I have been accused of not doing my homework before proclaiming that Where the Wild Things Are will be the best movie of the year. I submit my homework.
Nothing happened in January. We were catching up on last year's Oscar nominees.
We had a darkly whimsical stop motion picture in February, Coraline. This may turn out to be a watershed year for stop motion, with two other major releases forthcoming that will pit traditional puppetry against CGI mimicry. Since the success of Pixar and Dreamworks Animation the traditional cel animation arm of Disney has been gradually phased out; Disney hasn't made a traditionally animated feature in five years, and hasn't made a good one in the fifteen years since Lion King. (Um, I just realized I haven't seen a single Disney-produced animated film since Lion King.) The same could happen to stop motion.
As one of the naysayers prior to release, I was delighted in March that Watchmen turned out to be the first great film of 2009.
In April there is a heartwarmingly boring looking Oscar contender called the Soloist with Jamie Foxx going full retard and Robert Downey Jr. Didn't we see this last summer...? More important is Observe and Report, for which I'm going to stump not only because of Seth Rogen and the divine Anna Faris, but because this is the sophomore effort from director Jody Hill who displayed a wickedly anti-comic audience-baiting sensibility in The Foot Fist Way.
The blockbusters roll out in May. I plan to ignore Wolverine and the Da Vinci Code follow-up, Angels & Demons. But JJ Abrams, creator of Lost and Cloverfield, has already got my dollar for the Star Trek reboot. I'll also be in line for Terminator Salvation, for two reasons: Christian Bale giving a set of balls back to John Connor, and gritty post-nuclear holocaust machine war filmed in the New Mexico desert with lots and lots of seriously evil deathbots. I'm a bit worried about the possible PG-13 rating, although you can get away with a lot of violence nowadays. Pixar will offer Up the following week as an alternative to hell on earth. Also, Sam Raimi dusts off the ol' Necronomicon Ex-Mortis to summon yet another hideous horror hag in Drag Me to Hell. He must have a good reason to do so. On the indie side of things, The Brothers Bloom is another sophomore effort from a director who wowed me with his debut; Rian Johnson came out of nowhere in 2005 with Brick, a pitch-perfect classic noir set in a modern So-Cal high school. This guy's got talent, and I'm eager to see what else he can do.
Transformers will own June. There will also be light comedy of the romantic (The Proposal) and the stupid (Year One, The Hangover) varieties.
Harry Potter hysteria flares up once again in July, and once again I will march to the theater under cultural obligation because I do not want to actually read those books. I will see Public Enemies, the John Dillinger biopic starring Christian Bale and Johnny Depp, because it was filmed in Chicagoland and Wisconsin. Oh, and Sacha Baron Cohen requests that you pay to see his new movie, Brüno, because he needs another $200 million to pay the seven law firms he employs.
August will be a bloodfeast. After we get the G.I. Joe movie out of the way, Tarantino and Rob Zombie will show no mercy, give no quarter in Inglorious Basterds and Halloween 2. If the 2000s have been a far more brutal decade on film than the 1990s, these guys are to blame (thank).
On 9/9/09 Tim Burton will present "9", the faux-stop motion picture I alluded to. I don't know if I want it to be good or not. But nevermind, because something much more exciting is around the corner: Terry Gilliam! My favorite director, period. He's back with The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, undeterred by the death of his lead actor, Heath Ledger, halfway through production. As usual it will be an epic artistic success or an epic artistic failure (if it gets released at all, and depending on who you ask).
October will be remembered for the best movie of the year, Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are. If you see any other films that month, you could be watching the latest Scorsese-DiCaprio venture, Shutter Island, the Astro Boy movie, or the triumphant/abysmal third outing from director Richard Kelly (Donnie Darko, Southland Tales), The Box. I assume you won't be seeing Saw VI.
There is one reason to go to the theater in November: Wes Anderson directs a (real) stop motion adaptation of Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr Fox. This year kicks ass.
December. Looming over the entire year is Avatar. First let me mention something from Peter Jackson called The Lovely Bones, a Guy Ritchie movie with Robert Downey Jr as Sherlock Holmes, and Disney's return to traditional animation, The Princess and the Frog. Now down to business...James Cameron has not released a picture since Titanic in 1997. He is the greatest sci-fi action director of all time. He has spent the last decade developing 3D camera technology and time travel from his hyperbaric compound beneath the antarctic ice cap. At long last Cameron has announced that he will unveil Avatar, a motion picture so advanced that it will revolutionize the way your cells metabolize protein. This visionary giant leap, fourteen years and $500 million in the making, promises to be the most earth-shattering event since Guns N' Roses' long-awaited album Chinese Democracy hit shelves last November, or the Segway.
Anything sound good to you? Something I missed?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Twentieth Century
John Barrymore throws himself against outrageous fortune with the cringing hackles and shock-eyed, whiskery countenance of Sylvester J. Pussycat — an egomaniacal and imperious impresario, a self-made baron of the stage, raggedly desperate in his shambled career and all the more ludicrous for his pride and fury. Carole Lombard does her best impersonation as his protégé, both pitching to melodrama as only coddled thespians who live for a phantom balcony audience do. Their screwball battles are twin performances, each ignored and unappreciated by the other. She turns on a dime from hysterical fits to shrewd stabbing of her poker-finger while his wild accusations of treachery fly.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Into the Wild Green Yonder
A series finale is always sort of an identity crisis. The whole purpose of a television series is to keep going, to continue laying eggs made of advertising and merchandising gold. So when a show is not renewed the writers have to suddenly wrap up what they've been working so hard to drag out. That's why series finales are so often unsatisfying...because by nature they do not have the same structure, objective or spirit as the show you love. Pilots are usually crappy for the same reason: Identity crisis. TV shows, unlike movies, are just not designed to have a beginning or end.
It's a shame the miniseries (a format often used in anime) has never caught on in this country. A miniseries combines the virtues of narrative depth — freedom to explore subplots and side characters — and a completely mapped story arc. Futurama split the difference in its final season, producing four feature length films chopped up into half hour episodes. It was a bold experiment, most successful in Bender's Big Score and The Beast with a Billion Backs, that proved the creators were sitting on ideas bigger than 22 minutes can contain. The show brimmed with incomparable creativity for four years — a monumental love letter to science fiction.
It's a shame the miniseries (a format often used in anime) has never caught on in this country. A miniseries combines the virtues of narrative depth — freedom to explore subplots and side characters — and a completely mapped story arc. Futurama split the difference in its final season, producing four feature length films chopped up into half hour episodes. It was a bold experiment, most successful in Bender's Big Score and The Beast with a Billion Backs, that proved the creators were sitting on ideas bigger than 22 minutes can contain. The show brimmed with incomparable creativity for four years — a monumental love letter to science fiction.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nyuk nyuk nyuk
Variety reports that the Farrelly brothers have signed up Sean Penn, Jim Carrey and Benicio Del Toro as Larry, Curly and Moe for a feature length Three Stooges picture. I for one am very enthusiastic about seeing Penn get a monkey wrench to the neck.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Music Man
One of only three movies my grandfather has ever enjoyed. Perhaps that's because he was raised in the Iowa farm town where it's set. His father ran the general store in Bronson, a place not unlike the River City where a a con man shows up one day to sell the townsfolk on — no, not a monorail — a marching band. This ridiculous and especially heartless con (exploiting the children who just want to play in a band) has the key virtue of providing many opportunities for song. Songs, I hasten to add, that I found surprisingly modest and agreeable. It's a great movie, cheerily evoking the sensibility, stubbornness, and beneath-the-surface warmth of the Midwest. You see, a midwesterner is like a southerner inside-out: Cold on the outside but warm deep down. Exchanges like this are perfect:
The other two are South Pacific and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. (Before retiring from the ministry he spent fifteen years working in a VA psychiatric hospital and always said that Cuckoo's Nest is "pretty accurate".)
You are in I-o-way.The Music Man is the inspiration for the greatest of all great Simpsons episodes; the whole town a chorus one minute, an angry mob the next. Shirley Jones (aka Ms Partridge) is radiant in that young motherly way (actually pregnant during filming, of course) as the maiden piano teacher, best in a scene stolen by Family Guy for a Lois piano lesson. (Is there one original bit in all of Family Guy?) Little Ron "Opie" Howard is allowed to have devilish fun with an affected lisp. The big musical numbers and crowd scenes are made sumptuous not by lavish set design but by wall-to-wall widescreen compositions that are as active around the edges as in the center. The only number that's really awful is when Buddy Hackett sings Shipoopi, a word no midwesterner could in good conscience utter. Curiously, there is a prominent ode to Gary, Indiana (the Newark of Chicago), a city founded by U.S. Steel that to my knowledge has never been anything but an industrial dump.
Iowa? Well at least now I know how to pronounce it. I always thought you folks preferred "Iowa".
We do.
Well he just said I-o-way.
We say it now and then, but we don't like anybody else to.
The other two are South Pacific and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. (Before retiring from the ministry he spent fifteen years working in a VA psychiatric hospital and always said that Cuckoo's Nest is "pretty accurate".)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Jimmy Eat Shit
So there I was. In the sweaty press of a mostly teenage crowd frying under the dog day sun on the vast expanse of an arena parking lot. We'd been hustling between the two main stages all afternoon, dancing in the Olympic pool-size pits when fancy struck, swallowing bottles of water whenever heatstroke seemed nearest. On stage was a crew called As I Lay Dying, grim-looking in a calculated way, whose fearsome metalcore was inspiring the kids to kung fu fight. Partway through the set I began to suspect that this soundstorm was some insidious breed of Christian metal. Perhaps it was the singer's tent revival posturing that tipped me off. Perhaps it was the crucifix tattoos I suddenly noticed on all the thugs surrounding me. It certainly wasn't the lyrics, which could not be discerned. Anyway, I stopped enjoying myself. Then something happened. In a momentary pause between songs, without any prompting at all, the audience began angrily chanting "Emo sucks!" I was taken aback. The band, to my eyes, looked vaguely dismayed but did nothing to discourage this behavior. What did emo have to do with anything? It was like going to a Bears game and shouting "WNBA sucks!" True, no one takes the WNBA seriously, but it sure isn't hurting anybody, least of all the Bears. As for emo, no one even knows what it is, and no one claims to be it. So wtf? (Nice Christian deportment, by the way.)
To get to the bottom of this occurrence, let's take a look at the bands that have been called emo (over the members' protests in every case) and assess whether or not they suck.
Emo as a term was originally a shortened form of emotional hardcore or emocore, invented by a Washington DC fanzine to describe a new group of local punk bands that became active in the summer of 1985. The musicians, lead by Ian MacKaye and Guy Picciotto, dubbed this movement the Revolution Summer, intending to put an end to the violence and intolerance that had overrun the DC hardcore scene. The area had produced two of hardcore's cornerstone bands — Bad Brains and Minor Threat — at the end of the 70s, but as their popularity grew the shows became plagued by an unwanted following of white power skinheads. (A common characteristic of neo-fascists seems to be a knack for misinterpreting lyrics.) The Revolution Summer was aimed at creating music that was still personal and introspective (hardcore had always been highly emotional...Henry Rollins could emote like a motherfucker) but without the posture of toughguy aggression; music that expressed vulnerability and weakness without implying that a helping hand would be bitten. Music that was too lame for Nazis. Ultrafast tempos were slowed and melody was not unwelcome. Importantly, this was not an effort to become more mainstream accessible, but rather a lateral move toward an equally and intentionally anti-commercial sound. Emphasis remained on authentic and raw expression that defied pop sensibilities. The only obvious predecessor to this post-hardcore movement is Hüsker Dü, whose ambitious 1984 album Zen Arcade introduced more progressive songcraft to hardcore and howling vocals that (despite being mixed down beneath a bulwark of feedback) conveyed personal pain with greater honesty.
1985, Rites of Spring. The first emocore band by general consent. To my ears a fully-armed hardcore band that could tear a pansy brat to bits. Only not right now because they're barely upright, red-rimmed and choking on a fractured relationship — possibly punk rock's first breakup album. Frontman Guy Picciotto takes the mic slavering fire and hoarse from nights of anguished shouting that only made things worse. He knows that losing a love is sometimes losing yourself, and losing everything you had in mind. My favorite of all these groups.
1987, Embrace. Ian MacKaye is one of the most distinguished figures in the history of punk. He lead what many consider the definitive hardcore band (Minor Threat), invented the ascetic straight edge lifestyle, pioneered the emocore movement as founder of Embrace, currently co-fronts (with Picciotto) the enduring post-hardcore figurehead band Fugazi, and has done more to rigorously promote anti-corporate ethics for operating a successful underground band (the low-budget DIY model for self-releasing cheap albums and financing cheap tours) than probably anyone. He is also an irritating prick. This wanker is about as much fun as mother superior; a teetotaling no-slamdancing humorless squawk box for political correctness and buzzkill. Not what the Ramones had in mind. Embrace was a stepping stone between Minor Threat and Fugazi, both better outfits with stronger musical identity. While important for its frank lyrics, Embrace lacks the primary virtue of MacKaye's other projects: The ability to mask his dick-shrinking rhetoric with loud and enjoyable music.
1994, Sunny Day Real Estate. Fast-forward to the dawn of mainstream punk, also the first publicly visible emocore. Seattle's SDRE were the first to perch delicately between post-hardcore and indie rock, an act too rare and beautiful to last. Their career was much the same, a brief flirtation with MTV while otherwise maintaining total media blackout and enigmatically refusing to perform in the state of California. The direct antecedent for most everything called emo in the 90s, SDRE were more poetic and more challenging than any of their followers. They also rocked harder. Jeremy Enigk could sing whereas Picciotto and MacKaye could only shout. His flinty voice seems to compel the rise and fall of the music, seething between a lullaby and a near-screech.
1995, Texas is the Reason. The first appearance of surging pop melodies — a truly transitional band composed of former NY-hardcore musicians shooting for the spotlight in the post-Dookie scramble, only to backpedal when fame threatened. I can't convince myself that Texas is the Reason contains audible hardcore influence, but they do rock well in the Pumpkins'ey way of mid-90s alternative. The saving grace of singer Garrett Klahn's nasally whine is the pinch of gravel in his throat, without which the vocals would be as clean and boring as the emo-pop imitators close on his heels... On the eve of signing to a major label, after playing to adoring capacity crowds in Europe, the band simply pulled the plug. It was the last time a so-called emo group would have any anti-commercial credentials.
1996, Weezer (Pinkerton). Everybody knows that Weezer is the poster child for emo. The only problem is that Weezer has no musical relationship to emocore at all. It's here that the usage of the term becomes inconsistent (and popular) and things only get more confused hereafter. Weezer is a hard rock band that wants to be KISS but is too embarrassed to wear the makeup so they play a garage version of Cheap Trick-inspired power pop instead and act all aw-shucks about it. (People tend to forget just how balls-out loud Rivers & co kick out the jams.) Point being that Weezer does not come from a punk background, so it's unclear why the emo label should apply. Does this mean that Cheap Trick was emo (after all, Rick Nielsen and Bun E Carlos are about the dorkiest arena rockers ever)? My theory is that SDRE and Texas is the Reason did not turn out to be the cash cows the majors wanted, but there seemed to be an audience for this emo thing, so the record execs decided that Weezer would be emo to fill the vacuum. No one had ever heard of Rites of Spring anyway.
1999, Jimmy Eat World (Clarity). Everybody knows that Jimmy Eat World is the other poster child for emo. This actually makes a bit more sense, as long as you remember that JEW put out a couple albums before their 2001 pop-punk smash hit Bleed American. Their '99 release is considered an emocore milestone, not because there is the least thing hardcore about it, but because it is the natural successor to Texas is the Reason: Polished-up soul-bearing post-post-post-hardcore. There's a bunch of plinking drum machine nonsense...I can't really listen to it. I guess it does suck. These dudes have good pop instincts, but you need a certain authenticity to cry and not seem like a whiny twat. I think they eventually figured that out, which is why we have all those perfectly fine radio singles off Bleed American with which to guiltily sing along.
2000, Dashboard Confessional. Now the shit gets ate. Somebody somewhere, probably at a music press outlet owned by a media conglomerate that owned...etc, decided to call an acoustic singer-songwriter emo. Jesus Christ. Is Jewel emo? Because the only difference between Chris Carrabba and Jewel is a nutsack (in all likelihood). That's probably significant... Originally the term was used to label displays of vulnerability that were not the norm for a particular group. Perhaps some vestige of that usage remains in that boys are eligible to be emo but girls are not. I don't know. It's all so stupid. (Full disclosure: I like this album.)
Since then the music world has been lawless. Emo gets thrown around like crap in a monkeyhouse. I hear there's a band called Paramore that has a girl singer; I wonder if they're emo... [tappity-tap] They are!? Argh! Nihilo sanctum estne? Oh, and this beats all: Apparently some claim that As I Lay Dying incorporates elements of emo. I... Whatever.
Okay, since I know you're asking, what about this screamo you've been hearing so much about? Well that, as they say in The Neverending Story, is another story.
To get to the bottom of this occurrence, let's take a look at the bands that have been called emo (over the members' protests in every case) and assess whether or not they suck.
Emo as a term was originally a shortened form of emotional hardcore or emocore, invented by a Washington DC fanzine to describe a new group of local punk bands that became active in the summer of 1985. The musicians, lead by Ian MacKaye and Guy Picciotto, dubbed this movement the Revolution Summer, intending to put an end to the violence and intolerance that had overrun the DC hardcore scene. The area had produced two of hardcore's cornerstone bands — Bad Brains and Minor Threat — at the end of the 70s, but as their popularity grew the shows became plagued by an unwanted following of white power skinheads. (A common characteristic of neo-fascists seems to be a knack for misinterpreting lyrics.) The Revolution Summer was aimed at creating music that was still personal and introspective (hardcore had always been highly emotional...Henry Rollins could emote like a motherfucker) but without the posture of toughguy aggression; music that expressed vulnerability and weakness without implying that a helping hand would be bitten. Music that was too lame for Nazis. Ultrafast tempos were slowed and melody was not unwelcome. Importantly, this was not an effort to become more mainstream accessible, but rather a lateral move toward an equally and intentionally anti-commercial sound. Emphasis remained on authentic and raw expression that defied pop sensibilities. The only obvious predecessor to this post-hardcore movement is Hüsker Dü, whose ambitious 1984 album Zen Arcade introduced more progressive songcraft to hardcore and howling vocals that (despite being mixed down beneath a bulwark of feedback) conveyed personal pain with greater honesty.
1985, Rites of Spring. The first emocore band by general consent. To my ears a fully-armed hardcore band that could tear a pansy brat to bits. Only not right now because they're barely upright, red-rimmed and choking on a fractured relationship — possibly punk rock's first breakup album. Frontman Guy Picciotto takes the mic slavering fire and hoarse from nights of anguished shouting that only made things worse. He knows that losing a love is sometimes losing yourself, and losing everything you had in mind. My favorite of all these groups.
1987, Embrace. Ian MacKaye is one of the most distinguished figures in the history of punk. He lead what many consider the definitive hardcore band (Minor Threat), invented the ascetic straight edge lifestyle, pioneered the emocore movement as founder of Embrace, currently co-fronts (with Picciotto) the enduring post-hardcore figurehead band Fugazi, and has done more to rigorously promote anti-corporate ethics for operating a successful underground band (the low-budget DIY model for self-releasing cheap albums and financing cheap tours) than probably anyone. He is also an irritating prick. This wanker is about as much fun as mother superior; a teetotaling no-slamdancing humorless squawk box for political correctness and buzzkill. Not what the Ramones had in mind. Embrace was a stepping stone between Minor Threat and Fugazi, both better outfits with stronger musical identity. While important for its frank lyrics, Embrace lacks the primary virtue of MacKaye's other projects: The ability to mask his dick-shrinking rhetoric with loud and enjoyable music.
1994, Sunny Day Real Estate. Fast-forward to the dawn of mainstream punk, also the first publicly visible emocore. Seattle's SDRE were the first to perch delicately between post-hardcore and indie rock, an act too rare and beautiful to last. Their career was much the same, a brief flirtation with MTV while otherwise maintaining total media blackout and enigmatically refusing to perform in the state of California. The direct antecedent for most everything called emo in the 90s, SDRE were more poetic and more challenging than any of their followers. They also rocked harder. Jeremy Enigk could sing whereas Picciotto and MacKaye could only shout. His flinty voice seems to compel the rise and fall of the music, seething between a lullaby and a near-screech.
1995, Texas is the Reason. The first appearance of surging pop melodies — a truly transitional band composed of former NY-hardcore musicians shooting for the spotlight in the post-Dookie scramble, only to backpedal when fame threatened. I can't convince myself that Texas is the Reason contains audible hardcore influence, but they do rock well in the Pumpkins'ey way of mid-90s alternative. The saving grace of singer Garrett Klahn's nasally whine is the pinch of gravel in his throat, without which the vocals would be as clean and boring as the emo-pop imitators close on his heels... On the eve of signing to a major label, after playing to adoring capacity crowds in Europe, the band simply pulled the plug. It was the last time a so-called emo group would have any anti-commercial credentials.
1996, Weezer (Pinkerton). Everybody knows that Weezer is the poster child for emo. The only problem is that Weezer has no musical relationship to emocore at all. It's here that the usage of the term becomes inconsistent (and popular) and things only get more confused hereafter. Weezer is a hard rock band that wants to be KISS but is too embarrassed to wear the makeup so they play a garage version of Cheap Trick-inspired power pop instead and act all aw-shucks about it. (People tend to forget just how balls-out loud Rivers & co kick out the jams.) Point being that Weezer does not come from a punk background, so it's unclear why the emo label should apply. Does this mean that Cheap Trick was emo (after all, Rick Nielsen and Bun E Carlos are about the dorkiest arena rockers ever)? My theory is that SDRE and Texas is the Reason did not turn out to be the cash cows the majors wanted, but there seemed to be an audience for this emo thing, so the record execs decided that Weezer would be emo to fill the vacuum. No one had ever heard of Rites of Spring anyway.
1999, Jimmy Eat World (Clarity). Everybody knows that Jimmy Eat World is the other poster child for emo. This actually makes a bit more sense, as long as you remember that JEW put out a couple albums before their 2001 pop-punk smash hit Bleed American. Their '99 release is considered an emocore milestone, not because there is the least thing hardcore about it, but because it is the natural successor to Texas is the Reason: Polished-up soul-bearing post-post-post-hardcore. There's a bunch of plinking drum machine nonsense...I can't really listen to it. I guess it does suck. These dudes have good pop instincts, but you need a certain authenticity to cry and not seem like a whiny twat. I think they eventually figured that out, which is why we have all those perfectly fine radio singles off Bleed American with which to guiltily sing along.
2000, Dashboard Confessional. Now the shit gets ate. Somebody somewhere, probably at a music press outlet owned by a media conglomerate that owned...etc, decided to call an acoustic singer-songwriter emo. Jesus Christ. Is Jewel emo? Because the only difference between Chris Carrabba and Jewel is a nutsack (in all likelihood). That's probably significant... Originally the term was used to label displays of vulnerability that were not the norm for a particular group. Perhaps some vestige of that usage remains in that boys are eligible to be emo but girls are not. I don't know. It's all so stupid. (Full disclosure: I like this album.)
Since then the music world has been lawless. Emo gets thrown around like crap in a monkeyhouse. I hear there's a band called Paramore that has a girl singer; I wonder if they're emo... [tappity-tap] They are!? Argh! Nihilo sanctum estne? Oh, and this beats all: Apparently some claim that As I Lay Dying incorporates elements of emo. I... Whatever.
Okay, since I know you're asking, what about this screamo you've been hearing so much about? Well that, as they say in The Neverending Story, is another story.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Gregorian Chant [GA]
[Written by Gaius Alabaster]
"I think I'm approaching a complete knowledge of music," said a certain friend of mine whose identity I will take to the grave. "Is that so, Tiberius," I said, "then what about the Beatles and Radiohead?" A look of disdain crossed his face as he carefully formulated his response. "Music that matters," he said.
Poor taste aside, this exchange got me thinking about the limitations of my own musical experience. What about those genres of music that I had completely written off? For that matter, what about the cultural and musical origins of my favorite artists? Surely they have something to offer me. As it turned out, my failure to grasp Tiberius' use of hyperbole as a rhetorical device had inadvertently led me down a path of destiny. No ordinary path of destiny, mind you, but one so absurd and tedious that its only likely claim to a destiny was that of abject failure. As such, I will call this, "The Hopeless Journey."
The Hopeless Journey is my attempt to explore the entire history of western music, or at least the important parts of it... that we know about... and that I can purchase on iTunes in some form. Although I'm sure to give up on this quest in the very near future, I will share with you here its beginnings — the Gregorian Chant. Clearly, it would make little sense to structure these "reviews" in the traditional sense, as I'm no more qualified to judge the quality of a medieval motet than I am qualified to compete in the 200m wheelchair dash at the Special Olympics. As such, rather than try to ask, "How good is this music?", I will try to answer the question, "What does this music have to offer me?" By "me", here, I of course mean "myself". Any resemblance the content of this review has to the value the music might have to, say, "you", is purely coincidental.
To begin my journey, I downloaded the album "The Ecclesiastical Year in Gregorian Chant" by the Schola Cantorum of Amsterdam Students & Wim Van Gerven. The artist performing the chant sounded sufficiently pretentious as to make it of likely high quality and the number of tracks (31) seemed large enough that I would get a good sampling of the music. As it turned out, however, 10 probably would have been enough, as I could have put it on a loop and not noticed that it was repeating for several days.
The music is a cappella, monophonic, arhythmic, and entirely sung in Latin. Since I don't speak Latin, the experience was one-dimensional, the only redeeming quality being its soothing nature. Of course, this music was never meant to be "listened to" in the sense that you would listen to a symphony or prog rock album. Rather, it was meant to "hypnotize" and elevate the listener to a different state of consciousness. Insomuch as boredom is a state of consciousness, it achieved this end, but I will admit that I sometimes play the chants as I'm going to sleep. Other possible uses include for meditation, ambient music for infants, and cool-down music for those with anger management issues.
The realm of "sacred" music, the foundation for which was the Gregorian chant, dominated Western art music in the late medieval period, so my developing a familiarity for these chants was not without purpose. Many later composers would use a traditional Gregorian chant as the driving force for their compositions, styling elaborate polyphonic motets about this "cantus firmus". In modern terms, it is akin to a hip hop artist sampling "Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay" to a chorus of scantily clad women moaning and feigning coitus. Ok, not exactly, but the principle is similar, as the composer is elaborating on a melody already familiar to the listener. I will attempt to continue developing this familiarity with the Gregorian Chant as I prepare for my review of "Leonin & Perotin: Sacred Music from Notre-Dame." I promise the next review will be more positive... if before then I don't give up on my Hopeless Journey.
"I think I'm approaching a complete knowledge of music," said a certain friend of mine whose identity I will take to the grave. "Is that so, Tiberius," I said, "then what about the Beatles and Radiohead?" A look of disdain crossed his face as he carefully formulated his response. "Music that matters," he said.
Poor taste aside, this exchange got me thinking about the limitations of my own musical experience. What about those genres of music that I had completely written off? For that matter, what about the cultural and musical origins of my favorite artists? Surely they have something to offer me. As it turned out, my failure to grasp Tiberius' use of hyperbole as a rhetorical device had inadvertently led me down a path of destiny. No ordinary path of destiny, mind you, but one so absurd and tedious that its only likely claim to a destiny was that of abject failure. As such, I will call this, "The Hopeless Journey."
The Hopeless Journey is my attempt to explore the entire history of western music, or at least the important parts of it... that we know about... and that I can purchase on iTunes in some form. Although I'm sure to give up on this quest in the very near future, I will share with you here its beginnings — the Gregorian Chant. Clearly, it would make little sense to structure these "reviews" in the traditional sense, as I'm no more qualified to judge the quality of a medieval motet than I am qualified to compete in the 200m wheelchair dash at the Special Olympics. As such, rather than try to ask, "How good is this music?", I will try to answer the question, "What does this music have to offer me?" By "me", here, I of course mean "myself". Any resemblance the content of this review has to the value the music might have to, say, "you", is purely coincidental.
To begin my journey, I downloaded the album "The Ecclesiastical Year in Gregorian Chant" by the Schola Cantorum of Amsterdam Students & Wim Van Gerven. The artist performing the chant sounded sufficiently pretentious as to make it of likely high quality and the number of tracks (31) seemed large enough that I would get a good sampling of the music. As it turned out, however, 10 probably would have been enough, as I could have put it on a loop and not noticed that it was repeating for several days.
The music is a cappella, monophonic, arhythmic, and entirely sung in Latin. Since I don't speak Latin, the experience was one-dimensional, the only redeeming quality being its soothing nature. Of course, this music was never meant to be "listened to" in the sense that you would listen to a symphony or prog rock album. Rather, it was meant to "hypnotize" and elevate the listener to a different state of consciousness. Insomuch as boredom is a state of consciousness, it achieved this end, but I will admit that I sometimes play the chants as I'm going to sleep. Other possible uses include for meditation, ambient music for infants, and cool-down music for those with anger management issues.
The realm of "sacred" music, the foundation for which was the Gregorian chant, dominated Western art music in the late medieval period, so my developing a familiarity for these chants was not without purpose. Many later composers would use a traditional Gregorian chant as the driving force for their compositions, styling elaborate polyphonic motets about this "cantus firmus". In modern terms, it is akin to a hip hop artist sampling "Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay" to a chorus of scantily clad women moaning and feigning coitus. Ok, not exactly, but the principle is similar, as the composer is elaborating on a melody already familiar to the listener. I will attempt to continue developing this familiarity with the Gregorian Chant as I prepare for my review of "Leonin & Perotin: Sacred Music from Notre-Dame." I promise the next review will be more positive... if before then I don't give up on my Hopeless Journey.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
I Love You, Man [EB]
[Written by Erasmus Brock]
My sister brought me to one of those free pre-screenings last night, of I Love You, Man. It was around the quality that I've come to expect from the string of Judd Apatow spin-offs (i.e. Apatow's not involved, but actors from his movies are and the style's similar) we've been seeing lately.
There are a satisfying number of laugh-out-loud moments, plentiful evidence that the ex-Apatow actor (in this case, Paul Rudd) is a talented improviser, and an Apatow-like interest in real people and their behavior. But, like the other spin-offs, it's a pale imitation of the real thing.
For example, the characters' behavior is more plot-driven and less consistent in its degree of plausibility. Apatow strays from reality, but it's for a reason, and he sets rules and sticks to them, allowing us to suspend disbelief, relax, and get carried away by the plot and characters. These guys, on the other hand, just get less realistic when it helps them to pull off a gag or make the plot work, so I keep getting reminded that I'm watching a story that was written by someone.
Also, it feels stripped-down compared to Apatow's stuff, which is rich with funny/interesting character details that aren't essential to the plot (like Seth's childhood drawings in Superbad), as well as, when Apatow's at his best (though certainly not always), substantive subplots (the Superbad cops' relationship with McLovin) and minor characters who, despite being non-essential to the plot, are three-dimensional and reveal something real about human nature (the conflicted nightclub bouncer in Knocked Up). This movie instead sets a premise — a guy who's always had girlfriends but not man-friends suddenly has to make a friend — and follows it humorously, period. Any revelations about human nature are strictly confined to that idea, and the characters' personality details exist only to serve the plot or make a gag work.
So, enjoyable though the movie is, it's still just a little kid trying to be like his grown-up brother.
My sister brought me to one of those free pre-screenings last night, of I Love You, Man. It was around the quality that I've come to expect from the string of Judd Apatow spin-offs (i.e. Apatow's not involved, but actors from his movies are and the style's similar) we've been seeing lately.
There are a satisfying number of laugh-out-loud moments, plentiful evidence that the ex-Apatow actor (in this case, Paul Rudd) is a talented improviser, and an Apatow-like interest in real people and their behavior. But, like the other spin-offs, it's a pale imitation of the real thing.
For example, the characters' behavior is more plot-driven and less consistent in its degree of plausibility. Apatow strays from reality, but it's for a reason, and he sets rules and sticks to them, allowing us to suspend disbelief, relax, and get carried away by the plot and characters. These guys, on the other hand, just get less realistic when it helps them to pull off a gag or make the plot work, so I keep getting reminded that I'm watching a story that was written by someone.
Also, it feels stripped-down compared to Apatow's stuff, which is rich with funny/interesting character details that aren't essential to the plot (like Seth's childhood drawings in Superbad), as well as, when Apatow's at his best (though certainly not always), substantive subplots (the Superbad cops' relationship with McLovin) and minor characters who, despite being non-essential to the plot, are three-dimensional and reveal something real about human nature (the conflicted nightclub bouncer in Knocked Up). This movie instead sets a premise — a guy who's always had girlfriends but not man-friends suddenly has to make a friend — and follows it humorously, period. Any revelations about human nature are strictly confined to that idea, and the characters' personality details exist only to serve the plot or make a gag work.
So, enjoyable though the movie is, it's still just a little kid trying to be like his grown-up brother.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Let the Right One In
Swedes are trying to convince me that vampires still matter. I have asserted that they are irrelevant to the modern world. (Vampires that is, not Swedes.) That might sound coy at a time when Twilight has taken in $370 million at the box office and bloodsucking hotties are probably more popular than ever, but allow me to explain. Going back to Stoker there are four basic themes that run through vamp literature and popular lore. I shall dismiss the first three as outdated, and concede that the fourth is still of potential interest.
Van Helsing's battle against Dracula pits scientific reason against folkloric wisdom. Being that we have long since split the atom, sequenced the genome and dated the age of the universe, I'd say that conflict has been decided. Lovecraft's more esoteric fears about what science will reveal about the nature of reality may still resonate today, but as to whether a Romanian count can cross a body of running water there can no longer be any doubt.
Victorian Englishmen were a xenophobic lot, wary of the sinister and un-Christian things being brought back from the colonies. Now, decades after the civil rights movement and as we try to negotiate accord with the Muslim world, it is not so cool to un-ironically suggest that supernatural darkies are arriving to steal your money, give you plague and make sluts of your daughters.
Okay, the sex thing. Vampires offer erotic wish-fulfillment for the sexually repressed, translating sinful lust into death and damnation. Are you bored yet? Once we stop instilling our children with puritanical terror of their mammalian organs vampire love will be obsolete, sales of certain teen romance serials will plummet, and we'll be better off.
Finally, I will be generous and allow that the miserable condition of being a vampire might yet be of allegorical interest. It is a wretched outsider's existence, governed by strict but wholly arbitrary rules — terms of bondage that are painful yet comforting in a BDSM way. I propose a screenplay titled Vampire about an isolated and despairing professional Dom/sub with OCD and a host of phobias.
Let the Right One In is beautifully photographed but overly praised by international critics. The story of androgynous preteen pseudosexual friendship at first seems poised to churn up a squirming host of issues — child abuse, pedophilia, drug addiction, homosexuality and divorce, the co-dependence of prostitution — with which to decorate the condition of vampirism. But then it doesn't. Just by writing down these intriguing possibilities I have "explored" them as thoroughly as does the movie. I gather that the source novel contains the substance I was missing. Let's hope Hammer's English-language remake (2010 release) digs deeper.
Van Helsing's battle against Dracula pits scientific reason against folkloric wisdom. Being that we have long since split the atom, sequenced the genome and dated the age of the universe, I'd say that conflict has been decided. Lovecraft's more esoteric fears about what science will reveal about the nature of reality may still resonate today, but as to whether a Romanian count can cross a body of running water there can no longer be any doubt.
Victorian Englishmen were a xenophobic lot, wary of the sinister and un-Christian things being brought back from the colonies. Now, decades after the civil rights movement and as we try to negotiate accord with the Muslim world, it is not so cool to un-ironically suggest that supernatural darkies are arriving to steal your money, give you plague and make sluts of your daughters.
Okay, the sex thing. Vampires offer erotic wish-fulfillment for the sexually repressed, translating sinful lust into death and damnation. Are you bored yet? Once we stop instilling our children with puritanical terror of their mammalian organs vampire love will be obsolete, sales of certain teen romance serials will plummet, and we'll be better off.
Finally, I will be generous and allow that the miserable condition of being a vampire might yet be of allegorical interest. It is a wretched outsider's existence, governed by strict but wholly arbitrary rules — terms of bondage that are painful yet comforting in a BDSM way. I propose a screenplay titled Vampire about an isolated and despairing professional Dom/sub with OCD and a host of phobias.
Let the Right One In is beautifully photographed but overly praised by international critics. The story of androgynous preteen pseudosexual friendship at first seems poised to churn up a squirming host of issues — child abuse, pedophilia, drug addiction, homosexuality and divorce, the co-dependence of prostitution — with which to decorate the condition of vampirism. But then it doesn't. Just by writing down these intriguing possibilities I have "explored" them as thoroughly as does the movie. I gather that the source novel contains the substance I was missing. Let's hope Hammer's English-language remake (2010 release) digs deeper.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Gomorra
I often ask myself when watching a semi-realistic movie, If you took all the pumped-up Hollywood drama out of this screenplay and just filmed these ordinary people living their particular lives, would there be anything left worth watching? This is the sort of thing that indie filmmakers try to do all the time, and I suspect that mostly the results are crap. The exceptional independent films that succeed in turning ordinary human life into compelling viewing are the only ones you will ever hear about, and perhaps even see. This selection effect might give you the mistaken impression that genius is rampant outside the Hollywood system.
Nevertheless, Gomorra is one of the exceptional ones, and has left me with lingering and unsettled images of the contemporary streetlife of the Camorra, the oldest crime syndicate in Italy: Concrete tenements largely vacant, chemical waste landfills, smoothly-run sweatshops and bottom-level drug distribution houses, bulldozers on empty beaches. The atmosphere is oppressive, hollow and gray. The Neapolitans depicted are not a passionate people but a deadened one, mechanical and nervous in the way they occupy their broad, quiet, half-developed, seemingly forgotten seaside. Boring thugs commit sudden and unexciting murders, always getting the drop. There is never a gunfight.
Nevertheless, Gomorra is one of the exceptional ones, and has left me with lingering and unsettled images of the contemporary streetlife of the Camorra, the oldest crime syndicate in Italy: Concrete tenements largely vacant, chemical waste landfills, smoothly-run sweatshops and bottom-level drug distribution houses, bulldozers on empty beaches. The atmosphere is oppressive, hollow and gray. The Neapolitans depicted are not a passionate people but a deadened one, mechanical and nervous in the way they occupy their broad, quiet, half-developed, seemingly forgotten seaside. Boring thugs commit sudden and unexciting murders, always getting the drop. There is never a gunfight.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Mass Effect
The best dialogue and story writing in an RPG since Torment. I'm a little embarrassed at how excited I became at every opportunity to flirt with and romance the main love interest...But only a little, because the character is written as an actual, specific human being who does not exist merely for you to make sex with. All Mario has to do to get the girl is jump on some turtles. In Mass Effect you have to share your feelings, and respect hers. The development of relationships with and between NPCs is sophisticated and subtle, and not just in the love triangle but throughout the cast of a dozen major crew members, Citadel officials and villains. Outstanding voice acting lends an authenticity to the writing that you rarely get in American RPGs and never in JRPGs.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Scarecrow
The early 70s were full of these terrific American buddy road movies — Easy Rider, Midnight Cowboy, The Last Detail, Scarecrow — meditative dramas that unfold leisurely and unexpectedly, the way only indie films are allowed to nowadays. Consider the star power in these four pictures: Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, Jon Voight, Dustin Hoffman, Randy Quaid, Jack Nicholson, Gene Hackman, Al Pacino. The smaller, more portable cameras invented during WWII finally caught on in Hollywood at that time, enabling the love affair with location shooting that characterizes the American New Wave. There's a mini film series here.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Germs
...were one of the first American punk bands outside New York and one of only two significant L.A. punk bands in the fleeting days before Black Flag and the hardcore scene took over. The other was X, a skillful rock band in the artier NY vein of Television and Blondie. In contrast, Germs mastermind Darby Crash promoted his band before they could play their instruments, booked gigs before they knew any songs and became locally famous almost by force of will. His models were the snarling sensationalism of the Sex Pistols and the pie-throwing riot of The Damned, boasting of a Bowie-inspired "five-year plan" for attaining stardom. The Germs did learn to play, recorded some of the best ever snot-dripping two-chord blasts of '77 attitude and ended when, on the night before John Lennon was shot, Darby Crash died of an intentional heroin overdose.
There exists a low-budget Germs biopic titled What We Do Is Secret (2007) that I have had the misfortune to see. It would be cruel of me to criticize such an earnest first-time effort if not for the fact that the filmmakers seem utterly convinced that the charmless treacle they have excreted is actually an inspired definitive statement. Every production choice is wrong. The sets, costumes and photography are clean and tidy where they should be grimy and chaotic. The performances should be raw and spontaneous, but instead we get the amateur staginess of the Disney Channel. The band's there-and-gone career should hurdle with immediacy, not float along in a wistful faux-documentary retrospective. The wigs are alarmingly bad.
I eagerly await the re-release of The Decline of Western Civilization, an actual 1981 documentary of the L.A. punk and hardcore scenes that showcases performance footage of the Germs, X, Black Flag and the Circle Jerks.
There exists a low-budget Germs biopic titled What We Do Is Secret (2007) that I have had the misfortune to see. It would be cruel of me to criticize such an earnest first-time effort if not for the fact that the filmmakers seem utterly convinced that the charmless treacle they have excreted is actually an inspired definitive statement. Every production choice is wrong. The sets, costumes and photography are clean and tidy where they should be grimy and chaotic. The performances should be raw and spontaneous, but instead we get the amateur staginess of the Disney Channel. The band's there-and-gone career should hurdle with immediacy, not float along in a wistful faux-documentary retrospective. The wigs are alarmingly bad.
I eagerly await the re-release of The Decline of Western Civilization, an actual 1981 documentary of the L.A. punk and hardcore scenes that showcases performance footage of the Germs, X, Black Flag and the Circle Jerks.
Watchmen
I was wrong. I said it would be awful, that there's no way Hollywood would get it right. What cause had I to hope? Director Zack Snyder had previously done a passable but unnecessary remake of Dawn of the Dead and the cartoonishly glandular adaptation of 300. The screenwriters had worked on the X-Men movies and The Scorpion King. Watchmen is literature, and I saw it falling into ham-hands.
With hindsight I make one small note: In his zombie flick Snyder had proven able to capture the end-of-the-world existential dread that also permeates Alan Moore's graphic novel. Three cheers for hidden artistic sensibility.
There is no way to plumb the depths of the book, to convey its juxtapositions of image and text, its visual rhyming or its simultaneous parallel storytelling, not in three hours or six and no sense in trying. Let comics and movies keep to their separate spheres and each do what they do best. That being said, what Snyder has (miraculously) achieved is to make an entertaining Hollywood event movie that retains the major themes of the book and remains true to its texture and spirit.
Now, I'm sure it is nevertheless a bumpy ride for the uninitiated. Although Moore's densely woven plotlines have been harshly trimmed and the character backstories truncated, there is still an entire postwar alternate history to establish, including the rise-and-fall saga of costumed crimefighters, as matrix for the convoluted whodunit. That's a lot to digest, but the film will inspire multiple viewings upon which I expect it to prove coherent. The throwaway details are all there for the fanboys to relish: The snow globe, Gunga Diner, Millennium, Pyramid Deliveries, New Frontiersman, The Outer Limits...someone tell me if you spot The Day the Earth Stood Still on one of Veidt's TVs — I was too transfixed by The Road Warrior. I found myself not missing too terribly the plot threads left out (except the one-man Greek chorus supplied by the newstand vendor, a humane counterpoint to Rorschach's brutal narration) and even admiring the economical retooling of Veidt's master plan. The between-sequence editing is a hasty chop-job, not unlike that in the theatrical release of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, indicating that we can look forward to an extended DVD version with streamlined pacing. The soundtrack is fun if a bit too intrusive at times; Simon & Garfunkel is a fitting joke for the Comedian's funeral.
Oh, the violence! I half expected Warner Bros to lean toward a PG-13 cut. The book's language is not overly profane to begin with, and they could have cut around the gory stuff and naughty bits and insisted that Manhattan keep his underpants on. It would have been crap, but they would have made more money off the younger audience. To my delight Snyder went the other way. If anything the movie is far more gruesome than the book, which does not feature compound fractures, circular saw amputations or a cleavered pederast. The book's most horrific imagery is confined to Tales of the Black Freighter, the comic-within-a-comic, a device Moore uses to divulge the worst of our species' bloodlust without seeming to condone it. Elsewhere Moore consistently presents violent acts with a tone of disgust rather than morbid revelry. Snyder on the other hand revels, in gratuitous close-ups and lingering shots of splatter that are only about themselves. I laughed hard because it was so shockingly unnecessary that it tipped Snyder's hand: His reverence for the source material extends only as far as his love of gross-out effects. If you don't know why spurting Karo syrup is fun, I can't tell you.
So Snyder takes some personal license with the quease factor, but more importantly he respects Watchmen as an adult entertainment. Which is not to say a prurient one. Moore's attitude toward sex is frank and liberated, that sex be treated as a thing perplexing and natural and hopefully fun. Dan and Laurie learn to accept and enjoy the inherent kinkiness of dressing up in leather and latex. Manhattan goes about unclothed because of course he would, and Dan walks around nude after lovemaking because that's what people do. It would be perverse to go to lengths to avoid the fact of genitalia. After all the talk in the last few years about how Batman Begins and The Dark Knight brought psychological depth to the comic book movie and how Sin City and 300 brought R-rated T&A, now with Watchmen the genre is finally mature.
Haley was the badass child star you loved in The Bad News Bears (1976) and Breaking Away (1979) who all but disappeared from the movies for twenty-five years before turning up in Little Children (2006), a wrenching comeback performance that earned an Oscar nomination. Knowing he'd been cast as Rorschach was the only real hope I had for Watchmen, and about that I was right. About every other aspect I'm elated to have been so wrong.
With hindsight I make one small note: In his zombie flick Snyder had proven able to capture the end-of-the-world existential dread that also permeates Alan Moore's graphic novel. Three cheers for hidden artistic sensibility.
There is no way to plumb the depths of the book, to convey its juxtapositions of image and text, its visual rhyming or its simultaneous parallel storytelling, not in three hours or six and no sense in trying. Let comics and movies keep to their separate spheres and each do what they do best. That being said, what Snyder has (miraculously) achieved is to make an entertaining Hollywood event movie that retains the major themes of the book and remains true to its texture and spirit.
Now, I'm sure it is nevertheless a bumpy ride for the uninitiated. Although Moore's densely woven plotlines have been harshly trimmed and the character backstories truncated, there is still an entire postwar alternate history to establish, including the rise-and-fall saga of costumed crimefighters, as matrix for the convoluted whodunit. That's a lot to digest, but the film will inspire multiple viewings upon which I expect it to prove coherent. The throwaway details are all there for the fanboys to relish: The snow globe, Gunga Diner, Millennium, Pyramid Deliveries, New Frontiersman, The Outer Limits...someone tell me if you spot The Day the Earth Stood Still on one of Veidt's TVs — I was too transfixed by The Road Warrior. I found myself not missing too terribly the plot threads left out (except the one-man Greek chorus supplied by the newstand vendor, a humane counterpoint to Rorschach's brutal narration) and even admiring the economical retooling of Veidt's master plan. The between-sequence editing is a hasty chop-job, not unlike that in the theatrical release of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, indicating that we can look forward to an extended DVD version with streamlined pacing. The soundtrack is fun if a bit too intrusive at times; Simon & Garfunkel is a fitting joke for the Comedian's funeral.
Oh, the violence! I half expected Warner Bros to lean toward a PG-13 cut. The book's language is not overly profane to begin with, and they could have cut around the gory stuff and naughty bits and insisted that Manhattan keep his underpants on. It would have been crap, but they would have made more money off the younger audience. To my delight Snyder went the other way. If anything the movie is far more gruesome than the book, which does not feature compound fractures, circular saw amputations or a cleavered pederast. The book's most horrific imagery is confined to Tales of the Black Freighter, the comic-within-a-comic, a device Moore uses to divulge the worst of our species' bloodlust without seeming to condone it. Elsewhere Moore consistently presents violent acts with a tone of disgust rather than morbid revelry. Snyder on the other hand revels, in gratuitous close-ups and lingering shots of splatter that are only about themselves. I laughed hard because it was so shockingly unnecessary that it tipped Snyder's hand: His reverence for the source material extends only as far as his love of gross-out effects. If you don't know why spurting Karo syrup is fun, I can't tell you.
So Snyder takes some personal license with the quease factor, but more importantly he respects Watchmen as an adult entertainment. Which is not to say a prurient one. Moore's attitude toward sex is frank and liberated, that sex be treated as a thing perplexing and natural and hopefully fun. Dan and Laurie learn to accept and enjoy the inherent kinkiness of dressing up in leather and latex. Manhattan goes about unclothed because of course he would, and Dan walks around nude after lovemaking because that's what people do. It would be perverse to go to lengths to avoid the fact of genitalia. After all the talk in the last few years about how Batman Begins and The Dark Knight brought psychological depth to the comic book movie and how Sin City and 300 brought R-rated T&A, now with Watchmen the genre is finally mature.
Jackie Earle Haley's comet coming backTwo performances stand out equally, although Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach will get most of the fan love and accolades. Patrick Wilson carries the movie as Dan Dreiberg (Nite Owl II), a sad sack I never cared much about in the book but who emerges on screen as the tender emotional anchor of a pre-apocalyptic world. Wilson brings a likability to the character that is almost entirely in the eyes, fleeting smiles and small gestures that do not come across on the page. I'm reminded of Roger Ebert's assertion that, of all the arts, motion pictures are the greatest empathy machine.
Haley was the badass child star you loved in The Bad News Bears (1976) and Breaking Away (1979) who all but disappeared from the movies for twenty-five years before turning up in Little Children (2006), a wrenching comeback performance that earned an Oscar nomination. Knowing he'd been cast as Rorschach was the only real hope I had for Watchmen, and about that I was right. About every other aspect I'm elated to have been so wrong.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Demetri Martin
It is rare for a comedian to master the one-liner. Credit where credit is due. It is not rare for a comedian under ill-advisement to push his limited talents into another arena. Apparently Jon Stewart has been the promotional force behind Important Things and Martin's recent visibility, which reeks of artifice...The audience response in his Comedy Central Presents special is tinkered to be absurdly disproportionate.
The assumption seems to be that Demetri's minimalist drawings and musings are precocious, clever and adorable. The truth is that his act is a cheap novelty and I find him no more adorable than Zac Efron.
Mitch Hedberg spoke wisdom:
The assumption seems to be that Demetri's minimalist drawings and musings are precocious, clever and adorable. The truth is that his act is a cheap novelty and I find him no more adorable than Zac Efron.
Mitch Hedberg spoke wisdom:
When you're in Hollywood and you're a comedian, everybody wants you to do other things. "All right, you're a stand-up comedian...Can you write us a script?" That's not fair. That's like if I worked hard to become a cook, and I'm a really good cook, they'd say, "OK, you're a cook. Can you farm?"
It Happened One Night
The legends persist of how Gable and Colbert and the other actors initially offered the roles (Robert Montgomery and Myrna Loy) all hated the script. Perhaps that was because, as I realize upon second viewing, it is a movie about nothing. Today we recognize that Gable plays a Seinfeld character, a master of the irrelevant, speechifying about the idiosyncrasies of a man undressing, the art of the piggyback ride and proper technique for thumbing a ride. I imagine Colbert throwing one of her little tantrums on the set, "It's just so much fluff!"
Has ever there been a woman as improbably beautiful as Claudette Colbert? Those large eyes set wide in an impossibly heart-shaped face suggest the missing link between the real world and anime.
A favorite bit of movie trivia is that It Happened One Night was the first film to sweep the five major Academy Awards: Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Director and Screenplay. Only two other films have done so, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and The Silence of the Lambs.
Has ever there been a woman as improbably beautiful as Claudette Colbert? Those large eyes set wide in an impossibly heart-shaped face suggest the missing link between the real world and anime.
A favorite bit of movie trivia is that It Happened One Night was the first film to sweep the five major Academy Awards: Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Director and Screenplay. Only two other films have done so, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and The Silence of the Lambs.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Dinner At Eight
There is a strongly-written part for every single person that appears onscreen, and the cast features a half dozen leads and as many supporting parts in this 1933 Marion-Mankiewicz adaptation of the Kaufman-Ferber play. Each scene plays like a one-act that also serves to move the bigger story along, an economical and American scripting style perfected lately by Tarantino. Compare to the frayed and messy storytelling of a European comedy of manners such as Renoir's La Règle du jeu (1939).
The roles are too well balanced to permit blonde bombshell Jean Harlow to really steal the show (the way Marilyn does in All About Eve), but as I queue up more Harlow pictures I find myself wondering where in the house I could hang her poster.
The roles are too well balanced to permit blonde bombshell Jean Harlow to really steal the show (the way Marilyn does in All About Eve), but as I queue up more Harlow pictures I find myself wondering where in the house I could hang her poster.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Vampire Weekend
The debut album plays for me like an alternate soundtrack to The Royal Tenenbaums, which is high praise, you understand. These Columbia hipster-grads have dropped the curtain on an original exhibit in the wing of literate New York art-garage, borrowing compositions from Mark Mothersbaugh with a touch of Police and Thieves and some stuff I guess is from Africa.
The band has described their sound as "Upper West Side Soweto". I learn that Soweto is an abbreviation for South Western Township, an area of Johannesburg, South Africa known as a center of Afro-pop and hip hop culture. I guess that makes VW's style Upper West Side South Western Township, a little joke.
The band has described their sound as "Upper West Side Soweto". I learn that Soweto is an abbreviation for South Western Township, an area of Johannesburg, South Africa known as a center of Afro-pop and hip hop culture. I guess that makes VW's style Upper West Side South Western Township, a little joke.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
