Dan Mooney

All day today, the Foo Fighters’ twitter feed has been rattling off the many countries in the world where their latest album is Number 1. It’s a testament not only to how good the record is, and it is good, but also by their decision to market themselves on nearly every current media platform. They “leaked” the album themselves, streaming it on their website for a week before its physical release, then appeared on the New York-based TV show circuit (even hitting The Daily Show) the week of. A couple of months back, they played a series of “secret” LA-area shows ever so gently implied via twitter. It’s technological word-of-mouth, all of it, but for all the calculation involved it never quite neared the point of saturation. Of course, I’m a huge fan of theirs, so I’m biased. But it had also been a while.

Film was yet another outlet for the band. Foo Fighters: Back and Forth is a documentary that was shown in only a smattering of theatres across the U.S. (none in NY, however). Not leaving anyone out, in the end, it was also aired swear-less on VH1/Palladia, or some such merger. I caught it the weekend before Wasting Light’s release on the 12th of April, which is only a week ago but feels twice as removed. Hearing the guys talk added the human touch to all of these performances and recordings. But it could also have been an enormous extra on an expanded deluxe edition of the album, for how much of it was a making-of, if not an outright advertisement.

Apparently, there are other, older documentaries that tell the band’s early story. For such a fan, I have seen none of these. I’ve read a bunch about them, though, and was happy to hear again, though with greater detail, about the Foos’ genealogy. There have been many, many lineup changes along the way and it was fascinating to see and hear about them from both current and ousted members. My favorite moment, a small one, might have been seeing the footage of Pat Smear flamboyantly give way to Franz Stahl in the middle of a set, an occurrence I’d only read about. Dave Grohl, the “nicest guy in rock,” is human after all, seeing as he rerecorded first live drummer William Goldsmith’s tracks for The Colour and the Shape without telling him, or even the others, at first. Grohl expresses regret, and Goldsmith (his interview recorded separately it looks like) gets to tell his version of things, or rather, we get to see the hurt in his eyes, above his stiff upper lip. It was generally a crappy situation but we do see all sides of it, including Grohl’s fundamental responsibility of quality control, putting out material that would meet his high expectations, and the fans’. I also liked hearing what the other band members knew, and when. It’s behind-the-scenes drama that needn’t spill over into full enjoyment music but any proper narrative should address these kinds of things.

On the other hand, the movie doesn’t go into Taylor Hawkins’ appearing on only half of There Is Nothing Left to Lose. In one YouTube clip, Grohl speaks of the drums on “Learn to Fly” as if he played them himself: Looking into it further, he certainly did, along with a few other songs which are difficult to pin down exactly. I love the irony in this, by the way, because for all the rightful praise that Grohl gets as one of the best drummers around, that it’s so surprising he played whatever selection of songs, or that’s it’s hard to tell what he did or didn’t, is as interesting to me as it is disillusioning. Anyway, these details might have been too complicating, since the filmmakers’ saved Hawkins’ difficulties for the years after that, culminating in his overdose. (Another bone to pick: They never put years up in chyrons, so dates are extremely vague.) If nothing else, I realized then that this is a documentary, an incomplete, imperfect record of history. It certainly does its part for its time.

Details notwithstanding, I liked the pace of the first half or so, and the time and depth given to each record. However, the two full albums preceding Wasting Light, In Your Honor and Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace were given almost no time at all, as if they needed to be sacrificed for the newest one to be more fully explored. Perhaps these were covered in other documentaries, but after the first part I was hoping for more even coverage. The Wasting Light backstory and home movies were very enjoyable nonetheless, showing Grohl’s house and the garage where it was made. They all have families (and facial hair, maybe in solidarity, or not). Seeing these musicians as adults and fathers proved a nice contrast from their very youthful beginnings. Above all, though, it was satisfying to see everyone reflect on their career on a crest, rather than in a trough. Makes it seem like all the trouble has been worth it if only – but not really if only – for the film’s happy ending.

In brief: I was very happy with what was here, but more than a little disappointed about what was not.

3 stars/4 (B)

The series of colons in the title of this movie review is not a joke, by the way. It’s just how things shook out for this one.

I caught this 53-minute documentary on Netflix Instant and was pleased and touched by its both its content and tone. As the film addresses, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band is a raw, honest record, the first album Lennon recorded and released after leaving the Beatles. The songs are honest because they’re about John, putting his thoughts and emotions onto tape quickly and without much pretension. And because the album is like that, so is this film: There’s a satisfying overlap here between the musical and the biographical. Sometimes I prefer letting the music do the talking, but not this time, and not least because the reality absolutely informs the music.

The two intertwine pretty seamlessly, songs arranged practically if not precisely in order but also brought up rather naturally in the course of the conversation. What is said never veers too far in any direction – the details of John’s life are well interspersed among specific discussions of how the record was made and how some of the parts went. Some of my favorite moments are when two engineers, each sitting at a sound board, talk about recording the songs. They isolate certain tracks, drums and bass, or even vocals, to praise their subtleties or to give them their rightful due out of context. John’s screaming at the end of “Mother” is all the more wrenching when heard by itself. I love seeing or hearing tracks like this and these moments were terrific inclusions.

I’m impressed also by the collection of commentators, from Yoko and Ringo to Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn, journalist Richard Williams, and especially Klaus Voormann. Voormann played bass on the record, and Ringo played drums. Since both were also involved or associated with the Beatles from the group’s early days, and were asked by John to play on the record, their expertise is very insightful. I was particularly impressed with Ringo, in what he has to say and what is said about him. His playing on the songs is rightfully praised, both in his restraint and his contributions. But his accounts are especially moving to me. I’ve seen similar documentaries about the Beatles, and Ringo’s interviews there normally fit his Beatle persona, funny and charming. Here, he was toned down or even subdued, which suited the mood of the time, loose and free and relaxed but not especially lighthearted. He also spoke of drumming in a more artful way, explaining how on the record his and Klaus’ playing was to fit the emotion of the song, not to show off. That might always be the case but this time, the description was neither defensive nor pretentious, and fit the bill perfectly.

On a larger scale, I’m very happy with the time period that this film covered. Toward the end of last year I saw LENNONYC, from American Masters. That excellent documentary covers roughly the last ten years or so of Lennon’s life, mostly spent in New York. That’s an enjoyable, even seminal cinematic chapter in Lennon’s life story. This film I’m reviewing covers the period between LENNONYC and the big one before it, The Beatles Anthology. From a completist’s perspective, it’s tremendously satisfying, but even more fundamentally, it centers on a strange new time in Lennon’s life when he was particularly vulnerable, not beholden to any band but also just getting accustomed to that freedom. I certainly recommend it.

I was disappointed not to catch this one in theatres this past fall because it would have made a fitting complement to John Lennon’s 70th birthday celebration. And that’s not because it’s a joyful movie, though there are plenty of highlights, but because it’s one that mostly covers a particular, eventful, formative portion of his life – age 15 to 20, or so – one not usually or at least not as specifically or profoundly portrayed in other biopics. In others, too many others, an actor – 30s, or older – is made up and his hair is combed just so and he’s asked to play a figure, an iconic figure, who achieved iconic status by his mid-20s. So the post-Beatles portion of his life is to be believed well enough, but the earlier, more familiar portion is strained. In Nowhere Boy, the actor again is retrofitted, but the usual hurdle is easily eclipsed.

At the start, John is shown to be living with Mimi (Kristen Scott Thomas) and George, his mother’s sister and her husband. We see him at home and at school, and he’s the John Lennon we know, sarcastic and charming and enthusiastic. His household is loving if also a bit old-fashioned, his uncle George being the more engaging and playful of the guardians. The somewhat formal upbringing hints at a culture that represses John just enough to create and nurture that need for self-expression.

John’s backstory is filled in subtly: Trips to visit his mother around the corner are actually sort of illicit, and his father is not in the picture, so as we watch we wonder also how this arrangement came to be. Occasional flashbacks to his boyhood foreshadow an explanation without dwelling on the chronology of it all. The focus on his teenage years is firm and the film is structured to further dramatize a story with plenty of emotion to begin with. In time, we see that the main thread, even more specifically than his adolescence, is the interplay of John and his two “mothers” – Mimi and Julia – and what each has to offer him.

The actor’s age – Aaron Johnson was likely 18 or 19 during filming – actually goes a little way towards coloring and complicating the relationship between John and his mother Julia (Anne-Marie Duff). His mother introduces him to rock and roll, to playing the banjo, and to Elvis. She’s expressive and flirtatious with almost everyone, including John’s friends – and even John himself. With “Mr. Sandman” playing over one of these early scenes, thoughts of Back to the Future are seemingly not out of place. It comes across as reverse-Oedipal to start, so I think an actor any younger would have created an uncomfortable situation to watch, however true to life, in any case one unnecessarily overshadowed by this apparent sexuality, in gesture and in speech. John’s slight reciprocation and his jealousy show a character facing a turbulence exacerbated by both adolescence and his own atypical childhood.

For historical necessity, and maybe for relief from some of the more difficult emotional issues, for us and for John as well, we see him getting his band together. We’re at the garden fete where Paul (Thomas Brodie Sangster, drummer Sam from Love Actually) sees the Quarrymen perform, and soon after which he tries out for the band with “Twenty Flight Rock.” We’re on the bus with the group when George plays “Raunchy.” We’re even at the band’s first recording session. I found these biographical touchstones helpful and lighter in tone on the whole, though some were certainly both touching and heavy. They were well-intertwined with the main thread in that the nuts and bolts of the Beatles’ beginnings – without sounding dismissive of both personal and musical history – provided the background such that this other portion of John’s narrative could be told.

Nowhere Boy gives us yet another dimension of the life of John Lennon. Many of the details available in books are indeed accurate, but regarding those I’m not sure of, for the purpose of this movie especially, the accuracy of the emotions that are addressed and evoked is no less important.

In brief: John Lennon’s teenage years, with emphasis on his two mothers, the conflicts and the strangeness. There’s some music but this one’s more about the young man.
3 stars/4 (B)

This movie remains an integral part of the Bellboy Invasion of the early ’90s, a movement arguably spanning Blame It On The Bellboy through Dunston Checks In, the latter of which is itself integral to a concurrent Primate Invasion, which I may address at some point. It’s also important for Tarantino completists, for the content he wrote and directed and also for its anthology structure perhaps foreshadowing Grindhouse (among other, clearer inspirations).

The setup is simple: Tim Roth plays the bellboy, the only employee working at LA’s Hotel Mon Signor on New Year’s Eve. He’s relatively new to the place and without being too nervous about it, wants to make sure everything works out. He gets increasingly frazzled as the night gets increasingly complicated. He starts out very quiet and rather obsequious, but from the start moves with a physicality somewhere between Charlie Chaplin, Bugs Bunny and Mr. Bean. His personality changes through the night as the demands on him are ratcheted up, not staying at the cool remove of the aforementioned Mr. Bean but accommodating each story as needed, his emotions curving and escalating as necessary. He’s the glue that holds it all together and I cut him as much slack as he earned.

The movie is as advertised, divided into four sections. I thought of the movie, in the end, as kind of a rock show: A number of openers followed by the headliner. That might not be entirely fair to Robert Rodriguez, who directed the third, very good part, “The Misbehavers,” because the divide between that section and Tarantino’s excellent fourth section isn’t as much as between their half and the lesser first half.

“The Missing Ingredient,” directed by Allison Anders, is the first of the four. It’s the supernatural one of the four: A coven of witches (maybe redundantly phrased) book the honeymoon suite to resurrect their entombed friend, turned to stone forty years earlier. In an emergency, the bellboy is enlisted to lend a hand, so to speak. I found this section a little flat, considering what it entailed, its problem too easily remedied. Such was also the case in the second portion, Alexandre Rockwell’s “The Wrong Man.” The bellboy stumbles into a room where a married couple are playing games, the husband accusing the bellboy of having slept with his tied-up wife. The threat is immediate but doesn’t go much of anywhere along the way, until it’s ultimately resolved and too easily so.

Rodriguez’s section is excellently done. My earlier Bugs Bunny reference is here turned on its head: A wealthy couple want to go out for New Year’s, and they leave their kids in the hotel room and order the bellboy to check on them. The bellboy becomes the victim, the Elmer Fudd, Wile E. Coyote, Buttons, while the kids take funny advantage of their power. The story takes a strange turn but it’s the most farcical of the group, meaning the elements combine like truly satisfying clockwork.

My favorite of the four was the last one, “The Man From Hollywood.” It’s Tarantino in the ’90s, the dialogue excellent, interestingly done in only a few very long takes. Usually I’m impressed by the combination of writing and directing, but this time, it was mostly the directing and the acting. In what could be a series of one-act plays, this is the one-act-playiest, the long takes creating a tension in me that ends up mimicked in the story itself. It brought me in the most of the four and actually did return the bellboy to his earliest, most natural, most relaxed state. Mission accomplished, there.

In brief: Two rooms leave more to be desired, two are good-to-great.
2 stars/4 (C+)

Secret Window, one of the longest-tenured movies on my Netflix queue, plays out like a middle-of-the-pack episode of The Twilight Zone. At the beginning there’s a quick introduction of the protagonist, a quick setup of his problem, and at the end there’s an explanation by way of a twist (or a reversal, or a stating of the obvious). But in the middle there is a vast expanse of near nothingness, not unlike outer space. Every inch of story is important in that it inches the production closer to the revelation, so in those doldrums of Act Two, complications can’t be too exciting. Characters can’t become self-aware too soon. While in some movies the middle section is all the better for the suspense having been built slowly, in Secret Window, and many others, it’s a hammock of a movie, more interesting towards its edges, less so in the meantime.

For a movie hinged on one relentlessly ominous character, John Shooter (John Turturro, his blank stare in full effect), who claims Depp’s character plagiarized him, there is a laid-back vibe throughout the film. Too laid back. Much of it is set in upstate New York in a rustic house to where writer Morton Rainey (Johnny Depp) has retreated, now six months after finding his wife Amy (Maria Bello) cheating. It’s a lesser The Shining in some ways, an isolated writer now facing inexplicable threats, but it’s far less extreme, and maybe proportionately, far less exciting for that reason. The house, yet another in a long line of country retreats I’d love to rent, is set on a lake but is part of a small town. That slim line of connection to neighbors and the police cuts the tension.

Also cutting the tension: The acting. Almost everything seems to be underplayed. When things start to happen, serious things, the characters seem unfazed by them. In a way, the acting and the feel of the town, Tashmore Lake, are of a kind – relaxed, stoic – so I won’t fault it absolutely. But in the end, the withheld or at least unseen emotions do less to cast an eerie pall than to make me wonder if they are truly upset or scared by what’s going on.

The movie is based on a Stephen King novella, Secret Window, Secret Garden, and without having read it, it’s impossible for me to properly dole out praise or blame or credit between him and David Koepp, who wrote and directed the movie, at least in terms of story choices, if indeed the movie was faithful. But good movies have been made out of bad books, so Koepp must undertake the responsibility for doing his best to make a movie out of it. The result in this case was so-so. Things clicked as much as they didn’t. The charm was the actors’ more than the screenplay’s, into which it seemed impossible to inject any comic relief that worked. I didn’t feel cheated, which is always a plus, but I wasn’t quite thrilled either.

In brief: Separated writer menaced at his upstate home. Moderately suspenseful but not frightening.
2 stars/4 (C)