Cause if you wanna fight then you’re just dyin’ to get killed

There’s more where that came from.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

One for Friday: Matthew Sweet, “Do Ya”

Over the years, I’ve devoted far too much mental energy towards the machinations behind late night television talk shows. I watched with rapt attention when Johnny Carson unexpectedly abdicated his throne, and NBC was left to make a public choice between the mercurial genius who’d spent about a decade patiently auditioning for the job and the devoted company man who’d proven his willingness to subvert whatever edge he had in the name of crafting happily bland entertainment. I raced through Bill Carter’s book on the subject and found myself draw to the skillful HBO movie adaptation whenever I caught it on air. When Letterman’s CBS show debuted, I was a devote nightly viewer, and though every television opinion-maker railed against him in the early years, I watched Conan O’Brien’s new show with similar regularity.

The choice was perplexing at the time, but O’Brien proved to be an appropriate successor to Letterman in the Late Night slot. He brought the same ironic, absurdist bent, and, most crucially, a willingness to mock the conventions of television even as he was reveling in them. If anything, his early lack of critical and ratings success was a boon, instilling a certain go-for-broke freedom that mirrored the fearless indifference of the initial years of Letterman’s Late Night, where the disastrous reception of the previous morning show derivation of the program proved to all involved that cancellation was the worst that could happen. O’Brien soldiered on, simply putting what he found funny up for display and perusal and hoping the audience would eventually get the joke. There was a welcome rawness, a sense of unpredictability that’s almost completely absent from network television now. Even O’Brien’s current stint as host of The Tonight Show is buffed down to something pat and safe.

My fascination with that chunk of the programming day waned, but there are still remnants of that obsession scattered throughout the house, including up on the CD shelf. By 1997, four years into his run on Late Night, O’Brien had enough of a following that a major record label was interested in releasing an album under the brand of his show, collecting live music from the show that had developed a bit of a reputation for having a little cooler taste on that particular front. Live From 6A isn’t a great record, and it already seems like an ancient artifact as YouTube and the respective programs’ Websites have proven to be a far more efficient way to re-experience those sorts of performances. It is, however, an interesting little snapshot of that time, when Edwyn Collins, Jamiroquai and Soul Coughing could be considered good “gets” for such a compilation.

Most of the songs came directly from airings of Late Night, but one song was actually recorded at the soundcheck. Perhaps unsurprisingly, that’s the best track, bearing a different sort of energy, a verve that comes from playing a song because it sounds good, not because you’ve been allotted four-and-a-half minutes of network time to try and move some product. It even helps that the song is a cover.

Matthew Sweet, “Do Ya”

(Disclaimer: The compilation referenced above is apparently out of print, and the selection from said compilation is featured here with the understanding that it is unavailable for purchase in such a way that it would provide money to the artist or the songwriters. If someone with due authority to do so asks me to remove it, I will gladly comply. But come on. This CD probably resides in the dollar bin of most larger used shops.)

 

Top Fifty Films of the 00s — Number Twenty-Three

#23 — Y Tu Mama Tambien (Alfonso Cuaron, 2001)
In a recent issue of the U.K. movie magazine Empire, Francis Ford Coppola took a swipe at Steven Spielberg, asking him, though an editorial intermediary, when he was going to finally make a personal film. Spielberg was understandably taken aback, noting that all of his films are personal, a quality I suspect even many of his detractors would concede is readily apparent. Whatever the motivation for Coppola’s passive aggressive query, it seemingly stems from some confusion over the difference between autobiographical and personal. Just because Spielberg doesn’t make movies about movie directors or other types of artists standing in for directors, or build a film around familial concerns that have broad, obvious corollaries to his own, doesn’t mean that there’s nothing personal there. Case in point: Alfonso Cuaron’s Y Tu Mama Tambien.

I don’t really know if the film, written with his brother, Carlos Cuaron, is autobiographical, and I sought no additional background to prepare for writing this. To a degree, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t feel autobiographical, lacking the confessional quality of such works, or the lapses into sentimentality that often mark memoirs disguised as fiction. It does, however, feel personal. It feels like the kind of film that could have only come from him, rich with detail and casually, quietly potent imagery. Every bit of it is a testimony to experience, to heritage, to the emotions built into growing up, learning the difference between playing at manhood and living within it. It is about Mexico in a way that feels like a cultural slideshow and more like an external processing of how the place shaped him, and how he shaped the place in return, both in the shifting sands of memory and in the actual impact left in living there. The film doesn’t teach, it experiences, taking the viewer along. The film feels like Cuaron truly opening himself up to share something, a sensation built right into its honesty and sneaky emotional heft. It routinely becomes deep in its lightest moments, and illuminates universal experiences by trafficking in the most focused of individual experiences. In some ways, it’s the most intimate film of the past ten years.

It is a road movie, following two young male friends as they journey across the countryside, brashly, boyishly experiencing life with a hungry impulsiveness and cackling self-satisfaction. They encounter an older woman who comes along for the ride, for reasons they can’t really discern and lack the intellectual curiosity to try and parse anyway. They all work off of one another, bringing dynamic interplay to their exchanges as their hulking vehicle kicks up dirt and dust. Most prominently, there is sexuality at play, and Cuaron is uncommonly fearless in bringing it to the screen in a frank and truthful manner. He gives equal attention to the alluring nature of human sexuality and its rutting hopelessness. He brashly, boldly depicts it as rough and unappealing. All of the characters are clinging to life, trying to feel it more deeply through the press of naked flesh. Other soft-lit movie scenes push a needy transcendence with such moments; Cuaron exposes it under the harsh glare of an unforgiving sun. As the characters go through different couplings, and then a brief tripling that sheds a participant to become a new coupling that will cause some anxiety when the morning arrives, there is the hovering question of how all this matters. What does the play-acting of machismo hide?

It takes acting as fearless as the writing and directing to make a film like this work, and Cuaron found hearty collaborators in his primary trio. Diego Luna and Gael Garcia Bernal are an extraordinary tandem as the two friends, their accomplishment as intertwined as that of Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis a decade earlier in Thelma and Louise. Very different films, very different performances, but both film pairs boast that ever-elusive quality of acting partners who play off each other so effectively that it’s nearly impossible to think of one without the other. Luna and Bernal suggest an entire history with their work, one that subtly suggests the future the film holds. Perhaps even better is Maribel Verdu as the women who joins and eventually guides their journey. She is asked to do everything possible of an actor giving a performance short of belting out an aria, and she conquers each challenge with incredible skill, tempering her conviction with hints of endearing uncertainty. Shaped by greater experience and heavier worries, her character is arguably fumbling as urgently as the boisterous boys, seeking satisfaction with a very different deadline in mind. Verdu makes it moving without giving in to the temptation to lather his work in glimmers of portent. She plays a woman trying to figure out the best way to live her life, and does so with minimal fuss.

Y Tu Mama Tambien is daring and enlivening. It is also a film that has something to say, but is not burdened by it. It’s leaning over at the bar and whispering its confession in your ear, confident that, somehow, you’ll understand.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Gonna rap about this, gonna rap about that, gonna tell everybody where it’s at

Still recovering. While I risk falling further behind on the big ongoing project by caving to this diversion, I think this is the proper way to fill this digital space today.

This is presented partially as a tribute to my favorite band named after Muppets.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

The Consummate Compendium of the Inventions of Dr. Reed Richards

The inventions in this entry are utilized in Fantastic Four #40 (July 1965)

TV EYE. The cutting edge in surveillance equipment, the TV Eye is a levitating sphere approximately six inches in diameter. It is equipped with a video camera which can be programmed to find specific targets, even on a bustling New York City street. It is launched from a modified gunmetal rifle, which is equipped with viewfinder that allows for surreptitious viewing. It’s doggedness upon acquiring its target is unparalleled. As Richards himself notes, “Once it zeroes in on a subject, there’s no way to outrun it.”

ELECTRIC HEADQUARTERS DEFENSE APPARATUS. Working in concert with automatic scanners, the defense apparatus provides the highest level of security for any sensitive workspace. Upon detecting an intruder, the system unleashing a barrage of systematically programmed blasts of energy which are bright enough to be blinding, and strong to render steel and metal statues into melted slag.

MODEL ROCKET SHIP. As with the products of all great inventors, inadvertent uses sometimes emerge. This item began as merely a prototype model of a full-scale interstellar craft until necessity provided just the mothering required to demonstrate its effectiveness as a weapon. A simple remote control gives a user the ability to guide the airborne, disc-like like device which measures approximately two feet in diameter. The model uses liquid fuel, which can be deployed as a rocket fire blast when the small ship accelerates. The remote control is also equipped with a “Destruct” button.

STAIRWAY ATTACK SYSTEM. More innovations in business security. With the press of a button, an entire stairway will explode, causing interlopers to regret their decision to forgo the elevator.

THE STIMULATOR. A truly formidable device, The Stimulator is a cannon-like device, which is significantly large, but can be handled and transported by a single person.

It emits a series of rays that can restore superhuman powers to those who’ve found their abilities waning for natural reasons or nefarious manipulations. The heavy, banded barrel is held together in part by large coils, which can also serve as a viewfinder when firing the device.

IN-FLOOR REFRIGERATION UNIT. An incredibly fast-acting device, the chiller embedded in the floor emits an arctic blast through vents, expertly camouflaged to match the tiling on the floor.

The unit is operated by a durable lever at floor level. It is equipment that should be used cautiously, as anyone standing above the vent when it is activated will be completely frozen.

Bibliography
Images provided (unwittingly) by fellow scholars.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Back from Dairyland

I’ve been atypically quiet for the past couple of days for a very simple reason: this weekend was dominated by a necessary trip to my homeland. So how effectively did I manage to fit in some of the most important cultural touchstones of Wisconsin?

Gray skies. Check.

Scraggly, winter-dead trees across the landscape. Check.

A reception in an American Legion hall. Check.

The chicken dance enthusiastically performed at said reception. Check.

A Packers loss. Check.

A robust new illness making me throat feel like it’s been scraped with a rusty metal rake. Check.

Tomorrow, we’ll return to our regular programming.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

One for Friday: Ted Leo, “Since U Been Gone”

In the spirit of Phish’s Halloween costumes (which is the only thing I find interesting about Phish), we today present a musician in disguise. This song has made many, many travels around the Interweb, but it looks like it’s been a bit of time since anyone’s posted it anew.

Not much else to note about it, largely because I’m a few hours from getting on a plane, and I’m terribly strapped for time. I’ll do better next week.

Ted Leo, “Since U Been Gone”

(Disclaimer: Correctly or not, I operate with the assumption that this cover has never been properly released, and is therefore unavailable for proper, legal purchase. A little quick research would confirm or refute this suspicion, but I have neither the time nor inclination for that this morning. Regardless, if anyone with due authority to do so asks me to remove the file from the Interweb, I will gladly comply. You should also think about buying a Ted Leo record. Everyone should have a Ted Leo record in their collection.)

 

Top Fifty Films of the 00s — Number Twenty-Four

#24 — Vicky Cristina Barcelona (Woody Allen, 2008)
It’s now been over thirty years since Woody Allen cast his cynicism in unyielding bronze by having Alvy Singer assess the state of his relationship with Annie Hall through the use of a dead shark metaphor. Allen is occasionally hopeful in his work, but more commonly he’s the guy who sees much of the world as an exercise in futility, an outcome that is painfully at odds with the aspirations of human nature. The heart wants what the heart wants, but there’s a slim likelihood that it’ll get it. What’s more, if it does, the longed for object of affection will probably prove to be unfulfilling at best, dreadful at worst, a situation arguably made even worse by the unfortunate compulsion to do just about anything to acquire whatever the heart is set upon. Allen has been prolific enough across his career that this may not actually be the predominant philosophy running through his filmography, but it is the primary intellectual flavor of many of his finest works, from Manhattan to Crimes and Misdemeanors to Husbands and Wives. And it is powerfully present in Vicky Cristina Barcelona.

The film begins with two young American friends arriving in Spain for a vacation together. One, played with subtly adjusting sensibility by Rebecca Hall, is pragmatic, refined and restrained, buttoned-up, even a bit stuffy. She is basking in the beauty of the foreign land she visits, but also studying it. In a telling detail, she is not just there as a tourist, but as a committed student, studying the local art and architecture. She is so detached from the alluring beauty of the world around her that she can only approach it academically. The other traveler, played by Scarlett Johansson, is wilder, more devilish, far more open. In particular, she approaches romantic possibilities from a completely different starting point, one more inclined toward the possibilities of polyamory. She’s not promiscuous, simply open. These differing viewpoints are thrown into stark relief when the pair are approached by a handsome artist played by Javier Bardem who propositions them, suggesting a weekend of casual bed-hopping, basking equally in the sensuality of the gorgeous countryside and one another.

This is Allen’s entryway to exploring the myriad of ways that people intimately connect with one another. They can be happily reckless, joyfully wallowing in stimulating physicality. They can take solace in the comfort of pure stability in reasoned partnerships. They can look for that person who offers the dependability of a sharply-cast shadow or find someone who challenges, pushes, infuriates and enlivens them, pulling out the strongest of emotions in the most unpredictable ways. They can plan and plot, or they can take whatever comes, reveling in the uncertainty of a life lived without a map. Through these two characters, and those around them, Allen explores all these possibilities and more. To the degree that he draws any sort of conclusion about these different couplings (and, occasionally, triplings) it is simple as can be: nothing works. Allen’s argument is that, for all the pontificating and emotional reveries, every method of approaching relationships is equally futile. No matter what level of certainty accompanies a person’s conviction, the cold hard realities of how we work will intervene, and the standard issue imperfections of people trying to merge their egos and hearts into one functioning unit will come forward to present their decisive counter-argument.

Despite this grim diagnosis, the film is not dour or somber. Instead it is fluid, witty, light on its feet. It is as slyly charming as the happily hedonistic Spaniard embodied by Bardem. And it is one of Bardem’s most consistent costars in his homeland who gives the film its most significant jolt. When Penelope Cruz arrives at the midpoint, playing the spirited, unbalanced ex-wife of Bardem’s character, the movie shifts under the force of her pointed stare. She tears into scenes with a blinding self-assurance, doling out frank accusations and honey-layered compliments, all reflecting a instinctual embrace of herself, a command of her own life and the place she allows others to have in it. Allen has written a multitude of strong, decisive female characters over the years, and Cruz’s Maria Elena joins that roll call. Cruz, who’s grown by leaps and bounds as an actress in recent years, is penetrating in the role, matching character’s fire with her own.

Allen has been doing his job long enough and well enough that it shouldn’t be surprising that he can still turn out masterful films. At his best, he creates deeply realized, fascinating characters and put them in situations that demonstrate that he, as a filmmaker, still has something to say. And he routinely draws out the best from his actors, proving that strong directing doesn’t always mean flashy directing. Indeed, it often means quite the opposite: getting out of the way and letting your actors tell the story. Vicky Cristina Barcelona has all of these qualities, and finally comes back to that famed metaphor from the the 1977 movie that won Allen the best director Oscar and represented a quantum leap forward for him a s a filmmaker. Vicky Cristina Barcelona tells us that not only in the shark dead, but that, no matter what is done, that shark is doomed from the start.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Top Fifty Films of the 00s — Number Twenty-Five

#25 — In America (Jim Sheridan, 2002)
It’s tempting when designating a film as great to expound on all the big, significant things that it does, to point out its mastery of delicate topics or celebrate the way it gets at experiences in a way that seems universal. Sometimes, though, it’s really about the small things, the simple things. Jim Sheridan’s In America can be held up as an example of a film that gets as the challenges of being an immigrant family. Even more broadly, it effectively captures the way any family or community struggles, the way that hardships mount and mount, testing courage and conviction, straining the very bonds that are most necessary, most sustaining. The film says something about the way people can come together movingly on the basis of their shared separation from the culture at large, their shared otherness. It is about art and loss and fear of illness. For all these broad, sweeping subjects, I think the element that makes In America really work, the element that makes it special is just this: I believe in the family at its core. I believe they know each other, love each other, rely upon each other. I believe in their battles, their sorrow, their elation. I believe that when they look at each other, they are seeing the entirety of their world in the face of someone they need in ways they can’t even begin to identify, it is so vast and so ingrained. These aren’t actors playing roles, this is a family living onscreen.

There’s a little truth to that with two of the family members. Sisters Sarah Bolger and Emma Bolger, eleven-years-old and six-years-old, respectively, at the time of the film’s release, play the daughters in the Irish nuclear family that has come to reside in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen, in large part so the patriarch of the family can pursue an acting career. He’s played by Paddy Considine, bringing a stubborn stridency to the role, a brand of fortitude built on a prideful unwillingness to admit defeat, or even acknowledge setbacks. His character operates with an aversion to vulnerability, largely because of certainty that the first crack he allows in his shell of resiliency with split wide open and allow the heartbreak of a recent family tragedy consume him entirely. The fourth and final family member is the the mother, played with saddened dignity by Samantha Morton. She is simultaneously the mightiest and most fragile member of this modest clan, facing the worn down existence of her family with a tremulous sense that what little they’ve built can tumble apart at any time.

The film is alternately downbeat and celebratory, assiduously honest about the difficulties built right into modern life, particularly for those starting from a point where Square One seems a dreamlike goal, but also hopeful about the strength people can find in one another, be they the family you’re born into or the family that you find, build, nurture. It has an endearing earthiness, a dedication to its setting, right down to the ruggedness of the apartments and the seediness of the city. Sheridan artfully shows the ways in which these pieces of a life, these markings of lower income, become their own millstone. Homemade Halloween costumes are charming and warm, but can also sadly serve as a reminder of the things that are out of reach and the emptiness of the cupboard.

There is autobiography interwoven with the fiction here, and Sheridan recruited the assistance of his own two daughter in crafting the screenplay, an apparent effort to keep the memoir genuine and unsentimental. He may know the feeling of testing himself against a carnival game, gambling a thickening stack of the household savings against his own ability to simply throw a ball into a basket, but the more important perspective belongs to those who watch him do it, fervently protecting his ego despite the potential harm its causing to the family. By adding this balance, Sheridan strips away any temptation to romanticize or otherwise overly celebrate the aches and endurance of the family. To the degree that the story is that of his own family, it belongs to him, but he’s taken pains to be certain it belongs to them as well. It’s arguably the character of the father who is the clearest protagonist of the film, who goes through the dramatic changes we associate with a leading character. But, importantly, the film is narrated by the eldest daughter. It is her words, her explanations, and, at times, her earnestly voiced belief in the power she holds to rescue her loved ones from the direst of fates through sheer force of her wishes. She closes her eyes and chooses the outcome she wants, the outcome her family needs to survive that one more day, and in doing so, she makes it happen.

It’s a measure of the film’s offhand magic that, by the end, I start to believe in her powers, too. Plain and simple, it’s the happiest way to think of the onscreen family’s dented luck, their tender resiliency and their unyielding belief in one another.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)

 

Top 50 Films of the 00s — Halfway Point

Halfway through seems like a good time for a recap. Here’s what we’ve covered thus far:

50. Triviatown (Patrick Cady and Brit McAdams, 2006)
49. The Royal Tenenbaums (Wes Anderson, 2001)
48. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Peter Jackson, 2003)
47. Far From Heaven (Todd Haynes, 2002)
46. The Savages (Tamara Jenkins, 2007)
45. Vera Drake (Mike Leigh, 2004)
44. Lars and the Real Girl (Craig Gillespie, 2007)
43. The Brothers Bloom (Rian Johnson, 2009)
42. Trouble the Water (Carl Deal and Tia Lessin, 2008)
41. Spider-Man 2 (Sam Raimi, 2004)
40. In the Bedroom (Todd Field, 2001)
39. 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days (Cristian Mungiu, 2007)
38. Gangs of New York (Martin Scorsese, 2002)
37. Ratatouille (Brad Bird with Jan Pinkava, 2007)
36. Pan’s Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro, 2006)
35. Brick (Rian Johnson, 2006)
34. Finding Nemo (Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich, 2003)
33. Bad Education (Pedro Almodovar, 2004)
32. Lost in Translation (Sofia Coppola, 2003)
31. The Lives of Others (Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, 2006)
30. The Queen (Stephen Frears, 2006)
29. The Aviator (Martin Scorsese, 2004)
28. Match Point (Woody Allen, 2005)
27. Capturing the Friedmans (Andrew Jarecki, 2003)
26. City of God (Fernando Meirelles with Katia Lund, 2002)

My plans to finish this countdown by the end of the year has slipped behind scheduled somewhat, so I’m going to need to pick up the pace a bit. I guess that means number twenty-five tomorrow.

(Posted simultaneously at “Jelly-Town!”)