A Candidate for Worst Beatles Doc Ever

Grab some images like this from Google and you too can maker a documentary!

THE BEATLES: THEIR GOLDEN AGE (2012)

Written and Directed by Les Krantz

MVD Visual, 60 mins.

zero stars

Is The Beatles: Their Golden Age” the worst film ever made about the Fab Four? I wouldn’t go that far. It’s possible there are lousier efforts out there that I’ve simply not seen. If there are, please alert me—sitting through Les Krantz’s film is as much pain as I can take. I will give him credit for one thing: I once thought it impossible to make the lovable Liverpudlians boring, but I was wrong.

I knew I was in for trouble from the opening sequence on. The soundtrack consisted of generic music, some of which was vaguely composed to sort of resemble Beatles’ tunes. I’ve encountered this before and what it means is that the director could not secure permission to use Beatles’ tunes and didn’t have the money to hire other musicians to recreate them and pay copyright fees. This makes for awkward filmmaking; dozens of Beatles’ songs are mentioned, but none are heard. What we hear most is crowds screaming and Kranz’s voiceover, sure signs of no-budget filmmaking. What Kranz did was grab a few pieces of public domain documentary footage and force fit them into a Wikipedia-like overview of the Beatles’ career. (And it’s a truncated version at that, with all of earliest years shoved into a few minutes and no explanation of how Ringo came to replace Pete Best.) You will see the same pieces of surging, screaming crowds over and over, as well as a few fair-use interview snippets, and segments from various films made about the Beatles. In other words, it’s the sort of film that someone reasonably skilled with iMovies could make in an afternoon.

The thesis, such is it is, is that The Beatles quickly became more popular than Elvis. Is there anyone who doesn’t know this? And is there anyone who thinks that you can make a decent film about the most popular band in history without using any of its music? Simply a horrible project. Watching this was my own Hard Day’s Night.

Marwencol: Art Imitates Life

Hello Dolly! 

MARWENCOL  (2010)

Directed by Jeff Malmberg

Open Face, 83 mins. Unrated

Do we watch movies to see the same old thing, or to enter new worlds? If your answer is the second, Marwencol should go to the top of your video (or streaming) queue. The protagonist of Marwencol is Mark Hogancamp and the only ways to enter his world are vicariously through this film, or to suffer a brain injury as did he. Jeff Malmberg’s film about Hogancamp is labeled a documentary, but that’s mainly because we lack a better term. The word “documentary” generally infers recording of objective reality, but Hogancamp doesn’t live in that realm. For casual film viewers, documentary is often a synonym for didacticism and tedium—the sort of films that give you an excuse to go make a sandwich when they’re honored during the Academy Awards broadcast. Not this one. It’s quirky, bizarre, and as imbued with fantasy as The Lord of the Rings

Mark Hogancamp was just another slightly-down-on-his-luck guy living in shopworn Kingston, New York, until a few years ago when he was brutally beaten by a gang of local low-lifes. Hogancamp almost died from the assault and suffered permanent brain damage. He walks, talks, has fine motor skills, and usually makes sense, the key word being usually. Hogancamp’s brain sometimes sends signals that make him unemployable, bypass social conventions, and dump the filters required by “normal” society (whatever that might be). It’s taken him years to rebuild even to this level. Or should I say “build?” What Marwencol is mainly about is the fantasy world Hogancamp constructed as self therapy. Think a soap opera set in a complete World War II Belgian village built to 1/16^th scale, with dolls playing the parts of people Hogancamp knows and with himself as the refashioned GI Joe hero of the ongoing drama. Not surprisingly, the Nazis are stand-ins for his attackers. Hogancamp acts out his real-life brutalization in numerous scenarios, often with women playing the role of avenging angels, and each clearly a projection of Hogancamp’s frustrated desire for female relationships. And we’re talking levels of detail on everything in the village of Marwencol; Hogancamp is as serious about how it and the characters look as any war reenactor or hobbyist.

One of the more charming aspects of the film is the reaction of Hogancamp’s friends and neighbors. He has a built-in support network that knows that he’s not entirely in touch with reality, but they nonetheless like him, encourage him, and even take part in his role-playing fantasy games. These include many of the women that know that he has sexualized them in doll form, but deem him harmless and are happy to help him work his way through his tortured past. The wildcard in the already-bizarre fantasy is director Jeff Malmberg, who stumbled upon the story and became fascinated with Hogancamp. He too is drawn into Marwencol, but mainly as an old-style documentarian recording the fantasy realm as if he were a World War II newsreel cameraman.

There are two twists to the story that are so startling that it would be unfair of me to reveal them. Let’s just say that one involves the New York art world’s reaction to photos produced by Malmberg, and that the second is a socially-frowned-upon Hogancamp personality trait that may have predated his attack. These add dimension, depth, and additional weirdness to what is already one of the most unique stories imaginable. It’s unlike anything you’d ever see at the local Cineplex. Watch it and I think you’ll agree that Marwencol is more compelling than any Hollywood paint-by-the-numbers action film and has more heart than the coronary unit at Johns Hopkins.—Rob Weir

Romney and Ryan: Hypocrites Incorporated

We shouldn’t have been surprised. Mitt Romney not only picked a vice presidential candidate with whom he’s comfortable, he got one whose purchase on truth is no better than his own. I will remind you that everything Mitt (rhymes with…) now opposes he was once for. “Obamacare” is almost exactly the program Mr. Mitten signed into law in Massachusetts. He also welcomed gay marriage in the Bay State, but now he’s really, really against it. Don’t get me started on where Mitt once stood—on slippery ground I now realize—on a woman’s right to choose, on military spending, on public education, and on federal aid to states and municipalities.

Enter Paul Ryan—rhymes with lyin’—who says we need to dramatically downsize government. Ryan says that special projects, earmarks, and government-subsidized big-budget initiatives are especially evil--unless they benefit his Wisconsin district that is. Lyin’ slammed the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act as a “wasteful spending spree” and voted against it. That’s what he did in public, but like his greasy running mate, his Mr. Hyde private side was a different matter. He wrote four letters to the Obama administration Energy Department requesting millions of dollars for a Wisconsin “green” geothermal energy project, the likes of which his Tea Party supporters decry as extravagant frauds. He also wrangled $5.4 million in earmark funds for Wisconsin for things such as improved state bus service, a scenic trail, and a transit network for his hometown of Janesville. (Why, one might ask, did a city of over 63,000 not already have such a system? Guess it couldn’t get enough federal funds until Santa Ryan put it into its stocking.) Oh yeah, Ryan also lobbied in favor of the auto industry bailout. Do you think the feds helped Janesville when its General Motors plant closed? If you answered “yes,” take a gobble from Congressman Ryan’s Big Bag of Pork. 

Romney and Ryan—two hypocrites from the same corporate mindset: screw you, as long as I get mine. Well… water finds its own level. So does shit. 

Let Bobby V be Bobby V

Let Bobby Valentine give the hook to Red Sox underachievers.

Word out of Boston is that the collection of overpriced whiners and immature horses’ posteriors known as the Red Sox has petitioned ownership to fire manager Bobby Valentine. Apparently Bobby V has embarrassed several of them. (Gee, I would have thought their horrendous play would have done that!) I’m not a Red Sox fan, nor do I think Bobby Valentine was a good choice for the Red Sox. (Sigmund Freud would have been better.) Those who read my spring blogs know that I predicted Valentine would be a bad fit in Boston. But the problems with the Red Sox are not Bobby Valentine’s fault.

Bobby V probably isn’t the right type for today’s game and maybe a change is needed, but if I’m the general manager, that change comes in the offseason (as do many other changes). I know that Sox fans hang on to every scrap of hope, but let’s face it–2012 is a lost season. As I type these words, 45 games remain in the season and if the Sox won 30 of them (a seldom-achieved .666 pace), they’d have but 87 victories and that’s highly unlikely to get a Wild Card. (The wildcard-leading Orioles and Rays need to go just 25-21 to reach 88 wins) My advice would be to unleash Bobby Valentine–let him take off the kid gloves and call out lousy play in public. Let him say what everyone can see: that Josh Beckett has given up. Let him be feisty and get into scraps with his players á la Billy Martin. In fact, the Sox’s hated rival, the New York Yankees, is a good role model for what to do with Beckett.  

If the team can, it should dump Beckett as soon as possible–perhaps even for an A.J. Burnett-like deal: eat most of his salary and get a bucket of balls in return. If Boston can’t swing such a deal­–Beckett is due nearly $32 million for the next two years and can veto any deal he doesn’t like–the Red Sox should do what the Yankees did to Ken Holtzman in the late 1970s: bury him in the bullpen out of harm’s way. The Yanks brought Holtzman to New York after five fabulous years in Oakland in which he won 91 games. The 30-year-old Holtzman proceeded to stink up the Bronx and the Yankees banished him to the pen and made him a forgotten man. When he reemerged with the Cubs in 1979 at age 32, he got one more year in MLB before he was released. The Yankees did the same with Kevin Brown, though throwing nearly $16 million at a 39-year-old was insanity in the first place. The Yanks also banished Kei Igawa in the minors before cutting him this spring.

If the Sox have the guts to play hardball with Beckett, they can. Pitchers generally have their peak ERA years at age 29 and their peak win years at 30. Beckett, 32, appears to have peaked earlier. He had 67 wins between the ages of 26 and 29, but just 24 since. His current ERA is over 5 and he is, to put it very mildly, a disruption. Send him to the pen for mop-up duty. He would be 35 when he hits free agency again and I will guarantee you no one will offer him $16 million per.

The Sox, of course, have other issues. Bobby Valentine should be unleashed to tell the press that Adrian Gonzalez wasn’t brought to Boston to be a singles hitter, that Jon Lester can’t mail it in, and that if Jacoby Ellsbury can’t play through nicks and pains they’ll give his roster spot to someone who can. He should privately remind Dustin Pedroia that if he’s going to go behind his back, he’s got a guy named Pedro Cirisco whose natural position is second base and is currently hitting .333, 50 points higher than he. (Note: Pedroia has publicly disavowed a spat with Valentine, either because it never happened, or because his agent told him to STFU.) 

As I said, odds are good that Valentine will be let go this winter, so why not give it a whirl? The Sox are going nowhere and the now-sainted Terry Francona couldn’t rule this bunch by kissing their butts. Let Bobby V kick them instead. It can’t get any worse.

Aimee Wilson CD Musically and Lyrically Ambiguous

AIMEE WILSON

Unto Us the Sun

Self-Release

* *

Aimee Wilson’s Unto Us the Sun is a clever play on words as a title; as an album it feels like music in search of a fronting play or movie. Her material is nouveau medieval-meets-introspective folk. Think Loreena McKennitt meets Suzanne Vega and Tori Amos. It’s very dramatic like McKennitt, though Wilson’s band and backup singers don’t have as much going on as McKennit’s solid troopers, nor does Wilson have McKennitt’s vocal chops. (In fact, way too many of her vocals are awash in aural soup that renders them indistinct.) Like Vega and Amos, many of the lyrics exude an ecumenical spirituality and like them, what it’s all supposed to mean is more clear in Wilson’s mind than it is to the listener. “Suri,” for instance has been the name a Muslim ruler, but also an Indian clan, a flower, and poet. I’m guessing Wilson intended to reference the poet, but the lyrics sound more like it’s  a goddess.   At its best, Wilson’s music sounds like the kind of compositions Robert Einhorn scores for silent movies; at its most pretentious it’s what one sees on PBS with middle-aged audiences nodding and fawning, though they’ve actually not a clue what any of it means.

My comments are a bit tough because this is, indeed, the sort of album one loves or hates. It’s also the kind that harsher critics than I call the folk equivalent of rock operas, though the label I’d use is New Age. Like most music in that genre, it’s inoffensive even when it’s over-the-top, and a lot of it has a soothing quality. I can’t say any of it grabbed me. As I said in my opening remarks, it felt like music that needed another context to bring it to life. If your cup of tea is chamomile, you might find more enjoyment than I.  My brew of choice is strong coffee. –Rob Weir

An NL Team for Boston?

Time to merge caps? 

I’ve been doing some research in Cooperstown, so naturally I’ve been thinking about the National Pastime. A lot of my research involves professional baseball’s early years–back when there were teams in places such as Troy, Hartford, Providence, and Worcester. Those teams are long gone, as are franchises such as the Brooklyn Dodgers, the St. Louis Browns, the Washington Senators, the Montreal Expos, and the Boston Braves. The latter has me thinking.

Boston is a very good baseball town. You have to know someone (or pay a scalper) to get a ticket at Fenway Park, which is sold to 101.5% capacity. The newspapers, local TV, and radio crackle with heated discussions about the Red Sox. In my estimation, Boston cares enough about baseball that MLB ought to consider placing a second team in the Old Towne. Or, more specifically, a new team ought to be just outside the Boston limits–maybe a new park in Foxborough to draw from both the ‘burbs, southeast Massachusetts (New Bedford, Fall River), and from nearby Providence, RI.

Expansion? No way! The talent pool is already clouded by bottom-dweller lineups more suited for AAA than MLB. I’m thinking take a page from the old days and move a team. My prime candidate would be the Tampa Bay Rays. Sooner or later MLB needs to face the fact that Floridians don’t care for major league baseball after April 1. The Rays, a very good team, are 29^th in attendance, which what they were last year. They’ve never been better than 22^nd, and they continually rank near the bottom of putting bottoms into seats. The average attendance is a pathetic 20,609 per game, slightly above Cleveland. (Cleveland, by contrast, has ranked as high as 4^th in attendance in the past 10 years.) Oakland also lurks near the pits, a problem that eventually be fixed by shifting the franchise out of the ghetto to nearby San Jose. The Rays, though, are a hopeless case–bad stadium, an apathetic public, and two cities (St. Petersburg and Tampa) that simply aren’t major league towns. Move ‘em to Boston, I say.

The Red Sox would do everything they could to keep the Rays out of Boston and cry territory infringement, but this can be gotten around. First of all, move the Boston Rays (or whatever they are renamed) to the National League East, thereby creating a second Boston-New York rivalry. To balance the divisions, a team from the NL East would have to move to the AL East–Atlanta would be a good candidate.

MLB has some other critical franchises it may need to address eventually. I think taxpayer money was wasted in Miami, another team perennially at the bottom in attendance. It is averaging 28,405 per game this year–in a brand new stadium! As the slogan goes, wait’ll next year. The park is in Little Havana, a part of the city that (rightly or wrongly) makes Anglos nervous, but even if it was in the heart of Yuppie Miami, Floridians still won’t support the team. Mark my words–in four or five years there will be discussion of relocation. Kansas City could use a change of scenery too–to some city that has entrepreneurs with enough money to spend to put a competitive team on the field. Other candidates for a relocated team: Montreal with a new stadium, Memphis, Louisville, Buffalo, and Monterrey, Mexico. But let’s start small; for heaven’s sake move the Rays to someplace that will support them–like Boston. 

Beasts of the Southern Wilds Magical and Thought-Provoking

BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD (2012)

Directed by Benh Zeitlin

Fox Searchlight, PG-13, 93 mins.

* * * * *

Hushpuppy is nobody's meat! 

The year is 2005, the setting The Bathtub, a small and insular bayou community that lies beyond the New Orleans levies. It’s called The Bathtub for a good reason–its marshes, tidal streams, swamps, and steamy weather are the watery barriers that define life in a sump hole that seldom sees or trusts outsiders. The residents depend upon the waters to provide the crawfish, alligators, and seafood that sustains them. The Bathtub’s also a place of unimaginable poverty and squalor where skin color is irrelevant­–black and white intermingle (and cohabitate) freely in a slice of mud and water that time forgot. There is no town as such, just an old cargo box converted into a seedy bar by Jean Baptiste (Levy Esterly), a wreck of a white guy who might be 40 and might be 70. The Bathtub is where dreaming off island involves staring across the bay at a distant lighthouse beam if you’re a child, and an occasional boat trip to the roadhouse that’s there for a visit to cheap hookers and expensive liquor if you’re an adult.

The Bathtub is also where six-year-old Hushpuppy–the amazing Quvenzhané Wallis–lives with her father, Wink (Dwight Henry). Wink is a single father whose wife skipped the island when Hushpuppy was an infant. He’s bitter–Hushpuppy lives in her mother’s shack amidst the moldering remains of her things­–and he has no idea of how to raise a child­–a rope connects their separate residences, which he rings to tell Hushpuppy it’s time “to come to eats.” Hushpuppy’s major role model is Miss Bathsheeba (Gina Montana), the local teacher who is half educator and half juju mistress. Her science lessons include the message that everything and everybody in natural realm is “meat.” But Hushpuppy needs no encouragement to imagine; she has a gift for reading nature’s signs, for envisioning the interconnectivity of ecosystems, and for bringing to life fantasy images. Her senses tell her that something very bad is about to happen, an inkling she gets by listening to clams, feeling leaves, and imaging the awakening of extinct aurochs. She’s right on two levels–her father is seriously ill and Hurricane Katrina is about the make The Bathtub overflow and wash away the little that locals had.

This is an astonishing film that takes us to both physical and imaginary worlds we could not enter on our own. It freely mixes recent history and magical realism as if it were literary sociology. Wallis is a revelation, a child who can make her six-year-old face look as old as creation, or cast a fierce look that stops adults in their tracks. I would yield to those who might criticize the caper-like feel of the last 20 minutes of the film, but the rest is so good that I simply didn’t care. It raises all manner of questions about community, survival, and caring. It raises two big ones: Is it kind or cruel to force people to live in the 21^st century? Has humankind authored its own ecological demise? (Think an intelligent version of Waterworld.)

This amazing film has no stars–Henry was discovered running a bakery across the street from director Zeitlin’s casting office and Wallis was literally pulled off the street. It’s a subject that sounds odd to some and the topic of an endangered child is off-putting to others. Do not be deterred; this may be the film of the year. Moreover, it does not ask for your approval–merely that you think about The Bathtub and the big issues raised by simple people who may have a better take on the planet that you. Are the aurochs coming? --Rob Weir