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Always on the lookout for a compliment to pay, I have been meaning for some time to pay one to Focus Features for the design of their logo. Simple, elegant, sans-serif capital letters, eye-chart-style, with only the "o" out of focus. Succinct, clever, relevant to the medium, not to mention helpful to the projectionist. And a refreshing alternative to the more and more elaborate logos of the now numberless film production companies, revealing themselves only by degrees, unfolding over a span of time, taking computer-generated journeys down a desert highway, across a bay, through a jungle, seeking to tell a story, create a mood, deliver an "experience," typically more than one logo at the start of every movie, so that you often are unsure of when the actual movie is beginning. The old roaring lion of MGM, the scanning searchlights of Fox, the beaming Lady Liberty torch of Columbia, and the rotating globe (or earlier, the orbiting plane) of Universal are about all the "development" I care to put up with before a movie gets going. Even the rock-solid Paramount mountain now settles into position on an axis, first tumbling through space like a meteor, then encircled by a chorus line of stars, one by one. Things, in my recollection, began to get out of hand with the galloping Pegasus of TriStar Pictures and got thoroughly out of hand with the Huck Finn fishing line dropped from a crescent moon into a pool of thought (since elaborated further, with balloons and whatnot) at the top of a DreamWorks production. Now everyone has to get in on the act, and the outset of a movie starts to look like a competitive animation festival that can only end in a new category at the Academy Awards.

The latest offering of Focus Features is Hollywoodland, and my opportunities to pay compliments grow scarce after the opening logo. The speculative investigation into the death of Superman -- i.e., the man who played him on television, George Reeves -- by gunshot on June 16, 1959, divides itself into the present-tense, but in no other sense tense, nosing-around of a shady private eye (Adrien Brody) and a past-tense review of the third-tier career of the deceased actor (Ben Affleck, a stiff even prior to death, several degrees colder and less supple than the real Reeves). An on-the-set vignette of Fifties grade-Z special effects is amusing in an Ed Wood sort of way; and the digital insertion of Affleck alongside Burt Lancaster in footage from From Here to Eternity, although not quite an exact match, is amusing in a different sort of way, a Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid way. And the vintage clothes and cars are nice. However, the parallel plotlines take a long time to shed any light on each other, and never very much light even by the end; and the present-tense one, padded out with the case of an extraneous jealous husband, doesn't hold up its end of things, is more of a rude interrupter, despite the anecdotal interest of the impact of the reported suicide on the detective's young son. (I myself, at right around the same age, happened to be in Hollywood on a family vacation when the news broke -- I got it from a curbside L.A. Times vending machine -- and while I can testify to the initial shock, I cannot testify to the post-traumatic stress disorder.) None of the three possible scenarios restaged for the cameras alters the essential facts of the matter: Rashomon this is not. Suicide, for an actor imprisoned in a single role, made sense at the time. Suicide still makes sense. The further speculation never seems more than idle. First-time filmmaker Allen Coulter (a TV veteran, albeit "quality" TV, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, Sex and the City, etc.) keeps trying and trying to make it more of a story. And failing, failing.

Queens is a gay romp, not to say a merry romp or a lively romp or a spirited romp, simply a homosexual romp, a strained and flat and unfunny romp, about the run-up to the first legal same-sex wedding in Spain, a public spectacle involving twenty couples, of whom we focus on three and their hovering mothers. Director Manuel Gómez Pereira assumes, or counts on, the unearned friendliness of the spectator -- as, for example, when Marisa Paredes, playing a film star, gives her blessing to a dinner guest's postprandial marijuana, "Please, I've worked with Almodóvar" (as indeed she has), or when a casual fan on the street misidentifies her as Carmen Maura, another Almodóvar alumna, also a member of the present cast. Perhaps Pereira assumes, or counts on, a bit of rub-off friendliness from friends of Almodóvar. Production and photography, it might be worth noting, exhibit a level of professionalism well above the standard of the American gay cinema; and it might then be troubling to ponder what those different levels imply about mainstream acceptance versus marginalization. Brokeback Mountain may have scaled a peak, but did not necessarily clear it out of the path.

Half Nelson has to do with a do-gooding, dedicated, young, white, liberal history teacher and girls' basketball coach at an inner-city middle school, a voluntary role model who develops a special friendship with a fatherless black girl and a rivalry for her affections with a neighborhood dope peddler. Oh, and his usefulness as a role model, friend, or rival is somewhat compromised by his own crack addiction. That's a recipe for complication, if not quite complexity, and the film -- the first fictional feature by Ryan Fleck, an expansion of his twenty-minute short, Gowanus, Brooklyn -- feels fairly authentic at any second (no credit to the obligatory grainy, wavery photography), but it generates no flow, no pace, no momentum. And the authenticity is compromised a bit, too, by the self-regarding, actorish work of Ryan Gosling.

Factotum, a word slightly misdefined on screen as "a man who performs many jobs," in the sense of a man who cannot hold a job, instead of the proper sense of a man who performs many duties, is a respectable addition to Bukowskiana, if respectability can be a criterion for the life and work of the pickled writer, Charles Bukowski. A mangily bearded Matt Dillon, in the part of the author's semi-autobiographical stand-in, Henry Chinaski, gives a full-bodied performance, and a literally full-body one, his head tilted backwards as if sighting down his nose, his feet shuffling along as if tugged by a rope. Phlegmatic, undemonstrative, unexhibitionistic, he wisely resists the temptation to romanticize or mythologize. (Lili Taylor makes a suitable mate as his main squeeze, brave enough to model lingerie in a body you would never see on the cover of Maxim.) And the deadpan detachment of Norwegian filmmaker Bent Hamer, of the droll Kitchen Stories, seems a good strategy in the face of a hell-bent boozer, granting us sufficient distance to see the humor. There is, at the same time, entirely too much first-person narration (curiously recited in a stride-and-glide Jack Nicholson cadence), which is another way of saying there's not much external activity. The episodic narrative goes nowhere fast. Meaning that wherever it goes, it does not go there fast. It goes everywhere slow.

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