Just as Downtown 81  is worth watching for its live DNA footage, the Japanese avant-garde music documentary We don't care about music anyway...  is worth a look for the five minutes of two-piece noise rock band Umi No Yeah! . The boy/girl duo jams on a trash-filled beach in Tokyo- -- he bent over an old Casio and drum machine and her flailing in a silver body suit while thrashing on a blown-out guitar. The song begins in a swell of noise and ends with an intoxicating dance groove and the girl shed to a polka-dot bikini bottom. The rest of Cédric Dupire's and Gaspard Kuentz's documentary intersperses the John Cage-like practice of various male musicians with Koyaanisqatsi-like clips of Tokyo's industrialized megapolis. Interesting reinterpretations of instruments are revealed -- a human heart gets used as a signal and the cello is reclaimed from the bourgeois -- but it's the bikini that distorts the dryness usually associated with avant-garde music.
Beyond Impanema  will be fun for anyone who's still naive to Tropicalia music. Guto Barra's film has a rich blend of live footage and interviews with the originators from the late-1960's movement, but for those already convinced and obsessed, it provides little more than a Wikipedia-type history gloss with cool YouTube-like clips. Your enjoyment depends on how difficult it is to find those clips -- the ones of Carmen Miranda and Os Mutantes being some of the best -- and how much you're interested in hearing about the import of Tropicalia to America via David Byrne and Arto Lindsay. I could have done with a little more rigor and a little less CSS, Bonde Do Role, and MIA, but because of the great Tom Zé  interview three-quarters through, I can't complain.
North Korea is disturbing. Everyone from CNN to Vice Magazine has revealed this fact with video coverage from inside the Hermit Kingdom. In Red Chapel , Danish journalist and film director Mads Brüger takes this realization a step further by exposing the ideological insides through comedy. Accompanied by two Danish-Koreans -- one disabled, the other sumo-wrestler fat -- Brüger convinces the DPRK to not only let them into their country but also welcome and embrace them with an open, breast-filled hug that only a desperate, lonely mother could provide. The result is both terrifying and beautiful: blinding naïveté and endearing sincerity get exposed via irony and socio-political concern. Red Chapel goes beyond the pointed-finger approach of "OMG, look at those N. Korean crazies and their anti-US terrorist campaign" and into a genuine, individualized concern that offers a priveleged glimpse into the contradictions of both Cold War-retained communism and post-modern democratic capitalism.