Ever heard of Keep Shelly in Athens? Keep Shelly in Athens09?
Me either.
But she/they know the most chilling classic rock song of them all. They do.
“Halloween,” “The Stand,” “Scream,” “Zombieland,” “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey,” too many TV episodes to list. And now “Unhinged.”
This Sept. 18 release looks like a genuine contender, just from its cast — Oscar winners, past and future, a touching topic.
One moment of dialogue in “Cut Throat City,” the latest thriller from the rapper-turned-director RZA pops out as “improvised” or “added by the director on the set.”
It’s a mockery of that “over the top Tarantino s—,” with the punchline being that QT uses the N-word entirely too much.
As much as one is inclined to agree with that assessment, hearing it in a dawdling four-friends-pull-a-heist picture by RZA, billed here as “The RZA,” is hilarious. “Game knows game,” as the saying goes. And whatever perfectly passable action sequences The RZA (“Love Beats Rhymes”) puts over here, it’s the poseur about him that puts him on Tarantino’s level.
Dude’s got to be the most pretentious movie maker making movies today. Proof? Look at how he got two hours out of what should have and certainly could have been a lean, tight 75 minute thriller.
“Cut Throat City” was scripted by Paul Cuschieri, and it has all these sermons, history lessons and life lectures tucked into it, florid turns of phrase that are catnip to “name” actors.
Who gets to make these speeches? Isaiah Washington, playing an erudite undertaker, intoning about his “respectable business” in between elaborate puffs of cigarette smoke.
Ethan Hawke shows up an a settled, monied (ex cop) politician inclined to explain the way things are in His New Orleans. Then his character, in turn, is schooled in an anecdote about the famous pirate Jean LaFitte.
T.I., as gang leader Cousin, gets the “Do y’all know ‘Katrina’ means ‘purification?'” hurricane history lesson, explaining the real estate implications of the emptying out of The Ninth Ward — “accelerated gentrification,” he calls it.
And Terrence Howard as The Saint, boss of bosses, talks about his Old New Orleans family history, and launches into a sermon about these young men in front of him, “born out of wedlock,” statistically unlikely to “graduate high school.”
Only Wesley Snipes, as the estranged father of aspiring graphic novel artist Blink (Shameik Moore of “Dope”), gets away without sounding like a screenwriter’s wet dream windbag.
“You got trouble boy?”
Snipes always was of the Clint Eastwood school — show it, don’t talk us to death about it.
Blink, Andre (Denzel Whitaker), Miracle (Demetrius Shipp Jr.) and Junior (Keann Johnson) are lifelong pals who survived Katrina only to be stuck in a gutted city with no chance of getting by without FEMA help. And FEMA? It doesn’t want to hear about the black, working poor Ninth Ward.
That’s how they come up with the idea of knocking over one of the city’s casinos. That’s how they get permission and help from Cousin.
And the heist? It’s a mess. Somebody dies, something about the police response reeks. The stolen chips and cash figures that turn up in the media are grossly exaggerated. Cousin doesn’t want to hear about the guy who died. He’s Mr. “Where’s my MF’ing money?”
Blink’s wife (Kat Graham) sums Cousin up, and right to his face.
“We’re knee-deep in gasoline, you’re killing people over matches.”
“Cut Throat City,” which takes its name from a comic Blink wants to publish, unfolds by the numbers and unravels in all the expected ways, complete with obligatory strip club scenes.
There is zero urgency to the “get away,” even less to the threats that pile up after that first heist. Because you know they’ll have to pull another just to cover for the first.
And every so often, as the cop (Eiza González) works her way through the city, hunting for her perps, there’s a pause for a lecture, lesson, sermon or pontification.
So even though RZA makes GREAT use of the city and delivers a movie rich with local color and atmosphere, even though characters make relevant points about poverty, exploitation and corruption from the locals all the way up to the Feds, even though he rounded up a good cast, “Cut Throat City” never gets on its feet and on the move.
It’s static, an action picture that becomes a still-life right before our eyes.
MPAA Rating: R (for violence, pervasive language, drug content, some sexual material and nudity)
Cast: Shameik Moore, Demetrius Shipp Jr., Denzel Whitaker, Keann Johnson, Eiza González, T.I., Wesley Snipes, Isaiah Washington, Ethan Hawke and Terrence Howard.
Credits: Directed by RZA, script by Paul Cuschieri. A Well Go Entertainment release.
Running time: 2:03
Disney turns its digital animators loose on a serious subject and a “true story,” albeit one in which the animals talk, with “The One and Only Ivan.”
It’s about animals, and a silverback gorilla with the title role, living in a failing mall that’s been repurposed as a circus/zoo. There’s pathos built in via our natural response that wild animals would rather be free and in the wild. The meandering, maudlin and almost joyless story has the animals, Ivan in particular, slow to realize it themselves.
Big Top Mall used to be a hopping place, revitalized by the circus that struggling entrepreneur and Master of Ceremonies Mack (Bryan Cranston) opened up to lure in kids.
Ivan, a gorilla he raised from an orphaned cub, is his star attraction. Ivan (voiced by Sam Rockwell) and his pal, the elephant Stella (Angelina Jolie) can remember “when this place was packed with people.” The mellow, downbeat gorilla resolves to step up his scary gorilla act, even though he learned growing up in the jungle that “anger is precious. Only use it to restore order, or warn others of danger.”
His other confidante is a stray mutt hiding out in his enclosure, a dog voiced by Danny DeVito. Hearing Mack chase the dog with “The last thing we need is another MOUTH to feed,” is a further warning. This circus, like every circus depicted in the movies these days, is struggling.
Might a new baby elephant (Brooklynn Prince of “The Florida Project”) save the circus? Her arrival alters the reluctant to anger/reluctant to act Ivan’s focus. She wonders, “Will we ever be free?” Ivan can’t let her grow up in this sort of captivity.
Stella’s sage advice, “Not all humans are bad. They can surprise you” will be put to the test as Ivan tries to plot an escape.
“Ivan” plays like Disney taking another crack at “Dumbo,” hoping to shove a little more “Madagascar” in their sentimental critter-weeper efforts this time. But was Mike White, whose lightest script was “School of Rock,” the right person to turn this account of a menagerie in the Pacific Northwest that was protested and eventually “freed” from their mall into light entertainment for kids?
Love Mike White (he has a cameo, as a driver surprised by critters). But the answer to that rhetorical question is most certainly “No.”
There are plenty of red herrings, little bits of misdirection in it. Will they effect a “Madagascar” escape? Will Ivan’s cubhood love of “drawing” get their message across to humans, a la “Happy Feet?”
White is hemmed in by the parameters of the “true” story.
The movie steers clear of showing “Humans are bad.” Mack seems like a decent guy, caring but WAY out of step with the times. So there’s no villain to be overcome, no foil/obstacle for Ivan and the elephant, the fire-truck-driving rabbit, football-playing chicken (Chaka Khan) et al to overcome.
You wonder if there was fear of litigation from any of the real humans involved in this true story, or any of the other humans who ran or run such menageries. Florida, for instance, has had its share. And Disney runs a theme park with displaced African animals as a featured attraction.
Rendered toothless, with barely a hint of menace or humor, much less jokes or sight gags, “Ivan” plays as downbeat and dispirited.
It was going to be hard to tell this story, preserve its “Animals don’t belong in cages, children” message and bring entertainment value into that within the strictures of the “true story.”
But the writing, and Rockwell’s introverted, glum vocal performance sets the tone. Casting three Oscar winners as voices (Rockwell, Jolie and Helen Mirren, playing a trained poodle) didn’t do the picture any favors.
Yes, digitally recreating convincing animals is now a Disney Animation specialty. But without the warmth and wit of a good script for them to “act” in, “life like” isn’t enough.
Cast: Bryan Cranston, the voices of Sam Rockwell, Angelina Jolie, Chaka Khan, Danny DeVito
Credits: Directed by Thea Sharrock, script by Mike White, based on the non-fiction book by Katherine Applegate. A Disney+ release.
Running time: 1:34
If you’ve caught “Creem: America’s Only Rock’n Roll Magazine,” you might want to check out “Ticket to Write,” which beat that documentary into festivals about four years ago and covers a lot of the same ground.
“Ticket to Write: The Golden Age of Rock Music Journalism” plays like a cheap video rough draft, a proof-of-concept for the more polished “Creem” documentary to come.
But filmmaker Raul Sandelin talked to a LOT of people, including big names from Creem’s “establishment” rival, Rolling Stone. Ben Fong-Torres and Ed Ward are Stone veterans who can speak to the other side of that rivalry. And Sandelin did the hard work of showing how the Creem survivors are the cream of interview crop on this “early rock criticism/journalism” story, the colorful ones with the chewiest anecdotes.
Sandelin, hearing more than a couple of the same stories that the later makers of “Creem” would also hear and include, proved that the more interesting movie would zero in on the zanies of Detroit’s own “alternative” rock rag.
An infamous Creem brawl is recalled by Ward, NPR’s resident “rock historian” and a man who worked at Rolling Stone until the great Jann Wenner “purge” of that early staff, sending Ward to work for Creem.
“Somebody said ‘Black Sabbath is just The Yardbirds, slowed down,” and it was Dave Marsh vs. Lester Bangs, rolling on the floor and throwing punches.
The film briefly sketches in the pre-history of the profession, Ralph Gleason and others writing about rock for newspapers in the very early ’60s. Then in 1966, Crawdaddy! opened in the East and Mojo Navigator in the West, and a new style of writing, reviewing and photographing the music of the day was born.
Rolling Stone “professionalized the whole profession,” Richard Meltzer asserts. He wrote the first serious book on the subject, “The Aesthetics of Rock,” just as the profession was coming to life.
Eyewitnesses, from Creem writers and others who wrote for assorted fanzines that went from mimeographed to offset printing and critics-turned-musicians Chris Stamey (The dbs) and Mike Skill (The Romantics) claim that in those earliest days, “the musicians felt that the writers were co-conspirators.”
This “golden age” predated image control, “publicists” and edicts that no concert photographs could be taken “after the third song.” One interviewee, a Creem photographer, remembers Pat Benatar, who “looked like a wet cat” three songs into a sweaty set, was the one who invented that rule.
Yes, the infamous Memphis rock journalist “convention” is remembered, and yes, the “Golden Age” lasted into punk and went away with disco.
Seeing the parade of aged white faces interviewed here, you can read what you want into that. Creem may have written about Motown, being a Detroit mag. It may have been more open to hiring women. But it wasn’t the most diverse age of journalism and the movie unintentionally hints at the myopia that set in amongst all the Lester Bang worship.
“Ticket to Write” is a valuable document, even if it lacks the polish and pizazz of the Creem documentary to come. Think of it as a mimeographed “history,” preserving voices that won’t be around forever remembering an age that was fleeting, freeing and freewheeling, and became legend in the process.
MPAA Rating: unrated, profanity, stories of drug abuse
Cast: Ben Fong-Torres, Robbie Cruger, Cindy Lee Berryhill, Robert Christgau, Richard Meltzter, Sandy Pearlman, Ed Ward, Mike Skill, Jaan Uhelski, Chris Stamey and the voice of Lester Bangs
Credits: Written and directed by Raul Sandelin. A TV4 Entertainment release, on Tubi, Amazon etc.
Ruunning time: 1:30
If this hasn’t happened to you, you must be taking the train or the bus to work.
A bit of discourteous driving, a honk on the horn in complaint, and the next thing you know, some raving my-life’s-not-my-fault rageaholic is screaming, gesturing, stopping short or trying to provoke some accident or reaction that will allow him to give full vent to the fury that is his beef with the big, wide world.
“Unhinged” taps into that, makes its home there. And thanks to the fact that this film by a start-up studio will be the first American movie to open wide in mid COVID 19 pandemic, it’s the best showcase Russell Crowe‘s had in forever.
Sure, it’s a B-picture, a straight-up rage-on-the-road genre movie in the “Duel,””Changing Lanes” or “Falling Down” mold. But Crowe, overweight and the very embodiment of “gone to seed,” gives this villain-we-all-know a face to fear and a hulking pick-up truck to match.
Because yeah, in much of the country, this “type” is sitting high, driving recklessly and tailgating as if all the risk is on you.
Caren Pistorius, of “Cargo” and “Light Between the Oceans,” is Rachel, the divorcing mom who picked today of all days to oversleep. She’s going to make her teen son (Gabriel Bateman) late for school. Again. She loses “my best client” because she’s late to the lady’s hair appointment. Again.
And matters aren’t made better by the distracted jerk in the pick-up who sits at the light and makes her even later. A blast on the horn doesn’t move him, so she has to peel around him. He glowers.
Of course he makes it his business to catch up, stop beside her and make his point.
“Don’t I get a courtesy tap?”
Maybe he’s got a point. But that’s the only one.
“I’ve been having a hard time lately.”
Oh yeah, bub? “Join the CLUB.”
It’s go-time — a mom in an aged Volvo trying to outrun or out-maneuver a raging psychotic in a giant Ford truck, just to get her kid to school.
After that? That’s when things turn deadly, the stakes are raised and the city streets (New Orleans, subbing for Any City) become a nightmare, not just of traffic snarl, but of being hunted by an aggrieved crazy person who had snapped long before he didn’t get his “courtesy tap.”
“Unhinged” isn’t quite undone by its endless instances of foreshadowing. But everything you see, from the household item Rachel’s houseguests (Juliene Joyner, Austin P. McKenzie) have misplaced to that thing she leaves in her car when she goes to gas up, is UNDERLINED so that we’ll be sure to “get it” when it plays a part in the coming mayhem.
Crowe is intense enough throughout, but his best moments might be the film’s opening, when we see that he’s already snapped and started his rampage in the wee hours of the morning.
The car chases are kinetic and wholly within the realm of believable. No “She must have had stunt-driver training to get out of that” moments. Suspense is heightened by keeping the cameras tight on the drivers as they’re taking these non-performance vehicles to their limits.
Conversely, every time the movie stops for scenes where the villain goes after those closest to Rachel, taunting her by phone as he has his “revenge,” “Unhinged” feels unmoored.
The bodies piles up, the cops are always a step or two behind and if they’d confined this thing to the cars and real-time carnage director Derrick Borte and screenwriter Carl Ellsworth (“Disturbia”) might have had another “Duel” on their hands.
Instead, the tension breaks, again and again.
Pistorius, looking too young to have a teen son, underplays the terror the way her character underplays her “concern” about being late all the time.
And the first movie to “reopen America’s cinemas” proves not worth the risk seeing it in a theater will entail.
MPAA Rating: R for strong violent content, and language throughout.
Cast: Russell Crowe, Caren Pistorius, Jimmi Simpson, Gabriel Bateman
Credits: Directed by Derrick Borte, script by Carl Ellsworth. A Solstice release.
Running time: 1:30
For everybody who thought “Connie & Carla” was too upbeat, there’s “Stage Mother,” a drab showcase for the great Jacki Weaver to sing and mother over an unhappy drove of San Fran drag queens.
It opens with an overdose and ends with a “new show,” and is built upon that same thesis more than a few movies on this subject take as a given. Let some straight person come in and “fix” drag, and fix drag queens.
Weaver plays Maybelline (okaaay), a Baptist choir mistress in Red Vine, Texas who gets the awful news that her estranged son has died from an overdose, collapsing on stage at Pandora’s Box, the San Francisco club where he performed.
Her husband, named Jeb (Hugh Thompson) because of-course-he-is, shrugs that off. The kid’s been dead to him since his “coming out.”
“He already moved on from us, years ago.”
But damned if Maybelline’s not flying West to her only son’s funeral. It’s just that the event itself, in a church where the eulogy is a tad profane and the affair turns into a drag showcase “celebration,” is a bit much.
Her son’s surviving partner (Adrian Grenier) is furious and distraught and wants nothing to do with the family that abandoned his beloved Ricky. But then Maybelline meets a single-mom neighbor (the always-cool Lucy Liu) who knew Ricky. And staying with Sienna, she learns about Ricky’s life there and gets a handle on this failing drag club that he not only performed in, but owned.
If only they’d stop all this lip-syncing and vamping to Joan Jett’s “Do Ya Wanna Touch Me?”
“I want y’all to SING!”
They protest.
“Believe me, I’ve made more with less,” the choir mistress declares. It’s just a change of venue for her. “Different songs, same divas.”
Find a bartender who can accompany on piano, change up the songs andtry to get the word out that this is a club where the overdressed, often overweight divas actually sing — even if that means flirting with a concierge (Anthony Skordi).
But what will re-opening Pandora’s Box do to Maybelline?
The big knock on “Stage Mother” is that it’s just no damn fun. And if you bleed the fun out of drag, what’s the point?
One early joke — a drag queen MC purring, “Oh honey, you’re straight? Guess what? So’s spaghetti until you get it hot and WET!” Another, the Red Vine Baptist Church marquee, which announces “Walmart ain’t the only place to SAVE.” And that’s it.
The rest of the movie is grief running up against anger (Grenier is terrific in a couple of early scenes, and dull when he loses that distraught rage), addiction interventions, prejudice, violence against women and singers really singing. They’ve taken on middling torch ballads, some of them original. Yeah, that’ll pack the tourists in.
The finale is a sentimental high, and yes, Weaver does her own singing.
But “Stage Mother” filmed in Halifax, Nova Scotia, a looong way from San Francisco. And that contributes to its quaint, disconnected and dated feel. Weaver holds her own, but the character, the scene and the script are a total drag.
MPAA Rating: R for sexual content including an assault, language and some drug use
Cast: Jacki Weaver, Adrian Grenier, Lucy Liu, Mya Taylor, Allister MacDonald, Anthony Skordi
Credits: Directed by Thom Fitzgerald, script by Brad Hennig. A Momentum release.
Running time: 1:33
That’s Will Smith & Kevin Hart replacing Steve Martin and John Candy in the John Hughes holiday staple.
This has “can’t miss” written all over it. Smith can get his dander up with the best of them.
“Aww HELL naw!” I can hear it now. Assuming he plays the put upon guy stuck with Del or whatever they rename Del, annoying Kevin Hart.
https://theplaylist.net/will-smith-kevin-hart-planes-trains-automobiles-20200817/
The broad, satiric swipes of the French farce “Wonders in the Suburbs” are the only punches to land — or at least achieve “near miss” — in this flailing comedy of mores, values and leftist idealism put to the test of governing.
It’s nonsensical on several levels, with big subplots left undeveloped or twisting in the wind. And “Suburbs,” titled “Merveilles à Montfermeil” in France, is one of those comedies where seemingly every character has a poem at the ready to quote for any situation, and everybody has committed big passages of the writings of Victor Hugo to memory.
Perhaps that is “normal” in the suburb of the title. Monterfemeil, “an ancient and wonderous” if somewhat depressed, immigrant-rich corner of Greater Paris, plays a key role in Hugo’s masterpiece, “Les Miserables.”
For the first time in over 20 years, the local left has taken control of a place of high unemployment, many languages, many cultures and a long history of repression — official expulsion of immigrants and the like.
New mayor Emmanuelle (Emmanuelle Béart of “Un Coeur en Hiver”) and her administration hold a press conference so they can announce the sweeping reforms, changings and politically-correct updatings that recognize the problems of the place and how they will address them.
There will be not just casual Fridays. She announces “Shorts Day,”” “Kilt Day” and “Harem Pants Day.” A “Kimono Day” seems a given.
“Earth Day” will hereafter be known as “Bio Diversity Day,” and the big summer’s start festival, “Ascension” will be “Women’s Day,” and their annual summer fest transformed into “Brioche Festival.”
Oh, and there’s a “Naps for All” program that means no phone call will be answered during this French version of a siesta.
There are all these ideas about giving everyone foreign languages courses, a make work/create jobs project that will employ native speakers in the many languages present in town to instruct others in their longue.
They will reach out and try to find those immigrants forcibly removed by the previous regime. The city will conduct outreach to Arabs, Africans and Roma, some of whom will not be able to keep a straight face when they’re visited by Benoît (Mathieu Amalric) in whatever get-up is the city’s decreed dress of the day.
But sitting with the mayor on the council are Joelle, played by director and co-writer Jeanne Balibar, and Kamel (Ramzy Bedia of “Lost Bullet”) are going through a testy divorce.
Selim (Mounir Margoum) is a city employee who burns a lot of computer time on the dated online role-playing game on “Second Life,” messing up his sex life with council member Marylin (Marlene Saldana). She’s plus-sized and has to dress in Mexican luchador (wrestling) mask and costume, or as the “Ghostbusters” Stay Puft marshmallow man.
The two oldest members of this “new” council are older men who figure everybody will need their “sex therapy” advice program.
The mayor keeps a bust of Lenin on her desk, and is prone to meltdowns. Those break out in earnest when she starts getting ransom-note-style anonymous letters, warning her of disloyalty in her administration.
Kamel and Joelle bicker, and we pick up on her insecurity and his scent fetish — sniffing newly printed reports, men’s hair, etc.
There are conspiracies hinted at and commandoes sent in (!?), even as these Nanny State ninnies set out to fix a busted city by signing off every letter (in French with English subtitles) as “someone who’s here to help.”
I watch movies for a living, and there are whole swaths of this thing I couldn’t make heads of tales out of. There’s precious little that plays as actually “funny” in a way a non-French speaker (or France-dweller) will easily pick up on.
Little if anything is resolved, a prolonged festival dance scene does nothing but pad out the running time and the scenes that pay off — telling the laughing, bullying, insulting Roma elder and his advisors what the town will “do for you,” for instance — are as rare actual laughs.
MPAA Rating: unrated, adult situations.
Cast: Jeanne Balibar, Ramzy Bedia, Emmanuelle Béart, Mathieu Amalric, Marlene Saldana and Mounir Margoum
Credits: Directed by Jeanne Balibar, script by Jeanne Balibar and Camille Fontaine. A Kino Lorber release.
Running time: 1:49
One of the benefits of the streaming era is that all these content platforms are so starved for something to show us that what might previously have been regarded as “disposable” still has value.
“Monty Python’s Flying Circus” premiered over 50 years ago, and the last movie the British troupe parked in theaters was their “Live in Aspen” old-men-performing-their-greatest-hits video in 2005. The stage hit “Spamalot,” the musical reimagination of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” dates from that same year.
Two of the writer/performers — Graham Chapman and more recently, Terry Jones — are dead. Ceased to be. Expired.
But before Jones’ death in January — long before it — there was this 2009 BBC2 series, repeated in the US on IFC. “Monty Python: Almost the Truth” does a wonderful job of telling their story, how Britain’s best and wittiest, alumni of Oxford and Cambridge, and an American animator remade comedy in their absurdist image.
“Almost the Truth,” now on Netflix, is six episodes of droll completism — an amusing gathering of the then five-old men for on-camera interviews to settle, once and for all, who did what and why and when, and who annoyed the living hell out of whom as they did it.
Some sketches are explained, the origins of “I’m a lumberjack and I’m OK. I sleep all night and I work all day” and “This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It’s expired and gone to meet its maker! This is a late parrot! It’s a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace!” are a mystery no longer.
And some secrets the old boys will apparently take to their graves — “It’s just gone eight o’clock and time for the penguin on top of your television set to explode.”
Even if you’ve read the many autobiographies that Palin, Cleese and Idle produced, there are admissions, revelations and old grudges bandied about for our viewing pleasure in this five-hours-over-six-episodes dissection.
David Frost, who first thought to put this entire braintrust on the payroll, is given his (mocking) due. But so too are stalwarts like Carol Cleveland, the bombshell who appeared in so many of their shows she’d have been properly named an “official” Python in a more enlightened, less sexist age, even though she isn’t credited with writing the material that made them famous.
Musician, writer and performer Neil Innes similarly earns a nice bit of belated acknowledgement.
Their pre-Python programs “And Now the 1948 Show” and “Do Not Adjust Your Set” are placed in the timeline, as is the show that beat them on the air with the same absurdist framework and style, Spike Milligan’s “The World of Beachcomber.”
The dynamics of the how the group worked — its three-on-three factions, the difficulties of Chapman’s alcoholism as the one “actor” in the lot with real leading man potential, as displayed in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and “Monty Python’s Life of Brian.” The “likability” of Palin and Gilliam’s perpetual odd-American-out status are dipped into.
As with the ’70s phenomenon, “The Muppet Show,” I’m not sure if this group, its daft, somewhat dated programs and films, is still generating new fans discovering their shtick. But the legions of fan-testimonials in this series — skewing, like the troupe itself, overwhelmingly white and male — makes clear their imprint on comedy on both sides of the Atlantic.
Eddie Izzard, Russell Brand and Simon Pegg to Lorne Michaels and Jimmy Fallon all marvel at their first encounters with “Oxbridge” humor — surreal, smart, wacky and lowbrow.
If you fondly remember any of them and any of it, from “And now for something completely different” to “a very naughty boy,” “Almost the Truth” is essential viewing.
MPAA Rating: TV-MA, nudity, profanity, fake-blood
Cast: Eric Idle, John Cleese, Michael Palin, Graham Chapman, Terry Jones, Terry Gilliam, Connie Cleveland, Neil Innes, Steve Coogan, Simon Pegg, Russell Brand, Olivia Harrison and Jimmy Fallon.
Credits: Directed by Bill Jones and Ben Timlett. An Eagle Rock release, now on Netflix.
Running time: Six episodes @54 minutes each.
Movie Nation 