The Beat That My Heart Skipped admittedly had me racking my brain for dim memories of the original (Fingers), and I never really got past reading the lead–who is astonishing–as a gallicized Keitel. But this film was gorgeous and engaging and always a beat off the conventional rhythms of any of the genres it riffs on: noir lowlife melodrama, Rafelson-ish/Tobacksian existential guy stuff, the destructive passions of the artist. Whatever its roots in that earlier film, it goes in its own direction.
Left of the Dial is also five blocks shy of interesting. It’s a documentary about the birth pangs of Air America, but it lacks any kind of narrative focus, instead Real-Worldishly cycling from clips of on-air personalities to back-office financial shenanigans to the occasional articulation of liberals-fighting-the-good-fight-against-conservative-media-domination blah blah. None of those narratives get explored in any depth, let alone synced together. I wanted more Marc Maron, a lot less of everyone else. But, hell, I hate talk radio, whether it’s Rush or Franken or whomever–if I want people yelling their opinions at me, I’ll hold another poker night and break out the Cointreau. Least that way I might walk away with five dollars in addition to the headache. Crap film. (But I have two other interesting-looking docs on deck: Kirby Dick’s Twist of Faith and Mark’s and now Chris’ recommended Mondovino.)
I also highly recommend the new Flaming Lips album–just put “It Overtakes Me” on constant rotation–and the novel _The Futurist_ by James Othmer, instead of watching basketball.