Part Scarface, part In America, immigrant’s tale For the Love of Money puts a Jewish-American spin on the hardscrabble and borderline-illegal fight for entrepreneurial rooting that colors dramatic depictions of so many stories of strangers trying to find their way in opportunistic and upwardly mobile fashion in a new country. Touting itself as based on true events (and feeling very much financed by some of the parties depicted in the movie), it’s a period piece that breaks no great new ground, but neither does it terribly embarrass itself.

The film opens in Tel Aviv in 1973, in a family bar/illegal gambling den that’s a haven for all sorts of seedy characters. Eventually ready for a change, Izek (Yehuda Levi) moves to Los Angeles while still a teenager, trades up on a number of business ventures assisted by a kindly real estate agent (Jeffrey Tambor), and eventually hooks up with his cousin Yoni (Joshua Bitton) to open an automotive repair shop. Izek even lands a wife, in the form of comely Aline (Delphine Chaneac).

Years pass, and Izek still dreams big, though — wanting to open an even bigger auto mall, and get into real estate and construction. His business is threatened when Izek unwittingly crosses a hotheaded mobster (James Caan), and shortly after that situation resolves itself further temptation arrives via a recently paroled cousin, Levi (Oded Fehr), who is all too eager to return to a life of crime. Against this turbulent backdrop, Izek must try to juggle his outsize ambitions while also deciding how married he is to his moral compass.

Directed by Ellie Kanner-Zuckerman, For the Love of Money leans fairly heavily on its performers to make something out of the material, cycling through a bunch of similarly temperamental, two-dimensional, mid-level mob-type villains, kind of like a Nintendo videogame circa 1991. Throwing money at expensive music cues (“Spirit in the Sky,” “Magic Carpet Ride” and “Cult of Personality,” among many others) and trading in fancy stock footage to flavor the proceedings and mark/pass the time, the movie works more on almost academic level rather than an emotional one — as a thumbnail, period piece sketch of small business appetite and its intersection with gotta-get-mine criminal intent.

Penned by Jenna Mattison, For the Love of Money features familiar characters doing familiar things, and even when crisis pops up it’s more apt to be tamped down or smoothed over by coincidence than any great action by its protagonist. It’s not that the movie is aggressively bad, it’s that its presentation too often feels reductive. Males bond by doing the hearty shoulder-clasp thing, a slow-motion automobile hit is set to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight,” and threats of grand bodily harm are conveyed in the absence of repayment. Viewers have traveled this road of criminal menace before, only this time it’s peppered with more exclamations of “L’chaim!” For more information on the movie, click here to visit its website. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Archstone, R, 93 minutes)

Over the past century more than 45,000 large dams have redefined river corridors around the globe, taking fresh rainwater deposited for hundreds of years into the oceans and re-directing it for human purposes of energy and commerce. Patagonia Rising takes as its area of inquiry the fight over one such controversial plan in Chile’s famed wilderness. A well-meaning but dry and pedantic documentary, the movie doesn’t do much to bring fire, passion or interest to this story outside of a demographic consisting of the most ardent environmentalists. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (First Run, unrated, 88 minutes)

An interesting documentary that rather criminally buries its lede, Pink Ribbons, Inc. examines the ubiquitous pink ribbon campaigns for breast cancer awareness, and how — in distressing but perhaps classically American fashion — the movement has moved from activism to consumerism. Director Lea Pool assembles a fantastic collection of medical experts, authors, activists, social psychologists and others, but never quite tames her unwieldy collection of thought-provoking opinions into a coherent and cohesive entity any grander than the sum of its disparate parts.

Candid, focus-group-style personal discussions amongst women living with breast cancer (including one of the country’s few Stage IV-specific support groups) lends Pool’s movie an emotional pulse, but it’s the commingled pique and critique of Barbara Ehrenreich, Dr. Samantha King, Dr. Charlene Elliott and others that give Pink Ribbons, Inc. a most gripping sense of intellectually rooted provocation. Examining how, over the last two to three decades, certain parties have pushed and backed a culture of corporate philanthropy in place of governmental investment in medical research and social issues, Pool’s film delivers a pretty unsettling indictment of the phoniness of cause-marketing, which is what corporations and brands like Yoplait, Ford and KFC do when they ply consumers with advertisements and promotions promising charitable donations on their behalf in exchange for purchases.

This debate over the commodification of breast cancer, and the militaristic metaphors often deployed in the realm of public discussion (a “battle against,” “survivors,” etcetera) is an important one, because it gets to the heart of a two-fold pattern in American life — the cynical manipulation of a widespread basic decency in the country, and a tendency to commercialize the treatment or tamping down of problems and ills rather than attack underlying systemic causes. This has everything to do with socioeconomic inequality, but while Pool doesn’t run from this line of inquiry neither does she find a way to truly focus on it in laser-like fashion.

The underwater portion of the issue iceberg, of course, lies in the fact that in the 1940s breast cancer impacted about one in every 22 women, while today that rate stands at roughly one in eight. And it’s here, in its treatment of possible environmental factors for this terrible boom (think: plastics), that the movie stumbles most badly. It’s more than 50 minutes into the film before this question is even addressed, and the issue of suppressed corporate chemical research and testing is treated as an adjunct, when it really says everything about the silent conspiracy at the heart of this go-go capitalist machine. For hardcore documentary fans this smart but problematically constructed film is still definitely worth a look, but Pink Ribbons, Inc. doesn’t deliver enough of a knockout blow to win over audiences not already predisposed to lend an ear to its message. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (First Run Features, unrated, 98 minutes)

A hot mess whose sub-par direction kind of neutralizes its fantastic comedic premise, as well as the delight of some of its wonky supporting performances, High School is a willfully “stupid” stoner comedy, yes, but it also illustrates the gap between stupid done right and merely indulged too far.

Co-written and directed by John Stahlberg, the film centers on a straight-arrow kid and soon-to-be valedictorian, Henry Burke (Matt Bush), who takes a healthy hit of potent weed from his estranged stoner friend, Breaux (Sean Marquette), on what turns out to be the day before his deranged principal, Leslie Gordon (Michael Chiklis), institutes a sweeping anti-drug policy that jeopardizes the academic goodwill and standing for which Henry has labored so long.

Faced with being unable to pass a mandatory drug test for students, Henry and Breaux concoct a masterful on-the-fly scheme — to steal some even more extra strength ganja from an epically eccentric dealer, Psycho Ed (Adrien Brody), in an aim to spike the offerings of their school’s bake sale, get everyone blazed and thus invalidate the tests. This eventually leads to assistant principal Brandon Ellis (Colin Hanks) and others wandering around dazed and confused, while a panicked Henry and Breaux try to scrape up enough money to stave off a beatdown and/or murder at the hands of the aptly named Psycho Ed.

High School‘s basic premise is a fantastic one, ripe with possibilities for misdirection and commingled genre hijinks. Unfortunately, its execution leaves much to be desired; half-sketched storylines and scenes jostle and abut one another in awkward fashion. Stahlberg reworked the script a couple times, with Erik Linhorst (who also gets a co-story credit) and Stephen Susco, and the movie — especially its messy third act and harebrained finale — seems to bear traces of different drafts never quite smoothly integrated into one final, cohesive story. Several characters and beats could and probably should be easily jettisoned.

The leaves the movie leaning mightily upon the efforts of its cast. For a good while, that works. Bush, who cut such an amusing supporting figure in Adventureland, has comedic chops, and is an engaging and sympathetic lead. And Brody has an absolute blast, chewing scenery left and right as a corn-rowed, pop-eyed nutjob. But a deeper exploration of some of the things that could have helped make High School truly unique and memorable — the idea that Breaux is Henry’s ex-best friend from middle school, and a guy he “outgrew,” for instance — get traded and/or bypassed too often for recycled, low-grade laughs. In embracing yawning and pointless authority-as-villainy shtick, Stahlberg illustrates that, well, he’s happily left his mind back in high school. The movie High School, meanwhile, requires a bit smarter and more focused treatment. For more information on the movie, click here to check out its website. (Anchor Bay, R, 100 minutes)

A slight but amiable prison-set satire that mines the thawing relationship between a hardened Ku Klux Klansman and a Mexican farmhand, festival-minted Cellmates, starring Tom Sizemore and Hector Jimenez (above), surfs along mostly on the good fortune of its casting and sly peculiarity of its forced-odd-couple premise. If writer-director Jesse Baget’s movie ultimately doesn’t seem to burrow down and fully comedically exploit its conceit, it’s at least pleasant to see Sizemore back and robustly engaged in something other than Eastern European-produced genre tripe. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (White Knight Films, unrated, 85 minutes)

A deadly dull melodrama of familial dysfunction and emotional abuse in the face of patriarchal anger management, writer-director Debbie Goodstein’s Mighty Fine leans heavily on autobiographical inspiration for dramatic heft and connection, a tactic that proves ill-advised. A somewhat drab and unimaginative telling further dents this offering of already rather limited psychological insights and pat conclusions and catharses.



Set in the 1970s, Mighty Fine centers around a so-surnamed husband and father, small businessman Joe (Chazz Palminteri), who uproots his family and moves them from Brooklyn to New Orleans. His wife Stella (Andie MacDowell) is a Holocaust survivor for whom Joe wants only the material best, so he overextends himself buying a big home and steady stream of extravagant gifts for Stella and their two daughters, Natalie (Jodelle Ferland) and Maddie (Rainey Qualley, MacDowell’s real-life daughter).

Unfortunately, his apparel business suffers a downturn, and Joe turns to loan sharks to keep his lifestyle afloat. The stress of this leads to flashes and fits of anger that frequently leave his family scared and/or in tears, but Joe seems unable to curb his destructive behavior, even (and perhaps especially) as his eldest daughter grows more willing to confront him about it.

First-time narrative feature director Goodstein has a good instinct about the toll of parentalization and walking-on-eggshells management that such sideways bursts of adult behavior can take on children, noting that the family worked hard to “keep that monster in a cage.” Too often, though, she deploys terribly obvious voiceover (“My dad missed the whole show — where the hell was he?”) that neither advances the plot nor illuminates characters’ feelings in a manner that isn’t already evident. Goodstein tells rather than shows, consistently missing opportunities to dig deeper into the effects of Joe’s lashing out.

None of this falls on Palminteri, really, whose performance does a good job of highlighting some of the underlying fear and insecurity that informs Joe’s behavior. MacDowell and Qualley, though, are out of their element. The former’s ridiculous, stilted accent does her no favors, and Qualley, in her film debut, can only unconvincingly pantomime the white-hot flashes and swings of teenage emotion. Nothing about their reactions to Joe’s fits feels particularly nuanced or well sketched out, and the well worn grooves of dramatic engagement that the film follows render Mighty Fine anything but. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Adopt Films, 80 minutes, R)

Already an international smash, to the tune of an incredible $340 million, The Intouchables arrives on American shores having picked up nine Cesar Award nominations, multiple prizes at the recent COLCOA Festival in Los Angeles, and smiles and hearts in just about every territory in which it has opened. It’s easy to see why. A rich, buoyant tale about the simple act of human connection and how it makes the heart sing, co-directors Olivier Nakache and Eric Toledano’s fun, witty dramedy is an unabashed crowd-pleaser, spanning languages and cultures.

Set in present-day France and based on a true story, The Intouchables chronicles the deepening relationship between a classic odd-ball couple. Philippe (Francois Cluzet) is a multi-millionaire handicapped from the neck down, the result of a paragliding accident that broke two of his vertebrae. Consequently, he requires round-the-clock care. Looking to fill a position and fed up with the usual caretakers, and all the pretense and pity that come along with their service, Philippe rolls the dice on Driss (Omar Sy), a Senegal-born ex-convict who initially answers a job posting just to get a signature so that he may continue collecting governmental assistance. Taking Philippe for strolls in Paris during the midnight hour, Driss introduces him to marijuana, and also ditches the stodgy handicapped-enabled van for one of Philippe’s racy sports cars. In short, Driss pushes Philippe toward the edges of his comfort zone — including finally trying to arrange an in-person meeting with a woman with whom he’s been corresponding — and learns a few life lessons from his boss as well.

Everything that is right about The Intouchables starts with its two wonderful leads. Sy, the Cesar Best Actor award winner, has an effusive personality, while Cluzet (who faintly recalls Dustin Hoffman in his expressive eyes and wry smiles) provides a deft, counterbalancing quiet charm in the more physically constrictive role. Their rapport is impeccable.

It helps, too, that the film treats Philippe’s condition somewhere between The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and The Bucket List, which is to say with seriousness but not a grim subjectivity. It’s not necessarily terminal, his state, but while The Intouchables leans to the uplifting irreverence of the aforementioned, latter Morgan Freeman-Jack Nicholson boomer bait, it feels less laboriously manufactured, and a bit more honest, actually. Yes, it peddles a certain freedom in “letting go,” but when Driss is dressing down Philippe over the inflated price of his artwork or the boredom of opera, and Driss and Philippe are exchanging musical educations via classical orchestrations and Earth Wind & Fire, the movie feels laced with an electric authenticity.

For all the engagement of the material, Toledano and Nakache don’t quite settle upon a unifying visual scheme and template; the movie is a bit flatly shot and stitched together, quite honestly, which gives the proceedings a bit of a boxed-in, small screening feeling at times. A bit of subplot with Philippe’s teenage daughter Elisa (Alba Gaia Bellugi) doesn’t really play, either. Still, Cluzet and Sy are such a fine engaging pair that this treat is greater than the sum of its parts, and easily one of the year’s more baldly enjoyable films to date. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Weinstein Company, R, 112 minutes)

Co-directed by Dallas Hallam and Patrick Horvath, Entrance is a deliberately paced indie offering that bills itself as a psychological thriller but in actuality is a fairly aimless tone piece about twentysomething emotional dislocation that only in its final reel leaps somewhat clumsily into genre-oriented skirmish and combat. As a showcase for narrative restraint and a non-forced lead performance by newcomer Suziey Block, the movie works on a theoretical level, but its grip is a bit too slack and its payoff too pointless to really recommend it.

The story centers around Suzy (Block), a young Los Angeles woman who can’t quite locate happiness. She lives with her dog and a roommate, and works as a barista, but still seems plagued by a fog of unhappiness. She dates a bit, but doesn’t have a fulfilling romantic relationship. When her dog disappears and she starts hearing strange noises, Suzy begins to feel like there’s a menace lingering just outside her field of vision. After she makes the decision to leave L.A. and move back home, her friends decide to throw Suzy a going-away dinner party.

Entrance aims for a sort of free-floating menace of loosely the same type that movies like Martha Marcy May Marlene, Sound of My Voice and even the Duplass brothers’ Baghead plumbed, but it chiefly misses the mark. The film’s mise en scene is interesting and impressive, especially for the budget on which it is achieved. The problem is that there’s just not enough “there” there; employing a sort of pedestrian parallelism, along with a minor allergy to dialogue, Entrance stretches minute shifts in everyday humdrum events past the point of intrigue, and into tedium. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (IFC, R, 84 minutes)

Period pieces often get a bad rap simply by virtue of the fact that so many of them center around stuffy romantic hand-wringing, and so they perpetuate the idea that there exists between the various generations an impenetrable chasm of behavioral dissimilarity and fractured emotional resonance. The utterly delightful Hysteria, however, explodes that myth. A sly yet seriously mounted comedy that plays like a post-war Ealing Studios pin-prick satire of British character and society, director Tanya Wexler’s film, about events leading up to the creation of the vibrator, might just be one of the more drolly enjoyable cinematic experiences of the year.

Hysteria unfolds in 1880s London. Worn down by doctors who regard his sanitation and “germ theory” advocacy (as in, arguing their existence) as poppycock, Mortimer Granville (Hugh Dancy) is reconsidering a life in medicine at all when he finally secures an apprenticeship under Dr. Robert Dalrymple (Jonathan Pryce). Dalrymple’s thriving solo practice centers around treating women suffering from nymphomania, frigidity, melancholia and anxiety — afflictions of the female nervous system thought to stem from a disorder of the uterus. His enlightened methods show that such conditions can be ameliorated by relieving tensions within women — manually stimulating them to a certain emotional “reset,” if you will.

The younger, handsome and dexterous Granville proves a hit at this, and his improved lot makes him a worthy suitor of Dalrymple’s daughter Emily (Felicity Jones). As Granville works himself to numbness (literally), however, he develops more complicated feelings for Emily’s headstrong elder sister, Charlotte (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a firebrand social reformer who, much to her father’s chagrin, runs a settlement house in London’s East End. After having offended a patient, though, Granville eventually finds his good fortune reversed. It’s at this point that, in a flash of tangential inspiration, Granville teams up with his friend and benefactor, the eccentric and wealthy amateur inventor Edmund St. John Smythe (Rupert Everett), to tweak a new creation and birth the vibrating electric stimulator. Amazement and good feelings ensue, naturally.

Hysteria represents Wexler’s third feature film, but her first in nearly a dozen years, after taking a break to start a family. There’s no rust, however; the movie serves as a cheeky, fun showcase for her overarching talents. From developing the material with producer Tracey Becker from a fledgling two-page treatment to overseeing some smart, beautiful production design from Sophie Becher, Wexler has superb instincts for melding potentially wild and over-the-top material with the sort of straightly played societal underpinnings that make the movie’s comedy stand out in relief. The performances are a delight, too. Dancy brings just the right amount of put-upon yet eager-to-please uncertainty to his role. Jones, so wonderful in Like Crazy, and Gyllenhaal, meanwhile, are both engaging, and credibly different romantic foils to Dancy’s character. And in down-shifted, arched-brow form, Everett is a scene-stealing delight.

Hysteria for the most part nicely balances the disparate tonalities of its story, rooted in fact but trussed up in formula, with a pinch of screwball banter; Dorothy Parker would dig this movie, most assuredly. A rather cutesy ending, yielding to romantic conventions, dings the movie a bit, but it’s still a delight — a genuine conversation-starter sure to put a smile on one’s face. For more information, click here to visit the movie’s website. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Sony Pictures Classics, R, 95 minutes)