And the cinema of war would never be the same: Kirk Douglas and Stanley Kubrick on the set of Paths of Glory

Some of this weekend's worthwhile cinematic happenings around New York:

--Nobody ever went out on a limb recommending a Stanley Kubrick film, especially something as exquisitely paced and crafted as 1957's Paths of Glory (opening today at Film Forum). Shot when Kubrick was 29 years old and already acquiring a distaste for the Hollywood system he would eventually abandon, Paths features Kirk Douglas as (of all things) a French colonel charged with the task of storming an impregnable German position in World War I. When the mission fails, his officious, sociopathic generals arrange a kangaroo court to try three of the men for cowardice. Between the sweep of Georg Krause's camera and the economical rigor of Calder Willingham's and Jim Thompson's dialogue, Paths subsequent moral battling bristles with a kinetic outrage that foretold a civilization--our civilization, today, this one--doomed to implode with war.

Not to mention a filmmaker who would never return to the type of crisp aesthetic that made him such a talent to watch in the first place (his early photos for Look Magazine, recently reissued in the volume Drama and Shadows, remain a haunting influence in their own right). Paths showcases a fundamental pessimism that no auteur of Kubrick's talent and intellect could possibly overcome or suppress; you just know, when you gaze at this freshly restored print the way he saw it a half-century ago, that what started as an anti-war film ended as a personal statement he had to understand he would probably never finish. Revisiting these themes twice more in Dr. Strangelove and Full Metal Jacket, he never again achieved a terror as palpable as in Paths's climax, nor a helplessness as devastating as its denoeument.

In other words, Kubrick knew then what Vietnam and Iraq have since retaught us. And with that knowledge, if a contemporary viewing of Paths of Glory does not provoke you to tears, then frankly, you are not paying attention.

--As Kubrick inspired a thousand imitators, so did late songwriter Townes Van Zandt. In her contemplative new documentary Be Here to Love Me (opening tonight at the Angelika), filmmaker Margaret Brown scours the archives to interlace Van Zandt's itinerant, self-destructive genius with the memories of his family, friends and colleagues. But Brown's portrayal meanders south of hagiography and north of pity, invoking Van Zandt's absentee fatherhood as unblinkingly as it defines his folk-country legend. No less authorities than Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Steve Earle and Emmylou Harris lend a hand, while Lee Daniel's cinematography frames Brown's subjects with the same intense poignancy they summon to remember Van Zandt.

--If you are feeling flush, you can always borrow against your next six months' unemployment checks and crash the Museum of the Moving Image's tribute to Ron Howard Sunday at the Waldorf-Astoria. Renee Zellweger, Paul Giamatti, producing partner Brian Grazer and a few other Hollywood starry-types will also be on hand to slap Howard on the back and make fun of his baldness. Tickets start at the low, looooooow price of $1,500; tables are a mere $15,000. For that kind of money, I hope you at least get to shout out "Yay, Opie!" or get your picture taken with the Fonz or something. I mean, Jesus.