Sharp view of young regret
If the very mention of a movie about millennial creative professionals in Brooklyn makes you wince, filmmaker Sophie Brooks invites you to think again. The writer-director brings remarkable instincts to her modestly scaled first feature, “The Boy Downstairs.” Casting aside stereotypes in favor of everyday neuroses, she defies the contemporary film-school orthodoxy that nice people can’t be compelling characters.
Zosia Mamet, in her first big-screen role since “Girls,” and Matthew Shear, of “The Alienist,” create a duo worth rooting for in this droll, knowing and tender romance — a story that brings a delicate touch to one of the thorniest of life’s questions: How do you predict regret?
Mamet plays Diana, an aspiring fiction writer returning to New York after a post-college stint in England, only to find herself living in the same building as Ben (Shear), the boyfriend she left behind three years earlier. Their chemistry is as clear as the awkwardness of their hellos, but he’s not interested in catching up over coffee. Bolstered by her longtime friend (a noteworthy Diana Irvine) and maternal landlord (Deirdre O’Connell, terrific), Diana soldiers on through clumsy encounters, avoidable and otherwise, with Ben and his humorless new girlfriend (Sarah Ramos).
As the film moves elegantly between past and present, Brooks proves a keen observer of behavior and the pitfalls of overthinking. Finding complex beauty in what would be merely obvious in a lesser work, her delightful feature taps into a rarely broached, generally female coming-of-age dilemma: the fear of losing yourself before you know who you are. — Sheri Linden
“The Boy Downstairs.” Rated: PG-13, for some sexual material, brief strong language and drug references. Running time: 1 hour, 30 minutes. Playing: Laemmle Monica Film Center, Santa Monica.
An intriguing twist on zombies
We’re back in the comfortable horror milieu of the zombie apocalypse for “The Cured,” an Irish-set spin on the familiar scenario of outbreak, rinse, repeat. In writer-director David Freyne’s tweak, it’s a post-post-apocalypse: A cure has proved successful, and all that remains is what to do about those who come back and the incarcerated percentage resistant to the remedy.
For once-afflicted Senan (Sam Keeley), just released from the treatment center, it means managing the PTSD of remembering horrific acts he committed, while easing his way into society through the help of his widowed sister-in-law Abbie (Ellen Page). The citizenry’s intolerance for medically rehabbed killers, though, is at an all-time high, which spurs one of Senan’s fellow “cured” — a to-the-manor-born politician (Tom VaughanLawlor) stripped of his ambitions by the virus — to organize the ex-sick into an upstart force.
Lo these many years since George Romero incubated an entire genre, it’s nice to see adherents like Freyne find new prisms of twisty social dysfunction — like this one’s IRA allegory — in the concept of crazed people eaters. Stylistically, the muted hues and naturalistic performances even suggest a classic Irish political thriller first, zombie pic second. And yet the confluence of rebellion, personal responsibility and genre violence never quite gels, perhaps because the realities of a zombie movie ultimately dictate where these things are headed. No matter how bad a movie contagion is, for horror filmmakers of late zombies are all too often a safe space. — Robert Abele
“The Cured.” Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 36 minutes. Playing: Landmark NuArt, West Los Angeles.
‘Beuys’ profile fails to enlighten
Postwar German artist Joseph Beuys cemented his reputation for provocative performance art with a 1965 gallery action called “How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare,” in which people could peer into a window at Beuys, his head covered in honey and gold leaf, as he talked about art to a hare carcass. But as visionary, political and philosophical as Beuys was as a proponent of a conceptual social art that empowered the artist toward self-determination and civic engagement, Andres Veiel’s documentary “Beuys,” plays like a fan’s f lip book divorced from meaningful resonance.
Beuys was a wounded war veteran who fought crushing depression with a challenging approach to his work — mixing the ephemeral, unusual and conscious — which polarized the international art world and invited cult-like observance. (Keep saying, “Everyone is an artist,” and you’ll surely get followers.)
But Veiel’s timeline-jumbled, image-manipulated assemblage of archival footage and photographs — from happenings, interviews and public talks — intrigues without establishing a helpful context for the non initiated. (Beuys’ Hitler Youth years are maddeningly ignored, for instance.)
The man himself, whether arguing with art-establishment scolds or laughing with anyone else, is an obviously compelling figure: Beuys’ toothsome smile, skeletal features and trademark hat and vest give him the air of a haunted adventurer. But apart from a few fascinatingly detailed accounts of works like “7000 Oaks,” a massive tree-and rock-planting project, and odd-materials sculpture events like “Fat Corner,” this nontraditional portrait could have been called “How Not to Explain Beuys to an Audience.” — Robert Abele
“Beuys.” In German with English subtitles. Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 46 minutes. Playing: Laemmle Music Hall, Beverly Hills; also Monday-Tuesday at other Laemmle theaters.
Words from the wise in ‘Prison’
While a fair amount of its subject matter overlaps with Ava DuVernay’s incendiary “13th,” Matthew Cooke’s “Survivors Guide to Prison” nevertheless serves as a valuable primer for those estimated 13 million Americans who are arrested every year.
Taking aim at the nation’s broken criminal justice system, the slickly packaged documentary divides its telling factoids (e.g. since the 1980s, the state of California has seen the construction of 22 new prisons) among several chapters ranging from “Surviving Solitary Confinement” to “Surviving Getting Out.”
An involving throughline is provided through the case histories of Bruce Lisker of Sherman Oaks and Reggie Cole from South Central, a pair of articulate, wrongfully convicted men who languished in prisons for a combined 42 years before they were freed.
Armed with an A-list producer roster including Susan Sarandon (who also shares narration duties), Danny Trejo, David Arquette and Adrian Grenier, activist-filmmaker Cooke, whose previous output includes 2012’s “How to Make Money Selling Drugs,” certainly isn’t the first person to call out racial bias and the troubling truths behind plea deals.
But even though such post-arrest words of wisdom as “Get a good attorney” and “Shut your mouth” might seem obvious, when they’re dispensed by the likes of tough guy Trejo, rapper Busta Rhymes and MC5 guitarist Wayne Kramer, former inmates all, it remains advice well-heeded. — Michael Rechtshaffen
“Survivors Guide to Prison.” Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 42 minutes. Playing: Arena Cinelounge Sunset, Hollywood; also on VOD.
It’s giddy with empowerment
At the helm of her first feature, actress Heather Graham conjures a fizzy comedy with a satiric edge. Sending up Hollywood sexism for all its blunt absurdity, “Half Magic” gets off to a promisingly giddy start.
The Time’s Up timeliness couldn’t be more perfect. And any film that casts Johnny Knoxville as a priest has its irreverent heart in the right place. But as the writer-director’s sly gaze shifts into an insistently upbeat appeal for female empowerment, the movie loses its comic steam.
Knoxville cameos as one of the looming figures who
instilled Catholic guilt and sexual shame in Honey (Graham) when she was a child. In the present day, she’s an aspiring screenwriter and belittled “d-girl” to a star-producer (Chris D’Elia). His aggressively stupid swagger matches the video-game misogyny of his movies, and he nixes Honey’s screenplay ideas with a vengeance.
Just when it seems the film might dig deeper into the ways the dream machine revolves around the wet dreams of adolescent boys, Graham turns her attention to conventional rom-com territory, with a dash of selfesteem sorcery. Inspired by a workshop in divine femininity, Honey and two friends (Angela Kinsey and Stephanie Beatriz) form a coven of sorts, lighting candles to release their New Age affirmations into the universe. Sometimes they backslide, drunk dialing their exes.
Their gushing girlie energy is in sync with the candy bright visuals. There’s charm and smarts to the healthy positivity, but without the balancing sting of the earlier sections, the intended abracadabra goes up in smoke. —Sheri Linden “Half Magic.” Rated: R, for strong sexual content, nudity, language and drug use. Running time: 1 hour, 40 minutes. Playing: Vintage Los Feliz 3, Los Angeles.
‘Agenda’ isn’t for the squeamish
A haunted screenwriter cooks up an elaborate plan for revenge, catharsis and redemption in “Agenda: Payback,” a middling psychological thriller anchored by a pair of strong lead performances.
Peter Farrell (Eric Balfour, also a producer here) believes his life was ruined by the machinations of Steve Walsh (Sean Patrick Flanery), a brash wheelerdealer who failed to provide the promised financing for a movie of Peter’s screenplay. The disappointment sent Peter on a downward spiral that included alcoholism, the accidental death of his daughter and the end of his marriage — and he will not go quietly.
Peter’s payback: to kidnap the slippery, cavalier Steve, hold him hostage in a remote cabin, and essentially charge admission to others Steve has wronged so they can exact their own brand of vengeance. Brutal, not-for-the-squeamish scenes of reprisal ensue involving a gangster type (Nick Stevenson), a politician (Kenneth Wayne Bradley), Steve’s ex-girlfriend (Mary Skaggs) and several others.
Peter, of course, takes his own whacks at score-settling, though the tables will turn — and turn again — before the film’s last grave is dug.
Although director Giorgio Serafini keeps the action apace in what’s largely a one location setting (the movie was shot in Texas), Garry Charles’ script at times lacks clarity and credibility, as well as sufficient back story about the showy Steve. Still, Flanery and Balfour keep us watching. —Gary Goldstein “Agenda: Payback.” Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 35 minutes. Playing: Laemmle Music Hall, Beverly Hills; on VOD, Tuesday.
Uneven tale of coming of age
Eric Stoltz makes a confident if tonally wavering feature directorial debut with “Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk,” a candid coming-of-age satire about a Northern California teenager’s struggles with the constraints of his Jehovah’s Witness upbringing.
Adapted by music journalist Tony DuShane from his loosely autobiographical novel of the same name, the film centers around Gabe (an impressively rooted Sasha Feldman), an average Reagan-era high school student whose testosterone-informed impulses constantly put him at odds with his religion’s disapproving elders, especially his stern father (Paul Adelstein).
Surrounded by temptation at every turn, courtesy of the highly corruptible presence of his worldly cousin by marriage, Karen (playfully played by Lauren Lakis), and his rocker Uncle Jeff (Rob Giles), Gabe unsurprisingly suffers a crisis of conscience, supplementing his Bible readings with the writings of Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski.
Stoltz effectively captures the ’80s milieu and has as engaging cast at his disposal, with lead Feldman possessing the sort of goofy affability that could easily help him pass for a Franco brother.
But as the storyline progresses, the inevitable truths and hypocrisies that Gabe encounters along the way unfortunately serve to throw that sharply attuned comedic-dramatic touch out of balance, resulting in an unsatisfying, uneven third act that bears the brunt of a notably heavier hand. — Michael Rechtshaffen “Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk.” Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 36 minutes. Playing: Arena Cinelounge, Hollywood.
Offbeat romance sends a message
Xander Robin’s funky, punky horror romance “Are We Not Cats” has got a doozy of a plot summary: unorthodox drama about a man who loses everything, then meets a woman who shares his fondness for eating hair. The film delivers what it promises, with this often grotesque and sometimes sweet love story about Eli (Michael Patrick Nicholson) and Anya (Chelsea Lopez), who connect deeply through their shared obsession.
Eli’s hit a rough patch in his life: His parents are moving to Arizona, his girlfriend’s moved on to someone else, and all he’s left with is an old moving truck. Through a delivery gig, he meets the bleach-swilling Kyle (Michael Godere) and then his colorfully be-wigged girlfriend Anya at a grimy underground DIY rock club. Eli’s grasp on life is tenuous, and his fixation on Anya seems to be the only thing motivating him. He gets a job at the lumber yard where she works, woos her, and soon, the two are engaging in the intimate act of eating each other’s hair, a predilection that turns dangerous.
“Are We Not Cats” is short, bizarre and to the point, and includes an important message (eating hair — it’s bad for you). But the singular aesthetic is gritty, beautiful and expressive, and somehow, you want to root for the love story of Eli and Anya, thanks to the charismatic performances of Nicholson and Lopez. —Katie Walsh
“Are We Not Cats.” Running time: 1 hour, 16 minutes. Not rated. Playing: Laemmle Music Hall, Beverly Hills.
Actress shines in office drama
Conference calls can feel like an interminable hell, and writer/director Adam Davis makes that the reality of his one-room melodrama “Broken Ceiling.” Under the maudlin fluorescent lights, big business personalities tussle for power during a meeting about an electronic product placement deal, resulting in tragedy and triumph.
Only four characters enter the room: explosive boss Ken (Regen Wilson), right hand man Tyler (Rane Jameson), Ken’s assistant Angela (Karan Kendrick) and upstart Garrett (Torran Kitts). Using a system of fear, verbal abuse and welltimed conference call holds, Ken has brow-beaten his team into full submission for a call with a tech magnate and possible investor. That they’re brokering a deal for cellphones in an action movie makes the scenario that much more ridiculous juxtaposed with the Mametian monologues the salespeople deliver as their dynamic unravels.
It’s a tale of a power struggle, but eventually Angela grabs the mantle, wrestling control of the story, and truly, it should have been hers from the start. The film feels like it doesn’t hit its stride until two-thirds of the way through, when Davis unleashes Kendrick. It’s a clever premise, and there are some great performances, including Kendrick’s, but a few story elements are fumbled to the film’s detriment. —Katie Walsh “Broken Ceiling.” Not rated. Running time: 1 hour, 30 minutes. Playing: Arena Cinelounge Sunset, Hollywood.