The 4K restoration of the four-decade old concert movie “Stop Making Sense” is such an exercise in joyful exuberance it’s like time travelling back to the actual 1983 show.
Directed by Jonathan Demme, and shot over the course of three nights at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre at the culmination of the band’s “Speaking in Tongues” tour, the film begins on a bare stage as the camera follows David Byrne’s scuffed-up sneakers to center stage. Placing a portable tape player at his feet, he says, “Hi, I got a tape I wanna play,” and launches into the jittery “Psycho Killer,” accompanied only by his acoustic guitar and boombox beats.
Next comes bassist Tina Weymouth for a beautiful, stripped-down version of “Heaven,” the band’s pokerfaced view of paradise, a “place where nothing ever happens.”
As the track list expands, so does the show. Piece by piece, member by member, equipment and musicians populate the stage, until the full band, Byrne, Weymouth, Jerry Harrison, Chris Frantz, Steve Scales, Lynn Mabry, Ednah Holt, Alex Weir and Bernie Worrell are in place, and playing as if making music was going to be declared illegal the next day.
From the exhilarating art-funk of “Burning Down the House” and “Life During Wartime” to the melancholic beauty of “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” and the gospel tinged “Once in a Lifetime,” the band deliver one banger after another, fronted by Byrne’s athletic and arty dance moves. It’s a document of a band working at the top of their game, capturing the love of music and performance in a way few other concert films have.
And it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it.
The restoration is top notch, with a sharp image derived from the original 35-millimeter negatives, showcasing cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth’s inventive camera and lighting work, and crisp remixed digital sound that fills the air.
The picture and sound are improvements on the original, but the thing that hasn’t changed, the element that makes the movie special, is the performance. From Byrne’s iconic “Big Suit” to Weymouth’s crab-walk dance, it is, as Ed Sullivan would’ve said, a really big show, but it manages to feel intimate, even when blown up to IMAX supersize. The nonverbal communication between the players and the obvious love of the music, are highlighted, and add much to the overall experience.
“Stop Making Sense” tells a loose narrative, from the opening number with a solo Byrne, to the “formation” of the band and their subsequent collaboration. By the time they sing “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody),” it is clear this group of outsiders has found a place where they belong. Not a documentary, or an exercise in nostalgia, “Stop Making Sense” is a celebration, of music and of belonging. Watch it again for the first time.
“Flora and Son,” starring Eve Hewson as a Dublin single mom trying to make a connection with her son, is a rousing crowd-pleaser that breathes the same air as director John Carney’s other films, “Sing Street” and “Once.”
A look at a strained marriage through the lens of a public murder trial, “Anatomy of a Fall” is more concerned with human drama than the procedural aspects of the story. The result is a complex look at the search for truth in relationships and justice in court.
Jessica Chastain and Peter Sarsgaard bring raw intensity to “Memory,” a story that essays memories that torment and memories as they disappear. Almost overwhelmed by melodrama, it stays on the right side with committed performances and a bold love story.
The 4K “Stop Making Sense” restoration of the four-decade old movie is a joyful, high-energy revisiting of a classic concert film. A document of a band working at the top of their game, it captures the love of music and performance in a way few other have. And it’s got a good and you can dance to it.
Phoebe Dynevor and Alden Ehrenreich star in the financial drama “Fair Play’s” blistering exploration of workplace gender dynamics. A throwback to the erotic thrillers of the 1980s, its story of sabotage is smart, sexy and sharp, if a tad long.
“Perfect Days” is a contemplative movie that examines the simple pleasures in life. Music, literature and nature are showcased, but this poetic, profound film celebrates finding contentment in all aspects of life.
“Dumb Money” doesn’t get bogged down by the financial jargon, although it may be worth a trip to “short sell” Wikipedia page before buying a ticket. Instead, it’s the rousing David and Goliath story of leveling the playing field.
Using first hand sources, the documentary “Sorry/Not Sorry” examines the accusations of sexual harassment leveled against comedian Louis C.K, and his subsequent career come-back. Not ground-breaking in terms of style, but thought provoking in terms of its “judge the art or the artist” perspective.
Edgy and tense, “The Royal Hotel” is a slow burn story about sexual violence and intimidation, power dynamics and revenge, wrapped up in a story about two young women on a work/travel visit to Australia.
Richard Linklater’s “Hit Man” is in my top two at TIFF. Glen Powell and Adria Arjona earned a well-deserved applause break after the movie’s best and funniest scene. Their chemistry ignites the movie.
“Limbo’s” black and white photography lends a stark and stately field to the study of damaged people, disguised as a police procedural.
Errol Morris‘s latest film, “The Pigeon Tunnel,” is a look at the extraordinary life of David Cornwell a.k.a. prolific author John le Carré. It examines the very essence of truth, and how memory and manipulation play a part in how we shape our world and our perceptions.
Set an a remote, Newfoundland seaport, population thirty, “The King Tide” is an effective supernatural thriller. It takes place in a very specific area, but the story address is universal concerns about parenting and the dangers of isolationism.
“Mr. Dressup: The Magic of Make-Believe,” a look at the life and legacy of legendary children’s entertainer Ernie Coombs, has the same brand of low-key kindness and empathy that made “Mr. Dressup” appointment viewing for several generations of Canadians.
“Finestkind” begins as a slice of life drama about a man following his dream, but soon morphs into a credulity stretching story of antiheroes, drugs and fish poaching.
Amanda Seyfried hands in a career best performance as a director helming a production of “Salome” at the Canadian Opera Company. An ambitious meditation on the healing power of art, “Seven Veils” is a dense psychological thriller that examines toxic masculinity and eradicating the male gaze.
“Reptile” is a standard good cop in a bad situation drama, given oomph by Benicio del Toro’s badass and quirky performance.
The title of the new Meryl Streep movie, “Ricki and the Flash,” sounds like a comic book flick about a regular, but spunky teen and the DC Comic character known for super human speed. No, Streep hasn’t joined the ranks of elder actors lending credibility to superhero movies and there’s not a skintight red superhero outfit in sight. Instead, there’s the black leather and fringes of Meryl’s rock ‘n’ roll Ricki, lead singer of bar band The Flash.
Ricki is a rock ‘n’ roll road warrior who never cracked the big time. Twenty five years ago she left behind her comfortable Midwestern life and family—husband (Kevin Kline) and three kids (including Julie, played by Streep’s real-life daughter Mamie Gummer)—for a shot at stardom in Los Angeles. Her one album didn’t chart and now she staves off bankruptcy by day as a grocery clerk, by night playing Golden Oldie covers in a seedy San Fernando Valley bar.
Out of the blue her ex gives her a ring with bad news. Julie’s husband has left her for a younger woman and he’d like her to come to Ohio to comfort her distraught daughter. Despite not having seen Julie in years she returns. Cue the family drama as Ricki tries to make amends for choosing rock and roll over her family.
Streep may not be playing a superhero in “Ricki and the Flash,” but she does a superhuman job of carrying the movie. Ricki is a raw nerve who says what’s on her mind whether she’s on stage or off, and Meryl rocks it. She strums and hums her way through a contrived script by “Juno” writer Diablo Cody that doesn’t add much to the family drama or rock movie genres.
Kline, Rick Springfield and Gummer hit the right notes, but are saddled with dialogue that sounds melodramatically overwritten—“My heart is dead and rotten,” sobs Julie.—or like a Successstory platitude—“It doesn’t matter if you kids love you,” says Springfield, “it’s your job to love them.” Missing are Cody’s usual wit and director Jonathan Demme’s careful examination of his characters. Instead they’ve opted for a blandly crowd-pleasing movie that isn’t as crowd-pleasing as they might have hoped.
“Ricki and the Flash” is about the power of music to break down barriers and bring people together, but as well shot as the music scenes are—and they should be, Demme made one of the great music films of all time, “Stop Making Sense,” among many others—the movie hits the wrong notes when the music stops.
