MY SCIENTOLOGY MOVIE

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Though exactly as scattershot as its clumsy personalized title lets on, “My Scientology Movie” succeeds at exposing the nuts and bolts elements of the pseudo religious cult imploding under the weight of its abusive methods of mind control and extortion. You know there’s a glaring problem when you see that a copy of Scientology’s “Sea Organization Religious Commitment” contract requires believers to sign on for a “billion years” in order to save Earth.

You almost have to laugh. Cue the sad trombones for the next billion years. It does however raise an inconvenient question about Scientology’s absentee voices regarding climate change. Where do Scientology’s Earth-protecting activists stand ecologically? I smell fodder for another Scientology documentary.

Longtime BBC documentary producer/host Louis Theroux (pronounced ‘through’) is the investigator busy tweezing out all the information he can about Scientology via any legal method available. Theroux is hilariously pokerfaced as this film’s all-too-present narrator. Nick Broomfield has nothing on Louis (pronounced Louie) Theroux when it comes to putting himself front and center in his films. Perhaps it’s a British Unfortunately, Theroux’s less than charismatic persona saturates every frame of “My Scientology Movie.”

His efforts unsurprisingly earn him Scientology’s enmity, as evidenced by an ongoing stream of bizarre harassment he receives throughout the shoot from mealy-mouthed Scientologists who randomly appear throughout the film. Their scare tactics are cartoonishly mafia-level, yet nerves are rattled.

The film opens with Theroux’s tweets requesting participation from Scientologists. Obliquely threatening responses advise him, “don’t go there big man.” The “loonies” are out in force. You get the feeling that Scientology’s protectors have a lot of free time on their hands.

Theroux lived in Los Angeles for more than a year in order to be close to Scientology’s headquarters in Hammet, and closer still to Scientology’s “celebrity center,” during which time he earned the trust of Marty Rathbun, the former Inspector General for the religion. Rathbun was in charge of intimidating possible defectors (a.k.a. “suppressive persons”), and applying well-placed punches whenever he deemed that the situation demanded it.

Marty eventually “blew” from the church after a falling out with David Miscavige, the church’s chairman of the board. Miscavige took over control after the death of its science fiction writer leader L. Ron Hubbard. Since then, Miscavige has been known to wear a ridiculous quasi-naval uniform complete with a board of medal ribbons for who-knows-what.

More ridiculous yet is the Sea Org motto, “Revenimus” (“We come back”). You just can’t make this stuff up. I mean, yes people can make this shit up. And other people believe it. Time to reassess your beliefs perhaps?

The filmmaker posts casting notices for a film about Scientology, then goes on to use audition clips and recreated Scientology training sessions to show how easily people can be transformed. Rathbun oversees the sessions and even interacts as he once did with members in order to turn them into docile tools of Scientology. Exercises such as the “bull-bait drill” leave a lasting impression on all parties involved. It‘s probable that the Church of Scientology planted at least one of the actors auditioning for Theroux’s film. The filmmakers do indeed cast reasonable facsimiles of David Miscavige and Tom Cruise.

Scientology loves jargon; it even has a ready-made term for Theroux’s idea of recreating church practices; they call it “squirreling.” The film states that there are about 25,000 Scientologist members in the U.S. The future does not look bright for the Church of Scientology, but documentaries like this one will leave audiences picking over its bones long after it is dead and gone.

Not Rated. 93 mins.

THE IDENTICAL

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"THE IDENTICAL"
CLASSIC CINEMA — JEAN-LUC GODARD'S "BREATHLESS"

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Pro-Israel Propaganda: Elvis Style

A shoo-in for a spot on any worst movies of 2014 list, this poorly constructed slice of propaganda, courtesy of the Messianic Jewish Alliance of America (MJAA), is so unintentionally campy you can’t help but laugh. Atrocious costume designs, anachronistic dialogue, wretched music, and tone-deaf performances are abundant.

It’s rare that a film as amateurish as this one gets a wide North American theatrical release, or that such a dubious project drags down two otherwise reliable Hollywood B-list actors with it. Remember Ray Liotta and Ashley Judd? How the nearly mighty have fallen. From the looks of it, you’d never guess that Ashley Judd (“Kiss the Girls”) and Ray Liotta (“Goodfellas”) were once hot commodities in Hollywood. Here, Ray Liotta gives such an unbearably hammy performance, in a make-up heavy role that spans roughly 35 years, that you wonder why he isn’t doing community theater — or community service — in Salinas. If Liotta’s aging process is embarrassing, Judd’s performance, as Liotta’s non-aging Southern wife with the IQ of a child, is plain bizarre.

Hopefully the MJAA compensated Liotta and Judd for decimating their future earnings potential.

Screenwriter Howard Klausner must have used a ghostwriter to pen his only previous script, the Clint Eastwood-directed film “Space Cowboys” (2000), because Klausner’s cliché-riddled screenplay for “The Identical” is something you’d expect from an underachieving high school student.

Watch as a slimy entertainment manager throws handfuls of cash into the air! Listen to the worst Southern accents you’ve ever heard! Marvel at a plotline so pretentious even a five-year-old wouldn’t buy it!

Debut director Dustin Marcellino was presumably given the gig by his Motown record-producing grandfather Jerry Marcellino, whose ludicrous attempts at writing original [partial] rock ‘n’ roll songs pepper the movie like so much aural dishwater (as sung by a very skilled Elvis impersonator). Cringe-worthy lyrics arrive at regular intervals during stage performance sequences that go on too long regardless of their strict 90-second abbreviated form.

“City lights keep on shining, remind me of the love we knew. City lights keep on shining, I see your smiling eyes of blue.”

Barf.

The film’s preachy religious and political narrative stretches back to the Great Depression. William and Helen Hemsley are a young unemployed Christian couple with more dumb lust than common sense. They follow the Bible’s teachings to “be fruitful and multiply” in spite of the fact that they can’t even feed themselves. The couple’s identical twin offspring present more economic strain than they can handle. A visit to a Bible-thumping sermon by Reverend Reece Wade (Liotta), an ostensibly Baptist minister with Jewish leanings, plants in William the idea that “it is better to give than to receive.” Reverend Wade underscores the oversimplified ethos of his rote sermon with the over-shared disclosure that he and his wife Louise (Judd) are unable to procreate.

The next day, William and Helen pay a visit to the Reeces with an offer to hand over one of their twin children to appease their dilemma. Oh the transgressive blessings at hand. The Hemsleys conceal their well-meaning deed by claiming the death of their child. They go through the motions of a minister-attended burial, complete with an empty shoebox coffin.

Years pass. Enter Elvis impersonator and real-life Elvis lookalike Blake Rayne (real name Ryan Pelton) in the dual role of the Hemsley’s separated-at-birth twins Ryan and Drexel. Although minister Reece tries to bring Ryan up to follow in his footsteps as a preacher, Ryan can’t resist the boogie-woogie calling of the devil’s honky-tonks on the outskirts of town. No one seems to notice that Ryan sings exactly like the King. This must be an alternate universe. Indeed, when papa Wade gives a ridiculously oversimplified sermon, praising Israel’s victory in the 1967 Six-Day War, he goes so far as to bring out an inexplicable menorah for his Christian congregation to scratch their heads over.

Ryan and Drexel look and sound exactly alike, except that Drexel is a successful rock ‘n’ roll recording artist, and Ryan is a talented wannabe who fails to recognize his resemblance to Drexel as anything more than a weird coincidence. Ryan is content to sing along to his brother’s records and perform at local amateur night competitions. Forget about any willing suspension of disbelief; “The Identical” is all about blank naiveté. Even when Ryan and Drexel come (nearly) face to face, neither one calls out their obvious blood relation.

Presumably, the Messianic Jewish Alliance of America produced “The Identical” (under their City of Peace Films company) to intangibly drum up Christian support for Israel. There’s coincidence in the fact that the movie opens at a time when Israel is coming under fierce global criticism for its military actions against Palestine. This is a movie you can laugh at, but you won’t be able to enjoy.

Rated PG. 107 mins.

ZERO STARS

THE MASTER

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Jack of All Trades — Master of None

Paul Thomas Anderson Tries Too Hard and Not Hard Enough

For all of the over-exaggerated attention – read publicity ploy — given to “The Master’s” loose narrative ties regarding the Church of Scientology, Paul Thomas Anderson’s cinematic dog lacks any amount of storyline, arc, or likeable characters. The movie is a riddle not worth solving.

As a high-budget experiment in avant-garde filmmaking, “The Master” is barely tolerable if not entirely watchable. Anderson’s ballyhooed process of shooting the film in outdated 70mm comes off as a needless gimmick. The look of the film might be pristine, but what’s being shown leaves much to be desired.

The cinematic sleeping pill features an all-in performance by Joaquin Phoenix as Freddie Quell, a rudderless PTSD-suffering World War II Navy veteran who makes Mickey Rourke’s alcoholic version of Charles Bukowski in “Barfly” seem like a lightweight. Freddie has a knack for drinking anything with alcohol, including torpedo fuel and paint thinner.

The year is 1950. Freddei’s Freddie is like a character right out of Lou Reed’s iconic song “Street Hassle.” To paraphrase the song, He can never find a voice to talk with that he can call his own. So the first thing he sees that allows him the right to be; he follows it. It’s called bad luck.

In San Francisco, Freddie stumbles onto a moored yacht inhabited by L. Ron Hubbard alter ego Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman). The boat is headed for New York via the Panama Canal. Onboard are Dodd’s group of faceless cult followers and his loyal collaborator wife Peggy (Amy Adams), and two young adult sons — probably from another marriage. Dodd catches Freddie with a freshly made concoction of questionable hooch — Freddie poisoned some poor soul with the last batch he made while working on a farm picking cabbages. Dodd befriends the helpless scoundrel.

Dodd appreciates Freddie’s animalistic nature and utter desperation. He may harbor homosexual feelings for the wacked-out stowaway. Freddie is a perfect test subject for Dodd to try out his “process,” a ritualized survey of repeated questions. “Have you ever slept with a member of your family?” Dodd asks. For Freddie, the answer is yes.

It’s evident that Anderson is evoking a time in American culture when people had limited access to information. Wartime propaganda created a strange kind of isolationist psychology that adventurous people sought to escape. An impromptu religion based in science-fiction fantasy just might do the trick.
“The Master” is all theme and no substance.

A modicum of social context and gratuitous sex hardly distract from the parlor game Anderson plays with his audience. Joaquin Phoenix’s damaged character reflects his own troubled behavior over the past half-decade so much that you wonder how much of it is just Joaquin playing himself. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s portrayal seems trapped in amber. Lancaster Dodd is such a huckster and a shyster that you can’t get on either side of him as a protagonist or an antagonist.

As with Lou Reed’s notorious album of over-modulated feedback (“Metal Machine Music”), the audience is left to decide if the movie is some kind of bad joke, or an artistic project gone horribly astray. If you’re the kind of person who likes anti-narrative movies made up of barely connected scenes that defy all rules of dramaturgy, then you might get something out of “The Master.” All I got was bored, sleepy, and hungry.

Rated R. 138 mins.