Movie Review: Is “The Linguini Incident” (1991) a “Forgotten Gem” of Bowie and Rosanna Arquette?

Barely released in theaters when it was finished and tossed out on home video in a flash, “The Linguini Incident” took on a cult film afterlife thanks to its cast — David Bowie co-stars with Rosanna Arquette, Buck Henry, Andre Gregory and Marlee Matlin — and its director’s insistence that it was badly recut and “dumped” by its distributor.

Trend-setter, style, pop and rock icon Bowie didn’t make a lot of movies, and here’s one that captures him in all his Thin White Duke Fending Off Middle Age glory, paired-up with Peak Arquette, the coquette of her age thanks to “Desperately Seeking Susan” and “Baby It’s You.”

So Richard Shepard, an award winning TV (“Ugly Betty,” “Girls”) and film (“Dom Hemingway”) director thought it would be worth going back and making a director’s cut of his film along with a 4K restoration that renders the 1991 release shiny and “new.”

Re-issued on Amazon, it’s being hawked as a “forgotten gem” of Bowie’s film career, a caper comedy/rom-com that saw him take a shot at playing a straightforward romantic lead. But is it? A gem, I mean?

No. It’s still a cult film, with virtues that can be magnified by whatever cult embraces it while ignoring the inconvenient truths about jokes that don’t land, a romance that’s a non-starter and the “cute” that it aspires to and sometimes achieves.

It’s very much of its era, a picture wallowing in the ’80s downmarket artsy chic of NYC best remembered in the forgettable “Slaves of New York,” and a caper comedy with “green card” implications, a “Green Card” without the heart.

Arquette plays Lucy, a waitress to the “trendsucking leeches” at the tony Manhattan eatery/bar Dali, run by co-owners and pretentious tyrants Dante and Cecil (Andre Gregory of “My Dinner with Andre” and Buck Henry).

The gay couple may profess a sentimentality about their staff. They hired a deaf woman (Marlee Matlin) who requires an ASL interpreter to fulfill her duties as hostess, for instance. But to a one “every waitress fantasizes

about robbing” the joint, thanks to its pricey popularity and skinflint owners, Lucy narrates.

Lucy’s living the Manhattan in the ’80s dream — waitressing by night, rehearsing by day. But she’s not up for cattle calls or “A Chorus Line.” Lucy dreams of being an heir to Houdini, an escape artist. To that end, she collects every artifact that tarot card reader and shopkeeper Miracle (veteran Swedish actress Viveca Lindfors) offers up that was once owned by “Mrs. Harry Houdini.”

Lucy’s act has her dressing like a ’20s flapper and trying and inevitably failing to pick a lock, escape a sack or slip a noose she’s gotten herself into, theoretically for the entertainment value of others. The first rehearsal we see ends with her almost hanging herself, shackled and helpless, in her apartment.

Perhaps the new bartender, Monte (Bowie), will come to her rescue. He introduced himself quoting The Doors.

“Hello, I love you.”

Bit his “I think I want for you to marry me” isn’t something Lucy falls for, as he’s lied to every waitress in the joint. He was a “test pilot,” performer in the “English rodeo” or “in a coma for eight years,” he’s said. He lies like he breathes. What he really needs is a green card wife, and in a hurry.

As she needs that one last expensive talisman — Mrs. Houdini’s ring — to ensure she’ll do a winning audition for some sort of lesbian burlesque review that three humorless Spaphic sisters are casting, and he needs money to bribe a bride, maybe they should rob Dali and split the proceeds.

Eszter Balint plays Vivian, Lucy’s flaky, avante gard bra designer (“Bayonet Bra!”) who is needed to play “the trigger man” for the holdup. As she’s warm for Monte’s form, she and Lucy will have to make a pact that they’ll keep until the cash is divvied up.

“No one in this room is going to have sex with anyone else in this room. We’ll be platonic. Like our parents!”

There’s cute banter between “Lucy the Ethereal” and “Monte…the emasculated.” There’s time for a wintry walk on the beach at Coney Island to seal the deal.

And when the robbery doesn’t go quite as they planned, at least one and all can take comfort in the fact that the New York newspapers have entirely too much fun writing punny or alliterative headlines about those who take from and traumatize the trendy.

The repartee amongst the leads, and between Gregory and Henry and Matlin and ASL joker Michael Bonnabel, is the fairy dust sprinkled over this somewhat stiff comedy that makes it endurable. Look for future “News Radio” star Maura Tierney and “Drew Carey Show” regular Kathy Kinney in tiny supporting roles.

But there’s a reason Bowie was always best in cameos, faintly kinky dramas or horror. He never had a “romantic lead” vibe, not in rom-com terms anyway.

Iman, the statuesque Somali model/actress he was married to and who pops up in a crowd scene at the restaurant would probably beg to differ.

Arquette effortlessly carries her antic, chatty half of the “couple” off. Bowie doesn’t, as he gets little help from the script and none from the pacing — which is too slack and sluggish when “screwball” was what this picture was meant to be.

There are moments that charm and depictions — “real” struggling artist New York apartments of the era, for instance — that add time capsule appeal to this “cult film.”

But sometimes, you’re better off leaving your cult film to live off its legend, its reputation and your insistence that it was “ruined” by others. Especially when the director’s cut evidence proves otherwise.

Rating: R, profanity, sexual situations

Cast: Rosanna Arquette, David Bowie, Eszter Balint, Buck Henry, Andre Gregory, Marlee Matlin and Viveca Lindfors

Credits: Directed by Rochard Shepard, scripted by Richard Shepard and Tamar Brott. An Academy release recut for re-issue on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:36

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Movie Review: A Dark, Cryptic ’60s Spy Spoof from Belgium, France, Luxembourg and Italy — “Reflection in a Dead Diamond”

The descriptor “spoof” carries certain implications and obligations with it, chief among them “wit.”

French filmmakers Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani have a way with a witty title (“Let the Corpse Tan”). And their early ’60s spy spoof “Reflection in a Dead Diamond” may be spot on in design, cars and villain names (Serpentik!) mimicking the era and its movies.

Its pretentions reach for equal parts “Danger: Diabolik” and “Trans-Europ-Express,” with the merest soupcon of Godard’s “Alphaville.”

But even though the spoof becomes broader as the spy in question becomes the subject of pulp fiction novels and even a movie within a movie, something — anything — funny gets lost in translation.

“Dead Diamond” is a thriller about an aged agent (Fabio Testi) triggered into a flashback about an infamous “case” and worries about the unfinished business and villainess who survived it.

What triggers this “diamond” laced mystery? The sight of a topless sunbather’s diamond-tipped nipple piercing on the beach.

Back in the day, John D. (Yannick Renier) was a spy among spies, cutting a dashing figure through the ’60s, zipping from assignment to assignment in his E-Type Jaguar. He took on the task of protecting a mogul named Strand (Koen De Bouw), an oil tycoon who insists he needs no protection.

With leather body-suited lady ninjas on the loose doing the bidding of Serpentik, Strand could not be more wrong.

Brawls begin as seductions and diamonds rend and tear flesh as John D. looks for clues, his quarry and the film’s plot.

Extreme close-ups and montages decorate the screen as the film skips in time back and forth from John D.’s long ago “case,” and the older John D. weighing whether this Serpentik still constitutes dangers and seeing himself rendered in paperback and big screen exploits.

The menace hiding behind the endless possibilities of the James Bond films of the era is what the movie is about, the sort of “man is going to the moon” optimism that has Strand declare that nuclear energy and spaceflight mean “‘the sky is the limit’ is now obsolete'” (in French with English subtitles).

But human “progress” has its sharp edge. A soprano’s (Céline Camara) minidress of mirrored discs is a weapon in all the slashing and straight-razor slicing and misplaced body parts recovered on the beach.

Maria de Medeiros of “Pulp Fiction” turns up as our villainess in winter, and a cliffside car chase tests an ancient Alfa Romeo and that E-Type and their drivers in what passes for a finale.

The acting is rendered reductivist in the editing, and the choppiness of the narrative leaves a lot open to interpretation as to what these self-conscious filmmakers were on about.

Buying into the trippiness of it all is kind of a must. But it would be a lot easier with a lighter touch, and perhaps a bit of workshopping the impressionistic script into something more than the merest “impressions.”

Rating: unrated, graphic violence, nudity

Cast: Yannick Renier, Maria de Medeiros, Céline Camara, Fabio Testi, Manon Beuchot and Koen De Bouw

Credits: Scripted and directed by Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani. A Shudder release.

Running time: 1:26

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Classic Film Review: A Holiday Favorite finds Renewed Relevance — “Trading Places”(1983)

The “greed is good” ’80s and the vast wealth gap of today created by the “trickle down economics” of the Reagan administration was just kicking in when“Trading Places,” an anarchic comedy about the greedy getting their just deserts, hit theaters.

An R-rated farce from the director of “Animal House” that cemented Eddie Murphy’s status as a movie star and Paramount’s most bankable asset, it smirked in the face of the Reagan era tide that brought official corruption, homelessness and racism “officially” back into vogue while the middle class was being dismantled right before our eyes.

So does this Christmas season-set high-concept comedy have something to say to Trump era viewers? You bet.

Dan Aykroyd gives his best-ever best performance as Louis Winthorpe III, an entitled Ivy League posh brought low as “a social experiment” by his cheating, entitled betters, his bosses, the Duke brothers. Old money and generational privilege is undone by older inherited money and status of historic weight in the playful, wholly-committed performances of Golden Age of Hollywood legends Ralph Bellamy and Don Ameche.

And Murphy, introduced with the grandest sight gag he’d ever pull off, would be the streetwise underclass foil to the entitled Dukes and their ilk as the other half of their “nature vs. nurture” “experiment.”

Could an impoverished underclass Black man — Billy Ray Valentine — with no higher education be dropped into the affluent white elite and thrive, once he’s given the same leg up that class offers? How quickly would a white child of wealth like Winthorpe “turn to crime” once he’s stripped of his wealth, status and unnatural advantages?

Bellamy positively twinkles as the “enlightened” brother of the duo who used inherited money and status to start their commodities trading firm. “We want to HELP you, Mr. Valentine,” Randolph Duke assures Billy Ray through the open door of their Rolls Royce limo. This is after he was unjustly arrested for mugging Winthorpe, who only has to accuse the man fleeing police (For panhandling in disguise, I guess?) who ran into him for Billy Ray to wind up in jail.

The Dukes gave Winthorpe his job and apparently his Philadelphia townhouse, as he’s set to marry their neice. All it takes is a word from them, assistance from their white collar crime “fixer” (Paul Gleason of “The Breakfast Club”) and cooperation from the townhouse’s British “gentleman’s gentleman” valet (an in-on-the-fun Denholm Elliott) and Winthorpe’s life becomes Valentine’s life.

Billy Ray will use street smarts to play the commodities futures market, and thrive. A framed-for-theft and drugs and now broke Winthorpe will have to rely on a “hooker with a heart of gold” (Jamie Lee Curtis, breaking out of the horror niche), albeit one who drives a hard bargain, to survive.

Winthorpe is no more able to save himself, right the wrongs done to him or avenge himself on his tormentors than any other working class/lower class mug would be. Until that fateful moment when Billy Ray overhears how the scheme was laid out and joins forces with Winthorpe with a line so universal it could be right out of the social justice comedies of the 1930s, one that rings just as true in the 2020s.

“The best way you hurt rich people is by turning them into poor people.”

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Movie Review: The Newly-Homeless Experience Life with “No Address”

“No Address” is a sentimental, well-intentioned melodrama about homelessness in America that doesn’t quite deliver on its “There but for the grace of one or two missed paychecks go I” premise.

It’s not exactly a “faith-based” drama, though visits a charitable church and it hits its message hard with stats and a plea for engagement and support in its closing credits. But it takes us through the trials of the newly homeless and the burden of long-term homelessness with compassion, if not a lot of originality.

The wheels come off Lauren’s life early on with her mother’s sudden death in her tweens. We pick up her (Isabella Ferriera) story on graduation day from high school. That’s the perfect time for her unseen state-paid foster parent to toss her stuff out and lock her out of the house because the state money has run out.

Toting black Hefty bags, with a phone that’s dying even as friends decline to help, Lauren’s a walking target on the mean streets of Sacramento, California. Goons of every stripe come for her until she’s rescued fleeing from her attackers through a homeless camp.

Harrison (Xander Berkeley) is a veteran and a painter down on his luck. Dora (Beverly D’Angelo) is a former actress lost in delusions of her brief time in Hollywood. Homeless addict/veteran Violet (Ashanti) isn’t that welcoming.

“She won’t last a WEEK!”

But 20ish Jimmy (Lucas Jade Zumann) doesn’t listen to that. What he sees and hears is another outcast from a society whose compassion runs cold to colder.

“I really should get going,” Lauren says.

“You sure you’ve got somewhere to go?”

Lauren finds herself with a new “family” looking out for her, showing her where to score a meal, a charity-provided sleeping bag and the like.

On the other side of the housed-and-unhoused divide is Robert (William Baldwin), an over-extended developer/hustler down to his “last chance” with his firm. His promised “all our problems will be solved” deal involves redeveloping the large lot where our homeless “family” lives. But his over-worked wife (Kristanna Loken) sees bills piling up and “final notice” mail coming in and has her doubts.

Like many movies about homelessness, “No Address” puts characters on the street because of their fear-of and refusal to go into a local shelter. The film makes no attempt to show the basis for that fear by the perfectly sane Lauren and Jimmy. As they’re being mugged and hounded at every turn, you’d think they’d realize a shelter has to be safer and more comfortable than winter camping on a vacant lot.

Developer Robert’s wife Kim is almost absurdly passive in her demands that he “fix this” mess he’s gotten them into. And the film loses its “This could happen to anyone” messaging when it lays out Robert’s addictions (booze and gambling) and character flaws (a self-centered lack of compassion) in a way that shouts “He DESERVES to be homeless.”

Melodramatic touches are everywhere, telegraphing every plot twist several scenes before it hits.

Ashanti is convincing as a woman trained to not take physical threats lying down. Ferriera and Zumann are caricatures of “They don’t deserve this” kids and Baldwin can’t find the humanity in a character scripted to leave that out.

Most every role is a trope if not a cliche, from the homeless-robbing goons to the problem-solving social worker (Patricia Velasquez).

Homelessness is a subject that falls in and out of the public eye thanks to a distracted, short attention span media and a shorter-attention-span public they try to reach. But once you know what to look for and who and what you’re seeing, it’s hard to miss, even in states (Florida, where I used to live) where government has decreed that this vast problem never be spoken of and thus never solved.

As far as movies raising awareness and promoting solutions and compassion on the road to finding those solutions go, it takes a lot more than good intentions to tell such stories in arresting, hearts-and-minds-winning ways.

“No Address” has the right intentions, but not enough of anything else to recommend it.

Rating: unrated, violence, drug abuse, profanity

Cast: Isabella Ferriera, William Baldwin, Ashanti, Lucas Jade Zumann, Patricia Velasquez, Xander Berkeley and Beverly D’Angelo.

Credits: Directed by Julia Verdin, scripted by James M. Papa, David M. Hyde and Julia Verdin. A Fathom Entertainment/Mill Creek release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:46

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Netflixable? “Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery”

Ordinarily when I review a film in theaters, I label that as “movie review.” Even when that film is heading to Netflix after a short theatrical run, Search Engine Optimization demands that you call it such.

But for most Netflix features and Netflix series, I headline reviews of that content with a “Netflixable?” label.

I make an exception for the third “Knives Out” film, “Wake Up Dead Man.” Because there’s little about this that begs to be seen in a cinema. It’ll keep until December when it starts streaming.

The targets are big, the cast is accomplished, but the mystery? Well, let’s just say it’s more “out there,” and by and large less interesting than in the first two films. And the wit that sparked the original film and gave that all-star cast all those moments to shine is mostly missing from a murder mystery that features “Fatal Attraction’s” Glenn Close, “Scandal’s” Kerry Washington and Andrew Scott of “All of us Strangers.”

The deadpan, foghorn-voiced comic Thomas Haden Church is wasted .Jeremy Renner is in over his head. Mila Kunis is forced to play the straightwoman. Jeffrey Wright scores laughs with most every line — and is only in a couple of scenes. And Daniel Craig’s Tennessee Williams homosexual Southern drawl can’t carry the picture because writer-director Rian Johnson insists on having a priest/suspect (Josh O’Connor of “Challengers” and “Emma.”) voice-over narrate the “plot” of the mystery and the list of other suspects — aside from himself — to death.

We can inFER, as drawling gentleman-detective Benoit Blanc (Craig) must, that having this most-likely-to-murder suspect narrate the story means he isn’t the priest who killed his Monsignor (Josh Brolin). But should we?

A judgemental, reactionary Monsignor (Brolin) of the Seize-the-Supreme-Court wing of the Catholic church is metaphorically “poisoning” his Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude congregation in tiny Chimney Rock, New York.

A foul-mouthed, two-fisted young seminarian (O’Connor) is sent to this rural hamlet as punishment and penance by his Archbishop (Wright). Father Jud Duplencity may question his Monsignor’s divisive hate and vitriol. But the paranoid Monsignor Wicks has no intention of letting Father Jud “take my church.” And to the Monsignor’s cult of close congregants, the new guy is just a “PINO — Priest in Name Only.”

When the Monsignor dies, mid-sermon, in a closed room to one side of the ship’s prow-shaped pulpit (borrowed from John Huston’s “Moby Dick”), Father Jud is the police chief’s (Kunis) only serious suspect.

It’s an “impossible” crime of the “locked room” variety. But the chief’s summoned “proud heretic” sleuth Benoit Blanc to parse the evidence and solve the mystery, even as it takes on more and more messianic tones.


“This was dressed as a miracle,” Blanc purrs.But it’s just a murder. I SOLVE murders.”

Whodunit? The doctor (Renner)? The disabled cellist (Cailee Spaeny) promised a “miracle?” Might it be the mystery novelist (Scott) who turned utterly fascist under Monsignor Wicks’ tutelage?” The slavishly devoted church secretary/bookeeper (Close)? Her slavishly devoted groundskeeper (Haden-Church)? The parish attorney (Washington)? Her right wing politico/influencer adoptive brother (Daryl McCormack of “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande”)?

The fiery Washington comes off best among the suspects, and Brolin — wild-haired and wild-eyed — dazzles as a priest drunk with power over the idea of “saving” the world from “feminists” and “communists.”

The film’s topical touches — conservative politicians and theologians playing a zero-sum game of demonizing those who question their dogma and look puzzled when a more deeply divided country suffers with every new conservative assault on a minority group — are the weightiest of any of these movies. The target is consequential, easy and yet slippery.

Writer-director Johnson lands only glancing blows.

The voice-over narrated “story” of this crime’s preamble wears out its welcome well before the midway point of the movie, where that’s explained and mostly dispensed with.

O’Connor does an OK job of suggesting a priest in conflict with his past and his deepest held beliefs — but only OK. The other suspects are barely glanced over and that takes all the wind out of blowhard Blanc’s gather-the-suspects, deconstruct their crimes “pronouncement” in the finale.

There are a few laughs and some chewy turns (Brolin, mainly) to sink our teeth into. But “Wake Up Dead Man,” for all its St. Paul Blinded on the Road to Damascus “case of pink-eye” zingers, doesn’t amuse enough to dazzle, and doesn’t get the best out of a cast that deserves better.

It plays. More or less. Craig has fun in the part, albeit less fun than in either of the first two films.

But it’s not worth seeing in a theater. And maybe Johnson should think about talking Netflix into giving him a blank (Blanc?) check to direct something other than new installments in this franchise.

Rating: PG-13, violence, murder most foul, and profanity

Cast: Daniel Craig, Josh O’Connor, Kerry Washington, Jeremy Renner, Mila Kunis, Andrew Scott, Cailee Spaeny, Jefffrey Wright, Thomas Haden Church and Glenn Close.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Rian Johnson. A Netflix release.

Running time: 2:22

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Movie Review: “Mad Max” Wars Over Water in the West — “The Protector”

It’s not quite worth waiting for the appearance of the late great Native American acting icon Graham Greene in “The Protector,” one of the last films he finished before dying last September.

As the reservation leader Brand, Greene is world weary and wise and sardonic, an old safe of the West presiding over the last aquifer in a region the locals have sucked dry. We hear him narrate the story, but he doesn’t show up until 68 minutes of really bad movie have passed before our eyes.

Writer-director Raul Gastreazoro’s debut feature — he made the doc “11-8-16” — is straight-up C-movie sci-fi, built around a grab bag of sci-tropes and cliches. It’s junk centered on a convict freed from prison to break into that reservation for a gangster who wants the water so he can rule what’s left of the ruined American West.

But Greene classes it up.

There’s also this silly sport of this not-that-distant-future, “Dirt Jousting,” featuring lance-armed riders standing on the hoods or roofs of vintage suicide-door Buick Rivieras hurtling at one another, a half-assed novelty worthy of George Lucas at his laziest.

The water’s all but gone. A plague called “The Rot” has spread through the land. The West is cordoned off, with Border Patrol merely shifting its checkpoints. The law is survival of the best-armed. And women are infertile, making this the “last generation” to live the American Dream.

Marguerite Moreau is Key, a veteran “dirt jouster” freed from prison by the finagling of Gael (Aryeh -Or, properly menacing) who wants Key’s knowhow about how to get into Brand’s reservation. The old man put minefields on all the routes in.

Moreau, whose credits go back to “The Mighty Ducks,” is credible as a fighting fury, often shot in silhouette, almost always in shoulder pads, mask or gas mask so we can’t tell if it’s a stunt woman doing the heavy lifting.

April Lee is Sona, the resentful sex worker Gael relies on as a lieutenant. Edgar Feliciano is Nayati, a Native-born hoodlum aiding Gael.

And Mark Keith Lane and Treci Lane play the nomadic (and real life) parents of Mark Lane III, that rarest sight in a barren land, a small boy. There’s a bounty on children who are wanted for scientific “study” to see if the human race can be saved.

Greene narrates this story of a place and time where there “ain’t much life to live.” We get it.

When another character cracks, “Those sci-fi movies, they got it right,” he’s merely pointing out that all the ideas stirred up here are stolen from better movies. Because “The Protector” gets pretty much everything wrong.

Rating: unrated, violence and profanity

Cast: Marguerite Moreau, Aryeh-Or, Edgar Feliciano, April Lee, Mark Lane III, Mark Keith Lane, Treci Lane and Graham Greene.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Raul Gasteazoro. A Vertical release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:43

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Netflixable? “Jingle Bell Heist,” a Caper Comedy Crying Out for Cute

“Jingle Bell Heist” is an over-plotted, under-charmed rom-com about robbing from the thieving, unaccountable rich and giving to the under-insured.

In soft drink terms, it’s a Diet Coke that’s gone flat — familiar, not particularly surprising or the least bit fizzy or satisfying.

Olivia Holt of “Heart Eyes” and TV’s “Cloak & Dagger” stars as an American living abroad with her English mum, picking pockets and pilfering her posh department store in a sort of rough justice against the insufferably rich.

Cell-phone-fixer and tech “security” wannabe Nick (Connor Swindells of TV’s “Sex Education”) is the Brit who spies Sophia on the Sterling’s store security cameras lining her pockets and occasionally punishing rude customers with her light fingers.

But Nick isn’t supposed to see that. He’s hacked his way in. He’s got a heist planned. Sophia may be coerced into joining him.

He’s got a grudge against the irredeemable “a–hole” who owns the place (Peter Serafinowicz). And she’s got a sick mum who needs a pricey experimental treatment to save her life, and doesn’t have time to wait for the National Health Service to get around to treating her.

But but “We moved back here for the free health care!”

Our mutually-mistrusting thieves consider one scheme, and then another and then a third when the first and second are complicated by the shady business practices of the Sterlings (Lucy Punch plays the libidinous Mrs.).

Attempts at “suspense” in the heist itself are ineptly handled.

The script and the leads strain to wring the “cute” out of this, but that’s in short supply.

I’d quote a funny line or two except there aren’t any. The capers involve attempted seductions — stage managed via microphone and earpiece — that fall flat.

Punch, one of Britain’s funniest, has nothing to play and Serafinowicz (“Guardians of the Galaxy”) has too few scenes to ma\ke his cruel cad funny.

Perhaps there’s entertainment value in swooning over our attractive leads or the assorted needle-drops that make up the score (Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concert in D has a certain action/comedy kick here).

But come on. Dressing a bad caper comedy in Santa suits doesn’t solve anything.

Rating: TV-PG

Cast: Olivia Holt, Connor Swindells, Peter Serafinowicz and Judy Punch.

Credits: Directed by Michael Fimognari, scripted by Abby McDonald and Amy Reed. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:36

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Classic Film Review: McDowell, Warner and Steenburgen Travel with H.G. Wells — “Time After Time” (1979)

The acid test for any beloved film from the past is “How does it hold up?”

In the case of the sentimental crowd-pleasing “Time After Time” from 1979, the answer is “pretty well.”

I remember being almost giddy leaving the theater after this one, a witty, well-acted romantic thriller wrapped in a sci-fi period piece package. The giddiness may be gone, but its old-fashioned-with-a-modern-edge charms endure.

The conceit — that science fiction novelist H.G. Wells built his “time machine” only to have Jack the Ripper rip it off and escape to the future — was quite clever. And of that era, perhaps Nicholas Meyer was the only writer/director who could have pulled it off — a smart, suspenseful, funny and touching date movie for a sci-fi filmgoing audience that had just experienced the old fashioned “gee whiz” delights of the Christopher Reeve “Superman” movie.

Writer-director Meyer would go on to an almost revered status in sci-fi fandom for his writing and directing work in the first generation of “Star Trek” movies. But he already had an Oscar nomination for scripting one period piece — the Sherlock Holmes “The Seven Percent Solution” mystery thriller — and an Emmy nomination for the great TV film about the Orson Welles radio broadcast of H.G. Wells’ “The War of the Worlds”(“The Night that Panicked America”).

Some of this film’s time-traveling-forward-to-modern-day San Francisco luster was lost when Meyer sort of repeated himself, giving the final script polish to “Star Trek IV,” a time travel romance that brought the U.S.S. Enterprise crew (in a Klingon ship) back to San Francisco. Co-star Mary Steenburgen echoed her performance here as a school marm love interest for Doc Brown in “Back to the Future III,” further watering down the novelty of “Time After Time.”

Doing a Q & A with screen legend Malcolm McDowell at a film school a few years back, he seemed put out that almost none of the aspiring moviemakers seemed to have caught this title from his resume. The star of “If…,” “A Clockwork Orange” and “Blue Thunder,” a mainstay in films, TV (“Mozart in the Jungle”), animation and video games and B-movies of every stripe rightly considers this one of the jewels of his resume.

McDowell plays a youngish H.G. Wells who gathers a few trusted friends for an 1893 “going away” dinner party in which the “free love,” religion-mocking socialist “futurist” shows off his time machine. He plans to depart Victorian England for a more civilized future. Humanity is no more than “three generations away from Utopia,” he figures.

His guests are skeptical, no one more than the late arriving Dr. Stevenson (David Warner), a surgeon who always beats Wells at chess “because I know how he thinks.”

The police break up the party, and the jolt of all involved realizing that that surgeon with the bloody white evening wear gloves tucked into his medical bag is in fact, Jack the Ripper, is nothing compared to Wells’ own shock.

Stevenson nicked the time machine to make his escape. Luckily, the capsule has a return to origin point mode, and it comes back. Wells must dash off because he has “unleashed Jack the Ripper on Utopia!”

Wells, hot on Stevenson’s trail, drops into 1979 San Francisco, where his time machine is part of an “H.G. Wells: A Man Before his Time” museum exhibit. Wells, a fish out of water dining at “that Scottish restaurant, ‘McDonald’s,” a Victorian English gentleman in spats and deerstalker hat, must turn Sherlock Holmes to track down his quarry.

That’s how he meets the modern liberated woman banker Amy Robbins (Steenburgen) who makes cracks about finding an interesting “straight” man in San Francisco, of all places, and comes on to Wells with purpose.

As the bodies pile up as the Ripper starts ripping through disco era San Francisco, nobody — not Amy and certainly not the SFPD (Charles Cioffi) — takes Wells’ story, when he finally dares to tell it, seriously. And even if he finds “Jack,” how can be best a murderous, unscrupulous cad who “knows how” he “thinks?”

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Documentary Review: Trapped in Gaza with Sport as a Possible Escape — “Yalla Parkour”

Everyday life in Gaza, pre-invasion, is vividly rememembered in “Yalla Parkour,” a documentary largely compiled from the climbing, backflipping and tumbling stunts of the Gaza Parkour Team, who captured their exploits on camera.

We see young Palestinian Arabs finding joy in a place of perpetual “death and destruction,” where Israeli reprisals and blunt oppression, occupation and violence were a miserable way of life and death long before the Oct. 7, 2023 lashout attacks on Israel, used as Israeli justification for the current slaughter, starvation and “ethnic cleansing” of Gaza.

The French-invented sport of “parkour” is this group’s means of escape. They practice their flips and backflips, beam-walking, clamboring and climbing among the ruins of this “war” or that one — a gutted, unfinished mall, an airport that never saw a take-off or landing, piles of concrete and rebar with only the sand surrounding them as a cushion should this latest climb or stunt go wrong.

They are “experts in turning pain into happiness,” Palestinian ex-pat filmmaker Areeb Zuaiter narrates from her Washington, D.C. home. She sampled years of clips of practicing stunts and actual stunts into her film, using a voice-over-narrated letter to her long-dead mother back in Nablus as the finished movie’s framework.

That hoary and sentimental framing device works against the movie’s impact, which is basically a story of young men taking risks with life and limb just to make attention-grabbing videos that will get them noticed and be their ticket out.

Zuaiter meets Ahmed Matar by phone, and their lengthy phone conversations over the better part of a decade tell the story of the Gaza Parkour Team — those who “got out,” those who wound up in the hospital, those who died (stay through the closing credits to see a shocking list of film crew and parkour athletes killed by Israeli violence) and Ahmed himself.

Ahmed longs to tour with the team, to get out at the invitation of people from outside countries, and battles endless red tape and near deliberate inefficiency as that “trip” — which could be one-way — is delayed again and again.

“There is no future in Gaza,” he says (in Arabic with English subtitles), stating the obvious.

In the early years of their phone calls, Zuaiter complains of her “outsider” status now, wishing she could return to her “magical place.” But the enormous risks of such a trip, even in the less conflict-torn intervals, kept her from seeing her late mother onele time and keep her from risking her status as an immigrant. Fear of being trapped back in a war-torn place with “no future” runs through the entire Palestinian diaspora.

But Matar’s footage from the early to mid 2010s captures the “beauty” of the beaches, neighborhoods and landscaped building developments. Endless conflict, periodic bombings and Israeli raids notwithstanding, those neighborhoods were teeming with life.

When Jinji, a ginger-headed Palestinian parkour climber gets badly injured in a fall, neighborhood life stops to get him help. And when he’s released from the hospital, he’s practically given a parade.

The parkour stunts that go wrong are more revealing than the underwhelming (by movie parkour standards) stunts they pull off. Painful, wind-knocked out or concussed “practice” is what it takes to learn these moves without helmets, safety nets or adult supervision.

Some will get out, some will stay and many will die when the vast escalation in violence of 2023 begins.

“Yalla Parkour” is most effective in showing us violence that has been visited upon these people for decades and the “toughness” it takes to survive and escape and even relocate to a place of relative safety and comfort.

Rating: unrated

Cast: Ahmed Matar, Areeb Zuaiter

Credits: Directed by Areeb Zuaiter, scripted by Areeb Zuaiter, Phil Jandaly and Johan Simonsson. A Kinana Films production

Running time: 1:30

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Movie Preview: Skarsgard, Pacino and Colman Domingo in Gus Van Sant’s “Dead Man’s Wire”

A “Dog Day Afternoon” true story/period piece about a hostage situation with political and predatory lending overtones.

With that cast, I don’t see how this Jan. 9 release can go wrong.

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