Astronauts, moonwalking: About the only thing wrong with In the Shadow of the Moon, an inspiring documentary about the Apollo program, is that a British filmmaker, David Sington, cleaned up the existing late 1960s footage to digital-era perfection and put it together. Do we Americans consider one of our most unambiguously amazing accomplishments sort of passe? Are we embarrassed to be patriotic as Bush's war rages on? (Is part of the problem that more and more we distance ourselves from the Iraq campaign, as someone else's mess?) Is NASA today kind of a joke? Might it have been better to release the film two years from now, in honor of the moonwalk? Whatever; the film, presented by Ron Howard, is here in release, and a thrilling reminder of our ingenuity, capabilities, and can-do attitude. (So much has changed technologically, but we still haven't made it back.) In the Shadow of the Moon speaks eloquently to the better angels of our nature, which today, as much as in Lincoln's time, could use a good talking to.
James Gandolfini, singing. But not very well, in John Turturro's curious shelf-sitter Romance and Cigarettes, which the filmmaker presented at the Brooklyn Academy of Music last year. If I read between the lines correctly in a Times story about his long haul with his labor of love it appears that at a low point he begged Michael Bay for his negligible role in Transformers to make it over a financial hurdle. The sacrifice to his credibility may have been necessary, but I'm not sure it was worth it; the movie, about star-crossed relationships in working-class New York, is an all-over-the-place mess, beguiling in parts, slow and silly in others. Turturro wanted to get a Dennis Potter Pennies from Heaven kind of vibe started; in those programs, however, the characters let synched recordings do the harmonizing. There's one accomplished singer, Broadway baby Elaine Stritch, in the cast, and, perversely, Turturro gives her not a note, as the likes of Kate Winslet manifestly fail to carry vintage tunes in a bucket. (The attempt is touching and grating, in equal measure.)
Al Pacino, Cruising. In advance of its Sept. 18 DVD debut Warner Bros. has re-released William Friedkin's confounding thriller, a strange, strangely compelling film that for all its flaws is difficult to shake off or dismiss. Problems it's got: Pacino's committed if dazed and difficult-to-read performance as as undercover cop rooting out a serial killer in New York's late Seventies gay bar scene, Paul Sorvino's completely uncomfortable, I'm-only-doing-this-because-Al-is-doing-this role as his superior, and the constant, pervasive, unleavened aura of dread and despair are just three. But the last is also its strongest attribute. The grime, and the unresolved tensions generated by the perplexingly plotted scenario, fascinate. All relationships, straight and gay, are suspect. And the portrait of the milieu, before AIDS began its crime spree, is as much a time capsule of a past generation as the moon landings.
Jane Alexander, naked. Beloved for her staunch TV roles, like Eleanor Roosevelt, the former NEA chair is exposing her inner Helen Mirren on HBO's Tell Me You Love Me, premiering Sunday. As Mirren herself turns toward an Elizabethan modesty the 68-year-old Alexander is apparently letting it all hang out as a couples therapist; she also appears in Robert Benton's said-to-be sexsational film A Feast of Love later this month. It's been since about Apollo 13 that she let her hair down so much, maybe since she and James Earl Jones were on the down low in the play and film The Great White Hope. I don't need another hour-long HBO program in my life but if Alexander's taking it off I should at least turn it on for one episode.
No comments:
Post a Comment