It’s a non-fiction prose-poem that moves to Rick Kelly’s pre-technological rhythms. The film sounds earnest and touching in a minor, twilight-of-the-’60s way. Electricity. He salvages the wood from old New York buildings, most of which date back to the 1800s. Please confirm you are over 18 to continue. Kelly’s guitars are objects of beauty, lacquered and grain-scarred, with a disarming plainness. Rick Kelly, the subject of the documentary "Carmine Street Guitars." In “Carmine Street Guitars,” the characters are characters, the way they were in Errol Morris’s “Gates of Heaven.” You react to them as if they’d stepped out of a folk fable, and that’s the film’s quiet intoxication. “Carmine Street Guitars” is full of scenes in which a  noted hipster musician (Lenny Kaye from the Patti Smith Group, Nels Cline from Wilco, Charlie Sexton from the Bob Dylan Band, Eleanor Friedberger from the Fiery Furnaces) will walk into the store, plug one of Rick’s guitars into the amplifier, and just play, and we experience the joy of what they hear and feel in those instruments — a spiky je ne sais quois. Yet it’s part of the film’s ironic charm that I didn’t necessarily buy the “Monday Tuesday Wednesday” flow of it. Now it’s yuppies and corporate stuff. He turns Rick’s store into a stage set, with Rick as the wallflower/artisan/host who can’t stop making guitars, in part because he can’t afford to (he has no retirement savings), but mostly because he has found a religion. He’s making instruments out of the city’s bones, which is a cool idea, the sort of thing you could imagine appealing to the Agnès Varda of “The Gleaners & I.” But then, in a moment as exquisitely understated — you could almost say it’s thrown away — as everything else in “Carmine Street Guitars,” we learn the incredible value of using that wood. “You need to move into the 21st century.”, I feel like I'm playing my neighbourhood. Rick and Cindy will be in the back, building instruments, so you can just go and hang out in the front on your own. On a typical day, Kelly’s elderly mother Dorothy will be working the cash register; his 26-year-old apprentice Cindy Hulej, will be blow-torching a custom design on to a guitar body; while Kelly will be at his workbench planing away a piece of wood. He builds his instruments from “the bones of Old New York”: reclaimed white pine that he rescues from skips and building sites. The New York wood is no mere gimmick; Kelly insists it’s the best for the job. Abramorama Head over to Greenwich Village, go up Bleecker Street, just a few blocks past 6th Avenue, and then make a left.