This isn’t supposed to happen. These guys, that would be the five (or six) members of Pearl Jam, are not supposed to be getting better after 15 years together.
For those unfortunate enough to miss it, the band played a once-in-a-lifetime gig this evening at the Ed Sullivan Theater in New York City as part of a “Late Show with David Letterman” appearance. After the taping ended, Pearl Jam stayed onstage for a blistering nearly hour-long set broadcast free online, the first time any such thing had ever been done at “The Late Show.”
If you closed your eyes, you could believe it was 1991 again. That’s how visceral this performance was—even via a warbly Internet broadcast, no less! For a second I thought Ed was going to climb into the rafters or something.
The setlist was front-loaded with new material (duh), now that the band’s new album, “Pearl Jam,” is in stores. But the last four songs were older material, including the one-two final punch of “Why Go” and “Porch” (the latter with that sweet jazzy intro that showed up for a little while in 1998). I’m still digesting the new album and this isn’t my official review, but it’s definitely a winner. The new songs sound right at home up against these old warhorses; particular new favorite “Severed Hand” even seems, musically, like a cousin of “Porch,” while “Comatose” instantly ranks among the band’s best punk rockers of any era (think “Go,” “Blood,” or “Spin the Black Circle”) and “Gone” is highly reminiscent of the classic “In Hiding.” (Ahh! Stop! This is not my review!)
Here’s the point: This band, armed with this great new batch of songs, is ready to blow the doors off buildings once again this summer. Every time I think they’ve hit their peak, they somehow manage to raise the bar again. If you don’t go see them, you’re out of your mind. Nobody’s better.
Setlist from “The Late Show with David Letterman”
5.4.06
Life Wasted (for broadcast)
World Wide Suicide
Comatose
Severed Hand
Marker in the Sand
Gone
Unemployable
Present Tense
Do the Evolution
Why Go
Porch
And a side note to those derivative morons holding up the “Leash” signs: Enough already. This is not 1998, and “Leash” is not “Breath.” Yes, we pay Pearl Jam a lot of money to watch them play (but not as much as other bands), however that does not make them human jukeboxes. Not to mention the fact they go out of their way to make each and every night special and more than worth the money. Ed held up his own sign that read: “LEASH Will Not Be Played.” Let it go. This stupid “campaign” is only going to piss them off, and when they’re playing like this, irritating them is insane.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Vito, You’re No Don
Since when did “The Sopranos” become a bastion for political correctness? Oh, wait: About three weeks ago, when Vito skipped town fearing for his double life.
See, this is why David Chase wanted to end his show many moons ago—because if you hang around long enough, you become “Brokeback New Jersey.”
Last week’s episode was almost perfect, too, what with demonstrating how the old ways of the mafia are just about over. And that fantastic scene between Tony and A.J. (maybe the best in the history of these two characters’ interaction): We got A.J. dealing with being a Soprano kid (the overriding theme of the entire series, in my opinion), Tony showing some genuine love and affection for his son, and then Tony finally living up to his marital commitments—and hating himself for it.
And then Vito had to rain on the whole parade.
For those that don’t know, captain Vito Spatafore is hiding out in New Hampshire because it was discovered (in a classic, hilarious moment, I’ll grant you) that he is, in fact, gay. (Justifiably) Fearing retribution, he bolted for the hills, biding his time in a quaint country town.
Joe Gannascoli, who plays the oh-so-put-upon soldier, has stuck his face in front of any reporter he can find to pat himself on the back for the character he’s developed. To hear him tell it, Gannascoli came up with the homosexuality thread and encouraged Chase to develop it into a major story arc.
What a huge mistake.
The best thing about “The Sopranos” has always been its lack of political correctness. Until it became such a cultural touchstone, this show was under fire from just about everywhere, with its sex, drugs, violence, and its creative use of curse words.
There’s been plenty of the latter in recent episodes in light of Vito’s revelation, as the series’ typically solid writers have gone to excessive lengths in demonstrating the mafiosos’ bigotry through homophobic name-calling. Yeah, I got the point three seasons ago when Meadow brought home a black kid from school. This is just one example of how this season has sacrificed artistic integrity for blatant proselytizing. You want some more? How about Meadow’s talking-points rant against the Bush administration or Tony mispronouncing Sen. Rick Santorum’s name a few weeks ago? Man, just once I’d like to be “entertained” without being preached at. I thought I was at least safe with “The Sopranos,” but no such luck.
This Vito storyline is an absolute waste of valuable screen time, not to mention derivative (isn’t this exactly the same setup from last season: Phil wants somebody dead and Tony is handing it “his way”?). Even if Chase & Co. wanted to make a point about homophobia, they could have knocked Vito off in one episode and accomplished that goal. But, no, it’s more than that. This long-winded examination of the troubled homosexual has dragged on and on, delving into the minutiae of his life to show how awful it’s been for poor Vito living his life in the closet. “Sometimes you tell a lie so long, you start to believe it,” he mutters, oh-so-soulfully to his new boyfriend in New Hampshire. Well, boo hoo. I’m sorry, but am I supposed to sympathize with Vito’s plight? Because that’s the only justification I can think of for all this face time (which, on a side note, has reduced my favorite character, Christopher, to nothing more than a court jester). Let’s not forget whom we’re dealing with here: Vito is, hello, a MOBSTER. His life, until this recent foray into antiquing, anyway, consisted of lying, cheating, stealing, extorting, robbing, and/or killing anyone and everyone to make a buck. This is the same guy that put a bullet through the back of his cousin’s head!
They’re all criminals. We’re not supposed to be rooting for them, regardless of sexual orientation. This show has always been about the intrinsic strength of its characters, which makes Vito—a bland nobody—stand out like a sore thumb. There's no way this guy deserves to have not one but TWO of the last three episodes named after him.
Here’s the ironic thing about where I see “The Sopranos” going in this stretch run, though. Now that Tony has a new post-shooting-in-my-enormously-fat-stomach lease on life, he may be heading the way of one John “Waterworks” Sack. Wouldn’t it be great if, by trying to be a better person, that change of heart leaves him vulnerable, less vigilant, eventually leading to his downfall? Talk about sweet justice.
But for now, I guess we’re stuck with poor Mr. Spatafore. Vito, do us all a favor and just die, already.
See, this is why David Chase wanted to end his show many moons ago—because if you hang around long enough, you become “Brokeback New Jersey.”
Last week’s episode was almost perfect, too, what with demonstrating how the old ways of the mafia are just about over. And that fantastic scene between Tony and A.J. (maybe the best in the history of these two characters’ interaction): We got A.J. dealing with being a Soprano kid (the overriding theme of the entire series, in my opinion), Tony showing some genuine love and affection for his son, and then Tony finally living up to his marital commitments—and hating himself for it.
And then Vito had to rain on the whole parade.
For those that don’t know, captain Vito Spatafore is hiding out in New Hampshire because it was discovered (in a classic, hilarious moment, I’ll grant you) that he is, in fact, gay. (Justifiably) Fearing retribution, he bolted for the hills, biding his time in a quaint country town.
Joe Gannascoli, who plays the oh-so-put-upon soldier, has stuck his face in front of any reporter he can find to pat himself on the back for the character he’s developed. To hear him tell it, Gannascoli came up with the homosexuality thread and encouraged Chase to develop it into a major story arc.
What a huge mistake.
The best thing about “The Sopranos” has always been its lack of political correctness. Until it became such a cultural touchstone, this show was under fire from just about everywhere, with its sex, drugs, violence, and its creative use of curse words.
There’s been plenty of the latter in recent episodes in light of Vito’s revelation, as the series’ typically solid writers have gone to excessive lengths in demonstrating the mafiosos’ bigotry through homophobic name-calling. Yeah, I got the point three seasons ago when Meadow brought home a black kid from school. This is just one example of how this season has sacrificed artistic integrity for blatant proselytizing. You want some more? How about Meadow’s talking-points rant against the Bush administration or Tony mispronouncing Sen. Rick Santorum’s name a few weeks ago? Man, just once I’d like to be “entertained” without being preached at. I thought I was at least safe with “The Sopranos,” but no such luck.
This Vito storyline is an absolute waste of valuable screen time, not to mention derivative (isn’t this exactly the same setup from last season: Phil wants somebody dead and Tony is handing it “his way”?). Even if Chase & Co. wanted to make a point about homophobia, they could have knocked Vito off in one episode and accomplished that goal. But, no, it’s more than that. This long-winded examination of the troubled homosexual has dragged on and on, delving into the minutiae of his life to show how awful it’s been for poor Vito living his life in the closet. “Sometimes you tell a lie so long, you start to believe it,” he mutters, oh-so-soulfully to his new boyfriend in New Hampshire. Well, boo hoo. I’m sorry, but am I supposed to sympathize with Vito’s plight? Because that’s the only justification I can think of for all this face time (which, on a side note, has reduced my favorite character, Christopher, to nothing more than a court jester). Let’s not forget whom we’re dealing with here: Vito is, hello, a MOBSTER. His life, until this recent foray into antiquing, anyway, consisted of lying, cheating, stealing, extorting, robbing, and/or killing anyone and everyone to make a buck. This is the same guy that put a bullet through the back of his cousin’s head!
They’re all criminals. We’re not supposed to be rooting for them, regardless of sexual orientation. This show has always been about the intrinsic strength of its characters, which makes Vito—a bland nobody—stand out like a sore thumb. There's no way this guy deserves to have not one but TWO of the last three episodes named after him.
Here’s the ironic thing about where I see “The Sopranos” going in this stretch run, though. Now that Tony has a new post-shooting-in-my-enormously-fat-stomach lease on life, he may be heading the way of one John “Waterworks” Sack. Wouldn’t it be great if, by trying to be a better person, that change of heart leaves him vulnerable, less vigilant, eventually leading to his downfall? Talk about sweet justice.
But for now, I guess we’re stuck with poor Mr. Spatafore. Vito, do us all a favor and just die, already.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
‘United 93’
Director Paul Greengrass has made the first major motion picture about the tragedy of Sept. 11, and in so doing has set the bar so high, I cannot imagine anyone—or any film—could surpass “United 93.”
There is not an ounce of Hollywood cheese or superficiality in this remarkable reconstruction of the one flight hijacked that hellish day that did not accomplish its objective—to destroy The White House. Greengrass (also the film’s screenwriter) uses his trademark shaky-cam style to give a work of fiction (technically) the immediacy of a documentary, and the effect is chilling, gut wrenching, and absorbing. The performances from this massive cast—many of the “actors” playing themselves—are all wonderfully restrained, picking up on an understated script that always provides the sense that these are real people going about their ordinary lives—until the extraordinary occurred and they were forced to deal with it.
Greengrass could have played up the obvious heroism that it took for a handful of passengers on United 93 to rush their hijackers, storm the cockpit, and save this nation from even further tragedy. But there is no chest thumping, no melodramatic monologues, no sweeping score—everything is kept as authentic as possible and, thus, achieves maximum effectiveness. Even the now infamous “let’s roll,” uttered by one of the passengers before he rushes the terrorists and played up so highly in the media since, is just one more urgent line delivered with no more weight than any other in “United 93.”
That drive to retain the humanity of these people is what really cuts to the quick. Filmed essentially in real time, we see pilots, flight attendants, passengers, air traffic controllers, and everyone else involved in the events of that day going about their business as usual. What is about to take place is so unthinkable, the initial threat of a hijacking is almost brushed aside. Even when the first explosion rocks the World Trade Center, no one in the control rooms thinks it’s one of the jumbo jets; it’s just not possible.
It’s not until the second plane slams into the building—the real-life footage shown on the traffic tower’s monitor and zoomed in to fill the entire movie screen—that the horror finally sinks in.
From there, the remainder of “United 93” is essentially chaos. Although (thankfully) apolitical, this film certainly shines a light on the failings of bureaucracy, as the FAA and military directors can’t communicate with each other and the military can’t get in touch with the president or vice president in time for the necessary clearance to shoot down any remaining hijacked planes. The hijackers are also not played up to villainous excess. Their prayers to Allah are haunting, but Greengrass allows their actions—such as executing a flight attendant and a passenger—to speak for themselves. The terrorists are certainly anxious, their leader shows some hesitancy (and even calls a loved one prior to boarding the plane for one last “I love you”), but they show total commitment to the cause. And the results are duly horrifying. This film will haunt you, as it should.
United 93 was nearly an afterthought on 9/11, largely overlooked once it was confirmed the plane had crashed in a Pennsylvania field without harming anything or anyone else. As the Trade Center towers crumbled into twisted metal and dust and fears continued to run wild about further attacks, United 93 got lost in the shuffle. But no one will ever forget about these heroes after this. From their first panicked reactions, to trying to make sense of what’s happening in the world around them, to the realization of their fate and trying to reach loved ones one last time, to the final decision and push to overthrow the attackers, this is the best that humanity has to offer. Greengrass captures it perfectly, still managing to maintain suspense and emotion even though we all know the ending painfully well.
I didn’t know anyone who died on 9/11, but my family lives in the Maryland suburbs just outside Washington. On a day of random and unflinching violence and death, there is no reason United 93 couldn’t have gone down in my parents’ back yard. I have the brave souls on board that plane to thank for my loved ones’ lives, and “United 93,” unflinching in its own right, reminded me of that. I was literally shaking by the end.
This is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.
Grade: A
There is not an ounce of Hollywood cheese or superficiality in this remarkable reconstruction of the one flight hijacked that hellish day that did not accomplish its objective—to destroy The White House. Greengrass (also the film’s screenwriter) uses his trademark shaky-cam style to give a work of fiction (technically) the immediacy of a documentary, and the effect is chilling, gut wrenching, and absorbing. The performances from this massive cast—many of the “actors” playing themselves—are all wonderfully restrained, picking up on an understated script that always provides the sense that these are real people going about their ordinary lives—until the extraordinary occurred and they were forced to deal with it.
Greengrass could have played up the obvious heroism that it took for a handful of passengers on United 93 to rush their hijackers, storm the cockpit, and save this nation from even further tragedy. But there is no chest thumping, no melodramatic monologues, no sweeping score—everything is kept as authentic as possible and, thus, achieves maximum effectiveness. Even the now infamous “let’s roll,” uttered by one of the passengers before he rushes the terrorists and played up so highly in the media since, is just one more urgent line delivered with no more weight than any other in “United 93.”
That drive to retain the humanity of these people is what really cuts to the quick. Filmed essentially in real time, we see pilots, flight attendants, passengers, air traffic controllers, and everyone else involved in the events of that day going about their business as usual. What is about to take place is so unthinkable, the initial threat of a hijacking is almost brushed aside. Even when the first explosion rocks the World Trade Center, no one in the control rooms thinks it’s one of the jumbo jets; it’s just not possible.
It’s not until the second plane slams into the building—the real-life footage shown on the traffic tower’s monitor and zoomed in to fill the entire movie screen—that the horror finally sinks in.
From there, the remainder of “United 93” is essentially chaos. Although (thankfully) apolitical, this film certainly shines a light on the failings of bureaucracy, as the FAA and military directors can’t communicate with each other and the military can’t get in touch with the president or vice president in time for the necessary clearance to shoot down any remaining hijacked planes. The hijackers are also not played up to villainous excess. Their prayers to Allah are haunting, but Greengrass allows their actions—such as executing a flight attendant and a passenger—to speak for themselves. The terrorists are certainly anxious, their leader shows some hesitancy (and even calls a loved one prior to boarding the plane for one last “I love you”), but they show total commitment to the cause. And the results are duly horrifying. This film will haunt you, as it should.
United 93 was nearly an afterthought on 9/11, largely overlooked once it was confirmed the plane had crashed in a Pennsylvania field without harming anything or anyone else. As the Trade Center towers crumbled into twisted metal and dust and fears continued to run wild about further attacks, United 93 got lost in the shuffle. But no one will ever forget about these heroes after this. From their first panicked reactions, to trying to make sense of what’s happening in the world around them, to the realization of their fate and trying to reach loved ones one last time, to the final decision and push to overthrow the attackers, this is the best that humanity has to offer. Greengrass captures it perfectly, still managing to maintain suspense and emotion even though we all know the ending painfully well.
I didn’t know anyone who died on 9/11, but my family lives in the Maryland suburbs just outside Washington. On a day of random and unflinching violence and death, there is no reason United 93 couldn’t have gone down in my parents’ back yard. I have the brave souls on board that plane to thank for my loved ones’ lives, and “United 93,” unflinching in its own right, reminded me of that. I was literally shaking by the end.
This is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.
Grade: A
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
11 Movies That Hopefully Won’t Suck (And One That Surely Will): A 2006 Summer Movie Preview
With insane prices for both tickets and gas, it now costs my wife and me more than 20 bucks to go see a movie. Sure, that doesn’t sound too bad for one Friday night’s entertainment, but in our heyday, we’d see a movie almost every weekend, even if a new flick didn’t exactly fit our particular interests.
That time is long gone. Unless the movie looks to be something really special, I’d just as soon sit at home in my Man Chair with a “24” DVD—that’s certainly more entertaining than most of the crap coming out of the movie studios the past year (don’t get me started on how fantastic Season Two was).
All that said, this summer actually looks better than usual, especially compared to the pathetic batch that was 2005. Here’s my list of potentials, in order of release:
• “United 93” (Friday)—I haven’t even seen a trailer for this film and I still get goosebumps just thinking about one phrase—“Let’s roll”—and all those simple words imply. Here’s a story of true heroism, a justified celebration of bravery in the face of inconceivable circumstances. Director Paul Greengrass (“The Bourne Supremacy”) went to great lengths not only to reconstruct the details of the lone thwarted 9/11 flight, but also earn the blessing of the families who lost loved ones to terrorism. Some people say it’s too soon for a movie like this, but not for me. We need as many reminders of that horror as we can get.
• “Mission: Impossible III” (May 5)—Under any other circumstances, this engorged summer “blockbuster” would be lucky to make my to-rent list. But with J.J. Abrams, creator of “Alias,” at the helm, I’m there. I’ll suffer through the insufferable Tom Cruise to see what this visionary director does with a big-time budget at his disposal. Throw in Ving Rhames, Laurence Fishburne, Billy Crudup, and, hello, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and we may just have a winner.
• “The Da Vinci Code” (May 19)—Am I the last person in America who hasn’t read this book? I was just holding out for the movie! Actually, I never had any real desire to read Dan Brown’s novel outside of a pop culture consumption standpoint, and that’s primarily why I’ll see the film. I know Brown’s “Code” challenges my personal beliefs, but that’s not a bad thing. Plus, I can always count on Ron Howard and Tom Hanks to deliver (not to mention a stellar supporting cast including three personal faves: Ian McKellen, Alfred Molina, and Paul Bettany). And maybe my lack of plot details will help me review the movie more objectively.
• “X-Men: The Last Stand” (May 26)—New director Brett Ratner (“Rush Hour”) scares me a little, but at this point these movies direct themselves, right? The characters are all so cool and played so well (Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, Patrick Stewart as Professor Xavier, Ian McKellen as Magneto, Famke Janssen as Jean Grey, Anna Paquin as Rogue, I could go on …), everything should still be all right for what is considered to be the last in this successful series. I’m looking forward to Kelsey Grammer as Beast and more screen time for Colossus. Hopefully Ratner screw it up.
• “Cars” (June 9)—New. Pixar. Movie.
• “Nacho Libre” (June 16)—Okay, so this one will probably be a rental. But I had to include a movie about Mexican pro wrestling simply for the hilarious press photo of star Jack Black (complete with an Eddie Guerrero-esque mullet/mustache combo) leaping bare-chested from the top rope. Go find this image. You’ll fall off your chair.
• “Superman Returns” (June 30)—Bryan Singer (“X-Men I & II”) as director: Definite plus. Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor: Tremendous positive. Picking up where “Superman II” left off: Good choice. Special effects: Sure to be stellar. Lois Lane as a divorced single mother? Huh? Big negative. Newcomer Brandon Routh as Supes: Who knows?
Yeah, this one’s a toss up.
• “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” (July 7)—Three summers ago, I went to see the original “Pirates” thinking there was no way it could live up to the hype. On the contrary, Johnny Depp & Co. EXCEEDED the hype, with the former’s rickety Capt. Jack Sparrow becoming an instant Hollywood icon on his way to creating one of my favorite popcorn flicks of all time. The big question is, of course: Can he do it again? Plenty of people will spend plenty of money to find out (including me).
• “Lady in the Water” (July 21)—I was also apparently one of the few people in America who actually liked “The Village,” M. Night Shyamalan’s 2004 flop. Although Bryce Dallas Howard also stars in the follow-up, Shyamalan says “Lady” isn’t like any of his other movies. Of course, this from the man who takes pride in twisting his audience’s minds into pretzels. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, Paul Giamatti’s on board, so I’ll go see it regardless.
• “Snakes on a Plane” (Aug. 18)—If you haven’t heard about this movie yet, you must be under a rock with the 400 snakes that take center stage in this B-movie horror/thriller. Ordinarily I’d never see a movie like this. But I’ll make an exception for one thing: Samuel L. $%&@*$ Jackson! Already an Internet tour de force (check out SnakesonaBlog.com), “SoaP” has hit written all over it. The only thing that might hurt it is so much hype so early. This thing is all over the place, and it doesn’t come out for four more months—by that point, we might all hate snakes, Chuck.
• “Clerks II” (Aug. 18)—Or, “Kevin Smith Shamelessly Returns to Previous Success in Hopes of Reviving Flagging Career and Regaining Indie Cred.” Is there any way this turns out well? I’ll definitely wait to hear critics’ reaction before plunking down my 10 bucks for this retread.
And, last but not least, we should torture captured al-Qaida terrorists at Guantanamo Bay with … “The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift” (June 16). We’d have Osama in 5 minutes or less.
That time is long gone. Unless the movie looks to be something really special, I’d just as soon sit at home in my Man Chair with a “24” DVD—that’s certainly more entertaining than most of the crap coming out of the movie studios the past year (don’t get me started on how fantastic Season Two was).
All that said, this summer actually looks better than usual, especially compared to the pathetic batch that was 2005. Here’s my list of potentials, in order of release:
• “United 93” (Friday)—I haven’t even seen a trailer for this film and I still get goosebumps just thinking about one phrase—“Let’s roll”—and all those simple words imply. Here’s a story of true heroism, a justified celebration of bravery in the face of inconceivable circumstances. Director Paul Greengrass (“The Bourne Supremacy”) went to great lengths not only to reconstruct the details of the lone thwarted 9/11 flight, but also earn the blessing of the families who lost loved ones to terrorism. Some people say it’s too soon for a movie like this, but not for me. We need as many reminders of that horror as we can get.
• “Mission: Impossible III” (May 5)—Under any other circumstances, this engorged summer “blockbuster” would be lucky to make my to-rent list. But with J.J. Abrams, creator of “Alias,” at the helm, I’m there. I’ll suffer through the insufferable Tom Cruise to see what this visionary director does with a big-time budget at his disposal. Throw in Ving Rhames, Laurence Fishburne, Billy Crudup, and, hello, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and we may just have a winner.
• “The Da Vinci Code” (May 19)—Am I the last person in America who hasn’t read this book? I was just holding out for the movie! Actually, I never had any real desire to read Dan Brown’s novel outside of a pop culture consumption standpoint, and that’s primarily why I’ll see the film. I know Brown’s “Code” challenges my personal beliefs, but that’s not a bad thing. Plus, I can always count on Ron Howard and Tom Hanks to deliver (not to mention a stellar supporting cast including three personal faves: Ian McKellen, Alfred Molina, and Paul Bettany). And maybe my lack of plot details will help me review the movie more objectively.
• “X-Men: The Last Stand” (May 26)—New director Brett Ratner (“Rush Hour”) scares me a little, but at this point these movies direct themselves, right? The characters are all so cool and played so well (Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, Patrick Stewart as Professor Xavier, Ian McKellen as Magneto, Famke Janssen as Jean Grey, Anna Paquin as Rogue, I could go on …), everything should still be all right for what is considered to be the last in this successful series. I’m looking forward to Kelsey Grammer as Beast and more screen time for Colossus. Hopefully Ratner screw it up.
• “Cars” (June 9)—New. Pixar. Movie.
• “Nacho Libre” (June 16)—Okay, so this one will probably be a rental. But I had to include a movie about Mexican pro wrestling simply for the hilarious press photo of star Jack Black (complete with an Eddie Guerrero-esque mullet/mustache combo) leaping bare-chested from the top rope. Go find this image. You’ll fall off your chair.
• “Superman Returns” (June 30)—Bryan Singer (“X-Men I & II”) as director: Definite plus. Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor: Tremendous positive. Picking up where “Superman II” left off: Good choice. Special effects: Sure to be stellar. Lois Lane as a divorced single mother? Huh? Big negative. Newcomer Brandon Routh as Supes: Who knows?
Yeah, this one’s a toss up.
• “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” (July 7)—Three summers ago, I went to see the original “Pirates” thinking there was no way it could live up to the hype. On the contrary, Johnny Depp & Co. EXCEEDED the hype, with the former’s rickety Capt. Jack Sparrow becoming an instant Hollywood icon on his way to creating one of my favorite popcorn flicks of all time. The big question is, of course: Can he do it again? Plenty of people will spend plenty of money to find out (including me).
• “Lady in the Water” (July 21)—I was also apparently one of the few people in America who actually liked “The Village,” M. Night Shyamalan’s 2004 flop. Although Bryce Dallas Howard also stars in the follow-up, Shyamalan says “Lady” isn’t like any of his other movies. Of course, this from the man who takes pride in twisting his audience’s minds into pretzels. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, Paul Giamatti’s on board, so I’ll go see it regardless.
• “Snakes on a Plane” (Aug. 18)—If you haven’t heard about this movie yet, you must be under a rock with the 400 snakes that take center stage in this B-movie horror/thriller. Ordinarily I’d never see a movie like this. But I’ll make an exception for one thing: Samuel L. $%&@*$ Jackson! Already an Internet tour de force (check out SnakesonaBlog.com), “SoaP” has hit written all over it. The only thing that might hurt it is so much hype so early. This thing is all over the place, and it doesn’t come out for four more months—by that point, we might all hate snakes, Chuck.
• “Clerks II” (Aug. 18)—Or, “Kevin Smith Shamelessly Returns to Previous Success in Hopes of Reviving Flagging Career and Regaining Indie Cred.” Is there any way this turns out well? I’ll definitely wait to hear critics’ reaction before plunking down my 10 bucks for this retread.
And, last but not least, we should torture captured al-Qaida terrorists at Guantanamo Bay with … “The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift” (June 16). We’d have Osama in 5 minutes or less.
Monday, April 24, 2006
At Least That’s What I Said: Wilco in Williamsburg, 4.22.06
When I saw Wilco lead singer/founder Jeff Tweedy play a solo concert at Messiah College six months ago, I came home convinced his band was getting in the way of his songwriting.
Funny how things change, huh? Because after catching that aforementioned band in all its glory Saturday night in Williamsburg, I’m now convinced they’re one of the best live acts I’ve ever seen.
———
For a while there—until about 10 days ago, I guess—I thought my love for Wilco had run its course. I managed to find the beauty in 2002’s eccentric “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” but the follow-up, 2004’s “A Ghost Is Born,” was just too far over the line: Too many bells, whistles, and squeaks. I just didn’t have the patience to listen to it enough times for it to sink in. If Tweedy wanted to go all art-house, fine. God bless. I’ll see you later.
And then I found out Wilco was playing within driving distance of my house and couldn’t turn down the opportunity—one last shot in the arm.
I had seen the setlists from the past couple years, so I knew what I was getting into: Most everything was going to come from the last two albums. So, I figured it was time to finally listen—really listen—to “A Ghost Is Born.” If I’m gonna go to the trouble of driving to Williamsburg, I may as well know the new stuff as well as possible, even if I don’t like it.
So with that purpose in mind, I revisited “Ghost” with an open mind (or chained myself to it against my will, maybe) and it just … clicked. Not all at once, but something was there. It started with “Company in My Back”—and not even the whole song, but the little sprinkling of notes at the end of the chorus (Is it a guitar? Is it a synthesizer? Some other instrument? I have no idea, but it sounds great). I know it sounds so navel-gazing-art-house-reject, but it’s true; those few little bars buried in the midst of a five-minute song struck a chord in me, and it unlocked the entire album. Because after “Company” comes “I’m A Wheel,” an instantly accessible rocker out of the “classic” Wilco style, and then “Theologians,” a song I rediscovered at the solo show last year. Skip over the disastrous “Less Than You Think” and its 12 minutes of atonal squall, and the album closes with “The Late Greats”—at first cheesy, but eventually one of the catchiest tunes in Tweedy’s deep catalog.
So I lived with this album off and on for a week—in the car, the office, the subway, the walk home—and I finally came to enjoy it.
I didn’t come to love it until Saturday night.
———
Looking back, I now know the problem with these last two albums all along: They just can’t translate to a live setting, I thought, which means they’re just musical meanderings for a wannabe-auteur playing with knobs in the studio thinking he’s Phil Spector or David Gilmour or something.
I was dead wrong.
Tweedy and his five mates create one of the most glorious noises I’ve ever heard in concert. Saturday’s show was—hands down, no questions asked—the tightest set I’ve ever seen from any band at any venue on any day of my entire life. Even U2 and the E Street Band, with their endless rehearsals and drive for perfection, didn’t give me the sense of pure, intense musical adventure and endeavor that I saw this weekend from Wilco—it was like art being created live in front of a few thousand people. The same bells and whistles from the albums were all there, in the right places, and all in perfect time with guitar, drum, and bass. And yet it didn’t feel rote, either. These guys are just absolutely ON FIRE right now, at the peak of their game, and the results were thrilling to say the least, from opener “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart” to “Ashes of American Flags” (a stunner in the middle of the set—a song I never really cared for until now) to “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” (which felt like it deserved its full 10 minutes, unlike the more tepid album version). I was amazed at how much power there is in this new version of the band (Tweedy and bassist John Stirratt are the only original members left after 11 years and five albums); there are hidden reservoirs here that just don’t translate on record.
Which brings me to my own little broken-record-of-the-concert-review moment. I’ll go back and listen to “Foxtrot” and “Ghost” with new fervor now after this show, but nothing compares to what these songs become when played live—at least when they’re played like this. Glenn Kotche is an absolute monster on drums, but his wide-ranging talents are muffled on “A Ghost Is Born”; newcomer (but guitar-wielding veteran) Nels Cline is a welcome addition, ripping through several screaming solos Saturday (including a revamped finale for “Ashes”). Cline brings a welcome edge and weight to the proceedings, adding to the group’s overall power (when there’s four electric guitars up there at the same time, this band can now hold their own and wail with the best of them). And as for Tweedy, his entire delivery flows much better in person; a song like “At Least That’s What You Said,” with its choppy, near-whisper opening stanza, is fuller and more melodic when he stands under the lights.
Wilco played one new song in Williamsburg, “Walken,” an old-school stomper that stood out even on a night full of high points. It will be interesting to see what direction the next album follows; if this song is any sign, maybe Tweedy feels he’s taken his current trip as far as it will go and is now turning back to his roots after a decade spent running away from them. Who knows? When Tweedy goes into the studio, obviously anything goes.
Say that theory holds, though, it will also be interesting to see what happens to future setlists. Wilco’s songs may all have the same author, but that doesn’t mean they fit well together. Cruising the message boards for fan reaction to Saturday’s show, I was intrigued to see how much people complain about the lack of older material—I thought that was for people like me, the unenlightened who didn’t care for the last two records. Now I find I’ve flipped, just like that. If someone had told me 10 days ago I’d enjoy—no, LOVE—a Wilco show where 15 of the 19 songs came from “Foxtrot” and “Ghost,” I’d have called that person crazy.
But I sat there, in a converted basketball arena of all places, pinned to my seat all night, stunned at how fascinating the newer material is in person. The three “oldies” seemed almost … simplistic by comparison. Not worse, mind you (come on, I’ll never complain about “A Shot in the Arm,” “Via Chicago,” and “Kingpin” (the latter with a hilarious call-and-response section in the middle)), just not quite as interesting on this particular night. Sure, we’re all beggin’ for “Casino Queen,” but the old stuff wouldn’t have meshed well with what Wilco has been attempting onstage for the past two years. There was an overall intensity of the endeavor that was completely unexpected, and I can only assume that feeling is generated by the sheer complexity of taking these songs on the road.
I haven't figured out yet why Tweedy insists on using all these strange sounds; the theory I'm working on goes something like, "the dissonance makes the portions of melody even more prominent and important." Nevertheless, Tweedy is certainly one of the most challenging musicians in rock and roll, playing and working at the highest level of his career. I can’t wait—now—to see where he goes from here.
Wilco
William and Mary Hall
Williamsburg, Va.
4.22.06
I Am Trying To Break Your Heart
War on War
Company in My Back
Hell Is Chrome
Handshake Drugs
A Shot in the Arm
At Least That’s What You Said
Jesus, Etc.
Ashes of American Flags
Theologians
Spiders (Kidsmoke)
Hummingbird
Walken
I’m the Man Who Loves You
First Encore:
Via Chicago
Kingpin
The Late Greats
Second Encore:
Heavy Metal Drummer
I’m A Wheel
Funny how things change, huh? Because after catching that aforementioned band in all its glory Saturday night in Williamsburg, I’m now convinced they’re one of the best live acts I’ve ever seen.
———
For a while there—until about 10 days ago, I guess—I thought my love for Wilco had run its course. I managed to find the beauty in 2002’s eccentric “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” but the follow-up, 2004’s “A Ghost Is Born,” was just too far over the line: Too many bells, whistles, and squeaks. I just didn’t have the patience to listen to it enough times for it to sink in. If Tweedy wanted to go all art-house, fine. God bless. I’ll see you later.
And then I found out Wilco was playing within driving distance of my house and couldn’t turn down the opportunity—one last shot in the arm.
I had seen the setlists from the past couple years, so I knew what I was getting into: Most everything was going to come from the last two albums. So, I figured it was time to finally listen—really listen—to “A Ghost Is Born.” If I’m gonna go to the trouble of driving to Williamsburg, I may as well know the new stuff as well as possible, even if I don’t like it.
So with that purpose in mind, I revisited “Ghost” with an open mind (or chained myself to it against my will, maybe) and it just … clicked. Not all at once, but something was there. It started with “Company in My Back”—and not even the whole song, but the little sprinkling of notes at the end of the chorus (Is it a guitar? Is it a synthesizer? Some other instrument? I have no idea, but it sounds great). I know it sounds so navel-gazing-art-house-reject, but it’s true; those few little bars buried in the midst of a five-minute song struck a chord in me, and it unlocked the entire album. Because after “Company” comes “I’m A Wheel,” an instantly accessible rocker out of the “classic” Wilco style, and then “Theologians,” a song I rediscovered at the solo show last year. Skip over the disastrous “Less Than You Think” and its 12 minutes of atonal squall, and the album closes with “The Late Greats”—at first cheesy, but eventually one of the catchiest tunes in Tweedy’s deep catalog.
So I lived with this album off and on for a week—in the car, the office, the subway, the walk home—and I finally came to enjoy it.
I didn’t come to love it until Saturday night.
———
Looking back, I now know the problem with these last two albums all along: They just can’t translate to a live setting, I thought, which means they’re just musical meanderings for a wannabe-auteur playing with knobs in the studio thinking he’s Phil Spector or David Gilmour or something.
I was dead wrong.
Tweedy and his five mates create one of the most glorious noises I’ve ever heard in concert. Saturday’s show was—hands down, no questions asked—the tightest set I’ve ever seen from any band at any venue on any day of my entire life. Even U2 and the E Street Band, with their endless rehearsals and drive for perfection, didn’t give me the sense of pure, intense musical adventure and endeavor that I saw this weekend from Wilco—it was like art being created live in front of a few thousand people. The same bells and whistles from the albums were all there, in the right places, and all in perfect time with guitar, drum, and bass. And yet it didn’t feel rote, either. These guys are just absolutely ON FIRE right now, at the peak of their game, and the results were thrilling to say the least, from opener “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart” to “Ashes of American Flags” (a stunner in the middle of the set—a song I never really cared for until now) to “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” (which felt like it deserved its full 10 minutes, unlike the more tepid album version). I was amazed at how much power there is in this new version of the band (Tweedy and bassist John Stirratt are the only original members left after 11 years and five albums); there are hidden reservoirs here that just don’t translate on record.
Which brings me to my own little broken-record-of-the-concert-review moment. I’ll go back and listen to “Foxtrot” and “Ghost” with new fervor now after this show, but nothing compares to what these songs become when played live—at least when they’re played like this. Glenn Kotche is an absolute monster on drums, but his wide-ranging talents are muffled on “A Ghost Is Born”; newcomer (but guitar-wielding veteran) Nels Cline is a welcome addition, ripping through several screaming solos Saturday (including a revamped finale for “Ashes”). Cline brings a welcome edge and weight to the proceedings, adding to the group’s overall power (when there’s four electric guitars up there at the same time, this band can now hold their own and wail with the best of them). And as for Tweedy, his entire delivery flows much better in person; a song like “At Least That’s What You Said,” with its choppy, near-whisper opening stanza, is fuller and more melodic when he stands under the lights.
Wilco played one new song in Williamsburg, “Walken,” an old-school stomper that stood out even on a night full of high points. It will be interesting to see what direction the next album follows; if this song is any sign, maybe Tweedy feels he’s taken his current trip as far as it will go and is now turning back to his roots after a decade spent running away from them. Who knows? When Tweedy goes into the studio, obviously anything goes.
Say that theory holds, though, it will also be interesting to see what happens to future setlists. Wilco’s songs may all have the same author, but that doesn’t mean they fit well together. Cruising the message boards for fan reaction to Saturday’s show, I was intrigued to see how much people complain about the lack of older material—I thought that was for people like me, the unenlightened who didn’t care for the last two records. Now I find I’ve flipped, just like that. If someone had told me 10 days ago I’d enjoy—no, LOVE—a Wilco show where 15 of the 19 songs came from “Foxtrot” and “Ghost,” I’d have called that person crazy.
But I sat there, in a converted basketball arena of all places, pinned to my seat all night, stunned at how fascinating the newer material is in person. The three “oldies” seemed almost … simplistic by comparison. Not worse, mind you (come on, I’ll never complain about “A Shot in the Arm,” “Via Chicago,” and “Kingpin” (the latter with a hilarious call-and-response section in the middle)), just not quite as interesting on this particular night. Sure, we’re all beggin’ for “Casino Queen,” but the old stuff wouldn’t have meshed well with what Wilco has been attempting onstage for the past two years. There was an overall intensity of the endeavor that was completely unexpected, and I can only assume that feeling is generated by the sheer complexity of taking these songs on the road.
I haven't figured out yet why Tweedy insists on using all these strange sounds; the theory I'm working on goes something like, "the dissonance makes the portions of melody even more prominent and important." Nevertheless, Tweedy is certainly one of the most challenging musicians in rock and roll, playing and working at the highest level of his career. I can’t wait—now—to see where he goes from here.
Wilco
William and Mary Hall
Williamsburg, Va.
4.22.06
I Am Trying To Break Your Heart
War on War
Company in My Back
Hell Is Chrome
Handshake Drugs
A Shot in the Arm
At Least That’s What You Said
Jesus, Etc.
Ashes of American Flags
Theologians
Spiders (Kidsmoke)
Hummingbird
Walken
I’m the Man Who Loves You
First Encore:
Via Chicago
Kingpin
The Late Greats
Second Encore:
Heavy Metal Drummer
I’m A Wheel
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Body Watch
After a four-month absence, "Alias" returns to TV on Wednesday, April 19, ABC recently announced. No further details are available at this time.
With only nine episodes aired this season, it seems impossible to finish a full run in what will be left of the typical TV broadcast schedule, which ends somewhere between mid- and late May. When ABC made its announcement in November that the show would end this year, the net said "Alias" would go out with a bang. Then, reports surfaced a few months later that the suits were trimming back on the total number of episodes, which I'm sure meant further re-writes for the creative team.
Frankly, this looks like disaster. But, again, at least ABC is letting the show run to some sort of conclusion; it could have just cut and run, I guess. I just hope the next few weeks don't do damage to a great legacy.
So bring Vaughn back to life, already. This isn't "24" or "The Sopranos," it's sci-fi/fantasy—and I want a happy ending! Although, that may not be possible under any circumstances considering J.J. Abrams is going to be off promoting some stupid Tom Cruise movie instead of wrapping up the show that made him a star.
Maybe I'll just use the Season 4 finale—pre-car crash—as my series finale and try to forget this year ever happened.
With only nine episodes aired this season, it seems impossible to finish a full run in what will be left of the typical TV broadcast schedule, which ends somewhere between mid- and late May. When ABC made its announcement in November that the show would end this year, the net said "Alias" would go out with a bang. Then, reports surfaced a few months later that the suits were trimming back on the total number of episodes, which I'm sure meant further re-writes for the creative team.
Frankly, this looks like disaster. But, again, at least ABC is letting the show run to some sort of conclusion; it could have just cut and run, I guess. I just hope the next few weeks don't do damage to a great legacy.
So bring Vaughn back to life, already. This isn't "24" or "The Sopranos," it's sci-fi/fantasy—and I want a happy ending! Although, that may not be possible under any circumstances considering J.J. Abrams is going to be off promoting some stupid Tom Cruise movie instead of wrapping up the show that made him a star.
Maybe I'll just use the Season 4 finale—pre-car crash—as my series finale and try to forget this year ever happened.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
I'm Too Young for This!
On the way home in the car, I heard Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" on the CLASSIC rock station.
That's what I get for listening to the radio for the first time in I don't know how many months, I guess.
That's what I get for listening to the radio for the first time in I don't know how many months, I guess.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Daddy’s Gonna Pay for Your ‘Crash’ Car
If “Crash” was the “upset” winner at last weekend’s Academy Awards, what does that say about the rest of the Best Picture nominees?
I watched “Crash” on DVD last night and thought … eh. “B”. Was it better than “Brokeback”? About equal. I found “Crash” to be ham-fisted in its storytelling, because its method of coincidentally linked plotlines between a dozen characters doesn’t leave much screen time for development or depth. As a result, the characters come off as formulaic: Here’s the racist cop and his green young partner; here are two quick-quipping young black thugs, one of whom constantly rails against The Man; here’s a “respectable” elected official who can’t wait to put his arm around a black man and have their picture taken; here’s the redneck gun shop owner who hates anyone with dark skin. I’ve seen them all before.
I know they’re rather beside the point, but the coincidences that bring these characters together become so … well, ludicrous, they’re distracting. I never knew L.A. was such a small town. And the idea that so many of these people would change so radically in such a short period of time and because of just one event in their lives also doesn’t ring true.
As for “messages,” “Crash” obviously proposes the notion that just about everyone in this world is a stone-cold racist—especially white people. There isn’t one wholly redeemable white character in this entire movie, and on two different occasions, white cops shoot black men. Even Matt Dillon’s racist cop and Sandra Bullock’s paranoid housewife aren’t given enough post-traumatic event screen time to know if they’ve really changed. What we do know, however, is that Ryan Philippe’s police officer went from being disgusted at racism to shooting a black kid in his car and dumping the body. That fall from grace was given plenty of resolution—because everybody’s a racist, you’ll recall (director Paul Haggis threw in a racially-fueled fight between a South American and an Asian just for good measure).
The one element of “Crash” that I really liked came from Bullock (her best performance in, well, ever), who complains to a girlfriend over the phone about waking up every morning feeling angry. But I don’t need to watch a movie to tell me that—I just look out my driver’s side window. A better film would have uncovered what made these characters so angry.
What I find most interesting about “Crash” and “Brokeback,” however, is their relative blips on the controversy Richter scale. Sure, “Brokeback” got an inordinate amount of hype (and “Crash” was talked up pretty well last spring), but there wasn’t any real “controversy” as compared to something like 2004’s “The Passion of the Christ.” Why the difference? Because in today's cultural climate, heterosexual white people are scared to voice dissent (which Bullock's character mentions); nobody’s afraid to trash Christianity. You talk bad about “Brokeback”? Homophobe! Talk bad about “Crash”? Bigot! Just look at the reaction to Sunday’s Oscars—many critics took the position that “Brokeback’s” loss is a sign of rampant homophobia within the Academy. The same Academy that gave its Best Actor award for the portrayal of a gay man and gave nominations to three other actors portraying homosexual characters (or does Felicity Huffman’s transvestite go into a category all its own?). It couldn’t have been Academy voters thought “Crash” was a better movie, could it?
Back to my original point about “Crash”: The fact that this film won Best Picture says volumes about the current state of Hollywood. I encourage you to read Orson Scott Card’s brilliant pre-Oscar column, especially in light of George Clooney’s inane acceptance speech. (And Card’s a Democrat, by the way.) It reaffirms my contention that “Passion” is the greatest punk-rock movie ever made.
Check it out here (you'll have to copy and paste the URL):
http://hatrack.com/osc/reviews/everything/2006-02-26.shtml
I watched “Crash” on DVD last night and thought … eh. “B”. Was it better than “Brokeback”? About equal. I found “Crash” to be ham-fisted in its storytelling, because its method of coincidentally linked plotlines between a dozen characters doesn’t leave much screen time for development or depth. As a result, the characters come off as formulaic: Here’s the racist cop and his green young partner; here are two quick-quipping young black thugs, one of whom constantly rails against The Man; here’s a “respectable” elected official who can’t wait to put his arm around a black man and have their picture taken; here’s the redneck gun shop owner who hates anyone with dark skin. I’ve seen them all before.
I know they’re rather beside the point, but the coincidences that bring these characters together become so … well, ludicrous, they’re distracting. I never knew L.A. was such a small town. And the idea that so many of these people would change so radically in such a short period of time and because of just one event in their lives also doesn’t ring true.
As for “messages,” “Crash” obviously proposes the notion that just about everyone in this world is a stone-cold racist—especially white people. There isn’t one wholly redeemable white character in this entire movie, and on two different occasions, white cops shoot black men. Even Matt Dillon’s racist cop and Sandra Bullock’s paranoid housewife aren’t given enough post-traumatic event screen time to know if they’ve really changed. What we do know, however, is that Ryan Philippe’s police officer went from being disgusted at racism to shooting a black kid in his car and dumping the body. That fall from grace was given plenty of resolution—because everybody’s a racist, you’ll recall (director Paul Haggis threw in a racially-fueled fight between a South American and an Asian just for good measure).
The one element of “Crash” that I really liked came from Bullock (her best performance in, well, ever), who complains to a girlfriend over the phone about waking up every morning feeling angry. But I don’t need to watch a movie to tell me that—I just look out my driver’s side window. A better film would have uncovered what made these characters so angry.
What I find most interesting about “Crash” and “Brokeback,” however, is their relative blips on the controversy Richter scale. Sure, “Brokeback” got an inordinate amount of hype (and “Crash” was talked up pretty well last spring), but there wasn’t any real “controversy” as compared to something like 2004’s “The Passion of the Christ.” Why the difference? Because in today's cultural climate, heterosexual white people are scared to voice dissent (which Bullock's character mentions); nobody’s afraid to trash Christianity. You talk bad about “Brokeback”? Homophobe! Talk bad about “Crash”? Bigot! Just look at the reaction to Sunday’s Oscars—many critics took the position that “Brokeback’s” loss is a sign of rampant homophobia within the Academy. The same Academy that gave its Best Actor award for the portrayal of a gay man and gave nominations to three other actors portraying homosexual characters (or does Felicity Huffman’s transvestite go into a category all its own?). It couldn’t have been Academy voters thought “Crash” was a better movie, could it?
Back to my original point about “Crash”: The fact that this film won Best Picture says volumes about the current state of Hollywood. I encourage you to read Orson Scott Card’s brilliant pre-Oscar column, especially in light of George Clooney’s inane acceptance speech. (And Card’s a Democrat, by the way.) It reaffirms my contention that “Passion” is the greatest punk-rock movie ever made.
Check it out here (you'll have to copy and paste the URL):
http://hatrack.com/osc/reviews/everything/2006-02-26.shtml
Friday, March 10, 2006
Take Another Little Piece of My Heart
Ironically, I was just thinking of Myrtle Beach this morning as I stepped off the Metro onto the King Street platform and a warm breeze swept across my face. I always reminisce about Myrtle on days like this—when it’s warmer than expected and the air smells particularly fresh. Living in South Carolina for a year and a half, there were times I swore I could smell the salt water in the air, even from three hours away.
There are places in this world that are sources for such joy and dear memories, I actually hold them in my heart like a person. Myrtle Beach—for all its kitschy glitz and neon—is one of those locales.
And it’s about to change irrevocably.
Burroughs & Chapin Co. Inc., owners of downtown Myrtle’s Pavilion amusement park, announced Thursday the 58-year-old facility will close after the 2006 season. It’s a blow to me, personally, because the Pavilion is an institution in my life. My family went to Myrtle on a near-annual basis throughout my childhood, and, of course, the amusement park—which seems to magically appear up out of the street along Highway 17—was always a highlight of every trip to the Grand Strand. “Galaxy” and “Corkscrew” were two of my first roller coasters (they’re already gone, actually); the “Log Flume” was a must, as it bordered the street, beckoning to me as soon as we got out of the car; and the “Rainbow,” with its gorgeous views of the ocean, flipped my stomach every time.
This shutdown has been in the offing for years—nearly a decade, from what I read. Burroughs & Chapin say it’s been a struggle just to break even, and attendance has flatlined. Plans haven’t been finalized for what will now occupy the 11 acres of prime real estate at the hub of Myrtle Beach tourism, but the owners say it will be a mix of condos, shopping, and other attractions. In other words, it’ll go from one of the most unique sites on the strip to looking just like everything else.
I can understand why they made the decision, though. Nostalgia doesn’t pay the bills. I hadn’t ridden even one of the attractions in a decade or more, but not because I didn’t want to—they just got too expensive. And in the current bloodthirsty real estate market, the Pavilion’s sweet site is sure to be worth millions and millions.
So I’m not going to rant like some misty-eyed moron. These guys are businessmen. I understand that.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I can go to the Gap (well, okay, I don’t EVER do that), or eat at some chain restaurant here in Maryland. There was only one Pavilion, and for a good portion of my life, it was one of my favorite places on the planet. Even now, it was a little like Disney World for me—just walking around that place transported me to another time. For a few moments, even as a skeptical 26-year-old, I didn’t have a care in the world, content to just take in the sights, smells, and sounds of my youth. Sappy? Sure. I don’t care—those that can’t put the cares of this world aside once in a while are bound to drown in them. You can’t just slip something else into the place in my heart occupied by the Pavilion. It doesn’t work that way.
Or maybe it does.
Let’s face it: Myrtle Beach’s Pavilion hadn’t been the Pavilion of my youth for a while. Must be time to find a new place to fill that hole. Life goes on, man.
And, hey, at least I still have the Golden Griddle. For now, anyway.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Fascination with the Abomination: FLAVOR FLAV!!!
Reality television is like a car crash—I never really want to see it, but if it comes across my radar, it can be hard to look away.
That’s especially true when C- and D-list celebrities are involved, because there’s something satisfying about seeing how people who you used to think had it all are actually rather worthless human beings—and they don’t even know it. VH-1 has been ahead of this curve for a while, what with the cable station’s “Surreal Life,” which jams ancient or semi-celebrities together in a house and tapes their interactions “Real World”-style. The channel even came up with its own (fantastic) name for this phenomenon: “Celebreality,” a term that implies both the fascination and the abomination all in one conjunction.
There’s no better example of this, however, than VH-1’s latest foray into the life of a hanger-on, “Flavor of Love,” which goes straight to the top of the list—or bottom, as the case may be—for reality TV that utterly demeans the human condition.
The show stars Flavor Flav, one half of the influential rap duo Public Enemy, as he searches for “love” in a group of 15 “women” (“gold diggers” or “whores” may be more appropriate). It’s essentially “Survivor” with lots of sex, as Flav kicks a few girls off his personal pleasure island each week.
I was too young for Public Enemy’s 1988 “masterpiece,” “It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back,” and I’m not in the habit of exploring the history of gangsta rap. So my first real exposure to Flavor Flav was his previous VH-1 celebreality show, “Strange Love,” chronicling his romantic—but ultimately doomed (shocker!)—exploits with fellow D-lister Brigitte Nielsen (a spin-off from the odd couple’s insane hook-up during one season of “Surreal Life”). “Strange Love” was by no means appointment viewing, but cable TV as a rule constantly replays programming, so the show always seemed to be on during weekend work sessions. It was something I could have on in the background, looking over once in a while to hear Flav yell his trademark “FLAVOR FLAV!!!” whenever something went his way.
I’ll say this for Flav: If nothing else, he’s good for the occasional laugh, with the crazy outfits, the Viking helmets, the clocks-as-jewelry, and his marbles-in-the-mouth speech pattern. Someone so completely unaware of his own ghoulishness can actually be quite funny—again, in a man-I’m-glad-that’s-not-me kinda way.
But not even that outsized personality can save “Flavor of Love.”
Make no mistake, I have not watched much of this show—certainly not an entire episode. It’s deplorable, even for celebreality and even for Flavor Flav, and belongs one rung above the circle of hell currently occupied by “The Swan.” Each episode essentially consists of these women throwing themselves at Flav, each trying to outdo the other in “affection”; Flav gives them some “challenges” in each episode (cooking dinner, meeting the moms, lie detector tests with Brigitte—you know, the usual), but as far as I can tell, the idea is for Flav to get as much action from as many different women (separate or all together) as he can before the rules of the show force him to kick some of them out using another ubiquitous catch phrase, “You know what time it is.” The two most recent rejects (sent home after they slept with him, of course) were bounced because one, according to Flav, “just wanted to be friends,” and the other, again—according to Flav, had been on too many reality TV shows. That, coming from a celebreality whore, was his reasoning—I wish I were kidding. The contestants are so objectified, they don’t even go by their real names, instead adopting nicknames such as New York, Hoopz, Goldie, and Pumkin (all spelled correctly, according to the show).
It sounds like I’ve watched a lot of “Flavor of Love,” but I assure you, I have not. It doesn’t take long to figure out what time it is in Flav’s world. When I first came across the show while flipping channels several weeks ago, just 30 seconds were enough to demonstrate how vile this show is, and I quickly turned it off. But, like I said, VH-1 reruns its featured programming continuously, so eventually this car wreck wore me down. “He is a loathsome, offensive brute—and yet, I can’t look away” (bonus points for whomever can identify that quote). I can’t take it for long stretches, but each time I flip back, I think the same thing: “These are terrible, awful, subhuman beings.” In some way, it’s fascinating to observe something so objectionable, as well as reassuring—thank goodness I’m not one of these people. I’ve never been happier with my life than when watching Flavor Flav’s.
What, then, is the point of all this? I honestly have no idea. But if you want such an otherworldly experience (celebrities really do live in a different world—I’m convinced they sacrifice their humanity for fame, but that’s a subject for another time), VH-1 is—surprise, surprise—hosting a “Flavor of Love” marathon Sunday leading up to the final episode, capping two months of debauchery and dehumanization.
Doesn’t that sound like fun? FLAVOR FLAV!!!
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Oscars 2006: Get Your Swag Out of My Face!
In the weeks since the Academy Award nominations were announced, I've been trying to gather the gumption to write my annual preview piece.
Forget it.
This crop of crap is so bad, It doesn't even engender in me enough passion to rant on and on about how out of touch Hollywood elites are with the mainstream audience (nobody's seen these movies!), or how I can't remember a bigger celebration of political propaganda in the history of this already over-hyped event, or how "Walk the Line" and "King Kong" got screwed.
I say this every year, but this time I mean it: There's no way I'm watching this pretentious, masturbatory exercise. I hope Joaquin and Reese win, but other than that, who cares? I'm certainly not "rooting" for any of the Best Picture noms. I've only seen one, and that's only 'cause I thought I ought to. And it wasn't even that great.
So instead of analyzing these insipid awards, I'm going to watch my brother play basketball, check out the new Dave Chappelle movie, read a book, watch more basketball, go to church, and spend time with my wife.
I suggest you do some of the same. Hopefully if we all ignore the Oscars at the same time, someone out there in LALA Land will get the message.
Oh, wait, I forgot. This is Hollywood, where bad dreams live on—in remakes, sequels, and George Clooney movies.
Good night, and good luck.
Forget it.
This crop of crap is so bad, It doesn't even engender in me enough passion to rant on and on about how out of touch Hollywood elites are with the mainstream audience (nobody's seen these movies!), or how I can't remember a bigger celebration of political propaganda in the history of this already over-hyped event, or how "Walk the Line" and "King Kong" got screwed.
I say this every year, but this time I mean it: There's no way I'm watching this pretentious, masturbatory exercise. I hope Joaquin and Reese win, but other than that, who cares? I'm certainly not "rooting" for any of the Best Picture noms. I've only seen one, and that's only 'cause I thought I ought to. And it wasn't even that great.
So instead of analyzing these insipid awards, I'm going to watch my brother play basketball, check out the new Dave Chappelle movie, read a book, watch more basketball, go to church, and spend time with my wife.
I suggest you do some of the same. Hopefully if we all ignore the Oscars at the same time, someone out there in LALA Land will get the message.
Oh, wait, I forgot. This is Hollywood, where bad dreams live on—in remakes, sequels, and George Clooney movies.
Good night, and good luck.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Make or Break? Pearl Jam in ’06
It’s official: Pearl Jam’s new album, the band’s eighth, comes out May 2, with a tour to follow (dates will be announced soon).
This is an important release in Pearl Jam’s career. It’s been more than eight years since the band’s last great album, 1998’s “Yield,” and we’ve had more than three years to realize the last effort, 2002’s “Riot Act,” simply doesn’t hold up against the rest of the catalog. PJ continue to cement their concert legacy (for proof, see my October 2005 review of a transcendent night in Philly), but it’s time to prove they can once again capture that energy in the studio. After such a long wait, if this one, too, is subpar (by Pearl Jam standards, mind you) … well, I’m not going to entertain those ramifications quite yet. Let’s allow the album to speak for itself, without prejudice.
The record is self-titled, which I take as a good sign. As the band’s first official studio release for new label J Records, I hope simply using “Pearl Jam” is symbolic for a rebirth of sorts—both a return to form and (hopefully) a giant step forward into a new era.
Speaking of rebirth, the band’s official site, www.pearljam.com, re-launched this week after a much-needed redesign and upgrade. It’s outstanding—finally the Internet domain diehard fans have been waiting for. The unquestionable highlight is the “Songs” section, which not only lists everything the band has ever played (in the studio or in concert, including covers), but includes (most) lyrics and every time a song was performed live. It’s a gigantic down-the-rabbit-hole database: You can list them alphabetically, when they debuted, or by frequency (“Even Flow” leads the pack by far and away at 521 incarnations). All of the setlists (on first glance, it looks like every single show the band’s every played!) are fully linked, so clicking on one song takes you to its official page, which then provides another jumping-off point to some other realm of PJ’s history.
And while you’re surfing PJ’s little corner of the web, I encourage all fans to visit www.theskyiscrape.com, the best unofficial Pearl Jam site. In honor of March Madness, it is hosting a variation of the Big Dance, only with Pearl Jam songs. Every single one (originals only) has been seeded and broken into eight brackets, with voting for a different “region” each day until there’s an overall winner (“Immortality” and “I Got Shit” are the two previous champions). It’s nerdy, I know, but I think it’ll be pretty fun, too. My money’s on “Corduroy,” even though my personal fave is “Do the Evolution.”
If nothing else, it’s a way to kill a few long weeks of new album wait time.
This is an important release in Pearl Jam’s career. It’s been more than eight years since the band’s last great album, 1998’s “Yield,” and we’ve had more than three years to realize the last effort, 2002’s “Riot Act,” simply doesn’t hold up against the rest of the catalog. PJ continue to cement their concert legacy (for proof, see my October 2005 review of a transcendent night in Philly), but it’s time to prove they can once again capture that energy in the studio. After such a long wait, if this one, too, is subpar (by Pearl Jam standards, mind you) … well, I’m not going to entertain those ramifications quite yet. Let’s allow the album to speak for itself, without prejudice.
The record is self-titled, which I take as a good sign. As the band’s first official studio release for new label J Records, I hope simply using “Pearl Jam” is symbolic for a rebirth of sorts—both a return to form and (hopefully) a giant step forward into a new era.
Speaking of rebirth, the band’s official site, www.pearljam.com, re-launched this week after a much-needed redesign and upgrade. It’s outstanding—finally the Internet domain diehard fans have been waiting for. The unquestionable highlight is the “Songs” section, which not only lists everything the band has ever played (in the studio or in concert, including covers), but includes (most) lyrics and every time a song was performed live. It’s a gigantic down-the-rabbit-hole database: You can list them alphabetically, when they debuted, or by frequency (“Even Flow” leads the pack by far and away at 521 incarnations). All of the setlists (on first glance, it looks like every single show the band’s every played!) are fully linked, so clicking on one song takes you to its official page, which then provides another jumping-off point to some other realm of PJ’s history.
And while you’re surfing PJ’s little corner of the web, I encourage all fans to visit www.theskyiscrape.com, the best unofficial Pearl Jam site. In honor of March Madness, it is hosting a variation of the Big Dance, only with Pearl Jam songs. Every single one (originals only) has been seeded and broken into eight brackets, with voting for a different “region” each day until there’s an overall winner (“Immortality” and “I Got Shit” are the two previous champions). It’s nerdy, I know, but I think it’ll be pretty fun, too. My money’s on “Corduroy,” even though my personal fave is “Do the Evolution.”
If nothing else, it’s a way to kill a few long weeks of new album wait time.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Jack White: Back in Action
Every once in a while I come across a new song that just hits me, like scratching an itch I didn’t even know was there. The original in my personal musical journey was “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin, with an opening vocal/guitar assault that literally changed my life in 1993. The (lengthy) list from that moment on includes—just to name very, very few—“Casino Queen” by Wilco, “Spin the Black Circle” by Pearl Jam, “Big Exit” by PJ Harvey, “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” by U2, and “Hello Operator” by The White Stripes.
Which, speaking of the Stripes, brings me to this weekend and the ditty that’s danced around my head for three days: “Steady, As She Goes” by The Raconteurs.
The who?
The Raconteurs (a French term defined as storytellers with charm and wit) is a side project of Jack White, otherwise known as one half of the aforementioned White Stripes. As the story goes, White and fellow Detroit rocker Brendan Benson were noodling around in Benson’s home one day when they came up with “Steady.” So pleased with the result, they brought in two more buddies from The Greenhornes to complete a four-piece band and decided to see their chemistry through to its full potential.
“Steady” was released as the group’s first single earlier this year in the UK and will hit America exclusively on vinyl next month. But the band recently began streaming the song on its web site, theraconteurs.com, which is where I came across it.
Streaming audio aside, the site is worth visiting all by itself. White’s fingerprints are all over this baby. That’s one of the things I especially appreciate about him—he treats every aspect of his career as an authentic artistic adventure. After all, this is the guy who named the Stripes’ second album after a Dutch art movement from the 1920s (“De Stijl”). And it just wasn’t a name he pulled out of his top hat. White says one of the motivations behind The White Stripes is freedom through limited possibilities, thus he and “sister” Meg White are the only members of the band, and they record on ancient equipment in quick spurts of creativity (no year-long studio sessions allowed). De stijl artists believed simplicity—using only primary colors—was a method for finding spiritual harmony. One could argue The White Stripes carry on that tradition in their chosen form of expression—rock and roll, folk, country, the blues, and some of the best music videos of all time.
So it should have come as no surprise that The Raconteurs’ web site would be something out of the ordinary—something out of left field and yet, undeniably cool. TheRaconteurs.com is themed like an old Apple interface circa 1981. Of course, the computer mouse wasn’t around back then, and thus doesn’t apply here. I’ve been surfing the Internet for more than a decade, and I don’t remember anything quite like this: Every interaction requires the keyboard, just like the old, old days—you may as well unplug the mouse. Want to read the band’s tongue-in-cheek bio? Press “B.” Looking for tour dates? Hit “T” (none scheduled as yet). And how about that all-important streaming? First press “M” for “media,” then “A” for “audio” and there they are: “Steady, As She Goes” and its b-side, “Store Bought Bones.”
With two rock and roll fireballers at the helm, you’d think “Steady” would kick off with some killer guitar lick, right? Foiled again! “Steady” is actually a slow build, starting with a simple drumbeat, then adds bass and a restrained guitar lick before climaxing in a rocking chorus. While White is best known for his version of the blues, Benson is a more straightforward pop/rock singer/songwriter. However, The Raconteurs seems to be much more than an uncomfortable mish-mash of those two styles. What’s amazing about these two tracks is the difficulty inherent in trying to decipher whose influence is most dominant—the final product truly sounds like an amalgamation of the songwriters’ varying sensibilities.
It’s refreshing to know that White is still willing to write music like this (“Store Bought Bones” is just as good as “Steady, As She Goes,” if not better, with a rip-roaring Zeppelin-esque solo toward the end). All that atonal dissonance on the Stripes’ last album, 2005’s “Get Behind Me Satan,” left me worried, wondering if White had finally tired of all the ridiculous “sell out” chatter surrounding his band and decided to deconstruct the Stripes. Looking back, though, “Satan” is a natural progression; he was just embracing his old country roots, juices that have been flowing for a while now considering his work on the “Cold Mountain” soundtrack and a spectacular turn backing up Loretta Lynn on her 2004 comeback album, “Van Lear Rose.” “Satan” wasn’t what I was expecting or hoping for, but that’s not always a bad thing—I don’t have to like every single thing Jack White writes.
Thankfully, after hearing these first two teasers from The Raconteurs, it’s clear White hasn’t abandoned the riffs and style that made him a star and beloved to fans worldwide. As a result, the full-length album (due in May) is now my first must-have of 2006. I don’t know if “Steady, As She Goes” will end up on my list of life-changing songs, but for this weekend, anyway, it was one heck of a treat.
Which, speaking of the Stripes, brings me to this weekend and the ditty that’s danced around my head for three days: “Steady, As She Goes” by The Raconteurs.
The who?
The Raconteurs (a French term defined as storytellers with charm and wit) is a side project of Jack White, otherwise known as one half of the aforementioned White Stripes. As the story goes, White and fellow Detroit rocker Brendan Benson were noodling around in Benson’s home one day when they came up with “Steady.” So pleased with the result, they brought in two more buddies from The Greenhornes to complete a four-piece band and decided to see their chemistry through to its full potential.
“Steady” was released as the group’s first single earlier this year in the UK and will hit America exclusively on vinyl next month. But the band recently began streaming the song on its web site, theraconteurs.com, which is where I came across it.
Streaming audio aside, the site is worth visiting all by itself. White’s fingerprints are all over this baby. That’s one of the things I especially appreciate about him—he treats every aspect of his career as an authentic artistic adventure. After all, this is the guy who named the Stripes’ second album after a Dutch art movement from the 1920s (“De Stijl”). And it just wasn’t a name he pulled out of his top hat. White says one of the motivations behind The White Stripes is freedom through limited possibilities, thus he and “sister” Meg White are the only members of the band, and they record on ancient equipment in quick spurts of creativity (no year-long studio sessions allowed). De stijl artists believed simplicity—using only primary colors—was a method for finding spiritual harmony. One could argue The White Stripes carry on that tradition in their chosen form of expression—rock and roll, folk, country, the blues, and some of the best music videos of all time.
So it should have come as no surprise that The Raconteurs’ web site would be something out of the ordinary—something out of left field and yet, undeniably cool. TheRaconteurs.com is themed like an old Apple interface circa 1981. Of course, the computer mouse wasn’t around back then, and thus doesn’t apply here. I’ve been surfing the Internet for more than a decade, and I don’t remember anything quite like this: Every interaction requires the keyboard, just like the old, old days—you may as well unplug the mouse. Want to read the band’s tongue-in-cheek bio? Press “B.” Looking for tour dates? Hit “T” (none scheduled as yet). And how about that all-important streaming? First press “M” for “media,” then “A” for “audio” and there they are: “Steady, As She Goes” and its b-side, “Store Bought Bones.”
With two rock and roll fireballers at the helm, you’d think “Steady” would kick off with some killer guitar lick, right? Foiled again! “Steady” is actually a slow build, starting with a simple drumbeat, then adds bass and a restrained guitar lick before climaxing in a rocking chorus. While White is best known for his version of the blues, Benson is a more straightforward pop/rock singer/songwriter. However, The Raconteurs seems to be much more than an uncomfortable mish-mash of those two styles. What’s amazing about these two tracks is the difficulty inherent in trying to decipher whose influence is most dominant—the final product truly sounds like an amalgamation of the songwriters’ varying sensibilities.
It’s refreshing to know that White is still willing to write music like this (“Store Bought Bones” is just as good as “Steady, As She Goes,” if not better, with a rip-roaring Zeppelin-esque solo toward the end). All that atonal dissonance on the Stripes’ last album, 2005’s “Get Behind Me Satan,” left me worried, wondering if White had finally tired of all the ridiculous “sell out” chatter surrounding his band and decided to deconstruct the Stripes. Looking back, though, “Satan” is a natural progression; he was just embracing his old country roots, juices that have been flowing for a while now considering his work on the “Cold Mountain” soundtrack and a spectacular turn backing up Loretta Lynn on her 2004 comeback album, “Van Lear Rose.” “Satan” wasn’t what I was expecting or hoping for, but that’s not always a bad thing—I don’t have to like every single thing Jack White writes.
Thankfully, after hearing these first two teasers from The Raconteurs, it’s clear White hasn’t abandoned the riffs and style that made him a star and beloved to fans worldwide. As a result, the full-length album (due in May) is now my first must-have of 2006. I don’t know if “Steady, As She Goes” will end up on my list of life-changing songs, but for this weekend, anyway, it was one heck of a treat.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Great, Now I Have to Try and Best My Old Boss
I was on my way out of the country last week when the Oscar nominations were announced. I'm back now, but still jet-lagging, so I don't know when I'm going to post my hotly-anticipated thoughts on this pathetic lineup.
So, to hold you over, I offer my first boss and one of my mentors, Mike Perkins, editor of The (Huntington) Herald-Press, who, as usual, wrote an excellent Sunday column this week. He takes a slightly different angle on the Academy Awards than I will (I've been writing mine in my head for a week—paper's for wimps), and I don't necessarily agree with everything little thing he says. But most of it could have come straight out my thoughts. No one knows his community better than Mike, and his piece demonstrates the growing gulf between Hollywood and its supposed audience.
Here's the link to his column (you'll have to cut and paste):
http://h-ponline.com/articles/2006/02/06/news/016perkins.txt
So, to hold you over, I offer my first boss and one of my mentors, Mike Perkins, editor of The (Huntington) Herald-Press, who, as usual, wrote an excellent Sunday column this week. He takes a slightly different angle on the Academy Awards than I will (I've been writing mine in my head for a week—paper's for wimps), and I don't necessarily agree with everything little thing he says. But most of it could have come straight out my thoughts. No one knows his community better than Mike, and his piece demonstrates the growing gulf between Hollywood and its supposed audience.
Here's the link to his column (you'll have to cut and paste):
http://h-ponline.com/articles/2006/02/06/news/016perkins.txt
Thursday, January 26, 2006
‘Smallville’ at 100: Still Going Strong
No serial drama aired on broadcast television hits the mark with each and every installment. Not “Alias,” not “24,” not “Lost,” and certainly not “Smallville.”
But when “Smallville”—yes, “Smallville”—is on, it’s as good an hour as you’ll ever find on TV.
I didn’t start watching this reimagining of the classic “Superboy” story until last summer. My (teenage) brother kept telling me I had to check it out, but his copy of the first season DVD set sat on my shelf for, oh, at least six months. I didn’t hesitate because it was about Superman. I read comics as a kid before they got way too expensive for my weekly allowance. In fact, I’ve been hauling a whole bin full of them all over the country and can’t seem to bring myself to either give or throw them away. “Spider-Man,” “Batman,” “Superman,” “X-Men,” and “Spawn” are my personal favorites, but I just like the genre. I like the art, the imagery, the escapism, and, most importantly, the stories they tell.
No, I resisted “Smallville” for one simple reason: It’s on The WB, and I figured I’m about a decade too old for anything broadcast alongside “Gilmore Girls” or “Dawson’s Creek” or whatever.
But one summer day with nothing else to do, I popped in Disc One, just so I could hand the set back to my brother after at least giving it a shot. For those unfamiliar with “Smallville,” the basic premise is an examination of nature vs. nurture. The main characters, Clark Kent (played by dead-ringer Tom Welling) and Lex Luthor (a brilliant Michael Rosenbaum) start out as friends, and each episode asks the same question in a different way: Are these two men simply traveling on a road to destiny, or is it their respective environments that lead one to a life of evil incarnate and the other to become champion of truth, justice and the American Way. It’s an ingenious concept, and inspired storytelling.
The first episode is actually quite good, especially considering most TV pilots tend to pale in comparison with the rest of a long-running series. But after that, I just plodded through the first couple discs. There were enough cool little tidbits into the Superman mythology to keep me interested (my particular favorite is Clark discovers his newfound heat vision is tied to sexual arousal—hilarity ensues), but in general the episodes were too “freak of the week” in an “X-Files” knockoff kinda way.
And then I hit No. 12, “Leech,” where Clark rescues a classmate during an electrical storm and the two are hit by lightning, transferring Clark’s powers to his friend and leaving Superboy just, well, Boy. There’s a scene early on, after the kid—a wimpy little guy who’s always getting picked on—realizes he’s now a Man of Steel, where he steps out onto the street, straps on a pair of sunglasses, and U2’s “Elevation” starts blaring on the soundtrack as he performs a few super-feats. It’s seriously cool, and not just because I love U2. It’s only about two minutes long, but that one scene sums up everything about “Smallville” that makes it great: the writers take the mythic and bring it down to a human level (and somehow manage to tie in a perfect soundtrack). Really, what would it be like to wake up and have Superman’s powers all of the sudden? I think I’d walk around to “Elevation,” too.
Suffice to say there are many, many more scenes—and entire episodes—like that over the course of four seasons. The writers particularly excel at season finales, but the best installments typically focus more on Lex than Clark (villains are always more interesting, you know, so it’s a tribute to “Smallville” that goody-goody Clark is such a compelling figure in this series). In fact, my favorite ep of the entire run remains “Memoria” from late in Season 3, which delves deep into Lex’s repressed memories to discover the roots of all his pain—or at least most of it. It’s one of the best single episodes of TV I’ve ever seen.
Add tonight to that list.
The “Smallville” staff pulled out all the stops for their 100th episode, the rare feat that actually lived up to all the hype. (If you don’t want SPOILERS, stop reading NOW!)
This show had it all, everything we’ve been waiting for lo’ these many seasons: Clark finally tells the love of his life, Lana Lang (the beautiful but increasingly useless Kristin Kreuk), his secret—and PROPOSES to her, no less! And she says yes! Sure, it sounds cheesy to the uninitiated, but you have to have been there through all of Clark’s ascetic discipline when it comes to what he thinks is his one and only. We all know this can’t last, though, right? He’s supposed to end up with Lois! (On a side note: Another fascinating aspect of “Smallville” is how the writers toy with us, giving us little winks because we all know what the characters don’t: How the story turns out. When Lois (the magnificent firebrand that is Erica Durance) wonders if she’ll ever find someone to love—and someone who can love her back—and Clark assures her there’s someone out there for her, it’s a special ironic moment. Actually, there was a moment like that in tonight’s show …)
No, the engagement lasts for, oh, about 20 minutes. And then Lana dies in a car crash. What? Lana DIES? I don’t remember that from the comics! A distraught Clark convinces the spirit of his dead father, Jor-El (that’s another long story), to go back in time and save Lana—by not disclosing his secret this time around, thereby ending the relationship. Clark cannot catch a break—it’s the price you pay for superpowers (yet another major theme this show handles with dexterity—being Superman is more than just running around playing hero).
And in the end, Clark does end up losing someone dear to him: His dad, Jonathan Kent, whose heart finally gives out in a confrontation with Lex’s father, Lionel (Mr. Insidious, John Glover), about—you guessed it—Clark’s secret (man, I will miss John Schneider’s steady presence—there’s a lot more to this guy than Bo Duke). Then, when we come back from commercial, there’s this fantastic, quiet, painfully articulate scene between Clark and his mom, Martha (probably Annette O’Toole’s best work in the entire series) that really is heartbreaking. I couldn’t help feeling it would have been something like that had I lost my father to cancer a couple years ago.
This single episode had it all: The joy of Clark finally opening up to Lana, the pain of Lana’s death, the relief that Jor-El was able to essentially bring her back to life, Clark’s resigned frustration at having to keep his secret, even some humor from his trusty friend Chloe (Allison Mack). And, finally, what “Smallville” may do better than anything else, the closing shot. This time we watch as everyone in Clark’s life slowly drifts away and he’s left, alienated once again, with nothing to comfort him but the dirt on his dead father’s grave.
If you haven’t been watching “Smallville,” I certainly can’t blame you. But there will never be a better time to start than now. The characters are out of high school, so you don’t have to worry about any more teenage foolishness. And I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing the old red-yellow-and-blues before too much longer (Clark doesn’t fly, by the way—he hasn’t “learned” that skill yet, and the producers don’t have the budget to pay for it). Is every episode great? No. There have been several plotlines over the seasons that I just roll my eyes at and try to forget. But give yourself over to “Smallville” and step outside these cynical times once a week. Remember, in the end, it’s a comic book—it’s supposed to be out of this world, and when this show is good, it’s great. Sit back and marvel at a series that has a guy create an engagement ring from a lump of coal and heat from his eyes and then, less than an hour later, uses that same guy to leave a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes.
Friday, December 30, 2005
My Favorite Movies of 2005
As they compile their best-of lists for 2005, it’s like critics are trying to keep themselves employed by convincing everyone we really should have gone to the movies more often this year. So many top 10 lists I read this month included a variation on “this year was much better than everyone thinks.”
Nah, it really wasn’t.
For the majority of 2005, there was absolutely nothing worth leaving the house for, especially with ticket prices going through the roof (nearly $10 apiece here in the D.C. suburbs). I just can’t afford to spend every weekend at the movies, so when I go, it better be worth it.
Thus, for the majority of this year, I just stayed home. The spring and summer were filled with total crap; by comparison the end-of-the-year Oscar push proved worthwhile, but now there are so many movies out at the same time, I can’t afford to go to all those, either (when will the studios learn?).
So, here’s to making the best of a bad situation. There were a few gems this year, but all in all, this list pales in comparison to 2004 (for reference, click on the February 2005 link on the right side of this page). And this is by no means an objective list; these are simply the movies that made me glad to be in a theater in 2005. It’s sad I couldn’t even come up with 10.
1. “Walk the Line”—It’s not overstating things to say this film changed my life by turning a mild interest in Johnny Cash into a full-blown obsession (in the good sense of the word). Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are absolutely stunning as the Man in Black and the love of his life, June Carter. By putting Cash’s classic material up on the big screen and blasting it in surround sound, his brilliance was finally brought home to me and my eyes were finally opened to an artist I’d been missing all these years. What more can you ask for from a movie?
2. “Serenity”—I can’t remember when a creator was better to his fanbase than Joss Whedon and his “Firefly” devotees. This is a farewell kiss to the faithful, and it’s a joy from start to finish. Taken in context with the TV series, this is one of the best space action epics of all time, and certainly the best of 2005 (sorry, George, you suck now). Nevertheless, “Serenity” was a box-office bomb and thus sealed the fate of Captain Reynolds, River, and the rest. But they’ll never be forgotten.
3. “Cinderella Man”—I really don’t understand why this fantastic biopic of Depression-era hero James Braddock wasn’t better received. It can’t all be because Russell Crowe threw a phone at somebody, can it? Come on, people! Combining the best elements of “Million Dollar Baby” and “Seabiscuit,” this is one of the greatest boxing movies of all time. Love him or hate him (most hate, I know, but I don’t), Crowe is the best big-ticket actor in the business, and ditto for Renee Zellweger. Meanwhile, Paul Giamatti, playing Braddock’s manager/trainer, gives his third straight Oscar-worthy performance (that probably will go unrecognized by the Academy for the third straight year).
4. “The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe”/”King Kong”—I liked the latter much more than I expected and the former wasn’t quite what I was hoping for, thus these two fantasy epics met in the middle ground. Director Andrew Adamson (“Shrek”) got just about everything right in “Narnia” (how special is Georgie Henley as Lucy—what a find). But he got Aslan very, very wrong, and that’s a big, big problem. Peter Jackson, on the other hand, made no missteps with his own CG beast, and the magnificently realized ape shows this filmmaker is now officially the best in the business. I didn’t write full reviews for either of these films, but I gave “Narnia” an A-, “Kong” an A.
6. “Mr. & Mrs. Smith”—Yeah, I can’t believe it’s even on the list, much less this high. But this has got to be one of my most pleasant surprises of all time. Despite all the Brangelina hype, the two megastars are spectacular in this near-perfect popcorn flick. Laugh-out-loud funny, clever, and full of eye-popping action, the only thing that tarnishes this excellent summer blockbuster is its ridiculously over-the-top finale. I’ve even watched it again at home, and this violently dysfunctional couple was just as fun the second time around.
7. “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire”—The best of the four movies so far in this billion-dollar franchise was so good, it finally made me want to read the books for myself. Thrilling, funny, touching and epic in scope, director Mike Newell came through big-time.
8. “Batman Begins”—Also the best installment of its respective franchise, “Begins” is great for the first two acts and unravels in the third. As Bruce Wayne, Christian Bale leads the strongest cast of the five Caped Crusader flicks, and indie legend Christopher Nolan effectively brought the series back from the dead. And then he lost his head with that ridiculous terrorism subplot and an outlandish conclusion. Ah well, at least there’s promise for a sequel.
9. “Elizabethtown”—I don’t know how or why Cameron Crowe fell out of favor with the mainstream media, but his charming ode to the classic American road trip was excessively reviled by critics. Orlando Bloom wouldn’t have been my choice for the lead role, but Kirsten Dunst and a killer soundtrack cover a multitude of sins.
On my to-rent list for 2006:
“A History of Violence”
“Capote”
“The Constant Gardener”
“Crash”
“March of the Penguins”
“Munich”
“Murderball”
“Sin City”
“The Squid and the Whale”
Nah, it really wasn’t.
For the majority of 2005, there was absolutely nothing worth leaving the house for, especially with ticket prices going through the roof (nearly $10 apiece here in the D.C. suburbs). I just can’t afford to spend every weekend at the movies, so when I go, it better be worth it.
Thus, for the majority of this year, I just stayed home. The spring and summer were filled with total crap; by comparison the end-of-the-year Oscar push proved worthwhile, but now there are so many movies out at the same time, I can’t afford to go to all those, either (when will the studios learn?).
So, here’s to making the best of a bad situation. There were a few gems this year, but all in all, this list pales in comparison to 2004 (for reference, click on the February 2005 link on the right side of this page). And this is by no means an objective list; these are simply the movies that made me glad to be in a theater in 2005. It’s sad I couldn’t even come up with 10.
1. “Walk the Line”—It’s not overstating things to say this film changed my life by turning a mild interest in Johnny Cash into a full-blown obsession (in the good sense of the word). Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are absolutely stunning as the Man in Black and the love of his life, June Carter. By putting Cash’s classic material up on the big screen and blasting it in surround sound, his brilliance was finally brought home to me and my eyes were finally opened to an artist I’d been missing all these years. What more can you ask for from a movie?
2. “Serenity”—I can’t remember when a creator was better to his fanbase than Joss Whedon and his “Firefly” devotees. This is a farewell kiss to the faithful, and it’s a joy from start to finish. Taken in context with the TV series, this is one of the best space action epics of all time, and certainly the best of 2005 (sorry, George, you suck now). Nevertheless, “Serenity” was a box-office bomb and thus sealed the fate of Captain Reynolds, River, and the rest. But they’ll never be forgotten.
3. “Cinderella Man”—I really don’t understand why this fantastic biopic of Depression-era hero James Braddock wasn’t better received. It can’t all be because Russell Crowe threw a phone at somebody, can it? Come on, people! Combining the best elements of “Million Dollar Baby” and “Seabiscuit,” this is one of the greatest boxing movies of all time. Love him or hate him (most hate, I know, but I don’t), Crowe is the best big-ticket actor in the business, and ditto for Renee Zellweger. Meanwhile, Paul Giamatti, playing Braddock’s manager/trainer, gives his third straight Oscar-worthy performance (that probably will go unrecognized by the Academy for the third straight year).
4. “The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe”/”King Kong”—I liked the latter much more than I expected and the former wasn’t quite what I was hoping for, thus these two fantasy epics met in the middle ground. Director Andrew Adamson (“Shrek”) got just about everything right in “Narnia” (how special is Georgie Henley as Lucy—what a find). But he got Aslan very, very wrong, and that’s a big, big problem. Peter Jackson, on the other hand, made no missteps with his own CG beast, and the magnificently realized ape shows this filmmaker is now officially the best in the business. I didn’t write full reviews for either of these films, but I gave “Narnia” an A-, “Kong” an A.
6. “Mr. & Mrs. Smith”—Yeah, I can’t believe it’s even on the list, much less this high. But this has got to be one of my most pleasant surprises of all time. Despite all the Brangelina hype, the two megastars are spectacular in this near-perfect popcorn flick. Laugh-out-loud funny, clever, and full of eye-popping action, the only thing that tarnishes this excellent summer blockbuster is its ridiculously over-the-top finale. I’ve even watched it again at home, and this violently dysfunctional couple was just as fun the second time around.
7. “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire”—The best of the four movies so far in this billion-dollar franchise was so good, it finally made me want to read the books for myself. Thrilling, funny, touching and epic in scope, director Mike Newell came through big-time.
8. “Batman Begins”—Also the best installment of its respective franchise, “Begins” is great for the first two acts and unravels in the third. As Bruce Wayne, Christian Bale leads the strongest cast of the five Caped Crusader flicks, and indie legend Christopher Nolan effectively brought the series back from the dead. And then he lost his head with that ridiculous terrorism subplot and an outlandish conclusion. Ah well, at least there’s promise for a sequel.
9. “Elizabethtown”—I don’t know how or why Cameron Crowe fell out of favor with the mainstream media, but his charming ode to the classic American road trip was excessively reviled by critics. Orlando Bloom wouldn’t have been my choice for the lead role, but Kirsten Dunst and a killer soundtrack cover a multitude of sins.
On my to-rent list for 2006:
“A History of Violence”
“Capote”
“The Constant Gardener”
“Crash”
“March of the Penguins”
“Munich”
“Murderball”
“Sin City”
“The Squid and the Whale”
Thursday, December 29, 2005
'Brokeback Mountain'
“Brokeback Mountain” is a fine, at times gripping, film, featuring a set of outstanding performances and artful, restrained direction from Ang Lee.
But it is not a great film, nor does it deserve its status as the odds-on favorite for picture of the year.
Unless you’ve been under a rock for the past couple months, you know what “Brokeback” is all about: Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal star as two cowboys who spend a summer together and end up falling in love. Such a movie is a stone-cold lock for controversy, but it is undoubtedly one of the best (if not the first) major motion pictures to depict homosexual men in a realistic, non-“Queer Eye” manner.
Hollywood and those that cover it have basically decided “Brokeback” is THE movie of 2005. It continues to rack up best-picture awards from various film societies, and is the best-reviewed movie of the year. Many critics have taken the position that the homosexuality is secondary to the overall story—it shouldn’t matter to us whether this movie is about a gay relationship or not, they claim, because it’s not about gay love, it’s about true love.
That theory is bunk, and this deficiency keeps “Brokeback Mountain” from transcendence.
The movie opens in Signal, Wyoming, in 1963, where we first meet Ennis Del Mar (Ledger) and Jack Twist (Gyllenhaal), both looking for summer work as sheepherders. They are hired and sent up Brokeback Mountain with their “cargo” (one of several beautifully shot scenes by cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto), left to their own devices for a week at a time in between supply runs. So, yeah, they have some time on their hands. On one particularly frigid night, they sleep in the same tent for warmth and Jack pulls Ennis’ arm over his body; at first Ennis reacts with revulsion, but Jack quickly presses his affections and the two have sex. (For those wondering, although the sex is quite aggressive, the filming is tasteful.)
Did that feel like an abrupt summation? Well, the movie does, too, and that proves to be its undoing.
I wasn’t looking at my watch, but it felt like the sex scene was about 25 minutes in, at the most. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for getting acquainted with these guys, much less allow them to get to know each other. From that first summer, “Brokeback Mountain” follows the lives of these two socially-crossed lovers for the next 20 years of their lives as they both marry, father children, and continue to see each other several times a year in a series of trysts back up the mountain. This portion of the film is too long, while the first part is too short.
No, this movie is all about the fact that these two characters are gay, male lovers. All of the tension is created by Ennis’ resistance to Jack’s plea for the two of them to settle down on a ranch together and live happily ever after. They’re “stuck,” Ennis says, not because he doesn’t want to leave his lifeless relationship with his wife, but simply for fear of “coming out.” As a child, Ennis was exposed to a violent scene of bigotry in which a gay man was sadistically murdered simply because of his sexual orientation—Ennis is literally scared to death of suffering the same fate.
If this movie was a love story between a man and a woman, it would fall flat. But Ennis’ and Jack’s homosexuality distracts us from the lack of depth in their affair—it makes for compelling drama, sure, just not the drama we’ve been promised. In the end, there is very little in the way of explanation for why these two lovers would risk their families and, in Jack’s case, drive 14 hours one way just for a few days together. Other than the sex, of course, but they could find that elsewhere (Jack does, in fact, but he still “can’t quit” Ennis—why, nobody knows, including, apparently, the two characters).
And we are also distracted by the amazing acting on full display in this movie. As the stoic Ennis, a man more of grunts than words, Ledger gives not just the performance of his career, but of a lifetime. It’s nearly impossible to believe the man so fully inhabiting this character is the same blonde-haired Australian pretty boy from such flops as “The Four Feathers” and “A Knight’s Tale.” His vocal delivery is reminiscent of Billy Bob Thornton’s Karl Childers from “Sling Blade” (without the mental retardation, of course), and he speaks as much with his body as his mouth.
As Ledger’s counterpart, Gyllenhaal does not provide quite the same revelation, but he certainly holds his own. Meanwhile, supporting actresses Michelle Williams and Anne Hathaway are fantastic (in that order) as Ennis’ and Jack’s wives, respectively.
But in the end, “Brokeback Mountain” still comes off as an agenda-driven film, and I go to the movies for entertainment and hopefully a little enlightenment, not full-on preaching (which is why I haven’t seen “Syriana,” “Good Night, and Good Luck,” or “Crash”).
Grade: B
But it is not a great film, nor does it deserve its status as the odds-on favorite for picture of the year.
Unless you’ve been under a rock for the past couple months, you know what “Brokeback” is all about: Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal star as two cowboys who spend a summer together and end up falling in love. Such a movie is a stone-cold lock for controversy, but it is undoubtedly one of the best (if not the first) major motion pictures to depict homosexual men in a realistic, non-“Queer Eye” manner.
Hollywood and those that cover it have basically decided “Brokeback” is THE movie of 2005. It continues to rack up best-picture awards from various film societies, and is the best-reviewed movie of the year. Many critics have taken the position that the homosexuality is secondary to the overall story—it shouldn’t matter to us whether this movie is about a gay relationship or not, they claim, because it’s not about gay love, it’s about true love.
That theory is bunk, and this deficiency keeps “Brokeback Mountain” from transcendence.
The movie opens in Signal, Wyoming, in 1963, where we first meet Ennis Del Mar (Ledger) and Jack Twist (Gyllenhaal), both looking for summer work as sheepherders. They are hired and sent up Brokeback Mountain with their “cargo” (one of several beautifully shot scenes by cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto), left to their own devices for a week at a time in between supply runs. So, yeah, they have some time on their hands. On one particularly frigid night, they sleep in the same tent for warmth and Jack pulls Ennis’ arm over his body; at first Ennis reacts with revulsion, but Jack quickly presses his affections and the two have sex. (For those wondering, although the sex is quite aggressive, the filming is tasteful.)
Did that feel like an abrupt summation? Well, the movie does, too, and that proves to be its undoing.
I wasn’t looking at my watch, but it felt like the sex scene was about 25 minutes in, at the most. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for getting acquainted with these guys, much less allow them to get to know each other. From that first summer, “Brokeback Mountain” follows the lives of these two socially-crossed lovers for the next 20 years of their lives as they both marry, father children, and continue to see each other several times a year in a series of trysts back up the mountain. This portion of the film is too long, while the first part is too short.
No, this movie is all about the fact that these two characters are gay, male lovers. All of the tension is created by Ennis’ resistance to Jack’s plea for the two of them to settle down on a ranch together and live happily ever after. They’re “stuck,” Ennis says, not because he doesn’t want to leave his lifeless relationship with his wife, but simply for fear of “coming out.” As a child, Ennis was exposed to a violent scene of bigotry in which a gay man was sadistically murdered simply because of his sexual orientation—Ennis is literally scared to death of suffering the same fate.
If this movie was a love story between a man and a woman, it would fall flat. But Ennis’ and Jack’s homosexuality distracts us from the lack of depth in their affair—it makes for compelling drama, sure, just not the drama we’ve been promised. In the end, there is very little in the way of explanation for why these two lovers would risk their families and, in Jack’s case, drive 14 hours one way just for a few days together. Other than the sex, of course, but they could find that elsewhere (Jack does, in fact, but he still “can’t quit” Ennis—why, nobody knows, including, apparently, the two characters).
And we are also distracted by the amazing acting on full display in this movie. As the stoic Ennis, a man more of grunts than words, Ledger gives not just the performance of his career, but of a lifetime. It’s nearly impossible to believe the man so fully inhabiting this character is the same blonde-haired Australian pretty boy from such flops as “The Four Feathers” and “A Knight’s Tale.” His vocal delivery is reminiscent of Billy Bob Thornton’s Karl Childers from “Sling Blade” (without the mental retardation, of course), and he speaks as much with his body as his mouth.
As Ledger’s counterpart, Gyllenhaal does not provide quite the same revelation, but he certainly holds his own. Meanwhile, supporting actresses Michelle Williams and Anne Hathaway are fantastic (in that order) as Ennis’ and Jack’s wives, respectively.
But in the end, “Brokeback Mountain” still comes off as an agenda-driven film, and I go to the movies for entertainment and hopefully a little enlightenment, not full-on preaching (which is why I haven’t seen “Syriana,” “Good Night, and Good Luck,” or “Crash”).
Grade: B
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Somebody Shoot Me
This will probably guarantee I never get a "real" movie critic job, but I'll press on …
After tonight's Wizards game (they finally won, what a shock), I was just flipping around a little bit before heading to bed and for some reason came across "The Charlie Rose Show." He was sitting around a table with four other rather strange-looking people and it took about five seconds to realize they were film critics talking about the movies of 2005.
I've made it pretty obvious that one of my "dream jobs" would be reviewing movies for a living—unless it turned me into a version of one of these leprechauns. If I wake up one day 10 or 20 years from now and I look and sound like these circus freaks, someone, please shoot me.
Since I came very late to this depressing little party, I only caught two names: Lisa Schwarzbaum (Entertainment Weekly) and A.O. Scott (NY Times). Schwarzbaum actually was the most sensible and least pretentious of the four (also the only woman on the panel, but I don't know if that has any bearing or not). I typically trust EW's reviews more than most, and she seems to at least have her pinky toe in mainstream culture (evidenced by her "A" review of "King Kong").
Scott, on the other hand (a mousy little creep of a guy), was abominable. He came right out and admitted that the only movies he likes are the "small" budget films—that no one outside of New York or LA ever sees, of course. His top three movies of the year are two documentaries and one Italian film. Give me a freakin' break.
Look, I'm all for artistic expression and trying to raise the level of the motion picture above that of, say, "Cheaper By the Dozen 2," and I am certainly not a neophyte when it comes to "indie" movies. But I'm also a person who believes it's more difficult to make a big-budget film like "Spider-Man 2" emotionally resonant than, say, "In America" (which I LOVED). I have a love and respect for both types of films, and can enjoy them equally, if differently.
These self-absorbed windbags need to spend more time outside of darkened rooms with flickering lights, because they've lost all sense of relevance in mainstream culture. If you're so pretentious and arrogant that you can't bear to praise a movie that has a modest chance at becoming a hit, then I have no use for you (which is why I never read Scott's work).
And that is why I've tried to loosely model my reviews after Roger Ebert who, though I disagree with him as much as I agree, is one of the few critics who accepts movies for what they are, and judges filmmakers by how well they accomplished what they set out to do. That's why he can give the same rating to "Capote," "King Kong," and (gasp!) "The Passion of the Christ" (the only four-star review I found for this one, by the way, save for mine). He's one of the few big-timers that still gets it: Movies are allowed to be fun, and we shouldn't turn our noses up at those who do them well.
I guess I should have known better tonight, because when I found the show, three of the four (not Schwarzbaum) were trashing "Walk the Line" and continuing to praise "Ray." That tells me all I need to know.
After tonight's Wizards game (they finally won, what a shock), I was just flipping around a little bit before heading to bed and for some reason came across "The Charlie Rose Show." He was sitting around a table with four other rather strange-looking people and it took about five seconds to realize they were film critics talking about the movies of 2005.
I've made it pretty obvious that one of my "dream jobs" would be reviewing movies for a living—unless it turned me into a version of one of these leprechauns. If I wake up one day 10 or 20 years from now and I look and sound like these circus freaks, someone, please shoot me.
Since I came very late to this depressing little party, I only caught two names: Lisa Schwarzbaum (Entertainment Weekly) and A.O. Scott (NY Times). Schwarzbaum actually was the most sensible and least pretentious of the four (also the only woman on the panel, but I don't know if that has any bearing or not). I typically trust EW's reviews more than most, and she seems to at least have her pinky toe in mainstream culture (evidenced by her "A" review of "King Kong").
Scott, on the other hand (a mousy little creep of a guy), was abominable. He came right out and admitted that the only movies he likes are the "small" budget films—that no one outside of New York or LA ever sees, of course. His top three movies of the year are two documentaries and one Italian film. Give me a freakin' break.
Look, I'm all for artistic expression and trying to raise the level of the motion picture above that of, say, "Cheaper By the Dozen 2," and I am certainly not a neophyte when it comes to "indie" movies. But I'm also a person who believes it's more difficult to make a big-budget film like "Spider-Man 2" emotionally resonant than, say, "In America" (which I LOVED). I have a love and respect for both types of films, and can enjoy them equally, if differently.
These self-absorbed windbags need to spend more time outside of darkened rooms with flickering lights, because they've lost all sense of relevance in mainstream culture. If you're so pretentious and arrogant that you can't bear to praise a movie that has a modest chance at becoming a hit, then I have no use for you (which is why I never read Scott's work).
And that is why I've tried to loosely model my reviews after Roger Ebert who, though I disagree with him as much as I agree, is one of the few critics who accepts movies for what they are, and judges filmmakers by how well they accomplished what they set out to do. That's why he can give the same rating to "Capote," "King Kong," and (gasp!) "The Passion of the Christ" (the only four-star review I found for this one, by the way, save for mine). He's one of the few big-timers that still gets it: Movies are allowed to be fun, and we shouldn't turn our noses up at those who do them well.
I guess I should have known better tonight, because when I found the show, three of the four (not Schwarzbaum) were trashing "Walk the Line" and continuing to praise "Ray." That tells me all I need to know.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Bittersweet Revenge
Amidst all of Sunday night’s Redskins euphoria (and it was euphoric—I'm still stunned) a lot of people in this city probably missed two of its most beloved athletic stars sticking it in the eye of the hometown pro basketball team.
University of Maryland legends and current Portland Trail Blazers Juan Dixon and Steve Blake combined for 34 points to down their former team, the Washington Wizards, in front of a barely-there crowd in Oregon late Sunday night. It was sweet justice for Juan and Stevie, who were unceremoniously dumped by the Wizards in the offseason after giving nothing but their all for three and two years, respectively.
Wizards coach Eddie Jordan and GM Ernie Grunfeld—it was explained to us, the stupid fans—wanted more size in the backcourt. Dixon and Blake are just too small to fit in here, you see. So the Wizards went out and got two journeymen guards, Antonio Daniels and Chucky Atkins. Never heard of either ’em? I didn’t think so. Because they’re no different than a million other guys who have wandered through the NBA.
Juan and Steve, on the other hand, are hometown heroes who still receive standing ovations in D.C., even though they now play for the opposing team. Daniels and Atkins are two veterans that have done absolutely nothing in this league of any distinction, other than managing to stay in it.
Dixon and Blake were never given a fair shot by Jordan, who, apparently, is the first coach in the history of this duo’s combined careers not to absolutely love these guys. Juan received irregular minutes at best in his tenure with the Wizards, and Blake was lucky if he saw the floor once a week. I’m convinced it was all about ego for Jordan—he wasn’t about to let the fans tell him how to coach his team, and he got rid of the heroes wouldn’t have to hear the “We want Juan!” chants anymore.
So how’s that working out for you, Coach?
Playing without three starters, Portland nevertheless dismissed the Wizards Sunday night, led by the former Maryland duo playing together once again in the backcourt down the stretch. Washington’s Gilbert Arenas hit a three-pointer to cut it to one with a couple minutes to go, but Dixon and Blake combined to run off seven points in a row and put the game on ice, dropping the Wizards to a pathetic four games under .500.
If the Wizards don’t make the playoffs this year, Eddie Jordan should be fired. He’s been a mediocre coach that has stuck around because expectations were so low, making the second round of the playoffs last season was the equivalent of winning the NBA championship around here.
But Jordan has made as many mistakes with this team in his three and a quarter seasons as he has made good decisions. No one can figure out his rotation (Juan said as much this season), and he runs his stars into the ground (Arenas is continually ranked among the top minutes played in the league). He and Grunfeld essentially blew up a backcourt that last season was arguably the best in the league. I was never a big Larry Hughes fan, but the team undoubtedly misses him this season. And the Wizards certainly miss Dixon’s instant offense off the bench, as neither Atkins nor Daniels have shown any propensity that they can score and hit outside shots with any consistency (Daniels is hardly even playing nowadays).
Guys like Juan Dixon and Steve Blake—who make up for the lack of natural ability with heart, smarts, and passion—don’t come along nearly as often as faceless roster-fillers like Daniels and Atkins (heck, Dixon is outscoring the latter duo all by himself this year). The Maryland stars made coming to Wizards games worthwhile; last time I checked, professional sports teams do need fans every now and then to pay their salaries—it’s not like MCI is selling out every night.
But even more than all that, Jordan said cutting Dixon and Blake was all about winning. Well, what have you done for me lately, Coach? I thought the Wizards were supposed to be better this year after making the playoffs for the first time in two decades. Dixon singlehandedly won three or four games for Washington last season—including a clutch performance in the PLAYOFFS against Chicago—but for some reason that didn’t matter to Jordan. His ego is too big for his size and his success.
At first I questioned why Dixon and Blake went to a rotten organization like Portland. But new coach Nate McMillan has a mind to turn that whole team around, jettisoning the chaff (like, I assume, Darius Miles), and moving forward in a new, positive direction. If that is the case, he knew exactly what he was doing by bringing in Juan and Stevie. They’re not good enough to make up a starting backcourt in the NBA, but they’re two guys that every team in the league—teams with any sense, anyway—should want. All they wanted was a genuine chance to show what they could do.
No matter what the Wizards go on to accomplish this season and beyond, losing Dixon and Blake will always be an open wound. And it should be. The Wizards got exactly what they deserved tonight.
University of Maryland legends and current Portland Trail Blazers Juan Dixon and Steve Blake combined for 34 points to down their former team, the Washington Wizards, in front of a barely-there crowd in Oregon late Sunday night. It was sweet justice for Juan and Stevie, who were unceremoniously dumped by the Wizards in the offseason after giving nothing but their all for three and two years, respectively.
Wizards coach Eddie Jordan and GM Ernie Grunfeld—it was explained to us, the stupid fans—wanted more size in the backcourt. Dixon and Blake are just too small to fit in here, you see. So the Wizards went out and got two journeymen guards, Antonio Daniels and Chucky Atkins. Never heard of either ’em? I didn’t think so. Because they’re no different than a million other guys who have wandered through the NBA.
Juan and Steve, on the other hand, are hometown heroes who still receive standing ovations in D.C., even though they now play for the opposing team. Daniels and Atkins are two veterans that have done absolutely nothing in this league of any distinction, other than managing to stay in it.
Dixon and Blake were never given a fair shot by Jordan, who, apparently, is the first coach in the history of this duo’s combined careers not to absolutely love these guys. Juan received irregular minutes at best in his tenure with the Wizards, and Blake was lucky if he saw the floor once a week. I’m convinced it was all about ego for Jordan—he wasn’t about to let the fans tell him how to coach his team, and he got rid of the heroes wouldn’t have to hear the “We want Juan!” chants anymore.
So how’s that working out for you, Coach?
Playing without three starters, Portland nevertheless dismissed the Wizards Sunday night, led by the former Maryland duo playing together once again in the backcourt down the stretch. Washington’s Gilbert Arenas hit a three-pointer to cut it to one with a couple minutes to go, but Dixon and Blake combined to run off seven points in a row and put the game on ice, dropping the Wizards to a pathetic four games under .500.
If the Wizards don’t make the playoffs this year, Eddie Jordan should be fired. He’s been a mediocre coach that has stuck around because expectations were so low, making the second round of the playoffs last season was the equivalent of winning the NBA championship around here.
But Jordan has made as many mistakes with this team in his three and a quarter seasons as he has made good decisions. No one can figure out his rotation (Juan said as much this season), and he runs his stars into the ground (Arenas is continually ranked among the top minutes played in the league). He and Grunfeld essentially blew up a backcourt that last season was arguably the best in the league. I was never a big Larry Hughes fan, but the team undoubtedly misses him this season. And the Wizards certainly miss Dixon’s instant offense off the bench, as neither Atkins nor Daniels have shown any propensity that they can score and hit outside shots with any consistency (Daniels is hardly even playing nowadays).
Guys like Juan Dixon and Steve Blake—who make up for the lack of natural ability with heart, smarts, and passion—don’t come along nearly as often as faceless roster-fillers like Daniels and Atkins (heck, Dixon is outscoring the latter duo all by himself this year). The Maryland stars made coming to Wizards games worthwhile; last time I checked, professional sports teams do need fans every now and then to pay their salaries—it’s not like MCI is selling out every night.
But even more than all that, Jordan said cutting Dixon and Blake was all about winning. Well, what have you done for me lately, Coach? I thought the Wizards were supposed to be better this year after making the playoffs for the first time in two decades. Dixon singlehandedly won three or four games for Washington last season—including a clutch performance in the PLAYOFFS against Chicago—but for some reason that didn’t matter to Jordan. His ego is too big for his size and his success.
At first I questioned why Dixon and Blake went to a rotten organization like Portland. But new coach Nate McMillan has a mind to turn that whole team around, jettisoning the chaff (like, I assume, Darius Miles), and moving forward in a new, positive direction. If that is the case, he knew exactly what he was doing by bringing in Juan and Stevie. They’re not good enough to make up a starting backcourt in the NBA, but they’re two guys that every team in the league—teams with any sense, anyway—should want. All they wanted was a genuine chance to show what they could do.
No matter what the Wizards go on to accomplish this season and beyond, losing Dixon and Blake will always be an open wound. And it should be. The Wizards got exactly what they deserved tonight.
Monday, December 12, 2005
My 22 Favorite Bands, as of Dec. 12, 2005
This is an ever-evolving topic that never seems to get old—or complete. I have a hard time adding some bands to my list, because I tend to go for longevity and "legacy" over anything else, but my fall concert tour cemented the status of some bands that were starting to wilt. And, I'm so into Johnny Cash right now, just putting him on the list was reason enough to update. (I reserve the right to forget some, no matter how hard I try.) Here goes …
THE BEST
1. U2—The concerts cemented their status at the top. The live show wasn't as good as No. 2's, but nobody's are.
2. Pearl Jam—Philly was incredible, but I'm still nervous about the next record.
3. Led Zeppelin—I listened to the radio on Saturday for the first time in I don't know how long, and for some reason heard three Zep songs. Yep, I still knew the words to all three.
4. Bruce Springsteen—Great year for The Boss. I wish I could have gotten to more than one show, especially on the last leg when he really started digging into the back catalog, but those tix were steep.
5. The White Stripes—Their performance on "The Daily Show" was great; the "Conan" appearance sucked. Pretty much sums up how I feel about "Get Behind Me Satan."
6. Dashboard Confessional—I'm really curious to find out what the next album is like. I wonder how long Chris Carrabba can hang on to his older songs now that he's hitting his 30s.
7. Wilco—Jeff Tweedy solidified his status on this list all by himself in November.
8. PJ Harvey—Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way she can ever surpass “Stories.”
9. Johnny Cash—Rising like a rocket ship. What have I been doing all this time?
THE REST (these are in no particular order)
10. Pink Floyd
11. Ryan Adams
12. Smashing Pumpkins
13. Ramones
14. Franz Ferdinand
15. The Who
16. Otis Redding/Al Green
18. Coldplay
19. Sleater-Kinney
20. Flogging Molly
21. Uncle Tupelo
22. Fall Out Boy
FORMER TOP 20 MEMBERS THAT WILL ALWAYS HAVE A PLACE IN MY PLAYLIST
Alkaline Trio
At the Drive-In
The Beatles
Cake
Collective Soul
Dave Matthews Band
Foo Fighters
Metallica
The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers
Rage Against the Machine
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Saves the Day
Soundgarden
Stone Temple Pilots
The Tragically Hip
Paul Westerberg
And then there are those staples that don’t deserve a spot on the list but I just couldn’t live without. It’s more like I acknowledge how great they are and love their music, but it doesn’t reach out and grab me the way it does others.
The Clash
The Doors
Bob Dylan
Fugazi
Marvin Gaye
Green Day
Nirvana
The Rolling Stones
The Sex Pistols
Neil Young
THE BEST
1. U2—The concerts cemented their status at the top. The live show wasn't as good as No. 2's, but nobody's are.
2. Pearl Jam—Philly was incredible, but I'm still nervous about the next record.
3. Led Zeppelin—I listened to the radio on Saturday for the first time in I don't know how long, and for some reason heard three Zep songs. Yep, I still knew the words to all three.
4. Bruce Springsteen—Great year for The Boss. I wish I could have gotten to more than one show, especially on the last leg when he really started digging into the back catalog, but those tix were steep.
5. The White Stripes—Their performance on "The Daily Show" was great; the "Conan" appearance sucked. Pretty much sums up how I feel about "Get Behind Me Satan."
6. Dashboard Confessional—I'm really curious to find out what the next album is like. I wonder how long Chris Carrabba can hang on to his older songs now that he's hitting his 30s.
7. Wilco—Jeff Tweedy solidified his status on this list all by himself in November.
8. PJ Harvey—Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way she can ever surpass “Stories.”
9. Johnny Cash—Rising like a rocket ship. What have I been doing all this time?
THE REST (these are in no particular order)
10. Pink Floyd
11. Ryan Adams
12. Smashing Pumpkins
13. Ramones
14. Franz Ferdinand
15. The Who
16. Otis Redding/Al Green
18. Coldplay
19. Sleater-Kinney
20. Flogging Molly
21. Uncle Tupelo
22. Fall Out Boy
FORMER TOP 20 MEMBERS THAT WILL ALWAYS HAVE A PLACE IN MY PLAYLIST
Alkaline Trio
At the Drive-In
The Beatles
Cake
Collective Soul
Dave Matthews Band
Foo Fighters
Metallica
The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers
Rage Against the Machine
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Saves the Day
Soundgarden
Stone Temple Pilots
The Tragically Hip
Paul Westerberg
And then there are those staples that don’t deserve a spot on the list but I just couldn’t live without. It’s more like I acknowledge how great they are and love their music, but it doesn’t reach out and grab me the way it does others.
The Clash
The Doors
Bob Dylan
Fugazi
Marvin Gaye
Green Day
Nirvana
The Rolling Stones
The Sex Pistols
Neil Young
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Welcome Home: The Sounds of 2005
After a seven-year absence, the D.C. area welcomed me back with open arms in 2005 in many ways, including (and especially) live music.
In the year and a half I spent in South Carolina, I attended a grand total of three shows (one of which I had to drive BACK to D.C. for); in 2005, I tripled that number. And we’re not talking about some no-name bar bands here. No, these were the real deal—it was like the music gods conspired to provide me with a dream lineup for my return to a place I never stopped loving, no matter how many miles and years I was away. It was essentially a who’s who of my favorite artists and bands: U2 (twice!), Pearl Jam, Springsteen, Dashboard, Jeff Tweedy, Ryan Adams, Billy Corgan, and Coldplay (and I could have seen The White Stripes if I hadn’t been so picky about them playing a ridiculously large venue like Merriweather Post). There’s almost nothing I’d rather do than go hear my favorite bands live and in person, and there probably will never be another year as special as this one. By the time it was over, I was referring to my musical journey as “Schooly’s Tour 2005.”
But there was more music in my ears than what I heard in concert. Back in April, I was given my very first iPod (U2 Special Edition, no less, thanks to my generous wife and family), and it basically never leaves my side. Ironically, I bought fewer CDs this year than in the past, but most of what I did purchase really stuck in my head. Any glance back through my site will basically tell you what I liked and didn’t like from an album perspective, so instead I’m going to run through the individual songs I just couldn’t get enough of in 2005. (Considering the iTunes culture in which we live, a list like this gives me pause, because I hope we never see the day where the album goes away. I still much prefer CDs to digital downloads, but that’s an issue for another column.)
You’ll notice right off the top that not all of these songs were actually released in this calendar year (much less this millennium), but everything on this list made an impact on me during one incredible run of music. Unless noted otherwise, I highly recommend you check all of these out, along with the albums they’re on.
“Bad,” U2 (from 1984’s “The Unforgettable Fire”)—It sounds hokey, but somehow I just knew I would finally get to hear this legendary song in person when U2 came to town this year. I could almost feel it, even when I bought my tickets way back in February. So, more than any other song, “Bad” dominated my musical landscape in 2005. I listened to this beautiful, haunting masterpiece more than any other song this year, and, sure enough, I got it. They waited until the very last song on the second of back-to-back nights in D.C., but U2 closed Night 2 at MCI with a fantastic, full-throated version of “Bad.” It was like a dream come true. Seriously.
“Cocaine Blues,” Johnny Cash (from “The Legend” box set, released this year)—I am coming so late to this party, it’s ridiculous. The Man in Black isn’t even alive anymore (our loss), but the fantastic biopic “Walk the Line” set fire to a spark I’d been nurturing for a few years. I can’t get enough Johnny Cash now, and I could have picked any number of entries for this slot (“I Walk the Line,” “Jackson,” “Ring of Fire,” or his intimate cover of U2’s “One,” just to name a few). But “Cocaine Blues” was the song featured in my favorite scene from the movie: the concert at Folsom Prison.
“Crown of Thorns,” Mother Love Bone (as performed live on 10.3.05 in Philly by Pearl Jam)—An all-time favorite from 1992’s “Singles” soundtrack was pulled out of the hat for one of the best concerts of my life. An epic written by MLB frontman Andrew Wood before his untimely death, it’s a momentous song for PJ, and Eddie told us as much that night. Played for just the sixth time in Pearl Jam’s history, Ed said they save it only for special occasions. I’m still floored I was in the building for this one.
“I Predict a Riot,” Kaiser Chiefs (from 2005’s “Employment”)—Sure, they’re a bit of a Franz Ferdinand knock off, but this song is infectious and subversive at the same time. A great little tune.
“Let It Ride,” Ryan Adams and The Cardinals (from 2005’s “Cold Roses”)—Adams returned to his alt-country roots in a major way this year, and the results were stellar. “Let It Ride” is not only the best track on a great album, it’s one of the prolific songwriter’s best of all time, and that’s saying something.
“Let’s Call It Love,” Sleater-Kinney (from 2005’s “The Woods”)—The absolute, stone-cold lock highlight of a magnificent Sub Pop debut, “Let’s Call It Love” is S-K’s best song, even with five minutes of instrumentation at the end. Simply brilliant.
“Long Time Comin’,” Bruce Springsteen (from 2005’s “Devils and Dust”)—Springsteen’s latest solo album isn’t chock-full of classics by any means, but I fell in love with this song instantly and it hasn’t diminished one bit with time. The story of a father who’s smart and humble enough to realize when he’s been wrong, this is redemptive, mature Springsteen at his best. One of my all-time favorite songs, Bruce or otherwise.
“My Doorbell,” The White Stripes (from 2005’s “Get Behind Me Satan”)—The cool kids say “Satan” is the Stripes’ best album, but I just don’t get it—and I’ve really, really tried. “Get Behind Me Satan” is without a doubt the most over-praised album of 2005. “My Doorbell” is the catchiest of what, after repeated listenings, I still find to be a bunch of atonal, unmelodic, messy songs that comprise my least favorite Stripes record. Here’s hoping this is just a brief detour.
“Out of Control,” U2 (from 1980’s “Boy”)—I’ve made no bones about the fact that this has been U2005 for me—I’ve listened to more U2 this year than all other bands combined. Last year’s new album, “How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb,” in part was a return to the band’s roots, so I decided to do the same by delving into their first album, “Boy,” which I had never given a fair shake. Tucked in the middle is “Out of Control,” U2’s first single, and I simply couldn’t get enough of it. I know, I know, every U2 fan already loves this song, but I came way late to this party, too (try 1998), and you can only get to so much. Anyway, I grew to love “Out of Control” just in time because, once again, they pulled this rarity out for Night 2 in D.C., too.
“Remember the Mountain Bed,” Woodie Guthrie (as performed by Jeff Tweedy on 11.12.05 at Messiah College in Pennsylvania)—I could have chosen several highlights from a great night with the Wilco frontman, but this beautiful number stuck out from all the rest. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t know it prior to checking setlists in the days leading up to the show, but it comes from Wilco’s collaboration with Billy Bragg to write melodies for a batch of unfinished Guthrie songs. Tweedy’s solo acoustic performance of this song is even better than the full-band version found on “Mermaid Avenue,” and it was the undiscovered gem of the night for me.
“Save Me,” Remy Zero (from 2001’s “The Golden Hum”)—Where did this one come from, you ask? No, I didn’t get tipped off to the now-defunct Remy Zero through the “Garden State” soundtrack, but you’re close. This summer, my brother told me I HAD to check out “Smallville,” the television show that reimagines the story of Superman’s youth. I had resisted this series simply because it’s on The WB, and I just assumed it was aimed at people much, much younger than me and wouldn’t resonate. Wow, was I wrong. The show is a revelation, and “Save Me,” written long before the pilot was ever produced, is absolutely perfect for the opening credits. It’s really spooky how perfectly the song and the show fit together—much like A3’s “Woke Up This Morning” and “The Sopranos.” “Smallville” is, overall, an uplifting tale, and every time I listen to this “Save Me,” those feelings come rushing in all over again.
“Speed of Sound,” Coldplay (from 2005’s “X&Y”)—I had resisted this band for the longest time—mostly because of the overwhelming hype that surrounds them—but “Speed of Sound” and its accompanying video are spectacular, and they finally broke through to me. This was my song for the summer, and it went everywhere with me. Whenever I hear it, I will always think of planes, trains, and automobiles—windows down, warm breeze blowing on my face—and the terminal at Heathrow in London. Long story.
“Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down,” Fall Out Boy (from 2005’s “From Under the Cork Tree”)—Probably the best song from one of the year’s best albums. Fall Out Boy mastered the art of pop-punk with their sophomore effort, and they’re a rare example of a band that deserves every ounce of publicity they’ve received this year. I’ll say it again: If you don’t own this record, what are you waiting for?
“The Fallen”/”Do You Want To,” Franz Ferdinand (from 2005’s “You Could Have It So Much Better”)—This opening salvo from the Glasgow quartet’s unbelievable second album is just too good to break up. Forget the sophomore slump; FF is here to stay. This is my favorite album of 2005.
“Wake Up,” The Arcade Fire (from 2004’s “Funeral”)—Okay, so this song got a big, big bump from U2, who used it for their walk-on music during the Vertigo//05 tour. Every time I hear it, I see Bono popping up out of nowhere at the tip of the ellipse, arms outstretched as confetti falls from the ceiling, anticipation at a fever pitch. The lights going down is one of my favorite concert moments (no matter the show). The killer riff and chorus in “Wake Up” capture that vibe perfectly.
“Wreck on the Highway,” Bruce Springsteen (from 1980’s “The River”)—I’m naturally drawn to uptempo songs and The Boss’ double-album classic is packed with them, so it’s easy for me to see why “Wreck” got lost in the shuffle. So thank goodness for 5.14.05: Springsteen’s stop at the Patriot Center in Virginia during his Devils and Dust solo tour. Performed for just the second time in 20 years, “Wreck” made its tour debut at this stop (on piano, no less), and it stopped me dead in my tracks. First off, Bruce’s vocal was crystal clear since it wasn’t battling for space alongside the E Street Band. Drawn in by his voice, I focused on the lyrics for the very first time, and they blew me away. Like the narrator, I, too, am occasionally wracked with anxiety wondering how I could possibly handle the news of my wife’s death; that feeling is captured perfectly in this song. Springsteen’s performance of “Wreck on the Highway” that night is my answer to anyone foolish enough to ask me why I go to so many concerts. That song went from obscurity to favorite in the span of a few minutes. You can’t get an experience like that anywhere else.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Juan and Stevie, You Have Nothing to Worry About
Michael Wilbon can be full of pretentious hot air sometimes, but his column in today's Washington Post about Juan Dixon and Steve Blake is simply fantastic. I suggest everybody read it, because it basically explains why I have three different Dixon jerseys hanging in my closet. Man, I miss those guys.
Check it out: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/30/AR2005113002364.html
Check it out: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/30/AR2005113002364.html
Saturday, November 26, 2005
I’ll Show You a Magic Trick: Grading the Potter Movies
Don’t listen to critics and don’t pay attention to reviews—good or bad—when it comes to the Harry Potter movies, because they’re impossible to judge. There’s too much going on, and I’m not just talking about wizards and Muggles, here.
Go look at Entertainment Weekly’s “Critical Mass” chart that rounds up critics’ grades for various movies and you’ll find “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” received a “B” from seven out of nine critics polled. That’s hogwarts. The Potter films are such cultural touchstones, some of the only surefire blockbusters in the business, they’re either going to really succeed or really bomb (and that’s got nothing to do with box office numbers); most critics just don’t know what to make of them, I believe, so thus you get a bunch of “B’s” (and I should know, since I gave 2004’s “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” a “B+” (check the June 2004 folder to find that review)).
No matter who is at the reins of these films, that person has essentially an insurmountable task. How do you condense several hundred pages of text into a workable movie under, I don’t know, four hours? And how do you condense said material without enraging an absolutely rabid built-in fanbase? And how do you then make said condensed text relatable and, most important, understandable to the Muggles who wander in off the street?
The answer is, you don’t. You simply make the best of an impossible situation.
But that’s what makes reviewing the Harry Potter movies so difficult, because they are so different from "normal" films; you have to throw out any typical “scale” by which other movies are judged.
In the year and a half since “Azkaban” hit theaters, I’ve finally read the first two books of the series. So when I sat down to see “Goblet of Fire,” everything on screen made a little more sense to me and had a lot more emotional impact; even though I hadn’t read this particular installment, I knew the characters much better through the books than the previous three movies, and I brought that deeper relationship with me into the theater experience.
And, as it would happen, this was my best time at a Harry Potter of the four by far. But would I feel the same had I not read a few of the novels? I’ll never know, and therein lies the rub.
“Goblet of Fire” is extremely entertaining—but here’s another problem for reviewers: Is it the source material or the filmmakers that make it so? Or is it simply because the series’ actors are all getting older and better?
It’s even difficult to compare one filmmaker’s work to another within the series. Sure, the first two Christopher Columbus-directed installments stunk (to this Muggle’s eye), but maybe he would have handled the more mature subject matter better than the lighter fare of the early novels. Then again, those that followed Columbus don’t even get to pick their own cast!
The only way to really judge the Harry Potter movies, then, is much different from your average screenplay-to-silver screen production. You have to determine how well the filmmakers successfully captured the essence of the written words in moving pictures. No one is going to be entirely happy—critics are always going to slam the films for following too closely to the text (although Columbus was ridiculously slavish), but critics aren’t the ones spending $100 million on opening weekend. Fans are always going to complain about leaving things out (from what I understand, there are significant chunks removed from “Goblet of Fire”), but a four-hour movie is simply untenable. The answer, then, is finding that delicate balance and creating a movie that will essentially stand on its own but gives more to those who know the source material well.
Given that extreme set of circumstances, “Goblet of Fire” director Mike Newell (“Pushing Tin”) and his predecessor, “Azkaban” director Alfonso Cuaron (“Y tu mama tambien”) succeeded where Columbus’ first two films in the series did not. I favor Cuaron’s directorial style above the others, but Newell’s “Goblet of Fire” is probably my favorite of the four based on overall excellence—even though it contains the series’ darkest material to date, I laughed out loud more this time around, too, and that’s an achievement.
Grade: A- (But this is one time I’ll tell you not to take my word for it)
Go look at Entertainment Weekly’s “Critical Mass” chart that rounds up critics’ grades for various movies and you’ll find “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” received a “B” from seven out of nine critics polled. That’s hogwarts. The Potter films are such cultural touchstones, some of the only surefire blockbusters in the business, they’re either going to really succeed or really bomb (and that’s got nothing to do with box office numbers); most critics just don’t know what to make of them, I believe, so thus you get a bunch of “B’s” (and I should know, since I gave 2004’s “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” a “B+” (check the June 2004 folder to find that review)).
No matter who is at the reins of these films, that person has essentially an insurmountable task. How do you condense several hundred pages of text into a workable movie under, I don’t know, four hours? And how do you condense said material without enraging an absolutely rabid built-in fanbase? And how do you then make said condensed text relatable and, most important, understandable to the Muggles who wander in off the street?
The answer is, you don’t. You simply make the best of an impossible situation.
But that’s what makes reviewing the Harry Potter movies so difficult, because they are so different from "normal" films; you have to throw out any typical “scale” by which other movies are judged.
In the year and a half since “Azkaban” hit theaters, I’ve finally read the first two books of the series. So when I sat down to see “Goblet of Fire,” everything on screen made a little more sense to me and had a lot more emotional impact; even though I hadn’t read this particular installment, I knew the characters much better through the books than the previous three movies, and I brought that deeper relationship with me into the theater experience.
And, as it would happen, this was my best time at a Harry Potter of the four by far. But would I feel the same had I not read a few of the novels? I’ll never know, and therein lies the rub.
“Goblet of Fire” is extremely entertaining—but here’s another problem for reviewers: Is it the source material or the filmmakers that make it so? Or is it simply because the series’ actors are all getting older and better?
It’s even difficult to compare one filmmaker’s work to another within the series. Sure, the first two Christopher Columbus-directed installments stunk (to this Muggle’s eye), but maybe he would have handled the more mature subject matter better than the lighter fare of the early novels. Then again, those that followed Columbus don’t even get to pick their own cast!
The only way to really judge the Harry Potter movies, then, is much different from your average screenplay-to-silver screen production. You have to determine how well the filmmakers successfully captured the essence of the written words in moving pictures. No one is going to be entirely happy—critics are always going to slam the films for following too closely to the text (although Columbus was ridiculously slavish), but critics aren’t the ones spending $100 million on opening weekend. Fans are always going to complain about leaving things out (from what I understand, there are significant chunks removed from “Goblet of Fire”), but a four-hour movie is simply untenable. The answer, then, is finding that delicate balance and creating a movie that will essentially stand on its own but gives more to those who know the source material well.
Given that extreme set of circumstances, “Goblet of Fire” director Mike Newell (“Pushing Tin”) and his predecessor, “Azkaban” director Alfonso Cuaron (“Y tu mama tambien”) succeeded where Columbus’ first two films in the series did not. I favor Cuaron’s directorial style above the others, but Newell’s “Goblet of Fire” is probably my favorite of the four based on overall excellence—even though it contains the series’ darkest material to date, I laughed out loud more this time around, too, and that’s an achievement.
Grade: A- (But this is one time I’ll tell you not to take my word for it)
Friday, November 25, 2005
'Alias': R.I.P.
Well, I hate it when I'm right, but it's official: ABC announced this week that "Alias" is calling it quits in May, when the show completes its fifth season.
I can't say I'm surprised, because I actually think last season's finale (WARNING: Spolier Alert!) felt like a great way to end the series, until Syd and Michael's little car-crash coda. I know I speak for a majority of "Alias" fans that killing Michael off at the beginning of this season was not a welcome—and, I believe, unnecessary—choice. I think everybody would have been happy to finally see our two favorite agents drive off into the sunset, but I guess Syd's life has been too harrowing to work out perfectly. (We'll see, though, because on "Alias," no one is ever quite as dead as they seem.)
Anyway, even though it was more a critical than popular hit, this show has to go down as one of the best action/dramas in TV history, featuring certainly one of the best lead characters to come down the pike in a long, long time. It's made Jennifer Garner a superstar, turned J.J. Abrams into a Joss Whedon-esque cult figure, and provided four years of spectacular, witty, fun, emotional entertainment (and if you think it's easy to mix all of those into one bag and still get your show on the air, you're crazy—just ask the cast of "Firefly"). The jury's still out on Season 5, but I have to give major credit to Abrams and his writing team for rolling with the Bennifer Pregnancy so well. This season is definitely a step down, but only by "Alias" standards. I can only wonder what was on tap for this year had Jen been able to control herself, but I guess we'll never know.
I'm going to hold off on a full-fledged series retrospective until sometime next summer, after I've had a chance to digest all that's in store for this fabulous show's stretch run. The network is promising it will go out with a bang; the last four season finales have been so phenomenal, I can't even guess what in the world the writers/producers have up their sleeves. But the writing's on the wall for "Alias," and I'm glad Abrams and Co. had the sense to shut it down before we reached an "X-Files" type meltdown.
It's been fun, Ms. Bristow. You'll be missed.
I can't say I'm surprised, because I actually think last season's finale (WARNING: Spolier Alert!) felt like a great way to end the series, until Syd and Michael's little car-crash coda. I know I speak for a majority of "Alias" fans that killing Michael off at the beginning of this season was not a welcome—and, I believe, unnecessary—choice. I think everybody would have been happy to finally see our two favorite agents drive off into the sunset, but I guess Syd's life has been too harrowing to work out perfectly. (We'll see, though, because on "Alias," no one is ever quite as dead as they seem.)
Anyway, even though it was more a critical than popular hit, this show has to go down as one of the best action/dramas in TV history, featuring certainly one of the best lead characters to come down the pike in a long, long time. It's made Jennifer Garner a superstar, turned J.J. Abrams into a Joss Whedon-esque cult figure, and provided four years of spectacular, witty, fun, emotional entertainment (and if you think it's easy to mix all of those into one bag and still get your show on the air, you're crazy—just ask the cast of "Firefly"). The jury's still out on Season 5, but I have to give major credit to Abrams and his writing team for rolling with the Bennifer Pregnancy so well. This season is definitely a step down, but only by "Alias" standards. I can only wonder what was on tap for this year had Jen been able to control herself, but I guess we'll never know.
I'm going to hold off on a full-fledged series retrospective until sometime next summer, after I've had a chance to digest all that's in store for this fabulous show's stretch run. The network is promising it will go out with a bang; the last four season finales have been so phenomenal, I can't even guess what in the world the writers/producers have up their sleeves. But the writing's on the wall for "Alias," and I'm glad Abrams and Co. had the sense to shut it down before we reached an "X-Files" type meltdown.
It's been fun, Ms. Bristow. You'll be missed.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
An Amazing Day
This is a personal-story post that I want to avoid in this space, but this was just too cool to pass up.
On Saturday, I was fortunate enough to spend a day at the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta, which I will be writing about for March's issue of FUNWORLD. It is almost beyond description how incredible the aquarium is, which is problematic since it's my job to, hello, describe it.
Anyway, here are a few pictures from Saturday, with more to come. The first is me standing in front of a recreation of a coral reef. The other two are taken from inside the "tunnel" that literally goes through the aquarium's six MILLION gallon tank.
I recommend everyone go to this place at some point in their lives.
On Saturday, I was fortunate enough to spend a day at the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta, which I will be writing about for March's issue of FUNWORLD. It is almost beyond description how incredible the aquarium is, which is problematic since it's my job to, hello, describe it.
Anyway, here are a few pictures from Saturday, with more to come. The first is me standing in front of a recreation of a coral reef. The other two are taken from inside the "tunnel" that literally goes through the aquarium's six MILLION gallon tank.
I recommend everyone go to this place at some point in their lives.
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