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Here are some movies worth catching this weekend:
William Eggleston in the Real World / Stranded in Canton. William Eggleston's photographs are so unpretentious that they strike some critics as pretentious—the exaltation of things and people hidden in plain sight. He spends much of Michael Almereyda's documentary warding off interpretations of his methods and intent, leaving the director with two basic options: to watch him, or to try to explain him. Almereyda tries them both, and I came away with a better understanding of his work than I would have gotten from either one separately. The Belcourt is showing it tonight on a double bill with Eggleston's 1973-4 video project
Stranded in Canton, the missing link between a Warhol Factory production and
Grey Gardens. It's well worth seeing, unless you have some prudish aversion to watching a guy try to stick a beer bottle up his butt. (Note to
Tennessean readers: Almereyda did not make the documentary
Rivers and Tides, as printed in today's paper; that would be Thomas Riedelsheimer, whose remarkable new film
Touch the Sound opens next week. Note to
Tennessean: hire a damn movie reviewer already.) (Belcourt)
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Don't know how this goofy film-noir rip by the creator of the
Lethal Weapon movies got that forbidding reek of arthouse disinfectant, but it seems to be turning people off one of the year's most enjoyable Hollywood movies. (I recommend it highly to Angelinophiles Christine and Michael Kreyling, who will pick up on the many
Chinatown references a lot faster than I did.) Cҭon, wouldn't you want to see something that features cameos by Abraham Lincoln
and the Native American Joe Pesci? (Opens wide)
Dear Wendy. Mainly I just want someone to tell me I didn't hallucinate this movie, in which a bunch of American teens form a gun club to combat violence in their suspiciously Scandinavian small town. Then they marry their guns, and get jealous when other people hold their guns, and have elaborate underground gavottes where they vogue with their guns and give them names (e.g., "Wendy"). You will be surprised to learn this film ends with a lot of shooting. The farther I get from it, the more convinced I am that it's a black comedy designed by screenwriter Lars von Trier and director Thomas Vinterberg to piss off gun-control advocates and NRA extremists alike. It even works as a pretty vicious Wes Anderson parody: the Michigan Militia goes to
Rushmore. (Belcourt)
Zathura. I haven't seen it. I just have a good feeling. It has robots. (Opens wide)
SKIP: Shopgirl. A movie that breaks its fa袤e of shallow glibness to reveal the glib shallowness underneath. I don't have to love the characters in a movie, but I'd prefer more of a rooting interest than the one here. Gosh, what do I hope wins out—charmless self-absorption, or slightly
less charmless self-absorption?