‘Concrete’ doc suffers from pour quality

     I’ve never watched John Wilson’s canceled HBO series “How to with John Wilson,” but if it was anything like his first foray into feature filmmaking, “The History of Concrete,” I’m grateful I didn’t squander a second. But I did waste 101 minutes on his maddening documentary, in which he interviews various New York City eccentrics narrowly connected to the world’s most popular building material.  

     The film was a massive hit at the most recent Sundance Film Festival, but I’m dumbfounded as to why. I found it pretentious, boring and unenlightening. But then I’m not a New Yorker, able to appreciate these haphazardly assembled slices of Big Apple life. I also wasn’t sure if Wilson is mocking these folks or marginally celebrating their unremarkableness.  

    I also found his style too similar to humorist David Sedaris. With his wry, sardonic cadence, Wilson even sounds like Sedaris. But he’s no David Sedaris when it comes to eliciting a knowing chuckle. Not even close. I do, however, admire his cleverness in satirizing the staid business model of that blandest of all bland institutions: the Hallmark Christmas movie.  

    “Concrete” begins with Wilson out of work and bereft of ideas – until he attends a “how to write a Hallmark movie” symposium during the 2023 screenwriters’ strike. There, he absorbs the foolproof formula behind every Hallmark yule flick and proposes to apply it to his quirky primer on the history and various uses of concrete. Then, somehow (we’re not made privy), he persuades the likes of “Marty Supreme” director Josh Safdie and other monied producers to bankroll his curious project.  

    By including recurring clips from the Zoom calls conducted with his understandably perplexed backers, Wilson falsely believes he’s striking comedic gold. Certainly not when “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” did something similar, and much better, just a few weeks ago.  

    No matter. The real joke is on those foolish enough to fund Wilson’s expensive hopscotching from Greece, the birthplace of concrete, to Bellefontaine, Ohio, site of the first concrete street in America, and then back to an N.Y.C. swimming pool for a treatise on how an aquaphile with diarrhea can shut down a natatorium for days. Ewww! 

    I’m guessing it’s Wilson’s goal to analogize the fragility and impermanence of concrete with the fleetingness of all forms of art, except gravestones, of course. In pursuit of this endeavor, we’re introduced to Buddhist monks who spend hours crafting lovely patterns out of colored sand, only to erase their work minutes after completion. We also meet an entrepreneur who has cornered the market on removing gum off sticky street corners. And last, but not least, an aging wannabe rock star who hands out wine samples when he’s not making loud, obnoxious music. After the guy’s fiancée, a New York City judge, suddenly dies, Wilson readily exploits the man’s grief, at times, flippantly.  

    We’re also “treated” to glimpses of a group of crazies and their followers, who assemble each year to do laps around a high school campus from 6 a.m. to 12 a.m. daily until they reach the magic 3,100 miles decreed many moons ago by a deceased cult leader. They even have their own choir to help cheer the competitors on.  

    All of it is instantly forgettable, as are the little bon mots of trivia that actually pertain to concrete and its immeasurable impact on societies worldwide. For example, cement and concrete are not the same; sand and gravel are the most essential ingredients; it’s almost impossible to make it in arid climates or on the moon; and masons hold an annual convention in Vegas to show off their skills in timed competitions.  

    For me, it quickly grew as tedious and annoying as Wilson referring to himself as “you” and “you’re” instead of just “I, me, my.” When I first checked my watch, I thought, “This thing must be almost over.” But, to my amazement, I dejectedly realized I was only 20 minutes into this slog.  

      If I wasn’t reviewing it, I would have walked out right then and there. But I suffered on so you won’t have to, including a gag-inducing cameo from the ubiquitous Kim Kardassian. By the end, I was ready to hurl a heavy cinderblock at the screen. Alas, like Wilson, I’d likely miss the mark.  

Movie review 

The History of Concrete 

Rated: Not rated 

Director: John Wilson 

Runtime: 101 minutes 

Where: In theaters Sept. 18 (limited) 

Grade: C-