Finally, there’s a movie that truly understands the vinyl nerd, one that gets the crazy, stupid and possibly dangerous lengths we might travel to procure an ultra-rare, likely-cursed album released by a hippie cult a half-century ago. Of course, this movie, Pater Noster and the Mission of Light, is a horror flick served with a good dose of comedy. Where else did you think a hunt for Discogs gold would take you?
Directed by Christopher Bickel, the South Carolina-based, “anti-Hollywood” filmmaker whose previous efforts include Bad Girls and The Theta Girl, Pater Noster and the Mission of Light is no-budget cinema at its finest. It looks good, has a great soundtrack with original music and, most importantly, is a clever, well-written film. Released last year, Pater Noster has been streaming on Night Flight, which is where I caught it. There’s also a Blu-Ray release on the horizon.
We were looking for a movie to see because it was Tuesday, when tickets at Alamo Drafthouse are close to half-price. The problem was that little looked particularly worthwhile. I have absolutely no interest in ever seeing Wicked, Nightbitch looks like something I might eventually watch if it turns up on streaming and, IDK if I was really in the mood to be terrified by Hugh Grant in Heretic.
But, this Y2K, the new movie directed by Kyle Mooney, sounds pretty funny, especially since we’re old enough to remember the build-up to that New Year’s Eve. In real life, people spent a full year playing “1999” ad nauseam and hawking survival kits, but, then nothing happened. The sky was not all purple. People weren’t running everywhere. We didn’t even get a computer crash. The world remained somewhat normal, or so we thought. And another two decades would pass before I could listen to “1999” again.
It’s Tokyo, 1985 and the vibe inside the nightclub is Cabaret, were that movie directed by David Lynch. The scene is shot in grainy black-and-white and filled with characters who look as if they are caught between the past, the present and a fever dream. At this moment, which is just seconds into The Legend of the Stardust Brothers, nothing could be too weird for you. Well, nothing, perhaps, except the appearance of the Stardust Brothers themselves.
Kan and Shingo, the washed-up pop stars at the center of the film, bolt onstage and on screen in full color, their silver jumpsuits shining, their tale of woe set to a glam rock beat. Kan tries to keep it together as Shingo gorges himself on food and drink. They are a brilliant mess, but the crowd is thoroughly unimpressed.
