For a while, the locally-based documentary Mule Skinner Blues has its charms. But this ostensibly charming story of trailer-park residents who make their own horror movie starts to creak at about the halfway point, and eventually it just becomes annoying.
The movie's shaggy-dog tale is that Mayport resident Beanie Andrew appeared as an extra in a music video and then charmed the video crew so much that they decided to film his story. And for a while, one can almost believe that. Andrew claims it's been his life's dream to make a movie, and when he gets hold of a video camera, he finagles any neighbor with a smidgeon of talent to bring his project to fruition.
Said locals include guitarists Steve Walker and Ricky Lix, a yodeling singer named Miss Jeanie, and an erstwhile horror-story writer, Larry Parrot. They all have local followings of sorts, so even when the on-screen evidence of their talent is minimal, Andrew's assurance that they call pull off this gig is enough to satisfy you--at least for a while.
But when the movie starts using montage tricks and extensive clips from old horror films to goose its story along, it gives its own game away. Then the movie inexplicably leaps ahead three years, and it turns very bitter. Steve and Ricky have had a falling-out, Steve and Jeanie have lost their mates, and Andrew is recovering from alcoholism.
Finally--and again, inexplicably--Andrew and Parrot's 15-minute horror epic gets its debut in Jacksonville Beach, without a word as to how it ever got assembled or screened. And the fact that the movie got even a small premiere is supposed to be enough to satisfy its makers (and the audience of Mule Skinner Blues).
So we're left with deeply conflicting messages. Andrew is meant to be seen as a paragon of simple wisdom, even though his optimism doesn't last. Andrew and Parrot have dreams of making it big and yet are content with a one-night, rinky-dink screening of their movie. And the other performers go right back to the obscurity from which they came, without a word of complaint.
Like the down-home documentary Gates of Heaven (to which this movie has been much compared), Mule Skinner Blues labors mightily to uncover the astounding depth of simple folk. But I just don't buy into this cracker-barrel-wisdom concept. Even the movie's tagline--"Talent is half the battle, getting discovered is the other"--is a lie. Not content with their local followings, the "entertainers" in Blues seem far more concerned with making it big than with honi
The movie's shaggy-dog tale is that Mayport resident Beanie Andrew appeared as an extra in a music video and then charmed the video crew so much that they decided to film his story. And for a while, one can almost believe that. Andrew claims it's been his life's dream to make a movie, and when he gets hold of a video camera, he finagles any neighbor with a smidgeon of talent to bring his project to fruition.
Said locals include guitarists Steve Walker and Ricky Lix, a yodeling singer named Miss Jeanie, and an erstwhile horror-story writer, Larry Parrot. They all have local followings of sorts, so even when the on-screen evidence of their talent is minimal, Andrew's assurance that they call pull off this gig is enough to satisfy you--at least for a while.
But when the movie starts using montage tricks and extensive clips from old horror films to goose its story along, it gives its own game away. Then the movie inexplicably leaps ahead three years, and it turns very bitter. Steve and Ricky have had a falling-out, Steve and Jeanie have lost their mates, and Andrew is recovering from alcoholism.
Finally--and again, inexplicably--Andrew and Parrot's 15-minute horror epic gets its debut in Jacksonville Beach, without a word as to how it ever got assembled or screened. And the fact that the movie got even a small premiere is supposed to be enough to satisfy its makers (and the audience of Mule Skinner Blues).
So we're left with deeply conflicting messages. Andrew is meant to be seen as a paragon of simple wisdom, even though his optimism doesn't last. Andrew and Parrot have dreams of making it big and yet are content with a one-night, rinky-dink screening of their movie. And the other performers go right back to the obscurity from which they came, without a word of complaint.
Like the down-home documentary Gates of Heaven (to which this movie has been much compared), Mule Skinner Blues labors mightily to uncover the astounding depth of simple folk. But I just don't buy into this cracker-barrel-wisdom concept. Even the movie's tagline--"Talent is half the battle, getting discovered is the other"--is a lie. Not content with their local followings, the "entertainers" in Blues seem far more concerned with making it big than with honi