December Sunday Corner With Lee Liberman: THE CROWN, SEASON 3 -- 1964-1977

There was a young lady from Dallas 

Who used a dynamite stick as a phallus. 

They found her vagina in North Carolina 

and her asshole in Buckingham Palace. 

Imagined not real, the limerick, above, that the screenwriter put in the mouth of Princess Margaret at a White House party in 1965 did the trick: At a lavish dinner party hosted by the Johnson’s for the Snowdon’s, Margaret wooed our president in vernacular they both enjoyed, getting Lyndon to agree to the British government’s plea for a U.S. bailout during an urgent financial crisis. Johnson had been refusing PM Harold Wilson’s calls (the Brit’s weren’t backing his war in Vietnam). But following Margaret and Tony’s visit, the ‘special relationship’ went from cool back to sure-footed. Her thrilling success didn’t widen Margaret’s sphere of influence at home as she was regarded as a bomb-thrower best kept on the down-low. Peter Morgan says he made up what happened at that dinner, but it was so like the principals, one can only wish it did, and pity poor Margaret — the little ‘vice queen’ with an applause deficit.

Morgan’s marvelous Netflix series continues with vignettes that are smaller than the drama of the world war era but absorbing. Here is Britain during the middle years of the Queen (now played by Olivia Colman of The Favourite), the young adulthood of Prince Charles and Princess Anne and the Snowdon scandals. One feels a tad sorry for the Windsors— the ruthless scrutiny and humiliations visited on this ordinary family living under glass.

The royal porn may pay for itself despite the schadenfreude and outright rejection it brings on itself, fed by the soap-opera tales of their private lives. The Windsors function with great success as a soft-touch but powerful PR firm — the outcome of the Crown’s search for meaning as it evolved from ruling monarchy to figurehead. Many royals work full time dutifully promoting civic and social causes. The self-imposed rules they live by assure that duty and kindness are quite, if not perfectly, constant; the Crown ‘firm’ functions as parent archetype, committed to useful work and maintenance of the public image. (Prince Andrew, having embarrassed himself in an unapologetic interview about his ties to Jeffrey Epstein, has just been cut from the firm’s public face upon the intervention of Prince Charles, it is reported, asserting himself as monarch-to-be.) Maybe the US could profit from more do-good, apolitical authority.

The salacious chapters have some nuggets. We learn new about the origins of Charles (Josh O’Connor, Only You) and Camilla (Emerald Fennell, below). Camilla’s relationship with Andrew Parker-Bowles (Andrew Buchan) was more passionate than imagined in which they used others to make each other jealous, involving Charles and an acerbic Princess Anne (well-acted by Erin Doherty) who joined the quadrangle “for a bit of fun”. Lord Mountbatten and the Queen mother then broke up the party, instigating Camilla’s marriage to Parker-Bowles while Charles was on Naval duty. (No wonder he would later defiantly flout his marriage to Diana.) Much more domestic nastiness appears in the chapter about the affairs of Tony Snowdon (he who winsomely charmed the Queen to secure her favor) and Princess Margaret precipitating the deterioration of their marriage — splashy tabloid fodder then, soap-opera now.

It’s not all soap. A KGB spy is discovered living in the Palace and there are labor troubles. Prince Philip, splendidly acted by Tobias Menzies (Game of Thrones, Outlander; click here to read a fine interview with the actor), has a mid-life crisis coinciding with the US moon landing and visit of the astronauts to the palace. The Prince, a pilot himself, unhappily sidelined from adventure, waxes in awe of the young astronauts until he meets them, drippy with colds, having nothing of awe to report beyond the lists they had to tick off as they worked through their mission. Philip doesn’t get that ‘meaning’ is all in the doing — the action of climbing the mountain not getting to the top. Menzies (below, l; Prince Philip, r) conveys Philip’s emotions with such self-restraint, he has made himself the stealth star of this ensemble.

A chapter is devoted to the passing of David, Duke of Windsor (Derek Jacobi) living in exile in France and shunned with his notorious wife Wallis (Geraldine Chaplin), for whom he abdicated the throne. Again, Morgan ignores the elephant in the room — the pair’s unholy infatuation with the Nazi’s that led to their non-grata status, making government quietly grateful that divorced American Wallis kept David from the throne. Perhaps a different screenwriter at a different time will dramatize that juicy story.

Crown - 3’s most memorable episode may be the mining incident at Aberfan in 1966, a tiny Welch town that suffered a tragic coal-debris slide. After days of rain, a tip (little hill) of coal debris sank, sliding downward and across the street, burying the town elementary school. It killed 144 people, most of them kids. PM Harold Wilson, Prince Phillip, and camera-slung Tony Snowdon went to the scene at once but their description of the horror and the PM’s urgings could not convince the Queen to go — it fell to rogue Labour party members to induce her late visit. Labour threatened to blame the Queen and prior Tory governments who had ignored reported dangers at the mine site. Several lines of copy on the screen report that the Queen’s failure to go at once to Aberfan remains a matter of deep regret to Elizabeth, and that she has visited the town often in intervening years.

Another chapter shows us the character of the monarch-in-waiting — that is the story of Charles’s Welsh language and history instruction prior to his investiture as the Prince of Wales. The Welsh, especially his local university tutor, anticipate the chore with derision, only for Charles to win them over with sincere, earnest effort. Charles is well-conveyed by O’Connor, who conjures him quite completely (O'Connor below r, Prince Charles l)

At end, Crown 3 was as entertaining as earlier series, supporting Morgan’s stated goal to use the monarchy as a canvas for this decade or so of the latter 20th century, all the while laying out a good gossip. Full cast replacement helps his case, as you focus less on individuals and more on the unfolding stories of the era.

At left, screenwriter, Peter Morgan and his partner, Gillian Anderson, who will appear in the next edition of The Crown as Margaret Thatcher.

The above post was written by 

our monthly correspondent, Lee Liberman

Watch Jeff Feuerzeig's AUTHOR: THE JT LEROY STORY -- and you may feel the need to bathe

Boy, that "truth" thing! Ain't it a bitch? Here comes yet another new documentary in which, for all I know, literally everything we're dished out here is the "truth." However, since everything about the original situation is also a lie, which, as lies are wont to do, begins spinning off more and more lies in order to keep the original in place, what we're soon engaging with is something so grandly nefarious that one might call it "the whopper of 'em all." Still, what the hell: If Jayson Blair can get his very own movie, why not JT Leroy?

Jeff Feuerzeig, who wrote and directed AUTHOR: THE JT LEROY STORY, begins his film with a quote from Federico Fellini about creativity and truth -- A created thing is never invented and it is never true: It is always and ever itself -- that is clearly designed (by Feuerzeig, not by the late Signore Fellini) as an excuse for all that follows. Though it does not in the least manage the necessary excusing, it does prove but the first of many things about this fascinating-but-sleazy documentary that waves a red flag.

In truth, I would not know how to go about making an honest documentary about a situation like this, and perhaps Mr. Feuerzeig, realizing that he faced the same dilemma, chose what looks, more and more as the movie unfolds, like the easiest route. He simply hands the documentary over to its "protagonist," a woman named Laura Albert (above) who devised the whole JT Leroy scam and then brought it to pulsating, media-savvy life -- in the process, turning it into one of the most infamous, crazy, we've-conned-you-good! literary hoaxes in the history of, well, literature.

The above description sounds tasty enough to suck you in, no? Then why does this documentary begin to reek so foully, so quickly? TrustMovies thinks it's because Ms Albert never once in the entire proceedings shoulders any real responsibility for wrong-doing. She tells her tale as though it were just the most enjoyable, amusing and necessary thing to do. Now, if you feel, as Albert clearly does, that making up a story but labeling it as a true memoir, then creating the character who supposedly wrote the thing -- different age and different sex from the actual author -- in order to gain some of that wonderful stuff called fame is simply A-OK, then you'll probably embrace the documentary as all-fun-and-games.

Along the way, Albert, together with her Leroy creation (a gay, abused, teenage, would-be transgendered street urchin/hustler just longing for a world into which s/he can fit) cons everyone from supposed literature connoisseurs to celebrities in just about every field from music to movies to books to you-name-it. And, of course, the media just goes wild over a story (drugs. sex, prostitution, abuse) and a storyteller (under-age sex, queer and tearful) like this. In terms of lies and pretense, only the Donald could Trump it -- and, as we know, the media sure has given him plenty of undue attention.

What Albert really craved was success and celebrity above all, and from what we see here, she still does. And so the doc certainly shows us clearly and precisely how our culture of celebrity spawns more of the same, while feeding off itself in the process.

From filmmaker Gus van Sant -- who would of course gravitate toward someone of Leroy's ilk and is conned to a fare-thee-well (that's he above, right, with Albert and actor Michael Pitt) -- to television writer David Milch to actress turned director Asia Argento (below, right), the gullible just keep falling fast and hard. Ms Argento evens stars in and directs a so-so movie based on the LeRoy's "masterwork," The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things.

No one involved with Albert is safe, with doctors and analysts coming off as especially easy marks. Now, evidently, most of these folk are angry at Albert for putting them through the wringer once again via the new documentary. Well, honeys: You deserve each other. Whether or not the audience deserves to sit through this film is another question. Several times during and again at the end, I found myself muttering, Who gives a shit? I sure didn't, but then I also didn't follow Leroy's career during its ascendancy nor much during the scandal that followed.

If you followed that trajectory, the movie might just be your cup of whatever. Certainly it is full of details as to how the big lie was foisted upon us, and those details are often pretty amazing. And amusing. Overall though, it would seem as if Ms Albert is simply praying for this doc to hit pay dirt and provide her with a second round of celebrity and fame.
Good luck, dear.

From Magnolia Pictures and running a rather lengthy, considering its "true" content, one hour and fifty minutes, the movie -- after hitting the bigger cities and more noted cultural centers over the past couple of weeks -- opens here in South Florida tomorrow in Miami area at the O Cinema, Wynwood. You can click here to see all currently scheduled playdates, cities and theaters.

James Franco and Jonah Hill shine in Rupert Goold's deceptive and disturbing TRUE STORY

James Franco and Jonah Hill are hardly neophytes where the question of celebrity, notoriety and identity are concerned. Both these actors (along with several others) handled these subjects with fine comic flair in This Is The End (Mr. Franco explores this slate in almost every movie he acts in or directs), and now they're back at it in a deadly serious, deeply disturbing film called TRUE STORY -- based on, yes, exactly that. As written and directed by relative newcomer Rupert Goold, the result is one of the most quiet and creepily effective tales of murder, identity, sanity, celebrity and justice that you will have seen. What is most disturbing here is that the filmmaker and his cast, together with the story itself, offer us no easy out regarding what happened and why. We know, but what we know only makes everything all the more obscure and somehow frightening.

Mr. Goold, shown at right, comes from the British stage and television, where he directed and adapted (for the latter's Hollow Crown series) Shakespeare's Richard II, in which Ben Whishaw gave perhaps the definitive performance so far of that shallow, sad, confused and finally radiant monarch. From there, Goold seems to have gone directly to this filmed project, on which his work is exemplary.

As is that of Misters Franco and Hill. These two actors jive so well together that it seems their ability to play comedy is equalled, even bettered, by their skill at realistic, moment-to-moment drama in which we hang on every subtle expres-sion, every murmured word.

The story is that of yet another journalist, in this case a fellow named Michael Finkel (played by Hill, below), who was caught falsifying one of his stories written for The New York Times and then summarily fired from the newspaper. Around the same time, Christian Longo (Franco, shown at left), a fellow on the run and suspected of killing his wife and children, used Finkel's name as an alias and for a short time posed as the journalist.

How these two meet, agree to work with/use each other, and eventually become, well, "close," makes up the meat of the movie, and a stranger, more disturbing meal you're not likely to have digested. This is one hell of an unsettling tale.

Much of the reason for the film's ability to disconcert us is that, as it moves quietly along, so much of the facts -- about the cases of both men -- remain in question. Finkel's guilt can somewhat be attributed to his trying so hard to cover an important story, while in Longo's case -- his guilt, as well as what really happened -- seems very possibly to be up for grabs.

Can we believe what we see and hear? Is identity as slippery as it appears here? In the instance of Mr. Franco and his supremely subtle and unnerving performance, this is all important.

Mr. Goold does a superb job of keeping us off balance and even rooting, at times, for both men. And the actors themselves do a masterful job, particularly Mr. Franco, of making us question what initially passes for an open-and-shut case. The more we learn, the odder things become. Franco uses his easy ability to charm, while remaining inscrutable, to keep us ever off-balance

This is mostly a "men" movie: The women's roles -- though acted by excellent performers like Felicity Jones (above) as Finkel's wife and Gretchen Mol as his boss at The New York Times -- are but cursory. It's that relationship between the two men, and theirs to the world outside, that counts for all.

True Story also brings to the fore ideas about character, the meaning of insanity, and the question of if and how a man -- who has lead a fairly standard and relatively decent life up until the "event" -- can simply go full-throttle crazy. Was the seed of insanity always present? Is it in each of us? If so, what might it take to call it into being?

The ironies present here are huge and plenty, but the movie never stops to underscore them. They simply keep popping out from the events and characters. By the finale -- and right through into the end credits that explain what followed -- you will question everything from journalism to friendship, truth and what it means to be criminally insane. In fact, the most ironic thing about True Story is probably its title.

From Fox Searchlight and running 100 riveting minutes, the movie opens this Friday in New York City (in half a dozen theaters), and probably elsewhere, too. As I post this, however, the Fox Searchlight web site for the film is not particularly helpful in indicating where else across the country it will be playing.

Matthew Miele's success/money/celebrity fest: SCATTER MY ASHES AT BERGDORF'S

If you follow TrustMovies, you'll already know how little interest he possesses in the subject of "fashion." That said, he did immensely enjoy the recent documentary, Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel. So despite a movie's subject, he (almost) never says no in advance. It might have been better for all concerned had he done exactly that regarding SCATTER MY ASHES AT BERGDORF'S, the new documentary about Bergdorf Goodman, the storied store considered by some to be Manhattan's finest retail establishment. The movie itself proves a non-stop love-letter to Bergdorf, celebrity, money and success -- from someone who can't write. Or, in this case, put together a coherent or even vaguely satisfying film.

That someone is a fellow named Matthew Miele, shown at left, who earlier gave us another, so-far-unreleased documentary, and a couple of little-seen narratives. Here he spends the entire first third of his film repeating himself by having one after another celebrity or designer or critic or fashionista babble on and say pretty much exactly the same thing: how amazingly wonderful a place is Bergdorf Goodman  and how it changed their life. Does this get tired fast? Take a guess. Here's my favorite among many nitwit lines: "Stores like this are necessary so that people will want to aspire."

Along the way you may note that Wall Street gets involved with the store eventually. Someday, I expect, after all those ashes have been scattered -- the title of the film comes from that famous New Yorker cartoon, of which one of the celebrities on hand, Susan Lucci, has evidently never heard -- we'll probably see an Occupy Bergdorf movement, too.

After all the praise has been spouted, by many of the subjects seen in the compilation above, we get to the (evidently) famous Bergdorf window displays and the guy who creates them. I probably walk past this store at least a couple of times per month, yet I never pay attention to these windows. Now I know why. According to what we see in this film, they are atrocious, cluttered, garish messes.

Around the midway point we get a little history of the place and its family of original owners. The Goodman couple, shown above, evidently lived on the floor at the top of the building that houses BG. One of the small treats of the film is the anecdote about how the couple was able to live there and circumvent the building code. (I won't tell it to you now, as I don't want to give away one of the only interesting moments.)

There's another story, which I am told is actually apocryphal, about Mr. Goodman and a bag lady -- which is supposed to illustrate how one should never judge a book by its cover but appears instead to suggest judging solely by how much money that lady has in her bag. The liveliest section by far is the one devoted to Betty Halbreich, an evidently rather famous personal shopper associated with Bergdorf Goodman. Unlike the movie, she is anything but fawning and has a very dry sense of humor. You'll appreciate the few minutes you spend with Betty.

When the Bernie Madoff scandal hit, BG took a hit, too -- but has bounced back beautifully. Even (more probably, especially) in this current economy, the store is thriving. At film's end, we finally see those finished "windows" that the designer has been working on throughout. They're as awful as you would have imagined, in which each dress (except the one designed by the late Alexander McQueen), supposedly displayed as central to its window, gets utterly lost in the clutter.

As the end credits roll, we get an ancient clip of Barbra Streisand doing a number from a old TV show in black-and-white that was filmed after hours at BG. Nice. But here was an opportunity to really learn about some history of this fabled retail store and its ups and downs, good points and bad. Yet everything we see and hear is peachy keen and then some. Think of Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's as a very long and very boring advertorial.

The documentary, from eOne Entertainment and running 93 minutes, opens this Friday in New York City at the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center, and on Friday, May 10, in the Los Angeles area at Laemmle's Playhouse 7 and Town Center 5. Elsewhere? Most likely. Though I cannot discover any other playdates currently posted.

ANTIVIRAL: A new Cronenberg appears on the scene;the apple has fallen very close by

When TrustMovies first heard abut the plot of ANTIVIRAL -- the first full-length film from Brandon Cronenberg, son of David -- set maybe a few days into the future and having to do with celebrity and the lengths that the public will go to worship and "get closer" to those they idolize, the premise sounded so ridicu-lous that my first thought was, "He'll never be able to manage that." I've now seen the film and, by god, the kid has pulled it off.

The first thing you may notice about the movie is how creepily concerned it is with the body in all its sordid glory. Sound familiar? Yes, Cronenberg fils appears to have a jones for all things corpus-like, just as did his dad in a number of his earlier movies -- from 1975's They Came From Within (or Shivers, as it was originally titled) through 1996's Crash (this one was the memorable of the two Crashes). Further, I believe, given what appears in Antiviral, that Brandon (shown at right) may actually have an even more organic and subtle sense of the body, its glories and horrors, than did his dad, whose movies were a lot of gross fun but sometimes seemed a tad more showy than was perhaps necessary. What makes this movie work so surprisingly well is how young Cronenberg has conceived of this dystopian future and then filled it with visual after visual that brings the point home quietly, firmly, horribly.

Not only has celebrity run amok here, it's running hand-in-hand with Capitalism at is worst -- a combination that, though it is never mentioned directly, appears to have cancelled out most love relationships. The world is full of celebrity-worshiping singles, and it matters not a whit whether they are men or women, gay or straight, so long as they "purchase" from their chosen celeb. (The particular "meat market" we witness here, is nothing like anything you will have seen.)

Among these celebrities is a beautiful young blond named Hannah Geist (played by Sarah Gadon -- on the poster two photos up and and in bed, just above), who, as the movie rolls on, grows sicker and sicker due to some sort of a virus -- with which our hero, Syd, being a Hannah worshiper, has managed to contaminate himself. What is this virus? Is there a cure? And who has created it and why? These questions and plenty of others get asked (some are even answered) by the end of this -- one of the least appetizing movies ever made, though still, I insist, remarkably well done.

In the supporting cast are a number of names and faces we know and love -- from Sheila McCarthy to Wendy Crewson and Malcolm McDowell. All of them are very fine, but it is the real star of the movie -- its skeevy, creepy leading man -- who makes it all so very watchable. His name is Caleb Landry Jones (shown above and below), a Texas lad whom we've seen earlier in films like No Country for Old Men (he was the boy on the bike at the end) and Andy, the nitwit kid brother in Contraband. Jones is clearly a very versatile actor, but nothing will have prepared you for the work he does here: creating out of whole cloth a character who is a riveting ball of tics and oddities that are so bizarre and yet so oddly enticing that you cannot look away. If this fellow keeps it up and is given roles commensurate with his talent, he's going to have a long and illustrious career.

This movie is not for everyone; it's far too dark and dank to be a crowd-pleaser. My companion found it well-done but too long (I agree: five to ten minutes could be judiciously cut). But it's an original and a keeper. And it is difficult to imagine any other film taking celebrity -- and what's left of humanity -- to any more profound or further depths than are found here.

Antiviral -- from IFC Films in the company' popular Midnight series, and running 108 minutes -- opens this Friday, April 12, in theaters (in New York City, it will be showing at the IFC Center) and simultaneously on VOD. To learn how to watch it at home, simply click here and follow through....

PAUL WILLIAMS STILL ALIVE: Stephen Kessler's celebrity doc works on all levels

How rare is it to watch a documentary about a celebrity that manages to avoid just about every pitfall in the book? The beauty of Stephen Kessler's documentary about the diminutive song-writer/singer/enter-tainer/celebrity Paul Williams, out now on DVD and elsewhere, rests in its willingness to tackle its subject every which way -- including the manner in which the filmmaker wants to tell it and the way Williams himself insists on it -- resul-ting in a documentary that adheres to the rules (this is no hybrid narrative/docu mash-up) and ends up seeming extraordinarily honest about, well, everything it touches.

The filmmaker (shown at right) doesn't touch everything, mind you -- Mr. Williams won't go into certain subjects, which is his call, and he flat out argues with the director about certain other ones -- but what the documentary does encompass, it makes genuine and in-the-moment. And it gives us a remarkably rich look at a very talented celebrity, then and now, and lets the man (and us) muse on the rewards, drawbacks and meaning of this kind of in-the-spotlight life.

The surprise here, and it is quite a surprise, is how Mr. Williams looks at his past career, his present one (yes, he's still going fairly strong), and what has happened in between. He turns out to be not just a talented guy but a smart one, too, and some of the things he has to tell us are more than a little thoughtful and rewarding. My favorite is his off-the-cuff remark about his current (and, I believe, third wife): "She got the man that the former two wives imagined that they had gotten." Only with a lot of growth and change, however, has the younger man becomes his older and more responsible counterpart.

What about those terrific songs Williams wrote, and all the famous celebrities with whom he was constantly rubbing shoulders? Ah, they're here, and we get to revel in those 70s TV shows and hair styles, and the smart, often touching lyrics and memorable tunes the composer came up with. The movie is impressionistic, as it jumps from this to that and the next big thing, and although Kessler is a huge fan of Williams, the latter never allows the former to gush. Hence the tone, which is admiring (hell, there's a lot to like about this guy and his work) is kept nicely in check by the subject of that admiration.

As documentaries about celebrities (particularly living celebs) go, PAUL WILLIAMS STILL ALIVE, may be the one to beat. It just about perfectly balances nostalgia with now, and at 86 eminently watchable minutes, it's a model of intelligent concision and inclusion. It also demonstrates how a filmmaker can approach and work with a celebrity to produce something of which both can be proud -- and viewers can bask in and learn from.

The documentary is available now on DVD, VOD and various digital sources. Or you can download it here.

Stick with Julie Benasra's new documentary GOD SAVE MY SHOES: It does get better

Initially, it may look like a documentary that only Imedla Marcos could love, but I suggest that you don't give in to the urge to depart until you've seen at least a half-hour of the intriguing, if initially annoying, film GOD SAVE MY SHOES, from first-time filmmaker Julie Benasra (shown below). "Is this a product of the World-Wide Shoe Association?" (surely there is one), you may be thinking, as a plethora of testimony, adding up to oh-lordy-we-loves-our-shoes, springs delightedly from the mouth of nearly every kind of woman you can imagine. (Well, at least from those ladies who can afford to buy, annually, a lot of shoes.)

Our first speaker, Beth Shak, a professional poker player from Bryn Mawr, PA (shown below) tells us she once had 1,400 pair of shoes -- until she ran out of space and had to give away a few hundred of them.


Another woman (Kelly Rowland, ex of Destiny's Child) -- claims to be a "shoe mommie" who names many of her shoe "children." Yikes.

Around the time that another voice claims shoes to be something utterly "primal," you may feel like heading for the hills. And then you meet a charmer named Baroness Monica von Neumann (identified as a "philanthropist" who's been known to pay thousands of dollars for a single pair of shoes), followed by what can only be described as a "dumb blond" who shakes her head negatively and covers her ears, as she hears a newscaster lamenting the state of the economy.

Holy shit, you think: U.S. Republicans, with their misogynistic and idiotic faith-based platform, should get hold of this movie and run with it, for women have rarely looked so foolish and pointless as here. But then, a little at a time, they (and their movie) begin to look somewhat more intelligent and enticing.

Part of the long and interesting history of shoes, shown a bit later, is thoughtful fun and even relatively genuine, I think -- as is the later discussion of exactly which shoe designer actually invented the stiletto heel. (The movie alternates credit between Roger Vivier and Salvatore Ferrugamo, though the definition of the stiletto as "woman's quest for femininity and independence" might prove questionable.

We hear from various shoe designers -- Manolo Blahnik (above), Pierre Hardy, Walter Steiger (below) -- and celebrities from Fergie to the Ferrugamo empire to burlesque queen Dita Von Teese. Even that Baroness begins to sound intelligent, and her visual essay on how to walk correctly in heels is exemplary and sexy. Male designers, we learn, seem to give less thought to comfort (no surprise) than to charisma.

Toward the conclusion we get into the subject of shoes and sex, and then shoes and fetishism, and finally shoes and power. And while little we hear will set the intellectual world ablaze, at least most of it is interesting, with that portion by Elizabeth Semmelhack, curator of the BATA Shoe Museum in Toronto, proving the most cogent and useful.

 
God Save My Shoes (only 71 minutes long, from Caïd Productions, with the participation of Canal +) opens in New York City this Friday, March 30, at the Quad Cinema. If there will be other openings in other U.S. cities, the film's web site is not forthcoming with any info.