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.

The Groundrules

There are countless factors which, when taken together, determine whether or not a movie is successful. Is the story compelling and well written? How well has the director told an understandable and cohesive story? Are actors’ performances believable, and empathic? Has the editor kept the pace crisp? Is it visually interesting?

Another way to measure a film is by how well it achieves its intended goals. For example, obviously “Schindler’s List” has loftier aspirations than most of Adam Sandler’s fare. Still, both films have different targets. Spielberg seeks to move the audience, as well as make them think, while Sandler simply wants them to laugh. Each is successful at hitting the mark. While most of us would say "Schindler's" is the more important, historically-memorable film, neither can be said to be more noble, because they have entirely different intentions.

However, as years have passed and I’ve seen more and more films, I believe that, as much as any other variable, my enjoyment of a movie is ultimately determined by my own expectations, going in.

For example: Back in college, I went to the downtown dollar-theater, to see Schwarzenegger’s “Last Action Hero.” The picture had been ravaged by critics more than any film I can recall (Maybe “Ishtar” took a similar beating?). Anyhow, it was so reviled, I can’t imagine what it was I was thinking when I decided to go (perhaps just a desire to avoid studying?). Why had I even made the effort?

Once I'd settled into my seat with bucket of popcorn, I expected to find an embarrassing train-wreck of a film so awful that I might not make it through to the end. Certainly, given the volume of critics’ vitriol, at the very least I’d use “Last Action Hero” as a measuring-stick and reference-point for everything horrible, for years to come.

But it turns out that wasn’t bad. In truth, it was actually even pretty good. Poking fun at both Schwarzenegger and his reputation, as well as the action genre as a whole, it was clever and fun. Not great, but at worst mildly entertaining. But since I'd expected it was going to be unwatchable, I was pleasantly surprised. I had a similar experience watching Hudson Hawk.

In contrast, I went to see “There Will Be Blood” after hearing critics praise it as one of the year’s best. Danial Day-Lewis’s performance was hailed as the latest evidence of his genius. After the critical success of “Boogie Nights” and “Magnolia,” the film would supposedly cement its director’s (Paul Thomas Anderson) reputation as a modern master. Needless to say, my expectations going in were fairly high.

…And then...nothing happened.

I watched, and I waited. Characters said and did things. The pictures on the screen changed. But I had absolutely no reaction to the images on the screen. I sat there patiently in the dark theater for the entire film, hoping for that on crucial moment, where the plot, or a character, or the dialogue, or any conflict might hook me. It never came. It was all simmer, and no boil. As the end credits rolled, I was still waiting. Hoping it was going to be so much more profound and memorable, I was fairly disappointed.

Both films, I believe, hit their director’s intended goals; they achieved what they set out to do. The only real difference then, was what I expected from each.

To this end, I think it’s important to recognize there are no absolutes. When it comes to the subjective experience of movie watching, everyone has their own unique set of preferences. I could love something you hate. Or you might esteem a film I abhor (looking at you, Sandler fans). A film could be technically “good,” but I might not necessarily enjoy it as much as you. In contrast, a picture might not be Fellini, or Scorsese, but I could still enjoy it.

To wit: at the end of my reviews, I’m going to rate films as either disappointing, met expectations, or exceeded them. I’ll use this system instead of “thumbs up,” or a number-of-stars rating. Hopefully this will describe how much I enjoyed the whole experience, rather than simply judging the film in-a-vacuum.

Perhaps I should have some baseline expectation for every film (that it at least be competent?), but that feels unrealistic. How to do that? While I can recognize a film’s technical accomplishment, as well the craft with which it was made, both are at times entirely separate from how much I actually enjoyed the experience.

Even if this doesn’t establish how good or bad a film might be, if nothing else it should give you some sense of my own cinematic sensibilities. Which is probably the better part of a critic’s worth, anyhow.  

Magic Mike (2012)

This wasn’t the film I expected. It was better.

When I hear “movie about male strippers,” I think over-the-top, greased up, hip-thrusting, long-haired, tanned-to-orange, pouting silliness. And to be sure, “Magic Mike” has all of that. However, what this film also has is an original story, which contains genuine, sympathetic, likeable characters. Which explains why “Magic Mike” is both effective and successful.

I probably should’ve known to resist my preconceived, negative assumptions. Three-times-out-of-four, director Steven Soderbergh is to be trusted. Sure there have been puzzling misfires (Solaris, Bubble), as well as films that (on paper) seemed promising, but turned out to be less than the sum of their parts (Contagion). But those are the exceptions that prove the rule. Most often he makes very entertaining pictures, ones I’d recommend unreservedly (King of the Hill, Out of Sight, Erin Brockovich, the Informant!, the Oceans movies, etc…). Usually even his less-narrative, more experimental efforts (the Girlfriend Experience) are (even if imperfect) well-made, interesting, and worth seeing,.

“Magic Mike” falls into the middle category. It’s set in what feels like present-day Tampa, Florida (full disclosure: I grew up there). By the time we meet him, Mike (Channing Tatum, who also grew up in Tampa; we actually attended the same high school, him decades after me) has been a stripper for six years. He clearly makes good coin doing it, witnessed by his comfortable beach-front house. But has other side projects, as well. He sometimes works construction, in addition to having a mobile car-detailing business he runs out of a van. Squirreling away what earnings he can, Mike hopes to one day start his own custom-furniture company. Alas, bad credit keeps him from securing an all-important small-business loan. That, along with the easy money he makes dancing, keeps him doing a job he tries hard to pretend isn’t a dead-end.

One day while roofing a house, Mike meets Adam (Alex Pettyfer), a 19-year old former football player, who lied about his work experience in a Craigslist ad, just to get the job. Adam is essentially Mike, six years prior: young and good-looking, but lacking any real focus, direction or prospects. When Adam’s car won’t start after work, Mike gives him a ride home. They talk casually, as guys will, without sharing very much about themselves.

Later, they bump in to each other outside a dance club. Mike gets Adam past the velvet rope, despite the hoodie and sneakers. Once inside, Adam’s shy and inexperienced. He does little more than look around, smile and down shots. When introduced to a pair of women “named after cars and jewels,” Adam politely asks “What do you do?” His awkwardness contrasts sharply with Mike’s confidence. This clumsiness multiplies exponentially later, when later the pair unexpectedly go to the all-male review where Mike works.

Surrounded by mostly naked men, and throngs of screaming women, Adam couldn’t be further from his element. However, he’s also intrigued. Backstage, the male strippers are loose and confident in all the ways he’s not. Out front, the mob of women is frenzied and uninhibited. This new world makes his head spin. Suddenly everything seems possible.

When one of the other strippers is too drunk to perform, young Adam is dubbed “the Kid,” and reluctantly coaxed onstage. He awkwardly takes off his clothes “like a teenager in a locker room.” He’s hesitant and shy, but enjoys the attention he gains from his newfound abilities. It’s at this point where the plot of “Magic Mike” begins.

Adam begins dancing regularly, with Mike as his mentor. Along the way we’re introduced to Adam’s skeptical older sister Brooke (Cody Horn). She’s tired of Adam crashing on her couch, but isn’t sure stripping is the smartest path for him to change his circumstance. There’s also Dallas (played with wild-eyed swagger, by Matthew McConaughey), a maniacally-ambitious club owner, who sees promise (and more importantly dollar signs) in the new dancer. We’re also introduced to various other male strippers, each with their own concocted stage personality.

In addition to its dramatic narrative, the movie also contains long dance numbers, which are at once spectacular, and ridiculous. (Consider the absurdity of sweaty, grown men, performing themed and synchronized dance routines, while nearly nude, in front of shrieking strangers. When viewed with critical distance, on what planet would/could this ever be considered “sexy?”)

And what of the women in the audience? They’ve stood in line and paid to see an all-male strip show. Yet, when push comes to shove, and the pants drop, they all feign surprise and incredulity. What did they expect? Like walking in on your parents (or kids) having sex, is it simply a case of where simply imagining it, and actually seeing it in the flesh, are two far different things?

Channing Tatum was a stripper in his previous life. So it makes sense that his performance (as well as the film’s overall portrayal of the male-stripper environment) feels authentic. While watching, I never once thought “he’s just an actor, whose been taught to dance, taking his clothes off.”

One of the things I liked most about “Magic Mike” is that it isn’t a traditional cautionary tale. It’s not about some rube getting in over his head, or someone’s life spiraling out of control because he’s fallen in with a bad crowd. Mike’s not simply a dumb, reckless, out-of-control, stereotypical Florida meathead/party guy, living solely in the moment, squandering countless opportunities. Instead, from the start he’s shown as a fairly level-headed, emotionally-together guy. He considers his future, and has plans (humble as they are) about how to potentially get there. He’s confident, thoughtful, well spoken, and fairly mature. He even serves as a surrogate big brother, trying to shelter the younger, naïve and inexperienced Adam. Perhaps he’s just trying to help the youngster from repeating his mistakes? During an argument, Brooke remarks that Mike’s “basically a good and decent guy.” And he is. Like many of us, he’s someone who has come to a point where he realizes, while not entirely unhappy now, his life will ultimately need to change, or he might soon be.

Several times watching “Magic Mike” I was reminded of “Boogie Nights.” Though the former isn’t nearly as sprawling, dense, finely detailed, nor as tragic the latter, they share striking similarities. Obviously, both are set in worlds of sex work. Also, they both document a young character’s initial steps into the business. Each demonstrates the various prejudices their workers encounter, when engaging in jobs mostly deemed marginal by conservative America. Finally, both capture the profound sadness and suffocating desperation that saturate a world, where so many people lead impulsive, disposable lives.

Smart, briskly-paced, and energetic, “Magic Mike” deftly avoids clichés that would’ve sunk a lesser movie. It works because it shows the entirety of characters lives, and the struggles they endure trying to improve them, rather than simply moralizing about the jobs they do on-stage. I was entertained from beginning to end. It exceeded my expectations in every way. Though not on par with Soderbergh’s best, it’s still very good, ranking towards the top-of-the-middle of his efforts.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012)

Patrick, Sam and Charlie try to survive high school.

 Adolescence is a terribly awkward time of life. We’re smart enough to know a few things, but so emotionally immature and insecure to do much about them. Visceral trumps cerebral, every time. The filmmakers behind “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” understand this well. They accurately portray this confusing stage, when impulsiveness and misunderstood neuroses can, at any given second, make the most-recent emotion feel like the most-powerful moment in our lives.

“Wallflower” (directed by Stephen Chbosky; based on his book) centers on Charlie (the particularly effective Logan Lerman), an earnest and likeable kid from the affluent Pittsburgh suburbs. Sweet and unassuming, Charlie’s soon to be a freshman in high school. Significant problems from his past are hinted at, but not initially explained. His older brother’s gone off to play football at Penn State. His only-slightly older sister is dating a guy who’s physically abusive, even though he sports traditional hippy signifiers (ponytail, dashiki sweaters, Birkenstocks), and is president of the school’s earth club.

With few friends, and fearful he’ll likely be the target of hazing, Charlie dreads the transition from middle- to high school. In fact, he regards his remaining four years of school like a sentence, going so far as counting the days til he’s free.

That is until his chance meeting with Patrick (Ezra Miller, particularly menacing as the title character, in “We Have to Talk About Kevin”), and Sam (“Harry Potter’s” Emma Watson) at a football game. Patrick recognizes Charlie from shop class, and invites him to a party. Charlie’s surprised, but accepts. Seemingly, this is the first time a classmate has ever reached out to befriend him.

Charlie is fascinated, and pleasantly surprised, to find fellow students who drink, use drugs, and are interested in literature, art, film, and music. They don’t pick on, or reject him. He revels in their acceptance.

More than all that, he’s enchanted by Sam, the beautiful-but-obviously-damaged older girl, who embodies hope and possibility. Believing she seems him as “just a friend,” he admires her from up close, but is afraid to act on his feelings. As the film states eloquently, we only pursue the love we feel we deserve.

The action of the movie is fairly predictable. We follow the clique as they grow closer, suffering through the inevitable growing pains of teenage years: Their romances, break-ups, drug and alcohol use, and individual self-discoveries impart life lessons. They endure high-school dances, have parties, hook up, and occasionally fight. But mostly they talk, and enjoy each other’s company. Over time, tucked safely within the nurturing embrace of this tight circle of close friends, Charlie begins to grow, and come into his own. He develops confidence, and starts to form his own voice.

But what to do about Sam?

I enjoyed “Wallflower,” though it isn’t without problems. While not out-of-place within the context of the film, it’s hard to imagine real-world kids possessing this level of self-awareness, insight, confidence and wisdom. For all their struggles, most of these kids seem fairly well-adjusted, most of the time. Also, by showing problems unique to adolescence, it sometimes veers into melodrama, as well. Which is OK, I suppose. Adolescents are the movie’s primary target-audience, and they’re often given to fits overly dramatic. This flaw isn’t fatal. Finally, the parents are barely around (believable enough, from my experience). However, when they are, they’re shown as mostly stuffy, and out-of-touch. (Paul Rudd’s sympathetic English teacher is the exception. He sees something in Charlie, and tries to nurture that spark).

There’s also a development late in the film (which I won’t divulge here), that I found unnecessary. It didn’t add to the story, or my understanding of its characters. It felt out of place, contrived, and needless.

Still, Lerner’s performance as the shy, insecure Charlie is convincing. His gentle expression and calm demeanor elicit sympathy and compassion, from us as well as his film friends. Smart, reflective, selfless, and kind, we root for him to overcome the personal demons of his experience.

“Wallflower” owes much to the early John Hughes films, such as “Sixteen Candles,” and “The Breakfast Club,” as well as “Dead Poet’s Society.” Like those films, it takes its teenagers seriously. It sees them as thoughtful, sensitive, 3-dimensional people, rather than caricatures. It also similarly uses music to create mood and tone. Finally, it covers much of the same “coming-of-age” ground, where a hurtful word can lead to a torturous crisis, and the perceived promise contained in the smile of a pretty girl can make your day.

I liked this film very much, but stopped just short of loving it. I did, however, love its music: David Bowie, the Smiths, New Order, Badly Drawn Boy. Mostly this is the music of my own youth, in the late 1980s (which made me wonder in what time period exactly the film was supposed to take place). “Wallflower,” and its melodic stroll down Memory Blvd, made me think about my own youth, smile and then hum.

Libery Heights (1999)

Ben Foster and Rebekah Johnson share a walk

I adore “Liberty Heights.” Films like this one, Beautiful Girls, Nobody’s Fool, Swingers and the Brother’s McMullen where, regardless of what happens to its characters, no matter how dire their circumstances, we (and they) know deep down that everything will ultimately work out OK in the end. In these are the kinds of pictures, the characters seem not only to like, but also genuinely care about (and for), one another. I find these films at once profoundly comforting, and tremendously hopeful. I want to watch them over and over. They make me smile.

I’ve seen “Liberty Heights” countless times. It’s the kind of movie that, when I flip by it on cable, regardless of how far along it happens to be, I’ll watch from that point to the end, regardless of my mood.  

You’d think that would make reviewing “Liberty Heights” a breeze. It’s not. I’m so familiar with it, I usually talk about in the ways you might talk to one close relative about another. I use shorthand, expecting those with whom I’m talking to be familiar with it in the same ways, and to the same degree, that I am. I have to remind myself that that may not always be the case.

“Liberty Heights” takes place in 1950s Baltimore. It’s a very different, seemingly much safer world. One filled with humongous, pastel-colored American cars with enormous tailfins, early rock-and-roll, sock hops, and unlocked front doors. Before video games, the internet and mobile phones. However, this world isn’t innocent and gentle as it appears. It has a very recent history of segregation, both legal and social. A sign at the local swimming hole blares “No coloreds, Jews or dogs.”

The film focuses primarily on a group of high-school kids, each one going through some stage of adolescent transformation.

Ben Kurtzman (Ben Foster), the younger of two brothers, is smart, curious, funny and likeable. He lives in a predominately-Jewish neighborhood of Forest Park, where milk, white bread, and “luncheon meat” might as well be from Mars. He’s old enough to know he shouldn’t wear an inappropriate Halloween costume outside the house, but young and rebellious enough to want to, anyway.

Van (Adrien Brody), is Ben’s older, wiser, far-cooler brother. He knows that their father’s (Nate, played by Joe Mantegna) struggling burlesque theater is little more than a front for an illegal numbers racket. However, he also recognizes that his dad is, at heart, a good man, and that there are shades of criminal gray.

Integration is a new experiment. Suddenly instead of everyone in homeroom being named Coen or Blum, there’s now Sylvia (Rebekah Johnson), a bright-faced African-American girl, about whom Ben and his friends Sheldon (Evan Neumann) and Murray (Gerry Rosenthal) love to talk and fantasize. Sylvia is smarter and more mature than her male classmates. While the rest of the class recites the 23^rd Psalm rote, she actually considers what the words mean. She’s polite, respectful, articulate, and more insightful than most girls her age.

There are several other characters along the way, such as the defensive, constantly-agitated classmate Yussel (David Krumholtz), as well as Nate’s right-hand Charlie (played by former “Three’s Company” alum Richard Kline). They are all perfectly played. None of them are needless or distracting.

Like the characters in director Barry Levinson’s earlier masterpiece “Diner,” much of the charm of “Liberty Heights” derives from conversations. Sometimes inside diners, at others during car rides, at parties, and over evening seder, we learn much about these characters hearing their interactions.

But “Liberty Heights’” true strength lies in its characters, and the connections they share. All of them, down to even the smaller roles, are richer and more nuanced than they initially seem. They have depth, and are fully formed. Whether it’s dancing with his wife (Bebe Neuwirth, from Cheers) in their basement, or ensuring his sons understand the importance of giving back to their community, Nate shows how sincerely loves his family. Later, Ben grows to care deeply for Sylvia. In what might’ve been a clichéd, manufactured rivalry between Van and the boyfriend of an angelic girl he meets at a party, instead we’re shown two bright, confident young men, who admire and respect each other.

I could describe the plot of “Liberty Heights,” but that wouldn’t be fair. It would rob you of discovering its intricacies, surprises and joys for yourself. Would it matter if I told you it involves chance meetings at Halloween parties and aboard street trolleys, fist fights defending religion, Red Fox records, unexpected friendships, racism, more than one high-school crush, Rosh Hashanah, new Cadillacs, James Brown, bleached hair, a long-shot bet that unexpectedly pays off, and an act of respect and bravery that is moving? Suffice to say it is entertaining, funny, poignant, touching, and heartfelt, and honest.

I can’t recommend this film in higher terms. It’s nearly perfect.

Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God (2012)

 

The child-abuse scandal which continues to embroil the Catholic Church feels like it’s been happening forever. In fact it has. In the new film “Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God,” filmmakers uncover church writings about pedophilia committed by priests that dates back hundreds of years. Priest jokes fill late-night monologues. Headlines are splashed across newspaper columns. Like mass shootings, the incidents have become so commonplace, we hardly raise an eyebrow when the latest one occurs. In the time since I watched this film and posted this review, the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, and Cardinal Keith O’Brian (the highest-ranking Catholic in the UK), both have admitted to sexual indiscretions, or paid millions to settle abuse cases. But what’s the true story behind the church’s role in all of this? How much is it to blame? Did it punish the guilty, and comfort victims?

Directed by noted documentarian Alex Gibney (Enron: the Smartest Guys in the Room, Taxi to the Dark Side, Freakanomics, Client 9: the Rise and Fall of Eliot Spitzer), “Mea Maxima Culpa” (which translates to "my most grievous fault") delves deeply into the issue, unearthing several disturbing answers along the way.

The film begins simply with a letter, written by a former student at the St. John’s School for the Deaf, in Milwaukee, Wisc, to the Vatican. In it, the student details how Father Murhpy, the school’s headmaster from the late 50s through the early 70s, molested hundreds of children, over decades. The father found a perfect storm of opportunity: young, defenseless children (most unable to speak and largely unable to communicate with the outside world, which typically doesn’t understand sign language) were preyed upon mercilessly by Father Murphy. In addition, not only did the priest suffer no consequences for his crimes, he enlisted a cadre of older students, who also participated in the abuse (“grooming the children for Father Murphy”).

Surely the letter is detailed and damning enough to require a response.

The Church never did.

From there, the film expands its focus. It illuminates the many avenues which might’ve stopped the abuse, and how they all proved to be dead ends.

One explanation states the abuse was nothing more than a few bad apples, and that the entire church shouldn’t be held accountable for their actions, regardless of how heinous. But the film details the abuse as a global epidemic, involving numerous clergy, and indeed the Vatican, itself. One cardinal, a chief-fundraiser and close confidant of Pope John Paul II, is even shown with multiple mistresses and children.

Through interviews with former and current members of the church, the filmmakers build a case, piece-by-piece, against the entirety of the church. Who knew the church has a special branch (the Congregation of the Servants of the Paraclete), tasked solely with dealing with pedophile priests? The problem existed to such an extent, that the church once took initial steps towards buying a remote island, upon which to sequester its criminal element. Internal documents show that this problem existed, all over the world, for over 1700 years. I didn’t. Or that the most-recent Pope, in his previous role as Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal Ratzinger, ordered that every case of alleged abuse be sent directly to his office, so he could personally review each one? He, more than anyone, knows the scope of this problem.

One subject of the film is a former priest, who describes his role in the scandal. He was tasked with traveling the country, putting out fires where abuse was alleged. Dismayed that he’s more of a fixer (he details a multi-million dollar budget, doled out when and only if the injured party would sign a binding confidentiality agreement) than someone ministering to victims, he left the church in disgust.

About the fact that abuse was committed by many, many parish priests, there is no longer any question. What’s astounding about “Mea Maxima Culpa” is not only the scope of the tragedy, but also how many others aided in the cover-up. In addition to members of the church hierarchy (all the way up the ladder to current and former Popes), others responsible for the welfare of children were also involved, either by action or inaction. Nuns, local police departments, and political figures were implicitly involved. Several times watching this film, I felt incredulous at how many opportunities to interrupt the abuse were either missed, or willingly ignored. The churches moral failings are twofold: initially denying there was (is) a problem then, perhaps even more egregious, doing everything in its power to cover up the crimes. Moving priests to new parishes. Neglecting to reach out to victims or their families. Countless times the church dragged its feet about decisions on what to do about criminal activity by its minions, allowing predators to continue harming children, without consequences.

In one riveting scene, a now-adult former student confronts Father Murphy, who is retired, and living in a cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. See how the priest reacts. Earlier in the film he justifies and rationalizes his behavior, when church investigators question him. Now, older, tired, and nearing death, faced with an adult rather than a child, he is too weak to maintain his feeble, dishonest defense.

Full disclosure: I’m not a Catholic. In truth, I have no religious affiliation of any kind (which perhaps makes me the perfect reviewer for this film). I have neither an axe to grind, nor any emotional connections about which to feel defensive.

That said, I imagine many who see this picture will have strong feelings, one way or the other. The subjects (child molestation, the Catholic Church) are too intimate and personal.

“Mea Maxima Culpa” shows the failure of several layers of society to protect innocent children from predators. Nuns, law enforcement, local district attorneys, and the Vatican itself all were complicit in allowing the abuse to continue as long as it did. Any could have done more—anything—to prevent molestation, but instead either rationalized away the crimes or worse, pretended they didn’t exist, and ignored them altogether. As one interviewee says “these aren’t sinners, they’re criminals.”

This is a meticulously investigated, damning indictment of the church, whose crimes are numerous, blatant, and egregious. Rather than acknowledging the rampant problem, punishing the guilty, and reaching out to support victims, Catholic leaders closed ranks, and allowed crimes to continue. In the name of protecting their brand, they aided in the further injury of countless innocents. This is one of the best films of 2012.