Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Nymphomaniac” constitutes the third and final installment in Lars von Trier’s “Depression Trilogy,” presumably inspired by the filmmaker’s own long-term struggles with dejection and despair. The release of the movie, in keeping with von Trier’s always calculated relationship with both gatekeepers and the public, has included festival screenings of the uncut epic as well as a staggered U.S. premiere in two truncated parts available on demand and in limited theatrical engagements. Like several of the director’s previous films, “Nymphomaniac” employs a structure reliant on episodic chapters, and “Vol. I” covers the first five of a total eight stories related by Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) to Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) on the topic of her lifelong sexual odyssey.

Von Trier, whose formal rigor and arch sense of humor have rendered him mostly immune to dismissive pop critics, constructs a hysterical, onyx black comedy throughout much of “Vol. I.” Writers have already descended on the bruising, blunt ridiculousness of the fly fishing metaphor proposed by Seligman near the start of Joe’s confessions. Von Trier goes on to explore his appetite for visually arresting experimentation, displaying on screen numbers aligned with the Fibonacci sequence and golden spiral, graphic diagrams, photographs of flaccid members of varying shapes and sizes, stock footage, split screens, triptychs, and an homage to Muybridge’s motion studies. Musical juxtaposition, ranging from Rammstein’s “Fuhre mich” to Bach’s “Ich ruf zu dir, herr Jesu Christ” from “The Little Organ Book” provides perfect counterpoint to both Joe’s self-described rake’s progress and the sustained discussion of polyphony she shares with Seligman.

The vignette approach, accomplished via a series of flashbacks in which the younger Joe is played by Stacy Martin, invites comparisons among the quintet of reminiscences and some are stronger than others. The third chapter, titled “Mrs. H.,” a thermonuclear confrontation showcasing a blistering and brilliant Uma Thurman as the wronged wife of one of Joe’s lovers, lays bare the toll of adultery. Simultaneously nerve-wracking and wildly, uncomfortably funny, the stormy meltdown is the film’s most successful and fully realized sequence. Elements of other chapters carom from the haunting to the risible, fueled regularly by Seligman’s idiotic exclamations. On the subject of Joe’s hunt for potential conquests on a train during a sex contest, Seligman, straight-faced, excitedly spouts: “You were reading the river!”

Near the end of the credit crawl that closes the film, a caveat claims that “None of the professional actors had penetrative sexual intercourse and all such scenes were performed by body doubles.” The statement, it turns out, may be more provocative than the inclusion of hardcore acts in a “serious” art film, but it does raise the issue of boundaries and limits for “professional actors” applying their craft. Once the checks are signed and the cameras roll, are not the body doubles also professional actors? Conversations with some overlapping and corresponding themes accompanied movies as far ranging as “Last Tango in Paris,” “Don’t Look Now,” “Caligula,” “Baise-moi,” “The Brown Bunny,” “9 Songs,” and multiple films by Catherine Breillat. Simulacra or not, the eternally impish, Cannes persona non grata von Trier knows full well the value of attracting attention.

Setting aside the promise of debauched spectacle, I have always admired the way the filmmaker embeds his largest existential queries in the most simple, direct figurations. Like Brothers Grimm fairy tales and Mother Goose nursery rhymes, von Trier cooks up his diabolical schemes with elemental elegance. Given the man’s previous depictions of sexuality on film, it should come as no surprise that the design and execution of the digitally composited carnality in “Nymphomaniac” is detached, clinical, and psychologically fraught.

Arguments attesting to or denying eroticism are moot, however, as titillation is in the eye and heartbeat of the beholder. Gender scholars will continue the now decades long examination of von Trier’s relationship to his female protagonists. One of the durable arguments on this topic questions the extent to which von Trier’s tormented women are stand-ins for the director himself. At the conclusion of “Vol. I,” Joe, panicked and distraught, cries that she can’t feel anything, but von Trier’s filmmaking certainly suggests otherwise for the inspired auteur.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While it lacks the punch and perspicacity of Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker’s “The War Room,” Greg Whiteley’s behind-the-scenes portrait of Mitt Romney’s presidential aspirations makes for an interesting and entertaining civics lesson drama, and will be catnip to all political junkies regardless of party affiliation. Covering Romney’s bid for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination and the 2012 race versus Barack Obama, “Mitt” strongly suggests a privileged, inside view, even if the principal cast’s acute awareness of the unblinking eyes of the moviemaker’s ever-present cameras causes them to carefully mind and manage their words.

Undoubtedly, Whiteley is at his best as a really big fly on the wall observer of the Romney family talking strategy in one hotel suite after another. Mitt and Ann are joined by several of their five sons throughout the operation, and the pre- and post-debate and appearance conversations, though clearly guarded, are rich with the strategic minutiae that shape modern politics. As the first Mormon to earn a presidential endorsement from a major party, Romney’s religion comes up a handful of times, but beyond the authenticity and sincerity of his faith, little is made of the man’s denomination insofar as it had any impact on electability.

The movie does an admirable job of trusting the viewership’s basic understanding of the timeline and contours of the two campaigns. Whiteley makes judicious use of media footage captured at debates and on cable news outlets, often cutting away at precise moments when Romney or his rivals say something that will be parsed, dissected, and mulled later in private chambers. When it becomes apparent that the future isn’t as sunny as the team would like, Romney’s sons demonstrate a bottomless capacity for reframing, making comments of golden-spun, oxymoronic doublespeak, like the assertion that there’s a lot of “downside to winning.”

Missing from the movie are any substantive revelations from Romney on his 2012 GOP primary challengers and Whiteley glosses over potentially fascinating commentary on the likes of Rick Perry and Michele Bachmann. Running mate Paul Ryan, who shows up so late in the movie his sudden appearance comes as a shock, seems to be carefully reminded that what he says is being recorded. Whiteley also skips the “binders full of women” and fails to record Romney’s reactions to the now infamous “47 percent” video, although for whatever it is worth, the director says he was not there when the latter happened and not granted access to whatever conversation the team had regarding damage control.

Whiteley acknowledges the vast wealth of the Romneys a few times, and when the topic arises, the compassionate, regular guy who understands your problems is replaced by the out-of-touch, “corporations are people, my friend,” CEO elitist. This makes it difficult to feel sorry for the Romneys on nearly any level. Even when Whiteley introduces a segment on Ann Romney’s challenges with multiple sclerosis, the accompanying explanation of her “horse therapy,” a “treatment” available only to the most well-to-do, fails to generate much sympathy.

Mitt is more than once shown tidying up his surroundings (clearing off tables, picking up trash from the balcony, and carrying room service trays), leaving the viewer to wonder whether the man is really an obsessive neat freak or just putting on a good show when the servants aren’t around. Even so, movie Mitt is far more human and sympathetic behind closed doors than he was at any point during the grind of non-stop, sleep-deprived campaigning that the public saw. It’s what the film suggests about the contemporary candidate – practiced, polished, almost machine-like in his ability to know exactly how many minutes it will take to say so many words – that inspires admiration and/or pity for anybody determined enough to make it to the national stage.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In Gabriel DeLoach and Zach Keifer’s sharp documentary “If We Shout Loud Enough,” Double Dagger vocalist Nolen Strals introduces “Helicopter Lullaby” as a song “…about Baltimore, but it could be about anywhere.” The sentiment applies as easily to the film, a spacious, gorgeous love letter to the vital DIY punk scenes that breathe life into communities from coast to coast. Conceptualized as a drums/vocals/bass trio by Bruce Willen, Double Dagger really bloomed once Denny Bowen replaced the band’s original drummer, pounding so hard that Willen was forced to “combine four bass amps just so he could hear himself play.”

Strals and Willen, who now teach graphic design at alma mater Maryland Institute College of Art, co-founded the Post Typography creative studio, and art nerds will positively salivate at the level of detail the men bring to every facet of the Double Dagger ethos. In one sequence, Strals lays out a kaleidoscopic gallery of screen-printed gig posters and he and Willen share the story of their Arab on Radar “Beat the Meatles” announcement, a lovingly profane collage that perfectly encapsulates the ecstasy of Post Typography.

There is much more to Double Dagger than songs about CMYK printing, keyboard functions, and fonts, and DeLoach and Keifer testify to the ways that the band transcended the limitations of the “graphicdesigncore” appellation as the group’s vision expanded.

When so many punk outfits take themselves way too seriously, the witty, occasionally ejaculatory humor on display in the movie forges some conspiratorial camaraderie between the viewer and the subjects of the film. Charm City music fan Tim Kabara, identified onscreen by the title “Baltimore Music Historian,” deadpans his way through a series of direct address interstices with mock gravitas, quipping of the band’s early days that “They were chaotic. They had different members. They were trying to find their sound. They sucked.”

DeLoach and Keifer perform the due diligence of providing the necessary historical context and include talking head support from key scene members like Dan Deacon, Sam Herring, and Jenn Wasner. Unsurprisingly, though, the movie’s real firepower explodes from the sweaty immediacy of the performance footage. Many songs are included in their entirety, and the decision not to truncate the music is one of the film’s great joys. Cathartic shoutalongs like “The Psychic” and “Vivre Sans Temps Mort” will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Like Strals leaving the stage to break down the barriers between performer and audience, DeLoach’s camera situates the viewer in the eye of the hurricane. It’s the next best thing to being there.

Like “The Last Waltz” and “Shut Up and Play the Hits,” the emotional heart of “If We Shout Loud Enough” roils and churns with the viewer’s knowledge that something really worthwhile is coming to an end. Of course, it is the finality that in part makes bearing witness so special. By the time we arrive at Double Dagger’s last show, performed October 21, 2011 at the Ottobar, the film will have made all kinds of new fans wishing they might have had the chance to see Double Dagger play live.

So get in the van. Eat bad food. Sleep only when you absolutely need it. Load in. Sound check. Create something. Make noise. Start a band.

“If We Shout Loud Enough” will play at the 14^th Fargo Film Festival on Friday, March 7 at 3:10 PM. Tickets available at the door. If you can still hear following the screening, filmmakers Gabriel DeLoach and Zach Keifer will talk about their experiences making the movie and take questions from the audience.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

It doesn’t take long to realize that the quiet, introspective Chris “Wonder” Schoeck lives with a fire inside. In his early 40s, the native of Queens, New York is the subject of director Dave Carroll and producer/co-writer/cinematographer Ryan Scafuro’s “Bending Steel,” a biographical portrait of Schoeck during his quest to join the ranks of the “oldetime” strongmen who once astonished crowds at the sideshows of Coney Island. Articulate, thoughtful, and unfailingly polite, the physically slight Schoeck looks and sounds nothing like the stereotypical bar-bender. One of the first things that comes to nearly any viewer’s mind is an acute sense of the seemingly Sisyphean odds against Schoeck and his ability to find gainful employment doing something that presumably faded from popularity decades ago.

Carroll practically stumbled on Schoeck’s story when he realized his apartment building neighbor was tearing phone books and twisting horseshoes in the storage area cages near a basement laundry room. Carroll soon introduced himself and pitched the documentary. Schoeck mostly keeps his own company, with the small circle of fellow strongmen as the notable exception. Running parallel to Schoeck’s deeply personal story is the movie’s discovery of a unique subculture of devotees committed to unusual displays of human toughness. Schoeck is trained by Chris “Haircules” Rider, who uses his lengthy locks to break #8 jack-chains as part of his stage act, and the contrast between the two men is immediate and striking.

One of the film’s most welcome components is the acknowledgment of the colorful history and practice of oldetime strongmen, and “Bending Steel” treats figures like the iconic, chain-chomping, vaudeville-era Joseph “The Mighty Atom” Greenstein and Greenstein’s student Slim “The Hammer Man” Farman with the same reverence and curiosity demonstrated by Schoeck. In his late 70s, Farman performs his signature “hammer lever” feat on camera, and Carroll and Scafuro trace the tradition of one-on-one mentorship in the strongman community all the way from Greenstein to Schoeck.

While “Bending Steel” contains many scenes in which Schoeck’s passion appears to far outstrip his ability as a performer – in terms of both showmanship and muscle power – Carroll never mocks or ridicules the man, even though it may have been easy to do so. In one painful scene, Schoeck’s banter with the audience at an open mic opportunity fails miserably, and time and again Schoeck is encouraged by his fellow strongmen to develop some kind of interactive rapport with the people watching him. Schoeck’s own parents, confused by their son’s dreams, display cruel indifference to this desire in their child that they have no capacity to understand.

Schoeck’s inanimate opponent, a kind of forged bête noire, is a flat steel bar two inches wide and three eighths of an inch thick. The cold gray metal functions at least on one level as the film’s Macguffin, taunting Schoeck with its promise of either ruination or glory. That bar, which Schoeck hangs on his wall as a constant reminder of his mission, comes to represent much more than a person’s demonstrable tenacity, courage, and grit, and the filmmakers know it. “Bending Steel” builds to a performance during which Schoeck will make his first public attempt at the bar, and that moment, with its uncertain outcome, unfolds with excruciating drama and anticipation.

“Bending Steel” will open the 14^th Fargo Film Festival on Tuesday, March 4 at the Historic Fargo Theatre. Subject and star Chris “Wonder” Schoeck will talk about his experiences making the movie and take questions from the audience following the screening.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In “Hell on Earth: The Desecration & Resurrection of ‘The Devils’,” Father Gene Phillips S.J., a priest who consulted with the Legion of Decency, relates an anecdote on the looming censorship problems facing Ken Russell’s film and the fate of the movie’s notorious “Rape of Christ” sequence. Surprisingly, Phillips concludes, “The scene portrays blasphemy, it is not a blasphemous scene.” A similar dialogue has engulfed discussion on Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street,” a movie that, according to Pamela McClintock of “The Hollywood Reporter,” initially faced an NC-17 rating from the MPAA until Scorsese agreed to snip some of the film’s most explicit imagery.

Some of the deeply divided arguments mounted against “The Wolf of Wall Street” make the same kinds of claims that were leveled at “The Devils.” In “The New Yorker,” David Denby concludes his excoriation by writing that the movie is “meant to be an exposé of disgusting, immoral, corrupt, obscene behavior, but it’s made in such an exultant style that it becomes an example of disgusting, obscene filmmaking.” At the other end of the spectrum, Sara Benincasa, writing for “Jezebel,” argues, “But here is a fun thing that is true: depiction of bad behavior does not constitute endorsement of said bad behavior.” [italics hers]. Can Scorsese have his cake and eat it as well?

Almost expectedly, both Denby and Benincasa – and many other critics – invoke excess as a descriptive measure of the both the film’s content and Scorsese’s approach to staging that content. The “excess” invocation is so common, it can be sometimes easy to overlook the possibility that the very material identified as excessive is, cinematically speaking, integral, intrinsic, and constitutional not only to films like “The Wolf of Wall Street,” but to all narrative features. Linda Williams has said it as well as anybody: “For if, it seems, sex, violence, and emotion are fundamental elements of the sensational effects of these three types of films [pornography, horror, and melodrama], the designation ‘gratuitous’ is itself gratuitous.”

As a plot, then, wretched excess and its attractive visual celebration is a both/and not an either/or proposition, allowing for a different kind of discussion to emerge in the examination of Jordan Belfort’s avaricious, rapacious appetite for consumption. Like “Unforgiven,” a movie that ruminates on the destructive, soul-eating futility of violence while building to a climax that depends on the thrilling spectacle of unleashed gunplay, “The Wolf of Wall Street” outmatches and outthinks Oliver Stone’s relentlessly quoted “Wall Street,” a title often cited for its own slippery status as part cautionary tale, part unscrupulous instruction manual.

Even with its almost three-hour running time, “The Wolf of Wall Street” could use a little more of Kyle Chandler’s smart FBI agent and additional insight into the impulses and inclinations of Margot Robbie’s Naomi. Scorsese, so identified with the close examinations of hypermasculine protagonists, has rarely been described as a filmmaker fully invested in the inner lives of the female characters populating his movies. Even so, the filmmaker has directed ten women to Oscar nominations. Two, Ellen Burstyn in “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore,” and Cate Blanchett in “The Aviator,” won. Had a small amount of attention been diverted from Leonardo DiCaprio’s Belfort to Robbie’s Naomi, Scorsese’s nomination record might have been further extended.

Several weeks following its debut, “The Wolf of Wall Street,” like so many of Scorsese’s best films, has an almost insidious way of staying in your head, maybe even making you feel a little sick to your stomach. Both Benincasa and Denby’s colleague Richard Brody put their fingers right on it: Scorsese, now 71 and one of the grand masters of the game, may very well be criticizing the aspirational fervor of American capitalism’s selfishness and ego by reminding the viewer that he or she would, given the chance, do largely as louche parvenu Jordan does.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Jehane Noujaim’s vivid recontextualization of the 2011 demonstrations that led to the resignation of Hosni Mubarak in Egypt forms the basis and the beginning of Academy Award nominee “The Square.” Through the eyes of those who participated in the protests that came to be known as part of the Arab Spring, Noujaim’s documentary blends the abstract and the specific, mainly by following the highly charged trajectories of a trio of young men involved deeply, personally, and spiritually in the drama. Unfolding with intense urgency, “The Square” applies both street-level and balcony-height views of the often chaotic, always stirring interactions occurring in and around Tahrir Square.

“The Square” introduces us to Ahmed Hassan, whose optimism and enthusiasm will be tested once violence enters the equation. Khalid Abdalla, the Scotland-born actor familiar to American moviegoers in “United 93,” “The Kite Runner,” and “Green Zone,” is a fellow secularist as well as a founding member of the Mosireen Collective, dedicated to citizen-originated journalism. Magdy Ashour is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood torn between the organization, his family, and the skeptical friends who oppose the Brotherhood’s deals with the powerful Egyptian military leadership. Ashour’s presence drives one of the film’s key questions: how might democracy function in a culture where church and state are so inextricably linked?

A fourth man, Ramy Essam, identified as the singing voice of the revolution through his folky, charismatic performances, appears often, but for whatever reason, is not afforded the same kind of screen time given to Hassan, Abdalla, and Ashour. Essam does, however, play an important role in the military crackdown on the popular uprising when his gruesome wounds are recorded as one of many examples bearing witness to beating and torture at the hands of police and thugs hired to break up the ongoing demonstrations in Tahrir Square.

Noujaim builds her very compelling document on the strength of this principal group of men, but considering the status of rights for women under the shifting political scenarios that continue to emerge following the end of rule by Mubarak and then Morsi, the presence of strong female voices in “The Square” is lacking. Aida El Kashef, an articulate associate of the protesters whose personal stories are more deeply investigated, shows up a handful of times, and a small number of other women refer to the difficulties faced by female demonstrators.

“The Square” does not shy away from the horrifying images that confirmed the actions of the state during the ongoing period of “emergency rule.” Military vehicles and tanks run down and crush to death several citizens. People are beaten, gassed and shot. Noujaim thoroughly understands the role of citizen journalists in the age of social media, especially the compelling way uploaded cell phone video can speak truth to power. One truism of history is the willingness of those in control to deny the actions undertaken on behalf of a regime. Like “Control Room,” her fascinating documentary examining Al Jazeera, Noujaim marvels at the doublespeak spewed by those paid essentially to spin the truth. Army spokesperson General Hamdy Bekheit, confronted with a picture of a gunshot victim, replies “This is not an army bullet. It doesn’t look like one.” Based on all available evidence, Bekheit’s words defy credulity.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

David O. Russell continues to expand his interest in a kind of contemporary screwball comedy with “American Hustle,” a tremendously funny con that manages to simultaneously conjure “The Philadelphia Story” and “The Sting” by way of “Goodfellas.” As messy, ridiculous, and elaborate as the wild comb-over worn by Christian Bale’s scammer Irving Rosenfeld, “American Hustle” builds its roller coaster on the outlines of the FBI’s cockeyed Abscam scandal, a bizarre sting operation that mushroomed from the investigation of forgery and stolen art to the bribery and entrapment of public officials. The late 70s setting serves as a tip regarding Russell’s intentions, as actors slip into period costumes and hairstyles matched perfectly to the delirious soundtrack.

The “Some of this actually happened” title card that opens the movie works as both Russell’s winking, “don’t take this seriously” come-on to the viewer and the cautionary reminder that some folks really did wear towering pompadours like the one sprayed into place on the head of Camden, New Jersey mayor Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner). Polito’s mob-connected big wheel finds a kindred spirit in Irving. Both men have developed a drive and appetite for social connections and have convinced themselves that they only hustle, cheat, and swindle for benevolent and bighearted ends. Incredibly, their pathetic self-delusion somehow borders on the sympathetic.

With the recent announcement of the Academy Award honorees, Russell’s movie is the fifteenth in Oscar history to receive nominations in all four acting categories (none ever won all four), but more impressive is this: Russell is the only director to do it twice, let alone back to back. The principal quartet of Bale, Amy Adams, Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence receives ample support from Renner, Louis CK, Shea Whigham, Elisabeth Rohm, Paul Herman, and an uncredited Robert De Niro, who steals a wonderful scene as a gangster with an unexpected talent for languages. Russell makes it clear that when the actors have fun, the audience will as well.

A few critics have observed that America’s Current Sweetheart Jennifer Lawrence might be too young to play Rosenfeld’s wife Rosalyn, but the effortlessly appealing star is a riot, using her character’s status as an unsatisfied, manipulative odalisque to catalyze action from “science oven” kitchen fires to loose-lipped betrayal. Cleaning house in every sense of the phrase, Lawrence is as dynamite gyrating to “Live and Let Die” as she is fearlessly looking for a good time with dangerous thugs while Irving and his girlfriend Sydney (Adams) look on in horror.

Even though the balding and paunchy Irving at first seems an unlikely Romeo, he assumes a place at the center of the movie’s pair of triangles. Married to Rosalyn but romancing kindred spirit Sydney Prosser, a gifted imposter who morphs into faux English noblewoman Lady Edith to dazzle suckers, Irving must play ball with impulsive, showboating G-man Richie DiMaso (Cooper) or face charges. Quickly, Russell starts shuffling the deck, leaving viewers to wonder just who’s zooming who as Lady Edith appears to entertain the affections of Richie. In one of the movie’s most stimulating scenes, Sydney and Richie move from the dance floor to a bathroom stall at a disco club. Choreographed to the one-two punch of Donna Summer and Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, Sydney insists she doesn’t want anymore “fake shit,” but by that point, reality and fantasy are utterly indistinguishable from one another.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Cutie and the Boxer,” filmmaker Zachary Heinzerling’s portrait of married artists Noriko and Ushio Shinohara, largely refrains from passing judgment on the quality of the work produced by the two New York City residents. Instead, the documentarian takes advantage of his proximity and access to navigate a messy, psychologically complex relationship fraught with the full range of emotions associated with so many long-term partnerships. The backstory, filled in with efficiency and economy, begins in 1972, when the wide-eyed, teenage Noriko arrived in America from Japan and fell for the passionate and more established Ushio, a man more than two decades her senior.

Noriko’s own artistic ambitions were quickly sidelined by Ushio’s alcoholism and the birth of son Alex. The young woman traded her brushes for a seemingly thankless role as Ushio’s assistant, servant, maid, cook, and caregiver. But Heinzerling knows that Noriko is the glue that holds the dysfunctional team together, and invites the viewer to experience much of the unfolding narrative through the eyes of this remarkable, indefatigable woman. Now, forty years into their partnership, Noriko’s art begins to attract attention and Ushio’s jealousy bubbles to the surface. Heinzerling sorts out and makes clear the complicated, love-hate interconnectedness that inextricably links Ushio to Noriko.

At least five years in the making, Heinzerling’s movie covers the familiar tale of an against-the-odds struggle to pursue one’s avocation in the face of sobering financial challenges. Outside of the art world, and arguably within it, self-described Neo-Dadaist Ushio Shinohara is not widely recognized and for many decades has toiled on the fringes and in the shadows of other contemporaries who have managed to find more financial success and critical adulation. Shinohara’s signatures as documented by Heinzerling focus on two overarching motifs: massive, abstract, action paintings resulting from the splatter of Ushio’s boxing gloves and a series of motorcycle sculptures crafted out of discarded and found objects.

Heinzerling incorporates some beautiful vintage film footage of the Shinohara family that brings a dimension of intimate time-travel to the movie. The director also adds animation of Noriko’s autobiographical “Cutie and Bullie” illustrations, alluring, inky panels in which pigtail-braided and frequently naked alter ego Cutie gets the better of the insensitive, domineering Bullie. Cutie’s story, accompanied by short phrases often rendered in Noriko’s fractured English, opens a window into Noriko’s psyche that captures her sadness and anger along with an empathetic, clear-eyed tolerance of her husband. One caption reads, “Cutie understood how much Bullie wanted to be loved.”

The pastel-hued, slow motion fisticuffs, underscored by Yasuaki Shimizu & Saxophonette’s version of Bach’s Prelude from Cello Suite No. 1, that play over the end credits of “Cutie and the Boxer” shape the perfect metaphor symbolizing Noriko and Ushio’s partnership, a bittersweet pairing resistant to the notion of happily ever after. In an interview with Emma Carmichael, Noriko says, “I don’t believe in the happy ending. You know, everybody wants to, say, at the end of their life, to maybe die satisfied, die quietly, or die comfortably – surrounded by many friends or family. But my hero is Caravaggio, and he died young, struggling, but continuing with his art. So I want to die with my brush in my hand, and to die with art.” After seeing “Cutie and the Boxer,” it is difficult to imagine Noriko Shinohara doing anything but that.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Since his 1999 feature debut “Being John Malkovich,” Spike Jonze has established himself as one of the most gifted and intelligent visual stylists working in the cinematic medium. Jonze’s latest, “Her,” is only the director’s fourth feature and is the first full-length original screenplay credited solely to the auteur. An ambitious science fiction that contemplates artificial intelligence and human-computer interaction, “Her” is another child of “2001: A Space Odyssey” and the unforgettable HAL 9000. The core concept is elegant and simple: lonely, soon to be divorced protagonist Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix), whose expressive face dominates the frame, falls in love with Samantha (Scarlett Johansson), a self-aware operating system.

As emotionally isolated Theodore, a writer who composes personal missives for a company called Beautifulhandwrittenletters.com, establishes an affectionate partnership with the disembodied Samantha, he also interacts with several human women, including close friend Amy (Amy Adams), a blind date played by Olivia Wilde, and wife Catherine (Rooney Mara), who is often seen in flashback. Those who speculated that Jonze was the inspiration for Giovanni Ribisi’s John in ex-wife Sofia Coppola’s “Lost in Translation” will wonder whether the director has returned the favor, even though extratextual biographical conjecture is unnecessary to one’s enjoyment of the film.

Edmund Lee’s idea about the value of surrounding yourself with the “dreamers and the doers” etc., is a lesson well-minded by Jonze. Many team members, including cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema, bring remarkable craft to bear, but it is K. K. Barrett, production designer on all of Jonze’s features, who emerges as perhaps the most significant hero of “Her.” Barrett’s eye for detail in the creation of future L.A. infuses every frame of the movie, offering an uncanny vision of things to come via the retrofitting and retro-futurism concepts explored in the early 1980s by Ridley Scott, Syd Mead, Lawrence Paull, and Lloyd Dunn, among others. The gorgeous rosy red and pink color schemes, the seamless blending of Los Angeles and Shanghai, and the warm touches of smartphones that look more like vintage cigarette cases are just a few of the film’s ocular pleasures.

One of the movie’s best running gags is that the earpiece-connected pedestrians never talk to the other humans passing by. Rich with the possibilities of near endless readings, “Her” has been tagged out of the gate for its commentary on intimacy and interconnectedness in the age of evolving competition from electronic screens, but it is the juxtaposition of the film’s intriguing femininity and the establishment of straight male fantasies through the reification of Samantha that deserves closer inspection. As Manohla Dargis pointed out, Samantha “doesn’t complain about juggling her many roles as [Theodore’s] assistant, comfort, turn-on, helpmate and savior,” which leads one to wonder how the story might have been different had Jonze switched the genders of the leads.

Jonze plays the romance almost entirely straight, so that by the time Samantha’s evolving consciousness leads her to disclose several disturbing revelations to Theodore, “Her” begins to flirt with the Frankensteinian “turning on the creator” construct that has fueled everything from the homicidal deviousness of HAL to the dystopian horrors of Skynet, and given Jonze’s penchant for offbeat bricolage, even “Electric Dreams” and “Weird Science.” The relaxed running time of the theatrical cut allows for a late, minor stretch of repetitious droop, and I for one would love to see the 90 minute Steven Soderbergh version described in Mark Harris’s tremendous, must-read “Vulture” feature on “Her.”