I never saw the original 1969 adaptation of True Grit. I have had plans to go with some friends to see the 2010 remake by the Coen Brothers for a few weeks, so I had time if I had wanted to investigate. However, not having come by the original naturally, I wanted to see the new movie on its own terms. Whenever I read (or re-read) a book in anticipation of its cinematic adaptation, I start to demand things emotionally from it before it even starts.
With that said, I researched the tale after viewing the movie for this review. Obvious differences were drawn between the 1969 and 2010 movies, but what I found interesting is how people said much of the dialogue was taken from the 1968 book by Charles Portis. To me, and my friends, the dialogue was hilarious in typical Coen Brothers fashion: meant to make the audience, but never the characters, laugh uproariously. Part of it was simply sentence structure and the face of absurdity. But such humour was tempered by so many stark shots of shot and mangled corpses. It is often gallows humour and its finest, and once during True Grit, humour is literally spouted from on a gallows.I’d mislead to say this is a comedy, however. It’s a violent tale of revenge, narrated by a woman who has no time for foolishness. But all the characters are often foolish just the same.
The thing that most irked me about the movie is the credits on the poster: Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Josh Brolin. Josh Brolin? He’s can’t be in the film for more than twenty minutes! His name must be on the poster as a favor from the Coens for his role as Llewelyn Moss in No Country for Old Men, because I have never heard Brolin’s name sway anybody to see a movie. The name that should be in his place is Hailee Steinfeld, a 14 year-old actress who I had never heard of before, but I want to hear more about in the future. Her delivery of dialogue projects much more of a maturity than I would have expected. The film is solidly centered on her character, Mattie Ross.
Briefly, this is the plot: Ross, a 14 year-old girl arrives in Fort Smith, Arkansas, to settle the affairs of her father, who was murdered by the dastardly Tom Chaney. She hires the gruff Rooster Cogburn (Bridges) to track him through the Indian Territory to capture him and bring him to justice. An officious Texas Ranger named La Boeuf (pronounced “Le Beef” by Bridges), who is also seeking Chaney for a reward on his head because of his murder of a Texas senator. Despite squabbling within their group, and the foibles of each painfully on display, they all prove their “true grit” by the end of the movie.
Another thing Coen Brothers trademark on this movie is a palette of neutral colors, used masterfully. You can kind of tell how dirty and awful everything is—from Rooster’s hygiene to the dusty plains of Oklahoma—without being grossed out or distracted by it. Even when I’m not crazy about their films, I usually admire their cinematography.
Ultimately, if it isn’t obvious, I liked the film a lot and would recommend this to anybody old enough to see it. It’s definitely one of my top five movies of the whole year. It’s not a heady or intellectual film, but you’ll be required to be on your toes if you want to truly appreciate its presentation.
True Grit is rated PG-13 for some intense sequences of western violence including disturbing images.
December 30, 2010
October 2, 2010
The Social Network
2010 seems to be an absolutely brutal year for filmmaking so far. I mean, people may have been making great movies, but I personally have not been seeing them. Even in that context, The Social Network is—at early October—my favorite movie of the year by a wide margin.
It’s a brilliant piece of filmmaking, with two narrative strands working on separate but complementary levels: one is about the development of Facebook, and the other is a high-stakes but ultimately familiar-feeling tale of social and business intrigue. The Facebook thread details the masterful sociological planning of how Facebook became so big (and important enough to make a movie about). The second is a well-crafted coming-of-age tale of Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg), made unusual mostly by the fact he becomes an internet billionaire.
The one thing I caution that would absolutely cripple your enjoyment of this movie is by too-earnestly ruminating about the historical accuracy of the second narrative strand. Does Erica Albright (Rooney Mara), the girl whose initial rejection of Zuckerberg is a catalyst for the movie’s events, even exist? Who cares? The only person to whom the verisimilitude of the character of Mark to the actual person of Zuckerberg is Mark Zuckerberg. The value of Citizen Kane (although I’m not comparing the two movies further than this metaphor) is not affected by how much Charles Foster Kane mirrored William Randolph Hearst. The Social Network is a feature, not a documentary. But it does highlight some fascinating points about Facebook, which has integrated itself into the daily lives of many. Many details are probably altered, but something along these lines probably happened, because the products of the characters’ actions came into being.
Although I heard some time ago the film derisively described as Facebook: The Movie, that’s precisely what (half of) it is. Facebook, I think it’s fair to say, is no longer very cool. That is to say, it’s not cool like e-mail isn’t cool. How cool it is doesn’t factor into its current importance as much as how essential it has become. Sean Parker (Justin Timberlake), the founder of Napster and impish and manipulative mentor to Mark in the film, gleefully declares, “We used to live in villages. Then we moved to cities. Now we live on the internet!” Although the movie mostly infers (rather than refers to) this, Facebook became pragmatic and necessary only after it became humongous by being cool. And, I must admit, there is a small, cheap thrill in being one of the background cast of thousands who sign up and spend their time on Facebook during the recognizable chronology of the movie.
That’s the brains of the movie. Its heart is the story of Mark Zuckerberg (i.e. the character, and not the actual person). The narrative is set up within the context of dual lawsuits against Mark by his former best friend and business partner Eduardo and two Harvard gentlemen-jocks, the Winklevoss twins (both played by Andrew Garfield), who contributed a key idea to Facebook’s formation. The lawsuits are clearly only storytelling devices by the end of the movie, because the outcomes ultimately prove inconsequential to Zuckerberg. Their unimportance may seem bothersome at first, but ultimately their superfluousness is itself superfluous. The personal narrative strand of the story is complete, and the story of Mark’s relationship to Eduardo has reached its conclusion.
Mark gradually cuts Eduardo out of the business, but not unreasonably. Eduardo’s ideas about Facebook as a business model are old-fashioned and ultimately incorrect, but his dealings are always motivated by earnestness and loyalty to Mark as a friend. Mark is not portrayed by The Social Network as a villain (or as exactly an asshole, which is more to the point in the twenty-something target demographic), but as driven by his big ideas and ambivalent to ethics and ideals. He can’t reign in his self-absorption to save his relationships with Erica or Eduardo, but is deeply hurt by their inevitable rejection of him. Whereas Mark is a genius in figuring out people on a macro scale, his is hopeless at the interpersonal level. He’d almost be a tragic figure, if not for the billions of dollars and untold cultural power.
With so much substance to The Social Network, the movie gains an almost subliminal quality by how stylish it is. It’s occasionally sexy without being too explicit, and often hilarious without ever asking for the laughs. The story moves much too fast for moody ruminations, but it sneaks in moments of atmosphere. I specifically remember how the film evokes the lonely a college campus can become as Mark runs past the elegant Harvard buildings to his dorm after his break-up with Erica. The ubiquity of the programmers’ presence emphasizes how much work the the technical logistics were without taking a boring detour to focus on them. I can’t tell whether the ending is brilliant or just too on-the-nose, and the structure doesn’t feel entirely natural, but overall the film feels utterly satisfactory.
Everybody in this cast does a great job, or at least naturally fits into their roles. I love Jesse Eisenberg (Adventureland and Zombieland were amazing), although I’m not quite yet convinced of his versatility as an actor. He does a great job as Mark here, without the luxury of his usual awkward charm to lean on. Also, there’s enough approximate physical similarity for Mark Zuckerberg to have used him as his celebrity doppelgänger on Facebook, if it weren’t all so meta. Rooney Mara, who plays a small but important part as Erica, is going to be huge soon. Not Angelina Jolie huge, but Natalie Portman huge, as I can only anticipate an intellectual/hipster bent to her popularity. Armie Hammer seamlessly pulls of the task of playing the separate and always simultaneously present Winklevoss twins, and Andrew Garfield brings soul to perhaps the only sympathetic character, Eduardo.
I certainly understand some people will be turned off by the very positive early press the movie is getting, or that “based-on-facts” movies can be obnoxious or discordant with reality, especially topical ones, but I would recommend this very quality piece of cinema to anybody, especially about my age (early 20s). It’s an entertaining think-piece, and it rated so well for me that I’m certainly going to catch it a second time.
The Social Network is rated PG-13 for sexual content, drug and alcohol use, and language.
Of course, perhaps I'm taking this all too seriously. This sort of thing usually happens when Aaron Sorkin gets involved. The fact that I forgot to even mention his screenwriting tells how much I enjoyed the movie.
It’s a brilliant piece of filmmaking, with two narrative strands working on separate but complementary levels: one is about the development of Facebook, and the other is a high-stakes but ultimately familiar-feeling tale of social and business intrigue. The Facebook thread details the masterful sociological planning of how Facebook became so big (and important enough to make a movie about). The second is a well-crafted coming-of-age tale of Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg), made unusual mostly by the fact he becomes an internet billionaire.
The one thing I caution that would absolutely cripple your enjoyment of this movie is by too-earnestly ruminating about the historical accuracy of the second narrative strand. Does Erica Albright (Rooney Mara), the girl whose initial rejection of Zuckerberg is a catalyst for the movie’s events, even exist? Who cares? The only person to whom the verisimilitude of the character of Mark to the actual person of Zuckerberg is Mark Zuckerberg. The value of Citizen Kane (although I’m not comparing the two movies further than this metaphor) is not affected by how much Charles Foster Kane mirrored William Randolph Hearst. The Social Network is a feature, not a documentary. But it does highlight some fascinating points about Facebook, which has integrated itself into the daily lives of many. Many details are probably altered, but something along these lines probably happened, because the products of the characters’ actions came into being.
Although I heard some time ago the film derisively described as Facebook: The Movie, that’s precisely what (half of) it is. Facebook, I think it’s fair to say, is no longer very cool. That is to say, it’s not cool like e-mail isn’t cool. How cool it is doesn’t factor into its current importance as much as how essential it has become. Sean Parker (Justin Timberlake), the founder of Napster and impish and manipulative mentor to Mark in the film, gleefully declares, “We used to live in villages. Then we moved to cities. Now we live on the internet!” Although the movie mostly infers (rather than refers to) this, Facebook became pragmatic and necessary only after it became humongous by being cool. And, I must admit, there is a small, cheap thrill in being one of the background cast of thousands who sign up and spend their time on Facebook during the recognizable chronology of the movie.
That’s the brains of the movie. Its heart is the story of Mark Zuckerberg (i.e. the character, and not the actual person). The narrative is set up within the context of dual lawsuits against Mark by his former best friend and business partner Eduardo and two Harvard gentlemen-jocks, the Winklevoss twins (both played by Andrew Garfield), who contributed a key idea to Facebook’s formation. The lawsuits are clearly only storytelling devices by the end of the movie, because the outcomes ultimately prove inconsequential to Zuckerberg. Their unimportance may seem bothersome at first, but ultimately their superfluousness is itself superfluous. The personal narrative strand of the story is complete, and the story of Mark’s relationship to Eduardo has reached its conclusion.
Mark gradually cuts Eduardo out of the business, but not unreasonably. Eduardo’s ideas about Facebook as a business model are old-fashioned and ultimately incorrect, but his dealings are always motivated by earnestness and loyalty to Mark as a friend. Mark is not portrayed by The Social Network as a villain (or as exactly an asshole, which is more to the point in the twenty-something target demographic), but as driven by his big ideas and ambivalent to ethics and ideals. He can’t reign in his self-absorption to save his relationships with Erica or Eduardo, but is deeply hurt by their inevitable rejection of him. Whereas Mark is a genius in figuring out people on a macro scale, his is hopeless at the interpersonal level. He’d almost be a tragic figure, if not for the billions of dollars and untold cultural power.
With so much substance to The Social Network, the movie gains an almost subliminal quality by how stylish it is. It’s occasionally sexy without being too explicit, and often hilarious without ever asking for the laughs. The story moves much too fast for moody ruminations, but it sneaks in moments of atmosphere. I specifically remember how the film evokes the lonely a college campus can become as Mark runs past the elegant Harvard buildings to his dorm after his break-up with Erica. The ubiquity of the programmers’ presence emphasizes how much work the the technical logistics were without taking a boring detour to focus on them. I can’t tell whether the ending is brilliant or just too on-the-nose, and the structure doesn’t feel entirely natural, but overall the film feels utterly satisfactory.
Everybody in this cast does a great job, or at least naturally fits into their roles. I love Jesse Eisenberg (Adventureland and Zombieland were amazing), although I’m not quite yet convinced of his versatility as an actor. He does a great job as Mark here, without the luxury of his usual awkward charm to lean on. Also, there’s enough approximate physical similarity for Mark Zuckerberg to have used him as his celebrity doppelgänger on Facebook, if it weren’t all so meta. Rooney Mara, who plays a small but important part as Erica, is going to be huge soon. Not Angelina Jolie huge, but Natalie Portman huge, as I can only anticipate an intellectual/hipster bent to her popularity. Armie Hammer seamlessly pulls of the task of playing the separate and always simultaneously present Winklevoss twins, and Andrew Garfield brings soul to perhaps the only sympathetic character, Eduardo.
I certainly understand some people will be turned off by the very positive early press the movie is getting, or that “based-on-facts” movies can be obnoxious or discordant with reality, especially topical ones, but I would recommend this very quality piece of cinema to anybody, especially about my age (early 20s). It’s an entertaining think-piece, and it rated so well for me that I’m certainly going to catch it a second time.
The Social Network is rated PG-13 for sexual content, drug and alcohol use, and language.
Of course, perhaps I'm taking this all too seriously. This sort of thing usually happens when Aaron Sorkin gets involved. The fact that I forgot to even mention his screenwriting tells how much I enjoyed the movie.
August 23, 2010
Greenberg
I would like to advocate on behalf on this overlooked gem that was released on home video earlier this month. I saw trailers for Greenberg during some of the winter movies I saw, but it wasn’t released at the Malco Grandview, or any of the other area Jackson theatres, much to my disappointment.
But, although I was encouraged by the trailer, I should point out that I had mixed expectations for this movie. And those mixed feelings were a direct result of director Noah Baumbach. Besides being the new variable in the writing team for my least favorite Wes Anderson film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), he also directed The Squid and the Whale (2005). The only thing I really remember about the film, besides the final image based on the titular metaphor, was the scene where a kid pulls a hand out of his pants in the middle of the library and wipes his sperm on a library book. Why would I even mention that sideshow of horror? Because that’s almost all of what I remember about the film. That’s not good filmmaking.
However, Baumbach also served as co-writer of the screenplay for Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), which was enough for me to forgive me to try this film. And I’m glad I did.
Greenberg tells a story about Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller), a carpenter recently discharged from a mental hospital for an undisclosed condition, who spends a few weeks in Los Angeles house- and dog-sitting for his brother’s family while they vacation. The film follows his fitful romance with his brother’s household assistant Florence (Greta Gerwig) and his attempt to rekindle a friendship a former friend and band mate Ivan (Rhys Ifans).
Typical of Baumbach’s work, and Anderson’s for that matter, plot is determined by the characters. As powerless and uncertain as they (especially Greenberg) may feel, fate rarely enters in to throw our protagonist in an extraordinary situation. Because they are not extraordinary people, such a situation does not ensue.
For instance, Greenberg is confronted by Ivan (and others) about how he put the kibosh on a record deal in their younger days that could have changed their lives. Greenberg justifies his decision by railing against record executives earlier in the movie. Yet he finally comes clean, explaining how he thought his thoughts were a personal opinion—as opposed to a decision for the group; and furthermore, he would have changed his mind if knew how it would play out. In many ways, Greenberg is the story of a man belatedly learning to take responsibility for his own life.
I would classify this as comedy, because the story arc moves broadly from disorder to order. It also does have some genuinely funny bits magnified by their context. However, most of the “jokes” and one-liners are already shown in the trailers. If you need your funny bone not just tickled but ravished, perhaps you should save Greenberg for another night.
Ben Stiller really doesn’t have much to prove anymore as actor, and he does a fine job. Although there are a few scenes of unnecessary rage that don’t seem to fit the character well, it seems more like a problem with the writing than the acting.
Greta Gerwig rises to meet Stiller’s performance as a fellow lost soul. Whereas Ifans is hamstrung by Ivan’s natural hangdog demeanor, Gerwig is allowed to put on a full range of emotion even as her character Florence bends over backward for almost everybody else, especially Greenberg. Baumbach has a couple of really affecting shots of Gerwig’s face as she rides in her car from place to place, including one that opens the movie.
My favorite scene, I must admit, is when Greenberg drunk dials Florence and admits not only his “like,” but also laments the difficulty of his new discovery, about taking responsibility for his own life. “It’s all so embarrassing,” Greenberg despairs. I know as a semi-employed recent college graduate that I can certainly relate to the sentiment. If you think you can too, then you will probably like Greenberg, and embrace him. After all, the one thing the poor putz needs most is a hug.
Greenberg is rated R for some strong sexuality, drug use, and language.
But, although I was encouraged by the trailer, I should point out that I had mixed expectations for this movie. And those mixed feelings were a direct result of director Noah Baumbach. Besides being the new variable in the writing team for my least favorite Wes Anderson film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), he also directed The Squid and the Whale (2005). The only thing I really remember about the film, besides the final image based on the titular metaphor, was the scene where a kid pulls a hand out of his pants in the middle of the library and wipes his sperm on a library book. Why would I even mention that sideshow of horror? Because that’s almost all of what I remember about the film. That’s not good filmmaking.
However, Baumbach also served as co-writer of the screenplay for Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), which was enough for me to forgive me to try this film. And I’m glad I did.
Greenberg tells a story about Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller), a carpenter recently discharged from a mental hospital for an undisclosed condition, who spends a few weeks in Los Angeles house- and dog-sitting for his brother’s family while they vacation. The film follows his fitful romance with his brother’s household assistant Florence (Greta Gerwig) and his attempt to rekindle a friendship a former friend and band mate Ivan (Rhys Ifans).
Typical of Baumbach’s work, and Anderson’s for that matter, plot is determined by the characters. As powerless and uncertain as they (especially Greenberg) may feel, fate rarely enters in to throw our protagonist in an extraordinary situation. Because they are not extraordinary people, such a situation does not ensue.
For instance, Greenberg is confronted by Ivan (and others) about how he put the kibosh on a record deal in their younger days that could have changed their lives. Greenberg justifies his decision by railing against record executives earlier in the movie. Yet he finally comes clean, explaining how he thought his thoughts were a personal opinion—as opposed to a decision for the group; and furthermore, he would have changed his mind if knew how it would play out. In many ways, Greenberg is the story of a man belatedly learning to take responsibility for his own life.
I would classify this as comedy, because the story arc moves broadly from disorder to order. It also does have some genuinely funny bits magnified by their context. However, most of the “jokes” and one-liners are already shown in the trailers. If you need your funny bone not just tickled but ravished, perhaps you should save Greenberg for another night.
Ben Stiller really doesn’t have much to prove anymore as actor, and he does a fine job. Although there are a few scenes of unnecessary rage that don’t seem to fit the character well, it seems more like a problem with the writing than the acting.
Greta Gerwig rises to meet Stiller’s performance as a fellow lost soul. Whereas Ifans is hamstrung by Ivan’s natural hangdog demeanor, Gerwig is allowed to put on a full range of emotion even as her character Florence bends over backward for almost everybody else, especially Greenberg. Baumbach has a couple of really affecting shots of Gerwig’s face as she rides in her car from place to place, including one that opens the movie.
My favorite scene, I must admit, is when Greenberg drunk dials Florence and admits not only his “like,” but also laments the difficulty of his new discovery, about taking responsibility for his own life. “It’s all so embarrassing,” Greenberg despairs. I know as a semi-employed recent college graduate that I can certainly relate to the sentiment. If you think you can too, then you will probably like Greenberg, and embrace him. After all, the one thing the poor putz needs most is a hug.
Greenberg is rated R for some strong sexuality, drug use, and language.
July 18, 2010
Inception
In my opinion, Inception, the new film by Christopher Nolan, is not a masterpiece. To be sure, I saw it sitting next to a group of people I consider it reasonably intelligent who seemed to have their minds blown. And its failure to become a hallmark of modern cinema doesn’t mean I didn’t have an enjoyable time, and leave the cinema feeling resentment for the nine dollars I spent to see it. But, this year alone, I would have said the same thing for Edge of Darkness, Shutter Island, Grown Ups, and Iron Man 2. Yes, I will go ahead and put Inception on par with those films.
Especially Shutter Island. People are starting to say not nice things about Leonardo DiCaprio. Not me. I’m all for him starting a tradition of pudgy matinee idols. I will, however, question why he would choose two films in the same year linked so closely thematically. I mean, how many times can one actor question his personal reality without being typecast?
Besides Leo, there are a few other familiar faces in Inception that usually put a smile on mine: namely, Ellen Page (Juno) and Jason Gordon-Levitt (Third Rock from the Sun, (500) Days of Summer). Other people you will recognize are Marion Cotillard (La Vie en Rose, Public Enemies), Cillian Murphy (the Scarecrow from Batman Begins), and Tom Berenger (Major League), and a cameo by Michael Caine (from you know what). I would tell you their characters’ names, except they’re kind of unimportant and forgettable, except Dom Cobb (DiCaprio), which I believe might be the most cacophonous name I’ve ever heard.
I heard a girl outside the theater decry that the plot was so unfit for articulation as to be sublime. That isn’t true at all. Two thieves (DiCaprio and Gordon-Levitt) steal information—on commission—from people’s minds. They are hired by a shadowy, important Asian man (Ken Watanabe) to plant an idea—the “inception” of the title—in the mind of the heir to a vast energy corporation (Murphy) to dissolve it. By doing this they will save the world—or something. More importantly for Cobb, shadowy Asian man will fix it so he may re-emigrate to the United States and see his children. Cobb has a lot of personal problems which I will not ruin for you.
I hope you found that synopsis riveting, because there’s a lot of exposition within the movie, with poor Page bearing the brunt of it. Nolan feels compelled to violate the first rule of writing (especially in writing a script) to show more than tell, feeling the rules of mind travel to be complex to be understood by the audience intuitively. I think this should have raised some red flags, but I digress.
One could argue that this movie isn’t so much about plot as it is a tour de force of visceral images. However, it looked pretty standard to me. I haven’t seen anything for quite a while that has taken me aback, although I foolishly passed up the opportunity to see Avatar in theatres because I thought I was taking some sort of stand for storytelling. The technical aspects make me feel like I do about the whole of the movie: my qualifications could be lacking, but what I saw in Inception was an average (though not bad) movie.
Inception is rated PG-13 for sequences of violence and action throughout.
Especially Shutter Island. People are starting to say not nice things about Leonardo DiCaprio. Not me. I’m all for him starting a tradition of pudgy matinee idols. I will, however, question why he would choose two films in the same year linked so closely thematically. I mean, how many times can one actor question his personal reality without being typecast?
Besides Leo, there are a few other familiar faces in Inception that usually put a smile on mine: namely, Ellen Page (Juno) and Jason Gordon-Levitt (Third Rock from the Sun, (500) Days of Summer). Other people you will recognize are Marion Cotillard (La Vie en Rose, Public Enemies), Cillian Murphy (the Scarecrow from Batman Begins), and Tom Berenger (Major League), and a cameo by Michael Caine (from you know what). I would tell you their characters’ names, except they’re kind of unimportant and forgettable, except Dom Cobb (DiCaprio), which I believe might be the most cacophonous name I’ve ever heard.
I heard a girl outside the theater decry that the plot was so unfit for articulation as to be sublime. That isn’t true at all. Two thieves (DiCaprio and Gordon-Levitt) steal information—on commission—from people’s minds. They are hired by a shadowy, important Asian man (Ken Watanabe) to plant an idea—the “inception” of the title—in the mind of the heir to a vast energy corporation (Murphy) to dissolve it. By doing this they will save the world—or something. More importantly for Cobb, shadowy Asian man will fix it so he may re-emigrate to the United States and see his children. Cobb has a lot of personal problems which I will not ruin for you.
I hope you found that synopsis riveting, because there’s a lot of exposition within the movie, with poor Page bearing the brunt of it. Nolan feels compelled to violate the first rule of writing (especially in writing a script) to show more than tell, feeling the rules of mind travel to be complex to be understood by the audience intuitively. I think this should have raised some red flags, but I digress.
One could argue that this movie isn’t so much about plot as it is a tour de force of visceral images. However, it looked pretty standard to me. I haven’t seen anything for quite a while that has taken me aback, although I foolishly passed up the opportunity to see Avatar in theatres because I thought I was taking some sort of stand for storytelling. The technical aspects make me feel like I do about the whole of the movie: my qualifications could be lacking, but what I saw in Inception was an average (though not bad) movie.
Inception is rated PG-13 for sequences of violence and action throughout.
May 13, 2010
Eating the Dinosaur
Eating the Dinosaur (2009) is a collection of humorous, existential essays by Chuck Klosterman written through a pop culture paradigm. I, not having $25 to spend on the hard-cover at Barnes & Noble, chased it down through my local library. After having read it, I’m still not sure I would have bought the hard-cover. Maybe if I’d had the patience to wait for the paperback.
I’ve read Chuck Klosterman before, reading his Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low-Culture Manifesto earlier this year. It’s his most well-known work, and sort of developed his reputation for spending entirely too much brainpower on disposable culture like Guns ‘N Roses, Saved by the Bell, The Real World, and the like. The stuff he was talking about wasn’t brand new then, and its relevancy hasn’t aged well. Nevertheless, I could tell the guy’s a thinker. His last essay about the Second Coming (spoiler: he’s not a believer, but he takes the subject seriously). That’s Klosterman’s strength really, being serious about a subject, but never quite being serious about himself and his certitude.
I can see his growth as a writer six years later, and he’s often sharper in his analysis. I read several essays at least twice, and they stayed engaging. My favorites were “Football,” “ABBA 1, World 0,” and “Oh, the Guilt.”
“Football” redefined something I thought I knew very well, which was kind of the point of the essay. Although I will say this: I was knowledgeable enough to know when he was used generalities, as he undoubtedly usually does to come to sweeping opinions. In other places, I wouldn’t see it. “ABBA 1, World 0” just made me laugh. I hate ABBA (my mother loves the Momma Mia soundtrack), but Klosterman explains, in winningly comical fashion, why it’s a force. “Oh, the Guilt,” makes a surprising but convincing connection between the psychological and aesthetic decline of Kurt Cobain and the Branch Davidian disaster in Waco.
My least favorites are toward the end of the book, “It Will Shock You How Much It Never Happened” and “T is for True.” “Shock You,” an exploration of how advertising still wins hearts and minds now that, in modern times, its duplicity is intellectually transparent. Are you confused? I sure was. I’m not saying that because’s something esoteric, its less valuable. Klosterman always offers half-entertainment, half-philosophy. I just think the philosophy’s a little hazy here.
The same goes for “T is for True,” which uses Weezer, Ralph Nader, and film direction Warner Herzog as counter-examples of the non-literal society we now live in. I disagree with what I believe is his conclusion: that when all is figurative, all will lose meaning. I mean, maybe he’s right, but I don’t believe we’re all completely non-literal.
So, in conclusion: is this book worth your time? When reviewing books, I want to be more clear here, as the time investment is necessarily greater than with movies. My answer: probably only if you think he’s funny. As a sort of litmus test, I’ll share with you one of my biggest laughs of the book (of which there were many).
The joke comes from a non-sequitar fictional interview about salesmenship. The interviewer asks, “Do you have any advice for aspiring salesmen?” The salesman replies, “People always say, ‘Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer,’ but that’s wrong. That’s how rapists think. You’ll waste a thousand afternoons if that’s your attitude. However, never take ‘maybe’ for an answer. Ninety perecent fo the time, ‘maybe’ means ‘probably.’ Just keep talking.”
I’ve read Chuck Klosterman before, reading his Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low-Culture Manifesto earlier this year. It’s his most well-known work, and sort of developed his reputation for spending entirely too much brainpower on disposable culture like Guns ‘N Roses, Saved by the Bell, The Real World, and the like. The stuff he was talking about wasn’t brand new then, and its relevancy hasn’t aged well. Nevertheless, I could tell the guy’s a thinker. His last essay about the Second Coming (spoiler: he’s not a believer, but he takes the subject seriously). That’s Klosterman’s strength really, being serious about a subject, but never quite being serious about himself and his certitude.
I can see his growth as a writer six years later, and he’s often sharper in his analysis. I read several essays at least twice, and they stayed engaging. My favorites were “Football,” “ABBA 1, World 0,” and “Oh, the Guilt.”
“Football” redefined something I thought I knew very well, which was kind of the point of the essay. Although I will say this: I was knowledgeable enough to know when he was used generalities, as he undoubtedly usually does to come to sweeping opinions. In other places, I wouldn’t see it. “ABBA 1, World 0” just made me laugh. I hate ABBA (my mother loves the Momma Mia soundtrack), but Klosterman explains, in winningly comical fashion, why it’s a force. “Oh, the Guilt,” makes a surprising but convincing connection between the psychological and aesthetic decline of Kurt Cobain and the Branch Davidian disaster in Waco.
My least favorites are toward the end of the book, “It Will Shock You How Much It Never Happened” and “T is for True.” “Shock You,” an exploration of how advertising still wins hearts and minds now that, in modern times, its duplicity is intellectually transparent. Are you confused? I sure was. I’m not saying that because’s something esoteric, its less valuable. Klosterman always offers half-entertainment, half-philosophy. I just think the philosophy’s a little hazy here.
The same goes for “T is for True,” which uses Weezer, Ralph Nader, and film direction Warner Herzog as counter-examples of the non-literal society we now live in. I disagree with what I believe is his conclusion: that when all is figurative, all will lose meaning. I mean, maybe he’s right, but I don’t believe we’re all completely non-literal.
So, in conclusion: is this book worth your time? When reviewing books, I want to be more clear here, as the time investment is necessarily greater than with movies. My answer: probably only if you think he’s funny. As a sort of litmus test, I’ll share with you one of my biggest laughs of the book (of which there were many).
The joke comes from a non-sequitar fictional interview about salesmenship. The interviewer asks, “Do you have any advice for aspiring salesmen?” The salesman replies, “People always say, ‘Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer,’ but that’s wrong. That’s how rapists think. You’ll waste a thousand afternoons if that’s your attitude. However, never take ‘maybe’ for an answer. Ninety perecent fo the time, ‘maybe’ means ‘probably.’ Just keep talking.”
April 21, 2010
Radio Quality?
Artist: OneRepublic
Album: Waking Up
Label: Interscope Records
Generally, I don’t listen to the radio. I find it to be bad for my mental well-being. However, due to my rampant absent-mindedness I sometimes forget my mp3 player when I go grocery shopping, and since the steady hum of car tires eventually grows a little unnerving, I will in such cases turn on the radio, cross my fingers, and hope for the best. One magical morning, as I turned the dial of my car stereo, my ears were assaulted by OneRepublic’s “All The Right Moves.”
The chorus of “All The Right Moves” immediately grabbed my attention—in a good way. It is magnificently huge and upbeat, the instrumentation is decidedly rock bandish, and the lyrics are pumped full of well-meaning ambiguities. In short, I found it to be the perfect soundtrack for a day of mundane errand-running.
A week or so later, I accidentally stumbled upon Waking Up while browsing the internet. The cover art intrigued me. I liked the simplicity. I liked the pretty colors. So I bought the album.
And I initially enjoyed what I was hearing. “Made For You” starts things off strong with a piano melody ripe for the arena and a wiry vocal line that could be found on a Lovedrug album. “All The Right Moves” follows, after an odd excursion into studio noise and large choir land (which may or may not have been pulled off successfully, depending on how cynical I am when making the judgment).
“Secrets” lags a little, but “Everybody Loves Me” picks the pace back up with a blues-tinged guitar riff and the perfect mix of irony and sincerity. However, many of the songs on the latter half of the album aren’t quite as radio-ready as “All The Right Moves.” In fact, Waking Up actually moves slower and more deliberately than I had expected. As a result, I became a bit bored.
However, after adjusting my expectations for the album, I approached it again and began to sense more of its excellence. OneRepublic plays safe music that borders on arena rock, takes hints from hip-hop, and glories in its accessibility. If you’re expecting your musical mind to be blown, you will be massively disappointed by Waking Up. But if you are in the mood for easy to digest tunes sprinkled with the occasional moment of excellence, OneRepublic is the band for you.
Throughout Waking Up, Ryan Tedder’s voice occupies center stage. This is a good thing, as Tedder has a great deal of control over his voice, and he varies up his delivery in a variety of ways. He can belt out gospel-sounding licks, croon a quiet lullaby, or hit that elusive note for a hair-raising chorus.
Behind Tedder, the band churns out a steady stream of unimpeachable musicianship. They bounce back and forth from Beck-like guitar riffs to Viva La Vida inspired instrumental postludes. No single element takes too much of the spotlight—the interplay between pianos, organs, guitars, and strings is part of what keeps things interesting.
Lyrically, Waking Up resides in the realm of big, fuzzy pictures with lines like “Say oh, got this feeling that you can't fight/Like this city is on fire tonight/This could really be a good life/A good, good life.” Later in the album, Tedder contemplates the fearlessness of children, promises to return to a lost love, and expresses hope for the future. All good things, certainly, but I would prefer the songwriting to be a little more focused.
Admittedly, the band has demonstrated that they have the ability to write big songs with big hooks. If they were to throw a little more creativity into the songwriting and take a few musical chances, I would call myself a fan. As it is, I count OneRepublic a guilty pleasure and a not altogether unpleasant discovery.
Album: Waking Up
Label: Interscope Records
Generally, I don’t listen to the radio. I find it to be bad for my mental well-being. However, due to my rampant absent-mindedness I sometimes forget my mp3 player when I go grocery shopping, and since the steady hum of car tires eventually grows a little unnerving, I will in such cases turn on the radio, cross my fingers, and hope for the best. One magical morning, as I turned the dial of my car stereo, my ears were assaulted by OneRepublic’s “All The Right Moves.”
The chorus of “All The Right Moves” immediately grabbed my attention—in a good way. It is magnificently huge and upbeat, the instrumentation is decidedly rock bandish, and the lyrics are pumped full of well-meaning ambiguities. In short, I found it to be the perfect soundtrack for a day of mundane errand-running.
A week or so later, I accidentally stumbled upon Waking Up while browsing the internet. The cover art intrigued me. I liked the simplicity. I liked the pretty colors. So I bought the album.
And I initially enjoyed what I was hearing. “Made For You” starts things off strong with a piano melody ripe for the arena and a wiry vocal line that could be found on a Lovedrug album. “All The Right Moves” follows, after an odd excursion into studio noise and large choir land (which may or may not have been pulled off successfully, depending on how cynical I am when making the judgment).
“Secrets” lags a little, but “Everybody Loves Me” picks the pace back up with a blues-tinged guitar riff and the perfect mix of irony and sincerity. However, many of the songs on the latter half of the album aren’t quite as radio-ready as “All The Right Moves.” In fact, Waking Up actually moves slower and more deliberately than I had expected. As a result, I became a bit bored.
However, after adjusting my expectations for the album, I approached it again and began to sense more of its excellence. OneRepublic plays safe music that borders on arena rock, takes hints from hip-hop, and glories in its accessibility. If you’re expecting your musical mind to be blown, you will be massively disappointed by Waking Up. But if you are in the mood for easy to digest tunes sprinkled with the occasional moment of excellence, OneRepublic is the band for you.
Throughout Waking Up, Ryan Tedder’s voice occupies center stage. This is a good thing, as Tedder has a great deal of control over his voice, and he varies up his delivery in a variety of ways. He can belt out gospel-sounding licks, croon a quiet lullaby, or hit that elusive note for a hair-raising chorus.
Behind Tedder, the band churns out a steady stream of unimpeachable musicianship. They bounce back and forth from Beck-like guitar riffs to Viva La Vida inspired instrumental postludes. No single element takes too much of the spotlight—the interplay between pianos, organs, guitars, and strings is part of what keeps things interesting.
Lyrically, Waking Up resides in the realm of big, fuzzy pictures with lines like “Say oh, got this feeling that you can't fight/Like this city is on fire tonight/This could really be a good life/A good, good life.” Later in the album, Tedder contemplates the fearlessness of children, promises to return to a lost love, and expresses hope for the future. All good things, certainly, but I would prefer the songwriting to be a little more focused.
Admittedly, the band has demonstrated that they have the ability to write big songs with big hooks. If they were to throw a little more creativity into the songwriting and take a few musical chances, I would call myself a fan. As it is, I count OneRepublic a guilty pleasure and a not altogether unpleasant discovery.
April 8, 2010
Timeless and (Almost) True
Artist: Mumford and Sons
Album: Sigh No More
Label: Island Records (UK) and Glassnote Records (US)
Don’t worry, there is a Mumford in the band. His name is Marcus. Therefore the first half of the band’s name is, in fact, logical. Unfortunately, the other members of the band are not actually his sons, but his close friends. Now, you might be thinking that this is an irrelevant point. It is not. In the following paragraphs, I will now use this somewhat trivial observation as an analogy for their music.
From the band name to the lyrical content to the music itself, the Sons thrive on paradox, on almost’s and nearly so’s. For instance, their sound is grounded in folk idioms, but it is not folk. It is British music made by relatively young British lads, but it is somehow both deeply American and as ancient as the earth. It is loud but tender. It is quietly intense and joyfully gloomy. This inconsistency is part of what makes the Sons such a compelling act. Without bothering to explain the why’s, they simply are. And they are good.
As an album, Sigh No More is a smashing success. It flows well from song to song, never seems to drag, and reveals new layers with every listen. It is one of the few albums that I don’t mind listening to in its entirety, due to its excellent balance of repetition and variation.
The basic sound of Sigh No More is really quite simple. Everything is based off of old-time music structures, complete with guitars, banjos, mandolins, pianos, and even an upright bass. However, it isn’t so much what they are doing that is so groundbreaking, as how they are doing it. Their instinct for tone, climax, and tempo borders on brilliance.
points, I would have to start with the Avett Brothers. Both bands utilize much of the original structure and instrumentation of folk music, but instill within it an adolescent aggressiveness and a pop accessibility that resonates with me and my fellow twenty-somethings.
However, Mumford and Sons take this basic formula in a slightly different direction than the Avett Brothers. With their heavy and often regretful tone, the Sons are more reminiscent of acts like Glen Hansard and Damien Rice. However, while Rice pursues the quieter paths of melancholy, the Sons charge full speed ahead, attacking gloom with anthemic choruses and Hansard-like bellows.
Throughout the album, Mumford sings confidently and with feeling. The earnestness with which the lyrics are delivered really calls attention to the content of the songs. At first, I only noticed that they used interesting words like giddy, fickle, and woozy. Upon repeated listens, however, I began to find the beauty and wisdom in many of the lines. For instance, the opening stanza of “Winter Winds” begins with the image-laden passage, “As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts/Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms.”
By far my favorite piece of lyricism occurs in “Dustbowl Dance,” a goosebumps-inducing song that really showcases the musical talent of the Sons. The combination of detailed narrative content and musical euphoria that occurs in the last half of the song is simply breathtaking. Then, after the band thrashes out a blistering musical interlude, Mumford sings the chilling final lines “Well yes sir, yes sir, yes it was me/I know what I've done, cause I know what I've seen/I went out back and I got my gun/I said, ‘You haven't met me, I am the only son.’”
After this battering ram of a tune, the Sons finish up the record with a thoughtful, gentle song aptly titled “After the Storm” in which they sing “And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears/And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears/Get over your hill and see what you find there/With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.” In this almost spiritual moment, Mumford and Sons are able to momentarily take their listeners out of their broken world and bring them to that peaceful place of beauty and refuge.
Album: Sigh No More
Label: Island Records (UK) and Glassnote Records (US)
Don’t worry, there is a Mumford in the band. His name is Marcus. Therefore the first half of the band’s name is, in fact, logical. Unfortunately, the other members of the band are not actually his sons, but his close friends. Now, you might be thinking that this is an irrelevant point. It is not. In the following paragraphs, I will now use this somewhat trivial observation as an analogy for their music.
From the band name to the lyrical content to the music itself, the Sons thrive on paradox, on almost’s and nearly so’s. For instance, their sound is grounded in folk idioms, but it is not folk. It is British music made by relatively young British lads, but it is somehow both deeply American and as ancient as the earth. It is loud but tender. It is quietly intense and joyfully gloomy. This inconsistency is part of what makes the Sons such a compelling act. Without bothering to explain the why’s, they simply are. And they are good.
As an album, Sigh No More is a smashing success. It flows well from song to song, never seems to drag, and reveals new layers with every listen. It is one of the few albums that I don’t mind listening to in its entirety, due to its excellent balance of repetition and variation.
The basic sound of Sigh No More is really quite simple. Everything is based off of old-time music structures, complete with guitars, banjos, mandolins, pianos, and even an upright bass. However, it isn’t so much what they are doing that is so groundbreaking, as how they are doing it. Their instinct for tone, climax, and tempo borders on brilliance.
points, I would have to start with the Avett Brothers. Both bands utilize much of the original structure and instrumentation of folk music, but instill within it an adolescent aggressiveness and a pop accessibility that resonates with me and my fellow twenty-somethings.
However, Mumford and Sons take this basic formula in a slightly different direction than the Avett Brothers. With their heavy and often regretful tone, the Sons are more reminiscent of acts like Glen Hansard and Damien Rice. However, while Rice pursues the quieter paths of melancholy, the Sons charge full speed ahead, attacking gloom with anthemic choruses and Hansard-like bellows.
Throughout the album, Mumford sings confidently and with feeling. The earnestness with which the lyrics are delivered really calls attention to the content of the songs. At first, I only noticed that they used interesting words like giddy, fickle, and woozy. Upon repeated listens, however, I began to find the beauty and wisdom in many of the lines. For instance, the opening stanza of “Winter Winds” begins with the image-laden passage, “As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts/Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms.”
By far my favorite piece of lyricism occurs in “Dustbowl Dance,” a goosebumps-inducing song that really showcases the musical talent of the Sons. The combination of detailed narrative content and musical euphoria that occurs in the last half of the song is simply breathtaking. Then, after the band thrashes out a blistering musical interlude, Mumford sings the chilling final lines “Well yes sir, yes sir, yes it was me/I know what I've done, cause I know what I've seen/I went out back and I got my gun/I said, ‘You haven't met me, I am the only son.’”
After this battering ram of a tune, the Sons finish up the record with a thoughtful, gentle song aptly titled “After the Storm” in which they sing “And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears/And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears/Get over your hill and see what you find there/With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.” In this almost spiritual moment, Mumford and Sons are able to momentarily take their listeners out of their broken world and bring them to that peaceful place of beauty and refuge.
March 31, 2010
My Love/Hate Relationship With Transference
Artist: Spoon
Album: Transference
Label: Merge
I am not a Spoon fan. I was not a Spoon fan before hearing Transference. I am not a Spoon fan now, after hearing Transference. So if you are reading this as a faithful follower of the band, you should probably stop and go do something else. Make a sandwich. Get married. Take a shower. The possibilities are endless, really.
For those of you still reading, what you are about to encounter is an unabashedly ignorant review of the band’s latest album for people who were intrigued by the cover art, people who found the album on sale somewhere, or people who have always wondered if Spoon was worth a listen.
The short answer? Yes, they are worth a listen. Despite my dislike for many of the songs, I find that I respect the album as an artistic work. I even enjoy a couple of the tunes. But on the whole, the album really grates on my nerves.
The first thing I noticed about Transference is how sparse it sounds. Each musical component stands out distinctly in the mix. Each jab on the guitar, each hit on the snare, each tap on the keyboard--it’s all right there, smacking you in the face with every beat.
“Before Destruction” opens the album with a steady, pulsing rhythm. This rhythm lies at the heart of Spoon’s music. While the basic beat morphs continuously throughout the album, it always retains an almost primitive simplicity, a primal immediacy that is hard to ignore.
Over this trance-inducing beat the band plays straight-ahead rock and roll in a decidedly un-rock and roll fashion. Many of the typical rock signifiers are present (loud guitars, drums, etc...), but almost none of the rock attitude. It almost feels like the band is too practiced. Like they could play these songs in their sleep. In fact, it almost feels like they are asleep. Or zombies, maybe.
While the zombie musicians play rock and roll, Britt Daniels sings about…something. The first line of the album is “Before destruction, a man’s heart is haughty.” You have to admit, this hardly sounds like inspired lyricism, or even lyricism at all. But Daniels makes it work with a careful mix of menace, swagger, and boredom.
I am hard-pressed to adequately describe his style of vocal delivery. His voice doesn’t stretch too many boundaries or do too many tricks. He doesn’t sound overly emotional, but avoids being too distanced. Now and again he slips in a falsetto note or two. But generally he just…sings. The tone is vaguely reminiscent of an old-fashioned Brit-pop band, but with a good deal of 21st century fatalism stuffed in for good measure. Britt’s voice, like Spoon’s music in general, is composed, simple, and well-executed.
I would argue this is what is so uncomfortable about Spoon. Whereas an ordinary band would launch into an anthemic chorus or a raunchy guitar solo or two, Spoon never does. Transference is the skeleton of an album. Every song feels like it is preparing for something, getting itself ready, then vanishing instantly. Like this review.
Album: Transference
Label: Merge
I am not a Spoon fan. I was not a Spoon fan before hearing Transference. I am not a Spoon fan now, after hearing Transference. So if you are reading this as a faithful follower of the band, you should probably stop and go do something else. Make a sandwich. Get married. Take a shower. The possibilities are endless, really.
For those of you still reading, what you are about to encounter is an unabashedly ignorant review of the band’s latest album for people who were intrigued by the cover art, people who found the album on sale somewhere, or people who have always wondered if Spoon was worth a listen.
The short answer? Yes, they are worth a listen. Despite my dislike for many of the songs, I find that I respect the album as an artistic work. I even enjoy a couple of the tunes. But on the whole, the album really grates on my nerves.
The first thing I noticed about Transference is how sparse it sounds. Each musical component stands out distinctly in the mix. Each jab on the guitar, each hit on the snare, each tap on the keyboard--it’s all right there, smacking you in the face with every beat.
“Before Destruction” opens the album with a steady, pulsing rhythm. This rhythm lies at the heart of Spoon’s music. While the basic beat morphs continuously throughout the album, it always retains an almost primitive simplicity, a primal immediacy that is hard to ignore.
Over this trance-inducing beat the band plays straight-ahead rock and roll in a decidedly un-rock and roll fashion. Many of the typical rock signifiers are present (loud guitars, drums, etc...), but almost none of the rock attitude. It almost feels like the band is too practiced. Like they could play these songs in their sleep. In fact, it almost feels like they are asleep. Or zombies, maybe.
While the zombie musicians play rock and roll, Britt Daniels sings about…something. The first line of the album is “Before destruction, a man’s heart is haughty.” You have to admit, this hardly sounds like inspired lyricism, or even lyricism at all. But Daniels makes it work with a careful mix of menace, swagger, and boredom.
I am hard-pressed to adequately describe his style of vocal delivery. His voice doesn’t stretch too many boundaries or do too many tricks. He doesn’t sound overly emotional, but avoids being too distanced. Now and again he slips in a falsetto note or two. But generally he just…sings. The tone is vaguely reminiscent of an old-fashioned Brit-pop band, but with a good deal of 21st century fatalism stuffed in for good measure. Britt’s voice, like Spoon’s music in general, is composed, simple, and well-executed.
I would argue this is what is so uncomfortable about Spoon. Whereas an ordinary band would launch into an anthemic chorus or a raunchy guitar solo or two, Spoon never does. Transference is the skeleton of an album. Every song feels like it is preparing for something, getting itself ready, then vanishing instantly. Like this review.
March 15, 2010
Remember Me
In this interest of critical objectivity, I should point out that the reason I went to go see Remember Me is because of Tate Ellington, the actor who plays Aidin, the main character’s best friend. Although I can’t ever remember meeting him personally, he went to my high school and graduated about the same time as my older brother. Needless to say, a home-town boy making good on his dreams, while common, is always an exciting narrative when you get to see it play out. If only I could likewise commend the rest of the movie.
Remember Me tells the story of Tyler Hawkins (Twilight’s Robert Pattinson), a disaffected 22 year-old whose biggest problem seems to be that he wishes his father (Pierce Brosnan) were more emotionally invested in the life of their family. Tyler seems to project a vague sense of blame upon his father for the suicide of his older brother six years before. However, the only thing Tyler himself is good at is being a family man, especially in the deft way he provides support for his artistically-inclined younger sister, Caroline (Ruby Jerins).
The other important thread in the plot of the movie is his semi-torrid young love affair with Ally Craig (Lost’s Emilie de Ravin). Ally is the daughter of a policeman (Chris Cooper) who is notable because a) he rearranged Tyler’s face in a fit of minor police brutality, and b) he is haunted by his wife’s murder at the hands of muggers. He is overprotective of Ally to the point where he beats her once on screen. It’s ambiguous whether this is an aberration or a pattern, but domestic violence is inexcusable I suppose, although a clearer understanding would clarify Ally’s judgment a bit.
I thought everybody did a fine job of acting—for the most part—with the material they had to work with. Although some critics seem to be wringing their hands with James Dean comparisons, I thought Pattinson was much closer to channeling James Van Der Beek.
I guess it’s unfair to be harder on de Ravin simply because I watch her on Lost every week, but I could occasionally her Australian accent break through when he she had to do something challenging with her voice. I say that about her, even though as far I could tell, only Ellington, Jerins, and Cooper were American in this cast, and I have no idea what would pass for a believable Manhattan accent.
Ellington turns in a fine comic turn as the impish sidekick. Some critics disagree with me, but I have a feeling that they don’t like the movie or the way his character was written, and dismiss him because of a lack of name recognition. Jerins is similarly delightful, playing her age authentically, without mugging or awkwardness.
Although the meat of the story itself is pleasant, if unmemorable, it’s the beginning—and especially the end—to which I took strong exception. I’m going to “spoil” part of the ending for you—not because I which to ruin anybody’s enjoyment of the film, but enhance it so that you might not be as angry or blind-sided as I was coming out of this film. As you might come to suspect—and dread—after seeing many unnecessary cultural landmarks setting this film almost a decade ago, Remember Me does in fact use the events of September 11th as an emotionally manipulative plot twist.
There might be an argument to be made about seeing each victim of the attacks in a unique manner by exploring a representative—though fictional—life. However, I feel this argument is undermined by the beginning, in which we see Ally’s mother gunned down in the subway in front of her. This serves less to advance the plot than to exploit the audience’s emotions. These scenes, I feel, are a shameful blight on an otherwise okay—even enjoyable—film. I lay the blame mostly on writer Will Fetters, and director Allen Coulter, although the ending was filmed as—under the circumstances—tastefully as possible.
Remember Me is rated PG-13 for violence, language, sexual content, and smoking.
Remember Me tells the story of Tyler Hawkins (Twilight’s Robert Pattinson), a disaffected 22 year-old whose biggest problem seems to be that he wishes his father (Pierce Brosnan) were more emotionally invested in the life of their family. Tyler seems to project a vague sense of blame upon his father for the suicide of his older brother six years before. However, the only thing Tyler himself is good at is being a family man, especially in the deft way he provides support for his artistically-inclined younger sister, Caroline (Ruby Jerins).
The other important thread in the plot of the movie is his semi-torrid young love affair with Ally Craig (Lost’s Emilie de Ravin). Ally is the daughter of a policeman (Chris Cooper) who is notable because a) he rearranged Tyler’s face in a fit of minor police brutality, and b) he is haunted by his wife’s murder at the hands of muggers. He is overprotective of Ally to the point where he beats her once on screen. It’s ambiguous whether this is an aberration or a pattern, but domestic violence is inexcusable I suppose, although a clearer understanding would clarify Ally’s judgment a bit.
I thought everybody did a fine job of acting—for the most part—with the material they had to work with. Although some critics seem to be wringing their hands with James Dean comparisons, I thought Pattinson was much closer to channeling James Van Der Beek.
I guess it’s unfair to be harder on de Ravin simply because I watch her on Lost every week, but I could occasionally her Australian accent break through when he she had to do something challenging with her voice. I say that about her, even though as far I could tell, only Ellington, Jerins, and Cooper were American in this cast, and I have no idea what would pass for a believable Manhattan accent.
Ellington turns in a fine comic turn as the impish sidekick. Some critics disagree with me, but I have a feeling that they don’t like the movie or the way his character was written, and dismiss him because of a lack of name recognition. Jerins is similarly delightful, playing her age authentically, without mugging or awkwardness.
Although the meat of the story itself is pleasant, if unmemorable, it’s the beginning—and especially the end—to which I took strong exception. I’m going to “spoil” part of the ending for you—not because I which to ruin anybody’s enjoyment of the film, but enhance it so that you might not be as angry or blind-sided as I was coming out of this film. As you might come to suspect—and dread—after seeing many unnecessary cultural landmarks setting this film almost a decade ago, Remember Me does in fact use the events of September 11th as an emotionally manipulative plot twist.
There might be an argument to be made about seeing each victim of the attacks in a unique manner by exploring a representative—though fictional—life. However, I feel this argument is undermined by the beginning, in which we see Ally’s mother gunned down in the subway in front of her. This serves less to advance the plot than to exploit the audience’s emotions. These scenes, I feel, are a shameful blight on an otherwise okay—even enjoyable—film. I lay the blame mostly on writer Will Fetters, and director Allen Coulter, although the ending was filmed as—under the circumstances—tastefully as possible.
Remember Me is rated PG-13 for violence, language, sexual content, and smoking.
March 10, 2010
A Step Forward
Artist: Derek Webb
Album: Stockholm Syndrome
Label: INO Records (more or less)
Has Derek Webb become obsessed with his own controversial image? Is he slipping into that ugly universe of angry activists and pompous protesters who are so consumed with their own soapboxes that they forget about, well, everything else?
Having not talked to Webb personally, I can’t answer such questions with absolute certainty. But I can comment upon his latest album, Stockholm Syndrome, which is a remarkable piece of work that might just be the crowning achievement of his career, despite the slough of controversy surrounding its original release. If you’re really curious about said controversy, just do a quick internet search on Stockholm Syndrome in your free time. Personally, I am more interested in the album as a work of art, as a powerful musical statement produced by a distinctly talented craftsman.
Perhaps you have heard that on Stockholm Syndrome, Webb ditches the singer-songwriter strumming, the simple song structures, and the folk-tinged protest formula that characterized his earlier albums. You heard correctly. From start to finish, Stockholm Syndrome is an electronica-infused, highly manipulated, beat-heavy thunderstorm of a record.
What’s really impressive, however, is that despite all the twiddling of knobs and layering of synthesizer blips and bleeps, Webb’s pure, unadulterated voice still commands the attention of his listeners. And he hasn’t changed the topic of conversation. The big issues of oppression, poverty, and hypocrisy still saturate every song. This time, however, Webb manages to link his particular brand of socio-political awareness to creative and unusual musical forms, a bizarre marriage that diminishes neither and makes both more memorable.
“Black Eye” might be the most successful demonstration of this combination, as Webb’s earnest voice sounds casually confident over a sea of synthesizers and extra-equalized drums. “Cobra Con” continues to press the tempo with a chorus that kicks hard and lyrics that produce more puzzles than solutions. In fact, many of the lyrics on the album are, like the music that adorns them, artistically damaged and noticeably fragmentary. In this way, Webb forces his listeners to fill in the gaps, to make interpretive decisions.
For instance, I originally assumed “The Spirit vs. The Kick Drum” was just a fun song about nothing in particular. However, when I paid closer attention to the words Webb was singing, I released that it was no throw-away party song but a clever description of the ways in which we make God fit into our preconceived notions of what He should be.
Webb follows up this observation with “What Matters More,” which hammers home one of Webb’s favorite themes—that Christians should stop worrying about the little outward rules and regulations they have devised and start paying attention to the suffering of those who live next door to them. And he does all this over an addictive beat that sounds more like Kid A-era Radiohead than anything I’ve heard in a while.
Allow me to break stride and be very clear at this point. Stockholm Syndrome is not just a musical megaphone for Webb’s personal views on society and the state. It is at its very core a groundbreaking display of artistic prowess, a brilliant mish-mash of hip-hop, art-rock, retro-pop, and easy listening. Each song is different, each is unique, and each brings its own set of sonic delights. There are stale moments, sure, but there are also several transcendent passages, passages that rival anything happening in popular music this millennium. Forget the controversy for a minute. Forget all your preconceptions about Derek Webb and his message. Approach the album with open ears, and be prepared to be blown away.
Album: Stockholm Syndrome
Label: INO Records (more or less)
Has Derek Webb become obsessed with his own controversial image? Is he slipping into that ugly universe of angry activists and pompous protesters who are so consumed with their own soapboxes that they forget about, well, everything else?
Having not talked to Webb personally, I can’t answer such questions with absolute certainty. But I can comment upon his latest album, Stockholm Syndrome, which is a remarkable piece of work that might just be the crowning achievement of his career, despite the slough of controversy surrounding its original release. If you’re really curious about said controversy, just do a quick internet search on Stockholm Syndrome in your free time. Personally, I am more interested in the album as a work of art, as a powerful musical statement produced by a distinctly talented craftsman.
Perhaps you have heard that on Stockholm Syndrome, Webb ditches the singer-songwriter strumming, the simple song structures, and the folk-tinged protest formula that characterized his earlier albums. You heard correctly. From start to finish, Stockholm Syndrome is an electronica-infused, highly manipulated, beat-heavy thunderstorm of a record.
What’s really impressive, however, is that despite all the twiddling of knobs and layering of synthesizer blips and bleeps, Webb’s pure, unadulterated voice still commands the attention of his listeners. And he hasn’t changed the topic of conversation. The big issues of oppression, poverty, and hypocrisy still saturate every song. This time, however, Webb manages to link his particular brand of socio-political awareness to creative and unusual musical forms, a bizarre marriage that diminishes neither and makes both more memorable.
“Black Eye” might be the most successful demonstration of this combination, as Webb’s earnest voice sounds casually confident over a sea of synthesizers and extra-equalized drums. “Cobra Con” continues to press the tempo with a chorus that kicks hard and lyrics that produce more puzzles than solutions. In fact, many of the lyrics on the album are, like the music that adorns them, artistically damaged and noticeably fragmentary. In this way, Webb forces his listeners to fill in the gaps, to make interpretive decisions.
For instance, I originally assumed “The Spirit vs. The Kick Drum” was just a fun song about nothing in particular. However, when I paid closer attention to the words Webb was singing, I released that it was no throw-away party song but a clever description of the ways in which we make God fit into our preconceived notions of what He should be.
Webb follows up this observation with “What Matters More,” which hammers home one of Webb’s favorite themes—that Christians should stop worrying about the little outward rules and regulations they have devised and start paying attention to the suffering of those who live next door to them. And he does all this over an addictive beat that sounds more like Kid A-era Radiohead than anything I’ve heard in a while.
Allow me to break stride and be very clear at this point. Stockholm Syndrome is not just a musical megaphone for Webb’s personal views on society and the state. It is at its very core a groundbreaking display of artistic prowess, a brilliant mish-mash of hip-hop, art-rock, retro-pop, and easy listening. Each song is different, each is unique, and each brings its own set of sonic delights. There are stale moments, sure, but there are also several transcendent passages, passages that rival anything happening in popular music this millennium. Forget the controversy for a minute. Forget all your preconceptions about Derek Webb and his message. Approach the album with open ears, and be prepared to be blown away.
March 8, 2010
A Fantastic (but Frustrating) Fragment
Artist: Citizen Cope
Album: The Rainwater LP
Label: Rainwater Recordings, February 2010
Clarence Greenwood sounds tired. But that’s nothing new. In fact, I would argue that Greenwood's weathered, weary voice is what makes The Rainwater LP endlessly mesmerizing, despite its faults. On his fourth album as Citizen Cope, Clarence Greenwood continues to juxtapose tantalizing hip-hop and reggae-influenced beats with unusual chord patterns and melancholy yet menacing vocals—a combination that ends up sounding something like a chilled out island jam after a devastating hurricane.
The Rainwater LP begins on a sad note, with gently strummed guitar chords backed by walls of somber piano over which Greenwood croons “Keep asking, how long will my love it last?” The song is concise and curiously catchy—a great beginning to the record..
Greenwood continues to impress with the second track, “Healing Hands.” Over a more uptempo beat, Greenwood sings “I will never forget your healing hands my love, you gave me daylight, you gave me sunlight.” Then, as the song begins to unravel around reverse echoes and sampled snatches of the chorus, a transcendent moment of otherworldly beauty rises out of the ashes—a moment much too big for words.
From that nigh-unto-miraculous point, the album’s progress becomes rather rocky. The singable tunes are tolerable but not excellent and Greenwood’s sonic experiments backfire on a few of the more adventurous tracks. For instance, “Jericho” sounds like it could have been a good song until the unhinged synthesizer track took over, while the funky organ on “I Couldn’t Explain Why” undercuts the enchanting sound of Greenwood’s voice.
When I examined the lyrics of The Rainwater LP closely, I must admit that I was slightly disappointed. While Greenwood spreads an aura of grief, hope, and honesty with his distinctive vocal tones, the actual words are often almost nonsensical. I could forgive him this propensity for ambiguity, except that he has simultaneously developed a nasty habit of attacking the government, the press, and the wealthy with very generic, uninspired lines like “The actions of a few, have put a world in harm’s way, and history has proven that they killed our leaders dead.” Trying to sort out his meanings in these songs is a little like navigating an unfamiliar house in the dark. In the end, I find that it is easier to stop trying, sit down, and enjoy the shadows.
As a whole, I would say that the album is a failure. For one thing, it is altogether too short. There are a total of ten songs, two of which are just “acoustic” repeats of earlier tracks (minus the piano and drums). Perhaps if Greenwood had called the album The Rainwater LP I would be more understanding.
To be fair, I suspect that the brevity and simplicity of The Rainwater LP is at least in part due to the increased difficulty of producing independently. Greenwood has never been able to get along with record companies, having gone through two different labels in the span of three albums before going independent on this, his latest effort. Despite all this, I found the sound to be impressively crisp and thick, with a nice balance between the beats, the instruments, and the vocals.
Fans of Citizen Cope will also notice that the album marks a slight departure from previous work, as Greenwood focuses more on the guitar and vocals (probably resulting from the ease of recording more acoustic tracks). If Greenwood would write more songs with concrete images or coherent stories, I think I could get used to this more conventional singer-songwriter side of his personality. Until then, I will continue listening to the smattering of excellent tunes off The Rainwater LP and hope that Citizen Cope plays a show in my area soon.
Album: The Rainwater LP
Label: Rainwater Recordings, February 2010
Clarence Greenwood sounds tired. But that’s nothing new. In fact, I would argue that Greenwood's weathered, weary voice is what makes The Rainwater LP endlessly mesmerizing, despite its faults. On his fourth album as Citizen Cope, Clarence Greenwood continues to juxtapose tantalizing hip-hop and reggae-influenced beats with unusual chord patterns and melancholy yet menacing vocals—a combination that ends up sounding something like a chilled out island jam after a devastating hurricane.
The Rainwater LP begins on a sad note, with gently strummed guitar chords backed by walls of somber piano over which Greenwood croons “Keep asking, how long will my love it last?” The song is concise and curiously catchy—a great beginning to the record..
Greenwood continues to impress with the second track, “Healing Hands.” Over a more uptempo beat, Greenwood sings “I will never forget your healing hands my love, you gave me daylight, you gave me sunlight.” Then, as the song begins to unravel around reverse echoes and sampled snatches of the chorus, a transcendent moment of otherworldly beauty rises out of the ashes—a moment much too big for words.
From that nigh-unto-miraculous point, the album’s progress becomes rather rocky. The singable tunes are tolerable but not excellent and Greenwood’s sonic experiments backfire on a few of the more adventurous tracks. For instance, “Jericho” sounds like it could have been a good song until the unhinged synthesizer track took over, while the funky organ on “I Couldn’t Explain Why” undercuts the enchanting sound of Greenwood’s voice.
When I examined the lyrics of The Rainwater LP closely, I must admit that I was slightly disappointed. While Greenwood spreads an aura of grief, hope, and honesty with his distinctive vocal tones, the actual words are often almost nonsensical. I could forgive him this propensity for ambiguity, except that he has simultaneously developed a nasty habit of attacking the government, the press, and the wealthy with very generic, uninspired lines like “The actions of a few, have put a world in harm’s way, and history has proven that they killed our leaders dead.” Trying to sort out his meanings in these songs is a little like navigating an unfamiliar house in the dark. In the end, I find that it is easier to stop trying, sit down, and enjoy the shadows.
As a whole, I would say that the album is a failure. For one thing, it is altogether too short. There are a total of ten songs, two of which are just “acoustic” repeats of earlier tracks (minus the piano and drums). Perhaps if Greenwood had called the album The Rainwater LP I would be more understanding.
To be fair, I suspect that the brevity and simplicity of The Rainwater LP is at least in part due to the increased difficulty of producing independently. Greenwood has never been able to get along with record companies, having gone through two different labels in the span of three albums before going independent on this, his latest effort. Despite all this, I found the sound to be impressively crisp and thick, with a nice balance between the beats, the instruments, and the vocals.
Fans of Citizen Cope will also notice that the album marks a slight departure from previous work, as Greenwood focuses more on the guitar and vocals (probably resulting from the ease of recording more acoustic tracks). If Greenwood would write more songs with concrete images or coherent stories, I think I could get used to this more conventional singer-songwriter side of his personality. Until then, I will continue listening to the smattering of excellent tunes off The Rainwater LP and hope that Citizen Cope plays a show in my area soon.
March 5, 2010
Crazy Heart
It’s tough to say something clever about Crazy Heart, which is not really a movie that aspires to be clever. Except at the very first, when Jeff Bridge’s character Bad Blake pulls his ancient truck up to his first gig. He mutters how angry he is to be booked at a bowling alley, which homage to those, including myself, for whom Bridges will always be The Dude from The Big Lebowski.
Another thing that doesn’t recommend Crazy Heart is its plot, such as there is one. But story is more than plot, and this movie is a fine example of such an assertation. The movie tells the story of the redemption (although I might say it’s closer to an enlightenment) of Bad Blake, a Texas country music singer. At the beginning of the movie, he’s broke, constantly drunk, and struggling for dignity. In the midst of the movie, he meets a muse, Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and bristles against his now super-successful former protégé, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), a Keith Urban-type.
The story of Crazy Heart shows merely a peak and a valley for Bad, who surely has seen his share of both. It’s informative what is slightly different than what must have come before. Bad admits he fathered a child by (presumably) one of his many ex-wives, whom he alienates by virtual abandonment. But this time around Bad realizes the way to Jean’s heart (as opposed to her pants, which is easier) is to become befriend her son, Buddy. But mishandling Buddy is how he loses her, too.
Obviously, the music in a film about a musician is crucial. Even as an ardent fan of Texas country music, I was still charmed by the original compositions in the film. Although “The Weary Kind,” which gives the film its title, has received deserved praise (a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination), I’m personally partial to “Hold On You” and “Fallin’ & Flyin’.” Both selections offer the rollicking charm that mirrors Bad’s, making him sympathetic in the face of just and self-made consequences.
Speaking of liking Bad, Bridges is outstanding here. His performance feels exceedingly natural. I checked his biography after the film to see if Bridges was from Texas (he’s not—although he famously played a Texan in The Last Picture Show). He helps make Bad likable in part because he always seems like a likable guy, but the charisma differs from what he displayed in playing, for instance, The Dude. Gyllenhaal herself was stunningly convincing, and essentially this was a two-person film. The strength of their acting causes all boats to rise.
The ending feels rushed, certainly, but not unnatural. I think Crazy Heart has a happy ending, but it’s not as happy as it could have been. What sets the ending’s positive tone is Bad’s self-confident acceptance of his lot as a genius at songwriting but amateur at making interpersonal relationships. Such is the story that makes a plot less than necessary.
Crazy Heart is rated R for language and brief sexuality.
Another thing that doesn’t recommend Crazy Heart is its plot, such as there is one. But story is more than plot, and this movie is a fine example of such an assertation. The movie tells the story of the redemption (although I might say it’s closer to an enlightenment) of Bad Blake, a Texas country music singer. At the beginning of the movie, he’s broke, constantly drunk, and struggling for dignity. In the midst of the movie, he meets a muse, Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and bristles against his now super-successful former protégé, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), a Keith Urban-type.
The story of Crazy Heart shows merely a peak and a valley for Bad, who surely has seen his share of both. It’s informative what is slightly different than what must have come before. Bad admits he fathered a child by (presumably) one of his many ex-wives, whom he alienates by virtual abandonment. But this time around Bad realizes the way to Jean’s heart (as opposed to her pants, which is easier) is to become befriend her son, Buddy. But mishandling Buddy is how he loses her, too.
Obviously, the music in a film about a musician is crucial. Even as an ardent fan of Texas country music, I was still charmed by the original compositions in the film. Although “The Weary Kind,” which gives the film its title, has received deserved praise (a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination), I’m personally partial to “Hold On You” and “Fallin’ & Flyin’.” Both selections offer the rollicking charm that mirrors Bad’s, making him sympathetic in the face of just and self-made consequences.
Speaking of liking Bad, Bridges is outstanding here. His performance feels exceedingly natural. I checked his biography after the film to see if Bridges was from Texas (he’s not—although he famously played a Texan in The Last Picture Show). He helps make Bad likable in part because he always seems like a likable guy, but the charisma differs from what he displayed in playing, for instance, The Dude. Gyllenhaal herself was stunningly convincing, and essentially this was a two-person film. The strength of their acting causes all boats to rise.
The ending feels rushed, certainly, but not unnatural. I think Crazy Heart has a happy ending, but it’s not as happy as it could have been. What sets the ending’s positive tone is Bad’s self-confident acceptance of his lot as a genius at songwriting but amateur at making interpersonal relationships. Such is the story that makes a plot less than necessary.
Crazy Heart is rated R for language and brief sexuality.
February 20, 2010
An Introvert's Paradise
Artist: Max Richter
Album: The Blue Notebooks
Label: Fat Cat Records, 2004
While Max Richter released The Blue Notebooks in February of 2004, I didn’t have the pleasure of hearing the album in its entirety until just a few weeks ago. To be honest, my first listen was actually quite underwhelming. I was impatient with Richter, unable to take the time to let his genius unfold in its calm and unhurried way. Now, weeks later, I can’t stop listening to The Blue Notebooks. This is music for thinking, music for wishing, music for early mornings and quiet evenings.
Richter himself originally hails from Germany, but his immediate family moved to London when he was a young child, leaving him with a definite sense of rootlessness. If the mood of this album is any indication, the gifted composer lives a very pensive and thoughtful life.
On this, his second solo album, Richter instinctively charts a haunting and understated path through familiar musical territory as he intertwines piano, strings, poetry, and the occasional found sound together to create a rich but unassuming whole.
The Blue Notebooks munches on melancholy and dips its feet into gloom, then observes delicate beauties and examines quiet joys. Set primarily in minor keys, the album runs the risk of becoming a total downer. However, Richter skillfully turns the tone toward sunnier shores just enough to avoid this danger.
The album’s strength lies in its uncompromising simplicity. Having been influenced by such minimalist composers as Steve Reich and Philip Glass, Richter intentionally limits each song to a few short but meaningful melodies. These play themselves out repeatedly with slight but gorgeous variations.
Underneath these melodies, Richter spreads a heavy atmosphere of electronic and environmental sounds. Richter himself has spent a lot of time tinkering with old electronic equipment, and he uses these sonic textures to root his songs and give them their unique character.
In addition, Richter enlisted British actor Tilda Swinton to read short passages of literature in several of the songs. Her relaxed and well-enunciated readings manage to avoid slipping into either cheap poetic passion or its deadly cousin, deadpan emotionlessness. Richter extracted these short passages from Franz Kafka’s The Blue Octavo Notebooks as well as from several pieces of Czseslaw Milosz’s poetry. They are mostly snapshot-like in content and theme, much like the sonic texture of the album itself.
A sense of steady movement characterizes most of the songs on the album. For instance “On The Nature of Daylight” begins with slow strings, then slowly builds in speed and mood until it reaches an almost visual intensity that threatens to transcend the sonic realm altogether. Later in the album “Iconography” feels like a religious free-fall through a church organ, while “The Trees” gathers momentum like an avalanche of strings and piano arpeggios.
What really holds The Blue Notebooks together is Richter’s delicate ear for pacing. Melodies repeat themselves enough, but not too much. The tempo is relaxed and methodical, but not agonizingly so. As I listen, I imagine Richter has taken hold of my hand and is leading me through a calm land of ghostly beauty. I want to stay here forever.
Album: The Blue Notebooks
Label: Fat Cat Records, 2004
While Max Richter released The Blue Notebooks in February of 2004, I didn’t have the pleasure of hearing the album in its entirety until just a few weeks ago. To be honest, my first listen was actually quite underwhelming. I was impatient with Richter, unable to take the time to let his genius unfold in its calm and unhurried way. Now, weeks later, I can’t stop listening to The Blue Notebooks. This is music for thinking, music for wishing, music for early mornings and quiet evenings.
Richter himself originally hails from Germany, but his immediate family moved to London when he was a young child, leaving him with a definite sense of rootlessness. If the mood of this album is any indication, the gifted composer lives a very pensive and thoughtful life.
On this, his second solo album, Richter instinctively charts a haunting and understated path through familiar musical territory as he intertwines piano, strings, poetry, and the occasional found sound together to create a rich but unassuming whole.
The Blue Notebooks munches on melancholy and dips its feet into gloom, then observes delicate beauties and examines quiet joys. Set primarily in minor keys, the album runs the risk of becoming a total downer. However, Richter skillfully turns the tone toward sunnier shores just enough to avoid this danger.
The album’s strength lies in its uncompromising simplicity. Having been influenced by such minimalist composers as Steve Reich and Philip Glass, Richter intentionally limits each song to a few short but meaningful melodies. These play themselves out repeatedly with slight but gorgeous variations.
Underneath these melodies, Richter spreads a heavy atmosphere of electronic and environmental sounds. Richter himself has spent a lot of time tinkering with old electronic equipment, and he uses these sonic textures to root his songs and give them their unique character.
In addition, Richter enlisted British actor Tilda Swinton to read short passages of literature in several of the songs. Her relaxed and well-enunciated readings manage to avoid slipping into either cheap poetic passion or its deadly cousin, deadpan emotionlessness. Richter extracted these short passages from Franz Kafka’s The Blue Octavo Notebooks as well as from several pieces of Czseslaw Milosz’s poetry. They are mostly snapshot-like in content and theme, much like the sonic texture of the album itself.
A sense of steady movement characterizes most of the songs on the album. For instance “On The Nature of Daylight” begins with slow strings, then slowly builds in speed and mood until it reaches an almost visual intensity that threatens to transcend the sonic realm altogether. Later in the album “Iconography” feels like a religious free-fall through a church organ, while “The Trees” gathers momentum like an avalanche of strings and piano arpeggios.
What really holds The Blue Notebooks together is Richter’s delicate ear for pacing. Melodies repeat themselves enough, but not too much. The tempo is relaxed and methodical, but not agonizingly so. As I listen, I imagine Richter has taken hold of my hand and is leading me through a calm land of ghostly beauty. I want to stay here forever.
February 11, 2010
Edge of Darkness/Taken
To truly appreciate Edge of Darkness—and by no means do I believe anybody should feel obligated to—you have to understand how well it works within the confines of its genre: the forgettable crime drama. Its anti-thesis would have to be something exceedingly similar, except shoddily done. A recent fine example of such an antithesis would be Taken.
Both are rousing tales of vindictive ass-kicking by a haunted parent. In Edge of Darkness, Mel Gibson plays Boston cop Tom Craven who is driven to find out why his daughter is murdered by his side, at his front door. In Taken, Liam Neeson plays Bryan Mills, an ex-spy who must rescue his daughter from Albanian sex traffickers in Paris.
I don’t need to tell you who plays anybody else, because they aren’t important or you won’t recognize them. The one exception is Maggie Grace, playing Mills’ daughter Kim. As an avid viewer of Lost, where she played Shannon, I had trouble taking her for the 17 year-old she is supposed to be.
Casting aside an almost criminally trite portrayal of human trafficking, one of the major problems of Taken is how it mishandles the daughter character. I wasn’t nearly as concerned about Kim as Craven’s daughter, Emma. Taken goes out of its way to paint Kim as virginal (a dubious proposition to begin with), supposedly to increase the tension when she is about to be deflowered by a heavy-set Arab sheik at the end. I was more concerned about Kim’s bad-seed friend, with whom she traveled to Paris, who discreetly disappears by the end of the film, dead or lost in the maze of a seedy Parisian underworld. [Ed. Note: I have been informed that this is not so. She does show up in the movie, but still--not taken to safety by Mills on screen.]
Emma is shot within the first twenty minutes of Darkness, so the audience can stop being ‘concerned’ for her, and start actually caring about her. I think this plot decision helps us empathize with Craven better than we can with Mills. The anonymous Bojana Novakovic, who plays Emma, has a simpler part, because we’re only supposed to see her agitated, but she does more with it than Grace.
I also appreciated how Darkness is, well, darker than Taken. That Darkness ends with tragedy makes it all the more poignant and believable. It’s also satisfying, if you can take satisfaction with the ending of Hamlet. The very end of the movie is maudlin and unnecessary, more cinematic and easily discarded by the audience if desired. The tail end of Taken is jaw-droppingly stupid.
The only real problem I have with Darkness is Mel Gibson’s terrible Boston accent. Obviously, everybody is aware that we’re watching Gibson, who is notably not from Boston, and could have easily suspended our disbelief if he had stuck with his naturally mild Australian. I mean, this isn’t a Dennis Lehane adaptation after all.
Edge of Darkness is rated R for strong bloody violence and language. Taken is rated PG-13 for intense sequences of violence, disturbing thematic material, sexual content, some drug references, and language.
Both are rousing tales of vindictive ass-kicking by a haunted parent. In Edge of Darkness, Mel Gibson plays Boston cop Tom Craven who is driven to find out why his daughter is murdered by his side, at his front door. In Taken, Liam Neeson plays Bryan Mills, an ex-spy who must rescue his daughter from Albanian sex traffickers in Paris.
I don’t need to tell you who plays anybody else, because they aren’t important or you won’t recognize them. The one exception is Maggie Grace, playing Mills’ daughter Kim. As an avid viewer of Lost, where she played Shannon, I had trouble taking her for the 17 year-old she is supposed to be.
Casting aside an almost criminally trite portrayal of human trafficking, one of the major problems of Taken is how it mishandles the daughter character. I wasn’t nearly as concerned about Kim as Craven’s daughter, Emma. Taken goes out of its way to paint Kim as virginal (a dubious proposition to begin with), supposedly to increase the tension when she is about to be deflowered by a heavy-set Arab sheik at the end. I was more concerned about Kim’s bad-seed friend, with whom she traveled to Paris, who discreetly disappears by the end of the film, dead or lost in the maze of a seedy Parisian underworld. [Ed. Note: I have been informed that this is not so. She does show up in the movie, but still--not taken to safety by Mills on screen.]
Emma is shot within the first twenty minutes of Darkness, so the audience can stop being ‘concerned’ for her, and start actually caring about her. I think this plot decision helps us empathize with Craven better than we can with Mills. The anonymous Bojana Novakovic, who plays Emma, has a simpler part, because we’re only supposed to see her agitated, but she does more with it than Grace.
I also appreciated how Darkness is, well, darker than Taken. That Darkness ends with tragedy makes it all the more poignant and believable. It’s also satisfying, if you can take satisfaction with the ending of Hamlet. The very end of the movie is maudlin and unnecessary, more cinematic and easily discarded by the audience if desired. The tail end of Taken is jaw-droppingly stupid.
The only real problem I have with Darkness is Mel Gibson’s terrible Boston accent. Obviously, everybody is aware that we’re watching Gibson, who is notably not from Boston, and could have easily suspended our disbelief if he had stuck with his naturally mild Australian. I mean, this isn’t a Dennis Lehane adaptation after all.
Edge of Darkness is rated R for strong bloody violence and language. Taken is rated PG-13 for intense sequences of violence, disturbing thematic material, sexual content, some drug references, and language.
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