It feels like sibling filmmakers are becoming more of a thing lately. In the last two years, movies of all varieties have been made by the Coens (the musically-themed Inside Llewyn Davis), the Wachowskis (big-budget sci-fi Jupiter Ascending), the Farrellys (franchise comedy Dumb and Dumber To), and the Russos (superhero tentpole Captain America: The Winter Soldier). Even a foreign drama is represented by siblings, as evidenced by Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz’s Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem.

This year, another pair of filmmaking siblings are introduced to the scene: Ben and Chris Blaine, with their first feature film Nina Forever.

Holly (Abigail Hardingham) has a romantic interest in Rob (Cian Barry), her coworker at a local grocery store. Her friends try to warn her away from him, though—he’s been suicidal since the accidental death of his girlfriend more than a year ago. Fate steps in when Rob is injured at work and Holly, who is studying to be a paramedic, offers to examine his wound. There’s a spark between them, and on their first date, that spark becomes a flame when they find their way to Rob’s bedroom. Their heat is quickly cooled, however, by the sudden appearance (in bed next to them, no less) of Rob’s ex-girlfriend—the very dead, very chatty Nina (Fiona O’Shaughnessy).

Nina, whose corpse is still bloodied and broken from the car accident that took her life, becomes a greater presence—and a greater nuisance—in the new couple’s life. As Rob struggles to figure out how to stop Nina’s appearances, Holly considers the opposite approach by embracing the decedent’s presence.

Who are these Blaine Brothers and where have they been hiding? Nina Forever is a sensational film, and while the presence of a talking corpse might tempt some to hang a horror tag on it, don’t take the bait. This is a deliciously dark comedy/psychological drama hybrid, using the horror device of Nina’s corpse as a symbol for guilt and loss, then doubling-down and using her unwillingness to leave Rob and Holly alone as a metaphor for the couple’s inability to properly deal with the loss (It also uses her wit for the funny bits—and there are plenty of those).

The film, co-written by the Blaines, has a strong foundation in the construct of its three lead characters. Rob is so burdened by loss and guilt (he was driving the car in the accident that killed Nina) that he has become mostly non-functioning. Holly is a wannabe paramedic—a healer, a rescuer, a fixer of things—and he is something she can fix. And Nina—poor, dead Nina—might be a symbol for something deeper, but on the surface she’s still the girlfriend who has been jilted, at least by circumstance (her insistence that Rob not refer to her as his “ex-girlfriend” because they never technically broke up is hysterically played).

O’Shaughnessy, Hardingham, and Barry all turn in solid performances, as do David Troughton and Elizabeth Elvin in key supporting turns as Nina’s parents.

As the story progresses, the characters evolve in a way that so many other writers struggle to make happen on the page. There is an organic fluidity to how the trio act, react, and interact throughout the length of the film. Also, Nina’s first reveal could have been treated as some type of singular moment that the rest of the film winds up tethered to until the end. Not so in the Blaines’ hands. That first reveal of Nina truly is the jumping-off point for a longer game with a wickedly smart ending I did not see coming. Sparkling dialogue that any actor would want to deliver tops off a script any director would want to helm.

There is a strong confidence to the Blaines’ direction, too. They are clearly not afraid to take creative chances, and this confidence results in that sweet spot between storytelling and artistry. This is an engaging story that is also great to look at. (Oh, and the fellas know how to film a scorching sex scene, too.) While they get key help from Oliver Russell’s gorgeous cinematography, their secret weapon is their editing. The Blaines join the growing list of filmmakers who edit their own work (a practice I’ve grown to appreciate). There are present-day moments in the film, such as Rob and Holly’s first date, that integrate glimpses from the past and teases from the future to offer a complete picture before the picture has even developed. Not only does that take confidence to attempt, it’s difficult to execute, but the directors make it work.

Nina Forever is the film to follow, and with it, the Blaine Brothers have brought serious game to the screen. It’s clear the film world’s latest sibling tag-team has come to play.

A version of this review was originally published on March 15th, 2015, as part of our coverage of the SXSW film festival.

Danny Fields is a name you’ve probably never heard. But his influence, as exemplified by the rock-doc Danny Says, was wildly far-reaching during one of the most pivotal times in music and cultural history. Fields was instrumental in the stardom of some of the biggest bands in the ’60s and ’70s from The Stooges to the Ramones to The Doors, acting as a manager, a publicity director, and a writer and editor of such popular magazines as 16.  Fields was everywhere, so much so that his biography might read more like a who’s-who list of the music world. His story (and the stories in his story) is unprecedented, as is that such a figure, well known in the music industry, could stay so faceless to the world at large. More so than anything else, it seems like director Brendan Toller was interested in giving Danny the credit he has long deserved.

The film starts with some rapid-fire interviews from music legends such as Iggy Pop and Alice Cooper, as all offer quick insights about who Fields was (these churn by so quickly they are easily forgotten). Then, after the title sequence we are taken back and formally introduced to Danny Fields. Fields himself then talks us through his early years and up through college and Harvard Law, where he eventually dropped out and moved to New York. Once there he spent several rogue years of his 20s discovering his sexuality and falling in line with the likes of Andy Warhol at The Factory.

From there Fields began working as a writer and editor, finding an in into the rock world through his pre-established channels and solidifying his ear for the next big thing. Next came his long tenure at Elektra Records, where he worked with The Doors and was instrumental in signing such artists as MC5 and The Stooges (Iggy Pop). After being fired from Elektra he became the manager for the Ramones.

The list goes on, and the name dropping comes fast and heavy throughout Danny Says, which may be its greatest fault. Ostensibly, this is a film about Danny Fields, and on the surface it is. In the early moments of the film there is even a bit of focus on Fields’ personal life, his homosexuality, and his intense drug use. But as the film shifts into Fields’ time in the music industry, almost all aspects of him as a person fall by the wayside, as the focus zooms between micro stories about Jim Morrison, Nico, Edie Sedgwick, MC5, and the insane Iggy Pop. But, while these stories are fascinating glimpses into the antics of the icons of the era, they seem to have very little to do with Fields other than the fact that he was there, trying his best to make records sell and prevent everyone from overdosing. And these stories never quite add up to any sort of overarching narrative. Things, for the most part, seem to unravel chronologically, moving ever forward through the ups and downs, with no real structure in sight.

Danny Says is by no means a bad film. Fields himself is hilarious throughout, as he recounts his roles in some of the biggest moments in music history (at one point he takes credit for The Beatles death threat-laden 1966 tour). But Toller can’t seem to decide what the film is about. Is it about Fields’ influence throughout two pivotal decades? Is it about the artists that Fields worked with? Or is it about the life of Danny Fields himself? At seemingly random junctions, talks move toward legacy, love, aging, and death. But the topics vanish as quickly as they appeared, and another story about Nico or The Modern Lovers begins.

Funded through Kickstarter in 2012 for $20,000, Danny Says is brimming with hilarious stories about the heyday of rock and roll, and does a great job of highlighting the importance of the guy in the back of every photo, the ghost behind the scenes, the credit-less guiding light of modern punk music.

In recent years, there’s been a trend of documentary films I like to call “musical discoveries.” My guess is that it started around 2008 with Anvil! The Story of Anvil, a documentary about an unknown Canadian rock band that influenced the likes of Metallica. Since then, other documentaries have come out shining a light on some sort of incredible musician(s) not getting the fame and popularity they deserve. The breakthrough film for this would be Searching for Sugar Man, which won the Oscar for Best Documentary in 2013. One year later, 20 Feet from Stardom, a musical discovery doc more audacious than Sugar Man (this time, the discovery was under our nose the whole time!) took home an Oscar in the same category. Other films, like A Band Called Death, Riot on the Dance Floor, and The Wrecking Crew have all used similar concepts.

That brings me to The Jones Family Will Make a Way, the next documentary to capitalize on this recent movement. This time the act yet to be discovered is The Jones Family Singers, a gospel group from rural Texas. The father, Bishop Fred Jones, is a preacher with a wife and eight children, all of whom have some role in the group. Years earlier, they had a shot at fame after touring across the south at Pentecostal churches, but after a recording contract fell through they gave up any dreams of making it big. Now, Austin music critic Michael Corcoran wants to try and give them the success they deserve. After discovering the group for himself and befriending them, he eventually convinces Jones and his family to perform at the SXSW music festival.

This beginning section of the documentary amounts to the kind of boilerplate material seen in other discovery documentaries. The only major difference comes from watching the Jones family perform together. Their performances in a tiny church blow the roof off every time, with their music a living reminder of how much soul and rock music gets its roots from gospel. Live footage gets sandwiched between the sort of overdone, obvious points hammered home in the earlier-mentioned films: sadness over not getting discovered, some sort of expert (in this case, Corcoran) explaining exactly why these musicians are so great, backstories on the group’s members to show their humble lifestyles, among other basic establishing techniques. Anyone familiar with this kind of story knows it’s only a matter of time before the Jones family gets their shot.

That shot ends up happening almost a year after their SXSW performance, when a producer offers to record an album for them. Once director Alan Berg starts dedicating things to the recording process, his film picks up considerably. Early on, Corcoran talks about how disappointing it is that there are no proper recordings of The Jones Family Singers. Now, with the family getting their shot at making an album, Berg profiles the difficulty in translating their power from the church to the studio. It’s a difficult process, with the producer’s tactics clashing against the way the Jones are used to performing. Those kinds of moments, where Berg speaks more about the challenge of capturing a specific experience, are where the film shines.

But once the album is finished, Berg switches back into making his film about the Jones’ getting their due, a disappointing and conventional choice. There are a few moments where Berg manages to slip in a few interesting bits, like when Corcoran tries giving advice to Bishop Jones about the album release. He asks them if they want to bless some of their albums or do “some kind of water thing” for fans, despite telling them moments earlier to downplay their religion. It’s a moment showing the reality of how artists get pressured to compromise themselves in the hopes of broadening their appeal, but Berg doesn’t seem too interested in exploring that. Instead, he closes the film with the family’s triumphant performance at the Lincoln Center, a happy ending meant to show the Jones’ getting closer to achieving their dreams. The Jones Family Singers certainly deserve all the success they can get; they also deserve a better film.

“In 1999, Tower Records made over one billion dollars. Five years later, they filed for bankruptcy.” That statement opens All Things Must Pass, Colin Hanks’ documentary about the famous chain of record stores that crashed and burned after the end of the 20^th century. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why Tower Records could no longer sustain their worldwide operation (hint: rhymes with “schminternet”), and Hanks thankfully doesn’t dwell on stating the obvious impact MP3s had on physical media. Hanks also avoids turning his film into a eulogy for the days when shopping for music was a more communal experience, keeping things relatively straightforward as a rise and fall story about Tower Records. It’s a simple, entertaining documentary, one that prefers to sit back and let its entertaining subjects guide the film.

Starting back in the 1960’s, Hanks lets Tower Records founder Russ Solomon detail the meteoric rise of his company from a tiny record shop in Sacramento to one of the world’s biggest music stores. Hanks frames this section through the eccentric types who ran Tower Records, charting their rise from store clerks in the ’60s to VPs and Managers of a billion-dollar business decades later. Those kinds of success stories are inherently fascinating to learn about, and the close-knit, family-like nature of Tower Records leads to a variety of great anecdotes (one example: the company’s successful expansion into Japan started with a drunken conversation between Solomon and a receiving clerk).

And yet, despite a tumultuous fall from grace, no one interviewed by Hanks seems to hold any animosity over what happened with each other (most hatred seems directed towards the banks, who forced a restructuring and, arguably, kicked the downfall into motion). Everyone at Tower fondly reminisces the fun times they had, but they all have an awareness that it could never have lasted forever. The only misstep from Hanks with this message comes at the very end, as a trip to Japan—where Tower Records still thrives—feels too congratulatory and unnecessary, falling into a nostalgia trap the film avoided up to that point. But just like the title says, everything has to come to an end, and All Things Must Pass benefits largely from its progressive attitude. Hanks doesn’t lament the past; he celebrates it, and All Things Must Pass is all the better for it.

Describing A Woman Like Me to an outsider gets a little complicated. When put as simply as possible its a documentary made by director Alex Sichel, who upon receiving the news that she has metastatic breast cancer decides to process this information by directing a film about a woman facing the same diagnosis with as much positivity as she can…while simultaneously documenting this process and her own treatment for what would become this documentary. It’s not quite a movie within a movie so much as it is two movies playing out side by side with behind-the-scenes footage playing at the same time as well. Confusing? Yes. Meta? Maybe. Moving? Absolutely.

Co-directed by Alex Sichel and first-time director Elizabeth Giamatti (wife to Paul and producer of many of his films), a majority of the film is diary-style with Alex speaking directly into her handheld camera, and in this way the actual documentary part of the film feels a lot like a look into the last few years of a woman who has a form of cancer she knows she won’t survive. Along with her husband Erich, Alex faces this stunning news with shock at first, then starts making hard decisions about her treatment. Knowing any sort of treatment is more about prolonging the inevitable, she prefers to attempt holistic care first, pulling from her Buddhist beliefs and consulting with healers. Eventually she does begin pill-based chemotherapy, but continues to watch her diet and go to meditative retreats.

As she makes each decision along the way, or seeks out new forms of healing, the film will switch over to her ongoing film project simply called Untitled Film About Anna, “Anna” being Anna Seashell, the alter-ego Alex has written to be the upbeat positive version of her own experience, played by Lili Taylor. The production of the film is shown as part of the documentary, with a focus on moments when Alex gives Lili direction on her scenes—scenes that are actual moments of Alex’s life—and one has to wonder if she directs her to behave exactly as she did when experiencing them in reality, or if she directs Lili to perform it the way Alex wishes she had.

Is Alex justifying her own decisions in how she has chosen to approach her illness? Her parents—interviewed on camera for the documentary—make it clear they wish she’d do everything the modern Western doctors tell her to in order to live as long as she can. Her husband interrupts her in the middle of a dinner party at one point, disagreeing with her interpretation of what a doctor told them, preferring to be more realistic than optimistic. It’s such a perfect example of the way one’s body is seen as no longer one’s own when an illness takes it over in a way that affects others lives too.

Alex often blurs the lines between her various roles throughout the documentary, making for an interesting take on this unique woman. She clearly identifies as a creator, it comes out of her even at a time when most people would find it difficult to be artistic. Her role as a mother and wife mingling with her artistic nature and need to capture this part of her life. This especially is perfectly captured in a scene of the family, Alex, Erich, and their daughter, sitting down for a meal together. Their daughter is more inclined to play than eat, so Alex moves her food back into the kitchen and Erich accuses her of moving it to make the “scene” look better.

It may be hard for some to understand Alex Sichel’s documentary and the way she chose to face her diagnosis. But with a disease that allows for almost no control over one’s body it isn’t hard to imagine that a woman who clearly likes to direct the stories of others would want to find a way to direct the story of her own life. The film about Anna feels somewhat weak when paired with the documentary, especially in how bright and optimistic it is compared to the reality of Alex’s life, but it’s exactly this juxtaposition that provides multi-layered insight into Alex’s experience, most especially in understanding her.

A Woman Like Me is heartbreaking but not sad. If anything good can be said of cancer, it’s that it has pulled out of many a talented artist greater works than they probably thought themselves capable of. It’s difficult to watch the misfortunes of others, but Alex Seichel’s way of dealing with her diagnosis, as bizarre as it sometimes feels, is raw and real, even as she weaves a fantasy around it. Equal amounts hopeful and hopeless, it’s exactly as complex as I imagine living with cancer must be.

Directed by Van Neistat A Space Program is a documentary recording Tom Sachs’ live show, “Space Program 2.0”, which premiered in New York’s Park Avenue Armory in 2012. In the film, Sachs, an artist renowned for his ability to recreate “engineering masterpieces” with everyday items, produces an ambitious show in which he creates a “mission to Mars” in search of life, complete with spacesuits and spaceships made out of a mix of materials including plywood and cardboard.

Van Neistat has a reputation for making subversive short films such as the now notorious iPod’s Dirty Secret, in which he and his brother stencil over Apple adverts in protest of their lack of a policy for replacing faulty batteries. Their rebellious, counter-cultural nature fits in well with Sachs’ work, which plays the joke of the absurdity of the fake Mars mission straight-faced. The show features such wonders as a landing of the spacecraft on an old Atari console, the use of an old boom box to introduce Mars’ possible life to Earth culture, and the dispersal of opium poppy seeds on the new planet (because narcotics can help with future funding of space programs) via poppy-seed bagels. The sheer level of imagination and inventiveness is impressive, especially when combined with Sachs’ dark sense of humour. For those who missed out on the live show, it’s worth a watch.

It’s dawn on a random summer morning in California and young boy Eli (Elias Graham) is content to finally stick the landing on the front-flip he’s been trying on the rickety trampoline in his back yard. When he hears his mother get into her car, he races to the front of the house to let her know they need milk; mom ignores Eli and speeds away. This is the beginning of a day when Eli and his three younger brothers Arri, Ezra, and Jonah (all Grahams also), are cared for by their eldest sibling, 13-year-old sister Harper (Graham). Their day consists of so many things children do, but as the hours pass, mom is unresponsive to Harper’s phone calls.

Making its world premier at SXSW, God Bless the Child, from first-time directors Robert Machoian and Rodrigo Ojeda-Beck, is a surprisingly compelling look at a (summer) day in the life of a quintet of children left to their own devices. I say “surprisingly” from the perspective that the film is 92 minutes of children spending their day as children do: playing, fighting, eating popsicles, washing the dogs, going on neighborhood adventures, and so on. Presented in a style that suggests it’s a documentary (it’s not), the film has almost no plot to speak of, and the kids’ dialogue throughout seems mostly unscripted. This doesn’t sound compelling. And yet.

There is something incredibly appealing about how genuine this film is. In the wake of Richard Linklater’s Boyhood, which focuses on the life of one middle-class white kid over the course of a dozen years, God Bless the Child is refreshingly uncontrived. Its subjects are not one but five, they are of ethnic or mixed heritage, they are poor, and their single-day microcosm gets a thorough examination. There is no parental drama as there is in Boyhood because the parents (both the mother and at least two different fathers) are absentee. Call it “Childhood.”

The film is also an interesting study in the consequences of absentee parents. Despite mom’s dramatic exit on this particular day, it is clear these kids, who don’t blink at being home alone all day, have lived this existence every day and for a long time.  These repeated experiences are shaping them. Of particular note are the two oldest, Harper and Eli.

As the oldest, Harper is forced to abandon her role of sister (along with any teenage dreams she might have) and play mother to four boys, including a 1-year-old. It’s an enormous responsibility, but Harper wearily shuffles through the day caring for the boys like a mother three times her age. It’s sad, but with what appears to be stifled ambition and a hopeless situation, Harper’s future, at only 13, seems bleak.

Next oldest is Eli, who is clearly the Alpha Male. He holds that title not only by right of age, but because of his assertive — at times angry — approach to his younger brothers and conflict resolution. He isn’t violent with them, but I would add “yet” to that statement because he shows flashes of a temper that his parents aren’t around to see and that his sister, despite her best efforts, is too young to properly manage.

The film struggles, though, when it attempts to manufacture drama. There are a few instances — one involving a potential “stranger danger” situation and another involving a chance meeting with Harper’s classmate/romantic interest — that feel forced and have no sense of authenticity to them. It’s understandable to want to include moments like these in a story like this, but in these cases, it’s to the film’s detriment.

Also working against the film, oddly enough, is the mother’s absence. Her hurried departure and unwillingness to return Harper’s calls aside, there is never any real sense of abandonment, nor is there any sense the kids are in peril. Just as it feels like nothing more than curious behavior to the viewer, so too does it feel like only curious behavior to Harper — and if Harper isn’t panicked, the viewer isn’t either.

As someone whose youth was closer to that of the story found in Boyhood, there is nothing I can personally connect with in God Bless the Child. Still, I found it to be an incredibly engaging film that made me care for its characters without forcing it.

The third and final installment of Hal Hartley’s Henry Fool saga sees Ned Rifle (Liam Aiken), son of Henry (Thomas Jay Ryan) and Fay Grim (Parker Posey), on a quest to find and kill his father for ruining his mother’s life. Returning to this desert-dry whimsical world of misfits, along with Ryan, Posey, and Aiken, is James Urbaniak as garbage-man-turned-poet-laureate Simon Grim, who steals every scene he’s in with his succinct and deadliest deadpan delivery of Hartley’s epigrammatic dialogue. Ned Rifle picks up four years after the events of Fay Grim, during which Ned has found God while living with a devoutly Christian family, Fay has been incarcerated for life without parole, and Henry has, well, revealing where he’s been surely counts as a spoiler, but thirsty fans of the trilogy will feel quenched. The newcomer to the familiar ensemble is Parks and Recreation‘s Aubrey Plaza. She not only radiates intelligence without speaking a word and then blasts everyone away with it when she does, but, by the film’s halfway mark, twists that same world around her little finger with her feral screen presence. A package of talent that Hartley earnestly exploits. She plays Susan, a woman who is stalking Simon for her own reasons (which, naturally, revolve around Henry).

The greatest compliment one can give Ned Rifle is that even those who’ve never seen Henry Fool or Fay Grim will be stimulated enough to sympathize and laugh with—and sometimes at—Hartley’s egomaniacal troupe of characters. “Don’t be taken,” says a doctor at one point, “he’s a great tragic actor.” A sentiment that applies to practically everyone in the entire film except Ned, who instills a sense of righteousness (even if it so easily invites mockery) much needed to complete the saga. That said, one gets the sense that Ned Rifle‘s hurried conclusion will leave those who haven’t seen the previous two films slightly gutted. Nothing but a minor quibble, however, given everything that came before. With its droll highbrow vocabulary, cozy half-serious tone, and finger-snapping running time, Ned Rifle invites people to seek out all things related to the impressionable degenerate that is Henry Fool, and triumphantly concludes a fun-loving trilogy.

Those who know of The Residents, an obscure and strange-to-say-the-least underground band known for their prolificness and highly enforced mystery, either are unsure how to handle their bemusing weirdness, don’t care for them at all, or fall into a select group of cult-like fans. Theory of Obscurity: A Film About the Residents, a new documentary from Don Hardy Jr. (Batkid Begins), focuses its attention on these super-fans—since it’s not as though they’d have been able to secure interviews with the band members. Filled with the same fringe aesthetic The Residents subscribe to, the film is a psychedelic landscape of footage of The Resident’s performances, bits and pieces of their videos (they were among the first music-video enthusiasts) and plenty of fan-tales of the influence they had upon the people who love them.

The band was produced over 60 albums and been on seven world tours. The film interviews each of the members of The Cryptic Corporation, the band’s management company, formed just to handle the massive outpouring of art from The Residents and their various artistic endeavors. As insiders, they clearly lack the perspective to provide much of what would be highly coveted information around The Residents’ identities. The band is seen throughout the film in a live-filmed performance, the camera providing glimpses of the real people behind the band, mostly which just confirms that these guys are getting pretty old. With a 40-year career span it is of course impressive to hear they not only still produce, but also hold tight to their obscurity and non-identity. As they state repeatedly in the film, for them it’s not about talent—they even say knowing how to play an instrument is of no real importance to them—it’s about having the freedom to do things exactly the way they feel like doing them. Something their discretion affords them the ability to do.

Those who recognize the band either by their music or their iconic eyeball heads will be intrigued to hear more. Those who prefer to find meaning in their favorite music and artists may find the befuddlement of The Residents entirely too chaotic. No matter your musical tastes, the enduring power of any group of people to continue to inspire others, especially those who find themselves on the outskirts of the status quo, is a worthy feat and Theory of Obscurity pays tribute where tribute is due.