***Due to the sensitivity regarding spoilers for the plot of Catfish, this review is intentionally vague. For more coverage of the film, check out our interview with the filmmakers***

Chances are you’ve never even heard of Catfish, the film from first-time directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman which sparked a fierce bidding war at Sundance earlier this year. If you have heard of the film, you probably know very little. Perhaps you’ve seen the intentionally mysterious and misleading trailer or have read a frustratingly vague review, but I doubt you’ve been able to learn much about its plot. This thick cloud of secrecy makes marketing a film like Catfish difficult, but for those willing to take the plunge, it is a good thing.

The best way to enjoy Catfish is by going into the theatre blind. Make a conscious effort to avoid the trailer (though, as I said before, it sort of misrepresents the film), don’t read any plot synopses and be very wary of any spoiler-filled reviews.

For those who need a little more convincing before surrendering your hard-earned cash for a movie ticket, I’ll give you as much information as I can without ruining the film completely – for those who don’t, and will just trust me, stop reading now and head to the theatre.

Nev Schulman, a freelance photographer living in New York City, becomes Facebook friends with an eight-year-old painting prodigy named Abby, who lives in rural Michigan. She paints replicas of his photographs and the two enjoy occasionally chatting online. As a result of their friendship, Nev begins communicating with the rest of Abby’s family and forms a close bond with her older sister, Megan, a singer and dancer. Nev and Megan’s relationship turns romantic, but takes a very strange and unexpected turn when he flies to Michigan to visit.

The final act of Catfish is impossible to foresee and takes its audience on an emotional journey unlike anything seen on film before. This truly is a completely unique viewing experience that shouldn’t be missed. Raising questions about friendship, privacy and our newly-connected virtual world, Catfish can provide hours of discussion after the credits roll.

Now, over a year later, said documentary is complete. I’m Still Here shares with audiences the “lost year” of Joaquin Phoenix. The bizarre behavior conducted by the actor in public is all documented here (including his infamous visit to The Late Show with David Letterman), but even his most outlandish public stunts are outshone by what occurs in private. Included are depictions of Phoenix abusing hard drugs, verbally and physically assaulting his friends and employees, soliciting (and having) sex with prostitutes and delivering incomprehensible diatribes – all while meeting with rap producers and publicists in an attempt to kickstart his new career. There’s some rather fascinating stuff presented, but none of it paints a clear picture of what is really going on with Phoenix.

There are three possibilities to ponder.

The first, and simplest, is that I’m Still Here is, in fact, a straight documentary. In this version of reality, Phoenix, is going through an emotional disruption. Unfulfilled by acting, he desperately grasps for a creative outlet – misguidedly choosing hip-hop. He writes songs about being misunderstood and unhappy, then looks for approval from his peers. As his mental state further deteriorates, so do his relationships. Phoenix hits what would be the bottom for most of us, but shows little sign of slowing down.

This version of the truth is especially unsettling. Not only is it depressing to witness such a talented actor completely unravel, but the sick voyeurism associated with watching it on film is somewhat shameful.

The second option is that this is all a carefully orchestrated farce. Phoenix and Affleck conceived of the idea to fake a public breakdown, only to document the publics reaction. It could be some kind of social experiment. If this is the case, I’m Still Here transforms into a pretty brilliant comedy, with Phoenix channeling his inner-Kaufman. This would require tremendous planning and dedication, making his performance in this film the best of Joaquin Phoenix’s career. Give the man his Oscar now.

The last theory – the one I am closest to believing – is that I’m Still Here is a combination of the two. Phoenix really is going through some sort of emotional upheaval. His public antics caused tangible damage to his image and reputation, so in a desperate attempt at anti-damage control, he and Affleck staged a few extra events and crafted a narrative around his psychosis. Certain scenes appear too cinematic to be organic, while others too spontaneous to be faked. The hoped end result has to be that JP can soon rise from the ashes (dare I say, like a Phoenix?), and have the comeback of the century. Who doesn’t love a good redemption story?

Regardless of whether I’m Still Here is a tragic true story or a brilliant absurdist comedy, it is, at the very least, an interesting look into the notion of celebrity. The real story here isn’t about a movie star who’s lost his way, it’s about a public so hungry for gossip, it’s willing to watch a man’s life completely disintegrate. In this generation of TMZs and Perez Hiltons, nothing is sacred, and this is the cost.

The only problem: the purported circumstances surrounding his death proved false. This story was a lie, fabricated to cover up a much darker truth.

In the days following his death, an investigation revealed that Tillman was killed by friendly-fire. His unit was split in two. One half heard what sounded like gunfire, turned a corner, and saw the Afghani who accompanied Tillman’s half of the unit. They assumed he was Taliban, and opened fire. Despite Tillman’s apparent attempts to identify himself and stop the combat, he too was shot and killed. His family wasn’t notified of this development until weeks after his funeral.

The Tillman Story, a documentary by director Amir Bar-Lev (My Kid Could Paint That) explores the attempt to cover up the true story of the final minutes of Pat Tillman’s life. Through the use of archival footage and interviews with Tillman’s family and selected fellow soldiers, Bar-Lev paints a scathing portrait a government desperate to drum up support for an increasingly unpopular war. By making Tillman a hero, they could rally the public around him and, consequently, around the country’s military efforts in general. While Tillman is undoubtedly a hero and an inspiring figure, his family argues, he is not heroic for the reasons reported to the American public.

Bar-Lev’s film manages to stay interesting throughout. What makes his film exciting, though, is also what often makes it unreliable and, arguably, hypocritical.

Due to the military’s innately secretive nature, certain peices of information are kept from the public. In investigating his death, Tillman’s family is left with no choice but to fill in the blanks with conjecture.  Of course the conclusions reached will always be the most audacious, it’s human nature. The size and scope of the alleged Tillman cover-up can never be known for sure. I will admit, the film’s account is probably closer to the truth than the military’s, but it is still speculative nonetheless. There’s nothing wrong with this in itself, but if one wants to create a film with the intention of damning the government, some kind of proof is crucial.

What the Tillmans and Bar-Lev ultimately do, is commit the same sin they condemn: attaching an unwilling face to an idea. Featured prominently is a family tree of sorts, depicting the United States’ military hierarchy. The camera pans up the branches, through the ranks and freezes at the top: The Commander in Chief, George W. Bush. Just as the government used Tillman as the face of patriotism and heroism, The Tillman Story uses Bush as the face of deception and evil. It is implied that blame rests on him alone.

It was easy for the government to exploit Tillman – his story is inherently inspiring – but it’s just as easy for a filmmaker, or a mourning family, to exploit an unpopular, incompetent president. And just as irresponsible.

 “Every man, woman and child lives under a nuclear sword of Damocles, hanging by the slenderest of threads, capable of being cut at any moment by accident or miscalculation or by madness. The weapons of war must be abolished before they abolish us.”

This nearly fifty-year-old declaration by Cold War-era commander-in-chief, John F. Kennedy, becomes Walker’s thesis; she constructs her film around each threat mentioned by the late president.

Beginning with “madness,” Zero explores the threat of nuclear terrorism. The film chronicles Al-Qaeda’s attempts at securing nuclear material, including highly enriched uranium. We are taught how to buy or steal uranium – a surprisingly easy and affordable feat – as well as how to get it into the United States (also very easy, relatively speaking). Among the most frightening pieces of information here is the remarkable failure rate in catching nuclear thieves and smugglers; usually the only time governments find out that nuclear materials or weapons have been stolen is when they turn up somewhere else.

Moving on to “accident,” Walker examines the various moments in US and world history when weapons have been accidentally dropped, lost or nearly detonated. This chapter is loaded with old news footage describing plane crashes where the vehicles involved were carrying bombs, the sinking of naval war-ships or the flat-out misplacement of missiles. One would think that knowing just one of these instruments could wipe out an entire city would be enough incentive to keep a better eye on them, but apparently that is not the case.

The “miscalculation” chapter is, in my book, the scariest of the three. Here is where we spend the most time dealing with the various moments in which the Cold War began warming up. When tensions are high, as they were and still are with Russia and now China, proper communication is essential. With nuclear weapons constantly ready to be fired at a moment’s notice, misinformation could be catastrophic. The incorrect perception of a threat could result the obliteration of entire populations. An instance is recounted in which a US rocket test off the coast of Iceland was mistaken by Russia as a missile launch. We had told Russian officials that the test would be taking place, but someone forgot to pass along the word to those in charge of declaring nuclear war. The button was on the table, ready to be pressed, but miraculously a “funny feeling” kept then-president Boris Yeltsin from depressing it.

Countdown to Zero is at its most credible when sticking to the facts, exploring history. Conversely, the film is most entertaining when toying with speculation. The fact is what has happened is far less interesting that what almost happened or what could happen in regards to nuclear warfare. Walker insists that the way to ensure worldwide safety is through the gradual destruction of all nuclear weapons. She suggests that disarmament is the only option, and that the possibility of nuclear holocaust is no longer a substantial deterrent.

Whether or not this is correct can be, and will be, debated for much longer than this film stays on anyone’s radar. Countdown to Zero is a good introduction into the subject and is very watchable, but lacks the cinematic flair that elevates documentaries from good to great. The movie opens with a History Channel logo (a producing partner) which is appropriate because this felt a bit more like a TV special than the type of movie I’d seek out in theatres. Still, Walker succeeds in delivering her message, and Countdown to Zero is an effective piece of journalism.

Beginning in May of 2007, Junger and Hetherington spent fourteen months in the Korengal, documenting the experiences of the soldiers of Second Platoon of Battle Company of the 173^rd Airborne Brigade. During this time, the men witnessed the construction of Restrepo – a remote outpost named after Juan “Doc” Restrepo, a medic killed in battle shortly before construction began.  Restrepo – located closer to Taliban strongholds than any other base – is far removed from the safety and luxury (or at least the illusions of those things) found in other, more sophisticated camps. Restrepo is a largely makeshift base, built by the soldiers, by hand, using primarily just sand bags and strips of metal. Between the piling of sandbags to create their new home, the soldiers engage in combat daily. Their isolation and vulnerability is felt in every frame of Junger and Hetherington’s film.

Constructed using only live onsite footage from Restrepo and interviews with the surviving members of the platoon, Restrepo steers clear of overt political motives. There are no expert analyses or pundit opinions clouding the portrayal of the soldiers’ experiences. We are given an uncensored look into the hectic and dangerous lives of those fighting for our freedom. Junger and Hetherington are careful to avoid inserting any commentary into their project, instead opting for a just-the-facts approach.

In providing nothing but depictions of battles, interviews with soldiers and footage of the negotiation meetings with Afghan locals, Restrepo often feels a bit meandering. It is hard as a viewer to see this film as a story – there is no fluid narrative or obvious message to grab onto. The movie can be tonally uneven; often shifting from an intense battle scene, to an emotional interview, to lighthearted footage of soldiers interacting with one another, to dull negotiations, and right back to battle – all very quickly, with little to connect the individual scenes besides a few familiar faces.

Still these individual scenes are effective. While watching Restrepo, one empathizes deeply with these soldiers’ struggles. It’s impossible not to be affected by the tearful recollections of battles in which a soldier loses a close friend. The scenes in which the filmmakers capture combat with impossible intimacy are frightening and exciting, but also sobering. There is no question that life in Korengal is dangerous and difficult – just spending an hour and a half watching this film feels like a harrowing experience, actually being there would be devastating.

While the lack of a cohesive narrative makes Restrepo a little tougher to digest as a motion picture, it does achieve one thing well: it captures the chaos experienced by these soldiers every day. Given the contention over whether or not our mission in the Middle East is just or worthwhile, perhaps it is appropriate that the story and message of the film is unclear. Regardless of politics, though, Restrepo undoubtedly reinforces the notion that, as Americans, we owe an unfathomable debt to our men and women in uniform.

For a new documentary, Joan Rivers – A Piece of Work, Ms. Rivers granted directors Anne Sundberg and Ricki Stern unprecedented access, allowing them to chronicle the entire 76th year of her life. Through this access, along with archival footage and interviews, the directors are able to paint a surprising picture of the legendary figure. We are reminded of Rivers’ breakthrough, being discovered by Johnny Carson, and her rise to fame. We learn of her personal life, for better or worse. We see her succeed, and perhaps more than one would expect, we watch her fail.

Joan Rivers – A Piece of Work is appropriately funny, accessible and entertaining, but is also, above all else, moving. Among the film’s many moments of surprising poignancy, two in particular stand out to me as being noteworthily insightful.

The first involves Rivers, an aging female struggling to make a living in an industry built on superficiality, chronicling her daily battle against obscurity. The veteran comedienne holds up her day planner, stares straight into the camera and, without changing the tone of her voice or adding any superfluous drama to her words, explains that nothing scares her more than a blank page in that calendar. Joan spent her entire career breaking down barriers and paving the way for future female comedians. For that, she will always be remembered as a legend, but, for her, that isn’t good enough. She wants to work until the day she dies, breaking down even more barriers and paving new paths. She has plenty of time to be a legend after she’s gone.

The second moment that strikes me occurs while Joan is performing standup in a small town. During her set, a man shouts out that her joke about Helen Keller is unfunny and offends him; he has a deaf son. Without missing a beat, Rivers shuts the heckler down completely and instantly. It isn’t her ability to shut the man up that affects me, it is the manner in which she handles the situation. Rather than insulting him personally, Rivers uses the moment as an opportunity to explain that the joke is, in fact, funny, and that it’s important for him to think so. She tells the man, and, by default, the audience, that the only way she is able to get herself out of bed everyday is through her ability to laugh at the things in life that would otherwise reduce her to tears. By this point, the documentary has explored much of her history; it is clear that there are plenty of things in Joan Rivers’ life to cry about, yet she spends it laughing.

Film is art, not science. What “director” Thomas Balmes accomplishes with Babies is a successful gathering and organizing of data. He amasses collection of footage and presents his findings, but does not create anything. In order for his footage to become a movie, he needs to — through editing, narration, score, etc – form a narrative around his subject. He has to share an artistic vision, a task he fails to achieve; I’m not even sure he tried.

Like most babies, the babies of Babies are pretty cute and do some cute things. Bayar’s (Mongolia) rivalry with his older brother is good for a few laughs. It’s interesting to see how early Ponijao (Namibia) begins learning tribal traditions. Mari (Japan) is a lucky kid; her play dates and trips to the zoo would make any toddler jealous. And, of course, Hattie’s San Franciscan parents are total hippies, subjecting her to songs about taking care of Mother Earth. These scenes offer the potential for a careful and thought-provoking exploration of the similarities and differences between cultures. Unfortunately, Blames doesn’t do much with it.

Instead he decides to fill his movie with completely unnecessary filler. I swear, at least 15 minutes of this 80 minute picture are dedicated to feeding the 4 kids. Another 10 feature various bodily functions. Then there’s the cat-petting montage. And we get plenty of random crying.

There is no cohesiveness to this movie. It is a series of random moments, strung together with no common theme except that they feature babies. There is no reason to care about the events on screen, as they hold no weight within the greater context of the film.

While some of those individual moments can be adorable, the film as a whole was incredibly uninspiring and ultimately quite boring. I really don’t understand why this was released theatrically; it would have been better utilized as programming for TLC.

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work was the Closing Night Film at the 53rd San Francisco International Film Festival, which took place this year from April 22nd to May 6th. For more information about the festival, please visit their official website.

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work has secured North American distribution through IFC Films. A full review will be made available upon its commercial release.

Fuck it (always wanted to start of a piece like that). To my own personal detriment, I love writing about Reggie Miller. In fact, my journalism career kinda started with a post about Reggie Miller (plus, Good Will Hunting and Dante Hall) in a post that can no longer be found on the Interwebs, and almost prematurely ended with me writing about Reggie Miller. My Reggie man crush got me a first-round exit from a FOX Sports National sportswriting contest, despite being hailed as one of the three (out of 16) favorites coming into the contest. Sigh. My Reggie love bored and disgusted people more than my writing impressed them.

In retrospect, I was stupid. I should have written a satirical piece about Mike Tyson’s future as a public speaker. Or a piece clowning Shaq’s acting prowess. Or one about Joey Crawford, the Bo Jackson from my hometown of Springfield, MO who never made it due to family and personal problems. I had the choice to write about any athlete who ever lived with looser perimeters than Jesse James’ mistress Michelle Bombshell. I chose Reggie. I have lots of heroes. Bill Murray. Bob Kane. Derrick Thomas. Eddie Vedder. Jay-Z. Orson Welles. Quentin Tarantino. But Reggie Miller is my idol.

If I was going to lose, I was going to lose with Reggie. Back in the 90s (not to mention the late 80s, and early 2000s), the Pacers were the same way. He wanted the ball. His teammates wanted him to have the ball. The state of Indiana wanted him to have the ball. His fans, myself definitely included, wanted him to have the ball. When the game’s final seconds were ticking down in super slow motion, everybody wanted him to have the ball in his hands. Everybody except the New York Knicks and their die-hard (or make you die hard if you beat their team) fans.

That’s what Winning Time: Reggie Miller Vs. The New York Knicks was all about.