Kevorkian (Matthew Galkin, 2010). This documentary is about the Michigan physician who gained notoriety and, in some quarters, infamy by advocating for the right of terminally ill patients to end their lives on their own terms and providing the mechanized means to do so in the most humane fashion possible. The relative lack of voices arguing against the very premise of Kevorkian’s actions makes it fairly clear where Galkin’s sympathies lie, but the film is no hagiography. He gives a full airing to the combativeness, unpleasantness and self-defeating egotism of the man, leaving a strong impression that Kevorkian may be too smart for his own good, following the unassailable logic behind his convictions right into dire dead ends. There’s interesting material throughout the film, generally assembled well. Unfortunately, the framework of the piece is Kevorkian’s quixotic run for Congress, easily the least interesting thing Galkin captured with his camera.

Mystery Train (Jim Jarmusch, 1989). There may be no better match for the deadpan absurdity of Jim Jarmusch than the flavorful earthiness of Memphis, Tennessee. This distinctly southern city–its endless, humid nights, its ludicrously rich musical heritage that is often neglected, its bursts of battered personality around every corner–undoes Jarmusch’s instinctive indie stateliness and brings rambunctious life to the proceedings. His script unfolds three separate stories that intersect in sly, clever ways, each offering cogent observations about what it’s like to be adrift in America. He gets fine, idiosyncratic work from every member of the cast, but then that’s almost guaranteed when offering plum roles to the likes of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

Real Life (Albert Brooks, 1979). Drawing inspiration from the landmark PBS series An American Family, the feature directorial debut of Albert Brooks is a satirical deconstruction of documentary filmmaking, an ingeniously funny consideration of how the intrusiveness of cameras automatically triggers adjustments that guarantee that genuine reality is impossible to capture. This is Brooks at his height, when he had a unerring sense of how to stage a comedic scene so that it properly paid off set-ups and stayed firmly locked within the established parameters of his characters and premise while still offering surprises about the paths he’d follow. The faux documentary format lends itself to the sort of looseness later employed wonderfully by Christopher Guest, but Brooks builds his comedy around precision engineering, exemplified by an early line in which he pleasantly explains that he could have been a scientist had he “studied harder or been graded more fairly.” If the film’s conceit makes it seem perfect for our reality television times, it’s still not as amusingly prescient as the film’s trailer, which terrifically spoofs one of the current cinematic obsessions.

The Phenix City Story (Phil Karlson, 1955). The film is based on actual events in the small Alabama municipality that was so smothered by organized crime that it earned the ignominious designation of America’s most corrupt city. It was called “Sin City, U.S.A.” before Las Vegas took away that black mark, mistaking it for a badge of honor. Released just one year after the political assassination it depicts, the film is sensational enough that it the filmmakers felt understandably obligated to prove its relative accuracy by opening with a preface nearly fifteen minutes in length that sends newsman Clete Roberts into the field to interview the actual locals. Once it transfers over to fiction, the film is tough and appropriately grim, but also suffers from a stiff single-mindedness that’s all too characteristic of docudramas. It’s single-mindedness prevents the characters from developing much beyond ciphers, though Richard Kiley certainly gives it his all as a stalwart song of the community who rages against the despicable machine.

After the Wedding (Susanne Bier, 2006). There are a lot of tangled histories in this Danish drama about the tricky, tremulous structures of families and the ways that the past can reassert itself in the most unexpected ways, at the most unexpected times. Mads Mikkelson plays a man seeking fiscal support for the orphanage he oversees in an impoverished area of India, only to discover that the benefactor who sought him out has a complicated, hidden agenda. Bier has a finely tuned sense of how people push against one another when they’re at their most vulnerable and desperate. She lets scenes play out in unsparing, wrenching fashion. She also has a few unfortunate visual affections that dress up the action unnecessarily, especially a penchant for extreme close-ups on eyes that also hampered the otherwise strong Hollywood debut that followed this film. There’s a very nice performance by Rolf Lassgård that alternates carefully between emotions both raw and refined.