The Black experience--from slavery onwards--is captured rather amazingly by Jeffrey Wolf's unusual documentary about an outsider artist, BILL TRAYLOR: CHASING GHOSTS

 Bill Traylor, the subject of the new documentary BILL TRAYLOR: CHASING GHOSTS, was already 86 years old back in 1941, the year that TrustMovies, the fellow who is writing this review, was born. Mr. Traylor himself was born in Alabama as a slave in 1853 (that's how far back this doc goes), and yet his art -- however you might describe it: "outsider" "folk" or "primitive" -- also resonates as surprisingly contemporary, if also somewhat befuddling. Traylor's story, however -- his history, his life and his art career -- resonates without a bit of that befuddlement.

The film's director, Jeffrey Wolf (shown at left), and its writer, Fred Barron, have put together in a mere 75 minutes, a movie that offers us as fine an example, via the life and work of a single individual, of the Black experience here in the USA as any I've seen. 

Whether this was the original goal of the film or not, I've no idea. But the achievement is certainly there. Of course, no single individual can truly act as a stand-in for an entire race. But, boy, does Mr. Traylor come close, thanks to the splendid archival footage, including interviews with folk long dead and some still alive -- especially, eventually, generations of the progeny of Mr. Traylor.

Bill Traylor: Chasing Ghosts is primarily about this man's art, which has, since the late 1970s and early 1980s, been recognized by the art establishment as significant. (MOMA, ever the sleazy institution, actually tried, via its then director, to purchase a chunk of  Traylor's art in the early 1940s at a ridiculously low price.) 

We view plenty of this art (shown above and below) during the course of the film -- enough, actually, to be able to form our own conclusions about it. For me, the art is fascinating in its simplicity, even if its meaning proves more elusive than anything else. Instead, it is the life of this man -- as a slave who was greatly appreciated by his original "owner," so much so that that owner, the head of the "white" Traylor family, made certain that the further care of the black Traylor family was provided for in his will -- that resonates most strongly.

As one of the many highly intelligent and thoughtful narrators points out early on, as horrible as slavery was, "it had plenty of 'gray' areas, rather than always being, no pun intended, something black and white." These black and white Traylors were one such instance, as Bill Traylor and his family continued to work for the white Traylors for 40 years after slavery had been abolished -- and only left, once the white family was taken over by a particularly unjust Traylor offspring.

We see how Traylor's art came about, and how the man (shown above and below) -- quite the womanizer -- came to sire perhaps 20 offspring, all of whom he managed to care for as well as he could, while living and working during slavery, reconstruction, the Jim Crow south and beyond. 

Talk about a "survivor"! 

Once we meet the generations that came after him, while seeing and understanding how his art slowly accrued its reputation, we're simply amazed and ever more appreciative of his accomplishments. Bill Traylor: Casing Ghosts turns out to be a wonderful memorial to a man, his art and to a time long gone that has now been returned to us via this unusual and remarkable movie.

From Kino Lorber and running 75 minutes, the documentary opens tomorrow, Friday, April 16, in New York City at Film Forum, and the in Los Angeles area at Laemmle theaters, as well as elsewhere around the country. Click here and scroll down to view all currently scheduled playdates, cities and theatres (virtual or otherwise).                                                                          

Shaka King's JUDAS AND THE BLACK MESSIAH shines a necessary light on 50-year-old history

Hot on the heels of several other important -- as well as hugely entertaining and necessary -- films about the Black experience in America comes one of the best: JUDAS AND THE BLACK MESSIAH, directed by Shaka King, with a screenplay by Mr. King and Will Berson. Their movie details the shameful and unlawful treatment by Chicago police and the FBI of Fred Hampton (along with the entire Black Panther movement during the mid-to-late 1960s). 

The title itself comes from the fear expressed by the FBI's J. Edgar Hoover of Mr. Hampton's becoming the new Black Messiah, once Martin Luther King, Jr., had been assassinated. Judas refers to the Biblical betrayer -- here a low-life, con-man/thief named William O'Neal, blackmailed into infiltrating and spying on Hampton and the Panthers

While the actions of Hoover and the police are digusting and thoroughly racist, King (pictured at left) and Berson don't try to sugar-coat the fact that the Panthers had to do some bad shit, too. Yet the amount of this the Panthers perpetrated, together with their reasons for doing it, do not even begin to approach that of "law enforcement." 

In telling their awful (and seemingly, from what TrustMovies remembers, of that time itself, barely fictionalized) tale, the filmmakers take what seems like pretty much a direct route: This happened, followed by this and this and this. 

Because the filmmaking and the writing is so direct and real -- as well as pointed and very political (I did not realize nor remember how anti-Capitalism Hampton was), the movie plows ahead with a speed and energy that belies its two-hour-plus running time. It has taken more than a half century for even a portion of the American populace to catch up with Hampton's ideas, thanks to the continued racist behavior of the police and FBI, along with the continual anti-Socialist message put out by our ever-more corporate controlled mainstream media. Now, finally, this is being fought against via the Black Lives Matter and "Occupy" movements, minimal media (subscribe to The Baffler) and a handful of progressive politicians. 

King's movie tells its story via extremely strong performances from its leading actors: Daniel Kaluuya (above) as Hampton, LaKeith Stanfield (at left, two photos below) as O'Neal, and Dominique Fishback (below) as Hampton's poet, guiding light and eventual lover -- with Jesse Plemons (at right, two photos below) doing his usual excellent work as the blackmailing FBI Agent, and Martin Sheen as certainly the nastiest, deservedly so, J. Edgar we've so far seen.

Considering what the USA was fed by its mainstream media and powers-that-were back in the day, how salutary and necessarily disturbing it is to finally have Hampton's story told this close to truly -- and this well. Judas and the Black Messiah is also the first must-see of the so-far much-vaunted Warner Brothers movies to be released theatrically and via HBO Max. 

The Witches is a lot of fun, but Wonder Woman 1984 is utter crap, The Little Things perhaps the stupidest would-be thriller/serial killer movie ever foisted on the public, and Locked Down much better in its first hour than its second. Let's hope that the up-next Tom and Jerry offers some good, entertaining fun.

Meanwhile, however you can view it, make a bee-line for Judas and the Black Messiah, which hit streaming this past week and will remain in theaters for some time to come, I hope.

In Damon Cardasis' mini-musical SATURDAY CHURCH, a gay cross-dressing teen blooms

TrustMovies must admit that he has never been overly taken with the idea or action of cross-dressing, neither by gays, straights, men or women. Yet he thoroughly enjoyed, back in 1976, seeing an Eve Merriam/Tommy Tune musical off-Broadway called The Club. And now, four decades later, comes along what I'd call a mini-movie-musical all about a gay male teenager who can't seem to help himself from trying on his mom's pretty shoes, which of course leads to something more. Entitled SATURDAY CHURCH and featuring maybe half a dozen musical numbers sung and danced by a hugely talented cast and written and directed by a first-time/full-length filmmaker, Damon Cardasis, this is a small, sweet, beautiful and often stunning piece of work.

Granted, the little movie (it lasts but 83 minutes) is a complete fantasy about finding fulfillment, love, friendship and family despite -- no, more because of -- who and what you are. Yet, given that, it is handled with such care and caring, such imagination and daring, and a genuine understanding of what a movie musical -- song, dance, color, atmosphere -- can do that it succeeds in taking us to that realm where, yes, anything can happen.

Mr. Cardasis, shown at right, creates a kind of alternate universe via his musical numbers, in which fantasy overtakes reality, trumping it via song and movement (dance is utterly vital to one number here, set in a homeless shelter) and allowing us to revel in what "could be" rather than what "is." Saturday Church may be an "if only" movie, but it is one that, within its tiny time-frame and universe, utterly works.

It also boasts some talented and good-looking actors giving their all here. Its star, Luka Kain (above), playing a character called Ulysses, is so beautiful of face and voice that you will fall in love immediately, I suspect, just as does the young fellow (Marquis Rodriguez, below, left) who guides and mentors our boy in his new environment.

Each of the cross-dressing "voguers" (below, center and right) who befriend Ulysses at the "Saturday Church" he discovers are brought to fine life, as well. Each is given character, quirks and history so that they live and breathe fully enough to make us care for them.

Ditto the family of our hero, whose military-man father has just died as the film begins, and so his loving but over-worked mom must bring in Aunt Rose (Regina Taylor) to watch Ulysses and his little brother after school while mom works the night shift.

The movie manages to indict the Black church quietly but appropriately for refusing to include all god's creatures into its flock. The history of Black culture and the Black churches in terms of  their treatment of the GLBT community has been dismal indeed, and that is brought to life via Aunt Rose and her attitude.

The musical numbers are small scale, highly impressionistic, and often break the fourth wall to address us overtly. They're handled with style and skill and beautifully sung. The final number, sung by mother to her son, is different however. It's direct and dead-on, and is, in fact, what every child wants to hear from his/her mom or dad but so rarely does. If its lyrics borrow (maybe unknowingly) from the classic Come Rain or Come Shine, it is still quite lovely and moving.

The weakness of Saturday Church -- it's so utterly feel-good and positive -- is so linked to its great strength that I suspect you will either embrace this movie or reject it out of hand. I'm for the embracing, as it took me places I have not been for a very long time, and in fact, thought I might never go again.

From Samuel Goldwyn Films, the movie opens this Friday, January 12, in Los Angeles at the Arena Cinelounge, and in New York City at the Village East Cinema, and nationwide on all digital platforms and via VOD. 

December Sunday Corner With Lee Liberman: Dee Rees' MUDBOUND

“The arc of the moral universe is long, 

but it bends toward justice.”

 ....Martin Luther King, Jr.

Writer/director Dee Rees (below) and screenwriter Virgil Williams adapted this quietly painful yet transcendent saga from a novel by Hillary Jordan — a tale of the daily rigors of two families who work the same unforgiving land in the Mississippi delta of 80 years ago. The ensemble drama, MUDBOUND, gives voice to the point of view of each of the main characters, bound as they are to each other and the mud, furrows, and trials of eking a living off the land. It is also as pure a study of bigotry as you’ve ever seen — the everyday condescension that blacks and other minorities still endure. The movie captures the relentless dailiness of this as if it were today, not the 1940s.

In that way it is also the story of our original sin — the polar opposite of the flag we fly: “all men are created equal and are endowed with inalienable rights…..”. The current iteration of American racism smacks of repressed rage at not being so white and Christian anymore; the sounds of America have gotten meaner as our non-white population increases. The President sings the same tune as everybody’s racist uncle and Mudbound’s foul-mouthed Pappy. Trumpism is racism, says Adam Serwer, an Atlantic editor.

Trump’s appeal doesn’t originate in economic suffering; his followers are driven by the desire to suppress non-white America’s civil and voting rights. The film plunges us into the murk of racial memory, the metaphorical mud of the delta; it stars everyday meanness in its Jim Crow rules and poverty. The Washington Post film critic Ann Hornaday’s review of Mudbound compares it to great literature of Faulkner and Steinbeck and the sweeping film sagas of William Wyler and John Ford. The difference in Mudbound is that it is the daily earth-bound struggle itself that is epic — the warp and weave of farm life under segregation in rural Mississippi during the 1940’s, writ large.

The landowner is laconic Henry McAllan, his cheerless wife Laura (Jason Clarke and Carey Mulligan, below), their daughters, and sadistic, racist Pappy (Jonathan Banks). Henry’s younger brother Jamie (Garrett Hedlund, early in his years of leading-man heart-crushing) goes off to war and then returns home.

Their tenant-farmer neighbors, shown below, are the Jacksons: Hap (Rob Morgan), his wife Florence (a poignantly heroic Mary J. Blige), and their children including oldest son Ronsel (Jason Mitchell) who also makes the round trip to war and back home to the delta.

Hap Jackson grieves his ancestral ties to this earth: “What good is a deed? My grandfathers and great uncles, grandmothers and great aunts, father and mother… worked this land all their lives, this land that will never be theirs… They sweated until they bled; they bled until they died… Died with the dirt of this same 200 acres under their fingernails… all their deeds undone. Yet this man, this place, this law say you need a Deed--not deeds.”

Laura McAllan dreams in brown, knees and hair encrusted in mud (constantly refreshed by downpours), boot-shaped brown patches marching across the floor. Violence is part and parcel of country life, she says. “You’re forever being assailed by dead things. Dead mice, dead rabbits, dead possums. You find them in the yard, you smell them rotting under the house. And then there are the creatures you kill for food. Chickens, hogs, deer, frogs, squirrels. Pluck, skin, disembowel, debone, fry, eat. Start again…..” There is miscarriage, incest, adultery, murder, and Klan violence quietly woven into the fabric. But the central relationship is that of the returning warriors: Jamie a bomber pilot and Ronsel a tank sergeant in the black battalion that General Patton used to spearhead his army (archival photo below).

The story occurs at a turning point referred to as the ‘forgotten years of the black revolution’ — World War II and it’s aftermath.

Ronsel (above, right) says: “Home again, home again jiggity jig; coon, spade, darky, nigger. Went off to fight for my country and found it hasn’t changed a bit. Over there we were the liberator, they were lined up waiting for us, throwing flowers and cheering. Here I’m just another nigger pushing a plow…..

“The army gave us separate barracks, separate blood supply, separate latrines... But them European girls they didn’t have any problem with us at all… But that was then… and right now I guess I’m right where I should be — throwing my life away.”

The two depressed men get drunk together, flouting the ingrained habits of segregation and leading Pappy (below, left) to scold Ronsel: “I don’t know what they let you do over there, but you in Mississippi now — you leave by the back door”. It doesn’t take long for both former soldier-heroes to feel like aliens in a South they have grown out of.

In fact, the end of legal segregation in America and the British de-colonialization of Asia and Africa were the unplanned outcomes of war fought against German and Japanese racism. Although, as Ronsel says, they were segregated as soldiers, they got jobs, pulled their weight, and black and white fought as one against the enemy. Dee Rees makes the point with a U.S. flyer shooting down Germans who were pummeling Jamie’s plane, after which the rescuer, a black pilot, hi-fives Jamie on a fly-by (archival photo of black airmen below).

In the 1920’s the socialist speaker/writer, A Philip Randolph, organized the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters; during the 1941 war build-up he organized a march on Washington demanding that blacks be hired for factory jobs. When Randolph assured the president that 100,000 would show up and demonstrate, Roosevelt signed the order, the march was pre-empted, and blacks entered the workforce.

After the war, Truman ordered the integration of U.S. armed forces. Black voters then turned out to help Truman defeat Dewey in the 1948 presidential election. The next leap forward for civil rights wasn’t until 1963, taking us into the modern era of integration.

No -- Mississippi held no post-war hope for Jamie or Ronsel, and Rees crafts off-ramps for them, leaving the delta to marinate in Jim Crow. The viewer comes away feeling waked up again to the fact that ever since slaves were brought to America we have been mired in racism. Still, this movie with its mostly note-perfect story-telling is uplifting rather than depressing. Last week Mississippi opened its civil rights museum and a Democrat, civil rights lawyer Doug Jones, just won an Alabama Senate seat ("turning back the dead hand of George Wallace," said Howell Raines, retired editor of The New York Times and an Alabama native). We are on a journey and must move forward.

Mudbound got raves on the festival circuit but was not picked up for distribution until content chief at Netflix, Ted Sarandos, stepped up. Yet this might be one of the more absorbing and meaningful films of the year in its quiet revelation of America’s original sin. It came to theaters and has been streaming on Netflix since late November and has received some nominations for awards, including Mary J Blige’s ‘Mighty River’, a spiritual she co-wrote and sang for the film (press here to have a listen).

The above post was written by our 

 monthly correspondent, Lee Liberman.

Black lives mattered: Nancy Buirski's latest, THE RAPE OF RECY TAYLOR, opens in theaters

Over the past six years documentarian Nancy Buirski has made four terrific non-fiction films: The Loving Story, Afternoon of a Faun: Tanaquil Le Clercq, By Sidney Lumet and now THE RAPE OF RECY TAYLOR. If her newest documentary does not reach -- film-wise, at least -- the level of her previous movies, its subject matter alone makes it an extremely important piece of work. The documentary relates the story of the titular 24-year-old black woman in Alabama back in 1944 who, after leaving an evening church service and walking toward her home and family, was forced at gunpoint into an automobile by/with six young white men, who took her off with them, raped her multiple times and mutilated her sexual organs (she was unable to have more children after the rapes) and then left her by the roadside, once she had promised "not to tell."

This is a disgusting tale, though not at all unusual in our Southern states during the time of Jim Crow (yes, and before and since). What makes it particularly resonant at this moment, of course, is all the instances of sexual harassment currently coming to the surface and their seeming consequences for the harassers.

I say "seeming" because only time will tell how much will actually "change" regarding male behavior toward the female. Yet whatever problems white women have had regarding sexual harassment, the plight of black women in our country's history would seem to be at least ten times as awful.

What made Recy Taylor's case so significant was less the event itself than her reaction to it. She and her family actually spoke up about what had happened to the community at large. Ms Buirski, shown at right, lets us discover all of this -- the event, finally, and Recy's and her family's reaction to it -- and her film is full of shock and anger at how and why all this took place. (And took place much more frequently than most of us whites would care to know.)

We experience how the black community around the nation rose to the occasion, raised money and publicized the event and its follow-up.

What makes the movie fall down somewhat, particularly compared with the filmmaker's earlier projects, is the fact that Buirski evidently did not have access to nearly as much specific archival footage as in her previous films. Consequently, she must rely on imagined or re-created footage, most of which simply does not do the trick.

Almost from the beginning, this seems unnecessarily repetitive and a little tiresome. And yet, once we hear the known facts of the case, the anger and enormous sense of injustice is so strong that it carries the movie along.

We hear from Recy's surviving family members, from a few of the surviving white families of the perpetrators or their friends, along with other Alabama folk -- many of whom present a very good picture of just why Roy Moore is so likely to win his upcoming election. It's a degrading, disgusting spectacle. But, hey, that's our South, honey. D.W. Griffith would be proud.

The Rape of Recy Taylor is a story that needs to be told, and I am glad Ms Buirski rose to the occasion. Given what she had to work with, I suspect that the film is as good as we could get in terms of a full-length documentary. Though perhaps an hour-long program for television might have worked even better.

From Augusta Films and running 91 minutes, the movie opens in Los Angeles this Friday, December 8, at Laemmle's Monica Film Center, and in New York City next Friday, December 15, at the IFC Center.

Jonathan Olshefski's QUEST, another top-notch documentary, makes theatrical debut in Philly

2017 has been a banner year for documentaries (and we still have a month left to discover even more of these). To the current list of winners must be added QUEST: A Portrait of an American Family, the new doc from Jonathan Olshefski that covers a period of some eight years, along with the events, growth and change that come to one unusual and yet, one might think, fairly typical Black family who lives in North Philadelphia.

Mr Olshefski, pictured at right (with someone whom I am guessing is a member of his own family), became a friend of his movie family a couple of years before he began filming them and, as he states in his press release, "That friendship is the most precious thing to me -- the film and all that comes from it is a bonus." Quite a bonus it turns out to be.

The documentary's subject family is the Raineys: father Christopher Rainey (shown below, left, and known as Quest), Christine'a Rainey (known as Ma and shown below, right), their daughter P.J. (shown at left, two photos below), William Withers (the son of Christin'a via an earlier marriage) and eventually William's own son.

There are also a number of folk we meet from the family's North Philly neighborhood in which Quest runs a music studio that boasts a weekly Friday-night talent fest where neighborhood kids come and practice their original rap songs. (Not surprisingly, I guess, these are all males.)

Chief among the rappers is a long-time friend of Quest, who has lost himself in booze and drugs yet keeps trying to make some sort of comeback. His scenes are among the movie's saddest and least hopeful. But hold on, things may change.

Ma works in a community center where she brings home not much pay, and it was never clear to me how much income dad's studio might be bringing in. But somehow the family manages. There is a scene well along in the film regarding school supplies and new sneakers that absolutely nails the plight of families who simply don't have enough income to supply their kids with their "wants" in addition to their "needs." This makes for a powerful few moments indeed.

There is no overt mention here of "the Black experience" nor of any difference between the Black and the White environments (which so fills the new movie Mudbound, which my correspondent, Lee Liberman will be covering here next month). Yet race and class are as ever-present in this documentary as is possible because we are placed so firmly in the shoes of this family. James Baldwin, I suspect would have appreciated this film, even though it has been made by a white man. (I think he'd have also appreciated Mudbound, which was made by Dee Rees, a black woman.)

As a filmmaker, Mr. Olshefski does a terrific job with his camera, placing it right into the midst of things yet almost never allowing it to appear obtrusive. This lets us come, film-wise, as close as possible to the lived experience. Along the way, we must deal with cancer, sudden and shocking street violence, and a GLBT issue to boot. The last of these, in fact, provokes the most conflict we've seen between man and wife. Among other of the movie's powerful moments are those in which Ma talks about the house fire from which she escaped but that left her badly scarred. (Later, in a particularly lovely scene, Quest holds her hand and tells her how he feels about those scars.)

The film begins during Obama's first term, takes us through his re-election and into the racist campaign of lying miscreant, Donald Trump. To hear that idiot mouthing his appeal for Blacks and Latinos to vote for him -- "What have you got to lose?" --  in the midst of watching this amazing documentary, is to experience near-stroke-inducing anger over what too much of our country is currently doing to itself.

If the Raineys can be seen as a "typical" Black family, the documentary also points up how impossibly tricky and useless that adjective really is. Olshefski film offers up a family that surprises us, makes as smile and breaks our hearts.  There is even, toward the end, a major Black Lives Matter moment in which we hold our breath.

Despite all the difficulties that occur over the years, Quest is finally somewhat hopeful, and the Raineys are, I believe, as memorable as any family yet captured in a documentary.

From First Run Features and lasting 104 minutes, the movie opens this Friday, December 1, in Philadelphia at the Ritz on the Bourse, on December 8 in New York City at the Quad Cinema, and in Los Angeles on December 15 at Laemmle's Monica Film Center. It will open in the weeks following in another half dozen cities. To see all currently scheduled playdates, cities and theaters, click here.

BRONX GOTHIC: Andrew Rossi & Okwui Okpokwasili's film attempts a blend of performance art and personal history

James Baldwin lived and wrote in hope that his country's white population would someday come to better understand -- intellectually, emotionally, experientially -- its black populace. His writings, both his fiction and non-fiction, were designed to that end and indeed helped many white readers make this enormous and difficult reach toward "the other." Performance artist Okwui Okpokwasili -- dancer, writer, actress, artist -- appears to have a similar goal, refined however to concentrate on the lives of black girls in a land of whites.

Documentary director Andrew Rossi (pictured at right, who earlier gave us Page One and The First Monday in May), along with Ms Okpokwasili, has now made a documentary film, BRONX GOTHIC, that tries to meld this titular performance piece with a view of its creator, her history and beliefs, along with a look at her family: parents, offspring and husband. The result is an uneasy mix that left TrustMovies alert but unsatisfied, wanting more of both the performance piece and a better, fuller, richer understanding of this woman (shown in the photos below) who made it.

Bronx Gothic -- this documentary, not the performance piece itself -- is my first experience at seeing any of Okpokwasili's work. Perhaps those more familiar with her and her oeuvre will better appreciate the film, but I found it often jarring and, even less forgivable, repetitive. Considering that we see only a few segments of the performance piece, I wonder why Mr. Rossi felt he should let us see and hear things we've already seen and heard once rather than something new and different from her theater piece?

Also, why offer up artsy camera-shots when what we really want is to be immersed in the experience of watching and listening to Okpokwasili, as the audience at the performance seems to be. A camera that mimicked the viewpoint of a single audience member might have done more to engage us than this unnecessary visual frou-frou.

As we learn bits and pieces of Okpokwasili's history, the woman herself begins to emerge, even if her theater piece does not, except in a much lesser way. Early on in the film she tells us that "We leave little girls vulnerable," and from the view we get of the audience watching, it certainly seems that some of these women -- some men, too -- identify or at least agree with this viewpoint.

Later, regarding how blacks are perceived, she explains that "The persona that you put up to protect yourself bleeds into the idea that you're some kind of threat." And finally, regarding how films, novels, television and the general culture keeps reminding us of a history white America would rather forget, she sums up the situation by noting that "The past is always what's happening right now."

Okpokwasili is an impressive presence: often stunningly beautiful, always intelligent and insistently communicative. So Bronx Gothic, overall, is not a wasted experience. But I do wonder if a simple rendering of the complete theater work itself, followed by an entirely separate documentary about its author, might not have been the wiser and more fulfilling route to take.

From Grasshopper Film and running 93 minutes, Bronx Gothic will open this coming Wednesday, July 12, in New York City at Film Forum, and on July 28 at Laemmle's Music Hall in Beverly Hills and the Wexner Film Center in Columbus, Ohio. To see all currently scheduled playdates,cities and theaters, click here and then scroll down and click on Where to Watch toward the bottom of your screen