What Maisie Knew (2012)

Susannah, Maisie and Lincoln

Kids take effort. So some people shouldn’t be parents. They don’t have the attention span, patience, compassion, understanding or disposition. Some simply lack the energy and desire to do the job properly. This is certainly the case with nearly all the adults in the 2012 film “What Maisie Knew.”

A contemporary update of the 1897 Henry James novel, the film centers on an 8-ish-year old girl, (wide-eyed Onata Aprile) living in Manhattan with her less-than-ideal, quarrelling parents.

From the start, we see Maisie’s life is no picnic. The family resides in an opulent multi-level apartment in the city. Her parents (Steve Coogan and Julianne Moore) argue bitterly in front of her. Having grown used to their fights, Maisie reacts with obliviousness: While parents battle in the living room, she cheerfully tromps downstairs to give tip money to the pizza delivery guy.

Moore plays mother Susanna, the lead singer in a touring rock band (in concert footage we see her covering one of my favorite bands, the Kills). She drinks, smokes and swears around her daughter. Wearing shabby-chic clothes and a devil-may-care affect, she condemns more traditional parents as “Nazis.” Given the trappings of her apartment, she’s clearly very successful. However there’s also an air of instability surrounding her day job. Rationalizing why she can’t look after Maisie one night, she matter-of-factly mentions that if she misses another gig, there’ll be a lawsuit.

Coogan’s Beale is a similarly successful art dealer, much more conservative and older than Susannah. He’s wears crisp suits, and is forever on the phone. We don’t see him as much because he’s too often flying off to Europe “to pursue business opportunities.”

Before long, the parental stress becomes too much bear. Susanna changes the locks. After a late-night shouting match through the front door, Beale moves out, taking Margot with him.

After a brief but bitter legal battle, it’s decided Maisie will split time between parents, ten days with each at a time.

This is the worst possible decision, where the little girl’s concerned.

Rather than taking the time and effort to parent their daughter, Beale and Susannah instead usually try to pawn her off on each other before the scheduled swap date arrives. Or worse, forget when it’s time to pick her up altogether. When she is exchanged, they leave her with doormen, teachers, or complete strangers, hoping for the best. She’s pointed in a direction and flung out of cabs, left to find her own way. Several times I wondered “wouldn’t these parents have enough good sense to at least walk Maisie into a building, just to ensure she got there safely?”

Both parents seemingly adore Maisie in brief bursts between concerts and phone calls. Though they repeatedly profess love for Maisie, when it comes time to do the heavy lifting of parenting, to actually give time and energy to caring for their daughter, they’re both too distracted by their careers to be bothered. Between their careers, Beale and Susannah continually put their own needs before their daughter’s. Staggeringly so. To them Maisie isn’t so much a living, breathing little girl, who needs love, caring, guidance and attention, as she is an inconvenience to be quickly escaped. More often than not, though, she’s left with her young, pretty, Scottish nanny Margo (Joanna Vanderham).

Soon, Margot’s becomes more than a nanny to Beale. Likewise, Susannah unexpectedly marries a handsome young bartender named Lincoln (Alexander Skarsgard of Trueblood, Generation Kill), who quickly grows fond of Maisie. They bond over coloring books and cooking dinner, something that inspires jealousy and mistrust in the largely absent Susannah.

And what of Maisie? Aprile is adorable as the young girl at the center of a world full of irresponsible adults. But would a small child in the big city seem this capable of adjusting so quickly on-the-fly to her parents’ almost total abandonment? Sure, children can be resilient, but to this degree? Most kids cry immediately when they get lost. Lost is almost Maisie’s default setting. She negotiates the streets, restaurants and bars of Manhattan better than some fully-functioning adults. After nearly everyone in her life leaves her, would a little girl react so?

The film is well acted. Petty, combative and quick to anger, Moore’s Susannah is a close relative of the unstable and brittle Amber Waves she played so effectively in Boogie Nights. Coogan alternates between charmingly funny and caring, to maddeningly aloof. Vanderham’s Margot transforms dramatically, as she goes from benevolent nanny to put-upon stepmom. Always smiling, Skarsgard’s Lincoln projects both a loveable dopiness and sincere tenderness. He’s the only one who seems to consistently care about Maisie’s whereabouts and wellbeing.

A postcard from New York, the movie is sumptuously filmed, showing a Manhattan that’s at once bustling, while also cozy and warm and inviting. Several shots are filmed from Maisie’s low-level perspective, looking up at the big world around her. She stares in wonder (but not intimidation) at the tall buildings, and crowded rooms full of strangers.

As much as I enjoyed most of “What Maisie Knew,” the film left me wanting. To its credit, it’s decidedly not formulaic, but still believable. The uncomfortable situations between adults—all with Maisie present—will ring true to most children of divorce. It is patient and (though only 199 minutes) at times meandering. After showing so much dysfunction, it’s third act felt a little too convenient and rosy. Sure, we want the best for little Maisie. But when saddled with a group of care-givers so neglectful and self absorbed, it might be too much to ask for her ending to turn out a happy one.

Kill List (2011)

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I made the mistake of reading Roger Ebert’s review of “Kill List” before writing my own. Stupid. As you might expect, he articulated many of my own questions and observations about the film more eloquently and insightfully than I ever could. Still, it’s reassuring when someone as perceptive as Mr. Ebert shares some of your thoughts and feelings. It’s validating. 

I read his review immediately after watching the film because I was confused. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d just seen, if it made sense or not, or if somehow I’d just missed something. Had parts of it flown over my head, existed in my blind spot, or did I just not get it? 

The movie unfolds slowly. As it opens, we’re introduced to a married couple: Jay (Neil Maskell) is unemployed; his wife Shel (MyAnna Buring, one of the spelunkers from “The Descent”), a transplanted Swede. They have a 7-year old son, Sam (Harry Simpson). There is tension between the parents, ostensibly because Jay hasn’t worked in eight months. But the film’s tone suggests perhaps there is another, deeper reason.

One evening Jay’s friend Gal (Michael Smiley) comes for dinner, with his date Fiona (Emma Fryer). The conversation feels forced (with the sulking Jay and angry Shel taking passive/aggressive jabs at one another), and the meal uncomfortable. Jay finally snaps, wrecks the dinner table, and storms off to the garage. It’s there that Gal offers Jay a chance at some “good money,” if he’s willing to do what sounds like an ominous “job.” What that job is exactly isn’t explained. However, Gal toys with an automatic weapon Jay has tucked in a suitcase, and the pair speak of “that time in Kiev.” All of which suggest things messy, violent and wholly untoward.

In the meantime, we see Fiona alone in the bathroom. She curiously removes the mirror from above the sink, and carves a mysterious symbol on the reverse side. Why? What does it mean?

The film gains momentum as Jay and Gal leave on their business trip. I won’t divulge what their task actually is, but know that “Kill List” contains scenes of some of the most brutal and unsentimental violence I’ve ever watched on film. They are harrowing, believable, and difficult to view.

As Ebert writes, the 3^rd act of the film is in no way suggested by the first two. During the final 30 minutes, I literally felt like I was watching an entirely different film. Not a bad one, just one which wasn’t connected to the first hour. Abruptly, “Kill List” goes from a fairly standard British crime film to something much darker and more sinister.

I’ve intentionally left many of the film’s details out of this review, not wanting to spoil its surprises. That said, it should be noted that the cinematic quality of “Kill List” is first rate. Director/co-writer Ben Wheatley and cinematographer Laurie Rose have made a film that appears much more polished and expensive than its undoubtedly modest budget could afford. It looks and sounds great. The music, in particular, is creepy, effective, and serves to heighten anxiety. In addition, it is acted with precision and skill. Specifically, the back-and-forth between Jay and Gal is realistic, and darkly funny. This is a group of filmmakers who know what they’re doing.

I’m not sure how “Kill List” came to be in my Netflix queue. I think because I’d read positive reviews about another, more recent film by Wheatley (called “Sightseers”), on the Guardian website. Either way, I’m glad I saw “Kill List,” even if I didn’t understand it entirely. It’s well paced, interesting, and never boring.

In his review, Ebert says something to the effect of “’Kill List’ feels like a better film that it is.” I agree.

It also feels like the early work of an up-and-coming, imaginative and creative talent. This puzzling-yet-entertaining effort suggests writer/director Wheatley is someone to remember.

Iron Man 3 (2013)

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Iron Man 3 is much as you might expect: lots of terrific looking special-effects shots where the hero zooms through the sky, top-notch production values, endless loud, banging, metallic sounds, Robert Downey Jr. quipping ceaselessly, and several menacing villains. It is an enormous-budget, superhero movie, after all.

Something I didn’t expect, however, was to be surprised by some of the plot twists, ones which seldom exist in summer-action films, especially those marketed to teenagers. So it’s got that going for it.

The film begins with Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr, reprising his role) tinkering with the latest iteration of his iconic Iron Man suit. This one has parts that (like a dog) come when called, the pieces magically assembling upon him. It’s a neat effect, but one he hasn’t completely perfected, quite yet.

That he spends most of his time trying irks live-in love interest Pepper Potts (once again played by Gwyneth Paltrow). She spends most of the film sulking, angry that Stark spends more time focused on his toys, rather than her. Would Lois Lane ever react this way?

But all is not routine domestic banality. Deadly explosions have occurred all over the world, for which the mysterious new villain the Mandarin takes credit. Played with psychopathic menace by the only British actor (Steven Colbert points out) who’s not in any Harry Potter films, Ben Kingsley is essentially a terrorist, who’s given to threatening rants of pseudo-philosophical nonsense, wraps himself in terrorist iconography, and occasionally takes over television airwaves. They’re puzzling, these bombings, because there’s none of the evidence that usually accompanies such a crime: no powder, blasting caps, housings, or chemical residue. The question isn’t who’s behind the bombings, but how are they being committed?

After his trusty chauffeur Happy (Jon Favreau, stepping back from his directorial duties) is caught in one, Stark boldly gives his home address on national television, daring the Mandarin to face him mano-a-mano (a phrase which always reminds me of Dice Clay, in “Ford Fairlaine”).

A showdown which (of course) takes place. In an impressive scene involving helicopters, missiles, infinite rounds of automatic-weapons fire, explosions, and Stark’s staggeringly-opulent mansion tumbling into the Pacific, (a similar scene occurs in writer Shane Black’s 1987 Mel Gibson movie “Lethal Weapon”), it appears the wealthy Stark has finally met his equal.

But this is a superhero movie, so we know that can’t be the case.

To his credit, writer/director Black makes the interesting choice of forcing Stark to sometimes face foes without the seemingly invincible Iron Man armor. Instead, in this third go round Stark’s forced to be clever and resourceful, rather than simply overwhelming his latest enemies with superior firepower. This is one of the genuine creative inspirations of Iron Man 3.

The plot also includes a handful lesser villains, Don Cheadle as red-white-and-blue version of Iron Man dubbed the “Iron Patriot” (formerly “War Machine”), and mysterious chemical compound, capable of recombining existing DNA.

Full disclosure: anymore, superhero movies leave me feeling mostly indifferent. With the exception of “the Dark Knight Rises,” their familiar formulas of good-guy-gets-in-trouble, all-appears-lost, hero-miraculously-saves-the-day I just don’t find very suspenseful. Sure, the explosions (and production budgets) are bigger and louder, and the visual effects more convincing. But there aren’t really any 3-dimensional characters, with whom to identify. The action feels over-the-top and cartoony, not genuinely scary. I feel like I know the basics of what’s going to happen before I take my seat. Which might be true with most films. However, it’s the movie’s job to distract me from knowing that.

Perhaps all these kinds of films aspire to be are escapist entertainment? I can imagine some saying I’m overanalyzing a picture that’s based on a comic-book. But Indiana Jones and Star Wars were popcorn movies, and they had dramatic tension. I don’t feel much escape, when all I’m seeing and hearing on the screen are a bunch of brightly-colored things loudly crashing and burning. There’s never any doubt the good guys will win. Or much question about who will live and die. Like the old G.I. Joe cartoons, after all the ammo’s spent, the good guys are rarely even hurt (much less mortally), in these films.

When “Austin Powers” came out, James Bond films were essentially ruined for me. Mike Myers keenly poked fun at how absurd it is that, despite all the overwhelming waves of unimaginable violence Bond faces, he rarely gets so much as a scratch. Without any sense that our hero might be in some actual danger, where’s the suspense and intrigue? We know for certain that he’ll always get up, come back, and defeat the evil super villain.

Superhero films of late similarly lack any sense of perceived peril. I had the same problem with Thor, the Avengers, and the much-better Captain America. Without the exhilaration of suspense, I haven’t thought of any of them again since, even once.

Iron Man looks great, and all. Everything appears very realistic. I’m sure it took much effort to achieve, and is an authentic technical accomplishment. It will undoubtedly makes tons of money, and likely inspire another sequel. It has some interesting plot devices, too. But after all as is said and done, once the last missile is fired, the final explosion extinguished, the bad guy vanquished, and the hero finally rides off into the sunset with his best gal, do I really care?

Duck Soup (1933)

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Is it really worth the effort, reviewing the Marx Brothers’ 1933 classic “Duck Soup?” I mean honestly, are people going to be interested in reading about an 80-year old film? How many have actually seen it? And if not, are they likely to change their minds now?

I decided in favor of posting this review in hopes that people will take the time to discover how truly funny Groucho was/is. His jokes are sharper, cleverer, more biting and simply laugh-out-loud funny all these years later than anything by Adam Sandler, Jim Carrey, Kevin James, and most other contemporary comedic actors. Watch and see. He kills.

I’m not sure the plot matters much, but here it is anyway: the small country of Freedonia is financially troubled. Rich widow Mrs. Teasdale (Margaret Dumont) has the means to help, but will only lend the government some of her vast wealth if the current president resigns, and Groucho’s wisecracking Rufus T. Firefly is appointed leader.

Meanwhile, ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) from neighboring Sylvania has designs on seizing control of Freedonia, by wooing Teasdale himself. To aid his plot, he enlists the slapstick duo of Pinky and Chicolini (Harpo and Chico Marx) to spy on Firefly. Trentino’s exasperation growns, while Firefly bumbles through his presidential duties. Teasdale, of course, finds Firefly endlessly charming, and is tirelessly forgiving of his relentless rough edges. Also, there are a few song-and-dance numbers thrown in. Hilarity ensues.

Never mind that all of this is implausible and ridiculous. It’s basically little more than a framework, from which the Marx team ply their comedic trade. With his trademark exaggerated moustache, eyebrows and ever-presenst cigar, Groucho tosses off one liners left and right. Chico ceaselessly tortures a poor straight man (who exists for no other reason than to be tortured), while Harpo pulls all manner of comedic props from his trousers.

There’s a sight gag involving a mirror (one you’ll recognize instantly; you’ve seen variations in everything from Bugs Bunny cartoons, to the 3 Stooges, Gilligan’s Island, and even the X-Files, countless times), that ranks with “Who’s on First?” as one of the funniest, most ingeniously witty comedy routines I’ve ever seen.

I could’ve done without the musical numbers. The acting is of that particularly unrealistic, old-school, overblown, acting-with-a-capital-A variety, that Jon Lovitz used to ridicule, on Saturday Night Live. And Harpo and Chico’s slapstick got old after a while.

But Groucho? Kills! I could watch him drop zingers for days. He’s just as funny, all these years later, as Seinfeld or Larry David, or Dave Chappelle, or anyone else I can think of. After seeing “Duck Soup,” I’m convinced Woody Allen’s screen persona would not exist without him.

Near the end, with his country under military siege, Firefly finds himself pinned down in a basement. Artillery shells repeatedly fly through the room. Desperate, he radios for help:

“This is Rufus T. Firefly coming to you through the courtesy of the enemy. We're in a mess folks, we're in a mess. Rush to Freedonia! Three men and one woman are trapped in a building! Send help at once!

…if you can't send help, send two more women!”

Genius.

PS- Via Wikipedia, I learn that “duck soup” was American English slang at that time, meaning “something easy to do.”

Being as consistently funny as Groucho certainly isn’t.

Killing Them Softly

Jackie and Frankie share quality time

 Let me first say that I liked this movie very much.

…but it’s an austere, sparse, mostly-quiet film, about angry, cynical, hard, desperate men, who are neither sentimental, nor forgiving.

At the outset we meet two petty criminals, Frankie and Russell (Scoot McNairy and Ben Mendelsohn; the latter convincing in the recent “the Place Beyond the Pines”), who are just scraping by. They are disheveled, looking like they haven’t showered in a week. What meager means they have is provided by walking dogs (who would trust their pet to either of these jamokes is another question). Beyond that, their prospects appear bleak.

Though reluctant about Russell’s erratic behavior, an acquaintance/mentor of Frankie’s (“Squirrel,” played by Vincent Curatola; Johnny Sack from the Sopranos) hatches a scheme for the inept pair to knock over an illegal card game, helmed by Markie Trattman (a pleasantly dialed-down Ray Liotta). As it happens, the game’s been hit before—by its host, no less—who lacked the good sense not to brag about it afterwards. They reason that, given its troubled history, Markie will be blamed again, while they’ll be free to split the spoils. Reasonable enough.

It’s abundantly clear to us well before the robbery, however, that the trio’s ambition clearly outstrips their questionable smarts, skill, experience, common sense, and ability to keep quiet. Russell recklessly uses heroin, then gets talkative. Both the confident Squirrel and diffident Frankie offhandedly talk about previous stints in jail. There seems little planning, other than getting rickety-looking guns, masks, and yellow dishwashing gloves. It’s hard to imagine these three successfully masterminding the robbery a neighborhood lemonade stand, much less a mob-run card game. They see an opportunity, but profoundly fail to grasp the inevitable consequences.

Brad Pitt is the film’s biggest star. He plays Jackie, a greased-back mob hitman, who arrives shortly after-the-fact, to punish those responsible. Fairly quickly he sums up what’s happened. All that’s left is getting clearance from the higher ups, and deciding how best to dole out retribution.

Finally, James Gandolfini plays another hitman, the careless, undisciplined, hard-drinking Mickey. Because one of the targets has worked with Jackie before, Mickey’s flown in from NYC, to help.

Director Andrew Dominik (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford) has made a film that comes off more like a play: it’s got few characters, and most of the action takes place in the conversations between them.

Not to say that there isn’t swift and blinding violence, because there certainly is (especially in one highly-stylized, slow-mo shooting/car crash scene). There’s also the familiar and threatening organized-crime tough-guy posturing, as well as a scene where one character takes a brutal beating (which called to mind the graphic, difficult-to-watch scene from “The Killer Inside Me”). However, the bulk of the movie exists in dialogue exchanged in old, clunky, American cars, skuzzy bars, and hotel rooms.

At just 97 minutes, the film doesn’t have much fat. It is, however, oddly paced in sections. We get to know much of Mickey’s backstory through a couple of overly-long, dialogue-heavy scenes. Unlike Jackie (who’s all about business), Mickey lacks focus. He drinks constantly, goes on at length about the strain his job puts on his marriage, and spends almost all of his down time with prostitutes. It’s an odd choice (both in terms of characterization and pacing), that we learn so much about a relatively minor character, while learning next to nothing comparable about anyone else.

Also, throughout the film there are conspicuous references to contemporary American political figures. On radios in the background, we hear George W. Bush and Barack Obama delivering speeches. TVs show candidates’ sound bites, and familiar talking points. There’s a pointed shot of a split billboard, with McCain on one side, and Obama the other. Near the end, these unnecessary elements are sorta explained, when two characters react to President Obama’s soaring rhetoric blaring from a bar TV. The film seems intent on making a statement about the parallel natures of American politics, capitalism and organized crime (search Google images for various posters from the film, and you'll see how intentional this theme is). But it never really pulls it off. Perhaps the notion of Markie stealing from clients, off whom he's already making money, is supposed to conjure images of Goldman-Sachs, but I don’t buy it. It seems too great a stretch. Just because one character mentions the inefficiency of committees, and says something about how the price of criminal services is dropping "in this economy," that doesn't amount to an obvious thematic allegory, indicting U.S. capitalist democracy. First of all, the parallels aren't ever made plain, until that final scene. And even then, they're weak analogies, at best. Second, the character's sentiments would’ve made sense and worked just the same, without the conspicuous inclusion of this thematic element everywhere. Pitt's character gets off a good line, but the comparisons still feel forced and unclear. It's distracting, not illuminating or enriching.

Still, I enjoyed almost every minute of this film. It’s well written, visually interesting, and deftly acted (McNairy, in particular, is not only very effective, but also executes the always-difficult believable Boston accent, despite mispronouncing “Haverhill”). Plus, there’s more going on here than simply an engrossing surface story. “Killing Them Softly” captures a little bit of the same desperation, anxiety and despair that Scorsese so skillfully captured in “Goodfellas” (albeit to a far lesser extent). Both show weary, marginalized characters, whose lives are so awash in the day-to-day business of crime, that they never have the chance to rest, catch their collective breath, and enjoy life. They are always either excitedly contemplating their next caper, or looking nervously over their shoulders. Regardless of where one exists on the criminal food chain, that’s gotta be a tough way to live.

Stevie (2002)

Steven Fielding, the title character from "Stevie"

Some people should not be parents.

As a college student at Southern Illinois University in the mid-80s, would-be director Steve James (notable for the inspiring 1994 film “Hoop Dreams,” following former Chicago gang members as they try to stop the cycle of violence, in 2011’s terrific “The Interrupters,” as well as my favorite 30-for-30 film “No Crossover,” about the highly-publicized assault trial of enigmatic high-school basketball phenom Allen Iverson) volunteered as an Advocate Big Brother. Idealistic and well intentioned, he imagined an experience where he and the boy might toss around a baseball, bond over sports, and mutually benefit from the mentoring program. He was assigned young Stevie Fielding, a ostensibly typical 11-year old, from a nearby rural town.

Upon graduation, after spending much time with Stevie, James relocated to Chicago to pursue his film career, leaving the boy behind.

Now a decade later, James wonders what’s become of his former charge, and decides to chronicle the reunion.

“Stevie,” the resulting 2002 documentary, is one of the most anguished and tragic films I’ve ever seen.

The film profiles the life of now-grown-up Stevie, a troubled man who wears thick glasses, tie-dyed Harley-Davidson t-shirts and an unkempt beard. His nickname’s “Snake,” he says because he’s never been afraid of them (I can think of other reasons). He has made more poor decisions during his lifetime than seems reasonably possible. He seemingly cannot get out of his own way.

From the outset, it’s clear that young Stevie was no picnic. He’s been through a slew of foster homes. Shortly after meeting Stevie, James recognized almost immediately that he was in over his head. Dutiful and determined, he did his best to be a positive influence, anyhow. Looking back, he feels guilty that he didn’t stay in touch with Stevie, after moving away. Tellingly, he also recalls his marked sense of relief, once his responsibilities with Stevie had ended.

Over the course of the film, we’re introduced to several members of Stevie’s immediate family. We meet his nearly-absent mom, the half-sister who lives in a trailer next door, an accusing aunt, and the step-grandmother who raised him. It’s quickly clear that Stevie has the terrible misfortune of being surrounded by a family so profoundly dysfunctional, it nearly defies comprehension. I won’t divulge all he’s endured, but “abusive” and “neglectful” don’t begin to cover it. The harrowing scope of his mistreatment is absurd. You watch in slack-jawed amazement, as the troubling and catastrophic details of Stevie’s appalling Dickensian childhood unfold. Several times, just when you think things can’t possibly get any worse for Stevie, unbelievably somehow they do.

Watching “Stevie,” I began to realize I’d seen the title character somewhere on film before. It slowly dawned on me that Stevie Fielding bears and uncanny resemblance to Brad Pitt’s character Early Grace, from 1993’s “Kalifornia.” The pair share the same mumbling drawl, rural sensibilities, childlike immaturity, lack of foresight, uncontrollable impulsivity, aimlessness, matter-of-fact violent tendencies, and inability to grasp the possible consequences to their actions. The further the film delved, the more the similarities became apparent (which, given Stevie’s reckless and self-destructive nature, is a sincere tribute to Pitt’s acting abilities). Stevie is the 3-dimensional, real-life version of Pitt’s psychopathic Early.

Where they differ (and one reason why “Stevie” is so compelling), however, is that unlike Pitt’s creation, Stevie Fielding is at times touchingly sympathetic. When we witness the painful lengths and depraved depths of all he’s experienced, we naturally feel for him. No one should ever have to suffer such treatment, especially as a young child. Which isn’t to say we excuse him for the thoughtless choices he’s made; there seems little doubt that he’s a criminal. We do, however, come to realize that his faults are not solely his fault. Because of how he’s been raised, Stevie’s simply incapable of safely and smartly negotiating his own life. Over and over, he can’t be kept from sabotaging himself.

Like Hoop Dreams, this is an epic work. In real time, the filmed action covers roughly four years. However, it as it repeatedly looks back over the history which molded Stevie, the film covers more than two-and-a half decades.

Interestingly, similar to “No Crossover,” the filmmaker is actually part of the action of the film. Rather than simply being a detached observer, his interaction with his subjects is part of the story, not only historically, but also in how it evolves. This unusual dynamic brings a fascinating dimension. How much can he do or say? When should he intervene, and when should he sit back? Is he responsible for some of what transpires? In voice-over narration, James laments some of these difficulties, and his own decisions.

Why so some of us turn out like Albert Einstein, or Jimmy Carter, or Mohandas Ghandi, while others result like Stevie Fielding? “Stevie” poignantly asks questions about how much responsibility do our parents and families (and Big Brothers) bear in determining who we ultimately become? How much personal responsibility does each one of us have in this process? Can someone exposed to the worst life has to offer ever muster the courage, ability and emotional wherewithal necessary to some day decide to interrupt the vicious cycle, pick themselves up by their bootstraps, and suddenly right the ship?

In “Stevie,” we not only meet the misguided, uneducated, marginalized loner from the film’s title, but also the committed filmmaker who refuses to give up on him, regardless of how dire the circumstances. We see not only Stevie’s disastrous trajectory, but in the process also learn something about the dedication and compassion of James, as well. Through intimate interviews, the film somehow strikes a delicately balanced tone, alternating between mournful and hopeful. I went from shaking my head at Stevie’s family, to shaking my head at him, to finally feeling genuinely worried and saddened about what might happen to him in the end. And I also wondered about the disquieting toll the entire experience must’ve had on James, too. He is without question one of the most talented documentary filmmakers working today.

I’m sorry I didn’t see “Stevie” in the theater, upon its initial release. Smart, thoughtful, honest, heart-rending films like this deserve a wider audience. It would have been one of my favorite films of that (or any) year. This movie far exceeded my expectations.

Hit and Run (2012)

Watching the Netflix movie “Hit and Run,” I faced a dilemma. At about the 70-minute mark, finding myself only marginally entertained, I began glancing at the clock. I’d already had several “This is gonna get better, right?” questions inside my head. Then it occurred to me that last mail pick-up was in half an hour. I reasoned that if I returned it today, I’d have a new disc day after tomorrow. If I finish it, it won’t make the post til tomorrow But there’s still half an hour left in the film.” What do do? 

“Hit and Run” isn’t bad. It just isn’t all that good, either.

Real-life husband and wife Dax Shepherd and Kristen Bell play Charlie Bronson (a name dictated by the plot) and Annie Bean. She’s got a PhD from Stanford, in conflict resolution (really?), but now teaches at a small, back-water college “500 miles from LA.” He’s in the witness protection program, having seen a crime, and testified against the perpetrators.

They’re affectionate, and clearly quite fond of each other. Unfortunately, they’re also given to bouts of cuteness, exemplified by quasi-introspective conversations about respective patterns of speech, the shared future of their relationship, and who they hope they’ll become once they get there. The back-and-forth is supposed to be mildly insightful, evidence of mutual caring, compassion, smarts, and desire to improve their lives together. Instead, it transparently comes off mostly as proof of the writer’s overly-clever contrivance.

Annie’s former boyfriend Gil (Michael Rosenbaum) still carries a torch, and is hysterically suspicious of Charlie. Via his cop brother, Gil discovers Charlie’s car (the third, and perhaps main, star of the film, a thoroughly restored 1967, 700-hp, shiny, black Continental) is registered to “Yul Perkins.” Which (of course!) is Charlie’s real name.

With that info, Gil uses his laptop to not only discover why Charlie’s in witness protection, but then also uncover the names of the criminals against whom Charlie testified. Predictably, he uses Facebook (because most underworld figures find it useful to maintain a high-profile online presence) to contact the heavy, a dreadlocked-and-dubiously-named Alex Dmitri (Bradley Cooper). Somehow Gil’s figured it that he can at once protect and win Annie back, as well as get Charlie out of the picture, with the help of social media.

There are a few other characters mixed in as well, though they’re hardly worth mention. Tom Arnold plays Randy, a poor caricature of the bumbling-idiot archetype. He’s a US marshal, tasked with keeping tabs on Charlie. His Keystone-Cops role consists mainly of spilling coffee on his shirt, crashing his car through fences, and accidently discharging his weapon repeatedly.

Gil’s brother Terry is a stereotyped gay policeman. Mostly he’s on his smart-phone app “Pouncer,” (a clone of Grindr), apparently a GPS tool used by gay men to solicit anonymous sex (if the film’s to be believed). 

Kristen Chenoweth plays Debbie, Annie’s boss. She’s supposed to be a woman who’s world-weary and insightful, encouraging Annie to pursue the good life she never had. In practice she does little more than advertise her pharmacological dependence, and quip off-color would-be comedic lines. Lines that no reasonable woman would never, ever (in a million years!) imagine, much less show the poor judgment of speaking out loud. 

So Charlie and Annie are on the run for LA, with Gil, Alex, and Randy in hot pursuit.

At this point you know both the nuts-and-bolts of the plot, as well as where I began to start wondering whether finishing the film was worth the effort.

Perhaps it’s unethical for a reviewer to cut out early, only later presume to write something about a film s/he didn’t even finish?

On the other hand, maybe it says all you need to know about “Hit and Run” that I even considered it?

Weighing all the evidence, I decided mailing it back early was the best course of action. Next in my queue is a the well-reviewed documentary “Searching for Sugar Man.”

I’m pretty sure I made the right choice.