Ally Sheedy, host of the Ali Forney Center's Sunday benefit. (Getty Images)

The Ali Forney Center, a nonprofit service that provides housing for LGBT minors living on the streets of New York, had been planning on moving its drop-in center. As the location where a triage of sorts was performed, matching new young people with beds across the Center's ten service sites as well as providing food and medical care, the 22nd Street site was far too small; its lease required the center to shut down at six p.m. daily. Hardly useful for a center that needed to aid young people in danger through the night, and so plans were made to move in a few months to a Harlem location, that they'd need to renovate. It'd take a bit of money yet to be raised, but the plan was in place.

Hurricane Sandy forced the issue.

The Ali Forney Center's location, in the mandatory evacuation zone, was flooded with four feet of water, destroying both the floors and all manner of electrical equipment. Rotting food floated in the water once the employees were able to return. The center was temporarily moved to the LGBT Center on 13th Street, but that's an impermanent solution. This Sunday, the Ali Forney Center is to host a fundraiser at the gay bar Industry on West 52nd Street from 4pm to 7pm, co-hosted by Breakfast Club actress Ally Sheedy and photographer and former Logo A-List reality star Mike Ruiz. (Tickets are available at the door for $20.)

"This was the biggest crisis in our 10-year history," said founder Carl Siciliano. "It's something that's so critical to our most vulnerable kids. Anyone the Ali Forney Center works with is obviously in a very vulnerable and hurt place, but the kids our drop-in center works with were in the worst situation, in the most danger."

"The way that homophobia has affected their lives," he added, "has been a hurricane. There's a storm of homophobia, and then there’s this second storm." Mr. Siciliano noted that people have been generous after hearing of the crisis through social media, raising $100,000 in a single day.

"Of course, of course I'm going to go!," said Ms. Sheedy of her reaction when first asked to participate. "We're hosting in a kind of improvisational way." She noted that her daughter's lesbianism had been a particular reason why she'd been involved with the Center over a long period. "I can't imagine this girl ever being rejected by her family. And these children with a different sexual orientation or different sexual identification--they're not safe to go into a normal shelter."

When asked if this particular disaster had raised the stakes for the benefit, Mr. Siciliano agreed, but referred to the ongoing and unabated crisis of gay teen homelessness. "We’ve been dealing with a disaster. Every day is a disaster at the Ali Forney Center."

It begins with a typical dead-end evening in the unhappy life of Doug Riley, who spends every Thursday night stuck in the same routine--poker, waffles and sex with the waitress at the Pancake House. Doug owns a plumbing supply business in Indianapolis that offers no respite from a life consumed with mourning over the death of his daughter, Emily, in a car crash. At home, he sits in a dark garage and smokes forbidden cigarettes while his wife, Lois (the always reliable Melissa Leo), locks herself away, works on her ceramics, stares at the walls and sees images of Emily dancing across her eyeballs. She's a tortured agoraphobic who hasn't been out of the house in eight years. They're polite strangers, occupying the same empty space but joined together only by mutual loss. The holes in their hearts cannot be filled, so Doug looks beyond their tunnel vision for outside help when he attends a convention in New Orleans and becomes infatuated with a tough 16-year-old runaway stripper and borderline crack whore (Kristen Stewart, from vampire fame in the Twilight series), who is as lonely and lost as he is. It never occurs to anybody in this movie to call in a psychiatrist. Why settle for easy when there's so much pain just waiting to be experienced, like eating broken glass?

As Doug's paternal interest grows and a reluctant, mismatched relationship develops, the movie drags on, piling on one preposterous situation after another. He closes his business back home and offers the girl $100 a day, no strings attached, just to let him move into her sordid house with no electricity and a filthy toilet that's been stopped up for years. If that's not implausible enough, Lois suddenly drives all the way from Indiana to Louisiana, breathing into a paper bag to keep from hyperventilating. Now all three of them are making beds, painting walls and dusting the dirt in a faux family pretense as dopey as it is bizarre. Trying to save the girl from drugs and prostitution by forcing her to brush her teeth and sleep on clean sheets with hospital corners, Mrs. Riley dispenses advice on venereal disease, and Mr. Riley docks her a dollar every time she uses the F word. It has just the opposite effect of compassion, and just seems simple-minded and, frankly, funny in all the wrong places.

What keeps this leaden freighter afloat is the acting. Melissa Leo, in another gallant entry in her gallery of oddballs, and Mr. Gandolfini, eons away from his role in The Sopranos, bring nuance to the task of toting Ms. Stewart out of decadence and sin, but the sexy squalor of the Big Easy wins every time. The cheap glitter of New Orleans is an ornamental contrast to the numbness of Indianapolis, but practically no use is made of the colorful ambience it offers. This movie could just as well have been made in Pismo Beach. The whole thing makes you feel like you're stoned. By the time Lois says, "She's not Emily," and the Rileys head back home, you're too tired to mumble, "What took you so long?" You just wonder what Jake Scott, the director son of Ridley Scott, and Ken Hixon, the confused and inconsistent screenwriter, were smoking. Whatever it is, I'll have what they're having.

rreed@observer.com

WELCOME TO THE RILEYS
Running time 110 minutes
Written by Ken Hixon
Directed by Jake Scott
Starring James Gandolfini, Kristen Stewart, Melissa Leo, Ally Sheedy

2/4

Monday: Late Night With David Letterman

We just can’t wait to see how the big guy handles his lead guest: Anna Wintour. The ever-elegant and chilly editor in chief of Vogue is mysterious, terrifyingly powerful and—even with magazines gasping for existence—as close to royalty in certain publishing circles as you are going to get. But with the release of the documentary The September Issue, a behind-the-curtains look at how the fashion bible is produced (apparently, dissing Sienna Miller’s neck and hair is part of the process!), Ms. Wintour has agreed to appear on Late Night like any other common celebrity to answer Mr. Letterman’s questions. We have so many already! Starting with, what on earth will she be wearing? And does she know how cold Dave likes to keep the studio and to bring a cardigan? Will Dave tell her she smells delicious? We. Can’t. Wait. [11:35 p.m., CBS]

Tuesday: St Elmo’s Fire

Where to start with this movie? First of all, it is not directed by John Hughes but rather auteur Joel Schumacher, though one might be forgiven for being confused. After all, is there a Brat Packier movie than this one? It's got Demi Moore (playing out-of-control wreck Jules. Close your eyes, though, and you’ll swear its Lindsay Lohan. Spooky!), Ally Sheedy, Judd Nelson, Emilio Estevez, Mare Winningham, our 1985 would-be boyfriend Andrew McCarthy, Rob Lowe as awesome sax-soloist Billy Hicks and even Andie MacDowell, who shows up as a (snarf) doctor with super-pretty hair. ABC recently announced that this movie is being turned into a series, which makes us feel somewhat sad … and old. Here’s hoping the gang will still have cause to chant Booga Booga Booga Wah Wah Wah at least once per episode. [7:30 a.m., AMC]

Wednesday: Grindhouse

Congratulations are in order for Quentin Tarantino: His wacky Nazi-hunting Inglourious Basterds is not only a hit with critics, but also No. 1 this weekend at the box office. Today you can catch the 2007 double feature of Grindhouse, which includes Death Proof  (written and directed by Mr. Tarantino) and Planet Terror (written and directed by Robert Rodriguez), if you happen to have a spare 195 minutes. If not, we humbly recommend Death Proof, because the girls are so foxy and badass and we so love seeing Kurt Russell as a homicidal maniac (casting directors take note!). [1:20 a.m., ENC]

Thursday: Models of the Runway

What’s really kind of amazing is that it took the geniuses at Project Runway this long to spin off of their Project Runway cash cow with Models of the Runway. For the uninitiated, there’s always that fun moment in every Project Runway when all the model ladies come out in little black slips, and are forced to stand on the runway like cattle while the fashion designers pick. One is always out. It has brought some great drama in the past (remember “it’s a motherfucking walkoff”? Or when the normally tactful Tim Gunn described one poor soul as having an elongated marshmallow shape?). Last week’s first episode focused on a rather angry redhead, who is clearly going to bring the drama, but we can’t really tell all those skinny bitches apart yet. Tyra should be very, very worried.  [11 p.m., Lifetime]

Friday: There Will Be Blood

Before we get all caught up in Daniel Day-Lewis, song-and-dance man, which we're sure will happen once we see the much anticipated (with the awesome trailer) Nine, let us sit back and remember him as the shadowy, complicated, darkly misanthropic Daniel Plainview in Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood. For the role that won him the Oscar, Mr. Day-Lewis goes deep and really kinda crazy dark! This is a movie that we promise gets better and more interesting with every viewing. Forget the now infamous “I drink your milkshake” line, what about when he puts that napkin over his face? And don't you think he really slapped Paul Dano around for that one scene? This is art! [4:30 p.m., ShoE]

He was there for a fund-raising gala thrown by Farm Sanctuary, which rescues and protects farm animals. The party was emceed by television host Melissa Rivers, who told the Transom that a difficult pregnancy had ended her brief flirtation with vegetarianism. Still, “I’m not a huge meat eater,” she said, “and if I do, it’s an occasion, and then it sits in my stomach like a brick.”

Actress Ally Sheedy also professed discomfort digesting flesh. “Honestly, I feel like, why do we eat meat at all?” she said. “I do eat fish. I find that a little bit easier.”

Ms. Sheedy was talking with Michele Balan, a comedian in a serious mood. “We tend to blame everything on China and the third-world countries, but in this country it’s just as bad,” Ms. Balan said. “I was horrified at the Kentucky Derby when they shot that horse.”

“They didn’t shoot the horse!” Ms. Sheedy gasped. “They euthanized it.”

Hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons lurked behind a pillar with his gazelle-like girlfriend, actress Porscha Coleman. “Every so often I get a glimpse of obvious truth,” Mr. Simmons said softly, “and the obvious truth is the abuse of animals is a horrible thing.”

As the crowd was prodded downstairs for dinner, servers were circulating platters of mock-chicken nuggets. “Usually the waiters steal food,” one said. “Not tonight.”

character Hedwig Schmidt may have had a rough life-as a German man who, as a

result of a botched sex-change operation, was left with a "one-inch mound of

flesh where my penis used to be" and whose former lover is now a huge rock star

while Hedwig wobbles on heels singing in sleazy dives-but one thing is never in

question: Hedwig loves to perform. Singing, dancing, telling stories of his

cold East German mother, tossing his blond wig, there is no doubt that Hedwig

lives for the nights when the lights go down and the spotlight is on. The show,

which opened in February 1998 at the Jane Street Theater, has done well, with

critical raves and a solid downtown following. And when it was announced in

August that indie movie actress and former Brat Packer Ally Sheedy would be

taking over the title role on Oct. 13, advanced ticket sales increased by about

$50,000, according to Tom D'Ambrosio, the publicist for the show. Not only was

Ms. Sheedy famous, she was the first woman, after three men, to play the role.

There's one problem: Ms. Sheedy does not seem to share her

character's love for the spotlight, at least in this show. As of Oct. 13, after

35 preview performances, Ms. Sheedy had performed in only 17 of them, after

pushing back her preview debut by a week. The other 18 have featured her

understudy, rock singer and former Calvin Klein model Donovan Leitch. Although

Ms. Sheedy certainly intends to perform on opening night, Oct. 13, and

throughout her scheduled run through the end of January, the fact is that, if

the preview performances are any indication, audience members hoping to see Ms.

Sheedy may very well end up with Mr. Leitch. While Mr. Leitch, the son of 1960's

folk singer Donovan, arguably turns in a better performance than Ms. Sheedy,

it's not his picture that the producers have been using to sell tickets.

Newspaper ads for the show do indicate in small print, "Special appearance by

Donovan Leitch as Hedwig at certain performances." Originally scheduled to do

the Wednesday evening 8 P.M. show, he is also doing the 11 P.M. show on

Fridays, as well as any performances Ms. Sheedy happens to miss. It seems Mr.

Leitch anticipates being on stage fairly often: he lives two hours upstate in Woodstock, N.Y., with his wife,

supermodel Kirsty Hume, and said, "I need to find my own place in the city,

because I keep crashing with friends."

Ms. Sheedy was not available for a formal interview. "Ms.

Sheedy is not talking to the press," said Mr. D'Ambrosio. "I talked to her

publicist, and when Ally found out that there was a journalist wanting to speak

to her, she freaked out. She's in rehearsal mode right now, and she got so much

bad press from the Brat Pack days. And I can't let you talk to the producers,

either, because then it could get really ugly."

But the Brat Pack days, when Ms. Sheedy starred with Molly

Ringwald et al., in The Breakfast Club ,

would seem to be safely behind her. After a decade of dissing Hollywood and

battling the usual personal demons, Ms. Sheedy emerged in sure-footed comeback

mode with her role as Lucy Berliner, a heroin-addicted lesbian photographer, in

this year's indie film hit, High Art .

She received best actress awards from the Los Angeles Film Critics' Association

and the National Society of Film Critics. Her next film, a comedy titled I'll Take You There , directed by

actress Adrienne Shelly, will be featured at the Hamptons International Film

Festival. Cozily ensconced with husband David Lindsay, an actor, and their

5-year-old daughter in their Upper West Side home, the 37-year-old Ms. Sheedy

has no shortage of fans in the city in which she grew up.

Then came Hedwig. Ms.

Sheedy was first introduced to the show in January at the Sundance Film

Festival, where she met John Cameron Mitchell, who wrote Hedwig (with composer Stephen Trask) and starred as the first

Hedwig. According to The New York Times ,

Mr. Mitchell showed Ms. Sheedy a videotape of the musical, and she replied,

"I'd really love to do a show like that." Mr. Mitchell said, "You know I really

want a woman to do that show. Do you want to do it?" According to the show's web site (Hedwig.com), Mr. Mitchell's

first female choice, Sandra Bernhard, turned it down, and Martha Plimpton, whom

he also considered at Sundance, told him, "Oh, my God, I couldn't!"

Ms. Sheedy accepted, but in early September there were signs

of trouble. She told The Times , "I feel like going out of my mind. I

don't know whose idea this was. I can't dance, can't sing, and I can't act. I'm

waiting for them to fire me." At the time, it seemed like false modesty.

Ms. Sheedy missed the first night of previews. She missed

the next seven performances. Jennifer Phillips, an usher, told The Observer , "Ally was supposed to start

on Sept. 13, but she pushed it back a week. She said she wanted to save her

voice. In the beginning, she was shyer with the audience, and a lot of people

weren't into her in the role. She was nervous."

Mr. Leitch, lead singer of the downtown rock group Nancy

Boy, was originally scheduled to make a weekly special appearance on Wednesday

nights. "They came to me to do a couple of nights a week to take the pressure

off her," he said. "The first week, I ended up doing all the shows.

Back-to-back shows are hard [for her], especially without a singing background.

She just wasn't there yet, rehearsalwise."

Mr. Leitch, who refers to himself as "the underdog," was

optimistic about the leading lady. "She's definitely going for it. She got the

vocal coach, and she's working her ass off. I know there are a lot people going

to see her. She's definitely selling the tickets. Maybe it's a little easier on

me than it is on her."

On Friday evening, Oct. 8, six nights before opening night,

a hip crowd milled toward the door of the Jane Street Theater for the 11 P.M.

show. Ms. Sheedy had done the 8 P.M. performance that night, but Mr. Leitch

would be doing the late show. There were several female couples in the crowd.

According to Ms. Phillips, the usher, "Ally has had a huge lesbian following."

Danny Goldstein, a young Off-Broadway director, walked up

with his date, Michelle Franklin, a dark-haired woman in knee-high boots and

miniskirt. He said he had seen Hedwig before.

"I had seen it with the first guy," he said, "and I specifically want to see it

with Ally Sheedy." Told she wouldn't be performing, he said, "Really? That's so

sad. Seeing her play this role, that's what I found so interesting." Ms.

Franklin said she had called early that week about the late Friday show. "They

said nothing," she said in a huff. "Which is sort of not cool," said Mr.

Goldstein, adding he had "no idea" who Mr. Leitch is. "He's Kirsty Hume's

husband," said an annoyed Ms. Franklin.

When Chris Ercole, an ad salesman in a black corduroy

jacket, discovered Ms. Sheedy would not be performing, he shook his head and

said, "Are you kidding me? I've seen Hedwig

three times before and wanted to see Ally Sheedy's interpretation. I asked

when I called for tickets on Tuesday, and they said she would be doing it."

A young woman who had come with three friends overheard Mr.

Ercole and angrily demanded a refund, which she was given. But most of the

ticket holders decided to take their seats. Jane Smitts, a public health worker

attending with a girlfriend, said, "I'm a little relieved it's not Ally Sheedy.

Can she sing? Can she dance?"

Some, such as hotelier Andre Balazs, came specifically to

see Mr. Leitch. "Ally Sheedy?" said Mr. Balazs. "I just found out two weeks ago

that Donovan was doing it, so I tried to fit it into the schedule. I'm actually

really curious to see him. I think he's hugely talented, so I'm dying to see

it."

Although a sign by the

box office reads, "No Refunds. No Exchanges," Anthony Zelig, the house manager,

said, "If anyone wants refunds or exchanges, we give it. If someone's name is

above the title, people are entitled to a refund. It's a rule, Actors' Equity."

Asked if the publicity for the show was misleading the public, he said,

"Donovan doing the late show was only official a week ago, last Friday.  If people call, we tell them."

The four-piece rock band

that backs Hedwig on stage had made some adjustments for Ms. Sheedy. "She's a

woman. He's a man. It is kind of odd for us," said Jon Weber, the drummer. "It

is definitely brand-new, and we never considered it until we were actually

doing it. There were some technical musical adjustments that we made. Other

than that, a few extra rehearsals, two or three, three or four."

Chris Weilding, who

plays guitar and sings backup vocals, said, "Ally approaches it more as an

actor. That's the biggest difference. It was a big adjustment. We tend to

change keys for some of the songs. Her voice is, it's different, because it's a

woman's voice. She's working with a vocal coach, a lot. Since she's started rehearsals,

her voice has gotten a lot stronger. Donovan was used to singing, because he

was in a band, and I don't think she's used to singing, you know, a lot."

On another night, nine

autograph seekers were in the lobby of the theater waiting for Ms. Sheedy. Six

of them hadn't even seen the show. Nat Bloch, a 49-year-old self-described

"bum," clutched a head shot from The

Breakfast Club in his hand. "I didn't see the show, I don't wake up early

enough," he said. "Since St. Elmo's Fire ,

I thought she was hot. Some friends mentioned that she was here. I'm not a

stalker, not obsessed. I just wanted to meet her and get her autograph."

Sharon Owens, a 44-year-old Philadelphia insurance agent,

did attend the show. "I just love how she rises out of obscurity," she said of

Ms. Sheedy. She added that while in the ladies' room, she met an elderly woman

who asked, "Who was a man, and who was a woman in the show? Who is this Ally

Sheedy? Is she a man or a woman?"

Ms. Sheedy emerged, looking tiny in a baggy neon green sweater.

The fans pulled out programs and photos for her to sign. "I've seen St. Elmo's Fire 20 times," Mr. Bloch

told her. "You're so beautiful."

"Thank you," said Ms. Sheedy.

The Observer asked Ms. Sheedy why she took the role of Hedwig. "Because it's stimulating

and challenging in every single way," she said. "It is the biggest thing I

could take on. And I love singing." Asked if she was nervous about opening

night, she started walking quickly to the exit door. "I'm terrified," she said.

"I'm just getting my footing."

The geography of the film is vague to the point of abstraction. Most of the action takes place within the constricted compositions of rooms, bars and a weird kind of garbage-disposal factory in which Simon Grim (James Urbaniak) works through his dull if occasionally traumatized existence with his suicidally depressed mother (Maria Porter) and his promiscuous sister (Parker Posey). Henry cannot stop talking; Simon can barely start. Even as an adult, Simon has to disabuse people of the impression that he is mentally retarded. When Henry takes up residence in the basement of Simon's house, he encourages Simon to write down the thoughts that he has trouble voicing in the form of a continuous

poem. The ironic payoff is fame, fortune and a Nobel Prize in Literature for Simon, and utter rejection for Henry's overliterary magnum opus , even from Simon, who deeply regrets not liking the work of his benefactor.

The moral would seem to be that some people have talent, and most people don't. But is it? Mr. Hartley never presents any samples of Simon's work, with its allegedly scatological content, and it is not clear whether Simon has real talent or turns out to be unwittingly a trendy cultural intimidator because of the "authenticity" of his long-suppressed rage as a forgotten garbage man. For that matter, we never get a glimpse of Henry's supposedly sordid Confession .

What we do get that is new in the world of Mr. Hartley is a volubly articulate character in Henry who ends up displaying the courage of his nonconformist convictions in the stunningly revelatory final camera movement of the film. Henry may be a fool, literally as well as nominally, but he is clearly Mr. Hartley's fool, and as I listened to him spilling his guts, he reminded me at first of people I have known in that vast urban and suburban American sprawl of unproductive and uncreative talk, but, ultimately, he reminded me uncomfortably of myself, a creature who has always talked beyond prudence and discretion, and yet has never been as averse to compromise as the soul mates Henry Fool and Hal Hartley.

No, Henry Fool is not Mr. Hartley's breakthrough to mainstream accessibility. The writer-director-producer is still paddling in the cultish Long Island lagoon of The Unbelievable Truth (1990) and Trust (1990). Trust , especially, impelled me at the time to speculate that Mr. Hartley might be the one Sundance kid to break out of the pack. What has happened instead is that Mr. Hartley has spread his canvas around the world without altering his Long Island neo-Godardian style in the slightest. If anything, Henry Fool is more rigidly controlled and carefully composed than anything Mr. Hartley has done before. Very early on, the director distances us from the hapless Simon by having him throw up on two occasions. As for Henry, he defecates the mother of all defecations while Simon's sister is listening in horror as she takes a shower behind the shower curtain. But for all the cleansing of the intestines that takes place, there is no sense of organic behavior in a given milieu, but rather of a literary injection of disgust into the audience's relationship with the characters.

One has to go back to Josef von Sternberg and Yasujiro Ozu to find a compositional control within the frame as rigorous as Mr. Hartley's. The world at large is excluded, and even the signs on New York City subway entrances are rendered with the precise signification of early Pop Art renderings. The behavior of characters in the various subplots taking in the large subjects of political commitment, bigoted nativism, and various forms of spousal and child abuse, are even more abrupt, arbitrary and absurdist than the actions of Henry and Simon, singly or in tandem. Yet the whole mix has the emotional and philosophical charge of an adventure in the jungle of artistic careerism for both the characters and their creator. Henry Fool is an unsettling experience, but it works as a piece of art on its own terms. See it and think.

Notes on Films From All Over

Cédric Klapisch's Un Air de Famille ( Family Resemblances ), from a screenplay and dialogues by Agnès Jaoui, Jean-Pierre Bacri and Cédric Klapisch, based on the stage play by Agnès Jaoui and Jean-Pierre Bacri, takes the very theatricality of its source and uses it adroitly to make splendid cinema. There are only six characters on a single set in search of the ties that bind and blister in family relationships. Henri (Jean-Pierre Bacri) is the less-favored son of Mother (Claire Maurier), and that has embittered him for life as he tends the seedy family restaurant in a seedy quartier . Philippe (Vladimir Yordanoff), his mother's favorite, has become a big noise in France's Silicon Valley, and has just appeared on a television interview program that Henri has "forgotten" to catch despite having been alerted by Philippe. Denis (Jean-Pierre Darroussin), the restaurant's bookish waiter, has been having a fitful romance with Betty (Agnès Jaoui), the rebellious sister, but he is still regarded as outside the parameters of the family, unlike Philippe's wife, Yolande (Catherine Frot), whose birthday is the occasion for the Friday family reunion that constitutes the action of the film.

As you may have noticed by now, the central roles of Henri and Betty are performed by the original playwrights and co-scenarists with the director of Un Air de Famille , and so the film itself is a kind of family affair, which accounts for the extraordinary emotional resonance arising from the constant bickering in a family once drowning in love (seen in lyrical childhood flashback memories) and now floundering in a morass of ancient grievances. Language barrier and all, this is a must-see for anyone with a family and its eternally unfinished business.

Lisa Cholodenko's High Art has been generally reviewed as a change-of-pace, change-of-image extravaganza by one-time brat-packer Ally Sheedy in a drowsily decadent heroin-sniffing lesbian role as a once prestigious cutting-edge photographer in flight from her own success and notoriety. Miss Sheedy is striking enough in her reincarnation, but she is only the yin to the yang of Radha Mitchell's Syd, the actual protagonist and the main source of the film's subtle eroticism. But, of course, the quietly and unostentatiously talented Ms. Mitchell is an Australian actress with little publicity exposure in the United States. The rest of the cast is good, too, with such variably known but equally proficient performers as Patricia Clarkson as Greta, the Rainer Fassbinder actress and lover of Ms. Sheedy's Lucy Berliner; Gabriel Mann as James, Syd's boyfriend; William Sage as Arnie, the druggiest member of Lucy's coterie; Anh Duong as Dominique, editor of Frame , a photography magazine suffused with preciosity; David Thornton as Harry, Syd's boss; and the unsinkable Tammy Grimes as Vera, Lucy's disapproving mother. Ms. Cholodenko employs some nervy nomenclature, particularly the androgynous "Syd" for Ms. Mitchell, and the Weimarish "Berliner" for Ms. Sheedy. Ms. Cholodenko's direction doesn't make High Art jump out at you with its outrageousness, but, rather, it seeks to draw you into its tentatively, almost maddeningly modulated mix of sensibility and sensuality, tenderness and titillation. On the whole, I think she succeeds.

Noah Baumbach's Mr. Jealousy does not work for me as well as his first film, Kicking and Screaming (1995), and I wish it did. The cast is sympathetic enough. The spirit is warm and willing, but the central plot stretches my suspension of disbelief beyond the breaking point. O.K., I can imagine Eric Stoltz's Lester Grimm being such a basket case of jealousy that he becomes so morbidly curious about his current girlfriend's ex-lover Dashiell Frank (Chris Eigemann), now a literary celebrity, that Lester joins Dashiell's group therapy sessions, presided over by the amusingly nonintrusive Dr. Poke (Peter Bogdanovich). I can even go along with Lester's using the name of his best friend Vince (Carlos Jacott) as his own in the group. But when Vince insists that Lester continue impersonating him so that Vince can get feedback on his own problems, I say enough is enough. All the while I have been less than enchanted by the flaky Ramona Ray of Annabella Sciorra, an actress I enjoy in more tightly wound situations. Bridget Fonda and Marianne Jean-Baptiste are wasted in roles that call for more cuteness than verve. All in all, Mr. Baumbach has set a farcical mechanism into motion without bothering to apply any brakes. The result is a crash of confusion. Yet I was not entirely unmoved by Mr. Baumbach's nostalgic evocations of the nouvelle vague .

Manuel Pradal's Marie Baie des Anges is all coming attractions for a coherent movie. Mr. Pradal's style is a repudiation of the scrupulous spatial realism of Andre Bazin and Eric Rohmer for the giddy montage-driven imagery of Sergei Eisenstein and Dziga Vertov. The two adolescent lovers, Vahina Giocante and Frédéric Malgras, are nice to look at, and the views of the Riviera are pleasant, but the rest can be called surrealism or, as I prefer, just plain chaos.

In her superbly researched and swingingly innovative new act in the sleekly refurbished and newly reopened Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel (through July 4), a risky "Love Walked In" is an improvised duet with only a bass; "They Can't Take That Away From Me" takes on a sexy, undulating throb that would make Fred Astaire blush; and even the boring "Someone to Watch Over Me" (which, as overrated and overexposed songs go, is usually right up there with "My Funny Valentine") shines with an uncommon sincerity when she sings it. Like Mary Cleere Haran, Ms. McCorkle is a brainy performer who gives a running commentary that sets up each song according to the events surrounding the time and place in which it emerged in the composer's life. Usually called "patter," her narrative threads rise above the mundane filler in most cabaret acts to provide humor and insight. Since she first appeared on the music scene from her native California via London, this hip and scholarly meadowlark has matured into a first-rate jazz singer with a special interest in the rarefied art of the American popular song.

Her voice is smokier than I remembered-smoldering behind the beat, husky on the vowels, both throaty and sensual-on her new Gershwin CD on Concord Jazz and in her Algonquin show. She can be bright-eyed and clear as a bell, then, with a sip of water and a few deep breaths, change the mood and the beat of your heart with a wrenching ballad. In her Reader's Digest condensed version of Porgy and Bess , she runs the full gamut of emotions in her impressive dramatic range, evoking joy and pain, sometimes simultaneously. The high point of the show is "I Loves You, Porgy," in which she skillfully articulates the tragedy of a fallen woman who has finally found love too late. It's the most astonishingly moving rendition of this jazz anthem I've heard since Nina Simone's classic recording in the 1950's, both soft and soulful, with a passionate emotional directness that pierces the heart. Seekers of the obscure and offbeat will please note two gems, rare as blue giraffes, called "Will You Remember Me?" (omitted from Lady Be Good in 1924) and "Drifting Along With the Tide" (a pretty antique from the 1921 George White's Scandals , with lyrics not by George's brilliant brother Ira, but by Arthur Jackson). And there is comedy, too: Attempting something different with "'S Wonderful," Ms. McCorkle sings three choruses in the styles of Lee Wiley, Astrud Gilberto with a Portuguese accent and a lounge singer on a second-class Italian cruise ship. She hits a musical bull's-eye every time.

What Gershwin has in common with Antonio Carlos Jobim is anybody's guess, but since the Brazilian composer is one of Ms. McCorkle's most cherished contemporary influences, she devotes a chunk of her act to him, too. It's a stretch, but I guess you could call Jobim the Gershwin of Brazil. (What else would you call him-the Marvin Hamlisch of Rio?) No matter. Her fluent mastery of Portuguese, her lilting rhythmic sense and her sumptuous phrasing conjure the perfect imagery of sun, sand and sea, and the gorgeous arrangements give pianist Allen Farnham and bassist Chris Berger ample room to swing with intricate musical chords and tempos. As always, in an evening with Susannah McCorkle, you get your money's worth. The sound of her voice reminds me of red fingernails tearing through white taffeta. Great singers with intelligence, taste and sophistication are hard to find. She's one of the best.

Damage Spins; Cousin Bette Drags

At the movies, marquees are changing fast. Here are a few words about some new arrivals. Broadway Damage takes such a buoyant, optimistic view of clean-cut gay life in New York, it might easily have been an M-G-M musical. A group of New York University graduates form an extended-family support group as they seek careers and love in the cutthroat concrete jungle. Mark (Michael Shawn Lucas), a struggling actor who sells theater tickets, takes a six-flight walk-up in Greenwich Village with Cynthia (Mara Hobel, who played young Christina Crawford in Mommie Dearest ), an overweight Cabbage Patch doll from Long Island who craves a job at The New Yorker , while their best friend Robert (Aaron Williams), an aspiring songwriter, stays home with his mom's meatloaf. Mark is a dreamboat who is only attracted to perfect 10's. Robert is in love with Mark but is more like a 41Ú2. They all need jobs, and they all need to get laid, big time.

When Mark's heart is broken by David (Hugh Panaro), a rock musician who moonlights as a hustler, everyone comes to the rescue with

a maximum of Broadway damage. Too young to remember Studio 54 and too old for suburbia, they're at the awkward, innocent age when all things seem possible, and fairy tales can still come true if life doesn't get in the way. While Cynthia orchestrates a campaign to get Tina Brown's attention that only attracts the F.B.I., Mark and Robert discover that sometimes romance can be found right in your own backyard. Everyone is perfectly cast, but Mr. Lucas has the kind of wholesome charisma destined for real stardom. The same thing goes for writer-

director Victor Mignatti, whose sensitive construction and crisp writing give a contemporary spin to an old-fashioned story that might have been dreamed up by Betty Comden and Adolph Green. One of the best American independent films in years.

A startling performance by Ally Sheedy distinguishes High Art , an otherwise dreary and depressing look at the collision of magazine photography and what enemies of Calvin Klein ads call "heroin chic." Ms. Sheedy, best known for her brat pack flicks and slick, dumb Hollywood comedies, plays a dissolute lesbian photographer who presides over a salon for junkies and seduces her downstairs neighbor Syd (Radha Mitchell), an editorial assistant at the photography magazine Frame . Syd has ambition, focus and drive, but after a few upstairs visits to Ms. Sheedy's little den of iniquity and one line of horse, her sweet, normal boyfriend (Gabriel Mann) looks like biscuit dough. As the movie turns into a heroin-sniffing All About Eve , Syd's career zooms as her life collapses. Writer-director Lisa Cholodenko has talent, but all she does here is raise the sewer-hole cover on a counterculture that seems meaningless and wasteful. I guess Ms. Sheedy's coven of bohemian perverts is supposed to be edgy and alluring, but they all look sluggish and brain-dead. As her lover, Patricia Clarkson plays a monosyllabic German lesbian Rainer Fassbinder protégé like a camp demolition of Marlene Dietrich that is neither amusing nor coherent. From the film rises a vague effluvium of squalor and decay that really stinks up the place. And in the middle of it there is the great Tammy Grimes, serving tea in sunglasses and pearls. High Art will leave you numb and nauseous, but for Ms. Sheedy's own personal career metamorphosis, nude lesbian sex scenes and all, it holds a certain sadistic fascination.

The Land Girls examines the period in England during World War II when women left their jobs to cultivate the soil and grow food for the war effort while the men were away in the trenches. The film follows three members of this "land army" who are dispatched to the Lawrence farm in Dorset to plow fertile fields, milk cows and experiment sexually with the farmer's son, whose ambition is to become a pilot. There's an epilogue, in 1945, that completes the story, showing us what happened to them after the war, who they married and why. That's all, really. It's a novel into film, based on facts, sincerely directed by David ( Wish You Were Here ) Leland, without much consequence. Rachel Weisz, Anna Friel and Catherine McCormack are well cast as the "land girls," but the revelation is Steven Mackintosh, seen earlier this year as a transsexual in Different for Girls and now as a randy, raw-boned field hand. Ah, that British versatility.

In the annals of literature, the 19th-century novels of Honoré de Balzac are not high on the recommended reading list, so why turn second-rate pulp costume fiction into second-rate cinematic soap operas? Cousin Bette sinks a flotilla of good actors in a cesspool of tedium. Jessica Lange plays the barren, bitter country cousin whose pretentious Paris relatives treat her like a scullery maid. While she toils sewing stage gowns for a music hall slut (Elisabeth Shue, woefully miscast), Cousin Bette finds temporary happiness in the arms of a starving sculptor she saves from suicide-a poor sod who eats cheese from the mousetraps in her squalid lodgings-but he marries her niece instead. Weaving a web of betrayal and revenge that eventually destroys them all, Ms. Lange shuffles through this sprawling bore with pursed lips and dead eyes while a supporting cast that includes Bob Hoskins and Geraldine Chaplin vanishes without a trace. While the book gathers dust on library shelves, the movie of Cousin Bette turns into dust right before your eyes.