Movie Nation

Even film fans who have never seen “The Searchers” know its quest — girls kidnapped by Indians on the Old West, a brutal-years-long pursuit of them and their captors by their uncle an the adopted nephew who draws into his obsession.

“Les Cowboys” is a modern French re-setting of that tale, borrowing its racial parable, its epic, tragic “hero’s quest” for a story of a French farm-country teen who runs off with her Muslim boyfriend, lost to a world utterly alien to her kin.

Her father Alain (François Damiens) never saw it coming. He’d bring the whole family along to their “Country Music Festival” in the foothills of the French Alps — every line-dancing, boot-scooting son and daughter of Gaul in hats, bandanas, blue jeans and bolo ties, driving Ford Mustangs, diving into Western lore and crafts and singing (in thick accents) “The Tennessee Waltz.”

His wife (Agathe Dronne) seems to enjoy the fellowship, his son, “The Kid” (Finnegan Oldfield) has absorbed this hobby as much as his dad.

Daughter Kelly (Iliana Zabeth)? She picked this 1994 fair as the spot for her to run off with Ahmed.

Ahmed? A friend from school? Who is he? What’s going on? A notebook filled with practice Arabic and extremist tracts turns up in her room, a letter from Charleville about “the life I’ve chosen” tells the tale.

“Maybe we should trust her,” his wife counsels (in French, with English subtitles). The girl is 16, and he’s not having it. He shares the views of many working class Frenchmen he meets — “You know how these savages treat women!”

Alain quickly tracks down the kid’s parents and is enraged at their lack of concern. Alain turns to the cops who give him the “wait three days” and “Let’s not get all steamed up.”

That is exactly what Alain becomes, increasingly furious that his 16 year-old has run off with some “raghead,” and that no one is taking this disaster seriously.

He abandons his business and tracks any lead — the letter from Charleville, a child in a red bandana in a Gypsy camp in Sedan, a port city document forger, an Islamic terror-funding mullah in Antwerp — “Your daughter is not your daughter any more!” — by sea to Yemen, overland to Turkey.

And like any good Old West son, The Kid follows.

Days turn into months and years, but Alain won’t give up — “I’ll come home when I have my daughter!” How far will he, they, take it?

Director and co-writer Thomas Bidegain (he scripted “A Prophet”) gives us a tail of futility, of “saving” someone who does not want to be saved and the racism built into Alain’s fanatical pursuit.

As with “A Prophet,” Bidegain toys with the changing nature of France and its uneasy relationship with the Islamic world that its former colonies and immigration policies have brought into the country, if not assimilated. “Les Cowboys” (as it was titled in much of the world) shows us a subculture that has absorbed one alien culture (America’s Old West) and yet cannot relate to another, the strangely-dressed people of different faith, values and color who have settled in with them.

“The Searchers” was, in American terms, John Ford’s “Brown vs. Board of Education” Western, a film that metaphorically wrestled with America’s 1950s Civil Rights Movement in the form of a cowboys and Indians tale.

The period piece setting allows the film to chart a Western world that moved from racist co-existence along shared issues (oil, foiling left wing revolutions) to vengeful rage by 9/11 and attacks in Madrid, London and elsewhere. Alain’s generation won’t be able to make this right, even if he gets his daughter back. The Kid’s?

“Cowboys” (as it titled on Netflix) meanders and staggers somewhat in its final acts, where the son Georges takes over the hunt. John C. Reilly plays a sage, cynical and world-weary “Americain” who meets Georges in Pakistan, the post-9/11 focus of any search for “radicalized” Muslims of East or West.

The “trader” (as he describes himself) sees a kindred spirit and shared mission in The Kid, and declares “There’s no room for us back home. We take up too much space.”

It is up to Georges to meet that destiny or transcend it.

The marvel of Bidegain’s film (Noé Debre co-wrote it) is that it lets us hope for that, even as it plays into Western contempt, Western fears and Western rage about a culture we’ve been slow to understand.

MPAA Rating:R for a brief violent image and a scene of drug use

Cast: François Damiens, Finnegan Oldfield, Agathe Dronne, John C. Reilly

Credits:Directed by Thomas Bidegain, script by Thomas Bidegain and Noé Debré. A Cohen Media Group release.

Running time: 1:44

If you’re into her movies, you probably have a fairly complete picture of who Parker Posey is, what she’s like.

A little flaky, a little flower-childhish — sexy, but more of a goofy flirt a romancer, high maintenance but not in a vain way.

And that’s how she comes off in her new memoir, “You’re on an Airplane.” You have to endure the random, stream-of-dopey-consciousness first chapter to get on her wavelength, but one there, you’re on that airplane with her.

She loses cell phones constantly, weeps a bit more readily than might be healthy and has been in therapy for decades. She was pals with Nora Ephron, chummed around with leading ladies on the many films where she got to play the girl who doesn’t get the guy.

She wears a succession of Gloria Swanson “Sunset Boulevard” hair coverings in the photos, with a few shots of her Deep South Louisiana/Mississippi childhood and early years scattered hither and yon.

She drops a recipe in, every so often, this “fireball” drink and that staple of the menu of her Nonnie (grandma).

She talks about her experiences on sets, memories of that seminal moment in the career of more than a few actors of her generation — Richard Linklater’s “Dazed and Confused” — a painfully detailed look at her first Woody Allen experience (“Irrational Man”), a brief chapter on ALL her Christopher Guest films (what she’s most famous for) all but skipping over the indie-indier-indiest Hal Hartley years, which put her on the map.

Ever wondered what that first day or two working for Woody Allen is like, a director growing more tone deaf to the culture he purports to be documenting, infamous for firing actors on that first day or two because he’s hearing “his lines performed for the first time?” She re-lives doing 20 takes of a line reading for Allen, experiencing “the greatest living director’s frustration at my performance.”

He may be watching what you’re doing, but it is the headphones, where he listens to the nuances in his dialogue, that make or break you. He won’t let anybody wear blue jeans, even if the movie’s set at a college. He thinks “cool” and “grass” are “what the kids are saying these days.” You can hear it in every Blanche DuBois affectation in his scripts, and Posey confirms it.

“He said I was a terrific actress and a complicated woman but that he didn’t want to see any of that in his movie.”

There’s a touch of Kathy Griffin in her wounded pride, an endless progression of encounters with fellow celebrities and film world professionals, some of whom go to some trouble to pretend they don’t recall who she is.

“Remember? We worked together on…”

Her quick sketches of John C. Reilly, Joaquin Phoenix, Michael Shannon and others — some of whom she worked with, others she just meets and shares that actor’s concerned question (“How are you doing?”) with — are spot-on.

She gives us a great taste for the ups and downs of this Gypsy lifestyle, the tight budget you live on, the uncertainty that comes with turning 40 (for an actress), being hot enough in indie film one minute to merit a Time Magazine appreciation/profile that she mentions and I remember, because the critic writing it just salivated over her, and many years later, relieved to finally get a steady job on the Netflix remake of “Lost in Space,” just when she was thinking teaching might be her only option.

At 50, she doesn’t exactly name names of the many men who have crossed her threshold (Ryan Adams, the one famous person she acknowledges was her beau). For all the sharing, she doesn’t talk about her Lyme disease.

But we get a few marvelous chapters mostly devoted to Gracie, her Bichon/Poodle/Maltese unjustly (she says) dissed on the late-not-lamented gossip site Gawker, whom a pet psychic once told her was “a seven year old English girl in a previous life.”

“When people say, ‘I’m not really a dog person,” all I hear is “I’m not really a person.'”

There’s a dose of what her level of success means financially — modest New York apartments, a truck given to her by her car dealer/larger than life dad, a small house “upstate,” which she paints and fixes up a little herself, breaking her wrist in the process, right before her first Woody Allen movie.

She shares the brittle “Blade” experience with her fellow SUNY-Purchase alumni Wesley Snipes (he was being squeezed out of his franchise, and she was a witness/participant), talks at teasing length about working for Louis C.K. on his show. “I’m a monster,” he kept telling her. So he was. Not that he pulled anything on a woman of her experience and profile.

“Please don’t repeat this. I’m only telling you because we’ll never see each other again,” she says, not naming names but revealing that some “actors are like snipers,” messing with your head on set, or at events, screwing up your closeups, etc.

In an earlier age, a funny/sexy raconteur like Posey would have been a “Tonight Show” or “Merv” or “Dick Cavett” regular, simply for her stories. Now that the Netflix series has given her a new lease on life, she’s hot enough (again) to warrant a memoir.

But now that’s she written one that left a lot out, maybe she will take a cue from Shirley MacLaine (they did that Mary Kaye Cosmetics TV movie together) and write another, name a few names and find even more laughs at her own, and other film people’s expense.

I’m a monster’

young thoroughbred  She asked if I needed anything from her. I wanted a lobotomy and a tapeworm.

Allen’s cluelessness about vernacular, his dislike for blue jeans, even on college student characters

Girlfriend is watching “Better Call Saul” and I think, “Wasn’t there a trailer slapped on the beginning of “Little Women” I meant to post? One that featured my man, my bud, the Great Character Actor Giancarlo Esposito (get him to tell you the story of how his mom brought him to meet Muhammad Ali), Amy Madigan and Ashanti, trapped on a subway car, singing their blues away.

“Stuck” opens in late Oct., limited release. And looks — DIFFERENT.

It takes a special kind of compassion to work in an animal shelter, a place which tests your ability to give your heart to anything or anyone.

Something about Mohamed made Linda hire him.

Maybe it was his story. Back when he was named “Martin” Lundy, he was sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. It doesn’t matter what being locked up did to him, that his prison nick-name was “Cyclops,” because of what he did to another man’s sight. Mohamed, she realizes, “relates” to the animals imprisoned at Second Hope Animal Shelter.

Boyd Holbrook brings a quiet stoicism to Mohamed in “The Free World,” a tenderness to someone we’re sure is a very hard man. But Linda (Octavia Spencer, perfect) overhears him talking with the dogs, commiserating over “suffering” and the loss of freedom, knowing some of them are doomed. She knows she made the right decision, taking a chance on hiring a freed and exonerated man.

But in this part of Louisiana, it doesn’t pay to be “too” compassionate. Hard rural people who take out their frustrations on their pets are not unheard of.

“Ain’t no rules out here,” he complains.

“Things don’t get settled the way they do inside,” she counters. No matter how furious he gets, he has to maintain his passivity. He can’t show it.

Especially when the redneck who beat a dog nearly to death is a drawling, law-unto-himself cop (Stephen Louis Grush). Even though his wife (Elisabeth Moss) is bloodied and hysterical, that badge means there’s nothing that can be done.

Mohamed? He has to go outside to re-center himself every time a dog is “put down.” Because he knows “killed” when he sees it.

But Mohamed’s compassion and his own liberty are tested more severely when the woman shows up, after hours, bloodied, drunk and hysterical. He takes her to his spartan apartment, lets her sleep it off. And the moment she’s awake she pulls a knife on him, no memory of how she got there, paranoid about what this stranger’s connection to her husband and his brotherhood of police might be.

She holes up and he figures out how she got there. She killed her brute of a husband. Consequences be damned, he’s going to protect her from that, stonewall the “Innocent, my ass” boys and girls in blue who question him.

“An innocent man, he don’t do what you did in lock-up.”

Holbrook, villain of “Logan,” hero of “The Predator,” has shades of Tom Hardy’s quiet menace from “The Drop” in his performance. Big, burly and scary, he is prison-conditioned to not let authority goad him, his survival skills (he hides a fork when he spies somebody watching him too intently in the diner) intact and perfectly paranoid.

Moss makes Doris borderline unstable, almost punch-drunk in the way she reels from what life has given her and what she’s done to avenge her suffering.

Writer/director Jason Lew, who gave us “The Experiment,” one of a couple of films about the Stanford Prison Experiment, succeeds when he keeps the film centered on one paranoid location, a tiny world with police, including a drawling, belligerent Asian detective (Sung Kang) closing in on them.

Any mistake could be disastrous for them both, prison time for her crime and his.

The film founders when Lew sends the couple, platonic and respectful (he is a Muslim, remember), on the run. That dash rather spoils the picture’s paranoid compactness, and it goes on and on, melodrama added unto melodrama.

But the performances are riveting. And does wonders for his case as the most masculine leading man of his generation, suited for hard men of action and softer-centered roles as well. If you can’t respect a tough man with a soft spot for dogs, there’s no hope for you any way.

MPAA Rating: R for some violence and language

Cast: Boyd Holbrook, Octavia Spencer, Elisabeth Moss, Stephen Louis Grush

Credits: Written and directed by Jason Lew. An IFC release.

Running time: 1:40

The comment forums on IMDb and elsewhere about the movie “Loco Love” have the occasional complaint that this Spanglish romantic tragedy is “just like” this or that movie from South of the Border.

That might be true, kids. But it’s also a “West Side Story” without the music, and a “Romeo & Juliet” with the Mexican-American border racial divide subbing for the Montagues and Capulets.

It may give away its story too easily and be entirely too obvious low low budget, but it still scores some points in America’s “Border Wall” political debate.

Marisol (Melany Bennett, aka Cobie Smulers 2.0) is a beautiful teen from a loving family in the border country. She works at the mall, talks trash about boys with her Venezuelan pal Tete (Alexa Mansour) and fends off — half-heartedly — the advances of Ramón (Adan Rocha), who has the “macho” hot temper of many a Mexican-American stereotype.

A great day in her familia is when Cousin Genaro (Joel Saak) makes it back across the border from the family’s native Sonora, Mexico.

Then comes that fateful day at the amusement park. Grinning Gavin (Evan Deverian) spies Marisol and Tete and follows them around. Giggling and toothy grins are exchanged, then a “What do YOU want?”

“I was hoping to get a kiss.”

Marisol knows her Shakespeare, so she complies. They move from macking to lip-smacking in the snack bar in a flash.

Of course, he’s ditched the blonde bigot (Natasha Esca) cheerleader who was his date to make this happen. And she had to give Ramón the slip. The furtive romance hasn’t even begun when her crew and his jocks/cheerleaders gang tangle over imagined affronts.

Gavin’s sister (Naian González Norvid) is the instigator, but “Spic” and “Beaner” are a ready insult for any of her white compadres. “Gringo pendajo” rolls off the tongue of Marisol’s family and friends, even her foul-mouthed baby brother.

As the affair takes hold, each must wear the label “traitor” and deal with disapproving relatives and close friends.

Race tops the list of both groups’ arguments, but the playing field isn’t level in the movie or in this debate. Marisol may correct a Hispanic teacher about “Who was here first,” and the injustices foisted on Mexican Americans. But racism and racial resentment fuel the fury of the Anglos.

Gavin’s dad (Christopher Warner) blames the failure of his contracting business on “illegals” and “Cheap labor.”

“They’re like the Taliban!”

“They’re just people trying to get by, Dad. Just like us.”

His mother (Stefanie Sherk) works for a Wall-backing GOP Congressman, and fills her public statements with racial dog-whistle trigger words, immigrants as “a cancer on our society,” “an entire way of life being threatened,” bringing “gangs” to threaten “safety” and “terrorism” into the argument.

Embittered dad is inspired by TV ads recruiting for “The Clayton Brothers Brigade,” a migrant-hunting militia.

That leads to one of the few lighter moments in Loco Love,” as Gavin’s racist football teammate pal Luke (Jordan Wilson) jabs the old man after seeing the commercial.

“You’d make a good Border Patrol Agent, Mr. Hayes.”

“You mocking me boy?”

“No sir. But I would like to point out you have an uncomfortable amount of guns in your home, sir.”

Earl is so far down his race-blaming rabbit hole that he doesn’t hear himself yelling “No WAY, Jose!” when his kid shows up in a Cesar Chavez t-shirt Marisol lent him.

The dialogue is generally bland, though the insults have a seriously racist sting — “Gavin’s too busy eatin’ burritos, now. He’s over you.” “Because he’s white I don’t know who I am?”

There’s heat in the performances, even if this isn’t anybody’s idea of a charismatic “name” cast.

The picture’s cheapness also pokes through in the many scenes shot in the early AM light (no crowds), the malnourished fake “fair” or amusement park they try to pull off, and at a party where all you hear is the thundering of feet on the dance floor (music low enough for dialogue, no money to fix that in post-production).

“Loco Love,” in English and Spanish and “Spanglish” with English subtitles, makes no secret where its sympathies lie. Nobody articulates the argument that “Just wanting to be here isn’t qualification enough for being allowed here.” Everybody’s too invested, too quick to play the race card to say or think that.

Borrowing from The Bard makes it predictable, but fans of this classic story are always intrigued to see how screenwriters tackle an update, who gets to play the hotheads, who gets hurt or killed.

Only the young and the passionate could possibly figure true love is worth all this hassle, pain, suffering and name calling. Bennett and Deverian make us believe that, even if we know they’re bound for “woe.”

MPAA Rating: unrated, profanity, sexuality, violence

Cast: Melany Bennett, Evan Deverian, Jordan Wilson, Adan Rocha, Joel Saak, Alexa Mansour

Credits:Directed by José Luis Gutiérrez Arias, Fernando Sariñana, script by  Diego Gutiérrez. A Corazón release.

Running time: 1:42

You don’t have to rack your brain or squint at the screen to summon up Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women” in the first-time feature filmmaker Claire Niederpruem’s modern day adaptation.

The bones are there, the four March sisters, making their way through life toward “happiness” in four distinct ways, coping with tragedy and the odd broken heart as they do.

It may be a colorless affair and being faith-based, adventurous liberties are not taken with the story or the characters. No sister comes out as gay, no loves-to-overdress-and dance neighbor boy named Laurie does either.

But it’s a serviceable “Little Women,” properly modern in the goals the March girls set for themselves, retro in ways that pay homage to the source material.

Sarah Davenport of “Body Snatch” and “The Hatred” is the Alannis Morisette look-alike/think-alike Jo, an outspoken believer in making her way without any man in her life, without marriage and children. From childhood, she has been determined to become a famous novelist and playwright, setting her sights foolishly high, composing and re-writing her “Wrinkle in Time/Lord of the Rings” fantasy in longhand, where you can let the words “seep into your skin.”

Meg (Melanie Stone of the “Mythica” movies, which virtually no one saw) is focused on family, marriage, and is willing to stray from the home-schooled path to “fit in” with her peers — drinking, dressing provocatively and making out with hormonal boys, until she realizes that’s not who she is.

Beth (Allie Jennings) is the would-be musician, too shy to do much outside of the family.

Amy (Elise Jones) is the youngest, the one who wants to hang out with the other girls’ dates, mainly Jo’s outings with her Platonic pal, rich neighbor Laurie (Lucas Grabeel), an effeminate swain who cuts a mean rug and wears a bedazzled bowtie or beret with the best of them.

Laurie has a “manny,” a boy nanny (Stuart Edge) whom Meg crushes on.

Marmee (Lea Thompson) is their indulgent but financially struggling (briefly touched on) mother, while Papa March (Bart Johnson) is off serving his country as an Army surgeon in the Middle East.

One clever idea from Niederpruem, who co-wrote the script, is having Jo’s struggles to get her sword-and-sorcery fantasy ready for publication (hanging with a hunky professor/adviser played by Brit Ian Bohen) interrupted by flashbacks about the March girls’ childhood.

THIS is the story that will become the book that makes her, as it made Alcott, famous — a herd of sisters growing up, making their own entertainment, staging plays, acting and video-taping their shows, getting along via addressing “grievances” as a group, each pursuing her own path.

Any girl who gripes “Can’t we just be a normal family?” isn’t recognizing the mental development such video-screen-free play encourages. Any home schooler who brings her kids to this expecting affirmation will enjoy that, and grimace at how poorly-socialized the girls turn out to be in their teens. Home schooling giveth, and maketh naive.

Meg finds herself being fed drinks by a boy, Jo never learns to listen to criticism or accept her shortcomings as anything other than problems of “the patriarchy,” Beth lives the life unlived and Amy is headed for boy trouble if  she isn’t careful.

Davenport is the stand-out in the cast, though Thompson makes a engaging Earth Mother and Grabeel’s Laurie, always “Almonzo” bland (to use a “Little House” analogy) character in the books an earlier films, almost has an edge.

Not that they were ever going to let give the role any bite, not in this crucifixes and odd moment of heavenly hope story.

“Little Women” nowadays is a bit of a stiff, as a few recent more period-correct adaptations have demonstrated. This light and frothy updating goes down easily and as often as not, and achieves “That’s not bad” and “That’s OK” at times.

Not a ringing endorsement, but as faith-based dramas go, this isn’t angry and isn’t an over-reach. Its virtues are the same as ever, even if its dramatic shortcomings only grow with time.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some thematic elements and teen drinking

Cast: Lea Thompson, Sarah Davenport, Allie Jennings, Melanie Stone, Lucas Grabeel, Ian Bohen

Credits: Directed by Clare Niederpruem, script by, Clare Niederpruem, Kristi Shimek, based on the Louisa May Alcott novel. A Pinnacle Peak release.

Running time: 1:52

Whatever his accomplishments as a (mostly TV) producer, and his fanboy-adored “Cabin in the Woods,” Drew Goddard’s “Bad Times at the El Royale” plays like the work of a film school Tarantino.

Traveling at an old-man-with-a-walker gait, ponderously telling some parts of its sketch-of-a-story from multiple points of view, it’s an excruciating exercise in self-indulgence, packed with flashbacks and those big speeches/big scenes that draw names like Oscar winner Jeff Bridges, Dakota Johnson and Jon Hamm to its cast. Clever lines, pithy pop culture observations? Not so much.

It adds up to nothing more than two hours and 21 minutes of tedium, with the odd spasm of violence, back-story or musical interlude.

It’s a period piece set in 1969, obsessed with the music of 1962-64, a Theatre of the Absurd homage packing four disparate guests into a former “hidey hole” hotel (actually a motel) where the rich and infamous used to party.

The El Royale, outside of Tahoe, lost its gaming license a year before. But the last employee, the desk clerk/maid/cook (Lewis Pullman) tells its story as if it’s ancient history, this “bi-state” hostelry where guests can stay in either Nevada or California rooms — it pointlessly bestrides the state line.

Bridges plays a priest who shows up with a puzzled look on his face, Cynthia Eriva (“Step”) is a singer with a suspicious nature, and Jon Hamm is the guy with the patter, the luggage and vacuum cleaning sales paraphernalia piled in the lobby, looking for somebody to check them all in.

“Tahoe’s best kept secret” is a veritable ghost motel, and when the clerk blurts out, “This is NOT a place for a priest, Father,” he’s not just talking about the housekeeping, the Automat sandwich machines, the tender-less bar or the out of date jukebox.

A dialogue-free prologue shows us a robber (Nick Offerman) burying a bag in one of the rooms (all ground level, cars parked at the room –MOTEL). We can wonder about which of the first three guests knows about this for only so long when a “hippy” (Johnson) shows up in a Cougar, not standing for any nosy questions from ANY of them.

They all have secrets, revealed in flashbacks and resolved in violence. The motel/hotel does, too. The rooms were bugged, set up for blackmailing the celebrated, the political and the famous, should that be the owner’s priority.

Goddard breaks his picture into chapters taking their titles from the rooms each patron inhabits — “Room Five,” “Room One,” etc. Clever.

He introduces a hunky cult leader (Chris Hemsworth) and his “family,” letting us see how he rules that world, with sermons and staged “tussles” (brawls).

“Let’s have ourselves an ALLEGORY” Billy Lee (Hemsworth) bellows, prophetically.

Goddard even takes us to Vietnam.

And every so often, Darlene (Erivo) sings, rehearsing in her room, caught in an embarrassing flashback at a botched studio session, coping with a racist business and a racist world any way she can.

Scenes are dragged out in some inept facsimile of “suspense,” performances fail to touch or connect.

Allegory or not, little of this sticks together and none of it sticks to the memory. Don’t get too attached to anybody, don’t try to reason out who should survive, who should have the money, who to root for. Goddard doesn’t make his intentions clear.

Of course, there were people who plumbed deeper meaning out of that silly staged “experiment” “Cabin in the Woods,” and they’re wetting their Underoos over this, too.

Go to any film school in America. While the filmmakers might not be able to hire A-list talent (Bridges took a check for “R.I.P.D.,” Hamm has no big screen career and Johnson’s list of credits with heart and intellectual heft and no nudity is blank), you run into pastiches like this in every graduating class.

They all want to be Tarantino, but lack the wit to carry it off, or the nerve to go as far as he does. Goddard would be right at home among them.

MPAA Rating: R for strong violence, language, some drug content and brief nudity

Cast: Jeff Bridges, Jon Hamm, Cynthia Erivo, Dakota Johnson, Chris Hemsworth, Nick Offerman, Lewis Pullman

Credits: Written and directed by Drew Goddard. A 20th Century Fox release.

Running time: 2:21

Shakespeare’s “The Scottish Play,” or “Scottish Tragedy,” has weathered samurai (“Throne of Blood”), mobster (“Men of Respect”) and Pennsylvania fast food feud (“Scotland, Pa.”) adaptations.

So why not a “Curse of Macbeth” farce?

“Ghost Light” gets by on theater milieu and stage superstitions, with the odd biting line or funny turn from a cast that includes Cary Elwes, Carol Kane and Shannyn Sossaman, taking its not-that-good sweet time building up a head of steam.

But the third act, the actual staged disaster of particularly cursed production of “Macbeth” (“cur-sed,” as the Bard purists put it) delivers on much of the promise the premise lays out. Before that, call it a half-blood farce, a step slow with players half as antic as they need to be to pull it off.

A bus tour of Shakespeareans roll up to the weathered River Lodge in the Massachusetts Berkshires, “closed for the season” (fall), but with a new owner anxious to re-open the gem of an old barn converted into a theater.

The troupe is to do “The Scottish Play,” and the grizzled veterans of the tour (Carol Kane, Steve Tom and Roger Bart, as Henry the director) have to explain to the less experienced the “Curse” of saying “Macbeth” aloud, the remedies for relieving the curse should some careless or in this case, enraged enough to commit sabotage, utter the cursed Thane’s name.

Who could be that resentful? Maybe the veteran who toured Britain as First Witch, now reduced to third (Kane), the inept, hard-of-hearing soap star leading man (Elwes), his embittered wife and co-star Lady Macbeth (Sossaman), or the arrogant British understudy sleeping with Lady Macbeth on the sly and coveting the lead role (Tom Riley)?

Kane and Tom play the actors most-steeped in theater-lore — “Young man, you shouldn’t EVER whistle in the theater!” They even explain the tradition of the “Ghost light,” which is what you see on an empty stage between rehearsals and performances.

Bart (“The Producers”) and Scott Adsit (“30 Rock”), as stage manager Archie play along, and even demonstrate what is required to allay the curse once somebody invokes it. Funny.

Considering the on-again/off-again gay couple (Sheldon Best and Alex Protenko), the ingenue (Caroline Portu) cavorting with the props man, the Appalachian Trail backpacker (Danielle Campbell of TV’s “The Originals”) pressed into service as another witch, it’s a wonder anybody has time.

But sure enough, the word is spoken, the curse not-reversed and all heck breaks loose. Or should, is a more spritely production.

Thomas (Riley) and Liz (Sossaman) have ghostly, blood-stained visions, Juliet (Campbell) starts taking the “witch” thing a little too seriously, accidents happen and hallucinations spread far and wide.

The last to notice is probably Alex (Elwes), the soap star with hearing problems cast in the title role.

“Let me sit up and gather my thoughts.”

“That should be QUITE a harvest!”

As Liz/Lady Macbeth finds herself scrubbing and scrubbing to get that “dam-ned spot” of blood off her hands — “Look at my hands!” “They’re LOVELY hands…They don’t show your age at all!” — and invoking a taunt Lady Macbeth would have KILLED to have thought up — “Man up!” — we start to fear for the players and not just the potentially disastrous night of theater they’re about to mount.

Losing control when “the witches’ curse is unleashed” they find themselves forced to act out the murderous machinations Shakespeare cooked up 400+ years ago.

“You know how the play goes. We murder the king!”

Co-writer/director John Stimpson is hard-pressed to put enough that’s amusing up here to sustain the film’s meager forward momentum until that third act.

We should get a more “Noises Off” riff on the star who can’t recall the most famous phrases in Shakespeare — “Tomorrow and…LINE?” Dozens more moments like that were called for.

Theater fans will bask in the knowing glow of “theater types” and offstage ensemble shenanigans. If only there were more of them for everybody to giggle at and feel invited to the party.

Because curse or no curse, “Ghost Light” is never more than a “brief candle.” If not “a tale told by an idiot,” it still lacks the “sound and fury” to ever rise above what one suspects will be its final, deserving destination — Netflix.

Tomorrow and…Line?

Danielle Campbell hiker

a method taught to me by Lord Laurence Olivier’s stunt double..

Nigel gay

You want it to be convincing, right?

A little more butch would be good

Everyone believes that.

Everyone KNOWS that!

married Lady Macbeth fooling around with the understudy

The “ghost light” is another of those theater traditions,

old farts explaining theater traditions to the newbies

You how the play goes. We murder the king.

burning on an empty stage

an older leading man without talent or a clue

tiny but very cute little converted barn theater

some lamenting their lot

resentful British understudy

Bart, producer?

MPAA Rating: unrated

Cast: Cary Elwes, Danielle Campbell, Shannyn Sossamon, Carol Kane, Roger Bart, Tom Riley

Credits:Directed by John Stimpson, script by John Stimpson, Geoffrey Taylor . An H9 release.

Running time: 1:42

All these years in show business, born into a showbiz family, with an Academy Award and a long career of his own, and Cuba Gooding, Jr. doesn’t know when to “drop the mike?”

Gooding makes his directing debut with “Bayou Caviar,” a slow moving thriller as complex as Great Granny’s Jambalaya recipe. And in spite of that pacing, some stereotypical casting and a need to contort and drag out the finale, it makes for messy movie-watching fun.

Gooding’s always had an athlete’s build with a recent turn as O.J. under his belt showing he’s a convincing ex-jock as well. As Rodney Jones, he’s a retired prize-fighter with a guilty conscience and a world that has shrunk to training anybody who comes along to the New Orleans gym where he got his start, with a side gig as a bouncer at at popular night club.

We get a taste of his compromised morality when he pays a deathbed visit to his former trainer (Wayne Dehart), whom he wronged. But it’s The Big Easy, kids. Everybody’s corrupt, everyone has a side hustle and who is anybody to judge anybody else?

Rodney’s side-hustle is what gets him into trouble. The mouthy, coked-up club owner (Sam Thakur, amusingly loathsome) pays “the champ” to escort to a meeting with his unhappy silent partner.

Partner is Russian, so you see problem, right? Yuri, given a whimsical “movie Russian” accent by Oscar winner Richard Dreyfuss, shoots the big mouth right in front of Rodney. But, no worries, he’s a BOXING fan.

“First think a smart person should think about ees ‘How you DISPOSE of a newly dead body?'”

Yuri has a gator farm. Use your imagination.

Rodney is now beholden to Yuri, and his first “job” is getting dirt on the son-in-law of his aged accountant “counsel” (Ken Lerner). Both Shlomo and the son-in-law Isaac he is grooming to take over the dirty work are Orthodox Jews, genuflecting before their big paycheck, Yuri. They’re afraid of him, yet utterly corrupt and given to saying “Oy” and “We’ve been blessed” a tad too much for comfort. They have no scruples.

“Ours is not the first family to do Russian business. We have a good life!”

“Getting dirt” means Rodney has to lean on his lesbian photographer friend and gym client Nic (Famke Janssen). Her photo sessions can be seductions if she’s into her female subjects, but that on-the-make vibe has cost her clients. So she does porn on the side, and Rodney has in mind a sexually compromising blackmail video of Isaac (Gregg Bello) which will give Yuri leverage with him.

Conveniently, Isaac has renters behind on their payments, and an under-age daughter (Lia Marie Johnson) who has Isaac’s attention. All Rodney has to do is talk up this kid who keeps trying to get in the door of the club where he bounces, hear her Kardashian level ambitions (“Youtube reality show…jewelry line”) and give her his “The only ones who become famous are willing to do whatever it take” pitch.

Complicated enough? Everybody has an agenda and Gooding keeps five separate balls in the air with confidence. Having so many points of view means he shortchanges pretty much everybody, but the many second act complications are smartly plotted and only occasionally overly-reliant on coincidence.

“Bayou Caviar” — let’s not spoil what the title refers to — begins with a lovely montage of training and shadow boxing boxers, shots framed by shadows — has self-assured performances and manages to surprise here and there along the way.

It’s still a messy, film, with throw-away ideas introduced — Rodney “put his hands” on his ex, Nic is irate at the sexual harassment climate of “Trump’s America” because she doesn’t know where to draw the line, etc. — and forgotten.

And Gooding, who co-wrote this, doesn’t know where to draw the line either. He piles resolution after resolution into the finale, when leaving most of these questions unanswered after this or that character “gets what’s coming to them” would have made for a far better film.

Sometimes, not knowing what’s in this this “Bayou Caviar” they’re serving you is for the best.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast: Cuba Gooding Jr., Famke Janssen, Richard Dreyfuss , Gregg Bello, Katharine McPhee, Lia Marie Johnson

Credits:Directed by Cuba Gooding Jr., script by  Eitan Gorlin, Cuba Gooding Jr.. A Gravitas release.

Running time: 1:51

Gemma Jones, Richard Madden and Bryce Dallas Howard also star in “Rocketman.”

The “Kingsman” star does his own singing, wears the high heels and oversized glasses. May 19 is when this “inspired by the true fantasy” comes out.