Movie Nation

It was, and remains, the most frightening science fiction film ever made.

“Alien” was a  watershed picture when it hit theaters in 1979, like an anti-“Star Wars” “Close Encounters of the Terminal Kind.”

It had an unstoppable, insectoid monster attacking the working class crew of a damp, dark, grimy working space tug in the remote reaches of the cosmos.

The film’s graphic violence began with an interspecies “male rape,” climaxed with a scene as iconic as “the shower scene” in “Psycho,” and announced the first great female action heroine, in addition to launching a venerable franchise and many imitators.

It was the sort of movie that if you caught it in 70mm, immersed and overwhelmed by the dread and shock and sheer scale of the horror, you just had to round up friends and go back — just to see them jump out of their skin when a monster jumps out of John Hurt’s chest. God knows I did.

And it all began with a “Memory.”

“Memory: The Origins of ‘Alien'” is a deep-dive into the inspirations, history and production of this classic film. Directed by the fellow who gave us “The People vs. George Lucas” and “78/52: Hitchcock’s Shower Scene,” it is broad, informative, opinionated and for the most part, rolls over the omissions and holes in its history.

Mostly, though, it is a celebration of screenwriter Dan O’Bannon, the quixotic writer behind the cult sci-fi comedy “Dark Star,” who went on to write “Blue Thunder” and adapt “Total Recall.”

O’Bannon, who died in 2009, is lauded by his widow and others from the production as the visionary who latched onto artist H.R. Giger to conceptualize both the alien and the film’s alien world and refused to let the movie be made without that visual input.

“Memory” was the title of a script fragment O’Bannon punched out in the early ’70s, thirty pages that became the opening scenes of “Alien.” But where did this story of reluctant “explorers” confronted with pitiless, murderous evil come from?

Alexandre O. Phillipe’s documentary opens in Delphi, Greece, with visions of the Greek Furies, toothy witches avenging and cleansing and prophesying doom.

Academics, fellow filmmakers, friends of O’Bannon and Diane O’Bannon talk about the comic books (“Death Rattle” among them) this was yanked from, the films (“It,” “The Thing!” “Planet of the Vampires,” “Queen of Blood”) that the screenwriter borrowed from in conjuring up this nightmare from the future.

Hanging over it all was the morbid, cerebral gloom and doom of novelist H. P. Lovecraft, whose “Necronomicon” became the common thread of connection among those developing the picture.

O’Bannon’s first connection to H.R. Giger is recalled, Giger’s own obsessions with ancient Egypt and mummies, and the early production history,  when director Walter Hill (“The Warriors,” “The Driver” and later “48 Hours” and “Deadwood”) and his production company tackled the project, is remembered.

Archival interviews with principals no longer with us — O’Bannon and Giger — and director Ridley Scott (whom Phillipe was not able to land) are cleverly projected onto video screens from the actual “Alien” set.

But Hill’s presence is sorely missed. He was not a star filmmaker at the time he left the film, but during his tenure on the project, sole survivor Ripley was changed from a man, in O’Bannon’s script, to a woman. That isn’t brought up, and Sigourney Weaver isn’t here either.

But we get on-set memories from Veronica Cartwright, tumbling over a settee when the “chest busting” scene begins, blasted by fake blood and offal when she stood back upright, and from Tom Skerritt, who played the captain of the Nostromo.

The Joseph Conrad connections — the ship and its shuttle (Narcissus) were named for vessels in Conrad novels — are laid out.

The era the film came out in, post-Vietnam, post-Watergate, cynical and mistrusting, paranoid and feminist — is parked in the foreground. Ian Holm’s Ash character is dissected, a secret android who “must have been programmed by an awful AWFUL misogynist” given his computer-driven behavior.

Scott’s roving camera, the “slow motion…with the occasional stab” pacing, the novelty of those “perpetual motion” bobbing, drinking bird toys (scattered all over the ship), Cartwright’s description of the cavernous “vagina-shaped” pre-CGI sets, covered with “the sense of goo and grit and sweat and steam” that take us right back there, into that world of the movie’s creation.

It’s a real eye-opener, a film that connects with “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” the documentary about a film that was never made (which O’Bannon had attempted to script) and with all the science fiction cinema that “Alien” upended, and the way the cinematic universe has looked (“Guardians of the Galaxy,” anyone?) ever since.

Cast: Veronica Cartwright, Tom Skerritt, Roger Corman, Diane O’Bannon, Dan O’Bannon, H.R. Giger, Ridley Scott

Credits: Written and directed by Alexandre O. Philippe. A Screen Media release.

Running time: 1:35

Last year at this time, “Smallfoot” managed an $833,000 opening Thursday night on its way to a meek (for an animated musical) opening of $23 million or so,

Thursday night, “Abominable,” another “yeti” comedy but this time from Dreamworks, not Sony, did $650k Thursday, and Friday’s numbers were correspondingly weaker as well.

In other words, no big surprises from a picture that was projected top out at $20 million, and might be lucky to reach that.

It’s a Pearl Studios Chinese co-production.

Any criticism that it’s not really aimed at the US market (very Chinese, with Chinese geopolitics in the mix) might be worth noting, but the bigger message is “If somebody else is punching out an abominable snowman comedy, we should look at doing something else.”

Even Laika’s “Missing Link” covered similar ground.

“Downton Abbey” is still selling tickets in some quarters, with advance sales this weekend outstripping “Abominable,” according to my Tops in the Country Regal Cinemas home theater.

It might hit the mid to upper teens on its second weekend, but $14 seems to be its current track. It could be over $60 by midnight Sunday.

“Hustlers” is showing the legs of a movie phenom, which is one of the signs it could be a J. Lo Oscar contender. “Ad Astra” and “Rambo: Last Blood” opened last weekend, “Hustlers” a few weeks back.

The strippers get even dramedy will manage over $10 this weekend, Brad Pitt and Sly Stallone in the $8-9 range.

“Judy,” the Renee Zellweger Judy Garland biopic, is in a 461 screen limited release and is doing OK, nothing special (either as a movie, or a box office performer, although Zellweger is quite good). Over $1 million, less than $2.

The poet swordsman with big nose had to get his start somewhere.

This French backstage comedy tells that story.

The offstage moments are the glories of “Judy,” the places where Renée Zellweger truly inhabits the child star turned showbiz legend, a shell of her former self in the last year of her life. It’s all the stuff ON-stage that lets the picture down.

Zellweger and the script — based on a play by Peter Quilter — make Judy Garland a sad and lonely figure, not a tragic one. She is managing, rolling with the punches of an expensive divorce from Sid Luft (Rufus Sewell, playing a man exhausted by her), nearly broke and essentially homeless — if life in hotel suites, where sometimes she couldn’t pay the bills, counts as “homeless.” She is drinking, clinging to her lifelong, studio-mandated regimen of uppers and downers, regal, plucky and self-aware.

She knows she’s a star, a legend even. When she joins daughter Liza Minnelli (Gemma-Leah Devereux, with just the right spark) at an L.A. party, Liza wants to leave, Judy prefers to stay.

“You don’t know anybody here.”

“They seem to know me!”

And she can’t sleep. Ever.

Flashbacks take us to young Judy’s (Darci Shaw) “Over the Rainbow” breakthrough, where the “diet pills” and sleep deprivation began at the insistence of history’s worst stage mother (Natasha Powell) and on direct orders — always purred, rarely threatened — of MGM studio chief Louis B. Mayer (Richard Cordery).

“You’re my FAV-orite, Judy,” he says, noting that the “normal life” he hears in her longing for a regular meal, decent hours and the occasional nap is for other girls, all “prettier than you,” but destined for “small lives. Not Judy, She’s got “that VOICE.”

But “that voice” is unmistakable, big and deep and throaty, with the hint of an edge to the enunciations. Much of “Judy” takes place on the stage of London’s Talk of the Town supper showclub, with Zellweger singing the Garland standards — “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “The Trolly Song” and that one about the rainbow.

And Zellweger, an Oscar winner who masters the fidget, the crooked smile, the speaking voice — a posh affectation not-quite-smothering her Minnesota accent — and does her own singing, cannot make us forget Garland’s unique and iconic sound.

There’s no shame in not being able to replicate Judy Garland in song. Who could, other than Liza? But in recreating someone “you won’t forget,” this shortcoming — a hole in a perfectly servicable screen biography — “Judy” makes Garland sound forgettable.

The director of “True Story,” Rupert Goold, tracks us through Garland’s struggles leading up to and through her storied, and yes notorious final London club engagement.

Michael Gambon is the promoter/club owner who books her, Jesse Buckley plays the club factotum meant to be Judy’s “handler” for this version of “My Week With Marilyn.”

Garland is almost unfailingly polite, unless she’s drunk. Her stage fright, at 47, makes her a helpless and hopeless diva, somebody shoved in front of the microphone, shaken, from opening night onward. She’s worthy of our pity.

Perhaps there’s historical accuracy in the techty relationship between Rosalind Wilder (Buckley) and “the world’s greatest entertainer.” There’s nothing warm about it, either.

The younger man/entrepreneur (Finn Wittrock) Judy hooks up with at that L.A. party and later marries is also someone kept at arm’s length by the script. Was he another gay man, who were historically catnip to the Gumm, Garland and Minelli women?

The warmest scene has Judy connecting with two gay fans at the stage door, going to their place for scrambled eggs when there are no London restaurants open after midnight. That’s a play in itself, and if more of the movie had been this intimate, we’d already be stamping Zellweger’s name on the Oscar. It’s warm, musical (singing like Garland this late in her career is easier than it would have been at her “Star is Born” peak).

The flashbacks resonate, with Judy insecure about her looks, her weight, rejected by Mickey Rooney, hectered by her mother, kept in her place by the creep Mayer. And exhausted, always desperate for sleep.

But there’s no power to them.

Although Zellweger handles the few jokes well — a doctor asks, “Take anything for depression?” “Four HUSBANDS!” — there aren’t enough to make this rather somber picture achieve joy. Only in the finale do we have a bittersweet taste of that.

Despite a good cast and a scattering of big names in it, “Judy” feels malnourished, as if Zellweger’s reduced box office status wasn’t able to attract a more flamboyant Mayer, more charismatic players surrounding her.

If we remember Garland, and she is fading even as a gay icon, it will be due to that voice, those films, the glorious bits of camp and “Show must go on” pluck that you can find in scores of Youtube videos of her TV appearances and the occasional concert.

On a musical bio-pic scale, this isn’t “Rocketman” or “Bohemian Rhapsody,” not “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” “What’s Love Got to Do With It,” “Sweet Dreams” or “Get on Up.” It’s unfortunately a lot closer to “Jimi: All is By My Side.” Uncanny in its impersonation, flat as a movie, forgettable as a biography.

MPAA Rating: PG-13 for substance abuse, thematic content, some strong language, and smoking

Cast: Renée Zellweger, Jesse Buckley, Rufus Sewell, Darci Shaw, Finn Wittrock, Michael Gambon

Credits: Directed by Rupert Goold, script by Tom Edge, based on a play by Peter Quilter. An LD Entertainment/BBC Films/Roadside Attractions release.

Running time: 1:58

Just caught this trailer in a theater and boy, does it have my interest.

Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Leslie Mann and Cherry Jones also star in this Nov. 1. noir about a detective with Tourettes, based on a Jonathan Lethem novel.

Third trailer, a spy becomes a bird comedy. Buying in?

Take your kids to “Abominable” and tell me I’m wrong. It plays like an animated dramedy made for the Chinese market.

It’s laugh-starved and China-flattering in the extreme. The villains are a Brit (Eddie Izzard) and his North American hireling (Sarah Paulson).

You could not kiss up more to the one-party state without starting the story in Hong Kong, criticizing pro-democracy protestors.

It’s the over-familiarity of the visuals — not the Chinese settings, but the Yeti/Bigfoot/”Missing Link” focus — that might have parents and kids thinking “Meh, seen it” in North America and the West.

Can Dreamworks be happy with the $20 million projections facing one of their animated blockbusters as it hits screens? A $35 million take is poor, by their standards. Pixar and Disney Feature Animation releases routinely open in the $60 range.

Reviews aren’t helping.

Now, $20 seems like a lowballing prediction from a marketing department looking to create the perception of a winner when it does $30, but the picture’s been labeled a loser before it steps into the animated kiddie entertainment void.

“Downtown Abbey” could still have some pent-up demand, but will the older audience showing up for that want to see it again? A $17 million second weekend take seems low to me, but BoxOfficeMojo sayeth so.

“Rambo” and “Ad Astra” are set to fall WAY off, both are projected to his $8.5-9 this weekend. I wouldn’t be shocked if they plummeted. The movies are a dog and a very well groomed dog, respectively.

“It Chapter 2” has been falling off steeper than expected, but should still edge them.

“Judy” is opening on 461 screens, a potential Oscar contender from a studio that doesn’t know how to manufacture that outcome. It’s opening a bit early to set itself up as a front-runner, but platforming it may be the smart play.

A $1.4 million weekend is projected.

We can safely assume, from the way Dick Long’s two cover-bandmates dump him in the emergency room parking lot, that the night got plumb out of hand.

We saw the “Pink Freud” band rehearsal earlier, the booze and weed and pranks that followed.

And of course we’ve noticed the film’s title, “The Death of Dick Long.” This story isn’t going to end well for old Dick.

But nothing, no urban legends about the rural South spread in the contemptuous North, no Alabama jokes, can prepare us for what put Dick Long there.

This is no “Tucker & Dale vs. Evil” remimagined as “Tucker & Dale ARE Evil.” It’s dark, and rarely what anybody could call “darkly funny.” It’s a redneck noir thriller, mostly concerned with incompetent criminals involved in a cover-up, and obese, slothful cops “waitin’ for sometin’ that just falls into our laps” to put it all together.

But if it’s not funny, when it could have been, not the thriller it wants to be and and not particularly satisfying in either case, “The Death of Dick Long” still manages to be suspenseful, a rare outing in that subgenre of Southern Fried Film Noir we call “Cracker Gothic.”

Michael Abbott is Zeke and Andre Hyland is Earl, tone-deaf beer-drinkers who’ve been playing together forever, probably never in public. And when the third member of their Power Trio winds up bleeding out in the back of Zeke’s Taurus wagon, they’ve got a choice to make — together.

“Are you gonna help me, or you want to go to jail?”

They’ve got to keep Zeke’s wife (Virginia Newcomb) in the dark. They’ve got to get Zeke’s chatty pre-tween (Poppy Cunningham) to school, without her seeing the stains in the back seat or the blood that’s gotten on her favorite jumper when Daddy “Never Learned to do the Laundry” makes a hash of things.

Earl shows off his poker face when his flirty trailer park neighbor (Sunita Mani) asks him a dozen innocent questions about what he’s loading all this junk into his pick-em up truck for, where he’s headed and who he is going with.

“What’d y’all do, knock over a bank?”

Dick’s wife (Jess Weixler of “It Chapter 2”) is wondering where her man is, if he’s out cheating.

The doddering sheriff (Janelle Cochrane) should be no cause for concern. She’s got a cane and little in the way of urgency of Margo from “Fargo” (the movie, of course) crime-solving skills. Her indolent, convenience-store donuts-loving deputies include a younger version of her (Sarah Baker), new to the force, anxious to get home to a quiche which “the missus” has whipped up.

Probably the wrong person to joke to about how “gay” the station wagon, which Zeke reports stolen, made him feel while driving.

“I guess we didn’t totally think that through.”

That kind of goes for the movie, unfortunately. The suspense that builds as our idiot criminals try to fiigure out how long they can elude our idiot cops works.

The big twist in the crime is head-snapping.

But there’s a sense that the mere creation of the characters, the setting and the crime is enough to get audiences to laugh. Maybe there’ll be some of that, in cities far removed from the South. It’s so half-assed nobody familiar with the region will giggle, or even grimace.

And the third act is borderline catostrophic, with an ending that feels neither natural nor earned.

The women are the red letter performers here, with Newcomb (“Jumanji”) showing Lydia, her character’s fire and fury, veteran character actress Baker playing up the slow-at-math but able to put two and two together Officer Dudley and Weixler bringing pathos to a woman who doesn’t know where her husband, Dick Long, is.

And might not want to know, when push comes to shove.

But there’s more to a dark comedy than a really dark crime, more to a thriller than a slo-motion pursuit and more to the rural South than arch, slow redneck stereotypes.

MPAA Rating: R for pervasive language, disturbing sexual material, and brief drug use

Cast: Michael Abbott Jr., Virginia Newcomb, Andre Hyland, Jess Weixler, Sarah Baker, Janelle Cochrane and Roy Wood, Jr.

Credits: Directed by Daniel Scheinert, script by Billy Chew.  An A24 release.

Running time: 1:40

“Mister America” is a sequel to “On Cinema at the Cinema,” an intentionally bad, vigorously half-assed movie review show that went from podcast to web series, eventually part of the Adult Swim Cartoon Network brand.

It’s pretty much the definition of a “cult series,” cringe-worthy comedy with fans who follow its stars — Tim Heidecker (of “Tim & Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!” and “Tim & Eric’s Bedtime Stories” etc.) and Gregg Turkington (of the dark and offbeat indie film “Entertainment”) — into other, spinoff projects such as “Decker,”  an incompetent action-comedy,  playing versions of themselves, the lazy, delusional and doltish Tim and movie-obsessed, weird and just-as-delusional Gregg.

And I’ve put more effort into reciting their credits than I ever have in digging into their shows. The deep dive dullness (irony) of their comedy never drew me in. I reviewed “Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie” when it came out and found it excruciating.

But then, I’m too cheap to imbibe or smoke whatever it is their fans are into that keep them tuned in and this “comic universe” employed.

“Mister America” is closer to genuine political satire, a droll but deathly-dull take on the worst candidate and worst campaign for office ever. And lest you confuse Tim for anybody else, he “ran” for District Attorney of San Bernadino, California, in this mockumentary.

This is after “On Cinema,” after “Decker,” after Tim and Gregg have had a falling out. One of Tim’s many details-disoriented later “schemes” was a desert music festival where the Chinese vapes the promoters (Tim) were giving to the crowd left a bunch of people dead.

Tim so resented being prosecuted for mass murder — he got off, thanks to a hung jury — that he’s running against DA Rosetti (Don Pecchia) out of spite and revenge.

Sound familiar?

But everything about this quixotic campaign is a fiasco. He doesn’t live in San Bernadino, so he’s “living” in a hotel, and running the campaign out of a hotel room.

“I don’t have to have lived here my entire life to know the problems” the place has. Those “problems?” “The rat” they have for a district attorney.

He has no volunteers to help him canvass for voters to get on the ballot. So irritable, rude, arrogant Tim is stuck going door to door, hailing people in parking lots, trying to get signatures.

“What’re you running for?”

“District attorney! Sorta like gov’ner,” he drawls. “I’m’o bring CHANGE!”

Punctuated by, “I’ve told you THREE times what I’m running for!”

Charming.

There’s a sucker/press secretary/campaign manager (Terri Parks), stumbling from one media failure to the next. She’s so harried and hapless she can’t even place a newspaper ad, much less take dictation for this or that Tim “statement.”

The DA he is running against is ignoring him. The judge who oversaw the trial where Tim ineptly, angrily and ignorantly represented himself, bullied witnesses and threw tantrums…and won — retired.

Campaigning or strategizing, he can’t keep from contradicting himself within a single breath.

Drunk tweeting his rage at his inability to get attention? Been there, done that.

And then there’s this film crew, following him, mentioning that disastrous musical festival and digging into his past.

That “past” would be Gregg Turkington, who has stories about their TV efforts together, Tim’s general incompetence and the movie Gregg — who spends his days dumpster diving for VHS “classics” — figures that Tim’s campaign “is an unofficial remake of, “The Shaggy DA” (the Disney Dean Jones version, not the one with Tim Allen).

“Good thing you’ll never finish the movie and Tim’ll never see it,” Gregg crows. Gregg knows cinema.

Clumsy but not funny appearances, incompetent cell-phone video “ads” and appearances — also not funny — pad the picture.

This is tedium itself. Want to see this “delusional dunce failing, and dragging others down with him” thing done better? Hunt up the Steve Coogan Brit-series about Alan Partridge, whom we meet as he launches his national TV talk and variety show, and who fails and fails downward, into local radio, personal appearances as a “has been,” voicing over infomercials, the works.

Maybe that’s the ironic difference Heidecker & Co. are getting at here. In America, hustlers and con men like Tim don’t fail downward. They fail upward.

Hell, he might even get to be president some day.

But he has yet to show he can deliver anything the least bit amusing to the big screen.

MPAA Rating: R for language and some drug use.

Cast: Tim Heidecker, Terri Parks, Gregg Turkington, Don Pecchia

Credits: Directed by Eric Notarnicola, script by Tim Heidecker, Eric Notarnicola and Gregg Turkington. A Magnolia release.

Running time: 1:29

First of all, great title. If you’re going to round up a bunch of young people — college coeds, stoners and frat bros — for a “dead teenager movie,” you’re going to need to do a “Head Count.”

The rules of “dead teenager movies” being what they are, frequent head counts are in order. I mean, if they’re picked off, in classic Poe and Agatha Christie style by whatever killer or evil is attacking them, we want a running tally of “Who’s left?” and “Who’s NEXT?”

Great setting, too. “Head Count” takes place in Joshua Tree, California, one of the most beautiful, iconic deserts in America. Tourist friendly, too. College kids rent a house here for spring break?

“Anybody wanna do some SHROOMs for breakfast?”

It’s a natural.

But Elle Callahan’s film upends the “types” and “tropes” of such movies by making the menace familiar. It’s the person sitting next to you, two thirds wasted, during a game of “Never have I ever,” the gal you’re sweet on and sidling up to when the call goes out, “Who’s ready for some SHOTS?”

There is no “one by one” order. Something is slipping in under a familiar guise and spooking this group of ten. Somebody’d better figure it out before it’s too late.

Those are novel twists. It’s just that the movie, which manages some early chills, fails that most basic horrof picture test. It isn’t scary.

Evan (Isaac Jay) isn’t headed to Mexican beaches or Daytona for spring break. He’s off to stay with his wastrel, wandering “free spirit” brother Peyton (Cooper Rowe), who lives, meditates and hikes on the edge of the Joshua Tree National Monument.

Peyton’s the guy who never returns a call, never answers his phone and is lost in his own head. Fun vacation.

Well, it is once the brothers are out hiking and stumble into nine college kids on a boulder-top bender. That’s over-selling it a bit. They’re just…mellow.

“You wanna smoke with us?”

Camille (Bevin Bru) is just looking out for her girl Zoe (Ashleigh Morghan), a photographer who likes keeping this Evan fellow in the frame.

First surprise of the picture, the “responsible” college boy younger brother says “Yes.” Peyton?

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”

The invitation to follow them back to their rented hacienda includes tequila. Peyton? “Thanks, but I don’t drink, either.”

Thus does “Oh, this guy’s a Joshua Tree stoner/dropout” expectation get upened. and Peyton will avoid the horrors that await the others, including his brother.

The booze, mushrooms and weed aren’t the issue, though they don’t help. It’s the Internet ghost stories they share around a campfire, the “shapeshifter” Evan mentions and probably shouldn’t — out loud.

The threat makes itself known with the usual “What was that?” Somebody saw something, Somebody heard something. You know the drill.

Callahan, who also came up with the story, treats us to chilling tracking shots, glimpses of the body whose point of view we are seeing the house and its out-buildings from in the dark. Photo bombs let us see what Evan sees. He doesn’t know everybidy there, but there’s an extra blonde in that background, in this doorway.

If he doesn’t get around to taking a “Head Count,” and quick, he’ll never ID the threat, get the others to heed his warnings and make up with his brother.

Because whatever else this kid is, he flunks the Good Brother Test, repeatedly. And the Potential Boyfriend Test, too.

The performances are indifferent, with only a couple of these “Ten Little Indians” in this gathering (Bru, Billy Meade and Hunter Peterson) making an impression, standing out from the crowd.

The dialogue is indifferent, but the plot intriguing.

It’s just that Callahan, a sound designer turned director, broke one horror “rule” too many in this rule-bending genre pic. The menace you believe in without seeing is much scarier than the one a modest-budget thriller can cook up to show us — in the flesh.

Yeah, “Head Count” loses its head in the third act.

Whatever promise it had is long gone by then (there’s little urgency among the stoners, the threat seems more existential than real). And in a crowd of characters we have zero time to develop empathy for (like their director, they’re all beautiful), when the Big Moment comes, the only sane response is “Who cares?”

MPAA Rating: unrated, violence, blood, substance abuse, profanity

Cast: Isaac Jay, Ashleigh Morghan, Bevin Bru, Billy Meade, Chelcie May, Amaka Obiechie, Hunter Peterson, Tory Freeth, Michael Herman, Sam Marra and Cooper Rowe

Credits: Directed by Elle Callahan, script by Michael Nader based on an Elle Callahan story. A Samuel L. Goldwyn release.

Running time: 1:30