Directed by Bennett Miller

Written by Dan Futterman from the biography by Gerald Clarke

Starring: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Clifton Collins, Jr., Catherine Keener and Chris Cooper

110 minutes, in CinemaScope

There was something about that back page New York Times article detailing four grisly murders that commanded Truman Capote’s attention. More than just a follow-up to Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the author envisioned a new way of telling a story: a “non-fiction novel” that attempted to elevate Dick and Perry, two nomadic killers, to the realm of humanity.

Without an acquittal or a hanging, his book had no ending and Capote follows the author’s quest to put an amen on In Cold Blood. Confident that we know how this one ends, the filmmakers steer us in the direction of the truth as the proud and haughty Capote saw it. Tagging future To Kill a Mockingbird author Nelle Harper Lee (the indispensable Catherine Keener) as his research assistant/bodyguard, the two embark on a five-year journey that commences in a decidedly Oz-less Kansas.

The pair arrive in hostile Holcomb, a backward town that refuses to stock Tiffany’s in their public library. As if Bergdorf scarves and camel hair topcoats weren’t enough to warrant dirty looks from the locals, there was Capote’s peculiar voice to contend with. Those of you old enough to remember his witty, acerbic appearances on late night talk shows will never forget his lazy-tongued lisp. Hoffman perfectly captures its childlike essence and both he and director Miller make it a point never to cross the camp barrier. A few well-positioned sideways glances from the men folk tell all we need to know of their barely-concealed contempt. The only ones in town familiar with his writing are women, and once they inform their hubbies of the author’s prominence, it is just a matter of time before he charms his way into their confidence.

While Dick (Mark Pelligrino) is content to whack off to skin magazines, Perry (Clifton Collins, Jr.), with Capote’s backing, mounts a jailhouse defense. Time spent with Perry threatens Capote’s relationship with his lover and fellow novelist Jack Dunphy (Bruce Greenwood). The fey author definitely craved the muscular, heavily tattooed Perry, but his obsession transcended mere lust. Through Perry, Truman was able to tap into his dark side. “It was as though we both lived in the same house, only one day he left through the back door and I left through the front.”

Just beneath Capote’s frivolous surface beats the heart of a well-oiled (mostly by J&B Scotch) self-promotion machine. Whether he’s tipping a Pullman porter to impress Lee (she calls him on it), playing jet-setting raconteur to countless party guests, or revealing just enough of himself to win over a witness, Capote’s main fascination is Capote. Initially, he let slip that bringing the killers to justice was of no concern to him, and later confessed that their ultimate fate beyond his novel was equally unimportant. Capote wanted them kept alive for anything but humanistic reasons. If Perry died without detailing the motivations behind the slaughter, In Cold Blood might have died with him, and Tru had a publisher and several bartenders to answer to.

Much will be written and said (deservedly so) about Hoffman, but I hope the buzz doesn’t eclipse the brilliance of Clifton Collins, Jr.’s performance. Collins first caught my eye in Dead Presidents, and he became a permanent fixture in my character-actor Rolodex as the ruthless drug dealer in Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic. He’s a less annoying John Leguizamo with a broader range and much more talent.

You should quickly note my aversion to Oscar buzz. Fuck the Academy! Personally, I hope they don’t win, thus placing them among the ranks of “losers” Hitchcock, Cary Grant and Martin Scorsese, instead of unworthy doorstop owners like Red Buttons, Spielberg and the projectile diarrhea that is Forrest Gump.

This is the director’s second film and once again he chooses for his subject another self-absorbed, real-life spellbinder. Remember Timothy “Speed” Levitch, the annoyingly endearing Gray Line tour guide who commandeered The Cruise? Shifting with the greatest of ease from urban documentary to period biography, Miller shows an assured sense of space and pace. His serene landscapes, both concrete and wooded, quietly set a stage for the flamboyant Capote to overpower. Help this film find an audience, and when you finish watching this terrific biopic, do yourself the ultimate favor by checking out the book that started it all.

Directed by Ira Sachs

Written by Michael Rohatyn and Ira Sachs

Starring: Dina Korzun, Andrew Henderson and Rip Torn

108 minutes

Never watch a film with “blue” in the title after Labor Day. I don’t mind Jessica Alba’s career taking a hit, but Rip Torn?

A music legend’s son comes to an awards ceremony honoring his estranged father and winds up having an affair with his step-girlfriend. Advance word has the critics crying “Bravo!” for Rip Torn, but when he’s off camera, you’ll be crying uncle.

Instead of centering the action around the veteran character actor, Torn is relegated to a supporting role as the filmmakers attempt to jam the lackluster affair down our eyes. Some of the sting could have been removed had Sachs cast actors of Torn’s caliber as the leads, but we’re instead stuck with Russian Dina Korzun and a deadly dull Andrew Henderson. Physically, Korzun makes a fine chippy for the twice-her-age Torn, but her fractured delivery of simple lines like, “Am I bath-ring you?” were just slightly smoother than gymnast Nadia Comaneci reading pledge names on the MDA Telethon. Henderson possesses the rugged good looks of a middling soap star and none of the talent.

We are never quite sure exactly what type of music Torn’s character is noted for. He lives in Memphis which, to this Midwestern Jew, automatically signaled country and western, but other reviews point to rock and roll. We see him briefly play the piano, but unless I was staring at the exit sign for a distraction (one of the more pleasant aspects of watching this film), his musical preference is never stated.

The year 2005 will go down in the record books as the year that begat a resurgence of ’70s cinema. So far we’ve seen Hustle and Flow, The Beat That My Heart Skipped, The Devil’s Rejects, Land of the Dead, High Tension, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Assault on Precinct 13 and numerous other films obviously influenced and inspired by the decade. We even had (please God, I beg you) the last of the Star Wars sequels. When director Sachs set out to mimic Cassavetes in the ’70s, it’s a shame he went in the direction of Two Minute Warning instead of A Woman Under the Influence. His “style” assaults us with compressed lenses, golf ball-sized grain zooms and arty, self-conscious compositions with plenty of head and/or side room.

With the exception of another outstanding performance by Torn, 40 Shades of Blue is strictly amateur night. Rent “The Larry Sanders’ Show” box set (yes, I am recommending a TV show over a movie) or either version of Sweet Bird of Youth and enjoy Rip Torn in a project worthy of his formidable talent.

Directed by Gael Morel

Written by Christophe Honore and Gael Morel

Starring: Nicolas Cazale, Stéphane Rideau and Thomas Dumerchez

90 minutes, in French with subtitles

What sounds like the revival of a 1950s Yvonne DeCarlo programmer is actually a contemporary story of three brothers each facing a crucial turning point in their lives. How the original title Le Clan translates into Three Dancing Slaves is the film’s only thought-provoking question.

Welcome to a bleak and thoroughly unredeemed universe. Not unlike the racially-mixed adoptees of John Singleton’s Four Brothers, here is a family torn apart by the recent death of their mother. The film is broken up into three segments, one per sibling. Marc (Nicolas Cazale) is a brutal skinhead who, when not working out, smokes, does drugs and dines under the golden arches. Marc’s group of friends seem to be straight, yet they engage in circle-jerks, watch porn together and use vibrating cell phones as sexual aids.

Fresh out of jail, older brother Christophe (Stephane Rideau) finds employment at a local ham factory that will hopefully keep him on the straight-and-narrow and away from the hellbent Marc. Olivier (Thomas Dumerchez), the openly gay brother and the only one of the trio that seems to be in a healthy relationship, is given the shortest amount of screen time.

The film is so aggressively venal that when you see Marc in the bathtub washing his dog, thoughts of pending bestiality immediately come to mind. Fortunately, that’s not Marc’s style. Want to move an audience? Kill a dog! Hell, it worked in Men of Boy’s Town. Give me nihilism, give me deep-seated unpleasantness, just don’t slaughter a pooch – even a pit bull – simply to move the plot along. It gets worse. While the dog clutches for life on the ocean shore, instead of taking the humane path and drowning his pet, Marc picks up a rock and pounds Fido’s head into jelly. I warn you – this repugnant, exploitative display will have many of you making an early exit.

Shock piles upon shock: In addition to the canine killing, the slave-master the boys are attempting to break free of is their father; a cold tyrant who doesn’t flinch when he walks in on Marc trimming his pubes. Anal sex with a pre-op transsexual while his pals look on finds self-loathing Marc berating his conquest for not yet having a vagina.

Desperately wanting to emulate directors Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Francois Ozon, Morel barely rises to the level of a Jeff Stryker porno. After all, why stop to contemplate masculinity and sexuality when you can just as easily display it?

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