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Movie: ***
Extras: **
MY KID COULD PAINT THAT (2007). In 2004, 4-year-old Binghamton, NY, native Marla Olmstead became a minor global celebrity when it was discovered that she was a child prodigy, a born painter who looked as if she could have provided Jackson Pollock with serious competition in abstract art. The value of her works climbed into the thousands, and there was a waiting list of collectors eager to pay big bucks for her paintings. But then along came 60 Minutes, which ran a blistering segment questioning whether the canvases were really painted by Marla or whether her dad Mark Olmstead played a significant part in their creation. Suddenly, Marla's stock plummeted, and the Olmsteads had to brace themselves against the nasty backlash even as they attempted to salvage their reputation. My Kid Could Paint That follows every moment of this intriguing tale, and a movie that began (according to director Amir Bar-Lev's on-camera assertion) as a look at modern art becomes, in the words of a frustrated Laura Olmstead, "documentary gold," a probing film not only about the subjective nature of art but also about the hypocrisy of the intelligentsia, the pervasiveness of modern media, and the sincerity of two parents who, whether innocent or guilty, were clearly thrust into the spotlight in a manner they didn't expect. "[We're] not stupid," insists Mark, "just naive." Taking a cue from Michael Moore, Bar-Lev eventually injects himself into the story, since he also forms doubts about Marla's abilities and requires proof that she really did create all those paintings. I won't reveal his discovery, except to say that the movie doesn't tie everything up with a pretty bow. Bar-Lev knows that the truth is often hard to ascertain: After all, life is messy, just like Marla's little hands as she creates art – or maybe just plays around – with all that colorful paint.
DVD extras include audio commentary by artist Anthony Brunelli and film editor John Walter, a piece that looks at events that occurred after the movie was released, and a discussion with New York Times art critic Michael Kimmelman (who also appears in the film).
Movie: ***
Extras: **1/2
RICCO THE MEAN MACHINE (1973). The DVD box cover reads Ricco the Mean Machine. The film itself opens with merely Ricco. The Italian trailer carries an unwieldy title that translates as Some Guy With a Strange Face Is Looking For You to Kill You. The original American title back in 1973 was Cauldron of Death. And on videocassette, it debuted under the title Gangland. Then again, ample name-swapping was par for the course for this sort of Eurotrash exploitation cheapie with international financing and an American actor whose presence allowed it to play stateside during the glorious grindhouse era known as the 1970s. The box copy pretty much alerts connoisseurs of the gruesome high points they can expect during the film – "Acid bath baptisms ... rifle-butt dentistry ... switchblade circumcision ... .45 caliber brain surgery ..." – as well as the quality of the T&A practitioners: "drop-dead gorgeous" Malisa Longo and "beautiful" Barbara Bouchet. As for the rest, it's standard revenge-flick fare, with Christopher Mitchum (Robert's son) out to avenge the death of his father by taking down the powerful crime boss Don Avito. Don Avito, incidentally, is played by five-time Oscar nominee Arthur Kennedy (Peyton Place, Champion), making this yet one more example of a great actor from Hollywood's golden age winding down his career in desultory fashion (see also Joseph Cotten in Lady Frankenstein and Veronica Lake in Flesh Feast). As for the wooden Mitchum, he's more girly-man than mean machine (never mind those ample muscles manufactured for the DVD cover art), and his Ricco's a far cry from the tough-guy image projected by his way-cool pop.
DVD extras include an interesting interview with Mitchum and the film's Italian trailer; the back of the box also cites a still gallery, but damn if I could find one anywhere on the disc.
Movie: *1/2
Extras: **
THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE (2007). Following 2006's After the Wedding (an Oscar nominee for Best Foreign-Language Film), Danish director Susanne Bier made her English-language with Things We Lost In the Fire. But if there was any worry that Bier was "going Hollywood," this somber and mature drama immediately quells that notion. Bier's steady hand behind the camera is enough to overcome the flaws in Allan Loeb's script, which relates the story of how two people – a widow (Halle Berry) and her late husband's drug-addicted friend (Benicio Del Toro) – cope in the aftermath of their shared tragedy. Bier, one of the disciples of the Dogme 95 style of moviemaking – basically, a Danish movement that insists on no employment of movie artifice (like special effects and soundtracks) and maximum use of natural light, hand-held cameras, etc. – has retained some of her European filmmaking instincts to cut down on the melodrama inherent in Loeb's screenplay. For the most part, she keeps the excess in check, which in turn leads to scenes that are even more powerful thanks to their subtlety. Berry does fine work in a rather difficult (i.e. inconsistent) role, yet it's Del Toro's staggering performance that earns this a recommendation. Del Toro's face can be a map of emotions, and he's allowed to unfold it freely in a multifaceted performance that really allows us to measure the actor's immense talents.