A Rush of Blood to the Head: Coldplay at Nissan Pavilion, 9.30.05

I had absolutely no expectations for this show—after all, I bought my first Coldplay CD only three months ago. It’s not like I can quote each song chapter and verse.
We had cheap seats on the lawn (thanks to the band dropping prices as a benefit for Live8), and I wasn’t even in a hurry to get to the venue and run to the front. I just wanted to take it easy and enjoy the show as it unfolded.
Well, despite my relative apathy, Coldplay managed to win me over.
Playing live is the make-or-break moment for any band. Putting out a record is nice, but if you can’t take that music out on the road and play it right in front of me, I won’t have much use for you. But playing before a packed field (lead singer Chris Martin seemed a little overwhelmed by what must have been a near-capacity crowd), Coldplay took possession of the scene for 95 solid minutes of entertainment.
I was surprised to find goosebumps pop up when the band actually hit the stage (after nearly an hour after openers Rilo Kiley—that’s way too long of a wait) and ripped into “Square One,” the uptempo rocker that also leads off Coldplay’s latest album, “X&Y.” The band has a rather intricate light show that more often than not makes the band itself almost invisible; it’s a nice way of taking the spotlight off the men themselves and put the focus on the music.
After the opener, Coldplay unveiled a power trio of “Politik,” “Yellow” and “Speed of Sound,” keeping the zealous crowd up. This band may never have imagined it would be playing such a large venue, but these three songs alone proved the group has that certain “big” vibe necessary to capture an audience of that size.
Unfortunately, Coldplay’s “wall of sound” style also requires a lot of help on stage. I’m pretty sure there was more coming out of the speakers than met the eye; at one point, Martin’s voice was warbling repetitiously toward the end of a song and he actually talked over the music—two Martin voices at the same time. At another spot he actually said, “Stop the tape.” Not a good thing. But, to be fair, it wouldn’t be the first time a band needed a little extra help to pull off its live show (U2 essentially had a pit crew during the ZooTV tour, adding little bells and whistles where necessary, while Green Day and Nirvana both have recruited extra musicians for the road that technically aren’t “in the band”). There’s no doubt Coldplay is actually playing live, but with all the added techno-wizardry incorporated into the show, that doesn’t leave much room for spontaneity—they play essentially the same exact show every night.
So if a concert is going to be this carefully orchestrated, it at least better be good, and this one certainly was. Even though 95 minutes seems a little on the short side for a band with already such a deep catalog of hits, Coldplay seemed to give its full attention to each number—the band didn’t just blow through any of its offerings, making the overall show feel longer than it actually was. There was also an excellent ebb and flow to the whole thing—building and lessening intensity gradually from song to song with no jarring transitions.
Martin proved to be an excellent frontman in concert. It’s hard to capture a large audience sitting at a piano, but somehow he managed it. And when not playing the keys, he spent much of his time twirling about the stage, at one point running up an aisle of the pavilion to the soundboard to finish “In My Place.” (On a side note, I was also pleasantly surprised that Martin’s nasal voice held up well live; I was worried he wouldn’t be able to consistently hit notes that require such precision in the studio, but I noticed no glaring errors the entire night.) One of my favorite portions of the show, however, was his intro to “Everything’s Not Lost,” a quiet piece that he said didn’t go over too well the last time Coldplay played in D.C.—at the 2000 HFStival. Martin mentioned how nobody at that show wanted to particularly hear his band play—they were more excited about headliners Limp Bizkit, apparently. It seems strange, he said, to five years later have everybody cheering for it. It was a witty little barb that I appreciated—sort of a thank you to those who appreciate his music and, at the same time, a screw you to any of the posers that happened to be at that HFStival five years ago and now all of the sudden “love” Coldplay. Martin even improvised an entire first verse to the song about this experience, including a shot at Limp Bizkit. Pretty cool.
A great version of “The Scientist” then led into a mini-acoustic set of three songs, including a nice cover of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” Coldplay started to lose people a little during this stretch, I think, but, once again, the band had a plan. After three quiet numbers, they ripped into what is certainly the showcase of the evening: “Clocks.” Sure, maybe it’s cliché, but this is my favorite Coldplay song and it did not disappoint in person (the light show is mesmerizing). This led into “Talk,” one of the best songs off “X&Y,” to close the main set on a manic high. During the climax off this song, Martin asked everyone to get their cameras ready and then told them to “shoot” at the same time the band’s lights went crazy with strobes; sure it’s a little forced, but it came off to a nice effect.
Martin opened the encore with the quietly beautiful “Swallowed by the Sea” before kicking into two more stone-cold faves, “In My Place” and “Fix You,” to finish the show, the latter building to an epic close that fittingly sent the crowd out on a high.
There’s something about Coldplay that doesn’t quite reach me—a few too many chinks in the armor that I know will prevent this band from cracking my top five (this was the last show of the U.S. tour and yet no surprises?). But last night, they simply got it done. There’s a certain gravitas to their music that allows the band to spread its wings across such a huge venue and not be overwhelmed, and that’s saying something. In a seemingly rare instance these days, at least this band actually lived up to the hype.

Coldplay
9.30.05
Nissan Pavilion, Bristow Virginia
Setlist:
Square One
Politik
Yellow
Speed of Sound
God Put a Smile on Your Face
Trouble
White Shadows
Everything’s Not Lost
The Scientist
Til Kingdom Come
Ring of Fire
Green Eyes
Clocks
Talk

Encore:
Swallowed in the Sea
In My Place
Fix You

The Biggest ‘Lost’ Surprise Yet

It had to happen sometime, but I never, never expected it to happen this soon.
Wow, did tonight’s episode of “Lost” suck or what? This was, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst of this very Emmy-worthy show’s 26 episodes.
No show is perfect, mind you, especially any series on broadcast TV that has to come up with 24 hours of television a season. It’s impossible to keep a high level of quality each and every time out when you don’t have the HBO luxury of half as many shows produced in, what, twice the time or more (hello 18 month layoff for “The Sopranos”). Frankly, it’s amazing what the producers behind “Lost” were able to accomplish last year, with not a blemish to their record.
In broadcast TV, though, the lull usually hits somewhere in the teens—you know, after the initial rush of creativity that launches a season, but before the final ramp-up to the season finale. Somewhere around February, writers will be scrambling around in the dark scrounging for any sort of way to fill 42 minutes of air time.
But after such a blistering start in 2004-05, I’m a little worried that “Lost” misfired so quickly in its sophomore campaign—they had an entire summer to work on this! Really, tonight’s show wouldn’t even qualify as “well, it was bad by ‘Lost’ standards but it was still pretty good compared to all the other junk on TV.” No, ladies and gentlemen, this one just tanked.
First off, it focused heavily on Michael, played by the series’ weakest regular actor, Harold Perrineau. After making us wait an entire episode to find out what happened to Michael’s raft and son after the former was attacked in last year’s season finale, we really didn’t learn anything more tonight. Michael and Sawyer spent nearly the entire episode floating around on bamboo being harassed (and not very convincingly) by what we were led to believe was a shark. The squabbling scenes between Michael and Sawyer (Josh Holloway) were so poorly written, even Holloway’s innate spark couldn’t save them.
Back on the island, the action in The Hatch moved not an inch. At the end of tonight’s episode, we’re right back where we started, only now we know the little, itsy-bitsy details of what happened in the time between Kate’s capture and Jack’s arrival. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to it; why we were forced to sit through an entire episode for what seemingly could have been shortened to one or two scenes, I’ll never know. The only little nugget we got for our time was Desmond’s disbelief that healthy people were out on the island—apparently he was led to believe the world was coming to an end … or something like that.
Even the “Lost” trademark flashback was lackluster this time around, with a rather formulaic, no intensity look back at how Michael decided to let his son Walt go way back when, which of course is supposed to make us realize how painful it is for him to lose him again now to The Others. I kinda assumed that from last season’s Michael/Walt episode. I really didn’t need any more help, thank you.
And now the whole ill-conceived raft storyline is over after it barely got off the island. Everybody’s back “home” and The Others are bearing down on Michael, Sawyer and Jin, while Desmond still has a gun to Locke’s head back in The Hatch. Wow, that actually took them an hour?
Look, I’m not about to jump raft and give up on “Lost.” If there’s anything I’ve learned about the show’s co-creator J.J. Abrams, it’s that he seems to always have a plan and it all works out in the end. (Take last season’s “Alias” run, for example, which seemed off its game to start but finished with a big, big bang in a spectacular return to form. More on that show to come, I’m sure (crossing his fingers that the fifth (and probably last) season doesn’t destroy the entire series).)
But if there are a few more episodes like this before Christmas … well, let's not jump to any conclusions just yet.

How 'Bout Them Cowboys!

As a Redskins fan, last night was a long, long, long time comin’.
I was 16 the last time Washington beat the Cowboys in Dallas. That’s literally a lifetime ago. Since 1995, I’ve gotten a driver’s license, graduated from high school, graduated from college, got married, and worked for three different publications in three different states.
That’s a long time to wait for one victory.
Last night’s 14-13 Redskin win over the hated, despicable, filthy, no good stinkin’ Cowgirls was nothing short of a miracle. I’m not deluded into believing it was anything other than divine intervention. And I’m OK with that, because miracles have been in short supply around here for, oh, the past decade.
For those who either couldn’t stay up late enough (or early enough, in most cases), or simply gave up hope, let me recap the game: The Redskins’ offense, led by 35-year-old Mark Brunell, was inept for the first 55 minutes of the game. The aforementioned No. 8 spent almost as much time on the ground under a pile of Cowboys as he did throwing the ball, and when he managed to get a pass off, it was most likely a five-yarder or an incompletion followed by a punt. Until late in the fourth quarter, Washington averaged less than four yards per play; that, ladies in gentlemen, is pathetic. Thankfully, the Redskins feature one of the best defenses in the league, which managed to give up a measly 13 points on the road in an overheated stadium full of revved-up rednecks in silver and blue (Cowboy legends Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith and Michael Irvin were added to the “ring of fame” last night at Texas Stadium, making the night’s outcome all that much sweeter).
So when the Skins got the ball back (again) with about five minutes to play and down two scores, I said, “If they don’t score a touchdown on this drive, I’m turning it off and going to bed.” You have to understand I’m the type of ascetic fan that typically watches every last second of every last game, just in case.
Well, last night was one of those cases.
The drive started out in typical Redskin style, i.e. backward instead of forward. After he was thrown to the ground like a bag of dirt, Brunell faced third-and-27 from deep in his own territory, surely an untenable situation and prelude to a loss. As Brunell dropped back to pass, the receivers were covered (again), so he stepped through the pocket and began running—shuffling, really—down the field; he gave a limp-leg move and all of the sudden, the Redskins had fourth-and-short instead of fourth-and-a-mile. A quick pass in the flat to James Thrash and they’re back in business.
Or so I thought. Ineptitude tried to rear its ugly head once again, as penalties and busted plays led to another fourth down, this time from the Dallas 39 and 15 yards needed for a new set of downs. This is it, I said, game over. And yet, I was wrong yet again, as Brunell floated a rainbow pass over the outstretched arms of Dallas safety Roy Williams—a Redskin nemesis if there ever was one—and into the waiting arms of new wideout Santana Moss, who fell down in the end zone for Washington’s first touchdown of the 2005 season.
Suddenly, it’s a ballgame, and I’m trying not to wake the neighbors in celebration.
So the Skins defense holds again—aided by more intervention from above in the form of a holding penalty that reversed a clock-killing Cowboy first down—giving Brunell and the boys have the ball back with a full three minutes on the clock, an eternity in the National Football League, even for the Redskins.
Turns out Brunell only needed about 30 seconds. In what is certainly the best ball I’ve ever seen No. 8 throw, he fires—yes, fires—a gorgeous strike to Moss, who is again streaking past Cowboy defenders, this time for a 70-yard touchdown that left me screaming (neighbors be damned) at 12:30 a.m. on Tuesday, Sept. 20, 2005, a time and date that will surely go down in both Redskin and Cowboy lore. Because the Skins’ defense held yet again and Washington players doused Joe Gibbs with water like he had just won the Super Bowl.
This game may not have meant as much to Gibbs as his three previous championships, but he said afterward, and I would agree, it was one of the top regular season games of his career, pre- or post-9/11. It was his first victory over Dallas coach Bill Parcells in nine tries, the Redskins’ first win in Dallas in 10 tries, and the first time Parcells has ever blown a fourth-quarter 13-point lead in 78 tries (yes, 78, that’s not a typo).
Yeah, it’s just two games, but better to be 2-0 than 0-2 (which they could and maybe should be).
Yeah, they shouldn’t have won this one, but the Cowboys have stolen so many games during the past decade, the Redskins were due.
And, yeah, the offense has only scored 23 points in two games, but I believe when this season is over, we’re going to look back at these last 14 as the turning point of the year. You could tell after the game that the players—especially the offense—had a big weight taken off their shoulders.
It was interesting to hear Clinton Portis say after the game that Moss had to convince Gibbs to let the speedy receiver go deep. I think Gibbs has been in shell shock and suffering from self doubt since returning to this franchise, and maybe it takes something like this for him to finally stop coaching scared and start coaching to win some games.
I’m not about to lose my head and say Washington can win the NFC East, because it won’t. I’m not going to say this group is going to win 11 or 12 games, because they can’t.
But with two down already, nine victories now looks like a genuine possibility, whereas one quarter of football ago it was more like a Dexter Manley pipe dream.
When the 2005 schedule was released, everybody in Washington (including me) griped about getting a Week 3 bye; now, I think nothing could have worked out better, because the players can carry this momentum with them into practice for the next two weeks as they prepare to host a playoff contender in the Seattle Seahawks on Oct. 2. Brunell needs all the time he can get to acclimate himself to this new group of receivers, receivers who now trust him to get the job done in crunch time, and, more importantly, deliver the ball with touch and speed. (And not to break my own arm patting myself on the back, but if you look at the post directly below this one, I can say I believe I had this one.)
Sports are such a crazy business. Just look how the fates and hopes of so many people can change, almost instantaneously, in the span of two nice-looking throws from a quarterback in the twilight of his career. The next 15 weeks certainly will be filled with anguish and anxiety, but for the first time since Coach Joe announced in January 2004 that he was returning to the city that loves him, the people of this city have hope that the team we love has a chance to do something special.
Who knows?

Rating the Stars

Geek. Nerd. Dork. You have too much time on your hands.
You may think one or all of these things after examining my favorite albums of all time, and I’m OK with that.
Let me explain how I came up with my list.
Apple’s iTunes allows you to rate songs in your playlists from one to five stars. As you should have already figured out just by the nature of this site, I’m a sucker for ratings and reviews, so I naturally started to rate some of my favorites while I listened to them. As I’m also basically a completist, rating a few songs started a snowball rolling, and I kept going and going until a good chunk of songs from my favorite artists were filled out. I then added up the ratings and divided by the number of songs on an album (interludes and other such oddities excluded to avoid skewing lower than deserved) to come up with an overall record value.
Here’s how I defined the stars:
• 1 star—Song skipped basically every time it comes up
• 2 stars—Skipped regularly, but not mandatory
• 3 stars—Not skipped when it comes up, but not usually sought after, either
• 4 stars—I go looking for this song
• 5 stars—A must-listen every time the CD is in
As with placing a value on anything artistic, this is not ironclad science. The rankings for albums of a single band are dead on, but because I only compared each song to other songs by that artist, looking at albums from multiple bands doesn’t always accurately reflect my overall tastes. For instance, there’s no way if I was stranded on a deserted island I would take my top-rated Dave Matthews Band album (“Under the Table and Dreaming” at 3.92) over a middle U2 album (say, “The Unforgettable Fire” at 3.52). Likewise, “Led Zeppelin IV” is my top-rated record, but U2’s “Achtung Baby” actually means more to me. Also, there are albums dragged down by a couple of clunkers that I would still take over an album that has a higher score based on consistent quality (like I would ever choose “Led Zeppelin I” over “Physical Graffiti”!). Like I said, this isn’t organic chemistry here, but I do think it’s an interesting conversation starter if nothing else. You should give it a go—it’s kinda fun, and a lot more interesting than solitaire.
Anyway, here’s the list (to be updated periodically as I buy new CDs and take time to rate those and others).

Led Zeppelin, “Led Zeppelin IV” (4.625)
U2, “Achtung Baby” (4.45)
Bruce Springsteen, “Darkness on the Edge of Town” (4.40)
Bruce Springsteen, “Born to Run” (4.375)
Pearl Jam, “Yield” (4.33)
Pink Floyd, “Dark Side of the Moon” (4.33)
PJ Harvey, “Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea” (4.25)
Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the U.S.A.” (4.25)
Dashboard Confessional, “A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar” (4.21)
The White Stripes, “Elephant” (4.21)
Pink Floyd, “Wish You Were Here” (4.20)
U2, “The Joshua Tree” (4.18)
Alkaline Trio, “From Here to Infirmary” (4.17)
Pearl Jam, “No Code” (4.17)
Rage Against the Machine, “Renegades” (4.12)
U2, “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb” (4.09)
Dashboard Confessional, “The Swiss Army Romance” (4.00)
Nirvana, “Nevermind” (4.00)
Pearl Jam, “Vitalogy” (4.00)
Saves the Day, “Stay What You Are” (4.00)
Soundtrack, “Singles” (4.00)
Bruce Springsteen, “Nebraska” (4.00)
U2, “Zooropa” (4.00)
Wilco, “Summer Teeth” (3.94)
Dave Matthews Band, “Under the Table and Dreaming” (3.92)
Coldplay, “A Rush of Blood to the Head” (3.91)
Dashboard Confessional, “The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most” (3.90)
Led Zeppelin, “Led Zeppelin II” (3.89)
The White Stripes, “De Stijl” (3.85)
U2, “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” (3.82)
Wilco, “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” (3.82)
PJ Harvey, “To Bring You My Love” (3.80)
Led Zeppelin, “Led Zeppelin I” (3.78)
Fall Out Boy, “From Under the Cork Tree” (3.77)
Dave Matthews Band, “Crash” (3.75)
Nirvana, “In Utero” (3.75)
Led Zeppelin, “Physical Graffiti” (3.73)
PJ Harvey, “Dry” (3.73)
Stone Temple Pilots, “Tiny Music” (3.73)
Stone Temple Pilots, “Purple” (3.72)
Led Zeppelin, “Led Zeppelin III” (3.70)
Pearl Jam, “Binaural” (3.69)
Wilco, “Being There” (3.68)
Led Zeppelin, “Houses of the Holy” (3.625)
Bruce Springsteen, “The Rising” (3.60)
Bruce Springsteen, “Tunnel of Love” (3.58)
U2, “Pop” (3.58)
U2, “The Unforgettable Fire” (3.56)
The White Stripes, “White Blood Cells” (3.56)
Dave Matthews Band, “Busted Stuff” (3.55)
Bruce Springsteen, “The River” (3.55)
Dave Matthews Band, “Remember Two Things” (3.50)
PJ Harvey, “Rid of Me” (3.50)
Pearl Jam, “Vs.” (3.50)
Bruce Springsteen, “Devils and Dust” (3.50)
U2, “War” (3.50)
The White Stripes, “Get Behind Me Satan” (3.46)
Wilco, “A.M.” (3.46)
Bruce Springsteen, “Lucky Town” (3.40)
U2, “Boy” (3.36)
Bruce Springsteen, “Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.” (3.33)
U2, “Rattle and Hum” (3.33)
Pearl Jam, “Riot Act” (3.29)
Dave Matthews Band, “Before These Crowded Streets” (3.27)
Led Zeppelin, “Presence” (3.14)
PJ Harvey, “Is This Desire?” (3.08)
Led Zeppelin, “Coda” (3.00)
Bruce Springsteen, “The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle” (3.00)
Bruce Springsteen, “Human Touch” (2.86)
U2, “October” (2.73)
Led Zeppelin, “In Through the Out Door” (2.71)

NASCAR never looked so good

Oh to be a fly on the wall at Redskins Park today as Joe Gibbs and his staff review last night’s tumultuous preseason performance in a 24-17 loss to the Cincinnati Bengals.
After games—especially losses—Gibbs is never going to say anything worthwhile about any subject or concerning any player. It’s always gonna be, “Yeah, I thought he got in there and competed real well” or some other inane non-speech that fills column inches in a newspaper but doesn’t really tell us anything. That’s Gibbs’ style—a player’s coach, defending them to the end—and history shows us his guys love him for it.
But what must he be saying to his staff and confidantes today? What does he really think about the state of the Washington Redskins in Year Two of the Messiah’s return? He’s probably wondering how he got himself into this mess (two words: Dan Snyder; he can screw up any good thing).
Put yourself in Gibbs’ place for a moment. Coming back to the NFL after such an extended absence, he knew he was walking back into an absolute disaster. One of the reasons he returned, he said, was to recapture the legacy he had spent a decade building here in Washington. He knew Snyder and Turner/Schottenheimer/Spurrier had made some disastrous choices, and it’s come out this year through various hinting-around-the-edges statements from the coaching staff that last year really was just about acclimating to the league and finding out what kind of players were actually on the roster—the “real Redskins,” to use a Gibbs phrase.
In order to bring stability to a nuclear reactor like the Redskins, Gibbs knew he was going to need a solid quarterback under center; a seasoned pro who would keep cool under duress and, most importantly, keep the ball going to the guys in burgundy and gold. Gibbs thought he had such a QB in Mark Brunell, one of the highest-rated passers in league history who was being pushed aside in Jacksonville in favor of a younger guy. The decision was questioned at the time, mainly because the Skins already had a first-round draft pick at the position in Patrick Ramsey, but everybody kinda said, “Well, it’s Joe, and we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”
And then it all went to hell.
The 2004 season was a disaster in all the ways Gibbs hoped it wouldn’t be. Brunell was not just ineffective at QB, he was inept, forcing Gibbs to go to Ramsey in November. The kid from Tulane with a cannon for an arm looked just OK last season, but he at least made the team competitive and could throw the ball more than 20 yards, so Gibbs had no choice but to name Ramsey the starter for 2005, hoping, I’m sure, to quell the flames of Washington’s ever-present quarterback controversy.
But after months of off-season workouts, several weeks of training camp, and two preseason games, Ramsey looks no different than he has for the past three seasons (remember that game against New Orleans his rookie year where almost every throw was intercepted?). He’ll make a really nice throw, make you believe he’s finally getting it, then he’ll throw not just an interception, but an interception that looks like Ramsey was actually trying to hit the other team’s defender right in the numbers. He has all the physical tools, certainly, but he just doesn’t seem to have the head for it. There are only a handful of men on the entire planet who are capable of playing quarterback in the National Football League; what makes us think Ramsey is one of those guys, just because he can launch the ball 70 yards?
Gibbs, who has observed Ramsey more than any other person in the world the last year and a half, obviously saw the same thing, otherwise he wouldn’t have spent two No. 1 draft picks on Auburn’s Jason Campbell. That pick alone in this year’s draft was enough to spark a moderate amount of hubbub and controversy this spring and summer. But making matters worse this year is, yep, Brunell.
Fact is, No. 8 looks like a completely different QB this year; or, should I say, looks more like his old self—the guy Gibbs thought he was getting last year. Brunell says there wasn’t anything wrong with his arm in 2004, and maybe there wasn’t. He was coming off surgery, though, and he got banged around early in the year and pulled his hamstring; during last night’s television broadcast of the Bengals game, Joe Theismann said legs have as much to do with a quarterback’s power as anything on his body. Whatever it was, Brunell looks much, much better this time around—looks like a QB who could actually help the Redskins win some games this year, instead of just trying to help them not lose.
This is where Gibbs’ mind must be ready to ooze out his nose. What is he going to do? He’s already named Ramsey his starter, but he looks awful. Brunell looks good, but he’s been working against second- and third-stringers, many of which won’t be in the league next month. If Gibbs gives Brunell some work with the first string in next week’s game, that opens a whole other can of worms and we have ourselves a legitimate quarterback controversy, not one just hanging around the fringes.
I think, for better or worse, Ramsey will be under center come Sept. 11, Washington’s opening game of the 2005 season against Chicago. Gibbs showed last year how stubborn and/or loyal he could be by sticking with Brunell for so many painful weeks, even though it was obvious to the guy that mows the grass at FedEx Field No. 8 couldn’t throw the ball from here to there. Gibbs named Ramsey his starter, and he’ll stick with him, at least through the first month of the season.
Trouble is, after 13 years and only one playoff appearance, I’m sick of waiting around, I’m sick of looking toward next year. If it took Brunell a year to be the guy Gibbs thought he would be, then everything else be damned. Gibbs really has gotten himself into an even bigger mess than I think he could have imagined back in January 2004, but it’s time to win some football games.
I can’t believe I’m about to type this, but: It’s time for Mark Brunell to take the reins.

The boys (and girls) of 2005

I had one of the longest CD-buying droughts of my life in the winter of 2004/2005. After picking up U2’s “How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb” in late November, I went without new music until April.
Yes, that’s a really, really long time. For me.
But a few months ago, all of a sudden the floodgates opened and it’s been a veritable avalanche of new music, most of it pretty doggone good. Here’s a quick recap:

• Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, “Cold Roses”—After wandering away from his alt-country roots and experimenting with retro rock and roll, Adams came back to his forte in a big way with this double-disc effort (one of three reported releases this year). While “Roses” doesn’t quite match 2001’s “Gold,” which put Adams on the map, it’s pretty close. Standouts abound, such as “Let It Ride,” certainly one of his best songs, or the achingly quiet “Rosebud.” Overall “Cold Roses” doesn’t have quite the energy of “Gold,” but this is a sliding scale. Compared to the rest of the field, any Ryan Adams is better than just about anything else out there. A-

• Sleater-Kinney, “The Woods”—If you don’t like this fantastic new effort from the Seattle female power trio, you’re never going to like them, so just give up. A decade into their career, Sleater-Kinney have produced the most rawking album in their catalog (and that’s saying something), evoking everyone from Nirvana to Led Zeppelin. “Let’s Call It Love,” an 11-minute epic toward the end of the album (the band’s first on indie legend Sub Pop) is Sleater-Kinney’s “Born To Run” or “Kashmir” or … well, you get the idea. A

• Dave Matthews Band, “Stand Up”—I was pretty pumped for this release because of all the hype about how the whole band really “collaborated” on these songs, supposedly producing some of the band’s favorite music of its career. Bollocks. The name of this band has never been more appropriate, because Matthews’ supporting cast barely make a dent in this set of rather dull tracks. I’m all for experimentation and not relying on past success, but when the best player in this band—violinist extraordinaire Boyd Tinsley—is almost non-existent, there are major problems. “Stand Up” doesn’t sound much different from Matthews tepid solo album from a few years back, and it’s way too reminiscent of 2001’s awful “Everyday.” There are a few catchy gems, such as the stomping “Louisiana Bayou” and the quiet “Steady as We Go,” but overall these songs are just … boring. C

• Alkaline Trio, “Crimson”—So let’s just get this out of the way now: At3’s “From Here to Infirmary,” released in April 2001, is one of my favorite albums of all time, punk or otherwise. With that kind of baggage, it’s hard for any new Trio album to measure up. I once thought Alkaline Trio was the Ramones of my generation, but two albums on from “Infirmary,” I see I’m wrong. Now, let’s be realistic: Matt Skiba and Co. are so talented and so good at what they do, I can’t see how I would ever dislike one of their albums. “Crimson” is a nice collection of songs, to be sure, but it just lacks the certain umph that this group is obviously capable of. B

• Fall Out Boy, “From Under the Cork Tree”—Now THIS is the album I was expecting from Alkaline Trio. This pop/punk outfit has made what is certain to be one of the best albums of the year—or any year. Every song is so infectiously catchy, it’s impossible to pick only one or two highlights. Suffice it to say “Cork Tree” is a perfect complement to driving with the windows down and the volume turned up to 11. Go buy this record, NOW. A

• The White Stripes, “Get Behind Me Satan”—Remember what I said a few lines ago about “From Here to Infirmary”? Well, multiply that by about 100 and that’s how much I love the Stripes’ 2003 masterpiece “Elephant.” “Satan” is the logical follow-up, from a certain point of view. It’s like Zeppelin turning the amps off after their second album and coming up with “Led Zeppelin III.” Jack White’s thrashing electric guitar is barely here, as he turns instead to acoustic guitar, piano, and even marimba. The results are not as good as the critics have led you to believe, but they are indeed admirable. “My Doorbell” will stay in your head forever after you hear it just once; “Take, Take, Take” is a rather self-conscious look at celebrity life, but the musical foundation is more than good enough to make it worth the listen; and trio that closes the album—folky “Ugly As I Seem,” electric blues number “Red Rain,” and piano ballad “I’m Lonely (But I Ain’t that Lonely Yet)”—showcase how versatile Jack is as a songwriter and musician. What I miss most from “Satan,” though, are the guitar riffs that seem to roll over one another, a la Jimmy Page. Here, Jack’s experimentation sacrifices melody and flow in several spots (check out the non-starter “The Nurse,” for example). In the grand scheme of the Stripes’ career, we’ll probably look back on “Satan” as a necessary sidestep to keep Jack’s fires stoked. But I just don’t see myself coming back to these songs on a regular basis. Jack White may be the guitar hero for a new generation, but there’s only one “Led Zeppelin III.” B

• Billy Corgan, “TheFutureEmbrace”—Wow, what a difference a concert makes. I was lucky enough to see Billy in D.C. last month as he hits small venues to play a much smaller post-Pumpkins sound. Maybe it was the simple fact that I liked seeing how these songs could actually be played live (two keyboards, an iMac, an electric drum set and Billy’s guitar), but the show was so good, it probably jumped my thoughts on the album a whole letter grade. Here Corgan fully embraces his electronic tendencies, first explored on the Pumpkins’ 1998 “Adore.” The results are interesting and rather compelling, creating what feels like one 45-minute wall of sound in 12 parts. B+

• Coldplay, “X&Y”—The hype on this band has been so huge for so long, I just stayed away. “X&Y” is the first album I’ve listened to from the Brit heroes, and now I see what all the fuss is about. I obviously don’t have anything to compare this effort to, but this is an altogether pleasing collection of songs. To me, the uneducated, Coldplay seems to be a conglomeration of sounds I’ve heard before, but I can’t really place where the individual parts come from. Chris Martin’s voice reminds of a mixture of Sting and Michael Stipe, and yet it’s something new altogether. Martin’s music is instantly likeable and appealing for a mass audience, which can be a bad thing, but you gotta respect a guy who can get the piano over on pop radio. I think this is a rather excellent album, actually, but the reviews have been just OK. If this is just “pretty good” from Coldplay, then I can’t wait to hear what has come before. Plus, I just can’t seem to get sick of “Speed of Sound.” A-

Ryan Adams: Lettin' it ride in Baltimore

Last night, I attended one of the worst concerts of my life, and it was so cool, I’ll never forget it.
I’ve always said there’s no entertainment money I’d rather spend than going to a rock concert. A good show will change the way I feel about a band for the rest of my life. From that night on, every time I listen to that group’s music, the images and emotions from that show will inevitably flash back to my mind’s eye. It’s a beautiful thing.
For instance, every time I listen to U2’s “Mysterious Ways,” I picture Bono scampering along the catwalk during 2001’s Elevation tour. He grabs something from a fan at the rail and all of the sudden there’s all this glitter flying all over the place. When I hear “Elevation,” I picture the “Happy Birthday Bono!” message plastered across the video screens (I saw U2 the night of the frontman’s 41st birthday in Indianapolis).
There are so many stories like this bouncing around my brain, it would be too tedious to mention many more: Pearl Jam (seeing them from the front row in Chicago back in 2000 was the best concert of my life), The White Stripes, Bruce Springsteen, etc., etc.
But concerts also hold just as powerful a potential for bad memories. A poor show can ruin a band for me in the span of a couple hours. Consider my experience with the Red Hot Chili Peppers/Foo Fighters double bill in Columbus in 2000. Walking up to the venue, the announcement is made Dave Grohl (frontman for the Foos) is “sick” and the band won’t be playing tonight. Later we were shown a video of a rather hungover-looking Grohl from what I presume was his hotel room, telling us how sorry he was but he was just too depleted to go on that night. Bleh. Gimme a break.
Despite that disappointment, the Peppers could have gone to the top of my list if they had so desired. OK, so the Foo Fighters aren’t playing—at least that gives us more time with RHCP, right? Wrong. The Peppers still came on at the same time (after an interminable wait of more than 45 minutes following opening act Muse (who were pretty good)), and played their standard set for that tour. It was about 80 minutes, including one short encore, and that was it. Thanks for stepping up, guys. I have barely listened to them since.
So that brings me to Tuesday night’s Ryan Adams (no, not Bryan Adams, RYAN Adams—if you don’t know the difference, shame on you!) show in Baltimore. Adams is touring in support of his latest (stellar) album, “Cold Roses,” for which he drafted his first official backing band, the Cardinals. I had seen Adams once before back in 2002 and it was pretty good, but not great. I really love his music, though, so I wanted to give him a second chance.
Everything started off well Tuesday night. The band opened with its standard batch of uptempo numbers, including excellent versions of new gems “Easy Plateau” and “Let It Ride,” as well as “To Be Young” from Adams’ 2000 solo debut, “Heartbreaker.”
After “Let It Ride,” things started to get a little strange. A mic stand to the right of the stage lit up like Adams was going to use it for a song, but instead he went to a piano on the other side of and sat down for a version of “Call Me On Your Way Back Home” where he alternated between keyboard and guitar (very cool).
Upon finishing the song, he then moved back to the lit-up mic and seemed to wave the Cardinals off the stage. For the next half-hour or so, he proceeded to alternate between acoustic guitar and piano, playing a mellow, coffeehouse-style show without the band. The explanation finally came after the rarity “Just Like a Whore,” when Adams said his wrist (injured in an accident a couple years ago) was really giving him problems and he was going backstage to get a shot that would hopefully allow him to get back to playing the harder numbers in his catalog.
The house lights come up and the crowd was buzzing about what in the world is going to happen. After about 20 minutes, all of the sudden and with absolutely no fanfare, Adams is back again. He hops off the front of the stage and comes shuffling up one of the main aisles, acoustic guitar in hand. The lights are still on, and those that didn’t go out to grab a beer or hit the restrooms are basically sitting there stunned (myself included).
The venue—a symphony hall—was obviously a strange one for Adams, who made several comments about how he felt like he was in a Stanley Kubrick movie. But it did allow for a space between the front section of seats and the next section back where he set up shop on a simple wooden stool. I was lucky enough to be only a few rows from him at this point so I didn’t need to move to hear, but fans started flooding back into the hall as word spread like wildfire and within a few seconds the wide aisles were jammed and while others jumped over seats to get close.
Adams played four songs from this position, with quite a bit of chatter between each. It was wonderful and tense all at the same time, as several drunken Baltimore geniuses started yelling that they couldn’t hear—from the upper balconies (duh!). Adams simply flipped them off and/or invited them to come closer. Classic. He did try to spin in a slow circle while playing so that his voice would hopefully reach the entire room; for the last two—“Rosebud” and “My Winding Wheel”—he actually stood up on the stool, which made it even easier to hear (these two are now tattooed on my brain). He then wandered back onstage for a couple more songs before mumbling a “goodnight” just after 11 p.m.—more than two and a half hours after his first appearance.
I don’t know when I’ve been more impressed with a musician. Adams could have pulled a Dave Grohl and called it quits after the first few minutes when it was clear he couldn’t play in the flamboyant style he’s used to. Instead, he sucked it up and tried to do something special regardless of his physical condition, hoping to atone for the fact that the few thousand fans in attendance obviously weren’t getting what they paid for. The music last night certainly wasn’t what I was hoping for, but I’ve been to a lot of concerts and I’ve never, never, not ever seen any musician do what Ryan Adams did last night. The show may have been disappointing in one sense, but I wouldn’t trade that surreal experience for some standard set on another night. He’s made a fan for life.

Star Wars: Episode VII—Revelations

For any “Star Wars” fans out there—both those who remain doggedly devoted to the franchise no matter what the prequels are like, and those who wonder what in the galaxy from far, far away happened to George Lucas in the years between 1983 and 1999—I strongly urge you to dig up a copy of the May 20 edition of Entertainment Weekly. Hayden Christensen (the worst casting decision since Sofia Ford Coppola in “The Godfather Part III”) is wielding a lightsaber on the cover, but don’t be deterred. Jeff Jensen’s article on Lucas and the conclusion of his fantasy film sextet is unquestionably the best, most revealing “Star Wars”-related coverage I’ve read in the past decade—and Sith lord knows there’s been a lot of that.
Jensen’s story is a revelation for a semi-“Star Wars” geek like me who, after two atrocious prequels (1999’s “The Phantom Menace” and 2002’s “Attack of the Clones”), nearly despises Lucas now. This piece actually helped me come to grips with the entire saga and realize it’s OK to hate the prequels—because George didn’t much care to make them in the first place.
My biggest complaint with all three of these recent “Star Wars” films (yes, “Revenge of the Sith” is better than its two predecessors, but that’s not saying much, is it?) is that Lucas seemingly fell victim to hubris in saddling back up into the director/screenwriter chair, which is not his strong suit. But as it turns out, according to Jensen, Lucas can’t even come up with a good reason why he came back to “Star Wars” in the first place, other than he’d been thinking about these movies for years and didn’t know what else to do. And in a tragic twist, it seems Lucas was pushed into that role by his “friends,” Steven Spielberg and Ron Howard.
You see, Lucas is a visionary, a creator of worlds. He’s a J.R.R. Tolkien of his generation, just without the ability to make his creations come to life on his own. It takes a singular mind to dream up an entire new universe, with hundreds of different races and species and languages, as Lucas has done with his galaxy from a long time ago.
But as an actual filmmaker, Lucas is lacking. He’s better served sticking to breadth and scope while handing the nitty-gritty details of scriptwriting and directing over to other professionals (i.e. 1980’s “The Empire Strikes Back” and 1983’s “Return of the Jedi”). As he admits to Jensen, Lucas was ready to do the same thing for the prequels, but was convinced to make the pictures himself. What a shame.
Consider what the prequels may have looked like under the gifted hands of two consummate professionals like Spielberg or Howard—they’re no indie faves, to be sure, but they both know how to create a film that mixes artistic integrity with popular appeal. They know how to get the best out of their actors (there’s no way Christensen is in these movies if Lucas isn’t in the chair).
The parallels between Lucas and Tolkien are intriguing. Tolkien, you may know, was on the verge of giving up on “The Lord of the Rings” when his literary buddies The Inklings, including C.S. Lewis, encouraged the mythmaker to stay at it. Best. Decision. Ever.
Lucas, it seems, has his own group of Inklings in Spielberg and Howard, two filmmakers he would trust with his baby, his greatest creation. And like good Inklings, Spielberg and Howard encouraged Lucas to man up and do the job himself. It’s too bad they were so dreadfully wrong.
Still, in light of all this, it’s sort of perversely comforting to know Lucas went into these prequels kicking and screaming and fighting each step of the way. It’s no wonder they turned out like a steaming pile of crap. He was freshest back in the mid-’70s for the original “Star Wars,” but no one can keep that kind of energy going for 30 years and six movies. Even Christensen admits Lucas was nearly dead in the water during the first two films. He was more enthusiastic for “Sith,” but even that project stretched Lucas’ rather feeble writing ability beyond its limit. (Consider the unbelievable anecdote in the EW piece that Lucas had to be told by a bunch of special effects geeks during post-production that Anakin’s turn to the dark side wasn’t, uh, clear. That’s the whole point of the movie! And Lucas didn’t have it nailed down until principle filming was over?!?!)
Now that “Star Wars” is basically all said and done, I’m not going to bother with these dreadful prequels anymore. I cannot envision a scenario where I will willingly watch any of the three of them ever again. Lucas acknowledges the first two especially were basically pulled out of his rear end, as the majority of the story he already had in his head occurred in “Sith.” No wonder they had a “where’d that come from?” feel to them.
So, as Lucas backpedals from his latest billion-dollar creations, so, too, will I. The Force is not strong with these three films. And somehow, I’ll try (there is no try!) to forget the fact that the man cutting off Luke’s hand in “Empire” was once a whiny little brat like Hayden Christensen.
Screwing with Darth Vader. Ugh. That may be George Lucas’ unforgivable sin.

Bruce Springsteen, 'Devils & Dust'

It’s a misnomer to call “Devils & Dust,” the new album from Bruce Springsteen, “The Ghost of Tom Joad Part II.” Yes, nearly all of the 12 songs on the new album were written in the mid-1990s during the “Joad” period; yes, Springsteen once again assumes his Oakie voice for several tracks; and, yes, most of “Devils & Dust” is acoustic.
But this new work is much more accessible than the minimalist “Tom Joad.” The diehards will call me a non-believer, but “Joad” is my least-favorite Springsteen album by a wide margin—and I’ve tried to like it, I really have. Unlike his first all-acoustic effort, 1982’s classic “Nebraska,” “Tom Joad” just doesn’t do it for me. It’s too quiet, too lacking in memorable melodies, filled with too many songs that sound the same and too few tracks that make me want to listen to them again.
No, “Devils & Dust” may return to some similar territory, but it is certainly more than simply “an acoustic album.” Instead, it offers a nice mix of what solo Springsteen has sounded like for nearly two decades. Though not as full of bravado or muscle as his work with the E Street Band, “Devils & Dust” is compelling, catchy, and, in parts, downright phenomenal.
Maybe it’s my personal curse, but I always seem to connect first with uptempo numbers on a new record, no matter the artist. Thankfully, Springsteen delivers a healthy amount on “Devils & Dust.”
The best is “Long Time Comin’,” which could be seen as a distant cousin to 1992’s “Better Days.” Backed by a driving drumbeat, wistful violin and toned-down electric guitar, this may already be one of my favorite Springsteen songs of all time. Not because it necessarily covers new ground musically, but because it is truly uplifting, telling the story of a man who for too long allowed his life to be eclipsed by the shadow of a deadbeat father. Now, awaiting the birth of his third child, the protagonist is making a commitment to change his life and stop taking out the sins of his father on those he loves. In an apology to his wife and children, the man is “going to get birth naked and bury my old soul/And dance on its grave,” promising “I ain’t gonna fuck it up this time” (Springsteen’s first use of the f-word on an album).
Like “Long Time Comin’,” this album is made up entirely of stories, as Springsteen embodies characters as varied as a young black man (“Black Cowboys”) to an illegal immigrant (“Matamorous Banks”) to a desperate boxer (“The Hitter”), to name a few. Perhaps the character that engenders the most controversy, however, is from the title track, where Springsteen sings from the perspective of an American soldier in Iraq struggling to come to grips with the horrors of war. Now, Springsteen and I are on complete opposite sides of the political fence, but “Devils & Dust” as a whole is not as overtly partisan as I thought it would be, and the title cut explores themes I’ve struggled to reconcile myself, as I wonder how our soldiers fighting in the Middle East can possibly return to a normal life when they come home. (Too bad the music itself is a rather tepid retread of “Blood Brothers” from 1994’s “Greatest Hits” set, making this opening track absolutely skippable.)
And let’s remember, especially you Red-staters out there still on Boss Blackout after the somewhat ridiculous Vote for Change Tour: This isn’t new territory for Springsteen, (hello, “Born in the U.S.A.”). But there is plenty to love about his music, even if I don’t agree with his choice for president in 2004. Is George W. Bush worth missing out on “Devils & Dust”? Am I suddenly going to stop loving “Badlands,” “Atlantic City” or “One Step Up”? Absolutely not. You’re never going to agree with everything another person believes. If you do, that’s a relationship not worth having.
So politics aside, where does that leave us regarding “Devils & Dust”? It’s a mixed bag, in the end, a hair’s breadth away from being a truly great album, but one I like much more than I thought I would. There’s a good deal of variety here, including two great toe-tappers, “Maria’s Bed” and “All I’m Thinkin’ About,” in which Springsteen dons a charming, odd-but-it-works falsetto. There are also some near misses, such as “Reno,” which is musically and thematically engaging but suffers in execution. In this story of another desperate man seeking (and failing to find) satisfaction in the embrace of a prostitute, the lyrics are so graphic they are almost unlistenable; Springsteen himself seems embarrassed to be singing some of the lines, skating past the most … vivid descriptions of one night in a rent-by-the-hour hotel room.
There are some who will never be satisfied unless The Boss is backed by the E Streeters, belting out clones of “Rosalita” or “Born to Run.” Credit Springsteen for having the artistic integrity to realize treading on past successes means a complete lack of relevance in the here and now. There are songs he wants to write that just don’t fit on an album such as “The Rising,” but that doesn’t mean they can’t be great. “Devils & Dust” takes a few listens to fully sink in, if nothing else than to get used to Springsteen without his beloved mates. But it is also good enough to hold its own among one of the greatest catalogs in rock and roll.
Grade: B+

The meat of the lineup: Season 4 of 'Seinfeld' separates the best from the rest

All right, now it's time to get serious—seriously funny, anyway—because it was announced last week the fourth season of “Seinfeld” will make its DVD debut May 17.
This new four-disc set, boasting 13 hours of bonus material, is the latest installment in what is arguably the best TV-to-DVD treatment in the history of the medium. The first two sets (season 1-3) made their highly anticipated debut last November and proved that the six-year wait was well worth it. From new interviews to trivia to deleted scenes to lengthy gag reels, “Seinfeld” on DVD truly proved the master of its domain (sorry, couldn’t help it).
The scary thing is, as good as those box sets are, they remain three of the weaker seasons of the show’s nine-year run. Now we’re hitting the real meat of the series. The middle years, seasons 4-8, mark one of the best runs in the boob tube’s history.
Season 4, in particular, is so good, it’s probably not too difficult to come up with a 10-best “Seinfeld” list using just these 22 episodes. So, in order to make it challenging, I’m limiting my best of Season 4 lineup to just five eps. If you only watch these five, this box set will be worth the money.
And the nominees are:
• “The Contest” — The “Smells Like Teen Spirit” of ’90s television, this episode received so much acclaim over the years, it’s on a whole other level of pop culture phenomena, where we can no longer look at it objectively. Nevertheless, this show about four friends trying to prove which is “master of their domain” put “Seinfeld” on the map for good and remains uproariously funny no matter how many times you see it. My favorite scene? Tough to pick, but it’s probably Jerry sitting on the couch trying to keep his mind off the naked woman across the street. While Jerry hums “The Wheels on the Bus,” Kramer—staring at the nude neighbor, of course—starts singing, “the woman across the street has nothing on, nothing on, nothing on.”
• “The Bubble Boy” — Another watercooler moment (okay, let’s face it—every episode on this list was a watercooler moment), as Jerry, Elaine, George and Susan head upstate to the Ross’ cabin, with plans to stop off along the way to visit the Bubble Boy. Jerry doesn’t make it but George, unfortunately (fortunately for us), does. A heated game of Trivial Pursuit ensues, culminating with the Bubble Boy trying to choke the life out of George (can’t say I blame him). Never fully seen on camera, the Bubble Boy remains one of the top characters in “Seinfeld’s” long history of great guest appearances. This is an absolute gem from start to finish.
• “The Junior Mint” — Perhaps the most famous of all the show’s product placements (Snapple, Nike, etc.), Jerry is in all kinds of trouble in this classic. First, he can’t remember his girlfriend’s name, but knows it rhymes with a female body part. George’s best guess: Mulva. Um, no. Meanwhile, Jerry and Kramer attend the surgery of one of Elaine’s former boyfriends, where they unwittingly drop a Junior Mint into his open chest cavity. Paranoia ensues. One of the best lines of the entire series hails from this episode: Jerry, with a mouthful of food, agrees to Kramer’s invitation to see the operation by saying, “Let’s go watch ’em slice this fat bastard up.” Entertainment Weekly quotes Seinfeld as saying this was a landmark line in the series, as it led the writers to push the envelope even further down the road.
• “The Cheever Letters” — Speaking of dirty talk, off-color comments take centerstage in this ep, as Jerry can’t keep up with his new fling (Elaine’s secretary) while getting bawdy in the bedroom. His “are those the panties your mother laid out for you” retort is hysterically inept, and leads to trouble for both him and Elaine. Meanwhile, we get to see Jerry and George in full procrastination mode while trying to knock out the script for their “Jerry” pilot. One of my favorite sight-gags of the entire series comes up in this show: As Jerry leans across the table to whisper the dirty talk he heard the previous night, George is so shocked he squeezes the ketchup bottle spasmodically, shooting its contents across the restaurant.
• “The Outing” — The gang’s discomfort with homosexuality is hinted at in the previous episode when it’s discovered Susan’s father had a love affair with author John Cheever. But homo- … not phobia, but –paranoia, is front and center this time, as a prank by Elaine leads an NYU reporter to think Jerry and George are lovers. When the dubious duo finally realize what’s going on, they go to great lengths to convince the college journalist her perceptions are unfounded (George to the girl: “Do you wanna have sex right now? Come on, baby!”). But a malfunctioning two-line phone (provided, of course, by Kramer), proves to be their undoing. When the national wires pick up the story, their lives are thrown into turmoil. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Academy lepers: Unclean! Unclean!

After listening to the cacophony of pundits’ thoughts on last night’s Academy Awards, the myriad complaints seem to have one common thread: The Oscars sucked.
I agree, for many of the same reasons voiced in the past 24 hours:
• The ceremony was, on the whole, boring and predictable. If I hadn’t gotten tired of picking favorites, I would have been 10-for-11 last night (too bad, Marty!); as it is, I only missed three.
• Bringing the lesser nominees (art direction, visual effects, etc.) up on stage together “American Idol”-style was ridiculous. The only thing worse were the presentations out in the seats.
• Chris Rock wasn’t all that funny. He seemed nervous and, apparently, bereft of much humor when he can’t use the f-word. If I hadn’t been watching the show in its entirety for the purposes of this column, I would certainly have flipped the channel when the rookie host launched into his anti-Bush routine. And this has nothing to do with left or right, red or blue; I’m so tired of politics at this point, can’t we at least make it through one Academy Awards ceremony without mentioning the president? At least the rest of the room basically left well enough alone (still in shock from Kerry’s defeat, I’m sure). Even Sean Penn and Tim Robbins managed to hold their tongues.
But there was one particularly funny, dare I say brilliant, part of Rock’s performance: his man-on-the-street pre-taped interviews at Magic Johnson’s movie theater in California. As one person after another expressed their lack of any possible interest in the night’s nominees, they affirmed the growing disconnect between Hollywood’s royalty and its audience. (Do you realize that not one of the best picture nominees grossed $100 million domestically? And this in an age when worthless movies such as “Troy,” “Van Helsing” and “Ocean’s Twelve” hit the century mark!)
Don’t pay attention to the overnight ratings surge this year’s Academy Awards ceremony received. Everyone tuned in to see if Rock would go off and say something crazy, which he basically didn’t. If the Academy brings him back next year, expect a return to Oscar’s recent freefall.
Rock aside, it was Tom Shales, in an excellent Washington Post editorial, who summed it up best: The problem with this year’s Academy Awards was the movies themselves. As I’ve alluded to in previous columns on the films of 2004, the five pictures nominated for best picture were, overall, depressing as a kicked puppy. It’s a sad state when the most “up” ending of the group was the barely-satisfying conclusion to “Sideways.” It’s hard to get excited about movies that focus on death, depression, drug addiction, depravity, and any other “D” you can probably think of. These movies certainly have their place in the pantheon, but five out of five?
The ridiculous thing is, there were so many other choices that, even if they didn’t win, would have livened up the party and drawn in more viewers. And this brings me back to Rock’s excursion to the cineplex: If the Academy wants to really draw massive interest again (without resorting to Rock commenting on homosexuals’ viewing habits), then it must reach out to, yes, The Great Unwashed. You know, those people that spend billions of dollars a year going to the movies—as opposed to the pundits, who see them for free.
I’m not saying popularity is equal to taste. Certainly not. If that was the case, “Hotel Rwanda” would have earned $200 million at the box office and “The Day After Tomorrow” wouldn’t have made it to a second weekend. But I don’t think it’s asking too much for Academy voters to meet the general public halfway.
Here’s my proposal:
The five best picture nominees will be defined by their respective genres. In a February Madness-style competition, the Academy votes for the best films from each of the following categories: action, drama, comedy, family and one wild card from any or none of the above (“American Splendor,” anyone?). The top vote-getters from each of these divisions then vie for the night’s No. 1 award. The rest of the categories will remain open as they are now, but with five films at the top guaranteed to appeal to a wide audience, everyone who goes to the movies certainly will find a horse to back in my new race.
Just imagine how this plan would have affected last night’s proceedings. There were four dramas and one dramedy up for best picture. Obviously the Academy decided “Million Dollar Baby” was the best of the bunch, so what difference would it have made for “Baby” to beat out “The Aviator,” “Finding Neverland” and “Ray” a few weeks ahead of time to make way for fresher blood? “Baby” was going to win anyway; we were just delaying the inevitable.
But how much more interesting would the lead-in to the Oscars have been if “Million Dollar Baby” was going up against a couple films that appealed to a much wider audience—“Spider-Man 2” (action) and “The Incredibles” (family), for instance? “Sideways” could still have gotten in as the comedy and “The Aviator” in the wild card slot.
Following in the steps of “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy, I would like to see more popular films make the cut; who knows, if filmmakers know ahead of time they have a chance to get into the final round with something other than Depression 101, maybe they’ll be more inclined to take on more projects outside their comfort zones. Wouldn’t it be great to see what Scorsese would come up with if he applied his unique vision to, say, the X-Men or Jason Bourne?
Just because a movie makes a ton of money doesn’t mean it’s either good or bad. But I do believe it is a singular challenge for a director to make a quality film that stands up to both artistic and popular appeal, as in “Spider-Man 2” and “The Incredibles.” These two movies made many critics’ top-10 lists for last year, including mine, so why is the Academy so different?
Until it answers that question—and it probably never will—the Oscars will continue to be nothing but a fashion show and a cumulative pat on the back that fewer and fewer people give a rip about.
Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

The Best Films of 2004

At first blush, it seemed the past calendar year hadn’t offered much in the way of quality cinema, what with the overabundance of crappy “blockbusters” and the lack of anything new from Middle-earth.
But as I began to seriously compile my “Best Films of 2004,” I realized something: I was wrong. Granted, I didn’t see every movie released in 2004, but I certainly went to enough to compile a competent list. I’m not going to say what follows are the absolute best, in that order, because who can say which of two or three great films is really better than another? How are you supposed to pick between the best comic-book adaptation ever put to film, arguably the best animated movie ever, and without question the most controversial Bible-based epic of all time? But, as they appealed to me (and me alone, forget what the “experts” say), here are my favorite films of 2004:

1. “The Passion of the Christ” — It’s hard for me to look at this film objectively, I admit, because it deals with subject matter absolutely essential to my existence. That said, I have never been more emotionally moved while sitting in a movie theater. I’m not likely to watch “The Passion” many times in my life, because I wouldn’t want to become desensitized to the brutality—and beauty—it depicts. But this is a film that will stay with me, I believe, for the rest of my life, certainly longer than any of the other films on this list—or any other, for that matter.
2. “Spider-Man 2” — After watching this incredible movie five times now, I have finally decided it is without a doubt the best comic book adaptation ever, besting the first two Superman installments, the second X-Men film, and Tim Burton’s original “Batman.” Writer/director/fanboy Sam Raimi made a movie about Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, with all of the former’s struggles, doubts, fears, and joys, giving this sequel a heart that even surpasses its style. Combine that with great performances from Tobey Maguire and Alfred Molina in the lead roles, as well as one of the best closing shots I’ve ever seen—comic book movie or no—and “Spider-Man 2” sets the bar so high, I can’t believe even Raimi himself can surpass it.
3. “The Incredibles” — Pixar has become maybe the only sure thing in all of Hollywood, and the animation studio certainly didn’t disappoint with this latest—and best—installment in a catalog that already includes several classics. Maybe I liked this one best because it was more an adult’s movie with some kiddie jokes rather than the other way around (Pixar’s M.O.), but it doesn’t really matter—the results speak for themselves. This tale of a super family trying to fit in hits on every level, so absorbing you forget you’re watching a cartoon. Director/writer Brad Bird has given us a masterpiece.
4. “Kill Bill Vol. 2” — What’s left to be said about Quentin Tarantino that hasn’t been said already? Nothing, probably, but I think his bloody duology was overlooked, especially by ol’ Oscar (as were all of the movies to this point on this list). In “Vol. 2,” the writer/director tones down the violence but amps up the character development for possibly the best results in his career. Uma Thurman is brilliant as the gritty, vengeful Bride, matched step-for-step by a wonderfully insidious David Carridine as Bill (his best role in, well, ever), setting the pace for an off-kilter tour-de-force only Tarantino can provide.
5. “Hotel Rwanda” — I am honestly shocked this gripping film was not even nominated for a best picture Oscar, since it is better than all five that made the cut. Don Cheadle gives the performance of a lifetime in the true story of a mild-mannered hotel manager forced to make tough decisions in a life-and-death situation. In a year when the entire world seemed to question America’s decision to free an oppressed people, “Hotel Rwanda” serves as an eye-opening reminder of how the world failed literally a million people just 10 years earlier.
6. “Finding Neverland” — Speaking of the best picture category, this nominee has no shot at taking home the gold this year, but it is my favorite of the bunch. This quiet film will break your heart without breaking a sweat, based on tremendous outings from Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet (more on her later), and newcomer XXXXX as the young boy on whom author J.M. Barrie based his classic “Peter Pan.” I am certainly no prude (see entry No. 4), but it’s refreshing to watch a movie that grabs you from word one without resorting to sex, violence, or general human degradation (if you want that sort of thing, go see any of “Neverland’s” best picture competitors). Only the hopelessly cynical will remain unfazed by this wonderful film.
7. “Hero” — Visually stunning with a story to match, this tale of a warrior willing to sacrifice his life to save his Chinese homeland will wow you. The cinematography is simply amazing, as director Yimou Zhang (whose latest, “House of Flying Daggers,” slipped through my fingers but is on the must-see-DVD list) weaves color, motion and martial arts together into one unforgettable tapestry of action and artistry. I can’t believe it took two years to get this movie to the States.
8. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” — What’s this? A movie that deals with the realities of love, not just kissy-face happy endings? And from Charlie Kaufmann (“Being John Malkovich,” “Adaptation”) of all people! But “Eternal Sunshine” takes off where most Hollywood romantic comedies leave off, as Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet struggle to deal with their relationship once the puppy love wears off and they see each other’s real selves. Some may be turned off the hyper reality characteristic of a Kaufman script, but stick with it—this one’s a keeper worthy of multiple viewings.
9. “The Bourne Supremacy” — While not as good as 2002’s original, this adaptation of author Robert Ludlum’s best-known series still delivered the goods. Matt Damon is almost mute as the former CIA black-ops amnesiac Jason Bourne, but that only complements the urgency provided by director Paul Greengrass’ shaky-cam style, culminating in what is certainly one of the greatest car chases ever filmed.


The Best of the Rest
Yes, the above list has only nine movies instead of the obligatory 10, but I limited myself to those films which really struck me. The remainder, in no particular order, is films I like and respect for their quality, but they didn’t quite hit that extra level.

• “13 Going on 30” — Who knew butt-kicking robobabe Jennifer Garner, star of the oh-so-great TV spy show “Alias,” could pull off a romantic comedy with seemingly no effort? But she is magnetic here, making you forget you saw essentially this same movie two decades ago with Tom Hanks in the lead (male) role.
• “The Aviator” — Martin Scorsese’s latest try at an Academy Award is an excellent exercise in filmmaking, but lacks substance. You essentially drop right into the middle of media/airline mogul Howard Hughes’ life, with only a couple of scenes giving any hints into why this Depression-era megastar was driven to near insanity and back again. Great performances from Leonardo DiCaprio and Cate Blanchett, as well as Scorsese’s magic touch, lift this movie out of mediocrity, but I was hoping for more than just style.
• “Collateral” — Nobody does taut, urban action like director Michael Mann (“Heat”), but even he stretches his already loose limits of believability in this one-night stand starring Tom Cruise as a mercenary who hijacks a cabbie (Jamie Foxx) to get him to all of his L.A. hits on time. The two male leads are absolutely phenomenal, but plot holes and a cliché mano y mano conclusion made this thriller a little disappointing.
• “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” — I can’t believe I just typed that title, considering how much I hated the first two installments in this series, adapted from author J.K. Rowling’s unbelievably popular set of books. But there is a completely different feel to this one, thanks in large part to dark subject matter (young wizard Harry is stalked by the man he believes killed his parents). All of the performers are 100 percent better this time around, and this is the first Potter movie to feel like an actual film, as opposed to merely a vapid, slavish translation of the text.
• “Million Dollar Baby” — Let the critics try and explain this movie’s ending away all they want, but it didn’t sit well with me—and not simply from some moral standpoint. I simply don’t agree with the argument that Hillary Swank’s tough-as-nails 34-year-old boxer would make the decision she makes at the end of this movie. That said, the performances from Swank, Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman are all Oscar-worthy, and the film is absolutely engrossing. However, much like “Mystic River,” I think this film will ultimately be seen as over-hyped and over-praised after this initial flush wears off.
• “Sideways” — This is a well-crafted drama disguised as a buddy-movie/romantic comedy, but it doesn’t have nearly as much to say as “Eternal Sunshine.” Much like “Million Dollar Baby” and “The Aviator,” “Sideways” is a mediocre story propped up by fantastic actors. Paul Giamatti had the misfortune of finding the role of his career in the same year several other men found similar gold, which left him without an Oscar nod. And while there are several laugh-out-loud scenes and a relatively uplifting conclusion, I feel like I’ve seen this movie many times before: Neurotic loser goes through a life-altering experience and tries to make some changes in his life. I’ll see your “Sideways” and raise you a “Graduate,” “American Beauty” and “Lost in Translation.” Been there, done that, seen the movie.

No, Joe! Say it ain't so!

Watching the Washington Redskins throttle the hated New York Giants Sunday, I didn’t know whether to cheer or throw up.
Clinton Portis ran alternately like a deer and a bull, Patrick Ramsey made Favre-esque throws, and the defense—as usual—came up big on their way to a 31-7 rout. Too bad it took 12 weeks to find an offense.
As the Redskins improve to a whopping 4-8, I’m left wondering if that record wouldn’t be the exact opposite if Joe Gibbs hadn’t gone to Ramsey about six weeks into the season, instead of waiting until there were only six weeks left. The old cliché says pride comes before a fall, and it was Gibbs’ stubbornness that left the dreadful Mark Brunnel under center for 10 excruciating weeks of ineptitude.
Brunnel single-handedly gave away several games this year. His turnovers against Baltimore and Cleveland alone led directly to points for the other teams, dropping the Redskins further and further out of contention. But the blame ultimately rests with Golden Joe. It was Gibbs who signed Brunnel’s dead arm in the offseason to an unwieldy $40 million contract. It was Gibbs who stuck with the former All-Pro, even when everyone else in the football world—be it fans or opposing teams—failed to see the logic.
All of this was unbelievable to the devoted—like myself—who believed all of our dreams had come true in January when Gibbs announced he was returning to his beloved Redskins. I was one of those delusional morons who thought 13-3 wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Gibbs succeeds at anything he touches, so why wouldn’t he be able to take one of the more talented teams in the league and turn them into instant winners?
Why, it seems, is because it took Gibbs until the first week of December to remember just how great a coach he is—with a little help from his players. In the days leading up to the Giants game, Gibbs had sit-downs with both Portis and Ramsey, who both begged the Hall of Fame coach to work to their strengths. Portis knew he needed Ramsey to at least try and go deep to free up some space to run, and Ramsey knew he needed an established running game to make any headway against a bitter division opponent.
Apparently, Gibbs listened—and the results were stunning.
Except for giving up a kickoff return for a touchdown, the Redskins dominated New York for the entire game—doing whatever they wanted on offense and defense, whenever they wanted. I’ve been screaming at the television all year for Gibbs to use Portis to the best of the fleet-footed runner’s abilities; for the first time this season, the coach finally put Portis in space with pitches, sweeps and screen passes, where he used his speed and shiftiness to rack up more than 150 yards and two touchdowns. With that running attack going through the Giants like a knife through butter, Ramsey was able to drop back in the pocket comfortably, using play-action to freeze the defenders in their tracks and put receivers in positions to make plays.
Though I wish Gibbs had gone to Ramsey earlier in the year, I have to believe all things will work out in the end—they always seem to for ol’ Joe. He had to work through his own challenges this year, and he’ll certainly be a better coach for it in 2005 and beyond. It’s important Washington finishes this season strong, though, so Daniel Snyder won’t be tempted to blow up the team once again before opening day next year. With one of the league’s best defenses and running backs, there’s no reason this group can’t be right in the thick of the playoff hunt next season (actually, in the ridiculously-bad NFC, the ’Skins are still alive for a berth this year).
It’s Redskins legend at this point, but let’s not forget Gibbs was almost fired in his first season as head coach in 1980, going 8-8. He went to back-to-back Super Bowls the next two years.
After the performance Gibbs and his young nucleus of players turned in Sunday, maybe history really will repeat itself.

U2, 'How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb'

U2 spent the 1980s becoming the biggest band in the world, then spent the 1990s tearing their signature sound apart and dreaming it all up again.
Now in their 25th year, it is evident the legendary Irish quartet has tried to bring the best of both worlds with them into the new millennium.
It’s too early to tell just where U2’s new album, “How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb,” ranks among their deep catalog (I’ll reserve final judgment until hearing the songs on the 2005 world tour, and maybe not even then—some things take awhile to sink in). But taken in conjunction with their 2000 gem “All That You Can’t Leave Behind,” it’s clear Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. still have a lot to offer in the 21st century.
Although it isn’t the rawk-fest originally promised, “Bomb” is a more straightforward guitar manifesto than any U2 album since 1991’s “Achtung Baby.” While “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” was akin to the band’s pop/rock classic “The Joshua Tree” from 1987, “Bomb” is more in line with 1984’s (highly underrated) “The Unforgettable Fire,” albeit injected with some of the punches and tricks the group discovered in its albums from the ’90s.
First single “Vertigo” stands up to the best of U2’s modern rave-ups, giving songs such as “Elevation,” “Even Better Than the Real Thing” and “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” a run for their collective money. (Don’t give me any grief about those ubiquitous Apple commercials, either. This song will stand the test of time, long after you’ve forgotten those TV spots. Admit it: Before you saw it for the hundredth time, you thought it was cool.)
Meanwhile, the gorgeous “City of Blinding Lights” belongs in the same company as U2’s best anthems. Driven by a classic Edge reverb riff, the song’s chiming chorus induces goosebumps, as Bono tries to ward off the cynicism of middle age and reclaim the optimism of his youth.
On an album that has no glaring missteps, it’s hard to pick standouts. “All Because of You,” is an uptempo stomper that would feel right at home on 1989’s “Rattle and Hum” alongside “Desire” or “Silver and Gold”; elsewhere, the sinewy “Love and Peace or Else”—a plea for peace in the Middle East—could easily slide into a slot on 1997’s “Pop,” while “A Man and a Woman,” one of Bono’s best love songs (and there are a lot of them), features this beautiful line: “I could never take a chance/Of losing love to find romance.”
Despite its auspicious title, “Atomic Bomb” is largely an apolitical album. Its heart belongs to the third track, “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own,” a true U2 classic if there ever was. Hearkening back to the band’s best song (“One”), Bono rips his soul wide open in an ode to his late father, who died in the middle of the band’s last tour. Grandiose and intimate at the same time, “Sometimes” exemplifies the continued brilliance of U2’s music. For two and a half decades, they have been able to make the minute details of life seem epic and the epic seem intimate.
“How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb” isn’t Part II of “The Joshua Tree” or “Achtung Baby,” nor does it push past the boundaries explored in the mid-‘90s on “Zooropa” and “Pop.” Instead, this collection cements the group’s transition into a new era. With their last two albums, U2 seem to have finally settled on a sound—on a skin—after 25 years of searching.
This is us now, these songs proclaim, and we’re not going away any time soon.
Grade: A-
(Just in case you were wondering, “The Joshua Tree” and “Achtung Baby” are A+)

Johnny Rotten is rolling in his ... wait, he's not dead?

—Originally published 9.31.04

Punk rock as a musical genre is alive and well, but punk rock as an ideology may be dead for this generation.

Let me explain:

Last weekend, I went to see the Irish punk band Flogging Molly in Charlotte. Excellent show, but in between the opening act and the headliners came an infomercial for PunkVoter.com. Yes, amidst a dingy, smoke-filled, sweaty room comes a DVD projected on a film screen -- how very punk, indeed.

According to its mission statement, PunkVoter is a "coalition to educate, register and mobilize progressive voters." The word "progressive" is the first trip-wire because it usually means "Democrat," but I'd be willing to let that slide if not for what follows:

"Something needs to be done to unite the youth vote and bring real activism back into our society. Punk rock has always been on the edge and in the forefront of politics. It is time to energize the majority of today's disenfranchised youth movement and punk rockers to make change a reality."

The statement goes on to say PunkVoter "is about organizing the many diverse and regional movements into one voice of political change."

Excuse me, but am I being asked to goose-step somewhere? Since when has punk rock been about unifying anything? We've come a long way from The Sex Pistols' "Anarchy in the U.K."

It's insulting for the bands behind PunkVoter.com to believe the "majority" of youth voters fall into the progressive category. The mission statement claims to educate youth about "what is really going on in Washington, D.C.," but its video consisted almost entirely of Will Ferrell impersonating President Bush and making him look foolish over and over again. This isn't "education," it's propaganda (hello, Michael Moore). It's not about simply getting kids to vote, period -- it's, "Hey, look, all the cool punk rockers are voting for John Kerry and you should, too, or you're not punk."

A funny thing happened in Charlotte last Friday, though. Contrary to the condescending attitude of PunkVoter.com, the crowd seemed well aware of our nation's political realm -- and they didn't appreciate the video. The loudest applause came when the real President Bush first came on the screen; there were also chants of "four more years" and the occasional audience member telling Kerry and the PunkVoter spokesman to do interesting things to themselves. When the interminable video ended, the applause were seemingly in relief the concert interruption was over -- not support for PunkVoter's "progressive" message.

By definition, punk isn't definable (go figure that one out in your spare time) -- but openly promoting one political party or another wasn't the goal when bands like the Ramones and Television were formed in the mid-'70s. Johnny Ramone, a godfather of the genre (may he rest in peace), was a Republican. I didn't know that until last week and I certainly didn't learn it from "Beat on the Brat" or "The KKK Took My Baby Away."

Three decades later, artists such as those aligned with PunkVoter.com -- and there are tons of them, not to mention the bands on the Vote for Change Tour -- are using their clout to shill for a politician and destroying punk in the meantime. In the beginning, punk wasn't about exclusion or party lines, it was about acceptance for those doing their own thing.

Chris Carrabba, lead singer/founder of Dashboard Confessional, once said he could think of nothing more punk rock than going onstage at a punk rock show with an acoustic guitar and a batch of songs about heartbreak and love -- let the crowd try and mosh to that.

After last weekend's Flogging Molly concert, I'm thinkin' the most punk rock thing I can do is vote for George W. Bush.

'Sky Captain' soars on digital wings

—Originally published 9.24.04

The innovation and craftsmanship of "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow" dramatically enhance what would otherwise be a tepid action flick.

Filmed entirely against a blue screen in essentially one room, the movie from first-time filmmaker Kerry Conran is unlike anything you've seen before. More than 2,000 digital effects (yes, that is not a misprint) comprise most of the shots, allowing the stellar cast to come fill in the blanks. The result is a nearly seamless mix of next-generation technology and classic melodrama and noir that works pretty well, if a little strange.

Jude Law stars as Joe Sullivan, a.k.a. Sky Captain, a mercenary fighter pilot called upon to save the world from a sinister scientist, Dr. Totenkopf. Set in 1930s New York, the city is under attack from skyscraper-size robots and curious mechanical flying machines of death. They serve little purpose other than to look cool and provide Sky Captain an excuse to fly stunts through the city, but those two reasons are good enough.

The good Captain is joined in his quest by ex-lover Polly Perkins (Gwyneth Paltrow), a plucky metro reporter for a New York newspaper. She's been tipped off about the mad scientist's plan -- information Sullivan desperately needs once his sidekick, techno-wiz Dex (Giovanni Ribishi), is kidnapped by the evil genius. So the two work together to save the world, sparring with each other as much as the baddies.

While Angelina Jolie shares equal space in the credits with the other two stars, she has more of an extended cameo than a lead part as another of Sullivan's ex-lovers. She portrays eye-patch-wearing Franky Cook, a captain in the British Royal Navy who helps the Captain in his quest, allowing Conran an opportunity to showcase more aerial and aquatic acrobatics with machines that in no way could have existed in the '30s.

But that's the nature of this ambitious film. Sure, some of the lines and jokes get a little old by the end (a quick 100 minutes) and the plot is rather formulaic, but everything plays second-fiddle to the look and feel of the movie, which is anything but typical. Rather than deride it as unrealistic, celebrate "Sky Captain" for its joyous surrealism and imagination -- something like "Casablanca" meets "Batman" meets "Star Wars."

Speaking of, there's been a lot of discussion lately concerning the artistic merits of the "Star Wars" trilogy, now that those classics are out on DVD. Creator/director/Hollywood emperor George Lucas said he never intended for his movies to be seen several times over and especially not on a television; they were meant to wash over the audience in a big theater, where nit-picking details the first time around is overrun by the overall experience.

We may look back on "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow" the same way. Seeing it again from the couch won't be nearly as fun, but the first time around it's a sight to behold -- on the big screen, anyway.

Grade: B+

Don't let 'Lost' get away

—Originally published 9.24.04

If you didn't catch the premiere of ABC's new series "Lost" Wednesday night, may I say: Wow. Don't make the mistake of missing any more episodes of what looks to be the year's best new show. Here's a quick summary:

A jet plane crashes on a remote island somewhere (presumably) in the Pacific Ocean, leaving just 48 survivors. Among them is a doctor named Jack, played by Matthew Fox in his first major role since "Party of Five." With his medical skills and cool-under-pressure personality, Jack is the default leader of this band of castaways.

After he helps a few fellow survivors, Jack enlists the aid of Kate (newcomer Evangeline Lilly) to stitch a wicked gash in his back -- with a travel sewing kit and, obviously, no anesthesia. The two become fast friends and spend the rest of the hour-long pilot searching for the plane's cockpit in hopes of finding a radio to call for help.

The show is the brainchild of writer/director J.J. Abrams, who at age 38 is rapidly approaching household-name status. Despite dealing with completely different subject matter, "Lost" is very reminiscent of Abrams' other ABC series, the cult hit "Alias." Both feature superior action and build tension that leaves the audience wanting more and more, all the while making the unbelievable relatable by grounding the series in characters with emotional depth.

Abrams is a master of the serial; if you thought the cliffhangers in "Alias" were tough to take, just what in the world is the mysterious beast prowling around this new show, knocking down trees and eating people one at a time? Hopefully we'll find out soon.

More important, though, "Lost" proves Abrams is no fluke. He has a rather checkered screenwriting career, which includes abominable movies like "Armageddon" and "Gone Fishin'," along with the modest hit "Joy Ride." However, none of those projects gave him complete control like "Alias" and now "Lost." For a film such as "Armageddon," it's easy to imagine a scenario where a good script from Abrams could be ravaged by a hack like director/producer Michael Bay.

Thus I was extremely pleased with the announcement earlier this year that Abrams will be at the helm of the next "Mission: Impossible" installment, starring Tom Cruise. I can think of no one I'd rather have driving this project than Abrams -- after all, "Alias" is a lot like the old "M: I" TV show.

So Abrams essentially gets to transfer "Alias" to the big screen with oh-by-the-way Tom Cruise as the box-office draw; and now the writer/director will have more time, more creative freedom and -- most important -- a monster budget.

The first "Impossible" film was OK; the second was much better under the watchful eye of action aficionado John Woo. But the third, with Abrams aboard, will undoubtedly be the best in the series -- and maybe one of the best action movies we've seen in a long time.

Now all we have to do is wait until 2006 -- sounds like a typical Abrams cliffhanger.

'Star Wars' isn't king anymore

—Originally published 9.17.04

I remember how excited I was for the theatrical re-release of George Lucas' "Star Wars" trilogy back in 1997. My friends and I bought tickets early and sat outside the theater for more than an hour playing cards, just to make sure we got the seats we wanted.

And I remember how excited I was when the "special edition" was released later that year on VHS (boy, do those three letters seem like they came from a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away). I put an advance payment down a month early and picked them up the day they came out.

Now, as we near yet another release of the trilogy -- this time on the infinitely superior DVD format -- it's surprising to me that I could really care less.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm sure the box set will end up on my shelf at some point, if for no other reason than to watch them in widescreen with surround sound (the old VHS are pan and scan and will never look or sound as good).

It would stand to reason that movies I loved as a child shouldn't grab me the same way as an adult. And that's a good thing -- I like movies now that I never would have sat through 10 years ago.

But simple maturity isn't the reason, either, because I still like the first two "Die Hard," "Terminator" and "Alien" movies; the quality of their craftsmanship appeals to both raging-hormone teenagers and hoity-toity movie critics.

No, the real reason for my lack of enthusiasm boils down to two entities: The "Star Wars" prequels and "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy.

First, those dreadful prequels:

Other than last year's "Matrix" sequels, I can think of no other movies in my lifetime that came with so much hype and turned out so badly. With every film he makes, Lucas is looking more and more like The Luckiest Man of All Time. The original "Star Wars: A New Hope" and "The Empire Strikes Back" -- particularly the latter -- are excellent films; but things started to slip with the fuzzy-wuzzy "Return of the Jedi" and collapsed with the phenomenon known as Jar Jar Binks from 1999's prequel "The Phantom Menace."

Although there was mercifully little Jar Jar in 2002's "Attack of the Clones," the movie was still a clunker, bogged down by an impossibly stiff script that led to horrendously stiff performances from every actor. It's the only "Star Wars" installment I've seen only once; the scene where Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Christensen) is having a "nightmare" about something or other is burned into my memory as particularly painful. I was so irritated by the nonsensical plot and awful dialogue, when the climactic battle came around, all I wanted was to get the heck out of the theater -- lightsaber-wielding Yoda or not.

Lucas used to be the indisputable king of the sci-fi/fantasy genre, with his technical wizardry and indelible characters (read the "expanded universe" books from the last 10 years, and you'll see just how great his creations are). But his actual filmmaking skills get more and more suspect all the time.

Consider jolly ol' Peter Jackson, who came along and blew Lucas out of the universe.

As if the "Star Wars" prequels weren't bad enough, when compared to the work Jackson and his mates did on "The Lord of the Rings" cemented for me that Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader and the rest were no longer the standard-bearers for the genre. It's no mistake that "Return of the King" was honored with a best-picture Oscar while the "Star Wars" flicks were ignored -- there's really no comparing them in quality of storytelling, production or credible performances.

I can see the apologists lining up to defend Lucas: He wasn't out to make an "epic" in the first place, they'll say, just an old-school, rollickin', good-time popcorn movie. That argument would work if the filmmaker had not gone completely away from that line of thinking himself -- with the obsessive-compulsive, self-involved special editions and especially the prequels, which are neither fun nor rollickin' (Han Solo, where are you?).

This discussion probably doesn't matter in the long run, because the fans will be out en masse Tuesday and "Star Wars" sets will be flying off the shelves like so many X-wings; in the meantime, the anti-fantasy slugs will continue their decades-long defamation of the entire genre as worthless pap, citing Lucas and "Star Wars" as Exhibit A.

Me? I'll buy them at some point, sure, but I kinda wish I could see them through those 15-year-old eyes again.

ESPN's silver anniversary showing tarnish

—Originally published 9.10.04

Michael Jordan took the National Basketball Association -- and professional basketball as a whole -- to previously-unseen heights during his near two-decade reign in the sport.

But he may have ruined it at the same time. Look no further than the U.S. Olympic basketball team comprised of a bunch of MJ wannabes. Everybody wants to run and jump and, most importantly, dunk like Mike, but very few want to work on the rest of their games like Mike. Thus, the NBA product looks less and less like basketball every season.

The same could be true of ESPN, the unquestioned worldwide leader in sports, because now everybody wants to be like Stuart Scott.

As it puts the wraps on an obscenely self-congratulatory "silver anniversary" year celebrating 25 seasons on the air, the cable sports giant -- much like the NBA -- is in freefall when it comes to the quality of its product.

Thanks in large part to the success of anchors like Scott on ESPN's signature show, the omnipresent "SportsCenter," the network is now nearly unwatchable.

Scott and former "SportsCenter" anchor Craig Kilborn debuted in the mid-1990s. Predecessors such as Keith Olbermann, Dan Patrick and Chris Berman were clever in their telecasts, but Scott and Kilborn took the role of ESPN TV personality to another level.

In high school at the time, my buddies and I used to recite the duo's new catch-phrases every day. They were funny, fresh and unlike anything we'd heard on the sports channel -- or any other sportscast, for that matter. Who other than Kilborn could pull off, "He's breathless in the zone!" or "He's not your 'Vydas, he's not my 'Vydas, he's Arvydas!" referring to then-Portland Trail Blazers center Arvydas Sabonis.

Scott worked in any number of pop-culture references, even singing a little tune while running through a highlight, and always gave a nice "boo-ya!" once per episode.

Kilborn obviously has uncommon comedic talent and thus didn't stay long as a lowly sports anchor; he moved on to host "The Daily Show" on Comedy Central and just put the wraps on his successful late-night talk show for CBS.

But Scott is still at ESPN, and his act is wearing thin. How many more times can we listen to him yell, "boo-ya!" without going crazy? And worse yet, his flamboyant style has seeped out into the entire network -- and not just with painful "SportsCenter" anchors like Steve Berthiaume and Scott Van Pelt.

Loud-mouths like Steven A. Smith, Greg Anthony, Sean Salisbury, Michael Irvin, Mike Golic and John Kruk now dominate the channel's "analyst" roster for both "SportsCenter" and its ancillary shows like "NFL GameDay" and "Baseball Tonight." Most either spend their time screaming (Irvin doesn't even speak in complete sentences), trying to show how tough they are (i.e. Sean "I couldn't make it as a backup QB" Salisbury) or -- and this is often -- both.

ESPN's three best shows remain:

"Pardon the Interruption," featuring lovable loud-mouth sportswriters Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, who get the fact that taking themselves too seriously is a bad idea. The debate program is preceded by the similar "Around the Horn," which is yet another example of imitators who can't hold the water at ESPN.

"Outside the Lines," which is excellent night in and night out -- for those who are still awake to watch it at midnight. Former "SportsCenter" anchor Bob Ley is the main host, with Jeremy Schapp filling in frequently. Each episode focuses on only one or two topics (everything from steroids to memorabilia) with in-depth reporting and coherent analysis from experts in the given subject.

And finally, there's "College GameDay," hosted by three guys who remember it's the players on the field -- not the anchors on the set -- that make people turn the channel on in the first place. All credit to the network for starting from nothing 25 years ago and building an empire of highlight reels, but it's too bad the rest of the station's other personalities don't follow the classy examples of "College GameDay's" Chris Fowler, Lee Corso and Kirk Herbstreet, who host hands-down the best sports preview show on any channel at any time. Period.

'Garden State' a nice change of pace

—Originally published 9.3.04

At the end of a summer movie season filled with big-budget special effects and blaring soundtracks, it's refreshing to sit through a quiet, quirky film like "Garden State."

Refreshing, but not overly moving.

"State" marks the solid directing debut of 29-year-old Zach Braff, star of NBC sitcom "Scrubs," who also wrote the script and plays the lead character, Andrew Largeman. Braff succeeds in maintaining an off-beat, muted tone throughout, putting the audience as much as possible behind the clouded eyes of the main character.

As the movie opens, Andrew learns -- via a message on his answering machine -- his mother has drowned in the bathtub and he must return home to New Jersey (the Garden State) for her funeral.

Andrew was sent away to boarding school as a 16-year-old and it's been nine years since he last visited his hometown of Newark; the time away hasn't been kind. He lives in Los Angeles, waiting tables at a trendy Vietnamese restaurant while trying to make it as an actor. (His biggest claim to fame was playing a mentally challenged quarterback on TV.) His medicine cabinet is full of anti-depressants prescribed by his psychiatrist father (an under-used Ian Holm) and Andrew, in his own words, wanders through life in a numb haze.

"It's recently occurred to me that I may not even have a problem, but I wouldn't even know it because for as long as I can remember, I've been medicated," Andrew tells a doctor he is seeing for headaches.

Andrew is not alone, though. As he re-enters life in the Garden State, he bumps into all of his old friends from high school, equally numb to the world -- only instead of prescription drugs, they use alcohol, marijuana, cocaine and Ecstasy to escape their ennui.

All but one. While in the doctor's waiting room, Andrew meets Sam (Natalie Portman), a firecracker who could care less what the rest of the world thinks of her or her cooky family. Andrew spends the remainder of the film -- about three days -- hanging on to this young woman, a life preserver dragging him from the depths of his metaphorical drowning.

A mixture of Julia Roberts and Jennifer Garner (but quirkier than both combined), Portman steals "Garden State." If your only exposure to this fine young actress is through the "Star Wars" prequels, you haven't really seen her perform.

Braff's story (for mature audiences only) is enjoyable on the whole -- laugh-out-loud funny in parts and equally touching in others -- but it smacks a bit too heavily of another (better) film, 1996's "Beautiful Girls," which also featured a fine Portman performance.

There are plenty of good messages in "Garden State," though, including the dangers of over-medicating children, the empty thrills of drug abuse and the illusion that an easy life is a happy life. Yet after an hour and a half of off-kilter, charming work, Braff lets his film slip too close to romantic comedy cliché -- and the conclusion falls rather flat.

Grade: B