Don Clinchy's blog

Tropical storm Hermine had moved on by the second night of aGLIFF, leaving behind a muddy Lamar Boulevard and muggy air and making way for another enthusiastic crowd at the festival. The crowd was just the right size at the two screenings I attended; the theaters were nearly full but not sold out, so no one was turned away.

My first screening of the evening was the Argentinian import El Último Verando de la Boyita (The Last Summer of the Boyita), a lyrical, visually captivating coming-of-age story with a highly unusual twist. Jorgelina (Guadalupe Alonso) is a young girl suffering through the difficult time between young childhood and adolescence. She travels with her father to the family's ranch, where she spends her time with her longtime friend Mario (Nicolás Treise), an adolescent ranchhand who is going through an unexpected physical transformation and keeping a potentially devastating secret from his family and friends.

El Último Verando de la Boyita (pictured above) is an often touching love story with an important point about tolerance and acceptance. From its lovingly filmed, hardscrabble rural setting to its sensitive handling of a difficult theme, it's the sort of film that is tailor-made for festivals like aGLIFF but deserves a much wider audience.

Who is Jack Rebney?

After seeing Winnebago Man, I'm still not entirely sure. But in a way, not knowing Rebney may be a point of this documentary, which sheds barely a flicker of light on one of the Internet's most famous cult figures.

Rebney is better known as The World's Angriest Man, whose famously foul-mouthed rants during a 1989 taping of a Winnebago sales video have made him an Internet legend. In a collection of outtakes (compiled by the video crew without Rebney's knowledge), he leaves no F-bomb undropped and no Judeo-Christian deity unblasphemed, as he angrily curses at the heat, the flies, the crew and himself. Rebney's creative use of vulgar epithets borders on an art form, and his screw-this-job tirades have made him a hero to frustrated workers everywhere.

The outtakes began circulating via crudely copied VHS tapes in the early 1990s. When the Internet matured enough to allow trading videos and posting them on websites, Rebney's rantings quickly became a cyberspace sensation. And then came YouTube -- and the rest, as they say, is viral video history. But although Rebney had an Internet connection, apparently he had no clue about his unlikely fame.

The life story of Temple Grandin is one of hardship and triumph. Grandin was diagnosed with autism as a young child in the early 1950s, an era when her condition was not well understood. With help from her exceptionally patient mother and a few insightful teachers, Grandin overcame most of her autistic limitations. She struggled to get an education, but earned a doctorate and is now an autism treatment advocate, Colorado State University professor, and renowned expert in animal husbandry.

Such an inspirational and thoroughly unique story is, of course, tailor-made for a cinematic treatment. Fortunately, this treatment is Temple Grandin, a much-lauded HBO Films biopic nominated for an astounding 15 Emmy Awards. Released this week on DVD, the movie is an effective take on Grandin's long struggle with autism and the cruel treatment and blatant sexism that often hindered her education and career.

The film opens in 1966 as a teenage Grandin (a barely recognizable Claire Danes) arrives at the Arizona ranch of her Aunt Ann (Catherine O'Hara) and Uncle Mike (Michael Crabtree), who are caring for Grandin to relieve her exhausted mother, Eustacia (Julia Ormond). Grandin exhibits many classic autism symptoms: She constantly repeats random phrases, fixates on objects, is extremely sensitive to stimuli, has trouble interacting with people and confronts new experiences with fear and confusion. But while at the ranch, she also demonstrates an unlikely talent for designing and building mechanical devices and an innate understanding of animal behavior.

Grandin blossoms at the ranch, and being far more comfortable around animals than people, she wants to stay. Despite her protests, however, Eustacia enrolls her at Franklin Pierce College in New Hampshire. Her introduction to college life is mostly disastrous, and in a prolonged flashback to her childhood and high-school years, we learn why.

A war's psychological toll can linger far beyond the war's end. As long as war veterans spend their days reliving the horrors of battle and trying to make sense of experiences that are inherently senseless, we're all reminded that war's true cost is far greater than flag-draped coffins and mangled limbs. The greatest cost of any war is the lingering insanity of those who fight it – and our collective insanity also.

The Dry Land is an effective and often riveting take on this loss of sanity, specifically the harrowing mental breakdowns caused by post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD, which an astounding number of Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans are suffering through. Opening today at the Arbor, the film is an unflinching look at one soldier's descent into madness as he returns to civilian life in a small West Texas town.

From the minute he sets foot in the dusty, impoverished environs of his hometown after a brutal tour of duty, it's obvious that James (Ryan O'Nan) hasn't left the war behind him. Although the carnage he witnessed still haunts him, he has no memory of a pivotal event: a rocket-propelled grenade attack on his Humvee that killed and severely wounded several members of his squad. Depressed, moody, self-medicating with alcohol and prone to violent rages, James quickly loses control of his life.

Does The Great Waldo Pepper deserve to be called a classic? Released in 1975, the saga of post-WWI barnstorming aviators has long polarized critics. Some have hailed the film as a great but often underrated character study and portrait of life in 1920s America, while others have dismissed it as one of Robert Redford's lesser efforts, a lightweight action film that offers little more than amazing aerial stunts.

With this week's re-release of The Great Waldo Pepper on DVD, the debate continues. Once again, critics and film fans can argue whether the film is a true classic or just another old movie about airplanes.

The Great Waldo Pepper opens in 1926 Kansas, where the titular character (played by Redford at the height of his career) earns a meager living as a barnstorming pilot. Waldo spends his days flying from one tiny Kansas town to the next, performing aerobatic stunts and offering rides to anyone brave enough to fly in his rickety surplus WWI biplane. Faced with dwindling crowds (airplanes no longer are novelties by this time), Waldo hopes to stay in business by teaming up with fellow barnstormer and occasional nemesis Axel Olsson (Bo Svenson). Along with Axel's girlfriend, Mary Beth (Susan Sarandon), the two join a flying circus owned by a gruff huckster named Dillhoefer (Philip Bruns).

While testing his own piloting skills in the flying circus, Waldo also seeks to top his barnstorming idol, German WWI ace Ernst Kessler (Bo Brundin), an elusive figure whose wartime exploits and aerobatic feats are the stuff of legend.

Of course, barnstorming is an exceedingly dangerous line of work, and Dillhoefer's pilots routinely cross the line between awe-inspiring bravery and complete foolishness. After two tragic events ground the aerial circus, Waldo and Axel head for Hollywood, hoping to find new careers that will satisfy their thrillseeking addictions and lust for stardom.

Slackerwood editor Jette Kernion was very surprised when I offered to review Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore. While I'm an open-minded film fan whose cinematic tastes include everything from local mumblecore to classic exploitation to the occasional Hollywood blockbuster, I'm not really into kid-oriented talking animal movies. And I'm totally not into watching kid-oriented movies in theaters full of, uh, actual kids. (I like kids, except when they're being disruptive during movies. Okay -- disruptive anywhere.)

But as I told Jette, sometimes a critic needs a challenge. It's easy to review a hipster-darling indie in which Catherine Keener frets about her life choices; it's far more difficult, however, to write insightful commentary about a film in which anthropomorphic dogs discuss butt sniffing. So, to test my critical skills -- and my patience -- I braved a preview screening of Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore, a sequel to 2001's Cats & Dogs with a few carryover characters.

I could have done without the theater full of restless, yammering young'uns. But I must admit the movie (opening today in wide release) surprised me, in that it isn't bad. Really, it's mostly good. You and your young'uns could do a lot worse at your local multiplex.

A few years ago, few people would have taken the phrase "Swedish crime thriller" seriously. Sweden has long been known for films as reserved as its culture; its cinematic output has consisted mostly of thoughtful, understated, often lethargic and slightly dreary films, few of which have generated much international interest. (There are obvious exceptions, of course. Masterpieces like The Seventh Seal vaulted Ingmar Bergman into the world's top echelon of filmmakers, and the indie vampire darling Let the Right One In was a not-so-surprising success in the Twilight-crazed U.S. and Europe.)

Sweden's cinematic reputation may change, however, with a trio of films based on Stieg Larsson's smashingly successful trilogy of crime novels, all international bestsellers. The first film, the taut and gripping The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, has wowed critics and audiences alike in dozens of countries and has just been released on DVD in the U.S. -- read Jette's review for more details.

The series' second installment, The Girl Who Played with Fire (Swedish title: Flickan som lekte med elden), opens in Austin on Friday. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is a very tough act to follow, but The Girl Who Played with Fire is a smart, complex and chilling thriller that rivals its predecessor in most respects.

In the middle of Harmony and Me is a very telling line of dialogue. Harmony (Justin Rice) is struggling through a piano lesson, and his teacher (Jeremy Pollet) aptly sums up Harmony's playing style and personality: "You're entangled in your dedication to precision."

Indeed he is. A quintessential Austin indie, Harmony and Me -- available today on DVD and streaming through the movie's website -- is the story of the title character, a less-than-lovable loser who can't let go of his ex-girlfriend, Jessica (Kristen Tucker). His obsession with her has gone from merely pathetic to thoroughly annoying, as he subjects his family, friends, co-workers and anyone else who will listen to his hopeless pining and incessant analyses of the relationship. Despite everyone's gentle suggestions to get over it already, Harmony isn't about to move on.

Then again, Harmony's fixation on the lovely Jessica is may be understandable (albeit completely irritating), given that the rest of his life is a mostly pointless bore. He has a drab job in a drab office, a bullying boss, a grumpy, slightly dysfunctional family and equally bored friends. His only outlet is music, but even this is more of a frustration than an escape. (His lack of any real musical talent doesn't help.) Of course, Harmony might not appreciate happiness even if he found it; he's much too analytical, self-absorbed, and prone to deconstructing everything to relax and enjoy life.

In character-driven, micro-budget indie fashion, not much happens in Harmony and Me. Its ambling, laconic pace will be familiar to fans of two decades' worth of similar films that have come before it, from Slacker to Beeswax. What sets Harmony and Me apart from the others is its astute use of music as both a story element and transitional device between shots and scenes. Harmony and Me uses the music in hilarious ways, from Harmony's halfhearted piano lessons to a very funny wedding sequence featuring Austin musician Bob Schneider as a wedding singer who sings a totally inappropriate song to the very pregnant bride. (The song's most prominent lyric is "I can't change your mind.") The film's musical aspects are often deeply ironic, and none are more so than Harmony's name, for his personal relationships are anything but harmonious.

With The Last Airbender, I've officially given up on M. Night Shyamalan.

In 1999, the young writer and director was crowned the Next Big Thing for his smart and suspenseful The Sixth Sense, a nuanced and captivatingly creepy ghost story. But Shyamalan's follow-up efforts like Signs and The Village were disappointingly clichéd and forgettable. And now, the dreadfully dull and incoherent The Last Airbender (opening today in a far too wide release) has convinced me that Shyamalan has forgotten how to write and direct a watchable film. This may sound harsh, but if this lifeless, overwrought clunker is the best Shyamalan can do nowadays, I think his career has run its course.

A live-action film based on Avatar: The Last Airbender, a popular Nickelodeon animated series, The Last Airbender (apparently, some other obscure film already claimed the Avatar part) is a mystical tale about the relationship between humanity and nature's delicate balance. The film is set on a fictional Earth with four nations, Air, Earth, Fire, and Water; for a century, the Fire Nation has been waging a brutal war against the other three. The story follows the adventures of Aang (Noah Ringer), a young "airbender" who also is an "avatar" with the power to manipulate all four elements. Aang uses his extraordinary powers and enlists the help of Katara (Nicola Peltz), a "waterbender" (a lot of stuff gets bent in the film), and her brother, Sokka (Jackson Rathbone), to stop the Fire Nation from enslaving the others. Meanwhile, the evil Fire Nation leaders try to capture Aang.

In a typically highbrow moment near the mid-point of Grown Ups, a character falls face-first into a pile of poop.

This moment, one of too many like it, is an apt metaphor for my experience watching this film. A howlingly awful mess even by summer goofball comedy standards, Grown Ups (which opens today in wide release) may be, dare I say, the worst film I've ever seen.

You read that right: Grown Ups may be the worst film I've ever seen. If this sounds like an exaggeration, it isn't. I know whereof I speak, having suffered through many a horrid film, from the infamous classics (Plan 9 from Outer Space, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!, and Ishtar) to the too-lame-to-be-infamous dreck that sullies the multiplexes year after year (there are many, but Porky’s II: The Next Day, Rocky III, and The Towering Inferno come to mind). I can assure you that Grown Ups holds its own against the worst of them. It really is that bad.