NICO, 1988: Susanna Nicchiarelli's splendid three-years-in-the-life bio-pic in U.S. premiere

The name Susanna Nicchiarelli rang a familiar bell to TrustMovies and, sure enough, he'd seen two other of her films in past years via the FSLC's Open Roads series of new Italian cinema, both of these child-centered but very different tales: Cosmonauta (click, then scroll down) and Discovery at Dawn (La scoperta dell'alba). Both were worth seeing, though they did not give him a clue to how far this talented filmmaker has come with her latest work, NICO, 1988. The subject here is the German rock singer, Nico (whose real name was Christa Päffgen), who rose to fame as one of Andy Warhol's "superstars," and was vocalist for the rock group The Velvet Underground before embarking on a music career on her own.

Interestingly, Ms Nicchiarelli (shown at right) seems to also see this bio-pic as a kind of child-centered film, for Nico's paramount object of affection (and guilt) is her son, Ari, a young photographer prone to suicide attempts whom she did not or could not care for properly when he was a child. While this child connection is not the be-all/end-all of the film, in terms of emotional connection, it provides Nico's, as well as the viewer's, strongest bond.

Bio-pics are not my favorite genre of film, but I have to say that Ms Nicchiarelli, who both wrote and directed the movie, has given us one of the best I have seen. It may not tell us everything we might want to know about this unusual singer/performer, yet everything it tells us works. All of what we see and hear comes together to create an odd and arresting look at Nico/Christa in the final few years of her life.

The film's ace-in-the-hole is its superb cast, beginning with star Trine Dyrholm (above), whom we are more used to seeing in much more glamorous roles (from The Commune to A Royal Affair and Troubled Water). Dyrholm is glammed-down to the max; she sings her own songs here, too; and what a voice she possesses! This Nico is not an easy person to deal with, but Dyrholm makes her utterly real and often surprising. (The real Nico was a good deal more beautiful than Dyrholm, but no matter: The actress will own this role, I suspect, in perpetuity.)

Drug-addicted bigtime but still able to perform up a storm,  the star is about to tour Europe when the film begins, with a new manager (the fine John Gordon Sinclair, shown below, right: remember Gregory's Girl?) and a new but mostly talented back-up band.

We get to know and care about -- only to the extent necessary, but this is enough -- all of the characters on view via a script that gives each his/her due with without being over-expository or obvious. Nicchiarelli uses a very welcome documentary-like visual approach, which adds a layer of reality all its own, along with the expert period detail of the production design (it's simply there, without having to call attention to itself).

Further, the film has been shot in the old-fashioned aspect ratio of 1.37 : 1, which helps take us back to the not-so-distant past.  The filmmaker juggles it all -- dialog, story, performances, visuals and period -- so very well that we're hooked from the outset and only grow more impressed and concerned as the movie progresses and characters seem to pair off into interesting duos. The music runs a fascinating gamut, too -- from Nature Boy and These Days to the marvelous Nibelungen.

In the supporting cast is the wonderful Anamaria Marinca (Five Minutes of Heaven, Storm) as the band's violinist, and the gorgeous Sandor Funtek (above, right, of Blue Is the Warmest Color) who plays Nico's son Ari. (Ari is given special thanks by the filmmaker during the end credits). I don't think you need be a fan of Nico to appreciate the movie -- I was certainly not: As a young man, I abhorred all things touched by Warhol -- yet the movie may indeed make you a fan. And of Ms Dyrholm, as well.

From Magnolia Pictures and running a sleek 93 minutes, Nico, 1988 has its U.S. theatrical premiere this coming Wednesday, August 1, in New York City at the newly renovated Film Forum. It will opens in Los Angeles on Friday, August 3, at the Landmark NuArt, and in Santa Barbara at the SBIFF Riviera Theater on August 17. To learn of further playdates across the country, click here. (If you don't find further playdates just now, check back later, once word-of mouth on the film has taken hold.)

Shear & Thom's WILD IN THE STREETS: this 1960s "instant classic" has aged quite well

When WILD IN THE STREETS hit cinemas back in 1968, no less a critic than the fine Renata Adler in The New York Times deemed the film a "kind of instant classic" -- you can read her entire review here -- and went on to praise it in terms that very few (if any) movies distributed by American International Pictures had ever earned. TrustMovies saw the film back in '68 and loved it, but when he viewed it again, maybe twenty years later, he felt that it didn't hold up so sturdily, after all. Well, here we are in 2016, with a certain con-man/liar with a very "loose" hold on reality running for President, and damned if the film doesn't resonate presciently -- and so entertainingly -- all over again.

Thanks to Olive Films' new Blu-ray and DVD release, those long-ago fans, as well as newcomers, can recall or find out what all the fuss was about. Some of that fuss centered on a hot new actor named Christopher Jones, above and below, who starred in the film as the pop singer-turned-business-magnate-turned-you'll-find-out who sets young America ablaze, as he sings to, then rounds up, his "troops" for a frontal and all-out assault on "aged" Americans (that would be anyone over, say, 30 or 35). Mr. Jones looked to be a sure-thing "star" and worthy successor to James Dean, but that star failed to rise. The actor was never again as well-cast and resonant as he was here, and after a few more films, for whatever reason(s), he fell off the grid.

As written by Robert Thom (from his short story) and directed by TV & film vet Barry Shear (Across 110th Street), this 97-minute movie barrels along -- with plot and incident aplenty, and a half-dozen good pop-rock songs that also feed the plot nicely -- at a speed rarely seen back in 1968. Today, the film seems much less speedy, though certainly not slow enough to bore. Even its editing (by Fred Feitshans and Eve Newman, both of whom were Oscar nominated for their work on the film), which looked amazingly fast and furious in its day, would probably need to be sped up a bit by our current standards.

Still the film's combo of politics (every bit as venal then as now), marketing (cornering the "youth" vote by lowering the voting age), drugs, sex (of more kinds that audiences were used to back in the day) and rock-and-roll -- all conceived around a fractured "family" tale that Brady Corbett's recent Childhood of a Leader might have learned from -- adds up to a remarkably entertaining and juicy look at how the USA can be manipulated for fun, profit and finally horror. And the filmmaker's clever use of documentary footage (as above) within their thrusting narrative works nicely, too.

What's missing is any hint of the income gap, the one per cent, and the rise of the corporations. But of course: This was well prior to Ronald Reagan's Presidential ascent and the beginning of our capitulation to wealth and power. But taken as an entertainment, the movie zings and sings. Its songs are fun, rhythmic and even have the melody that much of today's music has totally lost. The screenplay is wonderfully pointed and funny, and the movie's ironies are often a delight. (Watch for the little song about "campaign dinners" that a de-frocked politician -- played with relish, and then abandon, by Ed Begley -- chants toward movie's end.)

The cast also includes Shelley Winters (in foreground, two photos up), going all out to become one of the more memorable of movie "mothers"; Hal Holbrook (above), as the politician who thinks he is using Mr. Jones and his troops; Diane Varsi as a drug-addled hanger-on; and especially Richard Pryor (below and before we even knew who this guy was!) as a smart member of Jones' band.

The film is probably ripe for a remake, which, if it happens, should only provide as much timely fun and frolic as did this original -- available now from Olive Films, on both Blu-ray and DVD, for purchase and, I would hope, rental. (Netflix really ought to order this one -- now!)

The best musical doc since "Sugar Man" -- Jay Bulger's jolting BEWARE OF MR. BAKER

This year has been a banner one for documentaries: So many good-to-great films are there, originals and hybrids, that I cannot imagine the difficulty, come "Oscar" time, in choosing a shortlist. Now, to have among these, two new musical-themed docs as different -- and as remarkably well-done -- as Searching for Sugar Man and BEWARE OF MR. BAKER is surely a blessing of sorts.

You could hardly ask for two "leading men" as different as Sixto Rodriguez and Ginger Baker, the musical stars featured in these films: one a hero in so many ways, the other -- the titular Mr. Baker -- well, you'll have to see it to believe it. Ginger (shown at right) is pretty much every negative cliché you've heard concerning nasty, thoughtless, drug-addled rock musicians rolled into one. Except that he possesses, as the movie makes clear, incredible, innate talent as one of the greatest jazz & rock drummers who has ever lived. Couple this to his character, and you have one crazy, crass, complicated guy -- whom writer/director Jay Bulger (shown below) has captured with surprising finesse for a first-time filmmaker.

Mr. Bulger has balls, that's for sure. We learn this almost immediately as he tells us that his first contact with Baker came when the younger man pretended to be a writer for Rolling Stone magazine who then conned an interview with the drummer, charmed him into telling, if not all, then quite a bit, and went on to actually have his article published by Rolling Stone. In addition to those cojones, Bulger has looks, charm and most important, talent. He captures Ginger as fully as one would think possible within the movie's 92-minute time frame.

Using a fine array of historical footage, the filmmaker compiles a history of Mr. Baker that includes three generations of family, a musical history of drumming, from which we learn who the man's mentors were; whom Baker considers to be among history's better drummers; the state of his wives and children; his struggles with addictions of various sorts; and his ultra-surly, borderline-crazy disposition and behavior.

Though Bulger bounces back and forth in time and goes from live-action to artful animation (above), he never loses us nor the thread of his story. He appears to have an innate sense of what goes where, and why, and for how long, so his movie moves speedily ahead and is flat-out fascinating for its entire length. (I am no fan of the kind of music that Baker has been involved in -- Cream, Blind Faith -- and yet the film held me completely; I should think that, for fans of this fellow and his drumming, it would prove unmissable.)

For all the music we see and hear, Bulger does not stint on personal history and psychology, and so we get an unusually rich, rounded picture of this man, his career, and those closest to him -- family members and other musicians -- from one of those great drummers, Phil Seamen, to Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones' Charlie Watts and a certain Mr. Rotten (above). Each has his specific "take" on the man or on music, and the real beauty of this movie is how Bulger has assembled all this to create a full and indelible character.

Baker is most often, it seems, a monster, and a talented one. Yet the movie makes it difficult to hate the guy (how he treats his own son will bring you closest to hatred). It seems most likely that psychological help was called for early on -- certainly later on! -- but by then Baker was old enough and rich enough to reject it. Bi-polar doesn't begin to define the swing of his moods (nor his finances), one of which begins the movie, the consequences of which are seen at the finale. (That sign in Ginger's yard in South Africa, shown at the top of this post, is there for good reason.)

Among the many surprises (to me, at least) is Baker's interest in the sport of polo (those are his ponies, above) and his connection to the famous African musician Fela. Concerning the latter, as usual, when the going gets tough, Baker quickly hightails it out of danger. Another point that Bulger's movie makes, perhaps unintentionally, concerns the relationship between art and destruction. We more often, I think, join art with creation, but Mr. Baker generally has it otherwise.

Still, toward the end of this rather amazing movie, Baker tells Bulger, "This was music you couldn't put in a box, Jay!"  Ginger Baker, to his everlasting credit and shame, is equally un-boxable. This movie about him, from SnagFilms, opens on Wednesday, November 28, for a two-week run at New York's Film Forum.

Elsewhere? Here's what we've learned so far: The film will open at the Sundance Sunset in the Los Angeles area on November 30 and play at least through Dec. 6 -- followed by openings in eight additional cities (via Abramorama) in the weeks to come. Look for it on Cable & Satellite VOD via Comcast, Time Warner, Verizon Fios, Cox, Charter, AT&T, DISH and DirecTV from 2/26/2013 to 04/22/2013, and then to Broadband Digital via Amazon Instant Video, Google Play, iTunes, Vudu, V.dio and Xbox beginning February 26, 2013.

Special note: filmmaker Jay Bulger (above, right)

will appear at Film Forum in person this Wednesday, 
November 28, at the 8:20 screening!
And Ginger? Don't think we'll be seeing him. After all,
we don't want fist fights and broken furniture to harm
New York's favorite repertory cinema....

WHITE STRIPES: Under the Great White Northern Lights debuts at SXSW & simultaneously On-Demand

Going into the film at hand, TrustMovies knew nothing about the Detroit-based man/woman musical twosome, The Whites Stripes, who alternately make an incredible amount of noise and then slip into more quiet, you-can-actually-understand-the-lyrics vein. So he simply placed the DVD screener into the machine and hit "play." This lack of knowledge will undoubtedly not be the case for most viewers of the new documentary, The White Stripes Under Great White Northern Lights, who will most likely already be big fans of this interesting and unusual duo.

I can’t begin to critique the music, as I’m no connoisseur of occasionally ear-splitting, hard-to-decipher songs. But I did enjoy the team in quieter mode. Film-wise, the doc alternates between black & white and color, between performance and interview, and between limos and airplanes as the duo goes to and from gigs – which are often in very odd locations.

The male counterpart, Jack White (above), tells us that Spin magazine once said that “Everything about the White Stripes is a lie.” Someone else, he recalls, wrote that it “is simultaneously the most fake and the most real band in the world.”  So much for critiquing. Yet White seems pleasantly nonplussed about it all; not only does he not know what to make of this, he doesn’t seem to care much. Good for him. He and his (according to the IMDB) ex-wife Meg (below) simply make music, tour major cities and the boonies (this film covers their Canadian gigs) and try – good for them – to hit the venues that don’t get that many concerts: small spots with appreciative audiences who come for the music. Some-
times they appear in big cities at odd places: a Toronto day camp, a  rec center, a bowling alley. One scene shows them on a small boat, serenading an audience sitting on the rocks by the shore.

The White Stripes appear to care about “the thing itself,” a quality much appreciated by TrustMovies because it gives one an honest starting point, from which everything else can grow. Which, as it turns out, is pretty much what the the movie itself does -- directed in wonderfully appropriate fashion by Emmett Malloy (shown with an impish smile, below).  Malloy flips around like crazy, giving us lots of music and fun, along with good information about this duo, showing us snippets from songs, concerts and appearances in all those odd places. In one scene, Meg rides with a what looks like late-middle-age driver who explains that he doesn’t have time to follow music and so asks about her band (exactly as I might do in the same situation). She gives him a quick, ego-free rundown.

In another scene, Jack explains how the internet has changed things regarding the duo's surprise appearances. Now it can announce an odd venue at the last minute and -- zoom -- off the news goes over the web, and an audience always turn up. Ten years ago, Jack notes, you couldn’t have managed this. We occasionally see them laying around, relaxing (Meg smokes: too bad). Their performance dress (a kilt in one scene) is odd but fun, as is their restricted use of only red, white and black in their graphics and costumes (Jack says this was determined a decade ago and hasn’t changed since). In what looks like an Inuit old-folks home, Jack asks questions about Inuit symbols such as the crow (or maybe raven), and he get a fine explanation from one woman in the group. The fellow seems to be able to relax happily with all kinds of people (except perhaps music critics); he can launch easily into a song just sitting on a couch with the Inuits.

One of the more interesting parts of the movie is Jack’s rendition of Jolene (also one of the few songs we seem to hear in its entirety), in which he becomes the female narrator or perhaps a gay man, begging Jolene not to take his man away. Here he uses his reedy/gravelly voice to maximum effect. Meg, much more retiring, is the quieter presence, often barely seeming to be there (except when she's plying her music). In one scene Jack tells her to speak up, SPEAK UP! (Later he makes her go on record that he is not the one stopping her from being heard.  She agrees.)

The movie is shot (by Giles Dunning) with on-the-fly beauty and edited (by Tim Wheeler, who also co-produced) terrifically well: speedily when necessary, but allowing the proper time for a smart, lengthy explanation, such as Jack’s telling us the difference between being inspired early in his career and now -- and how, sometimes, you just have to work at it, even if you don’t feel like it, and maybe, if you’re lucky something good will come out of your time. This, I suspect, is how it is for most artists of any kind.

All in all, this is probably my favorite music doc since Anvil and its unusual duo. From knowing nothing about these kids (kids is a relative term, I realize), by the conclusion, I felt I knew them to a surprising extent. Next time I hear of The White Stripes, this film -- and Jack and Meg -- will probably come rushing back into my head with pleasure and a smile. The last number in the documentary, by the way, is a quiet stunner that provides a lovely, moving finale to all we’ve seen.

The White Stripes Under Great White Northern Lights made its On-Demand debut yesterday, via IFC Films, simultaneously with its debut at the SXSW festival.