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    Prosecutor Behind ‘Rust’ Charges Steps Aside, Appointing Replacements

    The involuntary manslaughter case against Alec Baldwin has suffered setbacks, and now the district attorney has withdrawn from the case and named two special prosecutors.The district attorney who brought involuntary manslaughter charges against Alec Baldwin in the fatal shooting of a cinematographer on the “Rust” film set in New Mexico is stepping away from the case, her office announced Wednesday, as she named two new special prosecutors to handle the case.The district attorney of Santa Fe County, Mary Carmack-Altwies, had been the face of the prosecution since the beginning. But in recent weeks the case has faced a couple of setbacks: Prosecutors downgraded the charges Mr. Baldwin faces after his lawyers noted that the law he was initially charged under was not passed until after the fatal shooting, and the special prosecutor who was originally named to help with the case, Andrea Reeb, decided to step down after her appointment was challenged in court.The appointment of Ms. Reeb was initially challenged by lawyers for Mr. Baldwin, who argued that it violated the New Mexico Constitution for her to serve as a special prosecutor and a New Mexico legislator at the same time. (She was also an elected member of the state’s House of Representatives.)A lawyer for Hannah Gutierrez-Reed, the original armorer on the film “Rust,” who was also charged with involuntary manslaughter in the fatal Oct. 21, 2021, shooting of the cinematographer, Halyna Hutchins, then raised another issue.The lawyer, Jason Bowles, argued that if Ms. Carmack-Altwies — who had said she needed help prosecuting such a high-profile case — wanted to appoint a new special prosecutor, the law required her to recuse herself from the case entirely. The judge hearing the case agreed, and Ms. Carmack-Altwies was left with the choice to either hire legal help and stay on the case or step back from it and let a new special prosecutor act.She chose to step back, announcing on Wednesday that she would be appointing two New Mexico lawyers, Kari Morrissey and Jason Lewis, as special prosecutors.“My responsibility to the people of the First Judicial District is greater than any one case, which is why I have chosen to appoint a special prosecutor in the ‘Rust’ case,” Ms. Carmack-Altwies said in a statement. “Kari Morrissey and Jason Lewis will unflinchingly pursue justice in the death of Halyna Hutchins.”Now, the case will move forward without either of the prosecutors who made the decision to charge Mr. Baldwin and Ms. Gutierrez-Reed with involuntary manslaughter, and who reached a plea deal with Dave Halls, the movie’s first assistant director, who had oversight of safety on set. More

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    At New Directors/New Films, See the World Through Perceptive Filmmakers’ Eyes

    “Earth Mama,” “Tótem” and other strong entries offer proof that the art form is flourishing regardless of what’s happening in Hollywood.Like the vernal equinox, New Directors/New Films is a sign that winter and the soul-crushing slog known as awards season have finally ended. Now in its 52nd year, the festival, opening Wednesday, is a great place to recharge and revive. With a slate largely drawn from recent international film festivals — from Berlin and Locarno to Sundance — the 12-day event is also a nice way to travel the world by proxy while previewing work before it begins percolating into art theaters and onto streaming services.Each edition of New Directors — a presentation of Film at Lincoln Center and the Museum of Modern Art — is partly shaped by the competition from other events. It’s also shaped by its programmers’ tastes and orthodoxies, including ideas about what constitutes a festival movie, which, much as at Cannes and elsewhere, tends to mean gravely serious, non-genre work. That can get monotonous, but at its best, New Directors offers enduring proof of cinematic life beyond the corporate bottom line: The festival’s commitment to film art is a galvanizing article of faith.This year’s program consists of 27 features, about half of which are North American premieres, along with some dozen shorts. Among the strongest is the opener, “Earth Mama,” the terrifically assured feature debut from the writer-director Savanah Leaf, a former Olympic volleyball player. Set in the Bay Area, this contemporary drama tracks the heartbreaking, frustrating, at times exasperatingly self-sabotaging daily travails of Gia (a lovely Tia Nomore), a young, single, heavily pregnant woman, as she tries to regain custody of her son and daughter, who are in foster care. Every conceivable odd has been stacked against Gia, including the degradations of systemic oppression.Anchored by Leaf’s empathy and by her precise, confident visual style, the story unfolds during the last stretch of Gia’s pregnancy. With naturalistic dialogue that largely avoids exegesis — as well as with expressionistic flourishes and subtle camerawork that often reveal what the characters don’t or can’t say — Leaf skillfully engages with larger social issues while steering clear of the kind of sermonizing that too often seeps into similarly themed dramas. In Leaf’s hands, Gia isn’t a case study or object lesson. She is instead a woman who’s both singular and much like any other — a human being, in other words, struggling to find a place and a sense of sovereignty amid the onslaughts of everyday life.Cole Doman, left, and Lío Mehiel in “Mutt,” directed by Vuk Lungulov-Klotz.Courtesy of Quiltro LLC“Mutt,” another festival highlight, this one set in present-day New York, follows its heart-stealing title character across a single exceedingly eventful and emotionally fraught day. Written and directed by Vuk Lungulov-Klotz, it centers on Feña, a young man who has recently transitioned (played by the charismatic Lío Mehiel, who, like the filmmaker, is trans), as he crisscrosses the city and through the labyrinthine complexities of his life, including his tricky, sometimes confusing relationships with friends and family. With fluid cinematography, deft narrative pacing and swells of feeling, Lungulov-Klotz creates an urgent, of-the-moment portrait of a young man who’s at once distinct and movingly, rightfully ordinary.Like most movies on the contemporary festival circuit, the selections in New Directors tend to draw on a hodgepodge of different realist traditions (Hollywood, the European art film, Sundance, etc.). This year, more than a few selections also incorporate fantastical interludes — from brief hallucinations to alternative worlds — that productively complicate and on occasion destabilize their realism. One of the boldest, most extensive uses of the fantastic occurs in “The Maiden,” a dreamy, gentle story of loss and mourning from the Canadian writer-director Graham Foy. Set in the hinterlands of Alberta, the movie focuses on several teenagers, both living and dead — a haunting that feels like a generational cri de coeur.I’m still puzzling through the far-out, what-in-the-what finale of “Astrakan,” a drama from the French writer-director David Depesseville about a watchful 12-year-old, Samuel (the appealing Mirko Giannini), who’s been placed in a foster family that seems supremely ill-equipped to deal with his trauma. For most of its running time, the movie embraces a familiar if somewhat stylized realism only to abruptly veer into full-blown symbolism. Like some of the other movies in the lineup, “Astrakan” owes a conspicuous debt to established filmmakers — the boy at times evokes François Truffaut’s Antoine Doinel while the filmmaking nods at Robert Bresson via Bruno Dumont — although at its strongest, it stands on its own.The cinematic touchstones are just as obvious elsewhere in the program, which isn’t necessarily a negative. The influence of the Ukrainian auteur Sergei Loznitsa clearly informs the dramatic tumult, political pessimism and elegantly flowing camerawork of “Pamfir,” a visually striking drama from the writer-director Dmytro Sukholytkyy-Sobchuk about a smuggler who’s recently returned home. There’s certainly some of the Portuguese filmmaker Miguel Gomes’s DNA in “Tommy Guns,” a far-out tale from Carlos Conceição that opens in Angola (where he was born) during the tail end of that country’s war of independence. The movie opens powerfully and gathers dramatic momentum as it begins to blur the time frame, only to lose its sting (and focus on subjugated Angolans) when it drifts into self-conscious surrealism.Naíma Sentíes in “Tótem,” the second feature from writer-director Lila Avilés.Courtesy of Limerencia FilmsEnergetic, sweeping and feminist to the bone, the Iranian drama “Leila’s Brothers,” from the writer-director Saeed Roustaee, traces its title character through the claustrophobic tumult of her life, family and world. Leila (Taraneh Alidoosti, vivid and grounded) is trying to balance her desires with the competing, clamorous needs of her squabbling brothers and impoverished, traditionally minded parents. Organized around a series of encounters, the movie fuses the personal with the political. It opens with a protest that soon turns violent, an overture that sets the tense, fractious mood and telegraphs the story’s trajectory. Then, scene by scene, it lays bare the complexities of contemporary Iran.“Chile ’76,” Manuela Martelli’s visually and tonally meticulous exploration of political resistance and conscience, takes place in the brutal years after the 1973 American-backed coup that brought Gen. Augusto Pinochet to power. Soon after it opens, Carmen (Aline Küppenheim), a doctor’s wife with expensive taste who’s decamped to her family’s vacation home, is asked by a priest for help with a wounded stranger. Before long Carmen is drawn into a shadowy world of passwords and strange noises on the phone, and this unnerving feature has turned into a veritable horror movie. When a body washes up on a beach, Carmen tells her grandchildren to avert their eyes; by then, though, hers have been pried open.There isn’t a false note in the tender Mexican drama “Tótem,” which follows the 7-year-old Sol (Naíma Sentíes, suitably luminous) as she navigates the chaos and indifference of her sprawling family during celebrations for her ailing father. With intricate staging, lapidary camerawork and an expressionistically warm palette — along charming appearances from the natural world — the writer-director Lila Avilés creates a richly textured, deeply compassionate portrait of a family that’s falling apart as one of its youngest members comes into consciousness. “Tótem” is only Avilés’s second feature — her first, “The Chambermaid,” screened at the 2019 festival — but it’s also one of the finest movies you’ll see this year.“Tótem” is also the kind of movie that I think one of the festival’s early programmers, the writer Donald Richie, had in mind when he told The Times in 1972 that the inaugural New Directors “will introduce deserving films that perhaps otherwise might not have exposure here.” It was an honorable idea then; it still is. If anything, the fragility of the art-film exhibition, which has only been worsened by the pandemic, makes the festival’s support of movies like “Tótem” feel even more necessary than it did back then. And if I haven’t convinced you to get off the couch, then consider that this year the festival has sweetened its offerings with a smartly priced package of five movies for $50 — a cinephile carrot that’s as good as it gets.New Directors/New Films runs from Wednesday through April 9. For more information, go to newdirectors.org. More

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    ‘I’m an Electric Lampshade’ Review: My Accountant, the Pop Star

    A 60-year-old retiree travels to the Philippines to follow his dreams of stardom in this documentary.The documentary “I’m an Electric Lampshade” follows an unlikely subject: Doug McCorkle, who has spent nearly 20 years working as a corporate accountant in New York state. He’s a person of unassuming appearance — an older gentleman in glasses who is balding and not trying to hide it. His colleagues speak fondly of him in interviews, and McCorkle is happily married to his wife, Gina. They have no children, and they are economically comfortable enough to retire early.But despite his commonplace appearance, McCorkle’s retirement is an event that few are likely to forget. With Gina’s encouragement, McCorkle has decided to reinvent himself as a pop star, and his retirement party serves as a launch party for his first music video, an electronic track referencing drugs and sex.The director John Clayton Doyle follows McCorkle on his transformation, and the documentary changes as McCorkle’s project grows. What begins as a mixture of vérité footage and interviews morphs into a surreal travel documentary when McCorkle joins a training center for drag queens and aspiring actors in the Philippines. The film ends as a concert documentary for its 60-year-old star, who performs scantily clad and in glam-rock makeup.The film’s most direct critiques of McCorkle’s project pass by briefly in interludes during his trip to the Philippines. He is confronted by a fellow trainee, a Filipino drag queen named Fandango, who reminds McCorkle that he is essentially a tourist. But the film doesn’t linger on political critique, and it largely avoids asking the practical questions that might add dramatic weight to McCorkle’s dreams. The documentary hides the financial costs, physical tolls and even artistic philosophy, leaving only an exercise in ego.I’m an Electric LampshadeNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 36 minutes. Rent or buy on most major streaming platforms. More

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    ‘Tori and Lokita’ Review: Precarious Lives in Exile

    In the new movie from the Dardenne brothers, two underage African migrants struggle to make a home in an unkind land.Like most of the films from the brothers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, their latest — the harrowing “Tori and Lokita” — is a story about outcasts. And like most their films, it too is a suspense thriller about moral conscience, one that takes place in and around a gray, Belgian city. There, two young African migrants are struggling to make a home in an unkind world in which nearly every human exchange is transactional and carries the threat of betrayal.Tori and Lokita — played by Pablo Schils and Joely Mbundu, both appealing nonprofessionals — are living at a gently chaotic children’s center and passing as brother and sister; they’re also in limbo. Tori, a young-looking 12, has his residency papers, but the 17-year-old Lokita hasn’t yet been granted hers. Faced with the specter of Lokita’s deportation, the two are intensely focused on finding a way for her to stay in the country. They pore over her story, rehearsing what she should tell immigration officers, all while trying to dodge the smugglers whom they owe money and running orders for a local (illegal) cannabis dealer.The movie opens with Lokita in the middle of an immigration interview, the camera fixed on her in close-up — for two progressively uneasy minutes — as she responds to offscreen questions. Her face and voice are composed at first, her answers a touch canned, though everything shifts when the interviewer challenges her story. Because there are no cutaways to the questioner, your gaze, your focus, remains on Lokita, compelling you to keep looking even as the queries keep coming and she begins to crumble and then to cry, her testimony and self-possession undone by the soft droning of dehumanizing power.The interrogation is uncomfortable to watch, which is the point. The Dardennes aren’t simply forcing you to see Lokita, to see her bravery and tremulous vulnerability, they are also making you a witness to state violence. The story’s most conspicuous villains are the drug dealer and his gang as well as the smugglers, all of whom hound and exploit the children relentlessly, demanding money and, in the case of the dealer, worse from Lokita. Yet, as the movie underscores, the larger fault here lies with a country — and by extension, its people — that treats migrants so inhumanely (some worse than others).The interview is stopped, and the scene wraps up quickly — there’s a cut to some anxious white faces — and Tori and Lokita are soon regrouping and rushing, always rushing, toward their next move. They falter and stumble, moments of difficulty that the Dardennes intersperse with scenes of tender intimacy that fill in their back story and other interludes that insistently remind you that, however independent and resourceful the pair may seem, these are children. When Tori asks an immigration officer, “Why can’t my sister have her papers?,” the Dardennes (who aren’t above jerking tears) keep the camera at the boy’s level.However unvarnished the Dardennes’ movies appear, however seemingly plain and obvious, their approach is refined, and the movies themselves are highly stylized. The stories tend to be fairly simple and feature naturalistic dialogue, nondescript locations and marginalized young characters; and it’s crucial to underline that Tori and Lokita are their first Black protagonists. The precarity of the lives that the Dardennes explore give the stories feeling and tension while their directorial choices — including where they put the camera and how they situate characters in the world — give their work its characteristic ethical politics.The story takes a turn, narratively and tonally — the rhythms seem to quicken or at least your pulse does — after another of Lokita’s immigration interviews goes badly. The dealer offers to get her counterfeit papers, if she works at a cannabis grow house tending the plants out in the boonies. She does, and there, cut off from Tori in this sprawling, windowless space, she waters and fertilizes the plants and is supplied basic necessities by indifferent minders. Lokita has effectively become a prisoner while the more resourceful Tori continues to scramble in the outside world, a bleak situation that mirrors their respective immigration statuses.Time and again in the Dardennes’ movies, imperiled and isolated characters are saved — by themselves, by others — in moments that express the filmmakers’ humanism. It’s easy to imagine or, really, hope that something similar will happen in “Tori and Lokita,” a possibility that starts to seem more and more like magical thinking, particularly given how abjectly African migrants are often treated. Surely, you think, someone decent will step up to offer help. What I didn’t grasp when I first watched the movie is that the act of grace I was anxiously waiting for had happened before the movie began. Lokita had once saved Tori; they saved each other. Yet in a world as barbaric as this one, who else is willing to step up?Tori and LokitaNot rated. In French, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 28 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘The Worst Ones’ Review: The Gazes of Children

    In their feature, the directors Lisa Akoka and Romane Gueret build a provocative critique of filmmaking practices.A freckled girl, Maylis (Mélina Vanderplancke), sits in a classroom that has been turned into a casting venue. Her gaze could be described as apathetic were it not for the way she challenges Gabriel (Johan Heldenbergh), a fictional filmmaker, at the start of the keen drama “The Worst Ones,” from Lise Akoka and Romane Gueret. Those two real directors’ movie follows Gabriel as he films in an economically depressed neighborhood in Northern France. That Gabriel gives Maylis a nonspeaking role speaks volumes.The faces of Vanderplancke and the other nonprofessional actors here are memorable, as are their gazes. And this is one the conceits of Akoka and Gueret’s movie (which they wrote with Eléonore Gurrey): a gaze can resist objectification.The title comes from Maylis’s shrewd observation about whom Gabriel intends to cast — and why. Maylis is one of four youngsters the filmmaker and his assistant hire. He casts Lily (Mallory Wanecque), struggling with grief after her brother’s death, as the lead, a pregnant 15-year-old. Gabriel chooses the pint-size brawler Ryan (Timéo Mahaut) to be Lily’s little brother. Ryan has found a haven with his sister, Mélodie (a terrific Angélique Gernez). Also cast: Jessy (Loïc Pech), an initially cocky and grateful 17-year-old.Gabriel’s interest in marginalized children is authentic, if exploitative. Akoka and Gueret get at that tension by widening their focus to include their character’s lives, as well as glimpses of a wisely wary community.Luminously photographed and nimbly edited, “The Worst Ones” — which won the Un Certain Regard competition at the Cannes Film Festival in 2022 — offers a provocative critique of filmmaking practices. It also presents a subtle defense of the onscreen miracles revealed by the young and the raw.The Worst OnesNot rated. In French, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 39 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘Petite Solange’ Review: Coming of Age as Your Parents Divorce

    Axelle Ropert’s carefully calibrated film from France follows a girl experiencing the pain of having to accept her parents as people with faults.Early in the French film “Petite Solange,” four family members make eye contact with one another in turn in a measured series of close-ups. It’s a quiet expression of intimacy, and the moment establishes their balance and bond as a group. It also illustrates the compassionate gaze of the writer-director, Axelle Ropert, who spins a conventional divorce story into a focused melodrama about the loneliness of youth.Ropert filters the film’s events through the experience of Solange (Jade Springer), a precocious girl on the brink of adolescence. Her parents are in the arts — Aurélia (Léa Drucker) is a stage actress and Antoine (Philippe Katerine) runs a musical instruments shop — and Solange relishes spending time with them in their creative work spaces. Delight gives way to despair, however, once the couple starts fighting and Solange witnesses her home steadily turn from a safe haven into a conflict zone. Jarred by this new reality, Solange retreats socially, and Ropert captures her dejection in a pair of vivid sequences set after sundown in Nantes, where the family lives.The director allows her protagonist’s pain to protract and pulsate without narrative fuss; even scenes of turmoil unspool with a deliberate delicacy. Sometimes, a sentimental score distracts from the careful images. But as Solange’s teenage woes bubble up and then cool to a simmer, Ropert reveals a knack for calibrating emotion. It can be agony to accept one’s parents as people with needs and faults all their own, and Ropert observes Solange’s coming-of-age lucidly and without judgment.Petite SolangeNot rated. In French, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 26 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘Reggie’ Review: Reggie Jackson on Himself, Racism and, Yes, Baseball

    Jackson, a.k.a. Mr. October, was called a lot of things during his storied career with the Yankees. A new documentary goes beyond the nicknames.In 1997, Reggie Jackson hit three home runs in a single World Series game. He was a star on the field, and now he’s a star in the documentary “Reggie.”Prime VideoStar athletes in America are often expected to have brash personalities. This delights or alienates fans to different degrees, and for different reasons. A star athlete with a brash personality who also happens to be Black is apt to infuriate a large and vociferous corner of fandom.The baseball great, Reggie Jackson, who distinguished himself on several teams but was especially critical to the success of the New York’s Yankees in the late 1970s, was certainly a case in point. In 1976, George Steinbrenner, the Yankees owner at the time, paid $3.5 million — back in the day, that was a lot of money — to acquire Jackson. The right fielder, because of his frankness, immediately made himself unpopular. “The reason you’re uncomfortable with me is because I’m the truth,” Jackson says in a contemporary interview conducted for this documentary, directed with measured assurance by Alexandria Stapleton. While that’s a statement some would take issue with, this movie is about Jackson’s truth, which, as it happens, is about a lot more than himself.Hence “Reggie,” taking its cue from Jackson himself, considers the famed athlete’s career in a manner more reflective than splashy. Yes, there is a bit at the beginning when Jackson shows off his fleet of well-kept vintage cars in a bright shiny row of garages at his home in Monterey. But soon Jackson gets real in a more meaningful way.He himself interviews several key figures in his life. The first is the home run legend, Hank Aaron, who died in 2021. The pair talk about racism, the civil rights movement and the way baseball fans took umbrage when a Black player caught up with the stats established by a white player in the past. “I never in my life thought about Babe Ruth,” Aaron, a quiet man, says, raising his voice ever so slightly.Later, talking about a stereotypical perception of Black athletes, Jackson says, “They’re not angry. They’re hurt. They’re disappointed. They’re searching for dignity.”And while the viewer might expect the film’s tone, and Jackson’s demeanor, to quieten as the narrative winds down into the present day, it does not. As a young player, Jackson stood on the field of the 1972 World Series and heard Jackie Robinson, who broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball, say, “I am extremely proud and pleased to be here this afternoon, but must admit that I am going to be tremendously more pleased and more proud when I look at that third-base coaching line one day and see a Black face managing in baseball.” Once he stopped playing, Jackson fervently tried to make Robinson’s vision a reality, attempting to buy first the Oakland As, then the Dodgers. His bids did not succeed. “I wasn’t a good fit,” he says indignantly, almost spitting out the words.Even as this movie goes deep on still vital topics, it doesn’t skimp on baseball dish. Jackson recalls that his laudatory nickname, Mr. October, was actually coined contemptuously by his teammate, the beloved Yankee captain Thurman Munson, with whom Jackson had an uneasy relationship. And the detailed accounts of his greatest hits — like when he hit three home runs in a single game in the 1977 World Series — are exhilarating.ReggieRated PG-13 for strong language including racial slurs. Running time: 1 hour 44 minutes. Watch on Amazon Prime Video. More