FILM REVIEW: LULA, SON OF BRAZIL

A scene from Lula, Son of Brazil.

Rise for the classes

By Ed Rampell

In the past few years a slew of biopics about recent European rightwing leaders have been released, including The Conquest (about Nicolas Sarkozy’s rise to France’s presidency), The Iron Lady (with Meryl Streep as British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher), The Queen (about Queen Elizabeth and Britain’s sellout and warmonger, Prime Minister Tony Blair), as well as Il Caimano, which lampoons Italy’s buffoonish Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Now there’s a feature to cheer for about one of the good guys, as Fabio Barreto’s Lula, Son of Brazil joins Clint Eastwood’s ode to Nelson Mandela, Invictus, as a biopic about a left-leaning leader.

This stylish, stirring, poignant picture follows Luis Inacio Lula da Silva from his birth and humble origins in Brazilian hinterlands to his migration to the urban squalor of São Paolo’s favelas. Lula is real salt of the Earth, a man of the people, who during his childhood was a shoeshine boy and fruit peddler. His father is a ne’er-do-well who deserts the family, although his mother, Dona Lindu (Gloria Pires) is a loving, nurturing, encouraging pillar of strength. Several actors portray Lula from childhood to adulthood, and newcomer Rui Ricardo Diaz incarnates the grownup metal worker as he rises in the ranks of the trade union movement that challenges the factory bosses and Brazil’s military dictatorship. Like Mandela, Lula becomes a political prisoner (albeit for a far shorter time than his South African counterpart) who eventually became head of state.

Along the way, Lula endures personal tragedy and loss, as well as public struggles against the military regime. Sequences of factory strikes, occupations, rallies, demonstrations and government crackdowns are shot with cinematic verve and gusto by Gustavo Hadba, and reminded me of 1969’s Z, the Costa-Gavras classic about the Greek colonels’ coup that won the Best Foreign Film Oscar. However, Barreto and his cinematographer Hadba also have keen eyes for filmically rendered, often exquisite close-ups that bring viewers into the drama.

It is this balance of the political and the personal, in terms of film form and content, that makes Lula, Son of Brazil so gripping. The private family and romantic elements are organically linked to the mass drama – just as they are in real life, too. Like the moving father-son relationship in A Better Life, the mother-son relationship between Lula and Lindu is extremely touching, and of course emphasizes how parenting is the most important job in the world. This is one of the best silver screen depictions of a mother-son relationship set against a social backdrop since V.I. Pudovkin’s 1926 Soviet revolutionary silent masterpiece, Mother, based on Maxim Gorky’s novel.

The acting has a neo-realist flavor to it in the sense that a working class milieu is truthfully depicted, although most of the lead parts are played by professional actors. Diaz, an unknown, had theatre training; this turn in the title role of an epic is his first film role. In addition to Diaz and Pires, Cleo Pires as Lula’s first wife Lurdes and Sostenes Vidal as Ziza, the brother who is to the left of Lula, also excel. Cleo is the real life daughter of Gloria, a telenovela star who also acted in 1995’s O Quatrilho, an Oscar-nominated drama directed by Barreto.

Politically, Lula, Son of Brazil depicts its proletarian protagonist as an honest trade union militant who repeatedly asserts that he is not “a communist.” Lula was more or less a social democrat, and the successful Workers Party candidate for president in post-dictatorship Brazil ruled the country in that way. While he was part of the Bolivarian trend of left-leaning South American leaders portrayed in 2010’s great Oliver Stone documentary South of the Border, he is clearly not as radical as his counterparts in Cuba, Bolivia and Venezuela. However, after serving two terms in office he reportedly reduced poverty, left Brazil better off than he’d found it before becoming president, remained immensely popular, and handed the presidency off to a democratically elected woman and former guerrilla, Workers Party candidate Dilma Rousseff.

The movie’s final credits become propagandistic, with a hagiography of Lula consisting of titles telling boasting about his achievements and photos of him meeting with various world leaders. The transition from fiction to factual is jarring, and also strange, because the rest of the biopic has a far greater ring of truth. But this is a mere quibble; otherwise, Lula is a marvelous motion picture experience about a man and a movement that shook South America’s largest nation to its core. If you happen to love great movies, don’t miss Lula, Son of Brazil.  

  

                                                                   

THEATER REVIEW: AWAKE

Erica (Tacey Adams) and Paul (Joseph Culp) in Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep.

We are only sleeping

By Ed Rampell

Playwright and co-star Raymond J. Barry’s Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep is being advertised with the tagline: “Occupy this play!” However, although this one act, three-actor production takes place entirely in a park (not Zuccotti or the lawn at L.A.’s City Hall), Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep has little to do with Occupy Wall Street’s occupations per se, although it does reflect that mass movement’s anti-corporate sensibility.

Combining the Theatre of the Absurd with agitprop, Barry’s drama is a cross between Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot and Clifford Odets’ Waiting For Lefty. (Odets, of course, also penned Awake and Sing! another proletarian theater classic that was originally presented by the fabled Group Theatre in1935 and was revived on Broadway in 2006 with Ben Gazzara.) Barry plays Edward, an economist similar to John Perkins, the whistlebowing consultant who wrote the expose Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, exposing imperialist intervention in the Third World through financial and covert means.

Edward was strolling in the park one day, in the merry, merry month of whenever, when he is taken by surprise by stumbling upon Erica (Tacey Adams). She has apparently called in “well” and is taking the day off from work so she can read a volume of Leo Tolstoy’s short stories on a bench in a public park on a sunny afternoon. Or is their rendezvous actually part of a premeditated scheme, rather than merely a random act? As it turns out Erica also happens to be the wife of Paul (Joseph Culp), a former business associate of Edward’s. Edward has woken up and abandoned the corporate/government cabal referred to as the “Group” (I trust this is not a reference to the Group Theatre). He woos Erica and clashes with Paul over corporate ethics (now there’s an oxymoron for you!) and Erica’s affections.

Barry’s dialogue is crisply written and expertly delivered, often rapid fire, by the trio of thesps with an absurdist tilt and lilt. As the naysayer, Edward in particular slings zingers about the business world he has become disaffected with and alienated from. He’s now an insomniac in a world of somnambulists. The nature of what may be Paul’s hidden relationship with his former colleague threatens to unhinge Paul, who is still very much a corporate shill and tool with a revealing back story. Meanwhile, the action in the park is intermittently interrupted by offstage explosions, due to an ongoing war not too far away as part of the realpolitik of the ruling powers-that-be.

Those bombs bursting in air may be heard by the actors onstage, but not by members of the audience, and I couldn’t help but think that it would have been more effective if the explosions had indeed been rendered audible for the audience. But this is a mere quibble, as the drama is excellently acted throughout and presents a cogent, if Kafka-esque, critique of corporate rule. All three actors are clad in business attire, and the bare stage is painted white, including a tree  flanked by ivory benches.

Awake in a World That Encourages Sleep runs through Feb. 26 at the Electric Lodge, 1416 Electric Avenue, Venice, CA 90291. For ticket info see: www.brownpapertickets.com/event/210533.

TOP TEN: DON SIMPSON'S BEST FILMS OF 2011

Oliver (Ewan MacGregor) in Beginners.

Blessed states

By Don Simpson

The Arbor -- With a unique merging of fact and fiction, The Arbor is able to reconstruct the pain and struggle within Andrea Dunbar’s work as well as reveal the dour consequences her life choices had on her family. Clio Barnard’s stylistic choice of having her actors confide in the camera (therefore the audience) is a purposeful cinematic devise to add more hyper to the hyper-reality and bring more self-consciousness into the mix.

Beginners -- Only in Hollywood will characters like Hal and Oliver both find perfect partners exactly when they need them the most. That is Beginners’ only flaw and it is one that I can easily forgive. Otherwise, writer-director Mike Mills’ (Thumbsucker) film is as perfect as a tearjerker, romantic drama can get in my book. Very few films handle family skeletons, the loss of loved ones, and the rediscovery of love (in both straight and queer relationships, no less) with such agility. Oh, and just be sure to keep lots of tissues close at hand, Beginners is guaranteed to conjure up some waterworks.

Better This World -- In constructing their narrative, Kelly Duane de la Vega and Katie Galloway must first re-create for the audience what happened prior to the commencement of their production, so they rely on archival footage and talking head interviews recollecting the events. De la Vega and Galloway allow everyone, including the FBI, to tell their version of the story and surprisingly enough, they all seem to be on the same page (or at least the same chapter), except for the actions of the FBI informant. The unfolding of the events is spine-tingling (at least for someone of my political persuasion). Better This World represents how conservative America’s post-9/11 War on Terror went terribly awry, ripping away the civil liberties of American citizens and instantly squashing any form of political dissent.

Film Socialisme -- For English-speaking audiences, Godard obliterates any resemblance of coherent/cohesive dialog (or narrative) by releasing Film Socialisme with what he refers to as “Navajo” English subtitles. By doing so, Godard deconstructs the primarily French dialog into an oblique code that isolates or concatenates specific nouns and verbs (presumably) from the spoken dialog. But without grammar or structure, the words remain just that, words. The spoken dialog becomes part of the film’s soundtrack and the subtitles present mere clues of what might be going on. Knowledge of multiple languages becomes power; the ability to effectively communicate across borders leads to peace, love and understanding. It is difficult to ignore the inherently Godardian “fuck you” to the Anglophone imperialists in the audience. It is as if Godard does not want non-Francophones to know the true meaning or purpose of Film Socialisme.

Martha Marcy May Marlene -- For me, the real payoff of Martha Marcy May Marlene can be found in the ending, which is rivaled only by Meek’s Cutoff in terms of sublime ambiguity. The comparisons between Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff do not end there. Both films toy with the audience’s preconceived notions of cinematic genres and traditional narrative tropes, while they also rely solely upon their infinite layers of subtext to communicate their significance. Most importantly, both films proselytize the unique power of the cinematic art form. These are stories that could never be properly conveyed via any other medium — that right there is precisely why Martha Marcy May Marlene and Meek’s Cutoff are two of my favorite films of 2011.

Meek’s Cutoff -- Kelly Reichardt’s film — penned by Jonathan Raymond (Reichardt’s co-writer on Old Joy and Wendy and Lucy) — is, at least in theory, a western but with most of the genre’s conventions flipped completely inside out. Cinematographer Chris Blauvelt’s grand panoramas of the striking Oregonian vista is photographed in a boxy 4:3 aspect ratio, which adds a unique sense of claustrophobia to the image. Reichardt and Blauvelt rely quite heavily on long and medium compositions, but the camera does occasionally cut to various characters’ facial expressions to convey meaning, intent or emotion.

Shame -- Shame is one of those rare modern films that I would love to construct a hearty critical analysis of, mainly because the perspectives and framing of every scene convey as much purpose as the characters themselves. But a discussion of this film at that level will require several more viewings and a significantly higher word count. (Heck, it might take me a few thousand words just to discuss the scene in which Sissy performs “Theme from New York, New York“.) As much as I admire the writing, direction and performances of Shame, I do not know how many repeat viewings I could endure. Shame is an emotionally exhausting film; it is certainly not a film that is intended to be enjoyed.

Tomboy -- With Tomboy, writer-director Céline Sciamma delves much deeper into the taboo (at least on this side of the Atlantic) theme of childhood sexuality that she discussed all-so-eloquently in her 2007 feature-length debut, Water Lilies. Laure is five years younger than Water Lilies’ Marie, Anne and Floriane; thus Laure is also significantly more innocent. The root of Laure’s deception is not about sexual attraction to girls — though she does kiss a girl — it is about wanting to play like a boy.

Weekend -- We observe Russell and Glen as they flounder about, attempting to negotiate the course of the first couple days of their relationship — just as a lot of heterosexual couples do. That is one of the other brilliant aspects of Weekend, the way the story becomes a universal one, transcending all notions of sexual preference and gender. Other than when Russell and Glen kiss each other and have sex, there is nothing gay about these characters, they transcend categorization. Even the film’s ending co-opts a classic trope from heterosexual cinema, cleverly pointing out that the gender of the characters bidding farewell to each other on the train station platform really does not matter; what matters is that the audience is adequately convinced that the two characters love each other and the impending division will tear their hearts apart.

Where Soldiers Come From -- Despite the obvious temptation to bombard the audience with additional footage of the war-torn soldiers and their families railing against U.S. economic, military, and foreign policies, Heather Courtney refrains from turning Where Soldiers Come From into a heavy-handed political diatribe; instead, the resulting film is a deeply humanistic tale of five young men yearning to earn some basic financial stability in their futures. This, however, does not mean that the audience will refrain from bringing politics into their viewing experience, because there are a lot of political issues at the heart of Where Soldiers Come From.

 

FILM REVIEW: MISS BALA

Laura (Stephanie Sigman) in Miss Bala.

A girl in trouble can be a permanent thing

By Ed Rampell

Stylish cinematography, deft direction and edgy storylines characterize the New Mexican Cinema spearheaded by creative forces such as actors Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna, who, appropriately, share producing credits for this wave’s latest release north of the border, Miss Bala, Mexico’s official Oscar entry.

Mexico’s drug wars – which have reportedly claimed up to 50,000 lives in the past few years -- are providing grist for movie mills, from this crime noir directed and co-written by Gerardo Naranja to Oliver Stone’s upcoming Savages. In Miss Bala Laura Guerreo (stunning Sonora-born Stephanie Sigman) is a typical 23-year-old senorita in Tijuana who has nothing to do with crime and decides to enter the Miss Baja beauty pageant. This leads to her unintentionally becoming ensnared in extremely violent gang warfare that pits the ironically named La Estrella (“The Star”) gangsters against the DEA, the Federales and more, with the hapless, helpless Laura caught in the crossfire.

During her ordeal, which includes bombings, trafficking, kidnapping and gunplay galore, the terrified Laura is often curiously passive. At times it seems as if this innocent bystander doesn’t act on opportunities to escape, take the money and run, resist rape, etc. Maybe Laura fears that resistance is futile and means certain death? Perhaps Laura and her inner paralysis symbolizes the law abiding Mexican masses who are caught up in this criminal tidal wave, overwhelmed and unsure as to what to do and how to react?

Throughout the trials and tribulations they visit upon her, rather amazingly, gang chief Lino Valdez (Noe Hernandez) and his fellow gangbangers protect the embattled Laura. They also override the rejection of her beauty contest application, paving the way for the lovely Laura to compete. Why? There’s a method to their madness, which in the interests of avoiding plot spoilers your mum’s-the-word reviewer won’t reveal here. However, suffice it to say that the title of the film, Miss Bala -- which translates into English as “Miss Bullet” -- seems to ironically comment on the Miss Baja beauty pageant, and perhaps on the state of beleaguered Mexico’s tourism industry. (Although I must say that I visited the Riviera Maya near Cancun last year and saw no signs of the drug wars in that part of the country.)

In addition to Sigman's bewildered, perplexed, put-upon performance and sensuous presence as a senorita in peril, what I enjoyed most about Miss Bala is its scintillating cinematography. Mátyás Erdély’s camera frequently moves, evoking what is the essence of motion pictures, moving pictures, movies: Movement at 24 frames per second. However, this director of photography’s camerawork is never frenetic, nor is Miss Bala’s violence mindlessly gratuitous, unlike the cinematography and violence in, say, The Adventures of Tintin. I suspect that Steven Spielberg completely pummeled all of the charm out of Herge’s comic strip, just as he vandalized James M. Barrie’s Peter Pan with another overblown, pointless production in 1991. For a fraction of Mr. Spielberg’s budget, Senor Naranja has created a far superior action flick minus 3D imagery, which captures a moment in time when much of a nation is at war with itself, fuelled by drugs and their buyers in El Norte.

Miss Bala is one of the best, most exciting crime pictures I’ve seen since last year’s Congo-set Viva Riva! Mexico’s cinema has become so hot that even Will Ferrell is getting into the act, starring in the forthcoming genre spoof Casa de mi Padre -- with, but of course, the protean Bernal and Luna. The Mexican cinema has come a long way since Wallace Beery starred as Pancho in the 1934 Hollywood-made, Mexico-shot Viva Villa! which recently played on a double bill at the New Beverly Cinema with the Paul Muni, Bette Davis 1939 classic Juarez, and were presented by Hispanic film historian Luis Reyes. Viva Mexico’s film revolution!

  

  

TOP ELEVEN: ED RAMPELL'S BEST FILMS OF 2011

Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) in A Dangerous Method.

Exit stage lefty

By Ed Rampell

The criteria for my favorite films are progressive political and cultural content, plus artistic excellence in terms of using the uniquely cinematic attributes of the movie medium. Astute readers may observe that half of the motion pictures on my Top 10 list for 2011 were shot and/or set in France. And while it’s true that your erstwhile cinephile actually did return to France last August, and that I do indeed speak French, it would be a mistake to assume that I am a Francophile. In fact, I did lots of reporting on the nuclear free and independent Pacific movement that was highly critical of French colonialism in New Caledonia and French-occupied Polynesia. But that is a flashback to another life; so suffice it to say that the land of the Lumiere Brothers, Georges Melies and the New Wave remains a vital cinematic force and center, so -- in no particular order –my Top 10 films of 2011 are:

Hugo – And speaking of Georges Melies (Ben Kingsley), Martin Scorsese’s optically opulent, loving tribute (with an antiwar subtext) to that movie master of illusion in sumptuous 3D is a delightful tribute to a motion picture pioneer and the art form we are so besotted with: Cinema.

The Artist – French auteur Michel Hazanavicius’ film, set in Hollywood in the 1920s as the talkie emerged, is likewise an adoring ode to the silent screen that reminds us silence truly is golden.

The Iron Lady – Meryl Streep uncannily depicts Britain’s dictatorial Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whom husband Denis (Jim Broadbent) nicknames “M.T.” (Get it? As in “empty.”)

The Conquest – Xavier Durringer’s biopic about reactionary pig Nicholas Sarkozy’s (Denis Podalydes) rise to the presidency of France, and his miserable relationship with wife Cecilia (and with just about everybody else), is a rightwing bookend to The Iron Lady about another conservative tyrant. 

Coriolanus & The Flowers of War – Both Ralph Fiennes’ modern dress version of Shakespeare’s drama about a Roman general co-starring Vanessa Redgrave and Zhang Yimou’s epic about the rape of Nanking co-starring Christian Bale are both historically set antiwar films that tied for a space on my Top 10 list. 

Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975 – This documentary about Civil Rights activists, nationalists and revolutionaries perfectly captures what one of its interview subjects, Stokely Carmichael, once said (and I paraphrase): “Molotov cocktails and ghetto riots – ahhh, that’s the stuff dreams are made of.” With Angela Davis, Bobby Seale, Louis Farrakhan, and other luminaries of the Black liberation struggle during the sizzling sixties and seventies.

Potiche – This 1970s-set French feminist farce and musical comedy stars the ever radiant Catherine Deneuve, whose factory owner husband (Fabrice Luchini) vies with the town’s Communist mayor (Gerard Depardieu) in the class struggle and for his wife’s affections. Deneuve delightfully turns the tables on these Frenchmen when she enters politics as a matriarchal candidate.

A Dangerous Method – The psychological ménage a trois of patient-turned-shrink Sabina Spielrein (poetically portrayed by Keira Kinightley), Carl Jung (Michael Fassbinder) and Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortenson) is anything but comic as the founders of psychoanalysis clash. This historical drama is spellbinding, and poor Spielrein’s offscreen fate is absolutely heart rending.   

Midnight in Paris – Woody Allen’s wonderfully witty time traveling comedy is a laugh a minute romp that takes a contemporary emotionally lost scriptwriter (a droll Owen Wilson) back to the Lost Generation of American and other expatriates who inhabited the City of Light in the 1920s. Full of insights about the creative process (not to mention human longings, in and out of bed), this is the Woodman’s funniest comedy in years, as well as reportedly Allen’s highest grossing film ever. And you haven’t lived until you see Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein, the role she was born to play!

The Names of Love – I’ve saved the best for last, as this very sexy, very funny French farce is my favorite film of 2011, one of those movies that makes you feel glad to be alive. What can I say? – I’m in love. Sensuous Sara Forestier deservedly won the Best Actress César (the French counterpart to the Oscar) for her role as the Reichian dream girl incarnate, a lefty woman who (pardon my French) fucks for freedom. Viva la revolucion!

THEATER REVIEW: RED HOT PATRIOT

Molly Ivins (Kathleen Turner) in Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins.

Bush-hells of fun

By Ed Rampell

Kathleen Turner can’t say that, can she? Oh, but the star of 1981’s Body Heat most certainly can – at least while she’s in character as the outspoken journalist Molly Ivins in Red Hot Patriot. The tall Texan, who was one of America’s leading literary lights of lefty letters, has tall boots to fill. But in what is essentially a one woman show Turner fully embodies Ivins, tossing off zesty zingers, one liners and cuss words that afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted with Ivins-esque aplomb.

The bioplay, lovingly written by Allison and Margaret Engel -- two sisters with reportorial backgrounds – covers Ivin's life, lost loves (thank you Vietnam War!), journalistic career, politics and illness in a production imbued with Ivins’ kick-sass atty-tude and humor, which always skewered the high and mighty on behalf of the lowly and powerless. Subtitled The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins, the action takes place in scenic designer John Arnone’s set depicting a newsroom from a bygone era that has seen better days. Projection designer Maya Ciarrocchi’s images enliven the subject matter, including visuals of Ivins herself at various points in her life and career.

In this pre-digital newsroom Turner’s co-stars are a decidedly old fashioned AP machine that periodically delivers Associated Press bulletins, breaking news about historic events Ivins covered or, imaginatively, from the hard drinking Ivins’ own personal life. Matthew Van Oss occasionally appears briefly onstage as a copyboy who hands the news flashes to Turner in a non-speaking part (Van Oss should have been cast in the silent film The Artist).

The work shirt-clad Turner who scintillated the screen as a sultry siren in 1980s hits such as the classic film noir Body Heat (a brilliant parable of the Reagan era’s slimy corruption and venality), Romancing the Stone and The War of the Roses, is stouter now, but she’s more or less within the Geneva Conventions’ in terms of Ivins’ own physical presence. Turner’s Texas twang, delivery and ironic inflections captures Ivin’s manner of speaking (which I was lucky to hear in person in 2000 at the so-called Shadow Convention, a sort of left-leaning counterpart to the Democratic Party’s National Convention that took place nearby in Downtown L.A.). Although she’s no longer a sexy ingénue sizzling the screen, as directed by David Esbjornson, Turner’s Ivins generates plenty of brain heat.

The story, as told by Turner, recounts Ivins’ stints as a reporter for Texan dailies and as a co-editor of the Texas Observer. The Lone Star State’s political hi jinks provided great journalistic grist for Ivin's mill, but more importantly, helped place her on the national stage, with her firsthand knowledge and insights into Texan politicians, from the similarly witty Gov. Ann Richards to the Bushes, who put the nasty into dynasty. It was Ivins who coined George W. Bush’s rather fitting nickname – “Shrub” – which became the title of the first of her two biographies about this pretender to the presidential throne. The second of Ivins' Bush bios was, appropriately, called Bushwhacked, and it’s fair to say that Bush Jr. became this populist’s bête noir.

While the play makes much of Ivins’ Elvis obit for The New York Times, Ivins' longtime collaboration with her Texas Observer colleague, Lou DuBose, who also co-authored the Bush bios with her, is never mentioned. Nor are the lefty publications Ivins was long associated with, notably The Nation and The Progressive. These curious oversights by the sisters Engel are odd omissions vis-à-vis the columnist’s oeuvre.

However, the Engels’ script is strongest when describing the personal side of Ivins which impelled her into the fray on behalf of underdogs everywhere. Her relations with both parents were conflicted, especially with her militaristic, domineering, conservative father, whom his daughter caustically called “the General” and frequently clashed with. The death of a lover in Indochina further poured fuel on the fire of Ivins’ ire. The play correctly puts its finger on what motivates writers such as Ivins: a sense of outrage. Happily, for we, the people, Ivins expressed that outrage against the rich and powerful while defending the least of these among us. By the way, written as it is (well, obviously) by professional writers, Ivin Red Hot Patriot has lots of witty literary insights into the creative process of scribbling and doodling, and into we ink stained wretches who ink out a living, dipping quills into bottles of ink or pecking on keyboards.

Ivin's mortality, as she comes to grips with a fatal disease, is also movingly depicted by the ever quipping Turner. Death, where is thy zinger? Although Turner acquits herself well throughout this one act one woman show, she, and the play itself, is best in the final moments as a spectral Ivins delivers one final rabblerousing riposte from beyond the grave to the common people she so loved and had such a profound belief in and respect for. Turner’s final battle cry as Ivins is reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin’s speech in his 1940 anti-fascist masterpiece, The Great Dictator. The audience at the Geffen applauded and gave Turner -- and her character -- a well-deserved standing ovation. Author! Author!

Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins runs through Jan. 12 at the Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood Village, CA 90024. For more information: 310/208-2028; www.GeffenPlayhouse.com.

FILM REVIEW: WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN

Eva (Tilda Swinton) in We Need to Talk About Kevin.

The damned do not cry

By Don Simpson

Adapted from Lionel Shriver’s 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin, writer-director Lynne Ramsay’s (Morvern Callar, Ratcatcher) film is about a miserable, budding young sociopath and his oh-so-oblivious parents. Told from Eva’s (Tilda Swinton) perspective, the fluidly non-linear narrative We Need to Talk About Kevin intertwines past and present, memory and inner-most thoughts.

If we were to reconstruct the narrative in a linear fashion, We Need to Talk About Kevin would begin with Eva’s happy marriage to Franklin (John C. Reilly). But then the spawn of Satan arrives and they name him Kevin (Rock Duer). From the moment Kevin exits Eva’s womb, the baby seems to hate her with fiery fervor. As Kevin develops into a young boy (Jasper Newell), the hatred continues to boil; he will not communicate with his mother and refuses to be potty trained. As a teenager (Ezra Miller), Kevin evolves into a fully fleshed-out sociopath as we witness his dead-eyed gaze, his utter contempt for others, and his apparent lack of guilt. Eva and Franklin idly observe as the demon spawn hones his archery skills. We can sense that Eva senses that something is wrong with Kevin, but she never tries to get help; Franklin, on the other hand, is embarrassingly clueless of the monster being raised under his roof.

Everything in Ramsay’s film is overtly orchestrated for the sole purpose of showcasing just how unruly Kevin is. We see scene after scene of Kevin acting out and are left with no other assumptions than he will develop into an evil teenager. (The non-linear narrative structure solidifies Kevin’s fate by revealing relatively early on that Kevin is presently in prison.) I kept hoping that this barrage of in-your-face clues were mere red herrings -- that Kevin would not turn out so bad after all. But Ramsay approaches We Need to Talk About Kevin as a heavy-handed diatribe about the ramifications of oblivious parenting. The title says it all, Eva and Franklin need to talk about Kevin and get him some help, but they never do. We Need to Talk About Kevin is about an accident waiting to happen; when said accident occurs, all we can do is sit back, wag our index fingers and shout “I told you so!”

Some people should just never have children — Eva and Franklin are caricatures of well-intentioned people who are just that, people who never should have had children. But then that line is a little bit blurry because their second child, Celia (Ashley Gerasimovich), seems like a perfectly sweet kid. The presence of Celia seems to suggest that the fault is not that of the parents, but that Kevin was born bad. Regardless, Eva and Franklin are totally responsible for not dealing with Kevin’s psychosis before he goes postal.

To date, there has not been a Tilda Swinton performance that has not sent near-crippling shivers down my spine.If any female actor of her generation can personify cold and creepy, it is her — and Swinton’s rapturous performance as Eva is no different. It might have been interesting to have someone in the role of Eva acting against their “type,” but I am certain that no one could have replicated Swinton’s performance. Also, all three Kevin’s are perfectly cast. Duer, Newell and Miller all look and act remarkably similar, lending the role of Kevin an uncanny sense of continuity over this 16-year timeline. (Another note of obvious casting decisions: Miller’s take on Kevin is remarkably similar to his dark and brooding portrayal of Elliot in Another Happy Day.)

FILM REVIEW: ROADIE

Roadie (Ron Eldard) in Roadie.

White lined fervor

By Don Simpson

Jimmy Testagross (Ron Eldard) — the eponymous protagonist of Michael Cuesta’s Roadie — is a 40-something guy from Queens with an unfortunate last name (that earned him the childhood nickname of “Jimmy Testicles”) who has tirelessly schlepped Blue Öyster Cult’s gear for 26 years, a thankless career if ever there was one. While on the subject of thankless, BOC is leaving for a tour of South America soon, and Jimmy is getting the runaround from the band’s manager. It seems the washed-up band is leaving their washed-up roadie behind.

After dedicating over half of his life to BOC, Jimmy has no friends to speak of and nowhere to go. As Jimmy drifts hopelessly towards destitute poverty, he is drawn closer and closer to his childhood home. But Queens is not a happy place for Jimmy; he “escaped” it for good reason. His high school buddies — the same Neanderthal numskulls such as Bobby (Bobby Canavale) who christened him “Jimmy Testicles” — who stayed behind seem uneducated, adventureless and ambitionless to Jimmy. Bobby is exactly who Jimmy has rebelled against; guys like him are the exact reason he abandoned Queens many years ago. What makes matters worse is that Jimmy’s high school sweetheart, Nikki (Jill Hennessy), married Bobby. How could she settle for someone like him?

As is often the case for those of us who purposefully moved away from his or her childhood neighborhoods and dread any return visits, Jimmy’s first means of escape from this harsh reality is alcohol — and lots of it. Reconnecting with Nikki and Bobby further escalates Jimmy’s self-destructive behavior by adding cocaine to his dangerous recipe of escapism.

Roadie accurately represents the conflict between those who have “escaped” their childhood homes and those who chose to stay behind. Cuesta’s dedication to the gritty authenticity of his subject is quite impressive and his casting of Eldard as Jimmy turns out to be divinely inspired.