Rediscovering Pete Seeger through “A Complete Unknown”

Casual fans will be blown away and even hardcore ones impressed by the uncanny musical impersonations that James Mangold’s “A Complete Unknown” Bob Dylan biography is built upon.

Timothee Chalamet‘s utter channeling of Babyfaced Bob, the early years, getting the tightlipped nasal twang of the Bard of the Iron Range just right and showing flashes of just how good Dylan got, early on, at playing the guitar carries the film.

Monica Barbaro may not be able to hit every note Joan Baez did and still does in that ethereal, almost supernatural range of hers. But Barbaro nails an earthiness and experience of the world that is missing from most portrayals of her as the Queen of Folk allegedly turned girlish and naive by taking up with the up and comer Dylan. This is a Grown Ass Woman Baez, with agency and accomplishment and less inclined to take guff from the mercurial child rocketing to fame in her limelight.

Boyd Holbrook’s Johnny Cash comes off as folksy, famous and humble in the presence of someone he recognizes as a great talent. Holbrook looks and sounds more like Cash than Joaquin Phoenix and he makes Bob’s “pen pal” a burst of amusing showmanship/musicianship/fandom dropped into the middle of the movie.

But the portrayal that really got under my skin because of the way the actor touches the soul of his subject is Edward Norton‘s uncanny recreation of the folk icon and legendary blacklisted member of The Weavers, Pete Seeger.

Norton casts aside the cynicism that’s given many of his characters an edge over the decades and finds the sweet, earnest goodness of this lifelong do-gooder, the “conscience” of “A Complete Unknown.”

St. Pete takes in young Bob upon his arrival in New York. Pete introduces Bob to Woody, shows Bob the folk music world and the folk music performing ropes, gets him up on stages and sings the praises of a genius he and his old pal Woody (Scoot McNairy) recognized the instant Bob sang them something he’d written.

On screen and in person, Norton has that “Fight Club/Rounders” edge. That’s what makes his goofy turns in Wes Anderson’s non-animated cartoons such a hoot.

In “A Complete Unknown,” his Pete is a crusader, a troubadour and a peacemaker, winning over the courtroom if not the judge with his unwavering support of free speech, free thought and human rights,. The reason he was on trial was his defiance about answering questions about his activism and associations for the infamous right wing House Unamerican Activities Committee,

This Pete isn’t inclined to judge Bob’s decision to go electric, turning his back on the folk crowd that nurtured him to fame. But no, he didn’t like how “loud” Bob and his band were at Newport ’65. And yes, it is alleged that Peaceful Pete picked up a fire axe intent on cutting the PA system feed so as to lower the din.

I interviewed Seeger for a public radio station I worked for back in the ’80s — one of several figures depicted in “A Complete Unknown” I’ve had the pleasure of chatting up; Baez, Dave Van Ronk and Theodore Bikel among them. I think the focus of the interview was the State of Folk (many public radio stations played folk music programming then and a few still do) and an edgier discussion of Pete’s politics, which got him banned from performing for years, and got “The Smother Brothers Comedy Hour” canceled when Pete sang “Knee Deep in the Big Muddy” on the air.

His earliest activism was carried out alongside Woody Guthrie, advocating for unions, fighting fascism when it reared its head through manipulations of oligarchs, at home and abroad. His later years of activism were environmental in nature, supporting river keeper groups trying to police pollution on America’s waterways.

One guy who covered Pete’s most famous instrumental was the g, uitar virtuouso Leo Kottke. Kottke was a pretty good on stage and interview storyteller himself, and thanked Pete by mail for the tune, apologizing for what he’d done with it. He told me a version of this story of his encounter with the legend.

But Pete was a talented multi-instrumentalist and an excellent singer, never better than when he was leading his audiences in sing-alongs.

In the movie, Norton’s Seeger reminds the world that Pete was the guy who popularized the African song “Wimoweh,” and who later had a hand in getting royalties to the once-unknown publisher of the tune that inspired “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” which made it into “The Lion King.”

Damned if Norton doesn’t hit some serious high notes — and not just on the banjo — in covering this immortal tune, Seeger “Sing Along” fashion, in the movie. I wonder if Norton learned Seeger’s “Living in the Country” himself?

Seeger, like many a folkie, was a song catcher, an amateur musicologist who knew every song most anybody who called themselves a folk singer would play. He’d recognize the melodies Dylan borrowed and adapted for his early compositions. Bob was a born poet. The music he wasn’t shy about taking shortcuts with.

As seen in the film, Pete had a public TV program or two about folk music — “Rainbow Quest” was the most famous. I don’t know if Dylan ever appeared on it.

But here are Pete Seeger and Judy Collins swapping tunes and opinions about melody “repurposing” of the Dylan school back in the ’60s.

Dylan became an overnight icon of American folk music, and it is those early tunes that got him a Nobel Prize for literature. But he was just a drive-by folkie, and “A Complete Unknown” reminds us of this.

Pete Seeger, like Baez, was the musical, moral and spiritual face and voice of American folk music, an activist active to the very end. Norton pays him the highest tribute by getting his portrayal of this heroic, almost martyred figure that close to perfect.

“A good song can only do good,” Norton’s Pete says in the movie, and if we take nothing else away from the Bio of Bob, that should be it.

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Movie Review: “Mufasa,” everything we didn’t need to know about “The Lion King”

The CGI animated savannahs, rivers and rock formations of Africa are photo-real, and the animals populating it have never been more realistically rendered than they are in “Mufasa: The Lion King.”

Disney felt the need to have the lions, warthog and meercat’s lips move when they sing, which is saying something.

But let’s keep this review short and not-exactly-sweet, unlike this boardroom-ordered prequel to one of Disney’s most popular intellectual properties. “Mufasa: The Lion King” never makes the case that it’s a story that needed to be told or a movie that needed to be made.

It’s about how Mufasa got separated from his birth-parents’ pride of lions, and joined another, becoming “brothers” with the lion cub who “saved” him, but who will come to be called “Scar.”

So the object of this prequel is to show how Mufasa became Lion King and how Scar got his scar and became the bitter rival in their pride.

The “story” is framed as a “story” Rafiki the ape (John Sani) tells Simba’s cub, and that cub’s protectors/babysitters, Timon (Billy Eichner) and Pumbaa (Seth Rogen).

The tale is of another coming-of-age quest, with two young-lions on their own this time, paired-up, depending on each other, on the run from a pride of albino lions led by the killer Kiros (Mads Mikkelsen).

There are new songs of a far more forgettable nature than those from the animated classic “The Lion King.”

“The circle is broken,” he growls, and we believe him.

There are harrowing moments of drama in their quest, but there’s precious little humor to the movie, all of it provided by the same duo who have always been the comic relief, Timon and Pumbaa.

“We’ve been singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ since forever!”

“Who hasn’t?

The messaging, about taking in “strays,” and that “To be lost is to learn the way,” is weak tea.

Story failings aside, it’s not a bad movie. But “Mufasa” never lets us forget the limited-entertainment-value of the entire undertaking. Oscar winner Barry Jenkins (“Moonlight”) was hired to direct, but aside from a few voice casting decisions (Keith David, Anika Noni Rose, with Aaron Pierre and Kelvin Harrison, Jr. as Mufasa and Taka/Scar), he brings nothing to this that makes a difference.

Disney’s tech/animators telling their bosses that “Yes, we can make it look like a movie with real singing lions and bathing hippos on the veldt without using real animals or shooting on location” is no justification for showcasing that technology.

Story matters, and this one didn’t need to be told.

Rating: PG, some violence

Cast: The voices of Aaron Pierre, Kelvin Harrison, Jr., Tiffany Boone, John Kani, Mads Mikkelsen, Thandiwe Newton, Keith David, Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen.

Credits: Directed by Barry Jenkins, scripted by Jeff Nathanson, based on characters from Disney’s “The Lion King.” A Walt Disney release.

Running time: 1:58

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Movie Review: Ladyboss has a taste for being dominated — “Babygirl”

Dutch actress-turned-director Halina Reijn’s “Babygirl” is an icy, clinical inversion of our idea of masochism and “abuse of power” in the workplace. The director of “Bodies, Bodies, Bodies” sets up Nicole Kidman as a “woman on top” at the office, but a born bottom when it comes to getting herself off.

If nothing else, the picture scores with this bit of on-the-nose casting. Kidman’s always been at home in ice queen roles, and her character’s calculating approach to kinky plays as right-on-brand.

The movie around Kidman and her character Romy is much more of a mixed bag, dark, cynical and only amusing in unintentional ways. We can believe our public face of an AI-driven automated shipping company might need to dominate her workplace, but risk it all to be “dominated” after hours. But by an intern-bro? THIS intern bro?

Romy is CEO, in charge and on top at Tensile, her Amazon-on-steroids home delivery corporation. She has people she is accountable to, but this workaholic is the genius who makes it all go.

She is one of Manhattan’s Masters of the Universe, a shaker and mover married to an accomplished stage director (Antonio Banderas, terrific), the mother of teen and tweenage girls.

But whatever show she puts on with her handsome husband in the bedroom, sneaking off to watch online porn and masturbate to it hints that she craves something more.

That new intern (Harris Dickinson) may be young. Impertinent, suggestive and flirtatious, he instantly reads something in Romy that he acts upon.

“I think you like to be told what to do.”

Samuel isn’t a wholly formed adult, and “bro” seems the right read on his intelligence, education and polish. But there are hints of native cunning about him. He imposes himself on her, making her his mentor against her wishes.

Thus begins a twisted, edgy game of brinkmanship. The 20something with the carelessly tied tie has “all the power,” tempting and teasing and bossing around the boss, not the sort of thing HR would approve of.

Wait until he tells her to “Get on your knees.”

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Movie Review: Robert Eggers’ “Christmas Carol” with fangs — “Nosferatu”

With just a handful of films, Robert Eggers has established himself as the Merchant/Ivory, Powell and Pressburger of horror.

The writer, director and most tellingly production designer of “The Witch,” “The Lighthouse” and “The Northman” creates exquisitely detailed lithographic prints of the worlds of the past, veritable picture postcards of the primitive lives of settlers, Vikings and 19th century lighthouse keepers.

And every so often, he hurls so much gore onto the screen that you’d swear Rob Zombie showed up on set for a few days while Eggers took a long weekend.

“Nosferatu” is a grand homage to Gothic horror on the page, on the stage and on the screen. A loving adaptation of the 1922 F.W. Murnau silent cinema classic, it’s beautifully realized, Christmas card nostalgic and downright quaint — aside from the blood, devourings, vomit and nudity.

It’s a-by-the-book treatment of the Urtext of vampire tales, “Dracula,” and if anything, it’s less surprising and shocking than its silent cinema forebear. Eggers leans on Stoker far more than Murnau and 1920s German screenwriter Henrick Galeen.

If you have ever seen a “Dracula” adaptation on the screen, this “Nosferatu” offers not a single surprise. The names may change, but the tropes of the genre are all present and accounted for.

There’s a mysterious Transylyanian count with a passion for house-swapping, a “familiar” not named Renfield, a coffin carried in a sea voyage (less logical here), an endangered young bride and a vampire hunter who hasn’t gotten his license yet.

Eggers reaches for the occasional jolt, but while he was aiming for a horrific homage, what hits home time and again is how admiring and campy this is.

A young German woman (Lily Rose-Depp) is “bonded” to a mysterious, monstrous presence (Bill Skarsgård, unrecognizable of course) in her youth. When she marries, her nightmarish dreams about her future seem to come true. Her real estate agent husband (Nicholas Hoult) is summoned to far-off Transylvania to sign-off on the sale of a crumbling German mansion with the towering Count Orlok.

“Do not SPEAK his name,” Thomas is warned. “BEWARE of his shadow!”

As the contract is in “my own language,” poor Thomas has no idea what he just signed away. His pining wife slips into frantic spasms and wild delusions. He himself is trapped, awakening each day to more mysterious bites all over his chest. Weakened, how can he escape?

And what part did his realtor-from-hell boss (Simon McBurney) play in this scheme?

Bride Ellen’s friends, the Hardings (Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Emma Corrin) are at a loss, as is the doctor (Ralph Ineson, perfect) they summon to treat her. But perhaps his mentor at university, the discredited alchemist von Franz (Willem Dafoe, in a fine lather) has some thoughts.

“Angels and demons protect us!”

A “plague” is coming, with every life endangered, from the ship’s crew imperiled by their “cursed” cargo, to the cherubic children the Hardings assure “there are no MONSTERS.” Mere science cannot stop it. But perhaps superstition can.

Eggers indulges himself in all the tricks of the scary cinema’s trade — simple historic ffects given a digital boost in recreating an 1830s Europe of gloom, greys and shades of brown and red. The most chilling image is of the shadow of count’s clawed hand, stretching across a sleeping city, reaching for Ellen.

His film has Currier and Ives look and his script has “A Christmas Carol” touches. What Eggers has given us here isn’t fresh collection of frights, but a serving of cinematic seasonal comfort food, with only a Roma (Gypsy) village, the crew of the unnamed sailing bark and Professor von Franz having the sense to dread the terrifying truth.

Rating: R, graphic, gory violence, nudity

Cast: Lily Rose-Depp, Nicholas Hoult, Emma Corrin, Ralph Ineson, Simon McBurney, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Bill Skarsgård and Willem Dafoe.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Robert Eggers, based on Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” and Henrik Galeen’s script to the 1922 film “Nosferatu.” A Focus Features release.

Running time: 2:15

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The Best Christmas Day for Movies in a Generation — What are you going to see?

So many movies already open, opening or opening in limited release this Christmas. The fact that you don’t have to limit yourself to a “Sonic,”“Gladiator” or “Moana” sequel, a musical suffering from elephantiasis or a “Lion King” prequel should be a cause for celebration.

Not a big one, just a “Thank heavens for small mercies” one.

Are you seeing “Babygirl” today, or “Nosferatu?” That’s what I’m getting around to.

“Queer” is outstanding, the Dylan picture “A Complete Unknown” is a Dylan fan and film fan’s delight, “The Fire Inside” is pretty good and “The Brutalist” is playing in select cities.

There have been years when only one or two titles rolled out on Christmas, and most years, they weren’t “The Godfather.”

But with a musical adaptation, two musical Disney animations, grown up films and “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” here to give Judy Greer her biggest big screen hit ever, there’s no excuse for staying home on the holiday. None.

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Movie Review: Bob the Bard in Epic strokes, Dylan as “A Complete Unknown”

Boyd Holbrook’s Johnny Cash out-cools, out-swaggers and out hell-raises future Nobel Prize winner Bob Dylan in Dylan’s own biopic. I wonder if “A Complete Unknown” director James Mangold ever winced and muttered “Damn” about who he originally cast to star in “Walk the Line?”

Edward Norton’s rendition of folk music legend and activist Pete Seeger is so exacting, earnest and humane as to make one reconsider the lifetime of canny scene-stealing creeps decorating Norton’s resume. It’s a thrilling turn, musically and dramatically, and yes he almost steals the movie.

Monica Barbaro had the unenviable job of recreating a once-in-a-generation voice — Who could? — but her spirited, no-nonsense portrayal pretty much rewrites the book on Joan Baez regarding her relationship with Bob.

But it is Timothée Chalamet who brings the titular “Complete Unknown” to life, who sets the tone for the exacting recreations presented here. Boyish in that “pretty boy of folk” way Dylan was in the early ’60s, tight-lipped and nasal when he sings, a better guitar player than you might realize at first, evasive and elusive as a personality, even Bob himself might mutter “Damn” at how close Chalamet comes to the bone.

Chalamet’s Dylan is a changeling, joker, a musicologist in all but title, a romantic and a romantic poet who dominated the conversation and the pop charts in his prime. It is an unsparingly detailed performance in what was always going to be a frustrating depiction of an artist and his time.

Dylan has cultivated and curated an image as the inscrutable artist, unknowlable in his multitudes, a creator always creating, a “stranger” who only gets stranger with age. Getting to “know” him may have last been possible in about 1963.

“A Complete Unknown” may be a surface gloss tour through the folk 1960s, less gritty than the amusing “Inside Llewyn Davis,” not as revelatory as “I’m Not There,” not as point-by-point detailed as Scorsese’s definitive TV documentary on Dylan, “No Direction Home.” But what a grand gloss it is.

Actors master the guitar and the banjo (Norton) and sing the songs that defined a generation. They’re so good that their singing dominates the screen time in Mangold’s film. Major figures and bit players in the Dylan/Folk Boom ’60s saga pass by in a thrilling blur that perhaps only Dylan aficionadoes will catch.

There’s folk icon Dave Van Ronk (Joe Tippett), giving baby Bob a boost, then straining to keep him on message at the ’65 Newport Folk Festival. Musicologist Alan Lomax (Norbert Leo Butz), whom Dylan tracks down, recognizes as quickly as Pete Seeger and the already-silenced-and-hospitalized-by-Huntington’s Woody Guthrie (Scoot McNairy) just what he’s hearing.

“The future!”

Columbia Records impressario John Hammond (David Alan Basche) and producer Tom Wilson (Eric Berryman) try to shape Dylan’s career and corral his sound in the studio.

Blues legend Sonny Terry, actor/folk-singer Theodore Bikel, folkie Maria Muldaur, guitar icon Mike Bloomfield, they’re all glimpsed in flashes. Is that Mimi Farina (Baez’s singer-sister) sitting next to Bob’s first NYC artist girlfriend, Suze Rotolo (Elle Fanning) at the Newport Festival?

And Charlie Tahan is here to grab guitarist turned one-time Hammond B-3 organist Al Kooper’s moment of immortality, pitching in on “Like a Rolling Stone,” even though — bless his heart — nobody asked him to.

The arc of the story is the one many a biographer and most documentarians have taken with Dylan — his arrival in New York a hitchhiker, hoping to play the folk clubs and track down his idol, Woody Guthrie, that first girlfriend, the first attention, quick rise to fame and the decisive moment when he plugged in, shed the folk troubadour/”protest singer” label and enraged the folk music establishment at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival.

Dylan’s refusal to be pinned-down or categorized, his elusiveness, was the guiding principle of Todd Haynes’ multi-actor recreation of Dylan’s myth, “I’m Not There.” Mangold and co-writer Jay Cocks focus on Dylan’s mercurial reinventions via betrayal.

He abandoned his Jewishness more than once, first when he renamed himself Bob Dylan. He befriended and betrayed his New York activist, college coed, muse and live-in lover (Fanning), the woman (renamed Sylvie Russo here) who gave him his social conscience. He was taken in and mentored by Seeger, Lomax and Van Ronk, and cut them all off the moment he grabbed a Fender Stratocaster.

Dylan fell for folk star Baez, and their torrid affair lit the fuse in his rise to stardom. And when the folk fame grated and the “purity police” of the folk world wanted to pin him down, he dumped her and went on to betray an entire music audience.

It was full and storied life before his mid-60s Triumph motorcycle accident, retreat to Woodstock and return to performing on a never-ending tour. Not bad for a guy whose lone ambition was to be “a musician who eats.”

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Movie Review: Woman Boxer shows us “The Fire Inside”

A couple of great performances lift “The Fire Inside,” a generally conventional “fight picture” about a boxer long odds in pursuit of Olympic glory.

The novelty to this compact genre drama from cinematographer turned director Rachel Morrison and Oscar winning screenwriter Barry Jenkins, of “Moonlight” and “If Beale Street Could Talk,” is that the fighter’s a woman, and in the film’s depiction of the fleeing glory of Olympic fame, which doesn’t necessarily translate into dollars for our real life heroine.

The fact that our real life boxer, Claressa Shields, is Black, poor and from Flint, Michigan makes her inability to cash in on her fame something of a metaphor for Flint itself, a city where poverty and race contribute to official neglect and disregard that led to an international scandal. That’s left unspoken and underdeveloped in a movie far too content to stop at each way station on the generic heroine’s journey in a movie that lacks suspense and a proper third act payoff.

“Girlfight,” which launched Michelle Rodriguez, was a lot grittier. “Million Dollar Baby” was more moving.

The little girl who shows up at Flint’s Berston Field House, a makeshift gym with a hand-lettered sign identifying it as such, is treated as peculiar and already unpopular. But she must be tough, as much taunting as she’s willing to silently endure from the boys already being tutored by part-time coach-and-manager Jason Crutchfield. But Crutchfield, given his trademark immersvive three-dimenionality by Brian Tyree Henry, indulges the eleven year-old (Jazmin Headley).

The boy boxer doing the most razzing is put in the ring with her, and it’s an insant mismatch. But the trainer gives Claressa tips between punches.

“Keep your front foot planted. This ain’t no ballet.”

Unlike the boys at that age, Claressa listens and follows instruction. She’s got grit. Her arms are short, and when she gets worked-up, they deliver a pummeling in short, swift strokes. “T-Rex” they nickname her.

Five years later she’s a contender. Claressa (now played by Ryan Destiny) is only 16 turning 17, battling much older boxers for a spot in the 2012 Olympics. But there are all these obstacles in her way. Her dad’s (Adam Clark) in prison, and isn’t exactly a help when he gets out. Her mom (Olunike Adeliyi) is just broke, self-absorbed and careless enough about “boyfriends” to make Claressa and her two siblings’ home life hell.

And that lifelong sparring partner (Idrissa Sanogo)? He’s grown up with Claressa, and their sparring can turn into wrestling and love taps these days. Uh oh.

Oscar-nominee Henry (“Causeway”) makes Jason instantly credible as a guy who knows a bit about boxing and a lot about kids. We can believe this cable TV repairman and married father of two is someone who’d welcome his prize prospect into his paycheck-to paycheck family, if that’s what it takes to give her a shot. We don’t worry about ulterior motives because there aren’t any.

But as Claressa punches her way towards an Olympic podium moment, we start to wonder what form her success will take, and how it will impact all their lives. Not in ways we’d expect.

TV star (“Grown-ish,” “Star”) transformed herself physically for the role. Her technique in the ring mimics the real Claressa, and her bravado — sulking, trash talking — is treated as attributed to her youth, and something that gets the fighter lectured by the Olympic powers that be about how to behave if she wants to make it onto that Wheaties box.

The struggle between her rough-hewn “true self” and the sort of young woman who attracts an agent and big endorsements isn’t particularly novel, or suspenseful. But it’s interesting to ponder this in the cold hearted calculus of “popularity,” female athletes’ “sex appeal,” race and the underclass.

“The Fire Inside” is a feel-good picture that feeds off our disappointment that not everybody who succeeds against the odds wholly “succeeds” against those odds, and makes us wonder if this will ever change.

Because “The Fire Inside” and pursuit of excellence for the sake of excelling isn’t enough, and for any athlete not born rich but dedicated to be the very best, it shouldn’t be.

Rating: PG-13, boxing violence, profanity, sexual situation

Cast: Ryan Destiny and Brian Tyree Henry

Credits: Directed by Rachel Morrison, scripted by Barry Jenkins. An MGM/Amazon Studios release.

Running time: 1:49

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Netflixable? Dutch underworld’s less of a treat in “Ferry 2”

The Dutch underworld saga of “Ferry” Bouman finishes with something like a flourish in “Ferry 2,” the sequel to a gritty rise-of-a-“Pill King” in the Amsterdam underworld tale.

But a lot of what precedes that flash finale is pretty frustrating, a movie that’s slow to get going, with less interesting characters and stakes that feel lower because not enough attention is paid to “character arc” this time around.

Frank Lammers made a cunning hulk in the original “Ferry,” an underworld enforcer who got a dirty job done — any job. Here he’s a retired hulk, a man of violence living under an assumed name in a caravan (RV) in the South of Spain, where much of Europe — not just mobsters — moves when their working days are done.

Ferry is 50something, grey haired and the first guy the trailer park activities folk think of when they’re looking for somebody to play Santa for the local kids. As “Andre” he speaks Spanish and seems to get by.

Then his punk grand niece Jezebel (Aiko Beemsterboer) shows up uttering the “You OWE me” (in Dutch with subtitles, or dubbed) cliche at the old man who “wasn’t there for” her after her grandmom and then her mom died. She’s shown up with a lapdog beau, Jeremy (Tobias Kersloot) who happens to know how to “cook” ecstacy.

They’re in the hole with a ruthless mini-kingpin named Lex (Jonas Smulders), and no amount of protesting “I want no part of any of this” from the guy in the Santa suit will do.

Ferry drives them north in that caravan, abruptly ups the ante with the venomous Lex and before he knows it, these “f–king kindergarteners” have him tied up in a scheme to steal the raw materials, find a disused cargo boat to “cook” in and keep this new villain and one old one, the turncoat Dennis (Huub Smit) at bay.

Jez is a flatly-drawn character who grows from impulsive and angry to impulsive and enraged. Ferry’s obligation to her, as “family,” seems dubious. The first time she “changes the plan,” he should have the sense to bail.

But the story decrees that he’s got to stick around and warn the kid that “The longer you wait” to get out, “the harder it gets.” He’s got to be reminded “You got old.” And he has to handle stand-offs with an aged gambler’s unjustified, past-its-expiration-date confidence.

An early heist is handled with a minimum of fuss, and the big final shoot out is in exactly the sort of place you’d expect with exactly the outcome you’ve seen coming.

For such a short thriller, “Ferry” never manages to feel brisk or breathless or even satisfying. Lammers should be irked that they wasted such an interesting character on a movie full of “kindergarten s–t.”

Rating: TV-MA, violence, drug abuse

Cast: Frank Lammers, Aiko Beemsterboer, Tobias Kersloot, Huub Smit, Hamza Othman, Charlie Chan Dagelet and Jonas Smulders.

Credits: Directed by Wannes Destoop, scripted by Geerard Van de Walle and Tibbe van Hoof. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:35

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Movie Review: French couple constrained by the limits of “Just the Two of Us”

“Just the Two of Us” is a textbook domestic abuse melodrama, a French film with just enough mystery about it to make us wonder if it will transform into a thriller.

Based on a novel by Éric Reinhardt, Valérie Donzelli’s movie tells the story of a love affair, marriage and its breakdown from the woman’s point of view.

Virginie Efira from “Madeleine Collins” and “Benedetta” is Blanche, who meets the handsome and rakishly-named Grégoire Lamoureux (Melvin Poupaud of “Jeanne du Barry”) at a party her twin sister (Efira again) is throwing.

Actually, they “meet again.” They went to school together. He used to be “fat,” he says, as if such creatures ever turn up in French films. He’s tall, dark and handsome, a smoker with a name so poetic sounding she keeps repeating it.

He cultivates an air of mystery, but insists “Lamoureux” the banker “doesn’t want to keep secrets from” Blanche the high school French teacher. He quotes from “Brittanicus” (in French, with English subtitles), charms and seduces. A tumble into bed becomes a romance, a pregnancy and a marriage.

But the concern she expresses to her OB-GYN — “I haven’t known my partner very long.” — is our first tip that this isn’t what it seems.

He is charming, but controlling. The first lie she catches him in is a doozy. That “transfer” to a bank branch “in the boonies” far away from the coast and her family and friends wasn’t ordered. He asked for it. He wanted to get her away from her twin, her widowed mother and her school.

He doesn’t like the degree that she shares their lives with her sister.

“She’s my twin!”

“She’s not part of our relationship!”

Another baby comes, and the “control” ramps up. Her taking a job at a distant school, showing independence, isn’t his idea of a marriage.

The fact that we reconstruct much of what happens by virtue what Blance says to an interviewer (Dominique Reymond) tells us something went wrong. But is she talking to a lawyer? A counselor? A police interrogator?

The simple plot is decorated with tense moments, brittle arguments and textbook examples of manipulation and “abuse” that begin long before violence is threatened.

Efira makes Blanche understandable and sympathetic in classic “women’s melodrama” fashion. She cheats and she lies, but whatever reason she’s being “interviewed,” we trust it’s her side of the story that we will identify with.

Poupaud gives the game away by putting us on guard, right from that first seduction.

This French film never quite lapses into “Lifetime Original Movie” victimhood, but with every hint of stalking, badgering phone calls at work and every berating she endures, we know that whatever Blanche does to escape this is justified.

Still, it’d be nice if there was more to guess about, more suspense and more subtlety to the conflict. “Just the Two of Us” seems pre-ordained and predigested, with every emotion tugged at and every “trigger” and behavioral “tell” underlined so as to remove any doubt about what’s going on, who is the victim and who is to blame.

Rating: 18+, violence, sex, nudity

Cast: Virginie Efira, Melvil Poupaud, Bertrand Belin and Dominique Reymond

Credits: Directed by Valérie Donzelli, scripted by Audrey Diwan and Valérie Donzelli, based on a novel by Éric Reinhardt. A Music Box release on Amazon Prime.

Running time: 1:45

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Documentary Preview: A longer (full trailer) look at “Becoming Led Zeppelin”

It’s been a long lonely lonely lonely time. But that ends this Feb. “Authorized” and sanitized? Sure. Still looks fun.

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