Category Archives: Drug Culture

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

I’m a cork on the ocean: Love and Mercy ****

October 1, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on June 13, 2015)

What is it with talented musical families and evil, abusive fathers?

When you read about how Joe Jackson mistreated his children as they were growing up, it’s no wonder that Michael (and a couple siblings) ended up as freak shows. Then there’s Murray Wilson, father of Beach Boys Brian, Carl and Dennis. Like Joe, Murray intuited his children’s gifts early on. Undoubtedly, both sensed the potential gold mine . Giving both dads the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they initially guided their children’s careers in the spirit of parental mentoring, but as we know, money is the root of all evil.

It’s possible that genius envy played a role as well. There’s a very revealing scene in Bill Pohlad’s Brian Wilson biopic, Love & Mercy.

The year is 1966, and Brian (Paul Dano) is in the process of working out a song cycle that will soon coalesce into the now-legendary Pet Sounds album. He sits at a piano in front of his father (Bill Camp) and bangs out a rudimentary version of a new song that he’s jazzed about. Even at this early stage, it’s beautiful, inspired, and (with the gift of hindsight) we of course recognize it right away. Murray pisses all over it. No hit potential, dumb lyrics. The title? “God Only Knows”.

History did eventually prove Murray to be an ass, but Brian’s famously complex “issues” actually stemmed from a combination of factors, aside from the open derision from Dear Old Dad. The pressures of touring, coupled with his experimentation with LSD and his increasing difficulty reconciling the heavenly voices in his head eventually led to a full scale nervous breakdown (first in a series). Still, he managed to hold the creeping madness at bay long enough to produce the most amazing, innovative work of his career.

This particular period (1966-1967) is recreated by Pohlad with uncanny verisimilitude, especially in the “fly on the wall” depictions of the Pet Sounds sessions (these scenes reveal the core essence of the musical creative process like no other film I’ve seen since Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil). Dano’s Oscar-worthy performance is a revelation, capturing the duality of Brian the troubled genius and Brian the sweet man-child to a tee.

If this were a conventional biopic, this would be “good enough” as is. But Pohlad (and screenwriters Oren Moverman and Michael A. Lerner) make this one go to “11”, by interpolating Brian’s peak period with Brian’s bleak period…the Dr. Eugene Landy years (early 80s through the early 90s).

Landy (played here with full-throttled “don’t you love to hate me?” aplomb by Paul Giamatti) was the therapist/life coach who “treated” Brian for his mental problems by essentially putting him under house arrest (and heavy medication) for the better part of a decade (and charging his star patient a cool half mil a year for the privilege of his services). This “version” of Brian is played by John Cusack.

It may require some viewers a little time and patience before accepting Cusack as Brian; especially since he does not bear the same (almost eerie) physical resemblance, but once you do, it won’t cause the distraction that you may initially fear. There is a good reason for that…Cusack has rarely been better; this is a real comeback performance .

If you have seen Brian Wilson in interviews, you will appreciate Cusack’s turn all the more; he has done his observational homework. Like all the best actors, Cusack has picked up on the essential nuances, more than making up for his relative lack of physical resemblance. His “Brian” is sweet, touching and heartbreaking.

Elizabeth Banks is wonderful as Melinda, who meets (latter-day) Brian when he strolls into the Cadillac dealership where she works, then eventually becomes his significant other (she was the first “outsider” to glean that Dr. Landy’s Svengali-like control of Brian’s life was doing him more harm than good).

There are no bad performances in this film, down to the bit parts. I always try to avoid hyperbole, but I’ll say it: This is one of the best rock ’n’ roll biopics I’ve seen in years. The matinee I attended had an audience of approximately five (opening weekend), so I would recommend you rush out to see it before it gets eaten by a dinosaur.

Behind the Music, Biopic, Drug Culture, Jazz Musicians

Let’s get lost again: Low Down ***

September 29, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on November 22, 2014)

I will admit being unfamiliar with jazz pianist Joe Albany prior to watching Jeff Preiss’ fact-based drama Low Down, yet the late musician’s career trajectory seems depressingly familiar. Credited as a be-bop pioneer, he made his bones in the 1940s, accompanying the likes of Charlie Parker and Miles Davis. Unfortunately, he suffered an early “lost period” due to heroin, and spent most of the 50s and 60s chasing the dragon and collecting ex-wives.

He came out of seclusion in the 70s, recording a number of albums through the decade (still battling smack). He died alone, in 1988. Oddly enough, that was the same year trumpeter Chet Baker died. Baker, whose career was beset by similar woes, was profiled in Bruce Weber’s outstanding 1988 documentary Let’s Get Lost. One of its most compelling elements was the moody, noirish cinematography…by a Mr. Jeff Preiss.

Preiss’ film (which marks his feature-length directing debut) covers a 3-year period of Albany’s life in the mid-70s, when he was living in a seedy Hollywood flophouse with his teenage daughter Amy (Elle Fanning). Albany (John Hawkes) is struggling to stay focused on the work, jamming with his trumpet-playing buddy Hobbs (Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea, giving us a taste of his first instrument). Amy is cheer leading for her Dad, doing her best to keep him on track.

Speaking of tracks, a surprise visit from his parole officer reveals Dad isn’t quite holding things together, and he’s whisked off to stir. Amy goes to stay with her grandmother (Glenn Close) until Joe is released. Dad still has issues. Amy tries to keep sunny, but it’s tough to be Pollyanna when your social circle is surging with hookers, junkies, drug dealers and, er, porno star dwarves (Peter Dinklage!).

The screenplay (by Amy Albany and Topper Lilien) is based on Albany’s memoir about life with her father. Albany’s recollections about the extended family of eccentrics she encountered inject the film with a Tales of the City vibe. The naturalistic performances and Preiss’ cinema verite approach also recalls Jerry Schatzberg’s 1971 drama, The Panic in Needle Park, an episodic character study about a community of junkies.

Some may find the deliberate pacing stupefying, waiting for something to “happen”, but as John Lennon sang, “life is just what happens to you, while you’re busy making other plans.” Taken as a slice of life, Low Down just lets it happen…improvising on grace notes while keeping it in perfect time.

Conspiracy a-go-go, Drug Culture, Journalism, On Politics

Capitol offense: Kill the Messenger ***1/2

September 29, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on October 11, 2014)

‘Member back in the ’80s, when the CIA was in league with the crack cocaine trade, and they were all like, funneling the drug profit to the Nicaraguan Contras?

(*sigh*) Ah, the Reagan era. Morning in America…mourning in Central America.

Good times.

All you have to do is tell the truth, and nobody will believe you. That’s what happened to San Jose Mercury investigative journalist Gary Webb, who published a series of newspaper articles in 1996 that blew the lid off of this “dark alliance”. I’m ashamed to admit that while I remember hearing about it, I somehow got the impression (at the time) that it was urban legend; the kind of thing the SNL sketch character “Drunk Uncle” might blurt out at the dinner table while everyone snickers or hides their head in embarrassment. “Hey everybody…I heard the CIA was responsible for the crack cocaine epidemic in the African-American community!” Right, uncle.

Here’s the thing. The CIA actually did (sort of) cop to it, a few years after Webb’s newspaper expose. Normally, that would (should) have become a fairly major news story in and of itself. Unfortunately, the MSM was a little preoccupied at the time with a shinier object…the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Also by this time, Webb had lost his credibility, thanks to a concerted campaign by same aforementioned MSM to make Webb look like some nut yelling at traffic. Tragically, it “worked” too well; he became a pariah and ended up killing himself.

This largely forgotten debacle has been dramatized in a new film from Michael Cuesta called Kill the Messenger. Jeremy Renner delivers a terrific performance as the tenacious and impassioned Webb. We follow him on a journey that begins with a relatively innocuous tip from a player in the local drug trade, which leads to a perilous face-to-face meet with an imprisoned kingpin in Nicaragua (a great cameo from Andy Garcia) and eventually to the belly of the beast in D.C., where he’s implicitly advised by government spooks to cool his heels…or else. Naturally, this only makes him want to dig deeper. He hits pay dirt, and the exclusive story is published. His editors appear to have his back; that is, until the backlash begins.

The story about how Webb got “the story” is relegated to the first act; this was a wise choice by screenwriter Peter Landesman (who adapted from Nick Shou’s eponymous book and Webb’s Dark Alliance). While most of this political thriller’s “thrills” (and the snippets in the trailers) are derived from this first third of the film, that’s not the most crucial takeaway from Webb’s story. Granted, the actions of the CIA were bilious enough, but even more distressing is how eager the MSM was to sink their talons into a fellow journalist.

In this respect, Kill the Messenger parallels Oliver Stone’s JFK, in that both center on idealistic truth seekers (Jim Garrison and Gary Webb) who got crucified for their troubles…by the very parties who should be championing and joining them on their quest (now that I think about it, that’s pretty much human history-in a nutshell).

In a bit of kismet, I was listening to Democracy Now the other day while driving to work, and Amy Goodman did a segment about Webb and his legacy. She was talking to investigative journalist Robert Parry, who observed:

“…there’s no question that this was one of the most important stories of the 1980s and really the 1990s, when you get to the end of this and the CIA confessing. But it’s also a story about the failure of the mainstream press that extends to the present, goes through the Iraq War, the failure to be skeptical there, and goes right on to the present day. So it’s not an old story; it’s very much a current story.”

All I can say is thank the gods for the likes of Amy Goodman, Vice News and others following in Webb’s footsteps. And for this movie, which is one of the first fall season releases that have any true substance.

60's Counterculture, Behind the Music, Drug Culture, Road Movie

Voices leaking from a sad cafe: Inside Llewyn Davis ***

September 21, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on January 11, 2014)

Q: What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?

A: Homeless.

-an old joke (author unknown)

Some years back, while working as a morning radio host in Fairbanks, I was once scheduled to do an on-air interview with a popular Alaskan folk singer named Hobo Jim, who was slated to perform that evening. Unfortunately, he missed the interview window. The exasperated promoter called me after my show, explaining Jim was still on the road. While transportation had been offered, Jim had declined, preferring instead to hitchhike the 360 miles from the previous night’s gig in Anchorage. Oh well…I figured there had to be some reason they called this fellow “Hobo” Jim.

Then of course you’ve got your Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, your Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, Steve Martin’s “Ramblin’ Guy”…and now, thanks to the fertile imaginations of the Coen Brothers, your couch-surfin’ Llewyn Davis. “Rambling” and “freewheeling” could describe the tone of Inside Llewyn Davis, a loose (very loose) narrative depicting several days in the life of the eponymous character, a sad sack folk singer (Oscar Isaac).

The year is 1961, and the percolating Greenwich Village coffeehouse music scene provides the backdrop. That Zimmerman kid and some of his contemporaries are starting to make a bit of a splash; Llewyn Davis, not so much. Llewyn is one of those struggling artists perennially mired at the crossroads of “The Big Time” and “Bus Ride Back to Obscurity”.

Llewyn has tons of down time, in between spotty gigs and waiting for (any) news from his comically ineffectual manager, Mel Novikoff (the late Jerry Grayson). He spends most of that time brooding. He has a lot of things to brood over. Like why nearly all the pressings of his first solo album (“Inside Llewyn Davis”) have been returned by the record company and are sitting in unopened boxes in Mel’s office. Or why his former musical partner decided to throw himself off the George Washington Bridge soon after the duo released their only album. Or why Jean (Carey Mulligan) the girlfriend and singing partner of his friend Jim (Justin Timberlake) and with whom he has had a brief fling, is blaming him for a surprise pregnancy and pressing him to pay for an abortion. And then there is the matter of a lost cat, that he finds, but then loses again (don’t ask).

I suppose it wouldn’t be a proper folk singer’s yarn if there wasn’t a bit of that ramblin’, and it arrives in the form of Llewyn’s road trip to Chicago with a misanthropic jazz musician (Coen stalwart John Goodman), a pithy beat poet (Garret Hedlund) and the aforementioned cat (who says nothing). This is the centerpiece of the film, as well as the most recognizably “Coen-esque” sequence (you could say it’s where the rubber meets the road, literally and metaphorically). In fact, how you respond to what transpires therein will determine whether you come away loving or hating the film.

If that sounds nebulous, you don’t know the half of it. Especially once you try to digest the metaphysical conundrum at the end that makes you question how much of what you’ve just seen is, erm, what you’ve just seen. Aw, screw it. It’s the Coens-deal with it. That whole “don’t expect a cohesive narrative” thing aside, the Coens have succeeded in making another one of those films that you find yourself digesting for a couple days afterward.

While I wouldn’t put it up there with one of their certified classics like Blood Simple, Fargo, or No Country for Old Men, it fits in comfortably with chin-stroking character studies like Barton Fink, The Man Who Wasn’t There and A Serious Man. And there are quotable lines; not as numerous as in, let’s say, The Big Lebowski…but I enjoyed genuine belly laughs amid the angst.

As usual, the Coens have assembled a sterling ensemble (F. Murray Abraham is a particular delight in his cameo as a jaded impresario). The musical performances by the actors (produced by T-Bone Burnett) are heartfelt and impressive; especially when stacked against ringers like Timberlake. Attention to period detail adds to the verisimilitude. Inside Llewyn Davis may not answer all the important questions (I still don’t know how many roads a man must walk down, before they call him a man) but it hits all the right notes.

Big Money, Documentary, Drug Culture

SIFF 2014: From Neurons to Nirvana: The Great Medicines **1/2

September 21, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on May 24, 2014)

Now that medical science has validated the pharmacological benefits of cannabis, it’s time to kick it up a notch (pot being the “gateway drug” and all). Turn on, tune in, drop the Prozac…and legalize psychedelics. That’s the premise of Oliver Hockenhull’s thought-provoking (if somewhat lopsided) documentary, which is a cross between Altered States and What the Bleep Do We (k)now!?. Drawing from an array of scientists, religious scholars, psychiatrists, and practitioners, Hockenhull builds a compelling case for medicinal use. Worth a look, but I have one bone to pick. Any film that tackles this subject, yet neglects to make even a passing acknowledgement of McKenna, Leary or Owsley’s significance feels incomplete.

Drug Culture, Musical, Show Biz

Blu-ray reissue: All That Jazz ****

September 17, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on December 6, 2014)

Image result for all that jazz 1979 All That Jazz- Criterion Collection Blu-ray

“It’s show time, folks!” From its exhilarating opening montage of an ego-crushing chorus line casting call, fast-cut in perfect sync to George Benson’s pulsing cover of “On Broadway”, to its jaw-dropping finale, a Busby Berkeley-on-acid song and dance number with the Angel of Death presiding, writer-director Bob Fosse’s semi-autobiographical tale of a fast-living, dexy-dropping, chain-smoking, hotshot choreographer (Roy Scheider) is the best (and most audacious) film ever made regarding this business we call “show”. Scheider is riveting, and Ann Reinking and Ben Vereen are in top form as well. Wholly entertaining, but not for the faint of heart (and definitely not for the whole family…this ain’t exactly Singin’ in the Rain). Criterion’s Blu-ray edition features a new 4K transfer, and extras include fascinating archival interviews with Fosse.

Drug Culture, Mystery

Blu-ray reissue: The Seven Percent Solution ***

September 4, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on July 6, 2013)

The Seven Percent Solution – Shout! Factory Blu-ray

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s super sleuth Sherlock Holmes has weathered an infinite number of movie incarnations over the decades, but none as fascinating as Nicol Williamson’s tightly wound coke fiend in this wonderful 1977 Herbert Ross film.

Intrepid sidekick Dr. Watson (Robert Duvall), concerned over his friend’s addiction, decides to do an intervention, engineering a meeting between the great detective and Dr. Sigmund Freud (Alan Arkin). Naturally, there is a mystery afoot as well, but it’s secondary to the entertaining interplay between Williamson and Arkin.

Screenwriter Nicholas Meyer (who adapted from his own novel) would repeat the gimmick two years later in his directing debut Time After Time, when he placed similarly odd bedfellows together in one story by pitting H.G. Wells against Jack the Ripper. Shout! Factory’s transfer is excellent; the Blu-ray also includes an interview with Meyer

Drug Culture, Neo-Noir

The story of O: Savages **1/2

September 1, 2015 Dennis Hartley

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on July 7, 2012)

“Just because I’m telling you this story,” cautions the narrator in the opening scene of Oliver Stone’s Savages, “…doesn’t mean I’m alive at the end of it.” While this may conjure up visions of William Holden floating face down in Gloria Swanson’s swimming pool in Sunset Boulevard, this isn’t Hollywood hack Joe Gillis’ voice we’re listening to; rather it’s a young woman named “O” (Blake Lively). Blonde, Laguna Beach tanned, and, erm, quite “fit”, O could have materialized directly from Brian Wilson’s libido. However, hers is not a happy story of sun and surf…it’s a darker tale about guns and turf.

No stranger to dark tales about guns and turf, Stone takes the ball that novelist Don Winslow tossed him with his 2010 pot trade noir, and not only runs with it, but ratchets it up six ways from any given Sunday; transforming it into Scarface 2.0 for Millennials, with a touch of Jules and Jim. Indeed, it’s only five minutes before he has someone revving up a chainsaw (and not to cut wood). The power tools star in an exclusive (and gruesome) webcast targeting O’s two lovers, Ben (Aaron Johnson) and Chon (Taylor Kitsch).

Ben and Chon are 20-something BFFs who run a thriving business selling weed touted “the best cannabis in the world.” It seems a Tijuana drug cartel, led by a ruthless widow (and prolific widow-maker) named Elena (a scenery-chewing Salma Hayek), wants a piece of their action. Her message is very clear: Use your head, or lose your head.

That sounds like a plan to Ben. A Berkeley alum with a business degree, he’s the brains; idealistic, California mellow, never fired a shot in anger, we can work this out, etc. His bud Chon, an ex-Navy SEAL, is the brawn. Fuck these guys, I’ve already got one in the chamber, let’s rock’n’roll, etc. He is also an Afghanistan war vet, with issues. As O helpfully clarifies in the voice-over, she “…has orgasms,” (when Chon makes love to her) whilst he “…has wargasms.” (And they said Sniglets were dead).

Chon wants to call their bluff. After a meeting with Elena’s negotiator (Demian Bichir) ends in a stalemate, she sends in her enforcer, Lado (Benicio Del Toro) to use more “persuasive” methods. Ben and Chon brainstorm and continue to play for time, until Lado and his henchmen take O as a hostage. From that point, our intrepid duo decides that when Kush comes to shove, they will not be intimidated; so they call in favors from a crooked DEA agent (John Travolta) and a few of Chon’s ex-SEAL buddies.

In real life, one suspects that Ben and Chon would end up starring in one of Elena’s snuff videos somewhere around the end of the first act (I’m not even sure they could locate their car after a Phish concert). I know… “It’s only a movie!” But I still advise you be prepared to suspend disbelief regarding what ensues in this rote (if slickly made and beautifully photographed) Elmore Leonard-esque tale of double-crosses, triple-crosses, and ultimately, a lot of white crosses (although to be fair, Stone’s body count here isn’t as high as in Natural Born Killers). All the Stone trademarks are here, except for the passion; not that he’s required to provide political subtext every time out, but this is uncharacteristically joyless film making.

The cast does its best with woefully underwritten parts, but by the muddled third act, everyone’s acting in a different film. Travolta and Del Toro, who usually liven up things, regardless of script quality (especially when playing heavies) look too bored to even go for camp. None of the characters are particularly likable (even our heroine is a whiny ditz). Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by the All-Star Dutch Treat quality of Showtime’s Weeds and AMC’s Breaking Bad, but this narrative (independent entrepreneur outwits the big bad cartel) has been done to death…and frankly, with more originality and élan.

Drama, Drug Culture, Show Biz

Bingo and porn: Starlet ***

August 25, 2015 Dennis Hartley

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.