Second time around with this Abel Ferrara/Christ Zois adaptation of a William Gibson short. Directed by Ferrara (Bad Lieutenant) and prompted by seeing his other collaboration with Christopher Walken (King of New York) about a year ago. Incidentally also an Annabella Sciorra segue from Romeo is Bleeding and Jungle Fever. She plays a procuress here. And, to a far lesser extent, Gretchen Moll from Boardwalk Empire in a non-speaking German putatively cold-hearted bitch wife role. And also Willem Dafoe and Ryuichi Sakamoto from everywhere.
Things fall apart almost from the start. The nightclub scenes grope for David Lynch's Twin Peaks with prostitute Asia Argento, nepo baby before it was cool, doing her best with a character that has no interiority. Her scenes in general and specifically with Dafoe aim for sexy but come across as exploitative, perhaps because they were improvised and the actors aren't comfortable with each other. The idea of pilfernating biotech genius Yoshitaka Amano for one zaibatsu from another with a honey trap was stale in the 1980s. Walken is tasked with explaining it all to us until he takes a Scarface swan dive.
The whole thing is spliced up footage from different technologies. The video feels dated and the lengthy final movement, which attempts to retell what we've seen from an insufficiently-distinct perspective, is weakly impressionistic and lacks the visual innovation of Wong Kar-Wai and Christopher Doyle.
Janet Maslin at the time. Lurid. Also David Stratton. I'm sure Roger Ebert saw it but it seems he didn't bother writing it up.
A jag via Roger Ebert's review from Romeo is Bleeding. Directed by Stephen Frears. Source novelist Jim Thompson had great form providing Kubrick with raw material (The Killing, Paths of Glory) and some less tasty stuff (The Killer Inside Me). Adapted by Donald E. Westlake.
Notionally this is a noir-adjacent small-scale con movie of a kind done so many times before and since (e.g., Matchstick Men). Boyish and not-too-smart John Cusack somehow makes bank by playing tricks on the unwary in L.A. (The ones we're shown are of the at-most-once variety and cannot yield the fat stacks he hides behind his clown pictures.) He somehow keeps Annette Bening interested, at least until his book-fixing mother Anjelica Huston arrives from the east coast and the long con(s) unwind. A lot of the plot makes little sense and amounts to little more than shuffling the characters around. I was waiting for a twist that just doesn't come.
Roger Ebert: four stars. A Critic's Pick by Vincent Canby. How much you enjoy this is probably determined by how much you enjoy an all-in Annette Bening.
Prompted by Jason Di Rosso's interview with "British-Irish" director/co-writer Rich Peppiat. The other co-writers are the out-front rappers for the band: Naoise Ó Cairealláin aka Móglaí Bap and Liam Óg Ó Hannaidh aka Mo Chara. The basic idea was to make a biopic of the gangsta rap band Kneecap out of Belfast in the style of Trainspotting.
Apparently by accident these two young blokes meet up with unfulfilled school teacher JJ Ó Dochartaigh (soon enough Dj Próvai, looking a bit like a younger Eddie Marsan) who has dreams of musical stardom and a garage studio to prove it. He's impressed by Naoise's notebook, stuffed with gangsta lyrics in Gaelic/Irish, and takes a liking to their drugs. (The recreational use of pharmaceuticals is portrayed as mostly wholesome or at least not permanently damaging; there is no needlework or disease.) There is a dash of history, including a brief exploration of Michael Collins's loyalties, that establishes the incompleteness of the Irish revolution without dwelling on religious schisms. The remainder patchily sketches familial and social relations: patriarch Michael Fassbender starts well but becomes too stiff and the humour around him being in the same state as Schrodinger's cat is overplayed. Naoise himself generally presents as a blank-faced cypher.
Despite the regular losses of momentum things chug along OK with the odd bout of extreme humour up to the last 20-30 minutes when it becomes several different movies and loses coherency. The stagey trial of Ó Dochartaigh for lifestyle crimes and using the school facilities to master a track after his garage studio is murdered falls entirely flat. Fassbender and son in the alley is beyond ridiculous. The joke of Ó Hannaidh's sex life is initially amusing but is worn out by the end. I didn't enjoy the music very much and the lyrics themselves are mostly the same-old stuff that got stale a long time ago: drugs, sex, violence, poverty, expropriation. The political angle is unsophisticated; I guess we're to conclude that U2's pop-rock, Enya's Celtic and Sinéad O'Connor no longer (didn't ever?) cut it as protest music.
Sheila O'Malley provides an American view for Roger Ebert: three stars. Simone Kirby as an IRA widow is indeed fine. Beatrice Loayza. Gonzo. Wildly uneven.
They don't make them like this any more. Directed by Peter Medak (The Ruling Class). Written by Hilary Henkin (Wag The Dog).
Like many of Tarantino's efforts I rewatch this looking for more than is there and, finding not much, promptly forget that there's nothing there. The cast is fantastic but poorly used: Gary Oldman does what he can, giving the time of day to anyone who asks as a bent NYPD officer. Lena Olin goes Russian, above and beyond. Michael Wincott doesn't need to get out of first gear. James Cromwell is wasted in an almost non-speaking role. Annabella Sciorra works her smile even harder than she did in Jungle Fever. Roy Scheider as a mob boss! The script just falls apart at some point, roughly when a poorly handled twist involving Juliette Lewis shows just how deft Se7en was. The concluding wish-fulfilment arc (in a court building, in an Arizona drive-past diner) is painfully meaningless. Mark Isham's soundtrack is often effective as it slides from classic (but unoriginal) trumpet-driven noir-jazz to electronic horror.
Roger Ebert: two stars. Janet Maslin.
Kindle. Billed as a spy thriller but really it's a discursive research dump. Quite often I wanted to throw the Kindle across the room as I waited for it to get good. It didn't; the final 10% or so does get moving but by then it's too late, and the concluding farce can't make up for what came before.
Our Californian narrator "Sadie Smith" bills herself as a spy. She's more of an agent provocateur though. The task which she chose to accept was to infiltrate a pseudo-kibbutz in the Guyenne region in southwestern France via the pants of a minor Parisian film auteur in ballpark 2010. Her actual job is to bore us witless at length with trivial observations about early hominids and excessive but inconsequential drinking. Does she (or Kushner?) really think that archeologists and anthropologists are so stupid that they do not understand survivorship bias? Everyone knows that left-wing French politics has been dead boring since 1968, and there's a lot of glory but not much substance in theory; I mean, it's just free association.
The early flashback structure demonstrates that Kushner put more value in finding homes for her research/notes from a holiday in France than in telling a good story; I tend to feel that if the narrative and characters have any strength then they can be presented linearly, from start to finish. If they don't, no amount of faux intellectualism is going to save things.
While chugging through this (in lengthier bouts as I realised there was nothing memorable in the offing) it struck me as mostly derivative of other works. Fundamentally there's Adam Johnson's Parasites Like Us but without its humour or actual erudition, and the entrapment of Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent. The tendentious and shallow concept of a person's "salt" struck me as a pale imitation of Persig's grappling with quality in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Perhaps, like in Gone Girl, someone found the sex sexy, maybe even including the repugnant bits. Ultimately I couldn't tell if Kushner was patronising her readers or actually intended her narrator to present as patronising and stupid. Or was it all an accident?
Widely reviewed. Like me, Brandon Taylor was completely unimpressed. Reading his article now, after the book, I see my beefs are a subset of his. The vacuity is laid bare by how "Sadie Smith" chooses to spend her retirement, by doing nothing much of anything. Dwight Garner gushed and also liked the bit about cave-dwelling Bruno getting head lice from a dead German soldier during the occupation of France. And so on. Hats off to the marketing team once again.
Pure fan service. The story makes little sense. The characters are weak. Loads of cameos (Wesley Snipes!) but not a thing is memorable.
At Middleback Arts Centre. I booked last week as I remembered that I was too preoccupied to go to anything at this time last year and just happened to get lucky. I hadn't been to a Bangarra performance before. Moderately full.
I read the brochure before going and so expected a strong narrative or at least an iconography that I could recognise. Notionally we're told a story of a soak in western South Australia that gets consumed by the steam locomotives transiting the Trans-Australian Railway in the 1920s or so. The final part takes us in a tacked-on way to the horrors of Maralinga.
As it was I struggled to find things to focus on with all the high-energy movement and I started to wonder what it looked like from different angles; I was in the middle perhaps 15 metres back from the front edge of the stage and felt I was looking down when I should have been looking across. There was a sense of the athleticism but not the danger that comes with circus. Many in the crowd dug it with a broad standing ovation.
Geraldine Higginson's review is somewhat tepid.
Over several nights as it is somehow engrossing and often toes the line of being too much. Written and directed by Tsai Ming-liang. This was his debut feature after a career in TV.
Taipei, Taiwan, feeling like the late 1980s. The traditional society that was breaking down in That Day on the Beach (1983) has broken down. The rain provides cover for the bad boys on motorcycles (dominant Chen Chao-jung, adjunct Jen Chang-bin) who are cracking everything coin operated (phones, vending machines) to pay for the night's entertainment at the video game parlour and endless cigarettes. Soon enough anithero Kang-sheng Lee has quit his crammer and burnt his bridges with his middle class parents, taxi driving Miao Tien and expositor-of-tradition Yi-ching Lu. There's a vibe that things are going to go all Taxi Driver but Lee is mostly mute. Along the way we learn that roller-rink attendant Wang Yu-wen is the only available girl in the whole city; in fact things are so bad for her that she keeps buying the boys dinner. I guess nobody gets what they want.
Pen-Jung Liao's realist cinematography is very effective. The morning-after early on is captured with some great tracking shots on the city streets as the boys go their separate ways. The flooded apartment is quite something. I don't think there's that much neon; the glare of the CRTs dominate in the arcade and the love hotels. Far less is made of the flouros at the restaurant than Christopher Doyle managed to in Chungking Express. The score by Shu-Jun Huang is often insistent.
#58 on the Golden Horse list of the 100 Greatest Chinese-Language Films, on par with The Way of the Dragon. A. O. Scott in 2015 upon its U.S. release. Richard Brody, also in 2015. The phone dating is so weird.
Prompted by Jason Di Rosso's interview with director/co-writer Ariane Louis-Seize. Québécois, mostly in French with some English and Spanish.
It's almost entirely right there in the title; the only variable in the genre is what demographic these vampires are playing to. Unlike El Conde this is politically vacuous and in dank colour but shares its attitude that the world is as the creators say it is, carcass disposal and murder investigations be damned. Perhaps this couple eventually grows up and moves upriver to Detroit. The tepid humour cannot compete with What We Do in the Shadows; these guys aren't as fastidious about the provenance of the blood they consume as Jemaine Clement. Perhaps this is the next generation of Buffy.
More broadly there's a dash of quirky-/awkward-girl Amelie in a bland suburban aesthetic that isn't wild like a Tim Burton or fussy like a Wes Anderson. Lead teen Sara Montpetit is done up like 1990s P.J. Harvey. Her love interest Félix-Antoine Bénard is a bit walleyed like Marty Feldman's Igor. He wants to avoid a meaningless death (but apparently not a meaningless movie). The kids carry on like the young Americans they are. There is much object fetishism: vinyl records and egg chairs. Her first kill stands in for a loss of virginity. The fantasy fulfilment is uninventive. Things generally move along but do get bogged every so often. I guess you could say these guys are in favour of voluntary assisted dying.
More screwball from Frank Capra, again prompted by that book review. Also adapted by Robert Riskin from a short/magazine story by Samuel Hopkins Adams. Starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Oscars all round, including Best Picture. #247 in the IMDB top-250.
Impulsive scion Colbert jumps off her father Walter Connolly's boat near Florida after he puts up a fight about her continuing to be (chastely) married to flying Jameson Thomas (not Oscared). Needing to get back to her man in NYC while avoiding the private dicks etc. of the era, she opts for a bus where she encounters Gable. The rest is inevitable, including the need to beggar these rich beautiful people to garner audience sympathy during the Depression. Larceny is OK if its in the service of love. It's not that screwy and again the last 30 minutes gets far too serious. I'm not sure which night it happened on.
Mourdaunt Hall at the time.
Kindle. George Mackay Brown's first novel. He certainly wrote about what he knew. Set in a fictional town (Greenvoe) on a fictional island (Hellya) in the Orkneys, he ably documents a dying way of life in an isolated community. The characters and their proclivities are closely and sympathetically observed. I got the feeling he split his own into a few people here. He does not shy away from the ugly things in life but greets them with gentleness. The nested and shifting story frames are smoothly and deftly handled. The writing is quite fine and the specialised vocabulary is a necessary part of the requiem. Far more engaging than you'd expect from what is structurally a soap opera.
As with Fankle-the-cat the outro here rails against the destruction of nature and deep history, the displacement of the locals, for expedient and withheld reasons. (Just what was Black Star?) It comes with a rush and a change of style and voice, a simplification of language, like he's explaining himself to a bureaucrat from London.
Goodreads. Calm, entertaining, thoughtful. Mystical. Robert Crawford on Mackay Brown.
Prompted by Andrew Katzenstein's review of Grégoire Halbout's book Hollywood Screwball Comedy, 1934–1945: Sex, Love, and Democratic Ideals in the New York Review of Books. A very young James Stewart, scion of a NYC banking dynasty, romances his secretary Jean Arthur while his father Edward Arnold looks to close the biggest deal ever, hinging, of course, on buying her grandfather Lionel Barrymore's sprawling abode. Directed by Frank Capra who won the best director Oscar. The film got best picture. Spring Byington was nominated for her very amusing diverted mother/wife. Adapted by Robert Riskin from a play by George Kaufman and Moss Hart.
It's clear the actors are having a ball. There are some great scenes — Jimmy Stewart dancing with a young girl half his height, the crow and the cones, the crazy inventiveness in the basement (evoking 1960s Doctor Who), ecumenical grace at the dinner table, some farcical court proceedings. There's a bit too much speechifying and out-of-character listening, and things start to drag in the last 20 minutes or so as the gears shift from screwball fantasy to moral fable. It's at its best when it's just having a laugh.
Thematically it foreshadows The Godfather — grandpa is beloved by the community — and the epic destruction of neighbourhoods by Robert Moses. I doubt many businessmen quit when they realise they're not having enough fun.
Frank S. Nugent at the time.
Excess Alain Delon completism. Prompted by Glenn Kenny's review in 2021 — a Critic's Pick! It took me several goes to make it past the first half hour.
The scenario has Delon holidaying with hot stuff Romy Schneider at a friends' villa in the south of France. She's a writer of some kind, as was he before he failed into advertising. They're still heavily into each other despite it being about two years since they met and both being powerfully inert apart from the scenes of staged friskiness. A friend/erstwhile lover in the tunes business arrives with his previously undiscovered nubile daughter causing the usual complications. Things then grind on as they must.
It's sexy in a camera-objectifying-female-bodies way; the male gaze is all we get as the women are too busy looking at the men. I found it boring as not much effort is put into developing the characters; for instance it's clear that Delon isn't drinking but we are never given a reason why. Another scene has Schneider getting annoyed at her chopsticks. The attempt to turn it into a detective flick in the last movement is lighter than air.
It's tagged at IMDB as a psychological drama and I guess you could bracket it with minor Hitchcock like Spellbound. At times I wondered if it was taking on more of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? than it could swallow.
Bill Forsyth's first Hollywood feature. Inevitable after Breaking In. Adapted by him from a widely feted book by Marilynne Robinson. Over many nights due to a failure to grip.
Two young ladies (soon enough and mostly Sara Walker and Andrea Burchill) are dumped by their mother Margot Pinvidic (looking a bit too much like Susan Sarandon) on their grandmother in fictional Fingerbone, Idaho. Her passing brings their free-spirited aunt Christine Lahti (...And Justice For All, Running of Empty) back to town and she is entrusted with their care. Her opinions on child rearing are not so much relaxed as entirely absent. Adventures ensure, some growing up occurs but none of the typical coming-of-age stuff.
It's billed as a comedy-drama but I found little of either. There are some of Forsyth's signature moves (repeated motifs, significant gestures). The initial scenes and themes of female freedom/wild abandonment/Pinvidic/road trip evoke Thelma and Louise and not Little Women. The described-but-not-shown epic train derailment points toward Magnolia and there's just a dash (maybe) of Welcome to the Dollhouse in Ruth's exclusion from Lucille's social life. Of course Forsyth is too gentle a filmmaker to take any of it to the limit.
Roger Ebert: four stars and much effusion. Lahti's Sylvia "seemed closer to a mystic, or a saint" than a mad woman. A Critic's Pick by Vincent Canby. Lahti plays "a siren of the open road". IMDB trivia: Diane Keaton was originally cast in the lead. Takes place in 1955. Further details at Wikipedia. Unlike Forsyth's other efforts there's not much of a soundtrack.
More Alain Delon completism. He passed recently. Directed and co-written by Luchino Visconti. Inevitable after The Leopard. Claudia Cardinale has a minor role as the oldest-brother's wife. In glorious black-and-white. Over two nights due to length.
After the passing of their patriarch, four of five brothers and their mother from feudal farmland in southern Italy join the eldest brother in frigid industrial Milan. Each brother gets named in a title card but really it's always about Delon's Rocco and Renato Salvatori's Simone. Both end up boxing and falling for the same woman, Annie Girardot's Nadia, a prostitute. The story maps the disintegration of the family as society's traditions crumble. It's not very subtle and things generally go as you'd expect, but despite this it is somehow engaging throughout. There's a great scene where an old bloke explains how housing works for those of meagre means.
Roger Ebert in 2008: a "great movie" for an instant four stars. Obviously points the way to The Godfather, Mean Streets. Operatic and exhausting. Bosley Crowther in 1961. The Grapes of Wrath. Vincent Canby in 1991. Rocco recalls Dostoyevsky's The Idiot. More details at Wikipedia.
Originally titled Bastarden (The Bastard). Directed and co-written by Nikolaj Arcel who was also responsible for the similarly fictional-historical A Royal Affair (2012) which also starred Mads Mikkelsen. He also co-wrote Riders of Justice with co-writer Anders Thomas Jensen. In two sittings as it neatly segments.
Pensioned soldier Mikkelsen gets sick of the poor house in the 1750s and decides to petition the Danish King. He offers to have a crack at farming the moorland/wasteland of Jutland in return for a peerage on success. Advisor Søren Malling (A Hijacking) is against it but comes around when he sees there is little chance of a payout and some political benefit in the meantime. Labour is sourced initially from some escapees (housekeeper Amanda Collin, Morten Hee Andersen) of the house of the local feudal lord (a hammy Simon Bennebjerg) and later a band of gypsies. As the cultivation is a tedious process the focus is more on a romantic opportunity with Norwegian heiress Kristine Kujath Thorp, the construction of a family with the housekeeper and a dark-skinned castaway ragamuffin (Melina Hagberg), and the power struggle with the provincial landowners.
The point, I guess, is that Mikkelsen learns that the noble title isn't worth it. The conclusion is very similar to Viggo's: people on a horse looking at the sea. There are some loose ends: where did he get that essential white clay from? how did Ms Norway fend off the laird for all that time? why is the king so powerless? Some scenes are over the top. Mikkelsen is back to being powerfully inert — his performance is all details, not dancing, and still the ladies cannot resist. Rasmus Videbæk's cinematography is often intentionally murky and effective.
Jason Di Rosso interviewed Arcel. Manohla Dargis: enjoyably serious. Sheila O'Malley. Peter Bradshaw: three stars of five. Generally compared with Barry Lyndon.
The things that Guy Pearce and Jacqueline McKenzie make me watch. Directed and co-written by Lee Tamahori. He looks to have struggled within the Hollywood vortex since Once Were Warriors (1994). Apparently this is the third entry of a trilogy with that and Mahana (2016). The other writers are Australian Shane Danielsen, who reviews movies for the Schwartz media, and Kiwi Michael Bennett. Based on a novel by Hamish Clayton.
Pearce leads as a minister of religion who has been mail-ordered by the upstanding settler folk of 1830s Epworth in New Zealand. En route, taking a transparently ill-advised break from Captain Dean O'Gorman's boat, he and his majestic white horse encounter Tioreore Ngatai-Melbourne (Hunt for the Wilderpeople) whose husband is soon executed by warlord Lawrence Makoare. The horse purchases her life for reasons of plot and it looks like we're in for a retread of the fish-out-of-water frontierism of The Last of the Mohicans and The Piano.
At the town Pearce (with Ngatai-Melbourne in tow) encounters outcast McKenzie whose Māori husband has also been killed in inter-tribal warfare. The locals are initially enthusiastic that their Christian needs will now be addressed but for reasons of plot Pearce goes another way, leading to an excess of talky history lessons and a graphically-violent L.A. Confidential climax.
There are some good bits in the small, such as when gun-running O'Gorman argues for self-regulating (musket) markets on the basis of Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations (1776). The didactic opportunity is squandered however as Pearce does not rebut with the now-ignored moral bits of the famous tome. The cinematography by Gin Loane is fine but we've seen so much of the scenery before that we expect a horde of CGI orcs to burst forth at any moment. Or perhaps Sam Neill, once more unto the breach. The dialogue is occasionally rubbish.
Ben Kenigsberg. Jason Di Rosso interviewed Lee Tamahori. Tamahori asserts that without Christianity the Māori would have used the white man's muskets to wipe each other out. He has consistently taken women's points of view in these movies. Three stars of five from Luke Buckmaster: who exactly was the convert?
Bill Forsyth's second Hollywood feature. I have yet to see his first.
Late-career Burt Reynolds (in a dry run for Boogie Nights?) leads as an everyman/playboy burglar who meets-cute tyre mechanic Casey Siemaszko on a job in suburban Portland, Oregon and takes him on as an apprentice. It's a heist movie! — just like it says on the tin. There are some funny bits in the small and it does not try to be clever. There is no twist but instead lots of forgiveness with stakes more in line with That Sinking Feeling than Thief. The narrative arc somewhat inverts Knox Goes Away.
Reynolds was almost unrecognisable (to me) when he eventually shed his iconic moustache. Sheila Kelley was vaguely familiar from Matchstick Men. The soundtrack is obtrusive.
Roger Ebert: three stars. Character not caper. Vincent Canby. The dog is indeed very amusing.
Minor Burt Lancaster completism prompted by David Trotter's article on David Thomson's The Fatal Alliance: A Century of War on Film in the London Review of Books. Based on Daniel Ford's story Incident at Muc Wa (1967) which is a rough contemporary of Halberstam's memoir and novel.
It's 1964 and a small group of American military advisers, led by Lancaster's Korean-War vet Major Asa Barker, find themselves in a locale called Penang somewhere in the south of Việt Nam. A mystifying expansion of the group is explained when General Harnitz (Dolph Sweet) helicopters in: they're to establish a garrison at the old French settlement of Muc Wa. The result, of course, is their own private Điện Biên Phủ.
Lancaster delivers all the funny lines quite flatly (some are quite amusing) but the attendant flatness of the other performances leaves it unclear if this is failing to be a comedy in the style of Altman's M.A.S.H. (about the Korean War, with the same racial slurs) or failing to be something more substantial. Amongst the stereotypes is an intelligence officer who is nothing like Daniel Ellsberg.
IMDB tells me it was shot in California with Vietnamese refugees. This makes me wonder if it wasn't one of the ingredients for that episode of The Sympathizer.
Roger Ebert: two-and-a-half stars. The cliches did their duty. All the details at Wikipedia and more at IMDB trivia.
Prompted by Jason Di Rosso's interview with director/co-writer Jub Clerc a year ago. Steve Rodgers was the other writer.
The core of the story is about a group of at-risk youth from Port Hedland or thereabouts who are taken on a photography road trip out to Karijini. Shantae Barnes-Cowan leads. Her mum likes to party hard so it falls to her uncle Mark Coles Smith to provide some stability. Carlos Sanson Jr. and Tasma Walton (far better here than in Mystery Road) are the adults supervising the trip.
The Pilbara is as gorgeous as ever but it's as it's been shot to death it's difficult to get excited by the gasps of awe from the (notional) locals. Things go gently with some implied but toothless menace and a bit too aimlessly: there are a few attempts to lift the stakes by cliched (soap operatic?) means. The use of film cameras struck me as just as disruptive as phones; how often were 1980s holidays interrupted by the artifice of needing to shoot? The limited number of photos and expense involved is not exploited here, and in general there are no stakes, quixotic frame or timelessness of a Walkabout or Rabbit Proof Fence. On the plus side it's great to see a script that shunts the well-worn issues of the white/black interface to the edges of a self-contained mostly-indigenous universe. This is helped along by a cracker soundtrack.
Look Goodsell: sincerity is so uncool in a teen. I dissent, the camera lies: only someone who hasn't been to Port Hedland could deem it "eerily pretty". Based on Clerc's experiences on a "photo safari" with National Geographic in the 1980s. She also did a segment of The Turning. Played at Cannes Écrans Juniors 2024. Sandra Hall, blandly. Elsewhere: it invites comparison with The Breakfast Club.
