(Still Trying Not to Laugh) Riviera!

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Thanks to the #CycloneBomb, we’ve been relatively housebound for a few days.

In my pre-Donner Party mental state, I thought that watching the new-ish Sundance series “Riviera” would at least provide warm, sunny visuals that would take my mind off the sub-zero crap raging outside.

Well, the warm, sunny visuals are there.  No argument.

What isn’t included in this episodic soap are:

1. A story

2. A viable script

3. Dialogue that manages to rise above anything uttered at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.

4. With the exception of a few, performances noted for anything other than how awful they are.

I admit “Riviera” had the car crash-effect on me.  It was simply so horrifying I couldn’t stop watching, mainly because I HAD to see what gawd awful schmata they were going to shove Julia Styles into next.  (I had no idea there were THAT many shirt dresses in the world, I shit you not.)

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Does this look like an über-wealthy denizen of Monaco to you?  Also, take a good look at that thousand yard stare.  That pretty much compromises the entirety of her performance.

Poor Lena Olin also suffered from the sadistic “Riviera” wardrobe team.

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It’s the freaking RIVIERA, not Oslo!  And yes, I know it gets cold in the South of France, I’ve been there, but you tell me: what IS that?  Everyone else was happily cavorting in bathing suits and sun dresses ) except for the previously mentioned hideous shirt dresses.)

To her credit, Olin did her best to rise above the inane storytelling (by Neil Jordan, of all people) and morphed into a neo-Euro-version of Joan Collin’s character on the much missed “Dynasty.”  But even the accomplished Olin could barely get out some of the most stupid lines ever written for an actress.

The plot, such as it is, has something to do with the world of wealthy art patrons (all of whom apparently live in the Riviera), a mysterious hard drive (the contents of which are never revealed, so it could have been someone’s complete collection of Sponge Bob for all we know) that the “Russian government” may or may not be interested in, mean brothel owners…well, one in particular, and…..(trying to think of SOMETHING) oh, rehab.  Yes, heroin is bad!  None of it makes a lick of sense.

Oh!  But it does feature everybody’s favorite bad guy from GoT!

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And this young lady:

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How come she doesn’t need furs?

Some messes are glorious, like “The Fifth Element.”  Some are just messes.

Unless you’re a straight up masochist, I recommend a hard pass.

Find someplace warmer and sunnier to take your mind off the chilling winds.

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Wormwood

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I spent a good portion of New Year’s Day binge watching this haunting Netflix docudrama.  Directed by Errol Morris of “Thin Blue Line” and “Fog of War” fame, “Wormwood” is a unique and truly frightening journey into post-WWII America in which maniacs at the CIA were busy developing what would eventually become MKUltra.  What’s a little LSD between friends, right?

When Army scientist, Frank Olson, mysteriously flew out of his window at NY’s Statler Hotel in November of 1953, his death presented his young son, Eric, with a Quixotic life’s quest: to find out what really happened to his father.

The episodes cut between chilling and tragic interviews with Eric, and exceptionally atmospheric dramatic scenes as imagined by Morris.  Peter Sarsgaard’s Frank Olson is a perfectly crafted cypher, challenging us to wonder if ANYONE actually knew this man, let alone his family.  Also turning in wondrous performances are Tim Blake Nelson, Molly Parker, a totally sinister Jimmi Simpson and the much beloved Bob Balaban.

The documentary scenes are filled with heartache and the kind of despair that allows us to glimpse beyond a stranger’s event horizon to the black hole that has begun to devour them.  If the story being told wasn’t so monumentally important, I doubt I could have finished watching.

Perhaps one of the most tantalizing scenes in the series was an interview between Errol Morris and American journalist legend, Seymour Hersh.

No longer the swaggering young hero who exposed the My Lai Massacre and nabbed the 1970 Pulitzer, Hersh has morphed into the Fourth Estate’s Jabba the Hut, not in size but in attitude.  Puffed-up with comfort and hubris, Hersh dismissively stares down Morris and then smugly assures him that he knows exactly what happened to Frank Olson in 1953.  Of course he can’t spill the beans because that would allegedly jeopardize his source.  Hersh definitely believed that he was totally owning Morris, but he foolishly forgot that the cameras trained on him belonged solely to the filmmaker.  Oops, Seymour!  Your callous pomposity is now forever preserved in an age when we’ve come to treat journalists like snakes that we can’t immediately identify as being venomous.

If you’re turned on by riveting documentaries, moody murder mysteries, great performances, the Cold War, CIA skullduggery,  MKUltra, and genuine human pathos – the kind that makes you question pretty much everything – then I highly recommend “Wormwood.”

It’s a slow burn, but once the fire finally catches, you simply can’t look away.  And if you’re wondering about the title, check Revelation 8 verse 10.

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