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An innovative and rather intense look inside the mind of a 16-year-old biracial girl (Helena Howard), who comes in and out of focus, both literally and figuratively. Actually, more interesting is her relationships with, or maybe it is just her views of, two white mother figures, played adroitly by Molly Parker and Miranda July, whose vulnerability builds as Madeline’s feline ferocity strengthens. Then there is the bizarre improvisational theater troupe, which seems absurd but maybe is what they do in Brooklyn.

The King tells a story of America over the last 60 years using the life of Elvis Presley as its metaphor. From an era of innocence and authenticity and world-shaking change, we progress, or regress, to bloated stagnation with money the only goal, from Tupelo to Las Vegas. But director Eugene Jarecki doesn’t preach; he lays out a visual and musical buffet from which the viewer can pick and choose and to which, I suspect, one could return for seconds. I have been a diehard Elvis fan since 1955, so the shots of him performing “Don’t Be Cruel” and talking with his eyes twinkling would have almost been enough for me. The social commentary by Elvis scholars and critics added a second, provocative layer. Another thread was the musical vignettes, with performers, often obscure to me, singing in the backseat of Elvis’s 1963 Rolls-Royce. Without any announcement, they covered the spectrum of music that colored America around Elvis: the blues, country, Americana, rock, surf, gospel, torch, even early hip-hop. The car itself was a character: it helped tell the story as it drove from Tupelo to Memphis to Nashville to New York to Hollywood to Vegas. Jarecki, too, appeared on camera, never obtrusive but enough to offer us a way into the picture. There were talking heads who didn’t have obvious connections to Elvis or music – Alec Baldwin, Mike Meyers, Van Jones, Ethan Hawke – but again expanded the movie’s horizon beyond specialists. In the background, archival clips reminded us of what else was going on: Martin Luther King, Vietnam, Muhammad Ali, juxtaposed with flashes of Donald Trump and the 2016 election. When Elvis, in a final performance, lets loose on “Unchained Melody,” we don’t know whether to believe there is still power and life in the mess we’ve made, or whether this is the last extravagant bloom for a hemorrhaging society.

For the first half, I thought, what a true American hero Ruth Ginsberg is, and what a wonderful support was her husband. I wanted to pair her documentary up with Itzhak Perlman’s for a heartwarming celebration of goodness and excellence. Once Martin Ginsburg died, and once Ruth ascended the high court, however, things sort of petered out. Maybe it’s because you can’t film in the Supreme Court, maybe because she was in the minority and couldn’t make law, or maybe it was just that she had reached the peak and she was being honored and lionized over and over, but for whatever reason my tears dried up and I wished the film had been twenty minutes shorter.

Is it okay to say you liked this movie because it gave such good roles to such talented and beautiful black actors, while whites were assigned the roles of bad guy and token helper? Breaking another stereotype, the women were strong and smart, more convincing than in Wonder Woman. The message was uplifting, cinematography gorgeous and costumes provided a mini-course in African art. On the minus side, the action scenes went on too long for me, and the story had major improbabilities, such as the planet’s most technologically advanced society choosing its ruler based on hand-to-hand combat. When all was done, I felt good, as well as entertained.

A worthy sequel to Rivers and Tides, although its novelty and relative innocence made that one more memorable. Andy Goldsworthy’s art subverts nature as much as celebrates it, but when he connects it’s a home run. I would have appreciated more art and fewer extended close-ups of the artist; the appearance of his attractive daughter was a relief. Despite all the talking, I don’t really feel that I got inside the artist or his art.