Power Ballad: Music to our ears

Power Ballad (2026) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five); rated R, for relentless profanity and some drug use

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.7.26 

Irish writer/director John Carney clearly loves music as much as I admire his films.

 

Starting with 2006’s charming Once — with its poignant, Academy Award-winning song “Falling Slowly” — and continuing through 2013’s Begin Again, 2016’s Sing Street and 2023’s Flora and Son — Carney has found fresh ways to explore the complicated, sometimes maddening relationship his characters have with music, and their muse.

 

After a blend of swapped stories, too much alcohol, and a mutual love of songwriting,
Danny (Nick Jonas, left) and Rick (Paul Rudd) play original tunes for each other.

His newest beguiling drama, co-written with Peter McDonald, focuses on the frequently shattering impact today’s corporate, money-driven music industry has on talented individuals who don’t ... quite ... make it.

Back in the day, American singer/songwriter Rick (Paul Rudd) established a modest presence and released a few albums. While performing in Dublin during an international tour, he met and married Rachel (Marcella Plunkett) ... and never left. Pop star aspirations were set aside 14 years ago, when their daughter Aja (Beth Fallon) was born.

 

Rick now is the charismatic lead singer of a pop/rock quintet dubbed The Bride and Groove, which is reasonably successful on the local wedding circuit. Unfortunately, Rick has a tendency to sprinkle one of his own early tunes among the band’s popular, by-request selection of power ballad covers such as Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration” ... to the constant annoyance of band leader Binzer (Rory Keenan).

 

While at  home, Rick continues to noodle away at new songs. One in particular — a sentimental ballad titled “How to Write a Song Without You” — has obsessed him for years, but he can’t quite get it right.

 

He frequently shares his efforts with his disinterested daughter, who scoffs at romantic lyrics.

 

What do you want out of a song, Rick asks.

 

“Revenge,” Aja replies, without skipping a beat.

 

The band’s next booking is a posh gig at a massive estate reminiscent of Downton Abbey. Toward the performance’s conclusion, newlyweds George (Robert Mitchell) and Elaine (Mae Higgins) ask the band to let a “friend” share a song. He turns out to be American pop star Danny Wilson (Nick Jonas), a former “boy band” sensation now struggling to establish a solo career.

 

Later that evening, once all the revelers have retired, Rick and Danny bond over their shared love of music. After plenty of alcohol and shared stories, they play music for each other; Danny gratefully accepts Rick’s suggested feedback and lyrical notes. As dawn approaches, Rick plays “How to Write a Song” on the piano, which clearly impresses Danny.

 

Carney lets this warm and enchanting montage sequence unfold at a leisurely pace. Both actors are note-perfect as their respective characters thaw, surprise and impress each other, and develop a palpable level of mutual respect.

 

As they part, Danny hands Rick his record label’s business card, encouraging him to keep in touch.

 

Song Sung Blue: Musical lightning!

Song Sung Blue (2025) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, brief profanity and fleeting drug use

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.4.26

If writer/director Craig Brewer’s poignant drama weren’t based on actual events, it would be a shameless tear-jerker.

 

Be advised: The fact that it is based on actual events, makes it even more of a tear-jerker.

 

Mike (Hugh Jackman, left), Dave (Fisher Stevens, center left) and Mark (Michael
Imperioli, center right) listen intently, as Tom (Jim Belushi) outlines their upcoming
touring schedule.

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ve been a life-long Neil Diamond fan since early high school, which makes me inclined to be both forgiving and potentially hyper-critical. But the latter never came into play, because both Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson are fabulous singers and performers. 

Brewer’s film, based on Greg Kohs’ 2008 documentary of the same title, deftly profiles small-time musicians Mike Sardina (Jackman) and Claire Stengl (Hudson): how they met, and the magic that occurred once they got together.

 

Brewer begins unexpectedly, with a tight-tight-tight close-up of Jackman’s face, as Mike gravely recounts some seminal moments in his life: a confession of sorts, which concludes as the camera pulls back, to reveal that he’s at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It’s a special day — his 20-year “sobriety birthday” — and he celebrates it as he has each one before, by concluding with a solo guitar performance of “Song Sung Blue.”

 

Mike moonlights as a mechanic to support his true passion, as a veteran musician — nicknamed Lightning — on the Milwaukee gigging circuit, performing whatever is demanded at county fairs, small auditoriums and dive bars. After uncharacteristically refusing a gig — insisting that trying to impersonate Hawaiian pop singer Don Ho is too much of a stretch — he chances to catch Claire doing her Patsy Cline act at the Wisconsin State Fair.

 

They click (to put it mildly).

 

“I’m not a songwriter, I’m not a sex symbol,” he confesses. “I just want to entertain people.”

 

“I don’t want to be a hairdresser,” she replies, “I want to sing, I want to dance, I want a garden, I want a cat.”

 

The relationship happens quickly, both because they’re sympatico … and also because Jackman and Hudson radiate charm and charisma the way the rest of us breathe. Mike and Claire are totally cute together, with a goofy, giddy level of excitement like teenagers experiencing love for the first time.

 

Both have painful pasts. In addition to his hard-fought sobriety, Mike carries trauma from his service in Vietnam as a “tunnel rat,” and has a failed marriage behind him; Claire also is divorced. 

 

Mike gets occasional visits from his college-age daughter, Angelina (pop chanteuse King Princess); their relationship is prickly, at best. Claire has two kids — teenage Rachel (Ella Anderson) and adolescent Dana (Hudson Hensley) — who frequently drive her crazy. Both Mike and Claire also struggle financially.

 

Musically, though, they go together like peanut butter and jelly.

A Complete Unknown: Not come Oscar time!

A Complete Unknown (2024) • View trailer

Five stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang 

Director James Mangold’s mesmerizing depiction of Bob Dylan’s early years is laden with electrifying moments.

 

Early on, Joan Baez (Monica Barbaro) is the self-assured, veteran stage performer,
and Bob Dylan (Timothée Chalamet) is just a nervous kid ... but that dynamic changes
quickly, and quite dramatically.

The first comes quickly, when a scruffy 19-year-old leaves Minnesota for New York’s Greenwich Village, with little more than a guitar and the clothes he wore, in order to visit Woody Guthrie, with whom he had become obsessed after reading the legendary folk singer’s autobiography.

It’s January 1961: a quietly intimate moment in the hospital room where Guthrie (Scoot McNairy) has long been under care for Huntington’s disease (for which there was no treatment, at the time). His frequent visitor is Pete Seeger (Edward Norton), who has learned how to understand his longtime friend’s mostly unintelligible attempts at speech. Young Dylan (Timothée Chalamet) appears in the doorway; Seeger invites him inside.

 

Guthrie spots the guitar slung against Dylan’s back, and gestures for a song.

 

The young man obliges.

 

Like ... wow.

 

Movie magic at its finest.

 

A similarly powerful scene comes much later; it involves a cigarette passed between two people standing on opposite sides of a chain-link fence: unexpectedly sweet, intimate ... and sad.

 

Mangold and co-scripter Jay Cocks based their film on Elijah Wood’s 2015 non-fiction book, Dylan Goes Electric: Newport, Seeger, Dylan and the Night that Split the Sixties. The result is rigorously authentic to actual events — warts and all — allowing for occasional fabrications for dramatic purposes. The time frame is brief, from early 1961 to the galvanic, game-changing evening of July 25, 1965, during Dylan’s closing set at that year’s Newport Folk Festival.

 

To say that Chalamet fully inhabits this performance is the worst of understatements. It isn’t merely an uncanny replication of Dylan’s look, posture, mannerisms and the cadence of his mumbled, almost whispered speaking voice. Chalamet also sings and performs more than 40 songs during the course of this rhapsodic film, often sounding more like Dylan than the man himself.

 

The dramatic arc here will be familiar to those who’ve followed the careers of artists who burst explosively onto the scene, and then become pigeon-holed. Some are content to stay in such boxes, cheerfully riding the money machine; others — the genuinely talented — chafe at public expectations.

 

The resulting weight can be crippling. What, if anything, does an artist owe his public?

The Beach Boys: Summer never ends!

The Beach Boys (2024) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for drug content and brief profanity

Available via: Disney+

By Derrick Bang

Although nearly a dozen documentaries and dramatized films have been made about The Beach Boys — from 1985’s An American Band to 2000’s TV miniseries The Beach Boys: An American Family and 2014’s extremely odd Love & Mercy — Frank Marshall and Thom Zimny’s captivating new documentary is one of the best.

 

For several years during the early 1960s, The Beach Boys — from left, Dennis Wilson,
Al Jardine, Carl Wilson, Brian Wilson and Mike Love — were the ultimate
ambassadors for the California dream of sand, surf and catchy songs.

They secured full cooperation and extremely informative face-time from surviving original members Brian Wilson, Mike Love and Al Jardine; Brian’s ex-wife, Marilyn Wilson-Rutherford; and additional telling commentary by, among others, contemporaries Don Was and Lindsey Buckingham, and “Wrecking Crew” session musicians Carol Kaye and Don Randi. These new interviews are blended with ample vintage footage of the band’s rehearsals, live performances, TV appearances and studio work.

Marshall and Zimny also benefited from a wealth of photographs and home movies; the group’s early years were impressively well documented.

 

Marshall and Zimny spend most of their film on the popular California group’s origins and meteoric rise — and temporary fall — during the 1960s and early ’70s. While some may regard this as barely half the story, this film nonetheless packs a lot into its 113 minutes.

 

This saga had it all: a physically and emotionally abusive “stage father” who tried to compensate for his own failed music career by (badly) micro-managing that of his three sons; a tortured genius (eldest son Brian); constantly rotating personnel — who knew that Glen Campbell was briefly a Beach Boy (?!) — the friendly competition with The Beatles, for chart-topping hits and albums; increasingly complex and forward-thinking songs, courtesy of Brian; and eventual emergence into the well-deserved respect of history.

 

This film opens with a rapturous 1976 reunion concert at a stadium packed to the rafters with tens of thousands of fans, and then bounces back to the late 1950s. 

 

Brian Wilson was 16 in 1958; Dennis and Carl were 13 and 11, respectively. They grew up in Hawthorne, California. (Where else?) Their father, Murry, played piano and composed a handful of songs that had been modest hits during the previous few years. Brian was fascinated by the harmonies of vocal groups such as The Four Freshmen; Carl was enamored of Chuck Berry.

 

When the brothers got serious about writing, performing and recording songs, they roped in high school classmate Al Jardine, and cousin Mike Love. (Tellingly, Love grew up in the more upscale Los Angeles-area neighborhood of Baldwin Hills.)

 

Brian and Love co-wrote “Surfin’” and “Surfin’ Safari,” and the former was recorded as a studio demo in September 1961. The fledgling band’s first money performance was New Year’s Eve 1961, in Long Beach. Everybody sang, and by this point the boys had gravitated toward their instruments of choice: Carl on lead guitar, Jardine on rhythm guitar, Brian on bass, Dennis on drums, and Love handling lead vocals and occasional sax touches.

 

Consider: At this point, Brian, Dennis and Carl were only 19, 16 and 14.

Immediate Family: A thoroughly entertaining look at music legends

Immediate Family (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Not rated, and suitable for all ages

Available via: Hulu

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.10.24

Everybody reading these words has heard these four guys perform.

 

You simply didn’t know it at the time.

 

Members of The Immediate Family — from left, Daniel "Danny Kootch" Kortchmar, Leland
Sklar, Waddy Wachtel, guitarist Steve Postel (new to the group) and Russ Kunkel —
stroll city streets like they own them. And, indeed, they do.

The quartet collectively known these days as The Immediate Family — guitarists Daniel “Danny Kootch” Kortchmar and Waddy Wachtel, bassist Leland Sklar, and drummer Russ Kunkel — entered the music scene in the late 1960s and early ’70s, when pop hits crooned by camera-ready headliners (but written by others) gave way to folk/rock singer/songwriters who composed and performed their own material.

Kootch, Wachtel, Sklar and Kunkel quickly became in-demand session musicians: the backing “shading artists” who brought memorable highlights to chart-topping tunes by this new crop of talent.

 

But as filmmaker Denny Tedesco makes clear in this thoroughly absorbing documentary — and you can’t watch it without constantly smiling — these guys weren’t overnight sensations. They’d all been honing their musical chops since early childhood.

 

Their histories unfold via a series of individual on-camera interviews, vintage clips, brief bits of cute animation, and playful banter between all four of them, seated together and inspiring each others’ memories.

 

Kootch, a native New Yorker, met then-unknown James Taylor when both were teenagers spending summers at Martha’s Vineyard. They subsequently formed a band dubbed The Flying Machine, which survived long enough to produce one album’s worth of songs (finally released, rather hypocritically, only after Taylor hit big with the album Sweet Baby James, on which Kootch also played backing guitar).

 

Taylor’s hit song, “Fire and Rain,” references this band with the phrase “sweet dreams and flying machines, in pieces on the ground.”

 

Kootch eventually gravitated to Los Angeles, where he became part of a trio dubbed The City, alongside Carole King. Following Sweet Baby James, Kootch backed King on her 1971 breakthrough album, Tapestry.

Flora and Son: Makes beautiful music

Flora and Son (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for sexual candor, brief drug use and relentless profanity

Available via: Apple TV+

By Derrick Bang

Like writer/director/musician John Carney, I firmly believe that everybody possesses an artistic bliss which, if discovered and properly nurtured, could dramatically improve one’s life.

 

To her surprise, Flora (Eve Hewson) soon anticipates her online guitar lessons with
genuine pleasure, because of the bond she establishes with her tutor.

Carney clearly values the transformative power of music, which became abundantly clear with 2007’s Once, the captivating breakout hit that made his rep and gave us an Academy Award-winning song: “Falling Slowly.” He followed that with the equally beguiling Begin Again (2013) and Sing Street (2016), both of which enhanced their character-driven pleasures with charming song scores.

Carney’s newest, however, is apt to be a tougher sell: in part because its roster of original tunes lacks a memorable ear-worm, but mostly because — as introduced — this story’s protagonist is thoroughly unlikable (unless one admires relentless, profanity-laced tirades that would make a dock worker blush).

 

That said, one can’t help admiring the unapologetic ferocity with which Eve Hewson plays 31-year-old Flora, a Dublin-based single mother still selfishly trying to make up for the long-ago lost adolescence resulting from the arrival of her now-14-year-old son, Max (Orén Kinlan).

 

Flora is selfish, spiteful, impatient and intolerant, with a an entitlement chip the size of Inishmore on her shoulder. She “works” rather disinterestedly as a daycare nanny, then devotes her evenings to bars, discos and getting laid. As a result, Max has become a surly, rebellious, free-range teenager — who could blame him? — and petty thief who is up to his last chance with the local Gardai (policeman).

 

Flora can’t even be bothered to remember or acknowledge Max’s birthday. When the realization dawns, she fishes a broken guitar from a refuse bin, pays to have it quickly refurbished, and presents it to Max. But it’s a day-late-dollar-short gesture that the boy understandably dismisses with a sniff.

 

At this point, the subtlety of Hewson’s performance begins to shine. (About time, we think gratefully.) When Max is out of range, Flora displays genuine shame and regret; we realize that part of her anger is directed inward, over her inability to be a better mother. She’s dismayed because she never had the chance to learn how.

 

Against all odds, she becomes sympathetic. She also takes a metaphorical breath and slows down.

I Wanna Dance with Somebody: Celebratory

I Wanna Dance with Somebody (2022) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for drug use, profanity and emotional abuse

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Film biographies live or die on the basis of the starring performance, and Naomi Ackie is by far this project’s strongest asset (although, in fairness, she’s surrounded by an equally strong supporting cast).

 

As her career explodes, and she finds herself surrounded by an increasing number of
"takers," Whitney Houston (Naomi Ackie) knows that she always can trust
Clive Davis (Stanley Tucci) to look out for her best interests.

Ackie persuasively runs the complex emotional arc of Whitney Houston’s tempestuous — and tragically brief — career: modest ingénue; giddy breakthrough artist; savvy judge of what works best; regal diva; betrayed daughter; out-of-control mega-celebrity, blind to the way in which she’s torching her own brand; and, ultimately, wan and emaciated substance abuser.

During the best and brightest moments, Ackie’s mimicry is almost eerie: the warmly radiant smile; the shrewd, theatrical hand gestures and body language; and — most crucially — the sheer magnetic presence this woman displayed, both on stage and during quieter moments. She lights up an otherwise quiet room, sucks all the air out of a massive, sold-out theater.

 

What Ackie does not do, however, is sing; she lip-synchs everything to Houston’s actual vocals. (It is, credit where due, extremely convincing lip-synching.)

 

This, perhaps, is the most visible example of the compromises, omissions and tread-very-carefully decisions that director Kasi Lemmons and scripter Anthony McCarten were forced to make, every step of the way: both in order to please the many surviving associates and family members, and to avoid potential defamation lawsuits.

 

This is most obvious during McCarten’s “softening” of Bobby Brown (Ashton Sanders), and the ludicrously restrained manner in which the film deals with his abusive behavior during their 14-year train wreck of a marriage.

 

On the other hand — and no doubt a reflection of our more enlightened times — McCarten’s depiction of Houston’s bisexuality is refreshingly frank, along with her long, complex relationship with best friend (and eventually executive assistant) Robyn Crawford (Nafessa Williams). 

 

Their flirty, meet-cute connection, as young women, is one of this film’s many pleasures. Williams is similarly excellent as the effervescent lover turned steadfast, truth-telling watchdog, as Whitney’s career ascends and then heads into troubled waters. Robyn’s feisty, take-no-prisoners loyalty cracks only briefly, when the necessity of a heterosexual “image” derails any chance of a longstanding romantic relationship.

 

Robyn’s crestfallen expression — and rage — are heartbreaking, when this moment of truth arrives.

Blinded by the Light: Incandescent!

Blinded by the Light (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and vulgar racism
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.16.19

Music doesn't merely hath charms to soothe the savage breast; it can transform lives.

Writer/director Gurinder Chadha has been absent from our screens for far too long, after enchanting filmgoers with Bend It Like Beckham and Bride & Prejudice, back in the early 2000s. She has remained busy, but her intervening projects haven’t resonated nearly as much (at least, not here in the States).

Determined to share his newly discovered affection for Bruce Springsteen's inspirational
lyrics, Javed (Viveik Kalra) drags a surprised — but definitely pleased — Eliza
(Nell Williams) into a spontaneous dance.

She’s back with a vengeance, thanks to Blinded by the Light.

Pop/rock music fans have enjoyed an embarrassment of riches, of late; we’ve viewed the world — and enjoyed tuneful biographies — according to Queen (Bohemian Rhapsody), Elton John (Rocket Man) and The Beatles (Yesterday). Now Chadha — with a scripting assist from Paul Mayeda Berges and Sarfraz Manzoor — has put Bruce Springsteen’s poetic, working-man angst to similar magical use, with “Blinded by the Light.”

The result is charming, exhilarating and illuminating by turns, along with a perceptive nod toward current real-world events: in every respect, one of the summer film season’s sweetest surprises. That it’s based on actual events — Manzoor’s absorbing 2008 memoir, Greetings from Bury Park: Race, Religion and Rock ’n’ Roll — is the icing on the cake.

The setting is Luton, England, in 1987: the height of Margaret Thatcher’s reign, with millions of people out of work, many of whom — believing “foreigners” have taken their jobs — have joined increasingly aggressive “Make England White Again” marches. (Sound familiar?)

Javed (Viveik Kalra), a teen of Pakistani descent, has lived in Luton since his father Malik (Kulvinder Ghir) moved the family to England years ago. Malik is bluntly imperious in his traditional views; he’s therefore a stern roadblock to any semblance of Westernized behavior that might tempt Javed and his sister, Shazia (Nikita Mehta). 

Which is a problem, because Javed is forced to conceal his artistic tendencies; he has recorded his thoughts and dreams in daily journals since childhood, and also composes poetry. Some of the latter find an outlet as lyrics for songs written and performed by a garage band headed by longtime best friend and neighbor Matt (Dean-Charles Chapman).

Matt also has been a staunch defender against the racial taunts — and worse — abusively hurled in Javed’s direction.

The film opens just as Javed begins his first year at the local sixth-form college, where he’s determined to pass his A-levels in order to qualify for university: somewhere (anywhere!) other than Luton. His father tolerates this only with the expectation that Javed studies medicine, law, business or something else that guarantees a high-income job.

Meanwhile, entering a new school is fraught with the usual peril, amplified because Javed a) looks foreign; and b) is slight of build and easily intimidated.

Yesterday: Got to get it into our lives!

Yesterday (2019) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, and too harshly, for fleeting profanity and mildly suggestive content
By Derrick Bang

Richard Curtis isn’t just wildly imaginative; he writes the sharpest flirty and snarky dialog going these days.

Having agreed to meet hyper-aggressive Hollywood agent Debra Hammer (Kate
McKinnon), Jack (Himesh Patel) is overwhelmed by the ambitious plans that she has for
a career he hasn't yet realized is within his grasp.

He’s one of very few modern film scripters who understands precisely how to replicate the rat-a-tat banter that characterized classic Hollywood romantic comedies of the late 1930s and ’40s, while also acknowledging modern touches. He has an uncanny ear for the boisterous chatter of a group dynamic, and — most crucially — he shapes even the most minor throwaway characters with equal care.

Nobody is superfluous in a Curtis screenplay; everybody has a significant part to play. Compare this to what we get from far too many of today’s lazy scripters, who focus exclusively on a given film’s stars, leaving the supporting players hanging uselessly, like clothes on a closet rack.

I hope Great Britain appreciates Curtis as a treasure — much like Hollywood’s Aaron Sorkin — because he certainly deserves such recognition.

(I also find it quite droll that one of Curtis’ most celebrated earlier assignments — given his flair for cunning discourse — was concocting escapades for Rowan Atkinson’s essentially mute Mr. Bean.)

Partnered with the equally astute Danny Boyle in the director’s chair, Curtis and co-writer Jack Barth have spun a truly delectable fantasy out of the irresistible premise that fuels Yesterday:

What if you woke up one morning, and discovered you were the only person on Earth who remembered The Beatles, and their superlative catalog of songs?

What would you do?

But that comes a bit later. Jack Malik (Himesh Patel) is introduced as a struggling singer/songwriter in the tiny seaside town of Suffolk: a guy whose enthusiasm and guitar chops can’t quite compensate for mediocre lyrics and an uninspiring, working-class image. He’s just about ready to give it up, despite the fierce devotion and support of childhood best friend and de facto manager Ellie Appleton (Lily James).

Ellie also has been carrying a one-sided torch for 20 years, a blindingly obvious detail that has eluded Jack for the same period. (The notion that anybody could fail to recognize such affection from somebody who looks like Lily James stretches credibility, but we must roll with it.)

Hearts Beat Loud: The healing power of music

Hearts Beat Loud (2018) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, and much too harshly, for fleeting profanity and mild drug references
By Derrick Bang

Unexpected little charmers, such as this one, are the reason I love this job.

The core premise has been can’t-miss ever since Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney made the immortal suggestion — “Hey, kids; let’s put on a show!” — back in 1939’s Babes in Arms.

Whatever else might be happening in their lives, Frank (Nick Offerman) and his daughter
Sam (Kiersey Clemons) always experience joy when making music together

The format shifted a bit over time, these days generally attaching itself to gentle relationship dramas, where a shared love of music paves the way toward love, reconciliation and/or inner peace. Recent examples include director John Carney’s delightful trio: Sing Street (2016), Begin Again (2013) and the incomparable Once (2007).

Director/co-scripter Brett Haley’s Hearts Beat Loud definitely belongs in their company.

Haley has quietly been building an indie career characterized by unabashedly sentimental dramas such as I’ll See You in My Dreams and The Hero: gentle little films no doubt mocked by condescending viewers who sprinkle cynicism on their breakfast cornflakes, but which are adored by those of us seeking relief from lowest-common-denominator Hollywood bombast.

Haley makes films about people: folks you might know, and certainly would like to know. And if they happen to have an artistic streak, well, that just makes them more interesting.

Frank Fisher (Nick Offerman) owns a one-man record store in Red Hook, Brooklyn: a relic more than a generation out of date, whose shelves are lined solely with vinyl. Customers are a long-vanished species; the shop is approaching the final few seconds of the last track on Side B. Frank has just informed his landlady, Leslie (Toni Collette), that he’s packing it in.

The decision kills him, because music has long been in his blood. He met his wife while both performed in clubs: She sang, he played backup. She’s years deceased, under tragic circumstances that Haley and Marc Basch’s script reveals cleverly, subtly, delicately.

Their daughter Sam (Kiersey Clemons) is the second apple of Frank’s eye: an ambitious, hard-working student with plans for medical school. She has thus far spent the waning days of her final summer, before college, cracking the books in an effort to get a head start in what she knows will be a highly competitive environment.

It’s a double loss for Frank: his shop and his daughter.

Patti Cake$: Baked too long

Patti Cake$ (2017) • View trailer 
Three stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity and crude behavior, and drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.1.17

An endearing saga of empowerment beats within writer/director Geremy Jasper’s debut feature, but it’s too frequently buried beneath crude behavior, relentless vulgarity and a wildly uneven tone.

As the enigmatic Basterd (Mamoudou Athie) listens warily, Patti (Danielle Macdonald)
outlines a plan for a rather unusual rap group with her grandmother (Cathy Moriarty).

Jasper can’t get out of his own way. He makes the rookie mistake of larding his film with twitchy cinematography, tight-tight-tight close-ups, and a surfeit of artistic aggression undoubtedly intended to mirror his protagonist, but which too frequently feels like an assault on our senses.

A mere 15 minutes into this flick, I wanted to bolt the theater. Patience proved a virtue, as Jasper eventually found his footing, and his film — and its star — ultimately won me over. But not everybody was as generous, during last week’s preview screening; several people abandoned ship. It was hard to blame them.

Patricia Dombrowski (Danielle Macdonald), a plain, plus-size 23-year-old member of America’s working poor, ekes out a marginal existence in her dilapidated New Jersey home town. When not enduring insults during late-night shifts as a bartender in a seedy establishment populated by local losers, she’s stuck at home with a bitter, bitchy, boozy mother (Bridget Everett, as Barb) and a wheelchair-bound grandmother (Cathy Moriarty, as Nana).

Patricia’s fantasy escape route is fueled by her fixation on famed rap god O-Z (Sahr Ngaujah), whose posters fill her bedroom walls; she dreams of stardom under the alias of Patti Cake$ or — better still — Killa P. Truth be told, she’s a talented poet and nimble rapper, but nobody takes her seriously: particularly not Danny Bagadella (McCaul Lombardi), the swaggering townie who dominates the local rap scene, and cruelly calls her “Dumbo” and “White Precious.”

Patti isn’t entirely without allies; she shares her passion for rap with BFF Jheri (Siddharth Dhananjay), a subdued young pharmacist by day, who blossoms into a wildly enthusiastic R&B crooner after hours. He believes in her, far more than she believes in herself. But faith isn’t enough, particularly when — at home — Patti must contend with her larger-than-life mother, who still resents the now grown result of an unintended pregnancy that derailed her own music career.

Everett’s Barb is frankly scary: a formidable force of nature so intimidating that one must credit Patti for having the chutzpah to stand up for herself. The uneasy mother/daughter dynamic is established early on, when Barb wades into the bar on karaoke night, and demands three quick shots from Patti: the latter two poured with long-suffering resignation, and full awareness of what is to come.

Born to Be Blue: A long, dark journey of the soul

Born to Be Blue (2015) • View trailer 
3.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug use, sexuality and brief violence
By Derrick Bang

After watching I Saw the Light, Miles Ahead and now this — all in the space of 10 days — I’m starting to wonder if any successful musicians have happy and stable lives.

After a day spent working on a movie in which he plays himself, Chet Baker (Ethan Hawke)
lays some charm on co-star Jane (Carmen Ejogo), who — despite an earlier insistence
that she never dates colleagues — finds herself attracted to him.

Canadian filmmaker Robert Budreau’s Born to Be Blue can be viewed as an expansion of his 2009 6-minute short, The Deaths of Chet Baker. This new drama also is what Budreau terms an “anti-biopic,” which is to say an unapologetic blend of fact and fiction: a modicum of the former, plenty of the latter.

In other words, very little here is true; Budreau’s script improvises upon a few key moments during Baker’s career, much the way a jazz musician explores and expands upon a familiar tune, in order to deliver a riff that’s both the same and different.

Going in, then, we must regard Born to Be Blue as a jazz-inflected fever dream that, in time, will contribute its own layer of myth to what already has become Baker’s increasingly apocryphal legend. With that understanding, we can admire star Ethan Hawke’s thoroughly engaging performance as the troubled musician, whose career endured despite his own best efforts to destroy it.

Let’s begin with known fact: Baker was “discovered” by Charlie Parker and Gerry Mulligan in the early 1950s, and quickly rose to become a seminal figure in the nascent West Coast “cool jazz” movement. He also became a heroin addict, often pawning his trumpet in order to purchase the next fix. He wound up in an Italian prison on drug charges in the early 1960s, and — so the story goes — was approached by producer Dino de Laurentiis, who suggested that Baker star in a movie as himself.

That project never got off the ground, but — as this film opens — Budreau imagines that it did. We meet Baker (Hawke) as he clumsily maneuvers his way through a club scene fabricated on a movie stage, building to an emotionally intimate moment with co-star Jane (Carmen Ejogo). Although a budding actress, Jane is serious about her craft, and mildly vexed at the notion of working with a guy who doesn’t know the first thing about acting.

But Chet wins her over. Despite a personal rule against dating co-stars, Jane falls for him ... just in time to confront a crisis. Emerging from a bowling alley after a sorta-kinda date, Jane watches in horror as Chet is beaten by goons associated with a drug dealer to whom he owes money; they knock out Chet’s front teeth, forever destroying his ability to perform in the manner that made him famous.

(Baker did lose his teeth during just such an attack, although whether it was a simple mugging — or indeed a drug deal gone bad — is a secret he took to the grave. And it happened after a gig at The Trident, in Sausalito.)