James Bridges
Kidman: a glam and famished elf.
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Birth
Opens Fri., Oct. 29, at Metro and others
A small boy with pinchable cheeks shows up at a fancy Upper East Side apartment and announces to Anna (Nicole Kidman, looking like a famished elf), a young widow about to remarry, that he's the reincarnation of her long-dead husband. He knows every detail of their past lives together; after much resistance, he even convinces her that he's the genuine article. This pisses off, then freaks out, her snooty, old-money family (which is headed by an amusingly acidic matriarch Lauren Bacall). The plot thickens languidly until—after a decent interval—a dismally inconsequential truth is revealed. Tricked out in fatally tasteful cinematography of the kind you see in commercials where not much is being sold beyond a supposedly enviable lifestyle, with a breathy screenplay by Jean-Claude Carrière and a self-important score, Birth may be the most futile application of cinematic and acting skill I've seen all year. A little Twilight Zone flummery would have livened up the proceedings considerably. What Jonathan Glazer, who made the spry gangster film Sexy Beast, was thinking when he cooked up this preening nonsense is anybody's guess, but notwithstanding the movie's glam ensemble (including a welcome return by Anne Heche), I suspect its descent to DVD will be as rushed and furtive as its theatrical release. (R) ELLA TAYLOR
End of the Century
Opens Fri., Oct. 29, at Varsity
In this new documentary, Ramones art director Arturo Vega recalls Johnny Rotten crashing the band's green room in London and then furtively asking where the band was—not because he was in a hurry to introduce himself, but because he was afraid the Ramones, who seemed as much like a gang as a punk-rock band, would beat him up for having come in through the window. Apart from a few such anecdotes, Century doesn't hold a lot of surprises. That the band, whose essential charm was that they perpetually looked as though the cat had just dragged them in, had an art director might be news to some, and the bulk of the stories, like Vega's, are engaging and funny regardless of whether or not they've already been told. The Ramones cut new passageways in popular music, no question about it, and they were characters of the highest order, too.
For debut filmmakers Michael Gramaglia and Jim Fields, the documentary is a labor of love (the two met as teenagers much in the same way the Ramones did; they shared a love for the anti–Donnie and Marie punk of the '70s). The look and feel, then, is nostalgic as well as raw, but the aesthetic suits the subject quite well. Although the vintage live clips are heavily cut and spliced with less-dynamic interviews, they're highly enjoyable just the same—so long as you don't blink and miss them. Gramaglia and Fields got to Joey, Dee Dee, and Johnny before their recent deaths, so much of what cuts into the concert footage is vital and welcome. Although Century also features a fair amount of commentary from some supporting characters (latter-day drummers, childhood friends, and a few quick oddities like Rob Zombie), this isn't one of those music docs that has to rely on random-but-famous fans in order to tell a story.
The band was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2002 (tape of the ceremony bookends the film), and drummer Tommy Ramone is the only original band member still standing. If only for those reasons alone, it's a good time to look back and recall how much the Ramones went through in their road to ruin. Century ought to please fans enormously—and any punk-rock fan who isn't a Ramones fan isn't a punk-rock fan at all. (NR) LAURA CASSIDY
Lightning in a Bottle
Opens Fri., Oct. 29, at Varsity
This documentation of the Scorsese- catalyzed 2003 Tribute to the Blues concert at Radio City offers a bumper crop of tasty bits. Performances both lighthearted and smokin', backstage interviews, and archival footage projected on the hall's jumbotrons create an energetic gloss of blues history. Credit for compelling montaging goes to director Antoine Fuqua, who moves things beyond hero worship. We get a snip of Odetta admonishing the band for drowning out Ruth Brown (the fur-fezzed Brown, who regained her voice after a stroke, cracks, "I'm so glad to get the gig, I'll scream!"); a sit-down with robust raconteur Solomon Burke, who describes the sub-chitlin "neckbone circuit"; and a B.B. King recollection of getting heckled by a young crowd. Training Day's Fuqua conjures kinesis where possible considering he's dealing with some real old folks—not to mention an audience whose overwhelming paleness can't help but trigger reflection on the racial politics of blues fetishization.
Rock partisans get a bone with the inclusion of John Fogerty and Aerosmith, who boogie energetically but hardly thrill. And neosoulers are placated with contributions from India.Arie and Macy Gray. But if heyday glimpses (a clip of Hubert Sumlin backing Howlin' Wolf) sometimes trump present-day tribute (Sumlin backing David Johansen, who camps up "Killing Floor"), highlights include a jam on "Voodoo Child" between a torqued-up Angélique Kidjo and a delighted Buddy Guy, and a Shemekia Copeland–Robert Cray duet on Bobby "Blue" Bland's "I Pity the Fool." Coif awards go to James Blood Ulmer's topknot dreads and Natalie Cole's growing-out weave, which she caresses while growling a line about store-bought hair. (PG-13) LAURA SINAGRA
