#and yet steph Struggles with thoughts because she's never known her mom

[willowdied]

good morning friendly reminder- fuck you solomon lauter

[rhondafromhr]

So I started writing that Max and Steph roleswap AU and I wanted to post this little snippet I have so far and hear everyone’s thoughts because I’m not 100% happy with it yet…idk i feel like it might be too exposition heavy if that makes sense?? Like the backstory is important but idk I feel like I just kind of dumped it and maybe could weave it throughout the story better?? Lmk if you have any thoughts :)

Also Max and Richie’s relationship is going to be platonic in this (bc once again I’m weak for aroace Richie and the power of friendship being treated with the same narrative weight as romantic relationships).

Finally shoutout to tumblr user @idk-imrambling-idk who said in the tags of the original post that Max and Steph give sibling vibes in this au because I was like you know what, I love that, yes they do!! And it really inspired their dynamic and relationship in this

Here it is :)

Stephanie learned what it meant to be powerless at the ripe old age of nine. She sat next to her father in the crowd, watching the blindingly bright spotlight shine down upon her mother and beaming with pride as she was crowned Honey Queen. The applause was uproarious, every last townsperson’s gaze fixed solely on her. She’d always known her mom was the sweetest woman in Hatchetfield, but now it was official. Now she had the beautiful, ornate crown upon her head to prove it. As her mother was whisked away to what she assumed was some sort of super special, secret ceremony, her father insisted over her protests that no, they couldn’t go with her, she needed to go home and get to bed. It was a school night, after all, and she’d see her mother soon enough. She didn’t. Her mother never came home that night and with each passing day, Stephanie’s hope that she ever would dwindled even further.

Every woman who’s ever won that pageant has left Hatchetfield and never looked back, but back then, she didn’t know that. She just knew that one day, her mom was there to fawn over her drawings and point out all the little details she liked and put her spelling test up on the fridge and say how proud she was that Steph worked so hard and got more words right than last time and the next day, she wasn’t and there was nothing Stephanie could do about it. She wondered what she did wrong that her mom was so eager to get away from her. To this day, Stephanie doesn’t know where she ended up. She went through a brief phase where she spent hours a day fervently researching online and following every crumb of information she could find, desperate for any answers, but the very few flimsy leads she was able to find turned out to be dead ends. Not long after her twelfth birthday, Solomon told her she really ought to stop digging, because she wasn’t going to find the answers she was looking for and if she did, she wouldn’t be able to handle them. She rolled her eyes at his usual weird, cryptic nonsense, but for once, she didn’t argue with him. She never did figure out how he knew what she was doing. She only did her sleuthing when she was home alone and always made sure to use incognito mode.

As she got older, the list of things she had to do and wasn’t allowed to do and people she couldn’t hang out with grew exponentially. Everything always came back to the next election and how her behavior might reflect on her father. There was to be no hanging out with the smoke club kids, because he didn’t want the public thinking she was some kind of drug fiend (as if they were doing actual drugs. They were seventh graders. They may have upgraded to the real stuff now, but back then, Stephanie’s confident their vices of choice were, in fact, cloves and oregano, whether or not they were aware of it). If there was an option for honors or AP in a given subject, she had to take it, regardless of her interest or aptitude. He didn’t want her looking like some kind of slacker. Ironically, she credits that with how she became one. It was embarrassing trying so hard, only to still struggle to understand the material and receive abysmal grades in return, but it was equally embarrassing to admit to this and ask for help, so she figured the easiest route would be to stop trying. She made sure to keep her grades just barely high enough to keep her dad off of her case, but refused to do anything more. These days, she doesn’t have to sweat it. If she’s really in a pinch, she can just threaten some nerd into doing her homework for her.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the summer before Freshman year, one Greg Jägerman followed in his wife’s footsteps and vanished without a trace. That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary, but it did raise the question of what to do with the son he left behind. Solomon wasn’t doing so hot in the polls and Miss Tessburger decided that taking in the guy’s now-orphaned kid would make Solomon look kind and charitable, two of the last descriptors most voters would apply to him. Of course, nobody asked Steph her opinion. She was just stuck with this annoying pseudo-adopted brother one day and expected to be cool with it. Well, more accurately, nobody cared whether she was cool with it or not. The worst part was that he totally bought into this stupid fake family thing. He still won’t stop calling her sis.

What really infuriates her is that he gets the freedom she’s long been denied. Solomon truly couldn't care less what he does as long as he stays out of major trouble, doesn’t completely flunk his classes and shows up for all the public appearances and family photo ops. To this day, he still calls Solomon Dad as if he has any right to, as if Solomon sees him as anything more than an unfortunate consequence of a bold PR stunt, as if he’s had to put up with a fraction of what Stephanie’s endured from him. Solomon is not his dad and he is not a Lauter, no matter how many people mistakenly call him that. Solomon even praised him once. He came home from his latest lacrosse match and proudly said that they’d creamed Sycamore or whoever. Solomon, nose-deep in the latest poll and survey results Miss Tessburger had sent him, absently said, “that’s nice, son,” and waved him off. Sure, it was insincere. Sure, it was dismissive. But it was still far more than Stephanie had gotten since she was literally nine years old and more than she’s gotten since. It made her blood boil. She’d been jumping through hoops like some kind of goddamn show dog for her father for years and never got so much as one half-hearted compliment. It was just expected of her.

Still, she continued to jump through those hoops. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice and at this point, it was all she really knew, anyway. Unsurprisingly, Solomon still demanded more and just before she went into high school, he decided she was going to do sports. If there’s one defining trait that all of his constituents in town share, it’s their bizarre obsession with high school football, so this was a surefire way to impress them.

“Why do I have to?” she’d protested “Max already plays volleyball and lacrosse, doesn’t that satisfy the sports kid requirement?”

“Stephanie, I’d like to have an intelligent conversation with you. In other words, shut up. You know as well as I do that nobody cares about either of those sports. Clivesdale doesn’t even have a lacrosse or volleyball team and beating them is all these simple-minded hicks seem to care about. If you refuse to bring up your mediocre grades or put your time into any useful extracurriculars or bettering yourself in any way, the least you can do is join the cheer squad. How hard can it be to jump around and do some silly little chants?”

Max was there, too. Of course he was. On the increasingly rare occasions where Solomon was actually home, he was sure to be right there at his side, telling him about his day as if he fucking cared. Calling him Dad as if he had any fucking right to. She didn’t miss the way his face fell ever so slightly when Solomon said that nobody cared about his stupid sports and she couldn’t help but feel smug about it.

“Ha, yeah,” she said with a smirk “volleyball and lacrosse are dumb.”

The brief satisfaction was quickly overshadowed by a more pressing matter. Hell no, she was not going to join cheer. Pep, enthusiasm and silly dance routines aren’t really her style. She wasn’t sure she could do it if she wanted to and she really, really didn’t.

“Well, figure it out,” Solomon told her, looking at her with the usual disdain “it’s either that or football.” He may have said it mockingly, but she decided to take it as a challenge. She breached her own “no putting in more effort than necessary” policy and spent hours a day on the empty football field practicing plays. She’d usually drag Max along with her if he didn’t have practice for whichever one of his unimportant non-sports was in season.

“Hey,” he said during one of these practice sessions as he threw an admittedly decent spiral, his signature dumb, goofy grin on his face “I’ve been thinking about trying out, too. It might be kinda fun to be on the team together.”

She scowled. “No,” was her only response “just shut up and throw the ball, okay?” This was going to be her thing, damnit. He wasn’t going to invade it like he did everything else in her life. He did as she asked and never brought it up again.

She spent hours more at the gym, doing hard cardio until she was as sweat-soaked as that annoying weeb kid she saw around school sometimes and pushing herself to her limits strength training. It all paid off when the day of tryouts arrived and she blew everyone away with her athletic prowess, earning the position of star quarterback. That alone would have been great publicity and the fact that she was a freshman and the first girl ever to make the team in any position were the cherry on top. It spoke volumes that Solomon didn’t have anything negative to say, although he didn’t offer any praise, either.

If nobody could stand up to her before, they really couldn’t now. She wasn’t just the mayor’s daughter anymore. She was the star football player and with every victory she helped them score, especially against Clivesdale, the teachers and the principal became less and less likely to discipline her if anyone complained of her so-called bullying. It wasn’t as if they could do much before, but now they didn’t even care to try. With that, her iron grip over the school was secured and she’s thoroughly enjoyed it ever since. She still can’t do anything about her mom walking away or her dad treating her like some kind of accessory whose only use is to make him look good to potential voters or her stupid not-brother encroaching on her life and taking everything that’s rightfully hers, but she can maintain the delicate balance that is the high school hierarchy she’s created and bring order to Hatchetfield High. Really, she’s doing them all a favor. They don’t know what’s good for them and without her, it would descend into chaos.

Max slides into his seat in AP Calc with seconds to spare before the bell rings. He’s slammed two of those vile tasting sugar free energy drinks and he’s praying they’ll kick in soon.

“Alright, we’re going to have a pop quiz today. Hope you’ve been hitting the books, Mr. Lauter,” Miss Mulberry says. He doesn’t bother correcting her. Maybe if he could wear his letterman that has “Jägerman” embroidered on it, people wouldn’t make that mistake so often, but he’s not allowed to. The letterman jacket is Steph’s signature look. Not even Kyle and Jason get to wear theirs unless it’s a game day and they’re her closest friends. Max doesn’t even get that privilege, so he settled for a navy blue flannel with a tiny nighthawk patch poorly sewn into the pocket and his letterman hangs untouched in his closet. Sometimes, he doesn’t mind being called Max Lauter, even if it sounds a little off. Sometimes, he wants to believe that’s what he is. Other times, he wishes people would get it right. That’s the least of his worries right now, though. His chest feels so, so tight and a wave of nausea overtakes him and makes him wonder if ingesting so much caffeine and chemicals was a wise idea. He’s screwed. He can barely pass a test in this class when he has time to prepare and sacrifices several nights’ worth of sleep to study. He shouldn’t even be here. He knows he’s kind of dumb. Stephanie gleefully reminds him on a regular basis. Solomon doesn’t vocalize it, but sometimes Max will say something to him and he’ll just give him this look as if he’s just uttered the stupidest, most incomprehensible words ever spoken, then shake his head and go back to ignoring him. He’s always had a lot of trouble in most subjects, but math is by far the worst. Realistically, remedial algebra would be more his speed, but it wouldn’t be very becoming of a sort-of Lauter. Solomon took him in when he had nowhere else to go. He’s been a lot nicer to him than his own father ever was. He figured the least he could do is make him proud, but so far, that plan has backfired tremendously. Nobody’s going to be impressed with the D plus that he’s clinging to for dear life and can still feel slipping through his grasp.

He glances to his left and sees his neighbor calmly reach into his backpack and pull out his pen and calculator. The sheen of sweat on his forehead would suggest that he’s almost as nervous as Max is, but his demeanor radiates confidence and excitement. Max wonders why that guy wears so many layers if he’s always so sweaty. They’ve been in classes together since the first grade, but they’ve hardly spoken two words to each other. Max has, however, watched his hand eagerly shoot up whenever Miss Mulberry asks a question. He has watched him answer every equation with ease, solving them without fail, even when it all looks like gibberish to Max. If anyone can help Max out of this jam, it’s this guy. He has no real reason to, but Max supposes it can’t hurt to ask. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Hey,” he whispers “Shitlips, right?” He immediately winces. Fuck, he did not mean to say that. That’s how Steph and her friends always refer to him and he let it slip without thinking. Richie turns to glare at Max, clearly not amused.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly “I meant Lipschitz. Richie Lipschitz, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, still a little irritated “what is it? We’re about to take a test.”

“It’s just that, uh, we’ve been in school together for, like, ages and I just realized I’ve never introduced myself. I’m Max.”

“Yeah, I know, Max Jägerman. The mayor’s kid. Stephanie Lauter’s brother.”

“She doesn’t like me reminding people, but yeah,” Max replies with a self-deprecating chuckle “I feel kinda bad now. I called you Shitlips and you got my name right on the first try. A lot of people think it’s Lauter.”

This gets Richie to crack a faint smile. “Yeah, I always remembered it because it sounds like Eren Yeager.”

“So, you ready for this test?” says Max with a sheepish grin “‘Cause I’m really, really not. Like, nothing in this class makes even a little bit of sense to me. I’m one hundred percent going to fail. Unless you help a bro out.”

“Oh, we’re bros now?” Richie says with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure,” Max says “we’re Nighthawks, right? We gotta stick together.”

“But won’t we get in trouble?”

“Not if we don’t get caught,” Max says “rules were made to be broken.”

“Fine,” says Richie “I’m willing to tilt my paper slightly so you can see it better. Try to keep up, though, I’m not waiting to turn in my test so you can finish copying. That’ll look suspicious.” That much is true. Richie’s always the first person to turn in his test in this class, usually by a substantial amount of time. “And don’t be super obvious about it,” he adds.

“Really?” Max says, his face lighting up in a way that he rarely allows it to “thanks, dude, I owe you one!”

[letterniece8-blog]

Black Films and Artists Thrive at 2019 Tribeca Film Festival

By NNPA News Wire Film Critic Dwight Brown

The 18th annual Tribeca Film Festival featured films, docs, shorts, TV, tech seminars and immersive experiences. It was a 21st century gathering place for filmmakers, artists and fans.  

Black films, directors, actors and artists shared the glory and attention with other contemporaries who were proud to have TFF as an international venue. As the festival inches towards the two-decade mark, it’s only getting better and maturing like a fine wine.  

Black Films, Filmmakers, Actors and Artists

17 Blocks (****) Life expectancy in the U.S. averages out to around 79 years of age. That statistic skews much lower in this poignant and profound documentary about a Washington, D.C. family that’s on a different path. In 1999, nine-year old Emmanuel is given a movie camera. He uses it to chronicle the exploits of his mom, older brother, older sister and extended family. His lens captures the love in the air, the danger outside and the hope he brings to his family for a son who could be the first in their brood to go to college. Drugs, gangs and violence lurk. Emmanuel’s destiny takes a turn that will leave viewers spellbound. Over a 20-year period, this family’s dynamics, conflicts, breath throughs and tribulations are recorded like an urban allegory. The span of time is reminiscent of the Oscar-nominated drama Boyhood. The soul of a young man gets an enduring legacy thanks to the power of film.

The Apollo (***1/2) The Apollo Theater was always so much more than a performing arts venue. Since 1934, it’s been a community center, talent scout hub, training ground for countless artists and a mecca that is destined to be both a shrine and a progressive cultural home—for years to come. Director Roger Ross Williams helms this ambitious project, Lisa Cortes is a producer and the perceptive writing by Cassidy Hartmann and Roger Ross Williams pays respect to the hall’s past and its extended family. The footage is most exciting when it depicts performances by legendary artists (Ella, Duke, Dinah, Billie), Motown (Smokey, Supremes, Temptations) and comedians (Moms Mabley, Richard Pryor). Veterans (e.g. Patti Labelle) share their anecdotes. The late Ralph Cooper recollects starting Amateur Night. Rarely has a history lesson been so damn entertaining.  

Burning Cane (***) And what were you doing at age 17? Phillip Youmans was writing his first script, which he turned into this Southern Louisiana melodrama about a mother (Karen Kaia Livers) who deals with an alcoholic adult son (Dominique McClellan), his boy (Braelyn Kelly) and a recently widowed and stressed-out preacher (Wendell Pierce). The sun beats down on this luckless family, who grinds itself into a deeper and deeper hole. Youmans’ premise and maturity go well beyond his years. He puts his characters in an angst that hovers over the entire production. For tone and drama, he gets an A+. For storytelling, a B-. For tech elements a C. The gritty feel is reminiscent of a John Cassavetes movie. Youmans’ cinematography needs developing; camera placement is questionable as is the lighting. If the footage has a Beast of the Southern Wild synergy, it’s because this movie’s executive producer, Ben Zeitlin, was that film’s director. 

Devil’s Pie—D’Angelo (***1/2) Lots of musicians attract a following, but D’Angelo’s fans can be classified as an avid cult with extremely good taste in soul music. Part of the Grammy winner’s mystique centers around his 14-year-absence from recording (Voodoo in 2000; Black Messiah in 2014), which stunned his admirers. That mystery, his childhood, resurgence, live shows, recording sessions and musings are on view in this wonderfully crafted homage. Home movies and photos depict his upbringing, influential grandmother and days as his church’s organist. Personal anecdotes reveal his problems with alcohol and drugs. Attesting to his musical savvy and eccentricities are Questlove, Dave Chappelle and Erykah Badu. Though many put D’Angelo in his own niche (R&B, soul, funk, sexy songs with a hint of jazz), Prince’s influence is quite obvious when the singer wails. Thank documentarian Carina Bijlsma for the candid glimpse at a musical innovator who should be called a genius. Get ready to tap your toes and sing along to “Brown Sugar.” 

Gully (*1/2)  Music video director Nabil Elderkin steps into the deep end of feature filmmaking and flounders. His technique is solid, especially the ways he moves the camera (cinematographer Adriano Goldman) around on evocative shots of palm tree-lined streets in Los Angeles. However, he’s wasted his talent on a misguided script (Marcus Guillory) that focuses on three unlikable and aimless adolescents (Jacob Latimore, Charlie Plummer, Kelvin Harrison Jr.). The trio go from playing violent video games to assaulting people on the streets—without any obvious motivation. Yes, they each have troubled pasts, but nothing that warrants physical attacks. Never believable. Never compelling. Pointless. Kids have excuses for making bad decisions. Adults, like the ones who made this repulsive drivel, do not. 

Inna De Yard: The Soul of Jamaica (***) Showing admiration for reggae musicians from the ‘70s and ‘80s is this very inspiring doc’s goal. Shot largely in the hills above Kingston, British director Peter Webber gives a comeback platform to senior reggae stars like Ken Boothe, Winston McAnuff, Kiddus I, and Cedric Myton. Long past their heyday but still able to sell a song. Their stories of past triumphs are riveting and it’s a joy to watch them record again. They’re backed up by young musicians eager to play with their heroes. Judy Mowatt, legendary former Bob Marley backup singer, is a revelation. Reggae music, like Jamaica, is all about peace and love. That’s the takeaway. That’s what the audience will remember about this rousing, heartfelt documentary. 

A Kid from Coney Island (***) We’re well-acquainted with basketball’s most successful players who soared into fame and fortune (Kobe, Magic, Michael, Larry, LeBron). We’re less familiar with hoop dream athletes who struggled. Stephon Marbury grew up in the Coney Island projects, where the only choices for rising above the fray was becoming a rapper, drug dealer or basketball player. Obsessed with the sport from a young age, he was influenced by his dad and brothers and nurtured by his older sis and mom. Steph was destined for greatness. He became a city champion, college star, draft choice and NBA legend. Only fate tossed him curve balls. Under the prying eye of doc directors Coodie Simmons and Chike Ozah, viewers watch a very talented man withstand the death of a parent, depression, a career that stalls and a surprisingly spiritual path to redemption. In this eye-opening and sobering documentary, we see how an eight-pound orange ball can take an inner-city kid to the other side of the world. More ups and downs and as exciting as the Cyclone roller coaster ride on Coney Island.

Lil’ Buck: Real Swan (***) The kids in Charles “Lil’ Buck” Riley’s low-income outer Memphis neighborhood flocked to the local roller rink at night and waited for the skating to stop and the dancing to begin. Jookin’ is the local dance form, akin to Crunking, Gangsta Walking and Michael Jackson’s stop-start-twirls. Lil’ Buck won a scholarship to a Memphis dance school, and added ballet to his mix. His blend of urban dance and classic technique is amazing to watch. Equally entrancing is this beguiling look at a young kid who blossoms as a person and a dancer. A career in L.A., performances with Yo-Yo Ma and touring the world are like a dream come true. Director Louis Wallecan doesn’t miss one step. Interviews with family, friends and admirers highlight a hybrid street dance, an art form created by an innovator who transcends life and description. 

Only (**1/2) What if? What if after the apocalypse a virus became a plague that only killed women? That’s the premise of writer/director Takashi Doscher’s ultra-modern and very scary sci-fi nightmare. The focus is on a couple, Eva (Freida Pinto, Slumdog Millionaire) and Will (Leslie Odom Jr., Hamilton) who survive indoors using hazmat suits to stave off danger. Every scene is as creepy as the premise. Nice performances from the two leads. Ugly cinematography (Sean Stiegemeier) done in shades of gray, greens and browns make footage dreary. Can’t say Dosher is an accomplished filmmaker—yet, but this movie hits a nerve. Also, coming from a male director there is a misogynist undertone that just doesn’t feel right. 

Recorder: The Marion Stokes Project (***) Saying she liked keepsakes is putting it mildly. Librarian, TV producer and political activist Marion Stokes had an obsession: capturing the news as it was depicted on TV. From 1979 (Iranian hostage crisis) to 2012 (Sandy Hook tragedy), she recorded newsfeeds from the networks on 70,000 VHS tapes. For an enlightening and somewhat somber history lesson, view this documentary to see how far society has evolved and what it has left in its wake. Documentarian Matt Wolf handpicks clips, adds in the essence of Stokes’ personality and interviews witnesses to her hobby. He creates a thought-provoking look at the upheavals, controversies and conflicts that have shaped this country. Racial and social issues come to the forefront.  

Roads (**1/2) Actor turned director and writer Sebastian Schipper (Run Lola Runand Victoria) examines immigration with this vibrant road movie. British teen Gyllen (Fionn Whitehead, Dunkirk) steals his stepfather’s RV while in Morocco and heads towards France to visit his father. Along the way, he picks up a fellow traveler, William (Stéphane Bak), who is from the Democratic Republic of Congo. It’s interesting to watch the way they are treated differently as they travel. Gyllen makes his anger known and is oblivious to danger. The more reserved William knows danger way too well and can smell it before it happens. Their divergent points of view and cultural differences speak more about race relations than a college course. A thoughtful script (Schipper and Oliver Ziegenbalg), nice performances from the teens. Final scenes that depict refugees’ confined lives in France are solemn. 

Skin (***1/2)  Tsotsi was the 2006 Oscar-Winner for Best Foreign Film and it chronicled the evolution of a hoodlum who seemed beyond redemption. This very daring and similar drama by writer/director Guy Nattiv is equally emancipating in its own way. Bryon Widner (Jamie Bell, Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool), a twentysomething skinhead is bullied by his adoptive parents (Vera Farmiga, Bill Camp) who are violent white supremacists. Life changes for him when he meets a single mom (Danielle Macdonald, Patti Cake$). It takes an even greater turn when he comes under the watchful eye of social activist Darlye Jenkins (Mike Colter, Luke Cage), whose foundation, One People’s Project, specializes in converting neo-Nazis. This is possibly the biggest character arc you will ever see in a film. Tense, suspenseful, dramatic, romantic and cathartic. Excellent performances from all in this stick-to-your-ribs true story. Watching human garbage turn into human beings can be extremely gratifying. Excellent. 

What’s My Name: Muhammad Ali (***) Oscar-winner When We Were Kings focussed on Muhammad Ali’s “The Rumble in the Jungle” match. Does this doc have that much majesty? Almost. Director Antoine Fuqua (Training Day) takes a more all-encompassing approach. Using never-before-seen archival footage, and with a great sense of pacing (editor Jake Pushinsky), Fuqua highlights Ali’s pinnacles and low points. He explores the champion’s social activism and personal life. Details about his entry into boxing, teenage years, relationships with Malcolm X and Sam Cooke are on the screen. The most surprising revelation is that Ali’s decision to flaunt a larger-than-life egocentric persona was influenced by the flamboyant wrestler Gorgeous George. Most of the memorable quotes come from Ali’s lips. It’s like he’s reaching back from the grave to remind us how brash and brave he was. Illuminating. 

Films of Note

After Parkland (****) Rarely if ever does a film put a lump in your throat and a tear in your eye for its entire length. Be prepared to be awed, humbled and inspired by the Parkland, Florida victims, survivors and activists. You’ve seen their faces on the news, now you get a close-up look at the people behind the headlines and the indomitable spirit they’ve collectively created that is bound to bring about change. The kids and adults are so bright and articulate that their words carry the film:  “Someone was hunting my classmates.” “Bullets shred anything in sight. Tissue, walls, desks, backpacks.” “We’re going to change the world.” Expert technique and sensitive filming by directors Emily Taguchi and Jake Lefferman make this an Oscar-caliber documentary.

Crown Vic  (***) The cop/crime/thriller genre gets a healthy dose of personal drama in this L.A.-based film noir that’s rough around the edges. First-time feature film director/writer Joel Souza pairs up two L.A.P.D. cops. The older crusty patrol officer Ray Mandel (Thomas Jane, Boogie Nights) shepherds the naive rookie Nick (Luke Kleintank, TV’s Bones) on an overnight shift. Meanwhile, two bank robbers/killers are on the loose. Mandel’s chilling words: “Take your badge off and put it in the glove box.” Their policing takes a turn towards the gutter. The beginning of the film is marred by too much dialogue in a claustrophobic patrol car, which kills momentum. Souza adds in a funny scene with a drunk lady, friction with undercover cops (Josh Hopkins, David Krumholtz) and a search for a missing kid to spice up the night. Jane is the glue and mortar. The dialogue is strong too. Mandel: ‘People Sleep peacefully in their beds at night because rough men do violence on their behalf.”  Someone call 911!

The Kill Team (**1/2) Dan Krauss made a doc about a true-life incident involving an infantryman in Afghanistan in 2010 who dealt with a commanding officer who was violent to innocent locals and his platoon too. He’s turned that project into a feature film, with varied results. Actor Nat Wolff plays the soldier and Alexander Skarsgård stars as the disturbed leader who doles out harsh reality to his men: “We kill people. That’s what we do. Do you have a problem with that?” The enlistee is in a quandary that could take his own life. How would you react? That intriguing premise saves the film. Edited down to 87 minutes (editor Franklin Peterson), the footage is never attractive (Stéphane Fontaine), the performances are only decent and the emotion never runs deep. Still, this film tells a powerful story.

Linda Ronstandt: The Sound of My Voice (***1/2) Singing in Linda Ronstandt’s family was as common as Sunday dinner, and she had the best voice, too. As a teen in a sibling folk group she developed a sense of harmony and a performance presence that kick-started her career in L.A. In the music industry, she stood out as a woman in a man’s world. She led her own band, made her own career decisions and went through a world-famous metamorphosis: Folk, pop, rock, soul, light opera, big band and Mexican folk music—she did it all. Directors Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman bless the footage with childhood photos, concert video and insights by Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris and Bonnie Raitt. The very well-read Ronstandt herself pipes in with anecdotes and philosophies that underline her intelligence shed light on her battle with Parkinson’s disease. A trip down memory lane, done to the tune of Grammy-winning songs by rock n’ roll’s first female superstar. A visual and audio retrospective that sticks with you. 

The Quiet One (***1/2) The meek shall inherit the earth—and other stuff. Bill Wyman, the quietest musician in the Rolling Stones, is a historian. Director Oliver Murray gives the group’s bass player all the room he needs to shed light on his role as the band’s sober member. Fortunately for Stones fans, he was an avid collector of footage, photos and other memorabilia. You could almost classify him as a hoarder, except his stunning collection is so damn neat and organized. He’s stockpiled his knick-knacks in the most orderly filing system with documentation so elaborate it would shame a librarian. Hearing him talk about his idols Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Muddy Water and Howlin’ Wolf is heart-warming. Behind-the scenes details about the Rolling Stones’ tragedies, fiascos and creative process are equally fascinating. Oddly, the film does not cover Wyman’s controversial relationship with a teenager. Special shout out to Tim Sidell’s gorgeous cinematography and Anne Perri’s astute editing. Wyman is a quiet treasure and so is this doc.  

Woodstock: Three Days That Defined a Generation (***) “Well I came upon a child of God, He was walking along the road, And I asked him, Tell me where are you going, And this he told me…” Director Barak Goodman and his co-writer Don Kleszy take audiences behind the scenes of Woodstock to the muddy fields, horrible weather and peace/love vibe that became the legend of the occasion. It’s an event that has never been repeated successfully. Still, from the viewpoint of the common people who went, we get a new perception that those “highly” spiritual and heady days were more than a one-time phenomenon, they spawned a vibe that far outlived the concerts. On the stages, in this temporary city of 400,000 hippies, musicians like Richie Havens, CSN, Jimi Hendrix and the bunch look like heroes, though not as quite as gusty or adaptable as the venue’s stunned promoters: John Roberts and Joel Rosenman. Refreshing and a complete joy to watch in this day and age of hate mongering. 

Tribeca is building a solid reputation as a film festival that values diversity, inclusion and new voices. It’s a champ at spotlighting emerging talent from around the U.S. and the world. 

It’s no wonder black films, artists, their fans and others are supporting the fest with their work, participation and attendance. 

For more information about Tribeca Film Festival go to: https://www.tribecafilm.com

Visit NNPA News Wire Film Critic Dwight Brown at DwightBrownInk.com and BlackPressUSA.com.

This article originally appeared in the Charleston Chronicle. 

Source: https://www.blackpressusa.com/black-films-and-artists-thrive-at-2019-tribeca-film-festival/