It’s perhaps something of a nautically-titled coincidence, the meandering nature and theatrical roots that Drunkboat share with Jack Goes Boating, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s 2010 directorial debut. But both movies represent passion projects ill suited to cinematic adaptation, or at least sludgy, unresolved, mannered and grating in their realized incarnations.

Drunkboat centers around a down-and-out Vietnam veteran and drunkard, Mort Gleason (John Malkovich), who has an epiphany of sorts and returns to his childhood home in the Chicago suburbs, where his sister Eileen (Dana Delaney) still lives with her son and Mort’s other nephew, Abe (Jacob Zachar). She’s at first distrustful and suspicious of his newfound and fragile sobriety, but eventually leaves him in charge of Abe to go on a date out of town. With dreams of busting out of this sleepy one-horse burgh, teenager Abe has dreams of… buying a boat? Yep. And his desires dovetail with the latest scheme of con man and salvage dealer Fletcher (John Goodman), who’s puttied and painted up a heap of wooden maritime garbage with an eye on unloading it for a couple hundred bucks. Abe is interested, but needs an adult signature on the bill of sale.

Drunkboat is directed by Bob Meyer, and co-adapted from his own (apparently semi-autobiographical) stageplay of the same name. Its music occasionally seems to posit that the movie is some sort of vaudevillian comedy, and Fletcher is written as a comedic figure as well. But the movie is a stilted, tonal mishmash, and its insights are spare. Drunkboat toggles listlessly between the conceptual and specific, never successfully translating to screen ideas that might connect more readily on stage, in the abstract.

As an alcoholic ex-poet teetering on the edge of self-destruction, Malkovich is great, lost in a boozy self-reflection laced with notes of pained regret. Naturalistic and reactive, Zachar is also good. But Goodman grates, and the movie invests a regrettable amount of time in his pointless shenanigans. Many other films assay the slippery qualities of drunkenness and repentance in far more arresting fashion. Drunkboat unfortunately just ambles along, in languid fashion. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. For more information on the movie, click here. (Seven Arts/Lantern Lane, PG, 98 minutes)

Warped, testosteronized rivalry has informed the cinematic canon of the Duplass brothers, Jay and Mark, in films like Cyrus and Jeff, Who Lives at Home, but that area of inquiry actually has its roots in The Do-Deca-Pentathlon, a fun little bauble they shot in 2008 as their third feature film, after The Puffy Chair and Baghead and before those two aforementioned movies. Buzzing with a low-fi honesty and intimacy, the movie exudes a charming quality of realness and small, to-scale catharsis that mark it as a treat indie film fans should definitely seek out.



Based loosely on a pair of ultra-competitive brothers who grew up down the street from the Duplasses, the film centers on Mark (Steve Zissis, above left), a schlubby thirtysomething guy who’s visiting his mom (Julie Vorus) with his family when his estranged brother, Jeremy (Mark Kelly, above right), shows up. The pair, once close, have basically stopped speaking to one another as the result of a massive, three-day, 25-event athletic competition as teenagers that ended in a disputed tie (their underwater breath-holding contest was interrupted). Egged on by Jeremy’s sniping and clucking dismissal, Mark finds his competitive impulses re-awakened. Even though his wife (Jennifer Lafleur), worried about his health and stress levels, tries to limit Mark’s contact with Jeremy, the duo conspire to hold a clandestine rematch, and settle the matter of brotherly superiority once and for all.

As a comedy of men behaving badly, The Do-Deca-Pentathlon is a lot of fun. Zissis and Kelly needle each other in fine fashion, and the Duplass brothers capture in smart, shorthand strokes how self-esteem can get caught up in sibling rivalry, and battles for parental attention. But the movie is also about awakened fraternal bonding. While the events — everything from pool and ping-pong to arm-wrestling and basketball — offer up the chance for a few fun little set pieces, the Duplass brothers’ film (a focused and unfussy domestic snapshot, at only 75 minutes) is mostly concerned with assaying masculine norms and methods of communication and respect. There’s a lot of recognizable truth here, amidst the considerable silliness. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Red Flag Releasing, unrated, 75 minutes)

A horror movie in only the loosest sense, writer-director Nicholas McCarthy’s The Pact is actually more of a psychologically rooted chiller, in which the dark, repressed memories of a turbulent and unhappy childhood come bubbling to the surface. Whether its disturbing twists are meant to be taken literally or as intense manifestations of trauma is a matter of debate up until the final reel, and then even afterward.

Following their estranged mother’s death, Nicole (Agnes Bruckner) leans on her sister Annie (Caity Lotz) to return to their childhood home and help settle her affairs. Annie is reluctant, but when she arrives, Nicole is nowhere to be found. After the funeral, a series of unnerving events follows — noises in the night, objects moving about, and then more even powerful paranormal disturbances. Annie reports her sister’s disappearance to the police, and also discovers a hidden room in the house. Further digging then leads her to more revelations about her mother’s past.

Though it’s his feature debut as a filmmaker, McCarthy’s movie is based upon a short of the same name, and his familiarity and level of thought, investment and comfort with respect to the material is evident. There are echoes of the same sense of weighty familial and inter-generational guilt explored in movies like Steve Kloves’ Flesh and Bone, from 1993, and 2001’s Frailty, directed by Bill Paxton, and McCarthy also possesses a good grasp of effective, tension-building technique. The low-key production design and level of attention to detail is also superlative. If some of its narrative pivots come off as a bit fantastical as The Pact winds its way to its conclusion, the performances help hold an audience’s interest. Lotz is a solid guide on this journey, and the troubled Annie’s quest invites considerable sympathy. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (IFC Midnight, unrated, 91 minutes)

If a catchy, memorable and/or weirdly evocative title made a film, then surely Nipples & Palm Trees would be among the year’s best releases. Unfortunately, there’s plenty of color and sizzle but precious little of substance in this unenlightening tale of a down-and-out Los Angeles artist and his fitful relationship with his muse. The script for Nipples & Palm Trees smacks of Eric Schaeffer-dom, which is to say that it’s centered around an angsty, capital-a artistic protagonist, and created seemingly with the prime objective of giving the creator (in this case writer-actor Matt James) the chance to roll around naked with lots of ladies. Here, the nonsensical fantasy constructs include dinner-party gang-bangs and busty women who offer up joints and handjobs to strangers within five minutes of meeting them. Energetically shot enough to qualify as a travelogue curio for hardcore indie fans in search of another City-of-Angels valentine, there’s otherwise little to recommend this low-budget misfire. Nipples & Palm Trees plays July 13-19 at the Laemmle NoHo 7; for the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Cinema Epoch/Jackson County Films, R, 90 minutes)

A half-sketched tale of familial floundering, Nancy Savoca’s Union Square is a suffocating and pantomimed sisterly drama that makes an unconvincing and headlong dive into sentimentality for its finale, wasting a lot of effort and investment from lead actress Mira Sorvino.

Co-written by Savoca and Mary Tobler, Union Square is devised with strict parameters (of space, cast and type of story) in mind. But it’s not merely that the movie feels cramped (eschewing handheld camerawork in favor of boxy formalism, Savoca and cinematographer Lisa Leone fail to figure out a way to open up the apartment space that dominates the film’s middle) and lifeless; it offers no significantly deep insights into its characters, beyond a well-tailored set of pedestrian baggage. Union Square recalls plenty of other thorny big screen sister relationships, including those on display in Margot at the Wedding, Rachel Getting Married and Pieces of April, to name but a few. The complications here, though, are given surface-style treatment, and eventually swept aside for a strange and emotionally phony ending.

Sorvino does a good job of channeling her character’s angsty, overwhelming energy; it’s actually a credit to her performance that you kind of want to strangle or slap her. Like Lesley Manville in Mike Leigh‘s Another Year (albeit in different fashion), Sorvino’s Lucy is a totally suffocating presence, an unending cascade of breaking waves of neediness. The movie’s other performances, though, fail to catch fire. It doesn’t help poor Tammy Blanchard that she’s playing the habitural doormat sister, but even an inversion which is meant to reverse audience sympathies with respect to the characters provides no relief from her dour, unimaginative reading of Jenny. Mike Doyle, meanwhile, registers as a complete zero as Jenny’s live-in fiance Bill. Movies characters need not all be likable or interesting. But Union Square has so few characters that it would certainly help if at least one of them were, in even the most remote fashion. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Dada Films, unrated, 80 minutes)

Sports as a tool for upward social mobility is of course nothing new — in generations past, boxing was a big way out of miserable poverty, and followed in short order by baseball, football and basketball. As the world has grown smaller, however, enterprising clubs in various sports, seeking to better compete, have turned their attention abroad, with an eye on harvesting young talent at less than premium prices. Nowhere is this truer than in baseball, as illustrated by the engaging new documentary Pelotero: Ballplayer.

While it compares to just two percent of the total population of the United States, the tiny island country of the Dominican Republic currently fills a whopping 20 percent of combined major and minor league rosters, and has produced a steady stream of impact players and big stars, from Pedro Martinez and David Ortiz to Neftali Feliz and Hanley Ramirez. The craze has its roots in the huge success of the 1962 San Francisco Giants, which included Juan Marichal, Felipe and Matty Alou, and Manny Mota — major talents, all. The reasons for the significant uptick in Latin American investment over the past 15 to 20 years in particular are myriad, but in the broadest strokes relate to a relative downturn in American-born talent (see also: the surge in popularity of football, combined with the fact that baseball still takes more kids to play than hoops), or at least the cost to develop that talent over the course of several years, in a far more expansive and rigorous feeder system than other major sports leagues employ.

Narrated by John Leguizamo, Pelotero (which translates as ballplayer) focuses on two top prospects and their trainers as they prepare for July 2, the national signing day during which players can ink formal contracts with teams on their 16th birthdays. Miguel Angel Sano is a rangy shortstop with a smooth swing and plenty of power; Jean Carlos Batista is an infielder with quick hands and a quicker bat. Their respective trainers have each invested plenty of time in them (and other prospects), so they look to the 35 percent commissions on what they hope will be seven-figure signing bonuses as a means to fund their pro bono work, and keep their academies open. Before things are over, though, both Sano and Batista will have the validity of their ages called into question — not uncommon in the Dominican Republic. Hospital records, DNA tests and even bone scans (!) will ensue, spotlighting both the work and extraordinary pursuits and measures of an inter-American dream.

Pelotero: Ballplayer would make a great double feature with last year’s Elevate, which examined a Senegalese basketball academy which served as a feeder to the United States. Both movies examine, in interesting and sometimes uncomfortable fashion, the strange combination of moral benevolence (having lost his dad several years earlier, Jean Carlos talks candidly about his need and search for a father figure) and almost parasitic business interest that informs non-familial adults helping shepherd these kids.

In the sport of basketball — and particularly coming from Africa, where pro leagues are few — while the ultimate goal is to get paid to play professional basketball in the NBA, the Senegalese academies work their charges with an eye on prep school scholarships in the United States, and then college grants. There’s some focus on education, as well as a sense of collective social responsibility being instilled. In the Dominican Republic, these kids are signing binding financial contracts at younger ages. It’s hard not to have some moral ambivalence about that, and Pelotero indulges a bit more curiosity on this front than Elevate.

With as of yet no international draft, Major League Baseball has a clear and understandable motive to keep down foreign player development costs relative to Stateside signing bonuses, which routinely run into seven-figure territory for the most valued prospects. And in lifting up a few rocks in the stories of its two chief subjects, Pelotero seems to shine a light on that (other) dirty “c word” — collusion. Would teams mutually agree upon not paying the same rates to a foreign player that they might to an American-born prospect? Or even smear, malign and spread rumors in order to drive down competition and market price on a player? Well, it’s a sport, and a sunny summer pastime for many, but baseball is also a business. And Pelotero is the athletic equivalent of an unannounced Nike or Apple factory tour. (Strand Releasing/Endeavor Films, unrated, 77 minutes)

A respite from his more recent sociopolitical filmography, and an unapologetically bawdy blast of violence, backstabbing and revenge, Savages represents Oliver Stone’s most streamlined and overtly commercial movie in more than a decade. It also feels less than the sum of its parts. A super-stylish but overlong drug-running kidnap drama starring Aaron Johnson, Taylor Kitsch and Blake Lively, Savages skates by on colorful but sometimes thin characterizations, evincing no great point beyond the mode of its telling. How disqualifying that damnation is rests in the eye of the beholder.

The film’s main redemption lies in its evocative telling — Dan Mindel’s gorgeous, sun-dipped cinematography alternates between gritty fever dream and beguiling travelogue — and its acting. In the latter category, John Travolta gives a tack-sharp performance shot through with desperate self-preservation, while Salma Hayek plays a chilly matriarch. It’s Benicio Del Toro, however, who steals the movie — exuding a dark, magnetic charm and pumping rich, intense depth into the untold backstory of his character, a brutal enforcer. For the full, original review, from Screen International, click here. (Universal, R, 130 minutes)

The Best Screenplay award winner at the Sundance Film Festival, Safety Not Guaranteed is an entertaining and endearing little seriocomic bauble that, while having a smidge of fun tweaking genre conventions and expectations, also richly mines for laughs the pained regret and fumbling desires of its characters in much the same manner as Alexander Payne. A movie of exquisite silver linings — which locates the humor in the swallowed ache of emotionally stunted men without ever selling out the legitimacy of their feelings — director Colin Trevorrow‘s debut offering heralds a solid new talent on the indie film scene.



Needing a story, Seattle magazine writer Jeff (Jake Johnson, of New Girl) pitches his boss (Mary Lynn Rajskub) on tracking down the person responsible for a strange classified ad seeking someone to go back in time with the author, reading in part, “Must bring your own weapons, safety not guaranteed — I have only done this once before.” Given the go-ahead, Jeff snatches up two interns — Darius (Aubrey Plaza), a disillusioned live-at-home college grad, and the timid Arnau (Karan Soni, above center), a studious biology major trying to diversify his resume — and sets out for the tiny seaside community of Ocean View, where the ad has a listed post office box number.

There, they discover Kenneth Calloway (Mark Duplass), an eccentric and paranoid grocery store clerk who’s convinced he’s solved the riddle of time travel. The real impetus behind Jeff’s desire to hit the road turns out not to be the story on Kenneth, but instead an old… well, adolescent sexual conquest, Liz (Jenica Bergere). With Jeff spending his time pursuing her, the specifics of getting the actual journalistic scoop fall mostly to Darius, who slowly gains Kenneth’s trust. In the process, she finds herself becoming decidedly intrigued with his nerdy survivalist ways, and the fact that, Kenneth’s weirdness notwithstanding, people really do seem to be following him.

As penned by Derek Connolly and directed by fellow New York University graduate Trevorrow, the film is a beguiling combination of pin-prick comedy (Darius is told she’s “not a quality hire” by a restaurant manager after a painfully blunt interview) and melancholic character notes. There’s a breezy, lightweight quality to a lot of the movie’s banter, but it never seems false or out-of-step with the characterizations, which are actually quite nicely sketched, and deepen emotionally with time. As Darius and Kenneth kind of trip and fumble toward something approaching romantic bloom, and the movie flits about the edges of the grander sci-fi fantasy its conceit suggests, Jeff’s blossoming disillusionment and unhappiness is rendered in contrast to Darius’ emotional thawing.

Duplass, kind of jittery and guarded, nicely captures both the hurt and hope in Kenneth (who will only say that his mission involves “mistakes, regret and love”), and Johnson delivers a winning turn as a man-child who finally if improbably seems to discover the tools that might enable him to grow up. If not for all its other considerable pleasures, Safety Not Guaranteed is also, at the very least, a winning feature showcase for Plaza, an ensemble player on Parks and Recreation whose sardonic wit is here, for perhaps the first time, leavened with grace notes of vulnerability and longing. It’s the look of someone who wants more, and is realizing that she’s capable of it, and it’s a look that suits both the character of Darius and Plaza herself. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (FilmDistrict, R, 87 minutes)

The directorial debut of Alex Kurtzman, co-screenwriter of big-budget genre fare like Star Trek, Cowboys & Aliens and the Transformers movies, People Like Us takes aim at the intense affection and resentment that only family can inspire, telling the story of a young man’s discovery of a half-sister he never knew he had. An affectionate drama marked and buoyed by engaging performances, the movie’s apex of catharsis is a genuinely nice payoff, but the home stretch of the road it takes to get there bends a bit too much toward convenience.

Still, if one can overlook various road-bumps and the obviousness with which the dramatic boil gets turned up, there’s much to enjoy. The movie’s technical package is solid. Shooting in a bevy of locations, cinematographer Salvatore Totino delivers a Los Angeles that feels palpably rooted as these characters’ homes instead of some tourist snapshot fantasy of the same.

The performances are winning, as well. Chris Pine and Elizabeth Banks have a legitimately nice chemistry, and the latter brings a sardonic, self-defensive pop to scenes even if the movie shrugs off her character’s disease of alcoholism in short order. Michelle Pfeiffer, meanwhile, showcases a fragility laced with surprising reserves of flintiness. And in his feature film debut, young Michael Hall D’Addario is solid. For the full, original review, from Screen International, click here. (Disney/DreamWorks, PG-13, 115 minutes)

Like last year’s Life in a Day, which also aimed to catalogue a single day on this planet, documentary One Day on Earth is the result of a massive undertaking from a diverse group of volunteer filmmakers assembled by a participatory media experiment. Beguiling as well as meandering, but thought-provoking and frequently gorgeous, it’s an interesting nonfiction snapshot that — in capturing the wide variety of life, human and otherwise — is much cheaper and more exotic than any similarly farflung, passport-stamped itinerary a viewer could put together on their own.



Overseen by director Kyle Ruddick, and wrangled into shape from more than 3,000 hours of footage in more than 70 different languages (subtitled here when necessary), the one day from One Day on Earth is October 10, 2010 (yes, 10/10/10). A web site helped spread the words regarding submissions, but a few grants and a United Nations connection of the filmmaking team also helped place cameras with more than 95 UN offices in an effort to allow people to film in countries where it would normally be difficult. Amazing footage from a few other countries (North Korea, we’re looking in your general direction) arrives via what one supposes are smuggled in cameras.

The country of origin for each piece of footage is labeled. And, like an old VH-1 pop-up video, One Day on Earth is tagged with statistical trivia that holds true on the film’s date of production — some hopeful or pause for thought (26.3 percent of the world’s population is under 14 years of age), and some sad and grim (45 percent live on the equivalent of $2.50 per day, or less). Mostly, though, despite its thematic groupings and standard-of-life comparisons (food preparation, transportation, water potability), this movie is just a field trip through life, with all the wide-eyed skips of the heart it implies.

A young girl in Tajikstan picks cotton to earn money for her books, while elsewhere another parent admits her disappointment with the one daughter of hers that has continued in school past fourth grade, since it means she can’t assist in making money for her family. In Haiti, a young woman talks about the emotional after-effects of the earthquake, and how they are channeled into her art. In Kosovo, a bride (above) gets made up in elaborate fashion for an orthodox wedding ceremony.

Given its more esoteric roots, there’s a certain ceiling for a movie like this, it’s true. But One Day on Earth highlights the interconnectivity of life on this planet, and the simple fact that our fates are bound together in this wonderful, perilous journey. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. For more information on the film, meanwhile, click here. (One Day on Earth, unrated, 104 minutes)