Like S. Craig Zahler‘s Bone Tomahawk, his Brawl in Cell Block 99 (2017) is a pop movie (more or less) about the effort to survive or prevail and the human use, so often vile, of extreme violence.

Vince Vaughn plays Bradley, a man convicted and sentenced for delivering illegal drugs, whose biggest problem is that he is “indebted” to a beastly cartel boss (Dion Mucciacito). The boss takes Lauren (Jennifer Carpenter), Bradley’s pregnant wife, hostage—with the threat of killing her unborn child—in exchange for Bradley’s murder of a particular inmate in Cell Block 99.

Zahler both directed and wrote Brawl, with the savvy help of film editor Greg D’Aurin, purveying a realistically slow speed and mature, matter-of-fact action. It’s a brutal film, more uncompromising than anything you’ll see nowadays. One of the most striking things about it is the way Bradley and Lauren are forced to stay in two utterly medieval sites, fit only for mistreatment. The film’s cast is grippingly true, Don Johnson and Udo Kier no less than Vaughn. It has a blah title, but it’s an explosive picture.

Christopher Beha‘s 2014 novel, Arts & Entertainments, tells of Eddie, a teacher of acting who never succeeded as an actor, although his comely lover, Martha, patently did. Eddie and Martha split up, and now Eddie, married to Susan, badly needs money. He acquires it by selling an erotic tape he made with famous Martha, lying to Susan about the source of the money. Discovering the truth, Susan throws Eddie out of their home, the entire mess surprisingly paving the way for a reality TV show.

Without bitterness Beha bluntly attacks today’s entertainment media as deeply deceptive vulgarity—exactly what the book’s reality show is. The debasing of identity (Eddie’s mostly) joins such elements in American society as ill-gotten gain and the foolish attraction to fame.

Arts & Entertainments is a palatable read. Critics have said it is funny; I didn’t find it so. But I did find it clever and meaningful. The novel is 272 pages long, and, true, by page 220, I got tired of it. Still, I’m glad it was written.

A girl’s knee becomes “a sexual grail,” as Stanley Kauffmann called it, for a French diplomat named Jerome (Jean-Claude Brialy): He eccentrically longs to caress it. What he actually does, however, in executing this act is objectify the girl while thinking he is doing her a good turn.

Claire’s Knee (1970) is an Eric Rohmer film adapted from one of his stories which he identifies as “moral tales,” and, decisively, since it has to do with objectification it is a moral tale. And what is the good turn Jerome sees himself as doing? While fondling Claire’s knee, he tries to persuade her to give up her handsome but straying boyfriend, although this is not because Jerome wants Claire for himself. The diplomat is spoken for. However, he is also mistaken in thinking he has succeeded in his persuasion. The girl, unlike Jerome, wants the relationship to work. Indeed, in the end it doesn’t matter what the objectifier wants.

The picture is lovely-looking and pleasingly thoughtful, but it’s also Rohmer and thus very talky. A hundred and five minutes is very long for a garrulous film; tedium keeps fighting the artist’s noble purpose, notwithstanding I am prompted to cheer such a purpose. And—oh, well—I have no desire to discourage anyone from seeing Claire’s Knee. (In French with English subtitles)

Frank Perry, who made some interesting films, directed decades ago the somewhat trite naturalistic Western, Doc (1971). Stacy Keach is soberingly good as Doc Holliday. Faye Dunaway is now icy, now likable as the good-looking prostitute whom Holliday loves. Both Doc and his friend Wyatt Earp (Harris Yulin) interact, coldly and violently, with a family of male troublemakers, who possesses what may be called a physical authority as great as that of the lawmen/good guys. Earp, even so, is not genuinely good.

This leads me to indicate that Doc, written by Pete Hamill, is about the tension between the weakening of morality (Earp represents this) and the rebuilding, or renewal, of something good and necessary, such as a town.

Virtues in Perry’s film are that it is hard-nosed and suitably, winningly set-designed. Supporting roles are striking (Ike Clanton, Virgil Earp) and usually nicely acted. In addition, though it has a thin ending, the film is never boring.

Antonio Pietrangeli‘s The Magnificent Cuckold (1964) is a worthy film. In it, as imdb.com puts it, “Andrea Artust begins to have doubts about the loyalty of his beautiful wife. When doubt becomes an obsession, his behavior becomes completely crazy . . .”

Scripted from a play, the piece is not as fresh as it surely was in ’64. Though seriocomic, it greatly resembles Chabrol’s non-comic L’Enfer. What makes it work, however, are the flawless performances of Ugo Tognazzi (Andrea) and Claudia Cardinale (his wife, Maria Grazia) as well as its bright worldliness.

That Andrea himself is an adulterer has much to do with his reactions to everything, including, of course, his suspicions about Maria Grazia. It matters little that she doesn’t quite track, because Cardinale makes her believable and the chemistry between her and Tognazzi is just shy of outstanding. It is a powerfully watchable movie.

(In Italian with English subtitles)