For a week-and-a-half last year, writer-director James Toback and Alec Baldwin glad-handed their way through the Cannes Film Festival, trying to secure financing for a proposed film — a Middle Eastern-set political/erotic thriller they envisioned as a type of spiritual cousin of Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris. Seduced and Abandoned, then, is their travelogue-cum-pitch-video, wherein they talk high-minded cinema with fellow creatives while facing the cold realities of film financing while trying to shake down billionaires for funding.



An entirely odd but nonetheless endearing sort of valentine to the madness of movies in general and the dizzying swirl of Cannes much more specifically, Seduced and Abandoned may be niche product for cinephiles, but it captures the tug-of-war between art and commerce in a unique and engaging fashion. Baldwin, on the precipice of cycling out of 30 Rock at the time of filming, is candid about his impending return to the film world, and the re-awakened creative fire it seems to have lit in him. He and Toback share a particular fascination with Last Tango in Paris, and so their chat with Bertolucci (who reveals that Marlon Brando didn’t speak to him for five years after making the movie, possibly because he pulled “so much personal truth” out of him, the filmmaker opines) has an agreeable quality that would be at home on a Criterion DVD or Blu-ray release.

That’s only part of Seduced and Abandoned, however. Toback and Baldwin are quite serious about their project, even if the notion of a mid-50s Baldwin as the focal point of a torrid love triangle speaks to occupational metaphors of reclaimed virility that neither the star nor filmmaker seems to want to discuss. They envision the film set in Tikrit, at the height of the Iraq War’s bumblefuckery, and set out to procure a budget of $20-25 million. This eventually gets whittled down, to $15-20 million, but a variety of bundlers each tell the pair that about $5 million is the realistic ceiling for a movie of this sort with Baldwin attached.

Toback (Harvard Man, Black and White, Tyson) is both an iconoclast and a man of not insignificant ego and appetites, and so Seduced and Abandoned flirts heartily with pretension almost from the get-go. What helps most hold that judgment at bay — in addition to some savvy, subtle editing work by Toback, who overlays ruminative banter between he and Baldwin with the interstitial footage that bridges their various interviews and meetings — is the fact that the movie just honestly delivers great anecdotes, from a diverse roster of interviewees that includes Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Ryan Gosling, Jessica Chastain, Diablo Cody, James Caan, Roman Polanski and more.

Coppola, a somewhat surprising but quite reasonable critic of Cannes, trips into recounting throwing away all his Oscars while discussing not really having an ending for his latest film, Twixt. Talking shop, Gosling gripes good-naturedly about close-ups, wide shots and the like before giving Blue Valentine director Derek Cianfrance props. Critic Todd McCarthy, meanwhile, coughs up a story about Robert Altman loudly haranguing Pauline Kael as a cunt, after Shelley Duvall was awarded Best Actress for 3 Women at the 1977 festival, but Altman awarded no individual citation.

As a movie itself, Seduced and Abandoned has a scattershot focus, as well as no small bit of ego-stoking. (Toback makes sure to include several scenes of Scorsese complimenting him.) But it works, in its own jumbled way, because in celebrating Cannes and the creative drive, writ large (“Making movies brings structure to the chaos of my life,” says Toback), behind all the attendant wheeling and dealing and compromise-weighing, it reminds viewers that actors, writers and directors have hopes and desires just like everyone else. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (HBO Films/Hanway Films, unrated, 99 minutes)

Stepping into the blood-soaked prom dress made famous by Sissy Spacek in the 1976 film adaptation of Stephen King’s novel of the same name, Chloë Grace Moretz toplines director Kimberly Peirce‘s Carrie, about a shy outcast who ends up unleashing telekinetic terror on her classmates. Passable only as a piece of recast entertainment for those who’ve never heard of the original, much less seen it, Carrie doesn’t plumb the depths of adolescent isolation its premise obliges. There doesn’t seem to be a pronounced rationale, beyond commercial reward, for this relatively undistinguished remake.

At the core of Carrie‘s emotional disconnection, unfortunately, is Moretz’s performance. Spacek’s Oscar-nominated turn in the 1976 film casts a long enough shadow that any young actress would have some trouble escaping it; Spacek tapped into the title character’s pitiable qualities with such a consuming focus that it was at times painful to watch. Moretz, still just 16 years old (almost a decade younger than Spacek was at the time of filming), is a talented young actress, but lacks, at least here, the ability to convey an emotional hopelessness resulting from years of ground down self-esteem. Her Carrie is all over-articulated social shyness and body shame. For the full, original review, from Screen Daily, click here. (Sony/Screen Gems, R, 99 minutes)

With its allegorical connection to both race relations and the Vietnam War, Night of the Living Dead changed horror movies forever. Other filmmakers made, and continue to make, memorable entries in niche offshoots of the genre — be they of the vampire, werewolf, slasher or other monster persuasion. George Romero‘s shoestring-budgeted 1968 independent film, however, fundamentally redefined the modern zombie movie, altering the very DNA of such films. Rob Kuhns’ new documentary Birth of the Living Dead, then, has plenty to chronicle, and engagingly merits its existence — both from the legitimate perspective of academic-leaning film historians as well as more casual horror fans. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (First Run Features/Glass Eye Pix, unrated, 76 minutes)

A nonfiction look at Afghanistan‘s first independent news channel, TOLO TV, The Network charts the difficulties inherent in trying to establish and grow a business, inform a disparate and under-educated populace, and achieve just a basic level of regained cultural stability in the face of almost constant mortal uncertainty. In her directorial debut, Eva Orner exhibits a deep and sincere passion for her surrogate subjects and what she clearly believes to be the balm of this unique “edu-tainment,” a fact which helps offset a somewhat jumbled editorial vision. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. In addition to its theatrical engagements, The Network is also available on VOD. For more information on the movie, click here to visit its website. (FilmBuff, unrated, 97 minutes)

One of the buzziest titles at this year’s Sundance Film Festival, Escape From Tomorrow comes to its reputation for dropping jaws sincerely, by way of its guerilla-style production technique. Shot in the monochromatic setting of the Canon 5D Mark II digital camera, debut director Randy Moore’s strange meditation on the inherent phoniness of family mores — part black-and-white student thesis film, part subversive attack on corporate-peddled American fantasy — unfolds in unauthorized fashion at Orlando’s Disneyworld theme park, with a pinch of green-screen assistance here and there. At times legitimately hypnotically alluring, Escape From Tomorrow runs out of gas and reaches a point of diminishing return halfway through, give or take, lending weight to the conclusion that this undersketched expression of paranoia and anxiety would have worked better as a short form offering.



Jim White (Roy Abramsohn, above right) and his wife Emily (Elena Schuber, above center) have brought their two young kids to Disneyworld for a family vacation. What his wife doesn’t know is that, as the film opens, Jim’s been fired from his job by phone. Together they plunge forth into the day. Soon, however, Jim starts noticing all sorts of strange things. When his son skins his knee, a nurse advises that the “cat flu” is going around. As if on cue, Jim starts not feeling well. All this coincides with two giggling, pre-teen French girls (Danielle Safady and Annet Mahendru) who catch Jim’s eye at various park attractions. Soon, this would-be idyllic family vacation unravels completely into a Kafka-esque nightmare.

Escape From Tomorrow casts a spell, certainly. Until it doesn’t. The film is meant to be an indictment of the mythology of artificial perfection — the magical orderedness of Walt Disney’s kingdom, where everyone is friendly and happy. And the movie’s juxtaposition of private stimuli — of libidinal impulses, shame and disorientation — with public spaces (and an iconic one at that) is heady stuff early on. But the more fantastic and out there Moore’s story becomes, the less interesting and appealing its mode of expression is.

Technically, Escape From Tomorrow rates almost two different scores. The bold ingenuity of the basic idea, as well as the level of planning involved in, say, charting the position of the sun in order to be able to shoot outdoors without lights, rate highly. It’s a shame, though, that some of the execution isn’t better. The use of classic Hollywood instrumentation — both by way of composer Abel Korzeniowski’s musical contributions and selected extant cues — gives Escape From Tomorrow the feeling of an overly ripe, pungent family drama, making some of its plot twists and turns (better left unrevealed) all the more bizarre. Cinematographer Lucas Lee Graham, too, captures some of the discombobulating visual assault that theme parks offer. But patchwork fixes and set-shot material distract from the storytelling, suggesting a less acute sense of continuity than one might initially suspect, even grading on a curve.

An ambitious, hook-laden work of both considerable anger and pain (“And there’s nothing wrong with me/This is how I’m supposed to be/In a land of make believe/That don’t believe in me”), punk outfit Green Day’s seventh studio album, rock opera American Idiot, arrived with a boom in the fall of 2004 — a survey of social anxiousness and a scathing rebuke to the Bush Administration’s frittering away of post-9/11 international goodwill. A critically embraced masterwork, it was also a commercial smash, going on to sell more than 15 million copies worldwide, and six million-plus in the United States alone. Still, despite both its success and its roots in the tradition of The Who’s Tommy, even the album’s most ardent fans would likely have been hard pressed to predict a triumphant translation to the Great White Way.



Documentary Broadway Idiot chronicles just that journey, though, and in doing so throws a warming, stirring light on the special catharsis of the collaborative creative process. A film about both challenges and choices, it works for fans of Green Day as well as those inherently more interested in the ins and outs of the theater world.

Full of rehearsal footage bolstered by interviews with frontman Billie Joe Armstrong (above) and other key players, Broadway Idiot does a good job of tapping into the source material’s thick veins of feeling. Armstrong estimates 90 percent of the album was autobiographical, and talks about “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” widely construed as a song about 9/11, being rooted in the death of his father. But the film also isn’t skewed unreasonably toward celebrity. Tony Award-winning director Michael Mayer, musical supervisor Tom Kitt and choreographer Steven Hoggett — the three main architects of the stage adaptation — get equal time here, and relate both their nervousness in getting the material “right,” and devising tweaks appropriate to a live staging.

Director Doug Hamilton’s touch is straightforward and unobtrusive — almost to a fault, at times. Adhering to a painstakingly reconstructed chronological tack, he takes viewers through the inception of the stage adaptation and its rehearsals on to a Berkley, California, premiere, Green Day’s Grammy performance of “21 Guns” with the cast, the show’s Broadway bow and, eventually, Armstrong’s acting debut in the supporting role of St. Jimmy. There’s a more adventurous edit somewhere here, but Hamilton doesn’t expand much effort trying to track it down. This is strictly meat-and-potatoes filmmaking.

Thankfully, between odd couple Armstrong and Mayer — great interviewees, each — Broadway Idiot has enough else going on to keep a viewer’s attention. Armstrong proves particularly thoughtful as to the nature of some of the skepticism he initially had in a stage adaptation of American Idiot, wondering about striking a balance between challenging viewers, many visiting from out of town, and playing to their desire to “see a fairytale.” (He also questions, in appropriately blue language, what Donald Trump is doing at the show’s Broadway opening night.)

The interesting thing is that, for all his enormous success as a rock singer, the reception of American Idiot on stage helped validate Armstrong as a songwriter in ways he didn’t know he was missing. In candidly describing himself as blindsided by the depth of relationships forged with the cast and crew of the show, Armstrong reminds artists and audience members alike about the powerful nature of shared bonds, writ large. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. Broadway Idiot opens this week in New York City and across VOD platforms, and expands theatrically to other cities beginning next week. For more information on the film, click here to visit its website. (FilmBuff, unrated, 81 minutes)

No mere hagiography, director Evan Jackson Leong’s engaging new nonfiction film Linsanity charts not only the amazing success story of its subject, NBA basketball player Jeremy Lin, but also emerges as a multidimensional portrait of his character, work ethic and religious faith. Commingling hearty seams of tabloid frenzy, familial roots, underdog uplift, racial identity and nose-to-the-grindstone occupational doggedness, Linsanity is a movie with a lot on its mind, but a solid vision as to the essential, interwoven elements of Lin’s astounding tale.



For non-sports fans, Jeremy Lin’s story is the closest thing in real life to the meteoric rise of Willie Beamen, as depicted in Oliver Stone’s Any Given Sunday. In that 1999 film, an anonymous third-string quarterback becomes a rich, adored multimedia sensation over the course of several games and a few short weeks. Despite there being a lot to like about the movie, at the time I tore into it a bit, particularly this baseless and seemingly unreasonable element of elevation to fame. Errr… whoops?

In February 2012, Lin — after having been waived twice within two weeks, by the Golden State Warriors and Houston Rockets — got a shot with the New York Knicks. With time running out on a temporary, two-week contract, and the Knicks beset with injuries, Lin was thrust into the starting line-up at point guard, with the thinking being that he would be cut after one or two games. Scoring more points over his first five games than any player in NBA history, however, Lin totally ignited his team, knocking down dramatic game-winners and sparking the Knicks’ longest win streak in over a year. For several weeks, he absolutely owned ESPN, and there was plenty of mainstream, non-sports coverage of his out-of-nowhere ascent too. “Linsanity,” it was dubbed.

Leong’s movie has the good sense to make this hook-y rocket ride its narrative spine, which helps for the sports-nut viewer who wants to relive it in burnished detail. And it’s aided greatly by loads of video footage and easygoing interviews with Lin during that actual time, from inside the bubble. But the filmmaker also has access to Lin and his family — including dad Geiming and mom Shirley, both 5′ 6″, as well as older brother Joshua and younger brother Joe — which helps sketch out a compelling parallel tale to stand alongside Lin’s New York minute. (He’s now signed a long-term contract with one of the old teams that cut him, the Rockets.)

Part of the media swirl in 2012 had to do with Lin’s race, of course, and the fact that as the only Asian-American player in the NBA, his success was shattering stereotypes about what an elite hoops point guard looked like. Linsanity, though, cannily reveals the deeper roots of this issue, digging back into Lin’s adolescence and charting his high stellar school career, his four years at Harvard University after having received no NCAA Division I athletic scholarships of note, and ping-ponging back and forth between the NBA and its developmental league. All along the way, Lin struggled with perceptions of what the ceiling of his talents might really be. Linsanity gathers thoughts about these impediments, both outwardly manifested and internalized, and casts them in interesting relief.

Most of all, though, Linsanity is just fun. There are plenty of amusing anecdotes herein (Lin talking about asking then-Knicks coach Mike D’Antoni about whether he should ship out his car to New York, or continue to take taxis everywhere), and candid personal bits that most newly famous personalities would blanch at sharing. (In reminiscing about his favorite childhood blankets, Lin ranks Lion King just ahead of Garfield, with a deep sincerity). Linsanity reveals a lot about not only its subject’s journey but his inner life, which makes one happy for Lin’s success even more. In an era of carefully scrubbed, homogenous sports personalities, here’s a guy not afraid to open up about his self-doubt, and the twin pillars of faith and family that helped him persevere. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here; for more about the film, click here to visit its website. (Ketchup Entertainment, unrated, 88 minutes)

With Nobel Son and Bottle Shock, filmmaker Randall Miller has provided a couple nice, meaty, showcase roles for Alan Rickman, giving the British-born thespian a chance to act snobby and standoffish and self-destructive. The pair’s trilogy of movies on the precipice of something greater — films with engaging protagonists and an interesting backdrop or pitch, but little sense of psychological depth — continues with CBGB, a celebration of the man behind the seminal New York City punk rock and avant garde club of the same name.



Despite an amusing opening that introduces its main character as a precocious little hell-raiser, the bulk of CBGB unfolds in the early 1970s. After two bankruptcies and an acrimonious divorce, sad-sack Hilly Kristal (Rickman, deliciously disheveled and droll) borrows some money from his mother to buy a dive bar in a grungy, rundown area of the Lower East Side. With his hardhat-wearing friend Merv (Donal Logue) and his semi-estranged, job-needing daughter Lisa (Ashley Greene) by his side, Hilly christens it CBGB, for the type of live music he wants to showcase — country, bluegrass and blues. Initially it only attracts drug addicts, bikers and other hangers-on, people with names like Idaho and Taxi.

Smooth-talking Terry Ork (Johnny Galecki), though, is looking for a place to book a band he manages, called Television. Hilly takes a flyer on them, even though their style is not of a piece with his initial vision. Soon other musical groups — arty, loud and/or otherwise of the misfit variety — are knocking at his door. And the more damaged and dysfunctional, the better; ever the champion of the underdog, Hilly takes arguably the worst of these bands, a quintet of rabble-rousing Cleveland junkies known as the Dead Boys, and agrees to be their manager. CBGB, meanwhile, becomes ground central for a raw, sociopolitically-charged, often nihilistic wave of counter-culture music.

Co-written by Miller and his wife, Jody Savin, CBGB chronicles all this swirling madness with a tone that might be best described as nimble bemusement. In films like especially Marilyn Hotchkiss’ Ballroom Dancing and Charm School and the aforementioned Bottle Shock, Miller has shown a penchant for surface subcultural exploration, and CBGB is no different. The time and place of its setting are the big hook here, and Miller uses interstitial comic book panels — complete with active exclamations like “Ptooey!” — to frame this entire tale as larger-than-life. It works for a long while, but eventually runs up against shallow characterizations.

CBGB more or less conveys a convincing sense of place; the malodorous production design practically gives off its own rotten stench (hat tip to Craig Stearns). But cinematographer Michael J. Ozier is handcuffed, either by schedule, resources, Miller’s staid vision or some combination thereof; the movie’s many musical segments don’t achieve liftoff like they should, and CBGB overall feels boxy and cramped.

Again, that would matter less if the script really got into the heads and hearts of its characters, but they remain mostly a mixture of ciphers and types. In addition to Television and the Dead Boys, Blondie, the Talking Heads, Patti Smith, the Ramones and Iggy Pop all cycle through the narrative. CBGB plays like a collection of beats, though. Hilly is a terrible businessman (he comps most folks’ drinks, stores cash in his fridge and doesn’t pay his rent), but Miller’s movie doesn’t root down into the pathology of this casually self-destructive behavior.

When the end credits roll with footage of David Byrne and the Talking Heads, at their real-life induction to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, summoning Hilly up on to the stage with them, it confirms the latter’s stature in music lore. It also reinforces how little one comes away really knowing about the man at the center of CBGB. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (XLRator Media, R, 101 minutes)

Once again proving that being original isn’t necessarily synonymous with being good, Cassadaga flirts with conventions of both paranormal horror films and more traditional serial killer thrillers. The independent production, a debut at Screamfest two years ago, aims to be a more character-rooted chiller, but it mainly ends up just being a boring slog.

Ostensibly named for a real-life small Florida community of mediums and spiritualists, Cassadaga centers around Lily Morel (Kelen Coleman), a post-lingually deaf artist and teacher who, following the untimely death of her beloved younger sister, is trying to pick up the pieces of her life and move on. When she meets Mike (Kevin Alejandro) the handsome father of one of her students, Haley (Rachel DuRose), things seem to be looking up. After Lily participates in a séance and ends up making contact with the vengeful ghost of a woman murdered long ago, however, things take a turn for the worse, leading to a killer who likes to turn his victims into human marionette dolls.

Writer-producers Bruce Wood and Scott Poiley succeed in keeping some of the more tawdry, base-level instincts of genre filmmaking at bay, and for a while that makes Cassadaga seem classy and intriguing. But despite its potentially intriguing backdrop, their script also seems desultory, marked by listless characters and indistinct dialogue. From the moment welcoming landlady Claire (Louise Fletcher) says to Lily, “That’s my grandson Thomas — he keeps to himself on the first floor…”, Cassadaga springs a slow leak. The rest of the movie is one big, long deflating, marked by a few moments of menacing violence.

With his mannered, non-exploitative take on the material, director Anthony DiBlasi succeeds in delivering a film that stands in distinct opposition to the clamorous, boo-scares editing of a lot of horror product. And yet despite this, Cassadaga still somehow manages to build to a scene of Lily running through the woods in a negligee, plus… sigh… a car chase.

Coleman is an attractive and sympathetic enough presence, but can’t hold viewers’ attention through long fallow patches. There’s simply not enough meat on this film’s bones, narratively speaking, to merit broader, general audience interest. Opening this week in top regional markets, including in Los Angeles at the Laemmle Music Hall, Cassadaga is also available across VOD platforms. (Arch Distribution, R, 111 minutes)

An admirable if wearyingly muddled attempt to throw a spotlight on one of the most iconic photographs of the 20th century, documentary Men at Lunch loses sight of its lede and fumbles away viewer interest.



“Lunch Atop a Skyscraper” was first published on October 2, 1932, during the throes of the Great Depression. Its photographer was unknown, as were its 11 subjects — anonymous figures against a misty Manhattan skyline, inclusive of Central Park, stretching out behind them. The picture was taken during the construction of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, 57 stories up in the air.

To this day the photo, which could only have been taken during this era, remains striking for a variety of reasons: the composition itself, the view from 850 feet up in the air, and of course the casual indifference of laborers for whom this habitat, and its inherent dangers, is second nature. The picture seems to capture and deeply embody something unique about the American spirit and work ethic, about steadfast, punch-the-clock commitment and reliability even during times of considerable hardship.

Director Sean O Cualain’s film coughs up a few definitive nuggets of information — debunking rumors of the photo being a fraud, but confirming it was very much a posed shot — and then chronicles in fitful fashion a 2003 New York Post contest and other some subsequent efforts to identify the subjects. Men at Lunch tries to thread a needle in too fine a fashion, being both an investigation and a homage to the ethnic immigrant class who would fundamentally change the face of New York City and the nation over the first three decades of the 20th century.

Some of the information about iron welding and construction at the time (developers would factor in a loss rate of one worker per every 10 floors) is interesting. But it’s not very well developed, and O Cualain and editor Daithi Connaughton have little sense of how to smoothly interweave their parallel narrative tracks, simply tossing out investigatory dead ends as random facts here and there, rather than involving viewers in the process. Men at Lunch would be better served solely pursuing one function, no matter its lack of conclusivity. As is, it feels like a mystery that its makers got halfway into examining, found out some other folks had done work, and ceased or modified their own efforts. It’s not a movie worthy of “Lunch Atop a Skyscraper.” The picture itself says more than Men at Lunch. (First Run, unrated, 66 minutes)

Science fiction, as a genre, has for a generation-plus been largely laboring in the long, cold shadows cast by 2001: A Space Odyssey, Alien and Blade Runner. There have of course been other films that swung for the fences, mixing entertainment with grand metaphorical statement, but the most interesting of those efforts were often low-budget gems that seemed to stand in opposition to the narrative preferences and demands of the Hollywood studio system. The default big-budget position has, for many years, been to figure out a way to introduce aliens and/or other mass-scale disaster — to inject enough action mayhem to hedge bets on the science fiction elements.



Filmmaker Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity is a game-changer, both for the genre itself and Hollywood filmmaking on the whole. Starring George Clooney and Sandra Bullock as a pair of astronauts whose mission suffers a catastrophic disaster, the movie is a state-of-the-arts showcase for some amazing special effects work, but first and foremost just a minimalist stunner and a master class in cinematic tension — pulling viewers into the infinite and unforgiving realm of deep space in a manner never before captured on the big screen.

Clooney plays rakish veteran mission commander Matthew Kowalsky, while Bullock is specialist Dr. Ryan Stone, a medical engineer on her first shuttle mission. Their spacewalk, and Stone’s installation of a special software upgrade, are interrupted by a belt of debris from a destroyed Russian spy satellite, which obliterates the shuttle and sends them spiraling out into blackness, tethered to nothing but one another. With no radio contact to Earth, the pair try to come up with a patchwork plan to make their way to a safe harbor.

Co-written by Cuarón (Y Tu Mama Tambien, Children of Men) and his son Jonas, Gravity eschews any Earthbound set-up or backstory, throwing its audience directly into the vast expanse of outer space. The resultant story is lean and sinewy, but notable as much for what it’s not as for what it is. While Gravity‘s disaster sequences are as gripping as any you’ll see all year, the film is chiefly gratifying as an exploration of the intense feelings attached to such incidents. As with J.C. Chandor’s forthcoming All Is Lost, Gravity is shot through with concomitant awe and despair over ultimate human insignificance in the face of nature and the universe.

Making deft use of unnerving silences as well as a gripping score by Steven Price, Cuarón and his behind-the-scenes team (including cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki, a frequent collaborator) craft the rare Hollywood movie that earns the distinction of its 3-D and IMAX presentations. In most films, there’s the occasional instinct to pull off one’s 3-D glasses, to see how images look around the edges, without augmentation; there’s never a moment that sort of thought passes through one’s mind during Gravity. This is an immersive masterwork. (Warner Bros., PG-13, 90 minutes)