ATC’S “THE KITE RUNNER”

ATC’S “THE KITE RUNNER” AS GOOD AS THE BOOK

First of all, the stage adaptation of “The Kite Runner” from the book by Khaled Hosseini is a complete success. If you loved the book you will love the production Arizona Theatre Company has prepared with meticulous attention to details of Afghan costumes and culture.

Matthew Spangler, a playwright and professor at San Jose State University, lifts the 30-year struggle of Amir to center stage, letting the character evolve through conflict and frustration as he reaches for resolution. An ensemble of 11 players become the many faces in the book – Amir’s boyhood friend Hassan, Amir’s proud father, the boyhood bully in Kabul, Amir’s wife, the neighbors and bureaucrats of Kabul so determined to keep a death grip on their ancient cultural values atrophied by centuries of rigidity.

There are many reasons to love the story of “The Kite Runner.” Even the 2007 film was a box office success. With the war in Afghanistan now hotter than ever, with the religious fundamentalist Taliban relentless in expanding their stranglehold on Afghan culture, ATC’s production directed by David Ira Goldstein couldn’t be more timely.

America itself is in the midst of a huge culture clash. Attitudes toward sexual promiscuity, marriage vows, trust between the races, masculine honor and situational ethics seem to change daily. In Afghanistan there is no such shilly-shally waffling. Right is right, wrong is wrong and the person holding absolute power at any particular moment gets to make all the rules.

All this conflict over values that are set in stone is an important part of the play. Barzin Akhavan is mesmerizing as Amir. His boyish innocence is convincing. His outbursts of anger are earned. He represents, essentially, all of us – polite on the outside, overwhelmed on the inside, always wanting to do the right thing but not always able to.

Akhavan lets us see all his smoldering indecision in every scene. Wanting to be a modern western man, he grapples with fulfilling traditional Afghan expectations. As Americans we are thinking “Come on, Amir. Be practical. Get real.”

But the Afghan view is presented so clearly it is impossible not to admire the certainty of those who believe they are absolutely right. Then right before our eyes, “The Kite Runner” shows us what calamities this ossified philosophy creates.

If there is any fault with Spangler’s adaptation, it is that he tries to stay too faithful to the book, tries to include too many of the side stories and undercurrents. In a sprawling novel, where each reader goes one-on-one with the written word, time is not the enemy.

On stage, with a room full of busy people the clock is always ticking. Today’s theater audience has become so soft, with such superficial interests and short attention spans, there is little patience with long plays.

“The Kite Runner” is in the mold of those theater classics of family drama written by Eugene O’Neil, Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams. Rich works that plumb the depths of relationships between fathers and sons, men and their mothers, women who want more than other women.

Hard core theatergoers are always complaining about the lighter fare so popular with most stage companies these days. ATC is taking a huge risk opening its season with a play of such substance. Everyone who complained about all those frothy mainstream productions in the past must step up to the box office right now and buy a ticket.

As Amir himself would say, “It’s the right thing to do.”

“The Kite Runner” plays at various times Tuesdays through Sundays to Oct. 3 at the Temple of Music and Art, 330 S. Scott Ave. Tickets are $26-$50, with discounts. Rush tickets on sale before each performance. For details, 622-2823, or visit www.arizonatheatre.org

theatrereview

Thought Provoking ADORATION

THOUGHT PROVOKING “ADORATION”

Powerful undercurrents of absolute conviction pull at you from all sides in Atom Egoyan’s delicately balanced “Adoration” screening at the Loft Cinema. Those who appreciate the Canadian filmmaker’s filigreed philosophy will find a richly rewarding experience here.

Repeat viewings of this precisely paced picture will keep revealing new relationships in the tapestry of emotions that link the nature of terrorism with the need to avenge personal loss, the elusiveness of real truth and the hay stack of fantasy relationships that are always available online.

In a sense, Egoyan reminds us of the truth contained in quantum physics and Buddhist teachings that everything is connected to everything else. Not in the sense that a butterfly can flap its wings in Brazil and war will break out in Angola, but in the more believable sense that a broken heart can quickly lead the broken hearted into identifying with a minority religious group that feels threatened by a powerful government.

Once upon a time the French Foreign Legion was filled with soldiers wracked with regret, battling their own inner demons as well as their armed enemies on the field. At least, that is the legend.

A saying we don’t hear much anymore is “An argument between neighbors becomes a war between princes.” Egoyan understands the volatility of making violence personal.

Just when can an act of terrorism that kills innocent civilians be justified as an act of war against…what? Religious persecution? Slavery? Genocide? There must be something worse than blowing up an airplane full of people who only want to get home.

“Adoration” begins with a teacher of French in a Canadian high school, played by Arsinee Khanjian. She also leads the school’s drama classes. In a seemingly random act she encourages her student Simon (Devon Bostick) to explore what he would feel if his father was a terrorist.

Because the boy’s own parents died somewhat mysteriously in a car crash, Simon easily identifies with the assignment. Being a teen of today, Simon does all his socializing online. Looking at a laptop screen covered with the faces of his friends peering back at him on their webcams, Simon says he has discovered his father was a terrorist responsible for taking innocent lives.

Some of the kids tell their parents and the high school teacher’s experiment in learning quickly skids out of control. The confusion spreads to Simon’s own unsettled investigation of his parents’ deaths. His mom was a concert violinist and his dad was from Lebanon.

The Jewish-Muslim conflict becomes more personal as we learn how much Simon’s grandfather hated having a son-in-law who was Lebanese. In a story where one’s value system must be constantly upgraded as new information is revealed, the pace of such situational ethics quickly escalates to the film’s conclusion.

filmreview

This “Proposal” is a modern day chick flick

Now that “The Hangover” is raking in big bucks as a comedy about marriage from the guy’s point of view, here comes one for the gals. “The Proposal” starring Sandra Bullock is definitely a chick flick, even with Bullock in a powerful female role and a mostly-mild mannered Ryan Reynolds as her much-abused assistant.

The set-up is straight from “Green Card,” but milder, as Margaret (Bullock) is a hard-driving book publisher born in Canada but having a thriving career in New York City. Being so focused on success that she failed to meet her immigration requirements, Margaret discovers she must move back to Canada for at least a year or face some kind of prison sentence.

Could such a thing actually happen? Who knows? The gist of it is that Margaret must demolish her brilliant publishing career or…(trumpet fanfare here)…marry an American. Can you see the rest of this movie passing before you?

Margaret insists her mild-mannered but highly efficient assistant Andrew (Reynolds) marry her. Then after a reasonable time, they will get a divorce. Of course we know that won’t happen. It would ruin the happy ending.

So as a condition of agreeing to marry Margaret, Andrew insists the two of them spend a week with his family in Sitka, Alaska. Wouldn’t you know it, Andrew’s family is very well-to-do and Andrew himself is kind of a black sheep because he wants a career where he actually has to go to work every day. So embarrassing…

Against a stunningly beautiful backdrop of wilderness mountains and romantically heightened living in a luxuriously appointed log cabin mansion, Margaret and Andrew begin to see each other in an entirely different light. But then, you already knew that, didn’t you.

filmreview

Tyson’s Life Has Shakespearian Dimensions

“Tyson” is not a documentary about the brutal lifestyle of a heavyweight champion. “Tyson” is James Toback’s brilliant look into the terrifying world of Mike Tyson, a muscular man of extreme contrasts who has captured the public imagination like no other prize fighter since Muhammad Ali .

Now playing at the Loft Cinema, 3233 E. Speedway Blvd., “Tyson” quickly proves the film’s main miracle is that Toback has somehow managed to win Tyson’s trust. Time and again the fearsome fighter drops his guard, describing his conflicted emotions in terms that sometimes have the innocence of a child. Imagine Frankenstein’s monster sitting on a big log beside that lake, remembering the sweet little girl, talking about his dream of becoming a high school science teacher. Imagine sitting within arm’s reach of the monster, asking him embarrassing questions while the camera’s silent eye looks on.

Tyson was a fabled powerhouse in the ring but never had a chance to develop an equally successful personality. The brain controlling that formidable mountain of lightning-quick muscle was barely developed at all. In the heightened strength of his youth, Tyson freely admits he lived in fear.

Realizing he had been gifted with a magnificent body that was faster and stronger than anyone else, he feared the anger always boiling inside. He also feared the animal jungle of prison. Intuitively he didn’t even trust himself, certainly not anyone else.

Another mythic film figure that comes to mind is sad-eyed Lon Chaney as the Wolfman, who hated having the power to murder people. The Wolfman feared the full moon.

Although the boxing ring saved Tyson from the street, and provided a place of sanctuary where he could roam and rage at will for a few rounds, the ring also doomed this awesome athlete.

Toback adds archive footage of Tyson’s youth, his early days in the gym, his major fights, and his unfortunate melt-down. Brilliant cinema edits and precise pacing are Toback’[s other contributions.

The emotional high-point is Tyson’s own brutal description of his anger in the ring with Evander Holyfield. In this extreme environment, biting Holyfield’s ear didn’t seem that irrational.

In the end, you will leave “Tyson” with a deeper appreciation for the complexities of human nature. The man – now in his 40s ­– dominated the physical world in his 20s, then became a tragic figure whose decline was the equal of King Lear and Othello.

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THE INFORMANT! review

“THE INFORMANT!” IS CONFUSING

Actors are the only people who don’t want actors to be properly labeled and categorized. We like knowing Matt Damon will always be Bourne again.

Damon doesn’t like it, though. He wants to be like Russell Crowe, disappearing into a gladiator’s armor one year, then reappearing the next time in a distressed corporate wonk’s wrinkled shirt and sagging tie.

Damon could have played Jason Bourne forever, and made everyone happy. But nooo… He’s got to gain weight, become a pudge with a mousy moustache and walk around in front of the camera while spouting nonsense about guys who take their style cues from pop culture.

We’re talking “The Informant!,” directed by Steven Soderbergh, another cinema figure who refuses to keep directing the same movie over and over. What is wrong with these men? Don’t they know life is supposed to be repetitious and predictable?

Why should their careers be any different from the rest of us? Not even Michael Jordan got to change career sports and still be successful.

So here we are at the beginning of “The Informant!” amazed at how Matt Damon is so unrecognizable in his role as Mark Whitacre, a harried vice-president at Archer Daniels Midland (the agri-business giant deep in the controversial corn syrup game). Whitacre is an actual person, the subject of Kurt Eichenwald’s book about America’s highest-ranking corporate whistle-blower, “The Informant: A True Story.”

That sounds like a good place to find an inspiring film about bringing down a modern-day Goliath. Only, Soderbergh has other ideas. He turns the true story into a comedy so off-the-wall we have no idea where the truth is or what the jokes are.

Damon is happy to play along with Soderbergh, eager to prove he has real acting chops. That there is more to his talent than looking good in tailored suits while from escaping tight spots without breaking a sweat.

Instead of guts and glamour, we get Damon looking like a farm belt car salesman. Near the movie’s end, he is holding clandestine meetings in hamburger diners. A far cry from the clandestine meetings he held in elegant restaurants at the begining.

The gist of the story is that Whitacre first goes to the FBI because he begins feeling guilty about rampant price-fixing among the international giants of food processing. Just like James Bond (but without a gun) Whitacre goes undercover, wearing a wire, carrying a hidden recording device, feeling squeezed by the feds on one side and the bosses he is betraying on the other.

But unlike those Cold War spies who could come in from the cold, Whitacre has no escape valve to push. He just gets in deeper and deeper as the FBI agent played by Scott Bakula keeps demanding more convincing evidence. After an hour or so, the tables begin to turn. Whitaker may not be who we thought he was.

The FBI misplays its hand and we suckers in the audience who trusted the picture to play it straight start feeling duped, as well. Meanwhile, the unrepentant Soderbergh never looks back.

He keeps pushing the story further and further into left field until “The Informant!” stops feeling like a hit and becomes a foul ball.

filmreview

SYLVAN STREET CD review Perfect Leaf

Centennial Hall concert celebrates

Sylvan Street, “The Perfect Leaf”

Summit Records (DCD 5523)

Jay Rees not only believes jazz should be fun, he also believes jazz should be a little bit dangerous. As in having so much fun, it would be easy enough to slip over the edge -- falling into a mosh pit of chaotic rhythms and atonal conflict.

All this enthusiasm comes bubbling out of “The Perfect Leaf,” an album of fusion jazz elements by a band calling itself Sylvan Street. Judge for your own self on Thursday, Sept. 10, in Centennial Hall at the University of Arizona when Rees and Sylvan Street appear in concert to celebrate the release of this, the band’s debut album.

The music starts at 7:30 p.m. Tickets are $9, $7 and $5. For tickets, contact the Fine Arts Box Office, 520-621-1162.

Rees is the professor of bands for the University of Arizona’s sports teams. Also in the group is UA music professor Kelland Thomas blowing some vigorous saxophone solos. Also in the band and performing at the concert are Frank Browne, guitar, Andrew Hix, drums and vocals, Chad Shoopman, trumpet, Evan Rees, piano/keyboards, Michael Faltin, percussion, Jeff Haskell, piano, Moises Paiewonsky, trombone and Robin Horn, drums.

The band members are friends of Rees from their music school days at the University of Miami or else are Rees’ former UA students. On piano and keyboards is Jay’s son, Evan. This kind of familiarity does give all nine tracks a family-band cohesion, which is missing from a lot of today’s digitally cold studio work.

Yet all the musicians have exceptional chops, reminding us once again that groovy guys do not hang out with un-groovy guys. Rees had a hand in writing all the songs, saying he wants to play music that reminded him of those salad days when he and some of these same players were hungry young men working the L.A. music scene for all it was worth.

Back then they played lots of pop, rock and R&B, as well as jazz of many hues along with genuine blues. For today’s casual listener to “The Perfect Leaf” those fusion roots from decades past have matured to become a bubbling jazz brew eager to flex its muscles but not afraid to flaunt its fondness for romance.

Rees calls the sound Nu-Jazz, lists the four major sound groups as: jazz, rock, Latin, funk. Every track starts with a lyrical melody, then begins to build. A trio of titles contains vocals, with lyrics written by Rees’ wife Wendy.

But whether the piece is a ballad or something faster, Sylvan Street packs the intensity of guys who love their explorations in finding ways to make new sounds out of all these special ingredients.

delivers a track worthy of some thoughtful listening. Plan on a little intelligent foot-tapping, too.

musicreview

SUMMER HOURS review

. THERE IS A SAD ELEGANCE TO “SUMMER HOURS”

From France comes Olivier Assayas’s thoughtful “Summer Hours,” a movie for boomers who find themselves looking after aging parents. Now playing at the Loft Cinema, this film overflows with the rich literary quality we associate with art films. The pace is almost languid, caressing details of sibling competition even when the siblings are all in their 40s and successful in their individual careers.

Juliette Binoche is the most familiar cast member to Americans, playing Adrienne the middle sister to first-born Frederic (Charles Berling) and “baby brother” Jeremie (Jeremie Renier). The real star in this upscale family is Great-Uncle Paul, long deceased, who was an artist of some significance in Europe.

After an opening sequence that establishes Helene (Edith Scob) as an unsentimental matriarch, Helene passes away unexpectedly. Now the families of the three surviving children must divvy up the long-cherished art collection and heirloom furniture that Helene cared for so autocratically.

Being the eldest, Frederic leads the negotiations. He is also the one who would much prefer to keep the rambling old house and all the treasures it contains.

Adrienne and Jeremie are committed to life elsewhere – Adrienne is based in New York, Jeremie at a massive factory in China turning out those brand name running shoes so familiar in the States.

But that is just the set-up. Assayas is most interested in creating the textures of family life in a setting where money and power aren’t the main ingredients. In his careful study of relationships, he lingers over the details of rivalries and relationships that took decades to develop.

There is the civilized surface of three children who grew up supporting each other. But telltale ripples of lifted eyebrows and other body language belie suppressed feelings barely kept latched into place. Adrienne the jaunty one even seems more American than her two brothers.

Internal pressure begins to build as Frederic realizes he must accept the family’s decision to sell the house and all its treasures. Even after they voted to sell everything, each of the three has a few favorite pieces to hold back. Alliances are formed, bonds from childhood are tested, strategies deepen.

In front of this tensely coiled backdrop, evidence begins to emerge that Helene may have secretly had a more intimate relationship with her Great-Uncle Paul. The family’s vulnerability increases when the vulture-like arts appraisers start coming around, picking over pieces in the living room that were beloved for themselves, not for being pretentious art.

But just as death is a part of life, so is youth a part of the future. While the grown-ups flex their egos and bicker over prices, their own teen children look at the old house with its big open spaces and shout “Let’s party!”

So much for the value of art, the importance of heritage and all that. As always, it is the optimism of the young that saves society from the rigidity of tradition. The old stuff can always be appreciated, but it’s the new stuff that pulls us forward.

filmreview

SOUL POWER review

“SOUL POWER” HAS EITHER PRIDE OR POIGNANCE

Now that Barak Obama is elected president, you can watch the festival concert documentary “Soul Power” with a sense of pride or sense of poignancy, depending on your politics. Filmed in 1974 in the capitol of Zaire to capture the excitement of a huge stadium showcase for musicians of color -- headlined by such American acts as James Brown, B.B. King, Bill Withers and the Spinners ­­-- the filmmakers spend as much time backstage as out front.

“Soul Power” is a collection of clips pulled from hundreds of hours of footage originally intended to prove Zaire deserved First World status as the first African country to pull off a three-day world-class stadium concert. Much of that public relations footage must have concentrated on African musicians, both the professional and amateur variety. Approximately half the 93-minute film spotlights these players.

An elegant gentleman with a soprano sax proves to be an exceptionally adept Pied Piper in the street, attracting crowds of enchanted children. But he’s only one example, dancers and drummers of every sidewalk sort keep the doc’s beat alive in between film clips of the featured acts.

Jeffrey Levy-Hinte as director conceived of “Soul Power” as a definite statement connecting the music with the political tenor of the times. He also takes pains to show how the dreams of a Third World country can clash with the harsh realities of technology’s demands for such basic requirements as access to a stable and much-larger-than-normal supply of electricity.

Which is also the source of the pride or poignancy response. Historically, the soul show festival was supposed to accompany the George Foreman-Muhammad Ali championship fight. But the fight was delayed after Foreman suffered a minor injury during his preparation training.

The all-star soul revue became a stand-alone African celebration of Black Power. All the American entertainers, in those 1970s bellbottom trousers and jackets with way-wide lapels, are fuming with frustration over the second class treatment of African-Americans back home.

Seen in retrospect, there was no one predicting in 35 years a representative of their race would be elected President of the United States.

As a concert experience, it is exhilarating to see James Brown in his prime. A tightly wrapped bundle of kinetic muscle making those full-bodied splits seem so effortless, he earned every accolade as the Godfather of Soul and the hardest working man in show business.

The other performers weren’t so enticingly presented. Bill Withers sings an intense but slow-moving ballad, “Hope She’ll Be Happier.” B.B. King works his tired warhorse “The Thrill Is Gone.” Miriam Makeba scolds her audience for not appreciating the African language that is her native tongue, then sings her international hit known as “The Click Song.”

The most positive note was sung by the late Celia Cruz working with the Fania All-Stars. The conga virtuoso who calls himself Big Black also gave a memorable performance.

From a cinematic standpoint, “Soul Power” doesn’t pack the wallop of Michael Wadleigh’s defining documentary, “Woodstock.” But as a snapshot of one 1974 weekend in the heart of Africa when black kids in the States were equally determined to be defined by their music, “Soul Power” is right on!

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POST GRAD review

“POST GRAD” IS A DIM BULB ROMANTIC COMEDY

In a sultry summer when a movie like “The Hangover” can make a lot of money, anything can happen. But the likelihood that “Post Grad” will ever bring in enough money to pay the electric bill at the mall is absolutely zero.

This misguided romantic comedy wants to be quirky. Instead it feels like something put together on Monkey Island with no one in charge and everyone tugging in a different direction. Yes, there are a couple of funny moments but not funny enough, at today’s refreshment stand prices.

Alexis Bledel does her best impression of Reese Witherspoon in her early years. Full of spunk and optimism, Bledel believes in overwhelming every problem with enthusiasm and her sparkling blue eyes. While the camera loves those blue eyes, the starlet just doesn’t quite have the knack to be as endearing

Maybe with a different director and a more cohesive script she can still become a movie star.

It doesn’t help that Carole Burnett and Michael Keaton are tacked on to the cast. Neither one brings anything to the screen.

Keaton seems to be ad libbing most of his lines with the barest of instructions. Something like “Just do that goofy guy who talks too fast.” There is no cohesion to the character at all. Imagine a handyman with ADD, full of twitches and squeezing a ball peen hammer. That should do it.

Burnett is even less successful in a smaller (fortunately) part. As we sit waiting for the inevitable and predictable happy ending, there is plenty of time to study Burnett’s face in extreme close-ups, wondering at the art of plastic surgery.

You know how those ancient Greek sculptors knew how to make cold granite faces come alive? Well, Burnett looks just the opposite.

Maybe the investors in this project thought these two veteran performers had enough talent and marquee power to save “Post Grad.” Oops. It didn’t happen.

Oh yes, about that plot. Ryden Malby (Bledel) is the lifetime over-achiever fresh out of college and ready for her power lunches. Adam (Zach Gilford) is the soft-edged polite suburbanite 20-something who can’t bring himself to accept his fate and his acceptance to law school at Columbia University. Adam suspects a lifetime spent among the ego-driven in tailored suits will have a serious downside.

Anyway, although he loves her, she doesn’t love him. The tension kicks in when Ryden fails to land the lofty entry-level job she expected at a prestigious New York publishing house. Adam sticks by her. She resists.

The duo of name brand actors steps up to do their bit. A few complications turn into plot points. Then the good guys win and we’re out of there in less than 100 minutes.

Oh, and there are several shameless (and annoying) product placements for an ice cream confection that will remain nameless here.

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PONYO review

THE MAGIC OF “PONYO” ISN’T FOR EVERYONE

Here’s a splash of cold water in the face…after watching “Ponyo” one weekday morning I felt so caught up in the magical symbolism of this Japanese animation created by Hayao Miyazaki that I started praising the film to the manager of the mall theater.

“There have been some great reviews, but it hasn’t done any business,” he said, adding a hand gesture for emphasis.

Unfortunately, his business report is easy to understand. Compared to the zip of those digital animarithons such as the “Ice Age” and “Madagascar” series, or the whimsy of buddy-movies like the “Toy Story” series, Mayazaki’s take on kid flicks can seem a little vague.

Really, his ephemeral dream creations aren’t even for children. His earlier pictures released in the States, “Spirited Away,” “Princess Mononoke” and my personal favorite “Howl’s Moving Castle,” could never begin to match the box office bite of “WALL-E” or “Finding Nemo.”

Miyazaki taps into the childhood memories adults like to have. Who among us can resist opening any Dr. Seuss book we see anywhere, at a friend’s house, at a book store, on the street. It doesn’t matter. Those stories with their funny words are irresistible.

Miyazaki movies are the same way…if you are a grown-up wondering why childhood went by in such a flash and adulthood is taking forever just to get through the day. Slip out of the office, settle into an afternoon screening of “Ponyo” at the mall (maybe get a box of Milk Duds and some popcorn), then relax into those memories of being seven years old when anything could happen and occasionally did.

Using a palette of washed-out pastels, Miyazaki creates a constant flow of easy motion in an underwater world of currents that occasionally break above the surface to become rolling waves moving the story forward. The art work is distinctly hand drawn, eschewing any desire to look “real.” It is because the landscapes and seascapes have such symbolic approximations of reality that they become so delightfully dreamlike.

To give yourself up to this soft-edged fantasy is pure delight, enhanced by Miyazaki’s own insistence on a viewpoint of innocence that connects directly to the wonders of life in third grade. The plot is equally open-faced and unassuming.

Set in rural Japan by a busy sea channel, five-year-old Sosuke (Frankie Jonas of the Jonas Brothers clan) discovers a washed up goldfish with a human face, stuck in a glass bottle. Freeing the little critter, he puts it in a handy bucket, saves its life and is delighted to find the goldfish turning into an exuberantly cheerful little girl named Ponyo (Noah Cyrus, Miley’s kid sister).

But Ponyo’s enthusiasm inadvertently triggers a tsunami that upsets the human world and gets the attention of Ponyo’s god-like parents. Unfortunately, the huge storm also puts Sosuke’s parents in peril.

As everyone who has ever been a kid can tell you, there’s nothing worse than causing so much trouble several parents get involved. “Ponyo” does not have a happy ending, exactly, but for everyone who can stay inside the mind of a child there will be an optimistic resolution.

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PHAEDRE review

“PHAEDRA” IS FORCEFUL DRAMA

You just don’t see theater like this anymore, at least not in the good ol’ USA. We’re talking the present London production of Jean Racine’s Greek tragedy “Phaedra” by England’s own National Theatre. Helen Mirren has the title role, though every cast member is called on to do significant amounts of heavy lifting. The performance was filmed last month in London before a live audience.

The play has scarcely begun -- establishing a level of intensity never seen in modern pictures, magnified by camera close-ups at the most telling moments -- when we realize how severely Hollywood’s dependence on digital special effects has deprived audiences of appreciating a full display of raw human emotions.

“Phaedra” projects a torque-jawed realm of drama powered by such a muscular mental connection the visceral response is immediate. These acting talents are so much larger than life – their dialogue the brute force equivalent of broad swords and sabers hacking and slashing at each other. Lusty appetites on a mythic scale.

Appreciating this kind of performance does require a different sensibility, a willingness to follow every actor over the top and straight down into dark twists of writhing personalities conveyed in pure animalistic frenzy. By today’s fey television talk show standards, this is strong drink indeed.

Stripped of subtlety, rushing headlong into vein-popping expressions of conflict, the psychology of revenge feels cut from bulky blocks of granite compulsively banging away.

As a theatrical experience, it falls somewhere between watching a movie and watching a play. The camera edits are unobtrusive, as logic dictates when long shots go zooming into uptight confrontations. We are led by the director, of course, but none of it feels forced.

The stage set is startling simplicity conveying a Greek palace as well as rocky countryside set against a clear blue Mediterranean sky. Costumes for the men hint at modern military uniforms. The women have more classic Grecian gowns.

While the plot is never the point but more of an excuse for the characters to bludgeon each other with words, “Phaedra” does remind us “when passion boils, reason evaporates.”

The language, translated by England’s renowned Ted Hughes, is not contemporary but it is direct. Unlike Shakespeare, there is no adjustment required to get into the rhythm of the conversation.

Phaedra lusts after her own stepson, Hippolytus, who feels intimidated by his father Theseus, who is believed to have died while adventuring in another country.

No sooner has Phaedra confessed her sexual desires for Hippolytus then they learn Theseus has come home. Quickly, Phaedra claims Hippolytus raped her. Theseus believes her story instead of his own son’s denial. Blood will be spilled before this is over.

www.loftcinema.com

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OHORTON review

It’s A Dry Humor In “O’Horten”

How many movies can you name that are so charming you hate to see them end? Add the Norwegian film “O’Horten” to the list, now playing at the Loft Cinema. Written and directed by Bent Hamer, with the quietly dignified Baard Owe in the title role, “O’Horten” perfectly captures the bittersweet relief of retirement.

Owe plays the Norwegian bachelor Odd Horten. Somewhat reluctant to engage in life unless there’s a very good reason, he’s a perfect match for the descriptions of Norwegian bachelor farmers on Garrison Keillor’s public radio show “A Prairie Home Companion.”

Only, Horten is an extremely responsible engineer in the driver’s seat of high-speed modern passenger trains that cut through Norway’s deep snows blanketing pure white landscapes from horizon to horizon. He sits in the train’s cockpit like a jet pilot with elbow room, a taciturn demeanor as he keeps the train running smoothly at an extreme rate of speed.

This is the contrast that makes “O’Horten” so magical. He is a man of equal parts calmness and adventure. There is no scene so extreme he can be startled. No situation so complex he would be pushed to panic.

Yet, he is too shy to disappoint a child. Too polite to refuse when an eccentric old guy who was sleeping in the street insists he can drive a car blindfolded. There is a sequence where a storm of freezing rain coats a hilly street with ice. As Horten hangs onto a signpost halfway up the hill, a nicely dressed gentleman sitting in a chair goes sliding down the hill.

Surreal? Yes. But remember when North Alvernon Way would fill up with water in a storm? Guys would go surfing down the middle of the street. As a filmmaker, Hamer appreciated how a logical path can take us into the most ludicrous situations.

And “O’Horten” makes us wonder if anyone lost in a strange building could open a door marked “Do Not Enter” and suddenly slip into a parallel universe.

For sure, this is a picture for grownups. It does have subtitles in English, as well as slow pacing and a quirky soundtrack that will require a certain maturity to appreciate. But knowing how the plot goes will reveal none of the story’s complexities.

We meet Odd Horten on his last day of employment, at the controls of a sleek bullet train. That evening he receives a dorky retirement party, and immediately feels like the rug of life has been jerked out from under him.

We see him sitting alone in a restaurant, then having one low-key misadventure after another, each more unusual than the last. Reluctant to give up, Horton still has no idea how to make the most of each day. That’s when he discovers life on the sidelines may never make the headlines, but for the brave of heart there will be opportunities.

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NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD review

“Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild, Untold Story of Ozploitation!”

If you loved “Dead Snow,” do not hesitate a single *#@!ing minute. Rush your frozen zombie heels over to the Loft Cinema to see “Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild, Untold Story of Ozploitation!” This documentary tribute to the history of Australian genre filmmaking is a bubbling brew with a foamy head, an absolute beverage of choice full of sex, gore, violence, nudity, adolescent attitude and a nose-thumbing celebration of political incorrectness.

What’s not to like?

With Quentin Tarantino serving as an enthusiastic, if often annoying host, “Not Quite Hollywood” is a wood chipper full of highlight clips nipped from the peaks of nudie pics, slasher flicks and two lane road kill – interspersed with wry comments from presumed influential figures of the Australian film world making sometimes hilarious, often self-deprecating and always entertaining comments.

Clearly there is much more to the land of cinema down under than “Picture at Hanging Rock,” “The Piano Lesson” and all that bunch. While the picture is divided into the three aforementioned sections, convenient when watching DVD rentals, first see “Not Quite Hollywood” on the big screen to get the full sound and visual effect of a documentary with rock ’n’ roll energy that takes childish delight in overloading the senses.

Just like with any good amusement park ride, your first response will be to stay on and go for a re-ride.

There are also some redeeming social values here (should you be interested). Australia’s heritage as a displaced European country quickly comes to the surface. The nation’s young people heartily embraced the revolutionary spirit of the 1960s, chasing the government’s film censorship office out of business.

Tired of that sourpuss attitude and determined to prove the filmmakers could be as cheeky as the Brits, all manner of naughty movies were made. This unbridled spirit quickly spread to pulverized bloody parts, outrageous amounts of vomit and exploding automobiles, with Australia’s drive-in movie audience eager to devour every outrageous scene.

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MOON review

“Moon” Is A Head Trip From Outer Space

There are lots more questions than answers in the science fiction philosophy of “Moon,” now playing at the Loft Cinema. But the questions are really good ones, especially if you enjoy the more thoughtful aspects of how life in outer space can mess with your mind.

“Moon” is opening in Tucson exactly 40 years after Neil Armstrong became the first man to step onto the moon. The fact that nothing much has happened in moon travel since then is as astonishing as anything in this movie. In another 40 years it will be 2050, will we still be shuffling around down here in Nike sport shoes wondering if at least the dark side of the moon might be made of green cheese? Or maybe wishing there was a monument up there to honor Pink Floyd.

Filmmaker Duncan Jones takes us to the dark side of the moon, where Sam Rockwell delivers a tour de force solo performance. Rockwell plays Sam Bell, an astronaut working in the private sector. His job is to man this lonely lunar outpost, sending containers of Helium 3 back to Earth, where his greedy employer turns the helium into clean safe energy that powers the planet.

We know Sam’s employer is greedy because Sam is never thanked for fulfilling his duties faithfully at this sleek space station with its authentic looking building where the Helium 3 is drawn from the moon’s innards. Although it isn’t part of the plot, we figure Helium 3 is a non-renewable resource. The moon will be sucked dry of Helium 3, the moon infrastructure will collapse because the helium is gone and…but that’s another story.

What Jones wants to explore is the nature of reality with some consideration of the role time will play in an environment with no day and night. On Earth, where Sam’s bosses give orders via sort of a web cam set-up, there is day and night.

The commercial astronaut’s three-year assignment in total isolation is almost over, but so far no replacement is on its way from Earth to bring Sam home. His wife goes on line now and then to say how much she misses him.

But the lack of interest in getting Sam off the dark side of the moon is making him nervous. After almost three years of isolation, he’s starting to see women who aren’t his wife lounging around the space pad.

An accommodating robot nicknamed Gerty (voiced in oily insincerity by Kevin Spacey) keeps Sam company and maintains the station’s operation. Just like HAL in “2001,” Gerty starts acting a little feisty. After a minor accident Gerty locks Sam in his room for his own good.

When Sam is released, so to speak, there is a younger more vibrant version of Sam at the controls of the space station. Gerty calls both the young and old versions of Sam as “Sam.” This is especially annoying to the old Sam, who fears for his sanity.

The drama of who’s really in control bounces back and forth with Gerty smoothly adjusting to accommodate whomever seems to have the upper hand at the moment. This is when all those wonderful questions start popping up. Is the repetition of routine a sign of stability or a lack of imagination?

What if being spontaneous is considered to be inappropriate behavior? What if your wife turned out to be an imposter on the government payroll? What if we died when we went out of style and became obsolete? Just how much of an illusion is life, anyway?

What if we can never escape time. In Heaven there is no time. But where if there is no Heaven? Does that make time the ultimate mockery? So, is time circular or does it travel in a straight line from the past to the future? If time is circular, there is no progress.

If realty is just an illusion, something we create just to feel more stable, what does that that make truth? Can we have truth without reality?

If any of these questions seem silly, “Moon” is not the movie for you. There are no shoot outs beyond the range of gravity. No explosions of galactic magnitude. There is just one guy with one brain and few additional resources trying to make sense of his situation before it’s too late.

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LORNA'S SILENCE review

“Lorna’s Silence”

As life becomes smaller, options shrink. As options shrink, life becomes more desperate. The spiral is never pretty, yet to the filmmaking Dardenne brothers Jean-Pierre and Luc of Belgium, this dance of death is a slow waltz that seduces us with the same inevitability as a disabled airplane flopping helplessly back to Earth.

Arta Dobroshi plays Lorna, a waifish wanderer from Albania adrift in Liege, Belgium. Swimming listlessly through her personal inertia she has already been caught by Fabio (Fabrizio Ronqione) who offers her a modest sum of money to marry Claudy (Jeremie Renier). The deal is that once Lorna gets her Belgian citizenship she can divorce Claudy, then marry a certain Russian who would also benefit from being a citizen of Belgium.

With so many eastern Europeans wanting to make their economic mark in western Europe, this kind of convoluted arrangement is apparently not that uncommon. Fabio is not evil, he’s just a guy trying to make a living by bringing together people who have mutual interests.

Filming quietly at an extremely slow pace (by American standards), the Dardennes create a horror story without monsters. Lorna is doomed by her own lack of ambition, yet within her is a moral compass that demands to be recognized.

Capitalist democracies devour anyone without the skills to make their own money. That is, to have an ability to get someone else’s money and keep it for themselves. As Fabio, Claudy and the Russian guy keep jerking Lorna around, she doesn’t dare speak out.

Finally able to take it no longer, Lorna stands up for herself. But that only makes matters worse.

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JULIE AND JULIA film review

“Julie & Julia” Gets It Half-Right

If you believe half-a-movie is better than none, take a chance on “Julie and Julia.” The good half is Meryl Streep playing the awkwardly tall Julia Child, a woman determined to make her bubbly nature count for more than her ungainly appearance.

The unfortunate half is Amy Adams playing Julie Powell, a frustrated and unknown writer who built her opportunistic career on Child’s magnificent reputation. That happened in 2002, after Powell couldn’t get her first novel published.

Once considered one of Amherst’s most talented students with the brightest future, Powell’s writing career was going nowhere eight years after her graduation. Meanwhile all of her girlfriends from college were developing multi-million dollar careers in the business world.

Driven by such intense peer pressure, Powell decided to write a daily blog for a year on what it felt like to prepare every recipe in Child’s eponymous “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” Apparently Powell did have a personable writing style, which attracted large numbers of readers and eventually the attention of the New York Times.

Writer/director Nora Ephron combined that story with Child’s own memoirs as told in “My Life in France.” Streep the master of difficult accents is perfectly cast, catching not only Child’s blue blood New England accent but also her gawky body language.

Adams was totally miscast, however, as the driven Powell. The actor is best known for her quirky roles in “Junebug,” “Enchanted” and “Sunshine Cleaning.” This role, however, does not call for quirky.

She also had great chemistry working opposite Streep in the Catholic drama “Doubt.” But at no time in “Julie & Julia” do Adams and Streep share a scene. They don’t even share the same time period.

Ephron bounces the story back and forth between Child, the wife of an American diplomat in Paris in the early 1950s, and Powell in 2002 blogging her way through that famous cookbook. So we are totally charmed by the Paris part, caught up in Child’s love for French cuisine and her determination to open that Gallic kitchen door for American’s homegrown cooks.

We are totally annoyed by Adams playing such a compulsively self-centered character as Powell. Her portion of the movie grinds by as we keep hoping the next scene will whisk us back to Child in Paris.

“Julie & Julia” is not really a picture for foodies, either. Some of the elegant dishes receive the full cinema fantasy treatment, but none of them compare to the satisfaction of even the smallest scene in “Babette’s Feast,” much less my favorite food movie “Tampopo.”

So for Streep’s many fans, and any others who can’t stay away, see “Julie & Julia” at a matinee. Or wait until it gets to the second-run theaters. In the meantime, check out some video of the real Julia Child being that personable chef on TV.

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INFORMANT! review

“THE INFORMANT!” IS CONFUSING

Actors are the only people who don’t want actors to be properly labeled and categorized. We like knowing Matt Damon will always be Bourne again.

Damon doesn’t like it, though. He wants to be like Russell Crowe, disappearing into a gladiator’s armor one year, then reappearing the next time in a distressed corporate wonk’s wrinkled shirt and sagging tie.

Damon could have played Jason Bourne forever, and made everyone happy. But nooo… He’s got to gain weight, become a pudge with a mousy moustache and walk around in front of the camera while spouting nonsense about guys who take their style cues from pop culture.

We’re talking “The Informant!,” directed by Steven Soderbergh, another cinema figure who refuses to keep directing the same movie over and over. What is wrong with these men? Don’t they know life is supposed to be repetitious and predictable?

Why should their careers be any different from the rest of us? Not even Michael Jordan got to change career sports and still be successful.

So here we are at the beginning of “The Informant!” amazed at how Matt Damon is so unrecognizable in his role as Mark Whitacre, a harried vice-president at Archer Daniels Midland (the agri-business giant deep in the controversial corn syrup game). Whitacre is an actual person, the subject of Kurt Eichenwald’s book about America’s highest-ranking corporate whistle-blower, “The Informant: A True Story.”

That sounds like a good place to find an inspiring film about bringing down a modern-day Goliath. Only, Soderbergh has other ideas. He turns the true story into a comedy so off-the-wall we have no idea where the truth is or what the jokes are.

Damon is happy to play along with Soderbergh, eager to prove he has real acting chops. That there is more to his talent than looking good in tailored suits while from escaping tight spots without breaking a sweat.

Instead of guts and glamour, we get Damon looking like a farm belt car salesman. Near the movie’s end, he is holding clandestine meetings in hamburger diners. A far cry from the clandestine meetings he held in elegant restaurants at the begining.

The gist of the story is that Whitacre first goes to the FBI because he begins feeling guilty about rampant price-fixing among the international giants of food processing. Just like James Bond (but without a gun) Whitacre goes undercover, wearing a wire, carrying a hidden recording device, feeling squeezed by the feds on one side and the bosses he is betraying on the other.

But unlike those Cold War spies who could come in from the cold, Whitacre has no escape valve to push. He just gets in deeper and deeper as the FBI agent played by Scott Bakula keeps demanding more convincing evidence. After an hour or so, the tables begin to turn. Whitaker may not be who we thought he was.

The FBI misplays its hand and we suckers in the audience who trusted the picture to play it straight start feeling duped, as well. Meanwhile, the unrepentant Soderbergh never looks back.

He keeps pushing the story further and further into left field until “The Informant!” stops feeling like a hit and becomes a foul ball.

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IN THE LOOP loft

“IN THE LOOP” WILL MAKE YOU (FEEL) SMARTER

As a brilliant anti-war statement played out as satire, “In the Loop” is right up there with “Dr. Strangelove.” In some sense “In the Loop” is more dangerous because you’ll have to keep reminding yourself the picture is meant to be satire.

In fact, just plan right now to buy a copy when this brilliantly written British pic comes out on DVD. The jokes-per-minute ratio is so high, and all the lines so well crafted, it will take watching several times through to catch all the punch lines.

Armando Iannucci is the director and co-writer, assisted by Jesse Armstrong, Simon Blackwell and Tony Roche. They are the same team responsible for the BBC series “The Thick of It.”

While I’m not an expert on Brit-coms, “In the Loop” is several levels of cleverness above the ones I’ve caught on PBS. The comedy is so smart, you will feel smarter just by watching.

Sort of like intelligence by osmosis.

The set-up is to portray life near the top of the British government’s most important decisions. Elected officials and government appointees are flaunting their selfish desires while planning elaborate power trips to subjugate their enemies on the home front. It’s a game of chest-puffing one-upmanship that requires not just fancy footwork in elegant shoes but also a continuous mining of the English language for the most creative insults and imaginative profanities.

Winning these petty rivalries is far more important than making the world safe for democracy, but there is the more important matter of a greater government vanity. While the U.S. military does some serious saber rattling over the Middle East, the British are determined to take an independent stance of their own devising. At the same time, these proud Brits don’t want to get caught alone out in the open like a deer in the headlights.

The point man for all this inventive invective is rail-thin Peter Capaldi as Malcom, the prime minister’s communications chief. He goes into bile-driven hyper drive when a cautions member of Parliament accidentally implies war might be unforeseeable. In this pressure-cooker of political striving, any mention of war sends tremors across the delicate landscape of international diplomacy that could send careers toppling like a house of well-groomed cards.

Sarcasm becomes a popular weapon of self-defense. Desperation becomes an acceptable explanation of the most arrogant conniving. Rudeness is considered an instant asset as the halls of power become the playing field for a new kind of game that favors talkative people who thrive on conflict.

Nicely enough, since all these over-educated twits have excellent diction, we Yanks can actually understand all the different British accents. The pace is quick but the words are clear. Though that does make me wonder what, exactly, is a “gentleman fluffer.”

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HARRY POTTER AND THE HALFBLOOD PRINCE review

“HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE”

“Exactly who is the Half-Blood Prince,” you might ask. But the answer doesn’t come until nearly the end of this 153-minute film journey illuminating the adventures described in the first half of this sixth novel by the transcendent British author J.K. Rowling. The seductive power of the fantasy world she creates with words has become both a strength and weakness in the cinema world.

Fans of the Harry Potter books don’t really need to see the films. And film fans who don’t read the books never quite understand what’s spiraling across the screen. We do appreciate the fidelity all the filmmakers have applied in recreating the atmosphere of Rowling’s books. It is always enchanting and foreboding, much like the real world of every young person.

The bad news for movie buffs is that this time out, as adolescence wraps its taut fingers around the hearts of Harry, Ron and Hermione, the dark plot that will charge Harry’s entire adult life becomes even more inscrutable. On the surface, it seems like solid Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) is leading a student revolt against the Dark Forces led by devilishly sinister Lord Voldemort (who doesn’t appear in this picture).

But as the battle between light and darkness begins to take on more mythic proportions, this film directed by David Yates becomes more timelessly Gothic spiraling into a black hole of foreboding shadows. We remember there used to be talk that Harry would grow up to be the Chosen One, some sort of wizard-like Jesus who would create a golden world of kindness for everyone.

So we begin to wonder, will the benevolent Professor Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) save Harry by uncovering some fatal flaw in the student personality of Voldemort when he was a brilliant pupil at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Guest professor Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent) is called out of retirement to lend Dumbledore a hand, comparing their memories of this twisted boy. Searching for the clue that will unravel his past.

Adding his own twist is Professor Snape (Alan Rickman), who could be a double agent pretending to be evil just so he can learn the Dark Lord’s secrets. Or maybe Snape is only pretending to be good because, at heart, he is evil.

Fans of both the books and the films are titillated by the prospects of magical hormones stirring in Harry, Ron (Rupert Grint) and Hermione (Emma Watson). So far, we only get a teasing taste. Radcliffe may be appearing nude on London stages on his off time, but on the screen as Harry Potter the actor is still mostly, convincingly innocent.

Ron is becoming a quidditch jock and a dufus, which can be entertaining. But we have to wonder what the demure beauty Hermione could possibly see in Ron as mating material. Rowling’s cinema translators have yet to write the big scene that defines Hermione’s personality.

So far, Harry is growing up to be a James Bond type of gentleman’s rogue. Ron will become the sort who will make a killing in the construction business. Hermione, though less defined, could achieve Princess Diana’s beloved greatness with the people. We must all hope Watson the person doesn’t succumb to the temptations of, say, Britney Spears.

So here’s the thing. “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” has some dazzling digital special effects, some moments of sweet love and some heavy metal conflicts. For less motivated Potterheads, it will also drag in the middle. But we can all go in knowing the greatest Harry Potter movie has yet to be made.

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