Sam Phillips, Joe Esposito and The Crickets lend authority to a doc that includes early footage and snippets of Elvis interviews, although none of his music. Glen Campbell and Kenny Rogers recall The King's growing isolation and Tom Jones reminisces about Vegas, although the cheese-burger era's largely ignored.
Footage of the stern old art-rockers in their pomp is hideously rare. Wire On The Box counteracts this, a full-length show recorded for German TV before a few dozen polite hippies. The tension is delicious, the music (mainly from 154) fantastic. Best of all, there's the mystique-smashing vision of the young band: gawky, self-conscious, striving cutely for the froideur that only age would bring them.
Not the definitive doc currently in legal limbo, but an atmospherically filmed record of the Detroit punk pioneers' Levi's-sponsored comeback at London's 100 Club last year. Of the stand-ins for late brothers Rob Tyner and Fred "Sonic"Smith, Lemmy stars, but the celebratory thunder of the surviving trio moves most.
Leaving aside for a moment the issue of whether an unshown TV special from '68 could capture, as the opening credits suggest, "the spontaneity, aspirations and communal spirit of an entire era" any more accurately than, say, Catweazle or Do Not Adjust Your Set, and regardless of whether you think Beggars Banquet and Let It Bleed are the fulcrum points of a generation or just something that music critics of a certain age should learn to get over, the portents of this cryogenically preserved moment in rock time are undeniable. Look!
Thriller from '81 based on Whitley Strieber's novel, directed by Michael Woodstock Wadleigh, and by no means a conventional werewolf tale. Albert Finney is the cop investigating incredible gory deaths in New York... but are terrorists to blame, or animals, or Native American shape-shifters? Unusual camera techniques, a great performance from Finney, and a genuinely supernatural atmosphere that builds and builds.
Definitive mid-period Almodóvar (post-avant-garde tyro, preestablishment icon), this typically hysterical family melodrama pitches Carmen Maura's downtrodden amphetamine-addicted housewife, her two teenage dope-dealing hustler sons, her grizzled mother-in-law and her Nazi-obsessed husband together in an anonymous Madrid apartment block. Deadpan camp at its best.
When blackmailers try extorting businessman Roy Scheider over his fling with a stripper, he thwarts them by telling his wife—so they film the girl being murdered and threaten to frame him. At which point, it gets personal. Although co-scripted by the author, John Frankenheimer's flat 1986 movie is just another unsatisfactory Elmore Leonard adaptation. The dialogue occasionally crackles, but the casting is off and the pace drags enough to let you count the implausibilities.
Provocatively, one of the most eloquent feminist film-makers extant is an Iranian muslim, Samira Makhmalbaf. Her latest entrancing— and most expansive—movie is set in the rubble of Kabul, where a young woman dreams of becoming Afghanistan's first female president. Men—Taliban mullahs and foreign invaders—have ruined this country, is her subtext, but Makhmalbaf is too artful to be merely polemical.
