Tribeca: Everybody Knows...Elizabeth Murray. (Including Meryl Streep)

Team Experience is at the Tribeca Film Festival. Here's Manuel on 'Everybody Knows...Elizabeth Murray.'

There are many things to love about Everybody Knows...Elizabeth Murray, Kristi Zea's documentary on the iconoclastic visual artist: its impassioned chronicle of sexism in the upper echelons of the art establishment which long kept Murray out of the big leagues in the art world; its playful visual aesthetic which both borrows and reflects Murray's own, turning the screen into a malleable canvas; its understanding of space as mirror and echo of Murray’s personality (unsurprising given Zea’s Oscar-nominated work as a production designer); and then, of course, there's Meryl Streep's narration of the artist’s journals.

Murray died in 2007 of lung cancer and Zea had clearly begun working on this project before she passed: we get to see her talk about her long career as well as working on what would become her last piece, "Everybody Knows," which gives the film its title. But Zea recruited the Oscar perennial to bring to life the private and intimate musings of the artist. Much has been made of Meryl's uncanny ability to mimic accents and dialects, but listen closely and you'll note that her most lived-in (and even her most forgettable) performances rely on the candor of her voice. Think of the sibilant esses in Devil Wears Prada, or the shrill pitchy timbre in Death Becomes Her. In Zea's film she plunges us further into Murray's headspace with a well-placed suppressed giggle or an intentionally accidental pause. It almost becomes Murray’s final artistic collaboration, a fitting one for someone who broke glass ceilings and bore her feminism proudly.

Grade: B+

Dean & The Meddler: A Grief Dramedy Double Feature

Team Experience is at the Tribeca Film Festival. Here's Manuel on two grief-driven features.

Dean (Winner of The Founders Award for Best Narrative Feature)
Dean (Demetri Martin, who wrote and directed the film) is a professional illustrator whose first book of drawings was described as “full of whimsy.” The same could be said for the film itself. Just as Dean’s illustrations (Martin’s own) are simple, at times humorous, sketches (a faceless man wearing a t-shirt that reads “Ask me about my face,” a centaur to a horse-headed human body: “It’s not bestiality if we 69!”), the film finds comedy in simplicity; there are some surprises here but mostly this is a straightforward affair. You could say that Dean is a whimsical bicoastal dramedy about grief and it succeeds precisely because it's so assured.

Brooklyn-based Dean has lost his mother, and the narrative follows his attempt at coping with this loss. His father, played with relish by Kevin Kline, is seemingly moving on too fast, wanting to sell the house he shared with his wife, a decision that pushes Dean to flee to Los Angeles. Both men find themselves engaging with women that help push them past their comfort zones. Lessons are learnt, and personal growth is unavoidable, but Martin uses the film’s whimsy to his advantage: split-screens and his quirky drawings visually highlight the levity that runs through his script (a meet-cute with Gillian Jacobs is impossibly twee and surprisingly spunky at the same time). That I’m using words like “whimsy” and “twee” in positive terms should tell you that I fell in love with this film even as I know it works within a very specific register that may not be for everyone; then again, any film that gives Mary Steenburgen and Kline a flirtatious scene centered on criticizing a Broadway play about (maybe?) time travel was always going to appeal to my interests. Grade: A-

Susan Sarandon shines after the jump...

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Shine On, Beautiful Murder

Team Experience is at the Tribeca Film Festival. Here's Jason on "A Kind of Murder" and "Always Shine"

I know it's blasphemy in these parts to speak ill of Mad Men (cue 90% of you automatically clicking away in disgust) but I could never really get into it because it felt too slavishly obsessed with 60s posturing - I love Mid-Century Design as much as the next Eero Saarinen disciple but I couldn't ever see the forest for the tulip chairs. That said, the new Patricia Highsmith adaptation A Kind of Murder (from the 1954 book The Blunderer, kind of a suburban copycat criss-cross of Strangers on a Train) makes Mad Men seem positively restrained in its period affectations - how you manage to turn a walking talking charm like Patrick Wilson into a walking talking turtleneck I'll never figure.

The turtlenecks! The martini glasses! The heavy salmon drapes and stone fireplaces! There were moments of such monumental airlessness, as if a plastic sofa cover was wrapped over every scene, where I felt it might be purposeful - where I thought of Todd Haynes' [safe] and the way that movie was built to make the audience hyperventilate while watching it... but A Kind of Murder is no [safe]. What it is is is an occasionally jazzy low-key thriller, with Eddie Marsan skulking about effectively making his case as our modern day Peter Lorre or Raymond Burr. But it ends up more of a put on, a face of perfectly applied make-up cast halfway in noirish shadow, than any sort of artful smear. Grade: C

Part of me wishes I had seen Mackenzie Davis and Caitlin FitzGerald in Sophia Takal's Always Shine before having seen Elisabeth Moss and Katherine Waterston in Alex Ross Perry's Queen of Earth last year, because while I'm more inclined towards Takal's smoky and sinister edged film... that's a whole lot of Persona riffing in the space of twelve months.

Always Shine tells the tale of two actresses in one of those friendships so fraught with complications it would have doctors reaching for the defibrillation paddles - the pendulums of success and resentment, professional jealousy and personal affection, flinging through space so close that something's bound to rub off and muck up everything. 

And inevitably, muck. In this case the the muck under the misty cliff-faces and mossy canyons of Big Sur, California, an L.A. getaway close enough that when the sun sets the shadows from the Hollywood sign are yet still the first harbingers of nightfall. Here these ladies make their escape, a weekend coffee klatsch under the guise of nursing emotional distance, their carry-on's stacked with comedy and tragedy masks, plus sundresses. Inevitably, tragically, the two women end up flashing their SAG cards in each other's faces instead of laying bare their hearts, a battle of wiles not wills.

You know, actresses. And who doesn't love a movie about actresses? I think I'm preaching to the choir here. The performative commingling of these two still fresh talents is a blast - Davis I've already fallen head over for on Halt and Catch Fire (please tell me you're all watching that show) and FitzGerald is always fine despite a frustratingly written role on Masters of Sex; here these two fold into and under each other in smart - and, in this movie's true blessing, in unexpectedly funny - ways. Grade: B+

Wilding Out at Tribeca

Team Experience is at the Tribeca Film Festival. Here's Jason on "Hunt For the Wilderpeople".

About a year ago director Taika Waititi showed us the homier side of Nosferatu & Co with the vampire comedy What We Do in the Shadows... and the very next thing I knew he was being hired to direct the third Thor movie for Marvel. I always felt like a step was missing in there, and sure enough here's Hunt for the Wilderpeople, the adorable little rainbow bridge he took on over to the big leagues.

An adaptation of the well-loved 1986 novel Wild Pork and Watercress by New Zealand's favorite author slash adventurer Barry Crump, Wilderpeople feels more like a proper Movie than Shadows did - whereas that was a collection of funny bits hung together by silly string, this time out there's a more novelistic approach, with explicit chapter titles and also things like a beginning, a middle, and an end. An emotional journey, if you will! One that doesn't skimp on the giant pig monsters (which okay let's be honest, those are probably what got him Thor 3).

City slicker, street urchin, and roundly rejected foster kid Ricky (Julian Dennison) shows up to his latest familial assignment with a boar-sized chip on his shoulder, which Aunt Bella (a sweetly no-nonsense Rima Te Wiata) immediately sets about slaughtering. Uncle Hec (don't call him Uncle), played by Sam Neill with a beard it takes you a few minutes to find a face under, doesn't want any part of Ricky's rigamarole, but cue the heart strings as they're eventually forced to work together against the odds and find common ground, the music swells, a hug in front of a sunset in slow-motion.

Hold up though - thankfully the film is aware of those smarmy cinematic precedents (smarmy classics like the Stallone arm-wrestling epic Over the Top come to mind) and without being cutesy about it demolishes the cliches through good old fashioned hard-fought and battle-fatigued excellence. It's funny and true and a fine wilderness adventure to boot, snuffling out all emotional beats at its own pace, when it damn well feels like it, to the tune of its own drummer and the toot of its own horn section. It's like Rushmore in the bush - yes, it's Bushmore. Straight up magestical, people. Grade: B+

The Little Twink That Could

Team Experience is at the Tribeca Film Festival. Here's Jason on King Cobra.

Film festivals make for weird bedfellows, and so it was settling in to see King Cobra - the new true crime flick detailing the rise of gay porn star Brent Corrigan and his sordid side-wind through murder - at 9am on a Sunday morning. I literally passed people dressed up for church as I went to the movie theater. Now I could make the case that I was also set for a different sort of worship, getting on one's knees and what not, but that'd be cheap, and we wouldn't want to be cheap. (No, never.)

Certainly not while talking about a film so hilariously devoted to luxurious cheapness. Think back on the film and I bet your mind will be less flooded with memories of oiled pecs than it will be by leather couches abandoned across stretches of beige suburban carpets, shades drawn, piles of video games seemingly stacked in every corner.

Anyway I'm as shocked and surprised as any of you that King Cobra is killer. Funny, sexy, and bottomlessly absurd, a wall-fly's view of the ass-smacks of the perfectly self-involved, with solid to straight great performances all around. Garrett Clayton is the lube that sticks the film together and he slides it straight into third, juggling every ball(s) the movie can throw at him. And Christian Slater is especially lovely as the lonely and aged-out home-bound pornographer inviting the world's twinks into his living-room and falling in love with every last one - his romantic weariness in a lesser film would read only as lecherous, but Cobra wants to walk the line, and it magically manages to. 

Indeed the best thing about the film is its refusal to demonize sex - I was worried as it plowed further along into its darker places it would go where all these stories inevitably exhaustingly go, getting preachy and conservative and making us feel bad for the desires that half an hour earlier it was gleefully exploiting. I mean yes its a story about young people slipping into the sex industry and yadda yadda first-degree murder, but its characters also find strength and self-actualization and even love through their bruised but beautiful sexuality. You can take this one to the spank bank - it's ribbed for all of our pleasures.

Grade: B+