REVIEWS. JAY KELLY is Noah Baumbach's "Starstruck Memories." Plus, MJ's thoughts on the theatrical re-release of KILL BILL: THE WHOLE BLOODY AFFAIR.

George Clooney as the title character in Noah Baumbach's Jay Kelly.

"All my memories are movies." - Jay Kelly (George Clooney)

George Clooney and Jay Kelly are very similar. In fact, at times, the two seem interchangeable: both are famous, handsome, charismatic Hollywood leading men. Both live whirlwind lives filled with soundstages, industry tributes, and entourages. Both are in their sixties, facing the inevitable fading of good looks, virility and popularity.

I'd say the similarities stop there, but there's more to explore. Noah Baumbach's new film, though named after its title character, offers yet another exploration of fame, one which is not exclusive to Jay Kelly but, by extension, those around him. It should be considered alongside Fellini's 8½ and Woody Allen's Stardust Memories for its fusion of comedy with drama in the midst of an artist's personal life crisis. Though it's hard to argue anything compares to Fellini's 1963 masterpiece, an avant-garde, semi-autobiographical piece of cinema that remains on the short list of the 20th century's greatest movies, Baumbach was clearly inspired by both Fellini and Allen's use of recurring memories and/or dreams to narrate Kelly's introspective journey.

Using dreams or memories can be tricky. The recent Eternity uses a faux personal "archives" to allow characters to revisit pivotal moments in their lives. As they wander through a museum-like tunnel, lifesize dioramas of their younger selves are animated in a kind of theatrical rewind of life. Though Eternity is meant as a rom-com fantasy, these trips down memory lane became more and more cumbersome and seemed to prologue the movie's inevitable conclusion.

Baumbach tries for something more organic and, arguably, more successful. Though some of Jay's memories feel awkward in the way they are integrated into the narrative, each one contains a piece of Kelly's memory puzzle, one that will never quite be complete, but which serves as another data component to his self-awareness. Where does Jay Kelly the actor end and Jay Kelly the person begin? As Kelly quips, "Have you ever tried playing yourself? It's hard to do."

Indeed, but Kelly has never given much thought to that fine line between his public persona and his personal life, at least not until a series of events sparks him to think about both. He has had a successful acting career, a loyal staff and devoted manager Ron (Adam Sandler, in an Oscar-worthy performance), and an invitation to be fêted with a lifetime achievement "tribute" from an Italian film society. Jay isn't really jazzed about the tribute and initially passes it off... until Ron informs him that Peter Schneider (Jim Broadbent), the director who gave Jay his first break, has died.

Stunned by the unexpected news, Jay remembers his last conversation with Peter, in which Peter asked Jay to join his latest film project: his career in decline, he needed Jay's name to resurrect his credibility. Jay turned down Peter's request for help, and that memory of their last chat turns unsettling. Then Jay's younger daughter Daisy, a recent high school graduate, informs him she's off to Europe for a summer of traveling with friends, and laughs off his suggestion to join them.

A few days later at Peter's memorial service, Jay runs into Timothy (a marvelous Billy Crudup), a former acting buddy, now a child psychologist, who harbors great resentment toward Jay, whom he blames for "stealing" a part he was auditioning for when both were acting students. Jay, he says, stole his career and his girlfriend, and Tim's decades-long grudge results in an extraordinary, method-induced, cathartic rant and, finally, a physical fight between the two men.

The next morning, a black-eyed Jay announces he's pulling out of his latest movie and joining his Daisy on her trip to Europe. Gathering Ron, his publicist Liz (Laura Dern) and personal assistant Meg (Thaddea Graham) who has tracked Daisy's whereabouts through her friend's mother's credit card, Jay accepts that Italian film society tribute as a ruse to spend time with his youngest daughter as she travels across Europe by train.

The train setting allows for multiple movie references and situations as Jay battles both Daisy's anger at being followed, the passengers' recognition that a movie star is in their midst, and news that Tim has filed a multi-million dollar lawsuit against him for their bar room tussle. Baumbach deftly handles the action, including multiple stories and crises, with quick-cut edits that make you feel like you're along for the ride. The scene in which Jay boards the train in Paris is especially revealing: we watch him watch the passengers, taking time to focus on each one: a pleasant older woman who's brought food and is carefully unwrapping each time as she builds a sandwich; an attractive middlel-aged woman checking herself out in a mirror before expertly applying lipstick; two male bicyclists traveling together with their gear in tow. Jay makes eye contact with all of them individually, giving each a warm smile and a nod. Is that Jay Kelly the actor, or Jay behaving like himself?

Finding Daisy and her friends on board brings more stress, as she is not happy to see her father, intruding as he has, on her trip. Jay is left alone (again) with his thoughts, even regrets, about what he has done to achieve Hollywood fame and stardom. It's a curious walk down memory lane for Jay: sometimes painful, but equally often with moments of wistful joy. Interspersed with Jay's personal memories are ways in which his fame has affected others: Ron makes apologetic calls to his wife (Greta Gerwig), for always dropping everything to tend to Jay's needs; Liz never tells Jay what she really thinks, only what she thinks he wants to hear.

In one particularly touching scene, Ron and Liz, whose banter throughout the movie suggests a deeper personal connection, recall a moment years earlier in Paris when it was Liz who ran off to take care of a Jay Kelly emergency. Ron was left at the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower where he had planned to propose to her. That proposal never materialized, but it's clear the fallout from Jay's success reached farther than a movie star's gaze, and Sandler and Dern are masterful in a tender scene filled with poignancy: a glimpse of what might have been and an understanding of what they have become since then.

I've long been a fan of Baumbach (though I haven't loved all of his movies) because of his courage taking on difficult subjects and not providing easy, glib conclusions to life's joys and sorrows. Some of his films, like 2019's Marriage Story, which deals with the complexities of divorce and child custody, are raw and often difficult to watch. Others, like 2005's The Squid and the Whale, which also deals with divorce, are softer and gentler and thus easier to digest. Add to that the whimsy of Frances Ha (2012), the boldness of 2023's Barbie (which Baumbach co-wrote with partner/wife Greta Gerwig), and the general quirkiness of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), and you have a filmmaking career that is rich in subject matter and complex in its examination of the existential choices that ultimately define who we are.

Baumbach has assembled a great cast for Jay Kelly: from Clooney's cool, self-deprecating Hollywood icon as the lead, to Sandler and Dern's quieter, but equally compelliing portrayals of those immediately touched by Jay's demands, to Crudup's stunning cameo as disgruntled ex-chum Tim. Gerwig's small, but essential role as Ron's long-suffering wife, and Stacy Keach as Jay's long estranged father - all contribute to a steller ensemble that moves the plot along smoothly, if sometimes a bit frenetically, as Baumbach works to balance themes about the sacrifices and challenges associated with fame for the artist and all those around him.

The movie leaves several unresolved plot points, including those involving Jay's relationship with his father and daughters (an older daughter Jessica, played by Riley Keough, has long-standing trauma from Jay's absentiism during her childhood), as well as ambiguity about Jay's own passage toward self-awareness, which may annoy some expecting a clearer, more final resolution. Actually, I kind of liked the way Baumbach left a few things up in the air, so to speak (sorry, a shameless Clooney film reference), as it suggests how, no matter how hard we aim to understand ourselves, there will always be the hope of doing better, or, as Kelly whispers during his tribute, "Can we go again? I'd like another one." Another chance at the tribute, at his career, at his life? Baumbach doesn't say, but rather leaves it for us to think about. Maybe a little bit of each.

It's safe to say that George Clooney embodies what may be a declining class: the Hollywood movie star, and with its dimishment, something else that is likely part of the fallout. Jay remembers his mentor and first director, Peter Schneider telling him: "That's what movies are for us [the audience]. Pieces of time."

I've thought about those lines alot writing this review: the way in which movies have marked various events in my life, whether it be rites of passage, relationships, accomplishments, or something else. While I'd be reluctant to reduce my life's journey to a series of memorable films, I'll admit that many of my fondesst memories are tied to movies, usually because of an intrinsic emotional or intellectual attachment to a story, a theme, an idea, and once in a while, an actor. And I see those connections as an extension of who I am and what my life's jouney has been like.

In that way, I hope the power of cinema, whether tied to fame or not, remains an integral part of our cultural story. Baumbach's allegory reaches beyond the celebrities who populate the cinematic heavens: our individual stories, our personal path to self-awreness (or not), are all attached to memories. How we process those memories may be the more telling aspect of who we are.

After all, as Baumbach asserts in the movie's first frame:

It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself.

It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all. - Sylvia Plath

Think about it.

*******

Jay Kelly is currently available on Netflix, after completing an extremely limited run in theaters. It is rated "R" for language. No blood, no violence (except the emotional kind), no nudity.

And now for something completely different....

Uma Thurman as "The Bride" in Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair.

Except for Pulp Fiction (1994) and Once Upon a Time in...Hollywood (2019), Quentin Tarantino's movies are far too bloody for my taste. They're usually over-the-top bloodfests that involve ingenious ways of killing and dismemberment, complete with excessive gore. Still, I've watched them alll multiple times, even though I'll admit I've closed my eyes more than a little.

Why this odd obsession with Tarantino's sanguinary treatises on everything from World War II (Inglourious Basterds) to the American Civil War (Django Unchained) and Westward Expansion (The Hateful Eight), each tale told with sufficient blood-letting and also enough comedy and masterful storytelling to keep even the most squeamish interested. Well, almost. I've often heard from friends and colleagues that they just don't like/understand Tarantino's films. Their loss.

In addition to igniting the screen presence of Samuel L. Jackson and Uma Thurman, reviving the careers of John Travolta and Pam Grier, and redefining the roles typically played by Leo and Brad, Tarantino has emerged as one of the finest writer/directors in cinema. His ability to tell a good story, often in non-linear fashion, with enough twists and turns and entertainment references to delight a pop culture historian like me, is a joy to behold. Who else could weave 60s surf music into a tale of a dubious hit man like Vincent Vega, or punctuate a wounded Bride's revenge with notes from Psycho and The Twilight Zone?

Tarantino's knowledge of film is epic, but what is even more impressive is his ability to connect pop culture memes and mottos with 19th century adventure and 21st century technology. The audacity of his filmmaking is only matched by his ability to fuse the absurd with the sublime, the familiar with the remote, tradition and ritual with unconventionality. More on that in a moment.

Back in 2003, when Kill Bill was first released, I was incensed to learn that Miramax productions, then led by the now infamous Harvey Weinstein, opted to turn Tarantino's latest opus into two parts. Too long, they argued, for a three-hour plus theatrical release. So annoyed was I that I decided to wait until the second half was released, thinking that movie theaters would play both parts as a double feature.

That never happened, so I wound up renting both on DVD from Blockbuster one rainy Saturday afternnon and settling in to watch them back-to-back. I almost didn't make it through the first five minutes, as the close-up of a bloodied Bride (Uma Thurman), barely gasping onto life as an unseen Bill (David Carradine) whispers ugly words of contempt for her was almost too much to bear. She finally whispers, "The baby's yours, Bill," as a gunshot rang out. I moved to press "stop" on my remote, but was stopped by the haunting sounds of Nancy Sinatra's 1966 cover version of Cher's hit, "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)."

Sinatra's version is considered more "melancholic" and stripped down, her voice expressing more haunting regret than Cher's sad, but defiant vocals. As soon as I heard that sorrowful tremolo-laden guitar, I knew I was hooked. "Damn," I whispered to myself, "QT's got me again." And so I stayed and watched for the next three hours, sometimes walking around my apartment to avoid the violence, other times sitting riveted in front of the TV. When the second half reached its tragic conclusion, I marveled at Tarantino's skill as a storyteller, watching Thurman's tale of the vengeful Bride (aka Beatrix Kiddo) come full circle.

I've seen Kill Bill, Vols. 1 & 2 several times in the past two decades, often using it as introduction (along with Pulp Fiction) to Tarantino neophytes. But I'd still never seen it in its entirety in a theatre. Until now.

When I saw that Tarantino had re-imagined Vols. 1 & 2 as originally intended, with additional scenes that had been removed for the 2003 and 2004 releases, I knew I had to experience Kill Bill: The Whole Bloddy Affair in a theater. So, with a new running time of 4 hours, 35 minutes (including an Intermission), off I went with my curious husband in tow. The AMC River East 21 Theater in downtown Chicago was surprising crowded on a Friday afternoon, though I began to suspect that many were just there for the blood.

And bloody it was. I turned away more than once and for extended periods as The Bride enacted her revenge on her former colleagues from the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, led by Bill, who had betrayed her years before. Why not watch the whole bloody affair? Well, that's just a personal thing as I have limited tolerance for watching people die gruesome deaths. But in my optically shielded state, I found myself increasingly aware of other components that make Taratino's films more than mere exercises in violence.

As I closed my eyes, I discovered that I could visualize the action almost perfectly in sync with the music. Tarantino is famous for his encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, including Grade B movies, 1960s music, Japanese anime, and even (especially) cheesy spaghetti westerns. All of these found their way into Kill Bill - plus his endearing, if creepy, fascination with women's feet - always in ways that enhanced the story, adding layer upon layer of context and texture to The Bride's single-focused goal (yes, the title reveals all).

Tarantino once said that, for him, blood is just the color red, so I know something violent is coming my way as soon if there is snow or someone appears wearing white. I was very aware, this time, of how Tarantino fills the screen with red: in both real and animated scenes, he frames the action so that your eye is always drawn to where the red is... or is coming. Seeing - and hearing - The Whole Bloody Affair on a big screen was definitely more impactful than watching it on TV, as the entire story is raised up and elevated, daring you to turn away.

Too, I was reminded that, except for Woody Allen and maybe Guillermo del Toro, Tarantino is one of the few male directors who writes strong roles for women. Martin Scorsese certainly doesn't. Ditto Christopher Nolan. But Tarantino's women are fearless, powerful and savvy about the world. They don't suffer fools gladly. Uma Thurman is luminous throughout The Whole Bloody Affair, simultaneously ferocious and angry, at times feral, in her pursuit of justice: smart and capable, but also compassionate and vulnerable.

When Beatrix is finally reunited with the daughter she thought died in her womb, Tarantino balances the joy and heartbreak against her years-in-the-making hunt to destroy all those who'd hurt her, in a culminating moment of pure tenderness. I could feel my tears yet again, and I was reminded how deeply Tarantino is able to go emotionally even in the face of violence. Somehow he never fails to touch my cine-psyche which, of course, is integrally connected to my heart.

Bang, bang.

*******

Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair is not rated (probably because it is way past an "R") and playing in very limited release in theaters this week. If you are a Tarantino afficienado, as I am, I hope you made your way to a big screen to see it. If not, try to catch it on TV some snowy afternoon when you are in need of a long story, told well.