Begin Again
Film Review by Kam Williams

Greta (Keira Knightley) followed her college sweetheart (Adam Levine) to Manhattan when he was signed to a lucrative record deal with a major music label. However, the overnight fame went to Dave’s head and he soon started to stray. This development signaled not only the end of their romantic relationship but the demise of their promising partnership as songwriters, too.

Nevertheless, Greta is still very talented in her own right, which she readily proves when pushed by a pal to perform at a Greenwich Village dive on open mic night. The haunting strains of “A Step You Can’t Take Back” catch the ear of Dan Mulligan (Mark Ruffalo), a legendary talent scout who happens to be sitting in the audience.

He proceeds to imagine how great Greta would sound accompanied by a full band instead of simply by her acoustic guitar. So, right after the diamond in the rough steps offstage, he offers to help turn her into the next singing sensation.

But Greta is initially reluctant for a couple of logical reasons. First of all, she’d just decided to abandon her silly pipe dream of superstardom and was on brink of moving back to England. Secondly, the solicitous stranger standing in front of her reeks of alcohol and looks homeless, and nothing like a veteran A&R exec.

Truth be told, disheveled Dan is in the dumps because he was recently fired from Distress Records by the Harvard classmate (Mos Def) he’d co-founded the company with. Furthermore, he’s being missing his estranged wife (Catherine Keener) and daughter (Hailee Steinfeld) since being kicked out of the house a year ago.

In fact, he was actually contemplating suicide until Greta’s voice gave him a new reason to live. Well, will he be able to revive his career and launch Great’s simultaneously, or will the ambitious endeavor fail miserably? And, will the two fall in love, despite the age difference, or might they merely return to their respective exes? Those are the alternate scenarios contemplated by Begin Again, an absorbing, character-driven, musical drama written and directed by John Carney.

The movie is most reminiscent of Carney’s earlier offering Once, which won the 2008 Academy Award for Best Song (“Falling Slowly”) en route to the Broadway stage where it subsequently swept the Tony Awards, including Best Musical. Begin Again similarly revolves around a pair of losers down on their luck whose close collaboration yields a cornucopia of mellifluous melodies.

Who knew that Keira Knightley could carry a tune let alone in such a dulcet tone? Or that she was capable of generating palpable screen chemistry? Kudos are also in order for her top-flight, supporting cast, especially Mark Ruffalo, Adam Levine, Mos Def, James Corden, Catherine Keener, Hailee Steinfeld and CeeLo Green.

An enchanting musical adventure amounting to the best kept cinematic secret of the summer! At least until now.

Excellent (4 stars)

Rated R for profanity

Running time: 104 minutes

Distributor: The Weinstein Company

To see a trailer for Begin Again, visit

Think Like a Man Too
Review by Kam Williams

The surprise hit Think Like a Man was #1 at the box-office over its opening weekend back in April of 2012. Inspired by Steve Harvey’s best-selling, “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man,” the original explored some of the serious issues tackled by the popular, relationship advice book by examining the angst of four couples in relationship crisis.

This go round, director Tim Story has abandoned the source material in favor of a screwball adventure that unfolds more like a blend of “The Hangover” and “Bridesmaids,” madcap movies about a bachelor and bachelorette party, respectively. Think Like a Man Too endeavors to increase the ante by featuring both a bachelor and bachelorette party.

Unfortunately, this relatively-tame sequel fails to measure up to either of those side-splitting descents into debauchery, being basically a vehicle for Kevin Hart’s kitchen sink brand of comedy. Here, the motor-mouthed comedian serves as an omniscient narrator who calls the battle-of-the-sexes’ play-by-play.

Director Story deserves credit for reassembling the principal cast members, thereby easily maintaining the ensemble’s continuity and chemistry. The reason for the reunion is that Candace (Regina Hall) and Momma’s Boy Michael (Terrence J), are tying the knot, so they’ve invited his meddling mother (Jenifer Lewis) and all their friends to Las Vegas for the nuptials.

Just past the point of departure, we find chef Dominic (Michael Ealy) and corporate executive Lauren (Taraji P. Henson) still struggling with whether to put career ahead of romance. Meanwhile, settled-down Kristen (Gabrielle Union) and Jeremy (Jerry Ferrrara) are thinking about having a kid. And Mya (Meagan Good) is having a hard time trusting her beau, Zeke (Romany Malco), given how his ex-girlfriends seem to surface at inopportune moments.

Eventually, all of the above plus Sonya (La La Anthony), Tish (Wendi Mclendon-Covey), Bennett (Gary Owen), Isaac (Adam Brody) and Terrell (David Walton) separate by gender the night before the wedding ceremony. The plot thickens when the bridesmaids carouse around Sin City in search of stimulation by bulging biceps, and just as best man Cedric and the groomsmen get the bright idea of entering a male stripping contest dressed as the Village People.

It’s not very hard to guess what happens next, or how it will all end after the wedding is almost cancelled. A pleasant, if predictable, diversion peppered with incessant chatter on the part of the irrepressible Kevin Hart.

Good (2 stars)

Rated PG-13 for profanity, drug use, crude humor, sexual references and partial nudity

Running time: 106 minutes

Distributor: Screen Gems

The Life and Crimes of Doris Payne
Film Review by Kam Williams

Doris Payne was born black back in 1930 in Slab Fork, West Virginia where she was raised during the Jim Crow era of racial segregation. Besides having to withstand withering bigotry and racial discrimination as a child, she grew up in a dysfunctional family where her father routinely beat her mother right in front of her face.

That might help explain her turning to crime at an early age, starting with stealing a diamond from a department store, fencing it, and using the funds to help her mom escape the abusive marriage. Unfortunately, Doris didn’t stop there, but took to jewel thievery like a fish to water, gradually escalating to seven figure takes by targeting upscale retailers like Cartier and Tiffany.

Her modus operandi involved gaining the confidence of a gullible store clerk before resorting to distracting devices such as sleight of hand and dizzying hand jive. That reprehensible behavior kept the sticky-fingered felon forever on the run from authorities as she netted millions in gems over the course of a checkered career spanning six decades and counting.

Specializing in identity theft, Doris was an expert at impersonating wealthy socialites in exotic locales, as she did on Monaco where she passed herself off as the wife of movie director Otto Preminger. Overall, she‘s employed at least 20 aliases, 11 Social Security numbers and 9 passports in pursuit of ill-gotten gems. Brief stints in prison couldn’t cure Doris’ compulsive kleptomania, which is why she’s presently doing time behind bars for purloining a precious stone worth 22Gs just last year.

Co-directed by Matthew Pond and Kirk Marcolina, The Life and Crimes of Doris Payne is a documentary of dubious intentions which futilely endeavors to paint an empathetic picture of an unrepentant octogenarian who simply fails to earn the audience’s respect. After all, her odious line of work has serious consequences not only for herself but for others, as was the case with a tearful clerk seen here who was fired for being fleeced by the wily old recidivist.

Doris Payne, an unappealing, un-role model who stole millions from the rich and simply frittered it away on herself in decadent fashion.

Very Good (2.5 stars)

Unrated

Running time: 74 minutes

Distributor: Film Forum

Panathenee 
EP by Jim Cassady & Pablo
Review by Kam Williams

Sounding like a compelling cross of the Kraftwerk and Bryan Ferry, a couple of young Frenchmen based in Berlin, Jim Cassady & Pablo, have collaborated to produce an album of mesmerizing electronic music. Recently released on the European label Humble Musique, the ethereal EP contains a quartet of instrumentals augmented by just enough human backing vocals to ground the otherwise otherworldy tracks with a sultry, softening human touch.

The smooth grooves are definitely danceable, yet reflect the complexity of the talented combo’s eclectic influences, ranging from Mozart to Monk to Coltrane to Hendrix. Keyboardist Jim’s job is to endlessly explore pleasant melodies while also maintaining the rhythm. Improvisation is the ostensibly the passion of Pablo, a self-taught guitarist who breaks all the rules he’s better off having never learned.

Since beauty is not only in the eye of the beholder, but in the ear of the behearer, may I simply suggest you click on the links below to check out these talented, hi-tech troubadours. I hope that you enjoy them as much as I do, so that they might be venture to these shores to stage their first concert in the U.S.

Appreciate Jim Cassady & Pablo now and avoid the rush!

To hear a sample of Jim Cassady & Pablo’s music, visit

To see a live performance by Jim Cassady & Pablo, visit

To order a copy of singles from Panathenee or the entire EP, visit

Cold in July
Cannes Film Festival Review by Dorian Rolston

In the opening scene of Jim Mickle’s “Cold in July,” a dark thriller adapted from Joe R. Lansdale’s eponymous novel, clattering breaks the silence of a warm, languid country night. Richard Dane (Michael C. Hall), a prudish Texan awoken in a panic, tremulously loads a pistol and edges down the hall to the living room where, as if guided by external forces, he shoots and kills an unarmed intruder. Later, the town sheriff (Nick Damici) tries to assuage Richard’s shock: “Sometimes the good guy wins.” But the blood on the picture framer’s hands leaves a permanent mark, splattering a pastoral mantelpiece, a pastoral life.

When the deceased intruder is identified as a wanted felon named Freddy Russell, Richard is recast as a modest businessman-turned-vigilante hero. But the down-home everyman shrinks from local celebrity, learning that Freddy’s father Ben (Sam Shepard) has been paroled from prison. Wary of revenge but still ridden with guilt, Richard observes Freddy’s funeral from the safety of his Mercury station wagon when, in a neo-noir turn, Ben appears at his window, terrifyingly subdued, gleaming in the setting East-Texas sun. “Quiet and peaceful, isn’t it?” the ex-con offers.

Clouds roll in over Mickle’s homespun late-80s countryside (more accurately that of upstate New York). As thunder and lightning syncopate Jeff Grace’s chilling, synthesized score, Ben, wearing a menacing rictus, skulks around Richard’s son. The threats escalate until Ben is apprehended, which only peels back a deeper conspiracy: the Danes were bait. In the cover of darkness, police drag Ben from a holding cell and leave him lying on a railroad track. But Richard, having grown suspicious, manages to witness the foul play and, just in time, to save Ben from pulverization.

Ill at ease, the two hoodwinked men bind together until, with near-derailing levity, a third musketeer breezes in behind the wheel of a scorching red Cadillac convertible, its grill mounting longhorns and its vanity plate flashing RED BITCH. That would be Jim Bob (Don Johnson)—pig farmer, howdy-doody gunslinger, private eye. With Jim Bob at the helm, the unlikely trio follow a putrid scent through police corruption, Mafia gangbanging, snuff movies, and a culminating bloodbath a la mode.

As a moody, stylized, genre-bending thriller, “Cold in July” exhibits deft handiwork. But as a character study, which is ultimately what drives the plot, its layering is thin. Richard’s deeper motivations for vigilante justice remain opaque—even, somehow, to his wife Anne (Vinessa Shaw), an insipid rendering of a female character whose concerns are limited strictly to interior décor. That even the most warm-blooded among us have cold-blooded potentiality, as the title suggests, is insinuated, if not exhaustively probed. Nevertheless, the pulpy twists and turns ratchet up suspense and unspool mystery that is a ride all its own.

Postscript

My wife in heels, I had to run. Two Invitations—Place Réservées—to “Cold in July” were being kept in a blank envelope held by a man waiting outside the Théâtre Croisette, in Cannes. Perhaps it was the enchanting Cote d’Azur, the deep blue sea heard softly lapping, the liminal profiles glimpsed through tinted car windows, the reveries indulged of passersby straining to place our stardom, which had relaxed our stride. Nevertheless, we were late. As I bounded down the Promenade de la Croisette, scattering coteries of refinement, I recalled the last email from the man with the envelope: “Should be fine, look for me when you arrive and I will look for you!” Likely, he would see me first.

It was our first time at the Cannes Film Festival and, for that matter, at any film festival. I had inquired, complained, and generally made a fuss about my press credentials, which, due to hardly unforeseen circumstances (neglecting to submit an application), had never arrived. While being shuffled between accreditation staff, though, I was intercepted by a gregarious Aussie who introduced himself as a music producer and then divulged that, the night before, he had attended a party that was “not to be missed.” The party was hosted by Schweppes on a yacht, he said, running through precise directions. Lacking any navigational sensibility for the luxury yachts of Le Vieux Port, or any official documentation of my business being there, I could do little else but look begrudgingly. “Don’t worry,” he assured, with a wink. “Things have a way of working themselves out.”

We received warm greetings as we descended the red carpet: trois cent quatre, trois cent cinq. Inside the Théâtre Croisette, a wood-paneled aerie of eight hundred and twenty velvet seats nestled within the five-star JW Marriott, my wife and I unknowingly happened to sit next to Karen Lansdale, wife of Joe, author of “Cold in July.” (At the time, we took her to be merely a woman with a southern accent who was kindly watching the coat of an absent stranger.) Handsome ushers in black suits and red neckties were showing a regal couple to their seats—the woman in lapidary raiment adorned with a snowy white tunic and shimmering drop earrings, the man honey-tanned and sporting two thick slabs of leather-strapped wristwatch. (Trois cent six, trois cent sept.) This was not, evidently, the Cannes of the bundled-up man who slept in the pool of light in the bank lobby just off the Promenade and who, the previous night, had drawn a phalanx of Police Municipale and a rowdy dog. This was the Cannes of auteurs.

A spotlight bathed the stage to celebrate cast and crew, and applause filled the theatre. Jim Mickle appeared in a dark suit and sneakers with red laces. Reading “Cold in July” a few years ago was “terrifying, seductive, violent, emotionally-shaking,” he said. “I couldn’t get it out of my head.” Then he added, “And hopefully the film makes you guys feel the same way I did.”

Dorian Rolston is a freelance writer covering cognitive science and the arts.

To see an interview with Cold in July director Jim Mickle, visit