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(10/23/03 4:00am)
Cinematic adaptations of John Grisham novels can go one of three ways -- the good (A Time to Kill), the bad (The Firm) and the ugly (The Chamber). Well, the verdict's out on his latest, Runaway Jury, and it's acquitted of not sucking. Sadly, the flick is undeniably guilty of being ham-fisted, manipulative, biased and too slick for its own good. But that's not to say it's meritless.\nJohn Cusack more than ably headlines as Nicholas Easter, a slack-ass video game store clerk whose life is thrown into upheaval when he's called for jury duty. Try as he may to get booted from the case -- a tearful widow (Joanna Going) suing a gun manufacturer (subbing for the book's Big Tobacco baddies) for selling the semi-automatic weapon used to murder her Ward Cleaver-esque husband (Dylan McDermott) -- he's placed smack-dab in the middle of the jury box.\nAs it turns out, this is exactly where he wants to be. Alongside his gal pal Marlee (the slyly sexy Rachel Weisz), Easter plots to use his wily charms to sway fellow jurors in his favor. His favor resides with either nice-guy attorney Wendell Rohr (Dustin Hoffman) or Machiavellian jury consultant Rankin Fitch (Gene Hackman) and his pro-gun lawyer lackey (Bruce Davison), whichever is willing to pony up $10 million for their desired verdict.\nFresh ground this isn't, but a top-tier cast elevates said material to exciting new heights. Cusack once again proves he's one of our generation's best and most accessible actors, instilling the morally ambiguous Easter with nuanced humanity. Real-life former roommates Hackman and Hoffman (sporting a Louisiana accent no less) are a joy to behold. This, their first film together, provides the duo with a riveting restroom face-off that's extraneous to the plot but too cool to miss. Weisz, an actress who's very much coming into her own, more than pulls her weight amid such heavy hitters. \nDirector Gary Fleder, despite doing predominantly solid work here, is a hack. Runaway Jury is a marked improvement from his previous exercises in mediocrity, e.g. Kiss the Girls and Don't Say a Word. His stints directing TV cop shows "Homicide: Life on the Street" and "The Shield" are stylistically apparent, but unnecessary. \nIf you're longing to see a movie concerning gun control, go rent Bowling for Columbine. If it's a courtroom drama for which you're hankering, 12 Angry Men and The Verdict should certainly suffice. While entertaining and well acted, Runaway Jury isn't all it should've been.
(10/22/03 11:45pm)
Cinematic adaptations of John Grisham novels can go one of three ways -- the good (A Time to Kill), the bad (The Firm) and the ugly (The Chamber). Well, the verdict's out on his latest, Runaway Jury, and it's acquitted of not sucking. Sadly, the flick is undeniably guilty of being ham-fisted, manipulative, biased and too slick for its own good. But that's not to say it's meritless.\nJohn Cusack more than ably headlines as Nicholas Easter, a slack-ass video game store clerk whose life is thrown into upheaval when he's called for jury duty. Try as he may to get booted from the case -- a tearful widow (Joanna Going) suing a gun manufacturer (subbing for the book's Big Tobacco baddies) for selling the semi-automatic weapon used to murder her Ward Cleaver-esque husband (Dylan McDermott) -- he's placed smack-dab in the middle of the jury box.\nAs it turns out, this is exactly where he wants to be. Alongside his gal pal Marlee (the slyly sexy Rachel Weisz), Easter plots to use his wily charms to sway fellow jurors in his favor. His favor resides with either nice-guy attorney Wendell Rohr (Dustin Hoffman) or Machiavellian jury consultant Rankin Fitch (Gene Hackman) and his pro-gun lawyer lackey (Bruce Davison), whichever is willing to pony up $10 million for their desired verdict.\nFresh ground this isn't, but a top-tier cast elevates said material to exciting new heights. Cusack once again proves he's one of our generation's best and most accessible actors, instilling the morally ambiguous Easter with nuanced humanity. Real-life former roommates Hackman and Hoffman (sporting a Louisiana accent no less) are a joy to behold. This, their first film together, provides the duo with a riveting restroom face-off that's extraneous to the plot but too cool to miss. Weisz, an actress who's very much coming into her own, more than pulls her weight amid such heavy hitters. \nDirector Gary Fleder, despite doing predominantly solid work here, is a hack. Runaway Jury is a marked improvement from his previous exercises in mediocrity, e.g. Kiss the Girls and Don't Say a Word. His stints directing TV cop shows "Homicide: Life on the Street" and "The Shield" are stylistically apparent, but unnecessary. \nIf you're longing to see a movie concerning gun control, go rent Bowling for Columbine. If it's a courtroom drama for which you're hankering, 12 Angry Men and The Verdict should certainly suffice. While entertaining and well acted, Runaway Jury isn't all it should've been.
(10/22/03 11:38pm)
Mystic River marks Clint Eastwood's 24th stint in the director's chair, and by all accounts, it's his best. Sure, he reinvigorated the Western with his Oscar-winner Unforgiven and made one of the '90s most overlooked gems in the form of A Perfect World, but here, Dirty Harry elevates what could've been your standard Boston-based police procedural/Irish gangland saga to Shakespearean proportions.\nSean Penn leads an extraordinary ensemble cast as Jimmy, an ex-con sent on the straight and narrow after having been released from the pen (no pun intended) and gaining sole custody of his infant daughter, Katie (Emmy Rossum). Together with his wife, Annabeth (a terrifyingly good Laura Linney), he raises the now teenaged Katie, as well as two younger scamps. Tim Robbins co-stars as Dave, a marginally employed handyman with a wife, Celeste (the always-reliable Marcia Gay Harden), a young son and a closet chock-full of skeletons. Rounding out the cast is Kevin Bacon, who portrays Sean, a Beantown cop with marital woes and a smart-assed partner, ironically named Whitey (Laurence Fishburne). \nThe three men, Jimmy, Dave and Sean, were friends as children. That is until, one fateful day, two men claiming to be police officers abduct Dave. What ensues is four days spent in a locked basement presumably prey to a horrid onslaught of sexual abuse. The boys sever ties in wake of the trauma, only to be reunited when tragedy strikes again. Katie is brutally murdered, Sean is assigned the case, Dave is the primary suspect and a grief-stricken Jimmy is set loose upon a mafia-tinged warpath.\nThe acting is solid across the board, but it's Penn (harnessing his inner De Niro) and Robbins (seemingly shrinking under the weight of his character's scorched psyche) who standout. Eastwood's direction, which by nature is somewhat slow and languid, guides the narrative and moreso his cast's finely tuned performances perfectly. Viewers grow to know these troubled characters and major, even welcomed, gray areas are established. That the director also provides a hauntingly beautiful score doesn't hurt matters either. Once the payoff is doled out, it's a heartbreaker, albeit a somewhat overwrought and ambiguous one.\nMystic River is a major achievement in a film career that's spanned nearly 50 years. It's not happy-go-lucky Friday night entertainment, mind you, but a cinematic event nonetheless.
(10/16/03 4:00am)
It's been six years since the '90s quintessential auteur Quentin Tarantino unleashed a film upon his legions of fans. \nThe movie was Jackie Brown, and while very good, it underwhelmed many viewers. Gone were the fragmented narratives and excessive body counts that had catapulted the maverick filmmaker to the highest echelons of Hollywood's food chain. Apparently, Tarantino took his audiences' gripes to heart. His retort: the insanely bloody antics of Kill Bill: Vol. 1, a fanboy's wet dream realized.\nBill opens with a "Feature Presentation" logo from the '70s. Sure, the title card draws attention to both itself and the film waiting to unfurl, but it's fitting as it's the first of many self-conscious techniques deployed throughout. Tarantino has the stones to segue from this kitschy bit of nostalgia to what's probably the most disturbing opening shot of any movie ever. He then leapfrogs like a kid in a cinematic candy store between space and time, color and B&W and live action and animation. The fact that he careens between these stylistic flourishes so seamlessly is a miracle in and of itself.\nThe movie's plot isn't nearly as complicated as its execution. Bill opens with the titular character's ordered massacre of a Texas wedding party. All are dead, save for The Bride (Uma Thurman -- here, the embodiment of lithe sexiness/toughness), a former employee looking to leave the hit woman game for the sanctity of marriage. \nSuffice to say, our heroine survives, this after four years in a coma, and understandably, she's looking for vengeance. Her hit list consists of fellow members of the lamely named Deadly Viper Assassination Squad: Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox), O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah), Budd (Michael Madsen) and most assuredly, Bill (David Carradine). \nRevenge is the film's deus ex machina, and yet, its narrowness works beautifully. The Bride travels from Texas to Japan to California for others to reap the whirlwind. We, the audience, with strong stomachs and a penchant for all-things pop culture, ride shotgun to her entrails-splattered travails. \nWhile Tarantino's ballet of blood often veers toward the cartoonish, the squeamish need not apply.\nKill Bill: Vol. 1 is a hodgepodge of kung fu flicks and Spaghetti westerns that plays like "Charlie's Angels" on methamphetamines. It is, in its essence, very episodic. \nThis is good as the film has been sliced in half, much like many of The Bride's foes. Tarantino's hiatus has served him well. Vol. 2 can't hit soon enough.
(10/15/03 10:06pm)
It's been six years since the '90s quintessential auteur Quentin Tarantino unleashed a film upon his legions of fans. \nThe movie was Jackie Brown, and while very good, it underwhelmed many viewers. Gone were the fragmented narratives and excessive body counts that had catapulted the maverick filmmaker to the highest echelons of Hollywood's food chain. Apparently, Tarantino took his audiences' gripes to heart. His retort: the insanely bloody antics of Kill Bill: Vol. 1, a fanboy's wet dream realized.\nBill opens with a "Feature Presentation" logo from the '70s. Sure, the title card draws attention to both itself and the film waiting to unfurl, but it's fitting as it's the first of many self-conscious techniques deployed throughout. Tarantino has the stones to segue from this kitschy bit of nostalgia to what's probably the most disturbing opening shot of any movie ever. He then leapfrogs like a kid in a cinematic candy store between space and time, color and B&W and live action and animation. The fact that he careens between these stylistic flourishes so seamlessly is a miracle in and of itself.\nThe movie's plot isn't nearly as complicated as its execution. Bill opens with the titular character's ordered massacre of a Texas wedding party. All are dead, save for The Bride (Uma Thurman -- here, the embodiment of lithe sexiness/toughness), a former employee looking to leave the hit woman game for the sanctity of marriage. \nSuffice to say, our heroine survives, this after four years in a coma, and understandably, she's looking for vengeance. Her hit list consists of fellow members of the lamely named Deadly Viper Assassination Squad: Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox), O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu), Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah), Budd (Michael Madsen) and most assuredly, Bill (David Carradine). \nRevenge is the film's deus ex machina, and yet, its narrowness works beautifully. The Bride travels from Texas to Japan to California for others to reap the whirlwind. We, the audience, with strong stomachs and a penchant for all-things pop culture, ride shotgun to her entrails-splattered travails. \nWhile Tarantino's ballet of blood often veers toward the cartoonish, the squeamish need not apply.\nKill Bill: Vol. 1 is a hodgepodge of kung fu flicks and Spaghetti westerns that plays like "Charlie's Angels" on methamphetamines. It is, in its essence, very episodic. \nThis is good as the film has been sliced in half, much like many of The Bride's foes. Tarantino's hiatus has served him well. Vol. 2 can't hit soon enough.
(10/02/03 4:00am)
If ever there was a movie tailor-made for its star, School of Rock would be it. Jack Black headlines as Dewey Finn, a portly yet pint-sized slack rocker with a sharp tongue and a sharper ax. It is, in essence, a fully fleshed-out extension of his beloved Barry character from High Fidelity, and more so, an extension of Black's being (or, at the very least, his public persona).\nThough the film seems an odd match to its director, esteemed indie vet Richard Linklater, Rock follows on the heels of his most artistically adventurous flicks to date -- the rotoscoped philosophizing of Waking Life and the theatrical date rape "melodrama" Tape. His collaboration with Black and talented up-and-coming screenwriter/actor Mike White (The Good Girl and previous Black vehicle in Orange County) is a throwback to the lighthearted fun of Dazed and Confused -- Linklater's best work. Rock is the director's foremost foray into the mainstream and he makes the transition smoothly, doing a job that's equal parts slick and workmanlike.\nThe flick opens on Dewey, jobless after having been shit-canned out of a band that he himself formed. To make matters worse, he's facing the threat of eviction by his oft put-upon roomie, Ned Schneebly (White) and his bitchy girlfriend, Patty (comedienne Sarah Silverman). That is, until, Dewey intercepts one of Ned's phone calls, passes himself off as a substitute teacher at a posh prep school and tries to make ends meet molding the impressionable minds of a fifth grade class. Eventually, once the possibility of all-day recess fizzles out and Dewey realizes the musical ability of his young charges, a scam is hatched. The tubby teach will transform his tyros into a rock band to end all rock bands. Hilarity and rocking-out of all sorts ensue in this charming, albeit saccharine and formulaic, mishmash of Dead Poets Society and The Bad News Bears.\nBlack is a whirlwind in the flick, spinning about like a devilish dervish -- it's his best onscreen turn since High Fidelity. Luckily, he has a game supporting cast and kick-ass soundtrack backing him up. Most of the kids who comprise his class aren't child actors, but rather, child musicians. The authenticity shines through until the film's final number, which plays like a weird hybrid of "Kids Incorporated" and Tenacious D. Joan Cusack also turns in a solid, if underused, performance, as the school's uptight Stevie Nicks-lovin' principal. \nRarely are feel-good comedies as smart, funny and heartwarming as this. School of Rock makes good on its name.
(10/01/03 10:31pm)
If ever there was a movie tailor-made for its star, School of Rock would be it. Jack Black headlines as Dewey Finn, a portly yet pint-sized slack rocker with a sharp tongue and a sharper ax. It is, in essence, a fully fleshed-out extension of his beloved Barry character from High Fidelity, and more so, an extension of Black's being (or, at the very least, his public persona).\nThough the film seems an odd match to its director, esteemed indie vet Richard Linklater, Rock follows on the heels of his most artistically adventurous flicks to date -- the rotoscoped philosophizing of Waking Life and the theatrical date rape "melodrama" Tape. His collaboration with Black and talented up-and-coming screenwriter/actor Mike White (The Good Girl and previous Black vehicle in Orange County) is a throwback to the lighthearted fun of Dazed and Confused -- Linklater's best work. Rock is the director's foremost foray into the mainstream and he makes the transition smoothly, doing a job that's equal parts slick and workmanlike.\nThe flick opens on Dewey, jobless after having been shit-canned out of a band that he himself formed. To make matters worse, he's facing the threat of eviction by his oft put-upon roomie, Ned Schneebly (White) and his bitchy girlfriend, Patty (comedienne Sarah Silverman). That is, until, Dewey intercepts one of Ned's phone calls, passes himself off as a substitute teacher at a posh prep school and tries to make ends meet molding the impressionable minds of a fifth grade class. Eventually, once the possibility of all-day recess fizzles out and Dewey realizes the musical ability of his young charges, a scam is hatched. The tubby teach will transform his tyros into a rock band to end all rock bands. Hilarity and rocking-out of all sorts ensue in this charming, albeit saccharine and formulaic, mishmash of Dead Poets Society and The Bad News Bears.\nBlack is a whirlwind in the flick, spinning about like a devilish dervish -- it's his best onscreen turn since High Fidelity. Luckily, he has a game supporting cast and kick-ass soundtrack backing him up. Most of the kids who comprise his class aren't child actors, but rather, child musicians. The authenticity shines through until the film's final number, which plays like a weird hybrid of "Kids Incorporated" and Tenacious D. Joan Cusack also turns in a solid, if underused, performance, as the school's uptight Stevie Nicks-lovin' principal. \nRarely are feel-good comedies as smart, funny and heartwarming as this. School of Rock makes good on its name.
(09/25/03 4:00am)
For the six of you who actually read my column and the two of those six who can remember back as far as a year, you may recollect me writing something about Run Ronnie Run. Well, the film, which is essentially the bastard love child of comedic geniuses Bob Odenkirk and David Cross, has finally seen the light, albeit in direct-to-DVD treatment.\nRonnie expands on a series of skits from the first and third seasons of "Mr. Show," in which a good ol' boy by the name of Ronwell "Ronnie" Q. Dobbs (Cross) spends his days being arrested for various acts of drunken tomfoolery. Soon, Ronnie's lawbreaking skills are placed on a national stage after frequent appearances on the "Cops"-esque reality show, "Fuzz," and his own subsequent spin-off, "Ronnie Dobbs Gets Arrested," produced by British boob Terry Twillstein (Odenkirk).\nThe movie, while very funny, is a tad hit-and-miss. Inherently, the humor of Cross, Odenkirk and "Mr. Show" itself is very freewheeling -- better suited to sketches than to feature-length. The DVD benefits greatly from some lively deleted scenes and the hilarious Three Times One Minus One music video, "The Greatest Love in History," which is sure to please "Mr. Show" fanatics. A commentary track would've been nice, as Cross and Odenkirk have since disassociated themselves from the film. Alas, no dice.
(09/25/03 12:51am)
For the six of you who actually read my column and the two of those six who can remember back as far as a year, you may recollect me writing something about Run Ronnie Run. Well, the film, which is essentially the bastard love child of comedic geniuses Bob Odenkirk and David Cross, has finally seen the light, albeit in direct-to-DVD treatment.\nRonnie expands on a series of skits from the first and third seasons of "Mr. Show," in which a good ol' boy by the name of Ronwell "Ronnie" Q. Dobbs (Cross) spends his days being arrested for various acts of drunken tomfoolery. Soon, Ronnie's lawbreaking skills are placed on a national stage after frequent appearances on the "Cops"-esque reality show, "Fuzz," and his own subsequent spin-off, "Ronnie Dobbs Gets Arrested," produced by British boob Terry Twillstein (Odenkirk).\nThe movie, while very funny, is a tad hit-and-miss. Inherently, the humor of Cross, Odenkirk and "Mr. Show" itself is very freewheeling -- better suited to sketches than to feature-length. The DVD benefits greatly from some lively deleted scenes and the hilarious Three Times One Minus One music video, "The Greatest Love in History," which is sure to please "Mr. Show" fanatics. A commentary track would've been nice, as Cross and Odenkirk have since disassociated themselves from the film. Alas, no dice.
(09/18/03 4:00am)
Andrew W.K. does for hard rock what the forefathers and subsequent imitators of the old school hip-hop game did for their respective genre -- lighten it up. With I Get Wet, and even more so with his latest, The Wolf, much of the doom and gloom inherent to metal is excised and replaced with schlocky '80s throwbacks and party-hearty sentiments.\nW.K. has been quoted as saying that the mothers of the kids who dug Wet would really dig The Wolf -- this is a fair assessment. The artist shows restraint in only recording one cut concerning partying ("Long Live the Party"), as opposed to the three that appeared on Wet. He fills the void with cheesy, lovey-dovey arena rockers best listened to with lighter outstretched into the air. \nWhatever camaraderie W.K. develops with the mother folk, or anyone else for that matter, is squandered with the mind-numbingly stupid "Make Sex," a thankfully short (44 seconds) proclamation to getting your groove on. Lyrics such as, "I don't want to make life and I don't want to make death/I don't want to make love I just want to make sex," while inanely funny, inspire little faith. Perhaps W.K. was too busy schilling for Kit-Kat and Coors Light to do much better?
(09/18/03 4:00am)
Death… it's an unavoidable part of everyone's life. It just seems strange when it happens to someone in the limelight, and even more so when said figures are "bigger than life." Men such as Charles Bronson and Johnny Cash shouldn't have succumbed to pneumonia or diabetes - they were too tough for that. \nBy the same token, it seems odd to see someone like John Ritter pass on too. No, he wasn't the mythic badass that the aforementioned two were, but an everyman - someone you could easily imagine being your father or uncle, and that makes his passing all the more difficult. \nRitter was born into Hollywood as the son of country western singer/actor Tex Ritter (best known for having performed the theme to High Noon). He came to fame via the role of Jack Tripper on '70s sitcom phenom "Three's Company." \nThe promise he showed within the realm of physical comedy led to what would become one of his best-known and received bits of filmmaking, Blake Edwards' Skin Deep. He followed that film with the insanely stupid but nonetheless entertaining Problem Child flicks, where he would work with his future wife, longtime "Wings" staple Amy Yasbeck. \nMuch of the '90s were slow for Ritter, though he did turn in subtly beautiful work in his friend Billy Bob Thornton's masterful directorial debut Sling Blade and later turned in a piece of none-too-subtle, ham-fisted acting in the 1998 campfest Bride of Chucky. \nIt's a pity that someone as relatively young as Ritter (he was 54) had to die, especially when Nazi filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl lived to see the ripe old age of 101 before dying early last week.\nMost, me included, were saddened to see Johnny Cash go. The Man in Black was distinctly American. Those who didn't like him only had one reason for doing so; they were ignorant and knew nothing of the man or his talents.\nWith cuts like "Ring of Fire," "I Walk the Line," "Folsom Prison Blues" and one of my personal favorites, the lesser-known "The Man Comes Around," among his credits, the man was an icon of both country and rock music. His appeal knew no bounds, as the 71-year-old received six MTV Video Music Awards nods for his heartbreaking rendition of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" last month.\nThough I, among numerous others, will miss both the man and his music, there's a certain beauty in his passing. His beloved wife and frequent collaborator, June Carter Cash, passed away in May. She was the woman who led Cash back to religion and sobriety after he had spent much of the '60s in a stupor, and they remained married for 35 years. If there's a heaven above, the two of them are up there making some of the sweetest damned music you're ever likely to hear.\nThough dated, Charles Bronson's passing also had quite an effect on me. The puma-faced actor (who's real name was Charles Buchinsky) always reminded me of my grandfather, fitting, as both were tough guy sons of Lithuanian immigrants. Bronson never achieved the success he fully deserved and only became a marquee name once he hit his late 40s. Most associate him with the ill-fated Death Wish franchise, which is unfortunate, as he starred in many of the '60s best action and western pictures. \nHis portrayal of Bernardo O'Reilly in The Magnificent Seven is a work of staggering genius. Not that it was a great performance per se, but he managed to out-cool the likes of Steve McQueen, James Coburn and yes, even Yul Brynner. He followed this with The Great Escape. Again managing to stick out among a highly reputable ensemble, one that would re-team him with McQueen and Coburn, as well as James Garner and Richard Attenborough, as the very cool Flight Lt. Danny "The Tunnel King" Velinski (a direct influence on the Andy Dufresne character from The Shawshank Redmeption). Last, but certainly not least, is The Dirty Dozen. Bronson, alongside tough S.O.B. Lee Marvin, are the group's only survivors. To have outlived the likes of Jim Brown, John Cassavetes, Telly "Kojak" Savalas, Ernest Borgnine, George Kennedy and Donald Sutherland on celluloid is quite the achievement. Suffice it to say, the man was a hardass. And let us not forget Once Upon a Time in the West, Sergio Leone's best spaghetti western barn-none, and the one in which Bronson did in one film what it took Clint Eastwood to do in three - truly become the man with no name.\nTo these three men, I salute you and god bless you wherever you may be.
(09/17/03 10:47pm)
Death… it's an unavoidable part of everyone's life. It just seems strange when it happens to someone in the limelight, and even more so when said figures are "bigger than life." Men such as Charles Bronson and Johnny Cash shouldn't have succumbed to pneumonia or diabetes - they were too tough for that. \nBy the same token, it seems odd to see someone like John Ritter pass on too. No, he wasn't the mythic badass that the aforementioned two were, but an everyman - someone you could easily imagine being your father or uncle, and that makes his passing all the more difficult. \nRitter was born into Hollywood as the son of country western singer/actor Tex Ritter (best known for having performed the theme to High Noon). He came to fame via the role of Jack Tripper on '70s sitcom phenom "Three's Company." \nThe promise he showed within the realm of physical comedy led to what would become one of his best-known and received bits of filmmaking, Blake Edwards' Skin Deep. He followed that film with the insanely stupid but nonetheless entertaining Problem Child flicks, where he would work with his future wife, longtime "Wings" staple Amy Yasbeck. \nMuch of the '90s were slow for Ritter, though he did turn in subtly beautiful work in his friend Billy Bob Thornton's masterful directorial debut Sling Blade and later turned in a piece of none-too-subtle, ham-fisted acting in the 1998 campfest Bride of Chucky. \nIt's a pity that someone as relatively young as Ritter (he was 54) had to die, especially when Nazi filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl lived to see the ripe old age of 101 before dying early last week.\nMost, me included, were saddened to see Johnny Cash go. The Man in Black was distinctly American. Those who didn't like him only had one reason for doing so; they were ignorant and knew nothing of the man or his talents.\nWith cuts like "Ring of Fire," "I Walk the Line," "Folsom Prison Blues" and one of my personal favorites, the lesser-known "The Man Comes Around," among his credits, the man was an icon of both country and rock music. His appeal knew no bounds, as the 71-year-old received six MTV Video Music Awards nods for his heartbreaking rendition of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" last month.\nThough I, among numerous others, will miss both the man and his music, there's a certain beauty in his passing. His beloved wife and frequent collaborator, June Carter Cash, passed away in May. She was the woman who led Cash back to religion and sobriety after he had spent much of the '60s in a stupor, and they remained married for 35 years. If there's a heaven above, the two of them are up there making some of the sweetest damned music you're ever likely to hear.\nThough dated, Charles Bronson's passing also had quite an effect on me. The puma-faced actor (who's real name was Charles Buchinsky) always reminded me of my grandfather, fitting, as both were tough guy sons of Lithuanian immigrants. Bronson never achieved the success he fully deserved and only became a marquee name once he hit his late 40s. Most associate him with the ill-fated Death Wish franchise, which is unfortunate, as he starred in many of the '60s best action and western pictures. \nHis portrayal of Bernardo O'Reilly in The Magnificent Seven is a work of staggering genius. Not that it was a great performance per se, but he managed to out-cool the likes of Steve McQueen, James Coburn and yes, even Yul Brynner. He followed this with The Great Escape. Again managing to stick out among a highly reputable ensemble, one that would re-team him with McQueen and Coburn, as well as James Garner and Richard Attenborough, as the very cool Flight Lt. Danny "The Tunnel King" Velinski (a direct influence on the Andy Dufresne character from The Shawshank Redmeption). Last, but certainly not least, is The Dirty Dozen. Bronson, alongside tough S.O.B. Lee Marvin, are the group's only survivors. To have outlived the likes of Jim Brown, John Cassavetes, Telly "Kojak" Savalas, Ernest Borgnine, George Kennedy and Donald Sutherland on celluloid is quite the achievement. Suffice it to say, the man was a hardass. And let us not forget Once Upon a Time in the West, Sergio Leone's best spaghetti western barn-none, and the one in which Bronson did in one film what it took Clint Eastwood to do in three - truly become the man with no name.\nTo these three men, I salute you and god bless you wherever you may be.
(09/17/03 10:31pm)
Andrew W.K. does for hard rock what the forefathers and subsequent imitators of the old school hip-hop game did for their respective genre -- lighten it up. With I Get Wet, and even more so with his latest, The Wolf, much of the doom and gloom inherent to metal is excised and replaced with schlocky '80s throwbacks and party-hearty sentiments.\nW.K. has been quoted as saying that the mothers of the kids who dug Wet would really dig The Wolf -- this is a fair assessment. The artist shows restraint in only recording one cut concerning partying ("Long Live the Party"), as opposed to the three that appeared on Wet. He fills the void with cheesy, lovey-dovey arena rockers best listened to with lighter outstretched into the air. \nWhatever camaraderie W.K. develops with the mother folk, or anyone else for that matter, is squandered with the mind-numbingly stupid "Make Sex," a thankfully short (44 seconds) proclamation to getting your groove on. Lyrics such as, "I don't want to make life and I don't want to make death/I don't want to make love I just want to make sex," while inanely funny, inspire little faith. Perhaps W.K. was too busy schilling for Kit-Kat and Coors Light to do much better?
(09/11/03 4:00am)
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, whose name spurs from the Marlon Brando/Lee Marvin '50s biker pic, The Wild One, seems to have come into its own with Take Them On, On Your Own -- the band's second album. Many of my contemporaries wrote B.R.M.C. off as nothing more than a bunch of Jesus and Mary Chain rip-offs following its self-titled debut three years ago. Having never heard that record, I can't really speculate. I do, however, know a thing or two about the Jesus and Mary Chain, and Take Them On, On Your Own sounds little if nothing like them. It is very much the work of a singular group of artists, albeit ones with varied tastes and influences.\n"Six Barrel Shotgun" is one of the coolest-titled and sounding rave-ups I've heard in sometime. "And I'm Aching" is without a doubt the best song on the album -- a stripped-down lamentation of lost love. B.R.M.C. are heavily dependent on distortion (as is in vogue right now with many a modern rock act), sometimes it's beneficial ("U.S. Government") and other times damning (most notably "Heart + Soul," amongst others). Despite some snags, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club seem ready to "Take On" most comers.
(09/11/03 4:00am)
I of all people, am certainly not the most qualified to be reviewing a show by George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic. What knowledge I had of Clinton and Co. going into the show was this: P-Funk recorded the dope-ass likes of "Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof of The Sucker)," "Flash Light" and "Atomic Dog" during the mid-to-late '70s and early '80s. They also made quite the showing in the underrated collegiate cult comedy PCU, influenced many of the rap game's foremost performers and producers (e.g. Dr. Dre) with cuts along the lines of "Mothership Connection (Star Child)." Clinton, the group's mastermind, is widely hailed as the forefather of funk. That's an impressive list of accolades to be sure, and last Saturday at Bloomington's very own Freeman Family Farms, I was in for further education.\nTo describe the experience in one word, it'd be this: funk. That's no real surprise, as every other word out of Clinton's mouth was either "funk" this or "funk" that. The second word that comes to mind, unsurprisingly, is weed. Most of the crowd was smoking it, Clinton was arguing for the legality of it and his young granddaughter was rapping about it. \nIt was actually a very tender moment. Clinton introduced the young lady to the crowd, and she proceeded to flow with abundant skill, spewing forth lyrics about spliffs, blunts and the like. Eventually, she veered into subjects of a more salacious nature, spitting off lyrics such as "Hard as steel and steel hard." Grandpa stood by beaming. Once she'd finished her bit, Clinton urged the crowd to "give it up for my girl." It was weird but undeniably sweet.\nP-Funk is a funk-jam band, and as such, they played long (two hours) and hard. Knowing full well how to work a crowd, they broke out the numbers referenced earlier as well as a masterfully executed James Brown medley that even "The Hardest Working Man in Show Business" would be hard-pressed to beat. Aesthetically, the band also pleased. One member sported his ever-present adult-sized diaper and considerable bling, while another donned a crown and velour duds -- looking something akin to a slimmed down and all-together regal Fred "Rerun" Berry. Though, sadly, the Doggfather's trademark locks were hidden behind a do-rag, and his attire was less woo and more Axl Rose.\nAll in all, I enjoyed the show George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic put-on, though as a paid critic, I'm glad I didn't drop $25 to see it. If nothing else, the event served as an ample opportunity to bring people of all races and ages together.
(09/11/03 4:00am)
Being an avid fan of both Desperado and its multi-faceted director Robert Rodriguez, I very much wanted to walk into the theater and be blown out of my seat by Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Alas, it just wasn't meant to be. That's not to say the flick is meritless, it's just that the sum of its parts don't add up to a cohesive whole. Also, when dubbing one's film "Once Upon a Time…," you better come with the grandiose goods à la other, better exploits in the West, America and China. Rodriguez has essentially shot himself in the foot.\nOUATIM follows the further adventures of El Mariachi (a noticeably aging Antonio Banderas), who in a series of cyclical revenge machinations has amassed a laundry list of enemies as well as a mythic reputation. Enter corrupt CIA Agent Sands (an inspired Johnny Depp), who looks to employ the Mariachi as a hired gun in assassinating Barrillo (a slumming Willem Dafoe) -- a vicious drug kingpin with political ambitions. Double, triple and yes, even quadruple-crosses ensue in a muddled narrative akin to some weird crossbreed of Oliver Stone and Michael Bay, only with a Latino bent and with half the entertainment. Rumors abound that Rodriguez wrote OUATIM in three weeks -- it shows.\nRodriguez paints his cinematic palette in equal parts epic and moronic. The film, which was shot on newfangled digital cartridges, captures the Mexican villages and vistas beautifully, though the flick often looks too clean and lacks the sumptuous colors 35-mm afforded Desperado. Sadly, much of his cast (Dafoe, Rodriguez regulars Danny Trejo and Cheech Marin, lovely ladies Salma Hayek and Eva Mendes and seasoned character actor Rubén Blades) is squandered in favor of giving Enrique Iglesias more screen time. And I'm supposed to buy this Latin lame-o as a hardass? I think not.\nWhat saves OUATIM from being a complete and utter wash are a few inspired action sequences (Banderas' motorcycle/machine gun romp and Depp's final showdown come to mind). Acting props must go out to Mickey Rourke, as Barrillo's Chihuahua-toting lackey (strangely, the dog looks an awful lot like Dafoe), but the film belongs to Depp. Sporting cheesy '80s shades, "I'm with Stupid" threads, a pot leaf-emblazoned belt buckle, a hankering for crappy Mexican pork and the most tweaked of sunny dispositions you're ever likely to see; he's the real deal, unlike Once Upon a Time in Mexico.
(09/11/03 12:03am)
Being an avid fan of both Desperado and its multi-faceted director Robert Rodriguez, I very much wanted to walk into the theater and be blown out of my seat by Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Alas, it just wasn't meant to be. That's not to say the flick is meritless, it's just that the sum of its parts don't add up to a cohesive whole. Also, when dubbing one's film "Once Upon a Time…," you better come with the grandiose goods à la other, better exploits in the West, America and China. Rodriguez has essentially shot himself in the foot.\nOUATIM follows the further adventures of El Mariachi (a noticeably aging Antonio Banderas), who in a series of cyclical revenge machinations has amassed a laundry list of enemies as well as a mythic reputation. Enter corrupt CIA Agent Sands (an inspired Johnny Depp), who looks to employ the Mariachi as a hired gun in assassinating Barrillo (a slumming Willem Dafoe) -- a vicious drug kingpin with political ambitions. Double, triple and yes, even quadruple-crosses ensue in a muddled narrative akin to some weird crossbreed of Oliver Stone and Michael Bay, only with a Latino bent and with half the entertainment. Rumors abound that Rodriguez wrote OUATIM in three weeks -- it shows.\nRodriguez paints his cinematic palette in equal parts epic and moronic. The film, which was shot on newfangled digital cartridges, captures the Mexican villages and vistas beautifully, though the flick often looks too clean and lacks the sumptuous colors 35-mm afforded Desperado. Sadly, much of his cast (Dafoe, Rodriguez regulars Danny Trejo and Cheech Marin, lovely ladies Salma Hayek and Eva Mendes and seasoned character actor Rubén Blades) is squandered in favor of giving Enrique Iglesias more screen time. And I'm supposed to buy this Latin lame-o as a hardass? I think not.\nWhat saves OUATIM from being a complete and utter wash are a few inspired action sequences (Banderas' motorcycle/machine gun romp and Depp's final showdown come to mind). Acting props must go out to Mickey Rourke, as Barrillo's Chihuahua-toting lackey (strangely, the dog looks an awful lot like Dafoe), but the film belongs to Depp. Sporting cheesy '80s shades, "I'm with Stupid" threads, a pot leaf-emblazoned belt buckle, a hankering for crappy Mexican pork and the most tweaked of sunny dispositions you're ever likely to see; he's the real deal, unlike Once Upon a Time in Mexico.
(09/10/03 11:09pm)
I of all people, am certainly not the most qualified to be reviewing a show by George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic. What knowledge I had of Clinton and Co. going into the show was this: P-Funk recorded the dope-ass likes of "Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof of The Sucker)," "Flash Light" and "Atomic Dog" during the mid-to-late '70s and early '80s. They also made quite the showing in the underrated collegiate cult comedy PCU, influenced many of the rap game's foremost performers and producers (e.g. Dr. Dre) with cuts along the lines of "Mothership Connection (Star Child)." Clinton, the group's mastermind, is widely hailed as the forefather of funk. That's an impressive list of accolades to be sure, and last Saturday at Bloomington's very own Freeman Family Farms, I was in for further education.\nTo describe the experience in one word, it'd be this: funk. That's no real surprise, as every other word out of Clinton's mouth was either "funk" this or "funk" that. The second word that comes to mind, unsurprisingly, is weed. Most of the crowd was smoking it, Clinton was arguing for the legality of it and his young granddaughter was rapping about it. \nIt was actually a very tender moment. Clinton introduced the young lady to the crowd, and she proceeded to flow with abundant skill, spewing forth lyrics about spliffs, blunts and the like. Eventually, she veered into subjects of a more salacious nature, spitting off lyrics such as "Hard as steel and steel hard." Grandpa stood by beaming. Once she'd finished her bit, Clinton urged the crowd to "give it up for my girl." It was weird but undeniably sweet.\nP-Funk is a funk-jam band, and as such, they played long (two hours) and hard. Knowing full well how to work a crowd, they broke out the numbers referenced earlier as well as a masterfully executed James Brown medley that even "The Hardest Working Man in Show Business" would be hard-pressed to beat. Aesthetically, the band also pleased. One member sported his ever-present adult-sized diaper and considerable bling, while another donned a crown and velour duds -- looking something akin to a slimmed down and all-together regal Fred "Rerun" Berry. Though, sadly, the Doggfather's trademark locks were hidden behind a do-rag, and his attire was less woo and more Axl Rose.\nAll in all, I enjoyed the show George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic put-on, though as a paid critic, I'm glad I didn't drop $25 to see it. If nothing else, the event served as an ample opportunity to bring people of all races and ages together.
(09/10/03 10:59pm)
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, whose name spurs from the Marlon Brando/Lee Marvin '50s biker pic, The Wild One, seems to have come into its own with Take Them On, On Your Own -- the band's second album. Many of my contemporaries wrote B.R.M.C. off as nothing more than a bunch of Jesus and Mary Chain rip-offs following its self-titled debut three years ago. Having never heard that record, I can't really speculate. I do, however, know a thing or two about the Jesus and Mary Chain, and Take Them On, On Your Own sounds little if nothing like them. It is very much the work of a singular group of artists, albeit ones with varied tastes and influences.\n"Six Barrel Shotgun" is one of the coolest-titled and sounding rave-ups I've heard in sometime. "And I'm Aching" is without a doubt the best song on the album -- a stripped-down lamentation of lost love. B.R.M.C. are heavily dependent on distortion (as is in vogue right now with many a modern rock act), sometimes it's beneficial ("U.S. Government") and other times damning (most notably "Heart + Soul," amongst others). Despite some snags, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club seem ready to "Take On" most comers.
(09/04/03 4:00am)
Critics have begun singing Robert Pollard's praises again … perhaps they spoke too soon. With his highly prolific band, Guided By Voices, Pollard has unleashed Earthquake Glue. \nWhat's here is well-written, sung nicely in Pollard's trademark cigarette-tinged rasp and backed more than ably by his bandmates. True to form, most of the cuts are either too short or too long. If only Pollard had used his unique ability to make a minute-long track seem epic, then the longer cuts wouldn't have collapsed under their own weight.\n There are exceptions to this rule: "My Kind of Soldier" and "The Best of Jill Hives" are reminiscent of older, better and altogether poppier works, featuring hard-driving guitar riffs and catchy choruses. "Mix Up the Satellite" dispels the popular belief that GBV is little more than window dressing to Pollard, as Kevin March's drumming is some of the best I've heard recently.\nNot nearly as solid as the band's revolutionary and best-known effort Isolation Drills nor as entertaining as last year's underrated Universal Truths and Cycles, Earthquake Glue is a tad disappointing. My advice: pick-up one of the aforementioned records or see GBV when they play the Bird again -- this one's for the Guided By Voices faithful only.