May we settle our programming differences in 2011, and may we continue to observe Asimov's 3 Laws of Robotics in peace!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
"Eve No Jikan"
Happy New Year to Humans and Androids Alike!
May we settle our programming differences in 2011, and may we continue to observe Asimov's 3 Laws of Robotics in peace!
May we settle our programming differences in 2011, and may we continue to observe Asimov's 3 Laws of Robotics in peace!
"Ministry of Sound: Back to the Old Skool"
In 1989, I was certainly too young to go "raving" or "club-hopping." I was even too young to notice that Katherine Quinol, the lip-synching model in Black Box's "Ride on Time" video wasn't wearing a bra, which, aside from the house-tastic bellowing, would be the thing to fixate on there. About three seconds of adult discernment suggest the sounds should be coming from a shall-we-say portlier, possibly less attractive woman. (They are: the model is miming to a sample.) Worse: the non-singing girl fronting Black Box was also meant to be a distraction from the unfunky fact that the music was created by Italian DJs. But this wasnt a Milli Vanilli type saga. Who could possibly care? Everything is a little fake in the world of late '80s/early '90s dance music, but dance music SHOULD be fake: if your spastic dance-floor poses are coming from a genuine place, you might need medical attention.
I was too young in 89 to care about clubs, as I said, but that weird moment in music (not quite '80s, not quite '90s) must have seeped through the radio to my babyish ears somehow, because I was surprised by nostalgic reactions to the crappy soul-sample/lame-keyboard/pumping-beat repetitions of "Back to the Old Skool." (It's one of a zillion Ministry of Sound compilations). "Everybody Dance Now"? "I've Got the Power"? Moby when he still had hair? That is classical music.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Emilio Salgari's "The Prairie King"
ABOVE: Dangerous Indians.
"The Prairie King" (Il Re della Prateria)
EXOTIC SETTING: Brazil, the Gulf Stream, 1840s; Monterey, Sierra Nevada, 1850s.
HEROES: The Marquis de Almeida, who is kidnapped from his Brazilian ranch and spends 98% of the novel unconscious or off-screen; his uncle, unconfusingly also called the Marquis de Almeida, who sets out to look for his kidnapped nephew in the Prairies and Sierras of the "Far-West"... a decade later. (Like most South Americans, Brazilians seem to be pretty relaxed about kidnappings)
SIDEKICKS: Nunez, a Spanish slave-trader who's a pretty solid fellow, otherwise; "Garcia Sanchez," a Mexican adventurer and guide.
MASCOTS: None, unless you count Casper, a loyally silent Brazilian servant.
VILLAINS: The kidnapping "Baron Le Chivry"- who is either Mexican or Yankee, but, curiously, not French; The "Prairie Eagle"- who is dead by the time we meet him; and a mean Injun called "Jumper" who betrays our heroes even after the peace pipe is shared.
"TWIST": The evil kidnappers of the young Marquis de Almeida are actually nice, just trying to reunite him with his stranged step-brother.
LOCAL COLOR: Lenghty explanations of how the Gulf Stream works; frequent references to the gold-mining craze of '49.
MEAN ANIMALS: A horse-ride against the tide of a bison stampede. A very exciting scene in which our heroes form a stony barricade against six black bears.
ABOVE: Dangerous bear.
ACTION SCENE: A lightning-lit battle between a slave-ship and those stick-in-the mud British ships who are trying to embargo the slave trade.
TORTURE SCENE: Tied to the "torture stake," an Apache brave delivers these insults to his torturers: "I took out your brother's eyes out and shoved two pieces of burning coal in the sockets! I took your son's tongue, ate it, and then put molten lead in his mouth! I put sulphur in your dad's rear hole! I sliced the nipples off your mother's breasts! You're all a bunch of squaws!"
CULTURAL/RACIAL INSENSITIVITY: "The North Americans are insane. I don't just mean daring, I mean clinically insane. It has been extensively studied. You would think it's because they represent the refuse of Europe, that's why they're all intellectually averse, violent, and either licentiously deviant or inordinately religious. But that's not the reason. It's been scientifically measured there is simply too much ELECTRICITY in the air of the United States. It drives men insane- that's why they're all stressed, work too hard, and are always greedy and unhappy, prone to superstition and irrationality. But this is what makes them so great, in a way. They will do anything, even the maddest of eccentricities, and as long as they can extract some money out of it, not one of their countrymen will complain."
BIZARRE MOMENT: Halfway through the novel, most of the characters die, and the whole thing is rebootted ten years later.
BONUS: You thought bisons were nearly extinct? Not true, but don't worry, we're working to reach the "final solution" on the "bison question." YUM!
ABOVE: Dangerous bisons.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Emilio Salgari's "Adventures Among the Red Skins"
Dear Imaginary Reader:
Don't front. Chances are you don't know about Emilio Salgari. Largely untranslated into English, inescapable in Europe and Latin America, Salgari is arguably the second most influential and popular Italian writer (a notch below Dante, a notch above Boccaccio). He was also terrible, a national embarrassment among literatti, denied a substantive biography or a place in encyclopedias until a nostalgic re-evaluation in the last decades of the 20th century. But he was terrible in a special, wonderful way, as a prolific pulp imagineer of transcendental hackery.
If you grew up reading in Italian or Spanish, Salgari was your demented guide through exotic lands of peril. Fellini, Sartre, Borges, Garcia Marquez, and Umberto Eco all recalled him fondly. Ernesto "Che" Guevara was a huge fan, having wheezed his way trough a staggering 62 of Salgari's books. (Makes sense to me: Salgari's heroes, like Sandokan or the Black Corsair, were honor-bound, idealistic, violence-prone, and completely bat-shit.) Count me in among the nostalgists. Gaining access to a stash of lurid Salgari editions in the Forbidden Reserve Vaults of the National Cuban Library,(after much flirting with a sassy librarian) was one of my childhood feats, and it came with all the dust and discovery of a great treasure hunt.
At the time many wondered how Salgari knew so much about the far-flung corners of the globe- had he really been EVERYWHERE? The question modern readers may ask is if Salgari ever got out of his house to talk to another person. (A typical Salgari line of dialogue runs along these stilted lines: "Say, Giaccomo, isn't it great that you and I have been close friends for 20 years ever since I adopted you after finding you among the burn-out remains of a mysterious Indian temple?") Alexandre Dumas was publically accused of having his famous fiction factory write his books for him; Salgari, who called himself "Captain" Salgari and claimed to have lived in the Far East, Far West, Far North and Far South, was accused by a journalist of not being a Captain, of having failed his Naval exam, and having never sailed farther than Sicily. Duel dutifully ensued, and Salgari nearly killed the muckracker- the closest he got to living the swashbuckling life of his creations.
The man who at one point outsold Dante churned out nearly 100 cut-and-paste, incompetent-and-yet-cool novels in futile attempts to keep out of poverty. After writing a bitter letter to his editors asking them to at least cover his funeral expenses, he commited seppuku in 1911.
- - - -
All of Emilio Salgari's novels follow the same relentless pattern: in an EXOTIC SETTING, the HEROES, who are inflexibly monstrous, are accompanied by racially stereotyped SIDEKICKS and MASCOTS through bad-guy territory, usually to fight greedy/darker-skinned VILLAINS, and recover their money/kingdom/honor/damsel. Along the way, they will meet LOCAL COLOR, a MEAN ANIMAL, a CINEMATIC ACTION SCENE, and a TORTURE SCENE.
As you can understand, if the 13 year old kid in you has not entirely perished, this is all AWESOME!
"Adventures Among the Redskins" (Avventure Tra I Pellirosse)
EXOTIC SETTING: The Far West, the Pecos River, 1870s
HEROES: "Randolph Harrighen" and his sister "Mary"- who are MEXICAN, despite their names- have been dastardly scammed out of their inheritance by a tutor called "Braxley"- who is ALSO MEXICAN, despite his name- so they migrate to Texas looking for the American Dream, which at this early point was known as the American Nap.
SIDEKICKS: "Telie," a plucky frontiersgirl who mostly stays behind with Mary while the men fight; "Ralf," a retard who calls himself "The Salt Lake Alligator" for no reason Salgari cares to explain; and "Morton" the Peaceful Quaker, whose trait is that he never ever kills anyone, unless Salgari forgets this, at which point Morton kills people without much compunction.
MASCOTS: A cute little white dog who has learned to bark at red skinned people.
VILLAINS: Braxley the dastardly tutor; Pakiskan, an alcoholic Indian; Black Vulture, a sober Indian; the dreaded Apaches or Comanches (Salgari never really decides.)
LOCAL COLOR: Quakers, Mormons, Mexicans, the Cavalry
MEAN ANIMALS: A Bison gets shot in the head and eaten. A Black Bear gets shot in the head and eaten.
ACTION SCENE: Our heroes flee from a prairie fire.
TORTURE SCENE: Many detailed scalpings; prisoners are thrown on burning logs.
CULTURAL/RACIAL INSENSITIVITY: "You're a heartless, drunken liar, like all Red Skins"; Loyal black slave "Tom" quickly offers his life to save Massa Harrighen- without ever getting a line of actual dialogue. (On the plus side, Salgari describes Tom as "having lived through the horrors of slavery.")
BIZARRE MOMENT: At a crucial moment, Morton stops a fight by having a completely unforeshadowed epileptic fit, which causes the Apaches/Comanches/whichever to assume he's a great shaman.
"TWIST": Morton the Peaceful Quaker turns out to be a famous Serial Killer. But of Indians. So a GOOD serial killer, like in "Dexter."
Don't front. Chances are you don't know about Emilio Salgari. Largely untranslated into English, inescapable in Europe and Latin America, Salgari is arguably the second most influential and popular Italian writer (a notch below Dante, a notch above Boccaccio). He was also terrible, a national embarrassment among literatti, denied a substantive biography or a place in encyclopedias until a nostalgic re-evaluation in the last decades of the 20th century. But he was terrible in a special, wonderful way, as a prolific pulp imagineer of transcendental hackery.
If you grew up reading in Italian or Spanish, Salgari was your demented guide through exotic lands of peril. Fellini, Sartre, Borges, Garcia Marquez, and Umberto Eco all recalled him fondly. Ernesto "Che" Guevara was a huge fan, having wheezed his way trough a staggering 62 of Salgari's books. (Makes sense to me: Salgari's heroes, like Sandokan or the Black Corsair, were honor-bound, idealistic, violence-prone, and completely bat-shit.) Count me in among the nostalgists. Gaining access to a stash of lurid Salgari editions in the Forbidden Reserve Vaults of the National Cuban Library,(after much flirting with a sassy librarian) was one of my childhood feats, and it came with all the dust and discovery of a great treasure hunt.
At the time many wondered how Salgari knew so much about the far-flung corners of the globe- had he really been EVERYWHERE? The question modern readers may ask is if Salgari ever got out of his house to talk to another person. (A typical Salgari line of dialogue runs along these stilted lines: "Say, Giaccomo, isn't it great that you and I have been close friends for 20 years ever since I adopted you after finding you among the burn-out remains of a mysterious Indian temple?") Alexandre Dumas was publically accused of having his famous fiction factory write his books for him; Salgari, who called himself "Captain" Salgari and claimed to have lived in the Far East, Far West, Far North and Far South, was accused by a journalist of not being a Captain, of having failed his Naval exam, and having never sailed farther than Sicily. Duel dutifully ensued, and Salgari nearly killed the muckracker- the closest he got to living the swashbuckling life of his creations.
The man who at one point outsold Dante churned out nearly 100 cut-and-paste, incompetent-and-yet-cool novels in futile attempts to keep out of poverty. After writing a bitter letter to his editors asking them to at least cover his funeral expenses, he commited seppuku in 1911.
- - - -
All of Emilio Salgari's novels follow the same relentless pattern: in an EXOTIC SETTING, the HEROES, who are inflexibly monstrous, are accompanied by racially stereotyped SIDEKICKS and MASCOTS through bad-guy territory, usually to fight greedy/darker-skinned VILLAINS, and recover their money/kingdom/honor/damsel. Along the way, they will meet LOCAL COLOR, a MEAN ANIMAL, a CINEMATIC ACTION SCENE, and a TORTURE SCENE.
As you can understand, if the 13 year old kid in you has not entirely perished, this is all AWESOME!
"Adventures Among the Redskins" (Avventure Tra I Pellirosse)
EXOTIC SETTING: The Far West, the Pecos River, 1870s
HEROES: "Randolph Harrighen" and his sister "Mary"- who are MEXICAN, despite their names- have been dastardly scammed out of their inheritance by a tutor called "Braxley"- who is ALSO MEXICAN, despite his name- so they migrate to Texas looking for the American Dream, which at this early point was known as the American Nap.
SIDEKICKS: "Telie," a plucky frontiersgirl who mostly stays behind with Mary while the men fight; "Ralf," a retard who calls himself "The Salt Lake Alligator" for no reason Salgari cares to explain; and "Morton" the Peaceful Quaker, whose trait is that he never ever kills anyone, unless Salgari forgets this, at which point Morton kills people without much compunction.
MASCOTS: A cute little white dog who has learned to bark at red skinned people.
VILLAINS: Braxley the dastardly tutor; Pakiskan, an alcoholic Indian; Black Vulture, a sober Indian; the dreaded Apaches or Comanches (Salgari never really decides.)
LOCAL COLOR: Quakers, Mormons, Mexicans, the Cavalry
MEAN ANIMALS: A Bison gets shot in the head and eaten. A Black Bear gets shot in the head and eaten.
ACTION SCENE: Our heroes flee from a prairie fire.
TORTURE SCENE: Many detailed scalpings; prisoners are thrown on burning logs.
CULTURAL/RACIAL INSENSITIVITY: "You're a heartless, drunken liar, like all Red Skins"; Loyal black slave "Tom" quickly offers his life to save Massa Harrighen- without ever getting a line of actual dialogue. (On the plus side, Salgari describes Tom as "having lived through the horrors of slavery.")
BIZARRE MOMENT: At a crucial moment, Morton stops a fight by having a completely unforeshadowed epileptic fit, which causes the Apaches/Comanches/whichever to assume he's a great shaman.
"TWIST": Morton the Peaceful Quaker turns out to be a famous Serial Killer. But of Indians. So a GOOD serial killer, like in "Dexter."
Monday, December 27, 2010
Markus Zusak's "I Am the Messenger"
Not as poetic or evocative as his breakthrough, "The Book Thief," "I Am A Messenger" still makes Markus Zusak seem like one of YA's more meaningful story-tellers.
Ed Kennedy is a much-too-young cab driver whose aimless life is kicked into purposefulness when he starts receiving playing cards with cryptic messages. Each message suggests a mission, a quest for Ed to fulfill. Sometimes the "messages" are sweet enough to have been "Touched by An Angel" plotlines, (helping a priest regain his congregation); sometimes they put Ed in genuine danger, (saving a family from an abusive father). Who's behind the messages? We want to know, even though we are fully aware that answers only ruin mysteries. What matters is Ed's mature realization that who we are is determined by how we care for others. Fine YA novel, aim it at the static forehead of the nearest lazy teen's head and maybe they'll snap out of apathy.
Ed Kennedy is a much-too-young cab driver whose aimless life is kicked into purposefulness when he starts receiving playing cards with cryptic messages. Each message suggests a mission, a quest for Ed to fulfill. Sometimes the "messages" are sweet enough to have been "Touched by An Angel" plotlines, (helping a priest regain his congregation); sometimes they put Ed in genuine danger, (saving a family from an abusive father). Who's behind the messages? We want to know, even though we are fully aware that answers only ruin mysteries. What matters is Ed's mature realization that who we are is determined by how we care for others. Fine YA novel, aim it at the static forehead of the nearest lazy teen's head and maybe they'll snap out of apathy.
Christopher Nolan's "Inception"
"Inception" is basically more of "Shutter Island": a dour Leonardo Di Caprio is once again frowning his way through fantasies, tormented by a beautiful, ghostly wife. DiCaprio needs to be in a comedy pronto, but Ken Watanabe, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Cillian Murphy, Marion Cotillard and Ellen Page are personable enough to make up for the fact that their characters are as hazy as that dream I just had about the alien stewardess who was flying on her overly-concerned bulldog down I-95. "Inception" works superbly as a canny combination of Christopher Nolan's directorial twin peaks: the labyrinthine complexities of "Memento" + the ponderous action of "The Dark Knight."
Few movies can fold Paris upon itself, or stage gravity-free punching matches- but I needed more visions on that scale: "Inception" just wasn't DREAMY enough. Dreams (Freud be damned) rarely tell convenient emotional stories; their architectural floor plans are good for a second or two; TIME itself is absent from dreams, an unknowable stranger. The characters in "Inception" weren't dropped into dreams, they just descended into video game levels. All the same, I would say GO WATCH NOW if I wasn't convinced I was tardy to this party. GO WATCH NOW again? We can all probably use a second viewing.
Few movies can fold Paris upon itself, or stage gravity-free punching matches- but I needed more visions on that scale: "Inception" just wasn't DREAMY enough. Dreams (Freud be damned) rarely tell convenient emotional stories; their architectural floor plans are good for a second or two; TIME itself is absent from dreams, an unknowable stranger. The characters in "Inception" weren't dropped into dreams, they just descended into video game levels. All the same, I would say GO WATCH NOW if I wasn't convinced I was tardy to this party. GO WATCH NOW again? We can all probably use a second viewing.
"The Daily Show with Jon Stewart Presents: Earth (The Book)"
ABOVE: Wrong book cover, but who'll notice?
Part of my apprenticeship as a popular stand-up comedian involves stealing jokes from "Earth (The (Hilarious) Book)".
TYPICAL PRAYERS ACCORDING TO RELIGION:
Protestantism: "Thank you for making the restrictions on TARP money non-binding."
Catholicism: "Please, don't a-let them take-a my Johnny away! He's a-such a good boy! He would no-a steal a car like-a they say! Not-a my Johnny!"
Islam: "Please let me see a lawyer! I don't know why I'm here!"
Scientology: "Please, Ron, I really need this part, and also if you could help me be a little less gay, that would be great."
Wicca: "Goddess, please use your eternal powerness to make those bitches on the pep squad stop picking on me."
Buddhism: "..."
Judaism: "Please protect me from violent pogroms/ offensive stereotypes/ negative reviews of my new novel or Broadway show/ neglicence lawsuits from my podiatry practice."
Reform Judaism: "If I get out of here now I can make it home in time for 'Friday Night Lights'."
Sunday, December 26, 2010
And It's All for the Love of Thee
Natalie Merchant saw enough importance in "The House Carpenter," (the third song in Harry Smith's "Anthology of American Folk Music") to declare herself heir to the tradition it embodies in her own 2003 folk collection, "The House Carpenter's Daughter."
It is not as lurid a song as "Fatal Flower Garden"- at least not in the Appalachian version, stripped of all sorts of Satanic indications (the original name was "The Demon Lover"); instead it's a tale of marital transgressions. The most shocking thing is its "in media res" opening:
"Well met, well met, my own true love"
"Well met, well met," cried he
"I've just returned from the salt salt sea
And it's all for the love of thee"
A sailor returns home to find his sweetheart has re-evaluated her prospects and married a house carpenter. This irks him because, he claims, he refrained from marrying a King's daughter, and this all seems unfair. After some urgent pleading (and promises of silver and gold) the house carpenter's wife relents, abandons her little baby with kisses one two three, and ships away with the sailor, while the house carpenter is left to play with his wood all alone. But this Kate Chopin-esque act of femininist actualization does not go unpunished by the gods of balladry, and the ship sinks.
Merchant's entire album is worth seeking out. At the time I remember it feeling like a bid to kick away from her increasingly somniferous, "tasteful" adult contemporary phase in "Ophelia" and "Motherland"; an opportunistic leap into the "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" wagon of "old means hip." It's better than that.
It is not as lurid a song as "Fatal Flower Garden"- at least not in the Appalachian version, stripped of all sorts of Satanic indications (the original name was "The Demon Lover"); instead it's a tale of marital transgressions. The most shocking thing is its "in media res" opening:
"Well met, well met, my own true love"
"Well met, well met," cried he
"I've just returned from the salt salt sea
And it's all for the love of thee"
A sailor returns home to find his sweetheart has re-evaluated her prospects and married a house carpenter. This irks him because, he claims, he refrained from marrying a King's daughter, and this all seems unfair. After some urgent pleading (and promises of silver and gold) the house carpenter's wife relents, abandons her little baby with kisses one two three, and ships away with the sailor, while the house carpenter is left to play with his wood all alone. But this Kate Chopin-esque act of femininist actualization does not go unpunished by the gods of balladry, and the ship sinks.
Merchant's entire album is worth seeking out. At the time I remember it feeling like a bid to kick away from her increasingly somniferous, "tasteful" adult contemporary phase in "Ophelia" and "Motherland"; an opportunistic leap into the "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" wagon of "old means hip." It's better than that.
Joseph Kosinski's "TRON: Legacy"
When not busy tearing through the remake of "True Grit," Jeff Bridges can be found dispensing semi-Zen wisdom and explaining away the mythology of "TRON: Legacy." There was an underlying silliness to the original TRON, (a movie that is nowhere near as good as you remember it being), but this reboot is ponderous. Mythology is fun, if it pays for itself with a deep world. But the world of TRON is as flat as the killer frisbees the characters use for combat, for all that the 3-D effects are eye-popping, possibly besting the ones in "Avatar."
Bridges plays the creator of an arcade world populated by armies of "isos" (isomorphic algorhythms). His neglected son is played by a boring young actor named Garrett Hedlund who seems escaped from an internship in "One Tree Hill." This kid has inherited absolutely nothing of his father's brilliance: dad creates worlds, and the son spouts inanities. (There are plenty of "Damn, this world is WACK" lines, a lot of "Here we go again," and "Now THAT'S what I'm talking about" and "You've GOT to be kidding me!" This IS one of those sci-fi movies where weeks of thought are dedicated to room design, but not one minute is spent avoiding the cliches in the script.)
Anyway, in order for the son to "connect" with the father, first he must battle the evil Clu, a perfectionist program that is basically Jeff Bridges digitized back into youth. Why must we visit the uncanny valley and turn one of our best actors into a computer program? This is a movie that needs MORE human beings, not less. "TRON: Legacy" mostly gets its humanity from two actors: Michael Sheen doing as a futuristically flamboyant David Bowie thing (I may have incurred in redundancies); and hawt-e Olivia Wilde, sporting a slightly asymmetrical Louise Brooks haircut.
But no one comes here for characters or dialogue: it's about virtual lightcycles leaving wildly colored streaks in their wake before disintegration. In THAT sense, this is a smash of a movie, every bit as successful as the awesome Daft Punk soundtrack that will have robots shaking their shiny metal asses for a while.
Still not sure what a Tron is. I doubt it matters.
Bridges plays the creator of an arcade world populated by armies of "isos" (isomorphic algorhythms). His neglected son is played by a boring young actor named Garrett Hedlund who seems escaped from an internship in "One Tree Hill." This kid has inherited absolutely nothing of his father's brilliance: dad creates worlds, and the son spouts inanities. (There are plenty of "Damn, this world is WACK" lines, a lot of "Here we go again," and "Now THAT'S what I'm talking about" and "You've GOT to be kidding me!" This IS one of those sci-fi movies where weeks of thought are dedicated to room design, but not one minute is spent avoiding the cliches in the script.)
Anyway, in order for the son to "connect" with the father, first he must battle the evil Clu, a perfectionist program that is basically Jeff Bridges digitized back into youth. Why must we visit the uncanny valley and turn one of our best actors into a computer program? This is a movie that needs MORE human beings, not less. "TRON: Legacy" mostly gets its humanity from two actors: Michael Sheen doing as a futuristically flamboyant David Bowie thing (I may have incurred in redundancies); and hawt-e Olivia Wilde, sporting a slightly asymmetrical Louise Brooks haircut.
But no one comes here for characters or dialogue: it's about virtual lightcycles leaving wildly colored streaks in their wake before disintegration. In THAT sense, this is a smash of a movie, every bit as successful as the awesome Daft Punk soundtrack that will have robots shaking their shiny metal asses for a while.
Still not sure what a Tron is. I doubt it matters.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Henry Hathaway's "True Grit"
Dear Imaginary Reader:
Just saw "True Grit." Not the Coen Brother's version. The OLD "John-Wayne- is-gonna-die-anytime-now-so-we-need-to-give-him-a-frickin' Oscar already" version.
Rooster Cogburn. Cool stuff.
Rooster is an alcoholic mess who gathers up when it's time to serve justice, but let me tell you, whiskey and sniper eyes do not really go well together. He's hired by "tomboy" (the Western word for "lesbian") Mattie Ross (Kim Darby). SHE is the one who has true grit, of course; she gets all the men around her to behave the way they should, with honor and decency. Everything good a man did, it's because a woman pushed him to do it.
It's not as mythical as "The Searchers" or "Stagecoach" but this movie made me realize that Shia LaBeouf has been pulling one on us... I don't think ten people in the planet can pronounce his name right. John Wayne makes it clear that "LaBeouf" sounds like "LaBeef." As in Beef Steak. And is it Shi-A? Sheea? Shy-ah?
Just saw "True Grit." Not the Coen Brother's version. The OLD "John-Wayne- is-gonna-die-anytime-now-so-we-need-to-give-him-a-frickin' Oscar already" version.
Rooster Cogburn. Cool stuff.
Rooster is an alcoholic mess who gathers up when it's time to serve justice, but let me tell you, whiskey and sniper eyes do not really go well together. He's hired by "tomboy" (the Western word for "lesbian") Mattie Ross (Kim Darby). SHE is the one who has true grit, of course; she gets all the men around her to behave the way they should, with honor and decency. Everything good a man did, it's because a woman pushed him to do it.
It's not as mythical as "The Searchers" or "Stagecoach" but this movie made me realize that Shia LaBeouf has been pulling one on us... I don't think ten people in the planet can pronounce his name right. John Wayne makes it clear that "LaBeouf" sounds like "LaBeef." As in Beef Steak. And is it Shi-A? Sheea? Shy-ah?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Adam McKay's "The Other Guys"
This is the movie "Cop-Out" should have picked up on.
Will Ferrell has some fantastic riffs in Adam McKay's buddy cop send-up "The Other Guys." One in particular, about the odds in an escalating battle between tunas and lions, is priceless. Like most of the McKay/Ferrell movies ("Anchorman"-"Talladega Nights"-"Step Brothers") once you take away the quotable bits you've got absolutely nothing there- but then someone said the same thing about Shakespeare. The movie ends with a sour Rage Against the Machine cover of Dylan's "Maggie's Farm" that comes from left field and tries to inform about our "recent" (last two decades, really) financial stupidities, but it's unlikely to do anything other than make Joe Six-Pack frustrated about "Wall Street" fat cats- and then he'll turn around and vote for tax cuts for the fat cats. 'Cause, you know, economy is tricky and unstable and involves science and mathematics and there's too many factors for Joe Six-Pack to deal with. Anybody who's ever used the words "financial security" to you has been LYING. It's a little like saying: "This is a stabilized fire. We've got things under control. But, you know, it's still a fire."
So, yeah, funny movie. I hadn't noticed how wrinkly Michael Keaton has gotten!!! I'd missed the guy.
Will Ferrell has some fantastic riffs in Adam McKay's buddy cop send-up "The Other Guys." One in particular, about the odds in an escalating battle between tunas and lions, is priceless. Like most of the McKay/Ferrell movies ("Anchorman"-"Talladega Nights"-"Step Brothers") once you take away the quotable bits you've got absolutely nothing there- but then someone said the same thing about Shakespeare. The movie ends with a sour Rage Against the Machine cover of Dylan's "Maggie's Farm" that comes from left field and tries to inform about our "recent" (last two decades, really) financial stupidities, but it's unlikely to do anything other than make Joe Six-Pack frustrated about "Wall Street" fat cats- and then he'll turn around and vote for tax cuts for the fat cats. 'Cause, you know, economy is tricky and unstable and involves science and mathematics and there's too many factors for Joe Six-Pack to deal with. Anybody who's ever used the words "financial security" to you has been LYING. It's a little like saying: "This is a stabilized fire. We've got things under control. But, you know, it's still a fire."
So, yeah, funny movie. I hadn't noticed how wrinkly Michael Keaton has gotten!!! I'd missed the guy.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Miami Discount Strippers, and Other Geographical Aberrations
Let me share with you a little of my daily pain, via "Only in Miami." Did I tell you about Little Havana High School? It's located in a strip mall next to a massage parlor. It has a sign on its door pointing to its business rival, and it says: "Free G.E.D.s! Now THAT'S a happy ending you can actually afford!"
ONLY IN MIAMI, TRICK!
ONLY IN MIAMI, TRICK!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Woody Allen's "You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger"
Another fiscal year, another indifferent Woody Allen movie with a bunch of fine actors grappled together by their inability to make Woody Allen lines sound like actual human speech. The lines are not exactly terrible in "You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger" (one of his "latter, lesser movies," in the European mode to boot). But they're boring and in the mouths of the confused cast they transform into the kind of dialogue that suggests it's been years since Allen last talked to anyone but Soon-Yi and the relentless psychiatrist in his own head. I would put this one alongside "Melinda and Melinda," pleasant but boring, noting that Antonio Banderas, Josh Brolin, and Anthony Hopkins are all lost as Allen stand-ins, while Naomi Watts, Freida Pinto and Judy Punch give it their best. Punch in particular has fun as the gold-digging Charmaine, and steals the very little "show" there is by not giving a shit about Allen's script. Her character is written as a contemptible brain-dead monster- (you can tell because she likes television shows instead of going to the opera, and not just any regular television shows either, but SCIENCE FICTION shows, probably featuring some of that rock and roll "music"!)- but Punch just goes ahead and enjoys herself as a horny ladette.
David Sedaris' "Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary"
A sometimes charming, sometimes biting set of anthropomorphic fables, "Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk" has David Sedaris supplanting LaFontaine. His wry, acerbic, often depressing confrontations between pigs and snakes and rats and cows are not as people-pleasing as his former books, but if you like your humor dark and furry like a bear's carcass, they do illustrate a full spectrum of modern delusions in a less cumbersome manner than Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom" ("Freedom" has become for me the literary equivalent of Kanye West's album: everyone praises it as a given, but no one can tell you exactly what's so special about it.) The sarcastic, innocence-lost mood is enhanced by Ian Falconer's drawings. (Falconer does those "Olivia" books about a porcine ballerina.) This is a modest book, indeed, and kind of a downer, but some hard truths are better delivered by squirrels and chipmunks.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
CHAPTER 124: SMALL TALK
M. de Sartines (played by Roman Polanski) has felt the icy steel of a gun's barrel upon his forehead and thought: "Yeah, I totally had this coming."
"Allright," he says to Joseph Balsamo. "You win! You have a gun, but I thought I would be dealing with a gentleman and guns wouldn't be needed."
"Ouch," says Balsamo (Johnny Depp) and lowers the gun. "You don't have to get hurtful. I just want to make some small talk."
SARTINES: "I don't have much to say to a conspirator."
BALSAMO: "As a matter of fact, I came to DENOUNCE a conspiracy."
But, in all honesty, M. De Sartines isn't listening all that acutely. He's staring at the gun and thinking: "I've got minus 3 minutes, two minutes, one minute..."
B: "You are aware of my mission. I was sent to France as an ambassador, as an enquirer. And one of the subjects I am enquiring about is GRAIN."
The Minister of Police laughs a hypocritical laugh: "GRAIN? What do I care about grain?"
B: "As the rumor goes, some very smart people convinced his Majesty to construct granaries. HUGE granaries. And, since empty granaries are useless, those granaries were PACKED."
M. de Sartines does not yet see the point: "So who cares?"
B: "Well, to fill those granaries, grain and cereal had to be taken away from the people and put away. The rich folks who owned the granaries were making the prize of grain rise by withholdingn it from the market... and they were making people hungry!"
"WELL," coughs M. de Sartines, "supposing this crazy conspiracy theory had any truth to it, I don't think it would be any more harmful than telling the King that some Freemasons were conspiring against him."
B: "The difference is that the man who denounced the grain scam would be attacking a specific man, a corrupt man, say, a Minister of Police."
Sartines' wig is all lop-sided.
Balsamo insists:
"This Minister of Police is the man behind the shady grain deals, the one who's making the prize of cereal go up to enrich himself, the one who's making 27 million French people go hungry. Now, imagine if this comes out! The King will quickly let it be known he had nothing to do with this unfortunate event, and the Minister of Police would soon be hanging from the gallows."
Sartines blanches: "That would never happen to me. I am a man of exquisite taste, who wears the best wigs in the world."
B: "The gallows don't care about that. If you knew how many policemen I have seen fall from grace- why, I was there when Pontius Pilate got reprimanded for his dubious executions."
S: "Fine! You keep your evidence, whatever it is, and I keep your box full of mysterious papers."
B: "Awww, that's cute! You think you're keeping the box!"
S: "It slipped my mind that you're a thug. You're going to shoot me for the box?"
B: "I COULD, but won't it be much better when you just GIVE the box to me?"
"NEVER," says Sartines, and his hand presses down on the coffer. "The Devil itself wouldn't take this from me. You might as well go ahead and shoot."
Balsamo points the gun at the ceiling: "Actually, I'll wait until you've taken care of your visitor."
"My visitor?"
At that very moment the noise of a carriage on the courtyard outside announces that the Count de Fenix is right and someone is about to intrude upon the scene.
B: "I don't need the Devil to recover my papers. Like I said, you will simply hand them to my friend."
"Your friend..?"
M. de Sartines wavers between astonishment, fear of being shot, curiosity and protectiveness of his endangered wigs. A servant knocks on the door of the cabinet, and announces the arrival of none other than Madame Dubarry (Anne Hathaway). Joseph Balsamo conceals his little gun, but the smirk on his face grows ever more defiant.
The Countess Dubarry needs no introductions or permission to waltz into the cabinet. M. de Sartines clutches the box to his chest protectively as the beautiful lady smiles charmingly.
DUBARRY: "Sartines! Count de Fenix! I am glad I have two hands, so you may both kiss them." Balsamo gallantly kisses the white, unspoilt fingers of the King's mistress, and winks meaningfully at her as she says xcheerfully: "Oh! Sartines, you have protected my box for me!"
"YOUR box?" stammers the cop.
D: "And I see you have gone ahead and opened it. Leave it to a cop to have no idea of what privacy means. It's funny, the moment I lost it I said: 'I'm going to run to Sartines and he'll set his spies about and find the box,' but this is way above and way beyond of the call of duty. I am so thankful. Can I have it now?"
Sartines makes a very serious face, his eyes darting between Balsamo and the Countess. He grumbles: "Countess Dubarry, I think you are being used and manipulated by someone."
Dubarry turns to Balsamo and whispers: "I probably am. My dear magician, I made you a promise a long time ago that I would grant you any favor you wanted. Your servant gave me a note, and here I am, doing as I said. You're going to waste my favor on this?"
Balsamo whispers back: "Play right along." To Sartines, he says: "Madame Dubarry is right. The fact is the box is not mine but hers, and she gave it to me to guard a few days ago."
S: "Hers! A box full of conspiracies against the King!"
B: "We were talking about a conspiracy just a few minutes ago, a conspiracy involving grain. The point is, conspiracies are SO unpleasant to talk about, it's best not to. The Countess wants her box, and who can keep it from her?"
Madame Dubarry puts a finger on Sartines' nose, another on the box, and says: "Let me have it, dearie."
Sartines clenches his jaw: "Madame, this is all highly unusual."
There's a steely flash from Dubarry's eyes: "Are you refusing to hand over my property?"
Sartines' clenched jaw practically fractures with seriousness, but he lets the words creep out nonetheless as he extends the box towards Dubarry: "Fine, madame. How can I resist?"
D: "You can't and you won't. Dear Count de Fenix, would you be so kind as to carry my little lost box, and escort me out of this palace of crime?"
B: "It would be my pleasure, but first, dear madame, would you tell M. de Sartines how sad you- and the King- would be if I should have any run-ins with the law after tonight?"
D: "I would be very upset indeed! You hear, Sartines. The Count de Fenix is a beloved friend, and from now on he will get not so much as a parking ticket in French. Is that clear?"
Sartines smooths back his wig. To Balsamo's surprise, something even similar to a smile pops up on his face:
"Very well, you two, off you go! Take the box!" He mutters to himself: "You have the powerful friends, Count de Fenix, and you have your box. But me... I have your Italian wife!"
"Allright," he says to Joseph Balsamo. "You win! You have a gun, but I thought I would be dealing with a gentleman and guns wouldn't be needed."
"Ouch," says Balsamo (Johnny Depp) and lowers the gun. "You don't have to get hurtful. I just want to make some small talk."
SARTINES: "I don't have much to say to a conspirator."
BALSAMO: "As a matter of fact, I came to DENOUNCE a conspiracy."
But, in all honesty, M. De Sartines isn't listening all that acutely. He's staring at the gun and thinking: "I've got minus 3 minutes, two minutes, one minute..."
B: "You are aware of my mission. I was sent to France as an ambassador, as an enquirer. And one of the subjects I am enquiring about is GRAIN."
The Minister of Police laughs a hypocritical laugh: "GRAIN? What do I care about grain?"
B: "As the rumor goes, some very smart people convinced his Majesty to construct granaries. HUGE granaries. And, since empty granaries are useless, those granaries were PACKED."
M. de Sartines does not yet see the point: "So who cares?"
B: "Well, to fill those granaries, grain and cereal had to be taken away from the people and put away. The rich folks who owned the granaries were making the prize of grain rise by withholdingn it from the market... and they were making people hungry!"
"WELL," coughs M. de Sartines, "supposing this crazy conspiracy theory had any truth to it, I don't think it would be any more harmful than telling the King that some Freemasons were conspiring against him."
B: "The difference is that the man who denounced the grain scam would be attacking a specific man, a corrupt man, say, a Minister of Police."
Sartines' wig is all lop-sided.
Balsamo insists:
"This Minister of Police is the man behind the shady grain deals, the one who's making the prize of cereal go up to enrich himself, the one who's making 27 million French people go hungry. Now, imagine if this comes out! The King will quickly let it be known he had nothing to do with this unfortunate event, and the Minister of Police would soon be hanging from the gallows."
Sartines blanches: "That would never happen to me. I am a man of exquisite taste, who wears the best wigs in the world."
B: "The gallows don't care about that. If you knew how many policemen I have seen fall from grace- why, I was there when Pontius Pilate got reprimanded for his dubious executions."
S: "Fine! You keep your evidence, whatever it is, and I keep your box full of mysterious papers."
B: "Awww, that's cute! You think you're keeping the box!"
S: "It slipped my mind that you're a thug. You're going to shoot me for the box?"
B: "I COULD, but won't it be much better when you just GIVE the box to me?"
"NEVER," says Sartines, and his hand presses down on the coffer. "The Devil itself wouldn't take this from me. You might as well go ahead and shoot."
Balsamo points the gun at the ceiling: "Actually, I'll wait until you've taken care of your visitor."
"My visitor?"
At that very moment the noise of a carriage on the courtyard outside announces that the Count de Fenix is right and someone is about to intrude upon the scene.
B: "I don't need the Devil to recover my papers. Like I said, you will simply hand them to my friend."
"Your friend..?"
M. de Sartines wavers between astonishment, fear of being shot, curiosity and protectiveness of his endangered wigs. A servant knocks on the door of the cabinet, and announces the arrival of none other than Madame Dubarry (Anne Hathaway). Joseph Balsamo conceals his little gun, but the smirk on his face grows ever more defiant.
The Countess Dubarry needs no introductions or permission to waltz into the cabinet. M. de Sartines clutches the box to his chest protectively as the beautiful lady smiles charmingly.
DUBARRY: "Sartines! Count de Fenix! I am glad I have two hands, so you may both kiss them." Balsamo gallantly kisses the white, unspoilt fingers of the King's mistress, and winks meaningfully at her as she says xcheerfully: "Oh! Sartines, you have protected my box for me!"
"YOUR box?" stammers the cop.
D: "And I see you have gone ahead and opened it. Leave it to a cop to have no idea of what privacy means. It's funny, the moment I lost it I said: 'I'm going to run to Sartines and he'll set his spies about and find the box,' but this is way above and way beyond of the call of duty. I am so thankful. Can I have it now?"
Sartines makes a very serious face, his eyes darting between Balsamo and the Countess. He grumbles: "Countess Dubarry, I think you are being used and manipulated by someone."
Dubarry turns to Balsamo and whispers: "I probably am. My dear magician, I made you a promise a long time ago that I would grant you any favor you wanted. Your servant gave me a note, and here I am, doing as I said. You're going to waste my favor on this?"
Balsamo whispers back: "Play right along." To Sartines, he says: "Madame Dubarry is right. The fact is the box is not mine but hers, and she gave it to me to guard a few days ago."
S: "Hers! A box full of conspiracies against the King!"
B: "We were talking about a conspiracy just a few minutes ago, a conspiracy involving grain. The point is, conspiracies are SO unpleasant to talk about, it's best not to. The Countess wants her box, and who can keep it from her?"
Madame Dubarry puts a finger on Sartines' nose, another on the box, and says: "Let me have it, dearie."
Sartines clenches his jaw: "Madame, this is all highly unusual."
There's a steely flash from Dubarry's eyes: "Are you refusing to hand over my property?"
Sartines' clenched jaw practically fractures with seriousness, but he lets the words creep out nonetheless as he extends the box towards Dubarry: "Fine, madame. How can I resist?"
D: "You can't and you won't. Dear Count de Fenix, would you be so kind as to carry my little lost box, and escort me out of this palace of crime?"
B: "It would be my pleasure, but first, dear madame, would you tell M. de Sartines how sad you- and the King- would be if I should have any run-ins with the law after tonight?"
D: "I would be very upset indeed! You hear, Sartines. The Count de Fenix is a beloved friend, and from now on he will get not so much as a parking ticket in French. Is that clear?"
Sartines smooths back his wig. To Balsamo's surprise, something even similar to a smile pops up on his face:
"Very well, you two, off you go! Take the box!" He mutters to himself: "You have the powerful friends, Count de Fenix, and you have your box. But me... I have your Italian wife!"
Never Doing Math Again
Dear Imaginary Reader:
So I decided to get to the nitty gritty stats about my love life. According to the census, as of 2009 there were 433,136 people living in the city of Miami proper. Let's say half of those are women- 216,568 potential lovelies. Except NOT QUITE. I'm looking for someone around my age, +/- 5 years, so that cuts the number to 20% of 216,568. That's 43,314. Still decent. But there's a problem: I am NOT interested in Hispanic girls. Yes, sorry, sounds awful, but been there, done that chick, and they all end up calling you "papi." No no no, I don't need papi issues. But 70% of the population is Hispanic. So THAT takes me down to 12,995 girlies. Now let's suppose that, out of those, a third is married, a third is seeing someone, and a third is single. That takes me aaaaaall the way down to 4,331 potential future girlfriends. BUT out of the single ones, I gotta assume half are single due to a high unlikeability factor, so it's more like 2166. 2166 women around my age that are attractive enough, and single. WELL, my self-esteem is barely functional, so let's suppose that out of those attractive-enough girls, half is is waaaaaay too attractive to meddle with the likes of me. That's 1083 women that could possibly love me out there. BUT, and here my self-esteem rallies, I'm a fairly educated man, appreciative of the intellectual pleasures of life, so I want someone who doesn't think "US Weekly" is America's foremost literary publication. Let's face it, only about a third of those women would qualify.
That's 361 intelligent, attractive, single, non-Hispanic women around my own age.
BUT WAIT.
There's pretty much no way I would ever date a Republican.
SLASH THAT IN HALF.
180 women whose political views agree with mine.
Out of those, maybe a third lean too far left, though, and have twin Keith Olbermann/ Rachel Maddow tattoos, not to mention Che fetishes. Go back to China, ladies!
So 120 candidates.
Now, realistically, a third of these lefty-leaning attractive women probably party a little too much, and might have drug problems, which I REALLY don't need in my life. Those are out.
So 80 women.
Well, I hate to be a dick about it, but I don't see myself going out with someone who's overly religious, so chances are roughly another third just disappeared.
Let's say we're down to 50 women.
I'm gonna go ahead and make the safe bet that half of these educated intelligent women are total lesbos.
We're at 25, folks.
There's 25 women I could possibly date in Miami- might as well say the world because who cares if Miss Right lives in Okinawa?
Of those, I should be lucky if I ever so much as see 1.
...
Fuck, maybe I should go back on the "No Spick Chicks" rule.
So I decided to get to the nitty gritty stats about my love life. According to the census, as of 2009 there were 433,136 people living in the city of Miami proper. Let's say half of those are women- 216,568 potential lovelies. Except NOT QUITE. I'm looking for someone around my age, +/- 5 years, so that cuts the number to 20% of 216,568. That's 43,314. Still decent. But there's a problem: I am NOT interested in Hispanic girls. Yes, sorry, sounds awful, but been there, done that chick, and they all end up calling you "papi." No no no, I don't need papi issues. But 70% of the population is Hispanic. So THAT takes me down to 12,995 girlies. Now let's suppose that, out of those, a third is married, a third is seeing someone, and a third is single. That takes me aaaaaall the way down to 4,331 potential future girlfriends. BUT out of the single ones, I gotta assume half are single due to a high unlikeability factor, so it's more like 2166. 2166 women around my age that are attractive enough, and single. WELL, my self-esteem is barely functional, so let's suppose that out of those attractive-enough girls, half is is waaaaaay too attractive to meddle with the likes of me. That's 1083 women that could possibly love me out there. BUT, and here my self-esteem rallies, I'm a fairly educated man, appreciative of the intellectual pleasures of life, so I want someone who doesn't think "US Weekly" is America's foremost literary publication. Let's face it, only about a third of those women would qualify.
That's 361 intelligent, attractive, single, non-Hispanic women around my own age.
BUT WAIT.
There's pretty much no way I would ever date a Republican.
SLASH THAT IN HALF.
180 women whose political views agree with mine.
Out of those, maybe a third lean too far left, though, and have twin Keith Olbermann/ Rachel Maddow tattoos, not to mention Che fetishes. Go back to China, ladies!
So 120 candidates.
Now, realistically, a third of these lefty-leaning attractive women probably party a little too much, and might have drug problems, which I REALLY don't need in my life. Those are out.
So 80 women.
Well, I hate to be a dick about it, but I don't see myself going out with someone who's overly religious, so chances are roughly another third just disappeared.
Let's say we're down to 50 women.
I'm gonna go ahead and make the safe bet that half of these educated intelligent women are total lesbos.
We're at 25, folks.
There's 25 women I could possibly date in Miami- might as well say the world because who cares if Miss Right lives in Okinawa?
Of those, I should be lucky if I ever so much as see 1.
...
Fuck, maybe I should go back on the "No Spick Chicks" rule.
Kanye West's "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy"
Bon Iver is EVERYWHERE this year, but Kanye West's "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy" is the last place I would have looked.
The reviewer over at the Guardian made the mistake of admitting he didn't care that much for an album that's being Kan-onized as we speak, (get it?). Right away a commenting batallion mauled him to pieces- (how DARE he throw off that near-perfect Metacritic score?)- and less than two weeks later the Guardian decided that "MBDTF" is the second best album of the year. So I won't say what I REALLY think about Kanye (although that may involve the words "over" and "rated," get it?). All I will say is he has this regrettable tendency to make one of his little paranoid jokes and then ANNOUNCE he's made a joke. "I treat cash the way the government treats AIDS/ I won't be satisfied 'til all my niggas get it. GET IT?"
Isn't it ANNOYING when people do that?
Elsewhere he raps: "The day I get played, is the day MTV plays a music video." So I smile- and then Kanye informs me: "Haha, that's a little joke," and the charm goes right out of it. We know it's a joke, dude, but it's one that becomes significantly less funny when you have to explain it.
There are some ok lines throughout, (my favorite: "Face it, Jerome get more time than Brandon"), but I'm simply not hearing the masterpiece the rest of humanity is fawning over. It's all paranoid and oppressive, with its Black Sabbath and King Crimson samples, and the average song in the album runs 6 or 7 repetitive minutes, and feels double that long. There IS one monumental, propulsive track here, "Monster." But that only makes me want to go listen to Jay Z and Nicki Minaj, who completely DESTROY Kanye in their verses.
(Warning: rap song, don't be cranking it up at work, your neighbor next cubicle might not appreciate the exquisiteness of sentiments like: "I put the pussy in a sarcophagus/now she claiming I bruised her esophagus.")
Maybe this just isn't my shit. Maybe I show my age when I think back to the glory days of "College Dropout" and "Late Registration." Maybe Kanye needs to head in a new, less self-centered direction. Somewhere that's less West. GET IT?
SEEEEEEE, when you have to say "get it" it's because your joke SUXXXX!!!
The reviewer over at the Guardian made the mistake of admitting he didn't care that much for an album that's being Kan-onized as we speak, (get it?). Right away a commenting batallion mauled him to pieces- (how DARE he throw off that near-perfect Metacritic score?)- and less than two weeks later the Guardian decided that "MBDTF" is the second best album of the year. So I won't say what I REALLY think about Kanye (although that may involve the words "over" and "rated," get it?). All I will say is he has this regrettable tendency to make one of his little paranoid jokes and then ANNOUNCE he's made a joke. "I treat cash the way the government treats AIDS/ I won't be satisfied 'til all my niggas get it. GET IT?"
Isn't it ANNOYING when people do that?
Elsewhere he raps: "The day I get played, is the day MTV plays a music video." So I smile- and then Kanye informs me: "Haha, that's a little joke," and the charm goes right out of it. We know it's a joke, dude, but it's one that becomes significantly less funny when you have to explain it.
There are some ok lines throughout, (my favorite: "Face it, Jerome get more time than Brandon"), but I'm simply not hearing the masterpiece the rest of humanity is fawning over. It's all paranoid and oppressive, with its Black Sabbath and King Crimson samples, and the average song in the album runs 6 or 7 repetitive minutes, and feels double that long. There IS one monumental, propulsive track here, "Monster." But that only makes me want to go listen to Jay Z and Nicki Minaj, who completely DESTROY Kanye in their verses.
(Warning: rap song, don't be cranking it up at work, your neighbor next cubicle might not appreciate the exquisiteness of sentiments like: "I put the pussy in a sarcophagus/now she claiming I bruised her esophagus.")
Maybe this just isn't my shit. Maybe I show my age when I think back to the glory days of "College Dropout" and "Late Registration." Maybe Kanye needs to head in a new, less self-centered direction. Somewhere that's less West. GET IT?
SEEEEEEE, when you have to say "get it" it's because your joke SUXXXX!!!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Werner Herzog's "Aguirre, the Wrath of God"
The image that opens "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," Werner Herzog's 1972 tale of conquering madness, is a startling one for several reasons. Out of mists, an aggressively green mountain emerges. Vertically descending the mountain in disdain of gravity is a long, distant line of men. Then a foreground is revealed, and we see the vanguard of a (fictional) 16th century Spanish expedition searching for El Dorado in the jungles of Peru. The effect is mysterious, majestic, and both flat and 3 dimensional, which is appropriate for a movie that's mysterious, majestic, more linear than most, and yet suggestive of endless dimensions.
The story of "Aguirre" is simple: a group of explorers detach themselves from Francisco Pizarro's main forces and travel on a raft down the Amazon in the hopes of encountering untold riches. Instead they encounter hunger, floods, and frequent attacks from natives they can't even see, let alone hope to fight. It spoils little to say they don't encounter El Dorado. "Aguirre" carries the weight of history even if it is entirely fabricated, (if something like this didn't happen... how come it didn't?) It gains its authority from the fact that it FEELS like the actors and crew are being put through the wringer: If there was no such crazy trip in the 1500s, there sure was one in the 1970s.
The frenemity between Werner Herzog and his frequent leading man, Klaus Kinski, began here, in "Aguirre." Production of the film was fully as insane as the "Heart of Darkness" down-river journey it portrays, and Kinski was never one to submit to authority even under the best of conditions. Kinski plays Don Lope de Aguirre, a greedy conquistador who helms a mutinous expedition towards doom, his dreams expanding even as the reality of failure encroaches on him. In his autobiography, "Kinski Uncut," the actor berates Herzog at length, and depicts him as an incompetent, despotic clown telling a simple adventure story, which Kinski's acting rescues. In a way, it's hard to disagree. Without Kinski, the movie just drifts in nature; with him, his bulging hypnotized eyes and his stumbling gait, multiple meanings become possible.
Because Herzog is German, readings on the rise of Fascism are inevitable: Aguirre IS Hitler, first brushing aside the Weimar Republic, then surrendering to schemes ever more grandiose, until they pass from the realm of politics to the realm of stark, raving madness. Alone among corpses after all has crumbled, chattering at monkeys about his eternal empire, Aguirre in his raft might as well be Hitler in his bunker.
But "Aguirre" is just one of those stories about ANYTHING: the Vietnam War ("Apocalypse Now" owes a knowing debt); the Iraq War, (ANY war, really); the fall of Communism; the evils of Imperialism; the insignificance of humanity in nature; the insanity of the artist in his pursuit of Creation; a parable about your crazy uncle who won't admit he's wrong about his beloved baseball team. You can see all that and more here. And you SHOULD see it. GO WATCH NOW!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
And First Came out the Thick, Thick Blood
Second on Harry Smith's "Anthology of American Folk Music," (sung there by Nelstone's Hawaiians) "Fatal Flower Garden" has a particularly heinous history. A child lets his ball fall into the courtyard of a lady who lures him in, and, with all the gusto of a "Hostel" movie, goes to work on his little body:
She's led him in through a dark door,
And so has she through nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And sticked him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And then came out the thin;
And then came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was no more within.
She's rolled him in a cake o'lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's well
Was fifty fathom deep.
The version by Nelstone's Hawaiians is tame and made palatably vague. The culprit there is a "gypsy lady," but the older versions like "Little Sir Hugh" (#155 in Francis James Child's ballads) and "The Jew's Garden" peel away history's soothing layers of forgetfulness, until we arrive at the full-on gore of the original "Hugh Lincoln, or The Cruelty of the Jew's Daughter." A piece of Anti-semitic propaganda, the ballad is based on the real case of "Little Saint Hugh of Lincoln," a beatified boy whose abduction and murder evolved into the 13th century's equivalent of a media circus, (read: even MORE ignorant cackling than today.) Eventually a local Jew confessed to the murder under duress, and his trial transcripts include his "admission" that Jewish rituals involve the annual killing of a Christian child.
As you can imagine, a merry pogrom followed.
Chaucer alludes to the "Little Saint Hugh" incident and the subsequent "Blood Libel" in "The Prioress' Tale," with little sympathy for the "Chosen People." Tales of gruesome child abductions by gypsies, Jews, crazy unmarried women and other "weird folk" are awfully common in British literature. (There is one such in Charles Dickens' "Dombey and Son," as well as in George Eliot's "The Mill on the Floss," two books I'm reading now.)
That children have been easy prey for murderers throughout history need not be ignored- but neither should we forget that hysteria over isolated incidents is the perfect tool to direct the mob's hatred at entire groups. Using "Little Saint Hugh's" death as pretext, King Henry III arrested nearly 100 unsuspecting people of the Hebrew persuassion.
The real deal? He had just sold the right to tax the Jewish community to the Earl of Cornwall. But that only applied to LIVING people. If they were executed, their property and income would theoretically revert to the happy King. Someone on top always makes money out of keeping the masses angry and dumb.
In the former site of the shrine to Little Saint Hugh, the Anglican Church added a plaque in 1955 mourning the lives of innocent Jews who have been victims of religious and ethnic violence. The plaque ends with the lines:
"Lord, forgive what we have been,
Amend what we are,
And direct what we shall be."
Amen to that.
It rained, it poured, it rained so hard,
It rained so hard all day,
That all the boys in our school
Came out to toss and play.
They tossed their ball again so high,
Then again so low,
They tossed it into a flower garden
Where no one was allowed to go.
Up stepped this gypsy lady,
All dressed in yellow and green;
"Come in, come in, my pretty little boy,
And get your ball again,'
"I won't come in, I shan't come in,
Without my playmates all;
I'll go t'my father 'n tell him about it-
That'll cause tears to fall"
She first showed him an apple sweet
Then again a gold ring;
Then she showed him a diamond,
That enticed him in.
She took him by his lily-white hand,
She led him through the hall,
She put him into an upper room,
Where no one could hear him call.
"Oh, take these finger-rings off my fingers,
Smoke them with your breath;
If any of my friends should call for me,
Tell them that I'm at rest."
"Set the Bible at my head,
The Testament at my feet;
If my dear mother should call for me,
Tell her that I'm asleep."
"Set the Bible at my feet,
The Testament at my head;
If my dear father should call for me,
Tell him that I am dead."
"High School of the Dead"
Zombies and high school. Pretty straight ahead stuff.
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi. Can you blame a gal for some underage drinking?"
It's not quite "The Walking Dead," but Madhouse Studio's "High School of the Dead" eerily hits many of the same plot points, which goes to suggest how highly codified survival horror has become. "HOTD" combines your huddled zombie masses with high school drama, while serving ginormous dollops of fan service. You knew that zombies were slow and into brains and had to be shot in the head. Add to that the knowledge that they love to nibble on areas of high fatty-tissue concentration, such as an over-developed schoolgirl's bouncing breasts. Also, if you ARE a schoolgirl and a zombie punches you, this will invariably cause your plaid skirt to resent gravity and fly upwards, exposing panties made by Sanrio.
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi. I have lots of stress in the ass area."
Aside from offing a few characters that seemed untouchable members of the roster, "HOTD" has few surprises. But its overhyped, aggressive marketing in the U.S. should at least attract observers of the anime phenomenon. Once upon a time Japanese series would drift upon these shores months if not years after their initial success. "High School of the Dead" was simultaneously released, which meant we all assumed it was a hit before it had a chance to HIT anything.
It's sort of like that new rapper's debut single that's all like: "I sold 7 million copies! Or, you know, I hope I do eventually because otherwise I'll be found strangled with this very expensive solid gold medallion I unwisely purchased in advance without taking due notice of today's uncertain music market. Beeatch."
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi! And you know how scrubbing dishes relaxes me!"
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi. Can you blame a gal for some underage drinking?"
It's not quite "The Walking Dead," but Madhouse Studio's "High School of the Dead" eerily hits many of the same plot points, which goes to suggest how highly codified survival horror has become. "HOTD" combines your huddled zombie masses with high school drama, while serving ginormous dollops of fan service. You knew that zombies were slow and into brains and had to be shot in the head. Add to that the knowledge that they love to nibble on areas of high fatty-tissue concentration, such as an over-developed schoolgirl's bouncing breasts. Also, if you ARE a schoolgirl and a zombie punches you, this will invariably cause your plaid skirt to resent gravity and fly upwards, exposing panties made by Sanrio.
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi. I have lots of stress in the ass area."
Aside from offing a few characters that seemed untouchable members of the roster, "HOTD" has few surprises. But its overhyped, aggressive marketing in the U.S. should at least attract observers of the anime phenomenon. Once upon a time Japanese series would drift upon these shores months if not years after their initial success. "High School of the Dead" was simultaneously released, which meant we all assumed it was a hit before it had a chance to HIT anything.
It's sort of like that new rapper's debut single that's all like: "I sold 7 million copies! Or, you know, I hope I do eventually because otherwise I'll be found strangled with this very expensive solid gold medallion I unwisely purchased in advance without taking due notice of today's uncertain music market. Beeatch."
ABOVE: "Zombie apocalypses just make me so tense, Takashi! And you know how scrubbing dishes relaxes me!"
Monday, December 13, 2010
And the wind did roar, and the wind did moan...
ABOVE: One handsome gentleman.
A love betrayed, a last kiss, a passionate crime, a body down a well, a moaning wind, a little bird: "Henry Lee" is built out of the essentials of folk balladry. As the very first song in Harry Smith's "Anthology of American Folk Song," it might as well be a preview for all subsequent tracks. I am currently studying the "Anthology," and yes, unromantic as that may sound, it is a collection you study, absorb, make notes about, always appreciating its place as one of the most influential landmarks in the history of American recorded music. It is, in turn, a "child" to the Child ballads. (Ugh.) Those were collected by Francis James Child as "The English and Scottish Popular Ballads" between 1882 and 1898.
ABOVE: Another handsome gentleman.
Discovering copies of Child's volumes, dusty and unattended, in an unfrequented corner of my public library, was well worth the dirty fingernails and the frequent coughing inspired by the turning of its disintegrating pages. Here are the ballads online, but it's just not the same and I guarantee you won't feel the awed need to peruse them. HTML is never magical. Why are we allowing books to die?
In Child's collection you will find "Young Hunting," the original version of "Henry Lee." Here is a duet version with Nick Cave and P.J. Harvey, from Cave's "Murder Ballads" album.
ABOVE: The handsomest gentleman of them all.
NICK CAVE & PJ HARVEY - Henry Lee from Gerri Sferrazza on Vimeo.
I ask you, Dear Imaginary Reader: How can two people be so damned ugly and so damned sexy at the time?James Mangold's "Knight and Day"
An undeserving victim of the "Tom-Cruise's-religion-is-slightly-more-ridiculous-than-mine" backlash, "Knight and Day" is actually a fine, funny, breezy homage to Alfred Hitchcock's movies. Although few people noticed while they were hating on Tom's cocky grin. Of course, it's the same grin that kept critics and audiences loving him through the 80s and 90s, (accompanied by the same Ray-Bans, too) but now it feels a little wrong, a madman's misplaced confidence in our love.
It doesn't help that he's paired with Cameron Diaz, an actress who's quite incapable of playing anyone BUT Cameron Diaz, a role that isn't all that compelling. At no point in "Knight and Day" do we forget we're seeing Tommy and Cammy, and so at no point do we worry about whether those bullets flying around and frequent explosive flares may actually hurt anyone. There's nothing of importance at stake here-
But that is exactly what made "Knight and Day" such an unexpected delight. It's not really a thriller, (and so I'll refrain from describing the already-forgotten nonsense plot, something about spies and the FBI and triple twists and double crossings). This is a throwback to something like "To Catch a Thief," meant to make you realize Cruise has never been too far from Cary Grant, really, down to the gay rumors. Diaz is a poor Grace Kelly, but our current icy princess is Nicole Kidman, and THAT wasn't going to happen. The McGuffin may be technologically updated, but watching this movie makes you aware of the fat shadow Hitchcock cast in movies. "North and Northwest," "Vertigo," "Strangers in a Train"- all of "Knight and Day"'s storyboards are borrowed, but not stolen. Older- or nerdier- audiences are meant to catch the references and chuckle knowingly.
Director James Mangold ("Copland", "Walk the Line") is a sell-out, career wise. But if sell-outs are what it takes to infuse Hollywood action movies with this kind of verbal and visual wit, we might as well submit. If you do eventually catch "Knight and Day," just mentally replace Cruise and Diaz with less showy people, (say, Mark Wahlberg and Zooey Deschannel), and you might start seeing it as the most underrated movie of the year. Not GREAT - don't go around misquotin' me- just very underrated.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Personal
I wanted to note that one of my dearest friends got married last night. (Or, really, two of my dearest friends!)
It was a pretty crunkin' good time.
And a beautiful event.
I was NOT crying at the ceremony, that was tequila spilling down my cheeks.
Oh, yeah, I totally stole a tequila bottle from the bar.
Sorry, guys, it was that or the raccoons were going to get it. If either of you is reading this from the hotel room: why would you be doing that? Go back to bed and have sex! I command you!
*HUGSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS*
It was a pretty crunkin' good time.
And a beautiful event.
I was NOT crying at the ceremony, that was tequila spilling down my cheeks.
Oh, yeah, I totally stole a tequila bottle from the bar.
Sorry, guys, it was that or the raccoons were going to get it. If either of you is reading this from the hotel room: why would you be doing that? Go back to bed and have sex! I command you!
*HUGSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS*
Friday, December 10, 2010
This has been on my conscience for years...
In light of recent catastrophic events, I feel a surge of Augustinian shame, and I have to make a confession: I totally faked my review of the Martin Lawrence historical satire, "Black Knight," for my college newspaper.
I did not actually watch the film, but still I unethically proceeded to describe its plot from press releases and trailers; worse, I boldly surmised that it wasn't of any particular cinematic worth, possibly wounding the sentiments of Mr. Lawrence in the process. My then-editor, perhaps noticing the scarcity of specifics in the review, went so far as to ask: "Did you really go see that?" My tell-tale heart was beating- I hadn't. The pressures of deadlines, the need to keep up with the ever shifting miasma of pop culture ephemera- why look for something to blame? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
Oh, the review was spot on anyway- but I knew the dark secret: I had not seen "Black Knight."
Dear Imaginary Reader: I am a changed man now. I would never betray your trust like that.
Now I tell you outfront I don't watch the movies I review. Seriously, who has time to watch all that shit?
I did not actually watch the film, but still I unethically proceeded to describe its plot from press releases and trailers; worse, I boldly surmised that it wasn't of any particular cinematic worth, possibly wounding the sentiments of Mr. Lawrence in the process. My then-editor, perhaps noticing the scarcity of specifics in the review, went so far as to ask: "Did you really go see that?" My tell-tale heart was beating- I hadn't. The pressures of deadlines, the need to keep up with the ever shifting miasma of pop culture ephemera- why look for something to blame? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
Oh, the review was spot on anyway- but I knew the dark secret: I had not seen "Black Knight."
Dear Imaginary Reader: I am a changed man now. I would never betray your trust like that.
Now I tell you outfront I don't watch the movies I review. Seriously, who has time to watch all that shit?
Sight UnSCENE! Weekend of December 10
"The Black Swan"- Darren Aronofsky is back to the mathematical games of "Pi," this time by having the camera follow Natalie Portman as she reads us selected passages from "The Black Swan," the influential treatise on the randomness of economics by Nassim Nicholas Taleb. Portman's enunciation and diction throughout are a revelation, and she turns the pages without licking her fingers, the way some old creepy people tend to do for inexplicable reasons. VERDICT: Economics and heart-wrenching scenes of double-dildo humiliation? Count me in!
"The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader"- If you want epic battles, go with the "Lord of the Rings" movies; if you want escapist fantasy go with the "Harry Potter" movies; if you want sexually-conflicted Christian messages go with the "Twilight" movies; if you want to put your kids to sleep go with the "Narnia" movies. VERDICT: They're kind of, like, BORING, aren't they?
"The Fighter"- Christian Bale lost 75 pounds and three teeth to fully inhabit the character of an actor who's completely lost his sense of humor. VERDICT: Marky Mark is in it. He's, like, a good actor, man. That's just so amazing to me.
"The Tourist"- Angelina Jolie! Johnny Depp! Beautiful people doing dangerous things in luxurious settings! Cool, distant, uninvolving thrills all the way! VERDICT: These kind of movies make me feel like I'm being stopped by a bouncer outside of lives that are better than mine.
"Tron: Legacy"- Remember how "Tron" seemed awesome because you were an incredibly stupid 8 year old and practically everything blew your raisinet mind but when you rewatched it you realized it's not that good at all? Now you're being tricked by your nostalgia into dragging your incredibly stupid 8 year old kid and HIS little raisinet mind will be blown, and the circle of life goes on. VERDICT: Lega-DON'T-see-it.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Chris Renaud and Pierre Coffin's "Despicable Me"
Emotionally similar to "Megamind," "Despicable Me" also follows a supervillain whose surly, defensive attitude toward the world is transformed by the arrival of love. "Despicable Me" is targeted at a younger crowd than "Megamind," though, so love does not come in the form of a sexy reporter but in the guise of three orphan girls: responsible Margo (voiced by Miranda Cosgrove from "ICarly"), distrustful Edith, and unicorn-crazy Agnes.
Margo, Edith and Agnes are used by Gru (Steve Carell)- a bald, Baltic-accented supervillain with a pronounced, penguin-like proboscis- as part of his plan to regain top dog status in the supervillain community. An upstart dolt called Vector (Jason Segel) has stolen the pyramid of Giza, and so Gru has decided to steal the Moon. The specifics of the convoluted plan do not matter: what matters is the bond that develops between reluctant Gru and the girls who trap him into something like family life.
There isn't much new in the movie. A framed inspirational poster in the wall of every Hollywood hack reads: "FAMILY: Will Dad/Mom selfishly take care of his/her career, or will he/she attend the ballet recital/ softball game/Christmas pageant?" "Despicable Me" certainly puts that to good use. But its 3-D is creative; the cute moments at least effective; the caplet-shaped yellow minions less annoying than they threaten to be; the topical, suck-up references (to Steve Jobs and NBC) limited; and its soundtrack, except for a couple of inescapable descents into pop familiarity, better than the norm. (Credit Pharrel Williams and the Neptunes for some breezy, hip, playful tunes.)
Margo, Edith and Agnes are used by Gru (Steve Carell)- a bald, Baltic-accented supervillain with a pronounced, penguin-like proboscis- as part of his plan to regain top dog status in the supervillain community. An upstart dolt called Vector (Jason Segel) has stolen the pyramid of Giza, and so Gru has decided to steal the Moon. The specifics of the convoluted plan do not matter: what matters is the bond that develops between reluctant Gru and the girls who trap him into something like family life.
There isn't much new in the movie. A framed inspirational poster in the wall of every Hollywood hack reads: "FAMILY: Will Dad/Mom selfishly take care of his/her career, or will he/she attend the ballet recital/ softball game/Christmas pageant?" "Despicable Me" certainly puts that to good use. But its 3-D is creative; the cute moments at least effective; the caplet-shaped yellow minions less annoying than they threaten to be; the topical, suck-up references (to Steve Jobs and NBC) limited; and its soundtrack, except for a couple of inescapable descents into pop familiarity, better than the norm. (Credit Pharrel Williams and the Neptunes for some breezy, hip, playful tunes.)
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
"The Venture Bros" Season 1
And there's a character called Doctor Orpheus in "The Venture Bros"!
ABOVE: "I will make my dorkiness disappear! Oh, NO, the spell has backfired!"
But then there's pretty much everything in "The Venture Bros.," a wickedly unrelenting animated satire full of allusions to David Bowie, Scooby Doo, Marvel and DC Comics, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sylvester Stallone movies, Walt Disney, and, why not? Depeche Mode.
The starting point of reference is "Johnny Quest," but the show can't be pinned as parody. If anything, it achieves the comedic triumph of feeling like it's parodying something, but you don't know exactly WHAT. Dr. Thaddeus "Rusty" Venture (voice by James Urbaniak, from Hal Hartley's "Henry Fool") is a goateed inventor who wrestles with his neurotic self-obsessions and his two moronically wholesome sons, Hank and Dean- the titular brothers. Dr. Venture has his back otherwise covered: by a beeping robot H.E.L.P.er, (played, the credits remind us in every episode, by ANOTHER robot called Soulbot); by action man Brock Samson (Patrick Warburton, Puddy from "Seinfeld"); and by ocassional allies like his neighbor Dr. Orpheus, Orpheus' Gothically aloof daughter Triana, and the cosplay-ready heroine Molotov Cocktease.
ABOVE: ...
Aside from Dr. Venture's hubris, nemeses include the Dr. Doom-ish Baron Underbheit, Phantom Limb, and the butterfly-themed Monarch, whose girlfriend, (named Doctor Girlfriend) dresses like Jackie O. but sounds like Harvey Fierstein.
I didn't really "get" the show upon its 2004 premiere. Like most "Adult Swim" fare, its humor can seem hermetic at first, drawing more "WTFs" than actual chuckles, but watching a few episodes and absorbing their patterns should be enough to suck you in. Imagine if the absurdities of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" or "Sealab 2021" had been there to further actual plots- unconventional, even ANTI-conventional plots, but plots all the same.
ABOVE: The Monarch and Doctor Girlfriend are so happy now, but when they wake up with a hangover they'll desperately search the Internet trying to make this picture disappear.
Oh, here's the Depeche Mode moment for ya:
Dr. Girlfriend: Sweetie, isn't that the guy from Depeche Mode?
The Monarch: Oh, no way! Where? Holy crap, he's with a girl?!?
Dr. Girlfriend: Oh yeah, that guy is totally straight. I saw a whole thing about him on the VH1.
The Monarch: But he's the guy from Depeche Mode! It's impossible!
Dr. Girlfriend: Straight.
The Monarch: Come on! He's in Depeche Mode!
I was just as surprised. One learns so much from cartoons.
ABOVE: "I will make my dorkiness disappear! Oh, NO, the spell has backfired!"
But then there's pretty much everything in "The Venture Bros.," a wickedly unrelenting animated satire full of allusions to David Bowie, Scooby Doo, Marvel and DC Comics, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sylvester Stallone movies, Walt Disney, and, why not? Depeche Mode.
The starting point of reference is "Johnny Quest," but the show can't be pinned as parody. If anything, it achieves the comedic triumph of feeling like it's parodying something, but you don't know exactly WHAT. Dr. Thaddeus "Rusty" Venture (voice by James Urbaniak, from Hal Hartley's "Henry Fool") is a goateed inventor who wrestles with his neurotic self-obsessions and his two moronically wholesome sons, Hank and Dean- the titular brothers. Dr. Venture has his back otherwise covered: by a beeping robot H.E.L.P.er, (played, the credits remind us in every episode, by ANOTHER robot called Soulbot); by action man Brock Samson (Patrick Warburton, Puddy from "Seinfeld"); and by ocassional allies like his neighbor Dr. Orpheus, Orpheus' Gothically aloof daughter Triana, and the cosplay-ready heroine Molotov Cocktease.
ABOVE: ...
Aside from Dr. Venture's hubris, nemeses include the Dr. Doom-ish Baron Underbheit, Phantom Limb, and the butterfly-themed Monarch, whose girlfriend, (named Doctor Girlfriend) dresses like Jackie O. but sounds like Harvey Fierstein.
I didn't really "get" the show upon its 2004 premiere. Like most "Adult Swim" fare, its humor can seem hermetic at first, drawing more "WTFs" than actual chuckles, but watching a few episodes and absorbing their patterns should be enough to suck you in. Imagine if the absurdities of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" or "Sealab 2021" had been there to further actual plots- unconventional, even ANTI-conventional plots, but plots all the same.
ABOVE: The Monarch and Doctor Girlfriend are so happy now, but when they wake up with a hangover they'll desperately search the Internet trying to make this picture disappear.
Oh, here's the Depeche Mode moment for ya:
Dr. Girlfriend: Sweetie, isn't that the guy from Depeche Mode?
The Monarch: Oh, no way! Where? Holy crap, he's with a girl?!?
Dr. Girlfriend: Oh yeah, that guy is totally straight. I saw a whole thing about him on the VH1.
The Monarch: But he's the guy from Depeche Mode! It's impossible!
Dr. Girlfriend: Straight.
The Monarch: Come on! He's in Depeche Mode!
I was just as surprised. One learns so much from cartoons.
Alex Ross' "Listen to This"
The story starts with the Chacona, a hypnotic South American dance that crossed the Atlantic in the middle of the 16th century, infected Spain, burst upon the Italian scene in the 1560s, and impressed Claudio Monteverdi, who slowed the Chacona to create the "lamentos" of "L'Orfeo," with their descending bass lines that, on a cerebral level, symbolize Orpheus' downwards trip to Hades, and primally mimick the sounds of human sadness. (SOB sob sob. SOB sob sob.) Inspired by Monteverdi, Johan Sebastian Bach wrote the Chacona in D Minor in 1685, and lamentos followed aplenty; the homesick Chacona crossed the Atlantic, back to the Americas, snuck into the walking blues, then Orpheus' disguised cries took over Duke Ellington's orchestra, and there they are, all over the bass playing of Led Zeppelin's John Paul Jones.
It takes a very special type of scholarship to convincingly argue that "Babe, I'm Gonna Quit You" is Monteverdi's responsibility, but Alex Ross, the classical music reviever for "The New Yorker," is up to the task. "Chacona, Lamento, Walking Blues" is one of the wide-ranging essays in the collection "Listen to This."
Due no doubt to feedback similar to mine, "Listen to This" corrects one problem of Ross' influential survey of 20th century classical music, "The Rest is Noise." Ross now offers samples of the music he's describing on his website so that the "culturally aware non-attender" might become more engaged. As always I'm left wanting to know more about music: Ross' enthusiasm makes musical literacy matter, whether he's following the fortunes of a small string quartet, embedding himself with Bjork during the recording of "Medulla," even handedly discussing Mozart's exaggerated myths or Schubert's alleged homosexuality, observing the effects of No Child Left Behind in inner city schools, fretting about how Western classical has found new life in China, or cluelessly trying to figure out what those wacky kids from Radiohead are all about. I bet Ross is the first journalist that ever pointed to Thom Yorke that he tends to do some complex manoeuver that involves "pivoting chords"; delighted at being found out, Yorke admits it's the only classical music trick he knows.
Ross is more at ease when dealing with the past than the present, though. It's a little bizarre for me, a listen-to-this-AND-that kind of boy, to adjust to his old-fashioned "invention of the gramophone" worldview, in which music is divided in only two categories: classical and "pop music." "Pop," in Ross' eyes, is the quirky upstart that is not altogether unpalatable, once you get used to it. "Pop" includes, in one undifferentiated bin, the likes of Sonic Youth, The Beatles, Wu Tang Clan, Katy Perry, Pere Ubu, and Bob Dylan.
"Listen to This" contains an essay on Dylan, called "I Saw the Light," that after familiar biographical highlights, (the ones "I'm Not There" dutifully runs through) finds Ross approaching the music itself in ways Dylanophiles (intent on lyrical interpretation) seldom do.
According to Ross, he has only recently "gotten into Dylan" (in the late '90s, circa "Time Out of Mind.") I suppose, as far as his timeline goes, so have I. The first Dylan song I'm aware of listening to was "The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest" about 9 years ago as part of a "Writing About Rock" class. I was blown away by a story that said nothing and everything and in particular by Dylan's enunciation of a word:
"That's not a house, that's a HOME."
MY GOD! That really kicked in some doors in my head, in Bruce Springsteen's famous line: here was someone who could have a shitty voice like his, and could write a plain-bordering-on-dumb line like that, and yet somehow expectorate the word "home" in such a way that you couldn't help but picture a brothel in the underworld. I ran home and Napstered the hell out of Bob Dylan's catalogue. (I also dropped the "Writing About Rock" class straightaway. Who needed that when you had Dylan? Short sighted of me: now you see why my music reviews blow. In the wind.)
Ross' essay is good (describing latter-day Dylan as "a lopsided owl" is GOLD and very accurate), but the critic surrenders to these pervading views on Dylan's lyrics being either intricate cryptograms or meaningless rhyme-a-thons, neither of which is wholly correct. For instance, watch Ross pretty much throw his hands up in the air at the description "my warehouse eyes" in "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." "Who knows what THAT means," he despairs.
That's not even trying. There are many mysterious/meaningless Bob Dylan moments, some in that very same song, but "my warehouse eyes" ain't one of them. It just means eyes that have been packed with the things he's seen. Fairly non-trippy stuff.
...
This lovely chat may have digressed more than intended. My point: Alex Ross. "Listen to This." Go read that.
It takes a very special type of scholarship to convincingly argue that "Babe, I'm Gonna Quit You" is Monteverdi's responsibility, but Alex Ross, the classical music reviever for "The New Yorker," is up to the task. "Chacona, Lamento, Walking Blues" is one of the wide-ranging essays in the collection "Listen to This."
Due no doubt to feedback similar to mine, "Listen to This" corrects one problem of Ross' influential survey of 20th century classical music, "The Rest is Noise." Ross now offers samples of the music he's describing on his website so that the "culturally aware non-attender" might become more engaged. As always I'm left wanting to know more about music: Ross' enthusiasm makes musical literacy matter, whether he's following the fortunes of a small string quartet, embedding himself with Bjork during the recording of "Medulla," even handedly discussing Mozart's exaggerated myths or Schubert's alleged homosexuality, observing the effects of No Child Left Behind in inner city schools, fretting about how Western classical has found new life in China, or cluelessly trying to figure out what those wacky kids from Radiohead are all about. I bet Ross is the first journalist that ever pointed to Thom Yorke that he tends to do some complex manoeuver that involves "pivoting chords"; delighted at being found out, Yorke admits it's the only classical music trick he knows.
Ross is more at ease when dealing with the past than the present, though. It's a little bizarre for me, a listen-to-this-AND-that kind of boy, to adjust to his old-fashioned "invention of the gramophone" worldview, in which music is divided in only two categories: classical and "pop music." "Pop," in Ross' eyes, is the quirky upstart that is not altogether unpalatable, once you get used to it. "Pop" includes, in one undifferentiated bin, the likes of Sonic Youth, The Beatles, Wu Tang Clan, Katy Perry, Pere Ubu, and Bob Dylan.
"Listen to This" contains an essay on Dylan, called "I Saw the Light," that after familiar biographical highlights, (the ones "I'm Not There" dutifully runs through) finds Ross approaching the music itself in ways Dylanophiles (intent on lyrical interpretation) seldom do.
According to Ross, he has only recently "gotten into Dylan" (in the late '90s, circa "Time Out of Mind.") I suppose, as far as his timeline goes, so have I. The first Dylan song I'm aware of listening to was "The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest" about 9 years ago as part of a "Writing About Rock" class. I was blown away by a story that said nothing and everything and in particular by Dylan's enunciation of a word:
"That's not a house, that's a HOME."
MY GOD! That really kicked in some doors in my head, in Bruce Springsteen's famous line: here was someone who could have a shitty voice like his, and could write a plain-bordering-on-dumb line like that, and yet somehow expectorate the word "home" in such a way that you couldn't help but picture a brothel in the underworld. I ran home and Napstered the hell out of Bob Dylan's catalogue. (I also dropped the "Writing About Rock" class straightaway. Who needed that when you had Dylan? Short sighted of me: now you see why my music reviews blow. In the wind.)
Ross' essay is good (describing latter-day Dylan as "a lopsided owl" is GOLD and very accurate), but the critic surrenders to these pervading views on Dylan's lyrics being either intricate cryptograms or meaningless rhyme-a-thons, neither of which is wholly correct. For instance, watch Ross pretty much throw his hands up in the air at the description "my warehouse eyes" in "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." "Who knows what THAT means," he despairs.
That's not even trying. There are many mysterious/meaningless Bob Dylan moments, some in that very same song, but "my warehouse eyes" ain't one of them. It just means eyes that have been packed with the things he's seen. Fairly non-trippy stuff.
...
This lovely chat may have digressed more than intended. My point: Alex Ross. "Listen to This." Go read that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
