Netflixable? “A Woman with No Filter” has some Grievances to Air

In the tradition of “A Woman Under the Influence,” “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,” “It’s My Turn,” and generations of women coming into their own in films comes “A Woman with No Filter,” a Brazilian comedy that covers familiar ground at an unamusing crawl.

Our put-uoon title character, Bia, runs an online magazine where she’s gone a decade without a raise from her BMW-buying boss. She has the burden of bucking up her “work husband,” a close colleague engaged to a rich beauty who pushes him around.

Bia has an artist/husband who won’t get a real job during his creative block and can’t be bothered to answer the door to get the wifi or whatever breaks fixed in their apartment. His son is a school-skipping slacker/stoner punk.

Their neighbor is a 40ish aspiring DJ who throws house parties every night — basically running a noisy nightclub in their building, something the cops and her building super let her get away with.

Her cat-lady sister leans on her to cat-sit because she’s apparently got no friends. There’s this one giant SUV-driving society type who never lets Bia merge into traffic every morning while driving to work.

And her bestie is too busy cyber-stalking her ex to hear Bia out when all she wants to do is vent about all the “other” difficult” people in her life.

What sets Bia (Fabiula Nascimento) off isn’t the half-her-age “influencer” Paloma (Camila Queiroz) her dead-weight-publisher (Caito Mainier) hires to “supervise” her. It’s not Paloma’s “my team” airs and dismissal of journalistic essays in favor of “a single quote” from celebrities, accompanied by a “reel” video to distract the readers.

It’s Paloma’s cooing insistence that what Bia really needs is a visit to “Goddess Vagina” (Molly Marinho), a combination masseuse, seer and shaman whose diagnosis and “treatment” causes Bia to “turn into the Hulk” (in Portuguese with subtitles, or dubbed into English).

About 70 minutes of this 92 minute comedy is a pretty good actress (Nascimento starred in “A Wolf at the Door”) cussing out the influencer, her “misogynistic idiot” boss, her best friend (Patricia Ramos) and on down the line.

The most entertaining of these meltdowns involves Bia sabotaging her arrogant, inconsiderate neighbor’s unlicensed night club DJ ambitions. The rest is a string of static, less-than-amusing shout-downs, broadly played, that show how Goddess Vagina “liberated” Bia from being the nice, compliant and put-upon woman that she’s always been.

Yes, she has her reasons and yes, they all have it coming and of course things will resolve themselves in the most mild-mannered, wish-fulfillment-fantasy ways.

Which isn’t exactly a formula for a winning comedy, even a “predictable” one.

Rating: TV-MA, sexual situations, profanity

Cast: Fabiula Nascimento, Camila Queiroz, Louise D’Tuani, Emilio Dantas,
Luana Martau, Júlia Rabello, Patricia Ramos, Caito Mainier, Samuel de Assis and Polly Marinho

Credits: Directed by Arthur Fontes, scripted by Tati Bernardi. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:32

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Movie Review: Wahlberg, Key, Lakeith and Shalhoub “Play Dirty” in Shane Black-land

Shane Black?

Glib one-liners and glib gunplay? Bigger and bigger action, with a bigger and bigger bodycounts?

The actor turned writer and writer-director who peaked with “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” made his way to a “comeback” with “The Nice Guys” Shane Black? Shane Black who then made “The Predator” reboot to spoil it?

Oh, and “Last Action Hero,” “Last Boy Scout,” “The Long Kiss Goodnight” and “Lethal Weapon” “high concept” action “comedy” Shane Black?

Yeah, that guy, Mr. Hit or Miss, is the one behind the over-the-top, CGI-assisted, slaughterhouse of a heist “comedy” “Play Dirty.” With that introduction, you can probably guess which Shane Black I think showed up for this one.

A direct-to-streaming MGM thriller based on the Donald Westlake “Parker” underworld figure, it’s a Mark Wahlberg star vehicle that reaches for laughs and finds a few, puts a LOT of actors to work and kills off many and buries us under plots, counter-plots, mayhem and one-liners hoping we’ll ignore the fact that it makes little sense and the fact that it gets the few “facts” it dares to plug in wrong.

“I’m good at surviving,” our murderous anti-hero Parker declares. “So are cockroaches” one of his many foils spits back.

It’s a “trigger-happy” robber (Wahlberg) vs. “The Outfit” “rob the robber” thriller about a heist gone wrong, a “rob a country” bigger heist stumbled into in which you don’t get too attached to whoever the one-time “Punisher” in the cast in playing. Because somebody — a LOT of somebodies — will die.

Parker & Crew hit a racetrack in the opening scene, in which no digital horses are injured in the chaos that sends a getaway chase onto the track. Accomplices are killed when the safecracker who is anything but Zen — like her name (Rosa Salazar) — betrays them.

But she’s just gathering cash for an even bigger caper, an attack on the U.N. to steal treasure stolen from “my (Central American) country” by its evil presidente. That’s what Parker and his theater major pal Grofield (LaKeith Stanfield), “lady’s man”/wheelman Stan (Chai Henson) and the disguise-happy couple (Keegan Michael-Key and Claire Lovering) join Zen in attempting.

The unnamed Latin country’s security agents stand in their way. The Outfit, led by Lozini (Tony Shalhoub), has a bone to pick with Parker and an inept Top Lieutenant (Nat Wolff) on their tail

And in touches straight out of the low-rent pulp fiction of Clive Cussler (“Sahara”), the prize is the treasure of “a fifteenth century Spanish galleon,” including the ship’s figurehead, “Our Lady of Arintero,” sort of the Spanish “Mulan.”

Black and his co-writers are hip enough to make “wardrobe malfunction” (2004 Super Bowl) and “transgender kinda thing” cracks. Ahem.

“Are we being ‘Punk’d’ here?”

And they attach a legitimate piece of Spanish history to the plot, but confusingly name the warrior in the manner of the saints — “The Lady” becomes “Our Lady.”

Pointing out that the Central Americans repeatedly refer to a shipwrecked “15th century Spanish (treasure) galleon” when A) Columbus sailed in the 15th century, aka “1492; B) “treasure fleets” didn’t set out from the New World to the old until 1520 (the 16th Century) and Spanish “galleons” did not exist until 1530, also in the 16th century, would be petty.

Maybe that poor, backward and unnamed country needs the treasure to finance better history education.

Stanfield is more entertaining to watch than Wahlberg, and too much of what’s meant to be exciting or fun outside of their actions is just dull filler.

It’s all part and parcel of a big, blundering, Bugs Bunny Physics thriller that parks all these actors in an increasingly grating and nonsensical story which kind of climaxes when rich oligarchs get involved.

Spoiler alert — one of those fat cats gets shot, the “funniest” shooting in a movie that makes Parker an upflinching, unrepentent mass murderer. Well, I laughed.

All in good fun, right? Except it isn’t all that much fun. The odd chuckle doesn’t atone for the scads of laughs that just don’t land in a story that spins its wheels on the snowy streets of NYC. Except when the crooks drive a Rivian.

Rating: R, endless violence, profanity

Cast: Mark Wahlberg, LaKeith Stanfield, Rosa Salazar, Nat Wolff, Keegan Michael-Key, Gretchen Mol, Claire Lovering, Thomas Jane, Chukwudi Iwuji and Tony Shalhoub

Credits: Directed by Shane Black, scripted by Shane Black, Chuck Mondry and Anthony Bagarozzi, based on Donald Westlake’s “Parker” novels. An MGM release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 2:08

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Movie Review: A Filipino Gay Hustlers’ Odyssey — “Some Nights I Feel Like Walking”

Hooking up in bus station restrooms, hustling clients for sex in a cinema, police harassment, bullying, drugs, death and an impromptu funeral are on the menu of “Some Nights I Feel Like Walking,” a melodramatic saunter through one unnaturally long night in the Philippines.

Writer-director Petersen Vargas (“2 Cool 2 Be Forgotten”) treats us to sexiously sexual, sometimes emotional evening’s odyssey in modern day Manila.

Uno (Jomari Angeles) cruises along skywalks and through street markets of the city after dark. If his boy band looks and hair highlights don’t give away his game, his wary way of side-eyeing the world does. That hook-up at the bus station? That’s just the appetizer for the evening.

But the kid with the bruises named Zion (Miguel Odron) needs a favor. There’s a guy waiting in the station. Please give him this note.

Tagging along on Uno’s cruise is how Zion signs on for a seriously steamy 3-way in a hook-up friendly cinema’s projection booth, and how he meets Uno’s roommates.

Bayani (Argel Saycon) is tall, muscular and handsome enough to command higher prices from “clients,” and tough enough to stick up for his friends or bully anybody he choses. Miguelito (Gold Aceron) — “Ge” — is slim and slight, shorter than Zion. Rush (Tommy Alejandrino) is their hotheaded fourth.

They’re streetwise kids who know a police roundup just means a freebie for the “chief” will cut them all loose. Their world is awash in drugs, and some of them use. But it’s a client who will provide the dose that sends one into seizures, and before they can figure out how to get him to a hospital, he’s dead.

In a sentimental touch that pre-dates “Midnight Cowboy,” the kid wanted to “go home.” They’ve got to figure out a way to fool taxi or jeepney and overnight bus drivers to get their dead friend back to Pangasinan.

Vargas blends in grim, surreal dream sequences with mourning, telling us of childhood traumas that shaped these young men and bonded some of them for life. And if there’s a corpse involved, you can bet there are unintentional “Weekend at Bernies” touches.

The narrative is patient and somewhat predictable, which makes this unfold too slowly for its own good. The flashbacks meant to distract us from “We know where this is going” don’t all pay off.

But “Some Nights I Feel Like Walking” immerses us in a world and gives us characters worth investing in, even if we wish they had more original backgrounds and a less predictable destination.

Rating: unrated, violence, explicit sex

Cast: Miguel Odron, Jomari Angeles, Argel Saycon, Tommy Alejandrino and Gold Aceron

Credits: Scripted and directed by Petersen Vargas. An Omnibus release.

Running time: 1:43

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Classic Film Review: Renewing “The Commitments” to Irish Soul and Irish Joy (1991)

Twas the writer Roddy Doyle who re-introduced the literary world to the concept of “Irish joy.” Sure’twas.

His “Barrytown Trilogy” of comic novels in the late ’80s and early ’90s — the self-published sensation “The Commitments,” “The Snapper” and “The Van” — later expanded into a pentalogy, captured the humor, the vitality and the hustle of an island that had been “poor, impoverished,” U2 lamenting “the Troubles” of Third World Ireland for far too long.

But it took the director of “Fame” to bring that noisesome frolic, a Dublin bubbling over with youthful dreams, energy and delusions, to the wider world. Alan Parker captured the old, battered city — where Doyle had set his fictional working class Barrytown neighborhood — and crowded his screen with exhuberant kids of all ages, amusingly gobsmacked adults, indulgent priests and more indulgent parents.

“The Commitments” hit viewers with a wet slap of delight in 1991, a blast of “proletarian” soul performed by Europe’s most famously downtrodden minority. The film was hardly a smash in theaters, but its video and TV afterlife were boundless. Doyle’s reputation and legend were made. A mini soul music revival — a smaller scale version of Britain’s “Northern Soul” fad or what America’s The Blue Brothers had brought forth a decade before — an explosion in Irish tourism and a 2013 stage musical spun out of it.

And here it is, a near-riotous time capsule of its day, a “real” band that of actors who could sing and play or musicians (Glen Hansard) who’d learn to act immortalized on Panavision and Dolby Stereo for all of us to marvel over decades hence.

Parker made the scruffiest “let’s get a band together” comedy of them all, a shambolic but amusing mess that loses track of its leading man after he organizes a fractious ensemble that is sure to come apart, come to ruin or come to its senses. And we get to watch it all go right or go wrong.

Jimmy Rabbitte (Robert Arkins) is a chain-smoking 20ish hustler, pitching pirated cassettes and second-hand vhs tapes (including Parker’s “Mississippi Burning”) at street markets all over Barrytown. But when he’s alone, he fancies himself being interviewed years hence.

 “Tell us about the early days, Jimmy. How did it’all begin?

His brainstorm is the sort of “Hail Mary” many a downtrodden schemer pulls out of his hat. He’ll form a band, one dedicated to preserving and celebrating his passion for American soul music. Jimmy then proceeds to build it around a few musical mates (Hansard, Ken McCluskey, Félim Gormley and Dick Massey), preaching his passion to any who figure “we’re too white” to pull that off that bit of cultural appropriation.

“Do you not get it, lads? The Irish are the Blacks of Europe. And Dubliners are the Blacks of Ireland. And the Northside Dubliners are the Blacks of Dublin. So say it once, say it loud: I’m Black and I’m proud!

One of the more hilarious audition montages in all of cinema follows, pretty much to no avail which is pretty much the point. Everybody’s into music, nobody’s that good at what Jimmy wants to hear.

But Jimmy overhears a drunk (Andrew Strong) singing along with the old LPs at a wedding. His mates lust after fair Imelda (Angeline Ball), so he recruits Bernie (Bronagh Gallagher) to sing back up, and get her friend Natalie (Maria Doyle Kennedy) and by all means, reach out to Imelda to make sure she signs on.

And then the 50ish horn player Joey “The Lips” (Johnny Murphy) motorscooters up, with big tales of his years touring with Otis and Sam and Wilson Pickett and Martha Reeves, and the band has a name — “The Commitments” — a “leader” and a cheerleader.

“Black suits,” for the men, Joey insists. Black dresses for the ladies. This is “serious” music and should be treated with respect. For the assorted unemployed pipefitters, waitresses and the like, there’s nothing for it but to dive in and and pray that this will pay off and change their lives.

“‘Destination Anywhere,'” they sing. “East or west, I don’t care.”

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June Lockhart — 1925-2025, “Lassie’s” Mom, “Lost in Space”

I can’t for the life of me remember why some PR firm was trotting “Lassie,” “Lost in Space” and “Petticoat Junction” TV star June Lockhart around in the ’80s.

But I was a kid working in public radio in Charlotte, N.C. when the pitch came in. And I thought, “I can find audio of her TV and film appearances and that’ll make a fun radio piece.”

It kind of did, but the stage, screen (“Sergeant York,” “Meet me in St. Louis,” “The Yearling”) and TV star was kind of old school flaky to chat with. In those pre-Internet days — I don’t think I’d bought my first copy of “Haliwell’s Filmgoers Companion” yet — I didn’t know her impressive youthful credits. All I could think to ask her about was “Lassie,” “Lost in Space” and “TV moms.” That was on me.

But when I heard, some while after, that she’d been a regular in the White House Press Corps briefing room — not as a reporter — that seemed to fit. Curious about the world, sure. Outspoken in her politics at times. “Eccentric” fit her to a “T.”

She didn’t seem to remember why she was being toured (she was in her 60s) and it was hard getting her on topic, whatever the topic was. But throw in a few “Lassie” clips, some “Lost in Space” comedy and voila, RADIO. Podcasting for news professionals.

A couple of years later Barbara Billingsley (“Leave it to Beaver”) was similarly touted and toured by PR folks in support of some Mother’s Day related business (Maybe Hallmark?), and she was hysterically funny and warm and not the least bit flaky, for an ex TV mom. And I’d learned to do too much prep in case the interview threatened to become a non starter. 

But Lockhart was a sci-fi convention icon and was hip enough to make it into the occasional cool indie film (Christopher Guest’s “The Big Picture”) and motherly enough to score the occasional “Afterschool Special.”

She made it to 100, which probably surprises no one. Quite a character. Rest in peace.

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Netflixable? The Consequences of Renewing the Nuclear Option — “A House of Dynamite”

You expect a movie about the renewed Cold War and its radioactive endgame to be dispiriting, just in that “Here we go again/Been there, barely survived that” sense.

But the timing of Kathryn Bigelow’s grim, cautionary and “Don’t come here looking for hope” thriller “A House of Dynamite” underscores the helplessness of it all.

The film, scripted by NBC News chief Noah Oppenheim (!?), arrives in the middle of the Trump/Epstein government shutdown that has no end in sight, with democracy seemingly voted out of our history and the incompetence that dictatorship patronage spawns in evidence all around us.

The last crisis, it was a pandemic epically mismanaged by morons. The next time it’ll be a nuclear standoff with an aged, drug-addled pedophile’s finger on the button.

But that isn’t the administration depicted in this multi-act — each showing the same spiraling events from a different point of view — doomsday countdown tale. Even smart people, many of them with good intentions, may not be able to overcome decades of planning and technology and complacency that haven’t been updated to reckon with modern threats and the calculus of human survival.

A missile — probably fired from a submarine — has been launched somewhere in the vicinity of North Korea. Satellites didn’t capture the exact spot and “intel” can’t pinpoint who fired it. It’s headed for the American midwest.

As the film opens, the machinery built for doomsday prep is springing into action — command centers, “Star Wars” defense sites, FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) are manned and defense and other government officials are yanked off of golf courses or grabbed by the Secret Service for evacuation to shelters.

We see an overseeing general (Tracy Letts) talking about last night’s baseball All Star Game as a vague threat becomes real and response scenarios to recommend to POTUS (President of the U.S.) are bandied about.

The Secretary of Defense (Jared Harris) is in a fury over what is not known and what “$50 billion” worth of “Star Wars” anti-missile defense actually buys you.

Acronyms and locations — “Stratcom,COG, JEEP,” etc. — fly by as Captain, wife and mother-of-a-sick-child Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson) tries to calm her situation center staff by playing down the likelihood this is what they think it is.

It will turn out to be “the second most exciting thing to happen to you today,” she tells a subordinate (Malachi Beasley) who plans to propose this very day.

Hotlines that can’t be transferred to cell phones and other unanticipated SNAFUs slow down communication with the Russians, the Chinese and other corners of the world that are responding to America’s response.

An expert/aide (Gabriel Basso) is literally sprinting to get where he’s supposed to be, juggling calls and urging caution as “sometimes the warheads don’t even go off.). The North Korean expert (Greta Lee) has taken her kid to a Gettysburg reenactment.

A newly-promoted FEMA manager (Moses Ingram) is fretting over the “prenup” her soon-to-be-ex had her sign when she’s snatched and taken to a bunker to manage the incoming disaster’s aftermath.

The Secretary of Defense (Harris) has an estranged actress-daughter (Kaitlyn Dever) in the strike zone.

And the guy commanding the Alaskan anti-missile defense base (Anthony Ramos) has just gone through a breakup of some sort. He’s in a mood as they try to “hit a bullet with a bullet.”

The president (Idris Elba)? He’s in the middle of a kids’ basketball-and-academics camp event when he’s confronted with the worst crisis of all, that military aide (Jonah Hauer-King) hastily briefing him on the contents of The Nuclear Football with the FLOTUS, the president’s wife (Renée Elise Goldsberry) on a tour of Africa.

Bigelow (“The Hurt Locker”) brings a seriousness to the subject matter even as she leans back on her “Zero Dark 30” fragmented, multi-location, multi-character, story told and retold out of order tricks. A hard truth of this version of “Fail Safe,” “War Games” or “Doctor Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” is that the third act is the weakest.

“House of Dynamite” never strays far from the up-close-and-personal parade of characters of your standard issue disaster movie. There’s unspeakable horror in the offing and everybody’s got this relative or that relationship or personal “issue” distracting them from the ghastly matter at hand.

When someone says “I can HANDLE this,” you wonder. And all those “Have a nice day” cracks in the opening scenes are grimly dated and not funny. The melodrama is where the pathos is supposed to come from, and it just doesn’t

There’s another disconnect with so many Brits — Ferguson, Elba, Harris and Jason Clarke (as Australian actor) as the admiral in charge of whatever war room Ferguson leads — in the lead roles.

Bits and pieces of it work, but the endless succession of acronyms and character after character with “issues” rob the story of its stakes and the picture of its heart.

And all we’re left with is pondering how easily this could happen with the way world and national events have shaken out this past ten years, and that the bunglers in charge now just make it all the more likely.

Yay.

Rating: R, profanity

Cast: Rebecca Ferguson, Jared Harris, Moses Ingram, Jason Clarke, Greta Lee, Tracy Letts, Anthony Ramos, Malachi Beasley, Gabriel Basso and Idris Elba.

Credits: Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, scripted by Noah Oppenheim. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:52

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Movie Review: A “Boxcutter” Dreams of his Big Hip Hop Break…in Toronto

An aspiring rapper pins all his hopes on a make-or-break meeting with a famous producer at a “secret” party that everybody knows about in “Boxcutter,” an amiable street-life dramedy set on the not-so-mean streets of Toronto.

It’s a tale with an amusing cross-section of expats from “de islands” of the Caribbean and with a built-in ticking clock — a mad scramble to “get my album together” to show the big guy who’ll deliver that big break, maybe right in the middle of that hip hop “event/party.”

But about that “mad scramble.” A big part of its charm is this entire single-day story unfolds in CCPT — Caribbean Canadian People’s Time. For a fellow whose hopes hang on making this one thing happen at that one particular time, our boxcutter is “a bit too leisurely,” as Prince Rogers Nelson might have put it.

Ashton James is Jerome, “Rome” to his friends, 20ish and tall enough to make the lie “If I didn’t hurt my ACL, I would’ve gone pro” plausible. But his new dream is “my album,” a collection of rap tracks that he’s hustled together, arm-twisting and low-balling this aspiring producer for “beats” and that one for leftover studio time.

A Black Canadian rapper with Caribbean roots? “Look at Drake, The Wkend!” Dreams CAN come true!

His roomie/bestie/aspiring manager Sid (Vipushan Vani) is determined to get him on the bill for a college tour in which rappers pay to be heard. Rome is cocky and above that pay-to-play hustle.

“My s–t is CINEMATIC!”

All he has to hear is that rapper/producer Richie Hill is showing up at this unpublicized event to think it’s all happening, and right now. He’ll bribe his way into the party, show his stuff and change the trajectory of his life.

But Rome has never performed in front of people. He keeps his raps to himself and on recordings. With every other person he meets on the street dreaming/bragging about a similar break (and a lot of them know about the party), how realistic is he and is he committed enough to overcome the awkwardness and make it happen?

“Boxcutter” is about what happens when the laptop he has his tunes on is stolen and he’s clocked in the robbery. He will duck out of his shipping-and-receiving “boxcutter” job and spend the day trying to reassemble his beats and rhymes from assorted others — the producer who provided some beats, others who have this track or that flash drive or that recording they’re holding onto until he pays them for the studio time he cadged.

He ambles through this day with the photographer/sister/dreamer of one would-be impressario. Jenya (Zoe Lewis) regards him as a brother and is the first to see their goals are similar. But she’s gotten a commission for a piece of professional photo-collage art for a construction site. She figures she’s already making her dream come true.

Rome? He can’t be bothered to create a social media “brand” and put his name and samples of his work “out there” to be discovered. She could help him with Tik Tok, “Insta” and all that.

They banter and bicker over the long, slow day that takes them from this stoner to that professional recording engineer, with Rome sure to get fired and uncertain of ever getting his music back together, of meeting the producer and impressing or dazzling him when he does.

Will Rome ever pick up the pace enough to make his appointment with destiny? Will Sid or Jenya or any of the other people he’s connected with stick with him through his day of trials? Did the landlord stage the robbery to kick him and Sid out of their apartment?

The film’s musical, slangy island patois is so thick that you might need subtitles to make out much of what is said other than “fam” and “bro,” Rome’s two favorite words. Everybody speaks it and everybody has some sort of hip hop delusion they’re hustling about himself. Jenya has to fend off one hilariously pushy Lothario (Marlon Palmmer) on the public transit she and Rome take back and forth across the city in search of his tracks and her mural commission. Brother man gives her the full court press, right in front of Rome, and drops “Bob Ross” into the conversation when he learns she’s an artist.

They know about Bob Ross in Canada? Man.

Director Reza Dhaya leans into that frustration-creating (maybe just for uptight white people) pacing, the ways Rome seems so uncertain of his boasting that he never picks up the pace to get it together for that one shot he spends the whole movie bragging about.

If our hero slow-walks any slower he and the filmmakers risk losing our investment in his story.

But the performances have an offhanded charm and street reality that sells this. And there are worse ways to spend your movie-going time that taking a walk on the not-so-wild side through Toronto’s colorful neighborhoods with the dreamers who long to escape them.

Rating: unrated, violence, profanity

Cast: Ashton James, Zoe Lewis, Shomari Downer, Marlon Palmer,
Viphusan Vani, Charlie Ebbs and Rich Kidd.

Credits: Directed by Reza Dhaya, scripted by Chris Cromie. A Film Movement release.

Running time: 1:36

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Movie Review: “Springsteen” makes “Nebraska” — “Deliver Me from Nowhere”

Self-revealing, self-examining, self-mythologizing, self-indulgent and self-destructive, those are all phrases that can apply to Bruce Springsteen’s seminal, uncompromising and defiantly anti-commercial album “Nebraska.”

It can’t be called the LP that “made him.” But this critically-acclaimed smash from 1982 underscored the Bob Dylan comparisons he’d been getting since his ridiculously-hyped 1975 breakout (Time and Newsweek covers the same week) that accompanied “Born to Run” seven years earlier. It underscored the “serious artist” label he craved.

And it didn’t come easily. As Scott Cooper’s new bio-pic “Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere” makes clear, The Boss was going through some things to get that album in record stores.

“Crazy Heart” Cooper and his star Jeremy Allen White (TV’s “The Bear”) give us a peek into the creative process and the “Daddy issues” that had Springsteen taking inspiration from his Rust Belt childhood, the classic films “Badlands” which he watched over and over on video, and “The Night of the Hunter,” which he’d seen with his abusive, mentally unstable father (Stephen Graham).

The film gets at everything from “My Hometown” to the film career that never was (he was pitched “The Mask,” which was titled “Born in the U.S.A.” by screenwriter Paul Schrader). The not-meant-for-release recording sessions in a lake house in Colt Neck, N.J. and a dalliance with a local single mom (Odessa Young) symbolize the old transitioning to the new.

“Springsteen,” based on a Warren Zane memoir, captures a thirtysomething “bar band” veteran with seven years of growing fame and grueling touring behind him stopping to take a breather, take stock and have something like a breakdown as he grappled with clinging to his Freehold/Asbury Park, New Jersey roots or casting them off.

It’s a brooding performance in a brooding movie, not your conventional rags to riches triumph or Jeremy Allen White Sings The Boss biopic. But White and Cooper make it interesting and entertaining enough to invest in.

Young Bruce (Matthew Anthony Pellicano Jr.) is seen in black and white flashbacks, growing up in Freehold with a father he fears more than adores and a mother (Gabby Hoffman) who can’t fix what ails his father with shouting.

That past weighs heavily on adult Bruce’s mind as he and the E Street Band (a merry gathering of look-alikes) leave the road after “The River” tour and he retreats to a lake house manager Jon Landau (Jeremy Strong) has rented for him to work on new material. Because CBS/Columbia is already screaming for a followup.

“MOMENTUM,” CBS exec Al Teller (David Krumholtz, funny) preaches. That’s what they’re going for, an artist on a roll with decades-long staying power.

Landau might guard Springsteen from those expectations and try to treat this next record as a “process.” But Springsteen, watching TV and musing over themes, landscapes and a sort of murder ballad/prison ballad folk Americana, is torn between the commercial material that this movie pitch offers and the Woody Guthrie/Bob Dylan chronicler of the dark side of The American Soul that he longs to be and which he senses in Terrence Malick’s Charles Starkweather murder spree tone poem movie, “Badlands.”

As The Boss jams with his old friends in Asbury Park on weekends and writes during the week, taking delivery of a new Camaro, waiting for a motorcycle he’s having built for him by one friend and calling in another a tech friend (Paul Walter Hauser) to try out this new four-track “portable studio” cassette deck, he ponders his past if not his future.

That’s how he connects with an old classmate’s kid sister (Young, of “Assassination Nation” and TV’s “The Stand”) who turns out to be a single mom who’s not just a groupie, but a connection to working class Jersey and his roots.

Cooper does a much better job of suggesting what’s pulling Springsteen back down to Earth than the pressures, fear of and allure of super-dooper-stardom that could be staring him in the face.

White does a fair impersonation of Springsteen as a singer, and his interpretation of a man at war with his soul has him keeping Springsteen’s head down or cocked to one side, as if recoiling from that next blow. It’s awfully introverted and for as much screen time as he has for this impersonation, it creates a vacuum at the heart of “Deliver Me from Nowhere.”

Young’s character is merely sketched in with a “Sometimes you miss the things right in front of you” aphorisms. She gives more life to Faye than the script does.

Landau, a music critic who latched onto a rising star and made a career out of being Springsteen’s protector, champion and (in the movie at least) father confessor, is sympathetically written. But one wonders if Strong, who brought the vulpine Roy Cohn to life for “The Apprentice,” has heard gossip about Landau. He plays the manager and future gatekeeper at the Rock’n Roll Hall of Fame as poker-faced with a lower register nebbishy Woody Allen monotone, which makes one grimace at his flash analyses of what ails his meal ticket and his instant dissection of what this album that will come to be named “Nebraska” is really about.

Hauser, of “I, Tonya” and “The Naked Gun” and “Richard Jewell” kind of steals the picture in the absence of anybody else stepping up and really taking over. He’s the can-do gopher who gets the songs on tape, warns Springsteen repeatedly about the quality of analog cassette recording in that day and age and comes off as a hero for helping make the music intimate and primitive.

Former child actress Hoffman doesn’t have many moments to register as the mother. Graham plays the father as a figure of loathing and pity and nobody else (comic Marc Maron is a token presence as recording engineer Chuck Plotkin) has enough to chew on to make much of a mark.

Which leaves us with the creative process and the woman he left behind stories. Not exactly “The Greatest Hits.” Not necessarily the easiest way to make an icon relevent to new generations, either.

But for fans, “Deliver Me from Nowhere” is essential viewing, a Big Man and Big Star wrestling with the same fears and depression that dogs many of us, and having the means and the wherewithal to do something about it, even if that means leaving his roots behind for Los Angeles, a career peak and ageing into the classic rock “older brother’s favorite band” cliche.

Rating: PG-13, domestic violence, sexual situation, profanity

Cast: Jeremy Allen White, Jeremy Strong, Paul Walter Hauser, Gabby Hoffman, Stephen Graham, Marc Maron and Odessa Young

Credits: Scripted and directed by Scott Cooper, based on a biography by Warren Zane. A 20th Century Studios release.

Running time: 1:59

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It’s Bruce Springstone Movie time!

Springsteen? Never hear the name without thinking of this parody.

Hope the movie’s epic.

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Classic Film Review: Steinbeck played by MGM Stars in Brownface — “Tortilla Flat”(1942)

The lightest of heart and most lightly regarded classic John Steinbeck adaptation, “Tortilla Flat” (1942) came by its “underrated comedy” reputation with the passing years.

It’s an ethnic farce by a writer with an eye, ear and empathy for the underclasses.  But Steinbeck wasn’t Latino. And whatever his espoused opinions on “prejudice,” racial stereotypes riddle his fiction.

MGM, which filmed this adaptation with “Gone with the Wind” mainstay Victor Fleming behind the camera, didn’t have many Latin American performers on its payroll, and didn’t reach out to Cesar Romero, Dolores del Rio or Ramon Novarro, or “discover” Fernando Lamas, whose movie career began the same year “Tortilla Flat” was turned into a film.

Watching the film anew, I was struck by all the decades of conflicted reactions to Steinbeck’s depiction of the “paisanos” living on the fringes of Monterey at its fishing town peak could have been avoided had Anthony Quinn been cast in the lead instead of Spencer Tracy in brown face. Quinn was just emerging as a character actor “star,” and he’d have been perfect. PERFECT.

Tracy, who’d played “a Portagee” in “Captains Courageous” and would go on to take the Cuban fisherman title role in “The Old Man and the Sea,” gives a canny and sympathetic performance as the rascal Pilon, a homeless master manipulator and dedicated avoider of hard work in “Tortilla Flat.” But hearing his Spanglish and seeing his face next to the likes of Frank Morgan (“The Wizard of Oz”), Sheldon Leonard (“It’s a Wonderful Life”) and John Ford’s favorite “By yimminy” Norwegian John Qualen in skin-darkening makeup is jarring enough to take you out of the movie.

The characterizations, depicting a community of descendents of the original European settlers to California, and more recent arrivals — Mexican, Central American, and Chinese — teeter on the edge of straight-up stereotypes. There are righteous, hard-working women, good Catholics and the lazy, shiftless unhoused who’d rather siesta, finagle or swipe that next jug of wine than fish or cut bait.

A viewer coming to the film today has to rationalize the fact that the attitudes of the time that made the film were odious, even in liberal Hollywood, and that Steinbeck wrote “Viva Zapata!” and “The Grapes of Wrath” as well as “Of Mice and Men,” which oversimplified disabilities and “East of Eden,” which featured racist characters.

We’re in “Cannery Row” country in “Tortilla Flat,” the hills and woods overlooking Monterey and the sea, and the canneries and fishing boats that employed so many there through the 1940s.

Pilon (Tracy) is the sweet-talking, laid back hustler content to sleep in the open with his flunky Pablo (Akim Tamiroff), always with an eye out for the next bottle of wine or free meal. The kids love Pilon, and the ladies tolerate his sweet-talking charms.

But when they cross paths with a gringo lawyer (Donald Meek of “Stagecoach”), we figure out very quickly that Danny (John Garfield), whom they direct the lawyer to, would be well-advised to steel himself to all the complaints that his “good friends” stir up once they figure out why the lawyer needs to find him.

Danny’s grandfather has died and left him two houses in town. Danny’s in jail, but to a sweet-talker Pilon, that is a mere formality. Soon the jailor (Leonard, later a famous TV producer of “The Andy Griffith Show” and the like) joins Danny and his friends as they visit the properties and Pilon plots a way to throw a party. Trade this for wine, that for groceries, “borrow” this or that, taunt fishermen until they throw mackeral at you, sweetalk the widow next door out of water to clean and cook the mackeral.

“It is strange,” Pilon equivocates to manipulate Danny. “When a man is poor, he thinks to himself, “If I had money, I would share it with my friends.” Then the money comes and his beautiful thoughts fly away. He forgets his friends – who shared things with him when he was poor.”

It’s no wonder Danny and Pablo and jailer Tito (Leonard) and fellow tipplers Jose Maria (Qualen) and Portagee Joe (Allen Jenkins) are easy pawns for Pilon’s schemes.

But the pretty new lass from Salinas (Hedy Lamarr) isn’t fooled by Pilon’s conniving charm, and she’s not moved by Danny’s rough and handsy courting. He’ll have to spend money to impress her, get a job, look like a real prospect.

Pilon’s “She’s a Portagee girl. Portagee girls are no good...They’re They ALWAYS want to get married!” warnings notwithstanding, Danny is smitten.

As he tries to win her affection, Pilon is gathering more and more “friends” for more and more parties, outfoxing his mates as he “rents” one of the inherited houses and ponders the wealth of the village madman, The Pirate (Morgan), who lives with five dogs in an old henhouse on the edge of the woods.

The Pirate collects and sells firewood and never spends a cent. Pilon and his crew greedily consider what it will take to find and steal that stash.

The scheming, thieving and general japery of these rogues is contrasted with their empathy — they scramble to feed a stranger (Tito Renaldo, the rare Latino in the cast) and his motherless infant who are passing through — and their piety. The Pirate is a devout Catholic who has made a promise to St. Francis of Assisi.

Not everyone in this world is “paisano” or “Portagee.” There’s a gringo doctor who ponders how the kids can be so healthy with such fine teeth on a diet of beans and tortillas, and Dolores from Salinas has a white grocer-suitor.

And not everyone in the cast is in brown-face makeup. Garfield and Lamarr don’t wear it, for reasons scriptural (She is Portugeuse) and perhaps contractual. The fact that it probably never occurred to MGM’s leadership to not paint up their payroll and instead cast this picture with culturally appropriate actors hardly seems a defense.

The film’s sentimentality is, like its tone-deafness on race. wholly in step with its time. You can write off the picture, with good reason, for patronizing characterizations and corny attempts at Latin wisdom.

“They say that a little love is like a little wine. Too much of either makes a man sick.”

But the black and white production design, blending backlots, rear-projection of docks and passing boats and painted glass shots of forests, the distant town and the like, is beautifully realized. The performances are shot through with a sweetness that excuses some of the lapses into caricature.

And whatever prejudices Steinbeck was filtering, parroting or trying to see past, there’s no denying this aimless little slice of sentimentalized poverty has its warmth and charm. Tracy is dry and amusing, Lamarr earthy, Garfield his most hotheaded and Morgan sweet and saintly, as we’d hope any addled homeless man who loves dogs might be.

The book isn’t considered part of the canon of modern Latin American literature and Steinbeck, whatever his critical reputation, goes in and out of fashion. So it’s no wonder that “Tortilla Flat” has never been remade with a real Latin cast. It’s too patronizing.

But I’d argue that the 1982 film of “Cannery Row,” which took its setting, sentimentalized poverty and tone from “Tortilla Flat,” didn’t just lean on this earlier “problematic” classic. It sanitized and sanctified its sentimentality and reminded us that we as a people, like the characters in the books and the author himself, have evolved.

Well, some of us, anyway. And that’s reason enough to look back on this classic as the amusing, romanticized and racially-tone deaf snap shot that it was and remains.

Rating: TV-PG

Cast: Spencer Tracy, John Garfield, Hedy Lamarr, John Qualen, Sheldon Leonard and Frank Morgan.

Credits: Directed by Victor Fleming, scripted by John Lee Mahin and Benjamin Glazer, based on the novel by John Steinbeck. An MGM release on Tubi, other streamers.

Running time: 1:45

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