Movie Reviews: Boarding Gate, Run Fat Boy Run, Priceless

 GO  TOWARDS DARKNESS Towards Darkness purports to expose the scourge of kidnapping in Colombia by reveling in the tropes of the jittery, time-leaping, turbocharged action thriller — call it The Bourne Opprobrium. The debut feature of writer-director Antonio Negret tells us something of the practical, psychological and economic dynamics of this demoralizing South American growth industry; also that he can stage one hell of a car chase. The film (shot on video) starts with a bang — handsome José (Roberto Urbina) smashed upside the head, blindfolded and dragged through the jungle — and it keeps on banging, crosscutting in flashback among a dizzying network of subplots (rogue ex–FBI agents, shady banking schemes) and stylistics (montage! montage! montage!). Bang goes the climax too, before resolving in the bleakest of whimpers. Admirably tough-minded if overstuffed, Towards Darkness delivers on its foreboding title. And Negret, I suspect, will deliver on this promising debut. (Music Hall) (Nathan Lee)

 21 Click here for the full-length review by Robert Wilonsky. (Citywide)

Magnet Releasing

Argento flashes her come-hither stare.

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More About

• Larry Bloch
• Grace Lee
• Asia Argento
• Sikhism
• Religion

 GO  TYLER PERRY’S MEET THE BROWNS Prolific filmmaker-mogul Tyler Perry’s fifth feature since 2005’s Diary of a Mad Black Woman (his sixth is already scheduled for a September release) is surprisingly half-decent — surprising because Perry’s not about to switch up his hardly revelatory but consistently bankable box-office signature: African-American familial drama, complete with soapy romance, broadly farcical supporting roles, and motivational Christian principles. Finding a positive, progressive tone in what would ordinarily be played as woe-is-me melodrama, Meet the Browns is the story of single mother-of-three Brenda (Angela Bassett, the film’s soul and highlight), an inner-city Chicago woman of tireless integrity, who remains strong even after being laid off: “One thing a black woman know how to do is make it.” Keeping her head up when she and the kids travel to Georgia to attend her long-estranged father’s funeral, Brenda makes earnest efforts to refuse handouts from the eccentric extended family she’s just gained — as well as romantic advances from the amateur b-ball scout (Rick Fox) who may or may not want to cash in on her talented son. Unlike Diary, the drama here is buoyant enough to handle the contrast of its too-silly slapstick; Perry’s pot-smoking granny Madea only turns up in cameo, fortunately, but David Mann’s leisure-suited buffoon Leroy may be too shrill for those Perry has yet to convert. (Citywide) (Aaron Hillis)

 GO  WETLANDS PRESERVED About halfway through Wetlands Preserved, an appropriately mellow chronicle of a Tribeca nightclub’s life span, music writer Richard Gehr declares that there is no good nostalgia. While I don’t agree, director Dean Budnick’s lope down memory lane occasionally errs on the side of bad nostalgia. That is to say, it’s a boutique documentary whose ideal audience is so tightly knit that they probably already know all about, say, the time the Spin Doctors broke the Blues Travelers’ drinking record. But the Wetlands Preserve, which nursed those acts in their early days, also offers a classic New York Story. Founded by a Deadhead dreamer named Larry Bloch in 1989, Wetlands was part music scene, part “social-justice activist center.” From the VW bus parked inside to the recycled matchbooks, Bloch mingled his hippie ethos with a love of improvised music and community. That love was challenged when the neighborhood changed into one that didn’t dig endless solos and pee-stained streets. Cue Giuliani’s martial law enforcement, the sale of the club to a sympathetic postgrad whippersnapper, and the ruthless condo revolution. Wetlands closed in 2001, and while late-lamenteds like CBGB and the Cedar Tavern may have a more storied lineage, the fate of Bloch’s club is a wistful reminder of how rare a come-one, come-all scene is in an increasingly exclusive Manhattan. (Grande 4-Plex) (Michelle Orange)