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The Myth of the American Sleepover (NR)

Sundance Selects

Dazed and Confused goes mumblecore, with a cast of spoiled white emo-tweens. Yay. It's the last summer weekend before school starts, and a group of middle-class Larry Clark rejects slink around their suburban area, using sleepovers as a ruse for underage drinking, fornicating and emoting. Two girls go to parties in search of boys and end up doing some sort of flapper dance. A creepy, future serial killer looks all over town for a girl that he saw at the supermarket. A college dropout heads to a local university to tell two airheaded twins that he liked them in high school. And that's what the whole movie is: the pathetic, pathological ramblings of a bunch of disrespectful, snotty brats with zero parental supervision. These kids don't need to be understood or listened to, they just need some old-fashioned corporal punishment and a strict curfew. And yes, I am old and bitter. — Louis Fowler


Tiny Furniture (NR)

Criterion Collection

In her debut feature, writer-director-producer Lena Dunham casts herself as a recent film-studies grad living with her mother in Manhattan and surrounded by bored, entitled liberal-arts slackers. The film is a few steps removed from a home movie, immediate though not active in any way; instead, Dunham's camera is patient and restrained. The Tiny Furniture metaphor never sticks, nor does a weak framing device concerning the passive-aggressive mother's newly discovered journals. Yet there's still much to adore here, especially Dunham's direction, which is inventive, far from tiny, and validated by this straight-to-Criterion release. It comes at an opportune time: Dunham's upcoming, hugely buzzed-about HBO series, Girls, for which she serves as creator, writer, producer and star, premieres in April. Brush up on her work with this set's bonus features. — Justin Strout


Track 29 (R)

Image Entertainment

Director Nicolas Roeg, like contemporaries Ken Russell and Lindsay Anderson, is a difficult filmmaker to pigeonhole, often making avant-garde works that confound and repulse the general mainstream and critics alike. His most commercial film was 1976's bizarre, David Bowie-starring, sci-fi trip The Man Who Fell to Earth. That one gets a nod in his 1987 oddity Track 29, with lead Gary Oldman aping Bowie's character from Earth. Outside of a small town, a man-child in a cowboy hat named Martin (Oldman) appears. He believes himself to be the long-lost child of depressed housewife Linda (Theresa Russell), who is constantly medicating herself because she is trapped in a sexless marriage (after being forced to give up a child as a teenager) to a man obsessed with model trains. Is he real, or a figment of her imagination? It's a maddeningly perverse sojourn to find out. — Louis Fowler

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