Cook

Every town has a few local legends. Jesco White, a poor, Appalachian entertainer popularized in documentaries and folklore, is definitely legendary. His outlaw persona, flirtation with drug addiction and his brash philosophy lends itself to myth and mystery.

“White Lightnin’” (2009) is a fictionalized bioflick that takes White beyond the moonshine, tap dancing and gas huffing and into a spiritual place.

Director Dominic Murphy understands folklore. That’s why most of the film is so far-fetched. Edward Hogg embodies something greater than White in his performance.

Rather than mimic White’s movements, he attempts to create a man overwhelmed by a violent past. His performance is not a retelling as much as it is a different character altogether. The focal point is the legend, not the man.

And as legends go, White’s life is unusual and dark. A recurring fascination with inhalants, self-mutilation and dancing propel him into a constant search for gratification. Carrie Fisher – yes, Princess Leia of “Star Wars” – plays Cilla, White’s much older wife. Together, they form a Sid-and-Nancy-type duo united by love and bent on self-destruction.

The images are stripped of color but are not entirely black and white. The diluted spectrum hints at a depth that itches to be exposed. Like White himself, the shot selection is quick and angry. The cinematography chains us to him. We experience what he experiences.

There’s little room for interpretation here. The audience is as close to being drunk on whiskey as a film can make them.

The soundtrack is perhaps the best part of the movie. It features regionally and psychologically appropriate artists like Hasil Adkins, who, like White, is from Boone County, West Virginia. His music is stripped down, repetitive, simple rock and roll. The lyrics range from grunting to depictions of decapitation. As the film drags us through the mud, the music makes us all the more uneasy.

Forgive yourself for liking this film. White is not a likable person. But some of the most compelling characters are unlovable. Travis Bickle (Robert DeNiro) in Martin Scorcese’s “Taxi Driver” (1976) is a good example of the iffy protagonist. White pushes your tolerance even further. He’s not just strung out – he’s certifiably psychotic.

Though White is known for his violent tendencies, Murphy hypes the instances of violence. The recurring themes of vengeance and torture take the focus away from White. Even as a child, White thought of ways to kill and torture those he felt wronged him. Most of the violence is fiction and, somehow, we’re okay with that.

It’s not appropriate to ask this film to be accurate to White’s life. For one, he’s still alive. More importantly, the documentaries made on the White family have already laid a claim to the facts.

Murphy, instead, made a film about a region, race and class embodied in a living man. White is deified in “White Lightnin.’” His journey is the story of the supreme hillbilly.

To watch this film is the cinematic equivalent to rubber-necking a five car pile-up on the highway. Sure, you’re not directly involved, but you’re still part of the spectacle.

Cook

If purgatory is the place between brilliance and banality, inspired and insipid, and poignant and putrid, then “This Must Be the Place” (2011). Director Paolo Sorrentino redefines limbo with this film. How low can he go?

Sean Penn follows his fantastic, gender-bending performance in “Milk” (2008) with “This Must Be the Place,” a quirky and sporadically dramatic film about Cheyenne, an aging, androgynous rock star bent on locating the Nazi war criminal who humiliated and dehumanized his now deceased father at an Aushwitz concentration camp during World War II. Unfortunately, despite the weighty subject matter that is often illuminated by Penn, this film is a swing-and-a-miss for the Academy Award winning actor.

This movie seems like a character piece masquerading as something larger. It takes on several subplots, develops and then haphazardly disposes all of them. One particular tangent involves Mary (Eve Hewson), a young, angry woman who is the object of Desmond’s (Sam Keeley) affection. By the end of the film, you’d be hard-pressed to say what happens between these two, despite the intrigue Sorrentino evokes in the beginning.

Cheyenne is affable. He appears shy, yet confident. He loves the people in his life, and they adore him as well. His journey across America lands him in interesting but irrelevant situations. As a result, he dispenses nuggets of wisdom on any and every soul he encounters. If you’re not a fan of quippy one-liners, avoid this film. The dialogue detracts from Cheyenne’s character development and functions only to elevate the philosophical perspective of the film. It’s kind of like reading a book of Confucius quotes for 118 minutes.

The title of the film is taken from a Talking Heads song and reminds the audience of how ambitious this movie is. The score is done by the Talking Head’s David Byrne, who makes a small and pointless cameo, and Will Oldham of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy fame. Both are accomplished and acclaimed musicians and songwriters.

But we learn the hard way in “This Must Be the Place” that soundtracks and albums are two very different worlds. The music comes off as intrusive and misplaced. The melodies themselves are beautiful, and if someone were to listen to the soundtrack without any visual accompaniment, it might be enjoyable. But those of us with functioning eyes can’t help but blend the optical and aural stimuli into one giant mess.

“This Must Be the Place” is an example of a movie that invests so much in its protagonist that it loses sight of the rest of the film. Our desire for Penn to emotionally affect us as he has so many other times, like in “Mystic River” (2003) or “Dead Man Walking” (1995), is not enough to sustain our interest. There’s more to interesting characters than their costumes and mannerisms. Stories have to relate to the audience in some way.

It’s obvious that this film didn’t intend on being surrealist, but our reaction is as if it were one. We cock our heads to the side, puzzled, as if we were trying to extract concrete meaning from a Salvador Dali painting – a fool’s errand.

Cook

Documentaries often pretend to tell an objective story. “Manhattan, Kansas” (2006) is an example of documentary that adapts to its subject. Director Tara Wray doesn’t force the audience to accept any particular truth. She understands the complexities involved in making amends with estranged family members, even if she lacks movie-making savvy. Wray shows maturity and vision as she lays bare an earnest attempt at personal closure.

Unlike the familiar marquee documentaries from directors like Ken Burns (“Baseball,” “The Civil War”), Wray doesn’t tackle a mammoth subject matter. She grew up in Manhattan, Kan. but the film begins with an introduction to Wray’s life in Manhattan, N.Y. Her departure from Kansas was abrupt and turbulent. She was raised by her mother, Evie Wray, an eccentric and free spirited woman who Wray blames for much of her emotional and psychological baggage. The film chronicles Wray’s attempt to confront her mother about their rocky past.

The film is Wray’s directorial debut, and she enlists the help of experienced film makers in telling a story in the most appropriate way she could imagine. The confessional, narrative and first-hand footage are chunky and the low resolution video quality detracts from the otherwise exceptional shot selection. Film editor Cindy Lee did her absolute best with the grainy imagery.

But it is precisely the grain of the images that creates a sense of desperation in the film. The backdrop of rural Hunter, Kan. and Evie Wray’s dilapidated dwelling are not elevated above the subject matter. If we were given a pristine picture, literally or figuratively, it would seem dishonest.

Wray is front and center throughout the film. There is rarely a moment where she is not in-frame or commenting on what is happening. It’s obvious from the outset that Wray is invested in rectifying her own problems through the making of this film. Her intentions clearly aren’t to sell DVDs.

The very personal nature of the film raises questions to its situational appropriateness. Several scenes feature Wray’s therapy sessions leading up to her trip back to Kansas. It’s an uneasy viewing for the audience, since we are entirely at the whim of the director’s vision. But Wray’s manages to show us more than herself, even if we see very little outside of her.

Evie doesn’t seem as crazy as Wray makes her out to be. Sure, she’s irresponsible and aloof. She’s unemployed and often speaks about getting rich without any conceivable plan for doing so. She even indirectly admits that she was negligent with her daughter. But by the end of the film, we want to believe in Evie because perhaps we aren’t as far removed from her as the director hopes.

It’s clear that both Wray and Evie are lost. What’s not clear is that this film rectified any of the underlying problems that lead them astray in the first place. Wray understandably couldn’t let the film end without some sort of resolution and does a decent job of portraying the first baby-steps of personal growth. But we are no closer to understanding either character than we were an hour ago.