Movie review by Greg Carlson

Filmmaker Penny Lane follows her thought-provoking examination of the Satanic Temple with a subject many would anoint as the Devil of Smooth Jazz: Kenneth Gorelick, known to millions of record buyers as Kenny G. Far from a straightforward biographical profile, Lane embraces G’s decades-long divisiveness to elaborate on questions of taste, appropriation, and genre. And the musician’s participation in the documentary only adds to the film’s status as a must-see. Lane gets to have her cake and eat it — G is comfortable with the endless supply of jokes made at his expense, a condition that gives Lane the space to examine the highs and lows of a peculiar cultural figure.

With “Listening to Kenny G,” Lane affirms her status as one of the most talented nonfiction storytellers working today. Her films may not yet approach the dazzling, next-level craft displayed by masters like Errol Morris and Kirsten Johnson, but if she keeps producing movies like her latest, it won’t be long before she ends up on the short list of greats. Lane combines bottomless curiosity with an impish sense of playfulness that reads to some observers as a mean streak. And yes, there are moments in “Listening to Kenny G” when Lane lets her subject fumble like a poseur unworthy of his association with the word jazz.

The director enlists a murderer’s row of jazz scholars, academics, and journalists to deconstruct the complexities and problematics of Kenny G. Ben Ratliff of “The New York Times” puts his finger on that most quintessential of Kenny G associations when he notes that G’s music brings to mind the act of waiting — in a dentist’s office, a bank, a lobby, an elevator, etc. Columbia University’s Chris Washburne, NYU’s Jason King, and Will Layman of “PopMatters” join Ratliff and a few others to explain so much visceral critical revulsion in the face of widespread popularity.

Lane alternates between her time spent with Kenny G and the talking heads wielding their scalpels. She also sketches the trajectory of G’s unprecedented career ascendancy, covering early videos, the Johnny Carson appearance when “Songbird” took off, G’s golf game (another aspect of his extracurriculars that naysayers love to skewer), and the unofficial status of “Going Home” as an end-of-day fixture played in food courts and train stations across China since 1989. Most of this stuff projects Wonder Bread innocuousness, but Lane plows headlong into the much deeper controversy of G’s “duet” with Louis Armstrong.

To this end, the prosecutors take turns articulating G’s ignorance of jazz tradition and its improvisational give-and-take musical conversations between and among players. Jason King notes, “He seems to draw from this rich and venerated history of Black music without necessarily contributing much back to the form. He’s such a deeply problematic figure because he really extends this long and troubling history of appropriation in popular music.” Some of Lane’s interviewees read aloud from Pat Metheny’s poison-pen comments on the “What a Wonderful World” recording.

Through it all, Kenny G radiates a Zen-like calm, deflecting even the most caustic insults. So what if he fails to identify Thelonious Monk in a portrait of greats allegedly responsible for inspiring G’s own “New Standards” album? Who cares if he claims, “I don’t know if I love music that much” in conversation with Lane? Kenny G, who says he still practices three hours a day, every day, knows that he can’t be all things to all people. Lane also knows it, as her terrific movie attests.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Had a home video copy made its way into his eclectic collection, one cannot help but wonder how Ingmar Bergman might have rated Mia Hansen-Løve’s utterly delightful “Bergman Island.” The French director’s first English-language movie is a bold and satisfying metanarrative that uses the legendary Swedish auteur as the starting point for a dreamy consideration of life, art, romance, loss, regret, and the many challenges of the creative process. Setting the action on Bergman’s hallowed turf turns out to be far more playful and far less austere than one might first guess. Hansen-Løve never takes herself too seriously, lining up a parade of references from “Persona” to “Cries and Whispers” with more disarming humor than ponderous melodrama.

The Fårö setting provides the filmmaker with a treasure chest of opportunities to indulge and explore cinephilia, reflexivity, homage, and intertext, but the potential autobiographical interpretations are equally enticing. The broadest strokes of the director’s previous relationship with Olivier Assayas mirror the fictional marriage between Vicky Krieps’s Chris and Tim Roth’s Tony. Participating in a residency program that lodges the couple in the bedroom where “Scenes from a Marriage” was filmed (just one of Hansen-Løve’s sly jokes), Tony and Chris interact with Bergman admirers and scholars ahead of a retrospective screening of one of Tony’s films.

Hansen-Løve makes clear to the viewer that Chris, a screen performer branching out behind the camera, feels overshadowed by her more celebrated husband. Whether by chance or by choice, the casting of Krieps resonates. Her Hollywood breakthrough as haute couture dressmaker Reynolds Woodcock’s muse Alma Elson in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Phantom Thread” resides at the heart of another story concerned with artistic practice and the shifting dynamics of women finding power while entangled with professionally accomplished and “difficult” men.

As Chris’s restlessness and her increasing distance from Tony hint at deeper conflict hidden just below the surface of their partnership, Hansen-Løve launches the movie into orbit with “The White Dress,” the story-within-the-story that Chris narrates to a distracted Tony, hoping in vain that he might offer valuable, constructive feedback and make suggestions for an ending. In her screenplay, Chris imagines Mia Wasikowska as protagonist Amy, whose own desire to reconnect with old flame Joseph (Anders Danielsen Lie) while attending a wedding on Fårö triples — and arguably quadruples — Hansen-Løve’s self-portraiture.

The new “Bergman Island,” which shares its title with the 2006 documentary by Marie Nyreröd, isn’t shy in its critiques of the gifted moviemaker. Chris, who refuses to fawn over the man despite demonstrating enough knowledge of his career to keep pace with Tony and the other superfans, wonders aloud whether Bergman sacrificed being a good parent (nine children!) for his art. The frozen-in-time preservation of Bergman’s properties allows his spirit to live on in the pilgrims drawn to Fårö. Several of the famous filmmakers in Jane Magnusson and Hynek Pallas’s “Trespassing Bergman,” another documentary that takes a voyeur’s tour of Bergman’s personal rooms, do their best to account for his fixation on the spiritual and the erotic. Mia Hansen-Løve now joins their ranks.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

First, a note to the naysayers and cynics and grumps and sourpusses and killjoys who would dismiss Wes Anderson as a suffocating ironist infatuated with his dollhouse miniatures and his own cookie cutter formulae recycling the same set of actors within his symmetrically composed frames: GET LOST, GO AWAY, SHOVE OFF. “The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun” is not for you. But for those who have maintained punctuality and perfect attendance, those who have ever substituted a Tic Tac for prescription stomach cancer medication, those who keep dues paid-up in the Society of the Crossed Keys, you don’t need me or anybody else to tell you that the enchantments to be found in Ennui-sur-Blasé provide the exact opposite of boredom-on-apathy.

Anderson’s longtime affection for “The New Yorker” gives “The French Dispatch” its structure, its themes, and its emotional core. Bill Murray’s Harold Ross-esque Arthur Howitzer, Jr., the scion of a newspaper publisher, presides over the magazine produced from his adopted home in France. The conclusion of Howitzer’s spectacular half-century run as editor-in-chief results in the dramatization of the final issue of “The French Dispatch,” broken into a prologue, three stories, and an obituary. While any of the individual segments could have evolved into feature length, Anderson takes complete advantage of the creative form of the omnibus to configure a coherent and cohesive whole.

“Bottle Rocket,” of course, was a short before it was a feature. And “Hotel Chevalier” and “Castello Cavalcanti,” along with several promotional films and advertisements, point toward Anderson’s interest in experimentation beyond the cinephile’s acknowledged admiration of anthology films like De Sica’s “The Gold of Naples” and Max Ophüls’s “Le Plaisir.” The director’s adherents will spend hours parsing the long-delayed movie’s chapters, debating favorites and identifying cross-pollination. One dreams of a companion glossary similar to the reference guide contained on Criterion’s “Band of Outsiders” disc to identify all the specific literary and cinematic allusions.

Each section offers up an array of Anderson’s giddy passions, in both text and subtext. Owen Wilson, as Herbsaint Sazerac, invites us to the party via “The Cycling Reporter,” a gliding, velocipede-mounted travelogue highlighting the love and squalor of Ennui’s past and future, with special focus on the dregs, the destitute, and the failures, not to mention marauding choirboys half-drunk on the Blood of Christ. In “The Concrete Masterpiece,” Tilda Swinton’s J. K. L. Berensen expands on Anderson’s established contemplation of incarceration — both spiritual and material — in a deeply satisfying tale based in part on S. N. Berhman’s 1951 profile of art dealer Joseph Duveen.

Frances McDormand portrays Lucinda Krementz in “Revisions to a Manifesto,” inspired by Mavis Gallant’s observations on the May, 1968 civil unrest in Paris. Krementz and Léa Seydoux’s prison guard Simone mark significant strides toward greater depth, richness, and significance than Anderson has, with few exceptions, previously shown to women. In “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner” by Jeffrey Wright’s Roebuck Wright (a mashup of James Baldwin and A. J. Liebling), the author recounts with perfect typographic memory a sprawling and sumptuous kidnapping yarn while being interviewed on a talk show.

Wright, working for the first time with Anderson, fits right in alongside the veteran troupe members. A number of critics have bristled at the way in which “The French Dispatch” relegates top-flight talent, like Willem Dafoe, Saoirse Ronan, Edward Norton, and several others, to near-cameo status, but I don’t mind seeing Anderson alumni (Bob Balaban! Larry Pine! Tony Revolori!) populate the cast the way that Hitchcock frequently plugged in Leo G. Carroll or David Lynch counted on Frances Bay. And even though she is not currently listed among the performers set to appear in Anderson’s “Asteroid City,” I will keep my fingers crossed that Elisabeth Moss will be back for more.

Like the very best of Wes Anderson, “The French Dispatch” is large and contains multitudes. The autobiographical touches, expressed by the ensemble of fictional expatriates and natives alike, are as bewitching as the director’s exuberant application of physical set pieces, period design, shifts between color and monochrome, changing aspect ratios, animation, self-reflexive stage plays, breathless cutaways, snap-zooms and on-the-fly reframings, onscreen graphics, leaps in time, living dioramas, and the dazzling marriage of images and words. The earnest and the parodic coexist as comfortably as the close proximity of humor and sorrow. It should go without saying that “The French Dispatch” requires multiple viewings to unlock its generous and special secrets.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The many media attempts at Frank Herbert’s epic space fantasy “Dune” speak to its lasting appeal and its potent impact. David Lynch’s movie, defended by the filmmaker’s most ardent supporters but excoriated by a larger chorus disappointed in the heavy hand applied by House De Laurentiis, marked the end of a lengthy journey to the screen that defeated the likes of Alejandro Jodorowsky and Ridley Scott along the way. Dreams of what might have been — Orson Welles as Baron Harkonnen! Moebius and H. R. Giger design! — gave way to the realities of any “faithful” adaptation. At its best, Herbert’s book presents a stunning vision of political power, ecological and environmental awareness, ruling-class genealogy, military conflict, and thrilling mysticism and religious mythmaking filtered through a messianic hero’s journey.

At its weakest, “Dune” has too many scenes of people standing around and talking.

Denis Villeneuve’s “Dune: Part One” is a worthy addition to the collection, besting the Lynch in certain ways but still flummoxed and frustrated by the source material’s conversation-heavy downside. Villeneuve is clearly a fan, a Bene Gesserit-level adherent to the Weirding Way and a desert mouse who respects the Shai-Hulud. The director’s impressive track record with dazzling ideas and/or imagery in settings both smaller (“Prisoners,” “Enemy”) and grander (“Arrival,” “Blade Runner 2049”) raised expectations higher than a Guild Navigator on uncut spice. The filmmaker delivers at least 450 meters of world-building eye candy to remind everyone of Herbert’s far-reaching influence.

Villeneuve juggles a huge cast filled with famous and should-be famous performers well-suited to flesh out their occasionally flat literary antecedents. Some great faces made up Lynch’s roster, including many favorites in the filmmaker’s stock company, and Villeneuve could not ask for more capable portrayers in nearly all the principal and supporting roles. Rebecca Ferguson as Jessica and Oscar Isaac as Duke Leto Atreides, despite sharing few one-on-one scenes, walk off with the movie. While Lynch’s screenplay diminished and truncated Jurgen Prochnow’s Leto, Villeneuve concentrates the time and attention required to express the Shakespearean tragedy of the Red Duke and articulate the emotional connection between Leto and his son.

Perhaps Jodorowsky was on to something when he argued for a ten to fourteen-hour running time. If all goes according to plan, “Dune: Part Two” will remedy the insufficient, almost fleeting presence of Zendaya’s Chani, Javier Bardem’s Stilgar, and even Dave Bautista’s Beast Rabban. There’s no question that Villeneuve’s decision to divide the book leaves both newcomers and the “Dune” faithful with lots of questions and the empty feelings that go along with unfinished business. My friend Aaron Anderson is spot-on with his note that the second section should have been filmed at the same time and prepared for a 2022 release.

Villeneuve’s “Dune” takes itself so seriously that plenty of observers have dipped their Gom Jabbar needles into poisoned inkwells. David Ehrlich’s vicious takedown is entertainingly arch, slightly cruel, and not entirely fair. Peter Opaskar’s wild, tongue-in-cheek defense of Lynch’s version as the greatest film ever made — one of several recent reassessments of the 1984 movie — was posted before Opaskar watched the new one. I am glad to live in a world where we already have two big screen interpretations and Frank Pavitch’s fantastic documentary. If we don’t destroy ourselves, there will surely be enough “Dune” by the year 10,191 to please everybody.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Maureen Bharoocha’s “Golden Arm” applies the irresistible combination of long-haul trucking and competitive arm wrestling in the tradition of Menahem Golan’s 1987 Sylvester Stallone cult nugget “Over the Top.” Close friendship replaces father-son bonding as the emotional heartbeat of the story, and Bharoocha, working from a very funny screenplay by Ann Marie Allison and Jenna Milly, capitalizes on the opportunity to imagine a cartoonish subculture grounded in pathos. Originally programmed as part of the canceled 2020 South by Southwest festival, “Golden Arm” had to settle for a small theatrical run and an April 2021 arrival on-demand. As a result, the film has received less love and attention than it deserves.

Television comedy and Upright Citizens Brigade veteran Mary Holland is Melanie, an about-to-be-divorced baker struggling to make a success of her profession. Truck-driving best friend Danny, played by fellow UCB alum Betsy Sodaro, convinces Mel to close up shop for a few days and join her on a delivery. Bharoocha rockets through basic exposition on the way to revealing Danny’s real plan: enter Mel into the arm wrestling nationals being held in Oklahoma City. The purse is fifteen grand, but the bigger prize is an opportunity for the pals to rebuild the tight bonds of their younger days.

Naturally, the cautious, vanilla Mel (who blanches at Danny’s liberal use of descriptive profanity, especially a certain term applied to genitalia) initially resists the call to step up, but Danny’s powers of persuasion and the desperation to collect the handsome winnings convince her otherwise. Unable to compete, Danny’s own wrestling arm is wrapped up in a brace, which adds another layer of pressure. Bharoocha seizes on the script’s episodic structure to explore multiple genres; “Golden Arm” works as both a road movie and as a tournament/elimination-style sports contest, but the relationship of Mel and Danny always sits squarely at the heart of the film.

Bharoocha also manages a colorful gallery of supporting characters, each of whom adds to the circus. Revealing a steady hand and deft touch for romance, the director nails the scenes shared by Holland and Eugene Cordero, who plays referee Greg. The dialogue anticipating their flirtatious magic hour kiss against the chain link fence at a baseball diamond is one of the year’s sexiest screen conversations. De rigueur training montages get an assist from Dot-Marie Jones. Olivia Stambouliah’s Brenda the Bone Crusher, Mel and Danny’s bête noire, is a delightfully hissable nemesis (so many of the arm wrestling personae boast sweet monikers). Ron Funches as organizer Carl, Danny’s friends-with-benefits hookup, is as wonderfully awkward as Ahmed Bharoocha’s Jerry, who serves as Danny’s personal gofer and Swiss Army knife.

It is not difficult to picture a studio-backed “Golden Arm” with a bigger budget and the likes of Kristen Wiig as Mel and Melissa McCarthy as Danny, but the scrappier and scruffier version that got made is somehow more perfect because of its limitations and rough edges. Holland and Sodaro are so effortlessly good together, their characters evoking the kind of visual contrast unforgettably rendered by Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, that they deserve every bit as much recognition as better known A-list comics. The scene-stealing Sodaro’s work as the lusty, foul-mouthed, wrecking-ball extrovert is equal to the best of Jack Black and Zach Galifianakis.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

I love “The Sopranos.”

I have spent many hours with the show, re-watching favorite episodes, reading popular and academic books and essays deconstructing the series, queuing up clip playlists on YouTube to numb the pain of months in pandemic-imposed isolation. Like many others for whom David Chase’s vivid universe is “our thing,” I awaited “The Many Saints of Newark” with an equal amount of excitement and trepidation. I hoped that it could open up a fresh chapter in mob movie mythology the way that Scorsese’s “Goodfellas” was an extension of the indelible marks made by Coppola in “The Godfather” and “The Godfather Part II.” I expected it would honor traditions stretching back to that early sound-era trinity of “Little Caesar,” “The Public Enemy,” and “Scarface.”

But I also knew going in that James Gandolfini would not be in the movie. And no matter how close the resemblance between Gandolfini and his son Michael, who plays the teenage version of Anthony John Soprano Sr., the odds were long that Chase and his collaborators would successfully recapture the right place/right time zeitgeist that spanned 1999 to 2007. Yes, “The Many Saints of Newark” walks and talks more like the pilot to a new season of HBO prequel content than a standalone feature, but given how often it was said that nearly any individual installment of “The Sopranos” was so good it felt like a self-contained movie, I choose to cut “Saints” a break.

The misleading marketing that suggested the film would focus primarily on Tony’s origin story didn’t do Chase any favors and has been — along with several applications of retroactive continuity (Silvio and Tony’s age gap? C’mon!) — a thorn in the movie’s side on fan message boards throughout the film’s opening weekend. “Saints” is narrated, “Our Town” and “Lincoln in the Bardo”-style, by the doomed Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli). Christopher’s father, Dickie Moltisanti (Alessandro Nivola) emerges as the film’s central character. True to Chase’s skill as a storyteller and his interest in mirrored and rhyming themes, Dickie is an intriguing mixture of both the Christopher and Tony of the original series.

Despite a variety of shortcomings that encompass eye-rolling fan-service lollipops and unresolved narrative threads, there is much to savor here. Chase’s interest in the dreamscapes of the unexplainable, the hallucinatory and the mystical, which manifested so strongly in wild side trips including “Funhouse” and “The Test Dream,” may or may not be hiding in plain sight with a provocative bit of classic soap opera evil-twinning that will catch fans who viewed the trailer completely off guard. The audacious device hints that Dickie’s desire to do good and to make amends for the unforgivable exists only in his imagination: “Maybe some of the things you do aren’t God’s favorite.”

With veteran collaborators Alan Taylor as director and Lawrence Konner as co-writer, Chase packs much, maybe even too much, into this particular tale. But I appreciated the many grace notes and blue notes that Chase always plays so well. Not unlike the arrival of Furio Giunta, the presence of Michela De Rossi’s Giuseppina deepens our understanding of the immigrant’s connections between the North Jersey DiMeo family and the romanticized Old Country. And Chase’s magic touch informs the way in which fate, chance, luck, and timing briefly suggest glimmers of hope for Tony — beautifully suggested by key moments in time like a shot at the end of the ice cream truck hijacking, the misinterpretation of the Elavil in Dickie’s pocket, and waiting in vain at Holsten’s.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Ting Poo and Leo Scott may be the directors of record, but “Val” unfolds almost purely as the kaleidoscopic personal diary of subject and writer Val Kilmer, the mercurial one-time superstar who has spent more time in recent years dealing with throat cancer than pursuing screen roles. Kilmer’s initial public denial of his diagnosis — which in retrospect seems entirely in keeping with his idiosyncratic approach to the line between the real and the performed — spawned both speculation and rumor. “Val” is striking for its intimacy and for its candor (at least as far as Kilmer’s current health goes). Kilmer now speaks on camera by covering the hole in his throat. His son Jack, in the first-person role of his father, provides the voiceover narration.

Near the beginning of the film, Kilmer declares that “I was the first guy I knew to own a video camera.” And even before he amassed thousands of hours of home movies and behind-the-scenes footage, he was expressing himself through wildly imaginative original short films and stage plays as a kid, often with his brothers Mark and Wesley. Kilmer’s artistic inclinations would lead him to Juilliard, where he was the youngest person at that time accepted into the Drama Division. At first, it seems like Kilmer leads a charmed and magical existence. Significant tragedy, however, waits in the wings.

Kilmer’s personal observations and insights are always engaging and occasionally yield details and particulars that allow viewers to peek behind the curtain of fame. Sober assessments of key portrayals are among the film’s highlights, and serve to remind us that once upon a time, Kilmer was an A-list force with Hollywood at his feet. He notes that, “Yes, every boy wants to be Batman. They actually want to be him. They don’t necessarily want to play him in a movie.” Certain characters require more time for Kilmer to unpack, but unsolicited audition tapes he made while pursuing “Full Metal Jacket” and “Goodfellas” are easily as fascinating as the way in which he prepared for Doc Holliday and Jim Morrison.

Even more affecting is Kilmer’s openness regarding the realities of making ends meet when lucrative marquee contracts are no longer an option. He says, “I’m selling, basically, my old self, my old career. For many people it’s like the lowest thing you can do is talk about your old pictures and sell photographs…” But to his credit, Kilmer refuses to speak ill of fellow actors who have resorted to the same convention circuit or of the fans who wait in line for hours to meet their idol.

Kilmer crossed paths with legends of different generations, but the sole occupant atop the throne of the Dream Factory’s Mount Olympus was Marlon Brando. The bizarre tale of the making of “The Island of Dr. Moreau,” one of the most dysfunctional studio-backed projects of the 1990s, is already the subject of David Gregory’s fascinating 2014 documentary “Lost Soul.” In “Val” we get a glimpse of Kilmer’s perspective on the debacle, riveting in its own smaller-scale way. As things quickly go off the rails, we share in Kilmer’s crushing disappointment.

The moviemaking stories are juicy, but the filmmakers also capitalize on the intimacy of Kilmer’s family saga, including portraits of father Eugene and mother Gladys (Kilmer’s parents split when he was eight years old). Kilmer’s marriage to and divorce from Joanne Whalley is handled with more respect and fewer fireworks than many of the backstage anecdotes. Along with Jack, daughter Mercedes also appears in the film. Both children dote on their dad, who concludes this scrapbook with the signature self-confidence and optimism that fueled his meteoric career.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Equally frustrating and fascinating, Soleil Moon Frye’s quasi-confessional nostalgia documentary “Kid 90” will attract pop culture consumers of a certain age lured by the promise of pre-internet home movies and video diaries capturing an astonishing number of young performers before, during, and in some cases at the peaks of their fame. Frye is still best known for headlining the NBC sitcom “Punky Brewster,” which debuted in 1984 when she was just eight years old. By the time she was a teen, Frye was shooting footage of her life and her interactions with an array of fellow dream factory aspirants.

As director/compiler/star, Frye is careful to withhold any clips that could potentially damage her own brand or the images of her fellow Hollywood peers. One of the film’s executive producers is Leonardo DiCaprio, whose own fleeting presence in “Kid 90” is limited to the period of time before he embarked on the decidedly politically incorrect, pre-Me Too shenanigans that saw his circle of pals coarsely dubbed the “Pussy Posse.” Frye makes no mention of that specific pack of brats, even though a number of “Don’s Plum” alumni, including Kevin Connolly, Jenny Lewis, and Heather McComb are among those in Frye’s orbit.

There is some level at which “Kid 90” circles the ethical dilemmas faced for decades by professional child actors, their youth exploited and their innocence shredded in the teeth of the entertainment industry that has elevated profit above welfare since Jackie Coogan became a poster boy for mistreated minors. By all accounts, Frye’s own mother was perceived by her daughter and her daughter’s friends as a nurturing, supportive presence. Frye’s father, the actor Virgil Frye, is the subject of her 2004 documentary “Sonny Boy” and was not always around (something “Kid 90” mentions more than once).

“Kid 90” includes as one major thread the unacceptable number of young lives cut short in Frye’s community of friends and acquaintances, but as Inkoo Kang so astutely put it, the movie “is conspicuously incurious about the systemic factors that may have contributed to their deaths, such as financial and familial pressure, addiction, sexual trauma and other mental health struggles.” Or, for that matter, the nature of the industry in which they labored. Instead, there is a small measure of Frye’s own perspective as a grown-up, many years later.

Frye speaks about her personal experience with sexual assault, but as director also makes it clear that the movie’s “dark side” material will avoid any investigation of predatory practices or men who coerced vulnerable girls and women. And even though Frye’s aim is to find some kind of balance between the draw of fans getting glimpses of their favorite stars and a kind of public processing of her own grief and loss, the new interviews skew almost entirely male — Brian Austin Green, Balthazar Getty, David Arquette, Mark-Paul Gosselaar, Daniel “Danny Boy” O’Connor, Perry Farrell, and Stephen Dorff all get more time than McComb.

In “Singin’ in the Rain,” Jean Hagen’s Lina Lamont famously notes, “If we bring a little joy into your humdrum lives, it makes us feel as though our hard work ain’t been in vain for nothin’.” The comment continues to speak volumes about the gulf between wealthy celebrities and us common folk. Frye, who has continued to thrive as a performer, voice actor, entrepreneur, filmmaker, author, web series host, and parent, is savvy enough to recognize her position of privilege. Even so, “Kid 90” is a story that could have used more unguarded introspection.