Movie review by Greg Carlson

In his sharp biography “The Internet’s Own Boy: The Story of Aaron Swartz,” filmmaker Brian Knappenberger spends very little time on the heartbreaking January 11, 2013 suicide of the title figure. Even so, the death, at age 26, of the brilliant Swartz looms over the contents of the movie, informing and shaping every element of a story that is as much about the future of the Internet as it is about a genius thinker, programmer, and activist who chose to use his mind for what he saw as the common good even when that position clashed with the views of the Department of Justice, inviting the draconian prosecutorial overreach of the United States government.

Knappenberger, whose previous movie “We Are Legion: The Story of the Hacktivists” covered the controversial actions of the international network of digital disruptors known as Anonymous, demonstrates a deep knowledge of cyberculture. “The Internet’s Own Boy” is unabashed, call-to-arms, social action cinema, but the position carved out by Knappenberger and the movie’s impressive list of digital warriors is so articulately rendered that one can envision the previously unindoctrinated being convinced to rethink antiquated and inadequate regulations in much the same way that Gabriela Cowperthwaite’s “Blackfish” turned opinion on SeaWorld.

Swartz was an itinerant and restless participant in much of the contemporary computing landscape he so often helped to create, refine, or improve, and Knappenberger attests to the young man’s iconoclasm as one of Swartz’s most fiercely defined personality traits. From dissatisfaction with the intellectual straitjacket of traditional classrooms to the soul-crushing expectations of showing up to work in an office, Swartz’s refusal to conform to the rules in a rarefied world where those rules are comparatively liberal marked him as a radical among radicals.

Even with an avalanche of complex details to sift, Knappenberger clearly lays out the timeline of events that led to Swartz being indicted for multiple violations of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. While a research fellow at Harvard, Swartz downloaded some 4.8 million academic journal articles through the JSTOR database, collecting many of the documents through a network-connected switch to his Acer laptop, which he hooked up in a wiring closet at MIT’s Building 16. Aware of the high-volume transfer, investigators collected hidden camera footage of Swartz accessing the small room.

For many reasons, those grainy images captured by the surveillance camera stick with you. At first, it just doesn’t seem like there is much to it. Swartz enters the space with backpack and bicycle helmet, crouching out of frame for several minutes while he hooks up a hard drive and checks on the progress of his download. But the existence of the video – and knowing everything that would happen later – colors the perception of the viewer. Kevin Poulsen wrote, “…It’s easy to see what MIT and the Secret Service presumably saw – a furtive hacker going someplace he shouldn’t go, doing something he shouldn’t do.” Looking back, it is not clear whether Swartz was actually breaking the law, even if he appeared to flout the rules.

With access to Swartz’s family, partners Quinn Norton and Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman, and big dogs like Tim Berners-Lee, Cory Doctorow, Gabriella Coleman, and Swartz’s mentor Lawrence Lessig, Knappenberger interviews plenty of voices more than capable of expressing the scope of harm that has been done by public agencies that treat so-called hackers like terrorists. The movie has plenty of indignation and frustration, all of it amplified by the urgency and passion of Swartz’s campaigns. “The Internet’s Own Boy” labors to end with a positive outlook on the 2013 measure known as “Aaron’s Law,” a piece of proposed legislation that has made virtually no progress in a system hell bent on a strangled public domain, unfailing and Orwellian support of a greedy corporatocracy, and the continued erosion of our personal digital freedom.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In “The Pervert’s Guide to Ideology,” his infectiously entertaining second collaboration with filmmaker Sophie Fiennes, the Slovenian cultural philosopher Slavoj Zizek expands his shaggy, ursine celebrity as the most accessible and engaging of contemporary Marxist, Lacanian psychoanalytic critics. In essence an illustrated lecture, Fiennes juices Zizek’s talking head performance in the same manner established in “The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema” (2006): by situating her star in detailed recreations of movie sets, from Travis Bickle’s shabby cot in NYC to Alex DeLarge’s catbird perch in the Korova Milk Bar to Jack Dawson’s icy grave in the North Atlantic. The delirious effect brings a series of big ideas to life, colorfully illuminating Zizek’s wide-ranging thoughts on politics, religion, and all things ontological.

At the center of Zizek’s overarching argument about humanity is the notion that people navigate the world with a kind of false consciousness that both allows us to justify all sorts of horrible behavior and obscures from us the “reality” of hegemonic social orders. The guide starts the party with a discussion of the weirdly protracted fight scene between Roddy Piper’s Nada and Keith David’s Armitage in John Carpenter’s “They Live” (1988) – a movie Zizek calls “one of the forgotten masterpieces of the Hollywood left.” Zizek, after noting that he is already “eating from the trash can all the time,” explains the reason for Armitage’s refusal to don the sunglasses that allow one to view the unadulterated messages encoded in the monolith of capitalistic propaganda: to “step out of ideology” is painful.

“The Pervert’s Guide to Ideology” references far fewer movies than the “The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema” (just a little more than half of the total in the earlier film), but the picks include hugely popular texts like “The Sound of Music” (1965) and “Jaws” (1975) as well as material less well known to the American viewing public. The latter category contains Mikheil Chiaureli’s “The Fall of Berlin” (1950) and Jan Nemec’s “Oratorio for Prague” (1968), the short documentary that purportedly captures the only film footage of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Occasionally, Zizek also touches on content that calls for supporting imagery from the likes of Coca-Cola commercials, news reports of the shocking terrorist attacks in Norway in 2011, Donald Rumsfeld spewing utter falsehoods on the existence of WMDs in Iraq, and an aviation junkyard in the Mojave Desert stocked with decommissioned jetliners.

The most enjoyable dimension of Zizek’s engagement with cinematic texts is the excitement, glee, and sharp wit that rise up every time the man elucidates a surprise twist or contradiction that turns a previously held notion upside down. Zizek convincingly argues, for example, that Rammstein undermines fascism by performing a burlesque of “pre-ideological” Nazi-influenced gestures, and that “Titanic” (1997) offers a “ridiculous fake sympathy with lower classes” that allows the wealthy and privileged Rose to feed like a vampire on the penniless Jack, who really only functions to reconstitute her ego. Had the ocean liner not collided with the iceberg, Zizek reasons, Jack and Rose would have flamed out after “two, three weeks of intense sex in New York.”

In a similar way, the doctors of Altman’s “MASH” (1970) are not subversive, insubordinate, antiauthoritarian agents in an antiwar satire but instead operate “perfectly as soldiers,” fulfilling their duties with skill and devotion. The same goes for Matthew Modine’s Joker in “Full Metal Jacket” (1987), whose apparent derision and contempt for the rituals of military discipline give way to his training as a killing machine. The viewer receives as much pleasure from these little epiphanies as Zizek does in the telling, and one of the movie’s lessons in irony describes the widespread use of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” by totalitarian dictators. The tune – like ideology itself – becomes an empty vessel capable of holding any and every meaning ascribed to it. If, as Zizek maintains, lifting the veil of ideology through critique lets us function outside the narcotic haze to which we acquiesce, I’m ready to enroll in his film class.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Echoing the conflicted emotions that led Leonard Nimoy to title his first autobiography “I Am Not Spock” and then later publish another volume titled “I Am Spock,” the man who has given life to Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch since the inaugural season of “Sesame Street” in 1969 articulates the intricacies of creating something simultaneously of himself and beyond himself in “I Am Big Bird: The Caroll Spinney Story.” Making its world premiere at the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Festival in Toronto, “I Am Big Bird” offers a comprehensive portrait of Spinney’s life and career in and out of the vividly colored costume.

Now 80 years old, Spinney is the last of the original Muppeteers to perform on “Sesame Street,” even though apprentices Rick Lyon (for the opening theme song sequences) and Matt Vogel have crawled under the feathers. Vogel, who has been Spinney’s Big Bird understudy for nearly two decades and is the character’s heir apparent, is one of the movie’s many interview subjects. Blending newly shot content and never-before-seen film and video, “I Am Big Bird” includes Jim and Jane Henson, Frank Oz, Jerry Nelson, Judy Valentine, Sonia Manzano, Emilio Delgado, Bob McGrath, and Spinney’s wife and protector Debra, among others.

Directors Chad Walker and Dave LaMattina combed through hours and hours of TV history and several boxes of home movies provided by obsessive memory preservationists Caroll and Debra. Hardcore true-believers will be impressed at the sight of the original puppets Spinney’s mother made for him more than 70 years ago, as well as Spinney’s illustrations and animated cartoons, and clips of early performances on Boston’s “Bozo’s Big Top” as Mr. Lion. More riveting is the tale of Spinney’s disastrous gig at the 1969 Salt Lake City Puppeteers of America convention that attracted the attention of an admiring Henson (seven years after the two had first met).

Given the monumental popularity of Big Bird, the movie spends less time on Spinney’s other signature role, but the importance and value of Oscar the Grouch as a kind of unfiltered, curmudgeonly, miserable flip side to Big Bird’s positive, exuberant, and sunshiny optimist is a crucial component of Spinney’s genius. At Hot Docs appearances Spinney brought Oscar to the stage. Astounded audience members were quick to address questions directly to the green sourpuss. When a woman said she had always related to and identified with the furry monster’s irritability and impatience, Oscar immediately quipped, “What are you doing after the show?”

“I Am Big Bird” is effectively paced, but the filmmakers attempt to cover so much ground that some segments function as truncated, anecdotal asides that would have merited a closer look had the running time allowed it. Like “Being Elmo,” the documentary addresses the considerable time demands that come with performing a beloved, iconic character, and Spinney’s grown children allude to a bittersweet upbringing that required them to share their father with the world. The 1990s surge in Elmo’s popularity is attributed to the red Muppet’s fixed preschool age aligning with the younger demographic of evolving “Sesame Street” viewership, but Walker and LaMattina make no direct mention of the rough period that ended with Kevin Clash’s resignation following allegations of sexual relationships with teenage boys.

Plenty of darker chapters take viewers behind the scenes, including acknowledgment of physical and emotional abuse meted out by Spinney’s father, the cancellation of a trip on the space shuttle Challenger (teacher Christa McAuliffe took Spinney’s place on the doomed mission), and the murder of Judith Nilan by a man who worked for the Spinneys. Professionally, Spinney faced what many colleagues believe was unfair and unwarranted animosity and antagonism from longtime writer/director Jon Stone, whose brilliance was accompanied by a level of perfectionism and high expectations that could be construed as cruel and cantankerous.

For the millions of fans whose early childhood included the intimacy and comfort of a deep parasocial relationship with the large yellow fowl, “I Am Big Bird” will bring tears to the eyes on multiple occasions (both the death of Will Lee’s Mr. Hooper and Spinney’s Big Bird performance of “Bein’ Green” at Henson’s funeral call for the handkerchiefs). The filmmakers know and understand that Big Bird’s curiosity and innocence, often manifested in the simple misunderstandings of very young people, are the keys to his longevity and acclaim. Spinney’s own gentleness and kindness, shining through so clearly in “I Am Big Bird,” will make every viewer feel eight feet tall.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The brain dead “Brick Mansions” is, not surprisingly, a completely unnecessary remake of Pierre Morel’s “District 13,” (also known as “District B13,” “Banlieue 13,” or just “B13”) another title from Luc Besson’s seemingly endless supply of co-produced and/or co-written projects. Crammed start to finish with preposterous lapses in even the most basic logical assumptions about human nature, director Camille Delamarre’s movie may be remembered chiefly as the last film performance completed by Paul Walker prior to his death in November. Walker had not finished shooting his scenes for “Fast & Furious 7,” which will presumably mark his final cinematic appearance when released in 2015.

While Walker’s death adds an eerie, melancholy mood to “Brick Mansions,” especially during scenes in which the actor is involved in any kind of vehicular mayhem, his screen presence and persona are otherwise no different from the bland comeliness – highlighted in the actor’s athletic physique and pretty blue eyes – that served Walker from supporting roles in “Varsity Blues,” She’s All That” and “The Skulls” to his higher profile status as Brian O’Conner in the “The Fast and the Furious” franchise. In “Brick Mansions,” Walker plays undercover office Damien Collier, just about the last honest cop in corrupt, dystopian, 2018 Detroit.

The movie’s title refers to a walled-off stretch of public housing projects in the heart of the city where rampant crime and impossible economic conditions have led to a lawless no man’s land that echoes the isolated Manhattan of “Escape from New York” (minus John Carpenter’s wit and inventiveness). Greedy city officials are poised to level Brick Mansions to make way for new economic development, but drug kingpin Tremaine Alexander (RZA), in possession of an old Russian missile complete with groan-inducing red LED countdown clock and override/abort code keypad, has other ideas.

Choosing the movie’s worst feature is no easy task, but the convoluted knot of shifting allegiances involving straight arrow Collier, avenging anti-drug vigilante Lino (David Belle, reprising his role from the French original), and murderous kidnapper Tremaine is probably the leading contender. Tremaine guns down one of his own men at point blank for failing to kill Lino. He abducts Lino’s ex-girlfriend Lola (Catalina Denis) and subjects her to physical abuse at the hands of henchwoman Rayzah (Ayisha Issa), fully coded and loaded as the sadistic lesbian and lone female enforcer. Tremaine also chops peppers and speaks in culinary metaphors.

And yet, once the depth of City Hall malfeasance is revealed, Tremaine looks clean by comparison, emerging as a Robin Hood of the slums and joining forces with Collier and Lino. The laughable turnabout is arguably more entertaining than the frantic parkour choreography and certainly more enjoyable than the dismal and disheartening disposability of human life on display. The movie’s coda, an unintentionally hilarious vignette depicting Collier’s BMW convertible crawling through the streets of a reborn, sunny day Brick Mansions while previously homicidal thugs plant trees and Lino teaches tots to acrobatically vault and leap, punctuates full-circle idiocy: former nemesis Tremaine’s mug, previously tacked up on Collier’s wall as persona non grata, is now plastered across red, white, and blue posters announcing his mayoral campaign.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Along with Stanley Kubrick’s proposed epic “Napoleon,” a film adaptation of Frank Herbert’s “Dune” that was to be directed by Chilean-born esotericist and spiritual guru Alejandro Jodorwosky is often listed as one of the “greatest films never made.” First pitched to the cult filmmaker by French producer Michel Seydoux in the 1970s, “Dune” would fuel Jodorowsky’s imagination and consume his creative energy (and a pile of money) for many months. Director Frank Pavich, relying on the incredible contents of the legendary book that was assembled to pre-visualize the transmutation and lure studio investors, has made in “Jodorowsky’s Dune” a movie for movie fans as well as dreamers of all kinds.

Once Jodorowsky, who claims he committed to “Dune” without having read the novel, launched himself at the material like a high-dive cannonballer, he set about assembling an Avengers-like super squad of like-minded “spiritual warriors” who could help realize his kaleidoscopic vision. Pavich spends a significant amount of time investigating the production team. Several members, including longtime Jodorowsky associate Jean “Moebius” Girard, Swiss master of the macabre H.R. Giger, and sci-fi illustrator and spacecraft specialist Chris Foss, share their impressive artwork and their memories of working with Jodorowsky.

Jodorowsky’s penchant for Jungian synchronicities – he seems to have bumped into several of his dream collaborators by chance immediately after thinking about them – is a little bit too good to be true, but the man’s childlike enthusiasm excuses some of his taller tales. Additionally, Jodorowsky speaks with no filter (“You need to open the costume and rape the bride. I was raping Frank Herbert! Raping! But with love”) and his easy blending of the sacred and the profane confirms the wild image of the man who made “El Topo” and “The Holy Mountain.”

With focus squarely on the irrepressible Jodorowsky, Pavich is less interested in some of the other aspects of the convoluted journey of “Dune” from page to screen. He skips serious consideration of the text as a giant slayer, withholding mention of Herbert’s own interests in the project and the Arthur Jacobs version that David Lean planned to direct. The Ridley Scott attempt, which occurred between Jodorowsky’s involvement and the eventual David Lynch realization, is ignored even though Pavich goes out of his way (and a little overboard) to establish the vast influence of the Jodorowsky pre-production materials on “Alien” and a legion of subsequent science fiction movies.

Jodorowsky, now in his 80s, loquaciously holds forth on every detail he can recall or invent. In one fascinating anecdote, master visual effects supervisor Douglas Trumbull gets thrown under the bus in favor of Dan O’Bannon, who would end up dropping everything to move to Paris to work on “Dune.” Jodorowsky proves no less ambitious in the courtship of his on-camera talent, and his wish list includes the likes of Mick Jagger, Orson Welles (as Baron Harkonnen, of course), Salvador Dali, and David Carradine. The effect is meant to evoke an incredulous “what might have been” lament from the viewer, but it is far more likely that Pavich’s warm and funny chronicle of such a beautiful near miss/long shot burnishes a mythology more satisfying than the reality of what Jodorowsky would have been able to bring to the screen.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Sharing connections with science fiction movies as wildly different as “The Man Who Fell to Earth,” “The Brother from Another Planet,” “Lifeforce,” and “Species,” “Under the Skin” represents director Jonathan Glazer’s boldest and most satisfying work to date. As hypnotic, hallucinogenic, and inscrutable as some of Stanley Kubrick’s most artful filmmaking, “Under the Skin” demands multiple viewings to process the exhilarating effects of its image-driven, pure cinema. Anchored by a confident performance by Scarlett Johansson as an alien who guides male quarry to their oblivion, Glazer’s ambitions go well beyond the deceptively simple storyline.

The director completely reimagines Michel Faber’s 2000 novel of the same title, withholding significant elements of plot while retaining the thematic heart of the central figure’s journey of self-discovery. On paper, Faber’s preoccupation with the welfare of animals processed for consumption as food is manifested in a Swiftian allegory that Glazer almost entirely eliminates, throwing over the novelist’s dark satire of greedy business practices and the gulf between poverty and privilege for a subjective experience that deliberately defies easy explanation.

“Under the Skin” is filled with episodes and moments that shimmer and vibrate with dread and anxiety, yet the viewer is also invited to share the alien’s curiosity at the ways of our world. There is no doubt that some will grow impatient with Glazer’s cryptic puzzles. Johansson’s extra-terrestrial works with a motorcycling, male-inhabiting counterpart, but any expository conversation between the two is suppressed and the figure remains an enigma upon which we can only speculate. That relationship alludes to the book, as does a scene in which the protagonist meets her match in a rich piece of layer cake.

The brilliance of Glazer’s reinterpretation of Faber’s world is expressed most radically in the interactions between the predator and the men she meets. Many of the film’s most unforgettable scenes, including the jaw-dropping final outcome, do not appear in the original writing. A surreal attempted rescue from drowning that ends with a stomach-turning reminder of the limits of the alien’s ability to show empathy parallels a later sequence (featuring Adam Pearson, an actor with neurofibromatosis) that may signal a turning point in the creature’s psychological development via a newfound capacity for mercy.

One of the most significant book-to-film alterations changes the alien’s method of dispatching victims. Glazer omits the novel’s needle-injected anesthetic – administered through passenger seat upholstery with the flick of a switch – in favor of a sensuous seduction dance that unfolds at the alien’s lair. The design of the space, cloaked in inky obscurity but for an eerie and reflective surface tension on the floor, is as disorienting as the sight of the disrobing couple is pulse-quickening. Once submerged in the liquid suspension that bears the weight of the alien like an unholy corruption of Christ’s miracle at the Sea of Galilee, fate is sealed and the point of no return passed.

Glazer’s methods for capturing the unaffected reactions of the men who approach the alien’s van have received a great deal of attention. Shooting with hidden cameras and communicating with Johansson via an earpiece in the manner of Jean-Luc Godard on “Masculin Feminin,” “2 or 3 Things I Know About Her” and “La Chinoise,” Glazer patrolled the streets of Glasgow in search of faces that appealed to him. Only after the initial interactions were captured would the pedestrians be alerted to the unusual circumstances and offered the opportunity to fill out the necessary paperwork (a few recognized Johansson). This candid camera effect, employed to comic ends in “Borat,” is closer here in application to Yimou Zhang’s “The Story of Qiu Ju,” raising a few tantalizing ethical questions in regard to its documentary-like, observational aura.

Johansson’s character, unnamed in the film, is called Isserley in the novel, and the reader is offered more detailed explanations about her sinister vocation on Earth than Glazer does on screen. Faber reminds us often that Isserley has endured a monumental physical sacrifice to pass for human, and the book makes constant reference to Isserley’s spinal pain. The rich subtext concerning body image and sexual attractiveness remains an essential component in Glazer’s vision, and “Under the Skin” has already been pegged as both a deconstruction/inversion of rape culture and a willing participant in traditional cinematic objectification of the female body. That the text can sustain both of these disparate interpretations is but one measure of its magnetic pull.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Using Steve Rogers’ status as a man out of time, “Captain America: The Winter Soldier” grafts civil liberties-oriented political critique to its machine-tooled visual effects exoskeleton. Directed by brothers Anthony and Joe Russo, much loved for their Emmy-winning work on the “Arrested Development” pilot and less so for “You, Me and Dupree,” the new installment revels in the muchness that has come to define the Marvel movie model. Chris Evans returns as the Cap, now more attuned to the rhythms of the Internet age but still longing for the WW 2-era purity that continues to inform his moral convictions and unwavering sense of right and wrong.

Captain America’s absolutism clashes with the gray shades of Nick Fury’s (Samuel L. Jackson) post-9/11 model of preemption, but the hero continues to serve S.H.I.E.L.D. in spite of his reservations about the organization’s Big Brother-like dependence on electronic surveillance and espionage, not to mention the group’s failure to be either accountable or transparent. Critics have eagerly made comparisons between “The Winter Soldier” and any number of 1970s political thrillers, inevitable given the presence of “Three Days of the Condor” star Robert Redford as Alexander Pierce, a secretive World Security Council member with ulterior motives.

The borderline naivete guiding Steve begs for the presence of a cynical, wisecracking partner, and screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely supply a good one in Scarlett Johansson’s Natasha “Black Widow” Romanoff. Making her third appearance as the shadowy former KGB operative, Johansson’s character now shares the screen as Captain America’s equal. Post-Cold War cuddles aren’t in the cards – one running gag has Natasha serving as Steve’s matchmaker – but the stark differences between the two (he tries hard to never lie and she struggles to tell the truth) breathe some life into the moments between the punching, kicking, and shooting.

Plot overkill is common currency in the superhero sequel, and “The Winter Soldier” weaves so many different threads it is no wonder Kevin Feige claims to have mapped the Marvel cinematic universe through the year 2028. In addition to dealing with the fate of Nick Fury, the identity of the Winter Soldier (which is no surprise for comic book readers), and introducing Anthony Mackie as the Falcon, the movie crams in references direct or indirect to Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch – called “Miracles” to distinguish the mutants from the Fox-controlled “X-Men” franchise – Iron Man, Crossbones, Stephen Strange, Baron Wolfgang von Strucker, and even Batroc the Leaper. While much of this stuff is incidental to the main course, it all leads to 2015’s “Avengers: Age of Ultron,” Joss Whedon’s highly anticipated juggernaut-to-be.

The serialized, pulpy, soap opera storylines that have sustained comic books for decades might be better suited to the episodic nature of television, but the big budget scale of CG photorealism provides an appealing platform for Marvel’s HYDRA-headed product, especially for viewers who started with the comics. Those who did not might echo Eric Henderson’s argument that the Marvel films are cyclical and “samey,” each one “a warmly welcomed commercial for the next in line.” Of course, nostalgia makes it easier to argue that Joe Simon and Jack Kirby’s medium is superior to the silver screen as mode of delivery for the most satisfying incarnation of the red, white, and blue shield-bearer. One thing is fairly certain: as long as people fantasize about transformative physical prowess and superhuman skill sets, those colorful characters won’t ever be too far away.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The winning, off-center rockumentary “Mistaken for Strangers” examines the fraternal rivalry of siblings Matt and Tom Berninger – the former the driven and successful lead singer of Grammy-nominated critical darlings The National and the latter a part-time moviemaker and full-time slacker who still lives with his parents in Cincinnati. Directed by Tom, the movie focuses less on the band’s music, although there are many shots of the musicians on stage during the world tour supporting “High Violet,” and more on the psychological insecurities that emerge when only one of two brothers with artistic aspirations attains the adulation and validation that comes with fame.

At the outset of the story, Tom accepts a position as a roadie/gopher with The National, even though he makes clear his intentions to record some kind of behind-the-scenes document of the experience. By way of claiming cinematic bona fides, Tom shows a few clips from his micro-budgeted splatter movies “From the Dirt Under His Nails” (“It’s about an insane animal trapper who resurrects the dead”) and “Wages of Sin” (“This one’s about a barbarian with an identity crisis who also goes through a murderous rampage”). Tom’s “American Movie”-esque cluelessness persuades the audience to root for him as a lovable loser underdog, but the film’s construction suggests a calculated level of comic self-awareness.

We are led to believe that Tom’s relationship to Matt affords him great access to the band and their admirers, but Tom’s incessant incompetence irritates tour manager and sound engineer Brandon Reid, as well as every other person who crosses Tom’s path. Tom arranges individual interviews with members of The National, always popping fatuous, idiotic questions that would be right at home in “This Is Spinal Tap.” He asks things like where The National will be in fifty years and whether band members go on stage with their wallets and identification. He talks his subjects into performing embarrassing bits of dialogue and arty turns to the camera. All of this is very funny, even if a great deal of it feels too good to be true.

At a tight 75 minutes, “Mistaken for Strangers” is not a concert film, and none of the songs are performed without editors Tom and Carin Besser (Matt’s spouse and one of the movie’s producers) cutting away to the next of Tom’s bumbling misadventures. Tom plays up his outsider-looking-in status, grumbling about the simple tasks he is asked, and usually fails, to complete. His camera catches National fans like Werner Herzog, Emily Blunt, John Krasinski, Will Arnett, and during a political rally in Madison, Barack Obama. But Tom’s stargazing, boozing, and general irresponsibility come to an inevitable head, setting up the movie’s final act and the circumstances for Tom’s last shot at redemption.

Near the end of the film, while Tom is deep in post-production on the doc and his disorganized and illogical system of color-coded sticky notes inspires little confidence in fruitful completion, he addresses the camera: “Having Matt as my older brother kind of sucks because he’s a rock star and I am not.” The declaration, as obvious as everything else Tom has blurted, effectively summarizes the film’s agenda and sets up its triumphant conclusion, a killer performance of “Terrible Love” in which we see Matt sing his way off the stage and through the crowd while Tom follows behind, untangling the microphone cable, minding his big brother’s safety, and making peace with his spot in the shadows.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The U.S. on-demand and theatrical release of the second volume of Lars von Trier’s “Nymphomaniac” picks up the confessional discourse between Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) and Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) following the former’s rescue by the latter from a nearby alley. The second installment retains the episodic structure of the first while revealing critical information about the conversationalists that leads to a conclusion typical of von Trier’s longstanding curiosity about gender disparity. In several ways, “Vol. II” intensifies the black comedy and the melodrama introduced in the previous section, leading one to wonder how the longer, more explicit and expansive cut of the film would unfold as a viewing experience.

The most disquieting disclosure in “Vol. II” belongs not to the seemingly limitless Joe, but rather to Seligman, who divulges news that reframes his relationship to Joe and infuses the film with a previously absent urgency: Seligman admits that he is asexual and a virgin. The startling news serves the narrative as a dramatic turning point and also sets up the climax. Now, more than ever, “Nymphomaniac” mirrors “One Thousand and One Nights.” Seligman’s interest in Joe ceases to be strictly academic, and the tension accompanying his admission aligns him with the dangerous and capricious misogyny of Shahryar. Joe plays Scheherazade to Seligman’s Shahryar, and while her tales are represented by a chiliad of often anonymous sexual partners, the measure of her self-knowledge parallels the keenness of the legendary Persian queen.

“Vol. II” contains the final three chapters of the story, and among the most absorbing and challenging of the entire “Nymphomaniac” octet is “The Eastern and the Western Church (The Silent Duck),” a consideration of sadomasochism featuring Jamie Bell as K, a meticulous inflictor of lacerating punishment on willing subjects. A number of critics, including Richard Brody and Ben Brock, have suggested that the scenes with K are directed with an energy and style distinct from the remainder of the film’s contents. These assertions are attributable in part to von Trier’s investment in K as a character. A strong argument could be made that the filmmaker treats Uma Thurman’s Mrs. H in “Vol. I” in a similar way, although a handful of other performers, including Willem Dafoe and Mia Goth, manage to work around some of the deliberately mannered dialogue.

Von Trier happily acknowledges the unlikely coincidences that fuel so much literature, inserting several meta-comments in the framing scenes between Joe and Seligman, whose name may be a reference to the psychologist who developed the theory of learned helplessness. The filmmaker expands his palette of asides, introducing references to the Prusik knot (which Joe thinks is one of Seligman’s weakest digressions), Empress Messalina and the Whore of Babylon, the Stations of the Cross, and the full-circle return of the Fibonacci sequence in correlation to pelvic thrusts. The prominence of these detours and deflections shifts them from subordination to a status of priority and reinforces the notion that von Trier is an artist for whom the Verfremdungseffekt is a critical storytelling objective.

Prior to pulling the trigger of Chekhov’s gun, von Trier gives Seligman a speech in which he marvels at the double standards society has established for women. Seligman notes that men get a pass if they abandon or neglect their family responsibilities, but if women do it, the consequences are dire. Joe, whose behavior at one point imperils her son in an echo of the opening scene of “Antichrist,” describes herself as a bad person, but it seems clear that von Trier does not agree. Like Bess McNeill, Selma Jezkova, and Grace Margaret Mulligan, Joe may be added to the list of complicated sufferers so close to von Trier’s heart. “Nymphomaniac” may not be as initially satisfying or as emotionally devastating as “Breaking the Waves,” “Dancer in the Dark,” or “Dogville,” but it affirms its creator as a formidable cinematic talent with much left to say.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Wes Anderson’s remarkable, singular vision continues to flower in “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” the auteur’s tantalizing, beguiling eighth feature. Adorned with the director’s immediately recognizable hallmarks – summarized effectively by an “Onion” gag headlined “Wes Anderson Reteams with Favorite Objects for ‘Grand Budapest Hotel’” – the film is among Anderson’s most satisfying and rewarding experiences. Set mostly in 1932 in a pop-up storybook fantasyland called the Republic of Zubrowka, a fading, old world relic of the Austro-Hungarian Empire on the eve of war, collapse, and ruin, “The Grand Budapest Hotel” concludes with a title indicating Anderson’s indebtedness to the suicidal Viennese writer Stefan Zweig, whose memoir “The World of Yesterday” might very well be the movie’s subtitle, if not an apt description of Anderson’s overarching career raison d’etre.

Recounted via nested flashbacks that come to rest on the almost square aspect ratio evocative of the Academy standard of Hollywood’s golden age, “The Grand Budapest Hotel” employs an army of appealing performers, several of them Anderson regulars, in support of a madcap murder mystery/art theft caper that threatens to swallow up the sexually omnivorous gigolo Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes), the fastidious steward of the title resort who uses his position to seduce and comfort the aged clientele. When Gustave is bequeathed the fictional Johannes Van Hoytl the Younger’s “Boy with Apple,” a priceless Renaissance portrait containing several juicy symbols paralleling Gustave’s epicurean decadence, Anderson operationalizes the painting as the film’s MacGuffin.

Channeling several of Edward Everett Horton’s fey, well-dressed gentlemen of indeterminate proclivity displayed to dizzying effect in the films of Ernst Lubitsch and alongside Astaire and Rogers, Fiennes captivates and charms, through and through. Gustave’s half genuine, half ersatz urbanity and refinement, scented by the pungent aroma of L’Air de Panache, the astringent cologne he liberally applies, is betrayed by the man’s equally luxuriant deployment of coarse, hilarious profanity. Like Gene Hackman as Royal Tenenbaum, Fiennes has located one of his finest career performances in the unlikeliest of places.

Gustave’s assistant and partner in scandal is lobby boy in training Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori), the movie’s central observer and audience surrogate. A quick study under Gustave’s precise tutelage, Zero falls for pastry chef Agatha (Saoirse Ronan), whose pastel hued Courtesan au Chocolat confections arrive in the collapsible pink packages of Mendl’s bakery, their ribbon-secured sides inspiring the kind of delectation that accompanies the sight of a Tiffany Blue Box. Ronan’s talent commands attention, and the alluring Agatha, with her prominent facial birthmark, is the movie’s inscrutable Mona Lisa.

Unquestionably, the central relationship of “The Grand Budapest Hotel” belongs to Gustave and Zero, but I wanted to see more of Agatha, or for that matter, any female with something of significance to contribute. Of the seventeen stars who adorn the movie’s lovely one sheet, only three are women. Of those three, Lea Seydoux’s chambermaid Clotilde appears fleetingly and Tilda Swinton’s mummified dowager takes a rather abrupt powder. Anderson is no misogynist, but the male-centric focus of nearly every film in his oeuvre indicates an ongoing delinquency.

Anderson furnishes “The Grand Budapest Hotel” with a carnival of brilliantly executed set pieces. Scale models of funicular railway cabins elevate guests to the opulent spa. A wild, awe-inspiring ski chase is executed in mischievous miniature. A hilarious interlude behind bars is capped by one of cinema’s most satisfying and hysterical prison breaks. A droll series of single shots reveals a secret society of hotel concierges, and all the while Anderson’s impeccable sense of timing and cinematic choreography marries high and low comedy in harmonious union.

Underneath the frantic shenanigans, however, Anderson sustains his longstanding warmth and affection for these outré eccentrics, and “The Grand Budapest Hotel” never misses a step in its combination of the comic and the melancholic. With a light touch that has invited multiple comparisons to Lubitsch, Anderson incorporates enough political subtext to acknowledge the rise of Nazism and anti-Semitism that would envelop Europe and initiate the Holocaust. Like so many of his films, “The Grand Budapest Hotel” can conjure smiles and tears at a single image or line of dialogue.

Michael Chabon, in his introduction to Matt Zoller Seitz’s indispensable “The Wes Anderson Collection” (which will soon require an updated edition), writes, “With each of his films, Anderson’s total command of detail – both the physical detail of his sets and costumes, and the emotional detail of the uniformly beautiful performances he elicits from his actors – has enabled him to increase the persuasiveness of his own family Zemblas, without sacrificing any of the paradoxical emotional power that distance affords.” The book was published prior to the release of Anderson’s newest movie, but Chabon’s thoughts, linking the filmmaker to Vladimir Nabokov and Joseph Cornell, could be readily applied to “The Grand Budapest Hotel” and, one presumes and hopes, many more stories to come.