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.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#5 - Gnarls Barkley's St. Elsewhere

Oh dear readers, it is but by the grace of Gabe that this album is listed at number 5.

A short while back, when we were discussing placement for our albums of the year, I hastily put St. Elsewhere at the very bottom of the list, on the merits that it just wasn’t as artistically inclined as the other works. Gabe argued the album’s case however and managed to convince me that it should be higher on the list. I was still a bit hesitant over this decision. And then, in my effort to reconnect with the album before writing this list, I began to see why he fought to have it placed so high.
St. Elsewhere isn’t brimming with artistic merit or credibility, but it is perhaps the one album we’re talking about that actually made cultural waves in 2006.
Created by DJ Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo Green (the duo behind Gnarls Barkley), St. Elsewhere is a hip hop revelation in a year where faces like Kanye West and Common are absent. Driven by the eclectic sound of throbbing baseline and car-crash drums, St. Elsewhere is the closest thing 2006’s music got to fun for me.
Part of this can be attributed to the album’s hip hop revisionist sound, (present in smart tracks like “Crazy” and “Just a Thought”). These songs, which ruled the airwaves this year, seem fueled by true honesty, emotion and a unique perspective on the musical and cultural landscape (despite confusing, pointless lyrics that suggest otherwise). And in the album’s finer moments, St. Elsewhere ceased to feel like DJ Danger Mouse’s latest grab for a scene and more like an honest musical statement.
While this may be the result of Cee-Lo’s tremendous presence, the honest effort on the part of both musicians to create a work that elevates itself above a joke is intelligent.
I might also add in a quick aside that Cee-Lo establishes himself as front man of the year with this work. His buoyant charisma gave resonance to St. Elsewhere and made this album relevant. Danger Mouse’s production will always be praised in reference to this album, but the voice of Cee-Lo is what made such high-production human.

That being said, it is but by the grace of Gabe…and the accomplishment of Gnarls Barkley that you get number 5.

"By the grace of Gabe!" Oh man, that is hilarious.
The end result of teaming Cee-Lo Green and DJ Danger Mouse is reason alone to rank this album high. Not many people knew of Cee-Lo and Mouse in 2005. More Mouse than Cee-Lo, as the DJ had quite a bit of notoriety mixing Jay-Z's "Black Album" with the Beatle's "White Album," resulting in, of course, the "Grey Album." But put them together as Gnarls Barkley in 2006, and Bam! They're hitting the airwaves, bringing hip-hop/r&b delight to the homes of the radio/MTV-limited, young generation. And with that, hopefully it sparked a dead synapse or two, that will motivate them to expand their field of music.
I agree with Brock, in that Cee-Lo is the highlight of the duo on St. Elsewhere. He's unique for an R&B singer, in voice and personality. He has the charisma of James Brown and a great vocal range.
Songs on the album delve back-and-forth, and mix together hip-hop, R&B, and dance. It's a lively album that, although didn't make any major breakthroughs, was a breath of fresh air on the radio.

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#6 - Asobi Seksu's Citrus

Occasionally, I wonder how someone would overcome suffocation in a looming megalopolis like New York City or Shanghai. Millions of people teem everywhere, like bugs in a bathroom. What’s more, with the metallic surfaces and grimy cold pavement around you, I would think city dwellers get the overwhelming sense that they just don’t matter. How else can you define self-importance in such a daunting atmosphere?
I found my answer amid the crushing, crunching guitars of Asobi Seksu’s oddly feather-light “Citrus”, the 6th record on our Best of 2006 list.
Headed by Yuki Chikudate, Asobi Seksu manages to deliver the first real album on our list. While both Owen and Dylan are notable entries in this year’s music scene, Citrus is the first album that leaves the listener with a distinct “residue”. A literal wave of sound, Citrus pulses underneath with a sense of rhythm. It has a heart.
Upon listening to and discovering that heart, our heartless world seems endowed with an ethereal quality. Yes, one’s day-to-day routine, so insignificant before, takes on a sense of epic import. It is this empowering, feel-good nature that elevates Citrus beyond a typical Shoegazer enterprise.
Tautly structured around a number of pop-songs and a pair of 5 and 7 minute epics, Citrus seems driven forward with a purpose. That purpose is anyone’s guess. This in itself might initially be seen as the one true fault of this album: a sense of motion without motivation.
Indeed, Chikudate’s vocals (buried, distorted and occasionally in Japanese) seem to be telling of a man trapped in a car beneath the sea, with only the lighting above to illuminate the murk. The same lyrics could also be about a boy and a girl.
Ultimately, Citrus isn’t about the motive or the purpose that defines the feeling, but rather the feeling itself. It is that sense of immensity that helps Citrus to transcends events. The music instead chooses to speak to the intuitive heart.
Tracks instrumental in this impression include “Thursday”, which beautifully echoes and sparkles across the progressive throbbing of Mitch Spivak’s drums. Elsewhere, “Goodbye” serves as a twangy gasp for air following the crushing might of “Red Sea”. Quite possibly the most singsong of the collection, Goodbye is also the only real distinctive love song. “New Years” is an unleashing of the band’s guitars, full blast…and it hits like a hailstorm of cheetoes.
As a result of these songs and others, the record leaves us with that distinctive residue that is often lost amidst other albums waxing on lost love, found love and everything in between. It is this residue of importance that seems to infuse even a drive across the freeway with some significance.

In an unimpressive life, that is impressive. -Brock

Brock, I meant to make a copy of this CD before I gave it up to you. I may not have liked it enough to keep it, but it was worth a copy for listening. Plus, it only leaves me with my faint memory as reference for review.

I was immediately taken aback when I first listened to Thursday, which I had downloaded. Often labeled "dream pop," it is clear to hear why. Guitars glimmer and grind with reverb, back and forth, over pop-coated rhythms and "new wave" bass. Top that off with Yuki's dreamy, high-pitched vocals.
From the song "Thursday" alone, I was eager to see them live, when I learned they would be playing in town. They did not disappoint. Many songs had crunching guitars and powerful drumming, tapered off with Yuki's keyboards and vocals. The only drawback I experienced, was that Yuki's vocals were sometimes a distraction, reaching high-pitch levels that seriously gave me imagery of a female chipmunk. However, their live performance was so impressive, I was drawn to purchase their album after the show. I discovered Yuki's vocals weren't so grating on record.
Though I appreciated the album overall, I couldn't really get it to envelop me. I had purchased a couple other albums at the time, and couldn't take myself away much from one of them. That may have pulled my needed attention away.
Brock, I'll need to get a copy. -Gabe

MP3: Asobi Seksu - Thursday

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#7 - Owen's At Home With Owen

Delicate finger-picking, soft strums, and wispy vocals that can crescendo into off-key crooning. His soft, low-key music will throw the listener off-guard when noting the sometimes brash lyrics. The first track, Bad News, starts the album off:
you're a has-been
that never was
I know it's mean to say
but it's something I've been meaning to say to you
for a while
So is the style of Mike Kinsella, formerly of emo-punk darlings Cap'n Jazz, and sorely missed American Football.
His previous albums differ only slightly in musicality from each other. On his fourth album, however, he adds a splash of strings and piano. It's a nice touch, but he ultimately sticks to his original formula. That's a plus for me. There's no sense in changing a good thing.
A standout on the album is his cover of Lou Reed's "Femme Fatale." For one, I believe it's his first cover. Secondly, he makes this rendetion all his own. Overall, another good effort from Owen. -Gabe

The more I listen to this album, the less it feels like an album. Instead, Owen’s “At Home” comes across as a subtle afterthought. That may sound like the king of all backhanded complements, but in not grandstanding, not making tremendous footprints in the musical landscape, Mike Kinsella has found his primary virtue: remaining a source of musical beauty.
This album is beautiful.
Each and every track is utterly mesmerizing, a work better devoted to long afternoons spent above a snowy landscape with the one you love. Or, conversely, it will be used as the bitter cry of one who has nothing to love, save for the melodies being picked at herein. Whatever the case, Owen has unleashed the perfect album for an overcast day. Some albums are good enough that they can transcend season, time and remain relevant for whatever period one’s life is in. That is not the case with this album. “At Home” feels as if its power will fade the moment winter passes away. Maybe that’s not the case; maybe it is in fact exactly what the alone need, from hot summer days in empty corridors, to cold winter days at a bus stop. And it just may be short enough to keep such ones from slipping into self-parody.
Sure, you could ask yourself “do we really need another one of ‘those’ albums”? And the answer is probably, “no”. But this album gains some notoriety through the fact that it exists in such short breath. In the blink of an eye, it comes and it goes. It is simple enough and strong enough to stand on its own, and yet it leaves so much unsaid, unexplored. And I’d like to think for good reason: it isn’t about what you show, about what you sing, but rather about what you don’t. At Home With Owen is about 8 tracks of remorse, regret, longing and hope. These days, such a record ought to be banished for speaking about such things in the same breath as the plucking of an acoustic guitar. As it is, the album seems short, sweet, and right at home. -Brock

MP3: Owen - Bad News

The Greatest Albums of 2006

#8 - Bob Dylan's Modern Times

The reason why I’ve got Bob Dylan’s Modern Times on the Greatest Albums of 2006 is quite simple: Taut control. Never is this quality more clear than in the opening track, Thunder on the Mountain, which begins in a state of absolute confusion; instruments swell and clatter over one another, strings seem to breathe in and out, the song is simply existing. And then, Dylan’s mastery kicks in and suddenly a rhythm is found. The song begins to move forward. He explodes with energy. In those first few notes, the virtue of Modern Times becomes abundantly clear.
Modern Times never struck me as an effort to forward the craft of songwriting, nor did it strike me as an effort on Dylan’s part to live up to the unimaginable legend he has become. Rather, the album seems to exist solely as an exercise in sheer songwriting capability. A presentation of what has already been developed, it is a nicely written letter to us, his listeners, in which Dylan muses somewhat conflictingly on the value of legend. That is what resonated with me so deeply on this album: his outright contempt at the idea of proving himself all over again. And yet, he also seems brimming with the energy to do so.
Just reason on the lead track, in which he jeers at us, “I’ll say this, I don’t give a damn about your dreams”. He continues later with, “I’ve already confessed, no need to confess again”. He might as well be telling us to get lost. But the counter-balance to this venomous lyricism of course comes in the form of the melody itself, seemingly a straight rip off of “Johnny B Goode”.
Yes, to me Dylan is praising and cursing the past all in the same breath. He’s borrowing it, reinventing it for the standards of today. Maybe Modern Times exists as a continuation of great songwriting long past, and maybe it simply exists as a way for him to tell us to forget what’s come before. Maybe neither.
Modern Times gets it right because it’s deliciously crafted. It isn’t edgy, and it certainly isn’t unexpected. You can see each track coming from a mile away. Spirit on the Water utterly echoes long before Thunder on the Mountain is over. And by the time he gets to Nettie Moore (a fantastic track I must say), Dylan’s ode to the old masters, using the very songs they created, is clear. But it’s all in good form. It’s circular. It’s comforting. It is a collection of well-written songs that you could almost swear you’ve heard in one form or another. But, no matter. You could look for themes in Modern Times until the end of time. But the subtle power and grace of its songs is all that makes this album a worthy contender. This is sinewy songwriting at its finest. And it damn well knows it. -Brock

Brock and I didn't have the luxury of owning every decent album that came out in 2006 to review. And good thing! Who has that kind of time, but a well-staffed zine, be it in glossy paper, or a website? In fact, the eight albums reviewed, are a combination of both our 2006 catalogs. Pitiful, but it's what we have, and it's what you get.
Brock gave me a CD-R that was supposed to have Dylan's Modern Times burned on it. However, it did not. I forgive you Brock. It may have cost Dylan some spots on the list, not sure. -Gabe

Albums of 06

Gabe and I are definately going to post our favorite album of 2006. He's "lending" me the records I don't have for this year and vice versa. We'll both narrow down the selection from about 12 albums or so to one single great album. Should be fun!

Bond...James Bond...

Review: Casino Royale

Since the moment he wryly asked for a martini, shaken and not stirred, James Bond cemented himself as an icon of filmic history. True, he hasn’t exactly been the cinema’s most original icon, but he has remained an icon. Once Bond’s torch moved beyond Connery however, his repetitious nature and slant towards action fare dissolved from charming into pointless. By the time Bronson picked up the character he was nothing more then a bag of clichés that had long since lost their spike.
With Casino Royale, the 21st installment in the Bond franchise, director Martin Campbell and his writing team of Neal Purvis, Paul Haggis and Robert Wade attempt, not to reinvent the legendary secret agent, but rather to return meaning to this legend. Having long been outpaced by other film heroes, Bond is given a chance to reclaim his throne. And with a new face behind the character (Daniel Craig) one asks, “Is the attempt at rejuvenation successful?”

What one should be asking is: Why does Casino Royale work when so many Bond films don’t? Simple; the filmmakers stopped treating the source material as one more unit in a long line of units and started treating the characters, the story and the settings as individual ingredients in a legitimate film. To my enjoyment, this movie doesn’t feel like a faceless Bond film, it feels like a film. It has its own nooks and crannies, its own voice. And the filmmakers all have so many ideas invested in it. The screenwriters have genuinely poured their hearts into each act of the story. The actors have created tremendously huge characters without the aide of what’s already been established. The cinematography is beautiful. By my count, it’s the first Bond film where the filmmakers sat down and thought the damned movie out. Beat for beat.
The result? Casino Royale is genuinely entertaining and enthralling. For that matter, Daniel Craig has created a Bond that isn’t just a quagmire of innuendo and gadgetry; he has created a Bond that is oafish and cast asunder by his own hubris, yet also blessed by his own cockiness. He created a thug. And more exciting then that, this is the first Bond film where its namesake truly gets beaten up. Not just by the villains, but by his superiors. He’s good, but not great. He’s witty, but not outright irresistible. He’s inadequate.
And his foes? They are good…damned good. They’re not just a group of pointless masterminds bent on ruling the world; they’re individuals dealing with their own set of pressures just as Bond is, and they possess skills that equal or surpass Bond’s own. Take Mads Mikkelson as Le Chiffre; he bleeds out his eyes when he’s stressed, looks like a throw-back to Connery-era villainy, and periodically sucks on an asthma inhaler. But at the card table, he schools Bond. Le Chiffre is a unique character and thankfully not just some guy pieced together because (doh) the film needed an antagonist. In summation, his poker-skills and overall influence upon the dramatic premise of the film aptly illustrates why this film works so well: everything is connected. Very little in this film is random or tossed into the mix just for extra bang. To quote Sunny Day Real Estate, “everything and everyone, and in the end we all are one”. This completeness, this sense of a unified whole helps advance Casino Royale into a realm of entertainment that even puts J. J. Abrams’ own Mission Impossible III on shaky ground.
Of course, the film does have its faults. Namely, it is extraordinarily long. But, its so thoroughly enthralling, so welcomed that such faults are easily overlooked.

The downside to this new approach to the Bond franchise is apparent however. Never again can they rightfully go back to the humdrum they poured out before. Having watched this Bond film, it will never be acceptable for the film’s producers and star to churn out mediocre and claim “sorry, we did our best”.

So many will respond, “oh, that’s not true”.

Coming Out of Lurkness

By now you've come to expect major droughts between my posts. So, what's noteworthy as of late? Not much in the way of movies. Not that there hasn't been any good ones (that may be the case), but I haven't had the opportunities to see much. However, I have come across some really good music.



Mew. Although deservingly making Pitchfork's Top 25 Worst Album Covers of 2006, I was immediately blown away by their song, The Zookeeper's Boy, upon first listen. It's so "over-the-top" prog rock, that it's cool. Brock will have to tell us more about them, as he's purchased the album. I need to get my hands on that!



Owen. New album. Good Stuff.




My Brightest Diamond. Opera trained voice, rockin', cute. What more do you want!? A song? Fine.

Farewell Scottsdale Community College

A new unspoken high school ritual is for some jock to play the Green Day song Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) on a warm acoustic at graduation. It’s cute. Preppy girls cry. In fact, nearly every student who valued those pointless four years cried. Part of me wonders if I’m disconnected from human experience on the whole, because at my graduation ceremony I did not cry. I guess I couldn’t feel what they felt.

But I swear to you, had some jock jumped in front of that dinky little TCM 245 classroom tonight (the very same classroom where I had my first production class at SCC), I would have gotten teary.

Yes, this evening, the venture known in my life as Scottsdale Community College came to an end.

Why would I have never even cried at High School, but considered it at SCC? Simply put, I had a role in what happened at this film school on the fringe of an Indian Reservation. I wasn’t a legend (far from it) but I was a character in the drama that unfolded around this hidden nook of campus. That in itself is of incalculable value.

Some consider my occupation at this school to be for the worse. I’ve been told that I’ve wasted my time. Do I consider my tenure at SCC to be of a negative impact? Not in the slightest; one thing I’ve learned this semester is that the finest individuals in the business are shaped by the experiences they’ve had in life. And yes, bad experiences are included in that. The worst filmmakers? They are the ones who instead create their own silent, white void. They mute.
With that in mind, being at SCC hasn’t strictly been a series of bad experiences, and it hasn’t strictly been a series of good experiences (lord no). It’s been both. But the most empowering experiences for the creative mind are those which reek of both the disquieting and the rosy. Both are illumination, but of a different breed. When I walked out of SCC tonight, I wasn’t just some kid who had participated in that community for the past two years. I shaped it. We built a tent in the school’s studios, loaded film in those studios. I bled in those studios! I saw a plethora of boys and girls peak and recede through my tenure…co-conspirators like Chad Einwalter who gave way to confidents like Drew Hoffman. I started school in the same classroom and ended it in the same classroom, but watched those sitting around me change in between. These people, these experiences shaped me into the person I am tonight…and from here on out. I learned that I am the main character in a film that only I can watch.

That being said, Green Day’s pop angst wasn’t appropriate for what I felt tonight, for the grand summation of my pain-riddled, harrowing adventure. As I strode out of that school, past the studios, past the dinky classroom, I played Psychocandy’s “Just Like Honey”.

Next time you’re wandering around SCC at night, dear reader, play that song and take a stroll down the walkway wedged between the LC and AP buildings. You won’t feel good. You won’t feel bad. You’ll feel what Brock H. Brown felt.