Movie Nation

Deliberate aimlessness is the narrative goal of “Sollers Point,” an intimate, gritty and meandering character study built around a charismatic turn by leading man McCaul Lombardi.

The film follows his character, Keith, through a month or so of trying to get his life back on track after a stint in stir, followed by months of house arrest.

The mild-mannered (so we think) ex-con is back under the same roof as his old man (Jim Belushi) because his ex (Zazie Beetz) is done with him. And she’s not giving his dog back.

The hood rats he used to run with (Kazy Tauginas, Tom Guiry) are “here for you, dog.” But he doesn’t want that, and that’s not what they want to hear. 

So he’s got to get a fresh hustle on, round up some scrap metal to sell, borrow a truck to haul that scrap, check in with his old drug dealer/pal (Brieyon Bell-El) to see if he can get back into distributing. Which he does, even though everybody short-changes him and one middle-aged junkie’s sob story (Alyssa Bresnahan, terrific) ought to be enough to change his mind. 

Grandma “Ladybug” (Lynn Cohen) and big sister Kate (Marin Ireland) are here for moral support.

Exes and might-be-future-exes abound, run-ins with the gang show Keith’s temper. And the cute old houses and neon underbelly of working class Baltimore are put on display. Baltimore’s favorite son, John Waters and TV’s “The Wire” have nothing on “Sollers” writer-director Matthew Porterfield (“I Used to be Darker”) in the sunny but sordidly scenic Baltimore department.

Periodic fights with the one gang member (Guiry) who won’t let it go mean that eventually, Keith will have to go to the kingpin, named “Mom” (Michael Rogers) to beg for a little relief. Porterfield’s instincts fail him here, because if there’s one thing the movies don’t need more of, it’s nitwit philosopher gang leaders.

“Deeds and actions are a mirror,” is the most coherent thing Mom says in a long lecture that brings the film to a full stop. A movie this slow doesn’t need that.

But for all the set-piece scenes, the empty (in broad daylight) streets and theatrical quality of Keith’s cross-city odyssey, Porterfield gives us characters we believe (generally) and situations that look lived-in. An old man’s poker game may be a movie cliche, but keeping a blown line in the final cut lends authenticity to the patter. Real people stumble over their words.

“Stop cryin’!”

“Who’s TRYin’?”

Lombardi, yes he’s descended from the legendary football coach, holds the screen with ease and carries the picture along on Keith’s travels. He has the advantage of looking like a punk, one with movie-star eyes. He keeps Keith’s secrets and barely hints at the problems that ran him afoul of the law before it’s too late, we’ve already emotionally invested in his redemption.

The supporting ladies — Beetz and Bresnahan, Cohen, Everleigh Brenner and Imani Hakim (Flings?) and Maya Martinez (another possible fling) are interesting enough to warrant more scenes and a more central place in the plot.

But again, “Sollers Point” isn’t really about the plot, or advancing it. It’s all about the place, the sorts of people in it and the good and bad support systems that could sink or swim our hero. Thanks to Lombardi, we stick around for the answer.

MPAA Rating: R for pervasive language, drug content, and some sexual material

Cast: McCaul Lombardi, Jim Belushi, Zazi Beetz, Imani Hakim, Alyssa Bresnahan, Tom Guiry

Credits:Written and directed by Matthew Porterfield. An Oscilloscope Labs release.

Running time: 1:42

If one didn’t know better, one might swear on a copy of “Fahrenheit 451” that the makers of “They Remain” had just seen “Annihilation” and set out to do a micro-budget/tiny-cast/no-name-cast version.

They didn’t, of course. But if we’re going to accept this malnourished thriller on its own terms, that’s a good starting point. Yeah, it’s just a little bit like that. A good looking but talky, duller action-starved version of Natalie Portman’s monster movie.

Two young scientists are helicoptered into a remote forest where they set up cameras, run tests and do research from a collection of Buckminster Fuller-styled futuristic tent-labs.

Keith and Jessica are the mismatched pair sent out by “The Corporation” to look for something of biological value in woods made notorious by a killer cult’s crimes there.

Keith (William Jackson Harper) treks out each day, checking the wildlife surveillance cameras he’s set up, looking for some trace of whatever it is that he’s been told “will make you famous.”

Talkative, abrasive and “a little obsessive” Rebecca (Rebecca Henderson) does the lab work and hits him with “Anything weird happen today?” Every day.

Keith starts to have nightmares about whatever is “out there,” and whatever happened with that not-that-long-ago cult. Rebecca starts hearing knocking sounds, and more.

“I swear someone STAGE whispered my name.”

He’s willing to discount that, but he keeps seeing this wolf-dog, and those night vision wildlife cameras pick up hair-raising images of hooded death, or naked cultists frolicking and doing whatever it is they did with their victims. And she is plainly going a little off mission and off center.

“It’s your imagination,” he reassures her.

“I think it’s YOU.”

That “stage whisper” line describes a lot of what we see going on here. These two banter, insult each other, relative company cocktail party gossip and speak only opaquely about their mission, as this burial ground or that artifact from a cave is introduced into their “experience.”

It’s a staged reading of a horror movie screenplay, not a compelling, chilling or even that interesting thriller.

Whatever tone writer/director Philip Gelatt was trying to create, he bores it right out of us.

Whatever the actors make out of these characters, there’s just not that much going on, a little bunker mentality “Blair Witch” titillation, a lot of wandering in the woods and a resolution that’s not consequential enough to dismiss as “a cheat.”

And the players, as in so many horror movies, fail to adequately express the terror, disbelief and shock people do when faced with the unexplainable and seemingly supernatural. Only those snatches of “found footage” of the cult promise any chills, and even they aren’t chilling enough.

MPAA Rating: unrated, violence, nudity, sexual situations and profanity

Cast: William Jackson Harper, Rebecca Henderson

Credits: Written and directed by Philip Gelatt, based on a Laird Barron novella. A Paladin release.

Running time: 1:43

It’s Wednesday, and what do we know about movies that “preview” Wednesdays?

There are two such previews tonight in my little corner of filmdom. And judging from the lack of reviews posted elsewhere, most critics are facing this dilemma.

Do I see Melissa McCarthy’s latest rude and rowdy romp, playing a mom who joins her daughter at college (“Life of the Party”), or do I duck into Gabrielle Union’s home-invasion thriller “Breaking In?”

Both were deemed by their studios insufficiently promising to show to reviewers in advance. But as Universal booked first, it’s “Breaking In” for me. The trailer features another of those impossibly stunning, impossibly designed, ridiculously remote modernist mansions where the cat-and-mouse game of villains vs. SuperMom can play their deadly game.

It’d be more realistic to park this single mom in, say, a subdivision that’s unfinished (only people living there, no one will hear their screams) or about-to-be-abandoned apartment building. Somebody steal that idea, it’s better than this one.

“Breaking In” looks far-fetched, but I stick with the Union, as we say. And it can’t be any dumber than “Life of the Party.”

“The Rider” is a docudrama as elegy, a slice of rodeo realism that both romanticizes and demythologizes the Cowboy Way in a corner of America where that still means something.

Chloe Zhao’s follow-up to “Songs My Brother Taught Me” could have been set in a gym where Latino boxers weigh the danger of their sport with the machismo and hope for a better life that it gives them, or in a myopic world of drugs and gangs of an inner city, or  a coal mining town where digging is just what men do.

It’s about American masculinity, desperation, obsolescence and the fatalism of “the only way I know” to better oneself.

The tale is simplicity itself — a fictionalized account of a working poor rodeo rider recovering from a life-threatening/career-ending injury. It stars such a rider, Brady Jandreau, and his father Tim Jandreau and sister Lily Jandreau. They are the Blackburns, here, hardscrabble versions of their real-life selves, struggling to get by on the fringes of South Dakota’s Lakota Reservation.

We meet Brady, his head wrapped in bandages hiding a grisly skull fracture. He’s checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders, popped the staples holding the bandage in place and gone home. He needs to heal his own way, look in on his special-needs sister and blow off the criticism of his widowed father.

“Why don’t you go inside and sober up?”

He needs to talk to his horse and visit his dead mother’s grave.

“I was tough, Mom.”

Over the course of his recovery, we’re immersed in his world and his worries about losing touch with it. His circle of cowboy friends have a “Cowboy up,” “Rub some DIRT in it,” attitude about injuries. Every male of every age that he meets shares that hope that he’ll “get back up on that horse,” literally.

Then there’s Lane Scott, the star of that circle of rodeo friends, barely in his 20s and in assisted living — paralyzed, unable to speak because of his own rodeo hard fall.

None of them would call these injuries “accidents.” You get on a bucking horse, and skill or no skill, you take your chances.

He may get a part time job at the DakotaMart, but when we see Brady take his first tentative steps back into this life he’s been warned away from, we get it. In a couple of long, uninterrupted takes, the director lets Brady tame unbroken horses, win their trust and make them useful.

It’s all he knows, but it’s also what he has a gift doing.

Zhao has created as intimate a character study as is possible for such Marlboro Men. The handsome, rawboned cowpokes here bond over war stories — rides that went right or wrong, drink beer by a bonfire, talk without saying anything too revealing and peer-pressure each other into living up to a code, the myth of a thousand Westerns and thousands more “Dang ol’ rodeo” Country and Western songs.

The performances are documentary-natural (non-actors, mostly), the drawls are so mumbled the film needs subtitles, the stoicism so thick you could cut it with a buck knife.

“The Rider” has an arm’s-length relationship with his broke, drinking, gambling and honky-tonking dad, but never figures out that the Old Man might be grieving for a lost way of life (and his wife) himself.

But what they’re both grieving is obsolescence, horizons that have so closed in around them that hope no longer really enters into it. For all the lovely landscapes, we know the breathtaking sunsets are preceded and followed by days and nights that are little more than bleak.

In an era when “toxic masculinity” is the phrase that pays, and white male entitlement is the cardinal sin, Zhao has broken ranks with that to deliver the first great film of 2018, revealing a stark and beautiful vision of a culture in mourning, of a way of life literally riding off into the sunset.

MPAA Rating:R for language and drug use

Cast: Brady Jandreau, Tim Jandreau, Lilly Jandreau, Lane Scott

Credits: Written and directed by Chloe Zhao. A Sony Pictures Classics release.

Running time: 1:43

Ned Chipley doesn’t do things half-way. He’s an eager beaver of the first order.

“He just wants to help,” his frustrated mother explains.

He wants to help entirely too much. Like the time, in the cougar suit as his high school mascot, he dashed on the field and tackled an opponent running otherwise unmolested into the end zone.

His enthusiasm is why he got kicked out of his local volunteer fire department. His determination is why he shows up at the local Marine Corps recruiting office every year on his birthday.

“Sir, I’m tired of these terrorists SIR. And I’m ready to be a member, uh, of the most ELITE fighting force in the world. SIR!”

His birthday? The eleventh of September. And all Ned (Michael Angarano) wants for his birthday, all he DREAMS about (jungles, helicopters, heroism) is joining up. He works out every day. There’s a daily Polaroid to chart his physique-building, photos taken by his mom (Allison Janney), who remembers the dreams she once had and abandoned, and writes letters charting his “training progress” to the recruiting officer.

The corporal/receptionist (actress/director Jennifer Morrison) is used to him. The new sergeant (Xzbit) in charge, isn’t.

“Any medical condition we should know about?”

The kid delivers his spiel via index cards. He has a copy of Sir, we have to go after Bin Laden, sir. I will go to the caves, sir. I will leave NO man behind.”

“Son, get up and put your shirt back on!”

“Sun Dogs” is an underachieving comical character study that wears out its welcome after too short a while, and a minor-key mystery with a “Gung Ho!” mein. Because Ned, conditioned by years of watching nightly war movies with his unemployed stepdad (Ed O’Neill), is READY. Or thinks he is, in his limited capacity.

His stepdad isn’t taking the blame for this, either.

“No one in their right MIND would watch “The Deer Hunter” and want to enlist!”

Angarano makes the kid twitchy, squirrely even, “special needs” stereotypical. And something made him that way, something long before watching the Twin Towers fall, on his birthday, three years before.

Rapper/actor Xzibit gives an increasing softness to his recruiting officer. He’s the one that convinces Ned to become a “Sun Dog,” the fellow off to the side, supporting others, “taking care of things on the Home Front…Welcome to the fight!”

The kid has his mission, and has barely had his “Sun Dogs” business cards (?!) printed up when his mission, his misadventure in “helping someone,” begins. Tally (Melissa Benoist) is a semi-homeless casino hustler who causes trouble at Ned’s night job. That’s not the way Ned sees it.

And Tally? She’s cute and “Semper fi,” ready to help him go through his deck of “Most Wanted Terrorist” playing cards. Sure, she quit school. There’s a native intelligence about her that belies her actions. But about that scar on his forehead…

“D’you get that in the war?”

They set out to follow people who look like those Iraqis and al Qaeda members on the playing cards. Yeah, we know they’re Sikhs. Not Ned and Tally. “Sketchy,” Ned says in his frequent typewritten reports back to the Master Sergeant. He takes on Robert DeNiro’s beard and beret in “Deer Hunter” as he burrows deeper into his delusions.

The loopy, deluded desperation of Holden Caulfield in “The Catcher in the Rye” is referenced as Tally flirts and reaches out to the “crazy serious” “Sun Dog.” Ned? He’s playing those cards, trying to “Save” well, somebody, and not giving away much about what makes him tick.

Morrison, working from a Raoul McFarland/Anthony Tambakis script, strains to make a sensitive story about two desperate people anxious to lose themselves in delusions. She tries to find the lightness in a tale of ignorant racial profiling.

“Sun Dogs” devolves into something sadder and far less mysterious than it wants to be, not as sweet as it seems and not the movie you kind of want it to be. There’s that omnipresent “follow your bliss” message that movies with no better idea trot out.

Tally could be a character out of “Good Girl,” where we first got a taste of people who lose themselves in a great book (“The Catcher in the Rye”) but are no wiser for it.  Her inability to see through Ned is disappointing. Her using him would have been a more dramatic and realistic approach.

And those who indulge Ned are creating a guy who really would like a weapon and probably has a pizza joint he’d be willing to storm, if his delusions told him to.

At some point, it’s just not cute any more.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA, adult situations, profanity.

Cast: Michael Angarano, Melissa Benoist, Allison Janney, Xzibit, Ed O’Neill, Jennifer Morrison

Credits:Directed by Jennifer Morrison, script by Raoul McFarland, Anthony Tambakis. A  Netflix release.

Running time: 1:33

In space, on Mars, things can go wrong. And do.

But what’s an investigator into a space accident to do when the AI “assisting” her in the digging has a mind of its own?

Sci-fi on a budget, for sure. But “2036: Origin Unknown” reminds us just how far ahead of the curve 1960s sci-fi (“Star Trek,” “2001”) was in terms of “We have nothing to fear but the Artificial Intelligence which displaces us.”

Gravitas Ventures is unleashing “Origin Unknown” which co-stars Steven Cree and Julie Cox, at the end of summer (speculating here). 

Yeah, we’re all thinking of HAL 9000 after “Upgrade.”

“Terminal” is a neo-noir mystery-thriller in the “Sin City/Dark City” vein, a not-exactly-triumph of style over story, surface sheen over coherence.

Built around another bombshell bad-girl turn by Margot Robbie, it’s getting limited release and is destined to be quickly forgotten, lost in the shadow of Robbie’s Oscar-nominated turn in “I, Tonya.”

Even her most ardent fans will be disappointed. Sorry, lads. Not all that much that’s titillating here, either.

Robbie plays Annie, a brunette femme fatale when we meet her, meeting in a confessional with a Mr. Big whom she tells “I want your contracts, all of them.” She’s a hired killer.

Or is she “Bottle Blonde,” the waitress at the End of the Line Cafe, the only thing open all night when wandering, lost, tired of life Bill (Simon Pegg) cannot catch a train, “any train,” out of The Precinct — which is what one and all call this unnamed noirscape.

If the station looks familiar, it’s the same Hungarian setting used in the film “Kontroll.” Yeah, I noticed that. Because “Terminal” demands that we pay the most attention to the lurid, neon-tinged lighting and production design.

We also notice the lone custodian in that terminal is Mike Myers under less old-age makeup than he used to require. He’s the geezer who sends “Bill” to the cafe. After an attempted mugging, which Bill has resisted by being stupidly brave, pedantically confident or simply tired of living.

“I’m very disappointed in both of you!”

Annie, the waitress, is something of a philosopher. Cheerful, pushy, her “Death is by far the best bit of life” gets at Bill’s situation. He, too, is “terminal.”

“It’s not time I’m trying to kill.”

And then there are the murderous mugs (Max Irons, Dexter Fletcher) holed up in a dimly-lit apartment, waiting for an assignment. Which takes them to the terminal AND to the terminal’s diner, where “Bottle Blonde” waits on them as well.

Veteran second unit director Vaughn Stein (“World War Z,” “Sherlock Holmes”) had access to talent and to people who could finance a film, and proves adept at managing a cohesive, distinct look and feel. But his inept story and fumbling efforts to connect the disparate threads of a tale no one cares about make his actors look bad.

Film noir is not just a look, not merely a collection of pithy one-liners.  This film plays like an audition reel.

The dialogue is a collection of cliches, inane profundities and tin-eared usages of “fortnight” and the like.

“Way I see it, you got two options.”

“This is what we call in the trade a ‘double-cross.'”

“Who says mystery is a lost art?”

I do. And I’m using “Terminal” as exhibit one in making my case.

MPAA Rating: unrated, graphic violence, profanity

Cast: Margot Robbie, Simon Pegg, Mike Myers, Max Irons, Dexter Fletcher

Credits: Written and directed by . An RLJ Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:35

A few years back, the U.S. Supreme Court established the idea of “corporate personhood,” insisting the organizations and companies have the same rights — “free speech,” etc. — as people.

But one thing I always wondered about the “Citizens United” ruling, if such entities are people with rights, why isn’t there a death penalty for them? People are executed, imprisoned, stripped of their rights. Why not wrongdoing businesses?

After Bhopal, why does Dow Chemical still exist?

Why, when I visit the Wikipedia page for Charleston’s exclusive, pricey Porter Gaud Prep, is it still there? And why is there no mention of the sex abuse scandals that rocked the school, cost its insurer over $100 million on that sanitized, dishonest “nothing to see here but the scion of Charleston’s elite” Wikipedia entry on its history?

That court ruling, and alumna Paige Goldberg Tomlach’s damning DAMNING documentary, “What Haunts Us” may be the only punishment proud, insular Charleston will allow for this hallowed private school, founded just after the Civil War, or as some parts of the South used to refer to it, “the Late Unpleasantness.”

Tomlach’s film revisits an open secret at the school — that it hired, protected and sympathized with a serial child rapist. And it reveals a still-open wound. Alumni of that school have been killing themselves ever since.

And “Everybody knew” this “coach/trainer,” Eddie Fischer was molesting boys. He had a nickname, “Drop your drawers.” Yes, any injury or malady a boy complained of at the school would prompt “nurse” Eddie to make that demand.

Other demands — sodomizing kids as young as 12, going back over decades of a “teaching” career — were made in his home, office, locker room and showers. It is the Penn State scandal rewritten with the accent of Southern aristocracy, a closed “fortress” community that refused to listen to those few who spoke out, who refused to take action for a variety of reasons, some despicable, some criminal of the “fellow traveler” persuasion.

“Adults believe adults,” a local state solicitor says, explaining when there is no hope of excusing what was happening.  Another local sums up community indifference in the best sound bite in the movie.

“The rich people in Charleston, they harbored a pedophile.”

Tomlach interviews lawyers, prosecutors and victims — some of them disguised on camera. She tries repeatedly to get the school to put someone on camera to talk about what she and classmates from the late ’70s, early ’80s describe as a still-bleeding wound.

Former students relate their efforts — bringing up the “What IS it with Coach Fischer?” at student council meetings — and their guilty silence. Former teachers, when they will talk about it at all, are best at remembering thinking this Eddie Fischer guy was a “con man,” and bringing their concerns to the top two administrators.

Those two — Berkeley Gimball and James Bishop “The Major” Alexander — would be the film’s true villains, if there weren’t video of Fischer’s bald-faced admissions of his crimes in deposition.

And the story has a hero, a class screw-up finally kicked out for cheating, on purpose, he says, and we’ve no real reason to doubt it. Anything to get away from this monster given access to him by a totally complicit administration and largely complicit board and community at large. Guerry Glover stood up while in school, and kept harassing the complicit board and the State of South Carolina until this scandal burst into the open.

It’s a hard movie to embrace, and some of that stems from the entitlement that simmers in the background of the school, those who attend it, of the city, the monied alumni interviewed and indeed the filmmaker herself, who narrates and does the questioning here. They’re no less victims, but as they admit, they “knew.” Most didn’t even bother to tell their country club-set parents.

Tomlach begins with the suicides and ends, in short order (70 minutes or so) with lingering heartbreak and outrage.

But the only feeling one can walk away from it with is “Why is the criminally negligent institution still in existence?” At least now, we can change Porter Gaud’s infernal lie of a Wikipedia page. 

MPAA Rating: unrated, criminal sexual behavior whose victims are children, explicit descriptions, profanity

Cast: Guery Glover, Paige Tomlach, Eddie Fischer

Credits:Directed by Paige Tomlach. A Blue Fox release.

Running time: 1:09

If you’re familiar with Eric Stoltz‘s acting career, especially the early years, you won’t be the least surprised at the sort of teen movie he’s chosen to make stepping behind the camera.

The star of “Mask” and the John Hughes-scripted “Some Kind of Wonderful,” and the straight man in the comedy “The Wild Life” ensures that “Class Rank” is a genial, sweet-spirited teen romance with barely enough edge to even allow the use of the word.

Maybe it’s more for people Stoltz’s age than teens, but snip out the lone f-bomb, the suggestion of pot and maybe the aftermath of a grownup romantic encounter, and it’d be the most charming thing to hit the Disney Channel in ages.

Bernard Flannigan, played by Skyler Gisondo of “Vacation,” is Livingston, New Jersey’s resident nerd, “town crier” and government gadfly. He’s 16, pedals his nerdbike to every school board meeting and politely and pedantically lectures the group on what it SHOULD be be doing.

“Stop teaching French,” he hectors, “and begin teaching CHINESE. It’s the future!” Lend high schoolers bikes so that they can all lower their carbon footprint and get cars and buses off the streets.

The kid’s been raised by his too-too-sharp grandpa (Bruce Dern) to not be shy, to challenge authority, politely and with seemingly well-reasoned arguments. He’s constantly submitting op-eds to the local newspaper, whose retiring editor (Kathleen Chalfant) indulges him.

Veronica Krause, played by winsome Disney starlet Olivia Holt of “Same Kind of Different as Me” and TV’s “I Didn’t Do It,” is a hyper-organized goal-oriented classmate who obsesses over extra credit, extracurriculars she organizes but doesn’t participate in, and getting into Yale so she can go to law school and make her way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

And she is irked beyond measure when their school’s class rank is assigned to each student, and all her efforts have landed her at number two. “There goes Yale,” she thinks.

So canny class president Veronica recruits erudite government scold Bernard to run for the school board. She renames him “Bernie” as its more accessible and friendly. She does this over his “It sounds like a ‘Sesame Street’ character!” They’ll abolish class rankings and save her Ruth Bader Ginsberg dreams.

The Benjamin August script — he wrote the Christopher Plummer Holocaust survivor drama “Remember” — is pleasant enough, leaning heavily on the charm of the cast.

“Is he smart?” Veronica’s “Law & Order” production crew mom (Kristin Chenoweth) wants to know of this boy that’s taking up all her time.

“I’m not sure what he is.”

August throws in a smart-mouthed Greek chorus of Indian Americans, “The Bollywood Crowd” at Livingston High, who make snarky comments about Veronica and Bernie as “a couple,” even as they envy the Bollywood romance they imagine them having. Which Veronica, being narcissistic enough to be class president and wholly focused on the future ad thus undateable, kind of sees.

Bernie? He’s never at a loss for words, and never a FEW words when many more will do. But he’s utterly oblivious about Miss Right flirting right under his nose. As the local market’s resident stoner (Nick Krause) wonders, “Dude, what’s your deal?”

The campaign and plot play out in predictable ways, with just enough surprises to hold interest. The obstacles to romance are entirely too on-the-nose and require characters to be WAY behind the audience in figuring things out. Whatever the subject matter, this isn’t “Election.” It has the edge of a butter knife.

But the stars are ever-so-engaging, with Gisondo nailing the wordy nerd thing and Krause mastering that teen movie stereotype — beautiful, but too focused to be popular or dateable — she’s saddled with playing.

Whatever else happens to these kids and their dreams, “Class Rank” always defaults to “sweet,” a label often hung-on its director, way back in the day. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Just enjoy that last time you can take your tweens or very young teens to the movies with you. And watch for Stoltz’s cameo in the film’s third act. You’ll figure out why a freckled reddish-haired kid got the lead.

MPAA Rating: unrated, a tiny bit of profanity, a hint of pot use, a suggestion of adult sexuality

Cast: Olivia Holt, Skyler Gisondo, Bruce Dern, Kristin Chenoweth, Kathleen Chalfant

Credits:Directed by Eric Stoltz, script by Benjamin August. A Cinedigm release.

Running time: 1:41