When I was “bad” as a child I was sent to my room. When Mingus is a bad bird he is sent outside. Meet Mark Bittner, with a scruffy beard, thick glasses, and overgrown hair that he has pledged not to cut until he finds a girlfriend. He can’t leave his conure Mingus outside for too long, because “he is utterly terrified of being forced to leave,” Bittner says.

Wild birds like Mingus, not native to San Francisco, or the United States for that matter, are Bittner’s closest friends. He knows most of the 45 parrots in the flock near his home by name. He can distinguish them by a groove down the side of their beak, an orange feather that should be red, or a particular behavior. Some call him the Saint Francis of Telegraph Hill.

Bittner found the rare wild birds while caretaking for a couple’s home on San Francisco’s Telegraph Hill. It was a bag of sunflower seeds that helped him find his first parrot. Bittner, originally from Seattle, moved to San Francisco in the ’70s to become a musician. After nearly 15 years as a struggling musician Bittner discovered the flock near his home and became “the bird man,” feeding, befriending and healing a rare species of cherry-headed conures.

It was a group of four that started his flock. A bird Bittner calls Connor, and his mate, Katherine, were two of this quartet. Of the 45 birds they have grown to, Connor is the only original member left.

Bittner feeds all the birds daily, but he does have his favorites. Mingus is his live-in bird, who he assumes at one time had another owner. Sophie and Picasso are “in love,” he suspects; and Connor is the only blue-crowned conure who is not treated well by the others. Connor tolerates the others, and even protects them when hawks appear, but according to Bittner, he is sad because he can’t find a new mate. Bittner filled us in on a secret””that he believes Connor has a crush on Sophie. “They would have purple-headed babies,” Bittner jokes. “I would love to see purple headed babies in the flock.”

Unlike most birds, the cherry-headed conures stay with their young for almost a year. Even when the baby wants out, the parents stuff it back in””kind of like a teenager. Once the baby is strong enough that the parents can’t keep it in the nest anymore, the parents step out of the way as the baby flies out.

Pushkin and Olive are another couple among the flock. The two had just started a family, but after Olive came off the nest and the babies were born, she started appearing ill. After falling out of the tree and onto her back, Bittner realized she wasn’t going to make it and brought her into the house. Pushkin, who had never been a father, raised the babies on his own.

No one knows how the birds, probably from Peru, ended up in San Francisco. There are a number of urban legends. A truck delivering birds to the pet store had an accident and all the birds escaped, one man says. They flew off of a ship, maybe from South America, another lady guesses. Maybe the birds were originally pets but they were too loud so many of them were released, others believe. It is a mystery to most, but a miracle for Bittner.

The director, Judy Irving, started as a young bird watcher thanks to her grandfather. He taught her how to feed birds out of her hand. “Time would stop” she says. It was the influence of her grandfather that made Irving curious in Bittner’s work, and pushed her decision to create the documentary. A documentary, in my opinion, you won’t want to miss. These birds are so unique because they are so much like us; a love triangle, a single father, a spoiled live-in and a social outcast. Their personalities, their behaviors and their relationships are astounding to see and the way Bittner associates with them is heartwarming.

At the end of the movie Bittner cuts his hair– Judy and he had become a pair.

The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill will be screened at the Bell Museum on Oct. 26, followed by a discussion led by local community group leaders and University researchers; , .

The story’s crimes and investigations all happen in and around a California high school, a locale rife for noir treatment. With that as a backdrop, the film creates an interesting, immersive world—as long as you can accept teenagers who live a typical high school life while saying and doing things along the lines of Pulp Fiction.

Brick’s plot has all the essentials of a great, generic, hard-boiled detective story. A tough, street-smart outsider, Brendan Frye (Joseph Gordon-Levitt…yeah, the kid from Third Rock from the Sun), shoves his way into the criminal underworld of his high school after his ex-girlfriend gives him a cryptic plea for help then suddenly disappears. On his way to the truth, he’s forced to deal with the perpetually strung-out drug fiend, the vampy temptress, the high school hired thug and a tough-talking “cop” in the form of a vice principal. There are crosses, double-crosses and plenty of difficult to follow dialogue.

While it sounds somewhat ridiculous—and in many ways it is—Brick still packs some wallops, both viscerally and emotionally. There’s plenty of violence that the faint of heart or stomach may not be able to handle. What works in this odd combination of silly and disturbing is Brendan’s relationship with his ex-girlfriend. She left him because of how fiercely protective he was of her, even when she didn’t want protecting. His love is the most intense type I can think of. It’s not a love of two people mad with passion for each other, but that of a person who’s still able to completely and selflessly care for someone, even after they’ve turned their back.

Brick is the kind of film that really demands multiple viewings. There’s definitely enough plot (not to mention enough crazy film-noir speak) to warrant it. While it doesn’t do anything revolutionary with the noir genre, the film updates it to a very fitting modern setting. Because of this, Brick is more homage than parody, a far-out mesh of neo-noir and high school drama. It works as both because it never winks at the audience. The film knows its audience is smart enough to appreciate the serious and the absurd.

The strength of the film lies primarily in its form and style over content. Don’t get me wrong, Rosen’s documentary is bursting at the seams with visual content. The camera pans slowly, Ken Burns-style, across still images of the faces and places that comprised the New York art scene. Rosen covers all his bases, treating our eyes to everything from the abstract expressionism of Jackson Pollock to the sardonic pop stylings of Andy Warhol. Live footage of art galas and showings bring to life the stories of contributing artists Ellsworth Kelly and David Hockney, among others. Where the film loses sight is with regard to its subject, Henry Geldzahler.

While we are told by every artists interviewed, ad nauseam, how profoundly important Geldzahler was to the post-war art movement, we never get to know him beyond the idiosyncrasies and social adeptness that made him a legendary museum curator and friend to the artists. Geldzahler’s conservative upbringing and strained relationship with his father are touched upon briefly by friends who knew very little of his past, but ultimately we only meet the public Geldzahler. Because he spent much of his adult life surrounded by the beat generation artists he championed, it is through their testimonials and art works that we must understand Geldzahler by understanding what he loved. That he would so willingly pose and serve as subject for the workings of his artist friends (many sculptures, films, sketches and paintings from the era feature him), reveals a very Warhol-like thirst for notoriety that is another aspect of the curator which is unfortunately eclipsed by the film’s emphasis on the art scene itself.

While the intimacies and inner workings of Geldzahler are never fully realized, Rosen does manage to exploit his relationship with the iconic Andy Warhol for a large segment of the film. With the breadth of works already dedicated to Warhol, it’s a shame that Rosen doesn’t more fully explore the enigmatic subject of Geldzahler, and instead punches another fifteen minutes onto Warhol’s clock of fame.

Who Gets to Call It Art? may have its shortcomings with regard to Henry Geldzahler, but it is a captivating visual portrait of a time and place, “the golden age of everything” as one testimony recalls. With pop, abstract expressionist and minimalist works used to illustrate the tale of modern art’s rise, the film is a must for any fan of 20th century art and the tumultuous decade that allowed it to thrive.

You know you’ve stumbled onto a good film when it’s so enjoyable that you can ignore otherwise destructive plot holes. V for Vendetta has more than its share of problems in that department, yet it absolutely held my attention for over two hours. This movie also has plenty of super-stylized violence (it was written by the co-creators of the Matrix and directed by on of their protégés). It even has some rather high-brow drama, a smattering of great dialogue and plenty of thought provoking questions, most of them going unanswered. Basically, V for Vendetta is like an ass-kicking discourse on the relationship between government and violence.

Now when I called V the hero of the story, I was oversimplifying things. He’s really either a terrorist or a freedom fighter, depending on who you ask. Among other things, V bombs buildings, assassinates political figures and causes the deaths of several innocent civilians. Whether V represents good or bad is up to the audience, though sympathy is definitely cast in his direction. Some may not like the moral ambiguity, but I found it very fitting to the story’s premise.

In fact, one of the biggest short comings to me was how glossed-over some of the morals get. Though V never kills a civilian, he most definitely causes the deaths of several. I would have liked to hear a character challenge this. What V really lacked was a good foil—someone to make him own up when his actions aren’t entirely noble. His vendetta is both universal and personal, meaning the things he does aren’t always in the best interest of his cause or those who would help him.

Amazingly enough, V for Vendetta is a movie that I can see many people enjoying. It has enough action and drama for those only looking to be entertained, though an oddly paced mix of the two. But it also makes a willing viewer think enough to be fairly rewarding. There’s a lot in this film to talk about, whether relating to current or past politics. It’s still a comic book action movie, so those unwilling to see a person get shot outrageous amounts of times and still knife the crap out of people may not have the kind of suspension of disbelief necessary. Their loss.

Tom Stall (Viggo Mortensen) has a gorgeous wife (Maria Bello), a teenage son and a young daughter. He lives one of those idyllic small-town lives you typically see in movies. One night at the diner Tom owns, two men come in to rob the place and presumably murder everyone inside. Tom, in a quite un-idyllic manner, brutally and efficiently dispatches of the two men before they can lay a hand on anyone. Tom has saved the day and becomes a nationwide hero. Fade to black.

Or at least that’s where your typical story would end, but, thankfully, A History of Violence isn’t your typical story. This is just the beginning. Soon after gaining national attention for his courageous act, Tom and his family are visited by several sinister characters led by Carl Fogarty (Ed Harris). Fogarty claims to know Tom, though by a different name. The tension there is amplified by outbursts from Tom’s son who deals with Tom’s violent actions (not to mention school bullies) in increasingly unhealthy ways.

The brilliance of this story is how it hints at the place of violence in all parts of life — violence toward someone you love, violence toward someone you loathe. One scene even poses the controversial connection of sex and violence. The violence you see is not just graphic, but also gritty and realistic; most action films, comparatively, are cartoons. Some may not enjoy this, and that really is the point. In order to take violence seriously, one has to see both the emotional and the physical effects of it. Director David Cronenberg, infamous for his twisted horror films, knows how to disgust an audience. He also knows how to make the audience question what to enjoy, and whether or not to glorify the violence.

What’s ultimately disappointing is that the film only hints at these connections. It never really explores where these actions come from or what they lead to. This is especially disappointing with the subplot of the son. He’s directly involved in two brutal incidents, raising the question of whether or not violence is learned or innate. Not only is this notion simply abandoned, but also we never see the psychological toll.

The climax also leaves much to be desired. In a film about how complexly intertwined violence is in the world, this section of the film feels like an 80s action movie. With material this intelligent, the bad guys (or good guys for that matter) shouldn’t be so simple. Thankfully there’s a much more emotionally complicated epilogue.

With all this said, A History of Violence is well worth looking into if you’re tired of dumb action thrillers. It most definitely has substance efficiently packed into its 96 minutes, but judged on what it tries to be and who it should be for, the movie simply has too little to offer to be praised the way it is. As far as a history of violence is concerned, this is the Cliff Notes version.

The film version plays much like a typical episode of the show. The scheming Plankton tries to steal the recipe for Krabby Patties and it’s up to SpongeBob to bail out his boss, Mr. Crabs. SpongeBob is joined by his starfish pal Patrick, and together they have to travel somewhere and retrieve something for someone. It doesn’t especially matter.

This may sound outrageous, but the story tended to get in the way of the fun. The best parts of the movie were the nonsensical bits of hilarity. SpongeBob riding David Hasselhoff like a dolphin steed, for example. Not all the gags worked, but even the ones that failed never seemed forced.

This isn’t to say that the movie is free of any flaws. I saw a little too much of “Finding Nemo” in “Spongebob.” In fact, several scenes seemed carbon copied. Also the theme of believing in yourself and never giving up was done more effectively in “Nemo.” With “Spongebob,” it seemed more of an afterthought.

Even if Spongebob and Patrick believe in themselves, it’s usually for the wrong reasons. Besides, they still end up needing to get bailed out of trouble by a mermaid princess (weakly voiced by Scarlett Johansson) or David Hasselhoff (hooray for Hasselhoff!) or some other third thing (watch the movie and you’ll understand).

In fact, there were only two times when the duo got themselves out of an otherwise doomed situation through their own abilities. To me, this meant there was too much reliance on outrageous plot devices to get the characters through (look up Deus Ex Machina). That would be fine if the plot devices were zany and nonsensical like the rest of the movie but they were pretty typical and only existed because the writers wrote themselves into a corner.

Oh, well. I’m still recommending the movie to anyone with a wacky sense of humor.

But even more recommended than “The SpongeBob Squarepants Movie” is the soundtrack to the film. With killer music from The Flaming Lips, The Shins, Wilco and Ween, plus some crazy songs by SpongeBob and friends, this soundtrack is full of some high quality harmony and hilarity. Yes, Avril Lavigne does a version of the theme song but it actually works. The only track that completely doesn’t fit is a Motorhead tune (yes, Motorhead) that was featured in the film. But hey, it’s kind of funny thinking about Motorhead being on a cartoon movie soundtrack. By the way, The Flaming Lips track alone is worth the price of the disc. Any song titled “SpongeBob and Patrick Confront the Psychic Wall of Energy” should be immediately nominated for an Oscar. What was the academy thinking?

Movies such as these often claim to have a moral center as they end their subversive stories in dignified fashion. But if you look closely, “The Godfather” celebrates crime and the mafia, while “American Beauty” celebrates rebellion and apathy. Their endings are merely epilogues to a vastly different story.

I hope you remember this if you see “Mean Girls,” which ends on a positive note of individuality and self-respect, but spends the majority of its running time as a mean-spirited and vicious insult, advocating the very lifestyle and mindset that it later pretends to criticize. It is a movie that helps me understand why children are becoming more sexualized every year, and why image has trumped intelligence, friendships and even health as a teenager’s top priority.

Consider the story: Cady (Lindsay Lohan) is a nice, sweet girl who wants to hang out with the popular clique, known as The Plastics. But to be a “Plastic,” she must dumb herself down, start wearing skirts, use makeup, “hang out” with boys and gossip about her teachers and classmates.

Along with her nerdy friends Janis (Lizzy Caplan) and Damian (Daniel Franzese), she becomes part of this group as a prank, intending to learn more about who the Plastics are, mock them behind their backs and tell Janis and Damian all their sordid tales.

But as the movie goes on, Cady suddenly becomes one of them. She gets caught up in their feuds, fixated on the athletic boys who are always buzzing around, and ends up ditching her old, boring friends on this quest for popularity.

That is, before a final, emotional twist in the story brings her back to her senses, and all is restored to the way it should be.

I fear though that viewers will errantly shrug this movie off as a silly little satire. If that is what “Mean Girls” truly was, there would be more criticism and judgment of Cady as she becomes shallower, and her actions would not be funny and endearing, but crude and ridiculous. While the end of the film brings this very criticism and judgment, Cady has been a living, breathing Plastic for so long that it seems like an aside in a story that actually celebrates the image and lifestyle, rather than critiquing it.

I know, it’s just a movie, right? I’m sure many will think I’m being too analytical, critical and serious.

But if you watch the energetic moments in this film, they reflect the very worst of human nature. Cady acts dumb to get the boys and dismisses grades for her popularity. In numerous segments, Cady and her gang make fun of gays, the handicapped, breast implants and anyone who is different than them. Clothing, appearance and social status become the only traits that matter.

It is a mean film with a mean heart, and while its final message seems to be that hatred is bad, I think it’s a trifle we could have done without. After all, those receptive to such a message don’t seek out films like “Mean Girls,” which are dominated by hateful and venomous humor. While “Mean Girls” pretends to be a social satire, parents should instead steer towards “13 Going On 30,” which satirizes the shallowness of adulthood while remaining true to the innocence of youth.

Much as “The Godfather” thrived in scenes of violence, and “American Beauty” in scenes of revolt and rebellion, “Mean Girls” is most energetic when it is mocking, ridiculing and dismissing everyone who fails to follow the Britney Spears life manual.

Why spend $8? Just stay home and watch MTV.

Steven Snyder reviews movies on Radio K (AM 770) Friday and Sunday mornings. He welcomes feedback at snyd0151@umn.edu.