FILM REVIEW: THE KILL TEAM

Adam Winfield in The Kill Team. Photo by David Krauss.

Stryke the truth down

By Ed Rampell

If Chelsea/Bradley Manning is the whistleblower best known for exposing U.S. war crimes in Iraq, another Army Specialist, Adam Winfield, is arguably the most famous truth teller who revealed American atrocities in Afghanistan. But like Private First Class Justin Stoner, Winfield found out the hard way that not only is it tough times for those who dare to blow the whistle, but the first casualty of war is still truth.

The 21-year-old infantryman came forward to reveal that soldiers of the Fifth Stryker Brigade, Second Infantry Division, who were deployed near Kandahar, executed Afghans for sport and then planted weapons beside their corpses to “prove” the casualties were “terrorists.” (They also captured these chilling Kodak moments with a series of photos.) Winfield’s “reward” for trying to report these crimes against humanity was, the moment he stepped off a plane when he returned to America, to be arrested and charged with committing premeditated murder. He found himself to be in the Kafka-esque, Catch-22 trap of becoming a target of a major investigation into war crimes he himself had tried to expose.

Winfield’s wartime experiences and subsequent court-martial disillusioned the young volunteer, who undergoes an epiphany and tells a probing camera lens: “War is dirty. It’s not how they portray it in the movies.” But it is how Dan Krauss depicts combat in The Kill Team, a hard hitting, award winning documentary where the fog of war mingles with the haze of hashish. Krauss’ take-no-prisoners doc, which takes its title from the nickname for the Stryker troops gone wild, also demonstrates why military justice is to justice what military music is to music, as the film focuses on Winfield’s “Alice In Wonderland-like” trial and tribulations.

The Kill Team is also very much a moving family drama. Backing him up every step of the way are Winfield’s Cape Coral, Florida parents, Emma and Christopher, an ex-Marine. In 2010 Adam tells his father via instant messenger about the dogfaces’ wrongdoing in Afghanistan and asks him to inform the Army inspector general. Christopher attempts to alert the military, but to no avail. As Adam confronts the ordeals of death threats, his own death wish and court case, Emma and Christopher stand by their son. Even after he receives a three-year sentence and bad conduct discharge his mom and dad unwaveringly believe Adam be not only innocent, but courageous for standing up for what’s right and trying to tell the truth, against all odds.

Although the jury is still out for some as to whether or not Adam -- who did not try to stop the killing of Allah Dad and pled guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter -- is a whistleblower or murderer, Krauss’ nonfiction film paints a sympathetic portrait of its protagonist. The Kill Team also interviews other members of Winfield’s platoon, such as the conflicted Corporal Jeremy Morlock and Private First Class Andrew Holmes, who were both charged with the premeditated murder of 15-year-old Gul Mudin on Jan. 15, 2010. In the course of their horrifying odyssey both become bolder and wiser than they were when they volunteered to become cannon fodder after Uncle Sam got himself in a terrible jam, way down yonder in Afghan land. As part of a plea agreement Morlock, who hails from Sarah Palin’s home town of Wasilla, Alaska, received a 24-year sentence, while Holmes, who is from Boise, Idaho, is serving seven years behind bars. Both were dishonorably discharged.

Pfc. Justin Stoner, from Lebanon, Pennsylvania, was assaulted by fellow soldiers after he reported their drug use. Along with the apparently decent Winfield, Stoner is the film’s conscience and hero and considered to be an informant on this F-Troop’s out of control reign of terror. Questioning the military’s dehumanization of recruits, the philosophical Stoner ruminates: “Your job is to kill. Then why the hell are you pissed off when we do it?” Stoner alleged that he was shown human fingers -- which triggered the murder investigation of the Afghans -- by Staff Sgt. Calvin Gibbs.

The highest ranking soldier charged in this sordid, sorry, scandalous affair is The Kill Team’s bête noir. Staff Sgt. Gibbs of Billings, Montana was found guilty of, among other things, three counts of murder. Gibbs, who declined to be interviewed for the documentary and is mainly glimpsed in pictures shot by a photojournalist, looms as a cross between two classic characters from Hollywood’s Vietnam War epics: Marlon Brando as Col. Kurtz in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 Apocalypse Now and Tom Berenger as Sgt. Barnes in Oliver Stone’s 1986 Platoon. Like them, the gung ho Gibbs reportedly goes rogue, instigates the Stryker Brigaders’ renegade mayhem and cuts fingers off of Afghan cadavers so he can use these bones for a creepy trophy -- a skeletal necklace. Much to his surprise, Gibbs’ running amok on the warpath landed him a life sentence at Fort Leavenworth (where he might have some illuminating tête-à-têtes with fellow inmate Manning).         

Krauss, who directed, co-wrote, produced and shot The Kill Team, pulls no punches as he tells his saga, which won the Tribeca Film Festival’s Best Documentary Feature and the San Francisco International Film Festival’s Golden Gate awards. Unlike most war films The Kill Team unspools slowly, deliberately and is told mostly via a series of talking heads. But it serves as a reminder that far from being a noble endeavor fought, as Winfield ironically muses, by “a bunch of honorable men with unshakeable patriotism,” war is, as Jean Renoir put it in the title of his 1937 pacifist masterpiece, The Grand Illusion. The Kill Team demystifies the mythos epitomized by John Wayne militaristic movies, which starred an actor who never actually served in the U.S. armed forces and whom Garry Wills alleges in his 1998 book John Wayne’s America avoided military service during World War II.

While politically aware audiences will appreciate Krauss’ war-is-hell message, this documentary’s real target market are those young people who -- like an impressionable Adam -- have bought into military madness. After seeing for himself in Afghanistan’s version of “the big muddy” the harsh reality of what the apocalyptic Col. Kurtz calls “the horror," Adam wised up. Perhaps, by seeing The Kill Team, would-be volunteers for Washington’s endless imperial misadventures will wake up and stay home instead.

  

      

THEATER REVIEW: THE LAST CONFESSION

Cardinal Giovanni Benelli (David Suchet) in The Last Confession. Photo by Craig Schwartz.

Vanity and the Vatican

By Ed Rampell

Roger Crane’s The Last Confession is first rate drama at its best. Not only does it tackle the big issues, but it also has a topnotch cast that delivers solid, riveting performances. The ensemble is rather cannily led by David Suchet, who from 1989 to 2013 has portrayed Inspector Hercule Poirot on TV adaptations of Agatha Christie’s celebrated sleuth. 

The major topics that The Last Confession takes on are the role of religion and the behind-the-scenes infighting of Holy Mother Church, which is both a spiritual as well as a temporal power. As the latter, Vatican City is literally an independent state and as the earthly representative of the official creed of almost a billion people, it’s also a political and economic entity to be reckoned with. Viewers of 1990’s third installment of The Godfather saga may be familiar with the Vatican’s purported banking scandals and Mafioso ties.

After Albino Luciani, aka Pope John Paul I (Richard O’Callaghan in a moving performance), replaced Pope Paul in 1978, he lasted only 33 days as the pontiff, triggering conspiracy theories about foul play in the Vatican. Thus the sheer genius of casting Suchet as Vatican powerbroker Cardinal Giovanni Benelli, who investigates the death of the benevolent man who turned out to be far more liberal than the conclave of cardinals had expected, and only wore the shoes of the fisherman for a month before his mysterious death. 

His demise occurred shortly after he purportedly attempted to remove entrenched Vatican bureaucrats from their sinecures of power. Suchet’s sleuth lives again -- although not as a suave Belgian in this theatrical whodunit. This time he’s an Italian cardinal trying to crack the case of: Who murdered the pope.

But this is a detective case unfolding in the corridors of power. And, as it is the Vatican -- and not the White House, like in TV’s Scandal series -- where the story takes place, the subject matter includes the significance of faith. The playwright does an excellent, even philosophical job, of interweaving Christian beliefs with Vatican faction fights (move over Trotsky and Stalin! The Kremlin has nothing on the Vatican!).

The costumes by Fotini Dimou impart and reinforce the realism necessary to convey the pontifical subject matter. William Dudley’s stage design likewise conveys a sense of being inside the Vatican, and his use of cage-like sets is, well, a cagey way of expressing a sensibility of imprisonment and crime.

Crane is, unsurprisingly, an attorney, but it is quite shocking that this script, suggested by what may have been actual events, is the playwright’s first produced drama. Kudos, Mr. Crane! The Ahmanson Theatre’s ambitious production is the second stop on an international tour for this taut, thought-provoking play about conspiracy theories at the very highest levels of the Bishop of Rome’s realm. It is very astute to present this show just as another reformist-minded pope rocks Christendom.

With what appears murder most foul afoot, will Benelli, like Inspector Poirot, get his man? You’ll just have to find out for yourself by high-footing it Downtown to the Music Center. Your humble scribe doesn’t mean to pontificate, but original, modern drama written for the stage doesn’t get much better than this work, which is reminiscent of Jean Anouilh’s Becket. And your critic must confess, that’s the god’s honest truth.



The Last Confession runs through July 6  at the Ahmanson Theatre, 135 N. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012. For more info: Confession (213)628-2772.   

L.A.-based reviewer Ed Rampell co-authored The Hawaii Movie and Television Book. See: Hawaii Book. Rampell and co-author Luis Reyes will be signing books at the Egyptian Theatre’s 10^th Annual Tiki Night Sunday, June 28 at, 7:00 p.m., at 6712 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood, CA 90028. See: Tiki for more information.

FILM REVIEW: SAL

Sal Mineo (Val Lauren) in Sal.

He, we, were robbed

By Don Simpson

James Franco’s bio-pic of Sal Mineo (Val Lauren), the teen idol and co-star of Rebel Without a Causeand Exodus, Sal is most likely destined to suffer the same cultish fate as most films about gay protagonists (Howl being an all too perfect example). This is extremely unfortunate, because this beautiful, sexually ambiguous portrait of a gay film star’s final day of existence deserves a lot more attention than it is expected to get.

Making a film that takes place within the rigid confines of the final day of its protagonist’s life places one hell of a burden on a filmmaker — especially when the protagonist’s death is foretold on a title card — but it also adds a certain amount of, well, je ne sais quoi to the narrative. As much as I hate knowing how a film is going to end before it even begins, Franco’s narrative builds upon the fact Mineo had a happy, productive and fulfilling last day on earth. For one, Mineo finally secures a deal to direct his first feature film — an adaptation of Charles Gorham's McCaffery. He is also in the final days of rehearsal as a lead actor in a theatrical adaptation of James Kirkwood, Jr.’s P.S. Your Cat Is Dead at the Westwood Playhouse; under the direction of Milton Katselas (James Franco), the play is all but ready for an audience…despite Keir Dullea’s (Jim Parrack) inability to remember his lines.

Christina Voros’ handheld vérité camerawork ogles Mineo, observing every movement of his immaculately buff body as he tirelessly works out at a gym or as he lounges around his apartment in various states of undress. If Mineo loved one thing, it was his body, and Sal functions as a testament to that. With no trace of expository dialogue, we are never privy to what Mineo is thinking or feeling; our only insight into Mineo is what we can piece together from watching him. Mineo spends at least half of his screen time alone; since he does not talk to himself or to inanimate objects, this means his dialogue is very limited. Sure, there are a few phone conversations — of which we only hear his side — but they are not very revealing, other than Mineo really wants to get people out to attend the upcoming premiere of his play.

Sal is not an entry into the cannon of queer cinema; other than focusing on a prominent gay figure, there is absolutely nothing “gay” about Sal. Franco avoids social commentary and political activism. (By the way, Mineo's killer served less than half of his 57-year prison sentence.) Instead Franco opts for this project to be a scholarly exercise in authenticity and realism. Handcuffed by an unspoken pledge that seems to resemble the “Dogme 95 Manifesto”, Sal is stripped of any entertainment value, but it is quite a commendable testament to the contemporary neo-realism movement nonetheless.

LAFF 2013: TAPIA

Johnny Tapia in Tapia.

Sparring with life

By John Esther

Like most professional boxing champions, Johnny Tapia came from a very poor neighborhood where kids loved to fight. Although Tapia was a relatively small guy -- as an adult he stood around 5'6" 114 lbs -- he was extremely quick, strong and, more importantly, a naturally smart fighter. He knew how to psyche out his opponents while pumping up a crowd, especially if it was a local crowd. While I am not much of a fan of boxing, Tapia's boxing skills are very entertaining.

Unfortunately, for director Eddie Alcazar, they are about the only entertaining elements in his documentary, Tapia, which made its world premiere last night at the Los Angeles Film Festival to a semi-filled theater. (Reports of a sold out crowd for the screening are an exaggeration.)

Raised by his grandparents after his father was murdered when Tapia was in the womb and his mother brutally raped and murdered when Tapia was 8, Tapia grew up on the toughest streets of Albuquerque, New Mexico. At a very young age it was clear he was a natural fighter. He beat everybody in his weight bracket (sometimes larger guys, too). But just when his career was about to really take off cocaine held him down.

After rehabilitating himself, Tapia got back into the ring, rose through the ranks, eventually earing five world championships before retiring. He won three of them in different weight divisions.

Yet the sadness and anger over his mother's vicious death (other family members would die along the way) coupled with his addiction to cocaine would keep pulling Tapia back down into a whirlpool of despair and near death experiences. He was declared clinically dead five times.

While such trials and tribulations will probably help Alcazar's upcoming feature adaptation of Tapia's life (Shiloh Fernandez will play Tapia), Tapia's religious, determinist attitude in the documentary gets boring after a while. Tapia keeps going on and on about his purpose in life as if there was some great creator fashioning some important grand narrative on earth and Tapia was merely playing his part. Tapia also talks about how he does not want to hurt anyone one moment then makes it clear how violently he would respond if he ever met his mother's killer. And, of course, he is a boxer. Pugilists do not win fights by not hurting another human being.

Simpleminded and tedious after a while, Tapia may have benefited from interviews with others who knew Tapia or perhaps a few psychiatrists. Then there is the issue with his father's supposed murder. That gets raised and dropped way too quickly in the documentary. A thorough examination of his death may have helped, too. Death by heart failure at 45?

There are some big questions here, but Alcazar does not subject audiences to any truths behind the basic bouts of this boxer in and outside the ring.

Tapia screens at the Los Angeles Film Festival: June 19, 7:40 p.m., Regal Cinema. For more information: Tapia at LAFF 2013.

FILM REVIEW: CALL ME KUCHU

A scene from Call Me Kuchu.

The ugly and the undeterred in Uganda

By Don Simpson

Like the Nazi propaganda machine, the Christian fundamentalists of Uganda (and some American Evangelicals) worked hand in hand with the popular Ugandan newspaper (that functions more like a gossip tabloid), Rolling Stone, to effectively communicate to the Ugandan population that the LGBTI community was a bunch of disease-carrying rapists who were actively recruiting others to undermine Christianity and destroy the country's moral fibre.

The Ugandan LGBTI community -- otherwise known as kuchus -- was left three options: go back into the closet, emigrate to a more queer-friendly environment, or stand up for their personal freedoms.

Like good documentarians, directors Katherine Fairfax Wright and Malika Zouhali-Worrall had the premonition to document a group of Ugandan LGBTI activists who took a stand against their government. Wright and Zouhali-Worrall conducted a series of interviews with both sides of the issue; without injecting their own opinions and judgments, they admirably allowed everyone to freely speak her or his mind.

Outed by Rolling Stone and under constant threat of being turned in by their own family or neighbors, these activists had to walk the fine line of staying safe while inciting change. In most cases, it is the influx of vigilant human rights activists from around the world and the presence of video cameras that serves as the most effective protections for the LGBTI community. Call Me Kuchuserves one of the rare examples of cameras having a (mostly) positive influence on the subjects they seek to capture.

The documentary also captures the loss of one of its primary subjects.

An emotional tsunami, Call Me Kuchu is about sticking together and not conforming to popular opinion despite the ever-present dangers of not abiding by the government's tyrannical rules, looking forward into the future and making sacrifices for the greater good. While it is impressive to see so most of the Western world stand up to Uganda on this issue, sometimes it can be easier to criticize the follies of others than to point out one's own faults.

It is not that I am complaining that the United States took such a firm stand against Uganda's gay death penalty bill, but it does seem a bit hypocritical, since in most U.S. states the LGBTI community is still not permitted the same rights as everyone else; and, in many areas of the U.S., the LGBTI community is still the recipient of hatred and violence.

So, while watching a documentary about the hardships of the kuchus may seem a bit foreign, it is actually a very relatable topic for Americans to contemplate.

FILM REVIEW: SIMON KILLER

Simon (Brady Corbet) in Simon Killer.

More funny games

By Don Simpson

Simon (Brady Corbet) recently broke up with the girlfriend he has had since high school. Or, rather, she broke up with him. He arrives in Paris to escape, to forget about Michelle, to find someone else, to... Well, let's just move along... In high school, Simon studied French, and he does a fairly admirable job talking to the local Parisians, but he does encounter some difficulties in comprehending what they are saying to him. Oh, and while Simon was in college, he studied the relationship between the human eye and the brain. Or, so he says.

It quickly becomes apparent Simon is an unreliable source of information. His history is riddled with contradictions; his present is blurred by his keen knack for smoke screens. For example, Simon uses his perceived intelligence as a way to lure women in and gain their trust; besides, it is a really effective way to keep them from noticing his current lack of employment. Simon also knows how to use his boyish, fresh-out-of-university appearance to add to his presumed innocence. He certainly knows how to fumble around with his ability to speak and understand French at all the right times, too.

All the while, Simon prances around Paris with a false bravado, acting tough until he is actually confronted. He is overly aggressive with women but wants to be babied by them as well. So, what pray tell is Simon's objective while in Paris? As a voyeuristic predator, women are mere sex objects for Simon -- whether it be via online sex chats or brothels, he has orgasms by just looking at women. Simon also wants someone to take care of him. He seems scared of commitment yet simultaneously frightened of rejection. In other words, Simon wants everything and nothing.

Simon Killer -- qu'est-ce que c'est? So much about Simon is merely a facade. He is a product of perception -- what do women see when they look at him? What are women's eyes telling their brain? More importantly, what does the camera's eye tell us to think about Simon, as the observational -- practically cinéma vérité -- cinematography creates an even further allusion of truth. In many ways, Simon Killer plays like a deconstruction of perceived cinematic realism, picking away at its inherent layers of dishonesty.

SUNDANCE 2013: BLACK METAL

Ian (Jonny Mars) in Black Metal

Murder and music

By Don Simpson

While on stage, Ian (Jonny Mars) dons creepy corpse paint as the lead singer of a black metal band; otherwise, he is just a normal, thirty-something husband to Rose (Heather Kafka) and father to Lily (Addisyn Stevenson). Like most performers, Ian's stage persona is merely a fictional character and he does his best to keep the two distinct personalities of his Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle quite separate.

On the fateful night that we meet Ian, it is revealed that one of his fans has murdered a high school teacher and tagged the crime scene with the logo of Ian's band. Ian instantly faces the hateful disdain of the media and surrounding community. Like any normal human being, he wrestles with the guilt and blame associated with the murder.

Mars plays the lead singer of the black metal band with blood-curdling authenticity, while also being incredibly tender and empathetic as a loving family man. In other words, Mars goes from being someone I would not want to run across in a dark alley to someone I would love to have as a close friend. Ian is sculpted into a real person, thus putting a human face on the discussion about the entertainment industry's role in perpetuating violence. Not to get all meta on you, but Mars' performance in Black Metal serves as a reminder that the members of black metal bands are merely acting a part -- this is something that rabid black metal fans should keep in mind when worshiping the fictional stage personas of their pale-faced heroes.

Writer-director Kat Candler's Black Metal comes from the rarely portrayed perspective of an artist who is blamed by proxy for a murder. Regardless, Black Metal does not take sides, the film prompts many of the right questions while purposefully leaving them all unanswered. Of course, with only a nine-minute running time, Black Metal does not have the time to delve deeper into the issues; instead, Black Metal plays like a succinctly edited teaser for a feature-length film that leaves us wanting a whole lot more.

TRIBECA 2012: JACKPOT

A scene from Jackpot.

Murder after numbers

By John Esther

In the opening scene of Jackpot (Arme Riddere), a trio of drunken idiots walks right into the door of a strip joint near the Norway-Sweden border, only to be blown out the window by gunfire. Mayhem and murder ensues with only one survivor, Oscar (Kyrre Hellum), to bare true/false testimony.

Primarily using an interrogation scene to drive director Magnus Martens’ film, we learn – in ways reminiscent of The Treasure of Sierra Madre, Memento, The Usual Suspects and Fargo  -- Oscar and his ex-con co-workers at a plastic Christmas tree factory legally come into a large sum of money. Unfortunately, money can destroy the best of victories, especially ones among thieves.

Violent, predictable and splattered with morose humor, if you are willing to suspend disbelief back to the days before DNA testing, this Norwegian holiday tale, written by Jo Nesbø (Headhunters), makes for moderate, middlebrow entertainment. The film’s strongest suits are Lina Nordqvist's excellent production design andthe performances from its cast, including Hellum, Henrik Mestad as an arrogant detective, Mads Ousdal as Oscar’s lifelong buddy and Fridtjov Saheim as a crooked ex-cop.

FILM REVIEW: HORRIBLE BOSSES

A scene from Horrible Bosses.

Hardly working

By Don Simpson

A lot of people have had horrible bosses and a lot of people are afraid of quitting their horrible jobs because of the high unemployment rates and stagnant job market. Director Seth Gordon’s (The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters; Freakonomics) Horrible Bosses counts solely on these facts to draw people to the box office so they can pay outlandish ticket prices with the money they have earned from the jobs in which they feel hopelessly stuck. Pure and simple, Horrible Bosses is an escapist fantasy for and about the disenfranchised white middle-class workforce.

As is the trend with most Hollywood comedies of late, Horrible Bosses is based upon an idea that is as flimsy as a Saturday Night Live sketch and stretched out well beyond plasticity for 100 minutes. Technically, the narrative is comprised of a rough, mostly linear, outline of vignettes that begins with three haphazardly cross-cut stories about the unbelievable horribleness of Nick (Jason Bateman), Kurt (Jason Sudeikis) and Dale’s (Charlie Day) jobs or, more specifically, the unbelievable horribleness of their bosses, Mr. Harken (Kevin Spacey), Bobby Pellitt (Colin Farrell) and Dr. Harris (Jennifer Aniston), respectively. From there, the three guys begin to discuss and then foolhardily attempt to act upon the notion that if they murder their bosses their lives would be a hell of a lot better. After promptly shying away from a handsome man soliciting golden showers, the guys choose Motherfucker Jones (Jamie Foxx) to be their "murder consultant." Ridiculous, I know, but at least some of the dialogue is witty and funny.

Farrell relies upon a goofy prosthetic comb-over and coked-out glaze to draw laughs just as Aniston uses her ample bosom and trashy mouth to shock the audience into submission. Speaking of breasts and filthy pie holes, the women of Horrible Bosses (specifically Aniston and Julie Bowen’s character) are represented as one-dimensional sex objects -- unless, of course, they (specifically Lindsay Sloane’s character) are lulled into a happy daze by an engagement ring.

The definition of rape is repeatedly brought into question as is the ridiculousness of sex offender lists -- though both topics are bent over a barrel and shown the fifty states, if you know what I mean? (Hell, I do not even know what that means!) Toyota is mocked and ridiculed; the protagonists are lightly made fun of for being fumbling racists; pussies are scary; the Americanization (at least in name) of Indian telephone-support representatives is critiqued; and there is a relentless barrage of pop culture references, including blatant nods to Strangers on a Train, Good Will Hunting and Snow Falling on Cedars, of which some work better than others.

Horrible Bosses is definitely not as well-written or funny as Bridesmaids, but its certainly better than most of the other Hollywood comedies of 2011. If anything, I bet this film is much better than Zookeeper -- Horrible Bosses’ comedic nemesis this week at the box office. Of course, that is not saying much.

SFIFF 2011: THE REDEMPTION OF GENERAL BUTT NAKED

A scene from The Redemption of General Butt Naked.

Soldiering onward Christian

By John Esther

Those expecting The Redemption of General Butt Naked to be the latest film by Judd Apatow are in for a rude awakening upon first glance of Eric Strauss and Daniele Anastasion’s documentary about a man trying to save his neck, er soul.

From 1989-2003 a brutal civil war raged on in the Western African nation of Liberia. A conflict claiming an estimated 250,000 lives, few were more feared than General Butt Naked, a man who went into battles, villages and homes with little more on than guns and a cutlass where upon he stole, raped and killed men, women and children. The cutlass was his weapon of choice because it caused more pain than a gun.

Claiming to have seen the light, General Butt Naked disappeared in 1996 and returned from exile 10 years later as Joshua Milton Blahyi, an evangelist spreading the word of Jesus and begging/insisting on forgiveness from the those he had wronged – both far and near.

Preaching the word of Jesus to any African listening, Butt/Blahyi’s salvation is a hard pill to swallow (personally, I think he is a jerk), but most of the people in the documentary are more often than not able to forgive -- perhaps because of his or her own guilt.

Nothing funny or fun here, The Redemption of General Butt Naked takes a cold, bare look at what it means to forgive and never forget under harsh circumstances.

IFFLA 2011: THE BENGALI DETECTIVE

Rajesh Ji in The Bengali Detective.

Fighting crime one groove at a time

By John Esther

Meet Rajesh Ji. He is a detective in Kolkata (AKA Calcutta) who cracks the case where the corrupt police fail or when a concerned spouse needs him. In his off hours, he tends to his ailing wife and fantasizes of one day becoming a dance star. 

Acquired for "remake rights" by Fox Searchlight Pictures at Sundance Film Festival 2011 -- where it was an audience favorite, too -- director Phil Cox's documentary has a lot going for it.  Ji and his mates are ordinary folks working through a labyrinth of corruption and dishonestly. From exposing cases of counterfeit hair oil to a middle class woman who hires the group to spy on her abusive husband, their findings, albeit successful, are not necessarily pretty. 

Even uglier, the private eyes are investigating a triple-murder (the police will not rule it a homicide) in a country where 70 percent of all murders remain unsolved.  Where you would most like to see them succeed is where the odds are too great, and the results are tragic. 

If things were not bad enough in the workplace, at home is where the heart is breaking. Ji's sick wife is getting sicker and the doctors at the hospitals offer little hope. 

Against this backdrop of despair Ji and the others train for an upcoming TV dance contest. Considering his dire straits, one wishes Ji could succeed here. Yet as comical and amusing as the dancing is for the viewer, in Ji's heavy shoes this aspiration is going to be another disappointment.

Through these struggles Ji remains optimistic, sometimes relying on self-preservation delusion. 

Considering the plights and perils of Ji, it may seem somewhat surprising how unsympathetic he remains. When he is not hamming it up for the camera, Ji reasons rather wrongfully on the state of things, especially when his conscience confronts his pocketbook. His methods for solving crimes at times are highly questionable and his parenting skills could certainly improve.

In other words, this dancing-detective-solving-crimes-while-his-wife-dies documentary is about a rather ordinary human being and not some fictional hero.

We shall see what the remake team does about that.


The Bengali Detective screens tonight, 9:15 p.m., ArcLight Hollywood. For more information: IFFLA 2011.