Movie Nation

I’ve had a soft spot for Mexican cinema star, director and producer Eugenio Derbez ever since his North American breakthrough, playing a “Dad” out of his depth with a tiny kid in “Intructions Not Included.”

His Hollywood-produced projects have been mostly mediocre in concept (lame remakes of “Overboard” and “The Valet”) or execution.

But his sentimental connection with kids paid off in the excellent awards contender “CODA,” and it’s back on display in “Radical,” a well-intentioned, touching, sometimes funny and somewhat incomplete “true story” of a teacher who dared to care about getting his students to think their way out of their working poor (mostly) lives in troubled, gang-infested and corrupt Matamoros, Mexico.

How bad are things within the inept, corrupt and generally immovable Mexican educational system and those who would oversee it and expose it? “Radical” is based on a North American journalist’s reporting and “Wired” magazine article that revealed this teacher’s part in a revolutionary rethinking of the way we teach children.

Many of the kids in the rundown José Urbina López Primary School in Matamoros, a city on the coastal edge of the long US/Mexican border, struggle to get to school every day in clean clothes, homework done and ready to learn.

Some are better off than others, but the poorest have parents who work split shifts, relying on their children to organize their lives and raise themselves. Another lives on the edge of a dump, her metal-recycler dad barely able to feed and house them as they pick over that dump for junk or broken and discarded treasures.

Tween boys are hitting the age when the local drug gangs are recruiting them to be boy soldiers in their war with rivals and cops in a town where armed police checkpoints and explosions of violence are a daily fact of life.

Those kids don’t know what hit them when they walk into the sixth grade classroom of new teacher, Sergio Juárez Correa (Derbez). He’s upended all the desks and left them in piles. He’s wild-eyed with panic.

“We’re SHIPWRECKED,” he bellows (in Spanish with English subtitles). Come on, kids. Help save us. WORK the problem. How many can fit in a lifeboat? WHY will that lifeboat sink if we overload it?

Thus begins this class of twelve-year-olds’ “real” education, driven by a sad-eyed but determined middle school teacher who’s watched Youtube videos of an educator who reminds us that it’s not just about teaching, it’s about getting out of the way of kids’ ability and eagerness to learn. Sergio’s taken a demotion to a primary school just to try this theory out.

Naturally, this runs Señor Juárez afoul of The Director of the School (Daniel Haddad). There are colleagues more than willing to tell him NOT to rock this imaginary lifeboat that drives the lessons in those first days. Mexican schools, like North American ones, lean on testing to “prove” they’re succeeding.

Aren’t you prepping your kids with the fact-memorizing needed to raise their (teacher bonuses dependent) ENLACE test scores?

“Radical” dares to show us teachers just collecting a check and enforcing “discipline,” a school librarian who stopped caring or even making an effort years ago and a nakedly corrupt administration that won’t replace the long-ago stolen workstations of the computer lab.

This maestro wants his kids to learn to think, to be able to figure out what questions to ask, how to ask them and know where to go and find answers. No computers and a dead weight librarian at school and little support from their parents are just some of the obstacles these students and their teacher will be fighting over the 2011-2012 school year.

There’s no getting around the fact that writer-director Christopher Zalla (“Blood of My Blood”) has made a very conventional Teacher Who Made a Difference drama. “Radical” is a little bit “Dangerous Minds,” a touch of “Freedom Writers” and a large portion of “Stand and Deliver” in the story it tells, the “types” of educators and students shown here and the obstacles they must overcome.

Jennifer Trejo plays the quiet, brilliant child of the garbage picker with dreams of becoming an astronaut or rocket scientist. Daniolo Guardiola is Nico, the tween who crushes on smart Paloma and makes an effort to go to school just to be near her. But he’s starting to have gang responsibilities which his older brother (Victor Estrada) can only help him with, not save him from. And Mía Fernanda Solís plays the short, quizzical kid who frets over matters ethical and — broadly put — metaphysical. She could be a “philosopher” some day, Señor Juárez encourages her to believe.

One great attribute of the film is how the story doesn’t hide much of the ugliness or the helpness despair of minds being wasted and kids who realize they can’t reach for their dreams.

Sergio can ask, “Isn’t everything impossible until it’s done?” But that doesn’t change generations of bad educational practices and grinding existences that come from being born into poor circumstances.

But “Radical” feels incomplete. The film doesn’t really “sell” these teaching methods. It tells us they work and expects the viewer to buy in. We can guess our teacher’s “sad secret” without it being talked about, even if we can’t figure out why the sweets-craving director of the school endorses this “radical” teaching method with too little struggle.

Good performances by Derbez and the kids recommend “Radical.” But wading through the cliches of the genre and stumbling towards that inevitable feel-good finale — blowing any “highs” the picture might celebrate, make it hard to recommend.

They’ve had two hours in this slow, formulaic and manipulative film to make their point. But as much slack as we cut them for their sweet, well-intentioned “hearts are in the right place” effort, they don’t quite manage it.

Rating: PG-13 for some strong violent content, thematic material and strong language

Cast: Eugenio Derbez, Daniel Haddad, Jennifer Trejo,
Mia Fernanda Solis, Victor Estrada, Enoc Leaño and Danilo Guardiola

Credits: Scripted and directed by Christopher Zalla, based on a magazine article by Joshua Davis. A Pantelion release.

Running time: 2:05

In his prime, the 1940s to the 1960s, Kirk Douglas only made a couple of films that would have tipped his fans that he was born Issur Herschelevitch Danielovitch, and that among the things his name-change brushed over was his Jewishness.

By the time he made “Cast a Giant Shadow” in 1966, American anti-Semitism was on the wane, and Israel — whose founding was the subject of that film — was an accepted reality to much of the world.

But in 1953, box office star that he was, making a movie in Israel, playing a disturbed Holocaust survivor on the lam from the Israeli police in the still-new Middle Eastern state had to be risky, or at least raise eyebrows.

“The Juggler” was a production of Stanley Kramer, a filmmaker whose movies about political and social hot button subjects made him the conscience of Hollywood. The Jewish producer who would touch on the debate over creationism (“Inherit the Wind”), race (“The Defiant Ones,” “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”) and the horrible toll of a nuclear war (“On the Beach”) would only approach the Holocaust indirectly. But he made three films that referenced it and used it as a plot point — the later “Judgement at Nuremburg” and “Ship of Fools,” and 1953’s “The Juggler.”

That first film is both conventional in its structure, and an odditity. It was, according to many accounts, eagerly-embraced and backed by the still-new Jewish state for its potential propoganda value. Currying American favor and maintaining U.S. support (a big subtext of “Cast a Giant Shadow”) was vital.

It’s filled with wholesome images of tough but compassionate Israelis, many of them living there since well before World War II, running an efficient infrastructure for processing and relocating Jewish refugees from Europe and their adorable moppet children.

Characters sometimes speak in that stereotypical shticky Hollywood version of Jewish English, practiced since the early talkies and kvetched through “Seinfeld” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm.”

“Cows we haven’t got. But maybe soon?”

“We need a juggler like a hole in the head. What can you do besides throwing things up in the air and catching them?

Douglas has a role he turns out to be wonderfully suited for — a formerly famous entertainer who survived the camps with his gregarious gift for entertaining children intact, even if he’s vowed to never juggle again.

“I haven’t thrown anything thrown anything up but a bad meal in ten years!”

We soon learn the reason for that. Hans confuses a local woman for his wife and her child for his daughter. A friend from the ship has to shake him and remind him that they died and were “burned in the ovens.” He later confesses that he was sure they’d be fine in Germany. He was famous — “The Wonderful Hans” — and beloved after all. It’s implied that he “juggled” the decision to leave, and waited too late.

And now, in this new place that is to be his home, he is — as we say these days — triggered by all sorts of things, especially cops.

“Israel is a land of POLICE. You’re all NAZIS!”

Fleeing a policeman (Richard Benedict) who wants to see his papers, he is cornered and gravely injures the man to escape. Hans Muller, German Jew who speaks no Hebrew, is on the run in a somewhat friendly country that is still a desert, a war zone and few people’s idea of a “Promised Hand.”

Douglas does a good job with the juggling that we know he’ll inevitably perform, and a great job with the clowning Hans does to entertain children. The emotional scars of this “dangerous” fugitive have all the subtlety Douglas was often associated with — over-the-top, eyes-bulging, bellowing and spitting with emotion — hammy.

An orphaned boy (Joseph Walsh) offers to guide Hans and translate for him. A kibbutz maiden (Milly Vitale) falls for him and urges him to make his home with her in a commune where Jewish folk dances by the bonfire are a regular thing.

“A home is a place you lose,” he says. “A half a heart doesn’t make a full love.”

“The Juggler” depicts an Israel swept up in community and Israeli enterprise, a new nation filled with optimism, with the young woman Ya’el remarking on her mission to visit an “abandoned” (over-run and emptied during the 1948 founding war) to “see if it’s habitable.”

So yes, the “propoganda film” label still fits.

Orson Welles’ pal and Mercury Theatre regular Paul Stewart (born Paul Sternberg) plays a police detective determined to get his man and “get him some (psychiatric) help.” Veteran character actor Charles Lane (born Charles Gerstle Levison) also signed on to a movie that may have had the feeling of a “cause” at the time the company set off for Haifa, its primary filming location.

The soon-to-be-celebrated Kramer entrusted the film to the Ukranian-American (not Jewish) director of the anti-Semitic hate crime thriller “Crossfire,” Edward Dmytryk and director of Kramer’s WWII drama “Eight Iron Men” to handle the shoot, and would bring Dmytryk back to film Kramer’s celebrated adaptation of “The Caine Mutiny” a year or so later.

Keen-eyed viewers will recognize the eyewitness to the assault on the policeman, a Dutch “tourist” played by John Banner, who says everything but “I saw NOTH-ink!” in an effort to get out of helping the police. “Hogan’s Heroes” was still a decade away at this point.

“The Juggler” isn’t one of the great films of Kramer or even of its era. But Douglas’s magnetic performance and the mere fact that this ground-breaking, well-intentioned thriller exists makes it a classic, a peek at an uncomplicated moment in time when Israel could be considered an embattled underdog state set up to right a great wrong and provide a homeland for people hounded throughout history and murdered by the millions as Hitler’s scapegoats.

The messy business of working out whose “abandoned villages” they were helping empty would only come later.

Rating: TV-14, violence

Cast: Kirk Douglas, Milly Vitale, Joseph Walsh, Richard Benedict, Jay Adler, John Banner and Paul Stewart.

Credits: Directed by Edward Dmytryk, scripted by Michael Blankfort, based on his novel. A Columbia release on Tubi, Amazon, etc.

Running time: 1:26

Netflix wasn’t going to get its hands on Disney’s “Star Wars” intellectual property in any form any time soon.

But Zack Snyder apparently had this “Star Wars” pitch that he could rewrite into something “original,” a two-film two part saga, with the first film streaming in Dec.

It’s built around Sofia Boutella, with Ed Skrein, Djimon Hounsou, Jena Malone, Cleopatra Coleman, Cary Elwes, Charlie Hunnam and the voice of Sir Anthony Hopkins.

Check it out, Snyder cultists.

“Sitting in Bars with Cake” is a cutesy but limp rom-com with a heaping helping of “Big Sick” seriousness meant to knock us down off a sugar high it never achieves.

Based on a memoir by Audrey Schulman and thus having hints of a “true story” in its diversified-for-the-big-screen casting (a good thing), that “this really happened” becomes a manipulative crutch for a rom-com that’s not funny or romantic and a dare to not embrace a “cancer scare” movie that clumsily handles pretty much everything that matters.

But hey, the cakes look yummy and Ron Livingston steals it without even trying. So there’s that.

Jane, played by Yara Shahibi of “Blackish,” is the “mail fairy” at the LA music management office where her bestie from Phoenix Corinne (Odessa A’zion of “Hellraiser” and TV’s “Fam”) is kissing up to boss Bonita (Bette Midler, as amusing as the material allows) so that she can become a junior agent.

Jane’s just treading water until she takes the LSATs, so that she can follow her parents into the law. But working at a party-prone office means that she’s designated cake baker. Whatever bar they’re celebrating whozit’s’ birthday or whatszit’s promotion in, baker Jane is there with one of her elaborate cake carriers carrying her latest elaborate cake.

“Fun fact, I actually substituted sour cream and pudding to make the cake more moist!” isn’t exactly a pick-up line, even if Jane is the cutest, skinniest baker of sugary delights in all of Silverlake.

Corinne and her crew are concerned. She impulsively proposes a “bring cakes into bars” strategy to find her bestie a boyfriend, a way to “bait guys with sugar” and her make confectionary skills.

That’s not a bad idea, fake “parties,” offer cake, “meet new people.” But it will be a challenge, as Jane’s wardrobe follows her “If it works for Mister Rogers, it works for me” motto.

But let’s put a map on the wall, cover it with karaoke bars and piano bars, tiki bars and burlseque bars, decide which ones are filled with “actors” or “musicians” or “tech nerds,” and work our way through Jane’s youtube-tutored recipe repertoire.

“Sittings in Bars with Cakes” lapses into montages of the bars, montages of making cakes for the bars, a parade of guys who love the free dessert but who rarely make the leap to digits or (unfortunately) “dick pics.”

You’re thinking, “Well, this might have been ‘Swingers’ from a female point of view, twentysomething female bonding taking us on a tour of (fictional) LA barlife, with a sort of ‘personal growth/find love’ set of story arcs.” OK, maybe that’s just what I was thinking.

But in any event no. And Jane isn’t necessarily pining for the law, if you hadn’t guessed.

Just as that opening act is failing — ever so sweetly — Corinne gets sick, her parents (Ron Livingston and Martha Kelly) show up and Jane’s plans, her cakes, her pursuit of the office crush Owen (Rish Shah), all of that falls into the back seat as the film mimics life in this one important regard. Cancer always has the front seat.

There’s maybe one laugh to go along with the dry giggle or two in the movie’s opening act “cake baking bait” story.

Livingston (most recently in TV’s “A Million Little Things”), playing a body-shop/garage owner with a need to fix every broken or wobbly public chair, water fountain or diner table is funny and nicely complemented by the ever-dry-and-deadpan Kelly (“Euphoria,” “Marriage Story”).

Even making allowances for a man reviewing a film with “young women’s picture” messaging and target audience, there’s no getting around the many examples of botched execution (script and Trish Sie’s direction of it) that “Sitting in Bars with Cake” shows us.

There are laughs left on the table, peripheral characters introduced and ignored and shortchanged cooking sequences in a two hour movie that could use more “cute” stuff like this, more rowdy-barflies-get-cake gags, more of almost everything save for the leads, who click but who never ever set off sparks.

The sad stuff works, just not well enough to make tears well up.

And wasting Midler and Livingston in middling roles with almost no funny things to say or play is just the icing on the you-know-what.

Rating: G-13 for profanity, some drug use, sexual references and thematic elements

Cast: Yara Shahidi, Odessa A’zion, Rish Shah, Martha Kelly, Ron Livingston and Bette Midler.

Credits: Directed by Trish Sie, scripted by Audrey Schulman, based on her memoir. An MGM film on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 2:00

François Ozon’s latest is a period piece about “a bad actress” and a bad or at least unscrupulous lady lawyer who use a false murder accusation as a way to gin up publicity and score feminist points for equality.

Shockingly, the men and “the system” fight back.

Ozon, best known for the musical “Eight Women,” and “The Swimming Pool,” “Young and Beautiful” and the like, cast Nadia Tereszkiewicz and Rebecca Marder as the leads, with Isabelle Huppert, Dany Boon and Fabrice Luchini in the supporting cast.

“The Crime is Mine” opens in limited release Dec. 25.

Composer, Broadway icon, America’s Conductor, champion of orchestral music, New York landmark, poster boy for Tom Wolfe’s “Radical Chic,”Leonard Bernstein WAS classical music in America for much of his celebrated tenure at the New York Philharmonic.

He was the first famous American conductor on the world stage, a regular feature on America TV in the decades before cable, streaming and everything else that atomized the great American “audience” into a million cultural, musical and entertainment niches. And he was immortalized by his thrilling music to “West Side Story.”

He was famously playful, but exacting and deadly serious about the score. Note the “take number” on that recording session.

As I prep for the task of judging Bradley Cooper’s “Maestro,” I thought I’d share some of the background material and video this holiday release film experience prompts me to revisit.

The movie hits theaters and then Netflix at the end of the year, so you’ve got time to do a little prep. There are legions of Lenny biographies and books by Bernstein on Amazon. I recall reading “Dinner with Lenny” and Joan Peyser’s biography of him some while back, fine overviews of a Life Lived Large.

Like a lot of kids growing up in the America far away from the big cities of the ’60s and early ’70s, some of my first exposures to culture were in the dashing, witty, effervescent and effortlessly cool Leonard Bernstein’s “Young People’s Concerts” on weekend network TV.

Bernstein was a great communicator and had a way of making The Great Music understandable and palatable to the young. He was always dressed in a suit or a tuxedo, spoke like a teacher confident that his students would “get it,” and made Great Art, Great Music and his Great City’s Lincoln Center aspirational — a secret code you wanted to master, a nirvana you want to visit or live in.

I hadn’t realized he’d been doing this for over a decade before I was one of the “young people” who caught my first telecast. The concerts themselves continue, even though they don’t have the star conductor/network TV deals they once.

Bernstein’s shows are archived on YouTube, a public service tucked into a sea of cat and cocker spaniel videos.

This is one I seem to remember. The Musical Mister Rogers was talking up the music of “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

The title card/logo of this long-running series gives us an idea that maybe the people raising hell about Cooper’s fake nose in the title role of his movie have a point. Bernstein had a large but not oversized schnozz, and Cooper’s prosthetic seems to come to a more pronouned point in the beak. At least from some angles. But not all.

In college I picked up on something it took a Dick Cavett autobiography which I read to point out to me. The Midwesterner Cavett, who’d later use music from Bernstein’s “Candide” as his chat show theme music, aspired to the high culture and sophistication Bernstein was advertising in his every public appearance. New York could seem like the center of the universe, luring people with a show business Jones like Cavett. I got that. But the city’s brand-in-full was as a place of great museums, great art, great shows and the greatest highbrow music the arts had to offer, something Bernstein became the public face of.

Unconciously, I absorbed that, too. I never particularly wanted to live in New York, but great music is everywhere and at least in the way Bernstein pitched it, merely seeking it out and learning an appreciation of it was an aspiration worth reaching for as well.

No, you don’t have to be a conductor or classical musician or even live in a city where great museums and great orchestras reside. But somewhere between “acquainted” with that world and well-versed in it was something one could read, listen and travel towards.

You could barely pick up a public radio signal where I grew up, but that’s what I went to high school workshops to learn about and what I went to college to pursue as a career. While learning how to pronounce Mahler’s “Das Lied von der Erde” and tortorous names like that of conductor Gennady Rozhdestvensky, I’d go hear the Moscow Philharmonic, the Vienna Chamber Orchestra, the Cleveland Orchestra, the Philadelphia Orchestra and continue doing that in public radio cities where I worked after graduation.

That’s all because of Leonard Bernstein.

As I changed careers and moved into print criticism, I reviewed classical music concerts and interviewed figures from that world — pianists, conductors, flutists and Pavorotti. The first time I went to New York was to cover the New York Film Festival, previewing films at that very same Lincoln Center which was home to the New York Phil. On a long lunch break between films, I took a pilgrimage tour of Carnegie Hall.

All, consciously or subconsciously, because of Lenny.

Bernstein’s sexually diverse personal life was complicated in ways our more accepting and understanding time can barely fathom, and that appears to be the a larger interest of Cooper’s film. I get a little “De-Lovely” vibe from the trailers, remembering that Kevin Kline/Ashley Judd Cole Porter biopic of twenty or so years back, a closeted gay man and the understanding and supportive wife.

But futile hope or not, I hope Philly suburban Cooper “gets” this other aspect of Bernstein, what he represented, striving for a place in a world he didn’t grow up in, aspirations he recognized as his duty to pass on to new generations via humanizing and lionizing “highbrow” music. This Massachusetts-born son of Ukranian-Jewish immigrants looked at high culture the same aspirational way in his youth, an icon who took his stewardship and status as ambassador of “that world” to those who weren’t born into as seriously as he took everything else

Literary devices and constructions don’t always translate easily to the screen. And the current screenwriter obsession with making many a script play out in “chapters,” denoted in pointlessly distracting onscreen graphics, is one of the clunkiest.

Even when you’re adapting a novel, that novelistic organizational tool tends to get in the way of the narrative, an unnecessary indulgence for audiences used to changing points of view in telling and retelling a story, going all the way back to “Rashomon.”

Five chapter headings labeling differing views and clues about a murder in the Mexican boondocks mute the impact of “Hurricane Season,” an immersive but arms-length Mexican thriller based on a novel by Fernanda Melchor. It’s a slow-unfolding mystery that strains to hide its solution by relying on first a seemingly unreliable narrator, then by adding agendas, motives and suspects to our theory of “whodunit” in a series of profiles built on this or that person’s involvement in the killing.

On the cusp of “Temporada de huracanes” (hurricane season), tweenage boys find the body in a fetid, discolored river, a snake crawling out of its mouth. The whispers tell us that it was “la bruja,” a witch who lived on the edge of town, whom nobody called by name but who threw parties, had clients and connections and friends even.

But when “friends” show up to collect her body from the cop, they won’t surrender it.

Yesenia (Paloma Almvamar) comes in to the police station to give her statement and a theory. She figures her resented cousin Luismi (Andrés Cordova) was involved. The way she throws around how this teen is “grandma’s favorite” (in Spanish, or dubbed), the way she attaches the same gay slur to him that others have laid at the foot of the dead witch — “maricón” (a homophobic slur) — suggests maybe she has ulterior motives.

“Hurricane Season” then begins to unravel what really went down that caused a transgender “witch” (Edgar Treviño) to wind up in a muddy river in the least enlightened corner of Mexico.

The different points of view of the events that led to this murder fold in prejudices, superstitions, abortion and gossip about money, any one of which or combination could have been the witch’s undoing.

When they want to party with no inhibitions, they come to her house. When a teen needs an abortion in Catholic Mexico, there’s a knock on her door. When pretty boy Luismi and others need quick cash, she’s willing to help.

Homophobic name-calling is all well and good, but beware of the dude quickest to bark “maricón,” because we’ve all learned the psychological definition of “projection” over the past seven years.

Any and all of those things contribute to her murder.

“Don’t Blame Karma” director Elisa Miller has some trouble giving the viewer someone to root for or some goal one hopes the story achieves as virtually nobody in this is noble enough or human enough to be worthy of our sympathy and loyalty.

The witch? We’d root for her, but we know she’s dead. We never learn her name. And the script doesn’t let us catch more than a few glimpses of her personality and compassion.

The character I connected with most was the teen girl Norma (Kat Rigoni), fleeing to this town for reasons we can guess, only to be hounded by predatory creeps the minute she gets off the bus.

She has problems and Luismi, living down to his cousin’s appraisal of his character, is a little too eager to take her in. It’s his hooker-mother (Reyna Medizaba) who gives the fourteen year-old the straight dope.

In this town, in this country, in this life, “If you lose your nerve, they’ll crush you.”

The screenplay teases at a sort of insurance company settlement of sorts, this person bearing that much responsibility, that one tying in another way with a greater or lesser share of the blame.

But the structure of the story and the storytelling style muddy our easy grasp of where this is going and what it’s saying when it gets there.

It’s not enough to merely introduce gay characters, gay themes and the pressures exerted by a sexist, macho, patriarchal society. You’ve got to wring a moving story out of their plight. “Hurricane Season” doesn’t.

Rating: TV-MA, violence, sex, profanity, slurs

Cast: Paloma Alvamar, Andrés Cordova, Gustavo “Guss” Morales, Kat Rigoni, Ernesto Meléndez and Edgar Treviño.

Credits: Directed by Elisa Miller, scripted by Daniela Gómez and Elisa Miller, based on the novel by Fernanda Melchor. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:39

Cannot. Wait.

Great cast. Real ambition here. It looks soulful. And I see an unerring grasp of the man’s voice and walk and way of carrying himself.

“This Sporting Life” sets up as a formulaic hardscrabble “rise and fall of a sports hero” drama, the tale of a miner who gets his first taste of success and the “good life” of the English upper classes via stardom on the rugby pitch or “patch,” as ruggers say in Jolly Olde.

But Lindsay Anderson’s 1963 film, based on a David Storey novel, endures because it breaks that formula is ways never seen before and seldom seen since. A classic of the “Kitchen Sink Realism”corner of the cinematic British New Wave of the early ’60s, it embraces tropes and defies expectations at every turn.

The matches are brutish, muddy and bloody, filmed in close-ups and hand-held shots capturing the organized chaos and barely-contained violence of the sport in those days.

The world they’re played in just as brutal, hanging on the ingrained class divisions that dabbling in socialism and the coming “Swingin’ 60s'” would never quitely vanquish.

And the focus, the star of the story is another classic “angry young man” of the British cinema of the day, a brooding, broad-shouldered goon who wonders where “happiness” fits into all of this.

Richard Harris had perhaps his best role and gave his finest performance in this grinding downbeat drama about a bloke from the pits who doesn’t “enjoy being kicked about on a football field for other people’s amusement.” He only enjoys “being paid for it.”

Frank Machin takes it all too personally — the slights on the field, the snobbery off of it. Signing a fat contract and changing his life is meaningless without someone to share it with.

It’s a pity the person he’d love to drag along on this ride is his widowed landlady. Margaret Hammond (Rachel Roberts), mother of two young children, takes him in and lives off the rent he pays. She isn’t grateful for this or attracted to him. Her rebuffs should tell him that. The way she keeps her late husband’s boots polished next to the coal-burning heater in her dumpy flat tells him and us why.

“This Sporting Life” is about Frank’s rise, his stick-it-in-the-face-of-the-posh attitudes that keep him unspoiled, aka “loutish” and “gauche.” And it’s about his grim pursuit of “Mrs. Hammond,” an uncompromising man who has broken through a class barrier and who desperately wants to drag an unwilling woman through it with him.

It’s bracing to watch any “sporting” film of the era, or before, on either side of the pond, and then take in Anderson’s debut feature film. “This Sporting Life” is “the shock of the ‘new'” incarnate. Like the icons of the French New Wave who preceded him, he’d started his working life as a journalist and film critic, taking his shot by making short films, working his way into British TV before making a gigantic splash with this socially-conscious story set against a rugby backdrop.

The sets are working-class/lived-in — dumpy post-war flats, ancient pubs, the mansion and pricey restaurant where Machin encounters his “betters,” chief among them, the team’s vulpine “owner” (Qlan Badel). The games are in-your-face and yet sprawling and utterly credible, unlike Hollywood’s sports movies of the day.

Cinematographer Denys Coop’s black-and-white set-ups are unfussy and realistic, with the odd beautiful composition filled with contrasts and pictorial symmetry.

Harris brings the chip he kept on his shoulder for his best performances, and his very life makes the credibility of an arrogant, brooding, drunken brawler with a soulful streak and impulse control issues credible. The irony of this infamous boozer, nose-buster, lover and singer (he sings in the film, “Here in My Heart,” and late made “MacArthur Park” famous) living long enough to be the first Dumbledore at Hogwarts still boggles the mind.

Anyone not around at the beginning of her career might remember Roberts’ deliciously villainous turn in “Foul Play” or her standing-out the first big budget version of “Murder on the Orient Express” in the ’70s. In her Oscar-nominated turn in “This Sporting Life,” she is fiercely guarded and immovably unlikeable, a damaged woman pursued by a man who will never be the kind and “worried” husband she lost.

Margaret Hammond will rarely be grateful and never really warm to this younger man/suitor, and not just because of his temper, his table manners and his womanizing.

Roberts, who died at 53, has the distinction of appearing in a number of pictures now regarded as classics — “Picnic at Hanging Rock,” “Saturday Night and Sunday Morning,” “O Lucky Man!,” “Our Man in Havana” and “Wild Rovers” among them.

Anderson would make his mark in the ’60s (“If…”) and early ’70s (“O Lucky Man!”) and deliver a final grace note in the late ’80s (“Whales of August”), spending his post-“Lucky Man” career acting, narrating documentaries and making lesser known films for British TV and theatrical release.

Coop, who did yeoman’s work on many a film (“Guns of Navarone”) would go on to light and shoot the gorgeous Christopher Reeve “Superman” movies.

But once upon a time, long before, these future legends joined hands and lent their talents to a watershed film, one that still packs a punch and makes you think over 60 years later.

Rating: unrated, violence, sexual assault

Cast: Richard Harris, Rachel Roberts, Alan Badel, William Hartnell, Colin Blakely, Vanda Godsell and Jack Watson

Credits: Directed by Lindsay Anderson, scripted by David Storey, adapted from his novel. An Independent Artists film on Tubi, Amazon, Youtube et al

Running time: 2:14

At this point in Dreamworks’ “Trolls” enterprise, the adult thing to say is “Just give the kids what they want.”

“Trolls Band Together” has a few chuckles, an inane plot and an NSYNC reunion to top off another sing-along-with-the-living-toys comedy starring the always-committed Anna Kendrick, a somewhat less enthusiastic-sounding Justin Timberlake (who did a lot of work on the soundtrack), with Daveed Diggs, Amy Schumer, Kid Cudi and Rupaul joining the candy-colored festivities for the third film in a trilogy.

The story concerns a former boy band of brothers that Branch (Timberlake) was in who need to reunite because one of their number has been kidnapped by villain singers Velvet (Andrew Rannells) and Veneer (Schumer).

That entails Queen Poppy (Kendrick) and Branch joining BroZone leader John Dory (Eric André) as they set out on a quest to “get the band back together” and take one last shot at “perfect family harmony” so that they can hit a note that shatters diamonds.

Because that’s where their bandmate is imprisoned.

The former bandmates have led far different lives post-stardom, making each visit its own challenge.

The animation gets progressively more ornate and detailed with each passing film, and can be lovely to look at here, despite the risk of early onset diabetes from subjecting yourself to this.

Lots of kid-favorites are back — glittery Tiny Diamond is played by America’s most reliable laugh, Kenan Thompson. Watch out for those “wet willies,” there, chief.

“Wet WILLIAM.”

David Mamet’s daughter Zosia Mamet plays the put-upon servant of the pop star villains of the piece, Velvet and Veneer, and is so buried under their needs that she covers Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5,” and does it justice.

The juvenile jokes are often of a boy band pun variety — with One Direction, Backstreet Boys, etc. referenced.

And Orlando’s most famous boy band shows up as well.

None of which moved the needle for me, but I’m not the target audience here. Heck, parents have been forced to take their kids to a “Paw Patrol” movie and re-releases of “Nightmare Before Christmas” just to introduce a new generation to the movie-going habit.

The Orlando underage audience I saw this with hooted and applauded and sang along when knew to the tune. Not many knew “9 to 5” or “The Hustle.” But they will.

Rating: PG, a bleeped profanity

Cast: The voices of Anna Kendrick, Amy Schumer, Daveed Diggs, Zooey Deschanel, Andrew Rannells, Kenan Thompson, Eric Andre, Kid Cudi, Zosia Mamet, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, Rupaul and Justin Timberlake.

Credits: Directed by Walt Dohrn and Tim Heitz, scripted by Elizabeth Tippet and Thomas Dam. A Dreamworks/Universal release.

Running time: 1:32