A selection of this year’s offerings
a selection of this year’s offerings
This documentary is about two women: renowned cultural anthropologist Margaret Mead (1901-1978), curator of ethnology at the American Museum of Natural History in New York from 1946 to 1969, and Susan Crate, a contemporary environmental anthropologist at George Mason University who is studying the impact of climate change. Their stories unfold through insights provided by their respective daughters. The theme that unites the two is the impact of the modern world on culture and society. For Mead, it was the effect of encounters between Europeans and others on traditional peoples in the South Pacific and Southeast Asia. For Crate, it’s the effect of climate change on communities worldwide, such as the threat of rising sea levels on Kiribati, an island nation made up of the atolls and coral reefs Crate has been studying.
Co-directed by Seth Kramer, Daniel A. Miller, and Jeremy Newberger of Ironbound Films, The
Anthropologist is the follow-up to their Emmynominated documentary The Linguists (2008). Using Mead’s daughter Mary Catherine Bateson, also a cultural anthropologist, and Crate’s daughter Kathryn Yegerov-Crate adds an intimate depth to the film, and the influence of two strong, independent women on Bateson and Yegerov-Crate is evident. The film is a compelling look into a misunderstood field, as seen through the medium of its two subjects, and reveals anthropology to be an ever-evolving discipline with a broad variety of applications. At its core, The
Anthropologist is about the adaptive strategies societies develop to cope with inevitable change.
— Michael Abatemarco
Documentary, 81 minutes, not rated, 6:30 p.m. Friday, Dec. 4, Center for Contemporary Arts, 3.5 chiles
Robert Cenedella has spent a lifetime painting pictures and skewering whatever establishment happens to get caught in his sights. As a young man, Cenedella was a student and friend of the great George Grosz’s, almost stowed away on the ship when Grosz returned to Germany in 1959, and was devastated when shortly after his arrival in Berlin, Grosz died under mysterious circumstances. The German artist’s influence is apparent in Cenedella’s art, which often exuberantly crowds characters into urban environments in compositions that are revealing, devilishly satiric, and irresistibly entertaining.
Victor Kanefsky, a retired film editor who often worked in the horror genre (one of his classics is
Bloodsucking Freaks, 1976) steps behind the camera (and occasionally in front of it) to helm this often hilarious, sometimes poignant study of one of the unsung practitioners and provocateurs of contemporary American art.
Part of Cenedella’s story involves his learning at the age of six that the man he called daddy was not his real father, his discovery of who that was, and his lifetime of dealing with the dichotomy of having two fathers who didn’t really amount to one. But the real thrust of this lively documentary is Cenedella’s relationship to the art establishment, which has generally been too caught up in the frenzied pursuit of the latest thing to appreciate what he has to offer. When Pop Art was at its peak, Cenedella launched a counter-movement, Yes Art, lampooning Warhol with works like Souperman (the Man of Steel painting a Campbell’s Soup can) and giving away S&H Green Stamps with every purchase. The art establishment, never noted for a lively sense of humor, has responded by relegating Cenedella to a drafty corridor outside its door.
Cenedella stalks through Art Bastard in rumpled clothes, with a twinkle in his eye and a laugh seldom far from his lips. He now teaches at New York’s Art Students League, in the same classroom where more than half a century ago he studied with Grosz. Cenedella continues to launch spitballs at the establishment, paint terrific pictures, and attract devoted admirers. This film should win him a bunch more. Screens with Sideshow of the Absurd.
— Jonathan Richards
Documentary, 86 minutes, not rated, 4 p.m. Friday, Dec. 4, Center for Contemporary Arts, 4 chiles AWAKENING IN TAOS: THE MABEL DODGE LUHAN STORY
Using never-before-seen photographs, archival footage, and voice-overs based on Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (1879-1962) own correspondences, Awakening
in Taos tells the story of the art patron’s early years as a socialite in Buffalo through to her establishment of a haven for modernist artists and writers in New Mexico including D.H. Lawrence, Frank Waters, Marsden Hartley, and Georgia O’Keeffe. The by-the-numbers, Ken Burns-style doc, directed by Mark J. Gordon, is narrated by Ali MacGraw with Leslie Harrell Dillen as Luhan, and chronicles her several marriages, leading up to her arrival in New Mexico. Her first marriage, to a man named Karl Evans in 1900, was arranged in secret because her father did not approve. Then she married architect Edwin Dodge in 1904, and the painter Maurice Sterne in 1916. She struggled to find a place to express her independent nature, always under the thumb of her male counterparts.
Luhan came to Taos in 1919, and in New Mexico she flourished. She divorced Sterne and married Tony Luhan from Taos Pueblo in 1923, and she experienced a deep spiritual connection with him. The film covers her political sway, having contributed to the defeat of the Bursum Bill in 1923, a bill that would have allowed the seizure of Pueblo lands, and her support of the return of Blue Lake to Taos Pueblo. The film presents her as a seeker who would finally find
herself in the Southwest. She remained in Taos until her death in 1962. Awakening in Taos had its world premiere in Santa Fe in November. Screens with the shorts Odessa and Princess. — Michael Abatemarco
Documentary, 65 minutes, not rated, 4:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Jean Cocteau Cinema, 3 chiles DANCING AROUND THE WORLD: INTERNATIONAL SHORTS PROGRAM
Dance forms around the world are tackled in this selection of international shorts. Pride, Pole, and
Prejudice explores the art of pole dancing, long associated with strippers and red-light districts. Men and women take classes at the London Dance Academy to learn to pole dance, a physically demanding genre with a history that’s seldom treated seriously. Director Rebecca Graham’s documentary treats pole dancing as an emerging modern-dance form arising from centuries-old traditions.
Dutch filmmaker Harm Weistra’s multi-awardwinning short romance Intrinsic Moral Evil appears at first to be about the transition from innocence to experience, told through the medium of dance. The camera moves and glides, slows down and speeds up to match the dynamic movements of the dancers. The title comes from Pope Benedict the XVI’s writings on homosexuality. It’s a film of grace and beauty that toys with viewer perceptions and suggests layers of meaning concerning gender, identity, memory, and loss.
Stephen Whittenburg’s The Last Dance, an emotional drama, follows the trials of Rachel Sloan (Faith
Tucker), a teenager rehearsing a difficult number for a dance audition to get into Juilliard. When she learns she has a broken talus she is faced with the decision to carry on regardless, or move on. In Meng Guo’s blackand-white short Back to the Roaring Twenties, Tim Moriarty plays a writer who, upon opening the door of his bathroom is launched back into the 1920s where he encounters flappers, Model Ts, posh picnics, and dancing in the streets — all set to Bow Wow Wow’s I Want Candy.
Suspendu is Elie Grappe’s compelling story about a young male dancer (Max Ricat) at an elite conservatory who attempts to work through the pain while dancing on an injured foot, risking not just his own exam grade, but his partner’s, as well. The film is in French with subtitles. Sean Robinson’s Indigo Grey:
The Passage is a sci-fi dance number about a young boy (Aidan Lok) who discovers a mysterious gas mask that lets him see into an alternate reality. The film includes a futuristic dance number by Hammerstep, the Irish hip-hop dance group that has been featured on America’s Got Talent. The program also includes Sebastian Mlynarski’s
Wait for Your Love, a video for indie folk band Bay Uno’s song of the same name from its new album, Catalina; Katsuyuki Miyabe’s Duet, a slow and melancholy dance number set in a minimalist environment that slips away until only the dancers remain; Ilya Rozhkov’s comic Sabre Dance, about a respected composer (Armen Babasoloukian) who gets an opportunity to meet his idol Salvador Dalí (Greg Louganis); and J.R. Matthews’ Fancy Dancer, a dramatic story of triumph against the odds about a young Native American (Simon Washee) raised by a white family who reconnects to his heritage through traditional tribal dance. — Michael Abatemarco
International shorts, 90 minutes, not rated, 1:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Center for Contemporary Arts, 3.5 chiles
What more can a Western film do with the age-old “pursuit and revenge” theme in order for the genre to grow and survive? Maybe stand it on its head, kick its head out from under its feet, let it lie on the ground, pump a few rounds into it, pick it up, knock it over in the corner, and ask the audience to go along for the ride, even if it doesn’t make much sense. That’s the approach director Lawrence Roeck and screenwriter Carlos De Los Rios have taken with Diablo, which is gaining some attention for being the first Western to star Scott Eastwood, son of Clint.
The picture starts off with punch, smack dab in the middle of a nighttime raid in which four Spanishspeaking horsemen make off with a woman while our hero, Jackson, furiously fires a rifle at them as they ride off. He tells his neighbors that the men are raiders and the woman is his wife, and that he’s going after them as they head into the wilds of New Mexico. Canada doubles for New Mexico, by the way, and the state looks almost as pretty as it actually is, thanks to Dean Cundey’s cinematography. About half of the film’s running time holds attention as it recounts, in somewhat familiar fashion, the desperate efforts of a good old-fashioned Westerner (and Civil War veteran to boot) to reclaim his wife from rapscallions. However, it strains credibility to ride with Jackson as he meets up with some odd, quirky, and even cute characters along the way, including a shotgunwielding Asian man, an Indian boy who is inept with a bow and arrow, and a mysterious, frightening killer who wantonly murders anyone who crosses his path.
But then the film starts its energetic, acrobatic, and quite convoluted contortion into something quite else, trying in vain to touch on the problems facing war veterans, such as post-traumatic stress disorder and bipolar personality conflicts. Slowly we begin to realize there is something amiss with this chase — that maybe the good guy isn’t a total good guy — but the script cheats its audience by reveals that reveal nothing more than optical illusions. Let it be said that if the Western were in full swing today, Eastwood would be set to star in another — maybe a good one. As it is, Diablo just gets by before inching into horror territory for a disappointing finale. — Robert Nott
Western, 90 minutes, not rated, 7 p.m. Friday, Dec. 4, Jean Cocteau Cinema, 2 chiles
Thousands of Danish Jews escaped to Sweden when the Nazis came to round them up for transport in 1943, but not everyone made it out. Four hundred and seventy Danish Jews were sent to the Theresienstadt concentration camp in what is currently the Czech Republic. Goodbye Theresienstadt tells the story of a handful of former prisoners who visit the camp after more than 50 years and recall what it was like to live there as children and teens. The documentary explores an important chapter in World War II as well as Danish history, but it doesn’t really rise above the dozens of Holocaust documentaries available on Netflix and the History Channel, nor does it sufficiently explain Theresienstadt’s identity as a “show camp” to fool the international community into believing Nazi concentration camps were not committing human rights violations. The lasting trauma of growing up in a concentration camp is evident in the flow of tears from the subjects when they encounter the imposing, threatening edifices of their childhood. Many of them kept silent for decades about Theresienstadt, never even telling their children that they were kept there. Ultimately, most of the Danish Jews were rescued and sent to Sweden through a political arrangement between Denmark and the Third Reich, because the Danish people were less accepting of the routing-out and execution of their countrymen than other Europeans. The elderly subjects refer to their liberation as an escape, and the greatest day of their lives, but more specific information about the agreements between the Danish and the Third Reich would have been beneficial to telling a whole story. Screens with Projections of America.
— Jennifer Levin Documentary, 59 minutes, not rated, in Danish with subtitles, 4 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Center for Contemporary Arts, 2.5 chiles
Why can’t every witness to an alien intruder be more like Elliott Taylor? The tumbleweed hamlet of Percy, New Mexico, might have avoided a whole lot of trouble if the kindly boy from E.T. had been the one to make first contact with the handsome, expressionless man who drops from the sky in a cardboard box in Jim. Instead, it’s the hungover proprietor of the sleepy border town’s dive bar, whose less-than-measured response to the somewhat unconventional FedEx delivery sets in motion an eventful 24 hours in a town generally unaccustomed to motion and events. At its best, Jim, written and directed by Rod McCall, evokes the enjoyably tacky small-town minutiae of Fargo or Waiting for Guffman: the earnest do-goodery of chatty, familiar locals reckoning with an out-ofthe-ordinary variable. McCall mines that earnestness early on — a solitary man casually speeding his pickup truck along an empty thoroughfare in reverse is a prime non-sequitur gag — but the film abandons that farcical track, instead mostly emphasizing a wrongside-of-middle-age ennui of grander lives not lived these folks can scarcely veil.
Into this meanders the alien protagonist (he arrives on Earth wearing a floral button-down and cargo shorts; he might have made a better effort at a first impression) who carries a briefcase where he stashes mason jars filled with sounds he absorbs by opening his mouth. He is fundamentally nonplussed, stumbling from one stilted interaction to the next, deeper and deeper into the community’s meager dirty laundry. The film meanders, too, plotlessly for the most part, and pleasantly enough. Immigration seems to be the thematic raison d’etre — an actual alien drops into a U.S. border town where the secular sort are a point of contention, you see — but McCall’s script does little more than wink at it. The wordless sightseer breathes in an ice-cream truck jingle, he exhales life, and he seems to teach these melancholy souls a lesson. A harmless invasion. Screens with Happy Birthday to Me. — Tripp Stelnicki Drama, 78 minutes, not rated, 7 p.m. Friday, Dec. 4, El Museo Cultural de Santa Fe (555 Camino de la Familia),
NEW MEXICO FILMMAKERS SHOWCASE
For years the New Mexico Film Office has supported and hosted the New Mexico Filmmakers’ Showcase, designed to show off the (mostly short) cinematic works by the state’s film artists. Like any grouping of shorts, you expect to get some good, bad, and ugly in the mix, but this year’s offerings are all pretty engaging.
Anna Darrah’s The Matter of Magic is a quaint and quirky little comedy about a magician who doesn’t know he is a magician. One can see it being expanded into a (tight) feature film. Number Two is a short and sweet animated picture by Michelle Catalanotto about two small furry tree creatures who quickly learn to love and honor each in the face of danger. The Carving is Benjamin Pierce’s brief and clever homage to slasher films as a couple of knife-happy youths perform violent surgery on a … well, let’s keep that a surprise, because it works as just that.
Marcus Romero’s This Is Me is a paean to the simple elements of life including heritage, the environment, family, a house, and storytelling. Aimee Barry Broustra’s A Horseback Ride to the Soul is a roughly 30-minute documentary about engaging equines in “collaborative horsemanship,” and on that level it works as a story of building mutual trust between horse and human.
Andy Kastelic’s Ballad of the Boatman may be the best of the bunch; a dark comedy about a man (Kastelic, who is quite good) who agrees to serve as the ferryman for the dead, until the dead start complaining and too many children show up, leading him to make a fatal decision about his career. John Broadhead’s Death in Time has the most intriguing premise as Time and Death (personified by a man and woman) debate the practicality and pain of loss and death. While it may make you rethink the concept of death and understand its need, at about 45 minutes it runs a little bit too long in driving its point home. Dusty Deen’s music video S.H.I.L.O: Good Times rounds out the program, and if you like the band, you’ll like this kinetic, colorful piece featuring more than 2300 pieces of art. You can even find a fun “making of the video” video online. The entire program is never dull and often pretty damn lively.
— Robert Nott Homegrown shorts program, about 130 minutes, not rated, 7 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, El Museo Cultural de Santa Fe, 3 chiles
As writer/director Henry Jaglom ( Just 45 Minutes From Broadway) grows older, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to showbiz stories for his subjects. His latest is a backstage rom-com/mystery shot during the run of a real production of The Rainmaker at a Santa Monica
theater. Maggie (Tanna Frederick, Jaglom’s frequent star) is the leading lady and mainstay of the show, which is in dire financial straits and teetering on the brink of closing despite strong reviews and passionate audiences. We see brief snippets of the show, but we have to take its brilliance on faith. When Stewart (James Denton), a slick and handsome star, comes to her dressing room after a performance to rave and to offer her a role in his new TV series, Maggie must decide whether to abandon the company and close the show, or stick to her theater ideals.
Backstage, the company is seething with romances, jealousies, and hidden motives. A tarot-card reader announces that there’s an evil spirit loose in the theater. There’s certainly a screw loose, and the plot thickens as Maggie and Stewart start to fall for each other, and another theater relationship turns violent. The mystery element, which lets the movie down in the end, is not so much a whod unit as a whad did he do?
The cast, which includes a couple of Jaglom offspring, is good. Jaglom, a protégé of Orson Welles (his recordings of conversations with the master is available in book form: My Lunches With Orson: Conversations Between Henry Jaglom and Orson Welles) has had a checkered career, but there’s a lot to like about this puppyishly amiable backstage romp. Frederick and Denton have a nice chemistry, and even though his Dick Clark smile threatens to scuttle
The Rainmaker and put a lot of hardworking actors out on the street, you can’t help pulling for them to get together. — Jonathan Richards
Rom-com/mystery, 102 minutes, rated R, 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Jean Cocteau Cinema, 2.5 chiles
Princess is sentimental and sappy and its characters, a father and daughter, are too thinly drawn. It’s a tribute film to the women of the armed services but feels more like an Army advertisement up until a final, sobering shot that precedes a touching dedication. Libby is being raised by her father who calls her “Princess.” The story focuses on their relationship as it progresses over the course of 18 years until Libby joins the Army and is sent overseas. Screens with the short Odessa and the documentary feature
Awakening in Taos. — Michael Abatemarco
Dramatic short, 8 minutes, not rated, 4:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Jean Cocteau Cinema, 2.5 chiles
PROJECTIONS OF AMERICA
During World War II, a secret group of filmmakers led by Academy Award-winning screenwriter Robert Riskin created 26 documentaries about the United States that were shown throughout Europe and other parts of the world, but never seen in the United States. They were soft propaganda but well made, intended to display America’s heartland traditions, industry, multiculturalism, creative fervor, and optimistic open-mindedness to people who would eventually resettle here or encounter American liberators in their home countries. Though the films now exist only in archives, they redefined the country for world populations whose primary impressions of us came from movies about war and gangster activity. The idea of American optimism, whether or not it was interpreted favorably by audiences, is a lasting bit of that propaganda. Projections of America is especially timely, as politicians and citizens argue over immigration and refugee issues in the wake of terrorist attacks and civil wars raging outside of our borders, as well as the very nature of what it means to be an American. Are we a melting pot that accepts the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to be free? As it turns out, times don’t change much: Conservative lawmakers were unhappy that the
Projections of America movies received government funding; objections also included antipathy toward refugee populations and whether or not they were wanted here. After the war, the filmmakers encountered the Red Scare. The very people who strove to show America as the land of the free and the brave ended up having to prove they were not subversives out to destroy democracy as we know it. Screens with
— Jennifer Levin
Documentary, 52 minutes, not rated, 4 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Center for Contemporary Arts, 3 chiles
RED CARPET BURN
Mark Steven Shepherd wrote and directed this offbeat documentary about the commodification of celebrity and its manifestation in the tradition of — and public obsession with — the red carpet at awards shows and film festivals. The first-person film is clever and cynical in its depiction of fame worshippers who pay for seminars on how to get their faces in the public eye by crashing red carpets with no credentials, just trying to get their picture taken. Quentin Tarantino’s biological father teaches one such course; according to Shepherd, the guy has never actually met the award-winning filmmaker but he advises using your friends and relatives to get ahead. The productions values of Red Carpet Burn are purposely low-end, with awkward title-card fonts (Comic Sans makes an appearance) and hilariously terrible Photoshop and iMovie effects, as if to mock, or echo, the questionable psychological and intellectual stability of some of the subjects. Shepherd’s ultimate goal is to use the
advice he gathers to get comely unknown teenagers onto the red carpet, first at the Academy Awards and then at Cannes, and to get the press to pay attention, using the right combination of youthful feminine appeal, a unique and fantastic evening gown, and basic hubris. No one escapes his droll ridicule — not even the red carpets themselves, which range from plush and blocks-long to crimson bathmats from discount stores. — Jennifer Levin
Documentary, 61 minutes, not rated, 7 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Violet Crown; 4:45 p.m. Sunday, Dec. 6, Center for Contemporary Arts, 3 chiles
It’s perhaps the most well-worn trope of any heartpounder: The calls are coming ... from inside the house. Kyle Ham’s Reparation, an expertly constructed thriller, employs a fun variation: The calls are coming … from inside your daughter.
Bob Stevens (Marc Menchaca) can’t remember anything from his years in the Air Force. A wry young boy in a green T-shirt serves as Bob’s confidant, cheerleader, and life coach, and is the only one who can see through to the inscrutable veteran; Bob is the only one who can see the young boy. After a medical discharge, Bob is directed to outpatient services in Indiana. The boy — a pint-sized Gandalf, really — prudently suggests California instead.
They go, and Bob careens back into civilian life, building a nuclear family more than chance than by plan, and ditching Gandalf along the way (Bob’s disconcerted missus kindly requests he wrap up his running conversation with thin air). But the missing chunk of memory is a burden. Bob is an uncomfortable man — and his troubled melancholy is unbecoming in his new role as the owner/operator of a local farmers’ market. His episodes of PTSD panic, however ambiguous, rend Menchaca’s otherwise subtle face. The sheen of domestic calm is further darkened when a slick friend (Jon Huertas, having a lot of fun) from Bob’s unremembered past arrives, and his nine-year-old daughter, Charlotte (Dale Dye Thomas), wakes up from an uncomfortably familiar dream.
True to its legalese-inspired title, Reparation is guilty of over-articulation in spots (Charlotte’s inexplicable condition is hashed out by a didactic, straight-faced doctor, and one six-minute monologue in the midst of a tense sequence is 15 minutes too long). The supernatural wrinkle elevates the film’s central mystery, but steps aside for level, self-contained thrills, which erupt in a taut and gut-wrenching final 15 minutes. Wherever the calls are coming from, it’s best to pick up and get on with it. — Tripp Stelnicki
Thriller, 105 minutes, not rated, 7 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Center for Contemporary Arts, 3.5 chiles
Guy Franklin is a smart but somewhat bumbling screenwriter who wins a small award and is suddenly whisked, along with his actress-girlfriend, from Manhattan to Los Angeles for a high-paying gig adapting a lengthy young-adult novel into a movie.
Show Business was written and directed by Alexander Tovar, who also plays Guy. It’s an arch, stylized skewering of Hollywood and anyone who aspires to be a part of it. Guy hates the book he’s adapting, and can’t get through to the end even as the smarmy author insinuates himself into Guy’s home life. Guy’s girlfriend, Cassandra (Amelia Meyers), stops eating and starts doing yoga and socializing with other aspiring starlets. Guy stops getting enjoyment from writing and can no longer tell if what he’s writing is any good, which forces him to rely on the opinions of producers, vapid actors, and money men he doesn’t respect. So he enters therapy, where he is a natural on the couch, talking about himself with tremendous digression and doubt. Tovar himself is a curiosity, a musical prodigy who wrote his first opera at ten years old, worked as Philip Glass’ assistant out of high school, and has composed music for film, television, and orchestra. Show Business is fun to watch, despite the feeling that it’s all just not quite as sharp and smart as the participants assumed it was. It plays its predictability and adherence to formulaic plotting for laughs, but it remains quite predictable. Though it is Tovar’s second movie, it has the feeling of a very advanced student film. His first, Nothing in Los Angeles, covers similar thematic territory. It would be interesting to see what he would do if he left the comfort zone of uncomfortable success in show business. Screens with
Animation Hotline and Detention. — Jennifer Levin
Comedy, 85 minutes, not rated, 3:30 p.m. Sunday Dec. 6, The Screen, 3 chiles
Hannah (Rebecca Hall) is the young widow of a beloved musician named Hunter, who died before putting out a second album. She lives in the Maine woods, mourning her loss and trying to write his biography. Enter Andrew McDonnell ( Jason Sudeikis), a hip university professor on the tenure track, who is writing a book about artistic geniuses who died too soon. He wants to include a chapter on Hunter, but Hannah won’t return his phone calls, so he shows up in town to convince her to help him. She is brash and cold, while he is sleazy in his desperation for academic acclaim. The most interesting theme in the movie is about whether or not we can truly know an artist based solely on his art, and how strongly we project our own damage onto art we love. What Andrew interprets as metaphors for depression in the lyrics of a dead man might just be literal imagery for which he doesn’t have context. Despite its serious premise,
Tumbledown is basically a rom-com for pseudo-intellectuals. Every beat of the genre is present, from Hannah’s and Andrew’s initial dislike of each other to the way she runs after him in the end to catch him before he leaves town forever. Though performances are strong — especially that of Richard Masur as Hannah’s father — there is something unbelievable about most of the characters. They are cut from genre stock, including Andrew’s shallow city girlfriend and Hannah’s dumb brute of a hometown lay, rendering the overall viewing experience unnervingly predictable. However, the music attributed to Hunter, which is performed by Seattle indie folk-rocker Damien Jurado, is evocative of Neil Young. Had Young died after putting out just one album, we would always wonder what had happened and what it all meant. There is real potential for a great movie here, but
Tumbledown is too slick and too conventional to make it work. Screens with Dreaming of Peggy Lee.
— Jennifer Levin
Romantic comedy, 105 minutes, rated R, 1:30 p.m. Friday, Dec. 4, Center for Contemporary Arts, 2 chiles
Intrinsic Moral Evil
Awakening in Taos: The Mabel Dodge Luhan Story
Projections of America