"Rights," wrongs, and a welcome salvage: Asghar Farhadi's early gem, ABOUT ELLY

Those of us who do not travel to film festivals have been waiting to see ABOUT ELLY since 2009, when the film won the Silver Bear at the Berlin Film Festival. Thanks to issues of "rights," this movie has remained in "American limbo" since then. Written and directed by Asghar Farhadi, who went on to give us the Oscar-winning A Separation and then The Past, the film is at last being distributed by The Cinema Guild and hits the U.S. with its theatrical premiere this Wednesday, April 8, here at Film Forum in New York City, before arriving in another 16 cities across the country, beginning in May.

In addition to being, for this viewer at least, the best of Farhadi's three films that I've seen, About Elly also gives us further clues as to why this filmmaker, shown at right, is so able to work seemingly unmolested by censorship, house arrest and the like -- unlike, say, Jafar Panahi. Farhadi is one hell of a lot subtler than Panahi, as well as much more dramatically compelling in his stories.

The filmmaker shows us what look like middle-class (tending toward the upper) characters, who rarely if at all appear to be religious and who would -- except for their language and the headdress of the women -- be nearly indistinguishable from those of many European countries and, hell, even from us here in the USA. No wonder Farhadi's films are so popular with the cinematic elite of the western world.

Further, the concerns of these characters mirror so many of our own -- from the usual man/ women relations to child-rearing and -schooling to setting up one of their good friends with a possible "significant other." More important, where fundamentalism is concerned, whatever problems these people have can easily be attributed to their own faults and misdeeds, particularly those of the women on view -- something that would of course appeal to a fundamentalist/ patriarchal society like Iran (and OK, a few other countries, too.)

And yet I don't believe for a minute that Farhadi truly feels this way himself. Look at what happens in A Separation or About Elly (The Past is set in France and so wiggles out a bit from my theory), and you see people so constricted by their society and its mores that they have no genuine control of their lives -- except by towing the party line.

When something mysterious and possibly fatal happens in About Elly -- the sudden disappearance by the sea of one of the main characters, which will put movie buffs in mind of L'Avventura -- watch what occurs between a husband and his wife, the latter of whom turns out to know much more than he (or we) realized about Elly, and who has kept these facts from the rest of the group. What we get is sudden anger, then verbal and physical abuse. To us this may be shocking, but you just know it will please those religious censors.

About Elly seamlessly weaves its exposition into smart, believable dialog between these friends as they head out and arrive at their seaside week-end away. We learn tons of information about all of them, piecemeal, and over the long haul. What we learn about Elly makes us concerned and uneasy, though we won't understand why for quite some time.

How these people handle themselves, their friends, their children, smacks so thoroughly of the way we all do the same -- with affection and hypocrisy, lies both white and black, trying to balance self-interest with reputation. The big difference here is the society under which the characters must live. And that, to Farhadi's great credit, changes everything -- for everyone, including especially Elly.

Finally it seems, almost everything here is a lie, thanks to a culture based on them -- due of course to that exquisite combination of faith, religion and political power. If the shy school-teacher Elly at first seems to be the outsider, by the finale it is difficult  not to see every character as somehow "outside" the norm -- or would be, if the truth were to come out.

As a filmmaker, Farhadi balances visuals and dialog extremely well. He gives his cast all the room they need, and each comes across with a beautifully specific performance, while blending seamlessly into the ensemble. I am not going to list them all because each is as good as the next. And several cast members -- women and men -- are exquisitely beautiful, to boot. The filmmaker's final image, by the way, is a great one.

About Elly -- running almost exactly two hours, in Persian (with a bit of German) and translated with English subtitles -- opens this Wednesday, April 8th at New York City's Film Forum. You can see all currently scheduled playdates, with cities and theaters listed, by clicking here and scrolling down a bit.

Sunday Corner with Lee Liberman: Steven Knight's PEAKY BLINDERS -- Our bad men

Today's post is written by our sometimes correspondent, Lee Liberman

PEAKY BLINDERS is the story of a 1920's English gang named for their peaked caps into which razor blades were stuck for cutting enemies. (The real Peaky Blinders are shown below.) It's a better Boardwalk Empire situated in grungy sulfuric Small Heath, Birmingham, between World Wars. I struggled to get into it (not being a gang warfare fan) just to see the charismatic and unusual Irishman Cillian Murphy (above) in the lead with best Brits Tom Hardy, Charlotte Riley, Helen McCrory and Ireland-born/New Zealand-raised Sam Neill in major roles.

Sometimes you run across a gem and this is one -- slow to draw you in but increasing in addictiveness. It reminds one of The Godfather but is not operatic, rather with a grunge punk vibe -- it whines and bangs like the machines of industrial Birmingham, made immediate with its score of plaintive blues and metallic hard and boogie rock. Prolific screen-writer/novelist/director Steven Knight (below, of Dirty Pretty Things, Locke and many more) describes the Birmingham of the period as the workshop of the world, filled with weapons, cars, metal parts, liquor, and other goods for export -- a melting pot of hard men that drew workers from all over the UK. It was Knight's birthplace and the story of his parents' world.

A mix of fact and fiction, Peaky Blinders is novel genre to the Brits who feast on their aristocracy and great literature but not on their gangster past. Like Michael Corleone in The Godfather, Tommy Shelby plans to convert the family's illegal betting (below), protec-tion, and black market rackets into legal busi-nesses. The dirty work proceeds as alliances shift among Gypsy, Jewish, and Italian gangs (Bolshe-viks and IRA too). The returnees from World War I have come back trained killers, suffering from PTSD, marinating in opium, cocaine, whisky -- ready to explode.

Even with the violence, one can get lost in the fathomless blue eyes of Tommy Shelby, whose angel face and self-knowing melts the heart of woman (if not man). The trenches stalk his sleep but his grip is firm on business. If necessary he'll pound a man to death, but he does try hard to avoid violence; this female viewer was sucked right in to Tommy's combine of soft-spoken iron rule and tenderness (almost willing to look the other way at his ruthlessness ).

Aunt Polly ran the gang's gambling business while Tommy and brothers Arthur and John (Paul Anderson, below, and Joe Cole) were at war; she is the family glue -- acted by marvelous Helen McGrory (above, from Harry Potter, Skyfall). Aunt Polly mothers rebellious niece Ada (Sophie Rundle) and the brothers; she's part matriarch, part floozy, part business woman, a deadly shot, disgusted at the violence of her nephews but quick to defend her bad men. (How's this for a power couple: McGrory and real-life spouse Damian Lewis.)

Tommy's nemesis, the vitriolic Major Campbell (Sam Neill, below) is a Belfast secret service officer imported by Winston Churchill, then secretary of state, to recover a shipment of stolen guns in Tommy's accidental possession before they get into the wrong hands (the IRA, for instance).

Campbell's distaste for the Peaky Blinders ratchets up as his sweetly beautiful spy Grace (Annabelle Wallace, below) betrays him by falling in love with Tommy. Campbell seethes: Tommy Shelby is a "murdering, cut-throat, mongrel gangster...a worm who crawls in through your ear..." No wonder. Tommy relentlessly goads Campbell over who dodged the war, who was the war hero, and whom Grace loves. 

Almost cartoonish, their combat has a touch of Warren Beatty's 1990 Dick Tracy vs arch-enemy 'Big Boy' Caprice (Al Pacino). The treacherous Campbell and other characters are over-blown just enough to cut the violence with the comic edge of something approaching camp. But they are still emotionally real -- Knight understands how people talk to each other. "People often say the opposite of what they mean, they repeat themselves constantly," he said in an interview. Knight's ear for real conversation makes his characters stick in your head.

The second series introduces some London based crime figures including Alfie Solomons, a real life Jewish crime boss played by Tom Hardy, magnetic no matter what he does. (His crazy- edged Alfie offers up a seder to die for, above). Hardy's wife, Charlotte Riley, (they met co- starring in PBS's 2009 "Wuthering Heights") plays aristocratic horse trainer, May, who takes on Tommy's horse for race-training and aims to saddle Tommy, too. Tommy leaves us dangling; he loves Grace but she betrayed him and May's world means door-openers for Shelby business.

The series received 6 BAFTA nominations (British Academy of Film and Television Art) and won 2013's Royal Television Society Award for best new series; yes -- it's just plain good. Steven Knight is a master of all parts. Snoop Dog is reported saying that gangs are copying the clothes, and I see Peaky Blinders haircuts on the street. Series 1 and 2 (6 episodes each) are streaming on Netflix now; Series 3 will debut fall, 2015.

In John Martoccia's religious melodrama, DEATH OF A TREE, faith goes bonkers -- yet again

It begins with a seemingly endless round of preach, preach, preach, and closes with a climax of gun-fueled melodrama followed by a denouement of more preaching (and immediate conversion, of course, as most of these faith-based films allow for zero doubt). In between, DEATH OF A TREE, the second movie from John Martoccia, ambles along with scene after scene intended to show us how foul our current life style really is: How women wear clothes that are far too skimpy (never mind that our leading man is almost constantly seen in a tank top that reveals his arms and torso in all their glory: let the ladies take the blame, as usual); how one's reputation is far more important than what that person believes (wives, of course, are the culprits here; hus-bands do the right thing); and how abortion is the biggest crime imagin-able, while god, the Catholic Church and the Bible are the only true law.

If all this strikes you as the gospel to live by, you're gonna love the movie. If not, there may be a few problems, since Mr. Martoccia (pictured at right), as both writer and direc-tor, has saddled his film with characters who would rather yak about everything than probe their own behavior in more than cursory fashion or -- heaven forfend -- behave in a way that is more than cliché. This man is old school, for sure, and while this in itself could prove interesting if he were willing to go deeply into things, instead he relies on tried-and-true Catholic dogma to solve everything.

Further, he has his characters behave in ways that are simply too stupid to countenance, unless he intentionally wants to hand us a movie that keeps threatening to descend (then finally falls utterly) into the realm of camp. To give just the main example: He has his hero, the hot-looking Ronnie Marmo (above), keep placing temptation in his own way, despite the warning of friends and priest -- again and again and again -- until he falls for it.  Wow: That's a shockeroo.

Further, his leading lady, Gracie Tyrrell (above, left), exhibits most of the signs of a woman genuinely in love -- until his hero's narrow-minded obsessions or her own sudden mental instability do her in. Which is it, Mr. Martoccia? Is there simply no hope for anyone on this earth unless they bow down to patriarchy and Catholic dogma and "do the right thing"? (I suspect, on the basis of Death of a Tree, that the filmmaker is no fan of the current Pope.)

The movie begins with a poem written on the screen, and we see a man praying while being screamed at and threatened by another man. Then that prayerful one starts preaching -- at himself, at the other characters, and of course at us in the audience, and this simply never ends. The film turns out to be one long sermon by people who seem so limited in their understanding of life, human nature, and especially the enormity of that creation called god, that this constricts them and their movie entirely.

More poetry occurs now and then throughout, and we eventually discover that our hero is an artist. The surprisingly sophisticated art shown here looks actually pretty good, but the nitwit dialog given our hero to spout about it makes it seems nearly impossible that this guy could have created that art on his own. The dialog, in addition to the preaching, is full of male prerogative and scriptural cliche ("The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak), with a villain who, in addition to all else, is grammar-challenged. Says he: "There is a lot of girls I could bang."

Oddly, if audiences manage to sit through this debacle -- which, at only 79 minutes, is still far too repetitive -- they may actually emerge chastened, cleansed and finally understanding that, thanks to the stranglehold of religion on some brainwashed minds, no one in this movie has a chance in hell of leading an intelligent, fulfilling life.

Death of a Tree opens today at Manhattan's Quad Cinema, with a Q&A taking place by both John Martoccia (writer/director/producer) and Ronnie Marmo (lead actor) after the 7:45pm screenings on Wednesday April 8th and Thursday April 9th.  

EFFIE GRAY: Emma Thompson/Richard Laxton's quiet, careful look at Victorian mores and morals

The question "What's a young girl to do?" has seldom taken on a more haunting, depressive scenario than the one observed in EFFIE GRAY, the new film written by Emma Thompson (who also has a plum role here) and directed by Richard Laxton. The poster at right looks all sunny and bucolic. Don't be fooled: This is one dank, dark film with only an occasional bit of brightness to help us weather Effie's personal and continuing storm. Extremely feminist in its quiet, close-to-the-vest manner, the movie should have you, like poor Effie, eventually ready to climb the walls.

The movie is based on real-life characters and real-life events that have, as we learn while the end credits roll, been tweaked quite a bit to fit the scenario created by Ms Thompson that shows us the life that might have happened to young Effie (played with a pretty good accent and a fine dose of repressed feeling by Dakota Fanning), above and on poster, top left) after she married the prominent art critic, artist, "thinker," and philanthropist John Ruskin when she was around 18 years of age. It ain't pretty. Or kindly. Or in any manner just.

Yet, given the Victorian times in which this tale takes place, believability is not the problem. Nor is the character of the man -- played in equally repressed fashion, which then turns to shock and finally anger, by Greg Wise (at right) -- who took Effie as his wife. Ruskin, as portrayed here, is one of the supreme, if initially unintentional male chauvinist villains of all time -- moviewise, at least. Why could he not, would he not, consum-mate his marriage? Of course, we first imagine perhaps he was homo-sexual. But the movie does not give us much evidence of this.

Instead, Ruskin, as seen here, was indeed a "mamma's boy," and with a mama like the one played by a rip-roaring (but of course in Victorian subdued fashion) Julie Walters, above left (along with David Suchet, center, as Ruskin's dad), we quickly note this man's utter inability to get out from under his controlling parents.

Enter (eventually) a young artist named Everett Millais (the properly anguished Tom Sturridge, above), who becomes a kind of quiet champion of Effie, as well as her friend and -- we hope, in time -- something more. But all this takes place in an era in which women were kept down by convention and not least by their very own Queen Victoria, a champion of the "morality" of the time -- or so that is what the world knew of her via public reputation.

Screenwriter Thompson and director Laxton (shown at left) keep all this at just a simmer throughout, with the bubbles slowly growing larger until that boiling point is reached. Whether or not audiences -- even the arthouse crowd -- will have the patience to take this journey of very slow under-standing and growth is problematic. The film held my interest throughout, due to some excellent acting and occasional respites from the doom and gloom. A couple of these are provided by Ms Thompson (below, left) and James Fox (below, center) playing a long- married pair, Elizabeth and Charles Eastlake, who, as shown here at least, came to have an effect of young Effie.

Another source of brightness and pleasure (for awhile, anyway), is the trip to Italy taken by the Ruskins, on which Effie is introduced to an Italian Viscountess (Claudia Cardinale, below, left) and her son (Italian heart-throb Riccardo Scamarcio, below, right) and she and we get to spend some time viewing the wonder and glory of Venice.

Visually, the movie stays true to its theme of repression. Inside or out it is usually dark, dank and gloomy, with the occasional shard of light all the more impressive. The light, in fact, comes to represent some kind of freedom and/or escape.

When and how this arrives is fraught with hope and worry, and provides the film's most suspenseful moments. Even then, at the finale, the bow that our girl must make to Victorian convention remains unsettling and constricting. We know from historical record that the bare outline of events shown here did happen. But what became of Effie Gray? The movie ends in media res, but you can find much of the answer here. And while I sincerely doubt that any sequel is in the works, were one to appear, I'd certainly see it.

The movie -- from Adopt Films and running 108 minutes -- opens this Friday in an unusually wide limited release across much of the country (in 24 of our 50 states). Click here then click on View Theaters and Showtimes to see all scheduled playdates, with cities and theaters listed. 

Victor Levin's little treasure, 5 TO 7: Out of the blue comes the best love story in many a year

An instant classic, as well as the finest love story -- small, endearing but enduring, full of surprise, sadness and joy -- that I've seen since can't-remember-when, 5 TO 7, the new film by a fellow named Victor Levin (shown below), will surely knock the socks off folk looking for a movie romance that is funny, moving, believable and intelligent.

For foreign film buffs, the title 5 to 7 can only bring to mind the wonderful Agnes Varda movie, Cleo from 5 to 7. Comparisons are not inapt, as this new film, though much more "mainstream," is also quite French (in its attitudes, along with two of its stars). Its purpose -- together with entertaining us royally -- is to make us think and consider possibilities for relationships that we may not have allowed ourselves as yet enough freedom to fully engage. As writer/director, Mr. Levin's set-up could hardly be more European: a struggling young writer (Anton Yelchin, below, right) and a slightly older woman (Bérénice Marlohe, below, left) become involved, initially purely for a trysting relationship -- that will take place between the hours of, yes, 5 to 7pm.

Where this relationship goes will not be difficult to guess, but how it gets there, and how it engulfs us -- ah, that's something else. Mr. Levin has a splendid touch with dialog. I have not heard anything quite this good in a love story since, well, the time of the classics. And Levin doesn't do "racy," either. He's not trying to get us all hot and bothered with double entendres and the like. He want us to listen. And hear. And the conversation is so good that we hang on every word.

Visually, the director and his cinematographer (Arnaud Potier) do some lovely things with middle- and long-distance shots, over which some of that crack dialog is heard. This gives us viewers distance, as well, so that we see (and hear) the relationship as it grows and deepens -- without so many of those crass close-ups that eventually seem to cheapen things.

We see three generations in the process of this storytelling, too, with the older one brought to terrific life and art by Glenn Close (above, left) and Frank Langella (above, center), who play the Yelchin character's parents with tremendous humor and grace.

The "other man" -- just how European this movie will seem becomes plain when you discover his identity -- is played with his usual flair and substance by Lambert Wilson (above, left), while that man's mistress is played by an actress we can't get enough of, Olivia Thirlby (below).

The casting here is inspired, and so are the performances -- especially those of Yelchin (vital and engaging at every moment) and Ms Marlohe (below, who has both great beauty and a lovely, ever-so-slightly-withholding presence that often marks one of the differences between American and European actresses).

The cast also includes a number of important New Yorkers who actually play themselves (one such honcho is shown below). Mr. Levin, or his casting directors-- Billy Hopkins and Heidi Levitt -- must have some connections to have gotten these people to agree to their cameos. Or maybe it was the screenplay itself. Who would want to pass up the chance to be a part of a motion picture this good?

Culture clash, coming-of-age, love, lust, and the important of children and family. All of these are somehow given their due, along with themes of creativity, writing, and what counts as art. This is quite a lot to pack into a mere 95 minutes. But damned if Mr. Levin has not done it.

His final scene strikes such a amazing balance of strength and poignancy that you'll be holding your breath, while his final line of dialog is simply magical (and, I suspect, more truthful in actual example than not). His film is also an ode to the park benches (above, with their little plaques) of our sometimes fair and way over-entitled city.

In fact, the movie is a tricky kind of ode to that entitlement. What makes 5 to 7 a fantasy (for anyone except the wealthy) is that all this only happens here to those of entitlement. Our young man is no starving writer; in fact, as helped along by his wealthy parents, he lives pretty damned well. And all those he get involved with are living well, too.

This does nothing to lessen the film's intelligence nor its beauty. But a fantasy -- for those of us in the no-longer-middle-class or the working-poor -- it most certainly is.

5 to 7, from IFC Films, opens this Friday, April 3, in New York City at the IFC Center and probably elsewhere, too. The following Friday, April 10, it makes its VOD debut, so just about everyone across the country can discover the pleasures of this wonderful, intelligent and almost shockingly mature love story.