#POCKET SMOOVIE REVIEW TV#

More a Cassavetes-ish experiment than cinema vérité, this portrait of lives lived one glug at a time is as much a chronicle of the real as The Iceman Cometh. It’s easy to get so caught up in where BNEP falls on the spectrum - or why Sundance relegated it to the doc competition’s section, and doc-centric fests have played it - that you might miss what the Ross brothers have succeeded in doing.

#POCKET SMOOVIE REVIEW TV#

nonfiction lines from being blurred in this, our age of Reality TV presidents and genuinely fake news? Or were those lines already fuzzier than a rummy’s vision way before 2020, and the point, being older than Nanook’s igloos, is long past moot? Which begs a lot of bigger-pic questions: What does the term “documentary” even mean anymore? Is it journalism, an extension of an art form, a dessert topping, a floor wax? Do we need to keep the fiction v. But basically, the idea was: gather together people who’ve lived this life, set ’em up and see what happens. The filmmakers would occasionally yell out cues, offer tiny pieces of direction to individual participants, and gently guide their collaborators through this long day’s journey into a hungover dawn. The transient barflys living in the shadow of the Caesar’s Palace are actually NOLA residents who spend their days in Big Easy drinking establishments, corralled and “cast” to essentially play themselves. Their Vegas bar is located in New Orleans, where they live they took over the space and set-dressed it to their specifications. But as the Ross brothers have openly admitted, their doc on the last hours of Roaring 20 isn’t technically a doc. It won’t make the experience of watching it any less rich, or keep anyone who’s logged hours among such drunkards and misfits from feeling a shudder of recognition. Should you want to take Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets at face value, you want to stop reading right about now. It’s such an astute, lived-in take on both dive-bar bonding and the myth of Sin City as seen from the periphery that it’s a sobering slap across the cheek to discover the whole thing is a glorious sham. Everything flows by in a bleary, buzzy haze as the friendships forged over rail-liquor shots turn sentimental or volatile, and old-timers hold court with boozehound wisdom one final time. The afternoon shift blends in with the evening crowd, and we’re introduced to the usual subjects: the barstool philosopher, the belligerent mushmouth, the Bukowski-lite boho, the oversharing lush, the veteran glaring into the bottom of his glass, the would-be tavern Casanova.

And the brothers’ ode to beautiful losers bidding adieu to their local presents itself as another regional variation on a theme, in which they set up shop and observe. “I’m fucking moving.”īarring the occasional David Byrne-goes-cuckoo-for-color-guards collaboration, filmmakers Bill and Turner Ross have specialized in loose, free-form portraits of everyday folks in their natural habitats, be it the Midwest ( 45365), the dirty South ( Tchoupitoulas) or the borders of the Lone Star state ( Western). Marc, the burly bartender with the ZZ Top-worthy beard, laments the passing of the old, weird Vegas he knew and loved. The day-drinking crowd slowly sidles in, sings along with the jukebox, watches Jeopardy on TV. Lowell, a hippie-ish old man in overalls, helps make signs for the big night. (“That’s a lot more sun then I’m used to seeing,” he says, gazing out the front door.) John, a giant Australian, has brought donuts for breakfast and tabs of acid for later. Michael, a former actor, is awakened from his morning slumber at the end of the bar and goes to shave in the bathroom. So the joint’s longtime customers plan on celebrating in style.

As in, a permanent, fare-thee-well closing time: The Las Vegas cocktail lounge, located both miles and worlds away from the glitzy hotels and amusement-park casinos dotting the strip, has been sold off.

Pocket smoovie review