
Can’t wait to read and review the new book by Nicolas Rapold.
Great anime is always a grand escape, like visiting a museum where the artwork tells a tale.

Can’t wait to read and review the new book by Nicolas Rapold.
Great anime is always a grand escape, like visiting a museum where the artwork tells a tale.


“Caterpillar” presents itself as a gay man’s documentary journey of self-discovery, when it’s really about body dysphoria/dysmorphia and faddish cosmetic surgery taken to its extreme.
David Taylor, a Miami hairdresser is biracial, wrestling with a troubled childhood, acceptance and obsessive dissatisfaction with the way he looks. He dotes on his mother as he suggests something he’s about to do to improve his “confidence,” “feel good about myself” and change the trajectory of his life.
But his tolerant “in her way” mother lets him know that she gave birth to a “good looking man,” and no “cutting” of any sort will be tolerated. No “cut your penis” removal, no “boobs,” nothing like that. This hurts his feelings, but that’s not what he has in mind anyway.
David wants Avatar eyes.
There’s a company — BrightOcular — in India doing these implants that give recipients other-worldly eye colors. It’s a natural place for this sort of sketchy “cosmetic” short-cut, being a nation that worships beautiful pop stars and actors, many of whom have otherworldly bright eyes — most of them gifted on them since birth — and a country barely removed from Third World standards for medical oversight.
David buries himself in social media endorsements and online ads — this or that “influencer” who’s traveling there to have this “totally safe” procedure done, giving them “those beautiful eyes that will hypnotize.”
David and others from all over the world plead for the chance to have this done, and when he somehow is offered this service “free,” in exchange for online endorsements, he meets men and women from many cultures and races also anxious for this “life changing” surgery.
A Jamaican New York Princess complains of the hard life that led up to her free-spending present day.
“What can I be content with? Just MORE!”
An underwear model (male) and women who have had botox, dental — Go to BRAZIL. “It’s just the best!” — and other “work” done burble away at this latest thing they consider “worth the risk.”
The medical consultations in India, which our filmmaker sits in on, are blunt.
“This is just fashion,” an opthomalogist warns. And there are side effects. “Your vision is more important than what we are doing here.”
Some years back, NPR slipped a “hot new trend in LA” fake story in one of its April Fool’s Day news programs. “Belly button removal is all the rage,” they lied, for laughs. The next day I had colleagues at the major newspaper where I worked come up and gush about the hoax, with even the native Angelinos on staff who’d heard it convinced it was real.
That’s kind of what we’re dealing with here. If you can imagine it as something people would pay to “improve” their appearance and be among the first to plunge into a fad, “influencers” gay and straight — narcissists to a one — will happily and heedlessly plunge right in.
A documentary is only as good as its subject. And while filmmaker Liza Mandelup had near total access to David’s self-absorbed life and even films the surgery, it’s hard to identify with these dizzy fools.
The fact that the implant mill is popping three patients in adjacent chairs in the same operating room speaks volumes. David may need to learn the Hindu translation of “F-around and find out.”
Our central character goes through fresh trauma, adds tattoos and changes of hair color and scenery on his way to a new David. Is any of this what it takes to improve his life? Are those alien Avatar eyes a game changer? Guess.
The characters are exactly what you expect them to be — superficial, vapid, not the brightest bulbs but each a tragic heroine or hero of their own narrative. David owns up to being “my own worst enemy” in the opening credits and never transitions from needy, impulsive and “image” obsessed to anyone who wouldn’t irritate the hell out of even his most tolerant friends.
Two hours with him in a film of this cringy, dubious “fashion” procedure served up with “No problem/What are you worried about?” Indian-accented salesmanship to dopes gullible enough to endure it is cinematic eye abuse in its own right.
Rating: graphic eye surgery sequences, profanity
Cast: David Taylor
Credits: Directed by Liza Mandelup. A Good Deed Entertainment release.
Running time: 1:51
Mona Fastvold’s film biography of a prophet of her times, a founder of a Christian sect which endures in some corners of New England to this day, suggests passion and historical detail — well, save for the fully furled sails of a speeding brig at sea — and some grammatically challenged blurbed endorsements from early reviews.
I stopped at a Shaker village in Maine some years back. Quakers who literally “quake?” Fascinating subject for a movie.
Christmas Day.
This feel good drama, “inspired by a Huffington Post” essay titled “Thank You, Cancer,” is an unlikely “for your consideration” contender being rolled out during awards season.
Not a “name” most of us will recognize in the cast, but a production and its producers can dream, can’t they?



Most movies come to you, but challenging ones make you come to them. Even when they’re assaulting you in your seat, they demand your attention, understanding and interpretation to come off.
“Die My Love” is a broken romance and deep dive into dysfunction and madness by a filmmaker who always challenges us. Lynne Ramsay is the Scottish director of “We Need to talk About Kevin” and “You Were Never Really Here.” If she’s made a movie, we take it seriously. She’s earned that.
But there are many moments in this unpleasant-because-life-often-is melodrama where one gets the sense that our star-crossed lovers, played by Oscar winner Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson, are being barked at off camera by a Scottish accent demanding “Show me EXTREME. Go OFF!”
It’s a postpartum breakdown that plays like a filmed improv exercise, a movie that nobody behind the camera thought to advise its stars that sometimes reality this heightened starts to play like camp.
Based on a novel by Argentine Ariana Hawicaz, “Die My Love” gives us scanty clues to piece together a story that includes a lot we’re not being told.
Grace and Jackson are white-hot for each other, beautiful young people passionate about their naked time together. But a baby isn’t just the apple of their eyes and a bundle of joy/blessing in their lives. It’s a shock to the marriage, and in the case of Grace, a shock to the system.
The New York license plates on their SUV and “great American novel” cracks suggest they met in a city and she had ambitions as a writer. Now, they’re living in the small Montana town he grew up in, residing in an old, disordered house just across the village from the one he grew up in.
He’s on a job (Trucking, maybe?) that has him on the road several days a week. She’s stuck at home alone in her thoughts. Her impulses and passions have nowhere to go, her run-away imagination has no literary outlet. And there’s this demanding, helpless little thing that needs her attention and not just the marathon stroller walks she takes to the convenience store/market or over to her in-laws.
Pam (Oscar winner Sissy Spacek) is empathetic. “You know everybody goes a bit loopy” with a newborn in their life. But she’s carrying her own burden. Husband Harry (Nick Nolte) is a handful, settling into dementia in a house where Pam sleepwalks with the old Remington rifle as her only comfort.
That house Grace and Jackson live in? It was his uncle’s, something that sets Harry off every now and again. Because his brother, Uncle Frank, shot himself in it.
Jackson’s ardor has cooled with the weight of all they have going on. But Grace has the same impulses and passions. Finding condoms in his car’s glove compartment are sure to set her off.
The story of the marriage’s unraveling and Grace’s violent lashing-out as she becomes more disconnected with reality — or just too sensitive to it — is told old out of order. We can blame Jackson for straying, and buy Grace’s justification for craving the sexual attentions of the mysterious helmeted neighbor (LaKeith Stanfield) on a motorcycle. But there’s more going on there. There always has been.
She’s smart enough to be rude to the locals, from baby-loving shop clerks to peers who have gone through versions of what she’s experiencing and try to empathize.
“Babies are a lot,” one fellow young mom reminds her. “:I don’t think people talk about that.”
“They don’t talk about anything else.”
Seeing snippets of Grace and Jackson’s past, we get a glimpse of her future. She got drunk and out of control at their wedding. She likes to crawl around on her hands and knees, imitating a cougar on the prowl.
And in a flash, she can intentionally hurt herself or do something so out of control that they have a car wreck.
We sit on tenterhooks fearing for the baby they’re neglecting and the incessantly yapping dog he’s brought home because his impulse control is childish, too.
There’s no getting around the disquiet Ramsay goes for and achieves with this nightmarish primer on postpartum depression at its most extreme. But at some point, the shocks numb you in ways the tedium of the myopic, intimate story hasn’t. The gratuitous nudity becomes an imposition on an actress (pregnant during the shoot) who still mistakes putting it all “out there” for “fearless,” and an indulgence of a filmmaker who might have been better served not filming the most “out there” rehearsals.
Rating: R, bloody violence, sex nudity, alcohol abuse, profanity
Cast: Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson, Sissy Spacek, LaKeith Stanfield and Nick Nolte.
Credits: Lynne Ramsay, scripted by Edna Walsh, Alice Birch and Lynne Ramsay, based on a novel by Ariana Harwicz . A Mubi release.
Running time: 1:58




The stakes could not have been higher. The bloodiest war in history had just been brought to an end, and not all the “monsters” who launched it and conceived and carried out the worst genocide in human history had been killed or killed themselves.
A show trial in the city where their Big Lie and rabble rousing began, forcing the perpetrators to “tell the world what they did” could avoid letting the murderous leaders become martyrs for future generations in Germany, Japan and other places fascism could pop back up. But losing such cases could show the Allies “defeated by the very men we’ve just beaten” and all but invite a twisted revival of the horrors just visited upon the world.
The stakes aren’t as high for any movie about “Nuremberg,” but with fascism rearing its ugly head at home and abroad, you kind of need this latest take on the trial of the last century to resonate, deliver a message and get it right. And the best veteran producer turned writer-director James Vanderbilt could manage is a movie that saves its message for the finale, and swings and misses at showing us how that message was researched and formulated.
Oscar winners Russell Crowe and Rami Malek square off as Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, Hitler’s second in command, and the American psychiatrist Douglas Kelley sent to question him, examine him and keep him from killing himself before going to trial.
Göring is cocksure and grandiose from the moment he surrenders, stopping his tricked-out Mercedes limo and giving himself up to U.S. troops. Kelley is a glib opportunist who revels at the book he’s sure he’s just had dropped at his feet, joking about the work he is assigned and calling himself a “shrink” twenty years before the term came to be used for psychotherapists.
Kelley isn’t “played” by Göring, but he lets himself be charmed by the man who signed off on concentration camps and SS directives to enslave and slaughter those in them. The cat and mouse game of their “chats” can be flippant and funny as the trained therapist draws a bead on his quarry and the canny World War I flying ace, art connisseur, art thief and pompous member of the lesser nobility relishes the chanceto spin the doctor’s expectations and to have “as you say, my day in court.”
The narrative has our joking and shallow mental health professional journey to a grim appreciation of just what went on in those camps and the role his various “patients” from the heirarchy played in it. He reports to military prison warden Col. Andrus (John Slattery) and even to prosecutor Jackson (Michael Shannon) himself, with both of them wanting inside dope on the defense strategy and wondering about Kelley’s loyalties and his seriousness — book deal or not — as Kelley befriends not just Göring but his family.
And we see the pompous fat man who likes his uniforms and medals plot his manuevers to “escape the hangman’s noose” only to have his culpability laid bare in open court, with all the world watching and listening.
Shannon is Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson, assigned to prosecute the trials of the leaders of the Third Reich and surviving architects of Hitler’s “Final Solution.” Richard E. Grant plays one of his British counterparts, Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe.
The film’s great gift to this piece of much-filmed history is demythologizing Jackson, a figure the script and Shannon portray as well-intentioned, hard-nosed and out of his depth in attempting to try charismatic sociopaths that most of the world would rather had been rounded up and shot.
Jackson lobbying a Nazi-appeaser tainted Pope Pius XII is a scene that crackles. Too many others don’t. Leo Woodall plays a Jewish German-American GI/translator whose personal connection to crimes detailed in court lands flat. And Kelley’s epiphany about what Hannah Arendt would label “the banality of evil,” just ordinary lumps willing to commit and condone heinous acts of barbarism, is misplaced until the tacked-on finale, after he’s written that book.
There’s also a commendable effort to remember the broad scale of the genocide — mass murder of Slavs, Roma (Gypsies), homosexuals, leftists and POWs as well as Europe’s Jews — which is the way the world saw it then, as “concentration camps” were finally exposed as “slave labor camps” and even “death camps.”
The structure of the script delivers the trial scenes only after two not-quite-tedious hours of preliminaries. And even at a two and a half-hour run time, Kelley’s “realization” and outrage plays as so abrupt one can’t help but roll the eyes at the stumbling attempts at humor to show us the starting point of Kelley’s journey into this nightmare, which will make him serious in a flash.
Vanderbilt scripted and directed the similarly tone-death Robert Redford journalism lecture “Truth,” and one really wishes he’d stuck to rounding up financing for Fincher’s “Zodiac” and the “Scream” reboots. The guy who wrote a decades-later “Independence Day” sequel shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near material this serious.
Didn’t his “shrink” warn him?
Rating: PG-13, horrific concentration camp images, suicide, profanity
Cast: Russell Crowe, Rami Malek, John Slattery, Leo Woodall, Richard E. Grant and Michael Shannon.
Credits: Scripted and directed by James Vanderbilt, based on a book by Jack El-Hai. A Sony Pictures Classics/Walden Media release.
Running time: 2:28
She tried to get away, they shot her.
Now Mel and his daughter are mixed up in their “business.”



Pristine, sleek and stylish, “The Day of the Jackal” is a period piece that’s aged into a period piece about a period piece.
Director Fred Zinnemann’s film of Frederick Forsythe’s thriller novel recreates chic early ’60s Euro-travel, wining and dining as the well-heeled managed it. And it does so from the gritty confines of early ’70s cinema.
It’s a brutally efficient assasination story with a “Thomas Crown Affair”/Sean Connery Bond years sheen. Virtually every hired killer tale that’s followed has leaned on it, borrowed from it or just plain stolen plot elements, character traits and the ticking clock formula of the professional-who-must-be-stopped-by-other-professionals narrative.
Edward Fox became the template for assassins from “The Killer” (Chow Yun-Fat) to “The American” (George Clooney), “The Professional” (Jean Reno) and “John Wick” (Keanu Reeves) to “Grosse Pointe Blank” (John Cusack).
Our hunter/killer is a lone wolf, meticulous in his work and perfectly turned-out in a succession of tan suits, ascots ’60s and beltless, polyester pants — “Continentals” they were called. He knows the underworld, where forged passports and custom-built, easily-disassembled and concealed sniper rifles can be commissioned. But he travels in style, with leather luggage that tucks into his just-acquired Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider, perfectly coifed and notably dashing, the sort who of eye candy who can seduce seducable women or gay men at the local Turkish bath, when the need arises.
Zinnemann parks Forsythe’s cold-blooded killer in a lean narrative that takes us from the hire to the prep to the hunt for a man the French have figured out has been hired by traitors to shoot President Charles de Gaulle.
Some French military men turned on de Gaulle for conceding rebellious Algeria’s independence. We see their first attempt to kill him via an ambush of his convoy of black Citroens. The plotters flee, and decide to hire a non-Frenchman, a “professional,” perhaps the man rumored to have gotten away with shooting Trujillo just a couple of years before.
The man (Fox) meets the leaders in Vienna, names his price (“half a million U.S. dollars”), makes a point of fretting over how one kills a highly-protected, high-profile leader in a foreign country and gets away afterwards, and sets protocols for contacting them.
We follow the killer as awaits the Swiss bank deposit and plunges into his prep, from finding an English grave that will give him a new identity to contacting a Genoese forger (Ronald Pickup) and gunsmith (Cyril Cusack) to provide him with the ways and the means.
The French, fretting about what this cell of disgruntled military men might be plotting next, resort to kidnapping and torture to get the barest clues about what’s in the works.
A foreign killer has been hired. “Jackal” appears to be his code name. The interior minister (Alan Badel) puts whole departments of government on this case, including the foreign service. As clues point to an Englishman, assorted Brits (Tony Britton et al) are reluctantly dragged into the hunt.
The French finally call in their best investigator, Lebel (future Bond villain and “Ronin” scene-stealer Michael Lonsdale). The chase is on to catch this guy abroad, trying to sneak into France or already in France if there’s evidence somebody matching his “English” and “fair haired” description has already crossed the border.
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Callum Turner, Tim Blake Nelson and Jane Levy also star this is goof on a nation atrophying in a forever war, training its troops in a pricey simulation Iraqi town in the California desert.
Might have had promise, but Tim Heidecker’s in it. Dead give away only Vertical would release it.
Based on a memoir and thus a “true story,” this Jan. 23. release punches a lot of feel-good buttons, if the trailer’s any indication.