Peggy Guggenheim is a familiar name to anyone with even a cursory knowledge of 20th-century art. Her name is linked with dozens of the century’s most notable artists and writers. She was often directly responsible for discovering them, being the first to show their paintings, to buy them, to sell them, to believe in a painter or sculptor. It is safe to say that without her, the shape of 20th-century art would be much, much different. And the story of her life is nearly as fascinating as the long list of artists she helped foster and flourish. But the new documentary of her life, Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict, directed by Lisa Immordino Vreeland, for all its encyclopedic knowledge of her life, never really seems to discover the woman at its core.

More than anything else, what makes Peggy Guggenheim so interesting is that it is built around never before released interviews Guggenheim recorded with her authorized biographer Jacqueline Bograd Weld in 1978 and ’79. Hearing Guggenheim candidly recount the many affairs, sexual escapades, and hardships of her life is refreshing and often deeply humorous. And when Guggenheim gets going, discussing a relationship, or the friendly gossips of Jackson Pollack or Samuel Beckett, it’s hard not to be engrossed.

The film gets rolling with a very long and convoluted history of the Guggenheim family. The details are fascinating, especially considering the impact the family would later have on the art world, but although much of the information revolves around the instability in young Peggy’s home, not much is ever done with the facts over the course of the film. Sure, links can quite easily be drawn between certain aspects of Guggenheim’s life and her childhood, but the film doesn’t seem interested in doing any sort of follow up work. Rather, it strives to plod ever forward, carefully tracing the linear progression of Peggy’s life.

In this respect, the film succeeds. Guggenheim’s life was rich with famous encounters, anecdotes, and art (lots and lots of art). Starting in her 20s, Guggenheim became enthralled with art and the artist’s life. She bounced between New York, Paris, and London, shacking up with artists, picking up pointers, and generally living the life that many would dream of. She opened numerous galleries and collected work by a who’s who of 20th-century painters (many of whom were not yet recognized by the establishment, even derided). And as the world fell into the chaos and terror of World War Two, Peggy and her art defected Europe for New York, and fought back against the senselessness of the violence that engulfed the world.

Throughout, Guggenheim casually remarks upon her numerous affairs, often with men (and sometimes women) who would wind up being some of the greatest minds of the 20th. Like many of the expats of her generation, Peggy was sexually liberated, jumping between relationships and marriages, most of which wound up in one of her many books, like her autobiography Out Of This Century. And while some were destructive or could be seen as failures, what comes across in her interviews with Weld is her absolute joy of being free. It’s a refreshing sentiment.

But what becomes clear after a relatively short time, is that besides the new audio clips, Peggy Guggenheim doesn’t seem to want to offer much more to the conversation. It seems content to simply be a biography, peppered with moments of revelatory knowledge, but mostly stuffed with the highlights (and for good reason: there were a lot of them). Which begs the question, what should a documentary about someone do? Fully recount her life? Hone in on a single aspect or time period? And while there is no correct answer, Peggy Guggenheim feels lacking, in need of an unpacking of its titular subject, or an attempt to make something of the facts.

What lifts the doc above simply being a beat by beat notation of Guggenheim’s life is the vivid art, from a smattering of artists, collected throughout. It’s the very same work that often drove Guggenheim, and to see it on the screen while Peggy recounts one of her many intriguing stories is to better understand her, the relationship between herself and art, and the relationship between life and creation. In her direction, Immordino Vreeland puts her clearly immense knowledge of art on display, vividly bringing together (much like Guggenheim) the paintings that helped define the 20th century.

Peggy Guggenheim is undoubtedly a fascinating subject, a woman who helped to shape the artist world as we know it today, introducing many of the century’s greatest artists. But cramming a life like Guggenheim’s into an hour and a half without something central to focus on leaves Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict, sharply put together as it is, feeling overstuffed and cursory; an in-depth scratching of the surface.

Don’t call his movie jazz. Hazily moving back and forth in time, Miles Ahead takes place during the legendary trumpet player’s self-imposed 5-year hiatus from making music during the 1970s, flashing back to memories of his tumultuous relationship with ex-wife Frances Taylor (Emayatzy Corinealdi). It’s a disjointed, bizarre, and oddly compelling structure that Miles himself may have admired. Don Cheadle—playing Miles, co-writing, and making his feature directorial debut—hones in non-musical moments from Davis’ life in creating this muddled biography, with at least one more gun-toting car chase than expected. As cool as Miles Ahead’s stylistic flairs are—bleeding Miles Davis performances into the middle of a boxing ring and elsewhere—Miles Ahead still falls victim to the stiffness of conventional biopics, hampered by its own ambition.

Cheadle has worked nearly a decade on Miles Ahead, co-writing the script with Steven Baigelman (story credit on last year’s James Brown flick Get On Up) and even turning to IndieGoGo for a final bit of fundraising. More than any other element, Cheadle the actor appears ready for the challenge of capturing the soul of Miles. He convincingly resembles Davis when tapping on his trumpet and donning the garish outfits Miles wore at the time. Sounding like a man in recovery from a weeklong binge, Cheadle’s Davis adopts a scratchy, apathetic tone somewhere between conversational dialog and a man mumbling under his breath. His performance brings the dynamic, unpredictable energy Miles Ahead needs, but the film surrounding him is too sparse to keep pace with his rhythm.

Miles Ahead’s frantic assembly loses sight of the characters in Davis’ radius. Though flashbacks (and flashforwards) transport the film back over a decade, the majority of the “present day” action occurs across two crazy days during Davis’ exile. He’s bothered by the unrelenting knocks at his door from fictional and inexplicably pursuant Rolling Stone writer Dave Brill, played by Ewan McGregor, who alternates between authentic and fake bafflement. Davis asks Brill if he can drive before using the writer as a chauffeur to Columbia Records, where he arrives gun-in-hand to demand a $20,000 payment. One of the executives (played by a mustache-twirling Michael Stuhlbarg) makes sleazy attempts to win over Miles before hatching a plan to steal Davis’ latest recordings—which he literally refers to as, “gold.” The subsequent chain of events involved in the losing, tracking, and re-acquiring of this unreleased recording borders on ridiculous, and would more appropriately belong to a Guy Ritchie heist plot than the Miles Davis story.

These distractions pull the film away from the music. Miles Ahead never plays like a greatest hits record, often turning away from the Kind Of Blue hits in favor of obscure cuts from Miles Davis’ career. Even when songs are heard, they are relegated to the background of scenes in which Davis fruitlessly searches for his new sound. In the beginning, pouring a session tape, Davis stares down his trumpet from across the room and mutters, “Fuck you lookin’ at?” Cheadle attempts to define the obstacles Davis had in returning to recording after taking time off, but in the context of his erratic vision, Davis’ inability to compose is reduced to a subplot.

Cheadle reaches for a lot of disparate concepts with his long-in-development Miles Davis biopic. He looks to articulate the impact of his music while focusing on the prolific musician’s least productive period. Cheadle tries to make a film about the essence of Miles’ work but offers an intentionally limited perspective on the man. Miles Ahead remains entirely watchable, yet the ways in which the film falls short of its target are frustratingly apparent throughout. When Cheadle trots out as Davis with #SocialMusic emblazoned on his vest during the film’s finale, it’s one final oblique maneuver that seems as confused as the rest of this incomplete portrait. Despite a tremendous performance at its center, Miles Ahead gets lost in its attempt to embody Davis’ artistic spirit.

Paul Thomas Anderson’s spellbinding music documentary Junun takes viewers on a musical expedition through Jodhpur, India. Following the month-long musical partnership between Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood (composer of film scores for Anderson’s films since There Will Be Blood) and Israeli composer Shye Ben Tzur, who lives in India and records with the group Rajasthan Express, Junun is a fly on the wall look at the recording of their forthcoming album of the same name (set for release on November 13th). Forgoing explanatory talking heads, the documentary encapsulates the experience of witnessing these songs as they are developed. Running at a slight 54 minutes, about the length of the album itself, Anderson’s debut documentary is also the filmmaker’s first time shooting a film digitally.

The director toys with the camera during takes, adjusting focus or repositioning himself. He even implements a drone camera for some stunning shots of the Indian landscape that surrounds Mehrangarh Fort, the intricately designed building in which the group records their album. The moments where the camera veers across the room too quickly, or a pigeon’s coo is picked up by the microphone before the bird gets shooed away, help establish the documentary’s immersive quality. Much of the movie is beautifully photographed, Anderson panning from one emotive performance to the next. Junun‘s opening shot is a cleverly designed, slow 360-spin around the room that lands on specific musicians as they join in on the song. Implementing the touch of a veteran music video director, Anderson creates some magnificent sequences that swell in time with the building tunes.

The real reason to see the documentary is the distinctive, eclectic sound produced by Greenwood, Tzur and The Rajasthan Express. Junun relegates both Greenwood and Tzur to the background in most scenes, though their presence in helping to shape the project is clear—Anderson himself appears just as briefly for a group photo and during the end credits. Instead, the documentary highlights the extremely talented musicians of Rajasthan Express. In particular Aamir Bhiyani’s spastic trumpet lines—the stirring burst of notes from his instrument. Junun captures the collaborative spirit of skilled musicians, chronicling the recording of this team’s fascinating sound in an enjoyable, concise documentary.

Jason Schwartzman has perfected the alchemy of the self-centered but likable asshole, a petty narcissist out looking for love and acceptance in all the wrong places who, despite his hardened outer shell, really does have his heart in the right place. We’ve seen it before, born and arguably perfected during his work with his pal Wes Anderson, the character might have reached its peak in last year’s acerbic Listen Up, Philip. And the truth is, there are few other actors working today who could have made Listen Up, Philip watchable, let alone made audiences root for such a vain prick. But Schwartzman did all that and more. And now, with Bob Byington’s (Somebody Up There Likes Me) 7 Chinese Brothers, Schwartzman is working his magic again, while managing to salvage some of the film around him.

The beats of 7 Chinese Brothers are rather simple. Schwartzman plays Larry, a hard-drinking, hardly working schlub, who spends his days motor mouthing through one-sided conversations with his so-ugly-he’s-cute bulldog, Arrow. Larry’s life is going nowhere, and he seems happy with that. But things take a turn when he’s fired from his serving job for stealing booze and drinking on the job. Judging from Larry’s response, it’s easy to see he’s been here before. In fact, not much in his life changes at first. That same night Larry hits the clubs with his buddy Major Norwood (Tunde Adebimpe of TV On The Radio), pops some pills, and wakes up on his couch the next day. The one thing Larry does right in his life is visit his foul-mouthed grandma (Olympia Dukakis) in her assisted living home. Even as she continues to rebuff his pleas for money, he keeps visiting.

It seems only by chance that Larry winds up working at Quick Lube, vacuuming cars and stealing change. Soon, though, Larry realizes that he likes both this new job and his new boss (Eleanore Pienta) — a feeling that’s complicated by Norwood’s mysterious skills with women.

What’s clear from start to finish is that Larry doesn’t have much of a filter. Time and again he speaks out of line, uttering every humorous and asinine thing that pops into his head. Not only that, but he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks either. It’s this unfiltered Schwartzman that keeps 7 Chinese Brothers up and running for as long as it does (and the film is brisk, clocking in at 76 minutes).

The narrative, on paper, makes sense and offers Larry some room to grow, but the film seems uninterested in any sort of progression, meandering often. Granted there are films and filmmakers who make this work, building their films to embody the marooned and stagnant characters they have set out to study. But here the story beats that Byington does choose to hit and follow, often do little to help us understand Larry or help him understand himself (with one particular subplot about his boss’ ex-husband and his petty theft being the worst of all).

Films like 7 Chinese Brothers are inherently challenging to make. Most movies are built upon one of two things: the movement of plot or the growth of character. Which is not to say that films about directionless people aren’t valuable or enjoyable (many of Schwartzman’s characters are in fact rather directionless or otherwise inhibited). But rather that the challenge is particularly great to find a way to invest an audience in someone going nowhere and wanting nothing (Larry claims to want a lot but does very little to get any of it). And, arguably, the only reason we invest in Larry at all is Arrow, Schwartzman’s real-life pet and reaction shot master. Not only does Arrow feel like the emotional core of the film, but he also steals damn near every scene he’s in.

On the technical end, the score by Vampire Weekend’s Chris Baio is energetic and subdued all at once, bringing a nice forward push that might have otherwise been absent from the proceedings. At times, though, the music seems to take on a life of it’s own, diverging from the scene to become an independent and less resonant song.

Finally, while the film is clearly flawed, the most obvious misstep seems to have been born in the editing room. Pieced together by Robert Greene and Leah Marino, 7 Chinese Brothers doesn’t ever feel clunky or haphazard, but it does feel lost rather often, like chunks of time have been excised or forgotten. While not quite fatal, it is hard not to feel muddled or confounded when you can’t even figure out where the scene is taking place or what sort of odd architecture a building has.

For all the mess that is the film’s final third, 7 Chinese Brothers remains a light-on-its-feet comedy shouldered along by a solid performance from Schwartzman, by turns hilarious, caustic, and ultimately mournful. And while many might find themselves wondering what the point is, it’s hard to flaw a film that, unlike so many, refuses to judge its characters, and refuses to tell them how they ought to be living.

Season two of True Detective came to its crooked and sinewy ending last night in “Omega Station” (directed by Brooklyn director John Crowley) where all the dangling threads of this disputed second season were either wrapped up, stamped out, or set on fire. There’s been a lot of hate for this season as this LA-based tale of corruption played out over the past eight weeks, but we stuck with it and the time has come to process. 

First, a breakdown of last night’s episode. Spoilers ahead, obviously.

The episode began in typical doleful fashion with Ani Bezzerides and Ray Velcoro, our sole-surviving detectives on the lam, post-coitus and of course wallowing in their shared brokenness. Ani contemplates the recently surfaced memories of her childhood abduction, feeling guilt over liking that her abductor called her “pretty.” Ray continues to grapple with the truth that the vengeful murder of his ex-wife’s rapist, an event that has come to define his life, was all a lie. Meanwhile Frank Semyon tries to send Jordan off to safety in Venezuela by pretending to insult her, she strikes back with a well-placed “you’re a terrible actor.” Zing!

Ray tries to get ahold of Paul, and when Lt. Burris answers he realizes poor little Paul Woodrugh is dunzo. Burris reveals his plot to pin all of this on Ray. Ani and Ray freak out for a moment before connecting some rather loose dots: they know Erica/Laura, Caspere’s assistant, is the grown-up child that witnessed her parents’ murder in ‘92, but what about her brother? Ray conjectures (rather wildly) that he’s the set-photographer, Lenny, we met briefly in episode three. Ani and Ray go to Lenny’s house, Ray sees the bird head costume his masked assassin wore and then they stumble upon the missing Erica/Laura. Little sister spills all, revealing rather anticlimactically that the murder this entire story began around—the death of Caspere—was committed by the vengeful Lenny who’s now on his way to finish what he started and kill the crooked cops who murdered his parents. Ray gets to him in time before he can go through with it, but when Lenny listens in to the conversation Ray has with Holloway—more convenient exposition under the guise that Ray is striking a deal with a dead hard drive—his anger gets the best of him and he attacks Holloway. They both die in the ensuing shootout. Ani swoops in to run away with Ray.

Ray and Frank team up to take on the Russians, massacring them at a cabin in the woods and taking off with their money to fund their escape. But these characters are riddled with hubris and Ray can’t help but stop off to see his son one last time allowing Burris a free minute to put a tracker on his car. Ray has no choice but to lead him away from Ani, heroic perhaps, but resulting rather predictably in a last stand in the woods. Ray doesn’t make it and adding insult to injury, his dying message to his son fails to send. Frank has some pretty rotten luck as well, getting sidetracked by Mexican gangsters and ending up stabbed and penniless (except those hidden diamonds!) in the desert where he proceeds to not only die, but be visited by apparitions of those who both love and hate him.  

Ani makes it out on the boat to Venezuela. Burris lives and gets the young Tony Chessani elected as mayor—did I mention he murdered his own father? Who knew he was so ambitious? Ani meets up with Jordan, apparently has Ray’s baby, and passes off all the evidence she has to a writer to finally expose the events that have transpired. She, Jordan, and Nails the loyal henchman, walk off into a Venezuelan crowd toward some indeterminate future.

Here’s what we thought:

[Ananda]

I was not among the naysayers who disliked Season Two early on. Knowing the way things went with season one, I gave the writers the benefit of the doubt that they would take every last second to tell their tale and thus knew I’d be watching every episode. And they did take every last second…but the cramming of explanation and consequence in the last episode proved that they could have been much thriftier with all those used seconds. Many of those dots connecting in the end could have connected earlier with no detriment to the finale. It’s one thing to build a mystery, it’s another to Scooby-Doo a story by sending everyone running for seven episodes and then pull off masks for an hour and a half in the finale.

The logic leaps made in the case were pretty erratic in the end. Actually quite a few people who barely existed within the show came out on top. Tony Chessani is a kid in a speedo in one episode and then rather inexplicably ends up more on top than anyone. Lenny the set-photographer is our super-secret murderer and masked bird-man assassin and yet his reveal is so sudden, and his next move so quickly thwarted, that all these revelations fizzle quickly and pretty soon we’re thinking “Caspere? Caspere who?” If you’re going to spend years plotting revenge—which his house full of photos and evidence would suggest—why act so impulsively and erratically when justice is just on the horizon?

Ok, fine, so side characters don’t get real character development, we mostly care about our three “true” detectives anyways. Paul seemed a little expendable from the get-go, the disadvantage of working for a lesser police organization—CHP, seriously?—and because he just couldn’t seem to figure out what he even wants in life. Similarly, Ray had a bit of an X on his back for being a generally corrupt cop and iffy father, but it seemed like he was headed for redemption by finally involving himself in something that might change things for the better. And maybe Pizzolatto was responding to the flack he got for last season’s treatment of its female characters, but this season he over-corrected severely in giving all these dudes such dramatic endings and allowing the women to escape, but into lives of exile.

So, is any real justice done this season? Our detectives used their skills and cracked the case, but for what? Even in their mutual flawed state, last season’s Cohle and Hart were able to get to a more positive place. Their determination came from a need to eradicate evil, whereas our detectives this season were constantly just trying to keep their heads above water and save themselves.

They may all be messed up cops, but the difference in the origin of each season’s evil—a crazy killer in the first season and a corrupt judicial system in the second—really makes all the difference. At least Hart and Cohle could believe in the value of their toiling, this season’s detectives were allowed almost no silver linings and nary a light in their tunnels. True Detective Season Two’s bleakness stemmed from the cloud looming over their heads, not just the smog that defines Los Angeles.

[Zach]

Coming off the tail end of a convoluted second season, I’m still attempting to parse my way through True Detective’s multitude of conspiracies, cover-ups, and double-crosses while wondering how much any of it mattered. In the end, Ben Caspere’s murderer turned out to be a day player with impulse control issues; the hard drive with the damning evidence of corruption had already been bricked; Frank Semyon chose his suit jacket over his life.

To be honest, I lost the connecting thread of Season Two sometime after the high body count shootout that ended episode four. Pizzolatto took his show in so many directions without ever finding an organically cohesive element to bring those episodes together. It was a show about entrenched corruption. It was a show about damaged children who grew up defining themselves by their trauma. It was a show about the futility in finding fulfillment through redemption. It was a show about Stan. And ultimately, it was a show about evil winning out over good. But it was rarely successful at conveying all those stories at once.

While it would have been reasonable to assume Pizzolatto a misanthropic person from the first season of True Detective, last night’s finale all but confirmed it. The moment that sticks out as bleak for bleakness’ sake has to be when Ray Velcoro inexplicably leads his pursuant tail to the redwood forests rather than buy himself some time in an area with cell service. In our final moment with Season Two’s most notable character and actor, his final message to his son fails to upload. Velcoro was not always a stellar dad in eight episodes, but not allowing him even this minor win feels unrelentingly cruel.

When I look back on this season of True Detective, I’ll mostly remember how little I cared. For most of the season Pizzolatto & Co. tested the limits for endless, self-serious, vapid conversations in darkly lit bars to the tune of bummed out singers. Last night, they pushed the amount of exposition characters can deliver in a finale to the extreme. So little of it ever registered with me on my first watch of a given episode. Two days from now I won’t be able to explain to you what the blue diamond heist was or who was involved.

Whereas Cohle and Hart improbably but mercifully made it out alive at the end of the last season, three of season two’s main characters were offed to little effect. It mattered to me when Velcoro appeared to be shot down in episode two, but by the time Vince Vaughn was limping through the desert, getting teased by an anonymous, imagined group of young men, these characters had all done enough incoherent mumbling for a lifetime. There existed some flashes of intrigue, exhilarating moments, and occasionally memorable lines of dialog in this season. Mostly, True Detective’s second season left me looking for more satisfying answers. Thankfully the Internet helps to fill in some of the unexplained gaps, but I resent the need for a Spark Notes study guide to watch such mediocre TV.

[Nik]

Well, thank God that’s over.

A lot of the same frustrations I’ve had with the finale have already been summed up, so I’m afraid my reaction won’t provide much balance, just more bludgeoning. Nic Pizzolatto should take a long vacation and think real hard on how to handle a possible third season (too soon?), otherwise he’ll be remembered as something of a one-season-trick pony. Season One contained exemplary, layered world-building and immersive character development paving the way for a climax that froze our emotions with fear, only for a positively unpredictable and life-affirming resolution to thaw them. That the same writer managed to follow-up something like that, with something like…this…is a more compelling mystery than anything that happened over the course of the past eight weeks in the made-up town of Vinci and to its half-baked, morose, characters. Or should I say “splenetic,” to go in line with the kind of vocabulary these sanctimonious gangsters and corrupt cops tend to drop in casual convos? There should be a GIF of Ray and Frank talking about how apoplectic they’re feeling, a GIF that would sum up True Detective’s mind-numbingly self-indulgent second season to a tee.

What’s funny is that I, like Ananda, wasn’t hating on the second season from the start. I was enjoying the vibe even if it was heavy-handed, I was getting attached to the characters (well, let’s be honest; to Ray), I was digging the pensive scene transitions and the bird’s-eye-view cinematography of the snake-like urban LA jungle. But, sometime around Frank and Jordan’s thirteenth baby conversation, before Colin Farrell’s husky Texan drawl grew into a parody of itself, and long after I stopped caring about who killed a corrupt asshole politician; I got tired and realized that the opening theme song was developing and evolving more convincingly than any character this season (seriously, the use of Leonard Cohen’s “Nevermind” is the only true highlight here). If a season only has eight episodes, and five of them feel like they’re spinning wheels on matters no one cares about, jumping through time like Doc Brown on speed, and introducing further layers of corruption and cartoonish villainy (I’d put money that there’s concept art of Austin Chessani in some Looney Tunes artist’s basement) to hammer the same fucking point across; I’m sorry, but that season is a major fail.

In that respect, HBO’s prez Michael Lombardo made a point when he claimed that the finale is “enormously satisfying.” After an enormously disappointing five and a half episodes, with a few lightning-fast glimpses of greatness and the painful experience of watching four fine actors trying their best with trite dialogue, the finale was satisfactory (let’s not get carried away with big adverbs). Paul was long gone before he was ever a goner, but at least he’ll be remembered as the heroic dude that he actually was, and there was enough emotional investment with Ray’s arc concerning his son and his newly-formed relationship with Ani, that his demise hit all the right chords. Except that I agree with Zach in that the “failed-to-deliver” ender was an unnecessarily bleak twist of the knife. Frank’s end was fitting; stranded alone to bleed to death because of his pride, and Ani—as the truest detective of them all—deserved to get out and imagine what life with Ray would’ve been through their son (let’s face it, the guy was a trainwreck and would’ve probably screwed up somehow had he made it out). Importantly, and in contrast to Season One, there was no place for a happy ending here and Pizzolatto rightly saw to that. The cycle of corruption continues to spin, and well-intentioned characters will make one-too-many terribly human mistakes that’ll get them killed.  

If I could give any advice to Pizzolatto, it would be to take his sweet time before writing a third season. Everything that went wrong this season stems from the writing, and it’s painfully obvious how rushed the whole thing was compared to the brilliant first outing. Take your time, don’t give your characters dialogue that sounds like third-person narration from a dollar-bin crime novel, create a mystery that people will actually want to invest in, and for God’s sakes, add more truth to your detectives.  

Come to think of it now, there was something enormously satisfying about that finale: we’ll never have to hear that clinically depressed bar singer ever again.

A Congolese farmer with hopes of cashing in on a trade deal finds himself stuck in Guangzhou when an order on political t-shirts is complete months after the Democratic Republic of Congo’s presidential elections. An immigrant in a distant, unfamiliar land, Lebrun (Lebrun Iko Isibangi) struggles to adapt to life in Canton and the foreign culture surrounding him. The comedic docudrama Stranded in Canton, from Swedish artist Måns Månsson, is holding its North American Premiere at the 2015 Tribeca Film Festival; however, its intriguing premise is hindered by the inertia of its story.

Lebrun approaches his potential business transactions with little forethought. Arriving in China with big dreams but few practical skills, his hopefulness gets in the way of his entrepreneurial aspirations. Lebrun invests all his energy into half-baked ideas without a suitable backup plan to which he can revert. As his attempts continue to fail, Lebrun maintains a frustratingly unfazed outlook. His friends and acquaintances offer him advice, but Lebrun ignores their suggestions, determined to prove his worth as a businessman.

The eclectic cast of characters, as well as the unique perspective into burgeoning trade markets between Asia & Africa, provide a compelling backdrop for Stranded in Canton’s story, but the way the film belabors its central conflict grows tiring. There’s little developing within Stranded in Canton, and not much mood to reflect on. Måns Månsson’s movie is an inert examination into the life of an ineffectual would-be trader.

The Tribe begins with a brief notice about the subsequent film, one that could be easily interpreted as a warning. The text states that the film is entirely in sign language; there will be no subtitles, translations, or narration. From that point, first-time feature filmmaker Miroslav Slaboshpitsky allows his story to unfold without any spoken dialog (tough luck unless you’re versed in Ukrainian sign language). That’s not to say The Tribe is a silent movie. The atmospheric noise and limited vocalizations from its cast of deaf actors provides a subdued, ominous soundtrack that instills a sense of impending disaster.

The Ukrainian film takes place at a boarding school for the deaf, following Sergei (Grigory Fesenko) as he adjusts to life at the new school. One of The Tribe’s first scenes involves a student being disruptive in class, and as the he and the teacher sign towards one another, the dynamics of their interaction become clear. The uneasiness created by the inability to “understand” what the characters are communicating starts to wane. After all, just because this is a school for the deaf doesn’t mean there won’t be a class clown, and a teacher tired of his antics. Likewise, as the new kid, Sergei begins The Tribe as a social outcast who is quickly befriended by another boy at the school.

However, Sergei’s new friend group aren’t ordinary teenage boys, they’re part of an organized crime syndicate that runs through the school. After some hazing Sergei gains acceptance into the crew, becoming an underling to the kingpin along with his dorm mates. Sergei eventually graduates to truck stop pimp, facilitating transactions for the young prostitutes Anya and Svetka (the film’s primary two female roles). Sergei eventually falls for Anya, but the story surrounding their teenage love affair becomes increasingly brutal and excessively violent by the movie’s end.

Each scene within The Tribe is shot in a single, often stunning long take. Cinematographer Valentyn Vasyanovych’s camera glides alongside the actors with beautifully framed images. Writer/director Slaboshpitsky weaves the story within a structure that follows dramatic but puzzling scenes, with scenes that explains the earlier sequence’s significance. It’s a clever construct, but one that’s utilized to a frustrating degree over the course of The Tribe’s 132-minute runtime.

The framework of The Tribe is fascinating; yet, the story contained within it is not quite as compelling as its central narrative hook. Still, there’s plenty of admirable film craft on display in Slaboshpitsky’s film and watching the rich world portrayed in The Tribe slowly reveal itself is a mostly gripping experience. Though it ultimately feels overlong, the sheer boldness of the endeavor makes The Tribe all the more notable. Slaboshpitsky’s debut movie is a strange, dark, wholly unique coming-of-age journey.

Our list continues! The next ten are a fun blend, showcasing many of the shows to come out of either web-based series or lesser known cable networks, proving that the big league networks no longer hold a monopoly on good TV. With off-beat comedies, foreign drama originals (most of which the U.S. has already attempted to recreate to various degrees of success), cartoons that capture our attention as well as any live-action drama, and a game-changing horror show.

After much deliberating, debating, and voting we at Way Too Indie have compiled what we consider to be the best 50 shows to come out of the decade so far. Check back each day this week as we count down to the top ten.

Best 50 TV Shows Of The Decade So Far
(#40 – #31)

The Heart, She Holler

I might have been one of the only few to watch every episode of The Heart, She Holler, but I’m not surprised. Vernon Chatman and John Lee, the creators of shows like Wonder Showzen and Xavier: Renegade Angel, have been personal heroes of mine for making some of the most mind-blowing things I’ve ever seen on TV, and The Heart, She Holler might be their most twisted work yet. The show is a Southern gothic soap opera about a family fighting for control of their beloved town, but anyone familiar with Chatman and Lee’s previous shows know that plot doesn’t really matter. The Heart, She Holler turns into a mind-melting self-destruction of sorts, as it breaks down into something bordering on the experimental (who else would end their series by playing Jimmy Carter’s malaise speech for 10 minutes straight?). And while Chatman and Lee’s episode-by-episode deconstruction of their own show is awe-inspiring in its audacity, it’s also really funny. Their cast—with the likes of Patton Oswalt and an incredible Amy Sedaris—sells every piece of insanity thrown their way, and the dialogue contains so much hilarious wordplay it would take multiple rewatches to wrap your head around every line. The Heart, She Holler might be, bar none, the most deranged thing ever made for television, and I thank Adult Swim for supporting mad geniuses like Chatman and Lee. [C.J]

Billy On The Street

Bringing unmatched levels of energy, enthusiasm, and insanity to those tired ‘Man on the Street’-style segments, Billy Eichner hustles down New York City sidewalks, thrusting his handheld microphone in the face of any random pedestrian, and confidently asking, “Would you have sex with Paul Rudd for a dollar?” Flanked by celebrities like Zachary Quinto, Rashida Jones, or Paul Rudd (as well as semi-frequent guest, the crotchety NYC-resident Elena, who co-starred with Michelle Obama and Big Bird in Billy’s latest viral FunnyOrDie segment), Eichner comes prepared to outwit any person that gives him the slightest bit of attitude.

Aside from his big presence and regular shouting, it’s often the hilarious simplicity of the “games” he plays with guests that are the most entertaining aspect to his show. “Would Drew Barrymore Like That?” which Billy plays with Will Ferrell, includes Eichner asking Ferrell about Barrymore’s feelings towards blueberries to which Eichner exclaims, “Drew Barrymore would hate eating a blueberry. Drew Barrymore would kill you if you even offered her a blueberry.” His quick-wittedness and the sheer ridiculousness of the endeavor become enchanting. Even in his most seemingly irate moment, Eichner is a joyful comedic treasure.  [Zach]

Legend of Korra

There are a number of animated shows on our list, and Legend of Korra doesn’t seem an obvious choice if all you know about it is it’s a continuation of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Which is a show I never personally watched and that most adults associate with pre-teens. I felt this way until someone forced me to watch a few episodes of Korra, at which point I was hooked. Whereas Avatar focused on younger-aged characters, Korra’s are older and the story lines more mature. The show takes place in a world where some people have the ability to bend, which means manipulate the elements: earth, air, fire, and water. In Avatar, Aang was the current incarnation of the Avatar, a person who could harness all of the elements to be extra powerful. In Legend of Korra it’s 70 years later and the titular Korra, a water bender, is the new Avatar. She struggles with her studies in air bending, trained by Aang’s son Tenzin (voiced by J.K. Simmons), participates in pro-bending (a spectator sport), and generally faces the terrorists and evils that arise in the metropolis of Republic City.

The show takes risk, suavely facing heavier sociopolitical subjects. In the first season a terrorist is trying to homogenize Republic City by taking away people’s bending abilities, its parallels to race issues clear. It’s also fluid with gender and sexual identities in a subtle but impressive way. Plus it easily holds up visually to even the best Miyazaki films, with its steam punk aesthetic, a vibrant mix of 1930’s style elements and its own made-up world. As an excellent character-driven show, Korra uses many recognizable voice talents as well. This is one cartoon well worth giving up your Saturday morning brunch for.  [Ananda]

Review

Review stars Andy Daly as Forrest MacNeil, a professional critic who spends each episode reviewing whatever his viewers tell him. But Forrest is no ordinary critic, you see; he prefers to review life experiences, instead of things like books or movies. It’s a straightforward setup, but what makes Review so astounding is how quickly it does away with its own format. It’s morbidly funny to see Forrest developing a cocaine habit after reviewing drug addiction, or planning a bank robbery in order to review stealing, but the show also explores how Forrest’s job impacts his personal life. By the third episode, “Pancakes; Divorce; Pancakes,” Review fully came into its own, providing a half hour so gut-wrenchingly funny it made other comedies on TV pale in comparison.

And the reason why the show pulls off its tonal balancing act so well is because of Andy Daly. Daly, who some might recognize from Eastbound and Down or MadTV (count me as a fan of his work on the Comedy Bang! Bang! podcast), finally has the opportunity to delve into a role showcasing all of his comedic strengths. His performance makes the show because, no matter how absurd a certain episode or review can get, Forrest remains grounded to some degree. While Review only has one season under its belt, it’s a near-flawless one, starting out as a cheesy formulaic show before transforming into a painfully funny look at one man inadvertently ruining his own life. [C.J.]

High Maintenance

Ben Sinclair and Katja Blichfeld began their web series High Maintenance as a self-funded passion project that would allow the co-creators low-stakes freedom to exhibit a series of strange, unconnected stories. After 13 varied, compelling web episodes of different lengths were posted to Vimeo over the course of a year and a half, the premium video sharing service stepped in to make High Maintenance its first venture into original programming (funding six more episodes released in batches of three this February and last November).

While the series’ protagonist is ostensibly The Guy — an unnamed, bearded, bicycling marijuana deliveryman — each episode is built around a new set of characters, providing nuanced glimpses into the lives of a diverse collection of people. A cancer-stricken birdwatcher, a cross-dressing screenwriter, and an asexual teacher who does magic tricks are all united over a shared hobby: weed. While rebutting the idea that all pot smokers are similar, High Maintenance analyzes the relationship people maintain with the drug (from first-time smokers to full-fledged stoners) in order to reveal details of the characters’ personalities. The result of their approach and the show’s anthological structure is a series unparalleled in its ability to illustrate the wide array of people you find in a city like New York. [Zach]

American Horror Story

I won’t lie: I’ve fallen out of love with American Horror Story after it followed two incredible seasons with two wildly inconsistent ones. But if the show might not be strong overall, its impact is undeniable. Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk’s show was the first to kick off the anthology format trend in TV, dedicating each season to an entirely new storyline. And even though the show came out a year after The Walking Dead, its massive ratings proved that audiences wanted something scary on their TV screens.

But “scary” might be the wrong word to describe American Horror Story. It’s more of a grand guignol soap opera than a straight up terrifying program, although it does have its fair share of bone-chilling images (Twisty The Clown, anyone?). What makes American Horror Story great TV is its fun and campiness, and how much it wants viewers to enjoy getting scared. And even when the show takes a dive in quality, there’s still the basic pleasure of watching the likes of Jessica Lange chew up as much scenery as possible. American Horror Story may have fallen from grace since its first two seasons, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t qualify for a list like this. It’s still one of the weirdest and boldest shows to enter the zeitgeist in recent years, and that alone is worth plenty. [C.J.]

Terriers

With Paul Thomas Anderson’s recent adaptation of Inherent Vice, along with a renewed interest in Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye, the slacker mystery has become en vogue again. But five years ago, it was impossible to get anyone to check out FX’s Terriers (it’s the only show on this list that got canned after one season). Taking place in San Diego, the show follows former cop Hank (Donal Logue) and best friend/ex-criminal Britt (Michael Raymond-James) as they open up an unlicensed private detective agency. And like the aforementioned films, our charmingly deadbeat heroes stumble into a large conspiracy.

Back when Terriers got the axe from FX, people pointed their fingers all over the place when figuring out why no one watched it: bad marketing, a vague title, and an ad campaign that made little to no sense (the real reason why it didn’t make it past season 1: it was FX’s lowest rated show ever). For fans of Terriers, it was insanely frustrating, because the show would immediately click for anyone who just saw one episode. Donal Logue and Michael Raymond-James had perfect chemistry, the mysteries were expertly crafted, and the show was perfectly in tune with all of its characters. There have been rumblings from creator Ted Griffin about a Veronica Mars-type reunion movie in the works, but as of right now it looks like Terriers won’t be coming back anytime soon. That’s alright with me, though; I’ll always have this fantastic season to come back to whenever I please. [C.J.]

Workaholics

Workaholics came at the perfect time back in 2011 when It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (already on its seventh season) was beginning to lose its novelty, especially after devoting a season on repetitive ‘Mac got fat’ jokes. Admittedly, the concept of a twentysomething slackers sitcom isn’t particularly unique. And neither is the lowbrow (or more accurately, low-bro) humor found in the show. But the third episode (“Office Campout”) is the perfect example of crafting hilarious material from moronic and outlandish situations. The trio prepare to spend the night at the office while their house is fumigated, but as they begin to party and trip balls by consuming psychedelic mushrooms, two burglars break in to steal equipment. On a dime, the episode transforms from a stoner comedy into a full-on Mission: Impossible style manhunt. Creators Blake Anderson, Adam DeVine, and Anders Holm manage to make dick and fart jokes funny again due to their amazing bromantic chemistry and their willingness to get weird. Workaholics is dumb humor done well. If It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is Seinfeld on crack, then Workaholics is The Office on acid. [Dustin]

Outlander

With only one season under its Scottish belt, Outlander has already managed to make plenty of waves, especially among females. I admit I fall squarely into its intended audience, but all genders can appreciate an out-of-time adventure led by an independent and incredibly resourceful woman. The show’s basic premise is that Claire (Caitriona Balfe), a battlefield nurse in post-WWII Britain, travels to Scotland with her husband Frank (Tobias Menzies) as a way to reconnect after being away from one another for so long and so Frank can research his Scottish ancestry. At an ancient ruin one morning after a solstice, Claire is mysteriously transported back in time 200 years. Now she must keep herself alive among the highlanders, deal with an especially evil ancestor of her husband’s (played also be Menzies), and enter into a forced marriage with the hot and steamy Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan), making for a complicated time-defying love triangle.

Based on the popular ’90s historical-fiction novel series by Diana Gabaldon, I initially wrote off Outlander as a Harlequin romance. It is certainly sexually graphic enough to fall into the category of escapist fiction, but the supernatural element, the historical accuracy and intrigue, the strong characters around her, and most significantly Claire’s level-headedness and general kickass-ness propel the show past its more sentimental elements. And the sex. Look out Game of Thrones, the indelicate and coarse sex you’ve numbed us to is challenged by the intimate, tender and sexy as hell nooky Outlander presents. Plus Claire, while always technically in danger—mostly at the hands of the men around her—somehow manages to own her sexuality and use her wit to save herself, not to mention teach us all a thing or two in the sack. After a nail-biting and blush-inducing first season, we can’t wait to see where Claire will end up…or I guess more accurately, when. [Ananda]

The Bridge

I don’t know when it happened, but some time ago the Scandinavians figured out the crime and mystery genres. And it’s not like their approach reinvented the wheel, either; if anything it was a return to basics, with an emphasis on one compelling case being investigated by well-rounded, three-dimensional characters. That’s more or less what the Danish/Swedish show The Bridge (no, I’m not talking about the remake on FX) did. The show’s first season opened with a grisly crime: the body of a politician appears on the bridge connecting Sweden and Denmark together, with the corpse cut in two, so each half resides in a different country. Enter Danish detective Martin (Kim Bodnia) and eccentric Swedish cop Saga (Sofia Helin), who must work together to find the killer.

Revealing any more of the surprises in The Bridge would ruin most of its fun. The tension between the two neighboring countries collaborating together on a case that impacts both sides of the border makes for a great setup, and Bodnia and Helin manage to pull off a great rapport despite their characters’ major differences. And the show’s handling of plot and structure is masterful, doling out just enough information to make you clamor for the next episode. The Bridge isn’t the best of the recent trend of Scandinavian crime dramas—that honour goes to Forbrydelsen (The Killing)—but it comes very close. This show could function as a manual on how to make a terrific mystery. [C.J.]

Check out the rest of our Best TV Shows Of The Decade lists!

View Other Picks in this Feature:
Best 50 TV Shows Of The Decade So Far (#50 – #41)
Best 50 TV Shows Of The Decade So Far (#30 – #21)
Best 50 TV Shows Of The Decade So Far (#20 – #11)
Best 50 TV Shows Of The Decade So Far (#10 – #1)

The kind of funny thing about overlapping dialog is you don’t quite realize it’s there until it’s suddenly not. The typical cadences of interaction are abandoned in favor of a more stilted, expressive manner of speech in La Sapienza. It’s the newest film from American-born but French-naturalized Eugéne Green (and his first since 2009’s The Portuguese Nun). La Sapienza serves as the filmmaker’s love letter to 17th century architecture, and the work of Italian architect Francesco Borromini. Green frames this homage through the martial difficulties of a modern couple, Alexandre and Alienor Schmidt (played by Fabrizio Rongione and Christelle Prot Landman, respectively).

Alexandre is an architect as well, one who touts the factories he’s helped design as modern-day churches. At the film’s onset, he’s receiving a lifetime achievement award. Meanwhile Alienor works as a psychoanalyst, conducting studies of cultures on a macro-scale. Their outer successes would seemingly indicate a happy marriage; however, the couples’ awkward dinner date and stiff communications indicate otherwise. Alexandre decides to travel to Italy in hopes of completing his long-gestating book on Borromini, and informs Alienor as if it were an announcement.

Green has Rongione and Landman often speaking to one another but facing outward, as if cheating their posture toward an unseen theater audience. This technique can make these exchanges appear uncomfortably sincere, but the effect also highlights each line of dialog, nearly all of which contains a precisely articulated feeling from one of the film’s characters. Green seems intent on allowing unfiltered expressions of a dissolving marriage provide the context for La Sapeinza’s narrative thrust, regardless of how rigid that approach feels in moments of the film. Sometimes it feels like we’re just waiting for the next character to speak.

The couple arrives in Italy and quickly meets a pair of siblings—Goffredo and Lavinia (Ludovico Succio and Arianna Nastro)—just as Lavinia is struck by one of her infrequent dizzy spells. Without deliberation, Alexandre and Alienor help their new, young friends catch a taxi back home to help Lavinia rest, then take Goffredo out to lunch only to learn he soon plans on beginning his studies as an architect. This chance encounter gives Alienor an idea: she will stay in Stresa while Lavinia recuperates and Goffredo will accompany Alexandre to learn about architecture. By this point, it’s clear the married couple hasn’t been enjoying their time together, yet this suggestion still feels hasty.

Giving over to the exploration of fleeting love and Baroque architecture in La Sapienza might elicit a thoughtful response in some; however, the narrative imposed on the movie is jarringly blatant, with subtext delivered as text. Where La Sapienza seems primarily concerned is in its explanations of the life of Borromini, matched with artfully framed shots of his work. The church façades and intricately crafted vaults are discussed while Green’s camera slowly pans across the design, occasionally making a full 360-degree spin around the ceilings of particular churches. This studying of Borromini’s work takes Alexandre and Goffredo to the Church of Saint Yves at La Sapienza in Rome that gives Green’s film its title. The beauty is undeniable, but it seems obvious from the film’s preoccupancy with Borromini that Eugéne Green simply finds 17th Century architecture much more fascinating than the average filmgoer (or myself at least).

Perhaps the most compelling sequence among a slew of dialog-heavy exchanges comes during a bout of Alexandre’s insomnia when he’s decided to work on his Borromini book. As we see close-ups of Borromini’s work, as well as a vignette of his final night, Alexandre speaks in voice-over the words he plans to include in his book. When the sequence intersperses shots of Alexandre in bed, it becomes clear that the scene is meant to illustrate his writing process, a process that often appears uncinematic in movies. With La Sapienza, Green manages to articulate the struggle to put words to the page without simply showing Alexandre slouching over a laptop.

Ultimately, the blending of past with present does little to inform either. Eugéne Green’s ode to the legacy of Francesco Borromini is able to beautifully capture the architect’s iconic constructions, yet it’s unfavorably matched with a non-engaging narrative. It’s intriguing to see Rongione and Landman navigate such odd conversations, and both deliver fine performances (stronger ones than their younger counterparts), but there is so much empty space within the margins of La Sapienza that your attention is drawn to the voids rather than the substance.