‘That’s What I Am’ 1/2
A forgettable title and a barely there theatrical release don’t do justice to the captivating and nostalgic coming-of-age dramedy “That’s What I Am,” a World Wrestling Entertainment production that completely belies its rowdy imprimatur.
Set in a tidy California suburb in 1965, the film, splendidly written and directed by WWE Studios executive Mike Pavone, looks at the ever-timely themes of adolescent bullying, social tolerance and personal dignity through the eyes of Andy Nichol (Chase Ellison), a likable 8th grader with a writer’s soul.
When Andy is paired by his beloved English teacher, Mr. Simon (Ed Harris), with school pariah Stanley (Alexander Walters), aka “Big G” (for the gangly, huge-eared boy’s bright red — or, pejoratively, ginger-colored — hair) on a class project, it triggers a series of essential life lessons.
A resultant storyline involving a rumor about Mr. Simon’s sexuality deftly dovetails with the Andy-Stanley events, leading to a sensitively handled, highly poignant finale.
Performances by all, including Amy Madigan as a judicious principal, Molly Parker as Andy’s equitable mom and Mia Rose Frampton (yes, Peter’s daughter) as Andy’s first girlfriend, are terrific, with Harris especially memorable as the warmly buoyant Simon. WWE superstar Randy Orton succeeds as well in his acting debut playing a bully’s intractable father.
MPAA rating: PG (for thematic material throughout, language and some bullying). Opens Friday at the I.C.E. Chatham 14. Running time: 1:41.
—Gary Goldstein, special to Tribune Newspapers
‘Henry’s Crime’
Life-changing epiphanies come in all shapes and sizes, but the one that transforms the protagonist of “Henry’s Crime” is a strange bird indeed: implausible and barely perceptible. In part, that’s because of Keanu Reeves’ blank take on a working stiff-turned-lawbreaker. Beyond Reeves’ performance, the film’s ungainly mix of heist, romance and backstage comedy never jells. It’s never painful, though, especially when James Caan and Vera Farmiga are onscreen. But there’s only so much life anyone could breathe into this inert caper.
As the story opens, Reeves’ Henry is a married tollbooth attendant in Buffalo who barely occupies his life. As the sign on his booth (“Wait for Ticket and Change”) indicates, something’s about to give. It takes Henry awhile — a year in jail for a crime he didn’t commit — to recognize that he wanted out. After retrieving a single box of possessions from his ex-wife (Judy Greer), he meets cute with local actress Julie (Farmiga, wonderfully sharp-tongued). In his impassive way, Henry determines to make his time in the slammer count, retroactively, by committing an actual crime.
That involves infiltrating the production of “The Cherry Orchard,” in which Julie is starring and excavating a Prohibition-era tunnel between the theater and the bank across the street. Caan is a delight as Henry’s partner in crime, a self-described confidence man — in essence, an actor. But the aimed-for comic collision between nuts-and-bolts crime and the thea-tah materializes only in the clunkiest of ways, and the Chekhov angle lends no heft to this piffle.
MPAA rating: R (for language). Opens Friday at Landmark’s Century Centre Cinema. Running time: 1:47
—Sheri Linden, special to Tribune Newspapers
‘Forget Me Not’
“Forget Me Not” is a contemporary love story with a heart-wrenching twist that recalls vintage tearjerkers, yet its appealing stars, Tobias Menzies and Genevieve O’Reilly, make watching it a surprisingly affecting experience. The film is helped immeasurably by its London setting and a moody score.
Directed by Alexander Holt and Lance Roehrig with an adroit blend of cinematic poetic flourish, sure pacing and British understatement, there’s a pleasing echo of “Brief Encounter” in this film’s chance meeting. Menzies’ troubled singer-guitarist Will comes to the rescue of a lovely barmaid, Eve (O’Reilly), who’s being accosted by a drunk, and soon the two are strolling along the Thames, attending the engagement party of one of Eve’s friends, staying up all night chatting.
In the morning Will accompanies Eve on a visit to her grandmother (a superb Gemma Jones), who is being tested for Alzheimer’s disease. Will and Eve’s mutual attraction is undeniable, but Will’s emotional struggles loom.
That “Forget Me Not” plays out as effectively as it does is a credit to the filmmakers, particularly the talented leads.
No MPAA rating. Opens Friday at Facets Cinematheque. Running time: 1:33
—Kevin Thomas, special to Tribune Newspapers
‘Uncle Kent’
Just as immense stylistic differences and concerns separate the lovely work of Andrew Bujalski (“Beeswax”) and Lena Dunham (“Tiny Furniture”), there’s an ever-widening gulf in quality between work on that high end of the blobby category known as mumblecore and the low end, otherwise known as Joe Swanberg. I’ll leave it to others to defend and appreciate Swanberg’s work, which gave us Greta Gerwig, at least. “Uncle Kent,” whose 72 minutes play like hours, offers his usual ingredients — casually explicit sex (a shame; I want filmmakers to give that stuff a good name, not a bad one); indistinct framing and cutting; behavior that barely registers as behavior, let alone comedy, or drama — in an anecdote about an LA cartoonist (Kent Osborne) and his sidewinding attempts to Get Some, culminating in a threesome arranged via Craigslist.
No MPAA rating. Friday-Thursday at the Siskel Film Center. Running time: 1:12.
—Michael Phillips, Tribune Newspapers critic
‘Poetry’
A return engagement for a marvel of character observation and one of the great pictures about death, dying and moral choices of recent years. Director Lee Chang-dong’s tale of a pensioner whose grandson has done a terrible thing finds its motif in the poetry classes the pensioner audits, as she struggles to activate the writer inside while she is slowly succumbing to Alzheimer’s. The tone is extraordinarily complex, and what Yun Jung-hee does in the crucial role amounts to a master class in portraiture.
No MPAA rating. Friday-Wednesday at the Siskel Film Center. Running time: 2:19.
—M.P.
