A mother loses custody of her two a daughters, with cause. She is mentally ill. How she copes is the subject of “An Audience of Chairs,” a Canadian drama that is the quintessence of “fall cinema.”
It’s serious.
A mother loses custody of her two a daughters, with cause. She is mentally ill. How she copes is the subject of “An Audience of Chairs,” a Canadian drama that is the quintessence of “fall cinema.”
It’s serious.
Ruffalo is a West “By God” Virginia lawyer working for Big Corps out of state, when he takes on the case of a farmer (Bill Camp) losing cattle to chemical poisoning of the water supply.
Tim Robbins as a villain, Victor Garber, too.
Hathaway is the fiery supportive wife. Thankless part, but her name on the marquee it helps get “Dark Waters” made.
Todd Haynes’ new “inspired by true events” fight between a lawyer and The People against state government hand in glove with Dow Chemicals opens Nov. 22.

You’ve got a Chinese mob soldier named “One-Armed Wang” with a grudge. You can guess what about.
There’s a drug-addicted heroine who hallucinates middle aged men dancing in their tidy whiteys.
The toughest Chinese assassin is, well, transgender.
The hero gets awfully brave when it comes to dealing with crooked cops, yakuza and Chinese mobsters after he learns he has a brain tumor.
And the grizzled mob boss is a goddamned poet — “Morning light doesn’t suit the wicked.”
Takashi Miike’s latest yakuza swords and sidearms epic (“Audition” and “Yakuza Apocalypse” were his) is a gonzo comic thriller that takes its time getting started, clutters the screen with characters, intrigues and subplots and only gets down to (funny) business when the guy with one arm shows up.
Trigger alert — if you can’t find it in your heart to laugh or at least giggle at the sight of a lopped-off head, maybe “First Love” isn’t for you.
A shy, orphaned young boxer (Masataka Kubota) is endlessly lectured by his cornerman that he needs to find something or someone bigger than himself to fight for.
“Without the love, you’ll eventually lose” he gripes (in Japanese, with English subtitles.
Even the news, after his first loss, that a brain tumor probably caused him to collapse in the middle of pummeling a foe doesn’t get a rise out of them. Then, a junky-hooker named Monica (Sakurako Konishi) screams for help, and Leo — a dead boxer walking with nothing to lose, has his purpose.
He clocks her tormentor. It’s just that the guy (veteran character actor Nao Ohmori) is a cop. It’s just that he’s a dirty cop, grabbing poor Monica, enslaved to pay off her father’s mob debts, because he wants her to be the fall-gal in a drug stealing scheme that could set the Japanese gang against the Chinese gang in the Shinjuku corner of Tokyo.
And that bad cop has a confederate, the cunning punk Kase (Shôta Sometani, hilarious). He’s the mastermind here, pulling one over on his fresh-out-of-prison boss (Seiyô Uchino), a tad inept and out of his depth, but ruthless. You’ve got to love the line he shouts when his rob-the-drug-courier ambush goes wrong.
“Cool DOWN! It’s only a…drill!”

But Kase’s machinations run him afoul of the girlfriend of one mobster (Becky) and the Chinese mob’s nuclear option — Chiachi (Mami Fujioka). Let’s just say thugs should think twice before plotting a sexual assault or hate crime in Shinjuku.
Miike, working from a Byzantine Masa Nakamura script, cranks up the crazy as “First Love” lopes along. It may be a slow starter, with a whole boxing picture prologue. And it may doggedly march through a couple of anti-climaxes before making its exit. This is still rousing, over-the-top entertainment, with gunfights and swordfights, women in distress and women wronged and women out for blood.
I’m unfamiliar with this actress Becky (Rebecca Eri Rabone). But seeing her go off when revenge is in her eyes as “Julie” would have me side-eyeing every Japanese woman who passes, was I to take a Tokyo tour.
“I’m out to KILL! Everybody, LET’s KILL!” loses nothing in translation.
There’s a droll humor that makes all this exposition, confusion and mayhem come off, a tone set by having Leo so utterly unflappable in so many situations. The first guy to pull a gun on him just warrants a “Huh. My first hallucination.”
If you haven’t sampled the works of Miike before now, here’s the perfect introduction. And yakuza action-comedy fans, you never forget your “First Love.”
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MPAA Rating: unrated, graphic violence, drug abuse, near-nudity
Cast: Masataka Kubota, Sakurako Konishi, Nao Ohmori, Becky, Shôta Sometani, Mami Fujioka and Seiyô Uchino
Credits: Directed by Takashi Miike, script by Masa Nakamura. A Well-Go USA release.
Running time: 1:48

“Zeroville” is a surreal fantasia on Hollywood filmed in 2014, in limbo when its distributor went bankrupt in 2016.
Based on a Steve Erikson novel, it has morphed, on the shelf, into a veritable James Franco time capsule, a movie about “the secret movie within ALL movies” and the ultimate “Hollywood ending.” It presents an alternate 2019 for its director and star, a perfect representation of who he was five years ago.
Try to recall a time before “Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood,” because this film begins in exactly the same year, with a young aspiring set-builder (Franco) arriving just after the same Sharon Tate/Manson family murders that Tarantino’s summer blockbuster toyed around with.
And remember the films, the adventurously eclectic career that Franco, now 41, was pursuing before his sordid and destructive #MetToo history blew up his 2018 Oscar shot (for “The Disaster Artist”) and stopped his rise to the top.
This is just the sort of film he was making back then. He’d round up friends from his posse — Seth Rogen, Craig Robinson, brother Dave Franco and Danny McBride among them — direct and sometimes star in quirky, offbeat movies that rarely made much noise and sometimes showed great promise, at others made you laugh at the pretentions of the would-be poet/novelist/playwright/screenwriter, director and actor.
The ambitions of “Zeroville” are modest. A fitfully amusing/deliberately obscure movie about the movies made a nice dry run for “The Disaster Artist,” but there’s not enough here to make it “essential” or even easy to sit through.
Coming out after “Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood” and “The Disaster Artist” doesn’t help.
And neither does noting that one of Franco’s co-stars was a then quite-young Joey King, before her reinvention as a Netflix teen sexpot. Enough people come out and call you a manipulative, predatory creeper of teenagers — including your own admissions in print — and the viewer can be excused for fretting over what went on off the set.
Franco stars as Vikar, whom we see shave his head and get his scalp tattooed with an image of Liz Taylor and Montgomery Clift in “A Place in the Sun.” Sure, it’s 1969 and nobody was doing that then, but roll with it.
Vikar shows up in Hollywood a proverbial naif. Yes, he’s older than anybody who’s this naive should be. But he has an excuse. He was in seminary, studying church architecture. He’d never seen a movie until recently, and that first film, starring Liz Taylor and Monty Clift, changed his life.
He’s landed a job building sets, but he quickly reveals himself to have odd ideas and obsessions about films that go beyond the script, envisioning scenes that happen “23 years after” the events in the movie he’s supposedly designing and constructing.
A chance encounter with a jaded, older film editor (Jacki Weaver) convinces him to change careers. Meeting a loony, macho, gun-crazy screenwriter (Seth Rogen) imbeds him even deeper in the business. Glimpsing a struggling, older starlet at a party (Megan Fox) leads to a new obsession.
And over the next eleven years, his star rises even as his bizarre beliefs about what’s really going on when the lights go down make him come off as a tad psychotic — which in Hollywood, then and now, is not a deal breaker.
The most delightful scenes in “Zeroville” are built around Rogen playing a gonzo version of “Apocalypse Now” screenwriter and “Red Dawn” director and co-writer John Milius, infamous as a surfing right wing Hollywood gun-nut with an unfiltered mouth.
Rogen bellowing abuse at a young George Lucas and his “not robots, ‘droids'” and at young Spielberg who has “this great idea about a great white shark that terrorizes a town!” and at Lucas AND Spielberg (just called “George” and “Steven”) for saying “Think ROBOTIC shark” is a movie-lover’s hoot that is not to be missed.
We meet “John” as he hurls derision at Ali McGraw for blowing her lines on the set of “Love Story,” which is the first movie Vikar sees in production upon his arrival.
Will Ferrell plays a hilariously delusional producer Vikar finds himself at odds with as he edits/saves the dope’s picture. Producer Rondell’s delusions extend to his singing abilities, which he’s not shy about sharing at wrap parties. “The Tracks of My Tears” may never recover.
A common conceit of movies about Hollywood is how nearly everybody there is a cineaste, a classic cinema buff — even the guy (Craig Robinson) burgling your hotel room.
Versions of Marlon Brando and Coppola (Horatio Sanz) bickering on the set of “Apocalypse Now” and punk rocker Iggy Pop on the stage at late ’70s CBGB’s also add texture to a film which marries the whirlwind “rise to the top in Hollywood” tale to the bizarre stuff Vikar picks up when he sees “The Passion of Joan of Arc” or “Sunset Boulevard” or “The Holy Mountain.”
Vikar’s post-Manson murders grilling at the hands of LA detectives (Danny McBride is one of them) opens the film on the wrong foot. Yeah, the tattoo got their attention.
Scoring the opening credits with The Animals’ “It’s My Life and I’ll Do What I Want” for a movie directed by and starring a guy with Franco’s baggage is Woody Allen-level creepy.
And Franco’s sullen, scowling version of “an intellectual on a mission” is closer to Tommy Wiseau’s acting efforts than his own best work — playing Tommy Wiseau in “The Disaster Artist.”
The whole Fox as femme fatale storyline is poorly conceived and flatly acted. She can be better than this, but not often.
Whatever its virtues, the film comes together more adroitly than satisfyingly.
Think of “Zeroville” as an artifact, worth looking at as a piece of pre-history that cannot — at present — shed its baggage, and frankly didn’t need that off-screen baggage to be a bust.
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MPAA Rating: R for language throughout, some sexual content/nudity and brief drug use
Cast: James Franco, Megan Fox, Joey King, Seth Rogen, Will Ferrell, Danny McBride, Craig Robinson and Jacki Weaver
Credits: Directed by James Franco, script by Ian Olds and Paul Felten, based on a Steve Erikson novel. A MyCinema release.
Running time: 1:34

“Fiddler on the Roof” is not everybody’s favorite musical.
You see enough community theater or scholastic productions of it performed by folks who figure Jewish caricatures are the way to go with their performances, or that they can (in one burned into my memory) get away with having a synthesizer subbing for a “fiddle” in the pit orchestra, you get over it pretty quickly.
But if “you hear it once or twice,” says Ted Chapin, Executive Director of the Rodgers & Hammerstein company, “you know the songs for the rest of your life.”
And the man, who has nothing to do with “Fiddler,” really — neither did Rodgers or Hammerstein — is as right as rain.
From “Tradition” to “If I Were a Rich Man” to “Matchmaker” to “Sunrise, Sunset” and “(L’Chaim) To Life,” they embed themselves into the brain and pop up at any appropriate moment.
“Fiddler: A Miracle of Miracles” takes its title from one of those songs, and is a delightful history of this unlikely blockbuster, interviewing the creators of it, scores of actors who have performed in it, from Broadway to Bangkok, and others who have embraced it as one of the great moments in musical theater, one that’s always in production somewhere on the globe because it speaks across cultures and across time.
“In moments of great upheaval,” Broadway wunderkind Lin-Manuel Miranda declares, hinting at the dark politics of bigotry and anti-semitism on the rise here and abroad, “‘Fiddler’ is going to seem relevant.”
Using animation, vintage TV performances and interviews, clips from productions ranging from Rotterdam to Tokyo, various Broadway revivals and the 1971 Norman Jewison film of the show, filmmaker Max Lewkowicz (he did the Morgenthau political dynasty documentary) gives us a great origin story, some funny anecdotes and lots and lots of “Fiddlers” and milkmen named Tevye.
Best of all, he lets us hear from the creators — Joseph Stein, who wrote the book (the narrative, dialogue), composer Jerry Bock and lyricist Sheldon Yarnick.
You don’t have to buy into Stein’s assertion (he died in 2010) that their initial pitch, “a musical about a bunch of old Jews in Russia going through a pogrom” earned them “You’re nuts!” brush-offs back in the early 1960s. Come on. New York? Broadway in the ’60s? Pretty doggoned Jewish. And many others had given a thought to doing this very adaptation.
But remembering the “Mad Men” era, when august Broadway and show business figures such as Jerome Robbins (Jerome Rabinowitz), Alan King (Irwin Allen Kniberg) and Joan Rivers (Joan Molinsky) were still hiding their Jewish surnames, you think “Maybe.”
The original idea was to do a particular Sholem Aleichem story, which was quickly abandoned instead for an adaptation of some of the famous Jewish author and wit’s “Tevye” stories, principally “Tevye and his Daughters.”
Harold Prince was approached to direct, but he pushed for Jerome Robbins (“West Side Story”), and the film gets at the personal and political conflicts Robbins brought to the process, in the writing and staging and in the casting.
He “named names” during the 1950s Congressional “Witch Hunt” of people in Hollywood and the performing arts, and original “Fiddler” Tevye, Zero Mostel never let him forget it. And Robbins didn’t get along with such collaborators as designer Boris Aronson, who settled on Marc Chagall-inspired sets, giving the production its surreal out-of-time 1905 Russia look.
Chagall’s 1921 painting “The Fiddler” gave the show its title, “Fiddler on the Roof.”
The show bombed when it hit out of town try-outs in Detroit, was tweaked and became a smash that set Broadway records that lasted until “Grease!” and “A Chorus Line” and their like came along a decade later.
We hear a hilarious if somewhat tone-deaf ditty cut from the play, “When Messiah Comes,” and see old TV bits with Bock and Harnick singing and playing pieces they were working on for a New York theatre TV show of the early ’60s (wow), of Mostel singing with talk show host Dick Cavett, and Chaim Topol, the Israeli actor who played Tevye in London before being cast in the film version.
There’s excellent analysis of the show and the film and the era from Fran Lebowitz, Chapin and others, and a splendid defense of the somewhat stodgy and stagey movie (having an Israeli play Tevye made his endless conversations with God a lot more assertive and aggressive).
And Topol, Joel Grey (star of a Yiddish production), Michael Bernardi, a Broadway Tevye and son of a Broadway Tevye (Herschel Bernardi), and actresses from recent revivals (Jessica Hecht, Melanie Moore) talk about the subtexts of characters, the nascent feminism that worked its way from Aleichem’s book to the all-male braintrust that created “Fiddler.”
The film gets sidetracked, here and there, diving deep into the horrors of matchmakers and their role in Jewish women being sold into slavery among its dead ends.
But by the time we visit the “real” village of Anatevka, the setting for “Fiddler,” and see how the show looks and sounds in public schools and in Tokyo, Rotterdam and Bangkok, “Fiddler” has worked its magic, all over again.
And we’re left with days of trying to get those damned songs out of our head. Again.
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MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some thematic elements/disturbing images.
Cast: Chaim Topol, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Jessica Hecht, Jerry Bock, Sheldon Harnick, Fran Lebowitz, Gurinder Chadha, Joel Grey, Michael Bernardi, Harvey Weinstein, Austin Pendleton, Harold Prince, Paul Michael Glaser, Melanie Moore
Credits: Directed by Max Lewkowicz, script by Max Lewkowicz and Valerie Thomas. A Samuel L. Goldwyn release.
Running time:

“The Public” is premised on a simple fact of modern urban, and even suburban life. Public libraries have become, as writer-director-actor Emilio Estevez has acknowledged, “de facto homeless shelters.”
Senior citizens and cheapskates who prefer to borrow books rather than buy them (like me), school kids who need a safe place to do homework and wait for their parents to get off from work still use them.
Any time you need a laugh, ask any reference librarian, our flesh-and-blood “Google,” what sorts of inane, loony questions they field in a given day.
“I need a color photograph of George Washington.”
“I was reading this book, and I don’t remember the author or the title or the characters’ names, but it was on that shelf over there. Where is it now?”
“What kind of apple did Eve eat?”
But to the homeless, libraries are a sanctuary, a place to spend the day in air conditioned or heated comfort, with clean bathrooms which they wash up in, computers or wifi they can use for free like the rest of us, quiet so they can doze, if left to their own devices.
Couple that necessity with the knowledge that a sizable portion of the homeless population are mentally ill, unstable enough to put others ill at ease or worse, and yet are the last problem government seems ready to wrestle with and you’ve got the makings for a well-constructed if rather ham-fisted drama as American civics lesson.
Estevez stars as Stuart, a librarian in Cincinnati during a late winter cold snap. He knows many of the homeless by name, and they know him. They’re veterans like Jackson (Michael Kenneth Williams), or chattering, scatterbrained mental patients no longer institutionalized like the mascot of Jackson’s circle, Caesar (Patrick Hume).
“Hail Caesar!” the homeless guys chant after any arcane and typically erroneous “fact” Caesar spouts, like the Tourette’s Edition of Trivial Pursuit.
Jena Malone is a super-progressive underling of Stuart’s, anxious to lose herself in the literature department, Jacob Vargas is the front door security guard (part of a “team,” which I have never seen in any library, no matter how big) and Jeffrey Wright plays the world weary library director trying to keep the peace and hold on to some semblance of the institution’s core mission — a fact delivering, education supplementing bastion of learning, civic responsibility and civility.
That’s one thing “The Public” absolutely nails. As somebody who stops to work in libraries all up and down the Eastern seaboard while I’m on the road, one can’t help but notice the sea change in them, from an oasis of quiet, reflection and literacy to a noisy, cell-phone cluttered cacophony of under-parented kids, senses-dulled seniors and homeless folks on various spectrums who, at any given moment, will disrupt the sanctity of the place and the serenity of the other patrons, who otherwise don’t give them a thought.
Stuart’s got a high tolerance for this. But on the day when he learns the one homeless guy he had turned out for an “offensive odor” could cost him his job, the homeless “get organized” about the lack of shelter space in the city and the frigid cold that is killing them by ones, twos or threes every night they have to spend on the streets.
“Tonight, we occupy!” Jackson jokes. He hasn’t thought this through, at all. And when Stuart and Myra elect to remain with the 70 or so men on the third floor until their grievances are heard, Stuart finds himself becoming their mouthpiece for this “exercise in civil disobedience.”
Alec Baldwin plays the police department’s veteran negotiator with a personal interest in the homeless, Christian Slater is an opportunistic prosecutor running for mayor, anxious to make this problem go away in a way that buttresses his “tough on crime” campaign. And Gabrielle Union is the shallow and equally opportunistic TV reporter on the scene, hyping the drama of this “hostage crisis” as a way of boosting her career.
Taylor Schilling of “Orange is the New Black” is Stuart’s neighbor and apartment building supervisor, where we get a dose of who he really is (and what he and she have in common).
Estevez has built a perfectly workmanlike melodrama, a blend of “John Q” and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” with a tense agenda-driven police standoff in the Black Lives Matter era and seriously-dated “cute” crazy people.
Rhymefest makes a great impression as the obligatory man mountain among the mentally ill, a soft-spoken gent who makes no eye contact until you can convince him he doesn’t have laser eyes installed at birth “by the government.”
Estevez’s picture loses its urgency even as it never quite loses its away, blending the cornball and the cliched with the preachy (Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath” is a major subtext) and the odd genuinely funny or touching moment.
Taken with his “Bobby” Kennedy bio-pic and warmly upbeat “The Way,” Estevez is staking out a unique place in not-quite-mainstream cinema, that of an old fashioned civics teacher and a humanist. The best we can hope for him each time out these days is that every film finds enough of an audience to earn him a shot at making another.
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MPAA Rating: PG-13 for thematic material, nudity, language, and some suggestive content
Cast: Emilio Estevez, Michael Kenneth Williams, Taylor Schilling, Jeffrey Wright, Alec Baldwin, Gabrielle Union, Christian Slater
Credits: Written and directed by Emilio Estevez. A Universal release.
Running time: 1:59

Here at Maitland’s Enzian Theater for the beginning of the annual Global Peace Film Festival, docs and features about peace and civil rights issues.
It runs through the week at venues all over Central Florida. Sept. 16-22.
An exhibit of Jimi Hendrix artworks was added to this Woodstockish festival’s line up.
Opening night film is “The Public,” which I missed during its brief run this summer.
Emilio Estevez, homeless folks in a pubic library, moved to action.
Right up the festival’s alley, and mine.
The world’s largest excavator, or digger, chews through a wall of earth and rock that was once the German town of Immerath.
A young man, one of the thousands of residents of the Dandora Landfill in Kenya, raps to hear the echo in the canyons that decades of debris have created.
Chefs in Venice horse around in waders, carrying each other home, piggyback, as the city streets floods, as they now do most any time it rains, or on certain tides.
A yodeling choir helps open the longest rail tunnel in the world, Gotthard Base, which runs underneath 35 miles (56 kilometers) of Swiss Alps.
A wildlife protection activist stands in front of $150 million in confiscated elephant tusks and sadly marvels how many elephants were poached to create this hoard — “Can you imagine? Ten thousand elephants!
These are some of the images, many epic in scale, in “Antropocene,” a documentary aimed at helping scientists make the case that the great geologic ages of Earth history have a new chapter. The Holocene Epoch, which began after the last Ice Age, 12,000 years ago, the argument goes.
But humanity, in just 10,000 years, has reshaped the Earth in permanent, astonishing and gravely destructive ways that will be obvious long after humans have gone extinct.
The filmmakers who gave us “Watermark” and “Manufactured Landscapes” travel the world to see the “story” that we’re leaving behind in “the rocks.” Oscar winner Alicia Vikander delivers a dry narration, the odd local witness speaks on camera (unidentified) and we see screen chapters on everything from “Extraction” to “Extinction,” detailing the ways we’re altering the ecosystem we live in.
An early visit is to Norilsk, “the most polluted city in Russia,” a sprawling complex of mines and smelting operations north of the Arctic Circle.
“It takes some getting used to,” one of the female crane operators admits.
In Atacama Desert, Chile, we see the vast array of drying ponds where Lithium sand is extracted to make the batteries that may save us from the hell that coal mining in Germany or the air-choking complex of oil refineries in Houston are pushing us to.
Maybe not.
With limited graphics and spare narration, “Anthropocene” shows the gigantic open pit where Carrara marble has been mined in Italy since the days of the Roman Empire.
“Climate change” comes up when looking at the seas rising on Venice, the “acidification” of sea water brought on by fossil fuels (a reef in Indonesia) and a 120 km/75 mile long sea wall that China built to, um, keep sea water from flooding their highly productive Shengli Oil Field.
The images are occasionally bleak, and the messaging more pressingly so, as old growth forests disappear in British Columbia and Nigeria and landscapes transformed by industrial-scale farming are viewed from the air.
Yes, we’ve filled the atmosphere with levels of carbon dioxide not seen in 66 million years of geologic time. But at least we get our own “epoch,” the Anthropocene,” named after us.
And there’s a smidgen of cautious hope underscoring much of what we see here.
Sure, the Third World, China and Russia are setting a poisonous, destructive tone where regulation and wages and health concerns are lower. But the ingenuity that built that lengthy sea wall, that pierced the Alps and that has turned London’s old air raid shelters into vast underground farms (Bean sprouts, anyone?) can probably figure out ways to save endangered species, reduce carbon and move “extraction” into the realm of science-fiction — “off world.”
If only we can all agree to do it,
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MPAA Rating: unrated, some profanity
Cast: Narrated by Alicia Vikander
Credits: Directed by Jennifer Baichwal, Edward Burtynsky, Nicholas de Pencier, script by Jennifer Baichwal.An Oscilloscope Labs release.
Running time: 1:27

It looks so easy on a map. Just a few inches, or centimeters, get you from here to there. Even if you wholly comprehend the miles — or kilometers — they translate to, modern Western life has conditioned us to regard journeys as simple “trips,” not ordeals.
But when you’re trekking from Tajikistan to Afghanistan, through Iran into Turkey, Bulgaria and you hope, into Europe, when you’re a refugee fleeing for your life, nothing about it is simple.
Hassan Fazili is an Afghan documentary filmmaker who, in 2015, ran afoul of the Taliban. No, they aren’t the government any more. But the fanatical Islamo-fascists still have the run of much of the country. When they say you’re going to come to some harm, you take it seriously.
He, his filmmaking wife Fatima Hossaini and their two little kids fled to Tajikistan. And when time ran out there, resolved to cover 3500 miles to safety in Germany or some other haven.
“Midnight Traveler” is the movie he made while on this arduous, years-long journey. With only a little cash, what little they could stuff into their car and their cell phones, they fled — using their cells as maps to plan their passages, communication with friends and potential smugglers who could help them, musical entertainment for the kids and as a film production they could stash in a purse or pocket.
Fazili — I’m assuming Hossain did some shooting, too, and we see the oldest daughter Nargis get some images — captures the ardous car ride, videoing through a cracked windshield or a lens fogged up by early morning condensation when they camped out.
We’re shown daytime treks in groups of refugees led by smugglers across easier borders, and the midnight scampers involved when crossing more dangerous ones.
Nargis reads narration to set the stage, “The road of life winds through Hell,” and we can believe it.
Our global refugee crisis, happening in an increasingly dystopian world hostile to the displaced, is personalized in “Midnight Traveler.”
Fatima rages at the smuggler who gets them into Bulgariia and threatens to kidnap their children if they don’t pay up. “These men are vultures!” she complains (in Pashto, with English subtitles). “How do you say ‘help’ in English?”
In some countries, they want the police to find them. A reasonably comfortable refugee camp, freedom of movement and getting your name on an official “list” to cross the next border is what awaits them.
In others, the cops are sympathetic to the right wing protesters who hurl rocks, chase them, march and chant (in Bulgarian), “DEPORT! No day in COURT!”
Aid workers pop up here and there, a TV crew shows up to battle the language barrier to report their plight, friends help here, officials turn them away there.
And as on any family road trip, there are (understandable, here) child meltdowns, miserable stretches and flashbacks.
Fazili remembers (in voice over) the former friend who joined the Taliban, and who called to warn him when a film he made about a Taliban commander irked the commander’s leaders. He was going to be arrested.
As he remembers this, and at other points, he talks of the film he sees in his head, adding “cut” to segments of voice-over, detailing a horrific moment’s potential as “the best part” of his finished movie, imagining a final family triumph that will underscore the closing credits.
Yes, documentary filmmakers are like that, making a “story” out of the reality they or the people or animals the film is about are dealing with.
Much of what was harrowing about their odyssey happens off-camera — the smuggler threats, a rock throwing incident, etc. At other times, Hossaini and others tell her husband to “turn it off.”
And just when you think, “Even in Bulgaria they don’t separate families and treat refugees humanely,” along comes a border crossing into Hungary where the refugee “transit station” is a razor-wired prison camp, which young Nargis takes a phone out to record in “the yard” because “I want to REMEMBER this.”
“Midnight Traveler” is a documentary whose “How we made this film under these conditions” story almost overwhelms the finished product. Too much happens off camera, too many scenes capture the drudgery of the camps, where they were trapped for months and months at a time.
But Fazili has made an otherwise-unblinking cell-phone verite film of the crisis of our times, a first-person account of what people who cannot live where they are do to save themselves. Nobody watching “Midnight Traveler” can come away from it unimpressed, even if some are determined to look on this crisis and remain unmoved.
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MPAA Rating: Unrated, some violence
Cast: Fatima Hossaini, Hassan Fazili, Nargis Fazili, Zahra Fazili
Credits: Directed by Hassan Fazili, script by Emelie Coleman Mahdavian. An Oscilloscope Labs release.
Running time: 1:27
You knew he was a goner the moment that damning clip showed up. That wasn”t a lapse, ancient history or anything you can explain away.
That was a vile bigot comfortable in long held prejudices.
Via The New York Times
“Shane Gillis, a comedian announced as a new cast member on “SNL” before videos surfaced in which he used slurs and offensive language, will not be joining the show, “SNL” announced Monday. A spokesperson said they “were not aware of his prior remarks.” https://t.co/j5mlsffU73 https://twitter.com/nytimes/status/1173694477908815878?s=17