Year End List?

I'm afraid you won't see a "Best Albums of 2007" list from me. Mainly because I have only, about, four albums from this year. A dissapointing year in music for me personally. I did listen to a lot of songs from albums of this year, but nothing really grabbed me. Although, I very much liked Battles' Mirrored, an electronic/guitar type album. How can you not like an album with the drummer from Helmet?

It seems there were a lot of electronic, mash-ups, hip-hop, and "noise" albums this year. And being that I'm mostly a guitar-oriented, rock kind-of-guy, there wasn't much to tantalize my senses. That being said, though, The White Stripes and Dinosaur Jr. had very good albums. Of course, there's Radiohead, but I've been meaning to post about that. I think Brock has too.

So, whilst I hang my head and kick the nearest pebble, I look forward to 2008. Especially since My Brightest Diamond and Able Baker Fox are slated for releases (however, I do have the pre-release of Able Baker Fox now, more on that later). And, Sufjan Stevens is due, hopefully!

Throw me the idol! I'll throw you the whip...

My house is being torn up right now (a brother is installing tile and carpet)...so I am posting this from Marco's house. Aaaaand...I only have a few minutes to post this, but I had to. It's for the new Indy flick.



I think that as far as recreating the feel of the original films they've done a brilliant job. The film itself may suck, but at the moment, we can look at this poster and pretend we're at a multiplex in the 80's. And yeah, I'm gonna say it - as excited as I was for the Star Wars prequels (which turned out to be unfounded excitement) I much prefer Indy. But then, anyone who has seen Wildlifeless can tell you that.

My Brightest Diamond

Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond is truly unique. Her bio at Asthmatic Kitty says it all. Her uniqueness transcends into her music. Interesting guitar lines, strings, various percussion, and an operatically trained voice makes for an album that sometimes repeats on end in my players. I’ve meant to write a post about MBD for a while now. But I’m newly inspired by excited anticipation for their upcoming album. Check them out.

Oh, I should also mention that Brock and I had the wonderful privilege to see her, minus band, earlier this year. We were both mesmerized.

Also, I should be receiving the new album from Able Baker Fox any day now. This is a combination of two of my favorite rock bands ever, The Casket Lottery and Small Brown Bike. What I’ve already heard, has blown me away. I believe in rock again.

Take Away Shows!

Clearly, there are numerous ways to pass time away on the Internet. Especially when searching for new music. Most of them are a waste. One of the best ways to make that slow day at work go by (or, if you're at home waiting for the souffle to rise), go to http://www.blogotheque.net/takeawayshows/!

My personal faves:
Sufjan Stevens & Friends
The Dirty Projectors
Menomena (Mostly for the dancing kids)

There are many I have yet to see.

Indiana Jones and the New Eyes Like Static Post

Brock sits before a computer.

BROCK

WAAA-HOO!!!

Housecleaning

No, this isn't another post about House (don't think I didn't consider tacking something on though). It's a post about something I finally took care of: going down to SCC and getting my diplomas. I let the degrees sit at the school for about three months...mainly because I just kept forgetting about them. And maybe, deep down, I was sort of sad to tie off the last connection to the school.
But, to be honest, it was the most hassle-free experience I've had at that school. I just showed my ID and they brought out three packages - a certificate in film production, a certificate in screenwriting and an associates in applied science. I'm glad to have it done. Now all I have to do is get them framed in some type of foggy glass and then place them up high on a wall so that people will be unable to read them and will instead assume I'm some kind of med school grad or something...

Rox and the Sox

The Red Sox are the new Yankees. In other words, the new team to hate. With their show-off batters and mouthy pitchers, they’ve eclipsed nasty New York. That’s what I’ve read anyway. I really don’t know. I haven’t watched nearly enough baseball to know. What I do know, is that the Red Sox are the much stronger team. This World Series will truly be David vs. Goliath. Will the Rockies keep their momentum and swing the proverbial sling-shot, striking the mighty Red Sox square in the temple? I hope so. (So far, no. It's wierd watching the World Series in mid-afternoon.)

Torture him if you have to

To be frank, I kind of watch 24 every now and then. I enjoyed season 5, but season 6 wasn't too great (I stopped watching about a quarter of a way through). Well, some folks in the U.K. have been given a trailer for season 7 (along with a funny "thanks for watching" message by Kiefer Sutherland). I liked it . It looks like they're trying to revise the show, make it interesting again (although it looks like they're continuing to rip off Die Hard by using its latest sequel).

Hopefully, it'll be a nice distraction come Monday.

It’s the Pineapple

Of all the wonderful and amazing features I could experience in Hawaii, so far, the pineapple rules. Yes, the pineapple. I thought I knew what a pineapple tasted like. Oh, how ignorant I was. I thought pineapples were supposed to be tangy/tarty, unless they’ve been soaked in fructose syrup in a can. But ever since I first sunk my teeth into a Hawaiian pineapple (first night here), I’ve been eating them whenever I can. They are so sweet and succulent. They really lose their sweetness on the trip over to the 48. Okay, the weather and ocean are great too, but the pineapple rules.

Dying would be a great adventure

There are so many tremendous new things happening since I last blogged. I am afraid that I will be given over to hysterics the moment I start talking about all that is neat and new and be branded a histrionic (a label I already desperately need to stay away from). But, c’mon! There is a new Radiohead album out today. In Rainbows! I’m going to write a review for that and some other things this week. At the moment though, I don’t feel comfortable talking about it as I’ve only listened to it one and a quarter times.

So here’s what I’m going to do instead: I’m going to talk about last night’s episode of House.
Before I jump into that, let me note that I haven’t seen the first two episodes of the season due to scheduling conflicts. So kindly get off my back if I say something that sounds ill-informed.

First of all, is this doctor elimination game working for me? Absolutely. How about the new doctors…are they gelling? I think so. They’re both radically different from House’s previous tenants yet they remarkably overlap with a few of their key qualities. Was that done on purpose? This is me, smiling. Still, there are enough shades in these guys to bring out new sides to House. How about the ambitious blond girl? I can’t remember her name, and yes, that’s part of the joke…but I liked her scheming efforts. This is like the most sordid parts of elimination reality shows…but fictionalized, so we’re okay to enjoy it. Right? And in a way, last night’s episode vaguely commented on the price of such games. I.E.: their efforts to get into House’s permanent roster ended up killing a patient.
I really liked that. It worked on two levels for me. One: it showed us how silly this competition is and how ambitious these morons are…and, two: really made House seem petty. Sure, he reversed course towards the end of the episode, realizing it was time to cut the crap and try to save this guy before it was too late. But, this just adds another level of moral darkness to his character. He was always a bastard with some heart…but now? He’s just questionable. While I enjoy the writers showing us how tentative life is on this show, House has to save someone soon. Cause that’s probably the only thing about his character that gives him a permit to do the things he does.

Speaking of which, how about that Joshua moment? What I’m getting at is House electrocuting himself to see God. That was both shocking (if I make light of the pun, does that make it any less clever?) and a little out of hand. I know this show is well beyond reality, but would they seriously let him keep working after having shocked himself like that? I guess after all the crap he has done, that’s sort of a moot point. It would have smoothed the whole thing over though if he hadn’t been okay later on in the episode. Give him a week to recover…last time I checked a week was standard procedure for gunshots, overdoses and accidents.

I like Kal Penn’s immature ten-year-old-boy quality in this show. He’s generally annoying as hell, but herein, he’s annoying in a kind of funny way. I especially like him annoying House.

The new doctors seeking advice from House’s old crew is cool, but enough with the Foreman crap. He’s about as enjoyable this season as a sharp stick to the eye. And this better not become a pattern. The new group is shaking things up plenty, but from here on out, if they want advice, they should go to Wilson. This cast is getting too big for its britches.

And yes, I am a spoiler monger…so I already know which three he picks.

The Eastern Sun: Part 3

If you hit every big eastern city on your way out to the Atlantic coast, you run along a section of the country referred to as BosWash. This is really just the Northeastern Corridor – a collection of cities upon which the fortunes, politics and culture of the United States turns. Some call it the Main Street of America.
For the past month, we’ve been walking up Main Street. Every door here has been opened to us, every light left on. Like a runway, each city represented a light, and all lights led to Boston.
But now, it’s time to go. All lights lead to Phoenix.

Leading up to our departure, we’ve done a bunch of crazy things…

We met Marco in Philadelphia. I think I will remember that moment for the rest of my life – we were sitting in the lobby of an Embassy Suites. The room was amber and filling up with soft-spoken men in business casual. These bastards didn’t mind stealing a few threatening glances our way. And then, the elevator doors opened: there he was. Smiling. The Italian Stallion, the Rooster, by way of Philadelphia.
As Marco slung taunts my way (as he usually does), we barreled down the narrow pathways of the city, eyes searching the misty streets, hoping to find a spot for parking. By the way, driving in Philly is horrible. You have to turn right, stay straight, go back, turn left, pay toll, gas to pedal, approach a barrier, cars whizzing by, lights red, your dash vibrating with an anxious idle. It’s like being on coke and tied down. And the people of the city? They want your blood, man. There is something defiant and snide in their gait. They prowl the street like they own the city, as opposed to other places along the Corridor where the city owned them. It was just big enough to be impressive, just small enough to be manageable. It was a boxer, aglow with gaslight and electric.
We had fantastic Jamaican food while we were there. I had jerked chicken that made my nose run like a decathlon athlete. After sending Josh and Angie to bed that first night, Marco and I toured the city, finally ending up at the Hard Rock café where he bought a shirt for a friend. Apparently, this friend was collecting a Hard Rock shirt from every city. Cross Philly off that list buddy, cause Marco’s got you covered. And we had a drink. And we chatted…about cool things I’ve seen, cool things he has seen. I would never pretend to be an equal to Marco on the world traveler scene, but for once I could sit down with him and have notches on my belt. It was a damned fine drink, that drink.
Following our trip to Philly, we went to New York and saw Times Square and Grand Central Station. Times Square looks like a web site with all the flashing, colored pop-up adds. Grand Central Station looks like an ancient Greek palace submerged beneath the ground, and submerged even further below that palace was the shambled, clattering blood of the city. To say these places teemed with energy would be a cliché, but a well-spoken one. They do teem with energy, but they also teem with a plethora of other things. You fill in the gap with that one.

After getting back to Massachusetts we toured some museums, hit the Cape and prepared for the visit of John Anthony and his friend Aaron. It was as if my time on the East was bleeding like a hemophiliac’s wound. We toured Boston, hit the Green Dragon Tavern (of Paul Revere fame) and spent a day up in New Hampshire at the Highland Scottish Games. That was quite enjoyable. I had never been to a ski resort before, and the games were held on just such a resort, named the Loon. The snow had all melted, but the air was bursting with Scottish geeks. Scottish geeks dress and prance about to bagpipe music much like Lord of the Rings geeks by the way. These two cultures should seriously consider pooling their efforts.
We all went our separate ways at this event, crossing every now and then like fish in a tank. I spent the majority of my time split between the competitions themselves and the bar nestled up in the top of the Loon’s lodge. While enjoying a brew, I heard a tremendous precession thundering below the bar. People started to flock to the stairs to take a quick look. Gleeful cries went up and the sounds grew louder. And then, the bar was being overrun with a full Scottish band. Right there, in the middle of our amber hops, they touched the ceiling for a brief moment. And then everyone bought them drinks. Nice trick…I guess the bagpipes works just as well as the guitar if you’re in the right place.

Some other things happened. Some of it was of interest, some of it wasn’t. At one point or another, I may get around to sharing it. But don’t hate me if I don’t. All that matters is that I am in the 11th hour. All my bags are packed and my seat is reserved. This time tomorrow, I will be atop four wheels that are spinning across the country. In the past 24 hours, I’ve heard that Dave Matthew’s song “Where Are You Going” twice. It plays wherever I am. I have been cut to the quick by the East Coast and I have arrived at some conclusions about where I am going…so to say it was more then a trip would be appropriate. Clearly, it was more then a trip. Why? I got slightly melancholy today as I packed my bags and realized my footsteps wouldn’t clack against the Franklin streets again. But I also feel a new drive. I have to return home. I must melt back into the desert, dented by my dip into the Atlantic.
Did I dent the people here? Am I like a Sanjuro or Blondie, striding into town, making his mark and then taking leave? It’d be arrogant to say yes.

So, yes.

I'll see you in Phoenix

The Eastern Sun: Part 2

Since I last blogged, we've gone to Philly, New York City and Princeton.

Now...you may ask, why Princeton? Ya thinking of enrolling there? Not quite. We went to Princeton to read a few unpublished short stories by J.D. Salinger (of Catcher in the Rye fame). I've been a big fan of Salinger for quite some time and Josh also liked Salinger for Nine Stories. Once I mentioned these unpublished shorts to him, his first reaction was "we gotta go". So...to Princeton we went.
Now, the stories we read were some of his more notorious works. Every Nirvana fan knows the lore behind You Know You're Right and other rarities. Likewise, every Salinger fan knows there are stories out there that haven't been published, germs of ideas remain unseen, yet important to the shape of his entire career. Two of these short stories are The Ocean Full of Bowling Balls and The Last and Best of the Peter Pans. Bowling Balls is about a young, struggling writer, Vincent, who spends a day with his sick, younger brother, Kenneth. The both of them are the siblings of Holden Caufield, the notorious protagonist behind Catcher in the Rye. Regarded as one of Salinger's finer works, Bowling Balls deals with Holden's personal problems, hints at the figure Vincent would become, and displays the mature personality of Kenneth...a character whose presence is deeply felt in "Rye". Yes, as someone said, Bowling Balls is seeped in premonition.

The Last and Best of the Peter Pans was quite humorous. Taking place after the events in Bowling Balls, it details a coversation between Vincent and his mom (an actress) in which the two try to out-act the other. The story plays silly for most of is length...until the end, in which it hits you like a slap in the face. Tragic, dark, wry, this was Salinger at his best. It was like getting a glimpse into his notebook. We were presented with the ideas that would come to shape his entire career. And the effect of reading such works was tremendous.
In order to catch a glimpse at these rare stories, you must go through a procedure at the library: fill out some paperwork, get an ID, and be taken into a backroom where the material is brought to you by an attendant. No pictures can be taken, no notes of any sort written. The room where you read is very interesting...like the office of a law firm. The air is silent and thick. The stories? Stark...violent.

Great as this experience was, it was also heart-wrenching...for there were several more Salinger works contained within the box that we didn't know about. Pans and Bowling Balls are the two most noted of these works, but several others (The Magic Foxhole, I'm Crazy) begged to be read.

Maybe next time.

The Eastern Sun: Part 1

Gabe urged me a few days ago to post, and at his request…here I am.

Actually, he has good reason for asking: I’m currently engaged in a cross-country trip to the East Coast with Josh Provost and his wife, Angie. 30 days 30 states? …Something like that.
We decided to all take a trip through America a few months ago, with the apex of our journey being Josh’s hometown of Franklin, Massachusetts (just outside of Boston). There had been a number of reasons for this adventure: Josh was planning on visiting his family; there were friends along the way he wanted to visit, etc. But the foremost reason for this excursion was probably me. Up until a week and a half ago, I had seen little of the world…actually, little of the country. San Francisco was the only real “city” I had been to. And while Frisco is a visceral, voracious place, there were still great epicenters that blotched the country like juice on a white carpet. There was D.C., Boston and New York City. Yes, I had yet to experience the East Coast. And to be honest...I was undecided on this trip for a long time. I wasn't sure if it was something I wanted to do. Actually, I was probably just looking for a reason to stay in Phoenix. But I found none. With the East calling, I agreed to hit the road with the Provosts. So there – you have the inciting incident. Now, as for the trip itself…

In order to get to the East Coast, we had to drive from Phoenix to Texas, traverse the South, and run up through Virginia and Maryland. Why didn’t we fly? Simply put, I cannot. I have a condition, and I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself. Besides, this route gave us a flavor of the country, be it good or bad.
Actually, it was largely bad. The initial drive, with destinations in El Paso, Baton Rouge, Savannah and elsewhere, was hellish. Texas inspired some of our greatest ire. I swear, never has there been a state so proud and for so little. Baton Rouge and the rest of the South was marked by an amazing, just as you pictured it, swamp atmosphere, but other than that it was largely forgettable. Savannah struck me as a decent enough city to whittle away some time, especially if you know where to go. The trip didn’t really begin till D.C. though.

Washington, D.C.

D.C. was interesting…in a number of ways. First, the people there are hilarious. It’s like the world’s glut of overachievers and bullied kids collected there and formed a playhouse. They all had places to go, things to do…in a very surface value sort of way. The majority of our time was spent at the International Spy Museum, a great place in no way connected to the Smithsonian or other state sponsored museums. Actually, the ISM claims to be overseen by former CIA and MI6 operatives...a claim I believe. There were great artifacts littered throughout the museum (I got to actually see an umbrella gun used by the KGB during the Cold War) and plenty of diagrams depicting actual espionage techniques. One of the cooler diagrams showed a pipe-bug used within a Russian embassy. Basically, the Americans put a bug within the water pipes of a Russian Embassy, which recorded dialogue from within the building and was then flushed into the sewer-system nearby for retrieval. While we haven’t gone to any museums in Boston yet, I imagine the ISM will remain on top for most of the trip. It was one of the better, more comprehensive, engaging museums I have ever been to.

Naturally, since we were in D.C., we also had to see some of the monuments and sites of interest. First off was the National Archives, where we viewed documents like the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. To be honest, I wasn’t as blown away by these as I had imagined I would be. They are incredibly old and deteriorated documents. Most of the ink is nearly gone. Far more interesting, if only for humorous purposes, was a letter sent to FDR by a young Fidel Castro. In the letter, Castro laments his poor English and asks FDR for 10 American dollars green because he has never seen it before. I found the letter oddly precious. The 10-year-old even begins the letter by calling the President “his good friend”.
Absolutely devastating was the Lincoln Memorial. We saw it at twilight…and it was quite impressive. The inner-chamber where the statue is kept was far more immense and elegant than even the chamber for the “Documents of Freedom”. You feel both puny and empowered within this massive room. Also great was to sit on the steps leading up to the statue and look out over the National Mall as it lit up to the rising night.

The day after D.C. we drove across the toll-infested Eastern Highways to get into Franklin, Mass. It was weird to hit places like Philadelphia, New York and Baltimore all within hours of one another…but that’s how close everything is over here.

New York City

The next couple of days, Josh was recovering from a cold, so we kind of played it easy. After he recovered somewhat, we hit New York City. My feelings on New York City are like those towards a supermodel: you immediately fall in love, partly because of reputation, largely because of surface beauty. It’s a guaranteed love, for nearly everyone. Oh…it’s such an ugly leviathan. I never imagined enjoying any place as much as San Francisco…a simple, grand enjoyment of just existing within its atmosphere. But I felt that enjoyment in New York City.
We were there on September 11th, so you can imagine the events going on in the city that day. It was crowded and somber. In Battery Park there was a memorial laid out for the fire fighters who gave their life in the towers. Eerie and simple, this memorial featured the boots of all the dead lined up along a patch of grass within the park. Some boots had names written alongside them, likely so their owners would never have to take someone else’s boots out of the station locker. Here, they stood as our only knowledge of the person who had inhabited them.
The New York City subway was also energizing. A shambles, the sub rickets along through the bowels of the city like some kind of virus working its way through a bloodstream. I wasn’t amazed by how sprawling it was, but by how slapped together it seemed in comparison to the Metro in D.C. It wasn’t about glamour…just getting there.

Boston

Yesterday, our first day back into Mass, I hoped onboard the commuter T and went into Boston without Josh and Angie. They were both still recovering from the trip to NYC and I was anxious to get a glimpse of New York’s next-door rival.
To be honest, I was actually a little unimpressed by the city…at first glance. After spending a few hours walking around, its character starts to seep into you though. Not nearly as boisterous or as in your face as NYC or SF, Boston is subtle and takes time to appreciate. Built on education and rebellion, the city feels mannered and hidden. Pubs line nearly every block and unlike D.C., the rushed here seemed to actually have reason for the rush.
Being built on education and knowledge provided an interesting bookstore subculture to the city…as soon as I was out of the South Station I ran into the Brattle Bookstore where I found several older volumes for sale at the bargain price of $5.00! Yes, Boston breathes a rarified book culture. Old and out of print volumes fetch high-prices in stores everywhere. From the bargain bin I fetched a thick volume of short stories by Rudyard Kipling.
The highlight of the day was hitting a pub on the outskirts of Chinatown (odd, I know). Its owner was a rotund Chinese guy with blunt manners. When I first got into the pub, I had to hit the bathroom, so I quickly told him I would order a drink as soon as I used his facilities. He replied, “Hey, you can do anything you want, just so long as you flush”. When I asked him for Guinness, he tartly said, “Nope! Don’t have it!” After naming some drinks, he finally piped up a “yep!” for a gin and tonic.

In closing, I have to admit; it’s hard being away for so long. I feel like my normal routine has been interrupted and I must create new ones to live each day by. That’s probably good though…I need some upsetting in my affairs. I’m also sure I’m starting to get on Josh and Angie’s nerves. Maybe I’ll need to hop on a commuter rail again soon and do some more exploring. Ta…

P.S. I'll post some pictures soon!

Forgotten Songs

I was cleaning up my computer the other day, deleting a lot of old files, when I ran across a few old recordings. I almost deleted them as well. But, I decided to expose a couple, in their very imperfect form, to the public. Just for the heck of it. Keep in mind they're a few years old, probably first takes.

Untitled
Untitled2

Next up

Rescue Dawn is next...I probably won't be writing reviews for other flicks, so I'll try and compose a detailed summary of the film and its creator, Werner Herzog.

Reviewsday (Part 2)

I won’t have time to write lengthier reviews of Ocean’s 13 and The Namesake as I had hoped, but I thought a quick summary of my impressions might be in order.

• Ocean’s 13: By far, an improvement upon Ocean’s 12. Although the heist is somewhat far-fetched (even for an Ocean’s film) it’s still enjoyable and funny. A real standout of the picture is a subplot involving Casey Affleck in a dice factory down in Mexico: despite being there simply to rig a set of dice used in the final scheme, he and other characters become drawn into a worker revolution. This part of the film is hilarious. And, as usual, the cinematography, art direction and editing are all top notch…possibly the best all year.
  
  

  
  
  

• The Namesake: One of the stronger films of 2007. Spanning the life of an Indian family in America, The Namesake takes a delightful amount of time to carefully develop and reveal its characters. Beginning with the marriage of a husband and wife in India, it spans all the way to the collapsed marriage of their son in America. The second half of the film is somewhat difficult to navigate. This is largely because a character played by Kal Penn (Gogol) stands as one of the most annoying and selfish characters in recent memory. Couple that with an already annoying and self-absorbed actor and you’ve got a tedious 30 minutes or so to plod through.
  However, the first half of the film, between Irfan Khan and Tabu, is unbelievable. Both deserve nominations, as does the understated, but strong direction of Mira Nair.

Reviewsday

Michael Bay's Transformers

You’re in your office, chugging down a cup of coffee when your partner pops in: “Room 2. You gotta hear this”. In a flash you’re behind a bright lamp and before a seedy “perp”. He spins you his story, laying down a series of events and insisting that this is how it “really happened”. But you’re not convinced. So you get up and head next-door, coming face to face with his partner in crime. And you’d better believe he has his side of the story to play.
Watching the Michael Bay directed and Steven Spielberg produced Transformers is faintly akin to this experience. There is more here then meets the eye. Up front we have director Michael Bay’s Transformers, and hanging in the rear is producer Steven Spielberg’s Transformers. And unfortunately, only one story is true…only one film is “right”.

Bay’s Transformers revolves around Josh Duhamel and his motley crew of soldiers, battling Decepticons in the Mid East. Like the original series, it isn’t really much more then a trumped up commercial (this time to get kids to join the Army). But to be fair, there is an overarching plot: These lone American troops must trudge through the desert with a Decepticon hot on their tail and attempt to reestablish communications with the military.

Okay, Now…

Spielberg’s version of Transformers focuses upon Shia LaBeouf as a young teen recently in the market for his first car. After wheeling and dealing with his dad and attempting to pawn off some old crap his grandfather left behind, he comes into possession of a transformer masquerading as a second generation Camaro.
While the two stories eventually cross paths, there are still some very distinct qualities to both.
Bay’s Transformers is not unlike his other works: it has an inhuman feel to it. It’s loud. And it’s expensive-looking. Its coldness is faintly covered up by shallow, canned moments like Duhamel telling his wife how much he misses her. Such humanity is secondary in a juggernaut of explosions, characteristically tied together by a vague patriotic air.
The second half of the film, Spielberg’s version, plays upon a set of clichés every bit as distinct as Bay’s: An idealistic male is trapped in a world that doesn’t quite accept him…that same kid “transforms” into a hero through his special bond with a mysterious power. Why, there are even embarrassing moments with the parents. It’s great. Throw in a shark and we’re there.

With such distinctions I think the best way to illustrate the winner is by contrasting two similarly themed scenes - At the start of the flick, Duhamel and his characters get a first glimpse of a Decepticon as it trashes the base they’re operating from. Their reaction is shock, terror and amazement. Sort of.
The way Bay presents that moment is pretty broad. We’re treated to more shots of the base exploding and people dying than reactions and personalities of this small unit.
Contrast that with the reactions given when LaBeouf’s character along with his romantic interest (played by Megan Fox) discovers that LaBeouf’s car is a massive robot. There isn’t nearly as much fan fare as with Duhamel. Instead, there is a quiet scene where the two characters are driven home by the transformer. Fox’s character, afraid to sit in front with a steering wheel that is steering itself, instead opts to sit on LaBeouf’s lap.
It’s a nice little moment…it’s a Spielberg moment. You get a very personal scene where the heroes learn about this great alien force, and while they’re at it, there is some romantic tension.
What I’m driving at here, if you haven’t guessed already, is that some of this movie works *cough*Spielberg*cough* and some of it doesn’t.

…

And just sitting in the audience, you felt the half of the story dealing with LaBeouf worked, while the half focusing upon government decryption, battles in the desert and a very unfortunate showing of Jon Voight, didn’t.
Sure, even I can admit that gigantic robots raise a film to a level where you just stop talking about the story and start ogling how “bad ass” everything is (A particularly exciting sequence has one transformer chasing LaBeouf and Fox down a winding L.A. freeway, only to transform mid-chase into a robot and continue the pursuit on-foot). And don’t think they miss the opportunity to play up some of that nostalgia either. When the robots transform, there is that delightful surge of electronic noise. Robots and humans alike are given cartoony dialogue. And YES, Peter Cullen is the voice of Optimus Prime.
Unfortunately, the film is thick. Very thick. There is a good 40 to 50 minutes that don’t need to be here…and I think you’d get a sense of what I’d cut out.
The script? Basically nothing more then a harvested version of the Independence Day script. The acting? LaBeouf and Cullen are pretty much the best in that regard. Fox was adequate, but I suspect she slept with Bay to land her role. The rest of the actors range from maudlin to poor. Several characters for that matter seemed extraneous: we’ve got about 9 major players, not counting the transformers, who each get considerable screen time. Truthfully, this film only needs about 5 major characters.
Aside from all that, the film is still quite a spectacle. It’s worth your cash on technical merits alone. And while Michael Bay isn’t hitting the set with All the President’s Men in his repertoire, this is the best film he has produced. Hell, at the least, I’m sure it’ll be on Criterion.

Michael Moore's Sicko

A plethora of “politicos” claim disdain for Michael Moore. On what basis? On the basis that he is a bad filmmaker. They say he’s manipulative, simplistic and divisive. Personally, I think such claims are true, but does that mean he’s a bad filmmaker?
Actually, no. These complaints only prove that he’s a pretty damned good filmmaker.
With documentaries like Roger and Me, Bowling for Columbine and Fahrenheit 9-11, Moore has successfully employed a number of filmic devices in an attempt to manipulate the emotions and opinions of his audience. Wrong? Perhaps. But, the fact that he is highly successful at it only cements him as one of the better filmmakers working today.
Still, Mr. Moore took a cue from his detractors when he set out to make Sicko, his first attempt at a crowd-pleaser (if such a denomination could be applied to his works). Rather than resorting to confrontational rants on camera, Moore focuses his efforts towards a series of stories about individuals who suffered as a result of the flawed health care system. And while he finally does appear on camera to examine the health care of other countries, he is less venomous then his previous incarnations. Yes, this is Michael Moore trying to relate to everybody.
And I do think it pays off.
With Sicko, Moore has created his most enjoyable film to date. Crossed with a playful sense of humor and tragedy, Sicko is a story that affects everyone, in this land and in others. Fittingly therefore, the film takes no outright political stance in presenting its opinions. It simply gives us the human side of this charged debate. Ludicrous examples of a man having to decide whether or not to reattach his ring finger or his index finger are juxtaposed against somber tales like an aged couple having to move into their daughter’s storage room after losing their house to medical bills. It’s mildly exploitive, sure, but it’s still just people telling their story into the camera. With these stories and others, Moore manages to present a very convincing argument against the American health care industry…an industry he colors as greedy and defrauding (although, with Nixon backing privatized health over secret audio recordings, such an industry paints itself as greedy regardless of Moore’s help).
And then we get on a plane to Europe. It is at this point when the film takes a turn for the worse. Colorful jaunts through the City of Lights have Moore popping into hospitals and pharmacies and asking how much this treatment costs, how much that drug will set him back. And the answers are all the same: Nothing.
I half expected Moore to look into the camera at one point and exclaim, “Golly!”
Instead, he continues his trek through various countries, running fast and loose with the facts in an attempt to glaze over possible downsides (such as taxes, dated equipment and long waits).
Unfortunately, this portion of the film is far less convincing then the first half. And why wouldn’t it be? Michael Moore talking to zoned out hospital attendants just doesn’t fly as well as documented facts on American politicians and their HMO's.
The height of Moore’s fantasy presentation of foreign healthcare comes with a trip to Cuba. When he arrives, he manages to get his sick friends decent treatment. I wanted to practically stand up in my chair and scream, “You’ve got to be kidding me!" The whole thing feels staged and phony.
The final gem comes when Moore learns that his strongest critic is forced to shut down his Anti-Michael Moore website in order to pay for his wife’s health care. “Generously”, Michael steps in by signing an anonymous check to keep the hate flowing.

Riiight…

Sicko ultimately isn’t real. It isn’t sound. What it is is an enticing argument against a flawed system, one that should be considered by all people, regardless of political views or lack thereof. Yes, it is manipulative work. It is part of a long line of manipulative works that Moore has presented in an attempt to change the latest injustice. That’s all true and that’s all irrelevant. What you should be asking yourself is “Will he accomplish anything with Sicko?” I hope so. This is a flawed, but important collection of alarming truths about a system claiming to have your best interests at heart.

Yippie Ki Yay!

One last hurrah; I think that’s an apt name for a trend currently making the rounds in commercialized film. Disappointed with the performance of half-baked productions, Hollywood has turned, in its moment of need, to characters previously thought buried for good. Most producers and directors claim their motives for such resurrections are noble. It’s clear however that this recent trend of old franchises is nothing more then an attempt to grasp at past glories…a need to restore profits for billion-dollar “strategic misfires”. Yes, these so-called triumphant returns are thin (Rocky Balboa anyone?). Beyond that, few make sense. And for those of you thinking that’s where I’m going with this review, allow me a moment to clarify:

The return of Die Hard makes perfect sense.

Showcased in numerous film school curriculums, played eternally on basic cable, the original Die Hard remains the template for all high-octane action adventure films. Revolving around a New York City Police Officer trapped in an L.A. high rise, Die Hard has been copied again and again by filmmakers. Even one of television’s most popular shows, 24, remains a loving, yet outright replica of John McClane’s adventures.
That is why I not only believe that “Live Free or Die Hard” makes perfect sense, but also shocked that it hadn’t been generated sooner.
Opening on an act of computer terrorism against the United States, Live Free dials immediately into John McClane as he attempts to reconcile with his disenchanted daughter, Lucy. Failing to win back her trust, McClane proceeds with the task of apprehending computer hacker Matt Farrell (Justin Long), only to be attacked by the very terrorists menacing the country. From then on, Live Free makes the wisest decision any film in its position could make: it never lets up.
Various Helicopter attacks, gunfights and explosions all build to a tremendous conclusion that makes the stakes higher and deadlier for McClane and his weary sidekick. This fast and furious pace is pulled off because of an ingeniously simplistic plot.
Okay. Are you ready for it? Cause I’m going to tell it to you. Here it is: McClane has to stop the terrorists.
I know! After films with alien goo and double (not to mention triple) crosses, I’m amazed to find a movie where the action boils down to the straightforward concept of a good guy simply trying to stop a bad guy. To be fair, McClane is given a very personal motivation later on in the film. But even then, the plot is largely straightforward. There are no double-crosses, no stories within stories. It’s a resurrection of the original Die Hard, albeit on a much grander scale.
Now, is it as sharp as the original, as innovative? Not by a long shot. It’s simply well built and deliciously unpretentious. Aside from that, the action is pretty ludicrous and the various challenges far-fetched. At one point McClane manages to outrun a fighter jet on a crumbling freeway, only to jump out of his wrecked vehicle and onto the back of the aircraft pursuing him. It’s…funny.
Aside from defying the laws of physics, the film turns in plenty of quotable lines and shocking deaths. Those concerned that the conscious decision to take the film from an R rating to a PG-13 need not worry…the action is still very intense and gruesome. McClane even manages to get off his trademark phrase before the film winds down.
More disquieting is Willis’ turn as McClane, which ranges from “phoning it in” to “quiet and assured”. While he remains likable for most of the film, it’s easy to see he’s just relying on his natural personality to keep the story afloat. Still, it’s all fine and good. Even Justin Long.
If I could have placed a surefire bet, I would have bet he would be annoying as hell in this flick. Guess what? He’s not. He’s actually kind of likable. Towards the end, I was even pulling for him to survive the villain’s wrath. Far more likable is Mary Elizabeth Winstead as Lucy Gennero (today its Lucy McClane). She’s volatile as McClane’s far from helpless daughter. Even Timothy Olyphant, an actor I normally dismiss, pulls out a dangerous enough baddie for McClane and Long to fight. Of course, he doesn’t match up with Alan Rickman’s performance in the original flick…but who does?
At the end of the day, Bomback and Wiseman both make few changes to the original formula. Instead, they simply satisfy themselves with making an action film that is louder and bigger, yet still personal enough to engage viewers on a deeper level. I’m very tempted to make Live Free or Die Hard a close second to the original.

In a Hollywood where tons of grounded franchises are given license to play again, Die Hard was the only film series I felt truly deserving of another chance, especially in world where every script is more then a winking facsimile of McClane’s first adventure. After having seen Live Free or Die Hard, I get to add a new side to that statement: it’s also the only film series that made good on its promise of a triumphant return.

Rise of the Adequate Sequel

In 2005, Tim Story released Fantastic Four, a movie about Marvel Comic’s first dysfunctional family. Originally a comic by Stan Lee, The Fantastic Four followed the adventures of a tightly knit group of scientists who were given superpowers by cosmic radiation. Story’s interpretation was largely faithful to the comic. Unfortunately however, the movie itself was a lackluster affair: there were some truly brilliant moments, but they populated a largely uninspired, formulaic screenplay. It was…(please forgive me) less then fantastic.

The film was a success however and Tim Story has followed it up with Rise of the Silver Surfer, the second installment in the Fantastic Four franchise. This time around, Story has not just the original characters to play with, but also the film’s antagonist, the Silver Surfer, a tremendous comic book icon in his own right. Given the failings of the past film, can Story and his crew manage to deliver a stronger film this time around?

Without immediately pointing out the movie’s failings, I think it’s safe to say that Rise of the Silver Surfer is probably this summer’s first truly entertaining flick. Otherwise? It’s adequate enough.
Undoubtedly, the film’s key strength lies in its running time: a cool 90-minutes. That means while the film might not be the most intellectual of affairs, it doesn’t quite hang around long enough to pretend otherwise. And in a summer littered with over-stuffed sequels, that’s kind of nice.
The film is also benefited by the charisma of Chris Evans, Michael Chiklis and Loan Gruffudd. Evans and Chiklis in particular seem to be having a tremendous amount of fun playing these characters. They’re both very infectious and the film really soars because of them. Story’s interpretation of the Silver Surfer, voiced by Lawrence Fishburne, is largely the same as in the comics. Cold, emotionless, the movie’s Surfer is pretty much what he should be…a dangerous servant tasked with a less then enviable job.

So there you go.

That dear reader is where the virtues of the film end. Otherwise, a number of poor choices carry over from the first installment and prevent this film from rising above its ilk. Chief amongst those flaws is the direction of Tim Story and the writing of Don Payne and Mark Frost.
Let’s start with Story. Now, while the film has a nice shot flow, I couldn’t help but feel it lacked an artistic style all its own. Story just doesn’t seem to have the balls or confidence directors like Bryan Singer or Sam Rami do. His interest lies in making sure the film is understandable and the screen direction clear, but as a director, that’s about as far as he’s willing to go. And in a film bestowed with such rich origins, it’s sad to see its director endowing the material with the mechanized style of a block-picture family comedy. Maybe next time around he can take a few more chances with his camera.
As for Payne and Frost, the two do a good enough job handing in a tidy screenplay, but there are a few points that could have used a quick rewrite before production. One gripe for me lies in the film’s dialogue: The lines needed to be sharper, snappier and quicker. As it is, banter doesn’t play much better than a Saturday morning cartoon.
And then we have the collaborative efforts of Frost, Payne, Story and actor Julian McMahon to sabotage the character of Victor Von Doom.
Doom just doesn’t work.
He’s sniveling, he’s smarmy…he just isn’t a credible threat to these characters.
Far more interesting would have been Stan Lee’s original interpretation of the character (which gave George Lucas most of his inspiration for Darth Vader). What’s worse is that McMahon seems to be stuck in jackass mode thanks to his work on Nip/Tuck. It’ll be real interesting to see if this guy avoids typecasting in his later years.
Still, he doesn’t deaden the screen as wholly as Jessica Alba. Her Sue Storm is about as exciting as a trip to the box factory. To be fair, these actors play their characters as a type; Evans is a hotshot, Chiklis is a big softie and Gruffudd is socially challenged. While that isn’t incredibly deep, it is appropriate to the material. But the key is that they’re all empathetic in their own way. Alba however, seems to be stuck on grating deadweight mode. While it is a type, it’s the most loathsome of types (it makes her as likable as a trip to the dentist). I’d pin a “too pretty to know better” charge on her, but she was smart enough to pick-up what the other actors were doing that she should have known better.

All in all, Rise of the Silver Surfer manages to fly by as an entertaining flick and nothing more. In its defense, it never had to be anything more. In fact, the film could have raised itself to the punchy status of Spider-Man 2. As it is, it doesn’t quite earn the title of fantastic…no, in the hands of Story and his team, we’ve got the Adequate Four.

SSC trip, Day 4

Looks can be deceiving. Yes, that is the first catch of the trip for me. But that hand is of the largest man in the world! And his hands are huge! Okay, that's my hand. Actually, I was quite surprised to catch anything at all. The Yampa river is running high and fast and I just stopped by for a quick fish. It was a nice surprise to hook one.

Today is cloudy and it rained in the morning. If it stays dry, we might take Zoe to a pond and try to get her a fish. We bought her a little fishing pole yesterday.

I plan to make a whole day of fishing on Thursday, possibley traveling North a little to the Delaney Buttes area. Tomorrow, we want to take Zoe for a pony ride.

Steamboat Springs, CO - 2007

The above photo was taken a few minutes ago, from the patio of the condo we're staying at. Temperature is in the 70s. Ah, so nice!

The fam left Saturday morning, not as planned. Zoe woke up sick. Stomach virus sick. Poor baby threw up a couple times. Figures! So, due to tending to Zoe not feeling well, we didn't leave until much later than we planned. The goal was to leave between 8:00 and 9:00 in the morning, but ended up being after 11:00. Thankfully, she fell asleep soon after and got some needed rest. However, when she awoke, sometime before Flagstaff, she didn't look so good. After stopping for gas and a bite to eat, we were just about to leave town when she got sick in the car. We had to stop for clean up. It was a bit tramautic for her.

Rebekah sat in the back with her and she got sick again somewhere in Northeast Arizona. Bekah was able to handle that without us having to stop.

We made hotel reservations at the halfway point of the trip, Monticello, UT at a Best Western. The town was quaint and the hotel was nice and clean.

We ate at a little place within walking distance called PJs. It appeared to be converted from a church, and I unfortunately didn't get a picture from the outside or within the main eatery. They also have four billiards' tables. Zoe didn't get sick from dinner so we thought we were in the clear. But in the morning she had one last go around, including some projectile. Amazing! I've never seen it in person.

We then made it to Steamboat with no problems. We did make a brief detour in Craig, to drive by my old childhood home.

Hopefully, pictures of BIG trout to come!

Next Up...

Review sometime later this week...

Bloated

At World's End and Spider-Man 3: REVIEW

By now, there have been thousands of reviews that have dissected the original Pirates of the Caribbean; each trying to understand what made it successful...what made it work. Most conclude that it was Johnny Depp’s vivacious performance. While that certainly remains a factor, part of the charm lies in the script’s simplicity.

It’s amazing to me how clear each character was. Even Depp’s Sparrow was driven by a lucid motive: he wanted a boat. True, the boat symbolized freedom…but still, the character’s drive was so easily understood that the cogs of his deception remained themselves understood.

Such is not the case with “At World’s End”.

When I sat down to write this review, I could not decipher a logline for the picture. I couldn’t even muster a through-line. Here’s what I do know about the film: it involves pirates and the East India Company and at one point there is a spectacular battle in the middle of a whirlpool. But taken as a whole, this movie is a complete mess.

To me, the problem lies in the charm of the original. Yes, Depp’s performance was brilliant. …But his motive? That was sublime. There is no such motive in “At World’s End”. 70 percent of the time, the actors don’t even seem to know where the hell they are. The original had a simple through-line (save the girl, get the boat). “At Worlds End” offers a contrived myriad of counter attacks and backhanded maneuverings, all derived from no motive other then Disney’s motive to kill 3 hours.

Yes, the film is roughly three hours. Why, I don’t know. A coherent storyline doesn’t materialize until the final twenty minutes of the film…and when it finally does materialize, it sucks anyway.
Plus, two of the film’s thespians offer up some of the most painfully earnest performances you’ll ever see. Can you blame them? They probably thought they were on the set of Lawrence of Arabia.

Another film to suffer from such glut is Spider-Man 3.

Directed by Sam Rami, Spider-Man 3 revolves around the idea of revenge. Mysteriously bestowed with a clingy alien tar, Peter Parker sets out on a quest of revenge against the man who murdered his uncle. At the same time, Harry Osborn sets out on his own quest for revenge against Peter. Additionally, Peter feels he’s ready to ask Mary Jane to be his bride. Also, the guy who allegedly killed Peter’s uncle turns out to be Sand Man, and he himself is on a quest to put his daughter through a much needed operation. Furthermore, the damn movie clocks in at two and a half hours.

Rami always danced close to the edge of bloated. In Spider-Man 3, he finally tosses aside reason and super sizes his franchise.
Why this has become such a trend in big budget sequels, I don’t know. (Perhaps they’re compensating for the insane ticket prices). In any case, I would think the inclination would be to streamline these franchise films into simpler, 120 minute flicks. It’ll save story for possible sequels and allow more show times to be booked. But damn it, there’s Rami, pissing out more plotlines then you can shake a stick at.
And yet, I have to give him more credit then the group behind “At World’s End”. Despite bursting at the seams with story, Spider-Man 3 does balance its load far more gracefully then the troubled Pirates sequel. Even better, Rami is able to draw out a conclusive message from his labyrinth plotline…namely, revenge is a poison. He conveys this with the recurring visual of the black alien symbiote that consumes Peter Parker. This slithering, slushy black goop strikingly crawls across the screen like a poison, infecting everyone it bonds with.

While I’m at it, I might as well say Rami’s directing aesthetic puts Verbinski’s to shame. The direction of “At World’s End” is comprehensible at best. Spider-Man 3, on the other hand, carries real color and punctuation. The editing and camerawork both work in tandem to create a zany visual aesthetic that smacks of its master’s sensibilities.
The movie also features Rami’s tacky humor. One standout moment has Bruce Campbell as the maitre d' in a fancy French restaurant where Peter and Mary Jane are dining. Elsewhere, a waitress asks James Franco how his pie is, and he replies by taking a bite and saying through the cheesiest grin ever, “Sooooo good”. Why, Rami’s interpretation of Eddie Brock is far more laughable than his brain eating comic counterpart. (In a side note, Topher Grace does infuse the character with a very unsettling odium later on in the picture)

While this cornball approach works in various scenes, it ultimately contributes to the film’s downfall. Following his acceptance of the black alien tar, Peter proceeds to dance through one of the lamest musical montages put to film. There were moments like this in the previous two films, but it seems a bit indulgent here.
Worst of all, the film’s bloated canvas really turns out to be a curse in the final act when Rami is forced to resolve very difficult subplots in ways that feel like an evasion. Powerless to escape a building that he himself lit on fire, Rami simply tells us there’s a trap door right beneath him. Unfortunate.

Having walked away from both films, I felt like I had just been bludgeoned with the weight of a David Lean flick (minus the thematic quality). Each film comes in at around two and a half hours…or two hundred and thirty pages. It’s both a burden to carry and watch. It’s also a disappointing fate for two franchises that began as throwbacks to the light-hearted popcorn flicks that built the summer.

And yet, I’m sure if I had been telling this to the respective studios, I’d simply be told to wait for the next installment.

Film review: La Doublure (The Valet)

I went into The Valet with little to no idea of its plot. What I did know was that the film was French and that the main character was a valet. From this information I extrapolated premonitions of an absurdist French narrative that focused upon the life of a valet and his existentialist crisis. Clearly, I was wrong.
What I was presented with was a basic romantic comedy, driven by a premise that was terribly fetching and terribly Hollywood; an ugly and poor valet, rejected by his true love, gets paid to live with a supermodel.

Really, premises don’t get much more brilliant then that.

Yes, this film focuses upon Francois Pignon, an everyman desperately in love with a young bookstore clerk who, sadly, has given their relationship that accursed “Just friends” label. But the hapless Pignon soon finds himself ironically posing as the boyfriend of a gorgeous model. Complications (and hilarity!) ensue.
This concept is of the kind that would appeal to nobodies everywhere. Heck, I’m shocked that Hollywood hadn’t picked up on this idea sooner (don’t worry, they’re ripping it off in 2008). What came as even more of a shock was how The Valet revealed itself. Beat for beat, it is essentially an L.A. production. The story is light…the humor is airy…and boy, the result is inconsequential.
Really, you can equate The Valet to pillow talk. This script clamors for a subplot so badly that it throws a second supermodel into the mix about halfway through the film just to complicate things.
But such complications are never really complications. They’re mild annoyances at best. And The Valet seems perfectly fine with that. It’s more content to play itself out as an absurdist comedy that does nothing more than grandstand as to how clever it is.
Is it clever? Sure, some lines crackle with wit, but there’s more thunder then lighting at play here.
More irksome is how the screenplay’s low ambitions extend to the protagonist and his arc. Pignon is uninteresting, his job sucks and few people expect him to marry a stunning girl. Admittedly, I sympathized with him. But here’s the problem: the solutions to Pignon’s issues are handed to him, time and again, on a silver platter.
Pignon needs money at the onset of the film to woo his prospective mate. This is an issue because he’s a broke valet who doesn’t rank high with the female gender. Then, out of nowhere, he gets entangled with a billionaire playboy who will pay Pignon to share a phony relationship with France’s loveliest supermodel. It’s a clever solution to both of Pignon’s problems.

He does nothing to generate this solution.

Out of the blue, the billionaire contacts him, offers him the cash and that very night he’s sharing a bed with this girl. How easily it all happens, with no effort on his part!
But that’s just the turning point, right? We can let it go because it spins the story into our second act. The rest of Pignon’s arc must come as a result of his own efforts, right?

Right?

Actually, no. Just about everything else is handed to Pignon. The supermodel even clears up conflict between Pignon and Emilie, the girl he really loves. It’s insulting. Everything perfectly falling into place wouldn’t be so naive if the film’s protagonist actually caused it to happen.
The rest of the characters range from charming to bland. I remain confounded as to why Pignon has such interest in Emilie (played by Virginie Ledoyen). She’s about as winning as a sharp object to the eye. The billionaire, Daniel, starts out somewhat sympathetic but gradually becomes a rabid parody of all French billionaires (a feat that I didn’t believe possible).

Thankfully, this film is short. As such, it remains entertaining. Besides, I don’t think it could have stretched beyond an hour and a half; About 10 minutes in and every member of the audience could have written the rest of the story on a single sheet of paper.

Double-spaced.

I AM Crazy

I’m quite interested in seeing how other people deal with their past; namely, their bad memories. I want to see if they reminisce over these testing recollections with a measure of sentimental joy (as most say they do) or birth pangs (as I suspect most really do).
The source of this recent curiosity is a series of interviews we have been doing for the upcoming Matter of Chance DVD. In these interviews, Josh, Gabe and myself expound upon the elements that brought Matter of Chance together and kept it going for the past couple of years. The whole thing is very rockstar-esque, almost feeling like a post-mortem review of a band’s history together.
We have yet to film Josh’s interview, but Gabe and I take very different turns on production in Arizona and our work. These interviews will be intercut with footage collected during our three-year residency here in the Valley of the Sun. Interviews and B-Roll, along with other material, will comprise a massive documentary on the history of Matter of Chance.
Now, this clearly brings up an interesting concern: isn’t that self-serving? And to those concerned, I remark: yes, yes it is.
There are a plethora of justifications we have in undertaking such a venture, but to me the most convincing is that this DVD and documentary are a looking glass into low-budget filmmaking as a whole. We’ll represent a microcosm of short filmmaking and the Phoenix film scene. Sure, there is an elevation of Matter of Chance over numerous other local filmmakers (many whom deserve such treatment as much, if not more so, then ourselves) but in creating this DVD I find myself experiencing a comforting glance at the life of an independent filmmaker. I mean a REAL independent filmmaker. The trials and tribulations herein are indicative of anyone running around the suburbs of Phoenix with a camera and an idea. There’s a kind of brotherhood in that, if nothing else.

What will this documentary be called? We have yet to decide; we haven’t even begun cutting footage yet. I do like the ring of “I AM Crazy” for the DVD, with the documentary being “Guerillas on the Streets of Hoozdo”, but we’ll have to see if Josh and Gabe feel that.
Aside from the documentary, what else will be on this DVD?

Short films, of course.

Take a look at this page; all those films will be yours…on one DVD. Local favorites like Leonardo and Intense Math can now be viewed on home theaters that cost more then the films themselves. Plus, you can view lesser-known movies such as Flim Flam and Johnny B. Naked.
Aside from the shorts and the documentary, I believe Josh is planning a short segment on filmmaking tips and tricks. Anyone who is a fan of Rebel Without a Crew or the low-resource work of the French New Wave will want to check this out.
And finally, there will probably be a few surprises…we couldn’t call it a DVD if there weren’t.

So, that’s something to look forward to. Right?

I’ll tell ya something I’m looking forward to tonight: the season finale of Lost. The show really picked up in the last couple of weeks. Jack Bender, a regular on the program who directed last season’s finale, will direct tonight’s 2-hour episode. I’m a fan of Jack’s style. It’s not as expressive or wild as J.J. Abrams, but he’s directed some of the best episodes of the series. This, along with a return to a more active, progressive storyline should make the finale enjoyable at least. I’m sure I’ll have some opinions on it over the weekend.

-Brock

Delving

A few weeks ago, at the Film Festival, Josh mentioned how he had signed up for Netflix and had been ordering some unique, rarely seen films. I’ve been doing the very same, leading me to write up this post. If he so desires, maybe he can pitch in and mention some of the ones he’s ordered recently. A couple of mine:

The Bad Sleep Well – by Akira Kurosawa

This lethargic film centers on the subject of government corruption and revenge. It also features one of my favorite actors, Toshiro Mifune. Unfortunately, it tends to favor long-winded dialogue scenes and thickly veiled political drama over the kinetic atmosphere of other Kurosawa works. Mifune, for that matter, delivers one of his quietest performances. Yet, I still enjoyed the film, despite its length and sluggish pace.
Basically, the story revolves around the son of a man killed by a corrupt government contractor, and in his quest for revenge, he begins gaslighting the men behind his father’s death. This aspect is fun and at times genuinely chilling. Without divulging any spoilers, I have to credit Kurosawa for handing out one of the most shocking and depressing endings I’ve ever seen. Kurosawa was always a man who believed in the meek hero fighting against an insurmountable foe, but the turn he takes herein is both dark and telling.

Rififi – by Jules Dassin

Having set out to write a heist/crime film, I determined it was in my interests to view the original heist drama. Lauded by generations of filmmakers as being the genesis of the heist formula, Rififi follows a gang of thieves as they set out to rob a jewelry store. Surprisingly, the heist itself is fairly pedestrian (at least, compared to the complex set pieces featured in films like The Italian Job and Oceans 11). All it really involves is breaking into the store from the apartment above, disabling the alarm and cracking the vault. But the eloquent, professional fashion in which it is carried out (through 30 tense minutes of absolute silence) elevates it above any other heist sequence.
Beyond that, the film is actually a stark commentary on blacklisting in Hollywood, which drove Dassin to France where he produced this project. The violent dissolution of the crew and the price each member pays for betraying one another stands as a strong commentary on Dassin’s own troubles and the desperation that draws the film’s lead into the heist also seems to reflect the desperation that drew Dassin to this project.
The film is surprisingly bleak. And yet, the pacing is superb. As the film grew bleaker, my interest only grew.

Next up – Topkapi:

Also directed by Jules Dassin, Topkapi serves as the counterpoint to Rififi. Whereas Rififi was the first heist flick, Topkapi stands as the prototype of the caper film, having been birthed in the colorful 60’s. I’ll chat a little bit more about this one when I watch it. Apparently it’s just as influential as Rififi, leading to the bubbly caper flicks of today, as well as Brian DePalma’s Langley Heist from Mission Impossible.

A post

Hi one and all. I am currently in L.A., but I'm really bored and tired...so I've decided to take this moment to leave a new post (something I haven't done in a while). I've been here for a screenwriting convention. Day in and day out I sit and listen to other writers talk about the business and politics and writing in general. And to be honest, it's all fascinating, important, etc... BUT, the biggest thing I've taken away from all of this is: Just write a good script. So many people are concerned about the studios and what is marketable. That's all silly.

Anyway, that's the most intelligent paragraph I can write at the moment... I'm just going to give you a bunch of tid-bits.

-I hung out with Alex last night. We TRIED to see the Klaxons, but they sold out. It's very hard to get into shows in L.A.
-We had Sangria. It was fruity. I wasn't.
-The next MOC short will be our last short before our feature.
-Previous MOC shorts have been somewhat plot driven...meaning the plot is what directed the story and informed the characters. This time, it will be character driven. The plot will spring forth from the character.
-Beforehand, possible situations considered were a plane crash, a hotel bloodbath (yeah) and a honeytrap. Those were discarded however.
-If you want to know what it will be like, read Franny and Zooey or The Catcher in the Rye. Or both. Sure.
-The first draft of my caper film has been written. It is entitled "Severn Up".
-I am rewriting it as we speak.
-I will post the first act soon.
-It is based on a news story that was happening several months ago.

Time to pack,

-Brock

Lost is Lost

Wow.

Over the weekend I got a terrible virus. Truly terrible, let me tell you. My throat was so scratchy and sore that I felt I had strep. I’m telling you, I didn’t want to take any chances with this crap; I went to the doctor right away. But it turns out it was only a virus: A mild one, by the tone of my doctor’s voice. Felt like swallowing a brick.
I started feeling better yesterday though. Today I actually got around to e-mailing people, taking notes, reading…not quite the usual, but better then the nothing that had been the last few days. Tomorrow I’ll try and get back into my actual routine.
While I’m here, I wanted to talk about one thing and one thing only: Lost. It’s 8:30 as I write this, so Lost will be starting soon. And I’m wondering why the hell I’m even watching it. Man oh man; Rebeckah (Gabe’s wife) is not going to like this post. Don’t let her see it Gabe. Keep her away.
Lost used to be the best show on television. It was mysterious, fast-paced and intriguing. Okay, the first season was mysterious, fast-paced and intriguing. Season two was hit and miss. Season three? Garbage.
Last week they spent an entire episode on two characters they introduced earlier this season, and then killed them. The characters themselves were pointless. The diamonds they stole had no consequence on the overall fate of the survivors. Their storyline was completely separate from the main characters in fact. It was like they existed in a separate universe. It was a waste. What’s worse, the writers knew it was a joke and they continually referenced that in the dialogue and actions of other characters. Why? Good writing is moving the story forward and developing the characters you have in the face of interesting goals and conflicts to the achievement of those goals. Good writing is satisfying, unlike last week’s Lost.
I watched that episode and I thought to myself, “this is something I would write”. All the in-jokes were a blatant attempt at being clever. They were winking to us. Letting us “in” on the joke. Aren’t they clever?
Only one person on the planet can do that right now and get an automatic pass, and that’s Kaufman. I don’t want to see it from Lost, a dramatic series.

Don’t agree with me? Think of it this way:

In season 1 we had powerful moments like Locke walking after the tremendous revelation that he was once paralyzed.

In season 2 we have Damon Lindelof…erm, excuse me – Saywer…asking, “who the hell is Nikki?”

Lame.

Auto

It's safe to say that if I had the means/ability to buy one, our next short film would be centric to one of these. I smell a Bollywood spoof of Taxi Driver. Anyone? Anyone?

New short

For the last few days, I've been trying to get back in the creative swing of things. And man, it's hard. I've been busy working on Wildlifeless, doing the 48-hour competition and writing a feature. I think it's possible that my mind rusted, short film wise. I've been having a hard time coming up with something inspiring. A kid I know told me that the worst writers beachcomb for the next idea...but I don't know any other way to do it. I'm not one of those guys who believes in just waiting for it to come to you. You have to work your brain creatively into waking up. You have to jog it, like a muscle.

Just yesterday, ideas started to come. Here are the working titles of some shorts...one of which may be the next film MOC does (more on this whole thing later):

Snake in the Grass

Hapworth, 101

Junket

And no, I can't tell you what they're about.

-Brock

Lions

Very sad story.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#1

Mew's

And the Glass Handed Kites

In 2006 hundreds of new albums were released. Gabe and I reviewed 7 of the best, covering legends like Bob Dylan and Thom Yorke, while praising newer groups like TV on the Radio and Gnarls Barkley. But now that Beck, Yorke and the rest are down, one question remains: who is number one?

The answer my friends…is Mew

The finest album of 2006, And the Glass Handed Kites, was actually released in 2005. Yes, Mew handed over their latest work to the European public two years ago! It wasn’t until just last year that the United States saw this release. So, because it dropped in 2006, Gabe and I both decided we’re counting it as part of the roster. Yes, And the Glass Handed Kites, being denied a shot at 2005, gets a payback with 2006.
And yet, it would have totally dominated 2005 just as it has dominated 2006. The album is so tremendous that it would have slid into the number one spot. That’s why it wins easily in 2006. Last year was in many ways a lackluster year for music. Sure, we’ve spent the past several posts praising specific works, but there were only eight albums worthy of recognition. In a dull, tepid year, Mew was a bright spot.
Engineered to sound like a sonic thunderstorm, And the Glass Handed Kites kicks off with some of the harshest guitars and crashing drums you’ll ever hear. Piano keys gently blink in and out like runway lights amid a soundscape of overpowering electric guitars. It is through this rock fog that we hear the feminine voice of Jonas Bjerre, crooning us to shore like a lighthouse in rainy weather.
In creating this massive sound and then aligning it with Bjerre’s crooning, cheesed-out lyrics, Mew manages to do two things:

1) They poise themselves as unbelievable rock gods asking for your very submission…

2) …And make such theatrics completely heart-warming by singing with absolute, wide-eyed earnestness.

Mew only wants to be your personal heroes.

In 2006, there were musicians that dispelled the war in Iraq, questioned their love life and outright told you they didn’t want to be your hero. That’s why, when Bjerre asks on “The Zookeeper’s Boy”, “Are you my lady, are you?” you’ll want to answer, “yes”.
So many artists play themselves down in an attempt at humility, but they never completely achieve it. In fact, it rings hollow. That’s what makes Mew so funny and yet so touching with this album: they’ve found musical humility in the same way Kiss might take to the stage. They outright tell you “we’re going to rock you beyond belief”…and then they do it.
What’s also remarkable about this album is how no single track deserves to be skipped. Each song transitions right into the next, creating one massive song that doesn’t end until the album is over. That in itself qualifies it as the finest album of 2006. Previous albums always had a song or two that didn’t really deserve to be there. On And the Glass Handed Kites, no song is dispensable. You’ve got to listen to the whole album to get the full effect. Not since Failure’s Fantastic Planet has such grandiosity paid off so well.

In 2006, hundreds of albums were released. They all wanted a taste of your wallet. And the Glass Handed Kites only wanted a taste of your awe.

Here’s to you Mew. Cheers.

I want to rock your Danish.
Brock, why no album cover? Is it because it was one of the worst album covers ever?

Mew is a band from Denmark. And the Glass Handed Kites unleashes songs ranging from "rocking your nether regions" to "massaging your jazz ballet love loins."

The instrumental, "Circuitry of the Wolf," opens up the album having you thinking that you're in for a major rock storm. But then it blends into "Chinaberry Tree," although it still rocks along with a thumping bass line, Jonas Bjerre delivers vocals that have you meditating in the higher plane. And before long, you realize you're journeying through a forest of progressive rock. It's a term that gets thrown around, but Mew definitely utilizes elements of Classical and Jazz, rocking songs in the symphonic sense.

"Why Are You Looking Grave?" surprises you with guest vocals from J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. His vocals provide a very interesting contrast. The story is that the newly reunited Dinosaur Jr. happened to be playing in the city they were recording their album and asked J if he'd lay down some vox. He agreed, much to my delight.

"Apocalypso" blends into "Special," and "Special" into "The Zookeeper's Boy." This makes for a rockasmic trinity. "Special" so happens to be a favorite of Zoe's. She'll even request it at times.

Then there are quiet, whispery, poetic lullabies, that sometimes explode into louder parts, like "A Dark Design."

As Brock mentioned, Mew often has quirky lyrics/titles, like "Saviours of Jazz Ballet (Fear Me, December)," where they begin with the solemn pronouncement "we are the defenders of jazz ballet." Good for them. Perhaps this serves as a reminder to not take them too seriously, as many prog rock bands of the '60s and '70s, came across as pretentious. Yes, maybe? Don't get me wrong, though, I like Yes.

The only gripe I have with this album, is the mix. Most of the album seems to be lacking in the lower spectrum of the frequency band. For example, "The Zookeeper's Boy" was the first song I heard, via a download. When I first played it, I had to check and make sure the bass wasn't turned down. And you get that feeling on a few more songs. More than likely they did this by design, perhaps not wanting thumping bass to drown out higher details, as most people tend to over do it on the bass. But I think it's missing too much and is a distraction. Other than that, it's numero uno.

Do yourself a favor and get some Danish rock. Brock and I plan to catch them in L.A. next month. Can't wait.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#2 - TV on the Radio's Return to Cookie Mountain

Gabe and I saw TV on the Radio once. They opened for Bloc Party.

They sucked.

Surprise, surprise; this album doesn’t suck. End of review.

Ok, wait…come back. This album is much more then the absence of suck. Simply put, this album very nearly became the number one album of 2006. Why?
In my clearest, most lucid explanation, it created a new sound that was both unique and fetching. TV on the Radio always seemed to be telling us they were the next big music revolution, but this is the first time they actually seemed to be “the next big music revolution.
I mean, come on…crank up “I Was a Lover” as you accelerate onto the freeway and you’ll have all the energy of the sun surging through you. You’ll find yourself pumping your fist in the air. I kid you not. And yet, by no means does this album extract its power solely from hard-hitting rhythm.
Rather, this album is fun and exciting because it genuinely sounds fun and exciting. It’s thoughtful, poppy, crushing and elaborate…but never boring. And maybe it feels so new and meaningful because the band truly seems to be in to their music; amid the thick layers of hissing production they sound like they’re having fun. Hell, they’ve got Bowie with them after all.
I should note that his cameo is understated and by far not the main drawing point of this album. Sure, it’s cool to hear Bowie bouncing along with this group, adding his croon to their buoying musical stream, but don’t let that be your attraction towards purchasing this album.
Let it be the album itself, which urges you along with striking pounds along the keys of a piano as an electric synth rises in the background. Let it be Tunde Adebimpe’s voice as it “ooo’s” you into somber reflection. Let it be track 5…Wolf Like Me, which roars so loud and fast, you’ll think you’re being given a call to action.

Yeah, Gabe and I saw TV on the Radio once. They didn’t suck. The venue sucked.

TV on the Radio!? Is the name a commentary on Radio's lust to entertain for dollars? The lack of quality content? Perhaps. I don't know, I haven't researched it.

I had heard people, and read critic's drooling, and engorged, praising reviews of Return to Cookie Mountain. Alex burned me a copy. I listened and thought..."not bad, but extremely overrated!" I heard nothing more than electro-beats, drumming, keys, fuzzy guitars swirling and soulful singing. Wait a minute, that sounds like winning combinations to me! And TV on the Radio winningly combines them all, after having a few more listens.

There are songs that rock, with dancing, tribal beats. And there are songs that are quite soulful, with chorus-like harmonies. Like Brock mentioned, it is a fun, energetic album. Tunde's vocals are unique in its tone and ranges. It, along with some of the rhythm, conjures up African influences. In fact, if you were to take an African tribal band, blend their sound with modern jazz, rock, and trance, you may very well have TV on the Radio.

I do have to disagree with Brock's statement of "never boring." There are at least a couple songs I do get bored with, as the sound tends to get repetitive and tired, such as "A Method," and "Let the Devil In." And "Tonight" wouldn't be so bad if it were cut down. It becomes a little long-winded at 6:53. If it weren't for that, it may have been my pick for number one.

But the stand-out songs stand tall indeed. Brock's not joking on the inspiring opener "I Was a Lover." It has you yelling to the lyrics, "I was a lover, before this war!" And "Province" is quite groovy with Sir Bowie brooding along. "Playhouses" and "Wolf Like Me" are also great foot-stomping, fist-pumping songs. And if you have the album with bonus tracks, the El-P remix of "Hours" is quite delicious. About as delicious as a mountain made of cookies.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#3 - Thom Yorke's The Eraser

The assumption that Thom Yorke would one day write a solo album had pervaded his career like a mystical gypsy prophecy. Sure, you could predict any of the other talents in Radiohead where just as likely to produce their own material, free from the towering creativity of their band mates (and indeed some have). But Yorke’s was the solo everyone wanted to hear. It was the solo everyone knew they would hear. Amazingly, it was also the solo you could see coming from a mile away, what with Nigel Godrich’s production, Stanley Donwood’s artwork and its downplayed electronic beats (no surprises, please).
And yet, there is a sense of nakedness that helps this album stand above the expected. Whereas Yorke’s work on Radiohead hides behind a shroud of politik, self-speak and indecipherable singing slash wailing, herein he has taken the chance of letting his lyrics be discernible, of telling us about himself and not just the impending doom (although he does touch quite a bit on that). And while some of the album’s lyrics range from poetic to clunky, one element that is never off its game is Yorke’s vocals. With The Eraser he takes chances that he’d never taken before. He stretches his voice out to places it hasn’t been, creating new sounds and new melodies. That, to me, is the main attraction of this album. I am comforted to feel that my personal rock hero still has abilities that he hasn’t yet revealed.
In fact, this should be comforting to the music scene at large. While Radiohead has dispatched massive sea changes in their career, Yorke has remained predictably the same. His paranoia has never died. His disgust remains unshaken. And that’s the thing: can he do anything new?

Yes, and no.

His vocals are awakening places he’s never been, but his lyrics struggle confront something besides the global dilemma (he has to touch upon the me/you dilemma). Songs like Atoms for Peace and Skip Divided try amiably to convey this, but their power pales in comparison to subjects Yorke is truly fascinated by. He reserves his real passion for Harrowdown Hill.
Being an actual place in Oxfordshire, Harrowdown Hill was the site where Dr. David Kelly’s body was found (Kelly, for the uninitiated, called into question the British Government’s participation in the Invasion of Iraq). Culling upon a spooky atmosphere with a throbbing baseline, Yorke trudges up questions and emotions that are both touching and frightening. While the song does criticize the government, it also has Yorke attempting to empathize with the dead party.

Clearly, this is where his mind rests for most of the album.

Godrich and Donwood follow his lead, with Godrich creating a sparse, yet poppy landscape for Yorke’s voice to play in. Meanwhile, Donwood lays out some of his finest art yet…an encompassing woodcarving of a man trying to hold back the sea and every last drop of hell ready to be unleashed on mankind. One is liable to think that inconsequential figure to be Yorke.

Listen to modern radio after this superlative and you’ll come to the conclusion that it might as well be.

That little spastic man with the crazy eye. Does he hunch into the corner of a dark room, banging his head against the wall, scribbling lyrics while listening to the sound of rain pattering against the window layering over the scratching of rats' claws against the walls? I'm sure myriads of fans have such dark, romantic visions of Yorke's writing process. Perhaps they're accurate. He just may be the Edgar Allan Poe of music.

Upon first listenings I couldn't think of The Eraser as much more than Kid A, minus the rest of the band. The rest of the band's creative input "erased" out. But it's not. Where Radiohead output the equivalent of a novel, Yorke writes the brilliant short story on the side. Is the novel greater than the short story by its size, or weight? Surely not, as a novel can be bloated, belching out the excesses of broken-down waste (not saying that is what Radiohead is).

Sure, The Eraser cannot escape familiarities with Radiohead. After all, Yorke is "the voice" of the band. But this album does not stand below the work of Radiohead, but next to it, at someplace on its own. Boom-clack-booms, electro-sounds and keys flow through the aorta of the album, with sparse, but fitting guitar. There's also some very interesting bass work on some songs by Nigel himself, especially Black Swan and Harrowdown Hill. The latter featuring dark and brooding slap.

Along with Brock, I too noticed Yorke stretching the vocals, most notably on tracks six through eight. In fact they are my favorite tracks to listen to, and I love that they are all in a row. I'm taken aback by Yorke's tortured croon of "I...I can never reach you" on And It Rained All Night. Perhaps he's referring to those who "don't understand Radiohead," which, inevitably means...Yorke.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#4 - Beck's The Information

The thing about Beck is that he’s innovated so much, its now hard to think of new genres of music for him to mix. Think about it: he’s touched rock, hip-hop, disco, techno, folk, pop, jazz, art-rock and even had a few moments of soul. That being said, he claims his latest album The Information is his take on the hip-hop scene. Yes friends, we’ve finally reached the day where Beck has run out of things to innovate. He’s now pretending to have “discovered” hip-hop.
Career commentaries aside The Information is a great album. But his “newfound” fusion of hip-hop and 60’s/70’s rock isn’t the reason why it’s great. Rather, The Information stands high on this list because of one thing and one thing only.

It’s simply a well-thought out album.

I dare you to listen to The Information, an album Beck has been struggling with since 2003, and not hate his last work Guero. I dare you. For me, it’s suddenly easy to see Guero as filler meant to tide us over until he could work out this hard-edged masterwork. Guero seems like a scattershot, and Guero a death-blow.
According to several accounts, The Information was the first thing Beck and Godrich began working on following the darkly introspective Sea Change. But somewhere down the line, The Information became too painful an album for Beck. It was too daunting. And so, he shelved it in favor of Guero.

A mistake.

Listening to The Information is a revelation in the sense that it is an immediate progression from Sea Change. Whereas Guero felt like a reversion to Beck’s daytime TV, The Information picks up right where Sea Change left off. It is brooding, contemplative, bitter, and oddly enough, hilarious. One masterful development in Beck’s recent work is the darkening of his playful, junk-culture persona. Once cute and nostalgic, Beck’s interest in the realm of all things sub-culture now seems snide and edgy. Each game boy bleep in place of drums is infused with a tone of mockery. Face it, Beck hates you, and he’s using Tetris to explain why. It’s marvelous.
Equally impressive is Godrich’s masterful production. Take note of the title track, The Information, in particular. So many layers of sound hum in and out of dangerous proximity, so much sounds so cold and seems so warm. Clearly, this is the album Godrich wanted to make. An album where Beck is the bad guy, where the production can be ramped up as much as possible and Beck’s tar-pit discontent still sneers right through. It’s the album Beck never wanted to make, but that we all wanted to hear.

In order to get this list out before 2007 is over, I have to write up limited commentary on this album. I couldn't conjure up much to say on this one. That's mostly because I didn't get to listen to it enough. But it was enough to know I liked it. I was a fan of his early work, and my interest tapered off after "Mutations." Interestingly enough, "The Information" feels like a dark blend of "Mutations," or "Sea Change," with "Odelay." And that makes for a tasty blend indeed.

Godrich's presence is apparent on this album. It has wonderful bippity-boom beats, spacey sounds, and dark, brooding guitar work. This album just may have gotten me back into Beck.