In the meantime, enjoy this:
I think Tamra Davis directed it; too lazy to check. These guys are gonna be huge.
Month: August 2007
INLAND EMPIRE–David Lynch
There’s so much going on in David Lynch’s INLAND EMPIRE that I’ll give you the quick review up front: if you like David Lynch films (I do), you’ll love this film (I did)–it’s arguably his most ambitious to date and belongs in the canon of great Lynch films along with Blue Velvet and Mulholland Dr. Get a hold of it and watch it right away. If you don’t like David Lynch films, you won’t like INLAND EMPIRE–but you already knew that, didn’t you?
Contrary to some of the internet rumors and poorly conceived reviews out there, INLAND EMPIRE actually does have a plot, complete with an honest-to-goodness resolution full of redemption and love. However, the fragmentary and elliptical nature of the film will no doubt confound anyone who tries to actively resist it: like Mulholland Dr. before it, this is one you need to just let happen to you. Attempts to impose your own system of narrative logic will probably result in headaches and frustration. You see, INLAND EMPIRE is really a time-travel movie, and time-travel movies–the good ones–are always resistant to narrative logic (see the Grandfather Paradox, etc.).
The story begins with a gypsy-witch’s curse: she visits actress Nikki Grace (played by Laura Dern who appears in almost every scene of the movie, and is truly fantastic) and warns her about the coveted film role she’s about to land. It turns out that the film, On High in Blue Tomorrows, is a remake of a Polish film called 49 that was never finished because the two leads were murdered. “If it was tomorrow,” the gypsy croaks, pointing across the room, “you would be sitting over there. Do you see?” And Nikki does see: the rest of the film may or may not be a vision prompted by the gypsy. However, my phrase “The story begins” at the beginning of this paragraph was not entirely accurate: before we even meet Dern’s character, we see a light projection and a phonograph needle, a weeping woman trapped in a room watching a chilling sitcom starring bunny people (INLAND EMPIRE thus gets to go on a special list of movies featuring scary rabbits, including favorites Donny Darko and Sexy Beast), and a strange scene with a Polish prostitute.
So there are plenty of frames to this frame-tale, and the narrative only continues inland as the movie progresses, exploring a multiplicity of spaces and times. Dern’s Nikki morphs into new and different characters–housewives and hookers–even as she passively stands on the wall, a frightened voyeur robbed of all agency. And in many ways this is the major theme of the movie: how to find agency and self-determination in a world where time and place–context–are the main components and constituents of identity. INLAND EMPIRE breaks down the lines between actors and prostitutes and really any other job, suggesting that perhaps we all have some identity as a whore, an identity thrust on us by location and time, an identity that we are always struggling against.
But this is really just one of many themes in the movie. The usual Lynch tropes are here: pop nostalgia with a sinister tinge, stilted dialog, lush red curtains, characters that seem of vital importance who never show up again, cryptic symbols that may or may not be symbols at all, etc. etc. etc. Despite its three hour running time, INLAND EMPIRE never lags or sags, in large part because so much weird stuff is going on, but also because in many ways this movie is a distillation of every other Lynch film: we get the murder mystery of Twin Peaks, the abuse-of-women theme inherent in Blue Velvet, the Wizard of Oz riffing from Wild at Heart, the voyeur-terror of Lost Highway, the Haunted Hollywood and doppelganger mindfuck of Mulholland Dr., and the general creepy weirdness that’s underscored every Lynch film since Eraserhead.
INLAND EMPIRE is shot entirely on digital video, a format that Lynch swears is the future of cinema. I’m not sure about that–although his movie is a beautiful masterpiece of textured light and composition, not all directors are painters like Lynch; in someone else’s less-gifted hands this movie could’ve been, visually speaking, a muddled mess. Still, it seems for now Lynch is determined to continue shooting on DV.
A couple of days before I saw INLAND EMPIRE, I heard most of an interview with Lynch on NPR’s Talk of the Nation. Neil Conan asked him what the last great movie he saw in the theaters was, and, to my surprise, he said that it was The Bourne Ultimatum, a movie he touted as being “excellent” or “perfect” or something like that. At first this struck me as odd–Lynch going to see a pretty straightforward–albeit smart–action movie? But on further reflection there’s nothing odd about this. I think that Lynch sees his films not as outsider films or art films per se, but as something more akin to the Hollywood tradition–I’m sure he’s not deceived that his films are as accessible as the Bourne films, but I do believe that he is a pop artist (or Pop Artist, if you prefer)–he had a huge hit television show, didn’t he? And INLAND EMPIRE not only fits in with Lynch’s growing pop art legacy, it could be the masterpiece of his oeuvre. Let’s hope that that legacy continues to grow; INLAND EMPIRE suggests an artist in his prime who will continue making great films.
Michael Jordan, Quantifiable Data, The Pursuit of Excellence, and Public Education in America
I came of age (as the hackneyed phrase goes) in the nineties, a magical time when the Chicago Bulls ruled the world and Michael Jordan was the king of the universe. As a young kid, I didn’t really care about sports: I wasn’t very good at them and I didn’t really grow up in America, so my exposure and interest were limited on two fronts. But by 1991, my family had moved back to the States and I was suddenly aware of something very, very cool: there were these guys, the Bulls, who played like the best orchestra in the world. They were all awesome individually–Michael Jordan was basically God in Nikes, and there was this guy Scottie Pippen who was a star in his own right–but they also played as a real team. By the time the Bulls were going for their “threepeat” in the ’92 NBA season I–and just about every other kid in America–loved the Bulls. I didn’t really even care about basketball, to be honest–I liked it all right I guess, but what I really loved was to watch Jordan play. By the time I was headed to college, the Bulls were finishing up their second “threepeat,” and I knew for certain that I didn’t really care about basketball at all–just the Bulls and Jordan. I also knew that this was somehow lame or shameful, and it was also kind of sad. I only cared about seeing something really, really good. But who could blame me–especially after Jordan decided to come back after giving minor league baseball a shot, especially after game five of the ’97 championship, when Jordan, running a fever of over one hundred degrees, scored 38 points including a game-deciding three-pointer in the last minute. That’s pure magic; that’s divine spirit channeled. But why am I going on about this? You were probably there too, and if you weren’t, you know the mythology.
The point is that we love winners in America. We love to see someone excel at something, to do something better than anyone else, and do it harder, faster, longer, more, more, more. We don’t just want excellence, we want spectacular excellence (and conversely, devastating, soul-crushing failure). And we want excellence we can measure: points made, times beaten, wins racked up, championship victories accrued. We want to know for sure who won: we don’t like ties (soccer will never really take off in America). We want objective evidence to point to, so we can say plainly what is good and what is great and what is excellent and what is not: see, the numbers are right there.
This need for winners is, of course, not confined to the world of sports. Americans now seem to want to know who the winners in education are: they want test scores and school grades that objectively determine what a student knows or does not know. But the ability to think critically, rationally, logically, and creatively cannot truly be determined objectively. Education isn’t a basketball game, with points, and winners, and losers. When a basketball team is good, we know that they’re good because there is a system of rules that make the game a game (without the rules, there is no game). However, education is not a game, and treating it as such is unfair to young people in schools.
I am not making an argument that all kinds of testing be done away with, or that objective testing can’t provide a clear idea of the strengths and weaknesses of students and schools. The right kind of tests help assess deficiencies that can then be remedied. However, America is doing little right now to educate their children. Our educational model in this country goes back to the Industrial Revolution; we are behind the rest of the world in science education; we have abandoned the idea of teaching civic responsibility and bought in to the myth that to be American is to be a cannibal capitalist. There is clearly a gap between public expectations of public education and public support of public education. I don’t think that the average American comprehends the genuine literacy crisis that this country is faced with right now, but it’s real, it’s happening, and the results will be objectively measurable in the ever-growing gap between the rich and the poor in this country.
I’m on a rant now; sorry. I’ll try to be clearer: standardized tests like the Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test (FCAT) are a big waste of taxpayer money. They prove nothing and divert resources–money and educators’ time and energy–away from meaningful instruction and real learning. I’m not arguing that the test is too difficult–it’s not, and you certainly should be able to master such material in order to graduate high school–but the amount of stock the state has put into this test is ridiculous. It delimits creative and complex thought, limiting students to bubbling answers without recourse to explanation or rationale. Even the written response sections don’ t allow for real analytical assessment–students must literally think inside a tiny little box, and if their answer goes outside of the box, it will not be considered for grading. We need to abandon these types of tests and replace them with a meaningful, real-world based curriculum. We need to teach kids word processing, website design, standard office programs. Institute new hands-on science programs. Bring back shop, home ec, etc. But that’s not what’s happening: instead of curricula based on real-world needs, Florida continues to ask for objective data in place of real thinking, test scores instead of laboratories and practicums.
We all knew that Michael Jordan was great; we didn’t need the scoreboard to tell us. We didn’t need the MVP awards and National Championships and thousands of points he made to tell us. You could see it in his jump, in his tongue, in his eyes. It came out of the TV and you could feel it. MJ’s excellence was truly excellent because it transcended objective data: even a nerd like me could recognize it and honor it and hope to reach something close to it in some unknown way. We loved MJ because he represented an unquantifiable, nearly ineffable excellence; I believe that this excellence has a potential analog in the mind of any student in this country. But when we get hung up on things like points, scores, and grades, we not only send the wrong message, we also squander and misspend that potential.
Back to School, Wm Gibson, Promises, Promises, and General Malaise
Bleh.
After three months of summer vacation, I had to go back to work on Monday. Yet even as I write this, the immortal classic Back to School airs on Comedy Central, reminding me of my commitment to education. Any moment now, Kurt Vonnegut will show up to help Thornton Melon pass Dr. Turner’s English class (weird convergence: ten years after Back to School, Keith Gordon–Jason Melon, the diver, Rodney’s kid–directed a version of Vonnegut’s Mother Night. My college roommate and I watched it when it came out, but I don’t really remember any of it).
Anyway, I promise to recover and get back to the semi-daily blogging (any semi-day now): I’ve been reading Joyce’s Ulysses; I’ve also read a couple of graphic novels; I’m hoping to get around to watching Inland Empire and letting you know what I think. So there’s that.
For now, AV Club has a pretty good interview with ‘klept favorite William Gibson up today. We forgive him for All Tomorrow’s Parties. And Idoru. And even the Johnny Mnemonic movie. Who knows–maybe his upcoming novel Spook Country won’t be half bad.
Superbad:Supergood
Superbad is really, really funny; funny like funny-from-beginning-to-end funny, funny like out-of-shape persons like myself will feel laughter fatigue after leaving the theater type funny. The film has been plenty hyped, and for good reason; it doesn’t disappoint. My tendency is to judge a film’s greatness on the last 30 minutes–plenty of films deliver a solid opening based on an interesting premise that eventually falls flat. Superbad resuscitates a hackneyed premise, injecting it with genuine heart and soul, plenty of jokes, and, magically, an ending that doesn’t make you go “meh.”
I won’t bother going over the details of the plot: it’s essentially the same as any other teen sex comedy (think Porky’s and American Pie). Heroes Michael Cera, Jonah Hill, and Christopher Mintz-Plasse shine as the freaks and geeks trying to score some booze in the hopes of getting laid, and SNL’s Bill Hader and screen writer Seth Rogan play two rotten cops who balance the young trio’s misguided attempts to navigate the adult world.
Underneath the rough profanity and crass humor of Superbad is, of course, a tender spirit of love and comradery tempered by the requisite sense of loss that attends the ending of any era (in this case, the end of high school). Homosociality dominates the film in every aspect, figuring most strongly in the changing relationship between Evan (Michael Cera), who’s off to Dartmouth next year, and Seth (Jonah Hill) who’s bound for “State.” The homosocial undercurrent is most neatly summed up in the penis motif that runs through the film, although an especially tender scene between Evan and Seth near the end also stands out as a perfect evocation and identification of platonic male love. While other teen sex comedies fall into gay-panic jokes (American Pie again), Superbad presents homosociality as unthreatening, even when it falls out of the culturally normative balance. And by the end of the movie, Seth and Evan do manage to reach a culturally normative balance, sundering their codependency in order to try meaningful relationships with girls. It’s a happy ending.
Like American Grafitti, Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Dazed and Confused before it, Superbad is a teens-growing-up comedy that transcends its genre; undoubtedly it will be revered for years to come. Besides, it’s really fucking funny. Highly recommended.
How Bluegrass Music Destroyed My Life–John Fahey
As astute reader Nicky Longlunch pointed out in a comment on my last post on 50 Great Guitarists, John Fahey was not only a fantastic guitarist, he was also a published author. Fahey wrote three books–1970’s Charley Patton, a biography of that great blues guitarist (out of print now unless you buy the Charley Patton box set); 2000’s How Bluegrass Music Destroyed My Life, a collection of mostly humorous anecdotes and stories; and the posthumously published Vampire Vultures, a collection of Fahey’s letters, limericks, and interviews. HBMDML and VV are both still in print from Drag City (you can also read a PDF extract from HBMDML there).
I remember enjoying How Bluegrass Music Destroyed My Life back when it was first published, when Mr. Longlunch was kind enough to let me borrow it (I returned it folks!). I recall it as being funny, insightful, and Bukowski-spare; I recall it also exhibiting the same raw pathos that Bukowski infused in his work, but with none of the vulgar meanness. The best parts of the book detail Fahey’s young years in Maryland. I can’t really remember much else. I’d love to read it again, but I can’t really shell out $20 for a paperback right now. And unfortunately, I can’t just borrow it from Longlunch again, because he is no longer in possession.
In his comment, Longlunch griped at me to “Focus!” and he’s right–this blog is supposed to be focused on stolen books, and, poor guy, his copy of HBMDML is (I’m guessing) somewhere in Texas. Or he’s just misplaced it for the past seven years. Or he’s lying about it being MIA because he doesn’t want to loan it out. Which is fair, I guess.
Before I leave, I should also point out that Fahey isn’t the only author I overlooked in yesterday’s post. For years now, Pete Townshend has been doing “research” for his as-yet-unpublished autobiography. So we have that to look forward to.
50 Great Guitarists, All Better Than Slash (In No Particular Order)–Part III
11. John Fahey
In the late nineties, indie rock kids–myself included–started embracing sounds that expanded beyond four white guys playing drums, bass, and guitar. Bands like Tortoise and The Sea and Cake bridged the way to the avant garde stylings of Gastr del Sol and Oval, opening up whole new sound-worlds to young ears. Gastr del Sol’s stunning 1996 record Upgrade and Afterlife featured a cover of Fahey’s “Dry Bones in the Valley” as the most beautiful closing statement imaginable. A whole new generation of listeners were introduced to cult fave Fahey’s cryptic finger-picking style via Gastr’s Jim O’Rourke, along with Table of the Elements records who released Fahey’s Womblife in 1997. Today, followers of Fahey’s sound include Six Organs of Admittance, Jack Rose, Glenn Jones, and James Blackshaw, among many others. Great stuff, all around.
12. Jimi Hendrix
Hendrix is as great as everyone thinks he is.
13. Brian Jones
Brian Jones is often credited as the “second guitarist” for the Rolling Stones, and relegated to a space under the shadow of Keith Richards. He’s more infamous than famous, remembered as the wild man of the Stones who helped define their renegade image. However, Brian Jones was a multi-instrumentalist whose passion for different styles of music from around the world helped infuse the basic rocknroll of the early Stones with a certain eclectic punch. And although his early drowning death (like Dennis Wilson) in 1969 (before Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin) is tragic on some levels (like Keith Moon), it may have preserved him from turning into what the Rolling Stones are today–a decrepit zombie joke that can no longer reasonably retire, already having permanently damaged any patina of mythos to their legacy.
14. Pete Townshend
What Pete Townshend lacked in technical dazzle he more than made up for in bombast, his raw energy and indelicacy summed up best in his propensity to smash his guitars and stab his amps. His work with synthesizers pioneered whole new territories and genres of music, and his penchant for arranging narrative song-suites proved a profound influence on my favorite band, The Fiery Furnaces.
This is one of my favorite things ever:
15. Phil Manzanera
Besides being a founding member of Roxy Music, Manzanera released a series of excellent solo albums of strange new wave music in the late seventies, continuing to work with Brian Eno, as well as guys like Robert Wyatt and John Wetton. Diamond Head is a favorite of mine.
The Biblioklept Salute to Eleven Great TV Shows, Not One of Them with Us Today–Part VI
Parts I, II, III, IV, and V — everyone’s doing it.
So way back when, when I first started this series (ah, those were gentler times) the original eleven shows I planned to feature didn’t include the two that now comprise the end of this list, for the simple reason that I wasn’t even aware that they had been canceled. Which is a cryin’ shame, because these shows still had a lot of mileage in them. What can you do.
10. Veronica Mars (2004-2006, UPN; 2006-2007, CW)
Teeming with neo-noir cool, tight plotting, and good ole fashioned teen angst, Veronica Mars managed to fill the Buffy-sized hole in my heart for a brief time. Veronica Mars (Kristen Bell) is the teenage daughter of a private investigator. She’s ten times savvier than detective dad (and several hundred thousand times cuter), she manages to solve a lot of his cases–behind his back (my wife, incidentally hates Veronica–she thinks she’s a nosy brat). The first season of this show was an absolute masterpiece in TV plotting, a single season arc revolving around the murder of Veronica’s best friend. It maintained an intense and exciting pace over 20 or so episodes, never straying off course. Of course, not enough of you watched this show, and in June the CW network decided to pull it, replacing it with re-runs of a show about street tramps trying out for a “pop group” comprised of dirty strippers. Ugh.
I normally post clips of these shows, but to be honest, VM seems a little cheesy in Youtube-sized portions (the show is probably a little cheesy, perhaps). You really have to watch the whole thing. If you’re unwilling to Netflix it up, at least check out a full, divX quality episode here.
11. Deadwood (2004-2006, HBO)
Deadwood is the best TV show ever (or at least in the top three with The Andy Griffith Show and The Simpsons). Why did HBO cancel it? I don’t get it. I don’t get it. If you take the time to watch the first three episodes of Deadwood and still don’t like it, it’s probably because you’re not very bright (or perhaps you’re offended by lots and lots of cursing, which is fair I guess…actually my last proclamation is a little mean. I just really like the show, and if you don’t like it, fine, that’s fair, opinions are subjective, blah blah blah). Al Swearengen as played by Ian McShane is reason enough to watch every episode of this show twice. Observe some great Deadwood moments and tell me this show ain’t the bees knees:
(Incidentally, Kristen Bell–Veronica Mars–had a brief guest role on Deadwood–you can view a clip of that here, but it’s in Italian (the language, not the dressing)).
So that’s all folks, as a certain old young swine might say, but no fear–undoubtedly future lists will be populated by near-dozens of other TV shows that are sadly no longer with us–f’r’instance, how much longer could 30 Rock have? If we’ve learned anything through this series (you’re welcome), it’s that TV is precious, and we need to spend more time with our favorite shows each and every day.
Alphabet Soup: J
J is for Jonah, the reluctant Old Testament prophet. He’s been called by YHWH to bring the word to Nineveh–something he is definitely unprepared and unwilling to do. So Jonah hits Joppa Road and boards a ship sailing to Tarshish (this is pretty much as far away as one could get from Nineveh in the known world). YHWH is a wrathful God, and sets out in pursuit, sending storms to wreak havoc on the ship; the sailors panic and despair and pray. Jonah, meanwhile, manages to sleep like a baby through the whole thing. They eventually wake him up and he says, “Oh yeah, this is kinda my fault, throw me overboard.” At first the sailors are reluctant, but eventually the tempest leaves them no other choice, and they heave Jonah off the ship. Wrathful YHWH now shows his merciful side: he sends a “great fish” to swallow Jonah, thus saving him from drowning. In the belly of the beast, Jonah sends a prayer of repentance and thanksgiving; the whale then “vomits” him out onto the dry land of Nineveh where he preaches the word of YHWH. Jonah, however, is wrathful now–he hopes that the people won’t accept the word, and that YHWH will wipe them out. YHWH’s satisfied, however, and leaves Jonah outside of the city in the heat. A gourd grows giving Jonah some shade, but then a worm eats it, pissing him off again. He even gets suicidal sitting in the hot sun. YHWH asks him why if it’s right that he’s angry and Jonah replies: “I do well to be angry”–his last line in the story. YHWH then lectures him, reminding him that he didn’t make the gourd, and that furthermore he shouldn’t be angry at YHWH for sparing Nineveh, which is full of people and cattle.
The story, especially the episode with the whale, resonates throughout the history of myth and literature and into contemporary stories. But beyond the mythic echoes of Jonah and the whale, we just downright love the guy–he’s angry, lazy, and self-righteous–just like us.
We’re Ready for You, Mr. Grodin
A post over at RP a few days back reminded me of a long-forgotten chestnut by Charles Grodin, We’re Ready for You, Mr. Grodin, a memoir of the curmudgeon’s odyssey through TV land’s myriad talk shows. For readers too young to recall, Charles Grodin used to go on late-night talk shows and play a misanthropic git, provoking David Letterman or Johnny Carson with mean-spirited jibes. Of course, it was all an act; a kind of toned-down Andy Kaufman bit, perhaps. He even had his own talk show for a couple of years on CNBC; it was pretty all right decent okay (I think he does the Andy Rooney bit on 60 Minutes II now, but I’m not really sure because I won’t watch anything on CBS except Sunday Morning).
Well so and anyway, I remember the book as being pretty good, but obviously this is the sort of thing for Grodin fans only (and I must admit I love Grodin–and not just the Grodin of Seems Like Old Times or Midnight Run, but also the Grodin of Beethoven’s 2nd (superior in many ways to the original) (Grodin also had a cameo in Rosemary’s Baby, you may recall–a film I had a mild obsession with in my college years)).Sadly, I lent this book out and it never came home (hey, come to think of it, I haven’t written about a stolen book in a really long time. Slackin’). I’m not sure who I gave it to, but I have a suspicion a funny-looking redheaded kid might be the culprit. Now if only Michael Keaton would write a book…
50 Great Guitarists, All Better Than Slash (In No Particular Order)–Part II
Check out Part I here.
6. Ian Williams
I’ve been blown away each time I’ve seen Ian Williams play, whether it was in the original monsters of crushing polyrhythmic madness, Don Caballero, the avant-weird hyperkinetic not-jazz of Storm & Stress, or in his current band Battles, where he taps the fretboard with his left hand and plays a keyboard with his right. On top of that, he’s a really nice guy.
Ian rocks “Atlas” live–
7. Prince
Prince is such an extraordinary performer and songwriter that his skills on the axe are often overlooked. The guy is awesome though, displaying a masterful command over his blistering, soul-stinging solos and tight riffage.
Prince shows Eric Clapton a better way–
8. Brian May
Brian May had to invent new instruments and equipment in order to translate the melodic heavy metal pop in his head. His triple-tracked leads, chugging rhythms, and ambient harmonics were certainly showy at times, but Queen was a showy band. Nothing wrong with that–it’s called glam music after all.
Brian May rips up a 10 minute solo from “Brighton Rock”–
9. Mick Ronson
Would we care about David Bowie today if Mick Ronson hadn’t been there to boost the one-time fairy-folk singer’s fey melodies and bizarro lyrics with some rocknroll oomph? Maybe, who knows–Bowie was (is) always adept at finding great people to work with (no fewer than three of Bowie’s guitar players will make this list). Besides working with Bowie and the perennially underrated Mott the Hoople, Ronson was always behind the scenes working with all the cool kids–Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Morrissey, etc.
Ronson tears up the solo from “Moonage Daydream” on the Ziggy Stardust tour–
10. Richard Thompson
After making five albums with British folkies Fairport Convention (including my faves Unhalfbricking and Liege and Lief) Richard Thompson set out down the solo path, recording some brilliant albums with his wife Linda, including the classic I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight. Although he’s best known for his distinctive folk-rock sound and wiry, spare solos, Thompson also made a significant contribution to the new, punk influenced music of the early eighties with his album Shoot Out the Lights–a masterpiece on par with Television’s Marquee Moon and almost as good as anything the Talking Heads ever did.
Check out “Wall of Death” from Shoot Out the Lights—
50 Great Guitarists, All Better Than Slash (In No Particular Order)–Part I
Welcome to yet another ongoing Biblioklept series which may or may not ever end in your lifetime (and no, we haven’t given up on the Alphabet Soup thing). These axe-masters will come in random order–don’t confuse the numbers I give them with rankings. There’s only one tier of hierarchy here–all of these guitar players are superior to Slash, he of Snake Pit fame.
1. Robert Fripp
Fripp is the guitarist who best epitomizes the spirit of this list: he has consistently evolved over his 40+ years in King Crimson, he combines his masterful playing with a keen ear for control, and he’s a true innovator to his instrument. Watch the man demonstrate his patented Frippertronics below.
2. Nels Cline
This guy is fucking amazing, whether he’s channeling John Coltrane:
lending a virtuoso lead to Wilco:
or just kicking it experimental:
Sonny Sharrock’s 1991 album Ask the Ages is absolutely perfect. Possibly the most under-appreciated guitarist in history.
Sonny jams with Last Exit:
4. Neil Young
Neil Young gets more mileage out of a one-note solo on “Cinnamon Girl” than most wankers achieve on the whole fretboard. Neil Young was willing to go beyond the standard rock stuff (which he excelled at of course) and challenge his listeners with experimental albums like Trans and Arc. And for the record, Harvest is the most perfect Sunday-morning album ever committed to vinyl.
From the Rust Never Sleeps tour:
Cropper’s subtle and steady rhythm helped define the Stax sound. He was never showy, and in his production and songwriting as well as his playing he knew how to highlight the song, not his own guitar. If he’d only done “(Sittin’ on the) Dock of the Bay” with Otis Redding he’d still be on this list; as it is you can hear him on literally hundreds of hit recordings. And we’ll agree to forgive him for the Blues Brothers, okay?
Steve Cropper playing with Booker T & The MGs:
Exterminate All Rational Thought: Burroughs at the Movies
I love Naked Lunch. I love David Cronenberg. Theoretically, I should love David Cronenberg’s film adaptation of William Burrough’s psychosurreal classic. But hey, that’s rational thought for you, right? I didn’t love it in ’93 or ’94, the first time I saw it. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I just didn’t get it (but if that was the case then why did I love the book so much..?) So I watched it again as an undergrad; this was maybe ’99 or ’00. Nope. In fact, I remember thinking “Wow. This is actually pretty bad.” At that point, I was a big Cronenberg fan too. eXistenZ had just come out. eXistenZ is easily my favorite Cronenberg film, and a favorite film in general, and Naked Lunch didn’t hold up well against it or my re-reading of the Burrough’s book. But yet and still, ever the glutton for disappointment, I gave the Naked Lunch movie another shot this weekend, as part of the Biblioklept Summer of Cronenberg Film Festival. Guess what? It’s not a very good movie.
The fault of Cronenberg’s movie is not in failing to adapt the content of Burrough’s book, which is pretty much untranslatable as a narrative movie. Instead, Cronenberg attempts to weld some of the images of Naked Lunch–along with elements of other Burroughs novels such as Nova Express, The Soft Machine, and The Ticket that Exploded–into a cohesive thread using Burroughs’s biography as the overarching frame story. Burroughs’s life story is fascinating–the guy shot his wife in the head, for chrissakes–and lit junkies will love to see characters based on Kerouac and Ginsberg and Paul Bowles–but the end results simply don’t achieve or reflect the spirit of the novel. The bitter, caustic satire of Naked Lunch is almost wholly absent, replaced by wry one-liners from Peter Weller (who woodenly portrays Burroughs’s alter-ego, William Lee (an alter-ego who doesn’t appear in the novel of Naked Lunch at all, incidentally)). Cronenberg seems to underestimate his audience’s capacity for a nonlinear story, taking the loose collection of riffs, routines, and episodes that comprise Naked Lunch, and turning them into a pretty dull meditation on the nature of creativity and the suffering and alienation of the outsider-artist. Worst of all, the audience is asked to identify and sympathize with William Lee–again, this seems to be a negation of the original text.
In the end, Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch is just another bad Cronenberg film (see also: his mish-mashed adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s Crash, his boring adaptation of Stephen King’s The Dead Zone). In Naked Lunch, we get the usual Cronenbergian tropes: mechanical objects that become hideously organic, bodily invasion, constant “is this real or is this a dream?” moments, and general dark creepiness. However, they simply don’t work here: Cronenberg is attempting Burroughs-icky resulting only in Cronenberg-icky. Cronenberg’s entire oeuvre is littered with flawed films, but I tend to enjoy them more for their flaws. This one was a no-go though, and I gave it three shots. But, in a way, I believe that Cronenberg deserved three viewings. You never know. Still, I doubt I’ll watch this one again.
If you haven’t seen a Cronenberg film, I suggest starting with Videodrome, A History of Violence, or eXistenZ. He also has a new movie coming out later this year, Eastern Promises starring Naomi Watts. If you haven’t read Burroughs, I suggest starting with Junkie or Queer (or just go ahead and jump into Naked Lunch).
I end with a far better review of Naked Lunch than I’ve provided here, courtesy of The Simpsons. Do you remember that episode where Bart makes a fake driver license (not the one where he’s awarded a real driver license courtesy Mayor Quimby)? And he takes Milhouse and Nelson and Martin on a road trip to the World’s Fair in Knoxville? Well, along the way the boys decide to sneak into an R-rated movie. They leave the theater disappointed; the shot reveals that they’ve just left Naked Lunch. Nelson remarks: “There’s at least two things wrong with that title.” I’ll leave it at that.
Hieroglyphick Bibles and other Marvelous Oddities
I’ve really been enjoying going through the Library of Congress American Treasures Collection. I came across this Hieroglyphick Bible (1788) the other day and thought it was pretty cool.
Of course, I’m a big fan of the graphic novel (as well as the Old Testament) so this was right up my alley. More evidence supporting Scott McCloud‘s argument that the comics form is one of the oldest forms on earth (of course he goes way further back than the eighteenth century, contending that Egyptian hieroglyphs fall into his definition of comics art). Either way, check out LOC’s collection–fun for book nerds and history geeks alike.
Journey into Mohawk Country–Van den Bogaert and O’Connor
Journey into Mohawk Country is George O’Connor’s adaptation of Harmen Meyndertsz Van den Bogaert’s diary, an historical document detailing the young Dutch explorer’s 1634 journey out west of New Amsterdam to make contact with Indian villages for trade. O’Connor uses Van den Bogaert’s words verbatim, but his graphic novel format allows him extraordinary liberties with the journal’s account. Vague descriptions are literally fleshed out; O’Connor finds innuendo in even the simplest of Van den Bogaert’s entries, illustrating a between-the-lines reading of the Dutchman’s diary. O’Connor even manages to stick a strange epiphanic mystical revelation scene in there. The story itself is pretty simple: Van den Bogaert and his two companions head out into Mohawk country, meet and trade with Indians, eat bear, learn about some alien customs (including a sequence where some Indians show Van den Bogaert how to heal the sick by vomiting on them), and go back to Fort Orange. It’s really the little interpretive scenes around the text-proper, courtesy of O’Connor’s cartoony pictures, that make Journey into Mohawk Country such a pleasure to read. O’Connor’s work here illustrates the first-person narrative’s slippery claims on truth and the limited viability of a “true” historical account. Good stuff.
The Biblioklept Salute to Eleven Great TV Shows, Not One of Them with Us Today–Part V
Prove that you’re a winner by checking out parts I, II, III, and IV.
9. Home Movies (1999, UPN; 2001-2004, Cartoon Network)
Eight-year-old maverick director Brendon Small makes movies in his basement with the help of his regular crew, Melissa and Jason. He also plays a little soccer on the side, although his team never wins–no doubt due to the fact that their coach, McGuirk, is a washed-up alcoholic. Home Movies is the funniest show ever to appear on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim. Comprised of hilarious, rambling conversations, witty movie parodies, and really cool original songs, Home Movies also boasted an excellent round-up of regular guest stars, including Jonathan Katz, Emo Phillips, Mitch Hedburg and Louis CK. But more than anything, it was the repartee between Brendon and his friends, teachers, and nemeses that really made the series so funny. For the record, John McGuirk is my favorite animated non-Simpsons character ever, and a personal hero of mine. The last episode of Home Movies was the saddest TV finale I’ve ever seen. The episodes are still funny on DVD or re-runs.
This is one of my favorite episodes: Brendon directs the school play (a take on Grease), convincing McGuirk to play the male lead (as well as drive his car onto the stage).
No Country for Old Men–Cormac McCarthy
Didn’t we write about No Country for Old Men a week or two ago? Yeah, but that was for the upcoming Coen brothers movie; this post is a review of the audiobook, and I’m not creative enough to think of a different title.
So we listened to the entirety of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men over the course of two drives: from Jacksonville to St. Pete Beach and back. First off, as far as books-on-CD goes, this one was pretty good. Native Texan Tom Stechshulte manages to get all of the male characters spot on (the women in the novel sound kind of ridiculous though), and the action-filled plot, tight pacing, and simple sentences make for an easy-to-follow-while-driving listening experience (this is my number one criterion for an audiobook–you have to be able to follow the plot while navigating a road littered with truckers and asshole teenagers. F’r’instance, Faulkner’s short stories are almost impossible to follow in audiobook format).
Set in 1980, No Country for Old Men is the story of Llewellyn Moss, a Vietnam vet who stumbles across the aftermath of a drug deal gone bad and a suitcase with 2.4 million dollars in it. Of course, he takes the money and runs. Assassin Chigurh is hot on his heels to collect the drug money, leaving a bloody wake of murder and chaos. Sheriff Bell, a WWII vet who first-person narrates the beginning of each section of the book, is also on the case, trying to track down Llewellyn before he gets himself killed.
The first five discs (of seven) of the book were excellent–an exercise in genre fiction–the crime-suspense novel–that transcends the limits of the genre’s tropes. McCarthy’s spare prose moves at just the right pace, with just the right amount of “literary” interjection. However, the end of the novel morphs (evolves or devolves?) into a meditation on war and the changing nature of America and the American people. McCarthy’s symbols and metaphors seem heavy-handed and downright clunky at times, and in the end, the book becomes something of a reflection on personal failures and regrets, and how these personal failures add up to national failures.
Perhaps because I was driving, and because I had been so involved with characters over the course of five compact discs who suddenly disappeared in the narrative, I was disappointed in the end. Perhaps if I had read the book instead of listening to it on compact disc while driving, I would have found the ending more profound, or even enjoyable. Who knows–reading books vs. listening to them is probably a subject for another post. I do think that the Coen brothers will make a fantastic movie out of this story–potentially on par with Fargo. We’ll see.
Biblioklept 