Movie Nation

My stars and garters, I cannot remember a generally thoughtful science fiction film going completely go off the rails in its finale the way “LX 2048” does.

What begins as a gloomy commentary on a world dialed-in and “tuning out” reality, a reality in which atmospheric damage and sunspots have rendered going outside in daylight toxic and the cost of people living “virtually” in human emotional terms, ends in a long, loopy scene that can only be described as clone camp.

And even that’s missing the one thing that camp cannot live without. It’s not funny.

James D’Arcy (“Dunkirk”) stars as Adam Bird, a highly-strung VR firm vendor/planner/consultant who disconnects from the goggles everybody lives behind to visit his doctors in “daylight hours” and actually show up at staff meetings in the company conference room.

No one else bothers to come. They’re all there virtually. So all his shouting is via VR goggles. All his dire warnings that their pricey specialty business, providing the gear that gives people access to “The Realm,” and its “real buddies (friends)” and avatar lovers is about to become obsolete because “chip” is coming, promising everybody implanted instant access and thus instant escape, and providing that service much cheaper.

Adam is raging against the machine, and against public compliance. But his doctor (Gina McKee) has bad news. His heart’s giving out. This insurance policy “Premium 3” promises that he’ll be replaced by a clone, who’ll continue supporting his estranged wife (Anna Brewster) and three kids. But what’s that do for Adam?

He’ll track down this genius scientist (Delroy Lindo) who might be able to give him some answers. Donald Stein shows up with a pistol, crazy eyes and a dark vision of the world they’re in and how its promise may have missed a few things — “instinct,” “compassion,” a soul, etc.

As Adam’s virtual lover Mia (Gabrielle Cassi) puts it, her “five senses” test out fine. She just can’t “feel.”

Writer-director Guy Moshe (“Bunraku”) sets all this up well enough. Sure, the scientist introduction is comically abrupt, but Lindo’s Donald Stein is convincing at getting across the “existential dread” of our current (future) times, all while being Delroy Lindo cool.

Wait, you can smoke? How? (Must’ve been banned.).

“I’ve got a guy who’s got a guy.”

D’Arcy slings an American accent and does quite a bit of shouting here. You’d think the guy was dying, running out of time, too impatient to worry about hurting the feelings of clone-doctors.

“I just can’t relate you people…your kind.”

Brewster, of TV’s “Versailles,” gives a performance of eccentric, theatrically metallic line-readings — not just an angry ex-wife, but one down the digital rabbit hole of “The Realm” so deep that she sounds like a clone.

The picture’s got a vivid vision of the future — vivid on a budget. Adam’s defiance includes driving his Mercedes with the top down — in his haz-mat suit. Everybody else gets around via elevated pneumatic tube-trains. When they bother to go out at all.

This “virtual” instead of “real” world, with its toxic environment and compliant, drugged and plugged-in populace, feels insanely topical at times.

But damned if “LX 2048” doesn’t go completely crackers at the end, with D’Arcy there as both eager participant and appalled eyewitness.

MPAA Rating: unrated, violence, some nudity, sex, profanity, alcohol, smoking

Cast: James D’Arcy, Anna Brewster, Gina McKee, Juliet Aubrey, Gabrielle Cassi and Delroy Lindo

Credits: Written and directed by Guy Moshe. A Quiver release.

Running time: 1:42

You can tell, almost on sight, that they’re brother and sister — and couldn’t be anything but that.

Sarah (Katherine Fogler) is impatient and getting more so, waiting at this chilly train station in the middle of nowhere, in the gathering gloom.

Her impatience is for brother Aaron (Douglas Nyback) to DO something — ask for directions, transport, to ask if that ancient Russian car with the stout woman sitting in it is a taxi. “Use your POLISH,” Sarah kvetches, betraying a lifetime of practice. As if her brother’s quick “study” of the language will get them anywhere. As if the timid Aaron will actually go and ask ANYbody for help.

Here they are, a couple of not-that-tight siblings, Canadian Jews in “The Old Country” on a fool’s errand for their “bubbeh” (grandmother).

“The Dancing Dogs of Dombrova” is a feather-weight “film festival” comedy layered with menace but buoyed by the built-in whimsy of that most reliable of comic formulas.

Not knowing the land or the language, blithely ignoring Poland’s infamous reputation for Anti-semitism, especially during the Holocaust, they are two Canadian Gefilte fish out of water, strangers in a strange land.

The “menace” here begins with that cabbie (Doroftei Anis), a silent, stoic type who putters along in her car and it’s overwhelming odor of gas (design flaw), stopping for a wedding party, never speaking as they call out directions and ask where they’re going.

“What’s the Polish number for ‘911?'”

Grandma’s old address is hard to pinpoint, and the locals seem sketchy, if not downright hostile.

They’re delivered to “the only (hostel) in town,” where pregnant Karolina (an earthy and radiant Silva Helena Schmidt) interrupts her arguments with a neighbor who she says fathered her child to take them in.

“You are being some Canadians?”

Tuck them into rooms, serve them sausage and potatoes — “Probably not even kosher.” “Who’s kosher?” The next day, here’s a map. Yes, there are many “Birch Streets.” Try the town hall, and good luck!

Director Zack Bernbaum (“And Now for a Word from Our Sponsor”) and screenwriter Michael Whatling immerse our two travelers in a world where even the English speakers are reluctant to reveal that fact right away. Feigning a communication barrier is easier.

The cabbie’s teen son (Stefani Vizireanu) deadpans his solution to every obstinate bureaucrat, property owner or priest who might help them find their bubbeh’s old house, but won’t.

“I will say he (or she) touched me ‘down there.'” Immovable objects are only moved by threats in historically backward places like Dombrova.

The siblings bicker — Sarah’s guileless optimism smashing up against Aaron’s “get on with it” pessimism. Their secrets explain their relationship, just as the town’s secrets get in the way of their quest.

There’s a light dose of “Everything is Illuminated” in “Dancing Dogs,” the North American Jewish outsiders returning to a place their family was chased out of and finding screwballs, petty corruption and lethargy, but also more charm than they have any reason to expect, considering. Simple houses, many of them hovels, are all the place ever could boast of — and an ancient synagogue and seen-it-all rabbi, and an equally ancient church where the priest (Adrian Matioc) isn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.

Not much happens here, even when “the mob” emerges and a firearm comes out. The moral of the story is obvious but sweet. And eventually, we get a dose of why this fish-out-of-water tale is thus-titled.

These “Dancing Dogs” get by on recognizable characters and stereotypes that even those stereotyped embrace when it suits their purposes, especially the “Rocky & Bullwinkle” accents.

“Always ending what starting” is a motto even Boris and Natasha would endorse.

MPAA Rating: unrated, profanity, alcohol, sexual situations

Cast:Katherine Fogler, Douglas Nyback, Doroftei Anis, Silva Helena Schmidt, Stefan Vizireanu, Adrian Matioc

Credits: Directed by Zack Bernbaum, script by Michael Whatling. A Film Movement+ release.

Running time: 1:42

“GIMS: On the Record” is a quick-study immersion in the French pop hero of the moment, Maitre Gims, a singer-rapper born in the Congo, raised in Paris, with an “operatic” voice that separates him from his contemporaries at home and abroad.

Famous for his omni-present sunglasses, for hits such as “Caméléon” and “Brisé” and for selling lots of records and dominating French radio in recent years, “On the Record” promises a peek behind the glasses, or at least a superficial gloss on his carefully constructed public persona.

This documentary tracks GIMS (how he’s billed sometimes) from France’s big music NRJ awards show of 2017 to a 2018 career-pinnacle concert at the vast Stade de France, outside of Paris.

We see him cope with fans, work on songs, show off his manga (he likes to dabble in comics), sing in the studio and in concert, chill at home in Marrakech (where he now lives) and travel by private jet in this “business sprinkled with fantasy” life “in a cage” that he leads.

Friends and colleagues, like his singing protege and younger brother Dadju, talk of the “two Gims,” the one everybody sees and the ones only his family gets to see — the one who isn’t in sunglasses all the time.

“Will we get to see his eyes?” Gims jokes (in French with English subtitles) to the camera, giving his documentary a little mystery.

He started out as a rapper, and realized “he had a legitimate voice,” one management team intimate explains. That gave him “an advantage over everybody else” in French pop and rap, certainly. As the son of a fairly famous Congolese singer Djanana Djuna, a vocalist in Papa Wemba’s band and a favorite of the late Congolese dictator Mobutu, of course he had voice.

Dad, shown in old clips and interviewed fresh here, says that he fell afoul of the Mobutu regime and that’s why they moved. When the family split up, as a boy Gandhi Bilel Djuna (his birth name) was homeless, a squatter with his siblings, for a time.

About that birth name, Gims jokes, “Dad was a (Gandhi) fan,” and “The Congolese are the best with names!”

The guy comes off as utterly charming and disarming, perhaps the secret to his great success. The French, one record exec mentions, rarely take to “arrogant” wealth-flaunting pop stars, which holds back many rappers. The “masculine aggression” so associated with rap here and there isn’t an issue with Gims.

But as Gims warms up backstage with a little art song (opera), as we see him in a hoodie with the English slogan, “I am NOT a Rapper” emblazoned on it, we realize we’re not dealing with some mere mortal here.

“Just because you’re a rapper doesn’t mean you can’t sing,” says no less than Sting, the English rock star who never found a “new” singer from an exotic culture that he wouldn’t want to duet with. (He did.) “Just because you’re a singer, doesn’t mean you can’t rap.”

“On the Record” treats us to Gims’ peak — a joyous return to Congo (he moved away aged two), and the Stade de France show, fussed over by his mate and image consultant and fellow sunglasses fan, Demden every step of the way.

We hear him speak of his quick embrace of French art, culture and values as a child, plan an awards show appearance that will be “the second most expensive (single song) performance (after Rihanna),” and show a little competitive side about his brother doing well in the awards department, “maybe someday surpassing me.”

And then he leads Demden down a boulevard in Cannes, acting as “security” for his “Beyonce,” barking “NOT allowed” at the parade of paparazzi that accompany them, snapping away, goofing on all this fame nonsense even as he dutifully stops for plenty of selfies with fans along the way.

“Wonder if there are American singers and rappers watching this?” you think. “Are they worried about him learning English? Maybe they should be.”

MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast: Gims, Djuba, Sting, Vitaa, others

Credits: Directed by Florent Bodin. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:36

My favorite line, in all of classic adventure cinema, comes early in the 1950 version of “Cyrano de Bergerac.” Most other screen adaptations of the Edmond Rostand 19th century play leave it out, but maybe that’s because no one else could pull it off with the panache of the great José Ferrer back in 1950.

Cyrano (Ferrer) has already busted up a play which wasn’t up to his liking, fought a vigorous duel with a noble swell who takes umbrage in the notion that “Everybody’s a critic” and takes his best shot at making fun of de Bergerac’s nose.

And he’s been warned to help a political gadfly/poet and baker friend (Arthur Blake) about to be beset by “a hundred” goons hired by the royal authorities. Cyrano escorts the man home, and damned if the goons don’t set upon them at the front entrance to the bakery.

“I have been ROBBED,” Cyrano fumes, counting the armed brigands surrounding them. “There are no HUNDRED here.”

This movie is just gorgeous to look at — all deep shadows and brightly-lit swordfights. Cinematographer Franz Planer (“Roman Holiday,” “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”) ensured that if you’re ever channel surfing and stumble across it, as I often do, there’s no mistaking it for any other musketeer-era period piece of its day.

Dmitri Tiomkin serves up a romantic and swashbuckling score.

The swordfights (there is some doubling) are first rate, among the best of the era.

The story, the “ugly” romantic swordsman helping a lesser wit Christian (William Prince) properly woo Cyrano’s lovely cousin Roxanne (Mala Powers) hits its well-worn marks.

But it’s the rapier-sharp wit (sorry) that the play and film are famous for, and Ferrer’s peerless performance of those snobby sneers that make this classic timeless.

“I carry my adornments only on my soul, decked with deeds instead of ribbons. Manful in my good name, and crowned with the white plume of freedom.”

“Sir, I will not allow you to insult me in this manner.” “Really? In what manner would you prefer?”

“Watching other people making friends, everywhere, as a dog makes friends. I mark the manner of these canine courtesies and think, here comes, thank Heaven, another enemy!”

It all adds up to a classic, like “Robin Hood” is as notable for its look and fun as it is its action, one like “The Big Sleep,” whose real pleasures are in just wonderful lines wonderfully played.

And it’s so quick and quotable than when it slows down, shortly after the coached courtship begins, it’s like too much air has been let out of the balloon.

Cast: José Ferrer, Mala Powers, William Prince

Credits: Directed by Michael Gordon, script by Carl Foreman, based on the Brian Hooker translation/adaptation of the Edmond Rostand play.

Running time: 1:53

“Sno Babies” is a grim, unblinking look at the horrors of drug abuse, a “Scared Straight” for teens facing that first oxy tablet, that first dabble with the needle and the spoon.

It’s as heavy-handed as a faith-based sermon on the subject, with a Catholic setting, teen pregnancy and heroin tearing through a family. The affluent parents are too inattentive to see the signs, a Princeton-bound daughter lured into a secret life and addiction by a boy, and then a best-friend who got there before her.

The graphic depictions of “cooking,” of needles going in between infected toes, of date rape, an unwanted pregnancy and the many f-bombs in the dialogue seem to rule out Christian bookstore sales of this title.

We meet Kristen (Katie Kelly) in a lurid extreme close-up, the night her boyfriend offers her that first pill.

“What’s that?” “It’s oxy.” “What’s it do?” “Makes all your worries and problems disappear…”

Fifteen months later, Kristen is getting tutoring from Valerie (Meryl Jones Williams) to help her bump her SAT scores. But she’s spending a lot more time with Hannah (Paola Andino), who has pushed her into that transition from pills to needles.

It makes no difference that upper middle class suburban Catholic schoolgirls have “worries and problems” most of us would love to swap for our own. This is a partying crowd. Everybody’s buzzing. Some are throwing up.

When you’re that young, shooting up on a bed in the middle of a party must seem like no big thing.

We see the date rape coming long before Kristen does. She’s that far gone. And before long, she’s pregnant. Rather than share her shame with her distracted realtor-mom (Shannon Wilson), she lays all this on her sympathetic but reluctant tutor.

In a parallel story, Anna (Jane Stiles) and Matt (Michael Lombardi) are desperate to get pregnant. But he’s saddled with the nature preserve his dad passed down to him and his “Let’s SELL this” sister. The place is “hemorrhaging money,” and he can’t even prevent a coyote from killing all the other wildlife therein.

Director Bridget Smith and screenwriter Michael Walsh give us scattered bits of detail — Kristen’s adoring little sister, who gets nightmares and sleeps with her, Matt’s struggles with his conscience about selling the preserve, Anna’s laser-focus on having a baby, Kirsten and Hannah passing drug baggies off in line for communion at church.

There’s not a lot of subtlety in the ways they hammer these disparate stories elements into a single plot. When even a drug dealer preaches at pregnant Kristen, “subtlety” isn’t what you’re going for.

The date rape is somewhat graphic, the drug purchases and shooting-up scenes, even a police strip search, are pretty much step-by-step explainer scenes to show, in detail, the mental and physical degradation you’re buying into when you take up drugs.

That message has value. The acting’s good, too.

But the implausible twists in their plot dull the impact of their “Here’s what heroin will do to you” sermon. The sexuality is played up in ways that feel exploitative. The shifts in scene, characters and tone are abrupt and contrived.

I see that Smith and Walsh and some of their rep company have a Christmas movie in the works, which suggests that maybe they are working the faith-based side of the film business. If so, “Sno Babies” is the roughest entry in that genre that I’ve seen in years.

As somebody who’s long complained that faith-based dramas need a firmer footing in the real world, and maybe a little edge, it pains me to complain that “Sno Babies” takes such things entirely too far.

MPAA Rating: unrated, graphic drug abuse, rape, profanity

Cast: Katie Kelly, Paola Andino, Michael Lombardi, Shannon Wilson and Meryl Jones Williams.

Credits: Directed by Bridget Smith, script by Michael Walsh. A Better Noise release.

Running time: 1:49

A serious film featuring teen siren Joey King? “Radium Girls” is about an infamous pre OSHA factory poisoning where workers were exposed to the stuff that made watches glow in the dark.

Good that this finally has a release date. Oct.23.

Tip of the hat to Netflix, for indulging the first star the streaming service has actually created with this bon bon of a showcase.

Millie Bobby Brown is the age of the character she’s playing, “Enola Holmes,” aka Sherlock Holmes’ plucky much-younger sister — 16. And the poise she demonstrates in every scene, the confidence in every British-accented line, lets her hold her own with the likes of Helena Bonham Carter, Henry Cavill, Fiona Shaw and Frances de la Tour.

She may be playing a self-conscious screen heroine — she turns to the camera as narrator, time and again, and does everything but wink at it. But we see the “Stranger Things” star invent in scenes, add bits of “business” to her performance.

She’s not just a producer of her own star vehicle. She’s figured out how to make a character larger than life, the little dickens.

The tomboyish Enola has to climb up through a trap door. Brown opens it with her head, because of course “Enola” would.

The movie? It’s a dizzy delight, a trifle long, some obvious sentimental bits — violent, here and there. But fun, start to finish.

Enola’s grown up all but estranged from her much older brothers, famous sleuth Sherlock and prissy bureaucrat Mycroft (Henry Cavill and Sam Claflin, both on-the-mark). Their feminist widowed mother (Helena Bonham Carter, still a spitfire) raised Enola to be smart, tough, intrepid and independent.

That comes in handy, because one day, mysterious Mum ups and disappears. Enola, “that’s ‘alone,’ spelled backwards,” wants to find her. Damned shame Mycroft insists she go to a finishing school (Fiona Shaw is the cruel headmistress). Sherlock? He’ll look into their missing mother. In. Good. Time.

Enola, who “knows nothing of the world,” must go out into Britain on the cusp of the 20th century and track down her mother and figure out what she’s up to.

She stumbles into the mop-topped young Viscount Tewskebury, Marquess of Basilwether (Louis Partridge), on the run from his family, his House of Lords future, and — as it turns out, a murderer (Burn Gorman, a Great Brit Villain).

“The game’s afoot!”

Just enough improbable-to-highly-improbable escapes, fights-to-the-death and derring do ensues, a tale of anagram clues and jiu jitsu, political “reform” and women’s suffrage and a whole lot of our heroine turning to the camera with “Bear with me” asides and the occasional “a-HA” look.

“The corsette,” she lectures, changing disguises, “a symbol of repression.” But one does what one “needs must.” Quite.

Director Harry Bradbeer (“Fleabag,” “The Hour”) shows off the period detail in this adaptation of Nancy Springer’s novel — late Victorian England, complete with three-wheeled “motorcars.” And he generally keeps the film and his heroine on their feet. The energy only flags in the third act, that business of tidying up every loose end.

Carter — seen in “inspire/teach the heroine” flashbacks — sparkles. Gorman always gives fair value and the chiseled Cavill suggests a much more reserved and internal Sherlock (can’t have him outshining Enola) than we’re used to seeing. Inscrutable.

“Sometimes, you must dangle your feet in the water to attract the sharks.”

But Brown is the marvel-in-motion who powers this machine. She lets this showcase make the case for a post-child-actress career, showing off pluck, comfort with stunts and something her chilly TV series rarely allows her — charm.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for some violence.

Cast: Millie Bobby Brown, Henry Cavill, Helena Bonham Carter, Sam Claflin, Burn Gorman, Louis Partridge, Fiona Shaw, Adeel Akhtar and Frances de la Tour

Credits: Directed by Harry Bradbeer, script by Jack Thorne, based on the Nancy Springer novel. A Netflix release.

Running time: 2:03

Long before it was a Broadway hit (in the ’80s), “42nd Street” was a musical adapted (from a novel) for the screen. And this 1933 film may be the oldest Hollywood musical to, as we say, “still hold up.”

The acting is OK. The story is pure corn and the songs — most of them — are dated and aging badly. It’s easy to see why other American Songbook tunes from the era were cadged and included in the Broadway adaptation in the ’80s.

“Shuffle Off to Buffalo” and “You’re Getting to be a Habit with Me” are about as good as it got.

But the production numbers, tap-heavy as they are, remain impressive. It’s the cast, the banter and the backstage at-a-musical-revue-in-rehearsal milieu that keep this picture fresh.

Warner Baxter plays a director in desperate need of one last hit, one that’ll set him up for life, even in the middle of the Great Depression.

He casts the show, gets a “star” (Bebe Daniels) who has a sugar daddy (Guy Kibbee) financial backer, lands “the kid” just for that moment when the star’ll have to be replaced opening night.

You know the drill.

Among those in the cast of this “Pretty Girl” are future star Ruby Keeler, future superstar Ginger Rogers, and George Brent and Dick Powell.

But the thing that had me spitting up my beer was the cattle call trash talk among the chorines.

“It seems that little Loraine’s hit the bottle again.” “Yeah, the PEROXIDE bottle.”

“Getta load of Miss Mountaineer here,” says a short chorine to an Amazon. “Ya parents mustabeen disaPOINTED, not having any ‘children.'”

“He looks like a Bulgarian boll weevil mourning its first-born.”

“You remember Annie Lowell?” “Not ‘Anytime Annie?’ Say, who could forget ‘er? She only said “No” once, and THEN she didn’t hear the question!”

Oh yeah, pre-Production Code movies could be pret-TY racy.

Other movies from the era were later adapted for Broadway, but none have the snap, crackle and pop of this “Chorus Line” before its time — no tears, no sentiment, just brassy dancers and singers and a director with a secret driving his mania for getting just one more hit in.

Don’t shuffle off to Buffalo without seeing it, see?

MPAA Rating: approved, and sassy

Cast: Warner Baxter, Ruby Keeler, Bebe Daniels, Una Merkel, George Brent, Ginger Rogers, Dick Powell, Guy Kibbee and George E. Stone.

Credits: Directed by Lloyd Bacon, script by Rian James and James Seymour, based on the novel by Bradford Ropes.

Running time:

Netflix’s batting average with animation takes a blow with “Pets United,” a competently-animated “Euro-Sino” production, a “Robots” and “Pets” mashup with no delights and zero laughs to its credit.

Roger, a stray dog (voiced by Patrick Roche) spends his days lounging about Robo City and his nights raiding fridges and supermarkets. He’s a wanted dog.

But not by any of the people there. The sheriff-bot chases him here and there, to no avail.

And no laughs, either.

Roger stumbles into a “pet” robot, clingy-annoying Bob who decides they’re “best friends for life.” I wholly support Felix Auer’s decision to give this annoy-o-bot James Corden’s accent.

Roger has life worked out, until that day when the evil bot-builder mayor (Eddie Marsan) goes mad for his “perfect world, a world without error, a world without FAILURE.”

Yup. The humans have to leave. Many forget their pets and leave them at the Pampered Pet spa, which is the second place Roger runs into Siamese cat Belle (Natalie Dormer).

The pets gathered there — pigs and hamsters and a red panda and kitties and Ronaldo the French poodle with an Italian accent — have to team up, get past the untended zoo animals and Save Our City.

“RRrrrrrrrronaldo fears neither death not the DEVIL.”

The digital design here is impressive, a candy-colored cartoon of a futuristic city with drones, bots, hover cars and maglev trains.

The animated motion of the critters is…adequate. It says a lot that the robots are far more convincing creations, with fluid motion and Wall-E/BB-8 design touches.

There are instantly forgettable musical moments. “We are the beasts…whoever fights us ees dead meat!”

None of the voices or one-liners break out, none of the sight gags land, even the pig and a pug on a skateboard.

“Pets United” could struggle a bit even to keep a toddler distracted for 92 minutes.

MPAA Rating: TV-Y7

Cast: The voices of Natalie Dormer, Patrick Roche, Naomi McDonald, Felix Auer and Eddie Marsan.

Credits: Written and directed by Reinhold Kloos. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:32

Lena Olin earns a fine showcase as the partner, organizer, caregiver and maybe muse of a famous artist in “The Artist’s Wife.”

This domestic melodrama from producer (“Call Me by Your Name”) and sometime director (“Last Weekend”) Tom Dolby touches on the artistic temperament, thwarted ambition, family estrangement and dementia in covering just a hint of the same ground that Glenn Close took an Oscar nomination for in “The Wife” a few years back.

Married to ancient painter Richard Smythson, played by that colorful curmudgeon Bruce Dern, Claire (Olin) may have accepted her lot, to have to hear her famous husband say “I create the art” in interviews, and “She creates the rest of our life.”

For Claire, that means running their designer home and keeping his art dealer (Tonya Pinkins) placated, but at bay while Richard struggles for inspiration.

“It’s very hard to look inside and paint what’s all gone,” he confesses, at one point — not to Claire. Richard is still teaching classes, but his “erratic” behavior — vulgar around the students, insulting, unfiltered and forgetful — is causing problems.

Claire knows he’s “lived his life on his own terms.” But he was rash and temperamental to start with. Now, he’s losing it. Her new duty is keeping the peace with the college and his impatient dealer, and not telling him about the dementia his doctor sees settling in.

She is overwhelmed. In his sentient moments, he’s a joker. Their marriage is “Twenty-five years of ‘Stop, please,” he cracks in public. But she’s at the point of asking their housekeeper what it took for her to end her marriage.

Claire could use some support. Sure, the reason she starts hassling Richard’s estranged daughter (Juliet Rylance) is “I want him to remember you.” But taking on these end-of-life decisions for a famous and famously-irascible husband is hardly a burden you want to bear alone.

Angela is a mother, going through a break-up of her own, and not interested. But Claire is nothing if not persistent. Some of the best scenes of “The Artist’s Wife” are ones where we find how seriously estranged those two have been, and Claire’s cluelessness, caught in between them.

She doesn’t even know Angela’s sexual preference, has never met her little boy.

The three-writer screenplay is on its sturdiest ground letting a fine cast get across love, devotion, schisms and pain. Olin has always been an open book as an actress. And Dern’s later years have given him plenty of showcases for his mercurial twinkle-to-tirade range. Stephanie Powers has a chewy bit part as an old artist friend of the couple, and Avan Jogia has a little to play with as Angela’s calm-troubled-waters nanny.

The script lacks much of the couple’s back-story. Was she his student? And it develops a hitch in its step all throughout the third act, where abrupt character reversals give away every contrivance.

This is more worth seeing for Olin and Dern’s tetchy and touching interactions, portraying a marriage of devotion and decay. Every filmmaker who preaches that “Casting is everything,” or 90 percent of everything, isn’t exaggerating. “The Artist’s Wife” proves it.

MPAA Rating: R for language, some graphic nudity and brief sexuality

Cast: Lena Olin, Bruce Dern, Juliet Rylance, Avan Jogia and Stephanie Powers.

Credits: Directed by Tom Dolby, script by Tom Dolby, Nicole Brending and Abdi Nazemian. A Strand release.

Running time: 1:34