial directions. But as it’s a “film festival” movie, arty and self-conscious, caught up in the visual “language of the cinema” and the artist’s need to flirt with madness and personal disaster to break through, it was probably never destined for a multiplex near you.
(It goes into limited theatrical release and onto VOD/DVD soon.)
It’s a striking movie built around an awakening performance by Joslyn Jensen (star of film festival favorite “Without”), playing a conservatory post-graduate hurling herself off a personal and creative cliff, something suggested by her dismissive mentor (Kevin Breznahan), taking in the sights, sounds, minutia and textures of the Big City as she reinvents herself and her music.
Malorie is a classic small-towner in the big city, delicate but flinty, loathe to accept defeat and “go home” when the Big Scholarship for Women is awarded to a male classmate.
Despondent at this news, comforted right up to the moment he says “I’ve been hanging out with someone else” by her cowardly beau, Malorie takes a walk on the wild side to help her pal Gila and their favorite non-profit, Purple Justice. They’re a rapist-shaming NGO in contact with a sex worker who’s offered to share her client list with them.’
The exotic and mysterious “Kim” (Okwui Okpokwasili) has taken careful notes and photographs and “rated” her various clients. It’s a list that promises to make noise in the media, we’re told. And Malorie, noting that Kim is also an artist (she denies it), is intrigued.
With Gila’s help, Malorie takes over Kim’s list — as an experiment, as an experience, as a money-making side hustle. She’s got two deadlines hanging over her — her Phd composition for “The Schmeerstein Ensemble,” a modern music quintet, and the end of any government investigation of “the list,” the paying customers she’s helped set up for arrest.
Complicating this? She’s timid and boring in bed.
But as she lies back and focuses on wallpaper patterns, a street busker outside the hotel window (one client likes it standing up against windows), of the sounds her sometimes tender, generally brusque, always selfish with perhaps even a rapist or two in their ranks lovers, Malorie loses herself in what could be her masterpiece.
Writer-director Stephan Littger doesn’t dwell on the morality of what’s going on, the “victimless” crime shrieked into scarlet-letter-shaming by a shrill organization that both supports sex workers and condemns, without irony, their clients.
Littger exults in the music of the city, from clacking subways to street cellists and bongo drummers, the gritty patter of life in New York. He gets lost in extreme closeups of ordinary objects allegedly “meaningful” thanks to their juxtaposition within the editing — a dead bird on the street, dead fly on the table, the card-reader on the subway, sneakers hanging over a telephone cable looking like musical notes as they do.
That is Malorie’s new experience of the city — at the atomic level. As she gathers input, she covers her newly-repainted walls with a Mind Map, charting ideas and inspirations to make them flow into creative output. It’s a vast, messy collage of torn sheets of music, drawings, busted door privacy chains, that dead fly, a torn plastic plate we’ve watched Malorie drag her nails across while eating take-out curry.
Screeeeek, screeeek.
Jensen makes Malorie seem on the spectrum in early scenes, meek but given to flashes of anger, slow to follow conversations, a tad too innocent to be in New York.
Her journey through the sex trade begins in fear, transitions to transactions and teeters on the cusp of guilt and guilty pleasure. With a return to fear reminding us why this “list” might be righteous.
Decoding the visuals here could be a fun exercise for some, but most of us will latch onto Jensen’s attention-consuming turn at the center of it all, a scattered, perhaps “talented” creative person whose eyes open to a new world of possibilities when she burns down that old life and throws herself into risks.
Malorie is a fascinating, prudish riff on amorality and creativity and Jensen makes her worth following all the way through to her inevitably climactic final “Composition.”
But for parents shipping their kids off to art, music, acting or dance conservatories, it deserves better intertitles than the pretentious quotes from Georgia O’Keef and Joan of Arc. A simple “Don’t try this away from home” would suffice.
MPAA Rating: unrated, violence, explicit sex
Cast: Joslyn Jensen, Margot Bingham, Kevin Breznahan, Christian Campbell, Okwui Okpokwasili, John Rothman
Credits: Written and directed by Stephan Littger. An Indie Rights/Picture Train release.
Running time: 1:33
Latchkey West Coast kids, goofing off, getting into trouble in the LA of the “Mid90s.” That’s what Jonah Hill chose to write about for his writing-directing debut.
The young kid finding his tribe, figuring out falling down and getting back up again is young Sunny Suljic. Oscar nominee Lucas Hedges plays his skateboarding older brother.
This coming of age drama hits theaters Oct. 19, and being from A24, well, the expectations bar is high.
Thrillers about “Death’s Grand Design” might be my favorite kind of horror film. It’s a time-tested subgenre, but “Final Destination” is one of the better examples of it of recent vintage.
“The Warning” folds that idea into a puzzle picture, “Memento” featuring “A Beautiful Mind” where the obsessed crank is trying to unravel the connections among decades of death at one fateful Spanish address in Basque country.
Jon (Raúl Arévalo) pops his pills before picking up his buddy David (Sergio Mur). David is late (He is Spanish, after all.) and he’s excited. He’s about to ask Andrea (Belén Cuesta) to fly to Paris with him so he can hit her with a surprise proposal.
Best friend Jon will be his best man, the guy he trusts with the rings. But first, let’s get some ice Andrea wanted. And some champagne. At a convenience store.
The drive-by shooting that follows puts David in a coma, Andrea in a tailspin and Jon off his meds and into his obsession. Thirty-two years before, there was an infamous ETA (Basque separatist) assassination attempt at that very filling station. There were five people present. He jots down their ages.
They match. “What’s the pattern?” he asks (in Spanish, with English subtitles).
Ten years later, in the film’s present day, an about-to-turn ten boy (Hugo Arbues) is bullied into stealing a porn magazine by a gang of middle school toughs. The manager watches him do it, stops him and steers him away from the store.
As Nico endures more abuse at school and his frantic single mom (Aura Garrido) grows more furious and frantic with school officials about it, the boy gets a cryptic note — don’t show up at that store on your birthday, April 12.
We and his mother are chilled to the marrow. Nico? He wets his pants.
Director Daniel Calparsoro, working from a script adaptation of a novel by Paul Pen and Chris Sparling, deftly weaves in Nico’s growing dread — the beatings don’t stop just because mom’s a tattletale — with Jon’s rising mania.
As Jon’s pal David lies in the hospital, he fills his apartment with notes and research — violence associated with that particular place on the map, incidents years and decades apart. Lucia, Nico’s mom, does her own research. This note, she wonders if the store manager has a clue.
“Maybe it’s not a threat,” he mumbles. “Maybe it’s a warning.”
Calpasoro expertly ratchets up the suspense in “The Warning (El Aviso),” showing two timelines whose protagonists grow more frantic by the minute. Jon must figure this out, must “warn” somebody about this. Nico? He’s hellbent on not going back in that damned store.
And mom, hellbent on making this a teachable moment about superstition and the supernatural (no such thing), is determined he’ll go back there to prove her point and take away his paranoia.
Very clever of the novelists and screenwriters (Paxti Amezcua and Jorge Guerricaechevarria) to find third act twists that ice the cake of the resolution we think we see coming.
The performances, by Arévalo, Garrido and young Arbues, draw us in, with Arévalo and Garrido dialing up the mania as the stakes become clearer and young Arbues subtly suggesting terror that gives way to resignation.
But it’s the puzzle of a story, the fight against fate, “death’s grand design,” that makes “The Warning” one of the best made-for-Netflix thrillers to date.
MPAA Rating: TV-MA, gun violence, profanity
Cast: Raúl Arévalo, Aura Garrido, Hugo Arbues, Belén Cuesta
Credits:Directed by Daniel Calparsoro , script by Paxti Amezcua and Jorge Guerricaechevarria, based on a novel by Paul Pen and Chris Sparling
. A Netflix release.
Running time: 1:32
Writer-director Elijah Bynum makes his feature film debut with “Hot Summer Nights,” a melodramatic and ham-fisted mashup of beachside-summer-I-came-of-age romance and birth-of-a-weed-dealer drama.
But it stars The New DiCaprio, Oscar nominee Timothée Chalamet, and “It Follows” “It” girl Maika Monroe, so it’s worth a look, just for Next Gen acting value.
It’s a Hyaninis, Massachusetts story parked in 1991, which our very young bystander–narrator (mistake #1) relates as a seminal season — when grieving, anti-social toothpick Daniel Middleton (Chalamet) shows up to spend his summer with an elderly aunt.
Who does this kid, who lost his dad not long before, make his first beach friend? That would be Hunter (Alex Roe of “The Fifth Wave”), the drop-out turned mechanic who is also the town weed dealer and a local legend. The kid passes muster in a pinch, and he’s in with the mysterious Hunter.
“I heard he burned down an ice cream shop just for putting sprinkles on his cone,” a kid repeating his myth says.
“I heard he killed a man,” a chorus of others echoes.
Daniel becomes Hunter’s sidekick, an asthmatic who abruptly announces he wants to get into the weed business, too. Being young and smart, he makes Hunter think big. Of course that eventually gets the interest of someone tougher and further up the food chain (Emory Cohen).
But the real obstacle to this bromance in the making is the girl — the icy, confident and foul-mouthed beauty every boy “within 50 miles” covets — McKayla (Monroe). She imposes on Daniel for a ride, the way arrogant beauties learn to do at an early age, and he’s smitten.
Problem — she’s Hunter’s estranged “baby sistuh.” And “Stay away from her” is all he’s got to say about that.
Bynum weaves in a second forbidden love interest , a “bad-good girl” (Maia Mitchell) for Hunter, two guys who have to keep their new romances secret from some menacing male.
Meanwhile, this ridiculous drug trade thing is racing through a story arc mere weeks in length, with the lads taking on more and more trade, rolling in cash and somehow avoiding the attentions of the local cop who just knows that Hunter kid is “headed for Walpole” where the state prison is.
Bynum makes great use of Chalamet’s unaffected, natural manner on screen. He plays around with the whole androgynous thing which the kid showcased in “Call Me By Your Name.” The moment Daniel sees Hunter for the first time, he hears “I Don’t Want to Lose Your Love Tonight” in his head.
That’s not the way this is going, but a little tease (this was filmed before “Call Me By Your Name,” but the song might’ve been added later) never hurt anybody. It’s interesting to watch Chalamet play Daniel’s increased confidence around McKayla, thanks to his daring drug-dealing on the side. Confident, sure, but he’s still incompetent at wooing her.
Monroe is hyped as the sultry bombshell this time out, many of her scenes open with a backlit fix-the-camera-with-a-sexy/sleepy-eyed-stare to make us see Daniel’s overwhelming attraction. She’s a bad girl who tempts the rich boys, and even if Daniel can win her heart, he can’t tell her he knows her brother, or tell Hunter.
Those two are the stand-out players and the reasons to see this sometimes ludicrous (Daniel buys a Corvette with his drug money, and NOBODY — including the never-really-seen Aunt — notices?) melodrama. The threat of violence is all that disturbs the happy montage of lads loading up on loot as they grow their business, and the love story is so over-familiar as to be a genre unto itself — beach romances, “Summer Lovin,'” as they called it in “Grease.”
And aside from those two leads, the rest of the cast is a catalog of acting affectations. Check out the cool but a bit-much way the cop played by Thomas Jane is introduced — pulling over Daniel, his face hidden in classic “star entrance” fashion, kicking the ground with the toe of his shoe, running his fingers down the side of Daniel’s pre-Corvette Toyota wagon. Busy busy.
Watch Cohen’s man-with-muscle play with his huge stack of waffles at the “meeting” he drags Daniel and Hunter to by force. Fussy.
Yeah, James Dean got famous for loading scenes with tics and mannerisms, but they’re such attention-grabbers they always play as excessive in the hands of lesser acting mortals. “That’s an actor acting,” we say as we watch each rehearsed tic trotted out.
They’re not the reason “Hot Summer Nights” fails. Their affectations are just what you notice when the story is as contrived, melodramatic and unoriginal as this one.
MPAA Rating: R for drug content and language throughout, sexual references, and some strong violence
Cast: Timothée Chalamet, Emory Cohen, Maika Monroe, Maia Mitchell, Alex Roe, Thomas Jane and William Fichtner
Credits: Written and directed by Elijah Bynum. An A24 release.
Running time: 1:47
A hint of “The Trip to Bountiful” about this dramedy, with Blythe Danner the mother who is no longer all there, Hilary Swank and Michael Shannon as siblings deciding what to do “when that time comes” and Robert Forster as the husband Mom barely remembers.
We’ve all been there or are going to be there.
Taissa Farmiga and Josh Lucas fill out the cast of “What They Had,” which is slated for Oct. 12 release.
Will we continue to see Sam Rockwell in indie farces like this, now that he’s “Oscar winner Sam Rockwell?”
Blimey, we hope so. The diamond heist comedy “Blue Iguana” earns limited release Aug. 24. Couple of laughs in the trailer, so fingers crossed.
Here’s a “feel good” film that puts us through our share of feeling bad before it delivers its triumph.
“93Queen” is the call sign of a Brooklyn EMT service, an American and perhaps Jewish first. They’re an all-female, all-volunteer team of first-responders drawn from and catering to the largest Orthodox Jewish community in America. The movie is about the baby-steps march towards progress and equal rights that this service represents.
In a rigid, patriarchal subculture where the divide between the sexes is Torah law, a lone progressive, Rachel “Ruchie” Freier, realized that with Orthodox women like herself giving birth at home, having medical emergencies and recoiling at the realization that only men were coming to their aid, this was a need that needed a New York solution.
“No woman should ever be too embarrassed to call for help,” she says in the film.
Great. Make it so. Is this a “win win” situation, or what?
Try “Or what.” Because even though, as one of her EMT recruits says, with an Orthodox woman, “no one’s ever seen her named legs but her husband,” where heads are shaved and wigs are worn to further insulate these women from the gaze of men, the menfolk don’t like it when women, “whose sole purpose is motherhood,” show signs of independence.
Freier and her first recruits endure community shunning, online shaming and endless name-calling. “Radical feminists,” the guys in the beards, white shirts and black suits and hats kvetch. Because their women are kvelling.
“The worst thing to tell me is that I can’t do something,” Freier declares. She’s a lawyer. She dreams of becoming a judge. She dresses fashionably, drives and hustles like the stereotypical New Yorker. If the famous Orthodox all-male Hatzalah volunteer ambulance service won’t have them, if rabbis won’t endorse the idea, if this many men are getting their Orthodox undies in a twist, they must be onto something.
Ezras Nashim (“Helping Women”) was born.
“If you can’t join’em, beat’em,” Freier says.
“93Queen” is about that birth, the recruitment and training, the endless blowback and nasty infighting that accompanied its arrival in Brooklyn’s Borough Park.
“You are challenging the Torah and playing with fire,” Freier is told, one of the nicer threatening emails she received. People go after her reputation, hammer and tong.
Selected “Mother of the Year” at the Orthodox school she attended? We’ll see about that.
Women who join have daughters in schools and start to look up to their moms as different sorts of role models? Call her in for a “meeting.”
An African-American male EMT consoles them, other Orthodoz women secretly email “You go girls,” or its equivalent. But it’s a steep hill to climb and that may make the outsider viewing “93 Queen” ask, “What millennium is this?”
Poor Ruchie has to distance herself from the “feminist” label — “I also pray, bake challah.” Every Tamir, Dov and Hillel on the street feels male privileged enough to scold the women as they hand out fliers.
You can be forgiven for shaking your head and thinking that for a country that frets endlessly over “Sharia Law” being practiced here, we’re awfully blind to the retrograde enclaves of ultra-conservative, law-unto-themselves patriarchies already tolerated in America — in Brooklyn, rural Pennsylvania, Utah.
Anybody who doesn’t live in or around this world day-to-day — I remember stumbling into this neighborhood once and thinking, “Boy, was THAT the wrong subway stop. I got off in the Middle Ages!” — will be fascinated by director Paula Eiselt’s sympathetic weaving of rituals into her account of the slow-to-change “bubble” that this community dwells in.
In presenting this story as an overcome-all-obstacles march towards progress, Eiselt skirts the depth of the rift Ezras Nashim has created in Borough Park. Google the name, and right below their website are community forums and Jewish newspaper accounts of mishaps and growing pains that the movie avoids.
Genuine competence issues among the EMTs, or just haters hating in English (and Hebrew)?
Then we see teen girls gathered at the dinner table, chattering about becoming doctors, and the real point is hammered home. It’s hard to stay myopic after those first pioneers have peeled the blinders off.
MPAA Rating: unrated
Cast: Rachel “Ruchie” Freier, Yitty Mandel, Tvzi Dovid Freier
Credits:Directed by Paula Eiselt. An Abramaroma release.
Running time: 1:25
There have been better documentaries this year, but none of them are the roller-coaster ride that “Three Identical Strangers” turns out to be.
What begins as a giddy wave of New York disco era nostalgia, one of the delightful “feel good” stories of the day, roils into darkness, a tale so wild it seems borrowed from “The Boys from Brazil.”
In the first act, we’re riveted by old fashioned, kitchen-table or bar stool storytelling. Seasoned 50somethings, talking to the camera, relate their well-worn version of how they met.
“So I was 19, right? First day of college…”
That would be Sullivan County Community College, New York. That’s where these two burly young fellows, Eddy Galland and David Shafran, find themselves confused for somebody else.
“I’m meeting ALL these people who keep sayin’ I’m YOU.”
It’s “Were you adopted? “Yeah.” “Born July 12, 1961?” “Yeah.” “Long Island Jewish Hospital?” “Yeah!”
They meet and it’s love at first sight, that long-lost-sibling love that, in the case of identical twins, pegs the narcissism meter. And they and their families barely have time to register this shock when their tale reaches the local newspapers.
That’s where David Kellman’s friends and family see them. It’s the smiles, the hair and especially the big “baseball mitt” hands that tip everybody off.
“I’m looking at TWO of me. I think I may be the THIRD!”
Phone calls, and next thing you know, the two new siblings/best friends are racing down Long Island in the middle of the night, “So we get there…we get out of the car…”
“His eyes are my eyes, and my eyes are HIS eyes,” they marvel. A relative remembers that joyous meetup as “They needed no introductions…They were were like three puppies wrestling on the floor” in an instant.
They smiled the same, smoked the same cigarettes, has the same favorite color. It was uncanny.
“Three Identical Strangers” gallops through the media circus that then surrounded the trio — “The Today Show,” “Donahue,” a cameo in Madonna’s break-out movie, “Desperately Seeking Susan,” tabloid coverage of their Studio 54 club hopping exploits.
They move in together and the city can’t seem to get enough of them, but Eddy was struck with foreboding. “I don’t know if this’ll turn out to be great, or terrible.” He had a hunch.
Because after they married, after they opened a restaurant/pub together, future Pulitzer Prize winning New Yorker journalist Lawrence Wright (“The Looming Tower,” “Going Clear”) was poking around, looking at siblings separated at birth, and stumbled into a vast, covered-up behavioral study.
Jewish twins and the triplets all over greater New York, born in a Jewish hospital, adopted out by a prestigious New York Jewish adoption agency to families of differing socio-economic and temperamental circumstances, all presided over by a Jewish-Austrian Freudian (who fled the Holocaust) needing human guinea pigs in his search for settling the “nature vs. nurture” debate for once and all, or discovering the power of positive parenting…something.
You don’t have to hear Dr. Peter Neubauer’s Austrian-accented obfuscations over the phone, or a Swiss-accented assistant prevaricating, “I was peripheral” to this work to have diabolical Josef Mengele/Nazi concentration camp “experiment” chills. As did the triplets.
And when their outraged families seek legal recourse, Jewish law firms back away from them and the whole thing feels like an-Anti-Semite’s darkest fantasy about a clannish, insular community keeping its dirty secrets.
If British director Tim Wardle wants to move on from documentaries, the way “Strangers” is shot, edited and paced suggests any big screen thriller project would be well served by putting him behind the camera. In a movie that’s a combination of one or two people in on camera interviews, archival footage and shadowy recreations, Wardle lets extreme close-ups raise suspense and pop songs of the era, over home movies and TV appearances, to generate nostalgia and pathos.
Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” could bring you to tears.
I found the “feel good” opening to the film kind of “meh” and too much “a New York story” to do much for me. Hyped into a “phenomenon,” cute for a news cycle or two.
But as the mystery deepens, scientific curiosity takes over and provoked in me, as it could with you, ethical debates about what could be some of the most fascinating data about the “biology is destiny” theory of human development.
Will any of us, even the triplets (who got access to some of it) ever see it?
MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some mature thematic material
Cast: Eddy Galland, Robert Shafran, David Kellman
Credits:Directed by Tim Wardle. A Neon/CNN Films release.
Running time: 1:36
Movie Nation 