Movie review by Greg Carlson

Veteran documentarian Brett Morgen clamps down on the experimental and the experiential in “Moonage Daydream,” an odyssey traversing the starfields of the late, great David Bowie. Touted as the first feature to be fully authorized by the Bowie estate (a claim that could signal something good or something bad, depending on how you feel about attached strings), Morgen’s film draws from a purported “five millions assets” to dazzle the senses with a turbocharged hagiography of its workaholic subject. Like the director’s previous rock explorations, “Moonage Daydream” is best viewed on a massive screen with a powerful sound system.

While news reporters, talk show hosts, and breathless fans supply confirmation of Bowie’s convention-busting approach to pop cultural invention and reinvention, Morgen lets his subject provide the principal narration on-camera and via voiceover. Nixing talking heads and any freshly-recorded interviews conducted with associates, family members, and admirers either famous or common, the technique is a solid fit. “Moonage Daydream” is committed to art and artist. With few exceptions, like the acknowledgement of Bowie’s love for Iman, private life stays private. Morgen favors the constantly shifting, always protean man-of-many-faces in Bowie’s public (dis)guises.

Even at 140 minutes, “Moonage Daydream” can feel strangely hurried and musically incomplete. Many of Bowie’s signature songs, including “Space Oddity,” “Heroes,” “Let’s Dance,” “Ashes to Ashes,” “Changes,” “Starman,” “Modern Love,” “Life on Mars?” and several others pop in and out of the timeline, some fleetingly. Morgen makes the seemingly impossible choice to give a few tracks extended play, but the most devoted acolytes will certainly weep for the ones left behind (“The Man Who Sold the World,” “Young Americans,” “Queen Bitch,” “Rebel Rebel,” “China Girl,” “Fame,” etc.). Even so, Morgen deserves some credit for taking a big swing.

The director can also be commended for both analyzing and trusting a very particular audience. He has made something for fellow aficionados, as “Moonage Daydream” assumes that the viewer already knows a thing or two about its star. The uninitiated won’t get any kind of straightforward treatment of chronological career highlights, even if the film is very loosely organized into core periods that extend beyond the studio albums to touch on Bowie’s other pursuits, from visual art to theatre and film performance. Clips from his stage turn as John Merrick in “The Elephant Man” are accompanied by images from features including “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,” “The Hunger,” “The Man Who Fell to Earth,” and “Labyrinth.” Even so, sound edges vision.

When Morgen inserts shots of Bowie strutting with Tina Turner to sell Pepsi, or backseat moments from Alan Yentob’s “Cracked Actor,” “Moonage Daydream” toys with a level of critique that is otherwise mostly erased – like marriage number one to Angela Barnett. In general, the filmmaker falls back on his keen editorial skills to take us on an emotional ride capable of as much humor as contemplative, tearful darkness. So whether you count yourself as a diamond dog or an absolute beginner, trust Morgen to invite you to the dance hall. There’s no dress code, of course, but a finely tailored ice-blue suit by Freddie Burretti sure would look good.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In “Nothing Compares,” director Kathryn Ferguson builds an airtight case for the reevaluation of music icon Sinead O’Connor, the Irish recording artist who achieved worldwide success and critical acclaim during the course of a career that attracted negative media attention like a magnet collecting nails. The film, now available on Showtime following a Sundance debut in January, transports viewers back three decades (and more) to focus initially on O’Connor’s tumultuous childhood, incendiary vocal talents, and early milestones before shifting to an assessment of the most outspoken and controversial choices that made as much or more noise as the heartbreakingly confessional songs on her brilliant albums.

Longtime fans already know the biography, but Ferguson applies remarkable editorial skill to make judicious choices regarding what to keep and what to omit. Archival material is plentiful and pointed, with O’Connor supplying much of the story in her own words and through a variety of talk show appearances and other television interviews. Along with several key collaborators, O’Connor’s first husband John Reynolds offers insightful commentary, as do admirers like Peaches and Kathleen Hanna. Ferguson skips talking heads, making an exception for the vintage O’Connor clips. The lack of on-camera interviews focuses attention on the evocative visuals.

Ferguson begins the film with O’Connor’s October 16, 1992 appearance at Madison Square Garden, where she was supposed to perform Bob Dylan’s “I Believe in You” as part of the show that would be collected as the “The 30th Anniversary Concert Celebration.” Met with a mixture of boos and applause, the shaken but defiant singer scratches the scheduled tune for an improvised reprise of Bob Marley’s “War,” the song she had recently chosen for the “Saturday Night Live” gig that would arouse a firestorm and inspire headlines, parodies, threats, opinion pieces, and boycotts. O’Connor’s “SNL” performance has aged much better than the embarrassing mock outrage of Joe Pesci and Madonna.

Without doubt, “Nothing Compares” would have been a much different viewing experience had Ferguson been granted permission to include the singer’s recording of the Prince song that signaled the apogee of O’Connor’s international fame (and which provides the movie’s title). The denial was made worse by Prince-sibling Sharon Nelson’s comments to “Billboard” that not only was O’Connor undeserving of the song’s use, Prince’s “version is the best.” As a diehard Prince fanatic, I will argue that Nelson is wrong on both counts. O’Connor’s cover is the definitive recording of the song.

Even though the absence of “Nothing Compares 2 U” stings, Ferguson handles its importance to O’Connor’s ascendant superstardom with appropriate grace. Fortunately, the wealth of intense and dazzling songs that came before and after – including “Mandinka,” “Troy,” “Just Like You Said It Would Be,” “I Want Your (Hands on Me),” “Black Boys on Mopeds,” “Jump in the River,” “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” “Three Babies,” “The Last Day of Our Acquaintance,” “I Am Stretched on Your Grave,” “Thank You for Hearing Me,” and others – are a testament to the integrity, principles, outrage, fearlessness, and political conviction O’Connor modeled years before the Catholic Church would publicly acknowledge the sexual abuse and assault of adults and children.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writing recently in “The New Yorker,” Julian Lucas shares commentary that places into context the ongoing controversies assailing Gina Prince-Bythewood’s historical action drama “The Woman King.” Set in West Africa during the years encompassing the grim slave trade, the film has a champion and star in Best Supporting Actress Oscar-winner Viola Davis, who portrays with force and intensity the title character General Nanisca of the Kingdom of Dahomey (in what is now Benin). General consensus suggests that Prince-Bythewood’s 50-million-dollar film, which puts every cent – and then some – on the screen, will succeed despite any reasonable and unreasonable criticism it currently faces.

Even though Davis commands the headlining power, the film’s central protagonist is Thuso Mbedu’s Nawi, a tenacious orphan determined to enter the ranks of the Agojie, otherwise nicknamed the Dahomey Amazons by Western Europeans. Not in dispute is the existence of this electrifying military sisterhood, one of a tiny number of all-female, modern-era armies. In the film’s early sections, Prince-Bythewood draws much from the pageantry of the trials and tests of mettle staged by Patty Jenkins in “Wonder Woman.” Ryan Coogler’s “Black Panther,” which features the Dora Milaje – its own cohort of elite women warriors partly inspired by the Agojie –is another notable cinematic relation.

The Hollywood version of any script claiming to be based on a “true story” invites detractors to engage in a game pointing out any and every historical inaccuracy and narrative embellishment. Regarding “The Woman King,” Lucas takes the position that the “film’s conceit is, charitably, an elaborate exercise in wishful thinking.” At the heart of the matter: the one-sided depiction of a nation engaged in widespread enslavement being portrayed as philosophically abolitionist. Importantly, Lucas argues that “The Woman King” should not be held to a higher standard than the massive number of period films told from a white point-of-view, but the complete and complex argument should be read in full.

Clearly, most critics are on board with “The Woman King” no matter its historical misrepresentations. And Prince-Bythewood, a veteran whose 2000 debut feature “Love & Basketball” is a contemporary classic, stages the battle sequences with drive and clarity. But the script by Dana Stevens, based on a story by Stevens and Maria Bello, falls back on oversimplification when it should be embracing nuance and complexity. A subplot involving a forbidden romance between Nawi and a stupefyingly naive businessman-sailor named Santo Ferreira (Hero Fiennes Tiffin) is wholly unconvincing.

In an instant it is plain to see that Davis is superior to her material. She plays Nanisca with unrelenting resolve, square-jawed commitment, and looks (both her own gaze and her fearsome mien) that kill. She brings a weariness and sadness to the commander that speaks volumes about her feelings toward King Ghezo (John Boyega), a supremely self-confident monarch who clearly relishes his power as much as he enjoys the pleasure of his multiple wives. Like other elements in the film, the historical Ghezo differs from the fictionalized iteration. But for viewers who choose to focus on the adrenaline rush of the feminist warriors ready to challenge the patriarchy, “The Woman King” proudly wears its crown.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The chatter surrounding director Olivia Wilde’s new movie “Don’t Worry Darling” reached fever pitch in the days leading up to this week’s wide release. Cynics began to wonder whether the gossip – including a purported on-set rift between the director and star Florence Pugh involving the tabloid-ready romance that Wilde began to share with cast member Harry Styles – blossomed from the work of the savvy publicists tending to the hype. The movie is neither a masterpiece nor a failure (I prefer Wilde’s warmer “Booksmart”), but it has definitely made the shortlist as one of the year’s most talked-about.

Pugh portrays Alice Chambers, a hopelessly devoted wife and helpmate to husband Jack (Styles), who works for a hush-hush desert-based endeavor known as the Victory Project. While Jack and the other husbands of the New Frontier speed off to work each sunny morning in their candy-colored autos, the wives attend ballet class led by Shelley (Gemma Chan), the spouse of Victory co-founder Frank (Chris Pine). Cooking, cleaning, and keeping house do not distract Alice from a growing suspicion that her immaculate surroundings are some kind of gilded cage.

One can take a pick of keywords primed to launch a collection of “Don’t Worry Darling” essays: gaslighting, tradwives, hysteria, incels, and toxic masculinity are just a handful that have already been the subject of commentaries on the film. At CinemaCon, Wilde cited “Inception,” “The Matrix,” and “The Truman Show” as inspirations, but “The Stepford Wives” has been name-checked more often, and plenty of other movies – from “Parents” to “Swallow” – intersect thematically or stylistically with Wilde’s dark vision.

Whether or not you’ll think the film is any good depends in large measure on your willingness to suspend disbelief. A rewrite of the 2019 Black List version by Carey Van Dyke and Shane Van Dyke (who receive story credit), Katie Silberman’s screenplay turns on a bold if not entirely satisfactory twist. Supporters insist that Wilde shrewdly interrogates a patriarchy that thrives and proliferates as a direct result of keeping the bodies and actions of women under strict control. Others point to an abundance of red herrings and plot holes as nagging liabilities.

Along with Pugh, the late 1950s/early 1960s setting is the star attraction of “Don’t Worry Darling.” The arresting trailers for the film showcased a midcentury modern design aesthetic that all but screamed a warning to the imperiled Alice regarding the deceit of appearances. Richard Neutra’s 1946 Kaufmann House serves as the home of Frank and Shelley. In addition to that legendary Palm Springs landmark, the community is represented by the incredible Canyon View Estates, the Palm Springs Visitors Center, and the Palm Springs Art Museum. These spaces, complemented by sharp choices in Los Angeles, La Quinta, Pasadena, and Newberry Springs (the site of the otherworldly Volcano House), will have design fanatics salivating.

The human beings are another matter. With the possible exception of Pine’s watchful and mysterious boss, none of the members of the ensemble approach the quality of Pugh’s performance. As the frustratingly underwritten Alice, she must convince the viewer of her love for, and emotional investment in, husband Jack long after we’ve smelled a rat. The ample running time clocks in at just over two hours, and there is no doubt the movie would be improved with at least fifteen fewer minutes of the simmering dread that recurs in both Alice’s nightmares and the mock-sincere interactions she shares with her “close friends.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Making her English-language feature debut, Polish filmmaker Agnieszka Smoczyńska fails to replicate the quality and originality of either of her previous two movies. Both “The Lure,” which received a warm home media welcome from the Criterion Collection, and “Fugue” attracted well-deserved attention for Smoczyńska’s storytelling instincts and bold visual choices. “The Silent Twins,” adapted from Marjorie Wallace’s 1986 book of the same title, has all the makings of an intensely dramatic “based on a true story” experience. But the screenplay by novelist Andrea Seigel struggles to make sense of the unorthodox relationship of the protagonists.

June Gibbons (played as a child by Leah Mondesir-Simmonds before Letitia Wright takes over) and Jennifer Gibbons (Tamara Lawrance provides the grown-up version and Eva-Arianna Baxter plays the younger one) were twin sisters born in a military hospital in Yemen in 1963 to Caribbean immigrants who lived in England and later in Wales. Developing a fierce codependence, the girls spoke a speedily-enunciated Bajan Creole based on dialect from their parents’ native Barbados. Victimized by racist school bullies, June and Jennifer would further develop their cryptophasia, eventually shutting out all others and communicating almost exclusively with one another.

Smoczyńska opens the film with the voices of the young June and Jennifer narrating the credits. Matched with handmade artifacts that will recur in stop-motion sequences placed throughout the film, the promising start echoes the legendary title sequence Stephen Frankfurt designed for “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Frankfurt said that his goal was “to find a way to get into the head of a child,” and that is precisely the feeling emanating from the first frames of “The Silent Twins.” Soon, Lawrance and Wright will convey the peaks and valleys of the intimate connection between June and Jennifer.

Echoing the challenge faced by the mermaid sisters in “The Lure,” the most engaging section of “The Silent Twins” unfolds when the sisters seek out the companionship of an American teenager (Jack Bandeira) who is more than willing to provide the carnal education sought especially by Jennifer. The music cues, costumes, and choreography on display in these segments sparkle with vitality. Later, once the twins are committed to Broadmoor, the terrifying, high-security psychiatric hospital where they were held for years, the movie shifts toward a preoccupation with unpleasant conditions and the key conundrum facing the Gibbons siblings: abandon their secret language/connection and secure freedom or stick with it and be held under lock and key.

Jon Amiel directed a made-for-TV version of “The Silent Twins” for the BBC in 1986. The screenplay for that edition was written by Wallace the same year her book was published. I have not seen the movie, but would love to compare versions separated by more than 35 years. In this latest piece, both Lawrance and Wright deserve credit for depicting the idiosyncratic personalities of Jennifer and June – loving and fighting as artistic collaborators and jealous rivals – but “The Silent Twins” plugs away without the urgency or rising stakes that would invite viewers to identify with the special world inhabited by the women.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Co-directed by Saul Williams (who also wrote the screenplay and music) and Anisia Uzeyman (who also photographed and co-art directed), “Neptune Frost” recently made its way to a 2022 limited theatrical release via Kino Lorber following a 2021 Cannes premiere in the Directors Fortnight section of the festival. A vivid musical mashup blending science fiction with an emphatic political statement on the exploitation of African nations by American corporations greedy for the tantalum used in cell phones, computers, vehicles, and cameras, “Neptune Frost” makes for a visually and aurally arresting cinematic experience well worth seeking out.

Deeply committed to anti-capitalism and anti-colonialism, the movie introduces a handful of characters affiliated with a hacker collective operating on the fringes of safety and society within an oppressive police state. At the center of the cast is Neptune, a nonbinary runaway played by two actors: Cheryl Isheja and Elvis Ngabo. Neptune, who experiences an otherworldly connection to coltan, gets close to miner Matalusa (Bertrand Ninteretse), whose brother has been murdered while toiling for the precious ore. They interact with passionate disruptors like Memory (Eliane Umuhire) and Elohel (Rebecca Uwamahoro) to battle against the gross imbalance of the status quo.

Most reviews have made a point to identify “Neptune Frost” with Afrofuturism, the descriptive term coined in 1993 by Mark Dery in his essay “Black to the Future.” Arguably more prominent in recorded music than in feature film, the concept experienced a mainstream surge with the massive success of Ryan Coogler’s “Black Panther” in 2018. Ashley Clark, who curated the series “Space Is the Place: Afrofuturism on Film” for the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 2015, writes that the choices for the program were “united by one key theme: the centring of the international black experience in alternate and imagined realities, whether fiction or documentary; past or present; science fiction or straight drama.”

Common to many musicals, the biggest ideas take precedence over intimate character-building; it is no surprise to see Lin-Manuel Miranda listed as one of the movie’s executive producers (Ezra Miller also produced, but given the performer’s ongoing woes, the less said about their participation the better). Williams originally conceived “Neptune Frost” for the stage or even as a graphic novel. The music, which draws from his 2016 album “MartyrLoserKing,” is without question the film’s strong suit and chief draw. The original costumes by artist and designer Cedric Mizero follow as a close second.

Despite the film’s modest budget, the technological touches of the VFX enhance the aesthetic (I particularly enjoyed the aerial shots of the colorful pigeon called Frost taking wing to deliver important information). “Neptune Frost” challenges and frustrates, and often leaves one wishing for more clarity. But it is filled with poetry and it understands the importance of projecting an alternative to our reality. The resolute commitment to experimentation and the weblike structure of the hyperlinked world deliberately disregard some of the narrative conventions that may be expected by less adventurous viewers. Williams and Uzeyman embrace, and even depend upon, the glitches that position their movie as an original.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Tower” and “A Song for You: The Austin City Limits Story” director Keith Maitland returns with another engrossing and sharply made documentary in “Dear Mr. Brody,” the quirky tale of margarine heir Michael James Brody Jr. Not long after he turned 21, Brody grabbed his fifteen minutes of fame at the dawn of the 1970s when he publicly announced plans to give away his estimated 25 million dollar fortune  – in a variety of small and large amounts – to those who contacted him directly. Predictably, requests for cash poured in by the thousands. The contents of those letters, many of which are opened and read for the first time on camera in Maitland’s movie, run parallel to the whirlwind biography of the “hippie millionaire,” all of it woven together by the filmmaker in a moving mosaic of unrealized hopes and dreams.

At one point, prolific producer Ed Pressman (who met Brody in the early 70s in New York City) intended to transform Brody’s story into a feature film starring Richard Dreyfuss, but the project never came together. Other scripts by aspiring storytellers were written, but Pressman – who serves as an executive producer and appears in “Dear Mr. Brody – acquired about a dozen large boxes filled with an avalanche of Brody’s mail. Those North Pole-like messages sat in storage in Los Angeles until they were rediscovered by Pressman’s then-assistant Melissa Robyn Glassman. Glassman’s own curiosity and empathy are a major force behind the film’s central quest: locating letter writers, or their surviving family members, and recording their reactions to what they had to say all those decades ago.

“Dear Mr. Brody” supports multiple readings, but there is little question that Maitland gravitates to the earnest and sometimes heartbreaking personal reasons offered by many of the people who asked Brody for money. Brody himself is much harder to figure, even though Maitland spends plenty of time in conversation with members of the heir’s inner circle. Was the young philanthropist genuinely interested in using his resources to establish world peace or was he using the cash giveaway as a publicity stunt to attract the attention of the media and further his recording career and his fame? Was he a poor little rich boy or a con artist?

Maitland’s sense of graphic design and visual organization are chief pleasures of “Dear Mr. Brody.” The movie sparks with a rapid-fire cascade of images, including plentiful stock footage, perfectly grainy stagings and re-imaginings, a wealth of archival Brody news stories and appearances on TV (including a visit to Ed Sullivan’s show), colorful animations, and a multitude of close-ups of the handwriting, photographs, documents (which include everything from poems to hospital bills to invention schematics) and artwork that adorned both the inside and the outside of the envelopes delivered to Brody’s home or office.

Key players in the saga, led by the clear-eyed and contemplative Renee DuBois Brody – who married Michael after knowing him just a few weeks – provide helpful context and connect events of more than half a century ago to today by showing how the more things change, the more they stay the same. Incredibly, the original duration of Brody’s offer lasted less than two weeks before things fell apart, but not before he squeezed in a meeting with John Lennon and offered a joint to Walter Cronkite. Brody’s brief moment anticipates the instant celebrity cultivated today via the reach of the internet. The money, the privilege, and the power he enjoyed stands in contrast to the sadness of so many who hoped in vain that Brody would be true to his word.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Directors Emily Kunstler and Sarah Kunstler, daughters of storied attorneys William Kunstler and Margaret Ratner, blend creative visual storytelling with keen legal and historical acumen to transform Jeffery Robinson’s potent stage lecture into one of the most vital documentaries of the year. “Who We Are: A Chronicle of Racism in America” uses a recording of Robinson’s 2018 presentation at Town Hall in New York as the basis for a sobering examination of the pervasive and insidious proliferation of institutionalized, race-based, anti-Black discrimination and oppression in the United States. It is exactly the kind of information so many politicians serving the Trump-influenced GOP fear will be taught in school.

Harvard-educated Robinson, the executive director of the Who We Are Project, was previously an ACLU deputy legal director and the director of the ACLU Trone Center for Justice and Equality, which houses the organization’s work on criminal justice, racial justice, and reform issues. He developed and refined his talk over the course of a decade, and the Kunstlers – who approached Robinson about imagining the piece as a documentary film – earned trust by, in Robinson’s words, “their clear commitment to engage in anti-racist self-reflection and action.” The filmmakers also guaranteed Robinson’s ownership of all rights to the movie as well as final editorial control.

Robinson’s stage version of “Who We Are” incorporates Power Point-style slides, graphics, video clips, and limited animation, “showing the receipts” for the many underreported realities linking America’s foundational reliance on the labor of enslaved people to the building of the nation. Even the very well-educated will gain fresh and eye-opening insights related to a wide-ranging number of topics. The hidden-in-plain-sight sentiment of slaveholder Francis Scott Key’s third verse to the Star-Spangled Banner, for example, is but one talking point: “No refuge could save the hireling and slave/From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.”

And even though we don’t hear Run the Jewels performing “JU$T” on the soundtrack, Robinson reminds us that before Andrew Jackson brought enslaved servants to the White House when he became the president, he offered “ten dollars extra, for every hundred lashes any person will give him, to the amount of three hundred” in an ad seeking the capture of his runaway “property.” Twelve presidents of the United States owned people. Along the way, Robinson also addresses the 1921 “Black Wall Street” massacre in Tulsa, the practice of red-lining, the horror of lynchings, the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the murders of black and brown people at the hands of police officers (then and now).

Like Ibram X. Kendi’s essential 2016 book “Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America,” Robinson’s thesis may at first feel overwhelmingly bleak and acutely painful, but it nevertheless conveys hope, promise, and possibility – if we are willing to put in the work. Some of the most effective scenes in the film version are the personal stories the Kunstlers persuaded an initially reluctant Robinson to include. And each time we cut away from the auditorium to Robinson interacting with folks – some friends, some strangers – “Who We Are” enters a dimension in which the author’s observations are transformed into the recognizably familiar and the intensely human.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

With the documentary feature “Freakscene: The Story of Dinosaur Jr.,”director Philipp Reichenheim (who also uses the handle Philipp Virus) compiles a serviceable primer on the wall of sound produced by one of the seminal power trios of 1980s independent/DIY music. In the 90s, the band would go on to near-mainstream success during the ascendancy of “alternative” rock in the wake of Nirvana’s massive crossover appeal, via regular rotation on MTV programming like “120 Minutes.” Tracking some of the aesthetics of units like Hüsker Dü and the Pixies, who perfected the loud-quiet-loud dynamic that would inspire so much of Kurt Cobain’s songwriting, Dinosaur Jr. combined beautiful melodies with punishing sheets of distortion and feedback.

Reichenheim is the brother-in-law of Dinosaur bandleader J Mascis, and the proximity affords comprehensive access to the substantial trove of archival photography and video that fans will comb for glimpses of favorite performances and previously unseen surprises. “Freakscene” is not, however, structured primarily as a deep critical assessment of the group’s musical output and evolution, even though a pretty straightforward chronological account of key recordings guides the narrative. Instead, Reichenheim foregrounds solo talking-head interviews with the notoriously taciturn Mascis, bass player (and Sebadoh and Folk Implosion architect) Lou Barlow, and drummer Murph, who all spend more time recounting frustrations, struggles and disappointments than they do acknowledging peaks and triumphs.

This “no fun” theme contributes to an appropriately grumpy tone, perfectly complemented by the white and gray winter snowscapes in and around Amherst, Massachusetts, where Mascis was born and still resides. Eventually switching from percussion to guitar, Mascis surprised Barlow – who was certain his fellow hardcore Deep Wound bandmate hated him – by asking him to join Dinosaur. Over the next several years, the band’s commitment to ear-splitting volume, combined with what Barlow describes as the “purity” of Mascis’s far-ranging vision, led to a place at SST and the release in 1987 of “You’re Living All Over Me,” which built the fanbase by leaps and bounds.

In addition to new listeners, the increasingly skillful guitar wizardry practiced by Mascis drew fellow musicians to the Dinosaur enterprise. Sonic Youth, known for championing and nurturing up-and-coming artists, recognized something special. Both Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore appear in “Freakscene,” along with vintage footage shot on tour by Lee Ranaldo. And while the interview subjects rarely dig into specifics beyond the expected construction of band-as-dysfunctional-family, the presence of luminaries like Bob Mould, Frank Black, Kevin Shields, Henry Rollins, Kurt Vile, and Megan and Maura Jasper broadens the film’s appeal.

During the movie’s fleet running time, a great many aspects of Dinosaur Jr. are treated casually, offhandedly, or are skipped altogether. There is no doubt that some longtime followers would have salivated over a deeper dive into the details of songcraft and lyrics, but Reichenheim matches the content of his film to the personality of the band being profiled. In other words, Mascis largely remains an enigma, even following a confessional description of fatherhood and his personal journey toward Hindu spiritualism. One imagines, however, that the soft-spoken composer remains quite content to speak through the music.

Sometimes, I don’t thrill you
Sometimes, I think I’ll kill you
Just don’t let me fuck up, will you
‘Cause when I need a friend it’s still you

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Audrey Diwan’s “Happening,” which premiered at the 2021 Venice International Film Festival and screened in the Spotlight section of Sundance earlier this year, feels contemporary and immediate despite being set in 1963. The story of Anne (Anamaria Vartolomei) – a promising student of literature seeking an illegal abortion – unfolds with meticulous craft and exacting rhythm. Using the weeks of Anne’s pregnancy like chapter markers, an effect that intensifies the sense of urgency, Diwan forges an incredible collaborative partnership with Vartolomei, who appears in every scene.

Based on Annie Ernaux’s 2000 book “L’événement,” Diwan’s adaptation, which she co-wrote with Marcia Romano (Anne Berest also receives a credit), has been regularly discussed by American film critics in the context of the Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v. Wade this past June. Surely, a film as well-made as “Happening” would be noticed no matter the current climate related to the politics of abortion, but Diwan’s movie takes on additional layers of meaning and significance given the recent turn of events.

Diwan approaches Anne’s dilemma with a series of realizations and obstacles that simultaneously frighten our protagonist and sharpen her resolve. Following the moment her pregnancy is confirmed, Anne faces a series of rapidly closing doors. Telling her parents is out of the question (Anne’s mother is played by the legendary Sandrine Bonnaire). Her closest friends distance themselves, a doctor tricks her into taking a prenatal supplement, an acquaintance pressures Anne for sex because “there’s no risk.” Anne’s frustrations underline a physician’s sober warning: “Anyone who helps you can end up in jail.”

“Happening” will remind viewers of Eliza Hittman’s “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” for the way in which both films present the practical challenges faced by women seeking abortion care. Many making those comparisons, including Shirley Li and Natalia Winkleman, also note a significant difference between the two movies: Anne ultimately navigates the frustrating process without a support system, and certainly without the kind of character portrayed by Talia Ryder in Hittman’s film.

Another point of departure for “Happening” is Diwan’s choice to not only recognize, but also fully validate, female sexual agency and pleasure. Many narratives that deal with abortion inadvertently perpetuate the trope that an accidental or unwanted pregnancy be read as a kind of punishment or consequence (equating sex with a lack of morals), no matter how the male partner may be depicted. “Happening” rejects that entire premise in a manner that, courtesy of two scenes in particular, feels almost radical.

“Happening” is filled with tight images of the central character’s expressive face. Diwan keeps cinematographer Laurent Tangy’s camera close to Anne, which serves as another reminder of Vartolomei’s remarkable skill as performer. Often hovering just over her shoulder, or following close as she enters a phone booth or pleads with her teacher, the intimacy is at times almost too much to bear. The effect, of course, is one of the ways Diwan tethers the viewer to the specificity of Anne’s journey. Among other things, that proximity concentrates the film’s most harrowing moments, which Diwan stages with unflinching honesty.