Movie Nation

It’s a cut throat industry, that music business. Infested with sharks, drowning in money and drugs, easy sex, a world of “loaded dice and poisoned chalices,” where success is dictated by luck or timing. It’s a wonder anybody gets out of there alive.

Or without killing somebody.

“Kill Your Friends” is a murder-your-way-to-the top dark comedy, a music biz saga based on John Niven’s darkly comic novel.

It’s anti-heroic narrator is Steven Stelfox, cleverly given a kind of sexually ambiguous ruthlessness (as substitute for talent and hard work) by Nicholas Hoult (“Mad Max: Fury Road”).

Steven quotes Conan — the Barbarian, not the ginger chat show host. You know the bit about reveling in crushing “your enemies — See them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women!”

He sneaks into the boss’s office and breaks into his computer to get an edge, steals new issues of music industry mags intended for colleagues and shreds them, steams open envelopes.

He’s an “A&R Man,” that’s artists and repertoire — the talent scout responsible for finding the next big thing — singer, songwriter, band.

“God, I hate bands!”

OK, maybe not a band.

And he’s hellbent on taking over the A&R department at Unigram Records in 1997 London. It’s the Cold Play era, and Steven is indulging self-absorbed Brit rappers, ditzy/slutty girl groups with no singing talent, that sort of thing, trying to keep his gig.

Mainly, though, he’s partying and clinging to his lazy, doltish rival (James Corden) to keep him from getting promoted by pretending he’s his best friend, feeding him cocaine and urinating on him when he passes out — anything to make Roger look bad at work the next day.

Only it doesn’t work. Hapless Roger (Corden) is in line for a bump when the sabotaged head of A&R (they always get the blame for hard times) is sent packing. Steven, half-calculating and coke-fueled with rage, beats Roger to death. And then shows up at the office as if nothing has happened, expecting the job Roger was to get.

A cop (Edward Hogg) might close in. Or he might not. He’d love a record deal himself.

Steven narrates the tale (a literary crutch) to the camera, ripping on colleagues and clients alike.

“This pair of sex offenders have just raped up to the tune of 40 grand.”

But Hoult lets us see just how tough it is for even a mediocrity with Machiavellian talents to survive in this world, in his more vulnerable moments.

“These decisions are made under the influence of drugs, alcohol, peer pressure and fear.”

Nobody wants to be the numbskull who misses out on the next Cold Play or Spice Girls.

“Kill Your Friends” wallows in the depravity of the it, the inanity of the music and the mendacious morons meant to pass judgement on it, deciding who gets a shot and who labors in obscurity. The wallowing including too many club scenes, too many stoner orgies, and too much blood.

It’s like a Bret Easton Ellis takedown of Britpop.

But the few human touches stand out, and the deck stacks up against Steven at every turn. Even killing his would-be boss hasn’t kept him from being out-of-step with the scene, the music or musicians. An indie pop band The Lazies is pushed by his protege (Craig Roberts) and ambitious young secretary (Georgia King, quite good).

And Steven just doesn’t get it.

“Indie kids really think what they do matters,” he sneers to the camera.

As you’d expect from a movie based on Niven’s script of his own novel, the dialogue stands out and stings. Steven’s promise of recording success is followed by the unspoken promise that he’ll “drop you faster than a Plymouth hooker’s knickers” if you fail.

This could have been a lighter picture, sort of a semi-dark Nick Hornby spin on music. That might have been less accurate, but more watchable.

But Steven is a hard character to keep even at arm’s length. He’s a paragon of what’s wrong with music, the script would have us believe. He’s out of step and out of date, getting blasted at parties and humiliating himself, coming on to talent and chasing them away. He’s a clueless cliche even in 1997.

And yet he is just as likely to deliver a hit as the talented people he encounters, including his biggest threat, an A & R legend played by Tom Riley.

The cynicism destroys any chance that a sense of fun — even perverse, murderous fun — will ever creep into “Kill Your Friends.” It’s as if Hoult is too clever at playing too venal and loathsome for his and his movie’s own good.

MPAA Rating: unrated, with violence, alcohol and drug-abuse, sexual situations with nudity and profanity

Cast: Nicholas Hoult, James Corden, Rosanna Arquette, Georgia King, Tom Riley
Credits: Directed by Owen Harris, script by John Niven, based on his novel. A Well Go USA Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:42

What kind of mother names her son “Eloi?” You know, after the pretty, gullible, post-humanity humans of H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine”?

The sort of woman who then nicknames the kid “Lolo” and is shocked when that poor judgment pays dividends as the kid enters adulthood with a long track record of sabotaging Mom’s post-Eloi Daddy relationships, that’s who.

Julie Delpy (“Before Sunrise,” “Before Sunset,” etc.) directed, co-wrote and stars in “Lolo,” an Oedipal French farce that manages a few laughs and a lot of grimaces as it toys around with “Throw Momma’s Beaus Under the Bus.”

Violette (Delpy) is an art director for fashion shows, a somewhat hapless Paris sophisticate whose crude BFF (Karin Viard) urges her to “lower your standards” and land a man. Do it in Biarritz, where they’re having a little salon vacation. Who cares if she winds up with “a Biarritz bumpkin?”

Which she does. Jean-Rene (Dany Boon of “Micmacs”) falls for Violette, and she for him. But her seemingly independent, seemingly untalented but connected artist/son Lolo (Vincent Lacoste) isn’t having it. He rates the new fellow a “D,” the first letter in a feminine hygiene product. Lolo declares that Jean-Rene will be “gone by fall.”

And that’s what the spoiled, scheming pretty boy sets out to assure.

There’s itching powder on Jean-Rene’s clothes, and hints to Mom that maybe she needs to have him tested for sexually transmitted diseases.

There’s spiking Jean-Rene’s drink so that he’ll make a fool of himself in front of Karl Lagerfeld at Mom’s big opening.

And so on.

Antoine Lounguine plays Lolo’s plump, worshipful pal, Lulu. He’s there for Lolo to explain his schemes (in French, with English subtitles) to, and because he’s a stereotypical tech nerd — the one who’ll help Lolo sabotage Jean-Rene’s business.

That makes little sense, as Jean-Rene is an IT specialist who would never be suckered by a hacker-nerd. But never mind.

The now-middle-aged Delpy still has a hint of the coquette about her, and that pays off as she and pal Ariane (Viard) casually shock eavesdroppers in the bar or on the train with their coarse talk. She dotes on her “little boy, my little alpine bunny.” She’s blind to his schemes, and even watching “Children of the Damned” doesn’t clue her in to the menace who has moved back in under her roof to more closely supervise the sabotage.

Boon makes Jean-Rene as much of a “hick” as he can manage, but it’s a generally colorless turn. The Mother-Son combo delivers a few grins, but rarely more than a chuckle, as we watch her be the last person to figure her darling boy out.

“Lolo” is entirely too familiar, too predictable, a character study in romantic mishaps that’s far less interesting than the name Delpy cooked up for her “little alpine bunny,” a passive, pretty creature worthy of our contempt, at least as Wells envisioned him.

MPAA Rating: unrated, sexual situations, nudity

Cast:Julie Delpy, Vincent Lacoste, Dany Boon
Credits: Directed by Julie Delpy, script by Julie Delpy and Eugénie Grandval . A FilmRise release.

Running time: 1:37

Yes, “Deadpool” will have topped $300 million by midnight Sunday.

Based on Friday’s numbers, the first blockbuster of the new year will pull in another $16 million, A MONTH AFTER OPENING. People are going back to catch all the jokes, I figure.

But The Mouse House is where the champagne is popping this AM (Mimosas, anyone?). “Zootopia” lets Disney put up numbers for an in-house cartoon that only its partner, Pixar, has been able to manage previously. It’s a $70million+ weekend for the film, based on Friday’s robust take.

“Zootopia” is more message than merriment, in my estimation. But it’s smart and ambitious and has earned some of the best reviews of any recent animated film.

“London Has Fallen” is doing decent action pic numbers — especially for March. A Gerard Butler $22 million opening hit? Sure. “Olympus Has Fallen” set the bar high and this sequel came close to it. Terrible movie, but nobody ever went broke underestimating the tastes of action movie buffs.

I think all Tina Fey fans should be happy for her getting to stretch and showing a little leg and sex appeal in her dotage. Ahem. But I could tell, all week, just by blog numbers for my review of “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” that she’s passe to the kids who dominate the moviegoing populace. A middling $7 million for a pretty decent, edgy Afghan War comedy? Come on. Those are “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” numbers. Show up, people!

The mysteries of the heater, the high hard one, baseball’s overpowering pitch, are explained by the game’s power pitchers, a physicist, a brain cognition expert and the hapless hitters who have to swing at smoke in “Fastball,” a very engaging documentary narrated by Kevin Costner.

Sports documentary director Jonathan Hock had access to them all — well, save for Randy Johnson and Steve Carlton — and manages a quite thorough dissection of the physics of speed, the illusion of the “rising fastball” and the burning question, “Who was the fastest?”

The quick answer might appear to be current Reds hardballer Aroldis Chapman, who one day hist 105 miles per hour on the radar gun in the middle of the game. But David Price and Craig Kimbrel and Justin Verlander are here and are in the conversation. Batters who have faced these guys (Derek Jeter) help make their case.

But baseball is a game of history and a font of myth. So Hock goes at the Big Question historically and methodically. And he gets experts, from sports writers and historians to the men who played the game, to parse the facts as we know them.

Walter Johnson, the “Big Train,” was the first fastballer of note. In the early years of the game, his pitches were the first described as “humming” as they zipped past you at the plate, the first that seemed almost unhittably hard. How hard? The U.S. Army and Remington firearms had this elaborate test range set up to time his pitches in the days before the movies had sound.

Bob Feller, “The Heater from Van Meter,” was equally dominant, and his 1930s and 40s pitches were tested against the fastest motorcycle of the day and other, more scientific means.

Koufax and Drysdale, and the great Bob Gibson (interviewed, and hilarious) are remembered for their intimidating speed. Batters who faced them (Hank Aaron, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan and Mike Schmidt among them) joke about what it was like, facing them.

Every great hitter interviewed talks about the hardest hurler he ever faced. Wade Boggs? “Juan Berenguer (“Senor Smoke”) of the Twins.

“Myth” enters the picture with the story of the fellow who inspired “Nuke Laloosh” of the Ron Shelton movie, “Bull Durham.” Steve Dalkowski was in the Orioles farm system in the 1960s, was never accurately clocked, and was so wild he never made a mark in the big leagues. But his legend grew and grew. Insanely fast. Breaking boards in the backstop fast. Maybe the fastest ever, though the best case can certainly be made for Texan Nolan Ryan, the most dominant pitcher of all time.

SP.0611.Ryan13 — LOS ANGELES TIMES FILE PHOTO — Angels pitcher Nolan Ryan pitching against the Boston Red Sox at Anaheim Stadium on June 14, 1974. Ryan pitched 13 innings, struck out 19 and threw 235 pitches.

Most fascinating for me was the attempt to compare, using the science and standards of today and measurements (and film footage) from the earliest days of the sport. Johnson and Feller can be compared to Verlander and Chapman.

It’s a fun film, not quite as lighthearted as the similar “Knuckleball” documentary of a short while back, but amusing enough. And as another baseball season is about to begin, it makes a great warmup for another season and a greater appreciation for what the Boys of Summer face every time they step into the box against the high, hard one.

MPAA Rating:  unrated

Cast: Nolan Ryan, Hank Aaron, Aroldis Chapman, Bob Gibson, Derek Jeter, Rich Gossage, Wade Boggs, Johnny Bench, Justin Verlander, David Price, Torii Hunter, Mike Schmidt, narrated by Kevin Costner.
Credits: Directed by Jonathan Hock. A Gravitas Ventures release.

Running time: 1:25

Here’s a lean little slice of sci-fi that proves you can be thought-provoking on a budget.

“Creative Control” is about blurring lines between virtual reality and reality and the dangers the narcissists among us face when our desires take precedence over healthy human interaction.

Co-writer/director Benjamin Dickinson stars as Dave, an ad agency exec in the very near future. VERY near. Like, not tomorrow but maybe tomorrow afternoon.

His agency lands the job of introducing the next generation Google glasses, called “Augmenta.” They’re immersive, wired in VR computers that don’t just allow you to multi-task email, Skype calls, online research and facial identification of those you meet. They offer sexual escape, allowing you to create the avatar of your sexual fantasies for…your sexual fantasies.

Yes, onanism is online, thanks to the “fully immersive” nature of Augmenta.

Dave’s a hard-bitten, hard-driven cynic who lives his life like the hero of “All That Jazz,” popping exotically shapes (with holes in them, like buttons) pills, putting drops in his eyes and listening to classical music as he faces each day.

He hires some multi-media online musician/comic/philosopher personality, “Reggie” (Reggie Watts) to conceptualize the message and utility of Augmenta. And he beta-tests the glasses himself, while he’s at it. And that’s where things get weird.

Dave lives with a gorgeous yoga instructor (Nora Zehetner) but fantasizes about Sophie, the pixie-ish girlfriend (Alexia Rasmussen) of his sexist, cheating photographer pal, Wim (Dan Gill). They flirt, and Dave thinks he has a shot. But these Wonderglasses let him skip past the “Maybe I’ll meet you at a hotel, maybe not” to full on sex — how he’d imagine it — with Sophie.

The acting never calls attention to itself — so natural we utterly believe this world, because it is totally recognizable. The fashion shoots, TV commercials where the client’s endless suggestions are inane and idiotic and must still be placated, all very “Mad Men of the Future” in nature.

The slang — “fry it,” “on trend” — is spot on. The fads? Yoga’s even more popular, as are drugs, especially caffeine.

“I would love a goat milk caramel latte – no foam.”

The effects are top drawer, almost “Ex Machina” level as digital female avatar morphs into Dave’s fantasy figure Sophie — with digital/visual noise around the edges. It is a beta test, after all. Dickinson shot “Creative Control” in black and white, with snatches of color to emphasize the reality Dave is avoiding, or succumbing to.

The story is lightweight and flimsy, and the resolution of the plot is too on-the-nose, pat, but the unfeeling nature of this future — about halfway to “Her” if you remember that film — and the mechanical nature of interactions, even sex, make “Creative Control” one of the most interesting recent exercises in film futurism.

And that makes Dickinson a filmmaker to watch.

MPAA Rating: R for strong sexual content, nudity, language and drug use.

Cast: Benjamin Dickinson  Nora Zehetner, Alexia Rasmussen, Dan Gill. 

Running time: 1:37
Credits: Directed by Benjamin Dickinson, script by Micah Bloomberg, Benjamin Dickinson. A Magnolia release.

Zoe Bell, probably the most famous living stunt-woman thanks to Quentin Tarantino making her a co-star of “Grindhouse” and “The Hateful Eight,” takes her shot at leading lady in “Camino,” a chase-through-the-jungle B-picture set in revolutionary Latin America.

It’s a simple , if clumsy and obvious and unsatisfying story tailor-made to play to her strengths. She fights, she tumbles, she climbs and she runs like a Warrior Princess (The Kiwi Bell got her start doubling as Xena).

Bell is Avery Taggart, an award-winning combat photographer who has always put the job first. Still, she’s a little leery of her latest assignment. Her editor (Kevin Pollack) sends her into the jungles of Colombia, embedded with some do-gooder guerrillas led the cagey, cocky Guillermo (Nacho Vigalando). They provide medical help to remote villagers. They say.

But this coed-band of Robin Hoods do so armed to the teeth. They need to know Avery is down with their mission.

“I’m a woman without government,” she declares. “The camera sees what it sees. Nothing less, nothing more.”

But her camera sees something it shouldn’t. And before you can say “Saw THAT coming,” she’s on the run, hunted down by people more acclimated and better armed than she is. It’s just that we’ve all seen she’s a bit of a fitness nut. She’s built like a tougher Ronda Rousey. And she’s Zoe Bloody Bell. Bad news for the guerrillas.

The fights don’t defy the laws of physics and Bell makes us believe the terror Avery must overcome and that she has the cunning to fight back, fight and win, fight and kill.

Flashbacks — hallucinating about her love life, black and white stills of her previous assignments — dot the narrative.

But the story is trite and the dialogue hackneyed in the extreme. You just know that every time one of the fighters has her down, he or she is going to make a speech in “Hollywood Mexican Villain” Spanglish.

“I am goink to KEEL joo now, slow and painful.”

And then he doesn’t. Whoops. Spoiler alert?

MPAA Rating: unrated, with graphic violence, sexual situations

Cast: Zoe Bell, Kevin Pollack, Nacho Vigalondo, Sheila Vand, Nancy Gomez
Credits: Directed by Josh C.  Waller, script by Daniel Noah. An XLRator Media release.

Running time: 1:44

Gerard Butler has been Jean-Claude Van Dammed to a career of blood-drenched B-movies like “London Has Fallen.”

Well, and big-budget dogs like “Gods of Egypt.”: At least he’s not all Egypto-tanned for this one.

“London,” the sequel to “Olympus Has Fallen,” is an ultra-violent F-bomb-laced hundred-body-bash through the British capital.

Because at a state funeral there, world leaders are slaughtered by a lot of guys dressed up at British cops. And British soldiers.

The Brits are going to be irked.

The French prime minister is killed being fashionably late.The French may fume over that.  Japanese prime minister is trying not to be late. The Canadian prime minister is politely right on time and dead. Oh, Canada.

The German president gets it from the palace guards at Buckingham Palace.

BOY, are the Brits going to be irked.

And the Italian one is caught stealing a smooch from his 29-turning-30 trophy on top of Westminster Abbey. OK, Italy won’t mind that.

But the American president (Aaron Eckhart) is early, a security thing pushed by his Secret Service minder, Mike Banning (Butler). Mike has a “Not on my watch” mania that keeps the Commander in Chief alive and at large.

“Mr. President, those had beter be comfortable shoes!”

The streets are filled with motorbiking terrorists, dressed as U.S. Delta Force terrorists. in control of the city’s closed circuit cameras and power grid.

Scotland Yard is slow-footed and impotent. In the White House, the VP (Morgan Freeman) and council of advisers (Jackie Earle Haley and Robert Forster and Melissa Leo among them) look on in horror as Internet threats about an Internet execution of the Leader of the Free World is promised.

Yeah, it’s about revenge and yes, Mike goes Super Sadist Super Quick — knives and neck-snappings and emptying all manner of automatic and semi-automatic weapons

Did I mention that Mike’s an expectant dad whose letter of resignation we’ve already seen his letter of resignation? As his wife (Radha Mitchell) would say, “Of all the days…”

That’s kind of how “London Has Fallen” goes — all action, a staggering body count, profane and forgettable tough-guy one-liners. The villain (Alon Aboutboul of “Body of Lies”) is Eastern Generic and Butler is infallibly Western Generic.

Director Babak Najafi lets Butler chew the scenery with thinly veiled racial rage — visceral, torturous stabbings and righteous, ritualized slaughter of the Middle Easterners. There’s little drama, but the fights and chases (Butler hanging out of a moving SUV) are exciting, if not very original.

Eckhart is stoic and mostly passive, his eyes betraying a “What went wrong?” curiosity about his career. The White House scenes are so static and stale that we laugh at the unlikely presence of Jackie Earle “Freddie Krueger” Haley out of boredom.

Only Angela Bassett aquits herself with honor. She has a scene that makes us feel the violence, the violation, the outrage and grief.

The rest of this short but clock-watching movie is as flat as only the digitally rendered destruction of London can make it. Good, clean — OK, not so clean — sadistic fun that won’t make anybody feel anything or remember a single scene within hours of seeing it.

MPAA Rating: R for strong violence and language throughout

Cast: Gerard Butler, Aaron Eckhart, Angela Bassett, Alon Aboutboul, Morgan Freeman, Radha Mitchell, Jackie Earle Haley, Robert Forster
Credits: Directed by Babak Najafi, script by .Creighton Rothenberger, Katrin Benedikt, Christian Gudegast, Chad St. John

Running time: 1:39. A Gramercy release.

You’ll want to catch “The Wave” because it’s fun to see Hollywood disaster movie cliches rendered in Norwegian.

It’s got a Jeremiah, warning the locals that The End is Nigh, the end in this case being a tsunami in their tiny fjord-side tourist town. He sees the signs — crevice’s shifting, birds abandoning their roosts.

You’ve got the doubters shouting “You need to calm down!” and “We can’t cry ‘Wolf!’ every time we suspect something up here!” The fools.

There’s his hotel clerk wife (Ane Dahl Torp) working right at sea level, their  teen son blithely skateboarding with headphones, unaware of the sirens.

Life is snatched from the jaws of death, and vice versa.

Good stuff, tried and true and formulaic, but benefiting from great effects and a classic ticking clock narrative.

Norway’s first movie in this genre has a prologue, news clips of how rock slides in fjords have killed many in the past. Norway’s seismic network of mountain watchers features Kristian (Kristoffer Joner), ready to leave cozy Geiranger for the big city and a job with an oil company.

But his last day on the job — his LAST DAY — he sees those signs, he shouts his warnings on the phone. He dashes through town, rounding up his family in his 1999 Cherokee, because even in Norway, there is Only One Jeep.

But will he be too late?

Terrific moment number one — the siren sounds at night, and all over the Norwegian mountainsides, lights pop on. Moment number two — Kristian stops to help a stranger and is forced to ride out the coming tidal wave in her car. Water plunges over them, the chaos beneath the surface is full of horrors.

It’s all standard-issue stuff, but rendered in realistic and compelling strokes by director  Roar Uthaug. With a name like that, you know the wave itself is going to be a doozy. 

Yes, we’ve seen all this before, often with an all-star cast and always with a “Hollywood Ending.”

But the tropes and cliches of these movies show up time and again for one reason. With or without subtitles, they work.

MPAA Rating: R for some language and disaster images

Cast: Kristoffer Joner, Thomas Bo Larsen, Ane Dahl Torp
Credits: Directed by Roar Uthaug, script by John Kåre Raake, Harald Rosenløw-Eeg. A Magnolia release.

Running time: 1:45

Tina Fey gives her finest, funniest big screen performance by essentially doing in “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” what she did so well on TV’s “30 Rock.”

She plays the lovelorn, put-upon and insecure woman in a man’s world, and surrounds herself with some absolutely hilarious co-stars.

There’s something just-so-right about seeing “the forgotten war” (Afghanistan) through the eyes of America’s smart, 40something sweetheart. It’s a Fey-out-of-water travelogue with Fey, as real-life TV newswriter Kim Barker, childless and single and north of 30, accepts re-assignment in the early 2000s to a war zone rendered a backwater by the invasion of Iraq.

She leaves behind her job “writing for stupid, pretty people” (news anchors), her beau (Josh Charles) for “the Kabubble,” Kabul, another place for Fey/Barker to be show she can be a naive klutz. She asks the wrong questions, brings the wrong backpack (bright orange) and takes stupid risks because she doesn’t know any better.

Her fixer, Fahim (Christopher Abbott) gently tries to set her straight. Her colleague, a surprisingly sassy Margot Robbie, warns her about how attractive she’s going to be to every man in country.

“You’re like a what, 6, maybe 7 back in New York?”

And the Marine officer (Billy Bob Thornton) she deals with most is the most blunt of all — growling about her “4-10-4” status (A “4” in New York, a 10, briefly, in Kabul, back to a 4 when she leaves.) and offering her a “wet hooch” without ever cracking his thousand-yard-scowl.

That’s a tent with a shower. The military runs on slang (“Zero stupid thirty” is very early in the AM) and acronyms, as does “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.” Abbreviate the title, kids.

See Fey fumble into her first firefight. Hear Tina curse like a Bangor barmaid, something the film’s title in acronym form foretells. And through her, we see this world (actually, New Mexico) — clouds of U.S. dollars literally blowing away in the wind, Western women like Barker cursed and abused by an endless array of devout, women-oppressing locals — blood and carnage during their “embed” patrols, out-of-control drunken revels many nights.

Alfred Molina is the funniest he’s been in years as the rising star of Afghan politics who feigns interest in keeping Taliban ideas like running the rural districts on sharia law even as he’s coming on to the fetching Ms. Barker at every turn.

And Martin Freeman of British and American public TV’s “Sherlock” is the wiseacre, war-coverage-weary Scottish reporter who makes one move after another on Barker.

“An accent’s not the same as a personality,” she reminds him.

There’s a lot of dimly-lit, hand-held filming to get us into the nervous rush of a combat zone. But the best sequence in this Glenn Ficarra/John Requa action/comedy is when they put Barker/Fey into a burqa, the “blue prison” her fixer calls it. Covered, head-to-toe, seeing the patriarchy of the Islamic world at its most retrograde (Islamic Law enforcers “executing” TV sets) reminds us that political correctness aside, this is a world we have no connection to, that is beyond our efforts to “help” traverse the gulf that would get it into the 21st century.

War lords are “businessmen,” the poppy trade was all they had and no amount of school building/well-digging and Western pop music will change it overnight.

The filmmakers (“I Love You Philip Morris”) go on well past its climax and the movie’s indelicate assessment of Afghan culture and the bubble Westerners must live in while trying to “save it” won’t be to every taste. But Fey and “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” strike just the right tone (occasionally) in reminding us the endless nature of this mission, the grim effort to hold the American public’s attention long enough to accomplish it and the gonzo adrenaline junkies who take on that last and impossibly difficult mission.

MPAA Rating: R for pervasive language, some sexual content, drug use and violent war images

Cast: Tina Fey, Margot Robbie, Alfred Molina, Billy Bob Thornton, Martin Freeman, Josh Charles
Credits: Directed by Glenn Ficarra, John Requa, script by Robert Carlock, based on the Kim Barker book. A Paramount release.

Running time: 1:52

Funny that no one ever thought to pair up screen veterans Richard Schiff and Ricky Jay as brothers before. They look alike, and have this complimentary intensity — Schiff (“The West Wing”) and his quiet, simmering, rational rage, Mamet-pal Jay with his scary, streetwise and dangerous edge.

They aren’t the leads, but they’re the heart and driving force of “The Automatic Hate,” an indie family mystery masquerading as a puzzling, misguided romance.

Davis Green (“Lincoln”) is a Boston chef with a weepy, highly-strung ballerina girlfriend (Deborah Ann Woll). One night their romantic idyll is unsettled by this equally weepy, oh-so fetching blond (Adelaide Clemens of “The Great Gatsby”) who tells Davis “I’m your cousin, Alexis Green!”

That’s odd, because Davis knows his father (Schiff) was an only child. Oh no, Alexis assures him. “I’m not a crazy person.”

She then proceeds to act like one, insisting on a too-too-friendly hug that sets off the ballerina. And how.

But Davis is intrigued. He asks his developmental psychologist dad, who denies everything, discovers a clue in the attic, and questions demented granddad about the issue.

“We do not TALK about Joshua,” the old man rants.

Davis follows his curiosity to rural upstate New York, where he discovers a hippy branch of the family — three rowdy, vulgar daughters and their ex-flower child parents — running a thrift store, a farm and a medical marijuana dispensary.

Things go a bit sideways at this point, at least for me. Confronted by the coarseness of his blood-kin peers and the outright hostility of his “uncle” (Jay), Davis declares he’s not “afraid of what’s going on.” He should be. There’s bad blood here. The clues are laughably obvious (old home movies), the menace palpable.

And the kindest words his uncle has are “It’s easy to despite somebody from a distance.”

“The Automatic Hate” is a tricky melodrama to get a handle on, because characters — Davis, in particular, but others too — keep behaving in ways that defy reason. The “hate” may be automatic, but common sense dictates caution, and caution is thrown to the wind for reasons of plot convenience and cinematic prurience.

Both fathers have something they’re hiding from their children. But do their spouses know the crime at the heart of their dispute? We can see the train wreck Davis is wading into, why can’t he?

The elders of the cast steal the show from the heavy breathing youngsters, and the inevitable family dinner confrontation is a doozy.

But “The Automatic Hate” winds up a thoughtful puzzle of a movie that doesn’t stand up to much scrutiny, a slice of Southern Gothic displaced into rural, redneck New York that loses something in the geographic translation.

MPAA Rating: unrated, with sexual situations, nudity, profanity

Cast: Joseph Cross, Adelaide Clemens, Deborah Ann Woll, Richard Schiff, Ricky Jay
Credits: Directed by Justin Lerner, script by Justin Lerner, Katharine O’Brien . A Film Movement release.

Running time: 1:37