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(09/25/03 4:00am)
It was only this past summer when I discovered Gillian Welch. Quietly creeping away from the lingering smoke and flat beer shadows of a deserted corner in a cobweb bar, I climbed into my truck and took off for the backroads under a paper moon and teardrop stars. I was losing my girl. I was losing my friends. I was broke and without a job. All dogs within a five-mile radius of me were dead. \nThere couldn't have been a more beautifully timed moment for my rewakening to the roots of American music. Coming across my speakers like a whispering "Grievous Angel," Gillian Welch sang a siren's song with her controversial "My Morphine." I was immediately and wholeheartedly in love.\nThe Buskirk-Chumley Theater was once again treated to the haunted songs and the "Return of the Grievous Angel." Having performed in Bloomington twice before, Welch's show was a sold-out musical masterpiece of live performance. Taking the stage with her long-time collaborator, the amazingly accomplished David Rawlings, Welch and Rawlings rambled through the finest finger-pickin' and two-part harmony an individual could ask for in two hours. \nMaking music that lolled through the air like the channeled apparitions of Appalachia long lost, Welch and Rawlings' minimalist approach left you feeling the raw emotion with which they approach their passion. Armed with only acoustic guitars, the occasional harmonica and two mics, Welch and Rawlings songs surrendered the night to a touching experience and the power of music to move its audience. On more than one occasion, Rawlings' lightning-fire, finger-flying guitar feats extraordinaire had happy-footed couples do-si-doing in the balcony. \nSeveral times throughout the night, and especially on Welch's wrenching solo performance of "I Had a Real Good Mother and Father," her voice played to the heartstrings of our lives, soft and silent sobs coming from the crowd. I am not ashamed to say that I can be counted among the sniveling.\nBy the end of the night, Welch and Rawlings would perform two encores and receive three much-deserved standing ovations. Their last song, a heartfelt tribute to Townes Van Zandt's "Snowin' on Raton," left the audience with its only negative comment. We wanted more.
(09/25/03 4:00am)
Mike Figgis is a director who's not afraid to test the experimental waters in the world of film. His work ranges from the powerfully moving and Oscar nominated Leaving Las Vegas to the more avant-garde Timecode. Critically acclaimed with the awards to back it, the title Cold Creek Manor and the credit "directed by Mike Figgis" present something of an anomaly. \nCold Creek Manor is a wretchedly-made film, not just going over the top but right through the frigging atmosphere, full of stock characters and cliches as tired and worn as your great-grandmother's feet. Cold Creek Manor would be the musical equivalent of Radiohead releasing an album of American Idol proportions. It's so bad, you have to begin to wonder if the whole thing isn't just a joke on all of us.\nStructurally and narratively, Cold Creek Manor functions as a fable or fairy tale. The Tilsons, a sophisticated and urbanite family living in New York City, decide to move into the country after their son is nearly run over. Purchasing Cold Creek Manor and moving into the "forest," it's not long before the Big Bad Wolf shows up in the form of Stephen Dorff. Dorff plays Dale Massie, the ex-convict/former owner of Cold Creek. While Dorff does a fairly excellent job of being slithering creepy, his character is such a transparent plot device that a neon sign blinking "TOOL" would not have made it any more obvious.\nThe most pleasurable way to view Cold Creek Manor is thematically. For the Tilsons, gender roles have been allowed their urban liberties. Cooper Tilson (Dennis Quaid) is a documentary filmmaker with motherly and even feminine characteristics -- working from home, getting the kids ready for school and the such. Leah Tilson (Sharon Stone) is a highly-paid corporate climber who's just been offered the vice-president spot. \nMassie represents primitive man, raw and uninhibited, excessive in his nature and a threat to everything the Tilsons believe in. Of course, nothing might be this serious and from the sound of Figgis's own score, an absurdly clambering piano-pounding indicator for suspense, he could very realistically be laughing at the big burly threat the Scary Country Boy poses to the Naive Yuppie. In the end, Figgis leaves you questioning where the real threat was coming from, but its not enough to save Cold Creek Manor from completely sinking.
(09/25/03 12:45am)
Mike Figgis is a director who's not afraid to test the experimental waters in the world of film. His work ranges from the powerfully moving and Oscar nominated Leaving Las Vegas to the more avant-garde Timecode. Critically acclaimed with the awards to back it, the title Cold Creek Manor and the credit "directed by Mike Figgis" present something of an anomaly. \nCold Creek Manor is a wretchedly-made film, not just going over the top but right through the frigging atmosphere, full of stock characters and cliches as tired and worn as your great-grandmother's feet. Cold Creek Manor would be the musical equivalent of Radiohead releasing an album of American Idol proportions. It's so bad, you have to begin to wonder if the whole thing isn't just a joke on all of us.\nStructurally and narratively, Cold Creek Manor functions as a fable or fairy tale. The Tilsons, a sophisticated and urbanite family living in New York City, decide to move into the country after their son is nearly run over. Purchasing Cold Creek Manor and moving into the "forest," it's not long before the Big Bad Wolf shows up in the form of Stephen Dorff. Dorff plays Dale Massie, the ex-convict/former owner of Cold Creek. While Dorff does a fairly excellent job of being slithering creepy, his character is such a transparent plot device that a neon sign blinking "TOOL" would not have made it any more obvious.\nThe most pleasurable way to view Cold Creek Manor is thematically. For the Tilsons, gender roles have been allowed their urban liberties. Cooper Tilson (Dennis Quaid) is a documentary filmmaker with motherly and even feminine characteristics -- working from home, getting the kids ready for school and the such. Leah Tilson (Sharon Stone) is a highly-paid corporate climber who's just been offered the vice-president spot. \nMassie represents primitive man, raw and uninhibited, excessive in his nature and a threat to everything the Tilsons believe in. Of course, nothing might be this serious and from the sound of Figgis's own score, an absurdly clambering piano-pounding indicator for suspense, he could very realistically be laughing at the big burly threat the Scary Country Boy poses to the Naive Yuppie. In the end, Figgis leaves you questioning where the real threat was coming from, but its not enough to save Cold Creek Manor from completely sinking.
(09/25/03 12:16am)
It was only this past summer when I discovered Gillian Welch. Quietly creeping away from the lingering smoke and flat beer shadows of a deserted corner in a cobweb bar, I climbed into my truck and took off for the backroads under a paper moon and teardrop stars. I was losing my girl. I was losing my friends. I was broke and without a job. All dogs within a five-mile radius of me were dead. \nThere couldn't have been a more beautifully timed moment for my rewakening to the roots of American music. Coming across my speakers like a whispering "Grievous Angel," Gillian Welch sang a siren's song with her controversial "My Morphine." I was immediately and wholeheartedly in love.\nThe Buskirk-Chumley Theater was once again treated to the haunted songs and the "Return of the Grievous Angel." Having performed in Bloomington twice before, Welch's show was a sold-out musical masterpiece of live performance. Taking the stage with her long-time collaborator, the amazingly accomplished David Rawlings, Welch and Rawlings rambled through the finest finger-pickin' and two-part harmony an individual could ask for in two hours. \nMaking music that lolled through the air like the channeled apparitions of Appalachia long lost, Welch and Rawlings' minimalist approach left you feeling the raw emotion with which they approach their passion. Armed with only acoustic guitars, the occasional harmonica and two mics, Welch and Rawlings songs surrendered the night to a touching experience and the power of music to move its audience. On more than one occasion, Rawlings' lightning-fire, finger-flying guitar feats extraordinaire had happy-footed couples do-si-doing in the balcony. \nSeveral times throughout the night, and especially on Welch's wrenching solo performance of "I Had a Real Good Mother and Father," her voice played to the heartstrings of our lives, soft and silent sobs coming from the crowd. I am not ashamed to say that I can be counted among the sniveling.\nBy the end of the night, Welch and Rawlings would perform two encores and receive three much-deserved standing ovations. Their last song, a heartfelt tribute to Townes Van Zandt's "Snowin' on Raton," left the audience with its only negative comment. We wanted more.
(09/11/03 4:00am)
Stephen Frears eclectic career as a director could easily be compared to a gold-medal figure skater, one whose breathtaking risks are laced with such grace we forget the impact of ice. Smoothly maneuvering from blockbuster Hollywood (High Fidelity) to independent cinema (Liam), Frears is once again the subject of international accolades with his indie hit Dirty Pretty Things. Aptly titled, Frears' film can be more dirty than pretty at times as it explores the means of survival as an immigrant in London. However, as the cryptically coy title also suggests, Frears isn't afraid to find the humor in a rather bleak situation, comic relief being buoyantly timed to keep us from sinking into the abyss. At the heart of Frears' film is … literally, a heart A human heart, to be precise, found clogging the camode in room 515 of the Baltic Hotel.\nWhen Okwe (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a hotel clerk, discovers the extracted organ, his horror can only be magnified by the sheer indifference of his boss, hotel manager Juan (Sergi Lopez), known as Sneaky to the crew. \nWelcome to the world of black market organ trading. Dirty Pretty Things was penned by Stephen Knight, who wrote the pilot for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" Irony aside, Frears and Knight create a moral complexity in which human decency is a luxury afforded only after survival is guaranteed. And it never is. \nFor Okwe, a Nigerian doctor, and the Turkish Senay (Audrey Tautou), life is not about deciding between right and wrong, but whether your beautiful mouth being used as "stress relief" will ensure your safety at the sweat shop, whether your skills as a surgeon will be exploited by a savage market that could care less. Frears' film is being billed as a thriller and structurally moves as such. But within are all the dirty, pretty things that will challenge your heart and your mind, which make this film worth catching if you can.
(09/11/03 12:06am)
Stephen Frears eclectic career as a director could easily be compared to a gold-medal figure skater, one whose breathtaking risks are laced with such grace we forget the impact of ice. Smoothly maneuvering from blockbuster Hollywood (High Fidelity) to independent cinema (Liam), Frears is once again the subject of international accolades with his indie hit Dirty Pretty Things. Aptly titled, Frears' film can be more dirty than pretty at times as it explores the means of survival as an immigrant in London. However, as the cryptically coy title also suggests, Frears isn't afraid to find the humor in a rather bleak situation, comic relief being buoyantly timed to keep us from sinking into the abyss. At the heart of Frears' film is … literally, a heart A human heart, to be precise, found clogging the camode in room 515 of the Baltic Hotel.\nWhen Okwe (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a hotel clerk, discovers the extracted organ, his horror can only be magnified by the sheer indifference of his boss, hotel manager Juan (Sergi Lopez), known as Sneaky to the crew. \nWelcome to the world of black market organ trading. Dirty Pretty Things was penned by Stephen Knight, who wrote the pilot for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" Irony aside, Frears and Knight create a moral complexity in which human decency is a luxury afforded only after survival is guaranteed. And it never is. \nFor Okwe, a Nigerian doctor, and the Turkish Senay (Audrey Tautou), life is not about deciding between right and wrong, but whether your beautiful mouth being used as "stress relief" will ensure your safety at the sweat shop, whether your skills as a surgeon will be exploited by a savage market that could care less. Frears' film is being billed as a thriller and structurally moves as such. But within are all the dirty, pretty things that will challenge your heart and your mind, which make this film worth catching if you can.
(08/07/03 4:00am)
As one who has survived the demonized occupation of telemarketing, I come offering a new view, one that begs your open ears, your open mind, and above all, your open heart. My friends, we are not motherless.\nI should start at the beginning with the first fickle signs of Fate. The one's that licked my heels from the fiery depths of Sheol, the one's that left me burned-out, beat-up and ready to introduce YOU to the substantial savings that AP&P (a lawsuit filed for slander need not be the way my summer ends...use your imagination...) could offer your company! Perhaps I should start with my intoxicated ass sitting behind the wheel of my parked Chevy S-10, when, what to my wandering eyes should appear? Some methed-up skank and eight tiny reindeer … OK, so there might have been a little more than just alcohol involved with my condition.\nWith a tube-top resembling the pizza-grease stained sleeve of a t-shirt slid over a 200-plus pound bag of cookie-dough, pants that became capris because they could not fit past her knees, this walking contradiction waltzes up to my window in a style that suggests the jitterbug crossed with electroshock therapy and goes semi-automatic on my eardrums.\n"IgottascorezipGimmealiftWecancartwheelallnightatmyplaceGimmealiftIgottascorezipGimmealift" (To be read as: "I need crank. If you give me a ride, we can get spun together.")\n"Shure … ummm … juz s'op righ' 'n … 'ere you nee' … umm … ta' go …?" (To be read as: "I am out of my mind and have no idea what I am doing.")\nThat's right, folks, like the Caped Crusader and his Boy Wonder, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Roberts, we were the Amazing Linguistic Duo! Wherever words trembled in fear of uppity enunciation, of presuming pronunciation, we were there to mangle, slur and shatter the English language! The sales pitch had no idea what was coming its way!\nSomewhere around two hours later, waking in an alley with a busted nose and a bulging eye, I discovered my wallet was gone and vaguely remembered parking my truck so the Speed Queen could check on another connection. Then there were two large black men, saying something like "Sweet dreams, Nazi boy," (shaved head, wears a chain, spiky accessories … definitely a Nazi) and waking up in the alley, busted up and broke. I had no idea where Little Miss Crank had gone and could care less how she got home. I found my truck, thank God, only minus my entire CD collection, my cell phone and a damn cool pair of shades.\nWhen I woke in the morning, my account had already been overdrawn to the tune of nearly $400, with most transactions being carried out at CVS and Walgreen's, and I would be willing to bet a majority of the purchases involved over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. It was near the middle of July. I had had two promised, high-paying jobs fall through for me ("Oh, I'm sorry. We thought you were coming for full-time employment!"). I was going to be evicted from my crack rock living quarters for failure to pay rent. I had no money to get back to school. Frank Capra would have dislocated his left nut, my life was so freaking wonderful.\nFinally, a friend mentioned there was this one last job I could try where he was certain I would get hired. Most people lasted under two-weeks, so they were always hiring. At this point, it could have been Happy Time Crafts in the Alzheimers ward; if they were paying me, I was going to be doing it. The Cold, Hard Truth about Telemarketers #1: Most of us are coming from this sort of desperate position. And it is here that my troubles first began.\nI worked for Arlis Communications, a reseller of AP&P services. You have no comprehension for the depths of love people have for AP&P. I nearly lost my soul, my sanity, my dignity in the name of long distance. There was something rotten in the state of Arlis, watching a young woman who could no longer fight the tears, desperately scramble for escape, forgetting the headset that encased her face, forgetting the rancid umbilical cord that would snap her head (back and to the left) and leave her in a sobbing heap beside the warm green glow of her abusive motherboard. Welcome to the world of Telemarketing.\nGiven a headset and a cubicle, we sat in front of a computer, waited for the screen to pop and went into our pitch. Telemarketing Truth #2: We have no control over who we call! When the screen popped, the person was already saying "Hello?" and we were just then learning who we were calling, where we were calling and what we could do for them. The majority of times, however, it never mattered whether the screen popped or not. You will find the phrase "I'm calling with AP&P…" often to be met with such heart-felt phrases as: "You are especially adept at the art of fellatio," "May your mother rot in hell" and "May rats mistake your firstborn child for cheese."\nI have heard words used that I never knew the human mouth could form, let alone pronounce.\nTelemarketers become the Kings of Karma. Do you actually think that if you throw a fit like a pre-pubescent child with a dirty mouth we're going to put you on the sacred Do Not Call List? Creativity's abound among the marketers, after spending eight hours a day listening to people reconfirm every possible self-destructive image you've ever had of yourself. Calls begin to go something like this:\n"Hi, my name is Isaac Edwards. I'd like to speak to the person who handles your balls."\nIn the end, it comes down to a question of human decency, something that very rarely is given to the telemarketer. None of us had chosen to be doing what we were doing. We didn't choose to call you in the middle of your executive meeting. We didn't choose to call you right before you sat down for dinner with your family. We didn't choose to call you in the middle of a boink session with your secretary (actual experience, happened to me … why'd you even pick up the phone, man?). Most of us were college-age kids who had been given over to telemarketing because it was our last option. Trust us, we wouldn't be calling you unless it was absolutely necessary. Be kind to your telemarketer. You don't have to hear us out. Just hang up. It makes both of our lives easier. It's only our job we're doing, nothing else. For those who are especially cruel to the calling telemarketer, be forewarned: the Tenth Circle of Hell shall be reserved for you, where you shall be frozen in ice up to the neck, heads bent back, ears forever filling with the endless chants of the AP&P sales pitch…
(08/07/03 1:58am)
As one who has survived the demonized occupation of telemarketing, I come offering a new view, one that begs your open ears, your open mind, and above all, your open heart. My friends, we are not motherless.\nI should start at the beginning with the first fickle signs of Fate. The one's that licked my heels from the fiery depths of Sheol, the one's that left me burned-out, beat-up and ready to introduce YOU to the substantial savings that AP&P (a lawsuit filed for slander need not be the way my summer ends...use your imagination...) could offer your company! Perhaps I should start with my intoxicated ass sitting behind the wheel of my parked Chevy S-10, when, what to my wandering eyes should appear? Some methed-up skank and eight tiny reindeer … OK, so there might have been a little more than just alcohol involved with my condition.\nWith a tube-top resembling the pizza-grease stained sleeve of a t-shirt slid over a 200-plus pound bag of cookie-dough, pants that became capris because they could not fit past her knees, this walking contradiction waltzes up to my window in a style that suggests the jitterbug crossed with electroshock therapy and goes semi-automatic on my eardrums.\n"IgottascorezipGimmealiftWecancartwheelallnightatmyplaceGimmealiftIgottascorezipGimmealift" (To be read as: "I need crank. If you give me a ride, we can get spun together.")\n"Shure … ummm … juz s'op righ' 'n … 'ere you nee' … umm … ta' go …?" (To be read as: "I am out of my mind and have no idea what I am doing.")\nThat's right, folks, like the Caped Crusader and his Boy Wonder, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Roberts, we were the Amazing Linguistic Duo! Wherever words trembled in fear of uppity enunciation, of presuming pronunciation, we were there to mangle, slur and shatter the English language! The sales pitch had no idea what was coming its way!\nSomewhere around two hours later, waking in an alley with a busted nose and a bulging eye, I discovered my wallet was gone and vaguely remembered parking my truck so the Speed Queen could check on another connection. Then there were two large black men, saying something like "Sweet dreams, Nazi boy," (shaved head, wears a chain, spiky accessories … definitely a Nazi) and waking up in the alley, busted up and broke. I had no idea where Little Miss Crank had gone and could care less how she got home. I found my truck, thank God, only minus my entire CD collection, my cell phone and a damn cool pair of shades.\nWhen I woke in the morning, my account had already been overdrawn to the tune of nearly $400, with most transactions being carried out at CVS and Walgreen's, and I would be willing to bet a majority of the purchases involved over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. It was near the middle of July. I had had two promised, high-paying jobs fall through for me ("Oh, I'm sorry. We thought you were coming for full-time employment!"). I was going to be evicted from my crack rock living quarters for failure to pay rent. I had no money to get back to school. Frank Capra would have dislocated his left nut, my life was so freaking wonderful.\nFinally, a friend mentioned there was this one last job I could try where he was certain I would get hired. Most people lasted under two-weeks, so they were always hiring. At this point, it could have been Happy Time Crafts in the Alzheimers ward; if they were paying me, I was going to be doing it. The Cold, Hard Truth about Telemarketers #1: Most of us are coming from this sort of desperate position. And it is here that my troubles first began.\nI worked for Arlis Communications, a reseller of AP&P services. You have no comprehension for the depths of love people have for AP&P. I nearly lost my soul, my sanity, my dignity in the name of long distance. There was something rotten in the state of Arlis, watching a young woman who could no longer fight the tears, desperately scramble for escape, forgetting the headset that encased her face, forgetting the rancid umbilical cord that would snap her head (back and to the left) and leave her in a sobbing heap beside the warm green glow of her abusive motherboard. Welcome to the world of Telemarketing.\nGiven a headset and a cubicle, we sat in front of a computer, waited for the screen to pop and went into our pitch. Telemarketing Truth #2: We have no control over who we call! When the screen popped, the person was already saying "Hello?" and we were just then learning who we were calling, where we were calling and what we could do for them. The majority of times, however, it never mattered whether the screen popped or not. You will find the phrase "I'm calling with AP&P…" often to be met with such heart-felt phrases as: "You are especially adept at the art of fellatio," "May your mother rot in hell" and "May rats mistake your firstborn child for cheese."\nI have heard words used that I never knew the human mouth could form, let alone pronounce.\nTelemarketers become the Kings of Karma. Do you actually think that if you throw a fit like a pre-pubescent child with a dirty mouth we're going to put you on the sacred Do Not Call List? Creativity's abound among the marketers, after spending eight hours a day listening to people reconfirm every possible self-destructive image you've ever had of yourself. Calls begin to go something like this:\n"Hi, my name is Isaac Edwards. I'd like to speak to the person who handles your balls."\nIn the end, it comes down to a question of human decency, something that very rarely is given to the telemarketer. None of us had chosen to be doing what we were doing. We didn't choose to call you in the middle of your executive meeting. We didn't choose to call you right before you sat down for dinner with your family. We didn't choose to call you in the middle of a boink session with your secretary (actual experience, happened to me … why'd you even pick up the phone, man?). Most of us were college-age kids who had been given over to telemarketing because it was our last option. Trust us, we wouldn't be calling you unless it was absolutely necessary. Be kind to your telemarketer. You don't have to hear us out. Just hang up. It makes both of our lives easier. It's only our job we're doing, nothing else. For those who are especially cruel to the calling telemarketer, be forewarned: the Tenth Circle of Hell shall be reserved for you, where you shall be frozen in ice up to the neck, heads bent back, ears forever filling with the endless chants of the AP&P sales pitch…
(07/31/03 4:00am)
The directorial debut of Jonas Åkerlund, "Spun" is based on the true epic meth binge of its screenwriter, Will De Los Santos. Åkerlund has managed to capture one of the most repulsively kitschy cool atmospheres since Harmony Korine demonized Mulberry in "Gummo." Somewhere between "Fear and Loathing" and "Requiem for a Dream" lies the tweaked-out world of "Spun," twistedly amused with its own warped humor and not afraid to show you the human beings behind the wreckage. Appropriately so, the wreckage can be disturbingly intense -- speed and sex linked like maggots in a mortuary. With a memorable, nearly unrecognizable ensemble cast, it's Mickey Rourke who makes a comeback powerhouse with his meticulously nuanced balance between heavy and mysterious as the Cook.\n Nonetheless, the version that has been released to the public is a washed-up version of Åkerlund's washed-out wonderland. "Spun" comes up empty on any bonus features, the deleted scenes feeling more like randomly chosen strips of celluloid picked up off the editing floor. In a blow of deft censorship, the more graphic depictions of this film have been blurred over, bleeped out and black boxed. Thanks to the Moral Police (read Motion Picture Association of America), Åkerlund's film, being deemed a ground-breaking masterpiece at early uncut screenings, has been brutally hacked to an easy-to-swallow, candy-coated piece of commercialism that's not worth the money to buy. "Spun" is worth the time and money to rent, but its only salvation lies in that treasure of all cinephiles alike: the Special Edition.
(07/30/03 11:33pm)
The directorial debut of Jonas Åkerlund, "Spun" is based on the true epic meth binge of its screenwriter, Will De Los Santos. Åkerlund has managed to capture one of the most repulsively kitschy cool atmospheres since Harmony Korine demonized Mulberry in "Gummo." Somewhere between "Fear and Loathing" and "Requiem for a Dream" lies the tweaked-out world of "Spun," twistedly amused with its own warped humor and not afraid to show you the human beings behind the wreckage. Appropriately so, the wreckage can be disturbingly intense -- speed and sex linked like maggots in a mortuary. With a memorable, nearly unrecognizable ensemble cast, it's Mickey Rourke who makes a comeback powerhouse with his meticulously nuanced balance between heavy and mysterious as the Cook.\n Nonetheless, the version that has been released to the public is a washed-up version of Åkerlund's washed-out wonderland. "Spun" comes up empty on any bonus features, the deleted scenes feeling more like randomly chosen strips of celluloid picked up off the editing floor. In a blow of deft censorship, the more graphic depictions of this film have been blurred over, bleeped out and black boxed. Thanks to the Moral Police (read Motion Picture Association of America), Åkerlund's film, being deemed a ground-breaking masterpiece at early uncut screenings, has been brutally hacked to an easy-to-swallow, candy-coated piece of commercialism that's not worth the money to buy. "Spun" is worth the time and money to rent, but its only salvation lies in that treasure of all cinephiles alike: the Special Edition.
(06/19/03 4:00am)
When the beautiful people breed, their offspring are either endowed with an otherworldly genetic code of perfection, inheriting all of the best qualities, or they become Frank Stallone. With its sixth studio album officially out, Hail to the Thief is purebred Radiohead and a swaggering culmination of the band's best features. The Oxford-based rockers have delivered an album that draws from its critically acclaimed past and leaves us wondering where it'll go next. \nAs guitarist Ed O'Brian commented to ateaseweb.com, "You know that time when bands begin to swagger… In the last two years, I think we've done that. To me, this record feels like a culmination of the best bits of The Bends, OK Computer, Kid A and Amnesiac…" At the suggestion of longtime producer Nigel Godrich, Radiohead recorded its latest album at Ocean Way Studios in Los Angeles, Calif. Reportedly recording a track a day, the band soared through the album in two weeks. The atmosphere of sheer confidence felt by the band in the studio has easily transferred to Hail to the Thief. Talking to Q Magazine, drummer Phil Selway said, "I don't think we've ever felt so self-assured in the studio…"\nTaking the raw energy and angst of The Bends and OK Computer, the nervous electronic blips of Kid A and the enigma of Amnesiac, Radiohead's newest release performs a masterful balancing act between using the past as a foundation and using the past as a formula. \nOpening with the prog-rock shredding of "2+2=5," lead singer Thom Yorke's breaking-point falsetto announces, "Don't question my authority/Don't put me in a box." The listener is then invited to "Walk into the jaws of Hell," as automatons are commanded to "Sit Down. Stand Up," and it is revealed that "We can wipe you out anytime." The first two tracks of HTTT build to climactic breakdowns that immediately establish the nearly schizophrenic nature of the album, descending into a world of either guitar-grating chaos or computer-generated paranoia. Following these is one of Thom Yorke's most beautiful and intimate songs, "Sail to the Moon," dedicated to his infant son. Drawing comparisons to the epic "Street Spirit," the piano-driven "Moon" takes us on a starlit journey of hope. Approaching something completely new for Radiohead, the stand-out track "A Punch-Up at a Wedding" becomes the Gospel according to Yorke, with its funk-driven bassline and the final track, "A Wolf at the Door," feels like a sweet '50s ballad gone bad, with Yorke ranting poetics over the top of guitarist Jonny Greenwood's naively simplistic melody.\nRanging from allusions to Dante, referencing Levin's "The Stepford Wives," political commentary, to intimate dedication, Radiohead's Hail to the Thief comes as a welcome reminder as to why the band is at the forefront of rock. Its new album can be listened to from as many different perspectives as the listener is willing to contribute and is an album that nearly demands to be listened to without stopping. Yet, this maybe the end of the road for the sounds we've come to know and expect from Radiohead. \nIn an interview with XFM, York declared, "Radiohead will be completely unrecognizable in two years… It's the only perspective of the future that I can live with." For those who have followed Radiohead and seen its progress over the years, this makes Hail to the Thief a bittersweet farewell, setting the anticipation and buzz for where we will be going next.
(06/19/03 12:17am)
When the beautiful people breed, their offspring are either endowed with an otherworldly genetic code of perfection, inheriting all of the best qualities, or they become Frank Stallone. With its sixth studio album officially out, Hail to the Thief is purebred Radiohead and a swaggering culmination of the band's best features. The Oxford-based rockers have delivered an album that draws from its critically acclaimed past and leaves us wondering where it'll go next. \nAs guitarist Ed O'Brian commented to ateaseweb.com, "You know that time when bands begin to swagger… In the last two years, I think we've done that. To me, this record feels like a culmination of the best bits of The Bends, OK Computer, Kid A and Amnesiac…" At the suggestion of longtime producer Nigel Godrich, Radiohead recorded its latest album at Ocean Way Studios in Los Angeles, Calif. Reportedly recording a track a day, the band soared through the album in two weeks. The atmosphere of sheer confidence felt by the band in the studio has easily transferred to Hail to the Thief. Talking to Q Magazine, drummer Phil Selway said, "I don't think we've ever felt so self-assured in the studio…"\nTaking the raw energy and angst of The Bends and OK Computer, the nervous electronic blips of Kid A and the enigma of Amnesiac, Radiohead's newest release performs a masterful balancing act between using the past as a foundation and using the past as a formula. \nOpening with the prog-rock shredding of "2+2=5," lead singer Thom Yorke's breaking-point falsetto announces, "Don't question my authority/Don't put me in a box." The listener is then invited to "Walk into the jaws of Hell," as automatons are commanded to "Sit Down. Stand Up," and it is revealed that "We can wipe you out anytime." The first two tracks of HTTT build to climactic breakdowns that immediately establish the nearly schizophrenic nature of the album, descending into a world of either guitar-grating chaos or computer-generated paranoia. Following these is one of Thom Yorke's most beautiful and intimate songs, "Sail to the Moon," dedicated to his infant son. Drawing comparisons to the epic "Street Spirit," the piano-driven "Moon" takes us on a starlit journey of hope. Approaching something completely new for Radiohead, the stand-out track "A Punch-Up at a Wedding" becomes the Gospel according to Yorke, with its funk-driven bassline and the final track, "A Wolf at the Door," feels like a sweet '50s ballad gone bad, with Yorke ranting poetics over the top of guitarist Jonny Greenwood's naively simplistic melody.\nRanging from allusions to Dante, referencing Levin's "The Stepford Wives," political commentary, to intimate dedication, Radiohead's Hail to the Thief comes as a welcome reminder as to why the band is at the forefront of rock. Its new album can be listened to from as many different perspectives as the listener is willing to contribute and is an album that nearly demands to be listened to without stopping. Yet, this maybe the end of the road for the sounds we've come to know and expect from Radiohead. \nIn an interview with XFM, York declared, "Radiohead will be completely unrecognizable in two years… It's the only perspective of the future that I can live with." For those who have followed Radiohead and seen its progress over the years, this makes Hail to the Thief a bittersweet farewell, setting the anticipation and buzz for where we will be going next.
(05/22/03 4:00am)
When the fire-extinguisher first hits the man's face, he moans in pain, and we notice a tooth is missing. There is the hollow clunk of metal colliding with bone; a clumsy and empty sound that does not excite, but that is simple and dull and can be nothing else. Somewhere around the fifth blow, the man's jaw shatters and loosely hangs open by the supporting flesh of his face, his lips have become busted and bleeding worms, his mouth a gaping chasm of broken teeth and splitting gums. It is around the fifteenth bash that the man's head begins to break open, no longer a face, but flesh slipping off bone and gore, and the sound is of a blunt object repeatedly striking mud. A matter of moments following this scene of carnage, we will bear witness to a rape sequence that lasts nearly ten minutes, in which a beautiful woman is brutally sodomized, the attacker's hand clamped over her mouth, the cords of her neck bulging as she tries to scream. After she is raped, after she has vomited, she will be beaten into a coma that will likely take her life and the life of the child that is inside of her. The wet packing sounds of rape and violence are horrifying and undistinguishable.\nAnd this is within the first thirty minutes of the film.\nThe reason I have been so descriptive with the above scenes, which sickeningly pale next to the actual images, is because the subject matter I wish to discuss must be absolutely understood for what it is. The scenes are from a film that recently played in Bloomington and will likely, and yes, hopefully, play again by being picked up by the Ryder film series. The film is Gaspar Noé's "Irreversible," which premiered at the 2002 Cannes Film Festival. As could be expected, and as many a critic has commented upon, the film has been torridly controversial and lead to many a mass walking out by a shocked and terrified audience. Regardless of your personal stance on Noé's film, "Irreversible" is undeniably offensive to the point of nausea. And that is precisely why the film is utterly important, especially to any who are interested in delving into the world of celluloid.\nWith a groundbreaking force that has nearly gone unnoticed, Noé has accomplished the "impossible." In a world where war is broadcast into every home like the latest TV movie, where sex and violence are an inconsequential video game played by toddlers, where desensitization is decried as a disease that plagues us all, Noé's uncompromising vision has shaken us to the core. "Irreversible" forces us to confront the naïveté of such a term as "desensitization." What is offensive is that we could ever consider violence, whether physical, sexual or of any sort, as unaffecting. Noé has torn the celluloid curtain off these acts and reveals them unflinchingly. He refuses us the comfort of cutting away when we see the demon for what it really is, and ensures us that our "desensitization" will be the traumatized trickle dripping from our calloused collective chins.\nThe key word in that paragraph was "uncompromising." The last film I saw that was as brutally honest as "Irreversible," that truly earned the title "uncompromising," was Darren Aronofsky's masterful "Requiem for a Dream." Both of these visionaries have dared to portray the darkest and most heartbreaking sides of humanity in the rawest way possible, obliterating excess and going directly for the nerve endings. Their films, especially in Noé's case, absolutely refuse to be labeled as "fiction," and to call them as such is not only demeaning, but a sheer travesty. Most importantly, and especially to anyone considering film as a career, these men have committed to a level of integrity in portraying their stories and characters that few have the courage to follow today.\n"Irreversible" is the story of rape and revenge, to state it simply. Using a narrative structure that progresses backward creating a dramatic weltering that makes Christopher Nolan's "Memento" seem trivially complicated, Noé completely displaces the audience. Opening with the revenge, moving through the rape and ending with our couple basking in one another's loving arms. Noé condemns us to a foresight his characters are never given -- the stain of their future repulsively bleeding into every innocent moment before their world is destroyed. \n Furthermore, Noé completely warps any traditional attachment of emotion to such elements as a cathartic climax by immediately opening on it before we have any context to place it in. Specifically concerning the concept of revenge, what Noé has done is brilliant, completely draining it of any redeeming quality. Leaving us feeling confused, appalled and then sickened when we learn that it has been enacted on the wrong person (and that isn't a spoiler; you also learn this within the first thirty minutes of the film). If Noé had chosen to film "Irreversible" under the typical conventions of linear storytelling, it would have become little more than a satisfaction-oriented revenge flick. By inverting the conventions of linear storytelling, he has created a piece that is a commentary on humanity and the irreversible moments of our life.\nNoé's film, much like others such as Aronofsky's "Requiem," Larry Clark's "Kids" or Harmony Korine's "Gummo," is film in its most artistic moment. These are films that challenge us, that refuse to let us remain passive and that become confrontational to the way in which we view the world. These are films that display the raw power and unlimited potential of the celluloid world. These are films that are not meant to entertain you, that were not made to break a box-office record, but that are intended to open our minds, our hearts and our eyes. And in the end, these will be the films that will have the power to touch the unseen generations to come in a way that only the purest art can.
(05/22/03 12:41am)
When the fire-extinguisher first hits the man's face, he moans in pain, and we notice a tooth is missing. There is the hollow clunk of metal colliding with bone; a clumsy and empty sound that does not excite, but that is simple and dull and can be nothing else. Somewhere around the fifth blow, the man's jaw shatters and loosely hangs open by the supporting flesh of his face, his lips have become busted and bleeding worms, his mouth a gaping chasm of broken teeth and splitting gums. It is around the fifteenth bash that the man's head begins to break open, no longer a face, but flesh slipping off bone and gore, and the sound is of a blunt object repeatedly striking mud. A matter of moments following this scene of carnage, we will bear witness to a rape sequence that lasts nearly ten minutes, in which a beautiful woman is brutally sodomized, the attacker's hand clamped over her mouth, the cords of her neck bulging as she tries to scream. After she is raped, after she has vomited, she will be beaten into a coma that will likely take her life and the life of the child that is inside of her. The wet packing sounds of rape and violence are horrifying and undistinguishable.\nAnd this is within the first thirty minutes of the film.\nThe reason I have been so descriptive with the above scenes, which sickeningly pale next to the actual images, is because the subject matter I wish to discuss must be absolutely understood for what it is. The scenes are from a film that recently played in Bloomington and will likely, and yes, hopefully, play again by being picked up by the Ryder film series. The film is Gaspar Noé's "Irreversible," which premiered at the 2002 Cannes Film Festival. As could be expected, and as many a critic has commented upon, the film has been torridly controversial and lead to many a mass walking out by a shocked and terrified audience. Regardless of your personal stance on Noé's film, "Irreversible" is undeniably offensive to the point of nausea. And that is precisely why the film is utterly important, especially to any who are interested in delving into the world of celluloid.\nWith a groundbreaking force that has nearly gone unnoticed, Noé has accomplished the "impossible." In a world where war is broadcast into every home like the latest TV movie, where sex and violence are an inconsequential video game played by toddlers, where desensitization is decried as a disease that plagues us all, Noé's uncompromising vision has shaken us to the core. "Irreversible" forces us to confront the naïveté of such a term as "desensitization." What is offensive is that we could ever consider violence, whether physical, sexual or of any sort, as unaffecting. Noé has torn the celluloid curtain off these acts and reveals them unflinchingly. He refuses us the comfort of cutting away when we see the demon for what it really is, and ensures us that our "desensitization" will be the traumatized trickle dripping from our calloused collective chins.\nThe key word in that paragraph was "uncompromising." The last film I saw that was as brutally honest as "Irreversible," that truly earned the title "uncompromising," was Darren Aronofsky's masterful "Requiem for a Dream." Both of these visionaries have dared to portray the darkest and most heartbreaking sides of humanity in the rawest way possible, obliterating excess and going directly for the nerve endings. Their films, especially in Noé's case, absolutely refuse to be labeled as "fiction," and to call them as such is not only demeaning, but a sheer travesty. Most importantly, and especially to anyone considering film as a career, these men have committed to a level of integrity in portraying their stories and characters that few have the courage to follow today.\n"Irreversible" is the story of rape and revenge, to state it simply. Using a narrative structure that progresses backward creating a dramatic weltering that makes Christopher Nolan's "Memento" seem trivially complicated, Noé completely displaces the audience. Opening with the revenge, moving through the rape and ending with our couple basking in one another's loving arms. Noé condemns us to a foresight his characters are never given -- the stain of their future repulsively bleeding into every innocent moment before their world is destroyed. \n Furthermore, Noé completely warps any traditional attachment of emotion to such elements as a cathartic climax by immediately opening on it before we have any context to place it in. Specifically concerning the concept of revenge, what Noé has done is brilliant, completely draining it of any redeeming quality. Leaving us feeling confused, appalled and then sickened when we learn that it has been enacted on the wrong person (and that isn't a spoiler; you also learn this within the first thirty minutes of the film). If Noé had chosen to film "Irreversible" under the typical conventions of linear storytelling, it would have become little more than a satisfaction-oriented revenge flick. By inverting the conventions of linear storytelling, he has created a piece that is a commentary on humanity and the irreversible moments of our life.\nNoé's film, much like others such as Aronofsky's "Requiem," Larry Clark's "Kids" or Harmony Korine's "Gummo," is film in its most artistic moment. These are films that challenge us, that refuse to let us remain passive and that become confrontational to the way in which we view the world. These are films that display the raw power and unlimited potential of the celluloid world. These are films that are not meant to entertain you, that were not made to break a box-office record, but that are intended to open our minds, our hearts and our eyes. And in the end, these will be the films that will have the power to touch the unseen generations to come in a way that only the purest art can.
(05/01/03 4:00am)
Following on the distantly echoing footsteps of her critically-acclaimed film "High Art," writer and director Lisa Cholodenko has delivered to us another film chronicling the collision between high society, upscale bohemia and true love. "Laurel Canyon" is a seemingly cliché story of reactionary generations, the free-loving, substance-abusing baby-boomer and the rigid, high-achieving offspring and the inevitability of what happens when their worlds are thrown into one another. Cholodenko manages to breathe fresh life into a burnt-out formula with an exceptionally written script, excellent direction, and some amazing performances. She presents us with a simple set-up, one that we've all seen before, but her intricate weaving together of simplicity with character complexity is what makes "Laurel Canyon" feel new, alive and important.\nRegardless of the film's primarily positive critical reception, one aspect of the film has been universally lauded: The always-reliable performance of Frances McDormand. With two great role reversals, "Canyon" has psychotic, rockstar Republican Christian Bale ("American Psycho") as a psychiatric, Ivy-League conservative Sam and McDormand's self-indulgent, but good-hearted Jane, the complete antithesis to her "Almost Famous" role, looking all the world like Penny Lane after thirty plus years of drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll. Jane is Sam's successful record-producing mother, and when Sam and his fiancée Alex, somewhat underplayed by Kate Beckinsale, move from their Harvard abode to the wild-side, nightlife of Jane's humble home, all worlds begin to unravel.\nAt the heart of Cholodenko's film is the issue of love, what we think it is, and what it becomes in a different light. We have Jane's love of Sam, but Sam's ultimate and utter embarrassment of his mother. We have Alex and Sam, madly in love in the safety of their intellect, until Alex finds herself experiencing a different side of life and liking it. We have Sam, who's love for Alex often ends up fronting for self-serving purposes, falling for a fellow psychiatrist who seems to be more geared toward Sam's life ambitions. What we don't have in this film are any easy answers and this is why it works so well. Cholodenko's paints her characters in parallels that speak volumes on their subjects often without having to say anything at all. The film's final shot, and controversial ending, leaves the audience with a beautiful underwater image: A shimmering world that isn't easy to define. Cholodenko lets the audience fend for themselves, in the end, not offering any solutions that we can't work out in our own minds.
(04/30/03 2:41pm)
Following on the distantly echoing footsteps of her critically-acclaimed film "High Art," writer and director Lisa Cholodenko has delivered to us another film chronicling the collision between high society, upscale bohemia and true love. "Laurel Canyon" is a seemingly cliché story of reactionary generations, the free-loving, substance-abusing baby-boomer and the rigid, high-achieving offspring and the inevitability of what happens when their worlds are thrown into one another. Cholodenko manages to breathe fresh life into a burnt-out formula with an exceptionally written script, excellent direction, and some amazing performances. She presents us with a simple set-up, one that we've all seen before, but her intricate weaving together of simplicity with character complexity is what makes "Laurel Canyon" feel new, alive and important.\nRegardless of the film's primarily positive critical reception, one aspect of the film has been universally lauded: The always-reliable performance of Frances McDormand. With two great role reversals, "Canyon" has psychotic, rockstar Republican Christian Bale ("American Psycho") as a psychiatric, Ivy-League conservative Sam and McDormand's self-indulgent, but good-hearted Jane, the complete antithesis to her "Almost Famous" role, looking all the world like Penny Lane after thirty plus years of drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll. Jane is Sam's successful record-producing mother, and when Sam and his fiancée Alex, somewhat underplayed by Kate Beckinsale, move from their Harvard abode to the wild-side, nightlife of Jane's humble home, all worlds begin to unravel.\nAt the heart of Cholodenko's film is the issue of love, what we think it is, and what it becomes in a different light. We have Jane's love of Sam, but Sam's ultimate and utter embarrassment of his mother. We have Alex and Sam, madly in love in the safety of their intellect, until Alex finds herself experiencing a different side of life and liking it. We have Sam, who's love for Alex often ends up fronting for self-serving purposes, falling for a fellow psychiatrist who seems to be more geared toward Sam's life ambitions. What we don't have in this film are any easy answers and this is why it works so well. Cholodenko's paints her characters in parallels that speak volumes on their subjects often without having to say anything at all. The film's final shot, and controversial ending, leaves the audience with a beautiful underwater image: A shimmering world that isn't easy to define. Cholodenko lets the audience fend for themselves, in the end, not offering any solutions that we can't work out in our own minds.
(04/24/03 4:00am)
First and foremost, before Rob Zombie's newest foray into the grisly netherworld can be critiqued, it is of utmost importance to understand where "House of 1000 Corpses" is coming from. If you understood the creepily encryptic title to this review, which contains no less than five references to '70s slasher/cult/B-films, then "House of 1000 Corpses" was made for you. If the names Jack Hill, Tobe Hooper or early Wes Craven send a tremble down your spine and gives you happy pants, then this is a valentine from Satan Himself. If you gleamed not one reference to any film from the title, if said names send little less than an urge to avert the eyes to the next article, then "House of 1000 Corpses" may still be for you.\nWritten and directed by musical madman and B-film über-geek Rob Zombie, "1000 Corpses" is an homage to the excess B-slasher films of the '70s, most notably to Hooper's leather-bound nightmare masterpiece, "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." It is exhibitionism in its purest form, without worry of plot or character development, but simply the art of spectacle. On this level, Zombie's film is satisfyingly successful, if not disturbingly so. In Zombie's hands, it's nothing new, but that's just what makes it frightening. All our old friends have been dug up from the grave and the maggots and sludge sloughed off to reveal the conventional skeletons we know best: stupid teenagers running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, an incestuous, cannibalistic family and cheerleaders in bondage.\nBut Zombie, surprisingly enough, seems to actually be saying more. In a scene seemingly all-too revealing, Zombie hovers above the deranged Otis (Bill Mosley) holding a deputy at gun-point. The music fades out and he waits until we are squirming in our seats, nervous laughter spewing out. Finally, someone from the darkness behind me shouts, "Shoot him already!" Otis does and Rob Zombie has made his point perfectly.\nWe want our cake and we want to eat it too, even if said cake consists of human organs. So Zombie is going to rub our face in it. It's a world where sex is violence and our thirsting desire for Sin is insatiable. It is the world of Jon Benet Ramsey plastered across tabloids with screaming lurid details. It is the movie Ted Bundy slotted at 7 p.m. on a network station so the whole family can enjoy. It is a world where a bombing campaign aimed at destruction and death is named "Shock and Awe." Rob Zombie takes his scalpel and splits the dark underbelly of Americana wide open. Our innards out, we love to look, feigning disgust for fear of boredom. And Zombie is banking on it.
(04/23/03 8:33pm)
First and foremost, before Rob Zombie's newest foray into the grisly netherworld can be critiqued, it is of utmost importance to understand where "House of 1000 Corpses" is coming from. If you understood the creepily encryptic title to this review, which contains no less than five references to '70s slasher/cult/B-films, then "House of 1000 Corpses" was made for you. If the names Jack Hill, Tobe Hooper or early Wes Craven send a tremble down your spine and gives you happy pants, then this is a valentine from Satan Himself. If you gleamed not one reference to any film from the title, if said names send little less than an urge to avert the eyes to the next article, then "House of 1000 Corpses" may still be for you.\nWritten and directed by musical madman and B-film über-geek Rob Zombie, "1000 Corpses" is an homage to the excess B-slasher films of the '70s, most notably to Hooper's leather-bound nightmare masterpiece, "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." It is exhibitionism in its purest form, without worry of plot or character development, but simply the art of spectacle. On this level, Zombie's film is satisfyingly successful, if not disturbingly so. In Zombie's hands, it's nothing new, but that's just what makes it frightening. All our old friends have been dug up from the grave and the maggots and sludge sloughed off to reveal the conventional skeletons we know best: stupid teenagers running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, an incestuous, cannibalistic family and cheerleaders in bondage.\nBut Zombie, surprisingly enough, seems to actually be saying more. In a scene seemingly all-too revealing, Zombie hovers above the deranged Otis (Bill Mosley) holding a deputy at gun-point. The music fades out and he waits until we are squirming in our seats, nervous laughter spewing out. Finally, someone from the darkness behind me shouts, "Shoot him already!" Otis does and Rob Zombie has made his point perfectly.\nWe want our cake and we want to eat it too, even if said cake consists of human organs. So Zombie is going to rub our face in it. It's a world where sex is violence and our thirsting desire for Sin is insatiable. It is the world of Jon Benet Ramsey plastered across tabloids with screaming lurid details. It is the movie Ted Bundy slotted at 7 p.m. on a network station so the whole family can enjoy. It is a world where a bombing campaign aimed at destruction and death is named "Shock and Awe." Rob Zombie takes his scalpel and splits the dark underbelly of Americana wide open. Our innards out, we love to look, feigning disgust for fear of boredom. And Zombie is banking on it.
(04/17/03 4:00am)
Call me motherly, or call me other things involving "mother." Nonetheless, Adam Sandler, Jack Nicholson, Marisa Tomei, Colombia Pictures: You should all be very ashamed of yourselves. The fact that you probably won't be disturbs me deeply. The new Adam Sandler vehicle, "Anger Management," is a head-on collision with wretched humor, amateur direction and a steaming pile of script. Head-on collisions are not pretty, my friends. They tend to be deadly, not the sort of thing to bring laughter into the hearts of many, and "Management" is fatally unfunny in the ugliest way. Some sick plague, seemingly hatched from the hell-bent soul of Norma Desmond has been unleashed upon Hollywood. Anthony Hopkins bit it in "Bad Company," Nicholson's been knocked-off in "Anger Mangement" and DeNiro of late has been within a wheeze of showing symptoms. At this rate, we can expect Al Pacino to headline "Next Friday After Past."\nTo even attempt to summarize this flick's absurd plot could cause a nervous collapse, but it basically entails Sandler being sentenced to anger management sessions with the unorthodox Dr. Buddy Rydell, played with clichéd crazy glee by Jack Nicholson. Boasting an ensemble of extras from Woody Harrelson to John C. Reilly, and all-star cameos from Roger Clemens to our own Bobby Knight, "Management" seems to be more than over-compensating for something. Over-compensation is a running motif with a penis-envy subplot that is simply annoying. Written for the screen by David Dorfman and directed by Peter Segal, who's given us such cinematic gems as "Naked Gun 33 1/3," Sandler is Dave Buznik, a cat-clothing creative consultant whose aversion to expressing his anger worries Rydell, who's determined to break him.\nNow, if you find yourself wondering how this means Buznik ends up in anger management, don't worry. So is everybody else. With quite possibly the worst tacked on ending ever committed to celluloid, a thinly veiled and desperate attempt at covering the script's nearly incomprehensible stupidity, "Management" becomes proof-positive that the studios believe not a single intelligent human being exists, only dollar signs. It's hard to conceive that both Sandler and Nicholson have followed critically acclaimed films with such filth. \nMore upsetting than any film-related shortcoming of the movie was its concept of humor. I am not unfamiliar with Adam Sandler and his branch of comedy, nor am I opposed to comedy that approaches upsetting and sensitive subjects. I believe Todd Solondz' sexually depraved black comedy, "Happiness," is brilliant, approaching material Sandler would never dream of. But "Anger Management" isn't dark, it's just mean. The term "misogynistic" is sickeningly gentle. We get porn-star lesbian lovers who get more than a little excited at the thought of Buznik beating women. We get a self-hating bra-and-panty clad beauty gorging on chocolate cupcakes. We are taught that women love confident men and are easily bedded by such lines as, "It's hard to control myself when I'm about to explode in my pants." \nWatching "Anger Mana-gement" in the theatre, surrounded on all sides by writhing, pre-pubescent sexuality, as the 14-year-old girl beside me was passed between three boys, blowing and passing out hand-jobs like a politician, I couldn't help but thank God that we have such a light-hearted film to ease our minds in this time of national unrest. That's hilarious.
(04/17/03 4:00am)
As people file off a train in an England station, the camera floats through them, until the station is nearly empty. Finally, from off the train creeps its last passenger, hesitant for his feet to hit the ground, nervously peering about. This is Spider, the title character of David Cronen-berg's new film and played masterfully by Ralph Fiennes. "Spider" has been crawling through the film festival circuit, garnering much critical acclaim and deservingly so. After enjoying only a limited release, "Spider" has finally come our way. Revolving around the traumatic death of Spider's mother when he was a child, Cronenberg's film is both a complex investigation of insanity and our perception of sanity. Enjoying an amazing supporting cast from Gabriel Byrne, John Neville, Miranda Richardson and Lynn Redgrave, "Spider" is an intricate and subtly directed film, working from an excellent and insightful script.\nThose familiar with Cronenberg's prior films will see this as a break from his typical fleshy thrillers, such as "eXistenZ" and "Crash." Working on a much scaled-down production, "Spider" still has the signature of Cronenberg, with dark, disturbing moments and the expelling of bodily fluid. But this is Cronenberg's most quietly thoughtful film, with its lead character doing little other than wandering the back streets of London, softly mumbling to himself. \nCostume designer Denise Cronenberg and set decorator Clive Thomasson should also be commended for their work on the world in which Spider wanders. Green has been said to be the color most often chosen by geniuses, and the thin line between genius and insanity has been explored in film to cliché boredom. In Cronenberg's film the world is one of a stale and muted green, and serves as both a beautiful and unsettling motif throughout the film.\nWorking off of new gothic author Patrick McGrath's novel, McGrath also being the screenwriter, Cronenberg shows us the world as Spider sees it. Weaving moments of past and present together seamlessly and delusionally, Spider's dangerously fragile grip on reality is emphasized. Cronenberg has described the film as being a slightly askew meeting between Samuel Beckett and Sigmund Freud. With a riveting ending that is as touchingly insightful as it is horrifying, this Oedipal study into schizophrenia is a well-made film and well worth the time and money spent to see it.
