In California wine country, they have to take climate change seriously, and competition just as seriously.
Want to set yourself apart from from the pack? Brand yourself as having a greener footprint and even more “organic” approach to wine-making.
Want to make an agriculture industry more sustainable? Start doing things the more environmentally friendly way.
“Living Wine” might make you thirsty when it comes out July 15.
There’s something to be said for quitting while you’re ahead.
I’m not talking about the filmmakers/paranormalists who returned to the “haunted” house in Florence, Mississippi after making “The House in Between” about their investigations into a striking, modernish A-frame where lights come on by themselves, bumps and “disembodied voices” fill the night and pretty much anything they leave on the stairs rolls or falls off.
The need for “The House in Between Part 2” had to be a matter of pride. Because as I said in my review, they do not make their case or seal the deal with the first film.
“Part 2” is a slicker, higher-budget effort, with what looks like better quality cameras and a spooky, composed chamber music score.
As to “proving” ghosts exist and that something or someone is haunting this stylish Mississippi Amityville home via their “Paranormal Activity” cameras, night-vision and motion detectors, I’d say they came closest to winning skeptical viewers in the first act. Early scenes showing what appear to be call-and-response efforts to get the ghost(s) to roll one of a collection of balls off the staircase do indeed produce balls that seem to roll off their perch on command.
Sure, the doll they set up, facing/teetering backwards on the lip of a stair, seems about to tumble before the investigator takes his hand off it.
But early on, the film is convincing enough that most viewers are going to narrow the possibilities of all this to two outcomes. Either “something odd” is going on in that house at 322 Whatever Street in Florence, or these eager-to-find-proof beavers are faking it.
Short of visiting that house, I’m not sure even co-director/hype-man Steve Gonsalves‘ self-declared “most thorough and in-depth paranormal investigation that has ever been documented” should convince anybody. He makes a few statements like that, and everybody here pretty much talks in the weasel language of “I’m not saying that I think” when that’s exactly what they’re saying.
Still, giving the film crew the benefit of the doubt, that what they’re hearing (not clear and not convincing) or seeing (something more curious) is legit, that first act does make one wonder.
Alas, they don’t quit there.
To their credit, the makers of the 2020 film go out and find more folks who might deliver a natural (as opposed to supernatural) explanation for the noises, movement and lights that owner Alice Jackson and others claim to have seen/experienced in her house.
A guy sweeps the property with ground-penetrating radar. An actual geophysicist named Carolyn Streiff electronically pokes around, looking for elemental explanations for phenomena. And there’s digging. They throw some money at this sequel, in front of and behind the camera, above and below the ground.
But that, for me, is where “In Between 2” drifts off course. Metal detecting is one thing. Getting into the history of town from a local historian is interesting, digging into Alice’s life story and a recent tragedy and surveying what might be beneath the ground may seem “logical,” but only to ghost story buffs and horror film fanatics.
This is how this haunting or that grisly series of encounters with the supernatural is “explained” — in movies like “Paranormal Activity,” “The Blair Witch Project,” etc. The “experts” summoned in the later acts are more true believers and “ghost hunters,” with a California hypnotherapist thrown in for good measure.
None of this builds on the case made in the opening act. It just pads the film out to a longer length and waters down its impact.
Gonsalves even moves the goalposts in the third act. All of a sudden, this “looking for proof” story becomes “get Alice back into her house” to live, via their investigations, since she’s too jumpy to spend the night here.
Well, at least they spared us a “spiritual cleansing” or exorcism.
When paranormal gadget guru Elizabeth Saint whines that “I would love to get to a place where the field is taken more seriously” by legitimate science, we’re simply reminded of how under-credentialed and unconvincing this social circle (some of them met at “conventions”) of self-anointed experts is.
If what they’re seeing and experiencing is as real as it seems to them, you’d think they could show their evidence and talk somebody with heavy duty credentials to fly in and verify some of what they claim.
Short of that, “House in Between Part 2” is just like part one, a circle-jerk of the credulous fluffing the credulous, none of them credible enough on her or his own to make the case.
Rating: unrated, profanity
Cast: Alice Jackson, Steven Gonsalves, Brad Cooney, Elizabeth Saint, Carolyn Streiff, John Bullard, Dustin Pari, Laurie McDonald and Morgan Gates
Directed by Steve Gonsalves and Kendall Whelpton, A Gravitas Ventures release.
Running time: 1:42
For “Cha Cha Real Smooth,” writer, director and star Cooper Raiff conjures up an idealized version of “the perfect big brother,” his character’s best possible self. Andrew is romantic, smart, witty, at home in his own skin and damned mature for his age — 22.
I mean, come on. Nobody is this sweet.
Raiff’s follow-up to “Sh**house” also overstays its welcome, drifts onward for too long after its climax. A fella’s got to learn when to drop the mike.
But there’s something special about a “feel good” movie that earns those warm fuzzies.
It’s a post-grad dramedy built on two premises — “Memories aren’t going anywhere.” And growing up is hard, and can hurt.
Andrew is an aimless Tulane grad who lives with his mother (Leslie Mann), adoring little brother (Evan Assante) and Mom’s new beau, Greg (Brad Garrett), almost the only guy in the movie Andrew openly despises.
He had a dream, of going to Barcelona with his Fulbright Scholar girlfriend, taking a job with a non-profit. But she went without him and he’s stuck minding the store at Meat Stick, a food court monstrosity that could only exist in New Jersey.
That changes the night he’s charged with taking brother David to a bat mitzvah. Something in Andrew’s genes, personality or upbringing drives him to “rescue” this party. A “swarm of Jewish mothers” see him coaching the DJ, cajoling the boys, then the girls and the mothers onto the dance floor, a life-of-the-party leading the party into the light.
A new profession is thrust upon him — “party starter.”
That’s not what “Cha Cha Real Smooth” is about, even though it takes its title from the “Cha Cha Slide,” even though there are birthday parties and bar and bat mitzvahs enough to keep Andrew busy in this frustrating, drifting summer after college. The film’s about what Andrew does in that guise.
He takes an interest in autistic teen Lola (Vanessa Burghardt), and even convinces her social-outcast mom (Dakota Johnson) that he can talk the on-the-spectrum Lola onto the dance in an instant. Everybody is charmed by Andrew, nobody more than Domino, that quiet, beautiful sad-eyed mother.
Over the course of that summer, he adds this relationship to all the others in his life. We see Andrew drink too much, have a fling with a high school classmate (Odeya Rush), hear him coaching his kid brother through a “first kiss,” and learn everybody’s secrets, and secret hurt.
What’s most impressive about “Cha Cha Raal Smooth” isn’t Raiff’s riffing, his character’s offhanded charm and his semi-“smooth” cha cha moves. It’s the deft way he lets the viewer figure things out.
His mom has a back-story, and Mann is wondrously touching in just a few scenes. Domino also has a story, and Johnson’s quiet, kittenish shtick takes on a sensitivity that she’s rarely played on screen.
Andrew’s relationship with one mother connects him to the other, with or without the “feelings” we know will get in the way.
He makes mistakes, and can even be flippant and cruel. But he never gives us a moment to question his values. Hating “bullies” is a given.
Any gripes I have with this Apple TV+ gem (June 17) are wiped down and wiped off in a third act is upbeat and as emotionally satisfying as any dramedy-emphasis-on-comedy this year.
Whatever he gets wrong — “Memories” do fade with age and are taken away from you, that extended ending is a bust and who names their daughter “Domino?” — “Cha Cha Real Smooth” delivers its core message with a deft touch.
Growing up is hard. And we should all be so lucky as to have a brother, friend or lover as compassionate and interested in helping us through it as Mr. Smooth — Andrew.
Rating: R, profanity, some sexual content, alcohol abuse
Cast: Cooper Raiff, Dakota Johnson, Vanessa Burghardt, Evan Assante, Odeya Rush, Brad Garrett and Leslie Mann
Credits: Scripted and directed by Cooper Raiff. An Apple TV+ release (June 17)
Running time: 1:49
“Trees of Peace” is about four women, holed up in a basement, trying to survive the Rwandan Genocide of 1994, four strangers trapped in a single room, with little light, food or water for days that stretch to weeks and months.
Screenwriter Alanna Brown makes her writer-director debut a compact, tense, well-acted and quietly gripping “inspired by true events” story of endurance, even if it traffics in the conventions of such dramas.
In cinematic shorthand, it is “Hotel Rwanda,” with its story and characters packed into Hitchcock’s “Lifeboat.”
Rwandan actress Eliane Umuhire narrates the story as pages from a journal her character, Annick, keeps while hiding from the Hutu violence against the minority Tutsis, and against “moderate” Hutus like her and her teacher-husband Francois.
“I can feel my spirit eager for the long sleep,” she wrote, just to document how these four women came to be there in case the seemingly-inevitable happens.
Sister Jeannette (Charmaine Bingwa) and a coed, Peyton (Ella Cannon), a volunteer from an American non-governmental organization, are teachers at a nearby school. Mutesi (Bola Koleosho) is a traumatized woman who saw her family slaughtered, rescued by the others as they locked the hidden cellar door behind them to wait out the mayhem.
Brown cannot avoid working within the conventions of the broader genre that this sort of tale operates under. The first pronouncements from Annick to the others — they are in the basement of her house, with her husband upstairs, trying to keep his loyalties and their presence hidden — are spoken with an irony the viewer appreciates.
“We are safe.” ” They’ll be in hiding in this basement “just until tomorrow.” And “Francois will give us everything we need.”
Nope. Not likely. And sure, that’ll happen.
They will be tested by their ordeal, each revealing “secrets” eventually and personality flaws almost instantly. Brown and her actresses succeed in making these characters more than “types,” but you can see the archetype each plays, just beneath the surface.
Brown layers the soundtrack with the constant noise of life and death going on just outside of the lone ground-level window that connects them with the world. Gunshots and shouting, trucks and the barked orders to “find the cockroaches” are heard, and every so often, the “thk thk thk” of machetes hacking the flesh of a screaming victim.
Among the women, shared paranoia gives way to testy confrontations, hallucinations and dreams heightening their plight, with mutual mistrust all they have to wake up to.
Brown never comes close to transcending the formula this film is made under. But the players, the myopic setting and narrowly-focused screenplay ensure that “Trees of Peace” is a good example of how and why this formula is still around. It endures because it works.
Rating: TV-MA, violence
Cast: Eliane Umuhire, Charmaine Bingwa, Ella Cannon and Bola Koleosho
Credits: Scripted and directed by Alanna Brown. A Netflix release.
Running time: 1:38
A hundred years of poetry, art and pop culture have painted over the hard and lonesome work of the cowboy. The reality, we’re often reminded, isn’t John Wayne/Marlboro Man romantic. It’s just another dirty. solitary job that most people wouldn’t want to do.
Michael Burton’s song, “Night Rider’s Lament,” made famous by Jerry Jeff Walker, is the rare country/western ballad that gets at something closer to the truth about this long-celebrated, long-dying vocation.
“Why do you ride for your money
Tell me why do you rope for short pay
You ain’t a’gettin’ nowhere
And you’re losin’ your share
Boy, you must have gone crazy out there.”
The new documentary “Bitterbrush” reminds us of the grinding, isolating nature of the work — poorly-paid and increasingly rare in the bargain — and that the innate poetry poetry in the image of those who do it. A cowboy, stooped by the days and years in the saddle, surveying the hilly, sagebrush-covered open range, is as iconic an image of America as there is.
Even when the cowboys are cowgirls. Not that the two-woman team of range-riders in Emelie Mahdavian’s intimate film ever call themselves that. Young Colie and Hollyn talk of “cowboying,” loving the idea of telling their children about their cowboying days, sometime down the road. We have no doubt they’ll romanticize these years, just like everyone else.
Mahdavian and her small crew are never seen in this cinema verite/fly-on-the-wall documentary. They don’t interview their subjects. They just follow the women’s routine, from loading up the truck with dogs and the trailer with (less willing) horses, move into a Spartan mountain cabin and spend their seemingly media-free months getting up at dawn, riding the range, rounding up strays and tending to livestock on the high ground summer-into-winter grazing in the foothills of the northern Rockies.
There are no special effects, there’s little drama — just a sick cow here, a new horse to be “broken” there. What we hear them talk about is mundane, cussing the cows, noting this new ride “isn’t the best” horse, but he goes where I point him.”
They’re never sentimental or even particularly gentle with the livestock, or the seven dogs they keep and who work with them, and in the one time we sense they’re talking to the filmmaker, they describe as “not pets, except in a few cases. But they earned it.”
But there’s something primal about how gorgeous Aspen trees are after the first dusting of snow in the fall, about the unhurried nature of long days in the saddle, time measured in weeks and months with little thought about the next freelance job that they’ll need to replace this one.
“I don’t want to be working for just a house my whole life,” Colie says, summing it all up for Hollyn, who ponders the trailer life she and her beau, Elijah, will be starting their family in.
The only back-story we hear is how both came from cattle families, how they were treated differently than their parents’ sons, that Hollyn has that fellow cowboy boyfriend and Colie is a pretty serious Christian.
Scoring her picture with classical piano sonatas emphasizes the uncluttered beauty of the setting, in contrast with the work. Like a lot of “cowboying” documentarians, Mahdavian is content to sketch in these lives and simply observe two women at their jobs. She leaves the uncertain economics and ever-shortening future facing those who do it, even the way they do it (a single off-road four-wheeler, how many ranchers manage cattle these days, is see), to the imagination.
That’s where “Bitterbrush” resides, in the cowboying of memory and legend, a grueling gig of man-or-woman-handling beasts in glorious, simple solitude and some of the last unspoiled scenery in America.
Rating: unrated
Cast: Hollyn Patterson, Colie Moline
Credits: Directed by Emelie Mahdavian. A Magnolia release.
Running time: 1:30
Michael Cera and Samuel L Jackson in the same (animated) movie? Sequel?
Shut the front door!
July 15.
Sure, Well Go USA picks these films up for North American distribution. But in the rest of the world, the label putting the film in theaters or on home video says it all.
“Hi-YAH!”
Love that, even though the martial arts of this one are more of the “chuck chuck chuck” of knives entering flesh.
July 26 from Well Go and…Hi-YAH!
Egyptian cinema — born shortly after the Europe and Hollywood’s film emergence, was already mature enough to produce its “Golden Age,” in the 1950s. That’s the era when it produced its first international screen icon, the great Omar Shariff.
Youssef Chahine was the Egyptian filmmaker who popularized Shariff and brought him to the attention of the world and David Lean (“Lawrence of Arabia”). Chahine was already a veteran director when he directed and took the the villainous lead in his gripping potboiler, “Cairo Station.”
The film is a vivid black and white slice of life at Cairo’s Ramses Station in the late 1950s, with classes mixing and mingling in the secular Arabic state. Chahine shows us this hustle and bustle parade of traditionally clad and more religious rural folk, riding the (British built) rails back to their small towns and villages and Westernized sophisticates with their sports coats and cleavage, shorter hemlines and rock’n’roll tastes boarding for Alexandria and ocean liners that would take them abroad.
The few films of Chahine I’ve seen have a lot more in common with Carol Reed (“The Third Man”) and Hollywood noir specialists than the great artist and social observer Satyajit Ray, his Third World cinema contemporary over in India. Chahine liked melodrama and action and a little sexual sizzle. King Farouk or President Nasser, Chahine worked his way towards “lurid” and probably got his closest to that with the sexy and twisted “Cairo Station.”
Chahine, his camera chasing dancing around passengers as the men with shop stalls or carts make and sell juices or coffee, the female soft-drink peddlers with their buckets of bottles evade the cops and the porters bicker over who gets which client with baggage. We are instantly immersed in this milieu — “entrepreneurs” dashing onto stopped (or still moving) trains to sell drinks (and collect the empty bottles), hustlers of every age scampering through an unregulated, unsafe railyard outside the terminal.
The news stand owner Madbouli (Hassan el Baroudi) is our narrator, a man up on the news and gossip thanks to what he sells, but also someone who takes in the passing scene with a studied eye.
Madbouli recalls taking in the “lame” beggar Qinawi (spelled “Kenawi” on the Netflix subtitles), giving him a job hawking papers to travelers.
“How could anyone have foreseen how Qinawi would end up?” he wonders (in Arabic with English subtitles). We know who the villain is, right from the start.
Our filmmaker shows a little vanity, and a lot of Hollywood chutzpah in the way he hides Qinawi’s face, showing him only on the ground on his damaged leg, giving the character the director himself plays a “star entrance” in the best John Ford/Alfred Hitchcock/Orson Welles tradition.
The cause and effect of the screenplay involves showing us Qinawi’s railyard shack, papered with cut-out pin-up girls, and letting us just his guilty-pervy eyes as he finds a new beauty to gawk at, eavesdrop on and lust after.
But his heart seems to belong to blowsy, loud and vivacious Hunama, played by Hind Rustum, sort of an Egyptian Anna Magnani or Shelly Winters. Hunama is the loudest, most abrasive of the soft drink sellers. And she’s wondering if the smart, burly porter Abu Siri (Serih, on Netflix, played by Farid Shawqi) might be her man and her ticket out of this hard, dangerous work.
He’s tough enough and clever enough to realize the porters are getting screwed-over by the traditional pecking order that leaves a corrupt unofficial “boss” in charge of who gets to work, taking kickbacks as he does. Abu Siri’s talking “union.”
Qinawi just creeps around in silence, an “Incel” before Incels had the internet. We sense what’s coming, and Chahine underscores the guy’s stalker/serial killer vibe by letting us see the shifting cultural dynamics in play/
The young folks are dressing more Western than ever and listening to Mike & His Skyrockets, a rockabilly combo (with accordion) that jams for the youthful hep cats on the train.
“Newfangled ideas lead straight to old,” old Madbouli mutters. Murder is the effect, a sexualized permissive culture and toxic masculinity — check out the porters catcalling female passersby — is the cause, Chahine suggests.
The suspense comes from what we fear Qinawi will do, and what could happen at any moment at a pre-OSHA railyard this recklessly run. A couple of the stunts were shot in slow motion and played by at regular speed to heighten the danger. But most are not, and it’s easy to see workplace safety regulations weren’t common on Cairo film sets back then.
No “unions” in other words.
The fights range from “stage slaps” to actual rolling tumbles down stone stairs.
And the acting is first rate, with Rustum and Shawqi shining and Chahine practically begging for a straightjacket as Qinawi.
As dated as such films inevitably are, the collaborators here ensure that this 1950s melodrama never feels like an artifact, but merely another era in the passing parade of Egypt’s rough and tumble underclasses, perhaps one less divided by religious conservatism than the Muslim Brotherhood Egypt of today.
Rating: unrated, violence
Cast: Farid Shawqi, Hind Rustum, Youssef Chahine and Hassan el Baroudi
Credits: Directed by Youssef Chahine, scripted by Abdel Hai Adib and Mohamed Abu Youssef (dialogue). A Columbia Pictures release on Netflix, other streamers.
Running time: 1:17
There’s nothing. Go home. Let them clean the theater for the next showing. I stayed. I know.
Keke, Daniel Kaluuya, Michael Wincott, Steven Yuen, Brandon Perea and Keith David and “aliens” waiting for humans to finally film “the money shot.”
July 22.
Movie Nation 