Movie Nation

“Whirlybird” is “An American Family” in Breaking News, an adrenalin-fueled rush of live, broadcast journalism as it was practiced in a huge, violent city set against the backdrop of family success, glory and dysfunction.

It’s a riveting account the rise of “coming to you LIVE via Chopper 2, 4, 6 or 13” journalism as practiced by the people who invented it. And it’s a sobering take on what that “Nightcrawler” lifestyle costs the people who live it and the culture that’s become addicted to it.

You might not remember the names “Bob Tur” with “my wife Marika on camera” if you live outside of Los Angeles. But if you saw truck driver Reginald Denny dragged from his rig and nearly beaten to death in the riots that followed the verdict in the police beating of Rodney King, you saw their work. If you saw the slow-motion chase that preceded O.J. Simpson’s arrest, “Chopper Bob” was there first.

From Madonna’s wedding to Sean Penn to decades of plane crashes, floods and the Northridge Earthquake, this husband and wife team, founders of the indie L.A. News Service and later employees of the top-rated TV stations in Los Angeles, documented the city at its most tragic, violent and infamous.

And even if you never learned their omnipresent names and faces because you lived far from there, you know their work and their offspring. They’re the parents of NBC News reporter Katy Tur.

Matt Yoka’s film covers the family’s rise, from “video nerd” Bob meeting and courting college grad and theater usher Marika, to their self-taught dive into freelance TV news coverage, on into Bob’s mania for “getting their first” because “You can miss the greatest story in the world — by a minute,” and their transition into pioneering TV “live breaking news” helicopter reporting into Bob’s later transition — into Zoey Tur, after a divorce, the collapse of their business and a sex change.

That’s a lot to take in, and Yoka, using interviews with the family, generous samplings of home movies and their reportorial “greatest hits,” delivers an immersive, exhausting and tragedy-tinged film that mimics the adrenalin junkie nature of the work, the never-ending “deadline” and fear of “missing the big story” and the short fuse that amplifies the abuse Tur heaped upon others as they worked in that pressure cooker.

Marika Gerrard dissects the disconnect that experiencing life through a news camera viewfinder creates, and Zoey admits that it wasn’t until covering the story that made them, a passenger jet crash, that she was taken aback by the idea that this wasn’t just a “story” and that they had some of the first video. Those were “people” and “families” whose lives ended, and ended up on the evening news.

“Whirlybird” charts a rising mania in Tur set against the troubling abuse that accompanied what became a literally all-consuming job, with the fame and riches that came with it.

Here’s little Katy Tur, barely old enough to walk, practicing her TV “stand-up.” And there she is in the chopper with Dad as he spies a small plane crash.

The family and their star second pilot, Lawrence Welk III, note Bob’s soaring ego and messianic turns — executing rescues in flooding and earthquake stories they were covering, collecting Emmys and FAA violations and suspensions all along the way.

The film is a helluva rush and a helluva ride, tracking both the creation of and rising popularity of a style of journalism, a family’s collapse and a man’s acceptance of both his rage and role in all of that, and of the gender dysphoria that led him to transition into a woman. Bob Tur accepted this just as America was turning a corner on tolerance of transgender people.

And if Yoka wasn’t actually there, documenting this disintegrating “American Family” as it came apart, he still did a terrific job reconstructing these lives, this work and that collapse.

MPA Rating: unrated, violent news footage, profanity

Cast: Zoey Tur, Marika Gerrard, Lawrence Welk III, Jamie Tur and Katy Tur.

Credits: Directed by Matt Yoka. A Greenwich Entertainment release (Aug. 6).

Running time: 1:43

An arty thriller about a boy who holds a family hostage in a hole in the ground?

Disturbing.

This IFC release starts rolling out August 6.

The signature achievement of “This Little Love of Mine” is a classic cinematic fool’s errand.

It’s an opulent South Seas island romance shot in Australia, with an Aussie cast headed by Saskia Hampele and Liam McIntyre.

And the decision was made to scrub the Oz right off it, them and everything the least bit colorful about it.

But kudos to Hampele (“A Few Less Men”) and McIntyre (“Spartacus,” “The Flash”) for mastering the bland Midwestern speech of Middle America, no matter how that scrubs any “exotic” touch this pabulum might have managed.

Hampele plays Laura, a high-powered San Francisco lawyer, angling for partner, engaged and on her way…back to Sapphire Cove, the island where she grew up.

The business mogul (Martin Portus, the lone Aussie accent) who shared the island with the natives, and less-well-heeled Anglo locals wants to sign his company over to his grandson. It’s got to happen before his 85th birthday, a deadline for him ceding control.

Laura grew up with grandson “Chip” (McIntyre), but hasn’t seen him in decades. She’s still just the gal to make him sign on the dotted line.

Only he’s living the good life, captain of a charter boat/ferry, beach bumming and what not. The last thing he wants is all that responsibility.

“Not a workaholic like you, but I could put on a suit and get things done. I look great in a suit…Probably.”

So the “workaholic” and the fellow “living on island time,” as Jimmy Buffett would put it, click and clash and haggle and make bets to see whose will wins out. She doesn’t play fair, for starters. And he’s a hard bargainer.

He’ll read “one page for every fun thing you try” here on the island of her youth. Sure. In between emails, Zoom meetings, arm-twisting from her boss (Monette Lee) and distracted calls from her equally ambitious fiance (Craig Horner).

Let the horseback riding/snorkeling etc. begin.

Honestly, this is so dull it barely passes Hallmark Channel muster. Surely somebody considered setting this thing at Christmas time, a Hallmark niche Netflix is going after with a vengeance.

What we have here is a movie made to please Our American Masters, but which has any chance for drama, local color or fun friction — the stuff that sets off “sparks” in a screen romance — bleached right out of it.

The average viewer might be dreaming up improvements to the generic plot and bland characters and sleep-inducing dialogue just from stealing gags and gimmicks from other movies in this genre.

Make the beach bum a real “bum” — loves his rum drinks, avoids responsibility altogether, slinging a lot of the Oz-Island slang. Make him a little sexist or louche, threatened by her.

Turn Laura into a tougher go-getter who labored to lose her accent and “island time” work ethic, only to fall back into “old habits” and her old accent.

Anything would lift this out of its blase “Look at you, all fancy and grown up” banter and hiking, sight-seeing (filmed in North Queensland) and the like.

“Little Love” has very little love, zero stakes and gives the viewer no skin in the game. There’s nothing and no one here to care about.

MPA Rating: TV-G

Cast: Saskia Hampele, Liam McIntyre, Lynn Gilmartin, Lawrence Ola

Credits: Directed by Christine Luby, script by Georgia Harrison. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:31

Isabelle Huppert, lost in character, sits at a traffic light and giddily sings along with the radio, earning giggles from the biker who pulls up next to her.

Patience is her name, and she’s having a good day. Or maybe it’s what comprises that “good day” that lightened her mood, just by its scent.

There’s all this hashish packed up in the hatchback, stuffed to the roof. The retired police drug-sniffing dog she rescued helped her find it. And Patience, high or just high on the possibilities, is beside herself.

She’s got a mother in a very pricey Paris nursing home, high association fees at her apartment, her late husband’s debts to settle — lots of “expenses.” But she’s got this hashish and she’s got an angle.

The daughter of an Algerian father and Holocaust survivor mother, she’s fluent in Arabic. She translates for the police drug interdiction squad. Any phone conversation, in Arabic, with the folks who brought in the hash or are planning to distribute it — now through her — she will hear. She knows who to sell the hash to. And the suspect the cops come to know as “La Matron,” aka “Mama Weed,” will only be passing on to the police what she wants them to hear.

Oh, and the chief of that squad (Hippolyte Girardot)? He’s her boss….with benefits.

“Mama Weed” is a cackle-out-loud drug smuggling thriller, a suspenseful, cynical and often very amusing comedy about somebody with “an existential” problem with what she does for a living, who finds it also creates opportunities for her, opportunities fraught with risk but which she leaps into because of who she is and where her loyalties lie.

We get a hint that Patience, back in the day, drove a family boat on “runs” into Switzerland. Dad was sketchy, and he raised a daughter indifferent to let’s just say “the law.” Her probably-sketchy husband died decades ago with a lot of tax debts.

She’s behind on her payments at the private care nursing home when a conversation she’s wiretapped into gives her a start. This smuggler the cops are digitally tracking, hoping for a big score, is on the phone with the kindly nurse, Kadidja (Farida Ouchani) who cares for Patience’s mother.

There’s nothing for it but to mistranslate and mislead the police, get in a taxi and run over to warn her. In an instant, she’s committed to saving the woman’s son because of “all you’ve done for my mother.”

And with that, we’re off to the races as our anti-heroine puzzles over how to fool her bosses, trick and foil the scary drug gang, invent a new identity — looking up how to disguise herself in a hijab online — and make a lot of money in a very short period of time.

Can she pull it off?

Director and co-writer Jean-Paul Salomé (“The Chameleon,” “Girls with Guns”) has engineered a clever, comical script built on coincidences and quirky, unconventional relationships.

Patience “knows” the “small fry” drug smugglers she helped identify “Scotch” (Rachid Guellaz) and “Cocoa Puff” (Mourad Boudaoud). She’s got their damned phone numbers, for Pete’s sake. A burner phone, a text message in Arabic, and she’s in business.

A clever touch — one big time dealer has figured out that the most private chat space of all, the one the cops never get wise to, is communicating in the middle of online first-person shooter video games. Log in, get into a shootout, shout out your conversation to your foe.

Cute twists also include the amusing places Patience selects for the hand-offs, and the small world of petty (and not so petty) corruption she wades into, crossing paths with assorted relatives of her working class Chinese immigrant landlady (Nadja Nguyen).

The music and the pace of the editing raise the stakes and up the tempo in the later acts. This flippant, fun movie skips by at a brisk-never-rushed quick canter.

But its the laugh-out-loud chutzpah of it all and Huppert’s cocksure, casual and lie-on-the-fly amorality in the title role that gives “Mama Weed” her buzz. Huppert has never been sunnier or funnier.

MPA Rating: unrated, violence, drug content, profanity

Cast: Isabelle Huppert, Hippolyte Girardot, Rachid Guellaz, Farida Ouchani and Nadja Nguyen

Credits: Directed by Jean-Paul Salomé, script by Jean-Paul Salomé, Hannelore Cayre. A Music Box release.

Running time: 1:45

Let’s assume everybody who’ll stream this — or read a review of it — isn’t a card-carrying musical theater hater.

None of that tired “People break into song, that doesn’t happen in ‘real life'” argument that Jerry Seinfeld wore out decades ago, and which Keegan-Michael Key’s character Josh parrots in episode one of “Schmigadoon!” Because Cecily Strong’s Melissa has the perfect comeback.

“You seem OK with magic hammers that come when you call them.”

This “Lorne Michaels Presents…” limited series plays like an absurdly ambitious “Saturday Night Live” recurring sketch, or a much less ambitious musical spoof created expressly for the small screen. The songs are lightly-amusing parodies of tunes from “Oklahoma!,” “Carousel,” “The Sound of Music” and other classics, including — you guessed it — “Brigadoon.” And the intentionally old-fashioned choreography and camera shots are composed on a TV screen scale — compact.

The “Brigadoon” plot is an unhappy unmarried couple (Key and Strong) who stumble across a foggy bridge on a backpacking trip and find themselves in idyllic Schmigadoon, where the 167 “color blind casting” natives sing and dance and “always strive for peace and happiness.”

But is it really “the most beautiful, wonderful, magical place of all?”

“It’s like if ‘The Walking Dead’ was also ‘Glee!'”

Because it turns out, they cannot just walk out the way they walked in. And “We’re smart. We found our way out of IKEA” is no help.

It seems these two doctors, who met “cute” at the hospital where they work, cannot get out of Schmigadoon until they’ve found “true love.” That’s according to the leprechaun (Martin Short) who explains the bridge they cannot cross back over.

For cynical, always letting-her-down Josh, “It’s important to me that we hate things together.” But the more romantic Melissa kind of goes with it. “Holy s—, am I about to get a song, my OWN song?” And this hunky carny named Danny (Aaron Tveit) is giving her the “Tunnel of Love” come-on.

If they’re not truly in love, where will they find “true love” so that they can escape “Schmigadoon?”

Nothing here is going to give Lin-Manuel Miranda the cold shakes. A little tap dancing, parody songs by series co-creator (with Ken Daurio) Cinco Paul that sound more workshopped than Broadway-bound.

The stakes are lower than low. Because “Nobody gets killed in a musical. Except ‘Oklahoma!’ And ‘Carousel.’ And ‘South Pacific.’ And, oh HELLO. ‘West Side Story!'”

The leads have decent chemistry, with Strong having more to play with. Melissa debates morality and ethics with the natives and the hunky Hispanic doctor (Jaime Cahill) she goes to work for. And she explains to Josh (and the viewer) “how musicals work,” ticks off the ones they’re living through (“Music Man,””King and I,” etc.). Key’s tempted by the “school marm” (“What’s a ‘marm’ again?”) played by “Hamilton” veteran Ariana DeBose, and by a waitress flirt (Disney Channel alumna Dove Cameron).

Musical theater royalty Kristin Chenoweth plays the town’s puritanical head of Mothers Against the Future and preacher’s (Fred Armisen) wife, and equally royal Alan Cumming is the confused, Mayor Aloyius Menlove. He gets a number or three, and Ann Harada playing his wife lilts through an “oh, honey” number, as the last to get a clue.

“He’s a queer one, that man’o mine.”

Subtle. But damned if that isn’t that a cue for another Cumming number (delivered in a florid pre-“Showboat” style).

Her entire “SNL” career has prepped Strong for that moment when OB-GYN Melissa picks up a guitar and explains the facts of life to an incredibly naive pregnant couple with a “Sing with me” send-up of that song that began by naming a female deer.

“Vagina…is where the penis goes. Ovaries…make eggs for you and me! Testes…are where the sperm repose, CERVIX is where they can swim free!”

Each episode begins with a sweetly-deflating flashback that shows how much trouble our unhappy couple is in.

It’s all kind of cute, kind of snarky and just sweet enough to come off. Well, come off just enough to keep you watching to see if they finally get Keegan-Michael Key to sing and dance.

“I’m. Not. Singing.”

MPA Rating: A little profanity, a lot of innuendo

Cast: Cecily Strong, Keenan-Michael Key, Alan Cumming, Kristin Chenoweth, Dove Cameron, Ann Harada, Jaime Cahill, Aaron Tveit, Fred Armisen, Ariana DeBose, Martin Short and Jane Krakowski.

Credits: Created by Ken Daurio and Cinco Paul. An Apple TV+ release.

Running time: Six episodes @:30 each.

“Sublet” is an American in Tel Aviv story, a laid-back travelogue about a travel writer who visits the city for a “five days in” article, and gets more than he bargained — or embracing the local custom — haggled for.

John Benjamin Hickey (“The Good Wife,” “Mapplethorpe”) gives a not-quite-fussbudget air to Michael, a veteran traveler who takes a sublet rather than checking into a hotel, because that’s the quickest way to immerse yourself in a place. He instantly regrets the decision.

Tomer (Israeli newcomer Niv Nissim) gets the days he’s renting the place wrong. He’s a student, a filmmaker and a slovenly housekeeper. But he begs Michael to keep the bargain, and here we are — a gay, middle-aged and married travel writer tucked into a “hip, hot” neighborhood, with a young, gay horror movie maker as his tour guide.

Tomer reflects the way director and co-writer Eytan Fox wants Tel Aviv to come off — ever so laid back. He shows off the beach, the cafes, treelined streets filled with student-age kids and the occasional tourist. Tomer takes Michael to a nightclub and on a train ride “home” to visit his mother (Miki Kim) in a kibbutz.

We never see any IDF (Israeli Defense Force) soldiers. It’s easy to be “laid back” when that part of Israeli life is erased from the story. The only stresses are of a minor melodramatic nature — a dancer friend (Lihi Kornowksi) has love life troubles, Tomer has commitment issues and darn it all, his bike is stolen. Again.

His reaction to the stolen bike, which turns up exactly where he expects — a local Palestinian-run second-hand bike shop — sets the tone. He won’t rat them out to the police “because the cops around here are racist,” and would put the man out of business. He’s young and tolerant and given to making patronizing, ageist cracks at Michael’s expense, almost from the start.

“It’s very unoriginal to be a gay man who loves musicals!”

Tomer makes “artistic horror” movies, which he shares with Michael, dreams, like many of his young countrymen, of moving to Berlin, which surprises Michael, it being “a place that symbolizes Jewish tragedy.” Tomer and dancer Daria have a good laugh at that. They’re not listening to the Middle Aged American who says “I hate to be the guy who says, ‘When I was your age…'”

The handsome student is the very embodiment of how he describes the average Israeli’s attitude towards Western tourists. “They just want you to like them…We’re in the Middle East, but want to be a part of the West.”

“Sublet” has an easy-going charm right up to the moments when a little “edge” is finally jammed in. A brutally off-key introduction to “Israel’s version of Grindr” is as abrupt as the as the third act turns in the story are utterly predictable and eye rolling.

If this was a heterosexual romance playing this game it’d be hooted right off the screen.

Yet the light and lightly-unsettling charms of “Sublet” win you over, even if you suspect that Fox has merely added a sexual edge to atone for the political and ethnic strife he’s taken care to avoid.

MPA Rating: unrated, sex, nudity, smoking, profanity

Cast: John Benjamin Hickey, Niv Nissim, Lihi Kornowski and Miki Kim

Credits: Directed by Eytan Fox, script by Eytan Fox and Itay Segal. A Greenwich Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:27

This Oct. 1 release looks like a sort of history lesson in Christian popular music. Amy Grant, Michael W. Smith et al, lots of veterans of the scene speak out here.

Interesting timing, considering the way polling and demographic trends are pointing for Christianity, institutionally and politically and in general these days.

Yes, the title over-sells it. “A Classic Horror Story.” WE’LL be the judge of that, thank you.

But imagine Sam Raimi taking a shot at an Italian “Midsommar,” and watching a lot of Spaghetti Westerns before starting production. That’s a pretty fair description of this gimmicky, bloody torture porn tale from Roberto De Feo and Paulo Strippoli.

Five strangers hop in an RV for a ride-share jaunt across the less populated spine of Italy. Something goes wrong. They’re stranded, injured and at each other’s throats.

“How can there be no SIGNAL?” sounds the same, in Italian or dubbed into English.

As they take stock, panic is slow to set in. They’re stuck in front of a bizarrely creepy farmhouse, surrounded by woods where these strange stick-and-twig sculptures and antler masks suggest something cultish is going on, and you can’t have a “cult” without “ritual sacrifice.” And where’s the fun in that without torture?

“We crash a few feet from the road,” RV-owner Fabrizio (Francesco Russo) mutters, “and we wake up in front of the House of Sam Raimi!”

The first two acts of “A Classic Horror Story” play out in standard random torture porn strokes, strung along by the pitiless, motiveless murders that are not so much horror tropes as the building blocks of too many movies like this to count. There are five characters to begin with. Who dies (horribly) first?

But insightful viewers will pick up on things, or think that they’re picking up on things as our five strangers establish themselves in the story. Elisa (Matilda Anna Ingrid Lutz) is pregnant and on her way home to an abortion her mother’s urged her into, Dr. Riccardo (Peppino Mazzotta) a short-tempered physician stuck in a ride share “with a bunch of idiots.”

Odessa-born Sofia (Yuliia Sobol) and Bristol ginger Mark (Will Merrick) are young and in love.

Fabrizio? He’s a classic film school horror nerd, thus his “Sam Raimi” reference.

The deaths are Medieval or Dark Ages in nature, the movie expands in scale and the story grows more clockwork weird the longer the picture progresses. Look

The first two acts aren’t necessarily made “better” by the twists and resolutions of the far more involving third act. But it’s not a spoiler to say that “Classic” comes a tad closer to that label thanks to a boffo and fun finish.

MPA Rating: TV-MA, violence, profanity, drinking and driving

Cast: Matilda Anna Ingrid Lutz, Francesco Russo, Yuliia Sobol, Will Merrick and Peppino Mazzotta

Credits: Roberto De Feo, Paolo Strippoli, script by Lucio Besana, Robert De Feo and Paolo Strippoli. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:35

Anthony Bourdain liked to say he “lucked” his way from “a dead-end dish washing job” in a restaurant “to cook to chef,” and from there to memoirist and TV host.

It looked like a charmed life, a bookish wordsmith and on TV, “this unmuscled James Bond who could swan into a scene” and rakishly master it with a laid-back cool and world-weary savvy.

He left cooking Behind to become “a traveler,” in the way novelist Paul Bowles defined it. Not a tourist, but someone who drifted in, observed, ate and conversed and in the end absorbed the essence of wherever he went.

Bourdain had “the best job in the world,” and knew it — hosting travel and food series after series, his fame growing with each passing show. His dry, casual pose and Raymond Chandler/Joseph Conrad/Hunter S. Thompson narration, intentionally conjuring up memories of a favorite film, “Apocalypse Now,” underscored his mystique and amplified his cool.

And then he killed himself on June 8, 2018.

Maybe we’d noticed his “thousand yard stare,” or fretted over his drug history and self-described “addictive” personality and how that fit into his infatuation with a damaged and beautiful Italian filmmaker/film star. Bourdain talked about death on the shows, and even more in the outtakes, because, as he relates in “Roadrunner,” the new documentary about him, “It’s considered useful, enlightening and therapeutic to think about death for a few minutes a day.”

When it came, it was still a shock.

With “Roadrunnner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain,” Oscar-winning documentarian Morgan Neville (“Twenty Feet from Stardom”) gives Bourdain the cinematic wake he deserves. That’s the only good thing we take from suddenly losing someone close, or someone we think we know. We get together and take account, give a reckoning of who they were through anecdotes, share kfond memories and sometimes bitter or telling reminiscences. That’s what “Roadrunner” does.

Neville talks to ex-wives and old friends, culinary colleagues and Bourdain’s assorted TV producers, directors and production staff. And he calls on decades of archived TV footage — chat shows and “Bourdain at work and at home” TV feature stories, his many travel series and generously sampled outtakes — to paint a portrait of the artist as a young cook and later as a mature, graying traveler, falling in love with Vietnam, embracing the dangers of the Congo and wrestling with his own “Heart of Darkness” all along the way.

We hear from the publisher, the wife of a close friend, who discovered him and talked him into writing “Kitchen Confidential,” which he called his “obnoxious but wildly-successful memoir.” We learn how a couple of prescient TV producers, Lydia Tenaglia and her husband Christopher Collins, heard about a follow up book that would send the almost untraveled Bourdain abroad, and convinced him that could be a TV show.

And we hear the moment where the shy, obsessive craftsman in him figured this TV thing out. He’d “fix it in the edit,” take over the writing of the voice-over narration on these travelogues, and do his best Philip Marlowe or Captain Willard of “Apocalypse Now,” mimicking novelist Raymond Chandler or screenwriter John Milius with a smoky, worldwise growl.

“I’m the ugly American, the Quiet American, the hungry ghost” who walks Saigon, looking for a new culinary or cultural experience.

It’s a terrific and affectionate film, much more reflective than the tributes CNN whipped together right after Bourdain’s death. Bourdain’s many artist and musician friends (John Lurie, David Choe, Alison Mosshart, Josh Homme) point towards his real ambition, to be one of them. It also helps explain the way he gave up cooking and his first marriage shortly after “Kitchen Confidential” blew up.

“I cruelly burned down my previous life in its entirety,” he admitted. “He was reborn,” producer Collins explains.

We get a sampling of what it was like to work with someone this mercurial, and his friends can be blunt in discussing his failings. But his silly feuds with other TV chefs are barely brushed upon, his cooking and food philosophy isn’t critiqued by impartial observers and his frequent plugs for the international eateries of his “friends” (some he might have just met) aren’t touched.

I once ate at a Bourdain endorsed restaurant “of my good friend” in Dublin, and gave serious thought to how much of a TV fraud the guy really was.

Still, he wore his pose with grace and ease. “The Simpsons” gave him the best self-mocking self-description of all, or at least the best that he didn’t write himself.

“I’m food ‘bad boy’ Tony Bourdain. There’s nowhere I won’t go and nothing I won’t eat…as long as I’m paid in emeralds, and my hotel room has a bidet that shoots champagne.”

And while “Roadrunner” — it takes its title from a Jonathan Richman and The Modern Lovers tune — doesn’t speak to Asia Argento, the much-vilified last love of Bourdain’s life, it gives us plenty to consider in why he ended it. That level of TV fame can make the world which he so reveled in exploring “close in” around him.

Through it all, our tour guide gave off the sincerest vibe that he was at home everywhere, that money and fame were things he could take or toss aside, and that while he was taking it all in, he never took himself all that seriously.

MPA Rating: R, for language (profanity) throughout (smoking).

Cast: Anthony Bourdain, Ottavia Bourdain, Eric Petit, Lydia Tenaglia, Christopher Collins, Tom Vitale, John Lurie, Alison Mosshart, David Chang, Josh Homme, Philippe Lajaunie and Helen M. Cho.

Credits: Directed by Morgan Neville. A Focus Features (CNN Films) release.

Running time: 1:58