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REVIEW: Eva Mendes Brings Warmth — and the Hotcha-Cha Factor — to Girl in Progress

Teenage Ansiedad (Cierra Ramirez) is lacking in role models. Her father’s unknown, her best friend (Raini Rodriguez) is faithful but a little dull, and her mother Grace (Eva Mendes) is a hotcha-cha mess who dates married dudes and behaves less like a mom than a deadbeat roommate. So when her English teacher (Patricia Arquette, vital in a too-brief role) introduces the concept of the coming-of-age narrative, hyper-precocious Ansiedad decides to use it as a kind of emancipation blueprint. Directed by Patricia Riggen ( Under the Same Moon ), Girl In Progress starts out breezy, making wacky archetypes of the overachieving latchkey kid and her appallingly irresponsible mom. Odd-jobbing Grace shrugs about finishing the cereal (and the milk) and forgets about her child’s existence whenever her current philandering squeeze (Matthew Modine) swings into view. Ansiedad resolves to apply her discipline to a teenaged trajectory so clichéd that it’s easily converted into a giant flow chart on her bedroom wall. I got a little ahead of the script (by Hiram Martinez) when Ansiedad has her light bulb moment in English class, thinking perhaps the daughter might use a set of literary conventions to finally midwife her mother into adulthood. Instead the narrative splits off into parallel parts, similar to the way Riggen divided Under the Same Moon between the story of a Mexican woman laboring as a Los Angeles housekeeper and that of her son’s journey from Mexico to find her. Ansiedad begins acting out her acting out, ticking off bullet points (ditch your old friends; infiltrate the cool circle; offer the alpha babe your virginity) like items on a grocery list. Were the conceit a little more genre- or source material-specific — if the picture followed some overarching inspiration the way Clueless played on Emma , say, or if it featured some of the alter-ego goofing of  Youth in Revolt or the self-conscious twistiness of The Cabin in the Woods — the plot’s terms would have been more firmly grounded and we might have been brought closer to Ansiedad’s logic. Ramirez’s bad girl schtick is occasionally amusing (“I’m out of control; catch you later,” she deadpans at one point) but the idea that she would consciously risk becoming her mother just to get away from her never feels convincing. Meanwhile, Grace’s apparently bottomless self-absorption is well played by Mendes, who has always infused her man-candy roles with warmth and a weary intelligence behind her eyes. Both are on display when Grace’s latest relationship implodes after she’s confronted with an indifference to her daughter that equals and maybe even surpasses her own. At this point Girl in Progress  attempts to go deep: The best friend acts out for real and Ansiedad heads for the bus station to earn her runaway badge. Riggen doesn’t find a tonal equilibrium at this new level, though, and everything goes wobbly as Mendes and Ramirez are forced into what feels like a false moment of repentance and reconciliation. Girl in Progress feels a little trapped by its own conceits: It plays with the idea that all rebellion is in some sense performed and makes a caricature out of the immature, attention-hungry mother, but it never liberates its characters from their molds. I wanted to believe that Grace suddenly straightens up and heads to school and Ansiedad finally gets the love and care she deserves, but was left with the feeling that their movie was still a few milestones short of full maturity. Follow Michelle Orange on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: Eva Mendes Brings Warmth — and the Hotcha-Cha Factor — to Girl in Progress

REVIEW: What If Women Ran the Middle East? Sanctimonious If Entertaining Where Do We Go Now? Has the Answer

It’s dangerous business to begin a movie with a voice-over monologue introducing “a long tale of women dressed in black.” Run, while there’s still time! Yet it’s a testament to director and actress Nadine Labaki’s gracefulness she pulls off this story as well as she does in Where Do We Go Now? , a fable set in a fictional town, presumably in Lebanon, where Christians and Muslims live together in bumptious accord, if not in complete harmony. Actually, the women – those aforementioned creatures dressed in black – get along famously, gathering regularly at the same café for all manner of gossip and chitchat. It’s the men who can’t hold it together: They’re always on the brink of fisticuffs and worse, each group expecting only the worst from the other. Don’t look now, but somebody filled the church holy water fonts with blood – must be the Muslims! Goats and chickens running amok in the mosque? Got to be those pesky Christians! The women are always suffering because of the men: As the movie opens, they stride toward the local cemetery en masse, their procession orchestrated as if it were a Pina Bausch routine, with somber, stiff leg movements and rhythmic breast-beating. The graves – Christians on one side of the burial ground, Muslims on the other – all bear pictures of the women’s lost men, people who have caused them a great deal of sorrow. The problem, as Labaki and her co-writers Jhad Hojeily and Rodney Al Haddad make clear, is that the men just can’t stop fighting. The village also happens to be located in an area riven by violence – it’s surrounded by land mines, which, in an early scene, kill a hapless goat. (The event is played for laughs, not pathos.) Meanwhile, a tentative romance brews between doe-eyed café proprietress Amale (Labaki, a sultry and winning presence) and local handyman Rabih (Julien Farhat), who’s doing some renovation work in her establishment. She’s Christian, he’s Muslim, and their union will be symbolic if it ever gets off the ground. But again, those men! They just won’t listen. The women eventually hatch a plan to keep peace in the village, but tragedy strikes regardless, making their lot even more challenging and wearying. You can see where Labaki is going with all this: If women ruled the world, there’d be no more war. It’s a darling idea, and Labaki does all she can to keep the proceedings entertaining – the picture is dotted with whimsical comedic touches and even includes a smattering of spontaneous Umbrellas of Cherbourg -style musical numbers. It also features an ensemble cast made up largely of nonprofessional actors, and they can be quite charming to watch. For a picture about centuries-old infighting and suffering, Where Do We Go Now? really is pretty cheerful. But its occasional entertainment value aside, the picture is also blithe to the point of being flimsy. This is Labaki’s second feature: The first was the 2007 Caramel , an engaging and visually lush picture set in a Beirut beauty shop, the perfect setting for a very different sort of story about the complications of women’s lives. Caramel is a delightfully fizzy picture, but oddly enough – or perhaps not – it cuts much deeper than Where Do We Go Now? It’s far less sanctimonious, and it defines some of the very real challenges modern women face in the Middle East: Even though its characters feel they’re free to shape their own futures, there are certain restrictions – put in place by men, of course – that threaten to hold them back. One character in Caramel is engaged to be married and has to find a solution to prevent her fiancé from learning that he isn’t her first. You could argue that her plight is nothing compared with massive wars fought on religious grounds. Then again, it’s a man’s pride she’s trying to protect, and she’ll do what it takes to preserve his illusions. Labaki clearly understands the connection between the larger battles and the small ones – it’s just that her ideas come through more subtly and effectively in the beauty-shop movie than in the war-zone movie. She doesn’t need exploding land mines to get her point across. Follow Stephanie Zacharek on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: What If Women Ran the Middle East? Sanctimonious If Entertaining Where Do We Go Now? Has the Answer

REVIEW: God Bless America Chokes to Death on Bobcat Goldthwait’s Nihilism

Comedian-turned-director Bobcat Goldthwait has always displayed an incredibly dark sense of humor in his work behind the camera, from his 1991 alcoholic birthday party performer debut  Shakes the Clown to bestiality-themed rom-com  Sleeping Dogs Lie to  World’s Greatest Dad , in which Robin Williams plays a high-school English teacher whose son’s death becomes a way for him to realize his unfulfilled dreams of being a writer. But no matter how black the comedy, these films had warmth to them, too, and the possibility of things getting better and characters, however painfully, changing and growing. That’s not the case in God Bless America , Goldthwait’s latest effort, an overly bleak film ready to write off the world and go down in a blaze of gunfire, both middle fingers raised. Joel Murray plays Frank, a divorced father and depressed office worker who gets laid off and diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor all in the same day, providing enough push for him to finally load up his revolver and set off on the murderous spree he’s been dreaming of for years. “I know it’s not normal to want to kill,” he muses in the opening voiceover, “but I also know that I am no longer normal.” When making his first hit, of a bratty teenage reality show star named Chloe (Maddie Hasson), he picks up a surprise sidekick named Roxy (Tara Lynne Barr), a smart, alienated high schooler who thinks that what Frank did is the best thing she’s ever seen. The two partner up and Bonnie and Clyde their way along a bloody road to nowhere while working out the logistics of who it is they’re targeting. Frank hates people who are inconsiderate, who are rude and who take pleasure in making fun of others. Roxy hates more specifically — NASCAR fans, people who high-five, Diablo Cody. As for who Goldthwait hates, you get the sense it’s all of the above and more — anyone who watches  American Idol,  anyone who competes on  American Idol,  morning show radio hosts, cable news blowhards, the Tea Party, parents who overindulge their children and people who talk during movies (the last leads to the film’s most rewarding scene).  God Bless America sets these figures up to mow them down, and while there’s a minor satisfaction to be taken from seeing these bloody revenge fantasies brought to life — take that , Westboro Baptist Church! — the film’s judgments come so easily, its targets portrayed as so one-dimensional that it feels like a cheat. The world in which the film is set is so universally monstrous that it deserves to be blown up, but it’s an embittered, exaggerated take, a giant straw-man argument. When Frank flips on the television, all he sees are people making fun of a mentally disabled reality show contestant. When Frank gets the news of his illness, his doctor takes a call in the middle, from his car dealership. And when Frank tries to talk with his daughter about her upcoming weekend with him, she tries to extort a present from him in exchange for coming. It’s only Roxy to whom Frank can relate, with her kewpie doll face and ability to rant about the greatness of Alice Cooper. The scenes of Frank and Roxy hanging out are the film’s only soft spots, their relationship a gentle but precarious mix of paternal and platonically romantic. Roxy eggs Frank on and keeps him going, masterminding their murderous binge, but she’s rarely seems solid in the way that Frank does. She’s a figure of wish fulfillment, a vessel for what feel like the filmmaker’s direct complaints with the world as well as his fondnesses, a teenage girl who loves  Star Trek  and throws herself at our resistant protagonist, who is hypersensitive about being perceived as a pedophile. Visual inventiveness isn’t Goldthwait’s strong suit as a director, but  God Bless America  does represent a step forward there, with stand-out moments including an overhead shot showing just how close Frank is to his noisy neighbors or a failed attempt at walking away from an explosion, action hero-style, without looking back. Goldthwait is best and most brutal at recreating the worst of TV — an early scene in which the insomniac Frank flips through the channels includes savage and dead-on takes on Fox News,  Jersey Shore -style reality clashes, energy drink commercials,  Jackass  and, yes,  American Idol.  Sure, it’s a line-up that would be enough to make you want to shoot somebody, but also those aren’t the only things on air.  God Bless America  only wants to see the worst in people — in fact actively seeks it out in order to be disgusted, and that feels almost as bad as the behavior the film is critiquing. One of the few characters who’s let off the hook is the boyfriend of Frank’s ex, a cheery, dumb and genuinely well-meaning cop who spots our hero waiting outside his former wife’s house and stops by to say hi. When asked by Roxy whether Frank wants to kill the man, he tells her no, “I want him to suffer.” It’s only a sucker who’d stick around to live life in this film, and that’s too bitter a pill to be swallowed. Follow Alison Willmore on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: God Bless America Chokes to Death on Bobcat Goldthwait’s Nihilism

Adam Yauch Dead at 47 [UPDATED]

Tragic, shocking news out of New York just now: Adam Yauch — a.k.a. MCA, one-third of rap legends the Beastie Boys, influential filmmaker and music-video director, and founder of independent-film distributor Oscilloscope Laboratories — has died following his long battle with cancer. He was 47. Movieline will have more on Yauch’s passing, including official comment from Oscilloscope and appreciations of Yauch’s artistic legacy, throughout the day. Developing… [via Global Grind , Rolling Stone ] UPDATE [3:56 p.m. EDT]: Movieline received this statement from Yauch’s Oscilloscope Laboratories colleagues Dan Berger, David Fenkel and David Laub on behalf of the entire company: “We are deeply, deeply saddened by the passing of Adam Yauch – an amazing leader, a dear friend and an incredible human being. Today we are heartbroken at Oscilloscope as we take in this awful news and our thoughts are with his family at this difficult time. Adam’s legacy will remain a driving force at Oscilloscope – his indomitable spirit and his great passion for film, people, and hard work – always with a sense of humor and a lot of heart.” And this followed from the Beastie Boys’ management company Nasty Little Man: It is with great sadness that we confirm that musician, rapper, activist and director Adam “MCA” Yauch, founding member of Beastie Boys and also of the Milarepa Foundation that produced the Tibetan Freedom Concert benefits, and film production and distribution company Oscilloscope Laboratories, passed away in his native New York City this morning after a near-three-year battle with cancer. He was 47 years old. Born in Brooklyn, New York, Yauch taught himself to play bass in high school, forming a band for his 17th birthday party that would later become known the world over as Beastie Boys. With fellow members Michael “Mike D” Diamond and Adam “Adrock” Horovitz, Beastie Boys would go on to sell over 40 million records, release four #1 albums–including the first hip hop album ever to top the Billboard 200, the band’s 1986 debut full length, Licensed To Ill –win three Grammys, and the MTV Video Vanguard Lifetime Achievement award. Last month Beastie Boys were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, with Diamond and Horovitz reading an acceptance speech on behalf of Yauch, who was unable to attend. In addition to his hand in creating such historic Beastie Boys albums as Paul’s Boutique, Check Your Head, Ill Communication, Hello Nasty and more, Yauch was a founder of the Milarepa Fund, a non-profit organization dedicated to promoting awareness and activism regarding the injustices perpetrated on native Tibetans by Chinese occupational government and military forces. In 1996, Milarepa produced the first Tibetan Freedom Concert in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, which was attended by 100,000 people, making it the biggest benefit concert on U.S. soil since 1985’s Live Aid. The Tibetan Freedom Concert series would continue to stage some of the most significant benefit shows in the world for nearly a decade following in New York City, Washington DC, Tokyo, Sydney, Amsterdam, Taipei and other cities. In the wake of September 11, 2001, Milarepa organized New Yorkers Against Violence, a benefit headlined by Beastie Boys at New York’s Hammerstein Ballroom, with net proceeds disbursed to the New York Women’s Foundation Disaster Relief Fund and the New York Association for New Americans (NYANA) September 11th Fund for New Americans–each chosen for their efforts on behalf of 9/11 victims least likely to receive help from other sources. Under the alias of Nathanial Hörnblowér, Yauch directed iconic Beastie Boys videos including ‘So Whatcha Want,’ ‘Intergalactic,’ ‘Body Movin’ and ‘Ch-Check It Out.’ Under his own name, Yauch directed last year’s Fight For Your Right Revisited , an extended video for ‘Make Some Noise’ from Beastie Boys’ Hot Sauce Committee Part Two , starring Elijah Wood, Danny McBride and Seth Rogen as the 1986 Beastie Boys, making their way through a half hour of cameo-studded misadventures before squaring off against Jack Black, Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly as Beastie Boys of the future. Yauch’s passion and talent for filmmaking led to his founding of Oscilloscope Laboratories, which in 2008 released his directorial film debut, the basketball documentary Gunnin’ For That #1 Spot and has since become a major force in independent video distribution, amassing a catalogue of such acclaimed titles as Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy , Oren Moverman’s The Messenger , Banksy’s Exit Through The Gift Shop , Lance Bangs and Spike Jonze’s Tell Them Anything You Want: A Portrait Of Maurice Sendak , and many more. Yauch is survived by his wife Dechen and his daughter Tenzin Losel, as well as his parents Frances and Noel Yauch. UPDATE [5:20 p.m. EDT] Here’s Movieline partner ENTV ‘s dispatch on Yauch:

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Adam Yauch Dead at 47 [UPDATED]

Is Two Can Play That Game the Original Think Like a Man?

While Think Like A Man may have conquered the domestic box office two weekends in a row – an impressive feat for what Hollywood execs refer to as an “urban comedy” – there’s no question that the film’s success is as much due to the popular self-help book on which it is based as it is to its comedic merits. Roger Ebert hit the nail on the head in his review , remarking: “The movie’s mistake is to take the book seriously. This might have worked as a screwball comedy or a satire, but can you believe for a moment in characters naive enough to actually live their lives following Steve Harvey’s advice?” The funny thing is that the screwball version film Ebert would have liked to see actually exists — and is infinitely superior to the more dramatic, contemporary incarnation. That film is Two Can Play That Game , Mark Brown’s hilarious entry in the battle-of-the-sexes subgenre. A distant descendant of true screwballs (most notably The Awful Truth , which depicts a recently divorced couple’s attempts to derail one another’s new romances), Two Can Play That Game is, like Think Like A Man , anchored by a character explaining dating rules and philosophy to the audience. However, in this film that character actually has skin in the game – in fact, she’s its heroine: Shante Smith (Vivica A. Fox) is an ad agency exec who dispenses advice to the audience (and her girlfriends) about her seemingly perfect “Ten Day Program” for keeping a straying boyfriend in check; when her own boyfriend Keith (Morris Chestnut) begins to stray, a battle of wits ensues. The Kevin Hart comedic-sidekick role is played here by Anthony Anderson, as Keith’s relationship consigliore. Anderson knocks the role out of the park, with a performance that easily steals the entire film. It’s true that the most dramatic moments of Think Like A Man – when the characters try to level with each other and Own Up To Their Mistakes – are the moments in which it feels the most deadened. Two Can Play That Game , alternatively, embraces its absurdity; like its finest performance, it doesn’t take itself too seriously. In one scene, when Anderson seconds the points Keith makes by shouting as if he’s at church, an organ and chorus suddenly appear on the soundtrack to emphasize the revelations the men are coming to about women. The film, at various points, informs us that the first law of thermodynamics explains how best to manipulate your partner; has Vivica A. Fox punch Gabrielle Union in the face; and, in the funniest scene, puts forth the theory that church is a better place to pick up promiscuous women than a nightclub. And while the film understands that it’s a light comedy, it’s not lacking for bombast. “This is way bigger than you,” Anderson tells Chestnut late in the film. “You’re doing this for all men across the country. You’re doing this for men all around the world!” With increasingly deranged anxiety, Anderson goes off the rails: “Pretty soon women are gonna be pulling these head trips on us, dog, and you know what’s gonna happen? We’re gonna be the ones cooking dinner! We’re gonna be the ones changing the diapers! We’re gonna be the ones washing the dishes! And you know what they’re gonna be doing? They’re gonna be sitting on our couches, watching football on our Sunday!” Between putting forth the misguided belief that people need to engage in psychological warfare to keep their partners in line and the propagation of all kinds of stereotypes and clichés, no one’s going to accuse either of these movies of responsibly depicting gender relations. But when choosing one to watch, a viewer is well-advised to pick a film that is fully aware of – and complicit in – its own absurdity. Zachary Wigon is a writer based in New York. His work has appeared in the New York Press, NYLON, and Filmmaker Magazine, among many other outlets. He tweets @zachwigon .  

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Is Two Can Play That Game the Original Think Like a Man?

REVIEW: Amiable Cast Makes The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel Worth a Visit

As mild, comforting and vaguely colonial as beans on toast, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel brings together some of Britain’s top-shelf acting treasures for a story of late-life awakenings and self-discovery in India. Directed by John Madden (of Shakespeare in Love and, more recently, The Debt ), the film is, underneath its surface of warm fuzzies, a precision instrument aimed directly at the heart of its intended, underserved older audience. As predictable a path as it follows, it delivers exactly what it sets out to — a feel-good tale with equal portions of romance, tempered melancholy, transformation and low-key fish-out-of-water humor. And if the mechanics at work here are more than obvious, they’re also a fair price to pay for getting to see Bill Nighy joke with Judi Dench about his inability to fix a telephone, Maggie Smith force down local food in order to be polite, Tom Wilkinson join in a game of pickup cricket and Penelope Wilton look terrified during a tuk-tuk ride. The seven retirees in the main ensemble end up in Jaipur, enticed by marketing materials for a hotel “for the elderly and beautiful” that turn out to be more aspirational than actual. The place is run-down, some of the rooms don’t have doors and others have been taken over by wildlife — the manager Sonny (an aggressively animated Dev Patel) has unquashable enthusiasm but not particular skill for running a place or raising money to make much-needed fixes. Fortunately for him, most of his guests can’t afford to leave — they’ve outsourced their retirement to India rather than face living the rest of their lives tucked away or lauded as if they had already died. Housewife Evelyn (Dench) is there because the husband she always trusted to take care of things has passed away and left her in debt, forcing her to sell the apartment in which they lived. Douglas (Nighy) and his wife of almost 40 years Jean (Penelope Wilton) invested their savings in their daughter’s internet startup (the mystery of the online world to these characters is a recurring joke) — she’s been unable to pay them back, forcing them to either move to a depressing senior citizens community or out of the country entirely. Madge (Celia Imrie) and Norman (Ronald Pickup) are looking for love or, barring that, to get laid — they’re both anxious to prove to themselves that that part of their lives isn’t over. Muriel (Maggie Smith) is a former housekeeper who’s reluctantly left England in order to avoid a long wait for a hip replacement surgery. And Tom Wilkinson is Graham, a high court judge who’s gay (“nowadays more in theory than in practice,” he explains) and has returned to the place in which he grew up to track down his first love. Add to this Sonny’s attempts to date call-center worker Sunaina (Tena Desae) despite his mother’s (Lillete Dubey) desire to arrange his marriage to someone else and have him give up the hotel, and you have enough plot threads to easily carry the film through its unhurried two-hour runtime. And most of them work — Nighy and Dench are especially luminous playing explorers of the city who fall in love with India and with the renewed sense of possibility in their lives, their reserve giving way to tentative but genuine joy and an unexpected connection. Wilkinson is so disarmingly self-deprecating as Graham that it takes a while to realize that the confessions he’s making to his new friends are the most open he’s been in his life. Smith operates with the same glorious crabbiness she’s perfected in her recent roles, though the film’s attempt to treat her first as adorably racist and then as a uniting figure thanks to her transformative friendship with a maid is impossible to swallow even with her enjoyable performance. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel portrays the city in which it’s set as chaotic, colorful and lively, but also ultimately a backdrop — this is not a film about India, it’s one about growing old in a terribly British fashion. “Can we be blamed for feeling that we are too old to change?” Evelyn muses in one of her blog posts that in voiceover periodically mark the story. While we in the audience have always known that’s not the case — that’s why we’re watching the film — the pleasure is in watching the characters on screen realize the fact themselves, to their delight. Follow Alison Willmore on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: Amiable Cast Makes The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel Worth a Visit

REVIEW: First Position May Be Mostly About Ballet, But It’s Also About Being Young

Documentaries don’t have to be technically great to be irresistible, and Bess Kargman’s First Position , which follows six young ballet dancers as they prepare for an elite competition, is a case in point. You may think you can guess what’s going to happen by the end of First Position : Some will win and others won’t, there will be some tears shed, this or that dancer will be sidelined by an injury – and yet somehow, even though nothing hugely surprising happens, the details Kargman captures somehow feel fresh. Maybe that’s because this isn’t just a documentary about ballet and the extraordinary discipline it requires; it’s also about youth and its attendant hopes and risks, spelled out in language that’s painfully universal. Kargman follows her six young dancers on their way to the Youth America Grand Prix, an international dance competition held in New York and judged by a group of professionals including reps from ballet schools around the world: A dancers who does well in the competition might be rewarded with a scholarship, or even a slot in a ballet company. This competition is serious business for these kids, all of whom hope to make some sort of life for themselves by dancing. Eleven-year-old Aran Bell, an American who comes from a military family, is an elfin presence who introduces himself to Kargman’s camera, and to us, by trying to articulate what he loves about ballet: “I just love it so much. I can’t explain it.” He shows us around his home, where he demonstrates various torture implements used for stretching muscles. He also picks up a BB gun, wisely noting that it’s probably better not to shoot it – a reminder that this exquisite dancer is still, at heart, just a boy. We also meet Rebecca Houseknecht, a middle-American teen who loves the color pink and whose high-school friends have nicknamed her Barbie, partly because of her ultra-shiny blonde hair and partly because of her mad flexibility. Then there’s the charming and understated Joan Sebastion Zamora, from Colombia, who hopes to do well in ballet so he can improve the lives of his family members back home, a risky proposition if ever there was one. Miko and Jules Fogarty, brother and sister, strive to do well under the watchful – possibly too watchful – eye of their mother. Most affecting of all is Michaela, a teenager who, as a child, was orphaned during the civil war in Sierra Leone. She and another girl were adopted by an American couple, and when Michaela explains how awestruck and grateful she is to have come so far in ballet, there’s no doubt about how much she means it. (We also see her mother, a white woman in her 60s, bent over a pot on the family’s kitchen stove as she dyes some stretch tulle for one of her daughter’s costumes. It’s sold as “flesh-toned,” she explains, but that means it’s flesh-toned for white people, requiring a bath in brown dye to match the color of her daughter’s skin.) Kargman shoots the dancers simply but carefully as they rehearse and, ultimately, perform: There’s no fancy camera work or editing here, thank God. Her camera takes pleasure in their movement, and also tracks the occasional flicker of pain. (Michaela is forced to rehearse and dance despite having suffered an injury, lest she lose her shot at a scholarship or a job – her future hinges on this competition.) This is Kargman’s debut feature, and she’s adept at telling interlocking stories without getting sidetracked by unnecessary minutiae; the picture is as smooth as an expert, seemingly effortless plié. There’s a great deal of joy in it, too. Kargman doesn’t make what these kids do seem easy, not by a long shot. But she does manage to capture, without words, the essence of why they’re driven to, as one of the dancers puts it, force their bodies to do all kinds of things they weren’t meant to do. As Joan performs in the movie’s finale, his movements are so fluid his muscles could almost be liquid, though we can clearly see how solid and defined they are. And Aran’s spritely routine, exuberant but disciplined, places him right at the magical midpoint between childhood and young adulthood. What drives these dancers to work so hard at creating beauty for our pleasure and delight? The answer is written on their faces and in their muscles; words would be useless in explaining it. Follow Stephanie Zacharek on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: First Position May Be Mostly About Ballet, But It’s Also About Being Young

REVIEW: Basic Message of Water-Shortage Doc Last Call at the Oasis? We’re Screwed

If you’re in the mood for something new to keep you up at night worrying (and who isn’t?), Jessica Yu’s new documentary  Last Call at the Oasis will neatly do the trick of refreshing your sense of impending doom. Aside from times of drought, water never seemed as urgent a problem as climate change, peak oil, deforestation and the other issues on our path to world destruction. But  Last Call at the Oasis  makes a convincing case that we’re on the verge of both  Waterworld  and large scale  Erin Brockovich -style scenarios. The real Brockovich appears on-screen in  Last Call at the Oasis , along with experts and activists like Peter Gleick, Jay Famiglietti, Robert Glennon and Tyrone Hayes, who guide the doc through its various sources of alarm. As a topic, water issues are sprawling and more than one feature can really handle — the film bounces between the imminent failure of the Hoover Dam due to the steadily dropping level in Lake Mead to the possibility of draining an area in North Nevada to continue providing water in Las Vegas. California’s Central Valley is the site of a debate between farmers furious their water has been cut off and environmentalists and fisherman trying to protect the watery ecosystems being devastated by the process. Satellites show groundwater disappearing; hormones and steroids from medication aren’t being processed out of what we all then drink; chemicals from factories and pesticides get into the water supply and poison people and animals. Basically, as one scientist puts it, “We’re screwed.” Last Call at the Oasis has more than the usual share of gloom, though it’s too steady with the facts to ever come across as alarmist — and some of its imagery is downright haunting. Hayes, a professor at UC Berkeley, was first hired to research the impact of the pesticide Atrazine on amphibian populations, and took his findings public when the company wanted him to hide his discovery that even at levels deemed safe for human consumption the chemicals caused male frogs to develop female characteristics. Then there’s the green water coming out of the taps of homes in Midland, Texas, indicative of the carcinogenic hexavalent chromium. Manure pools from concentrated animal feeding operations in Michigan bleed chemicals into the ground; dead fish clot watersides. Not even bottled water is safe. Last Call at the Oasis is a Participant Production, and its determined US-centricity seems both calculated and closed-off. The film wanders abroad only to explore situations as they relate to the States. There’s the cautionary tale of Australia, where a decade of drought has shut down dairy farms, their owners weeping and sometimes, as a troubling stat notes, committing suicide. Singapore shows up because it has successfully trained its population to accept recycled water. A visit to the Middle East shows that Yardenit, the Jordan River baptism site, is downstream from heavy pollution, and that some families go for months without water. It’s an irritating way to look at a global problem, especially since, as the film notes in the beginning, America has “the biggest water footprint in the world.” But there’s also something canny (if cynical) about it — problems elsewhere are other people’s problems, and what better way to motivate a population than by showing it things that have only to do with them? Yu is a step above the average problem-doc director — her earlier nonfiction films In the Realms of the Unreal and  Protagonist showcased unusual visual ambition, touches of which show up in this more traditionally structured work. Lakes drain before our eyes, leaving a dock jutting out into the air; dreamy vintage footage shows children wriggling along underwater in a pool. The opening credits appear over shimmering, slow motion shots of splashes of liquid, and a sense of the power of imagery can also be found in the more standard footage: For example, a worker at the Newtown Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant in Brooklyn opens up a hatch to show the condoms bubbling up to the surface of the to-be-treated water. Having presented so much widespread impending disaster,  Last Call at the Oasis can’t quite make its final argument that “the glass is still half full” — there doesn’t seem to be any turning this ship around, only slowing it a little. The film offers some hope in the form of reclaimed water, the most economically and environmentally sound means of slowing our water consumption. It’s sewage water that’s been treated and purified to the point of being potable, though as a psychologist notes, there’s a serious public reluctance to be overcome before anyone will actually want to quaff it — the film even brings in marketing teams and Jack Black to test out what kind of marketing it would take to make it work. Like many of the angles in the film, it’s a question of short-term gains versus long-term survival — arguments about jobs, keeping the Las Vegas Strip in working fountains or squeamishness about where your drink came from start to seem trivial when you consider not having enough safe water to live. Follow Alison Willmore on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: Basic Message of Water-Shortage Doc Last Call at the Oasis? We’re Screwed

Academy Names 30 US Finalists for Student Academy Awards

Thirty-five students from 20 U.S. colleges are eligible for the 39th Student Academy Awards, AMPAS said Wednesday. Academy members will view the finalists’ films at special screenings and vote to select the winners. Prizes include Gold, Silver and Bronze Medal awards, along with accompanying cash grants of $5,000, $3,000 and $2,000. U.S. winners will join international students winners for a week of industry and social activities June 9 in Los Angeles. The list of finalists follows. Narrative
 : Benny , Huay-Bing Law, University of Texas at Austin
 Contra, el Mar , Richard Parkin, University of California, Los Angeles
 Hatch , Christoph Kuschnig, Columbia University
 Mr. Bellpond , A. Todd Smith, Brigham Young University
 Nani , Justin Tipping, American Film Institute 
Narcocorrido , Ryan Prows, American Film Institute
 The Recorder Exam , Bora Kim, Columbia University
 Requited , Madeline Puzzo, Point Park University
 Under , Mark Raso, Columbia University Documentary
 : Dignity Harbor: A Home Away from Homeless , Michael Gualdoni, Lindenwood University
 Dying Green , Ellen Tripler, American University 
Hiro: A Story of Japanese Internment , Keiko Wright, New York University
 Lost Country , Heather Burky, Art Institute of Jacksonville 
Love Hacking , Jenni Nelson, Stanford University
 Pot Country , Mario Furloni, University of California, Berkeley
 Reporting on The Times: The New York Times and the Holocaust , Emily Harrold, New York University
 Smoke Songs , Briar March, Stanford University
 Why Am I Still Alive , Hanzhang Shen, School of Visual Arts Animation
 Chocolate Milk , Eliza Kinkz, University of California, Los Angeles
 Cowboy, Clone, Dust , Matthew Christensen, New York University
 Eyrie , David Wolter, California Institute of the Arts
 The Jockstrap Raiders , Mark Nelson, University of California, Los Angeles
 La Lune et le Coq , Raymond McCarthy Bergeron, Rochester Institute of Technology
 Lizard and the Ladder , Aaron Bristow, Utah Valley University 
My Little Friend , Eric Prah, Ringling College of Art and Design
 Reviving Redwood , Matt Sullivan, Ringling College of Art and Design
 Shinobi Blues , Yue Liu, School of Visual Arts Alternative 
 Falconer , Micah Robert Barber, University of Texas at Austin
 In Between Shadows , Tianran Duan, University of Southern California 
Last Remarks , Umar Riaz, New York University 
Peace at Home , Avital Epstein, Florida State University
 The Reality Clock , Amanda Tasse, University of Southern California
 SiSiSiSiSiSiSiSiSiSiSi , Juan Camilo González, University of Southern California
 Terra Cotta Warrior , Bin Li, Rochester Institute of Technology
 Us , Alex Lora, City College of New York

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Academy Names 30 US Finalists for Student Academy Awards

REVIEW: Kathleen Turner’s a Kick — Up to a Point — in The Perfect Family

Casting Kathleen Turner as a small-town mom nominated for “Catholic Woman of the Year” is about as risky as it gets in The Perfect Family , first-time director Anne Renton’s soft-willed religious tolerance parable. The whiskied voice alone makes it sound like Tallulah Bankhead has risen from the dead and crashed the sacristy where Monsignor Murphy (Richard Chamberlain) is laying out his vestments for Sunday Mass. But as the anodyne network drama title suggests, petty ironies are more this movie’s speed. Turner plays Eileen Cleary, pious community pillar and well-blinkered mother of a lesbian daughter named Shannon (Emily Deschanel) and philandering son Frank Jr. (Jason Ritter). Eileen’s husband Frank Sr. (Michael McGrady) first appears to be the long-suffering one: Eileen quietly relishes her identity as the local do-gooder; if her insistence on the Clearys’ arid weekly family dinners is any indication, maintaining that identity may have more to do with her good works than Christian selflessness. In fact Frank Sr. was a handful in his day; 10 years sober, his role in their relationship has a distinctly penitential vibe. But then everyone seems to humor Eileen. A religious dinosaur roaming a modern world, for much of the film she is the one who requires tolerance. Shannon is five months pregnant and set to marry Angela (Angelique Cabral), a union everyone but Eileen accepts, including Angela’s brassy Latina mother (Elizabeth Peña). After her poor reaction to this news sends Shannon to the hospital (a soap opera move that happens twice), Eileen goes into charitable mode, bestowing kindness on the sinner but continuing to hate the sin. Frank Jr. gets stricter treatment, but then he is leaving a wife and kids for a manicurist (Kristen Dalton); the suggestion of vaguely defined unhappiness in his marriage is meant to instill sympathy. The plot hinges on the anticipation of the Archbishop of Dublin’s arrival, when he’ll forgive everyone’s sins and decide who’s the Catholic-est of them all. Eileen’s main competition is a supercilious church groupie and longtime rival named Agnes (Sharon Lawrence). Agnes is open about her hypocrisies, where Eileen keeps up a tight social front. That she doesn’t seem to have a problem lying about her loved ones opens the quality and function of Eileen’s faith to question, but the script (by Paula Goldberg and Claire V. Riley) falls short of matching Turner’s game performance with a character study that teases out the complications of a self-identifying good Christian. Instead the tone hovers between mild satire and soapy melodrama. Launched into the space between those two modes, a line like “I don’t have to think, I’m a Catholic!” — Eileen’s response to an accusation of closed-mindedness — falls flat. Especially when compared to the recent Natural Selection , in which a woman stifled by a dogma-driven life goes rogue, The Perfect Family seems to resist introspective pit stops, cruising toward its tidy resolution with a host of missed opportunities in its wake. Even Eileen’s climactic confession feels like a clockwork bid for empathy. At critical moments Renton’s direction feels a couple of seconds off the beat; often the dramatic center of an obviously dramatic scene (Eileen’s home interview with a church delegation and Frank Senior’s sudden flight from the marriage are two examples) never quite materializes. It’s still a kick to watch Kathleen Turner don a housedress and trade soothing pieties with Richard Chamberlain. The Perfect Family feels like it could have been more than that, but I suppose counting its blessings is the more Christian thing to do. Follow Michelle Orange on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .

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REVIEW: Kathleen Turner’s a Kick — Up to a Point — in The Perfect Family