Category Archives: Drug Culture

Bingo and porn: Starlet ***

August 25, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on December 1, 2012)

As the Hollywood hype machine prepares to carpet bomb the multiplexes with hobbits and SEALs, it’s reassuring to know that even in the midst of Oscar-bait season, it is still possible to unearth a small, no-budget gem like Starlet. An insightful, 1970s-style character study in the tradition of Harry and Tonto and Harold and Maude, it’s an episodic slice-of-life tale about an unlikely friendship between a 21 year-old porno actress and her misanthropic 85 year-old neighbor. Now…I know what you’re thinking; while this film is “unrated” , it is not as salacious as it might sound.

For example, it may surprise you to learn that the eponymous character is actually a Chihuahua (and again, get your mind out of the gutter). The adorable little scene-stealer is in the care of a sweet natured young woman named Jane (Dree Hemingway), who shares a house in the San Fernando Valley with her high-strung co-worker Melissa (Stella Maeve) and Melissa’s skuzzy drug-dealing boyfriend Mikey (James Ransone). It goes without saying that the roommates have, shall we say, non-traditional jobs. Consequently they enjoy quite a leisurely schedule (you know…get up at the crack of noon, fire up a couple bong hits for breakfast, and then while away the days zoning out on video games).

While she obviously shares some of the lifestyle trappings, there’s something that sets Jane apart from her comparatively dysfunctional roomies (Melissa is a drama queen, and Mikey is the type of guy whose idea of home improvement is to install a stripper pole in the living room). Jane, on the other hand, possesses a down-to-earth quality that makes you wonder how “a nice girl like that” wound up in the porn biz.

However, she isn’t necessarily incorruptible, as is evidenced when she buys a thermos at a neighborhood yard sale from a cranky widow named Sadie (Besedka Johnson) . Jane discovers $10,000 in rolled-up bills stashed inside. While her first instinct is to return the money, she does decide to “give it back”, but in her own unique way. Initially, she wants to sate her curiosity. But as we know-you can’t always go digging into other people’s secrets without getting your own hands dirty.

This is an impressive starring debut for the 25 year-old Hemingway (daughter of Mariel). At times (not surprisingly), her brave performance strongly evokes her mother’s role as Playboy model Dorothy Stratten in Bob Fosse’s 1983 film, Star 80 (Starlet is more sexually explicit, but it’s rendered in a relatively tasteful manner, and while it’s still enough to earn the film an “NR” rating, the brief scenes merely serve to establish what Jane does for a living). Johnson is equally impressive, perhaps even more so considering that she apparently has never acted before (at 87, she is likely the most mature “hot new talent” to keep an eye on). She and Hemingway have a lovely chemistry; both give warm, naturalistic performances.

I was surprised to discover that director Sean Baker and his writing partner Chris Bergoch were the same creative tag team behind the cult TV series Greg the Bunny (I never would have made a connection between a whacked out, puppetry-based satire like that and a thoughtful, beautifully acted art house drama like Starlet…but then again, Peter Jackson made Meet the Feebles and Heavenly Creatures…so anything’s possible).

Thematically, Baker’s film reminded me of two other L.A. based character studies-Adrian Lyne’s highly underrated Foxes, and Robert Altman’s 3 Women, in the way that it delicately sifts through the complexities of female friendships (inter-generational and otherwise). Also akin to Altman’s film, the cinematography (by Radium Cheung) utilizes the hazy, diffuse light of the sun-bleached L.A. environs to help create a languid, dreamy mood; providing the perfect canvas for a story that moves right about at the speed of life.

Comedy, Cult Movie, Drug Culture, Male Bonding

Wasted wonderland: A Very Harold and Kumar Christmas 3-D ***

August 2, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on November 12, 2011)

I’ve decided not to bury the lead in my review of A Very Harold and Kumar Christmas 3-D. So let’s get all of this out of the way first, shall we? Stereotypes about Asians, Ukrainians, Latinos, African-Americans, Jews and the GLBT community abound. Santa Claus gets shot in the face. A baby ingests pot, coke and Ecstasy. Marijuana is celebrated for its recreational attributes. In a twisted homage to A Christmas Story, someone’s penis is stuck to frozen tree bark. And yet, there’s something so…good-natured about it all. And, I enjoyed the most belly laughs that I have had at a film so far this year. Sue me.

Back in 2004, a modestly budgeted stoner comedy, sporting a sophomoric title and starring two young unknowns, became an unexpected cult hit. Perhaps arguably, the most surprising thing about Harold and Kumar go to White Castle was that, sandwiched somewhere between the bong hits and assorted scatological references was an undercurrent of sharp socio-political commentary about racial stereotyping in America (for the uninitiated, Harold and Kumar are played by a Korean-American and Indian-American actor, respectively).

The film’s co-creators, Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg, officially turned their baked heroes into a sort of Cheech and Chong franchise for Gen Y with the 2008 sequel, Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay (my review). Like its predecessor, it was crass and vulgar, yet still riotously funny (and oddly endearing, in a South Park kind of way). So, has the magic been recaptured in this latest installment?

I suppose that would depend on a little game of word association. If I say “Magic!”, and your immediate rejoinder is “Mushrooms!”, then I’d say you’ll probably enjoy the ride. The rest of you are strongly cautioned. For those in the latter group, I probably at least owe you a brief synopsis; the former already know that it’s not so much about the plot, as it is about the pot.

In the six years since their last misadventure, Harold (John Cho) has not only stepped away from the bong, but veered in the direction of responsible adulthood. He’s happily married, with a house in the ‘burbs and a Wall Street gig. In the meantime, Kumar (Kal Penn, who resigned from his White House position as Associate Director of Public Engagement to work on this film) has been on an opposite trajectory. He’s dropped out of med school, his girlfriend has left him, and he’s self-medicating with ganja (it gets funnier…seriously).

Kumar shows up on Harold’s doorstep Christmas week, and to make a short story even shorter, comic mayhem ensues. The duo (who have drifted apart) are reunited by necessity, scrambling to find a replacement before Harold’s father-in-law (a funny-scary Danny Trejo) discovers that his prized, personally-cultivated Christmas tree has gone up in flames (don’t ask). And yes, Neil Patrick Harris is back again for his third, erm, outing.

Hurwitz and Schlossberg co-wrote, but this time they’ve turned the helming chores over to Todd Strauss Schulson. This is the feature film debut for Schulson, who previously directed music videos and a handful of TV movies. I hope I’m not damning him with faint praise by saying that he has rendered the most visually creative Harold and Kumar entry yet, particularly with the clever use of 3-D. In fact, I think he has used it much more effectively here than Cameron did in Avatar. Go ahead…ask (“Are you high?!”). Maybe.

Drama, Drug Culture, Male Bonding

St. Elmo’s pyre: I Melt With You (no stars)

August 2, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on December 17, 2011)

Time-he flexes like a whore

Falls wanking to the floor

His trick is you and me, boy

-David Bowie

It had to happen. Hey, it happens to all of us, if we live long enough. Remember the Brat Pack? It is currently their turn. Molly Ringwald could very well be having one as we speak. James Spader? I’m sure he’s had his, by now. Charlie Sheen? No question there. Oh yeah, I think you know what I’m talking about…the Midlife Meltdown. And, in all sincerity, I do hope that the rest of Generation X is weathering that storm with considerably more élan than the four not-so-gracefully aging protagonists at the heart of Mark Pellington’s navel-gazing, plug and play Sundance-y whingefest, I Melt With You.

Co-produced by Brat Pack chairman Rob Lowe and sporting a (mostly) 80s soundtrack that could have been hand-picked by John Hughes in Heaven, the film bears more than a passing resemblance to Blake Edwards’ S.O.B. (sans the laughs) and teeters precipitously between a Janovian therapy session, an AA meeting and an acting contest. Ready to play? Excellent. First, let’s meet our contestants.

Say hello to Jonathan (Lowe). He’s a self-loathing doctor, divorced father of one and a firm believer in getting high on your own supply. Please welcome Richard (Thomas Jane). He is a self-loathing English teacher, a failed writer (is that redundant?) and a lady-killer with a deep fear of commitment, who still parties like he’s 18.

And over here we have the “responsible” member of our team, Ron (Jeremy Piven). He is a self-loathing Wall Streeter who is financially successful, has a wife and kids, and has been recently experiencing anxiety attacks about a pending federal investigation of his investment firm . Finally, say “hey” to Tim (Christian McKay). He is the “sensitive guy”. He is of indeterminate career path and sexual orientation, but the one thing we’re certain of…he’s self-loathing.

The four have been pals since they were teenagers, and have stalwartly adhered to the tradition of an annual get-together since college graduation back in the mid-80s. “Get-together” is actually more of an operative term here; not too long after all four have converged at their rented Northern California beach house, it becomes evident that “bromantic bacchanal” might be a more apt descriptive.

Our tipoff comes as soon as the doctor arrives, with an MD bag full of pharmaceutical goodies that would make Hunter Thompson break into a cold sweat. In fact, the guys dive into this heady cornucopia with such hasty and reckless abandon that you’re not sure if the inspiration here was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas…or Leaving Las Vegas. But you know, boys will be boys, right?

And the director proceeds to pound that point home again and again, whilst setting out to show the French what a montage is all about. Music cue! Here we are, totally wasted, slam dancing to the D.K.’s! New music cue! Here we are, still totally wasted the next morning, nude body surfing while the Clash sing (wait for it) “Charlie Don’t Surf”! New music cue! Let’s roll down the sand dunes in a whimsical fashion to the strains of Adam Ant!

But as anyone who has been on a bender can tell you (or anyone who can read the title cards that helpfully offer “Day 1”, “Day 2”, etc.), at some point, you’ve gotta start coming down. That’s when the confessionals start. That’s when the conversation turns from “Dude! Remember that time that we…?” to “God, my life is shit!” It’s OK though, because dude, my life is shit, too. Let’s hug. “I love you, man”. I love you too, man (sob).

After a (very) long hour of such antics, the story takes an abrupt 180. Because you know what “they” say: It’s all fun and games, until someone loses an eye. Well, no one literally loses an eye, but one of our heroes (I’m not going to say who) goes a little “funny” in the head. You know what I mean, Dmitri? Anyway, he goes a little “funny”, and so he goes and does a silly thing. I can’t tell you exactly what he does, because that would be a spoiler.

Let’s just say that his actions serve to stir up a Dark Secret from the Past (you’ve seen one of these in a flick before, right?) that involves all four of the friends. There’s something about a magic ring, and the end of the world, but I can say no more, bon ami.

About this “180” in the second half. It’s tricksy and false. It is such a preposterous turn of events as to stagger belief (even within the parameters of an artistic medium in which the suspension of disbelief by the viewer is expected), and it stops the film dead in its tracks. Alas, nothing can save the movie once it has turned down this path; not even the formidable power of Carla Gugino’s amazing bee-stung lips (she plays the local sheriff, if it matters to you).

I can’t fault the cast; they are all fine actors, generally speaking. It’s just that I can’t decide which is more heavy-handed; Pellington’s direction or Glen Porter’s screenplay (I imagine it sounded like someone building a shed as he was banging it out).

The sole thing that kept me going through the last act was the anticipation of hearing the jangly power pop strains of Modern English wafting through the air…and it never happened. No “Making love to you was never second best.”? No “hmm hmm hmm” sing-along?! Perhaps it would have been more apropos if Pellington had named his film after the Sex Pistols song he uses over both the opening and end credits:

“Pretty Vacant”.

60's Counterculture, Documentary, Drug Culture, Road Movie

SIFF 2011: Magic Trip ***1/2

July 20, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on June 4, 2011)

Magic Trip: Ken Kesey’s Search for a Kool Place is the latest from the prolific Alex Gibney, and a good companion piece to his 2008 doc Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson. If you’ve never read Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, this is the next best thing to “being there”. Waaay out “there”. We’re talking the original Magical Mystery Tour, the one that kicked off that disunited state of mind glibly referred to by those who were not “there” as The Sixties.

In 1964, author Ken Kesey, who had been involved with the infamous CIA-sponsored 1959 psychoactive drug research program at Stanford, assembled a group of friends (including hipster saint/speed freak Neal Cassady) for a cross-country bus trip/consciousness-raising experiment that would come to be known as the maiden voyage for the “Merry Pranksters”. Kesey was prescient enough to document the trip with hours of film and audio recordings, but never got around to organizing it all as a narrative.

Gibney proves himself up to the task; as well as connecting all the (micro) dots between the Beats, the Pranksters, Leary, the Dead and beyond (the beyond). It’s a fascinating new angle on a well-beaten path. BTW…I know what you Gen X-ers and Millennials are thinking: “Oh please god, not yet another documentary about the Boomers and their halcyon days!” But hey man, give this piece a chance.

Behind the Music, Documentary, Drug Culture, Rock 'n' Roll

SIFF 2011: Hit so Hard **1/2

July 20, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on May 22, 2011)

“J. H. Mascis on a Popsicle stick,” I thought to myself around 20 minutes into Hit So Hard, an alt-rockumentary about the travails of Hole drummer Patty Schemel “this isn’t going to be another one of those glorified episodes of VH-1’s Behind the Music…is it?” But once I realized that VH-1 doesn’t hold the patent on rags-to-riches-to-rags tales about musicians who self-sabotage promising careers via self-destructive behaviors, I relaxed and just went with the flow.

Writer-director P. David Ebersole has rendered a candid portrait not only of his subject (a feisty, outspoken yet endearingly self-effacing woman who is sort of a punk-rock version of Tatum O’Neal) but of the fertile Seattle grunge scene that exploded in the early 90s. Schemel was a close family friend of that scene’s power couple-so we also get an intimate glimpse at the home life of the two-headed beast that was Kurt and Courtney (and more than enough of the post-Kurt Courtney). Ebersole’s film feels a bit unfocused at times, but will definitely be of great interest for Hole and/or Nirvana fans.

Behind the Music, Biopic, Drug Culture, Rock 'n' Roll

Girls together outrageously: The Runaways ***1/2

July 18, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on March 27, 2010)

Oh, they would walk the Strip at nights

And dream they saw their name in lights

On Desolation Boulevard

They’ll light the faded light

–from “The Sixteens” by The Sweet

This may be tough to fathom now, but the idea of an all-female rock band, who actually played their own instruments and wrote their own songs, was still considered a “novelty” in the mid-70s.

Some inroads had been made from the late-1960s up to that time, from artists like Grace Slick, Janis Joplin, Suzi Quatro and Heart’s Wilson sisters, as well as some lesser-known female rockers like Lydia Pense (Cold Blood), Maggie Bell (Stone the Crows), Inga Rumpf (Atlantis) and Janita Haan (Babe Ruth).

However, most of the aforementioned were lead singers, with male backup. I do recall a hard-rocking female quartet called Fanny, who put out a couple of decent albums in the early 70s. And then, there were The Shaggs… but that’s a whole other post, dear reader.

In 1975, a music industry hustler and self-proclaimed idol-maker named Kim Fowley, with producer credits on several early 60s Top 40 novelty hits like “Alley Oop” by the Hollywood Argyles and “Nut Rocker” by B. Bumble & the Stingers, had an epiphany. If he could assemble an all-female rock band with the ability to capture the appeal of The Beatles by way of the sexy tomboy ethos of glam-punk queen Suzi Quatro, he could conquer the charts and make a bazillion dollars.

So he scoured L.A.s Sunset Strip, searching for teenage girls who met his criteria: good looks, a “fuck you” attitude, and a hunger for fame at any price, who (preferably) owned their own musical equipment…and (most importantly) could be easily manipulated.

Depending on which camp is doing the talking in any tell-all book you may read or documentary you might watch, it was either due to, or in spite of, Fowley’s dubious manipulations that Cherie Currie (lead singer), Joan Jett (guitar and vocals), Sandy West (drums), Lita Ford (lead guitar) and bass player Jackie Fox (and her eventual replacement Vicki Blue) did make quite a name for themselves.

In the course of their 4-year career, they also high-kicked a breach in rock ’n’ roll’s glass ceiling with those platform boots, empowering a generation of young women to plug in and crank it to “11”. Perfect fodder for a “behind the music” biopic? You bet your shag haircut.

Anyone who harbors fond remembrance for the halcyon days of Bowie, T. Rex and Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco might get a little misty-eyed during the opening of Floria Sigismondi’s new film, The Runaways, during which she uncannily captures the look and the vibe of the Sunset Strip youth scene (circa 1975) all set to the strains of Nick Gilder’s “Roxy Roller”. It’s the best cinematic evocation of the glam-rock era that I have seen since Todd Haynes’ Velvet Goldmine.

The film picks up the band’s story when Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon) introduces Suzi Quatro superfan and aspiring rock star Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart) to drummer Sandy West (Stella Maeve). After a series of hit-and-miss audition sessions in the dingy trailer that serves as the band’s rehearsal space, the now-familiar lineup eventually falls into place, including lead singer Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning) and lead guitarist Lita Ford (Scout Taylor-Compton).

Shannon chews major scenery as Fowley, especially as he puts the band through “boot camp”, which includes teaching them how to plow through performing while getting pelted by dog shit and verbal abuse. Cruel? Yes, but have you ever been to an “open mike” night?

The first third of the film is engaging, capturing the energy and exuberance of rock ’n’ roll and raging hormones; it bogs down a bit in backstage cliche. Still, there are strong performances that make this film worth seeing. Although she is the same age that Cherie Currie was when she joined the band, Fanning somehow “feels” too young to be cast as this character. Nonetheless, she deserves credit for giving her bravest performance to date. The biggest surprise is the usually wooden Stewart’s surly and unpredictable performance as Joan Jett; she is not so much “acting” as she is shape-shifting.

I couldn’t help noticing that there were a couple of glaring omissions in the “where are they now?” crawl that prefaces the end credits. Jett, Currie and West are mentioned, but updates on Lita Ford and Jackie Fox were conspicuously absent. Then, when I saw that Joan Jett was one of the film’s producers, I had an “aha!” moment. It did appear to me, more often than not, that the film was skewing in the direction of becoming “the Joan Jett story”. Then again, one could argue that she has had the most high profile post-Runaways career, with chart success as a solo artist and as co-founder of Blackheart Records.

Combined with Kristen Stewart’s current box-office legs and the release of Jett’s new album right before opening weekend, maybe this was just a shrewd marketing move by the producers. According to the Internet Movie Database, Lita Ford and Jackie Fox did not give their blessing to the production, so it’s also possible that the end credits snub is simply a “fuck you” to her old band mates. I love rock ’n’ roll.

Cop on the Edge, Drama, Drug Culture

CSI Vaslui: Police, Adjective ***

July 15, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on January 30, 2010)

“What do you think; would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds?”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

Most people would agree that Bullitt and The French Connection qualify as seminal examples of the modern “cop thriller”. While both are primarily revered for their iconic action sequences, what makes them most fascinating to me is the attention to character minutia.

In Bullitt, it’s a scene where Steve McQueen’s character slouches home after a shift. He walks into a corner grocery and perfunctorily scoops up an armload of TV dinners, then retires to his modest apartment to decompress. It’s a leisurely sequence that may seem superfluous, but speaks volumes about the character.

A similar scene in The French Connection has detective Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) shivering outside in the cold for hours, wolfing fast food and drinking bad coffee out of a Styrofoam cup as he stakes out his quarry, an international drug kingpin who is enjoying a gourmet meal in an upscale restaurant. Both films demonstrate how non-glamorous and mundane police work actually is, an aspect most genre entries tend to gloss over.

“Non-glamorous and mundane” could be a good descriptive for Police, Adjective, the latest film from Romanian writer-director Corneliu Porumboiu. In fact, this is the type of film that requires any viewer weaned on typical Hollywood grist to first unlearn what they have previously learned about crime dramas.

There are no foot chases, car chases, shootouts, take downs or perp walks. There are no fast cuts or pulse-pounding musical cues. In short, the viewer is forced to pay attention, to observe and study…to “stake out” the characters and events, if you will. The devil is in the details (like real detective work.) And your reward? Well, you may not solve a major crime, but you could reach a certain state of enlightenment via a 15-minute denouement involving a Dostoevskian discourse on the dialectics of law, morality and conscience (Nothing blows up?!).

We observe a plainclothes cop named Cristi (Dragos Bucur) as he keeps tabs a teenage suspect who may or may not be a low-level pot dealer…pretty much in real time for the first half of the film.

As if we haven’t received an adequate taste of Cristi’s job-related tedium, Porumboiu appends each sequence with a static, several-minute long close-up of the officer’s handwritten report, annotating every detail of what we have just seen. It’s almost as if we’re reading the shooting script; I wonder if the director is conveying an allusion to the relative tedium of the film making process itself (clever-clever!).

Based on my description so far, you may be saying to yourself “This movie sounds like a waste of time.” Funny thing is, that is exactly what Cristi is thinking about his stakeout. He is becoming increasingly chagrined that his boss (Vlad Ivonov) insists that he keeps digging until he finds cause to set up a sting, because he intuits that it’s merely a case of kids just “being kids”…hanging out and getting high together, as opposed to a major drug operation.

Besides, Cristi feels in his heart of hearts that his country is on the verge of joining other European nations in lightening up the penalties for personal pot use (yes-the innate stupidity of most pot laws appears to be universal, and requires no translation).

Cristi’s boss, however, sees this subjective attitude toward his assignment as an opportunity to teach the young officer an object lesson about the meaning of “duty”; literally starting with the etymology of the word “police” (hence the film’s unusual title).

I know that sounds as dull as dish water, and it’s difficult to convey what makes this film work so well. It may sound like the makings of a sober, introspective drama, but there is actually a great deal of wry comedy throughout. One scene in particular, in which Cristi and his school teacher wife (Irina Saulescu) spiritedly banter about the literal vs. metaphorical context of a pop song’s lyrics is a gem.

The film is also a fascinating glimpse at a post-E.U. Romania, and the unenviable task of redefining “policing” in a formerly oppressive police state still gingerly feeling its way as a democracy. Besides-when is the last time you saw a cop thriller wherein the most formidable weapon brandished was…a Romanian dictionary?

60's Counterculture, Drama, Drug Culture, Rock 'n' Roll

Blu-ray reissue: America Lost and Found: The BBS Story (box set) ****

June 29, 2015 Dennis Hartley Leave a comment

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on December 11, 2010)

America Lost and Found: The BBS Story – Criterion Blu-ray (6-disc set)

Back in the late 60s, Bob Rafelson, Burt Schneider and Steve Blauner capitalized on the success of their very profitable brainchild, The Monkees (referring to both the band and the associated hit TV series) by forming a movie production company called BBS Productions. The name may not ring a bell, but some of the films released by the company between 1968 and 1974 certainly will: Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces and The Last Picture Show. These are but three of the seven titles included in this collection from Criterion, which I would consider the box set of the year. Two genuine rarities are here as well-Drive, He Said (Jack Nicholson’s 1971 directorial debut), and the very first film by Henry Jaglom, A Safe Place.

For my money, the real jewels here are the Blu-ray debuts for Head, the surreal music-biz satire starring The Monkees, and Rafelson’s bittersweet character study about beautiful losers and the dark side of the American dream, The King of Marvin Gardens. In purely visual terms, the latter film is a revelation in this format; the transcendent camera work by the late great Laszlo Kovacs can now be fully appreciated. All of the prints are sparkling and beautifully restored, and feature commentary tracks. It’s a bit puzzling that they didn’t include one of the more notable BBS productions…the classic Vietnam doc, Hearts and Minds-but hey, you can’t have everything. This is still an essential collection of important American films.