MILES DAVIS: BIRTH OF THE COOL

Not rated, 115 minutes. Through today only at Mystic Luxury Cinemas. A documentary about the great musician.

THE PEANUT BUTTER FALCON

1/2 PG-13, 98 minutes. Westbrook. Shia LaBeouf — at 33, an embattled veteran of both blockbusters and indies — teams up with newcomer Zack Gottsagen in “The Peanut Butter Falcon,” a sweetly comic drama about a young man with Down syndrome who dreams of becoming a professional wrestler. The story opens on Gottsagen’s character, Zak: a 20-something who has been warehoused in a retirement home, where his sole link to the outside world is a stack of dusty VHS tapes celebrating the exploits of a wrestler known as the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church), whom Zak watches religiously. When he comes across an ad for his hero’s wrestling camp, a little encouragement from Zak’s roommate (Bruce Dern) — and a bit of soapy lather — facilitate the young man’s escape through the bars in his window. As chance would have it, Zak stows away on a boat stolen by a man who is also on the lam: LaBeouf’s Tyler, who, after a run of hard times, has been reduced to stealing the catches of other crab fishermen. Tyler’s once-boyish, bashful spirit has long since crusted over, but Zak’s boisterous, magnetic personality softens him up. Eventually, Tyler agrees to accompany Zak on his quest to locate the wrestling camp. He takes on the role of coaching Zak, even helping Zak devise his wrestling moniker: The Peanut Butter Falcon. Sound familiar? The screenplay (by co-writer-directors Tyler Nilson and Michael Schwartz) essentially lifts its story beats directly from “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” transposing Mark Twain’s antebellum tale into a contemporary context. — Travis DeShong, Washington Post

RAMBO: LAST BLOOD

R, 89 minutes. Through today only at Westbrook, Lisbon. Can someone please put John Rambo out of his misery? The 1980s franchise has long-since grown cold, but in an era of reboots and sequels, it’s no surprise that some might try to squeeze one last money drop out of this title. But in this haggard, sorry state, here’s hoping “Rambo: Last Blood,” lethargically directed by Adrian Grunberg, is the end of the line for Sylvester Stallone’s once-iconic character. Rambo lumbers to the finish line in the flaccid fifth installment, which is a Frankenstein’s monster of badly photocopied references to the previous movies, limply strung together with the laziest of screenplays. This time, it’s not Vietnam, Burma, Afghanistan or even the U.S. that has drawn John Rambo’s ire, but Mexico. John’s living a quiet life on an Arizona ranch, keeping a protective eye on young Gabrielle (Yvette Monreal), an adopted niece of sorts. When Gabby runs away across the border to find her birth father and ends up trafficked into sexual exploitation (a turn one can see coming from a mile away), woe upon the gangsters who kidnapped her. Rambo’s gonna rip their collarbones out one by one. “Last Blood” is deeply, topically xenophobic. And while, obviously, the “Rambo” films aren’t exactly known for their international diplomacy, the hackneyed, poorly executed racial stereotypes and sexual violence to which Gabriella is subjected is just offensively lazy screenwriting. The whole script is lazy. It’s barely a script at all. Writers Stallone, Matthew Cirulnick and Dan Gordon trade on charged imagery rather than, you know, actually writing characters that fully express the spectrum of human morality. “Good vs. evil” is an idea John, who articulates himself like he’s endured one too many traumatic brain injuries, is obsessively hung up on, in that sometimes he monosyllabically grunts about “bad guys.” — Katie Walsh, Tribune News Service who’s now 83.

Best known for her stint on Rowan & Martin’s “Laugh-In” in the late 1960s and early ‘70s, Buzzi, who won a Golden Globe and five Emmy nominations, grew up locally and was likely in town for a family funeral that I later learned had occurred that day. I never did ask what she had ordered.

But we had been watching diners at other tables and kept an eye on what was coming out of the nearby kitchen door, and despite how full we were, my friend and I decided we had to at least try the House Burger ($14.50), since so many others were ordering it.

It was an excellent idea. The burger was thick and moist and arrived on a fresh brioche bun with a pickle spear and a heaping pile of hot French fries. It was by far the best thing we ordered. Even better than the Lobster Nachos. We split the burger and, unfortunately, wasted those French fries.

Rocks 21 is clearly a popular destination for locals and visitors to the area. In addition to all those television screens, they digitally display their extensive taps list on one wall, and beer-drinking friends have told me it’s a terrific selection.

The dinner menu includes entrees like Braised Short Ribs ($26) and Seared Salmon ($28), and there are daily specials, like the Pan Seared Sea Scallops over polenta that they recommend pairing with a glass of sauvignon blanc.

My one big negative on 21 Rocks is the parking lot. There’s no easy way to navigate it, and both times I visited, I was concerned another driver might run into me, or vice versa. My friend voiced the same complaint.

But the place, open since late last May under new ownership and with a new menu, clearly has a big following, especially in the bar. If you like live music, sports, and a big, happy crowd, give it a try.