Movie Nation

The producers of “Most Wanted” struggled over the title of their Canadian film “inspired by” the true story of a junkie and a reporter caught up in the fallout of a police drug sting that went wrong — VERY wrong.

“Target Number One” was its Canadian title, and that’s as vague as the one slapped on the U.S. release of this engrossing but messy true-crime/true cover-up thriller.

Twenty-five year old junkie Daniel (Antoine Olivier Pilon) is scrambling from gig to hustle to score. He once got some heroin from Thailand, once. Can he get some more?

“Sure,” he over-promises.

The dealer he mentions this to (Jim Gaffigan) is also a police department “snitch.” Can you sell us the name of key member of the Thailand to Canada heroin connection?

“Sure,” he exaggerates.

A task force cop (Stephen McHattie) gets passed over for promotion. Can he justify his job and the budget he’s being given for what would come to be called “Operation Goliath” to the superior who just passed him over?

“You betcha,” he lies.

And a hustling Toronto reporter (Josh Hartnett), a star at the Globe & Mail newspaper who has added an investigative TV crime gig to his plate, needs to justify his two gigs to two bosses. Can he give them a big expose about “Goliath?”

“Sure. Fly me to Thailand.”

Writer-director Daniel Roby struggles and mostly-succeeds in wrestling these disparate agendas into a coherent narrative. Telling the story via two timelines — a “present” that is post-Goliath, and flashbacks that tell you how this player came into the mix, how that piece of the puzzle fits — we see hapless French Canadian Daniel Legner do what junkies do.

He moves around a lot, calls home trying to lie his way into some cash from his parents. Gas-and-dash fills up his motorcycle for a trip West. That’s where he tracks down a junkie who owes him money. That’s where he’s meets the guy on a boat, Glen (Gaffigan).

That’s where he makes his Thai heroin promise. We’re shown the police desperation to make a big bust as well, the arms twisting arms twisting arms that builds this 25 year-old bottom feeder into a veritable one-man cartel.

Pilon is utterly convincing as a young man who should see the signs that he’s being set up, because there are many of them. He’s not making good decisions, and when the “dealers” you’re working with are the police, sneaking out of this entrapment is not an option.

Gaffigan is nobody’s idea of a “dealer” you wouldn’t make for a Narc. But the Vancouver charter fishing boat captain cover? That works. McHattie also seems miscast, but then — an older cop playing at being a drug buyer implies desperation on several levels.

Hartnett brings a convincing mania to the “job first, family second” reporter on the make. His interactions with various corrupt or covering-up police officials are fascinating even if his tantrums with TV or newspaper editors echo every journalism movie cliche under the Sun (or Globe & Mail).

Rose-Marie Perreault plays a pawn-shop under-the-counter dealer as a walking tattoo, one bad life decision after another advertised in ink and career choices. Amanda Crew is the wife and mother of a newborn upset at the risks her reporter-husband, Victor Malarak (Hartnett) is exposing himself, her and their baby to.

Cinematographer-turned-director (“Louis Cyr”) Roby makes it all coherent, as I said. But “tidy?” No. This story is a mess to wrap up, and he’s cluttered it up — justifiably, perhaps — in an effort to weave all the threads into a finished tapestry.

Giving equal weight to the four different points of view is one thing. Give us multiple timelines on top of that and you lose focus to the point where everything turns fuzzy. Focusing on the reporter and the junkie and narrowing the scope (shrinking the cop and informant roles) would have helped.

It’s still a solid “How it all went wrong” police procedural and a real eye opener who thinks cops only lie, cover-up and manufacture cases south of the Canadian border.

MPAA Rating: R for drug content, language throughout and some violence

Cast: Antoine Olivier Pilon, Josh Hartnett, Stephen McHattie, Rose-Marie Perreault, Amanda Crew and Jim Gaffigan.

Credits: Written and directed by Daniel Roby. A Saban Films release.

Running time: 2:09

The great Italian director Luchino Visconti made films across a variety of genres, some of them “neo-realistic” and contemporary, such  “Rocco and his Brother” and “Sandra.”

But like other Italians of his generation, his passion was opera — working in it, directing for it and transferring its production values into the opulent period pieces that became his late-career calling card. A lifelong communist, he set the standard for lush, ornate depictions of the Gilded Age affairs of the late 19th and early 20th century Europe.

“The Leopard,” “Death in Venice,” “Ludwig” and “L’Innocente” were so extravagant looking that they inspired documentaries, just for their costumes. When others made films from that era — “1900,” “Russian Ark,” “Nicolas and Alexandra” and even Scorsese’s “The Age of Innocence” — they were paying homage to his eye for detail.

“L’Innocente” (1976), his final film, shows us an awful lot of money on the screen — in silk and taffeta, lace and and leather.  The film, re-issued and restored by Film Movement Plus, touches on the amorality of the super-rich, the vapid hypocrisy they wrapped in stunning clothes, grand villas and shared evenings at the opera.

It’s low melodrama among the highborn, a “second-rate novel” that the characters are living through, as the anti-heroic aristocrat Tullio Hermil (Giancarlo Giannini) muses.

And as it wanders through salons and recitals, chauvinism and infidelity, it pierces the viewer with its one major point. There’s little “noble” about the “nobility.”

The movie? It’s stately and dated. The following decades would see the producer/director/screenwriter team of Merchant, Ivory and Jhabvala invigorate overwrought, over-costumed melodramatic period pieces with films such as “Howard’s End.” By comparison. “L’Innocente,” based on a Gabriele D’Annunzio, is something of a stiff.

The plot is much simpler than the luxurious trappings. A rich womanizer (Giannini, of “Seven Beauties,” the original “Swept Away” and a couple of recent James Bond films) carries on an affair with the Contessa Raffo (Jennifer “O’Neill of “Summer of ’42”).

His wife, Guiliana (Laura Antonelli) suffers this in quiet shame, accepting his “explanation” in this most sexist of countries in a most sexist era.

“Love is only while it lasts,” he muses (in Italian, with English subtitles). After a while, marriage devolves into “respect, common interests…You’ve been my wife, my sister, but never my mistress.”

We meet his mistress as she is yanking him about like a lapdog on a leash.

“I don’t share a man with another woman, even if she’s his wife!”

The Contessa shamelessly flirts with an older, wealthier man, right in front of Tullio at the piano recital where Rome’s elite have gathered to be seen, and pretty much ignore the Mozart and Liszt virtuoso.

But Tullio’s fury at Count Egano (Massimo Girotti) for cutting in on his paramour is deflated when his wife locks eyes at the brooding novelist d’Arborio (Marc Porel).

All of a sudden, his wife’s attention and bed is what he craves. Her confession that she’s gotten even isn’t backed up with evidence. We don’t see her affair. Is she playing him?

But then the rabbit dies, and the sordid melodrama has higher stakes.

“L’Innocente” just floats along, with a sort of high-toned soap opera drift from bed chambers to salon to fencing academy, where Tullio and his Army officer brother (Didier Haudepin) vent their frustrations with foils.

The lack of pace tends to highlight the peacocking nature of the class that dresses for dinner, dresses for recitals, dresses for a carriage ride and undresses for arid delights of the boudoir.

Giannini simmers and sulks in high style.

O’Neill apparently wasn’t the first choice for the Contessa, and while she can strike a pose with the best of them, her vamping leaves a lot to be desired. Her voice is dubbed by an Italian actress.

Antonelli’s lack of status on the set is reflected by the film’s selection of nude scenes. Those are limited to her and a supporting actor in the fencing gym.

Visconti’s points about the emptiness and tawdry nature of the lives of Europe’s elite feel contemporary to anyone following decades of decadence among Europe’s surviving royals (“Prince” Andrew, are you blushing?).

But “L’Innocente,” despite some beautifully grim moments in the third act, never lets us forget it comes from an era when image was all among directors celebrated as artists or that the Italian master behind the camera would have been happier directing another opera.

MPAA Rating: R, sex, nudity, violence

Cast: Giancarlo Giannini, Laura Antonelli and Jennifer O’Neill

Credits: Directed by Luchino Visconti, script by Suso Cecchi D’Amico, based on a novella by Gabriele D’Annunzio. A Film Movement release.

Running time: 2:09

This looks imaginative and quite good. Will it actually open in a theater?
“This Sumner?”

I’m from Florida, and even we have a hard time saying his name right.

Just remember “Rhymes with runt.”

You could do a LOT worse when casting your horror movie than parking Corbin Bernsen and Judd Hirsch as village elders caught up in battle between good and “the spiral stone” evil.

And let’s not forget the Once and Future “Tank Girl,” Lori Petty.

“She’s looked better.”

“That’s not all on me,” screenwriter Eric Wolf says, in a line he gave Eric Wolf/actor. “She let herself go.”

“A Deadly Legend” is a laugh-out-loud Z-movie about haunted land being profaned by developers somewhere in the Northeast, and not in Florida, where such cursed happenings are common.

And Wolf, a bit-player (“Shopper #2 in “Daddy’s Home 2”) turned producer and screenwriter, is a big reason why. As madman Mike, the backhoe/bulldozer operator hired to clear a “mound” in a controversial redevelopment on the outskirts of Small Town, Adirondacks, he’s got the eye-bugging drollery thing down pat.

I mean, I laugh when Judd Hirsch, as the town character, an antiques dealer who interrupts a planning board meeting with “You will unearth what had been dead for CENTURIES,” goes all Old Testament.

Corbin Bernsen, playing a local seller of crystals and knockoffs of Gandalf’s wizard’s staff, goes off on “HALF off” sales to anybody gullible enough to drop by.

And Petty? She’s doing the same antic “Tank Girl” shtick she did back in the last millennium, flailing her arms around, improvising nonsense, looking 25 years older.

“All it takes to make me HAPPY” she bellows at beau Mike (Wolf) on the backhoe, “is beer.” And no, she’s not find of the low-cal kind.

But Wolf goes OFF, and is a hoot to watch as a guy who turns possessed, digging up and bleeding on “the stones,” which open “the gate,” and for which he should feel honored and thus work off-the-clock.

“NO BREAKS!”

The film’s a daffy, no-budget riff on the “ancient spirits disturbed” and “every fifty year curse” thing. Digging up an Indian mound awakens Luci, the ghoul (Tatiana Szpur), who caused a wreck that killed the developer’s (Kristen Anne Ferraro) husband, years before.

Now, Developer Joan is making a mess out of the place where “the stones” preside, a “gate” where “the chain witch” rules — once the chain has chosen Eva (Jean Tree) for her bitchin’ bikini bod out on Lake Ancient Curse.

This is the sort of bad horror that is best experienced with a crowd of fellow aficionados, maybe over the favorite beverage of Wicked Wanda (Petty). Maybe social distance with a few friends?

There’s  a single effect, a pale blue light taking over the eyes.

The scenario is filled with laughs intentional and unintentional laughs. Joan and her daughter — Andee Buchari — need to have the “it gets better” talk with her fey son (John Pope). I mean, he’s willing to take on “the chain witch,” even if he’s about as butch as Billy Eichner.

The director has given herself the moniker “Pamela Moriarty.” But as my mother noted as the credits rolled, maybe the nom de réalisatrice (director) suggests sinister skills not yet acquired.

“This must have been her first go at it.”

MPAA Rating: unrated, bloody violence

Cast: Kristen Anne Ferraro, Eric Wolf, Dwayne A. Thomas, Jean Tree, Corbin Bernson, Judd Hirsch and Lori Petty.

Credits: Directed by Pamela Moriarty, script by Eric Wolf, and no, I don’t believe those are their real names either.   A Gravitas Ventures release.

Running time: 1:36

The resolution to the mystery of “The Rental” tends to spoil the suspenseful thriller that comes before it. It’s generic, as so many horror movies are. What we’re told and shown that’s “really going on?” It’s been done before and done better.

The finale? Seriously unsatisfying.

But rather than give away the game straight-off and earn a “spoiler alert” rep, let’s just say “mumblecore” master Joe Swanberg (“Drinking Buddies,” “Nights and Weekends,” “Happy Christmas”) should at least blush when you confront him over his “story by” credit. A guy named Victor Zarcoff got there first.

The directing debut of Dave Franco, the “Franco brother we’re still allowed to talk about,” is moody and paranoid horror of a non-supernatural variety. The terrors here are “being found out,” being watched and being treated badly by a racist you’ve just met.

The setting is yuppie lush — a cliffside/seaside showplace that two couples decide to rent for a weekend getaway.

The threats there are existential, familial and pharmaceutical. Arabic-looking Mina (Sheila Vand of TV’s “Snowpiercer”) tried to rent it, but it was her tech start-up partner Charlie (Dan Stevens of TV’s “Downton Abbey” and “Legion”) whose credit card got processed.

He’s with Michelle (Alison Brie “GLOW”). She’s taken up with Charlie’s aimless, police-record brother Josh (Jeremy Allen White of TV’s “Shameless”).

Charlie gives up a little too much praise when talking about Mina to Michelle. “She’s the whole package,” he says. Josh “hit the f—–g jackpot” with her.

Duly noted. And once they arrive at the house, a few more personality quirks rear their heads. Mina isn’t shy about confrontation. A rude question of the “racist” guy who rented them the place (Toby Huss) isn’t softened by “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Taylor (Huss) gives as rude as he gets, and his sarcastic “didn’t mean anything by it” is the perfect punchline.

Michelle is there to recreate and hike. Mina and Josh just want to hide their dog from Taylor (“No pets allowed.”), get loose and stay loose.

“So…shall we do some drugs?”

There’s a clockwork compactness to the plot that you can’t help but notice and appreciate. Michelle wants to be fresh the next day’s hike, so she abstains with a promise to imbibe “tomorrow night.” All the bad decisions thhis first evening are made by the other three.

And that sets up the next night, as Brie gets to play semi-insensate and clueless as the previous night’s transgressions and mistakes come home to roost for the now-sober Josh, Charlie and Mina.

“Hey you guys, where’s the Molly?”

She’s wasted, and if drugs contributed to everything that went wrong before, drugs will trigger a lot of day-late/dollar short responses when the rising paranoia turns out to be justified on “the last night of our weekend.”

That’s not a new twist in horror, that “See where drugs’ll get you?” messaging. But damn, seeing “The Beach House” and “The Rental” use very similar settings and this Big Bullet Point in their plotting, back to back, is jarring.

Just say no, already.

The younger Franco doesn’t reinvent the genre or advance it in any way. But horror, as always, proves a nice proof-of-directing-chops test case, and he passes with flying colors. The performances are pitch-perfect, the picture opens with dread and the suspense builds nicely.

Sure, the foreshadowing is too-obvious (dogs make it into screenplays for a reason), the actual menace trite and the ending nothing novel. But “The Rental” is promising enough to put down a deposit on “the other Franco” and his directing future.

MPAA Rating: R for violence, language throughout, drug use and some sexuality

Cast: Dan Stevens, Allison Brie, Sheila Vand, Jeremy Allen White and Toby Huss

Credits: Directed by Dave Franco, script by Dave Franco and Joe Swanberg. An IFC release.

Running time: 1:28

Every subscriber’s “around the world with Netflix” experience is going to be littered with…litter.

So it’s no surprise than in dropping in on several Nigerian films (“Nollywood”) in recent months, I’d eventually get around to one that’s unwatchable.

Tedious, generic and soap opera slow, “Sylvia” is about a man haunted — literally — by the imaginary girlfriend he’s had since childhood.

The premise may be a bit “out there,” but considering the supernatural drivel Hollywood summons up on a weekly basis, that’s no reason to write this one off.

But from the funereal opening, where we meet Richard (Chris Attoh) as “an old madman,” hiding out in an asylum, “Sylvia” is a clunker — slower than molasses dripping in the Arctic.

That framing device sets the tone. Every line is painstakingly performed as if English isn’t a common language in Nigeria and everybody has to sound the words out phonetically.

And such lines! They’re bad enough to be repeated in that “You mean to tell me” explain-it-to-the-dummies-in-the-audience way TV soap operas perfected.

“How could you say that? After everything, how could you honestly say that?”

And say it twice?

That’s the adult Sylvia (Zainab Balogun) reacting to the news that after residing in Richard’s dreams, day and night, all through his childhood, college and early adult years, that he’s “met someone,” and that someone is real — Gbemi (Ini Dima Okojie).

He may be a great success headed for marriage and a life of happiness, so he thinks. But Sylvia has her ways. Never mess with a Dream Lover Scorned.

There are limp office jokes here, hallucinations in the gym, “temptations” and trip-ups taking many forms. Anything to prevent this “real” marriage.

None of it amounts to anything and every single moment drags like a movie played at one third speed.

Director Daniel Oriahi (“Taxi Driver: Oko Ashewo,”” “For My Girls”) has been around long enough to know something about pacing. It’s as if he set out to imitate a genre and he and his cast had to do it in slow and tentative baby steps, lest they stumble and fall.

They did, mainly by slow-walking this thin thriller, first scene to last.

You make allowances for other cultures and their storytelling conventions when you watch a foreign film. This? This film “Sylvia” is unwatchable.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast: Zainab Balogun, Chris Attoh, Ini Dima Okojie, Udoka Oyeka and Ijeoma Grace Agu

Credits:Directed by Daniel Oriahi, script by Vanessa Kanu. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:44

It’s almost a relief to learn that the French can make a sex farce as crude, clumsy and obvious as its title.

Does “MILF” leave anything to the imagination? No.

It took six credited screenwriters to concoct this “romance” about “women of a certain age” showing off their perfect bikini bodies on the beaches of the South of France and luring cut, rich young boors who give sailing lessons there.

At least when Jennifer Coolidge introduced the world to the acronym — via “American Pie” — she was aloof, funny and harder to get.

Cecile, played by Virginie Ledoyen, has just lost her husband Laurent, and has enlisted pals Sonia (Marie-Josée Croze) and Elise (Axelle Laffont, who also co-wrote and directed this) to help her clean and prep for sale a family beach house on the Med.

Cecile may be in mourning, but the solemn mood is broken when one of them chooses to flash the rude, aggressive young punks tailgating them on the drive down.

Sonia has carried on her “bad habits from high school.” She’s dating a married man.

Elise is ready to put Cecile on a dating/hook-up app.

But Cecile is the modest one, sad and it turns out, naive. She’s the one who’s ever heard what the acronym MILF stands for. Well, at least they’re not “cougars,” they reassure themselves. Besides, Cecile sighs (in French, with English subtitles). “a widow of my age (Ledoyen is 44), no one is interested.”

It’s just that randy college-age Paul (Waël Sersoub) and Julien (Matthias Dandois) ARE interested. They are cocky, confident and cut, so good looking that Laffont throws a little animation and “oooga-oooga” effect in to mark the ladies’ reaction to the hunks across the harbor.  Subtle. 

They’re also crude behind the trio’s backs — “Not bad for an old piece of a–.”

They aggressively pursue the well-preserved not-old-but-older women. Cecile may be off limits, but Sonia and Elise are down for a little get-down.

“That punk sure can kiss!”

Enter Markus (Victor Meutelet), who used to babysit Cecile’s kids and now is handsome enough to make her blush. Will she?

There’s clubbing, skinny dipping, flirting and peacocking. The lads are insatiable, over-eager (in a “premature” sense) and not shy about parading around buck naked to show off what they’ve just been doing.

They’re also callow and potentially cruel. There are plenty of women their age who turn their heads.

Conflict comes from the “age appropriate” Thomas (Rémi Pedevilla) who is put off by the boys throwing themselves at the women, and how the women react.

“You’re cute. Trying to be big men, eh?”

And there’s the sullen, sexy bouncer (Jéromine Chasseriaud) who is furious that these women, whom she wouldn’t let in the door, are stealing young man meat she has her eyes on.

There’s barely a laugh in it (six writers, remember), the situations are trite and playing the many sex scenes straight flatters the stars but does nothing for the movie’s central comic premise.

Perhaps “MILF” simply doesn’t translate. You look at these three — Ledoyen, of “The Beach,” is all of 44 — and there’s a “Why COULDN’T they have any straight man on Earth?”

And without that, there’s no challenge, no irony and not

Rating: TV-MA, explicit sex, nudity, profanity, lots of drinking

Cast: Virginie Ledoyen, Marie-Josée Croze, Axelle Laffont, Waël Sersoub, Waël Sersoub and Victor Meutelet

Credits: Directed by Axelle Laffont, script by Axelle Laffont, Jean-François Halin, Alain Layrac, Jonathan Cohen, David Lanzman and Lilou Fogli. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:36

Enthusiastic, irreverent to the point of rude and delivered in clips and quips edited into rat-a-tat-tat bursts, “Creem: America’s Only Rock’n Roll Magazine” is a documentary that mimics its subject to a T.

Sacred cows from its legend are celebrated, then skewered, feuds are revisited with the rockers who came under its Detroit Rock City gaze, and everybody remembers the good, not-quite-clean fun they had writing it, reading it and being in it.

“It was the ’70s,” writer/editor (and the documentary’s co-writer) Jaan Uhelszki deadpans in her best “Sorry-not-sorry.” “Kill me!”

Fans from Jeff Daniels to Michael Stipe, Gene Simmons and Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith wax lyrical about it.

“It was like buying Playboy,” actor and Detroit native Daniels recalls. “You didn’t want your parents to find it!”

And, like the National Lampoon magazine documentary, “A Futile and Stupid Gesture,” it’s nostalgic. “Creem,” unlike the AARP set interviewed here, didn’t stick around long enough to get old. It only published from 1969-1989, with the first dozen years being the ones that made its legend.

Director Scott Crawford lines up legions of on-camera talkers — the surviving senior staff, former editors in chief from Dave Marsh on down, writers from future film director Cameron Crowe to Roberta “Robbie” Cruger,  Rolling Stone mainstays Greil Marcus and Ed Ward.

There are plenty of women staffers here to admit “It was a ‘boy’s magazine,” and to confess that many of the leering, sexist and innuendo-laden headlines and photo captions were produced by the ladies who answered the phone, “Creem your jeans, boys and girls!”

And there are the rock stars — mostly white, after a few early years when it was more Motown-Detroit friendly, mostly heavy metal, pop metal, glam, etc. — who filled its pages.

Joan Jett remembers her nuclear letter to the editor come-back for a bad review of her first band, The Runaways. Simmons recalls the stunt of dolling up Uhelski like a fifth member of KISS, and bringing her on-stage for a story.

Mitch Ryder and Suzi Quatro, Ted Nugent and Wayne Kramer of the MC (Motor City) 5, remember the way the record store that spawned the magazine set the town for an all-embracing entrance to the “scene” of late ’60s Detroit. Smokey Robinson made the cover, the MC5 were ridiculed for “not knowing how to tune their instruments.”

“That hit close-ta home,” Kramer admits with a grin.

And then there’s the middle chapter on the most famous writer to grace its pages during its heyday, Lester Bangs. Wilder and more the enthusiast than Philip Seymour Hoffman’s portrayal in Crowe’s autobiographical “Almost Famous” film, Bangs was loved and hated by Marsh (who appears here) and every rock star and rock band who came under his critical eye.

“He called our first record ‘a tragic waste of plastic,'” Alice Cooper laughs.

Bangs is portrayed as both a tragic figure — he overdosed a year after the magazine’s founder and publisher — and as a Freudian cliche of a critic. He ridiculed stars until he became pals and drinking buddies with them, something Crowe remembers Bangs expressly warning HIM not to do when he first started writing there.

“He always saw the irony of the situation,” Crowe offers.

Bangs pushed for the magazine — which published from a communal, dysfunctional hippy-style farm for a bit, everybody under one roof and coupling up — to be rock’n roll itself, “like a band putting out a magazine.” Marsh saw it as the political conscience of a generation. It’s only natural that he’s the writer credited with coining the phrase “punk rock.”

The magazine’s glory years, up to Bangs’ death, earn most of the attention, shortchanging its last decade and creating a sense that the movie, like the magazine, kind of peters out.

Nobody defends the homophobia that drove a lot of the early humor, shots at Steven Tyler and Freddie Mercury and story after story with “f—-t” jokes. And nobody NOBODY apologizes for the nuclear takedowns of Springsteen and the other Rolling Stone-proclaimed titans of the era.

“U.F.O.s, Hitler and David Bowie” headlined one “appreciation” of the Brit. “John Denver is GOD” another cover cartoon was captioned, while “Springsteen” most certainly “isn’t.”

And they all hated Jann Wenner and Rolling Stone like poison, taking a Mad Magazine approach — eternal outsiders, mocking one, mocking all.

“Either you’re in on the joke, or you ARE the joke.”

(Roger Moore’s review of the similar “Ticket to Write: The Golden Age of Rock Journalism”)

MPAA Rating: unrated, profanity, a little skin, some discussion of drugs

Cast: Dave Marsh, Jaan Uhelszki, Suzi Quatro, Alice Cooper, Joan Jett, Chad Smith, Wayne Kramer, Gene Simmons and Ted Nugent.

Credits: Directed by Scott Crawford, script by Jaan Uhelski and Scott Crawford. A Greenwich release.

Running tine: 1:18

Yes, here’s a documentary where a bunch of psychologists talk about the “stable genius” in the White House.

Isn’t his sister pushing a book right now that covers all this?

“Unfit: The Psychology of Donald Trump” rolls out Sept. 1.