Bob's Cinema Diary -- 6/28/19: Pavarotti, The Quiet One and Framing John DeLorean

TWO DOCUMENTARIES AND A SEMI-DOC, ALL WITH SOMETHING TO OFFER.

Pavarotti

It doesn't make a great deal of sense to compare Ron Howard's Pavarotti to other music documentaries or even to great opera films: Howard has made a movie for fans. It's difficult to imagine that those who revere Pavarotti won't get their money's worth. Larger than life, Luciano Pavarotti was a mega-celebrity with of international repute. The only other time, I got to mention Pavarotti in a movie was when I reviewed (or more accurately "torched) his only big-screen appearance, a 1982 musical drama/comedy called Yes, Giorgio. Howard's film stands as a celebration of a man who seemed to embody a spirit that matched his ample physical girth. Most audiences will thrill, as did audiences at the time, to the Three Tenors concerts that packed stadiums when Pavarotti joined with Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras. Howard's documentary moves fluidly as it follows Pavarotti's ascent into the upper ranks of the history's great tenors. We get a taste for some of Pavorotti's excesses. He dumped his first wife for a much younger woman and perhaps overextended his reach by collaborating with Bono, whose laudatory remarks add to the generally positive atmosphere. Overall, Howard leaves us with the impression of a lusty man of great appetites. Pavarotti sometimes traveled with as many as 29 suitcases, one of them devoted to his favorite foods. But whatever you think of the man -- his personal life wasn't always exemplary -- it's impossible not to be stirred by Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma (from Turandot), his ear-splitting high "Cs" and the great ebullience with which he seemed to live. Was it all an illusion? Possibly but Howard's documentary reminds us that, at his peak, Pavarotti was an artist with, as he wanted us to believe, the soul of a peasant. If that was BS; it was BS of an irresistible variety.

The Quiet One

I don't suppose there could be two more different musical personalities than Luciano Pavarotti and Bill Wyman, the legendary bassist of The Rolling Stones. Ebullient and outgoing, Pavarotti seems a polar opposite of the reserved Wyman, a rock star who mostly eschewed the trappings of his very public life. Director Oliver Murray makes ample use of Wyman's collection of memorabilia to tell a story that deals with the musician's difficult childhood, with his approach to bass guitar and with his years with the Stones. Now 82, Wyman retired from the Stones to form his own band, Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings. Along with plenty of Stones' footage, you'll gain insight into how Wyman approached his work. He saw his role as a mixture of minimalism and close cooperation with Stones' drummer Charlie Watts. Murray overuses images of Wyman at his computer in a room the bassist devotes to his personal archives, collections of materials from his life -- musical and otherwise. The most revealing moments arrive at the end when Wyman becomes emotionally overwhelmed by recalling a meeting with one of his idols, Ray Charles. Even with its deficiencies -- length and occasional repetition -- The Quiet One probably qualifies as a must-see for Stones' fans and, perhaps, a less-compelling offering for casual enthusiasts.

Framing John Delorean

I could have done with re-enactments featuring Alec Baldwin as John DeLorean, but overall Framing John DeLorean -- directed by Don Argott and Sheena M. Joyce -- proves an intriguing look at an engineering genius turned entrepreneur, criminal and finally born-again Christian. Before setting out on his own, John DeLorean was a star at General Motors, having been responsible for the Pontiac division's hot-selling GTO, an early muscle car that GM's corporate sages initially derided. DeLorean overplayed his hand at GM, left the company and established his own car company. (The DeLorean, you'll recall, appeared in the movie Back to the Future and still crops up at gatherings of specialty car enthusiasts.) In 1973, DeLorean opened his plant in Northern Ireland even as the legendary "Troubles" raged. Despite government assistance, DeLorean couldn't make the company work, and the cars produced in Ireland didn't meet the high-quality standards DeLorean promised. In desperate need of funds, DeLorean was drawn into a cocaine sting operation but was acquitted after his attorneys mounted an entrapment defense. Shortly after, DeLorean became involved in a complex scheme that led to charges that he had embezzled funds from DMC (The DeLorean Motor Company). Although I found the re-enactments less than impressive, Baldwin's out-of-character observations about DeLorean can be interesting and it's equally intriguing to watch Baldwin being made-up to look like DeLorean. DeLorean's marriage (the third of four) to model Cristina Ferrare receives its share of attention and we also hear from DeLorean's two children. As is the case with many rogues, DeLorean fascinates as a risk-taker who, at times, really was the smartest guy in any room. But as is also the case with many such people, a mixture of hubris and an over-estimation of his ability to pull even dire situations out of the fire led to a sad end. DeLorean died in 2005.

The doctor who fought the NFL

The story of one-man's battle to warn against the damage of concussions.

Concussion, a movie about the dangers of playing pro-football, may not be a classic, but it's worth seeing, particularly for Will Smith's highly concentrated performance as Dr. Bennet Omalu, the Nigerian born pathologist who identified brain trauma in a number of deceased NFL veterans.

Also -- and more important -- there's the subject of the movie; i.e., the dangers of prolonged football careers that can ruin lives, leading to dementia, violent outbursts, depression and even suicide.

The movie begins when Omalu, working in the Pittsburgh coroner's office, decides to do an autopsy on former Steelers star Mike Webster, rendered in small, early scenes by an appropriately alarming David Morse.

Omalu takes a detective's approach to his work; he respectfully talks to corpses, encouraging them to yield their secrets before he cuts them open. Eventually, he discovers that Webster suffered from CTE, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, the result of repeated blows to the head.

If you've been reading the papers, you know that the NFL originally paid little attention to the brain traumas caused by repeated hits. That makes for the movie's tension: Omalu's findings weren't welcomed by an organization that's heavily invested in a game that thrives on violence. (And, no, I'm not being holier than thou. I watch and enjoy professional football, too.)

Concussion, which was directed by Peter Landesman (Parkland), tells the straightforward story of a physician who worked hard to bring the truth of CTE to light and who also confronted racial prejudice, an aspect of the story that probably should have received more attention.

Smith masters Omalu's accent and gives a memorable performance as a doctor who's sure of himself, sometimes to the point of annoyance: Not everyone admires Omalu's persistence and some believe that he refuses to understand the importance of football in the city's communal life. They're right.

Albert Brooks gives a notable performance as Omalu's boss, one of the few doctors who takes his side. Alec Baldwin may be a bit miscast as a former Steelers physician who comes to see the light about the terrible consequences of head injuries and the athletic culture that produces them.

There's also a romance when Omalu meets Prema (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), a Kenyan nurse who becomes his wife, as well as an important part of his support system.

It's not easy to buy Luke Wilson as NFL commissioner Pete Godell, but Smith and Landesman put their story over with enough conviction to make us a tad uncomfortable the next time we sit down for an afternoon of hard-hitting football. We're fans, yes, but let's be real: We're also enablers.

Julianne Moore's devastating 'Still Alice'

A brilliant professor tries to cope with an Alzheimer's diagnosis.

Julianne Moore is on track to win a best-actress Oscar for her heartbreaking performance in Still Alice, the story of a Columbia University linguistics professor who's diagnosed with Alzheimer's and finds herself slipping into the fog of vanishing memory.

If you're of a certain age, it will be impossible to watch Still Alice without wondering about those little lapses of memory you may from time-to-time experience, moments of disorientation when you walk into a room and have forgotten exactly what brought you there or the frustration of having to dig through mental files to remember the name of someone you know quite well.

Confusion falling across her face like a sudden shadow, Moore evokes the pain of early-onset Alzheimer's; i.e., the prospect of losing everything that her character regards as vital to her identity.

Even worse, the character Moore's playing -- Alice Howland -- is only 50 when she's diagnosed with a rare form of Alzheimer's that's genetic in origin.

To their credit, directors Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmoreland have not made a disease-of-the-week weepie. They resist any temptation to garnish the story with sentiment, and they bring Alice's family dynamics into play in the movie's background.

Alice's husband (Alec Baldwin) also works at Columbia, where he's a biological researcher. The couple have a son (Hunter Parrish) who's attending medical school and two grown daughters (Kate Bosworth and Kristen Stewart).

The Howland offspring must work through their relationships with their mother. They also must decide whether to be tested to determine if any of them has inherited the genetic time bomb that eventually will result in the disease.

The movie's key relationship involves Alice and her youngest daughter (Stewart), a young woman who has moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career as an actress. Alice long has wanted Stewart's Lydia to attend college, perhaps to enhance the intellectual luster of what appears to be an exceptionally accomplished family.

As developed throughout the movie, the relationship between Lydia and Alice proves honest and touching. Stewart -- who has taken more than a few lumps for her work as Bella Swan in the Twilight movies -- holds her own as a character trying to chart a path in life while dealing sensitively with her mother's decline.

None of the issues raised by Still Alice are treated melodramatically. They unfold in the quiet, respectful style such a movie demands.

Glatzer and Westmoreland aren't interested in vilifying anyone. They respect their characters, paying some attention to the frustrations and needs of each. Only the son is somewhat neglected.

Still, this is Moore's movie -- and she rises to the occasion.

Without underling or italicizing anything, Moore conveys every bit of the torment experienced by a brilliant woman who's losing her grip. Alice gets lost in the middle of lectures, forgets where she is while jogging and experiences even worse indignities as the disease progresses. She's watching her life be erased.

You may have read that Glatzer insisted on continuing with the movie, even after being diagnosed with ALS. He obviously was able to bring heightened identification to the project, but in their adaptation of a novel by Lisa Genova, Glatzer and Westmoreland avoid sledgehammer emotional effects. Alzheimer's is frightening enough on its own.

This is not to say that Still Alice has been turned into an Alzheimer's horror show. Still Alice takes a well-observed look at the transformation wrought by a terrible disease.

At one point, Alice says that she'd trade her Alzheimer's for cancer. It's to both Moore's and the movie's credit, that we understand exactly what she means. She knows that she's saying goodbye to herself. It's like dying without actually being dead.

Elaine Stritch -- a force of nature

She’s crusty, disturbingly honest and full of irrepressible energy. She’s also 89, and has spent most of her life in show business.

Younger audiences probably know Elaine Stritch as Jack Donaghy’s mother on 30 Rock, but Broadway aficionados are well aware that Stritch has had a long stage career with lots of TV appearances ( Law & Order, The Ellen Burstyn Show, Two's Company, and My Sister Ellen) and a few side trips into movies, including two Woody Allen movies: September and Small Time Crooks).

Her theater credits include a one-woman show Elaine Stritch at Liberty, the original Broadway production of Company and the 1955 production of Bus Stop.

A new documentary, Elaine Stritch: Shoot Me, follows Stritch as she prepares for a final cabaret show in Manhattan. The movie concludes with Stritch's retirement: She recently moved from New York City to her home state of Michigan.

Stritch’s life has not been problem free: She has diabetes and has struggled with alcoholism. But she remains a vital and captivating presence.

In her film, first-time director Chiemi Karasawa, who worked for many years as a producer, gets up close and personal with Stritch. Her documentary revels in Stritch's talent and personality, but doesn’t flinch from showing that growing old isn’t easy — even for Broadway stars.

It's difficult to imagine that anyone could watch this entertaining documentary and not be charmed by Stritch. Trying to ignore her would be like trying to keep your hat on in a wind tunnel.


A FEW WORDS WITH CHIEMI KARASAWA

Q. Watching your film, it’s difficult not to think that you might have had a tough time filming someone who’s so strongly opinionated.
A. Initially, it was pretty tricky. It’s tricky for anyone to get used to having a camera around all the time. ... Elaine knows what she likes, and she knows what she feels comfortable doing. Once she began to see the cameraman as a human being, it was like she didn’t care anymore. She wanted the camera around because she wanted us around. That happened in the first couple of weeks.
Q. Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of stories about how films began. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a documentary that was born in a hair salon.
A. I was in a hair salon on 57th street. I saw Elaine crossing at the color station. My hairdresser said she was a long-time client. He suggested that I make a documentary about her. I went home, did some research and wondered why I didn’t know more about her.
Q. What would you say is her most essential characteristic?
A. Whenever I’m with her, she’s always the hippest person in the room. I took her to Lincoln Center to see a performance by my composer. As soon as we stopped for a coffee, there was a crowd around her. She’s not a very well known actress, but she always attracts people’s attention. ...
She fell off the truck as a different kind of person. She’s so candid and honest. She does and says what she wants to. ...
To this day, she’s the most unpredictable person I’ve ever met. That’s one of the joys and frustration of dealing with her. It also makes her a fascinating documentary subject.
Q. You began financing your film with a crowd-source campaign. Can you tell us about that?
A. We did an Indiegogo campaign. I raised 40 percent of the money for development that way, and it brought us a lot of attention. But the movie also brought us to the attention of Alec Baldwin. (He plays Stritch's son on 30 Rock and is interviewed in the film.) He asked how much we needed, and helped us to finish the film. He became the film's executive producer and hosted our premiere in New York City.
Q. Do you still see Elaine?
A. Yes. She was just in New York City for the press tour. She moved back to Birmingham, Mich. I’ve probably been to see her four times in the last year. She’s a close person and friend in my life.
Q. Why did she leave New York, a place with which she's so identified?
A. It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to live alone. The cost of living in New York with a full-time care giver was a concern. But she also recognizes that her life is winding down and that she needs to take more time for herself. To her, New York always represented a workplace. Her idea was to be closer to her family. She wanted to reach out to them and live in an environment that was about family than career.
Q. How has she reacted to the film?
A. I showed her a rough cut on a laptop on her bed in the Carlyle Hotel. (Stritch lived there for years.) She was really compelled by it. She watched herself in third person, as if she didn’t know what would happen next.
When I showed it on the screen with a small audience, she was nervous and unsettled. She didn’t know how her fans would take it. Seeing her in a vulnerable state, I had to reassure her that people’s responses were favorable.
But it wasn’t until the premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival that she really believed it. She got an incredible ovation. She was blown away. I think the film shows a triumph of spirit and an incredible survivor’s story. ...
Thankfully, she gave me the honor of making the film I wanted to make. That’s the greatest gift she could have allowed.
Photo of Elaine Stritch and Chiemi Karasawa courtesy of Erick Grau.

Blanchett brilliant in 'Blue Jasmine'

First the simple good news: Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine finds the director in fine form.

Now, a work inspired by figures as disparate as Tennessee Williams and Bernie Madoff seems like an impossible, perhaps even ludicrous, concoction. But in borrowing elements from both reality and drama, Allen has given Blue Jasmine a voice all its own.

The movie also serves as a dazzling showcase for an actress who hardly needs one. Cate Blanchett is brilliant, funny and fiercely scattered as the wife of a fallen Wall Street wheeler-dealer named Hal (Alec Baldwin). Jasmine has hit bottom since her philandering husband was jailed for a massive fraud that prompted the government to seize everything the couple owned.

Mercurial, rueful and sophisticated -- at least when it comes to matters of style -- Blanchett's Jasmine draws on Blanche DuBois from Williams's famed A Streetcar Named Desire, a role she played in New York in 2009 to much acclaim.

Bereft of resources, Jasmine arrives in San Francisco to live with her sister (Sally Hawkins), a divorced woman whose former husband (Andrew Dice Clay) was one of Hal's victims. And, yes, Clay -- someone I had no desire ever to see again -- acquits himself well here. It's an interesting bit of casting.

Like Stella in Williams's play, Hawkins's Ginger is involved with a boisterous and sometimes crude mechanic (a fiery Bobby Cannavale). I'm not entirely sure Cannavale's Chili makes a great deal of sense, but the character doesn't detract, either. The same can be said for Michael Stuhlbarg who shows up as a dentist who hires Jasmine as a receptionist, and then tries to force her into a sexual relationship.

Happily, Allen hasn't attempted an updated replication of Williams's play; he uses Streetcar as a launching pad from which he can examine what happens when the nouveau riche suddenly become the nouveau poor.

Those who prefer Allen with laughs should know that he hasn't stripped the proceedings of humor, but -- at least for me -- there was considerably more pain than hilarity in Jasmine's precipitous decline.

In some ways, Blanchett is the movie. She fills Jasmine with a mixture of disdain and anxiety: This -- Allen seems to be saying -- is how we arrive at Blanche DuBois in 2013. Tossed off the Wall Street planation, Jasmine has been left for near-dead.

We see glimpses of the person Jasmine once was when she meets Dwight (Peter Sarsgaard), a San Francisco businessman with political ambitions. Dwight understands that Jasmine is the kind of woman he proudly can drape over his arm. She knows how to behave herself around money, an asset for any politician's spouse. And, when she's on her game, she looks great.

Of course, Dwight eventually must discover how wrong he is about Jasmine. It's a bit of a stretch to think that the wife of a notorious Wall Street criminal wouldn't instantly be recognizable to someone like Dwight, but this lapse of plausibility also proves forgivable in light of Blanchett's bravura turn.

Baldwin's Hal, whose criminality fuels the story, is seen in flashbacks that put both his arrogance and indifference to conventional morality finds on display.

In what seems a digression as much as an enrichment, Louis C.K. shows up as an alternative suitor for Ginger, someone who gives the so-called "lesser" sister a chance to attain a new, more confident sense of her self. Don't expect a happily-ever-after.

By the time, Blue Jasmine concludes, Jasmine's personality has shattered. She's left talking to herself, one of those sad, anonymous people you see wandering the streets of some cities. It's a sobering moment, and it makes you wonder: Has Jasmine been talking to herself for her entire life? Has she ever been able to step outside the kind of delusions that make her so appalling, so human and so deeply tragic?

Old material in an ancient city

Woody Allen's To Rome With Love is no valentine.

Watching Woody Allen in his new film To Rome With Love, I found it impossible not to wonder whether, at 76, Allen hasn't lost a little something off his fast ball -- at least as an actor. Playing a retired opera director who believes he has discovered a gifted new tenor, Allen's one-liners arrive a bit late, like a tardy traveler after the train already has left the station.

But watching a cranky Allen do his cranky thing isn't the only problem with To Rome With Love: Allen isn't at his best behind the camera, either: To Rome with Love seems consistently off-key, a comedy that's unable to find a sustained rhythm.

In To Rome With Love, Allen plays Jerry, a man who visits Rome with his wife (Judy Davis) to meet his daughter (Alison Pill) and her new fiance (Flavio Parenti). When it comes to delivering a line, by the way, Davis doesn't miss a beat.

Jerry also meets the father of the future groom (Fabio Armiliato), an undertaker blessed with a beautiful singing voice -- but one he's only able to use while singing in the shower.

The undertaker's plight leads to a sight gag that stands as the movie's comic centerpiece, but you can see it coming all the way from the Via Veneto, and, once revealed, the joke is repeated enough to lose its edge.

Allen isn't only interested in Jerry's desperation. As if writing short stories for The New Yorker, he weaves a variety of brief tales into a series of alternating vignettes on love Roman style or, more precisely, Allen style -- adding a footnote about the perils of celebrity, which doesn't really amount to much.

In these additional stories, Alec Baldwin plays an architect who's revisiting Rome. Once an ambitious young man, Baldwin's John is a study in capitulation; he now designs shopping malls. Early on, John runs into a young architecture student (Jesse Eisenberg) who lives in the Trastevere neighborhood, John's former haunt.

Eisenberg's character shares an apartment and a relationship with Sally (Greta Gerwig), but he's smitten by one of Sally's visiting friends, a young actress played by Ellen Page.

Rather than developing into a real character, John becomes a kind of spectral observer: He's constantly commenting on Eisenberg's moves, warning him that if he falls for Page's Monica, he'll surely be sorry.

Allen uses another of the movie's stories to comment on the perils of celebrity. Roberto Benigni plays Leopoldo, a nondescript Roman who suddenly finds himself hounded by photographers and TV journalists eager to record his every thought -- no matter how banal. The joke here centers on the fact that Benigni's character is being stalked by an avid but fickle media that turns him into an attention junkie before shifting its gaze to someone else.

In yet another story, a provincial husband (Alessandro Tiberi) is forced to introduce a gorgeous hooker (Penelope Cruz) to his conservative Roman relatives, claiming that she's really his wife. This farcical situation arises after the young man's real wife (Alessandra Mastronardi) gets lost looking for a hair stylist in Rome, and winds up in a flirtatious relationship with an Italian actor (Antonio Albanese).

The point: Through these adventitious adulterous relationships, husband and wife are able to unlock their libidinous vaults -- and grow.

The fault here lies not with the cast, but with material that's too anemic to sustain full-blooded drama or robust farce. Even the Roman setting can't disguise the fact that Allen seems to be treading water.

To Rome With Love might have been unbearable had it not been for Rome itself. Allen and cinematographer Darius Khondji bathe the Eternal City in affectionate light as they take us through some of its major sites, seldom veering off the beaten track. But even that only goes so far.

Allen's final shot -- a brass band playing Volare on the Spanish Steps -- doesn't vibrate with the expected magic, and as I took it in, I felt much as I did throughout most of this pleasantly mediocre addition to Allen's amazingly large collection: It just wasn't enough.