Ma Rainey's Black Bottom: Absolutely unforgettable

Ma Rainey's Black Bottom (2020) • View trailer

Five stars. Rated R, for profanity, sexual candor and violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.5.21  

August Wilson’s plays are not for the faint of heart.

 

Even acknowledging that, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is acutely harrowing: a cry of rage whose 1982 stage debut was almost six decades removed from its 1927 setting, and — sadly — just as relevant today, almost a full century after the events depicted within.

 

At first, the other combo members — from left, in the rear, Toledo (Glynn Turman),
Slow Drag (Michael Potts) and Cutler (Colman Domingo) — are amused by the
arrogance and swagger of the much younger Levee (Chadwick Boseman). But he'll
soon wind them up far beyond patience and endurance.

Wilson’s play is the second in what would become his 10-play Pittsburgh Cycle. It’s the third chronologically, following Gem of the Ocean (set in the 1900s) and Joe Turner’s Come and Gone (1910s).

 

Director George C. Wolfe and scripter Ruben Santiago-Hudson have “opened up” this Netflix film adaptation a bit, tweaked the narrative chronology here and there, and amplified a key climactic metaphor (the latter a powerful enhancement). But rest assured: This remains Wilson’s play, and its frustrated anger and impotent despair are delivered via stunning work from stars Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman (the latter’s final film, prior to his untimely death last August).

 

Only rarely is a film able to deliver the intensity of live performances by charismatic actors, who literally suck the air out of the room when they saunter onto a stage.

 

This is one of those occasions.

 

A brief prologue establishes legendary singer Ma Rainey’s enormous popularity — deservedly dubbed “The Mother of the Blues” — among fans in her native Columbus, Ga. We then cut to Chicago, during the sweltering summer of 1927, where Ma has agreed to interrupt her current tour long enough to cut a record for the flyspeck Hot Rhythms label.

 

(Ma is the sole character in Wilson’s 10-play cycle who is based on a real person. She also was an unapologetically “out” lesbian, who in her song “Prove It On Me,” crooned “Went out last night with a crowd of my friends/Must have been women, ’cause I don’t like men.”)

 

Her band arrives first: pianist Toledo (Glynn Turman, who has played the role on stage), bassist Slow Drag (Michael Potts) and trombonist Cutler (Colman Domingo). Cornet player Levee (Boseman) is a bit late, having been distracted into purchasing a pair of flashy yellow shoes spotted in a shop window.

 

We’ve already seen — in the aforementioned prologue — that Levee has a high opinion of his musical chops, and has a tendency to upstage Ma (to her visual displeasure).

 

Once assembled, the four band members are confronted by the two white men supervising the recording session: exploitative, penny-pinching studio owner Sturdyvant (Jonny Coyne); and Ma’s manager Irvin (Jeremy Shamos). Both want to know where the hell Ma is; Irvin does his best to calm Sturdyvant’s mounting anger.

 

Outside the Wire: And let's leave it there

Outside the Wire (2021) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity and violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.12.21  

Lazy science-fiction is truly annoying.

 

Actually, Netflix’s Outside the Wire barely qualifies; it’s really just a testosterone-fueled, shoot-’em-up war flick with superficial sci-fi trimmings. Scripters Rowan Athale and Rob Yescombe rely on attitude rather than the slightest hint of character depth, or the philosophical issues of their clichéd scenario.

 

Given that they're pinned down by enemy fire, Harp (Damson Idris, right) has good
reason to be concerned. He needn't be, because Leo (Anthony Mackie) is about to
demonstrate his enhanced fighting skills.

Their grunt-level sensibilities become obvious immediately — two minutes in! — when everybody onscreen relentlessly employs F-bombs as adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, verbs and interjections. That’s just tiresome.

 

Mikael Håfström helms this mess with the subtlety of a charging rhinoceros. No surprise, given a résumé of similarly undistinguished thrillers and horror flicks (Drowning Ghost, Derailed, Escape Plan, etc.). Ergo, we shouldn’t expect anything better here.

 

So.

 

The year is 2036, and Eastern Europe has become a relentless war zone; the Russians once again are the villains of choice. Good-guy Americans fight alongside lumbering robot soldiers pejoratively dubbed “Gumps” (presumably after Forrest Gump, which is pretty damn insulting). This isn’t any sort of advantage, because the bad-guy soldiers have their own Gumps.

 

We pause, for a moment, to explore this a bit. No mention ever is made, regarding how Gumps receive and execute their orders; no indication of who programs and controls them; no contemplation of whether they could be hacked by the opposition; and so forth. They’re just part of the noisy wallpaper. (Like I said, lazy writing.)

 

The ground troops are supported by drones controlled from afar by pilot teams such as Harp (Damson Idris) and Bale (Kristina Tonteri-Young). When a nasty firefight threatens to become catastrophic, Harp makes a needs-of-the-many choice that saves dozens of soldiers, at the expense of two who perish. Trouble is, that decision disobeys a direct order.

 

Rather than being court-martialed and sent home in disgrace, Harp is assigned to accompany Capt. Leo (Anthony Mackie) on a covert ground mission beyond the fenced American compound (ergo, “outside the wire”). Intel reports that a lunatic named Victor Koval (Pilou Asbaek) intends to obtain the launch codes for a handful of nukes, with which to terrorize the world (we assume); Leo wants Harp along because he “thinks outside the box.”

 

Ah, but — as Harp soon learns — Leo isn’t just any black-ops specialist; he’s “fourth-generation biotech.” (Again, questions: Where did he come from? Does this mean first-, second- and third-generation biotechs are wandering around? Answers come there none.)

 

Herself: Richly poignant empowerment drama

Herself (2020) • View trailer

Four stars. Rated R, for profanity and vicious domestic violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.29.21 

There’s a strong sense, throughout this superbly mounted little Irish drama — exclusive to Amazon Prime — that star/co-scripter Clare Dunne writes from personal awareness.

 

I dearly hope that isn’t the case.

 

Sandra (Clare Dunne) and younger daughter Molly (Molly McCann) are delighted by
the progress being made under the watchful gaze of contractor Aido (Conleth Hill).

She stars as Sandra, a single mother with two young daughters, who has just escaped her possessive and abusive partner, Gary (Ian Lloyd Anderson). Although “the system” has kept a roof over their heads, bouncing them from one tiny hotel room to another, she’s barely scraping by. She works two part-time jobs, to keep them fed: as a pub barmaid; and as a housekeeper for Peggy (Harriet Walter), an aging doctor for whom Sandra’s mother once worked, back in the day.

 

But these details come a bit later. Director Phyllida Lloyd, and scripters Dunne and Malcolm Campbell, open their film with a shocking sequence: Gary bloodies Sandra’s face and then stomps on her wrist, shattering it far beyond any hope of total recovery.

 

The worst part? Sandra has anticipated just such an encounter, arming elder daughter Emma (Ruby Rose O’Hara) with a previously written plea for help and a code phrase — “black widow” — that sends the little girl running to the closest store.

 

Despite this, months later, Sandra’s still forced to interact with Gary, given that he gets weekend visits with their daughters. (Seriously? After that display of violence? If this is accurate, either Sandra had a crap lawyer, or Ireland needs to seriously revise its family protective services laws.)

 

And, as always is the case with serial abusers, Gary’s doing his best to wheedle his way back into their lives. Which, to Sandra’s credit, she rejects utterly. She most emphatically is not a serial victim.

 

But she is increasingly desperate, because the status quo isn’t sustainable; lacking a permanent home isn’t psychologically healthy for her daughters. Worse yet, this situation actually lends weight to Gary’s contrasting “stability,” since he’s living with his parents. But Sandra seems without options; rents are beyond her financial ability, never mind mortgages and property prices.

 

One day, a passing reference in one of her daughters’ bedtime stories proves inspirational: Could she build her own home? (Dunne was inspired, as she explains in the film’s production notes, by Irish architect Dominic Stevens, who with friends constructed a wooden self-build in 2012, for roughly $33,000.)

 

Seductive as this notion is, money remains an issue. During an exchange with a bureaucratic clerk that brilliantly illustrates the ludicrous flaws of the welfare system, Sandra accurately argues that a one-time loan would be far cheaper to the system, than the ongoing costs associated with hotel expenses … and gets nowhere. It’s a shrewdly scripted shake-your-head exchange.

Let Them All Talk: No, really, they should stop!

Let Them All Talk (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.22.21 

Although director Steven Soderberg’s gentle little drama has its charms, it’s more of an acting exercise than an actual film.

 

Alice (Meryl Streep, foreground) has just spotted a fellow writer — one who seems more
popular than she — much to the amusement of, from left, companions Tyler
(Lukas Hedges), Susan (Dianne Wiest) and Roberta (Candice Bergen).

As revealed in the production notes, Deborah Eisenberg’s “script” was more an outline: the broad strokes of the story, with its key plot beats, and a general sense of the primary characters. Most dialogue was left to actor improv, which was fine-tuned during production.

 

Seasoned pros like Meryl Streep and Dianne Wiest clearly had no trouble with this approach. The rest of the cast … leave something to be desired. The results are visible via HBO MAX.

 

New York-based author Alice Hughes (Streep) is celebrated for two novels: her debut, You Always, You Never, which brought her a Pulitzer; and the more recent A Function of the Body, which has just earned the Footling Prize. She regards the latter as more prestigious, because it’s bestowed by writers: an honor therefore coming from her peers.

 

That aside, Alice’s publisher has grown impatient over the lack of progress on her next book. Karen (Gemma Chan), a newbie literary agent, has been sent to extract some details. The rumor is that it might be a sequel to You Always, You Never, but Alice refuses to say anything. Even so, she’s clearly been working on something, given the tall stack of manuscript pages.

 

Much as Alice would love to attend the UK presentation of the Footling Prize, she can’t fly. (Streep’s visible discomfort at the very notion suggests a phobia.) No matter, Karen replies brightly, clearly invested in the publicity that would be generated by a personal appearance; you could travel by luxury liner.

 

(Talk about serendipity: Cunard, which allowed shooting to take place aboard its flagship Queen Mary 2, must be loving the positive attention, as a welcome change.)

 

Alice accepts this suggestion, in part as a means to re-connect with old school chums Susan (Wiest) and Roberta (Candice Bergen), whom she hasn’t seen in 35 years. Both accept the all-expenses-paid invitation; Alice’s nephew Tyler (Lucas Hedges) completes the party, as a sort of wrangler. Unknown to Alice, Karen also joins the cruise, still hoping to learn something about the mysterious manuscript.

 

Once on board, the reunion is tense, even prickly. We gradually learn that Alice apparently mined details of Roberta’s tempestuous marriage for You Always, You Never; she therefore has long blamed Alice both for the subsequent divorce, and for the dead-end life she has led ever since. Worse yet, Roberta is convinced that the rumored sequel will re-open old wounds.

 

One Night in Miami: Compelling revisionist history

One Night in Miami (2020) • View trailer

Four stars. Rated R, for profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.15.21

On Feb. 25, 1964 — on the eve of the name change that would prove so controversial — Cassius Clay became the world boxing champion after an upset victory over Sonny Liston, during a bout at Florida’s Miami Convention Center.

 

Basking in the euphoria of an historic sports upset by Cassius Clay (Eli Goree, second
from left), he and his friends — from left, Sam Cooke (Leslie Odom Jr.), Malcolm X
(Kingsley Ben-Adir) and Jim Brown (Aldis Hodge) — are about to debate how best
to "market" such an outcome.

Following the match, Clay returned to his room at the Hampton House Hotel, where he spent a quiet evening with friends Malcolm X, Sam Cooke and Jim Brown … under the watchful eye of Nation of Islam security. Nobody knows what they talked about — at least, not to any great degree — but playwright Kemp Powers became obsessed by the notion of what could have been discussed by that amazing quartet, at that seminal moment during the nascent Civil Rights movement.

 

The result was 2013’s One Night in Miami, a 90-minute one-act play that Powers has just adapted into a film — available via Amazon Prime — helmed with capable assurance by actress-turned-director Regina King (an impressive feature film debut). 

 

It’s a fascinating “what if” scenario. And even if hindsight has allowed Powers to shade the content of this encounter, the issues discussed certainly would have been just as relevant then, as they are today (sadly).

 

Making a movie from a play, particularly one of this claustrophobic nature, always involves the challenge of “opening up” the action, so that we don’t feel we’re merely watching a filmed stage performance. Powers and King get around this with some brief prologues that cleverly — and wincingly — blend Black oppression with failure.

 

Cooke (Leslie Odom Jr.), despite possessing more than two dozen Top 40 hits by this point in his career, flops miserably before a white Copacabana audience that radiates contempt. Clay (Eli Goree), facing Henry Cooper in June 1963, is knocked to the mat. (The astonished look on Goree’s face is an early indication of the almost eerie way he channels the once-and-future Muhammad Ali.)

 

Brown (Aldis Hodge), just beginning to transition from NFL fame to an acting career — having just wrapped his co-starring debut in 1964’s Rio Conchos — drops in on a family friend (Beau Bridges) at a Georgia plantation. What initially seems a congenial visit between equals who like and admire each other, takes a sharp left turn with a line from Bridges — delivered so blandly, so matter-of-factly — that we’re left breathless.

 

The subsequent shift to Clay’s victory over Liston therefore is even more triumphant, with Cooke, Brown and Malcolm X (Kingsley Ben-Adir) cheering in the audience. When they return to the hotel room, it’s with different intentions; Cooke and Brown hope to party, while the abstinent Malcolm X has something more important in mind.

 

The Midnight Sky: Oppressively cheerless

The Midnight Sky (2020) • View trailer

Two stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and fleeting profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.5.21 

Check a dictionary for the phrase “profoundly depressing,” and you’ll find this film.

 

There’s a tiny cinematic sub-genre that I’ll call “futility drama,” wherein a given premise is catastrophic from the onset … and then gets progressively worse. Heroic action is either inconsequential or useless; failure is inevitable. Recent examples include 2003’s Open Water and the 2009 adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

 

Sully (Felicity Jones) and Adewole (David Oyelowo) can't understand why they aren't
picking up any transmissions from Earth's numerous spacecraft support facilities.

The Midnight Sky — exclusive to Netflix — isn’t quite that bleak, but the distinction is so insignificant, that you’re unlikely to find it comforting.

 

The setting is February 2049, three weeks after “the event.” This incident never is specifically disclosed, but visible computer modeling screens reveal that it began in major metropolitan centers and then spread outward; the implication is the mutually assured destruction of war. The result is that Earth’s air has become radioactive and/or poisonous, killing everything: all plant and animal life forms.

 

The effect hasn’t yet reached the Arctic Circle’s Barbeau Observatory, which has been abandoned save for Augustine (George Clooney), a scientist who — alone among the facility’s sizeable staff and research team — chose not to return home, and to certain death. The irony is rich: Although he suffers from some undisclosed medical condition that requires frequent blood transfusions, he already has outlived everybody else on the planet. He’s literally the last man on Earth.

 

(Right away, the psychology feels totally daft in scripter Mark L. Smith’s adaptation of Lily Brooks-Dalton’s 2016 novel. Everybody else left? Nobody else remained with Augustine, in order to live a few more weeks? That’s ridiculous.)

 

Augustine has everything he needs, and — as flashbacks soon make clear — he’s a loner by nature anyway; his entire life has been consumed by his research. Clooney persuasively depicts the grinding struggle of a man in constant discomfort and pain, who nonetheless goes through the motions, valuing each fresh moment of survival. Even so, he’s spent: bone-weary and resigned to an inevitable fate.

 

On this particular day, he’s reminded of the spacecraft Aether, returning from a two-year mission to explore K-23, a previously undiscovered moon orbiting Jupiter. The five-person crew, commanded by Adewole (David Oyelowo), has no idea that they’re returning to a dead planet. They need to be warned, but the Aether still is too far away; the observatory’s antenna isn’t strong enough for a signal to reach them.

 

Thus, the challenge: Can Augustine figure out a way to contact the Aether, and — even if he does — would such information even be useful?

 

Mank: A true dazzler

Mank (2020) • View trailer

Five stars. Rated R, for profanity and sexual candor

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.8.21

Director David Fincher’s Mank is a magnificent experience in all manner of ways, starting with Gary Oldman’s mesmerizing portrayal of celebrated journalist, author and screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz.

 

Screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman) and actress Marion Davies
(Amanda Seyfried) meet over a shared cigarette; they'll soon bond over their
tempestuous fealty to William Randolph Hearst.

It’s also a bravura, often breathtaking display of cinematic art. Fincher, cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt and editor Kirk Baxter have meticulously replicated the style, atmosphere and very essence of the film — Citizen Kane — whose creation drives this narrative. The sharply sculpted screenplay — by Fincher’s late father, Jack — even mimics the non-linear storytelling style that was so innovative in Orson Welles’ classic.

 

The saga is rigorously period-authentic, and (mostly) historically accurate. Jack Fincher conflates a few key events — and meddles a bit with chronology — to heighten dramatic tension, but his characterization of key players is (often dismayingly) dead-on.

 

Perhaps Jack Fincher’s most audacious stroke is his revival of a controversy that film scholars have deemed long settled: the question of who actually wrote, and/or contributed the most, to the script of Citizen Kane. Fincher pere et fil clearly imply that Mankiewicz deserves the lion’s share of credit, whereas actual evidence weighs far more heavily in Welles’ favor. 

 

Ah, but even here, Fincher’s script is cheekily ambiguous … because their Mankiewicz clearly isn’t the most reliable narrator of — or participant in — his own life.

 

(In the movie world, stubborn skeptics are akin to those who insist that Shakespeare’s plays actually were written by Francis Bacon. For the record, though, Welles and Mankiewicz shared the screenplay Academy Award, the sole victory among Kane’s nine Oscar nominations.)

 

Fincher opens his film in early 1940, as Mankiewicz is deposited at an isolated ranch in Victorville, California, roughly 90 miles from the hedonistic Hollywood environment that exacerbates his worst tendencies. He’s left with secretary Rita Alexander (Lily Collins), longtime friend and writing associate John Houseman (Sam Troughton), and a nurse (Monika Gossmann) to care for a badly broken leg sustained in a recent driving accident.

 

Mankiewicz’s assignment from Welles: to come up with the initial draft of a screenplay depicting the imperious career of a combustible newspaper mogul who — wink, wink, nudge, nudge — isn’t really based on William Randolph Hearst. Except that of course it is.

Wonder Woman 1984: Far from wonder-ful

Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) • View trailer

2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for fantasy violence

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.15.21

The sophomore curse has struck again.

 

At 151 minutes, director Patty Jenkins’ second shot at the Amazing Amazon, exclusive to HBO MAX, overstays its welcome by at least half an hour. The script — by Jenkins, Geoff Johns and Dave Callaham — hasn’t anywhere near the depth to sustain such length.

 

While a dismayed Steve (Chris Pine) watches, Diana (Gal Gadot) learns something
quite sinister about the mysterious "Dreamstone" that is causing so much trouble.

On top of which, while Pedro Pascal may be a pop-culture sensation as The Mandalorian, he makes a truly terrible primary villain here. His Maxwell Lord is a burlesque Trumpian megalomaniac: absolutely not worth Wonder Woman’s time (or ours).

 

Kristen Wiig fares better as secondary villain Barbara Minerva, because she has a well-defined — and genuinely interesting — character arc. Lord, in contrast, starts out as a clownish goofball … and stays that way.

 

On the positive side, Jenkins’ overall approach remains better than usual for this genre. Far too many superhero films seem like relentless, landscape-leveling slugfests; Jenkins allows her characters plenty of quieter moments, and the judicious action sequences are much more organic to the story being told. 

 

Given that 99.9 percent of the Marvel and DC superhero epics are directed by guys, I’m obliged to credit Jenkins’ female touch.

 

But insisting on scripting involvement — which wasn’t the case, with the first film — clearly affected her judgment.

 

This sequel opens with a superfluous prologue set during Diana Prince’s childhood on Themyscira. Although Lilly Aspell is a crackerjack adolescent Diana during the running, climbing, jumping, riding and swimming climax of the Amazon Games — editor Richard Pearson paces this with verve — this sequence has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the film.

 

It clearly should have been included as part of the first film’s origin details. Here, it seems little more than an excuse for Connie Nielsen and Robin Wright to pop up again (albeit fleetingly) as, respectively, Diana’s mother Hippolyta, and Aunt Antiope.

 

Flash-forward to 1984, with the adult Diana (Gal Gadot) now firmly ensconced as an anthropologist and archaeologist, curating ancient artifacts at the Smithsonian. She leads a quiet life and keeps a low profile, even when donning her flamboyant “work togs” as Wonder Woman. (She seems to be keeping her super deed-doing something of a secret, which is puzzling.)

 

Soul: It has serious chops!

Soul (2020) • View trailer

Five stars. Rated PG, for mild thematic elements

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.31.20

This isn’t the first time I’ve observed that some of the sharpest, wittiest and most perceptive scripts belong to animated films.

 

An impressive percentage of them come from Pixar.

 

Joe Gardner's soul, right, tirelessly tries to find something that might inspire the cynical,
world-weary — and yet oddly childlike — Soul 22.

Pete Docter has been one of Hollywood’s most innovative writer/directors for well over a decade; he’s also one of the most savvy collaborators. Although he shared scripting credits on WALL•E, Up and Inside Out, all three possess an inventive point of view — a shrewd analysis of the human condition — that bespeaks Docter’s guiding influence.

 

This is even more obvious, given that he directed — and won well-deserved Academy Awards — for the latter two.

 

I figured Inside Out would remain his career masterpiece. I should’ve known better.

 

Soul — directed and co-written by Docter, with scripting assistance from Mike Jones and Kemp Powers — is another animated tour de force that ingeniously blends humor, pathos and social commentary with a wildly imaginative take on what makes us who we are.

 

Whereas Inside Out cheekily proposed how our workaday behavior varies according to the influence of (primarily) joy, sadness, fear and anger, Soul — available (ahem) solely via Disney+ — offers a fascinating theory for how our personalities are shaped, and the unalterable degree to which that influences who and what we become.

 

But the film doesn’t initially seem that way, and that’s another clever touch: An equally strong secondary story beats at its heart.

 

Joe Gardner (voiced by Jamie Foxx), a gifted pianist with wicked jazz chops, has tirelessly gigged in an effort to get the one big break that might ignite a career. He’s a constant disappointment to his mother (Libba Gardner), who wishes he’d abandon such dreams and be content as a middle-school music teacher … particularly since he’s just been offered full-time employment.

 

Ah, but Joe lucks into an audition for world-renowned sax legend Dorothea Williams (Angela Bassett) … and nails it. She makes him a member of her quartet, currently headlining at the Half Note (the absolute epitome, as visualized, of an intimate New York basement jazz club).

 

Giddy with delight, oblivious to his surroundings, Joe has an accident … and winds up — now a much smaller, ghostlike presence that represents his soul — on a moving sidewalk leading heavenward into The Great Beyond.

 

(This whiplash assault on our emotions and expectations — giddy with joy, sharing Joe’s success, to sudden whattheheck??? — is typical of Docter’s films.)

Rose Island: By any name, it's a hoot!

Rose Island (2020) • View trailer

3.5 stars. Rated TV-14, for considerable profanity

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.8.21

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

 

In 1967 — annoyed by the ponderous Italian bureaucracy involved with any sort of construction — innovative Bolognese engineer Giorgio Rosa sank nine pylons into the ocean off the coastal city of Rimini, at the country’s northeastern tip. The pylons soon supported a 400-square-meter “island” platform that, over time, hosted a restaurant, bar, nightclub, souvenir shop and post office: all free of rules and regulations, and open to tourists who soon arrived in enthusiastic numbers.

 

With their "independent island state" having become a popular tourist attraction,
Giorgio (Elio Germano) and Neumann (Tom Wlaschiha) wonder what to do next.

On June 24, 1968 — having shrewdly placed his little enclave just beyond Italy’s territorial waters — Rosa declared it an independent state dubbed Insulo de la Rozoj, and named himself president. He declared an official language (Esperanto), created a flag, issued stamps and set up a council of ministers. Piles of mail began to arrive, from people desiring citizenship on this artificial island.

 

We’ll never know whether Rosa genuinely desired to tweak the Italian government, or wanted to conduct an ingenious sociology experiment, or regarded this as the perfect way to mingle with counter-culture Riviera hedonists, or simply had a wicked sense of humor.

 

Rosa died in 2017, having agreed that these events could be depicted in a film to be released after his passing. It didn’t take long: L’incredibile storia dell’Isola delle Rose (Rose Island) has just arrived as a Netflix exclusive.

 

It’s quite delightful: very much akin to droll, low-key British charmers … but in Italian.

 

Director Sydney Sibilia — who co-wrote the script with Francesca Manieri — has taken liberties with historical fact; it’s best to acknowledge that his film is suggested by actual events. Key details are accurate, but Sibilia has made much more of Rosa’s capricious bid for statehood, and its impact on the Italian government, in order to get more of a cinematic story by tweaking a series of fabricated officials running all the way up to the Vatican.

 

The result feels strongly influenced, in tone and structure, by 2009’s Pirate Radio, with its similarly affectionate nod to renegade spirit.

 

This also is very much a 1960s saga; one can’t imagine it occurring at any other point in time. The film’s soundtrack therefore is laden with the era’s pop tunes, in a variety of languages: from Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction,” The Kinks’ cover of “Louie Louie” and Shocking Blues’s “Send Me a Postcard,” to Dik Dik’s robust Italian cover of “California Dreaming.”

 

We meet Giorgio Rosa (Elio Germano) during a brief flash-forward, as he attempts to gain an audience with the Council of Europe, headquartered in Strasbourg, France. His case piques the curiosity of diplomat Jean Baptiste Toma (François Cluzet).

 

The always terrific Cluzet, well remembered from 2006’s Tell No One and 2011’s The Intouchables, is an intriguing choice for such a fleeting role; that said, he definitely makes the most of his brief screen time.

 

Toma grants Giorgio the opportunity to explain his presence; we then bounce back a year, to watch these events unfold.