Category: Doc of the Day (Page 3 of 5)

Doc of the Day: “The Ritchie Boys”

Given that today’s Veteran’s Day, it seemed only appropriate to select a documentary which involved the members of our fighting forces. Of course, it also helped that, mere days before, I’d serendipitously received such a selection: “The Ritchie Boys,” directed by Christian Bauer.

Ever since Tom Brokaw put together his tales of “The Greatest Generation,” documentaries interviewing those who fought their way through World War II and lived to tell their stories have been very much on my radar, so I was immediately predisposed to be interested in “The Ritchie Boys” based on its WWII-era cover photo alone. As I read the description on the back of the DVD box, however, I became legitimately fascinated by this story of German Jewish individuals who’d been run out of their homeland, come to the States, and been welcomed into the U.S. Army to assist in the war effort and fight against those who forced them to flee Germany in the first place.

This would’ve been an interesting story even if it had been told strictly via voiceover narration, but several members of the Ritchie Boys – so named because of their training in Camp Ritchie, Maryland – are still alive, well, and more than ready to talk about their experiences. Most had only been in the States for a very short time before finding themselves members of the US Army, but almost all were enthusiastic at the prospect of kicking as much Nazi ass as possible.

It’s not entirely surprising, I don’t suppose, that the majority of these gentlemen are jovial and in good spirits when speaking of their pasts, probably because there were some good times; certainly, it’s evident that there was tremendous camaraderie amongst them. We see this in particular with the duo of Guy Stern and Fred Howard, who left the war as friends and are the only two who are paired together during the course of the film; we see them as they reunite and ride together to tour their old barracks, and the easy back-and-forth between them will illicit a smile in most. For instance, on the drive to the barracks, Guy muses that you can see that the Blue Ridge Mountains will be appearing on the horizon soon, which inspires Fred to burst into laughter and reply, “You are so full of shit!” They trade memories back and forth throughout the film, including how they discovered that German soldiers were deathly afraid of being captured by the Russians, so they managed to get their hands on a Russian soldier’s uniform and would interrogate prisons as if they were Russians. (They even found a portrait of Josef Stalin, to which they added a facsimile of his signature, adding, “With love.”) Be sure, however, to stay tuned for the closing credits, over which they discuss a tale they invented about how they’d captured Adolf Hitler’s latrine officer.

Though we’re treated to several amusing stories from the various surviving Ritchie Boys, the sad reality of war is never far away. We hear how one of the members of the regiment was shot dead by a sentry after answering the password correctly but doing so in his German accent; also, in a moment of governmental stupidity, it’s revealed that the U.S. Army’s dog tags listed the soldiers’ religious persuasion, which proves a bit dodgy if you’re a former German turned American soldier who’s of the Jewish persuasion.

“The Ritchie Boys” is a side of the war that’s never really been explored before. Even if you’ve seen “The War” and think, okay, Ken Burns has said all that needs to be said, you’d still be wise to check out this flick before making a final decision on the matter.

Doc of the Day: “Small Town Gay Bar”

You might think it’s a little ironic that I should spend the previous Doc of the Day entry talking about how my non-gayness leaves me personally indifferent to Canada’s tolerance of homosexuality, only to follow up with a rave for director Malcolm Ingram’s “Small Town Gay Bar,” a documentary which explores the difficulties that the homosexual community in small-town Mississippi have in finding a place to hang out and be themselves. It’s doubly unlikely when you factor in that the DVD opens with a commercial for “Dante’s Cove,” about which I once wrote that it “actually looked mildly interesting, given its reference to “sexy and supernatural residents,” but even that description couldn’t keep me watching after one male lead mounted another from behind in the kitchen.”

So can we solely chalk my appreciation of the film up to the fact that it’s been executive-produced by my brother from another mother, Mr. Kevin Smith?

Absolutely not. The credit goes totally to Ingram on this project…well, okay, and probably to editors Graeme Ball and Scott Mosier, too. But as a gay man himself, it’s a reasonable assumption that the heart of the film belongs to Ingram.

And there’s a lot of heart in “Small Town Gay Bar.” Although the film begins by playing up the wild and crazy fun which one generally associates with gay bars (techno music, drag shows, etcetera), the primary focus is to show how such establishments are downright crucial to the mental health of the small town gay community, as they provide gays with a rare opportunity to let their hair down and be themselves, rather than “have to deal with terrified heterosexuals.” It’s not a sensationalized look at the gay lifestyle; if anything, Ingram goes out of his way to spotlight the gay relationships…rather than, say, what goes on under the sheets.

At right around the 20-minute mark, however, the cheery, upbeat tone of the documentary grows dark and harsh, as the subject of Scotty Weaver is broached.

Weaver, an 18-year-old gay boy who lived in Bay Minette, Mississippi, was tied to a chair in his trailer, where, over the course of several hours, was beaten, strangled, stabbed, mutilated, and partially decapitated, with his body dumped in the woods and set on fire. If the preceding several minutes of “Small Town Gay Bar” haven’t served to remind you that gay people are still just people, then it’s hard to imagine anyone getting past the description of this event without saying, “Geez, even if you’re not a fan of homosexuality, no-one deserves that kind of treatment.” And, yet, some would argue that they do…like, say, Rev. Fred Phelps, who describes his website GodHatesFags.com as “a serious, profound theological statement.”

Yes, seriously. Though I wish I was kidding.

Once we leave Rev. Phelps’ rantings behind, we also learn a bit about the American Family Association, who aren’t quite as harsh, but they still perform disconcerting maneuvers like writing down the license plate numbers of every car in the parking lot of one of the bars, then reading the list over the radio the next morning. Fortunately, however, things soon return to a more thoughtful place; we get a history of the gay bar in Mississippi, find out about a place called the Crossroads Estates (and get a laugh at the fact that the former owner looks vaguely like Eric Clapton), and then grow sentimental as both Crossroads and the other key bar in the film, Rumors, each get new owners.

“Small Town Gay Bar” is a thoughtful look at the lifestyle of the gay community beyond the big cities, and although it only focuses on a couple of locations, it still serves as a reminder that it’s like this all over the country, not just in Mississippi. It’s sad that there are so many individuals out there who can’t just let gay folks live their own lives, especially since this film only serves to emphasize the fact that, all things being equal, they’d just as soon hang out with each other, anyway! (And given such fine upstanding heterosexuals as Rev. Fred Phelps, who can blame them?)

In closing, here’s Kevin Smith’s intro to the film. That’s Malcolm Ingram standing beside him. These two are great buds, but please note Ingram’s uncomfortable expression throughout most of this; it’s, like, “Okay, Kevin, I’ve made this really nice, thoughtful film, so how ’bout you tone down the jism talk, huh?”

Doc of the Day: “Escape to Canada”

Despite all the punchlines which have starred our great white neighbor to the north, the moment things start to get rough in these United States, the first reaction of most Americans tends to be, “That’s it, I’m moving to Canada.” And, believe me, I’m definitely including yours truly in that number. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d totally move to Canada…although I’d probably avoid attempting a transplant to Saskatchewan. (Those people are pretty testy.*) With this being the case, I was highly surprised to find myself so disappointed in Albert Nerenberg’s documentary, “Escape to Canada.”

Maybe it’s my own fault. Maybe it’s because I’ve always thought that escaping to Canada sounded like a good idea that I was disappointed. But I walked gleefully into the proceedings, figuring I’d get a good schooling on the reasons why I was right, and all I got in return was a lengthy conversation on how awesome it is that Canada has legalized pot and gay marriage. And while I’m sure it’s great news for a certain demographic, I’m not gay, and the closest I’ve ever gotten to smoking pot is the secondhand smoke I inhaled when I went to see AC/DC on their “Fly on the Wall” tour. In other words, neither of those are really great selling points for me…which was unfortunate, since, well, that’s pretty much the only two things that “Escape to Canada” takes the time to discuss.

I’m not saying the film isn’t interesting on a certain level; even though these aren’t matters that affect me on a personal level, there’s something to be said for a country that’s progressive enough to embrace them to the point of making them legal. But, honestly, at the end of the viewing, all I could think was that it’s gonna take more than the ringing endorsement of Mr. Tommy Chong to make me seriously consider Canadian citizenship.

So, yeah, I realize this is a pretty short review, but, unfortunately, I just don’t have much else to offer. On the whole, I walked in looking for info on topics like Canada’s lower crime rate, their medical plan, and other stuff, but it’s like Nerenberg went in with his blinders on. If he’s happy with this streamlined view of what’s great about the Great White North, more power to him. But, personally, I was just disappointed.

* This is a joke, intended for a friend of mine who lives in Regina, Saskatchewan. If you are not this person, please don’t get testy…mostly because you’ll only be perpetuating a stereotype.

Post-script: I dropped an E-mail to the aforementioned friend in Regina, telling him of this documentary and my disappointment with its streamlined approach, and this was his response: “My guess is that, perhaps, it’s more to highlight that, compared to the US, Canada has greater freedoms, that where the US is compromising liberties, Canada is expanding them. There are a number of ways one could argue that Canada is freer, the political system is (somewhat) less corrupt, and the social fabric less tattered, but the dope and same-sex marriage stuff are more recent points of contention, and the two countries are heading in opposite directions. Religion also doesn’t have much hold of our political system (or society, really). When the Liberals passed same-sex legislation, the prime minister, Paul Martin, openly said that as a Catholic he’s opposed to it, but that he wasn’t elected to be a Catholic prime minister, only prime minister for all Canadians.” Okay, fair enough, and I’ll buy that. But I was still disappointed, anyway.

Doc of the Day: “Yellow Brick Road”

To borrow a line from Lloyd Cole, “Oh, my sentimental fool, have I got a tale for you…”

Say hello to the Drama Program of Long Island’s ANCHOR Organization…and before you ask, it stands for Answering the Needs of Citizens with Handicaps through Organized Recreation. The title’s a bit of a gimme, but in “Yellow Brick Road,” ANCHOR’s group of dramatists have embarked upon a four-month adventure which, at the end of their path, will hopefully find them putting on a rather fine production of “The Wizard of Oz.” Yes, each of the participants is handicapped in some fashion, but it hasn’t dampened their enthusiasm one bit. In fact, if anything, it serves to make them some of the least-jaded actors you’ve ever come across.

Let’s stop for a minute and consider what I’ve just written. Now, if you like documentaries at all, then based on this description, there are really only about three reactions you can have:

1. Oh, wow, that sounds like such a sweet story!
2. Yeah, I don’t know about that. Handicapped people make me feel kind of uncomfortable.
3. Hey, I don’t play this whole “politically correct” game, but does “handicapped” mean “retarded”? ‘Cause if it does, this is gonna be awesome!

Okay, if your reaction is closest to #3, then you’re a jackass and probably shouldn’t be watching this film. If your reaction is closest to #2, well, okay, I understand where you’re coming from, and, yes, it is sometimes can be little difficult to be around handicapped people when you’re not used to being around them, but we’re not tyrants here at Premium Hollywood. I mean, no-one’s forcing you to watch “Yellow Brick Road.” But for the record, let me assure those of you whose reaction echoed #1 that you’re right, this is a sweet story…and if there’s any question as to whether or not you’re going to find yourself caught up in it, it’s answered within the first few minutes, when the girl who gets the role of Miss Gulch literally bursts into tears of joy at the news of her casting, unable to even catch her breath. (“I have to call my mom,” she manages to get out between her sobs, clambering over her fellow cast members as she tries to leaves the aisle and make a mad dash to a pay phone.)

Oh, yeah. This is one mother of an uplifting flick.

Directors Keith Rondinelli and Matthew Makar offer a close look at several of the cast members and how they live decidedly full lives even with their handicaps. They also aren’t afraid to acknowledge the occasional frustration suffered by the director of the production, who – let’s face it – has a bit of a challenge on her hands with her thespians. Still, after much work, many practices, and occasional moments of panic (will the Scarecrow need to be replaced?), these individuals pull off a highly successful “Wizard of Oz,” providing an ending with enough heart to rival that of the Tin Man.

Doc of the Day: “The Spaghetti West”

It’s taken a long, long time for me to finally realize that I enjoy a good Western, and, frankly, I blame “Star Wars.” When I was a kid, my world was one of people flying around the galaxy in starships and getting involved in laser battles…and when you’re a kid, you just can’t wrap your head around what the hell your dad’s talking about when he tries to explain how what you’re watching is just a hi-tech version of the cowboys he watched when he was a kid.

Yeah, okay, now I get it: my starships were his horses, my laser blasters were his six-shooters, and so on. But back then, I was just, like, “Okay, whatever, dad: that stuff is in black and white, and that means it’s old.” And to his credit, he was never one of those dads who’d try to assure me that if I’d really enjoy Westerns if I’d just sit down and give them a try…which is a little ironic, given that that’s pretty much my stock maneuver when I’m trying to sway people to check out unheralded stuff. But, y’know, if he’d force-fed me the stuff, I would’ve probably walked away never wanting to see another Western ever again, whereas having found them of my own accord at a time when I was actually able to appreciate them, I’m now finding that I really dig them.

Ironically, though, I think I probably would’ve found myself delving into Westerns several years earlier if I’d paid more attention to the stuff my uncle Charlie – my mom’s brother – was talking up when I was a kid. While Charlie and my dad were both of the same generation, with Charlie actually being a few years older, I distinctly remember that my uncle was a big fan of Clint Eastwood’s Westerns as well. These were the so-called “Spaghetti Westerns,” and they sounded vaguely intriguing even back in my youth… possibly just because I always thought my uncle Charlie was really cool, but, even so, the memory has stuck with me for all these years.

My dad, however, had always been a card-carrying member of the John Wayne / Gene Autry style of Western, and in the world of Westerns, that’s the equivalent of…well, I’m not sure in this case who would be Elvis and who would be The Beatles, but whatever the case, my dad’s allegiance to the kinder, gentler, and less graphic Western was clear. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with this, especially since I’ve yet to see a John Wayne / John Ford collaboration that I didn’t enjoy, but after watching “The Spaghetti West,” an IFC original documentary on the genre, I can only say this:

Man, I have been missing out!

For years, I’d always thought that the term “Spaghetti Western” was intended as a disparaging term, to imply that the films that fell under this banner were nothing more than sub-par foreign rip-offs of the far superior American films which had inspired them. (U.S.A.! U.S.A.!) Gradually, though, I began to learn a little bit more about the genre, saw that these films were starring highly-respected actors like Eastwood, Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, and Jack Palance, and began to realize that maybe I hadn’t been reading this thing quite right. If you enjoy Westerns but you’ve also spent time in this confused camp (and please say if you have, because I don’t want to believe I’m the only one who thought this), then “The Spaghetti West” will serve as a grand illumination for you.

In addition to exploring the work of the legendary Sergio Leone, who all but invented the genre with “A Fistful of Dollars” (and its subsequent sequels, “For A Few Dollars More” and “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly”), the documentary explores other key figures in the movement, including Sergio Corbucci and Sergio Sollima. That’s right: they’re the Three Sergios, and if you included nothing but their films, you’d still have a pretty damned effective look at the best of the Spaghetti Westerns. Corbucci proved to be a tremendous influence on Quentin Tarantino, if only for a particularly notorious scene in Corbucci’s “Django,” where this poor bastard gets his ear cut off. (When Tarantino saw the film for the first time, I wonder if his fellow theatergoers were distracted by the lightbulb that must’ve immediately appeared above his head.) We get a good exploration of the three ages of the Spaghetti Western: the straight films which originated the genre, the political-themed versions which came about as things began to get too predictable (a.k.a. the Zapata Westerns), and the comedy or parody takes on the genre – like, say, the “Trinity,” starring Terrence Hill – which prove so inevitable when a genre becomes embraced by the mainstream. Leone, it should be noted, hated the third age (he didn’t think they were funny), but he still ended up providing a post-script to the movement as a whole with “My Name Is Nobody,” which teamed Hill with Henry Fonda and served the final Western of Fonda’s career.

Even those who are well versed in the world of Spaghetti Westerns will love this documentary, which interviews many of the major players, all the way up to Eastwood himself, including several of the directors and actors, as well as Leone’s go-to guy for music, Ennio Morricone. Don’t be surprised if you walk away from this thing with a checklist of new movies for your Netflix queue.

Unfortunately, there’s no trailer for “The Spaghetti West” available, so, in lieu of that, I present the trailer for the film that left me the most curious: Sergio Corbucci’s “Django.” Damn, screw renting; I may just have to buy this thing outright…

Post-Script: I called my dad and told him about having just finished watching this documentary, and his exact quote – following a laugh – was, “Well, I don’t think you’ve just gotten finished watching anything that I care much about!” I mentioned to him how I’d remembered how Charlie had been a fan of some of the Spaghetti Westerns, and he backed me up on that, but then he admitted that half the reason that he’d never liked Spaghetti Westerns himself lay in his rail fandom. (Translated, that means he’s a retired railroad man who’s loved trains all his life.) “I’d see the trains in those movies that were so clearly Italian, with their big ol’ cowcatchers, but they’d’ve painted ‘Santa Fe’ on them or whatever, and I’d just be, like, ‘Give me a break.'” He added, though, that the dubbing from Italian into English always drove him up the wall, too. “I don’t think I ever saw one where they didn’t seem to be at least a syllable behind!” I hereby declare these both to be highly valid reasons.

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