Kill Them All But One.

A Few Kind Words Addressing Battle Royale

 (an article originally published in the May 2012 issue of The Scene)

When the world as you know it is on the brink of irreparable collapse and the majority vote of the younger generation seems to be leaning overwhelmingly toward a permanent, 'fuck you!' state of mind, what would be the most productive way in which to attempt to address the situation?

Simple enough, take a fat batch of these rowdy, disrespectful brats, toss them on some remote locale and have them fight 'til death until only one lucky soul remains. For extra good measure, have their former teacher (who's class they often avoided) supervise the whole bloody event and share the cruel outcome with a sensation starved general public. Such is the basic, catchy premise for the now notorious (in cult film sub-circles) Japanese grown slice of dystopian flavored savagery, Battle Royale. The film does propose a 'what if' outline of such an alternate reality where, devoid of a confident infrastructure and a stable, civil population, the powers that hope to restore any portion of order have reduced themselves to employing the youth as dependable fodder in a succession of morally bankrupt war games meant to help satiate the nagging demands of an overpopulated citizenry starving for more than just eats. The picture never gets overly explicit on the detailing of the how, when and why aspect of this society's apparent dire straits, but it's enough to know that times are tough all over and the kids must suffer their fair share of the unholy consequences.

Thus the invention and implementation of the Millennium Educational Reform or 'Battle Royale' Act. Selecting random classes by way of national lottery, the governing body (such as it dictatorially is) is freely able to ease on to a thinning of the herd (a more blunt and unapologetically fascistic variant on our real life practice of patriotically manipulating poor, gung ho kids to allow themselves to be groomed for the kill and to be shipped off to fight often meaningless combat). Once transposed to a deserted, nondescript island, the chosen ones are each read the rules and regulations of this so-called game that proves to be their sorry lot. Each player is issued a supply bag plus a random object that they must somehow use as a weapon (everything from highly useful firearms and sharp objects fit for stabbing to something as completely worthless as a stove pot lid, some get lucky and others get the short straw) and are ushered on to kick off the three day long, kill all or be killed off competition.

Attempts to resist the game or flee the island to the safety of the real world (or what now passes for it) are abruptly discouraged by way of handy explosive devices fitted inside snug neck brace like contraptions applied to each of the contestants. They try anything funny, the brace goes POP! and their throat will open up in due fashion, fanning the immediate area with a vivid, crimson shower. With the intense particulars of the game firmly established, the ensuing melodrama sees old wounds reopened, friendships compromised, flimsy grade school social systems collide and combust and genuine, youthful affections clear the path for handy suicide pacts.

Commanding over this troubling, ultra violent molestation of the normally harmless by comparison tropes of the rebellious teenager genre is a long shopworn soldier of the Japanese cinema, Kinji Fukasaku. Making his 60th directorial entry with Battle Royale, Fukasaku reaches an apex in a career he has been banging away at since 1961. He has affixed his mark on such titles as Battles Without Honor and Humanity, The Black Lizard, The Green Slime, Message From Space, Virus and many, many more than I feel like reiterating here. Fukasaku was also responsible for helming the Japanese segments (along with Toshio Masuda) of the all star, Hollywood WWII opus Tora ! Tora! Tora! (when that one hack, Akira Kurosawa got himself fired) so you just know the guy has his chops refined and honed up for tackling damn near anything, especially something as safe a bet as a youth gone wild scenario.

Turns out, a main portion of the motivation for Kinji Fukasaku to take on the production of Battle Royale (adapted by his son, Kenta, from the popular, same named novel by Koushun Takami) stemmed from his wartime imprintings as a teenager slaving away as a munitions worker and developing a deep set disdain for all manner of adult, authority figures (most importantly, those who represent the government of Japan). The curious thing about this is that it seems to have inspired the director to impart a significant measure of empathy toward his relatively naive protagonists, allowing the plight of these poor pubescents pushed into class execution to have a greater impact while the elder figures mostly lingering in supporting statuses remain deliberately underdeveloped. The sole adult who does manage to eke out some shading of nuance over the course of Battle Royale's two hour litany of relentless carnage is the former school teacher Kitano (essayed here by Japan's beloved jack of multi trades Takashi 'Beat' Kitano, a man who earned his way to fame as a comedian/television personality and additionally as an actor/director with such films as Violent Cop, Brother & Outrage) a man off put from any facet of happiness as a result of a dismal family situation (explored in greater depth in the much inferior sequel, Requiem) Takashi does his darnedest to make this sap sympathy worthy.

As the picture ambles its way toward what one would assume to be an inevitable denouement, it appears to take prioritized pleasure in dissecting and, at times, even deliberately satirizing the particulars of the often clique driven structure of this teen aged caste system that has been set on its head. Battle Royale's total dedication to brutal mayhem as a method of enhancing the impact of its rapid fire brand of socio-political mockery has led to its grandstanding amongst the hallowed annuls of cult filmdom. The fairly odd twist to all of this is, until this very year we live in now, Battle Royale has never once been granted an official, licensed home video berth in these United States. Now, theories and suppositions on this matter very, everything from a lack of distributor interest or financial confidence in this 'product', to the hot potato suggestion (by some) that this America was not ready to digest a film as heady as this, especially during its initial bow, right in the thick of the kids of Columbine and their nihilistic antics back at the close of the 20th Century. 

Nothing to fret much over though, as time (and pop culture convenience) seems to soothe most troubles. As fate would have it, the generous folks at Anchor Bay Entertainment (anchorbayent.com) have taken it upon themselves to wrangle together something called Battle Royale-The Complete Collection , a title that proves to be a slight misnomer (as anyone who already owns one or more of the easily obtained import DVDs of either film can attest). This is, none the less, a noble and very polished attempt to bring this saga to the Red, White and Blue once and for all (coincidentally corresponding with that one big scale, Lion's Gate film adaptation of the mega chic, book series about young-ins in a depressing future world forced to pick one another off and such to the sound of box office cash registers endlessly ringing).

The fresh, four disc set (available as both DVD and Blu-Ray) presents both Battle Royale films (the first in both theatrical and slightly extended director's cut versions) and a decent (yet far from complete) selection of bonus materials (though with nothing at all to represent the sequel), which lend insight into the behind the scenes mechanics and promotional thunder that encompasses the B.R. phenomenon. Shamefully, there are no commentary tracks of any kind nor deleted scenes to satisfy that trivial desire for something beyond the films as they stand completed. Some passing, minor complaints to be sure, but it hardly diminishes the fact that Battle Royale has finally been granted admittance into the mainstream, albeit probably to bask in the residual effects of a dumbed down, PG-13 blockbuster with a hot, blond trophy lead that serves, at best, as a flavor of the moment.

No matter, track it down and placate your hunger for crazy, quality Japanese ultra violence. You won't be underfed.



Also, something totally unrelated.

Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone.

 

One of the most tragically undervalued (in commercial terms mostly) and yet thoroughly influential bands of the past several decades finally, almost, receives its just due with this not at all landmark but still very welcome and entertaining documentary profile. Piecing together the origin through modern area timeline of this South Central L.A. born outfit by way of standard practice devices like, industry peer commentary (including but not limited to; Ice-T, Les Claypool, Gwen Stefani, Mike Watt and that overrated bass whore from the Red Hot Chili Peppers), plentiful archival footage and a guiding narrative voice lent by Mr. Laurence Fishburne, filmmakers Chris Metzler and Lev Anderson shed light on the means and methods by which such a wildly varied and potentially implosive collection of creative voices managed to change the formula of what a 'rock' band is perceived to be.

Not surprisingly, the film gains its sharpest nuggets of insight from the two primary, original founding members; Angelo Moore and Norwood Fisher (the only two cats who never abandoned the Fishbone rollercoaster at any one point). The pair explicate on the epic lifespan of this band that never climbed higher up the ladder of fame than their Lollapalloza/'Reality of My Surroundings' peak. From a socially awkward first meet up in high school all the way to bickering like an old married couple while enduring the cold truths of greatly reduced concert attendance and record sales (be honest, how many of you out there who even knew who this band was even thought they were still around?), these two remain the key voice and recount without hesitation everything from getting major label love while still in their teens, cutting some stellar records ('Truth and Soul', 'The Reality of my Surroundings', 'Give a Monkey a Brain...and He'll Swear He's the Center of the Universe'), partying it up too much, seeing members cycle in and out and back again and even suffering the loss of the pivotal guitarist Kendall Jones to a religious sect or something (an ensuing intervention attempt nearly led to Fisher's incarceration).

 

Truly one band that shone brighter on stage (their live energy is astounding) then they ever could in a confining record studio, Fishbone still succeeds in the crafting of worthy enough releases to this very day. Anyone who has bought into the sonic benefits of No Doubt, Primus, Mordred (yeah, right) and those Chili Pecker boneheads have Fishbone, in no small part, to thank for that. So do your damn self a solid and look in to their discography, catch a live gig if at all possible and set aside a few hours for Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone (the DVD of which is stuffed with quality bonus goodies and can be procured here-fishbonedocumentay.com). Now let the majesty of the 'Bone' be overlooked no further.

killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

ALL YOU BLEED IS LOVE.

The marks

about her neck

remind me of

'perfect'

she checks the mirror

to see if I'm

responsible

it's all backwards now

I never asked to be

(re) born as her

lover she

just took the initiative

apart

made her own rules to

become broken

bones

fit for our

wedding night

the day before the

baby arrived

stillborn

on the nightstand

waiting

for me to entrust it to

the over spilling trash with

the dawning hypocrisy of

our vows

rusting

my decision to

have the courage to

ever approach her at all


I have always been leery of

interacting with women



Now I know why.

 

CRUEL NORWEGIAN BLACK METAL.

There's one 'round every corner.

Within any so-called creative network, there always proves to be a heady handful of left of field types. Outsiders, creepy sons-a-bitches or 'fringe' players plying their indifference to convention and wrecking havoc on the safe and serene. These are the artistic marks on the human race that serve to set things off balance every now and again through both behavioral traits and tangible output, be it sonic, photographic, drawn out on any given material, whatever. This is the shit and these are the folks that work under the skin and into the subconscious, raping away at what the common man may perceive as 'A-OK!'

Now, I have sworn allegiance to both the bent dementia of the artistic outcast and the non-fiction form in moving pictures. I've been devoting ample time to both subjects in this here column of mine ever since day one ('tis true, just go dig through some moldy back issues at the Appleton Library), thus it would prove second nature for me to fully embrace and digest the coming together of inventive, yet bent, humanity and ace documentation.

A case in point........

The majority of the people I know and tend to run with address the scrappy hard rock sub-sub-sub genre of Black Metal as some kind of guttural train wreck clown routine drenched in quasi-medieval posturings straight outta some random B-movie redressing of deep-rooted Scandinavian folklore. Any average fool need not look further than established brutes Immortal and the layout imagery for their seminal record 'Battles in the North' as impetus to, either, bug your eyes way out in disbelief or let forth a torrent of savage giggles. Two dudes in corpse paint, all stone serious and posing dire with their guitars in a pile of bright, white snow, there you have it, black metal in a nutshell.

Not so fast with such simple, easy judgments, time to scratch just below the surface. Take a more explicit sampling of the recordings and press (and fanboy) response on through the years (in great particular-'Lords of Chaos:The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground' by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind and photographer Peter Beste's tome 'True Norwegian Black Metal') and one can discover a brutal, convoluted soap opera of double crossings, deceit, copious church crisping, murder fantasies (and realities), homo/xenophobic and barely disguised fascist leanings.

All of these handy, highly melodramatic nuggets find themselves dredged up to the surface yet again via an intertwining of dialogs and cultural samplings that make for the bulk of the meat in the newly presented study on this Norwegian Black Metal scene titled 'Until The Light Takes Us'. This rather earnest little slab of immersive reportage attempts to distill the epic scale madness and confounding (to the uninitiated) level of addictive appeal to those among us who've actually taken the time to 'get it' to a manageable degree. The two names behind this project, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell, sought to gain unfiltered insight into the inner workings of this mini-phenom by uprooting themselves and moving to Norway to acclimate to the locals and generate trust and accessibility with many of the principles in the normally stand-offish Black Metal fraternity.



In the end, the pair have scaled their point of focus down to two primary voices. Gylve 'Fenriz' Nagell is a founding progenitor of the watershed genre outfit Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes established underground 'fame' via his hand in the notorious Mayhem and his own, one man, raw dog juggernaut Burzum. The choice of these fellas proves an apt one as they offer up sharply contrasting vibes as interviewees. Nagell resembles to me, the archetype death metal rat; skinny, disheveled, with stringy long hair and a mumbling, socially inept demeanor. Hardly an intimidating presence, Nagell is more reminiscent of the countless dudes in patch saturated black leather jackets I'm used to seeing skulking about at many a given metal gig. Vikernes, however, is as strong a persona as Nagell is shrug-shouldered and meek. Varg (sometimes known as 'Count Grishnackh' care, in part, of a predilection toward the works of Tolkien) is an alpha-male straight away, bold, articulate and unwavering in his apparent confidence as he attempts to address the depth of his pivotal role in black metal history from his pale, sterile cell in a maximum security joint in Trondheim.

You see folks, Varg was a very naughty lad, he was tried and convicted for the offing of one time band mate Øystein 'Euronymous' Aarseth (from Mayhem) by way of multiple knife wounds. Vikernes was also heavily suspected as a participant in the then rampant outbreak of area church burnings (a symbolic burden that the black metal scene would prove unable to fully divorce itself from that point on). Varg claims the Euronymous homicide as a 'kill-or-be-killed' situation in which he bested a man who was out to do him in.

The filmmakers chart all this tension and turmoil by bouncing the words of their primary talking heads off footage (both new and archival) of the scene itself, from raw early band formations and alterations (like the shotgun suicide of initial Mayhem frontman, er, 'Dead') to present day evidence of outside cultural encroachment (7-11 and McDonald's do not warrant much affection from these gents). They also manage to wrangle a solid supporting cast of scene players from such essential collectives as Satyricon, Ulver and Immortal (sans makeup, sadly) to augment the topics at large. We learn the whole disaffected youth scenario that led the lads to seek out the rawest possible outlet to vent against their oppressive 'perfect' culture (Norway is not known for poverty and strife, you see). The film goes for a sort of drifting pace that veers between Varg and Nargell, twisting their now very separate paths back around into their shared origins and back out towards the open possibilities that await both men and the now more renowned musical outlet they both, in a basic sense, still embrace.

If the film itself is not at all perfect, it does meander some from time to time as it were an awe struck, slightly stoned youth with a taste of ADD, it serves well enough to guide the clueless newcomer though the bare essentials of why some folks grow rather nerd obsessive over all this raspy and seemingly unpleasant noise-making. It's about stepping away from the constrictions of mainstream metal brands and styles and indulging in the unfiltered, raw power and aggression coming through the music. For the previously well schooled and 'total brutal' completest (the type who pointlessly boast over a rare vinyl 7" pressed in someones cellar in Austria or something), there is that extra shade of persona revealed in the occasionally rambling and less polished discussions at hand (especially in the case of the fidgety Nargell). Plus there comes a few unexpected asides like the sudden two-cents commentary provided by 'Gummo' mastermind Harmony Korine who gushes love for all things Black Metal over appropriately low grade footage of him in corpse paint geeking out solid in some unfortunate gallery. Sometimes, things just sound more fucked the further you attempt to explain them.




A smaller, Brooklyn based distributor, Factory 25, has stepped up to make the film available to one and all on both DVD and Blue-Ray formats. The film can be retrieved in both single and double disc packages. With that second disc, the willing viewer may witness an additional barrage of interview footage (which gives much needed expansion to the Immortal interview as well as a certain Kjetil 'Frost' Haraldstad of Satyricon who ends the film proper with a self-abusive performance piece that does little to dissuade the commonly held notion that this is, indeed, dangerous music). There is also several deleted scenes (on disc one), a theatrical trailer and a long winded lesson in the step by step evolution of the Black Metal scene from the expected Black Sabbath kick start on into the modern era delivered in mostly listless monotone by Mr. Nargell. In total, a worthy project well handled, but for the troublesome way the discs on the DVD version are encased (I damn near snapped both of mine in two trying to take them out...beware!)

Genuinely interested parties are greatly encouraged to stop here (http://www.factorytwentyfive.com/until-the-light-takes-us/ ) to satisfy any and all further steps that need be taken to make this baby theirs.

Enough pure crushing blackened hate for now, stay, uh, 'Evil' why don't you?


killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com





INFECTION-OSHKOSH ZOMBIE WALK 2010

IT ALL TAKES PLACE IN THE PRESENT DAY AMONG THE FITFUL RUINS OF A HUMANITY GONE SOUR AND DRUNK WITH ITS OWN BLOATED SENSE OF SECURITY.

ONE WAY TICKET TO LOW BUDGET HELL...........AND BACK.

(Originally published in the October edition of The Scene)




Life is shit, eat a bullet.

This is what appears to be the running philosophy throughout the mid 80s no-budget cult fixture 'Combat Shock'. The film is set in New York's Staten Island at a time when things where in a prime state of moral and aesthetic decay. This richly textured hellhole is the current residence/self inflicted prison of the tale's sorry protagonist, Frankie Dunlan, a filth and sweat laden Vietnam vet whose every waking hour plays out like a litany of all the things anyone clearheaded would try to sidestep in life. Frankie lives an utterly impoverished existence with his fat slob wife and Agent Orange tainted offspring in a fully soiled apartment. Income is less than sparse, the rent is woefully past due and the plumbing is an atrocity all unto itself. Faced with a family unit that is tired, irritable and starving in the face of a lumpy carton of sour milk and precious little else, Frankie takes it upon his hopeless self to venture out into the bleak surroundings to make one last, half-hearted stab at salvation.

Frankie's trek through the bargain rate Dante's Inferno that is his 'hood is peppered with the customary stumbling blocks of junkies, whores and the small time thugs that lord over them all. Between being roughed up and held up, the poor sod finds nothing but the negative in relation to employment options and, in turn, hope. Now, unless you happen to possess serious mental aberrations of your own, this synopsis is not going to read as 'feel-good' entertainment but, rather, an experimental endurance test devised to tap into a certain facet of the human psyche that lingers just outside the boarders of popular interest.

The project was brought to life on location and in complete guerrilla fashion by one Buddy Giovinazzo. Giovinazzo is yet another textbook case of the brand of D.I.Y. directors that seemed to live for (and, comparably, thrive by) the struggle of pure independent filmmaking in a time before the prevalence of such alternative distribution routes as DVD and the Internet. Sadly, as is the case with such peers as Jim 'Deadbeat at Dawn' VanBeeber, this resulted in a greatly minimized level of creative output as money conscious industry types were not exactly fawning over the concept of making product of a grim and uncompromising nature. Giovinazzo scraped and scavaged and tapped friends and family alike to make his stubbornly ugly vision come alive. His real life sibling Ricky inherited the lead role and proud brother Buddy works an epic level of pathos from every inch of his ragged, gaunt frame. He elects sturdy (if admittedly unpolished) performances all around with several key characters succeeding in pulling of some truly unnerving behavior (one stand apart moment involving a seriously jones afflicted junkie using a rusty coat hanger to open a vein deserves extra kudos for its genuinely unsettling qualities) and he even provides his non-hero with a gentile little moment of simple banter with a young girl, nevermind the fact that girl turns out to be a prostitute.

Following the completion of 'Comat Shock', Giovinazzo struck a distribution deal with the beloved low-rent Troma Studios (who retitled it from the original 'American Nightmares'). Troma then added Vietnam war stock footage and trimmed the copious violence to appease the omnipotent MPAA and earn a marquee friendly 'R' rating. They slapped a grossly misleading 'Rambo/Missing in Action' themed poster and stuffed it into any grindhouse dive that would take it. Now I guess it would be overstating the obvious when I point to the fact that 'Combat Shock' didn't become anything close to a box office phenom upon initial release, instead it had to gestate in the underground in the now familiar pattern that slowly builds a following for a film before earning it a second life as a 'special edition' DVD.



To their credit, Troma have packed the two-disc, 25th anniversary 'Tromasterpiece Collection' release with many significant goodies. Beside both the edited 'Combat Shock' cut of the film, there is the slightly longer (and rawer) 'American Nightmares' director's cut as well as a new documentary charting the butterfly effect the film has had in the independent film community (directors like John McNaughton, Richard Stanley and Jim VanBebber chime in on the subject) plus several early shorts and music videos (of Buddy and Ricky's band 2000 A.D.) from Buddy G's archives.

Apart from working the system to largely no avail to get other projects to fruition, Buddy Giovinazzo has also made a minor name as an author a collage film instructor and as a steady hand in German television (he jumped ship from America in the 1990s and settled in Berlin ). The man has managed to finish a handful of films as well. Several, including 'No Way Home' with Tim Roth and 'The Unscarred' are as of yet unseen by me, but I shall do my best to reverse that. His latest offering 'Life Is Hot in Cracktown', adapted from his own short story collection, just arrived on disc last month and gives full indication that Ol' Buddy has not lost his touch by a damn sight.

This film features a labyrinthine intersection of story lines involving street gangstas, deviants, addicts and even a blue collar married couple to throw us all for a loop. Giovinazzo as apparently assembled a bit more money and a rather impressive cast (Lara Flynn Boyle, Illeana Douglas, RZA, Shannyn Sossamon to name a few) to further address the ills of a low income, crime infected New York environment. He again displays a fearless take on the less glamorous side(s) of human nature but still finds time to let a little light shine through the grime. The best realized sub-scenario in all the pimping, thuggin' and melodrama comes care an awkward yet, oddly, sweet romance held between a pre-op tranny (a potent Kerry Washington) and her/his (uh?) eternally doped up Beau (Desmond Harrington). It really is their saga that proves the most endearing. In the end it just goes to show that the folks that should be behind the camera rolling it are fairly often left to fend for their own means and that helps to cause the art of film to become stifled, stilted or abandoned all together.

So, genuine film lovers not afraid to get some soot on their hands, step up.

This Buddy Giovinazzo fella needs your support.

Hunt 'em down....'Combat Shock' www.tromasterpiece.com

'Life Is Hot in Cracktown' http://media.lightning-ent.com/index_new




ALSO......

I'm pretty certain the last thing the cinematic world desperately needs is another Hurricane Katrina documentary, so why not two?

First we have 'Trouble the Water' (www.zeitgeistvideo.com) which separates itself from the rest simply on the strength of its central focus. Young, married Lower 9th Ward lifers Kimberly and Scott Roberts hooked up with filmmakers Tia Lessin and Carl Deal (who've had a helping hand in several Michael Moore projects) at a shelter in the mid state Louisiana city of Alexandria. Meshing footage Kim snagged pre/during/shortly following the now legendary natural disaster with their personal hardships set against the dumbfounding broader picture of the collapse of order across the Gulf Coast, the film serves as one of the most concise, ground zero depictions of life in the wake of an unmitigated catastrophe. We tag along for the bumpy ride as the couple must leave their homestate for the first time in their short lives and find a way to retrieve and reassemble the scattered pieces of their lives sent flying to the four winds thanks more to an infamous failure of politics than the so-called wrath of god or whatever other nonsense the truly soulless among us prefer to believe.

Unlike the more extensive investigative works on this very same basic subject (i.e. Spike Lee's to-end-all magnum opus 'When the Levees Broke') this film triumphs not so much from the overburdened rehashing of the disaster itself that has now become sadly cliché (oh! the floating dead bodies and overturned vehicles, good lord the horror!) but by giving the screen over to the Roberts's themselves, to let them convey in words and gestures just how staggering an impact this misfortune of time, tide and human error has had upon them and the place they have always called home. Kimberly earns her right as the film's natural star as she makes her way through the rigors of recovery with a moxie that could have only been honed from her years on the street hustlin' and, later, bumpin' rhymes (she goes by the MC tag 'Black Kold Madina'). It's from this latter skill set that she provides the film with one of its strongest moments, an on the spot rendition of one of her own tracks, 'Amazing', which effortlessly fills in personal back story details with an articulate economy most screenwriters would die for.



It comes as no real surprise that this film managed to garner both a fairly substantial big screen berth and a Best Documentary nomination from the Oscar crowd, it is a powerful and important slice of (a greatly disrupted) life, a sharp piece of social criticism and ultimately an affirmation of strength through perseverance. Recommended to those whose range of compassion branches well beyond their own comfortable surroundings.

Similarly there is the slightly more scatter shot 'Kamp Katrina' (www.carnivalesquefilms.com) which plays more like an often dysfunctional group home movie then a polished feature. The locus this time 'round is a Bywater community (aka-Upper 9th Ward) fixture known as Mrs Pearl who opens her back yard to several wayward types in the fairly immediate aftermath of the big K. Her generosity benefits a mangy gathering of decrepit New Orleans standbys, drinkers, druggers and victimized dregs just looking for a place to 'heal' (don't miss the weathered lass with the removable eye). The movie burns most of its scant running time on various arguments and lapses in solid judgment, basically a low rent reality show meets soap opera thing with far more literal grit on its teeth. One thing that really works here (at least for my eyes) is a fair measure of solid visual representation of the rather bent charm of the Bywater neighborhood. I have ventured down its crooked streets dozens of times and crossed paths with colorful people and places on countless occasion, so it was kind of a fleeting thrill to go there again, if only care the confines of my television set. Recommended for N.O.L.A. or Katrina purists or if you stumble upon it by chance at the library, otherwise, don't try too hard.


Another month laid to rest like Patrick Swayze.

Wish me better luck next time, eh?