the whine colored sea

Pssst.

2008-01-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

Les films français = depravity, smoking, crotch shots.

2006-12-19T20:58:00.000-08:00

Just a quick hello, how are things?, blah blah blah. I started a new job that isn't very conducive to blogging, hence the silence. Working on a post on seeing Inland Empire for the second time. In the mean time, feast upon my favorite piece of film crit in ages, courtesy of one Gina DeFalco, Netflix commentator. Of Francois Ozon's See the Sea:

Key elements to a french movie - slow as thick snot in January - moral
depravity - infidelity - boobs are shown, sometimes crotch - people smoking
This film has all of those elements, but even with the extra leeway, knowing
it is French, this movie blows choda! Only recommended if you enjoy activities like sewing your head to the carpet, or get off looking at
someones green apple splatters.

Thank you, Gina. Thank you.

This is a battle, a war, and the casualties could be your hearts and souls. (Barf.)

2006-12-11T20:37:00.000-08:00

When watching The History Boys it's impossible not to (at least passingly) think of Peter Weir's oppressive Dead Poet's Society. While far from perfect, The History Boys is a far better film; it at least is smart and charming and has actually says something about how poetry and art and education intersect with one's life.

Anyway. That's not the point of this post.
No, I just wanted to remind you of the fact that motherfucking DPS won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay in 1990. I know, I know... the Oscars mean nothing, they don't actually award actual talent, Kane was ignored, etc.
But just look--LOOK!--at its competition that year. (And just ignore the Ephron nom. It's fine and all, but it totally weakens my argument.)

* Tom Schulman for Dead Poets Society - Winner
* Woody Allen for Crimes and Misdemeanors - Nominated
* Spike Lee for Do the Right Thing - Nominated
* Steven Soderbergh for Sex, Lies, and Videotape - Nominated
* Nora Ephron for When Harry Met Sally... - Nominated

And just as a cherry on top: Schulman didn't have a great writing career after the majesty that is DPS. He went on to write Medicine Man, Holy Man, and Welcome to Mooseport. Karma's a bitch, huh?

This year, to save me from tears / I'll give it to someone special.

2006-12-10T09:30:00.000-08:00

Well hello there. I've been ITless since Wednesday (thanks Time Warner!), hence the silence. Anyway, just a quick Sunday hello and a link to a website totally devoted to covers of Wham!'s "Last Christmas". You know you want to hear Erlend Øye, Travis, and/or Crazy Frog covering the third greatest modern Christmas standard*. Get over there and take your stand against the war on Christmas.

* The best modern Christmas standard ever is obviously Macca's "Wonderful Christmastime" followed by the Michael Penn/Jon Brion composition "Christmastime" (as sung by Aimee Mann).

A peak at the Empire.

2006-12-05T17:45:00.000-08:00

A taste of what I babbled about:

Elsewhere, 'Nohla nails it:

“Inland Empire” isn’t a film to love. It is a work to admire, to puzzle through, to wrestle with. Its pleasures are fugitive, even frustrating. The first time I saw it, I was repulsed by the shivers of Lynchian sadism, a feeling doubtless informed by my adoration of the far more approachable, humanistic “Mulholland Drive.” On second viewing, though, “Inland Empire” seemed funnier, more playful and somehow heartfelt. Certainly, there is nothing but love in Ms. Dern’s performance, which is as much a gift to us as to the director who has given this actress her greatest roles. It’s easy to get lost in a David Lynch film, but Ms. Dern and her amazing rubber-band mouth, which laughs like the sun and cries us a river, proves a magnificent guide.

A friendly reminder.

2006-12-05T16:50:00.000-08:00

Today is the day, kids.
Bernardo Bertolucci's The Conformist--one of the greatest pieces of narrative cinema in existence--is finally available on DVD. If you haven't seen it yet, bump it to the top of your queue, buy it, track it down, whatever. See it. It's an absolute essential.

If you're interested, I rambled about it last year.

You need a steak and a vitamin.

2006-12-05T11:13:00.000-08:00

Amy Sedaris was on Conan last week and that appearance alone got me to netflix Strangers With Candy: The Movie. The film is... well, it's OK. But I laughed harder at these nine minutes than anything in the movie*. Enjoy:

*= OK, that might not be totally true. I laughed really hard when Colbert, as the science teacher, yells at his class "Eyes to the back of the room!" and then has a total ugly-crying meltdown. Ugly-crying meltdowns are the best.

Indeed.

2006-12-02T16:05:00.000-08:00

"The one thing I'll give it: it made a compelling case for death."

--Morgan, after a screening of The Fountain.

You're kinda layin' a mindfuck on me.

2006-12-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

47, 9:45 (or is it midnight?), Axxon--->, "Black Tambourine," Bucky Jay, bunny rabbits, circus, cursed films, dancing whores, dark hallways, dead child, DV, "good with animals," High On Blue Tomorrows, Hollywood & Vine, industrial hum, ketchup, lamp shades, laugh track, lightbulb mouth, "Locomotion," mindfuck, Polish folk tales, red curtains, screwdriver, strobe, "tell me if you recognize me from somewhere," tits & ass, trains in the distance, "yes, she's here..."
INLAND EMPIRE.

(I need to see it again.)

Thank you, Rob Thomas.

2006-11-30T18:25:00.000-08:00

Fear not, no spoilers here.

I've mentioned my nerdy obsession with Veronica Mars before, but not lately. Here's a little explanation. I'm insanely in love with the first season: the characters and their relationships are vivid and perfectly acted, the writing is uniformly smart and witty and warm, and the central mystery is expanded and resolved in such a thoroughly satisfying manner that it adds up to, in my mind, one of the finest blocks of television I've ever seen.

Season Two is patchy. Things get off on the right foot (that first episode back is one of the best VMs ever), but gets a little wonky by the midpoint. There are so many threads and subplots muddling the new "big mystery" that it turns into a confusing and frustrating ride. It's still compelling, sure, but by the time the big revelations occur, it's a massive letdown. (Am I alone in thinking Season Two's greatest moments are always set to perfectly selected pop songs? My three favorite Season Two moments: Dead body washes ashore [The Pixies' "Where Is My Mind?"], Veronica and Logan run from crazy child abusers [Air's "Run"], Prom [M. Doughty's "I Hear the Bells"].)

Rob Thomas and co. tried to remedy this situation in Season Three by creating an initial "big mystery" arc of nine episodes, then two mini-arcs to round-out the season. (At least that was the initial plan. Now it looks like Mr. Thomas might tweak the formula again by finishing the second arc, then running a series of stand alone episodes.) This season hasn't been without its growing pains (really, what was all that bidness with Logan in Mexico? Laura San Giacomo? Really?), but it's been a sturdy run that absolutely killed with the most recent episode. Tuesday's show, which saw the saga of the Hearst Rapist concluded and the introduction of the next mystery, was so twisty-turny-watching-through-your-fingers-brilliant, with a legitimately rewarding payoff, it felt like Season One all over.* Here's hoping it keeps up the momentum. The show's going on hiatus until mid-January, but the first nine episodes will be running in order over the holidays. If you've missed them, fire up that Tivo and get busy. Or add the first two seasons to your Netflix queue. Or use the ITs to catch-up. I dunno. Just don't let this series escape you.

* Perhaps my favorite summation of the episode came in an e-mail from Nayiri:

Re: VMars, Keith [her husband] comes home from class in the middle of it, and usually I don't talk to him (aside from maybe saying hello) until it's a commercial break, but Tuesday night I was scampering around the middle room and clutching pillows to my bosoms and yelling at the TV. And then he came in, and then I started frantically telling him everything that he missed (the whole season) and hopping from one foot to the other like I was holding a lot of pee.

Yup. Sounds about right. And one more picture, 'cause the t-shirt is too goood not to:

You know you enthrall me...

2006-11-29T12:04:00.000-08:00

My love affair with the 33⅓ series is only getting more intense. LD Beghtol's entry on 69 Love Songs just came in the mail and based on my initial browse, it might just be my favorite entry yet. It's a two part "field guide" to Stephin Merritt's opus; part one is a lexicon of all the major words, phrases and numbers found in the 69 songs. Part two is a song by song guide to the album, identifying the singer(s)/the song's key/BPM/genre, things to look for, and commentary from Stephin, other band members, critics, etc.

It's an insanely thorough and funny read. An example: I've always loved "Reno Dakota" from Volume 1, but I had no effing clue what was going on when Claudia sang "You know you enthrall me/and yet you don't call me/It's making me blue/Pantone 292." So, I flip to the handy lexicon, head to P and voila:

Pantone 292 (n) A rich sky blue, the color of Claudia's hopeless love for filmmaker Reno Dakota. Pantone, Inc. is the proud parent of the Pantone Matching System-- 1,114 standardized ink colors and process-color screen mixes created for graphic-designers and printers. Why shyly murmur "school bus yellow" when one can shout PMS 109, or dream of "Campbell's Soup made with milk" when one can demand PMS 180? According to [the song] Reno Dakota Blue is best approximated by PMS 292.

Yeah, I know there's always the Googles, but isn't it way more fun to have a handy little book all alphabetized and filled with neat anecdotes? (Like when the Bush reelection committee tried to license "Washington D.C." for an ad.) I think so.

Challenge.

2006-11-28T19:56:00.000-08:00

Earlier today, my friend Morgan asked me to name--off the top of my head--a pair of consecutive movies that showed an enormous fall from grace for a filmmaker. That is: Film A is considered an unimpeachable masterpiece and was followed by an utterly disasterous Film B. Morgan's example:

Schindler's List -> The Lost World: Jurassic Park 2.

I guess I have Altman on the brain (sigh) as my first thought was:

Short Cuts -> Prêt-à-Porter.

Tim's contribution:

sex, lies, and videotape -> Kafka.

Kinda fun, no? Your picks in the comment section. (And I'm opening it up to... whatever. It doesn't have to be a director; musicians, authors, actors, etc. are all fair game.)

Quote of the day.

2006-11-28T16:32:00.000-08:00

"I like Bobby Fischer. I read his book and his story. I like him because his life is like a hip-hop life: a person who comes out, finds himself, gotta rock the world, and then the government is against him. You know the government took all his shit from him, right? Exiled his ass. This nigga ain't crazy, son. This nigga's a genius."
--The RZA, Stop Smiling No. 28.

Extraordinary update.

2006-11-28T10:04:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, the saga over the various versions of Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine is so 2005. But the good folks over at fairfax ave. unearthed this ~~great piece of dirt~~ interesting tidbit from EM 2.0's "co-producer" Brian Kehew and it's too good to ignore. A sample:

I had no power - they had someone else mix the record - who charged 40k PLUS points (I was not taking mixing points) and who smashed the hell out of all the beauitful dynamics we had created. As importantly, he completely missed some of the most important tracks we had in our arragements, which makes me realize the "other producer" probably wasn't even at the mixes - or paying attention. Personally, I think it's cookie-cutter mixing by someone who is not that talented - smash everything so you don't have to worry about levels changing. I don't even listen to the CD now - although our engineer's roughs (Hey - I'm an engineer, but I didn't try to control that, did I?) sound great and I still isten to them. MUCH better music, with all the intended tracks.

Then, when the album comes out, my credit has dropped further. It now says "Produced by XX" and underneath this, "Co-produced by Brian Kehew". Totally an unrealistic credit, because if I had shared the work of something, so had the other person shared and been "co-producer". Certainly as the person who got the artist to work (she had no intention to work again with Jon Brion) and hired the studio and chose the set of tracks to use, then worked daily to make a record...

Delayed response.

2006-11-27T19:27:00.000-08:00

Back from the holidays. A few things that I really should've blogged about ages ago:

Josh sent me an e-mail with that image attached. He was concerned that the joke might be wearing thin. Nope.
Let me jump on the blogger-cliche bandwagon (again): Beyoncé's "Irreplaceable" is fantastic. I'm not the biggest B-supporter, but I can whole-heartedly get behind this shit. The simple drum programming and acoustic strum... the way she tentatively hits those high notes when she sings "I could have another you in a minute..." Yup, that works nicely. (The remix with Ghostface is even sicker. Hurry over to Rich Fourfour's place and snag it.)
Yes, Casino Royale is as a fun as you've heard. Afer the first hour it sags a little, but I dare you to deny it. And, yes, I feel a little dead inside for enjoying something that has Paul Haggis's name attached to it.
Ever since he left Slate, I've been really bad about keeping up with David Edelstein. I really should try to keep up with him because he's not only insightful, he makes me laugh. From his review of The Fountain:
"The movie would be more bearable without the unyielding score by Clint Mansell, which somehow melds the worst of Minimalism, art rock, and New Age music. It's what you'd hear if your massage therapist wanted to induce a stroke."
Speaking of Slate: thank you, Bryan Curtis.

Everything you need to know about Twyla Tharp's The Times They Are A-Changin'.

2006-11-06T23:16:00.001-08:00

Tharp has taken Bob Dylan's musical catalogue and turned it into a Broadway show.
Joan Acocella, in the pages of The New Yorker (11/6/2006), summarizes it thusly:
In [Tharp's] show, the owner and ringmaster of the circus is Captain Ahrab (Thom Sesma), an evil tyrant who abuses his innocent son, Coyote (Michael Arden); his kind, worse-for-the-wear girlfriend, Cleo (Lisa Brescia); and everyone else in his vicinity—namely, six Pierrot-like clowns and Cleo’s dog, whom he eventually garrotes. Then the times, they change. Coyote pairs off with Cleo, and the clowns kill Ahrab. (Or I think he died—it was hard to tell, because the scene was lit only by flashlights, but he didn’t reappear after that.) Coyote takes over the circus, which now becomes a democratic organization: everyone gets ringmaster wear. They all sing “Forever Young,” and the curtain comes down.

That is all.

Finally.

2006-10-31T10:10:00.000-08:00

Unpopular pop fans, your prayers have been answered:
fairfax avenue: a jon brion resource.

Now go and revel in its goodness.

'Tis the season.

2006-10-31T00:12:00.000-08:00

Who knew that writing about psychotic mutant hillbillies would be such a problem? I've been meaning to write about Alexandre Aja's remake of Wes Craven's The Hills Have Eyes for months now. With Halloween upon us, I figure it's now or never.

I'm a little embarrassed over how much I love the film. It's such an unapologetically ugly film, full of extreme violence and an unrelenting pace. But that's why I've always loved the classic horror movies of the '70s and the early '80s: they're ruthless in execution (unintentional pun, I swear) and full of anxiety. I don't have a lot of love for the recent spate of horror films because most of them are so poorly paced and ineptly made. (Hello, Eli Roth.)

The Hills Have Eyes is all momentum and sick fluidity: it's smartly shot, judiciously cut, and competently acted. Sure, there's little to the plot (all-American family gets stuck in the desert, hillbilly mutants descend, chaos and carnage ensues) and the characters are all stock (former police detective Dad, loving Mom, two hot daughters, bumbling son-in-law). Honestly, that's what I want in a horror movie. I want a compendium of phobias rubbed in my face; I want it to be outlandish and unbelievable; above all, I want it to be scary. Hills is all of those things and a little more. Like those 70s/80s classics, it's all jittery about current events. This is where that I have problems whole-heartedly endorsing the film. (Deep breath) You see, I'd argue that Aja intends this film to be a pro-Iraq War/anti-insurgency rallying cry.

Consider the frame of the story: a Midwestern family makes a fatal error when they take seriously bad advice from a man they thought they could trust. They wind up stranded in the desert and quickly realize they've made a huge mistake. As night falls, the hillbilly mutant killers descend and really, really mess things up. (Arson, rape, torture, dog-killing, you name it.) It's kill or be killed now. Up until this point, the nebbish--i.e., liberal Jewish--son-in-law was a pacifist who refused to hold a gun. When he realizes exactly what's at stake (namely the safety of his wife and child), he picks up that gun... and an ax... and flammable liquids and learns to love warfare. He realizes that, yes, he's been lied to and should never have been in this situation, but by God, the threat is real and he's got to get some blood on his hands.

And exhale.

Before you think I'm insane and an asshole film nerd making shit up, Aja's flirtation with conservative politics emerged in his debut film, 2004's High Tension. That movie I can't abide by. Technically savvy: yes. But also illogical and plain dumb. Without really spoiling the film's much-touted shock twist, I'll just say that I'm not alone in thinking the entire film amounts to a crazed rant about how the gays are destroying the traditional family.

This is the point in the post where I suddenly ask myself: Wait, why do I like this movie again? Then I say: Oh yeah, because its primary objective (to make me really uncomfortable and scare the bejesus out of me) is more than met. The fact that the politics are repellent and naive is secondary to me. (I like that George Romero wrangles with Vietnam and consumerism in his Zombie movies, but that's not what makes them great; first and foremost they're effing creepy.) I don't need to be constantly coddled, I'm OK with debate. And I'm not going to lie: I'm amused that a 28 year-old Frenchmen seems to have the same world-view as Bill O'Reilly and he used Hollywood money to craft a hardcore exploitation film to express it. Then I realize that if O'Reilly ever saw the film, he'd probably consider it a sign of the apocalypse and try to have it banned. It's the gift that just keeps on giving.

Happy Halloween.

And on November ~~4th~~ 7th, please vote against lying gas station attendants who tell you that the quickest way to California is on an unpaved road that goes through the desert. They're assholes and they need to go.

It's Monday. I know you could use a little love.

2006-10-30T10:39:00.000-08:00

There's something theraputic about compiling a list/manifesto of lurve via e-mail. That's what I found myself doing the past couple of days with Nayiri, friend and co-editrix of Horny Gandhi. Ostensibly this is a list of things we mutually love; for the most part it really is. I will confess that I had to google a couple of her selections, and I really can't say that I love (or am even familiar with) some of her selections that deal with makeup, purses, and fashion-designers. But I trust her, she has impeccable taste. Anyway.

Here's our love parade.

We love:
1. Crispy, flaky, hot croissants. Preferably in Paris.
2. Paris.
3. Corrugated metal.
4. The Arrangement of Things by Ross Bleckner.
5. Eighties songs like "A New England" by Billy Bragg and "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" by Mission Of Burma.
6. Lost. (Yes, that includes Season Two and the new episodes. Shut it, haters.)
7. Dogs.
8. Coffee from The Diesel Cafe, Somerville, MA.
9. Good font usage.
10. Kristen Bell.
11. Archaic-sounding synonyms for slut, i.e. slattern, hussy, painted woman, floozy, tart, etc.
12. The Christian Bale oeuvre.
13. The word oeuvre.
14. Sigerson Morrison.
15. Zombies and the undead in general.
16. The Criterion Collection.
17. The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey.
18. Trivial Pursuit. (But only when played in teams and it gets mad contentious.)
19. Lunch.
20. Snark.
21. Chocolate mousse.
22. Harald.
23. Ann Patchett.
24. Cheese.
25. Danger Mouse, particularly his accent, his eyepatch and his little yellow car.
26. Danger Mouse, the producer.
27. Rum drinks.
28. Dead Baby Jokes.
29. Steven Soderbergh's work ethic.
30. "Laura Palmer's Theme."
31. The theme song and second version of the opening credits of "Homicide: Life on the Street."
32. Dirty martinis with extra olives.
33. Hong Kong.
34. HTML color charts.
35. The Behnaz Sarafpour, Doo.Ri, Lela Rose, Peter Som and Vera Wang collections for Spring 2007.
36. Everyday Italian with Giada De Laurentiis.
37. Mead Composition Notebooks.
38. Book covers/jackets designed by Chip Kidd.
39. New Order.
40. Xenu.
41. Vincent Cassel and Monica Belluci.
42. Shu Uemura makeup & paraphernalia.
43. Birds, particularly penguins, parrots, flamingos and sparrows.
44. Pedro Almodóvar.
45. Traveling, be it domestic, international, or intergalactic.
46. Garlic.
47. Wikipedia.
48. Largo.
49. Mark Romanek's music videos.
50. Eero Saarinen's Gateway Arch in St. Louis
51. Butik.
52. Small Space, Big Style.
53. Regensburg.
54. Yelp.
55. Evan Rachel Wood.
56. Postcards.
57. Sleeping with the window(s) open.
58. The word "parapluie."
59. Cucumbers.
60. Lemony Snicket
61. Lake houses, and waterfront property.
62. Around the World in 80 Homes.
63. GQ.
64. Alexis Bittar jewelry.
65. Century Gothic.
66. Mary Louise Parker.
67. Taschen books.
68. Chamberlins.
69. David Bowie's Berlin period.
70. The celebrity guest appearances on Scooby Doo.
71. Good posture.
72. Proper use of punctuation.
73. Citrus fruits and fragrances.
74. David Ebershoff.
75. Harry and the Potters.
76. Carmel-by-the-Sea.
77. Sad Christmas songs.
78. Chick bassists.
79. Turner Classic Movies.
80. Saul Bass title sequences.
81. The Muse bag by Yves Saint Laurent in burnished gold calfhair.
82. Untying my boss's shoelaces when he's not looking.
83. The dancing styles of the Peanuts cast.
84. Elektra: Assassin, particularly Bill Sienkiewicz's artwork.
85. The Audrey Hepburn/Hubert de Givenchy collaboration.
86. Huy Fong chili paste/sauce.
87. "Waterloo Sunset" by The Kinks.
88. Sally O'Malley. (She likes to kick, stretch, and kick, she's fifty! Fifty years-old.)
89. Macacas For Webb.
90. Articulate contrarians.
91. The light at exactly 8.12 in the morning, EST.
92. "No One Will Ever Love You" by the Magnetic Fields.
93. The smell of tomatoes on the vine.
94. Lavender - the plant, the color, the fragrance.
95. Winston Krikorian.
96. Calvin & Hobbes.
97. Blueberry pancakes.
98. Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall.
99. Wong Kar-wai.
100. Lists.

No, I would not like to court.

2006-10-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

(From Married To The Sea, sent to me by Joshua.)

Eyes, windows, soul, etc.

2006-10-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, Marie Antoinette again.
As noted, I had major issues with it. Funny thing is, I can't get the damn thing out of my head, which, I guess, is a compliment. I mean, if you're going to make a mediocre movie, why not make it catchy like a pop song?

The thing that's sticking with me isn't so much a character or a scene, but a look. Literally a look. During the course of the film, Coppola repeatedly breaks the rules of Film School 101 and has Kirsten Dunst look directly into the camera. I'd need to re-watch the film to get a precise count, butI'd guess it happens three or four times.

The first occurrence is during the opening shot. Kiki is lounging on a couch, amid a collection of pastries, being attended to by a maid; as the Gang of Four's "Natural's Not It" climaxes, she turns her head and seductively looks directly into the camera. The camera/we hold her gaze for a moment and then scene cuts to black. It's simultaneously sexy/funny, a "come hither" and a "fuck you," and it's an undeniably great moment. (Alas, it's one of the few.)

Obviously, Sofia isn't the first to break this protocol. The final shot of Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia has my favorite use of direct contact. After three hours of misery and heartbreak, the clouds are lifting; Claudia (Melora Walters) sits on a bed, listening to a lecture from Jim (John C. Reilly). Anderson pushes Reilly's speech way low in the mix; instead we're entirely focused on Walters' reaction and the song playing on the soundtrack, Aimee Mann's "Save Me." As the song reaches a crescendo, Walters raises her eyes, looks directly into the camera, and smiles. It's the first time in the film's entire running time that this major character actually smiles. (And if you've seen the film, you know that she's been through a lot and it really means something.) The camera holds on that smile for a beat before cutting to the credits. In a film full of great moments, Melora's eye contact/smile is a capper.

And now I'm blanking. I'm sure there are other truly great instances of actors looking directly at us, but nothing's jumping at me. Your picks?

When GOOD collides with EVIL.

2006-10-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

A confession: I love nasty, below-the-belt political ads. And because some of my readers don't live in the California area, I fear that they will live their lives having never experienced the brilliance that is this anti-Jerry Brown ad.

My favorite parts: the sub-Fincher mise-en-scene and the Manson comparison. Enjoy. (Oh and if you have any particularly excellent forms of political hate speech from the YouTubes, I'd love some links in the comment section.)

Needless to say, Jerry Brown's got my vote.

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

2006-10-20T23:31:00.000-07:00

When I walked out of an advance screening of Wes Anderson's The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou two years ago, I remember thinking "So this is what all his detractors saw in his earlier films." Precocious and two-dimensional, Anderson made the (perfecto) art direction and (flawless) soundtrack do all the heavy-lifting and couldn't be bothered with little things like, you know, a well-formed script or compelling characters. That said, Zissou isn't without its moments--even though it's done nothing to really merit it, I still get choked up when I see that Jaguar Shark/"In twelve years, he'll be eleven and a half"/Sigur Ros scene--it's just a huge let down.

Leaving Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette earlier this evening, I felt the same way. While The Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation were impeccably-stylized and heartfelt shards of melancholy filmmaking, Marie Antoinette is... well, just what Coppola's critics have always maintained: a series of fashionable and pretty sequences, set to an excellent soundtrack, without an ounce of characterization or depth.

As many critics have noted, the first hour--documenting how a naive Austrian princess became the dauphine of France--is fine; Coppola's pop-lyricism meshes nicely with Chateau Versailles. The much-touted use of contempty music works surprisingly well and everything looks gorgeous. But as the film progresses, it's as if Sofia's lost any sense of rhythm or pace and can't be bothered to further develope her lead character. She starts frantically adding political elements, rushing through biographical bits, all in a last minute sprint to the end. Considering how many languid sequences of Marie exploring the grounds of Versailles we've sat through, it's odd to see the birth and death of a child take up a minute of screen time.

It's not that I'm demanding historical fidelity or a more political film--hardly. I think it's a smart move for Coppola to isolate us with Marie in this opulent cocoon, away from reality. I just wish that when reality, in the form of pissed off and starving masses, descended upon the chateau it had more of a punch. And if you're going to make a film entirely from Marie's POV, you've got to give you actress more than what's been given to poor Kirsten Dunst. There's no doubt that Kiki certainly looks the part, and as long as she's frolicking in a field at dawn, Aphex Twin on the soundtrack, all is well. But nearly every time she opens her mouth, the dialogue fails her. (It doesn't help that Ms. Dunst seems to literally chirp most of her lines; but for fear of giving fodder to the haters, I'm'a stop there.)

There are positives:

I will never tire of Coppola shooting golden sunlight through trees or pretty blonde women collapsing into tall grass.
Marianne Faithful as Marie's Mommy. That cigarette-cured voice... fuck yeah.
Somehow, some way, Sofia has managed to get Kevin Shields out from under his rock (again). True, his contributions are limited to two Bow Wow Wow remixes, but still. It's Kevin effing Shields, people.
Even though they're given next to nothing to do, it's fun to watch Molly Shannon kvetch with Shirley Henderson in insane period costumes.
When Marie/Kiki has her big meltdown, Coppola places the camera about four inches away from her face. It's an unexpected and ballsy move.
Did I mention the soundtrack?
Asia Argento = Best. Asia Argento with a pet monkey = better.
"I'm saying good-bye." Nice.

Leaving the screening, Tim nailed it when he said, "There's just no there there." Indeed. Le sigh.

He went there.

2006-10-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

As my admiration for Armond White surely attests, I love me verbose contrarians. It will come as no surprise to you, then, that Ian Parker's recent New Yorker profile of Christopher Hitchens was like Christmas morning for me. How can you deny a man who talks about the transformative power of Proust in one sentence and then drops this:

Hitchens claims to be unperturbed by his critics. "You'd think I'd driven over their pets and abducted their daughters," Hitchens said. "I'd like to know what brings them on." A pause. "So I could do it more." He added, "People say, 'What's it like to be a minority of one, or a kick-bag for the internet?' It washes off me like jizz off a porn star's face."

So anyway.

2006-10-17T23:38:00.000-07:00

Right, so where was I? Oh yeah... A list of random things I want to get out of the way. Huzzah for lists.

Two years ago I read Tom Perrota's Little Children. It didn't make a huge impact, but it was a pleasant enough read. Odd, as novels about sex predators and the havoc they create aren't normally "pleasant," but whatevs. It was well-written and smart enough and I enjoyed it. When I heard that Todd Fields was following up ~~Granola Death Wish~~ In the Bedroom by collaborating with Perrota on a film version of Little Children, I was intrigued. And when the eerie/ominous/beautiful trailer dropped, I was actually excited for the project.

Oops.

Look: I get it, the film's gorgeous. Antonio Calvache is a fine cinematographer. And yes, Kate Winslet is one of the best actresses working. Noted. But I have a really hard time sitting through two-plus hours of reactionary, puritanical claptrap masquerading as "progressive" satire. Sorry. Do we really need another film that tells us that the 'burbs are a hotbed of hypocrisy? Really? Oh I forgot, there's also a really weak bit of Iraq-allegory and a whole lot of anti-sex posturing. To recap: the suburbs are filled with hateful, ignorant people; fear controls us and that's stupid; porn is bad. Thanks, Todd, but no thanks.

Of course, while Little Children is being ridiculously lavished with praise, John Cameron Mitchell's Shortbus is being largely ignored. It's far from a perfect film, but it's legitimately progressive and patriotic and that's... well, refreshing.
Best passage from a book I couldn't manage to finish:
"You will not apply for membership, but the tribe of the elderly will claim you. Your present will not keep pace with the world's. This slippage will stretch your skin, sag your skeleton, erode your hair and memory, make your skin turn opaque so your twitching organs and blue-cheese veins will be semivisible. You will venture out only in daylight, avoiding weekends and school holidays. Language, too, will leave you behind, betraying your tribal affiliations wherever you speak. On escalators, on trunk roads, in supermarket aisles, the living will overtake you, incessantly. Elegant women will not see you. Soon detectives will not see you. Salespeople will not see you, unless they sell stair lifts or fraudulent insurance policies. Only babies, cats, and drug addicts will acknowledge your existence. So do not fritter away your days. Sooner than you fear, you will stand before a mirror in a care home, look at your body, and think, E.T., locked in a ruddy cupboard for a ruddy fortnight."
--David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas.
Worst passage from a book that I did manage to finish:
"I was able to enter the room and stroll about and, magically, I did not get in the way of the Gestapo officer and the Chinaman who were having their way with Nicole [Kidman]. She wore a very revealing brassiere, a size or two too small, I calculated--how else was her bosom such a promontory? And her matching white panties were meshed with a garter belt that held up her long stockings. She gasped and sighed at every intrusion and indecency from her odd Abbot and Costello. You know the sort of thing."
--David Thomson, Nicole Kidman.
Regarding David Thomson's Nicole Kidman:
(1) Dude, "chinaman" is not the preferred nomenclature.
(2) The book isn't as bad as the passage above. It's actually a really entertaining riff on Kidman's body of work.
When I was 12, this was, like, maybe the sickest shit ever:

No, I'm not joking.
Trust me on this, bump Weeds: Season One to the top of your Netflix queue. Thank you.
Oh, one more: buy AIR's Late Night Tales pronto. I know, I know, just what you need, another chillout comp. I ask you this: how many chillout comps do you have that successfully segues a Cure song into a Black Sabbath song into a Nino Rota track? Yeah, that's what I thought. Buy it.
Monkey portraits!
And because it's been two months, an Armondism just for you:
"The difference between Infamous and last year’s Capote is the difference between feeling and sophistication. Hoffman and his writer, director team Dan Futterman and Bennett Miller took pride in loathing Capote (a subtle, culturally accepted homophobia). They built their bad-art, Oscar-nominated reputations on Capote’s dead body while sneering that Capote had built his literary reputation on the deaths of Smith, Hickok and the Clutter family. It was an arrogant indie attempt at seeming superior to an artist of an earlier era. (There are Hitler biopics more compassionate than Capote.) This contempt gave itself away in the film’s pseudo-sophisticated literary exposé. But condemnation of Capote’s careerism actually reflected Hoffman’s own gloating egotism, his look-at-me stunt performance."