Man on Wire is perhaps the most disgustingly overrated film of the past decade; that its undeserved Oscar was awarded on the same night the repugnant Slumdog Millionaire walked away with eight statues is apropos enough. Perhaps the widespread acceptance of this film is the real “artistic crime of the century”. We have nothing but a pandering hagiography founded on the wrongheaded thesis that tightrope walking in public places somehow translates to High Art, and breaking numerous laws while endangering the lives of countless innocent people is okay so long as nobody gets hurt in the process.

Phillipe Petit, a skilled tightrope walker, prides himself on impromptu demonstrations of his limited, yet admittedly formidable skills. The caveat is that he feels compelled to do it in highly populated areas, at considerable height, without any prior announcement. Does this make him a de facto artist, or just a ballsy stuntman with a sociopathic disdain for rules and regulations? If a public performance better suited for patrons of Barnum and Bailey can be considered an artistic achievement, then so can the Wild West Stunt Show at Six Flags.

But director James Marsh, who helmed the far superior and tragically underseen Wisconsin Death Trip, unwisely goes ahead with this wild assumption and heaps tons of fawning praise over Petit via endless talking heads and annoying interjections from the man himself.  In a roundabout fashion, the tale of “Le Coup“, an illogical and illegal tightrope walk between the unopened Twin Towers, is recounted by Petit and his former accomplices.  We see re-enactments of Petit and crew setting up their equipment, complete with Goodwill costumes and peeling adhesive sideburns. “When I first saw [architectural sketches of] the Towers, I knew I had to do it,” he proclaims. It makes perfect sense in that the scale of the buildings somehow matched the scale of his boundless ego.

Cutting between the poorly mounted re-enactments and rose-colored recollections of Petit’s formative years, the flash-forward structure not only kills tension but also unnecessarily convolutes the timeline. Here it is used to synthesize suspense, and it fails with great aplomb. Perhaps Marsh wasn’t sure we would sustain interest through half an hour of home movies and Petit’s former conquests fawning over the man, intercut with his own undoubtedly exaggerated stories. A balanced approach, considering all possible viewpoints, is impossible because no one in the film has any ill to say about him whatsoever. This lighthearted, fluffy treatment of a multifaceted and, let’s face it, downright sinister subject becomes grating in a hurry. Our All Honky Caper, Le Coup, taking place in 1974, is the only interesting thing going on, and it’s interesting for all the wrong reasons.

All the factual aspects, involving fake IDs, stolen blueprints, and a nighttime ascent to the top story of the guarded WTC complex are believable enough. Since we know that Petit and company pull off this ludicrous crime, there’s no suspense whatsoever, but what complications arise are recounted by Petit himself with a clarity that belies the temporal distance from the events in question. See, it’s not enough that the Port Authority fuzz came snooping around the 104th floor and the crew had to hide. According to Petit, they had to throw a tarp over themselves and stay motionless. And they happened to be on a tiny plank which happened to be over an elevator shaft! And the cop just happened to light his cigarette and stand right next to the shrouded team! And they stayed unmoving for five hours after that!!

If the man weren’t so damned charismatic, it would have been impossible to convince all his hapless friends to support him on his mission of pure, unadulterated onanism. That fact in itself is remarkable, and again, undoubtedly sinister in nature. There must be a good reason he doesn’t share the room with his former accomplices: he can’t share credit at all. As the title of the film suggests, the Man on Wire is the be-all-end-all of this subject. He walked his wire alone, he basked in temporary infamy, and would have faded into well-deserved obscurity were it not for this documentary. Petit milks his time in the limelight for all it’s worth; his self-aggrandizing nature is excruciating and his dismissal of not only his assistants but also the consequences of his reckless behavior becomes increasingly disturbing. Man on Wire should have been a short subject.

While we may be groping in the dark for some sort of Herzogian synthesis between fact and fiction, it’s almost a certainty that Petit’s accounts are distorted, willingly or not. That some of these are re-enacted adds to the surrealism. It’s hard not to laugh when Petit claims to strip off his clothes to feel around for a strand of fishing line attached to an arrow shot from Building 1 (which turns out to be dangling on the edge of a yawning chasm, natch); even funnier when it’s re-enacted in a dramatic fashion. It didn’t occur to him to bring a flashlight? No, of course not, because history has been conveniently altered to portray Petit as a dashing man of mystery willing to take whatever risks were necessary to pull off his ego-stroking publicity stunt.

The fact that this clown didn’t die during his quarter-mile-high walk isn’t reason enough to care about his story. The fact that he didn’t drop anything from that ludicrous height isn’t some kind of miracle. His showboating isn’t some kind of artwork in the same sense that a painting or a film is a work of art. Perhaps the individual pictures, the only existing record of his suicidal tightrope walk, could be artistic. Perhaps the ridiculous caper is artistic, in the same way that a well-executed bank robbery is artistic; likewise the only rewards were those reaped for personal gain. Celebrity is a fickle thing, all right, and as an exploration of the nature of fame and the wages of infamy, Man on Wire succeeds in fits and starts. In all honesty it can only be considered a success if viewed as a very dark character study, much like Barbet Schroeder’s documentary account of General Idi Amin Dada. Only with less violence and far more ego-stroking insanity.

To bolster Marsh’s public-spectacle-as-art thesis, we are subjected to glowing accounts of the day of Le Coup, from astounded bystanders who claimed to “see a man walking on air”. From the vantage point of the sidewalk below, Petit must have appeared as nothing more than a moving dot. From the point of view of the policemen waiting to arrest the fool, he must have been nothing more than an amusing nuisance, like a roof-jumper with a bit more panache. His arrest was inevitable, his immediate release was unreasonable and misguided. He should have been sent directly to an asylum for psychiatric help.

Could he look more smug in that picture? From his own account, the policemen gave him a round of applause upon his entry into the precinct building, and after his improbably faithful accomplices posted bail for his release, he allegedly left them all waiting in the lobby while he boned some fawning groupie. This dubiously factual event is re-enacted in a fashion similar to Alex DeLarge’s hyper-speed threesome in A Clockwork Orange, and is about as hilarious. If we were to bring up the subject of what would have happened if Petit fell a quarter mile to the busy streets below, instead of basking in post-arrest sexual relations, the proceedings would be a lot less warm and fuzzy, but the levity would be a refreshing counterpoint to the preceding 85-minute blowjob.

What about the poor Port Authority guards who were probably fired over the incident? What about Petit’s accomplices who share their recollections with much less enthusiasm than their glory-mongering compatriot? What about, God forbid, a single dissenting viewpoint? Maybe someone with a more level-headed view of things? Alas, what we are left with is a very strange glorification of reckless endangerment, an endorsement of sociopathic risk-taking, a documentary with more fabrications than most fictional films. Herzog’s nihilistic Encounters at the End of the World predictably lost out in the Oscar race to this crowdpleasing ode to artistic masturbation, and so it goes: a comforting illusion will always triumph over cold, stark reality.

Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild, Untold Story of Ozploitation! is the breeziest, most fun documentary I’ve enjoyed since Once In a Lifetime. Small wonder, as this film revels in the glamor and grit of the height of the Western Civilization, the 1970s. Mark Hartley has created a relentless and exhaustive tour of seemingly every Australian exploitation film, from cheeky T&A lad flicks to nasty slasher films, and everything in between. If you’re hankering for a variety pack of car explosions and other automotive-themed noir, gratuitous excuses for bared breasts, booze–fueled exploits, and psychotic killers on the rampage, Not Quite Hollywood delivers by the bucketload.

For all its crassness and over the top scenes, Not Quite Hollywood is a very affectionate and surprisingly respectful look at Aussie exploitation. In the late 1960s, the Australian government , in a misguided attempt at international prestige, began funding films and encouraging a homegrown film industry. Every joker with dreams of being the next Cecil B. Demille wasted no time taking advantage of this federal largess, but the resulting films were not precisely what the government had in mind. Things really started getting rolling when the government introduced the “R-certificate” in 1971, which abolished almost all film censorship in the country.

Not Quite Hollywood is divided into three rollicking chapters: “Ockers, Knockers, Pubes and Tubes”, “Comatose Killers and Outback Thrillers”, and “High Octane Disasters and Kung Fu Masters”. The first chapter is a gloriously seedy look at Aussie T&A flicks, starting off with the “educational” films about sex, which predictably degenerated into all out sex romps, beginning with the hit series “Stork,” which chronicled the erotic adventures of an unlikely playboy. The McKenzie film series also reached new cultural heights, with plenty of booze, racist jokes, dogshit, smutty double ententes, and gallons of vomit. (The directors describe how the different kinds of vomit were made). To give you an idea of how classy this documentary is, director John Lemond is interviewed in a strip club with a pole dancer gyrating behind him. Respectable film critic Philip Adams is on hand to offer dry and scathing wisecracks on the film industry’s most boorish moments, but you know he is cracking up just as much we are.

Quentin Tarantino (who assisted Hartley with financing and producing Not Quite Hollywood) gives his usual hilarious reviews of the films, giving special praise to director Brian Trenchard-Smith. (Tarantino dedicated Kill Bill to the Trenchard-Smith). Tarantino is practically frothing at the mouth and jumping out of seat with love for these Australian films, describing them as “so bang on that the Italians did rip offs them.”

Not Quite Hollywood is chock full of insane anecdotes, such as the production of Sandy Harbutt’s Stone, which involved near fatal stunts, real pot smoking, and rioting Hell’s Angels. And if you thought Dennis Hopper was out of control for Easy Rider, that was nothing to compared to his tear through Australia for the production of Mad Dog Morgan. The 1978 film Stunt Rock features Sorcery, a rock band who Trenchard-Smith had to “find by Monday” or the Dutch company funding the film would pull the plug.

And that’s just for starters. Apparently Jimmy Wang Yu, the legend behind Master of the Flying Guillotine, was a racist prick who actually beat up the local Australian stuntmen during the filming of The Man From Hong Kong. The film features ridiculous car chase scenes that were filmed without actual traffic control or police permission.

According to Wikipedia, more than sixty films are referenced in the documentary; Not Quite Hollywood is a comprehensive look at a wide range of directors, editors, actors, stuntmen, and critics. Other than Mad Max, I have not seen any of these films, but I know I have to hunt down at least half of them. Not Quite Hollywood is a superb documentary that will impale the heart of any die-hard film geek and anyone with an Aussie fetish. The ideal party movie for your next raucous get together, Not Quite Hollywood is absolute, genuine apeshit, with editing that is nothing short of miraculous.

I generally have zero patience for hagiographies, but I must admit as snowjobs go, Leon Gast’s When We Were Kings is grand entertainment, and I was never bored. Not surprisingly, Muhammad Ali carries the entire film; at the very least you’re guaranteed a performance worthy of Roberto DeNiro and Richard Burton, with the dialogue delivered in a reliable and often rhyming iambic pentameter. Ali is a mesmerizing presence, and When We Were Kings takes full advantage of this force of nature. But when you look beyond its hypnotizing façade, When We Were Kings is a documentary as deep and challenging as the kiddie side of the pool.

Walter Chaw once wrote of the easy cinematography of Brokeback Mountain, “… you could send a donkey with a disposable camera into that kind of landscape, and it would come back with a calendar.” The same could be said about filming Muhammad Ali; all you really had to do was point a camera at him, and you can’t miss. His manic, eloquent, ridiculously charismatic presence is a director’s dream. His eyes bulge out as he fires off his absurd boasts; the man is more handsome than Fabio Testi; and despite his Jesus-level popularity, Ali was the underdog in this legendary boxing match. On that level, When We Were Kings exploits the breathtaking scenery that is Ali to its fullest extent. You get to see press conference after press conference, full of Ali in rare form as he reinvents the English language.

But I’m afraid to report that When We Were Kings never really goes beyond its childish adoration of Ali. Ali remains a mirage, a presence that is certainty fascinating, but never fully human. At times, you see Ali feel the stress of having to face the huger, stronger, robotically savage boxer George Foreman. But that’s as deep as When We Were Kings ever gets. There is almost zero coverage of the madness that must have been the event itself; I mean, think about it, man. The two most famous boxers in the world, accompanied by a menagerie of rock stars, including James Brown and BB King, going to the insane, tinpot dictatorship of Zaire, in the capital city of Kinshasa. Surely there must have been a 1,001 tales of madness, high hilarity, horror, debauchery, and nobility when American Pop Culture slammed into the true dark heart of African bureaucracy and failing statehood.

But what do we get from When We Were Kings? Some music industry managers yapping on the phone. A few dry anecdotes from George Plimpton. And honestly, who gives a flying fuck what Spike Lee has to say about this 1974 event? He was seventeen at the time, and nowhere near Zaire. I love your films, Mr. Lee, but shut the fuck up. The fella who gets the rawest deal is the George Foreman, a boxer arguably as great as Ali, but who is set up as cheaply as the Washington Generals when they face the Harlem Globetrotters. When We Were Kings certainly does a credible job in portraying Foreman’s formidable power, such as the scene where Foreman literally leaves a dent in a heavy punching bag. But like Ali, Foreman is just a stage prop, full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing.

When We Were Kings does a decent job of showing how the actual boxing match went down. The film made me fully appreciate Ali’s greatest masterpiece, his textbook and sublime Rope-a-Dope that triumphed over Foreman’s systematic pummeling. I’m not a big boxing fan, but even I was at the edge of my seat during these sequences. Boxing is nothing if not a scientific and strategic sport, and When We Were Kings makes you realize that the best boxers are the smart boxers.

But When We Were Kings should have been so much more. As a sports highlights reel, When We Were Kings makes for riveting viewing. But if you’re looking for a film about how the hell such a cockamamie event actually came into existence, and the resulting fallout of the event, forget about it. In the film’s most wince-inducing misstep, the director instead decides to hand you a montage of photographs of Saint Muhammad Ali’s life, accompanied by the godawful title tune of “When We Were Kings” that puts the “white” into white bread. If I were you, hit the fast forward button during this grievous miscalculation unless you’re a cinematic masochist or you’re convinced that Muhammad Ali was the Second Coming of Christ.

I put When We Were Kings in the same group as other misfires as The Great Silence, Better Luck Tomorrow, Black Snake Moan, and 5,000 Miles to Graceland: Films that has an infinite amount of potential, but were too terrified and conventional and in the end, too timid to really get all Apocalypse Now on our asses. And you know what? I would actually recommend you check out When We Were Kings for its undeniable virtues of being a briskly paced, fascinating look at the Ali-Foreman match. When We Were Kings is a fine party movie; you will get to hear some great music and some very funny stories. But as a fully human film, When We Were Kings is an unqualified failure.